The Storm - Cussler Clive (книги без сокращений .TXT) 📗

He walked toward her.

“You all right?” he asked gruffly.

She looked up, her face streaked with tears, her mascara running. She nodded but continued to cradle her arm. “I think my arm is broken,” she said, speaking English.

Kurt’s natural protective instincts kicked in, but he reminded himself that, moments before, this woman had been spying on him and his friends and even taking pictures of the catamaran. He figured she owed him a few answers.

“I’ll get you to a hospital,” he said, helping her up, “but first you need to tell me who you are, why you’re following me, and what you find so interesting about a derelict catamaran?”

“You’re Kurt Austin,” she said in a tone of determined certainty. “You work for NUMA.”

“That’s right,” he said. “And just how do you know that?”

“I’m Leilani Tanner,” she said.

The name rang a bell. She explained before he could place it.

“Kimo A’kona was my brother. My half brother. He was on that boat.”

CHAPTER 7

SEVERAL THOUSAND MILES FROM MALE, IN SHANGHAI Province, Mr. Xhou of China and Mr. Mustafa of Pakistan rode in a private car on a bullet train, rushing to Beijing. Xhou wore a suit, Mustafa wore Pashtun tribal dress. A half dozen others riding with them could easily be identified as belonging to one side or the other.

The speed and smoothness of the ride were undeniably impressive, as was the decor. Recessed lighting lit the car in a soft mix of white and lavender. Supportive leather seating cushioned the bones of the passengers while air purifiers and conditioners kept the cabin feeling fresh at a perfect temperature of seventy-four degrees.

Chinese and Pakistani delicacies sat in trays tended by a pair of chefs. Out of respect for Mustafa’s religion, there was no alcohol present, but herbal teas quenched the thirst and refreshed the palate.

Despite the opulence, this was a business meeting.

Xhou spoke firmly. “You must understand the position we’re in,” he said.

“The position you’re in,” Mustafa corrected.

“No,” Xhou insisted. “All of us. We have made the gravest of mistakes. And only now does the full scope of reality become plain to us. The technology Jinn controls will be one of the most powerful ever developed. It will remake the world, but our stake in it is limited. We have invested in an outcome without any claim to the machinery that will produce that outcome. We are nothing more than end users of what Jinn is selling. Like those who buy power from a utility instead of building a power plant of their own.”

Mustafa shook his head. “We have no use for the Jinn’s technology,” he said. “There are none in my country who would be able to use it. All we want is for the Jinn to keep his promises, divert the monsoon from India to Pakistan. Change the weather in our favor. Weather can build an empire or destroy it. My people hope it will do both.”

A condescending look appeared on Xhou’s face for a moment. He knew Mustafa as a shrewd but simple man. Simple desires, revenge against an enemy. Simple thoughts, not the kind that extended beyond short-term gain.

“Yes,” he said. “But you must understand, the weather change is not once and for all. It is not permanent. In this form, it is a gift from Jinn, revocable at his will. Once the rains begin falling on our lands, we become as dependent on them as those in India who are now desperately watching the skies. There is little to stop Jinn from changing his mind and sending the rains back.”

Xhou paused to let this sink in, and then added, “If he wishes, Jinn will become the rainmaker, selling to the highest bidder year in and year out.”

Mustafa lifted his cup of tea but did not take a sip. The truth hit him, and he placed it back on the saucer.

“India is more wealthy than my country,” he said.

Xhou nodded. “You will not be successful bidding against them.”

Mustafa seemed to brood. “Jinn is Arab, he is Muslim, he would not chose the Sikhs and Hindus of India over us.”

“Can you be sure of that?” Xhou asked. “You told me that Jinn’s family have long been called foxes of the desert. How else to explain their rise to wealth? He will choose what is right for his clan.”

Still considering Xhou’s point, Mustafa placed the cup and saucer back on the table. He glanced at the food and then turned away disgustedly. It seemed his appetite was gone.

“I fear you might be right,” he said. “And what’s more, I now suspect this has occurred to Jinn long before it occurred to any of us. Why else would he insist on keeping the production facilities in his tiny country?”

“So we agree,” Xhou said. “With only the Jinn’s promises and no way to enforce them, we are all in a precarious situation.”

“None as precarious as mine,” Mustafa said. “I do not enjoy the luxuries you have here. We have no bullet trains in my country or new cities with gleaming buildings and untraveled roads. We have little in the way of foreign reserves to cushion our fall if it should come.”

“But you have something we do not,” Xhou said. “You have people with long memories and a history of dealing with Jinn. He is far more likely to trust you than an envoy of mine.”

“Jinn will never let us near his technology,” Mustafa said.

Xhou grinned. “We do not need it immediately.”

“I don’t understand,” Mustafa said. “I thought—”

“We need only eliminate Jinn’s ability to direct it. Or better yet, eliminate him and direct it ourselves. Without Jinn to countermand the existing orders, the horde would do what he has already promised. The rains will come to us permanently.”

Mustafa’s mustache turned slowly upward as a sinister smile came over his face. He seemed to grasp what Xhou was getting at. “What are your terms,” he said. “And be advised I cannot promise success. Only the attempt.”

Xhou nodded. There was no way anyone could guarantee what was being asked.

“Twenty million dollars upon confirmation of Jinn’s death, eighty million more if you can deliver the command codes.”

Mustafa almost began drooling, but then a chill seemed to take him, strong enough to cool the fires of his greed.

“Jinn is not a man to be trifled with,” he said. “The desert is littered with the bones of those who’ve crossed him.”

Xhou sat back. He had Mustafa and he knew it. A little prod to his pride would seal it. “There is no reward without risk, Mustafa. If you are willing to be more than Jinn’s puppet, you must understand this.”

Mustafa took a breath, steeled himself against the fate. “We will act,” he said firmly, “upon receipt of ten million in advance.”

Xhou nodded and waved one of his men over. A suitcase was dropped to the floor. Mustafa reached for it. As he touched the handle, Xhou spoke again.

“Remember, Mustafa, there are places in my country littered with bones as well. Betray me, and no one will care if a few Pakistani carcasses are added to the pile.”

CHAPTER 8

AFTER A BRIEF SESSION WITH THE MALDIVE POLICE, KURT took Leilani to the island’s main hospital, a modern building dedicated to Indira Gandhi. As they waited for X-rays to come back, he sent a text to Joe, letting his partners know where he was and how the chase had ended. Then he turned his attention back to Leilani.

“I don’t mean to be blunt, but what in the world are you doing here?”

Her arm was in a sling. A scrape above her eye had been stitched and dabbed with iodine. “I came to find out what happened to my brother.”

Understandable, Kurt thought, except he knew for certain that Dirk Pitt hadn’t contacted any family members yet. “How did you know something was wrong?”

“My brother studied currents,” she said, looking at him sadly. “I studied the things that swim around in them. We spoke or e-mailed every single day. In his last few e-mails he mentioned that he and the others were beginning to find some very strange temperature and oxygen readings. He wanted to know what effects these changes could have on local sea life. He said they were finding drastically reduced krill and plankton counts and far less fish. He said it was like the sea had begun turning cold and barren.”