Текст книги "The Kingdom"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

21

VLORE, ALBANIA

The Fiat’s dashboard clock clicked over to nine a.m. just as Sam and Remi passed the welcome sign for Vlore. Albania’s second-largest city, of a hundred thousand souls, sat nestled on a bay on the west coast, overlooking the Adriatic with its back to the mountains.

And with any luck, Sam and Remi hoped, Vlore was still home to one of the Sentinel disks.

An hour after Wendy and Pete had extracted the Theurang disk from the box and set about determining its provenance with Karna, Selma’s face reappeared in an iChat window on Karna’s laptop’s screen.

In her characteristically curt manner she said, “Jack, your research methods are impeccable. Sam, Remi, I think his theory about the two priests holds water. Whether we can find them and the other two disks is another matter.”

“What else have you been able to discover?” asked Sam.

“At the time of their deaths, both Besim Mala and Arnost Deniv had risen to the rank of Bishop and were highly respected in their communities. Both had helped found churches and schools and hospitals throughout their home countries.”

“Which suggests their burial sites could be more elaborate than a six-foot-deep rectangle in the earth,” Karna said.

“I found no mention of the particulars, but I can’t fault your reasoning,” replied Selma. “In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the EOC-”

“The what?” asked Remi.

“Eastern Orthodox Church. The EOC-especially those based in the Balkans and southern Russia-tended to make a big deal of such deaths. Crypts and mausoleums appear to be the customary method of interment.”

“The question is,” Karna said, “where exactly were they laid to rest?”

“Still working on Deniv, but Church records state that Bishop Besim Mala’s final posting was in Vlore, Albania.”

With time to kill until Selma could give them a more specific target area, Sam and Remi spent an hour touring Vlore, marveling at its beautifully blended architecture that felt at once Greek, Italian, and medieval. Shortly before noon, they pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Bologna, overlooking the blue waters of the harbor, and took a seat in a palm tree-lined outdoor cafe.

Sam’s satellite phone trilled. It was Selma. Sam put the phone on Speaker.

“I have Jack here as well,” Selma said. “We have-”

“If this is going to a bad news/good news call, Selma, just give it to us,” Remi said. “We’re too tired to choose.”

“Actually, this is an all good news call-or potentially good news, that is.”

“Shoot,” said Sam.

Jack Karna said, “The Sentinel disk is genuine, I believe. I can’t be one hundred percent sure until I can check it against the wall maps I mentioned, but I’m optimistic.”

Selma said, “As for the final resting place of Besim Mala, I can narrow your search grid to about a half mile square.”

“Is it underwater?” Sam asked, skeptical.

“No.”

“An alligator-infested swamp?” Remi chimed in.

“No.”

“Let me guess,” Sam said. “A cave. It’s in a cave.”

Karna said, “Strike three, to appropriate an American phrase. Based on our research, we believe Bishop Mala was laid to rest in the graveyard of the Monastery of Saint Mary on Zvernec Island.”

“Which is where?” asked Remi.

“Six miles north, up the coast. Find a Wi-Fi hot spot, and I’ll download the particulars to your iPad, Mrs. Fargo.”

They took a short time to relax in the hotel’s cafe. Sam and Remi ordered a flavorsome Albanian lunch of ground lamb meatballs scented with mint and cinnamon, baked dough with spiced spinach, and grape juice enhanced with sugar and mustard. As luck would have it, the cafe had free Wi-Fi, so between bites of a delicious lunch they perused their travel packet, as Selma called it. Predictably, it was exhaustive, with driving instructions, local history, and a map of the grounds of the monastery. The only detail she could not find was the actual location of Bishop Mala’s grave site.

After paying the bill, Sam and Remi pointed the Fiat’s hood north. After ten miles, they pulled into the village of Zvernec and followed a lone sign to Narta Lagoon. The lagoon was large, nearly twelve square miles.

Upon turning onto the dirt road encircling the lagoon, Sam drove north until they came to a gravel parking lot on a patch of land jutting into the lagoon. The lot was empty.

Sam and Remi got out and stretched. The weather was unseasonably warm, seventy degrees, and sunny, with only a few billowy clouds inland.

“I take it that’s our destination,” Remi said, pointing.

At the shore, a narrow pedestrian bridge led to Zvernec Island, eight hundred feet away, that was home to St. Mary Monastery, a collection of four medieval-style church buildings occupying a two-acre triangle of grass on the shoreline.

They walked to the head of the bridge, where Remi paused. She stared at the bridge nervously. The ramshackle crossings they’d encountered first in Chobar Gorge, then again on their way to King’s secret dig site in the Langtang Valley, had clearly made more of an impact than she’d realized.

Sam walked back to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s solid. I’m an engineer, Remi. This monastery is a tourist attraction. Tens of thousands of people cross this bridge every year.”

Eyes narrowed, she looked at him sideways. “You’re not humoring me, are you, Fargo?”

“Would I do that?”

“You might.”

“Not this time. Come on,” he said with an encouraging smile. “We’ll cross together. It’ll be like strolling along a sidewalk.”

She nodded firmly. “Back on the horse.”

Sam took her hand, and they started across. Halfway there, she stopped suddenly. She smiled. “I think I’m all better.”

“Cured?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m okay. Let’s keep moving.”

Within a couple minutes they’d reached the island. From a distance, the church buildings appeared almost pristine: sun-bleached rock walls and red-tiled roofs. Now, standing before the structures, it was clear to Sam and Remi the buildings had seen better days. The roofs were missing tiles, and several of the walls were either sagging or partially crumbling. One belfry was missing a roof altogether, its bell slouching sideways from its support beam.

A well-groomed dirt path wound its way through the grounds. Here and there, pigeons sat clustered on eaves, cooing and staring unblinkingly at the island’s two new visitors.

“I don’t see anyone,” Sam said. “You?”

Remi shook her head. “Selma’s brief mentioned a caretaker but no tourist office.”

“Then let’s explore,” Sam said. “How big is the island?”

“Ten acres.”

“Shouldn’t take long to find the cemetery.”

After taking a cursory stroll through each of the buildings, they followed the path into the pine forest beyond the clearing. Once they were inside the tree line, the sun dimmed, and the trunks seemed to tighten around them. This was old-growth forest, with knee-high tangles of undergrowth and enough rotting logs and stumps to make passage a bit of a challenge. After a few hundred yards, the path forked.

“Of course,” Remi said. “No sign.”

“Flip a mental coin.”

“Left.”

They took the left-hand fork and followed the winding trail before coming to a rickety, half-rotted dock overlooking a marsh.

“Bad flip,” Remi said.

They backtracked to the fork and began heading down the right-hand path. This took them generally northeast, deeper into the forest and toward the wider end of the island.

Sam jogged ahead on a scouting mission, turned and called back to Remi, “Spotted a clearing!” A few moments later he appeared from around a bend in the trail and stopped before her. He was smiling. Broadly.

“You generally don’t get this excited about clearings,” Remi said.

“I do if the clearing has tombstones.”

“Lead on, bwana.”

Together, they walked down the path to where the pine forest parted. Oval-shaped and roughly two hundred feet across, the clearing was indeed a cemetery, but almost immediately Sam and Remi realized there was something very wrong here. On the far side was a jumbled stack of pine logs; beside this stack, several house-high bales of withered boughs and branches. The earth in the clearing was pockmarked, as though it had undergone an artillery bombardment, and about half of the graves appeared to have been freshly churned.

To the east was a second opening in the trees, this one a nearly straight corridor, at the end of which they could see the waters of the lagoon.

Of the dozens of tombstones visible, only a few were undamaged; all the others were either cracked or partially uprooted from the ground. Sam and Remi counted fourteen mausoleums. All of these showed signs of damage as well, either canted on their foundations or their walls and roofs caved in.

“What happened here?” Remi asked.

“A storm, I’m guessing,” said Sam. “Came off the ocean and ripped across the island like a chain saw. It’s a shame.”

Remi nodded solemnly. “On the bright side, it may make our job easier. We won’t technically be breaking into Mala’s mausoleum.”

“Good point. But there is one more hurdle,” Sam said to Remi.

“What?”

“Let’s look first. I don’t want to jinx us.”

They split up, Sam taking the east side and moving north, Remi taking the west side and moving north. Skipping grave markers, each headed for the nearest mausoleum, stopping only long enough to read the name engraved on the stone facade.

At last, Remi reached the graveyard’s northeast corner, near the jumble of pine logs. As she approached the last mausoleum in her line, it seemed to be the least damaged of the lot, with only a few cracks showing in the walls. It was also uniquely decorated, she realized, her heart skipping a beat.

She called, “Sam, I think we may have a winner.”

He walked over. “Why do you think so?”

“That’s the biggest cross I’ve seen. You?”

“Yes.”

The wall closest to them bore a four-by-five-foot Eastern Orthodox cross, with its three crossbars-two horizontal ones close together near the top and one near the bottom canted sideways.

“I’ve seen a lot of those, but none this big. I’m curious: why the slanted bottom crosspiece? I assume it’s symbolic of something?”

“Ah, the mysteries of religion,” said Sam.

They walked the last few feet to the mausoleum, then split up, each walking around a side to the front, which they found was surrounded by a calf-high wrought-iron fence. One side was smashed flat against the ground. At the bottom of three stone steps, the mausoleum door was open-or, to be more accurate, gone. Beyond that, the interior was dark.

Carved into the pediment beneath the mausoleum’s sloped roof were four letters: M A L A.

“Nice to finally find you, Your Eminence,” Sam murmured.

Sam stepped over the fence, followed by Remi, and descended the steps. They stopped before the opening; the stench of mildew filled their nostrils. Sam dug into his pocket and came out with his micro LED flashlight. They stepped onto the threshold, and Sam clicked on the light.

“Empty,” Remi murmured.

Sam panned the beam around the interior, hoping there was a lower antechamber, but he saw nothing. “Do you see any markings?” he asked.

“No. That smell isn’t normal, Sam. It’s like . . .”

“Stagnant water.”

He clicked off the flashlight. They turned around and climbed the steps. Sam said, “Somebody took him somewhere. All the mausoleums I checked were also empty.”

“Mine too. Someone disinterred these people, Sam.”

Back on the monastery grounds, they spotted a man atop a wooden ladder leaning against the damaged belfry. He was middle-aged, stocky, and wearing a black bicycle-racing-style cap. They walked over.

“Excuse me,” Remi said in Albanian.

The man turned and looked down at them.

“A flisni anglisht?”Do you speak English?

The man shook his head. “Jo.”

“Damn,” Remi murmured, and pulled out her iPad.

The man called out, “Earta?”

A little blond girl scampered around the edge of the building and skidded to a stop before Sam and Remi. She smiled at them, then up at the man. “Po?”

He spoke to her in Albanian for a few seconds, then she nodded. To Sam and Remi she said, “Good afternoon. My name is Earta. I speak English.”

“And very well,” Sam said, then introduced himself and Remi.

“Very nice to meet you. You would like to ask my father a question?”

“Yes,” Remi said. “Is he the caretaker?”

Earta’s brows furrowed. “Care . . . taker? Caretaker? Oh, yes, he is the caretaker.”

“We were curious about the graveyard. We were just there, and-”

“A shame about what happened, yes?”

“Yes. What did happen?”

Earta put the question to her father, listened to his answer, then said: “Two months ago, a storm came in from the bay. Heavy winds. There was much damage. The next day, the sea rose and flooded the lagoon and part of this island. The graveyard was underwater. Much damage there too.”

Sam said, “What happened to the . . . occupants?”

Earta asked her father, then asked them, “Why do you ask?”

Remi replied, “I may have distant relatives from here. My aunt told me one of them was buried here.”

“Oh,” Earta said with some consternation. “I am sorry to hear that.” She spoke to her father again, who replied at length. Earta said to Remi, “About half of the graves were undamaged. The others . . . when the water receded, the people were no longer under the ground. My father, my sisters, and I were finding them for several days afterward.” Earta’s eyes brightened, and she smiled. “There was even a skull in a tree! Just sitting there. It was funny.”

Remi stared at the beaming girl for a moment. “Okay, then.”

“The government came and decided the bodies should be taken away until the cemetery can be . . . um . . . fixed. Is that the right word?”

Sam smiled. “Yes.”

“Come back next year. It will be much nicer then. Less stinky.”

“Where are the remains now?” said Remi.

Earta asked her father. She nodded at his explanation, then said to Sam and Remi, “Sazan Island.” She pointed toward the Bay of Vlore. “There is an old monastery there, older than this one even. The government took them all there.”

22

VLORE, ALBANIA

“Well, that’s a bit of bad luck,” Selma said a few minutes later when Sam and Remi shared the news. They were sitting on the hood of their Fiat in the parking lot. “Hang on, let me see what I can find out about Sazan Island.”

They heard thirty seconds’ worth of keyboard clicking, then Selma was back: “Here we go. Sazan Island, largest island in Albania at two square miles, strategically located between the Strait of Otranto and the Bay of Vlore in Albania. Unpopulated, as far as I can tell. The waters around the island are part of a National Marine Park. It’s changed hands a number of times throughout the centuries: Greece, Roman Empire, Ottoman Empire, Italy, Germany, then back to Albania. Looks like Italy put some fortifications on it during World War Two, and . . . Yes, here it is: they converted the Byzantine-era monastery into a fortress of some kind.” Selma paused. “Oh, well, this could be trouble. Looks like I was mistaken.”

“Caves,” Sam predicted.

“Swamps, alligators-oh, my,” Remi chimed in.

“No, about it being uninhabited. There’s a Park Rangers installation on the island. It’s home to three or four patrol boats and about three dozen Rangers.”

“Therefore, off-limits to civilians,” Remi added.

“I would imagine, Mrs. Fargo,” agreed Selma.

Sam and Remi were silent for a few moments. Neither had to ask the other about what came next. Sam simply said to Selma, “How do we get there without being sunk by Marine Park Rangers?”

After skipping Selma’s first and predictable suggestion of “Don’t get caught,” they began exploring their options. First, of course, they would need transportation, an easy enough task, Selma assured them.

Leaving Selma to her task, Sam and Remi drove the Fiat south back to Vlore, where they regrouped at their de facto headquarters: the outdoor cafe at the Hotel Bologna. From their seats they could see in the distance Sazan Island, a speck of land rising from the Adriatic’s blue waters.

Selma called an hour later. “How do you feel about kayaks?”

“As long as they’re nice to us,” Sam quipped.

Remi swatted Sam on the arm. “Go ahead, Selma.”

“On the northern tip of the peninsula there’s a recreation area: beaches, rock climbing, sea caves, coves for swimming, that sort of thing. From the tip of the peninsula to Sazan Island it’s just over two miles. Here’s the catch: they don’t allow motorized craft in the area, and it closes at dusk. I presume you would prefer to do your skullduggery at night?”

“You know us so well,” Sam replied. “You’ve found a trustworthy kayak emporium, I assume.”

“I have. I’ve taken the liberty of renting a pair for you.”

“What about weather and tides?” said Remi.

“Partly cloudy and calm tonight, with a quarter moon; but there’s a storm moving in tomorrow morning. Based on the online nautical charts I’ve been able to find, the current within the bay is fairly gentle, but go too far east of Sazan Island and the peninsula and you’re in the Adriatic. From what I’ve read, the current there is unforgiving.”

Sam said, “In other words, a one-way trip south to the Mediterranean Sea.”

“If you even get that far without being-”

“We understand, Selma,” Remi interrupted. “East is bad.”

Sam and Remi looked at each other and nodded. Sam said, “Selma, how long until dusk?”

As it turned out, the approach of nightfall was the least of their worries. While the shop-located in Orikum, a resort municipality ten miles south of Vlore in the crook of the bay-had a wide selection of injection-molded plastic kayak models available, none of them came in anything but retina-burning reds, yellows, or oranges, or a Jackson Pollockesque mix of the three. With no time to shop for stealthier color schemes, they bought the best pair of the lot, along with double-ended oars and life jackets.

After a quick stop at a hardware store, they returned to Vlore. Having had good luck with them since Kathmandu, they found a military surplus store and bought an all-black outfit for each of them: boots and socks, long underwear, wool pants, knit cap, and an oversized long-sleeved turtleneck sweater to cover the neon orange life jacket. A bag of just-in-case odds and ends and a pair of dark rucksacks rounded out the spree. Then they set out.

Sam drove around the recreation area for several minutes, but they saw no one. The parking lots and beaches were empty. From a cliff overlook, they scanned the waters below and again saw no one.

“Probably too early in the year,” Sam said. “School’s still in session.”

“We should assume there’ll be patrols,” Remi said. “Park Rangers or local police.”

Sam nodded. “Good point.” If found, the Fiat would either be ticketed or towed. In either case, it was a complication they didn’t need. Worse still, the local authorities might push the panic button and assume they had a pair of vacationers lost at sea, which would undoubtedly attract the attention of the Navy and/or Coast Guard-the very thing Sam and Remi were trying to avoid.

After twenty minutes of tooling around the recreation area’s dirt roads, Sam found a brush-choked drainage ditch into which he backed the Fiat. Under Remi’s careful eye for detail, they rearranged the brush until the vehicle was invisible from the road.

Together they stepped back to admire the job.

“They could have used you in England before D-day,” Sam remarked.

“It’s a gift,” Remi agreed.

Rucksacks on their backs, they dragged their kayaks down the hill to a secluded cove they’d spotted earlier. Measuring less than forty feet wide, with a shallow white sand beach, the inlet leading out to sea was two hundred yards long and curved, protecting them from prying eyes.

With forty-five minutes of light remaining, they set about camouflaging the kayaks. Using cans of black and gray marine spray paint, they emblazoned the sides, tops, and bottoms of the craft in jagged overlapping stripes until not a sliver of neon plastic showed. Sam’s paint job, while functional, lacked the artistic flair of Remi’s work. Her kayak bore a striking resemblance to the slashed camouflage pattern found on World War I warships.

He stepped back a few paces, studied each kayak in turn, then said, “Are we sure you aren’t reincarnated from some OSS operative?”

“Not entirely.” She nodded at his kayak. “Do you mind?”

“Have at it.”

A couple of minutes and half a can of spray paint later, Sam’s kayak looked almost identical to her own. She turned to him: “What do you think?”

“I feel . . . unmanned.”

Remi walked over and kissed him. She smiled. “If it helps, I think your kayak is bigger than mine.”

“Very funny. Let’s get changed.”

After they donned their surplus clothes, their regular clothes went into the rucksacks, which in turn each went into the bow compartment of each kayak.

With nothing else to do, they sat together in the sand and watched the sun’s descent, watched as the shadows lengthened over the water, and darkness slowly engulfed the inlet.

When night had fully fallen, they dragged the kayaks down to the water, each shoving halfway out before climbing in and pushing off with the tip of an oar. Soon they were moving through the inlet. They took ten minutes to practice maneuvering the kayaks, getting a feel for the oars and the balance, until they were confident they were ready.

With Sam in the lead, Remi behind and to his right, they paddled down the inlet, oars making a barely perceptible hiss as they cut through the water. Soon the mouth of the inlet came into view; beyond that, a vast dark carpet of water. As Selma had predicted, the sky was partially overcast, with only the faintest moon glow reflecting off the water. Two miles ahead, almost due north, they could see the dark lump of Sazan Island.

Sam suddenly stopped paddling. He held up a closed fist: Stop. Remi took her oar out of the water, laid it across her lap, and waited. Using exaggerated and slow movements, Sam pointed to his ear, then up toward the top of the cliff to the right.

Ten seconds passed.

Then Remi heard it: an engine, followed by the soft squeal of brakes.

Sam looked back at Remi, pointed to the rock wall, then put his oar back in the water and headed in that direction. Remi followed. Sam turned his kayak parallel with the cliff, then rotated in his seat, placed a hand on Remi’s bow, and steered her in.

“Ranger?” Remi whispered.

“Let’s hope so.”

They sat still, eyes cast upward.

At the edge of the cliff a match flared, then went out and was replaced by the glowing tip of a cigarette. In the faint glow Sam glimpsed the brim of a military-style cap. For five minutes they sat motionless, watching as the man finished his smoke. At last he turned and walked back the way he’d come. A car door opened, then slammed shut. The engine started, and the car began moving away, tires crunching on the gravel.

Sam and Remi waited another five minutes in case of a double back, then set out again.

A quarter mile into the bay, it became clear that Selma’s tide prediction was similarly accurate. While neither Sam nor Remi were surprised, they also knew the ocean was a fickle beast; even a relatively gentle one-knot eastward current would have made the crossing twice as hard, forcing them to make constant course adjustments to compensate for the surge. Fail at this, and they could easily find themselves caught in the Adriatic and on their way to Greece.

Soon they found their rhythm, stroking in unison and quickly eating up the distance to Sazan. At the halfway point they stopped for a break. Remi brought her kayak alongside Sam’s, and they sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the gentle rocking of the waves.

“Patrol,” Remi said suddenly.

To the northeast a large speedboat came around the island’s headland from the direction of the base. It kept turning, bow coming about until it was pointed directly at them. Sam and Remi sat frozen, watching and waiting. Though well-camouflaged, their kayaks wouldn’t escape the attention of a spotlight a quarter mile away.

On the boat’s bow a spotlight popped on, skimmed over the island’s southern shoreline, then went dark again. The patrol boat kept coming toward them

“Come on,” Sam muttered. “Go take some shore leave.”

The boat swerved to the east.

Remi said, “Good boy. Keep going.”

It did. They watched for a few more minutes as the boat’s navigation lights grew more distant, then finally merged with the light clutter of Vlore in the distance.

Sam looked at his wife. “Ready?”

“Ready.”

They covered the remaining mile in about twenty minutes. Having already done a virtual reconnaissance of the island with Google Earth, Sam had picked out their landing point.

Measuring roughly three miles from north to south and a mile at its widest point, Sazan resembled, Sam thought, a misshapen guppy. The park station was on the guppy’s back, a cove on the northeastern coast, while their landing site was the guppy’s tail, at the extreme southern tip, near the old World War II-era fortifications.

Mostly devoid of vegetation save ground brush and a few patches of dwarf pines, the rocky terrain was dominated by two high hills near the island’s center. It was on one of these hills that they hoped to find the old monastery and, if Earta’s information was accurate, the occupants of the Zvernec Island graveyard, including the late Bishop Besim Mala.

As was normal for Sam and Remi, they were traveling far and jumping through a lot of hoops based on a big “if.” Such was the life of professional treasure hunters, they’d learned during their years of searching.

As they neared the shore, the waves got choppy, crashing on jutting rocks and half-submerged coquina flats. The plastic kayaks performed admirably, bouncing off the rocks and skidding over shoals, until Sam and Remi were able to half paddle, half push themselves into the shallows, where they climbed out and waded ashore.

They crouched down to catch their breath and survey their surroundings.

The rock-strewn beach was barely deeper than their kayaks were long and was backstopped by a four-foot-tall rock wall; beyond this wall, a steep hill dotted with green scrub. Halfway up the hill, a garage-sized structure was built into the hillside.

“Pillbox,” Sam whispered.

Higher up the hill stood what looked like a stone shack-a lookout post, perhaps-and higher still, a hundred yards away on the crest of the hill, was a three-story brick barracks-style building. Black glassless window openings stared out over the sea.

After five minutes of looking and listening, Sam whispered, “Nobody home. Anything catch your eye?”

“No.”

“I don’t see any graffiti,” Sam remarked.

“Does that mean something?”

“If I were a kid living in Vlore, I doubt I could resist sneaking out here. While it wasn’t my thing as a teenager, I knew plenty of guys who would’ve spray-painted the hell out of that pillbox just to prove they’d been here.”

Remi nodded. “So either Albanian youth are particularly law-abiding or . . .”

“Nobody who sneaks over here stays free long enough to make mischief,” Sam finished.