"02 - Blue Gold (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cussler Clive)

"Trinidad?"

"I hear it's a real nice place."

"I don't understand."

"It's like this, senyoreeta. There's going to be a welcome party waiting for you at the airport. Don't ask me who they are 'cause I don't know. All's I know is we've been hired to deliver you. Things were supposed to go nice and easy. We were going to tell you we had mechanical problems and needed to land."

"What happened to the pilots?" Phillipo asked.

"They had an accident," he said with a slight shrug. He ground the cigarette butt on the floor. "Here's the situation, miss. You just stay put, and everything will be fine. As for you, cavaleiro, I'm sorry to get you in trouble with your bosses. Now I can tie you both up, but I don't think you'd try anything foolish unless you can fly this plane yourselves. One more thing. Up, partner, and turn around."

Thinking he was about to be frisked, Phillipo complied without protest. Francesca's warning came too late. The pistol barrel arced down in a silvery blur and struck the bodyguard above the right ear. The sickening crunch was drowned out by the bodyguard's cry of pain as he doubled over and crumpled onto the floor.

Francesca jumped up from her seat. "Why did you do that?" she said defiantly. "You have his gun. He couldn't harm you."

"Sorry, miss. I'm a firm believer in insurance." Riordan stepped over the prostrate form in the aisle as if it were a sack of potatoes. "Nothing like a cracked skull to discourage a man from getting into trouble. There's a first aid kit up there on the wall. Taking care of him should keep you busy 'til it's time to set down." He tipped his hand to his cap, strolled back to the cockpit, and shut the door.

Francesca knelt by the stricken bodyguard. She soaked cloth napkins in mineral water and cleaned the wound, then applied pressure until the bleeding was stanched. She daubed an antiseptic on the scalp cut and the bruised skin around it, wrapped ice in another napkin, and pressed it to the side of the man's head to prevent swelling.

As Francesca sat by his side, she tried to piece the puzzle together. She ruled out a kidnapping for money. The only reason someone would go through this much trouble would be for her process. Whoever was behind this mad scheme wanted more than a scale model and the papers explaining her work. They could have broken into the lab or grabbed her luggage at the airport. But they needed Francesca to interpret her findings. Her process was so arcane, so different, that it didn't conform to the norms of science, which is why no one had thought of it before.

The whole thing didn't make sense! Within a day or two she was going to give the process to the countries of the world for nothing. No patents. No copyright. No royalty fees. Absolutely free of charge. Anger smoldered in her breast. These ruthless people were stopping her from improving the lot of millions.


Phillipo groaned. He was coming around. His eyes blinked open and came into focus.

"Are you all right?" she said.

"It hurts like the devil, so I must be alive. Help me sit up, please."

Francesca put her arm around Phillipo and lifted until he sat with his back against a seat. She unscrewed a bottle of rum from the bar and put it to his lips. He sipped some liquor, managed to keep it down, then took a healthy swallow. He sat there for a moment waiting to see if his guts would come up. When he didn't vomit, he smiled. "I'll be fine. Thank you."

She handed him his glasses. "I'm afraid they were broken when he hit you."

He tossed them aside. "They are only plain glass. I can see fine without them." The level eyes that bored into Francesca were not those of a frightened man. He glanced at the closed cockpit door. "How long have I been out?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe."

"Good, there is still time."

"Time for what?"

His hand slid down to his ankle and came up filled with a snub-nosed revolver.

"If our friend hadn't been so anxious to give me a headache, he would have found this," he said with a grim smile.

This was definitely not the same rumpled man who had seemed more like an absentminded professor than a bodyguard. Francesca's elation was tempered by reality. "What can you do? They have at least two guns, and we can't fly the plane."