From the #1 New York Times bestselling Grand Master of Adventure Clive Cussler, a breathtaking thriller in which legendary hero Kurt Austin journeys to the mysterious depths of the Venezuelan rainforest to take on a corrupt billionaire tycoon. An investigation into the sudden deaths of a pod of gray whales leads National Underwater & Marine Agency leader Kurt Austin to the Mexican coast, where someone tries to put him and his mini-sub permanently out of commission. Meanwhile, in South America’s lush hills, a specially assigned NUMA® team discovers the body of a murder victim—a member of a mysterious local tribe that lives beyond a five-part waterfall the locals call the Hand of God and is rumored to be led by a mythical white goddess. It becomes clear that the tribe is the target of a vicious cadre of bio-pirates intent on stealing medicinal discoveries worth millions. Soon, Austin and his crew realize that they’re working opposite ends of the same grand scheme, and they must race against time to save the world’s freshwater supply from a twisted eco-extortionist. But every step toward salvation takes them deeper into a dense jungle of treachery, blackmail, and death. Clive Cussler (1931–2020) was the author or coauthor of over eighty books in six bestselling series, including Dirk Pitt, The Numa Files, The Oregon Files, An Isaac Bell Adventure, A Sam and Remi Fargo Adventure, and A Kurt Austin Adventure. His nonfiction works include Built for Adventure : The Classic Automobiles of Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt , Built to Thrill: More Classic Automobiles from Clive Cussler and Dirk Pitt , The Sea Hunters , and The Sea Hunters II ; these describe the true adventures of the real NUMA, which, led by Cussler, searches for lost ships of historic significance. With his crew of volunteers, Cussler discovered more than sixty ships, including the long-lost Civil War submarine Hunley. Chapter 1 1 2001 San Diego, California WEST OF ENCITAS on the Pacific coast, the graceful motor yacht Nepenthe swung at anchor, the grandest craft in a flotilla that seemed to include every sailboat and powerboat in San Diego. With her fluid drawn-out lines, the spearlike sprit jutting from the thrusting clipper bow, and her flaring transom, the two-hundred-foot-long Nepenthe looked as if she were made of fine white china floating on a Delft sea. Her paint glistened with a mirror finish, and her brightwork sparkled under the California sun. Flags and pennants snapped and fluttered from stem to stern. Bobbing balloons occasionally broke loose to soar into the cloudless sky. In the yacht’s spacious British Empire–style salon a string quartet played a Vivaldi piece for the eclectic gathering of black-clad Hollywood types, corpulent politicians, and sleek TV anchors who milled around a thick-legged mahogany table devouring pâté, beluga caviar, and shrimp with the gusto of famine victims. Outside, crowding the sun-drenched decks, children sat in wheelchairs or leaned on crutches, munching hot dogs and burgers and enjoying the fresh sea air. Hovering over them like a mother hen was a lovely woman in her fifties. Gloria Ekhart’s generous mouth and cornflower-blue eyes were familiar to millions who had seen her movies and watched her popular sitcom on TV. Every fan knew about Ekhart’s daughter Elsie, the pretty, freckle-faced young girl who scooted around the deck in a wheelchair. Ekhart had given up acting at the peak of her career to devote her fortune and time to helping children like her own. The influential and well-heeled guests chugging down Dom Perignon in the salon would be asked later to open their checkbooks for the Ekhart Foundation. Ekhart had a flair for promotion, which was why she leased the Nepenthe for her party. In 1930, when the vessel slid off the ways at the G. L. Watson boatyard in Glasgow, she was among the most graceful motor yachts ever to sail the seas. The yacht’s first owner, an English earl, lost her in an all-night poker game to a Hollywood mogul with a penchant for cards, marathon parties, and underage starlets. She went through a succession of equally indifferent owners, winding up in a failed attempt as a fishing boat. Smelling of dead fish and bait, the rotting yacht languished in the back corner of a boatyard. She was rescued by a Silicon Valley magnate who tried to recoup the millions he spent restoring the vessel by leasing her out for events such as the Ekhart fund-raiser. A man wearing a blue blazer with an official race badge pinned to the breast pocket had been peering through binoculars at the flat green expanse of the Pacific. He rubbed his eyes and squinted into the lenses again. In the distance thin white plumes were etched against the blue sky where it met the water. He lowered the binoculars, raised an aerosol canister with a plastic trumpet attached, and pressed the button three times. Hawnk… hawnk… hawnk . The klaxon’s blaring squawk echoed across the water lik