"No bribe is necessary," Austin said. "Consider it partial repay- ment for your hospitality and the fine meal." He sipped from his glass, enjoying the buildup of suspense. "You're right, there is a way into the caves through the arch. The locals call it the 'Mer- maid's Gate.' The cave network is quite extensive. I only saw part of it."
Austin went into detail about the cave art, saying nothing about his side trip into the fish farm. Aguirrez hung on every word.
"Similar Paleolithic paintings dating back twelve thousand years have been found on the walls of caves in Basque country," he mur- mured at one point. "The other drawings indicate that an advanced civilization must have used the caves."
"That was my impression. Supposedly, the Faroes were uninhab- ited before the Irish monks and the Vikings settled here. Maybe the historians were wrong."
"I wouldn't be surprised. The scholars have no idea where my
people came from. Our language has no antecedents in Europe or Asia. Basques have the highest percentage ofRH-negative blood type in the world, leading some to speculate that we go directly back to Cro-Magnon man." He banged his fist lightly on the table. "I'd give anything to get into those caves."
"You saw the warm reception I got." "You seem to have stirred up a hornet's nest. While you slept, the patrol boats came out from shore and demanded permission to come aboard. We refused, of course."
"The boat I saw had a couple of men with automatic rifles."
Aguirrez waved toward the art hanging on the wall. "When they saw that my men outgunned and outnumbered them, they quickly left."
"They had a helicopter, too. It was armed with rockets."
"Oh yes, that," he said, as if he were talking about a pesky gnat.
"I had my men brandish their handheld surface-to-air missiles, and the helicopter stopped bothering us."
Missiles and automatic weapons. The Navarra was armed like a warship.
Aguirrez read Austin's mind. "Wealthy men can be a target for kidnappers. The Navarra would be fair game for pirates, so I have made sure it is not exactly toothless. Of necessity, I have surrounded myself with loyal and well-armed men."
/Why do you suppose Oceanus is so prickly about people poking into its business?" Austin said. "We're talking about a fish farm, not diamond mines."
"I asked myself the same question," Aguirrez said, with a shrug.
One of the men who had kept watch over Austin came into the dining room. He handed Aguirrez a plastic bag and whispered into his ear.
Aguirrez nodded and said, "Thank you for being so forthcoming about your visit to the caves, Mr. Austin. Is there anything more I can do for you?"
"I wouldn't mind a lift back to the village."
"Done. My man has informed me that we are passing the sea stack and should be anchoring in a few minutes." He handed the plastic bag over. "Your clothes and personal effects have been drying out."
Austin was ushered back to his cabin so he could change. The bag also held his wallet, which contained his NUMA photo ID card prominently displayed in its plastic window. Aguirrez was a cool one. He would have known that Austin's story about being in ma- rine salvage was made out of whole cloth, yet he'd never let on. In- side the bag was a business card with his host's name and a telephone number. Austin tucked the card into his wallet.
Aguirrez was waiting on deck to say good-bye.
"I appreciate your hospitality," Austin said, shaking hands with his host. "I hope I'm not being rude having to eat and run."
"Not at all," Aguirrez said, with an enigmatic smile. "I wouldn't be surprised if our paths crossed again."
"Stranger things have happened," Austin said, with a grin. Moments later, Austin was in the launch heading across the quiet harbor.
14
TWO THOUSAND FEET above Skaalshavn harbor, the Bell 206 Jet Ranger helicopter that had been tracking the yacht along the coast came to a hover and focused its Wescam high- resolution surveillance camera on the launch making its way to shore. The man in the pilot's seat stared at a video monitor, watching as a lone passenger disembarked from the boat.
The helicopter pilot had a pie-shaped face with high cheekbones marked with vertical tattoo lines. His coal-black hair was cut in bangs over his low forehead, characteristics that might lead a casual ob- server to take him for a native of the northern tundra. But the fea- tures normally associated with the Eskimo were distorted. In place of a pleasant smile was a cruel, leering expression. Eyes that should have twinkled with innocent good humor were as hard as black di- amonds. The brownish-red skin was pockmarked, as if the corrup- tion within had seeped through the pores. The hastily applied band- age taped across the man's crushed nose intensified the grotesque image.
'We have the target in view," he said with a nasal snarl, speaking in an ancient language that had its origins under the aurora borealis.
The electronic signal from the camera, which was housed in a pod beneath the cockpit, was converted into microwaves and transmitted instantaneously to the other side of the globe to a darkened room, where pale-gray eyes watched the same picture seen from the heli- copter.