Текст книги "Spartan Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

CHAPTER 39

The farther west through the mansion they walked the fewer party guests they encountered. While the mansion and its wings were laid out as a peace symbol, the main portion of the house was an octagon with sitting rooms, parlors, dens, and libraries surrounding a central foyer. After twenty minutes of wandering they found themselves in a darkened conservatory filled with potted palms and hanging-trellis half walls overflowing with flowering vines. Through the arched glass ceiling they could see diamond-speck stars against the black sky. To their left, through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, was a long porch surrounded by hedges.

Set into the northwest wall was a single door. They made one circuit through the conservatory to check for cameras and to make sure they were alone, then headed to the door. It was locked.

Sam was reaching into his pocket for his pick set when a voice behind them said, “Excuse me, sir, may I ask what you’re doing?”

Sam didn’t give himself a chance to think, but simply reacted on instinct. He turned on the man and barked in what he hoped was passable Russian-accented English, “Finally! Where have you been? Do you know the humidity-control sensors have been going off in there?”

“Pardon me—”

“You are security, yes?”

“Yes, sir. However—”

“Mr. Bondaruk told us to come straight here, that someone would meet us. We’ve already been standing here for what, dear, five minutes?”

Remi didn’t miss a beat, nodding firmly. “At least that.”

The guard narrowed his eyes at them. “If you’ll wait just a moment I’ll confirm—”

“Fine, do what you must, but let me ask you this: Have you ever seen what condensation can do to a nine-hundred-year-old bardiche with a Mongolian red maple handle? Have you?”

The guard shook his head, his portable radio halfway to his mouth.

Sam said, “Here, look at this palm—this is a perfect example of what I’m talking about . . . do you see the leaves?” He took a step forward and to the guard’s left, pointing at a nearby palm tree. Already distracted by his own radio, the guard reacted with natural curiosity, turning his head to look at what Sam had indicated.

In that fleeting moment Sam reversed direction. Spinning on his right heel, he swept his left foot in a short arc, hooking the man’s right ankle and kicking it out from under him. Even as the guard stumbled backward Sam was spinning again, this time with a perfectly timed uppercut that caught the man squarely on the chin. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

“Wow,” Remi breathed. “And here I thought your judo was just a hobby.”

“It is. It just happens to be a very practical hobby. Next one’s yours, by the way.”

“Find me a foil and you’ve got a deal. Mongolian red maple? Is there such a thing?”

“I have no idea.”

Sam knelt down, scooped up the man’s radio, then frisked him, finding a Glock nine-millimeter pistol in a hip paddle holster, a set of handcuffs, a hotel-style card key, and a key ring. This he tossed to Remi, who began trying keys in the door. Sam rolled the guard onto his belly, cuffed his hands behind his back, gagged him with his own tie, then dragged him by the collar into the corner and rearranged a few potted palms so he would be harder to spot.

“Got it,” Remi said, turning and holding up one of the keys.

“Did you check the door?”

She nodded. “Didn’t see any alarm wires. The striker plate and latch look pretty standard.”

“Well, we’ll know for sure in about five seconds,” Sam said, then inserted the key into the lock and turned the knob. Silence. No whooping alarms, no blaring Klaxons.

“Still could be a silent alarm,” Remi said.

“True. Hurry, over there.”

They sprinted to the corner and ducked down with the guard’s body. One minute passed. Two minutes and still there were no pounding footsteps or loudspeaker announcements.

“It can’t be this easy,” Remi said. “Can it?”

“No chance. No turning back now. Unless you want to, that is?”

“Me?” she replied with a smile. “I’m just starting to enjoy myself.”

“That’s my girl.”

On the other side of the door they found a ten-foot-long corridor painted in pure white and lit by recessed overhead fluorescent lights. At the far end of the corridor was another door, this one made of heavy steel and controlled by a wall-mounted card reader.

“Very tricky,” Sam said. “See that quarter-sized clear screen above the reader?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a biometric thumbprint scanner.”

“Which means there’s probably a security control center somewhere.”

“I agree. It looks like we need our friend. Wait here.”

Sam stepped out the first door then reappeared dragging the guard behind him. He handed Remi the card key, then together they hoisted the man up so Sam could wrap his arms around his waist and Remi had access to his cuffed hands.

“We might get as few as two chances at this before we trip something and attract some more company,” he said.

“Swipe first, then the thumbprint?”

“Right. I think.”

“Great.”

Sam spread his legs wider for leverage, then shuffle-walked the man’s limp form to the reader. Remi swiped the card, then grabbed the guard’s thumb and pressed it to the scanner.

The reader emitted a squelchy beep.

“Strike one,” Sam said.

“I’m nervous.”

“Second time’s the charm. Hurry, this guy’s getting heavy.”

She took a break, then tried again.

The reader let out a soft, welcoming chime, followed by a metallic snick as the lock disengaged.

“Open it just an inch before the lock reengages,” Sam said, backing away and laying the guard down. “Be right back.” He dragged the guard back out the first door, then returned.

“See anything?” Sam asked.

Remi eased the door open another inch, pressed her eye to the gap for a few seconds, then pulled back and whispered, “No cameras that I can see.”

“Let’s go.”

Remi opened the door and they stepped through. The room was circular, with gray-painted walls and navy blue carpet. Pot lights in the ceiling cast pools of light on the floor. Directly ahead of them, at the ten o’clock and two o’clock positions on a clock face, were two card reader doors. They each took a door, Sam left, Remi right, and checked for wires. They found none.

Repeating their earlier swipe/thumb process, they first checked the left-hand door. Inside was a small landing and a set of steps that descended fifteen feet to a burgundy-carpeted corridor lit by soft baseboard lights.

They checked the right-hand door. “It’s a square alcove, about ten by ten feet,” Remi whispered, pulling it open an inch. “Straight ahead is another door—a latch but no lock that I can see. The wall to the right is glass from waist height to the ceiling. On the other side is what looks like a control room—a couple computer workstations and a radio console. There’s another door, behind the workstations.”

“Lights?”

“Dark except for the glow of the computer monitors.”

“Cameras?”

She peeked again, this time dropping into a crouch and craning her neck. She pulled back again and nodded. “Only one that I can see—a blinking green light near the ceiling in the right-hand corner.”

“Is it fixed?”

“No, rotating.”

“Good for us, bad for them.”

“How so?”

“In a space that small they should have gone with a fixed camera and a fish-eye lens. No blind spots to hide in. Watch it, count how long it takes to make a complete pan.”

She did so. “Four seconds.”

Sam frowned. “Not a lot of time. You have a preference?”

“No.”

“Let’s go left first.”

They dragged the guard through the door, dropped him on the landing, then descended the steps, hunched over so they could scan the corridor ahead. They saw no blinking green camera lights. They kept going.

After thirty feet the corridor ended at an oaken door bearing a gold plaque embossed in Cyrillic lettering. While neither of them read Russian, the style of the plaque suggested its context: PRIVATE. KEEP OUT. The knob, too, was gold. Sam tried it. Unlocked. He swung it open.

Another circular room, this one thirty feet in diameter and pan eled in polished and center-cut burled walnut. The floor was covered in what looked to be a handwoven Turkish rug.

“That’s a Dosemealti,” Remi whispered.

“Pardon me?”

“The rug. It’s a Dosemealti—they’re woven by Yoruk nomads. Extremely rare and extremely expensive. I read an article about them last month. In every square yard of that thing are almost two hundred thousand hand-stitched knots.”

“Impressive.”

“Yes, but something tells me it’s not the prize of this room.”

“No kidding.”

Spaced every few feet along the curved walls were gleaming glass cases, each containing yet another piece of militaria displayed on a marble pedestal. The room was dark save a single halogen lamp mounted inside each case. Unlike the Sword Room, however, the decor here made it clear this collection was for Bondaruk’s eyes only. Any remaining doubt about this was quashed by the high-backed leather chair sitting in the exact center of the room.

“It has a distinctly thronelike feel, doesn’t it?” Sam asked.

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

They split up, each strolling along a wall, studying each piece in turn. “Here’s something called a gerron,” Sam said over his shoulder, stopping before a case displaying a tall, oval shield made of wicker and leather. “Used by Persian troops.”

“I’ve got a Persian sword over here,” Remi replied from across the room. “An akinakes, it’s called. It was carried by Persian Immortals of the Achaemenid Dynasty.”

“Looks like we have a theme going. I’ve got a sagaris over here. A Persian battle-ax—also from the Achaemenid Dynasty.”

They continued their tour, each reading aloud from the placards as they went. Shields, spears, daggers, long bows . . . all from the ancient Persian Achaemenid Dynasty of Xerxes I.

“I think someone’s got a fetish,” Remi said as they met back near the door.

“I agree,” Sam replied. “Unless I miss my guess, we may have just found the Bondaruk skeleton we’ve been looking for.”

“Maybe, but that begs the question: What does any of this have to do with Napoleon’s Lost Cellar?”

They made their way back to the blue-carpeted rotunda. Remi crouched by the right-hand door, pulled it open, and took another peek. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” Sam said, then quickly explained. “Once I go in, if the camera stops panning, close the door and find a place to hide. It might mean they’ve seen something and guards are on the way.”

“What about you?”

“You worry about you. I’ll be right on your heels.”

They switched places at the door. Sam waited until the camera had panned fully to the right, then dropped to his belly and slithered through the door. He rolled right until his back touched the wall, then crawled along it to the next door.

Now he could hear the faint whirring of the camera’s pivot motor. Remi, once again kneeling beside the door, tapped the floor twice with her fingernail: Camera away. Slowly, Sam turned his head until he could see through the glass. He checked the ceiling and walls above the computer workstations for cameras; he saw none. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the camera panning back toward him. Remi tapped her fingernail once—Camera coming—and he ducked down.

Five seconds passed. Remi tapped twice. Sam reached up and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. He rolled left and got to his knees, careful to keep his head below the glass. He waited until Remi gave him the all-clear double tap again, then turned the knob, pushed open the door, crawled through, and shut it behind him. Three seconds later he was standing pressed against the wall below the camera. He gave her a thumbs-up. Fifteen seconds later she was through both doors and standing beside him.

The control room was twice as big as the alcove. Under the half-glass wall was a long white melamine desk holding two computer towers and twenty-four-inch LCD displays. Fifteen feet down the wall against which they stood was the other door.

Sam tapped his ear, pointed to the camera, then to himself: Might have microphone; will check. Remi nodded her understanding.

Synchronizing his movements with the camera’s panning, Sam ducked first left, then right, rising up on his tiptoes so he could get a clear view of the camera.

“No sound,” he told Remi. “I’ll check the door. You say go.”

They waited, watching the camera pivot above their heads.

“Go.”

Sam slid left down the wall, checked the doorknob, found it unlocked, then slid back. “Our luck is holding,” he said.

“That’s what makes me nervous.”

The camera’s panning speed didn’t leave them enough time to open the next door, peek through, then either pull back or keep going.

“We’ll have to take our chances and risk it,” Sam said.

“I know.”

“Ready?”

She took a deep breath, let it out, then nodded.

They watched the camera, waiting for it to swing fully away, then dashed down the wall, opened the door, and stepped through.

CHAPTER 40

They were greeted by the blinding glare of white light. Before their eyes could adjust, a Scottish-accented voice said, “Hey, who are you? What are you—”

Hand held before his eyes, Sam jerked the Glock up and pointed it toward the voice. “Hands up!”

“Okay, okay, for God’s sake, don’t shoot me.”

Their eyes adjusted. They were in a laboratory clean room, painted all white save the floor, which was covered in white antistatic, antimicrobial rubber tiles. In the center of the space was a twelve-by-six-foot worktable surrounded by rolling stools. On the shelves and tables was, Sam estimated, a quarter-million dollars’ worth of restoration equipment, including autoclaves, glass-fronted refrigeration units, two Zeiss stereomicroscopes, a polarized fluorescence microscope, and a handheld XRF (X-ray fluorescence) device. On the table’s Formica surface rested what looked like pieces from Bondaruk’s war collection—a broken spear handle, a double-sided ax head, a tarnished and bent Civil War cavalry sword. A triangle of articulated stainless steel halogen lamps shined down from the ceiling.

The man who stood before them was short and bald save a fringe of orange hair above his ears. He was dressed in a knee-length white lab coat. From behind a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses his eyes were comically magnified.

“Well, that’s a familiar sight,” Remi said, pointing.

Projected on one of the monitors was a piece of cracked leather bearing a grid of symbols.

“Eureka,” Sam muttered. Then he said to the man, “Who are—”

Even as the words left Sam’s mouth the man spun and began sprinting toward the far wall—heading for, Sam realized, the red mushroom-shaped panic button mounted there.

“Stop!” Sam shouted, to no effect. “Damn it!”

Behind him, Remi was moving. She leaped forward, snatched the spear handle from the table, and hurled it sidearm. It spun through the air in a flat arc and smacked the man behind the knees. Arm already outstretched for the button, he grunted and pitched forward. His head slammed into the wall with a dull thud just below the button. He slid face-first to the floor, unconscious.

Sam, eyes wide, his gun still raised, stared at her. She looked back at him and offered a shrug and a grin. “I used to toss a baton when I was a kid.”

“It shows. Bet you’re hell in a horseshoe pit.”

“Hope I didn’t kill him. Oh, God, I didn’t kill him, did I?”

Sam walked over, knelt down, and rolled the man onto his back. Protruding from his forehead was a purple egg-shaped lump. Sam checked for a pulse. “He’s just down for a long nap. He’ll have a headache for a few days but nothing else.”

Remi was standing before the monitor displaying the symbol grid. “You think it’s the bottle from Rum Cay?” she asked.

“I sure hope so. If not, that means Bondaruk’s got more than one bottle. Look around, see if it’s here.”

They checked the humidity-control cabinets, the refrigerators, and the drawers beneath the worktable, but found no sign of either the bottle or the label.

“It’s probably a digital image,” Remi said, studying the monitor. “See the edge there, on the left? It looks color enhanced.”

“As much as I’d like to get the bottle away from Bondaruk, this might be all we need. See if you can print—” Sam stopped talking and cocked his head. “You hear that . . . ? Oh, crap.” He pointed.

In the corner, partially hidden from view by a cabinet, was a wall-mounted video camera. It stopped panning, the lens aimed directly at them.

“Company’s coming,” Remi said.

“Quick, check the keyboard, see if you can print us a screen capture of the label!”

As Remi started tapping on the keyboard, Sam sprinted to the corner, grabbed the feed wire beneath the camera, and jerked it loose. Next he ran to the door, flipped off the lights, and returned to Remi, who said, “Got it!” and tapped a key. The laser printer’s lights blinked green and it hummed to life.

From the control room they heard a door bang open, then shut, then open again. Footsteps clicked on linoleum, then went silent.

“Down,” Sam whispered, then dropped onto his belly and pulled Remi with him. “Stay here and grab that printout.” He crawled down the short side of the table and peeked his head out.

At the door, the knob was slowly turning. He extended the Glock and took aim.

The laser printer started rhythmically humming.

“Printing,” Remi whispered.

The door burst open, revealing a figure silhouetted by the control room’s LCD monitors. Sam fired once. The bullet struck the man in the calf just below the knee. He screamed and toppled forward. His weapon—a compact Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun—bounced across the rubber floor and landed a few feet from Sam. In the control room he heard a hushed voice bark something—a curse, Sam assumed from the tone—in Russian. The man Sam shot was whimpering and crawling back toward the door.

“Got it!” Remi called. “Detail’s perfect. We can use it.”

“Come around,” Sam whispered. She crawled around the corner and tapped his ankle. “Here.” Sam turned, handed her the Glock, and said, “When I say go, fire three shots through the door. Aim for the glass wall.”

“Okay.”

Sam got to his knees, took a breath. “Go!”

Remi popped up and started firing. Glass began shattering. Sam somersaulted out from behind the table, veered left, grabbed the MP5, then scuttled back to cover.

“What’re they waiting for?” Remi asked.

“Reinforcements or better weaponry would be my guess. We need to get out of here before either arrives.”

As if on cue, a hand appeared around the edge of the door and hurled something. The object bounced off the side of the table, hit the rubber floor, then came to a spinning rest.

“Down, Remi!” Sam shouted.

Moving on instinct and on the faith that he’d correctly identified the thrown object, Sam stood up, took a bounding leap, and soccer-kicked the object back toward the door. As it reached the threshold it exploded. Blinding white light and a deafening boom filled the lab. Sam stumbled backward and collapsed behind the table.

“What in God’s name was that?” Remi said, shaking her head to clear it.

“Flash-bang grenade. Special forces and SWAT teams use them to distract the bad guys. A lot of sound and light, but no shrapnel.”

“How did you know?”

“Discovery Channel. At least now we know one thing—they’re trying to avoid any shooting in here.”

“How about a little distraction of our own?” Remi said, pointing with the Glock.

Sam looked. On the wall opposite the panic button was a paperback-sized Plexiglas box housing a yellow mushroom bearing a pictograph of a water droplet. “That’ll do.”

“Two shots, if you will.”

“Ready.”

“Go.”

Remi popped up and opened fire. Sam charged to the wall and slammed the butt of the MP5 sideways into the Plexiglas box, ripping it from the wall. He jerked the lever down. From unseen loudspeakers a computer-generated female voice made an announcement first in Russian, and then in English:

“Warning. Fire suppression system activated. Evacuate area

immediately. Warning. Fire suppression system activated.”

Sam rushed back behind the table. “Rain’s coming, Remi. Protect that printout!”

“Already tucked away.”

“Cleavage?”

“Safer. Found a ziplock Baggie.”

To the right, in the corner of his eye, Sam saw movement in the doorway. He spun, let loose a quick three-round burst. A monitor in the control room exploded in a shower of sparks, then started smoking. He dove behind the table again.

With a whir, silver nozzles descended from the ceiling. There was a one-second delay followed by a pop-hiss. The nozzles exploded into cones of water.

Sam peeked his head around the corner of the table in time to see a figure run through the alcove and disappear through the door.

“Let’s go before the cavalry arrives,” Sam rasped over the rush of water.

“Wait, I’m checking my ammunition. . . . I’ve got nine shots left. Ready when you are.”

“When I go, put three more shots through the doorway, then follow me. Stay directly behind me, got it?”

“Yep.”

“Go!”

Sam got up and charged. As he passed the end of the table, he reached out with his right hand and snagged one of the rolling stools. Ten feet from the door, he pushed it ahead of him, then gave it a kick. At that moment a figure appeared in the doorway. The stool, already tipping over and spinning, crashed into the man’s legs. Arms flailing, he stumbled backward into the still smoking computer monitor. Sam was through the door in three more paces. He reversed the MP5 across his body and slammed it squarely into the center of the man’s face. With a sickening crunch his nose shattered. He went limp and slid off the table, legs still entangled in the stool.

Sam picked up the fallen man’s MP5 and handed it to Remi.

“What now?” she asked, flipping her sopping hair away from her face.

“Nothing complicated. We run for our lives.”

They went through the first door, into the alcove, then through the card-reader door and into the corridor beyond, where the trapped water had risen to ankle depth. The overhead fluorescent lights had gone dark.

Remi asked, “You have a plan, right?”

“Wouldn’t call it a plan. A sketch, maybe.”

“Good enough for me.”

He turned to her and took her free hand in his own. “Are you ready for this? You may have to do something you don’t want to do.”

Remi smiled. Water ran down her cheeks and over her lips in rivulets. “Like shoot someone? No worries; they started it.”

“That’s my girl. Okay, we go on three. Stay low and head left for cover. If it moves, shoot it.”

“Gladly.”

Sam grabbed the knob. “One . . . two . . .”