Claire waited tersely for another ten seconds, obviously struggling with the delay. The urge to dash for the comm-tent stood out in her every feature.
'Ethan might not have a few more minutes,' Claire argued. 'Every second might count. I'm going to try now. Why don't you wait - '
As Claire prepared to move, the comm-tower exploded.
The explosion threw both women sideways. Their bodies ploughed straight into the tent. Canvas walls and aluminum poles collapsed under their weight. Libby felt something solid in the tent, a bunk-bed probably, strike her left calf and send her cartwheeling. He body tumbled straight into a mess of canvas. As she stopped rolling, a torn flap of canvas fell over her legs and hips. Somehow, a wet green towel ended up spread across her neck and chin, half-covering her mouth.
Libby lay still for a moment, waiting for the pain. She had never been thrown around like that in her life.
She was lying on her left-hand side.
Her ears rang. A twist of smoke appeared high above her. She tried to move the wet towel, but her right arm was caught somewhere behind her back.
Rope. Her arm was caught in the tent's guide rope.
She rotated her wrist counter clockwise, uncoiling her arm from the rope until she could bring it around into proper view. Like a tattoo of an orange snake, a fat welt wound twice up her forearm from her elbow to her wrist. As she watched, the snake changed color, developing red dots all over its back as the pinpricks of blood started appearing on the rope burn.
That's going to sting, but I'm lucky if that's the worst of it.
Working on the balloon-raft, she'd had rope-burn plenty of times before. She plucked aside the towel, and then rolled forward enough to get her left arm out from where it was pinned underneath her. He shoulder sent a painful message to her brain that a muscle was pulled, but that the bones seemed intact.
More comfortable now, she looked at the sky and tried to figure out what just happened. Smoke. The tower! The tower exploded. The force had knocked them into the tent. Where's Claire!
Claire moaned. The moan sounded less than a meter away.
Libby sat up and scanned the lumpy geography of ropes and canvas. Claire moaned again. Her boot appeared through a tear in the canvas near Libby's knee. The fold of fabric over Libby's legs completely covered Claire. Libby drew back the stiff material. Claire sat up, rubbing her neck, moving her head experimentally.
'Are you alright?’ asked Libby.
'I hurt my neck.' Claire rotated both shoulders. 'It's clicking when I move, but I think it's OK. Just landed at a bad angle. Are you OK?'
Libby thought about it. 'I think so. I think the tent helped, actually. But the comm-tower just blew up.'
Claire twisted to stare at the burning wreckage.
'You just saved my life,' Claire said gravely. 'I'd have been in that if you hadn't stopped me.'
Libby swatted the ropes and strips of canvas away from Claire's legs, noting the disoriented look on Claire's face. I think she hit her head. She looks stunned. Hell, I'm sure that I'm still stunned.
Watching the smoke, Libby had a strange thought. Maybe Joel will see the smoke and head this way. Maybe it will help him to reach the Plaza. Did he have a compass? She didn't think he carried one on his person routinely like she did. At least the smoke would give him something to head towards, assuming he could see it through the canopy. One part of her mind kept expecting to bump into Joel. She clung to the hope that he'd reach the Plaza. Surely he would have tried.
But trying doesn't mean he made it. He drew that first creature away from me. He probably gave his life so that I could reach the Plaza. But it's just as dangerous here as it is out there.
'It must have been Rourke,' Claire said, still staring at the twisted metal wreckage of the comms-tower. 'Do you think they knew what we were planning? Is that why he blew it up?'
Libby started climbing out of the canvas. 'It depends on why he's doing any of this. What's it all about? What does he want?'
Claire shrugged. 'Something to do with Ethan, but I don't know exactly what. It's obvious he doesn't want anyone calling for help. There might be another way to call for help though.'
Libby guessed what Claire meant. Universities insisted on backup lines of communication in remote locations. As the site’s safety officer, Claire would know all the fine details. Libby asked, 'You mean another sat-radio?'
Claire nodded. 'Yeah, I saw it this morning. I mean, I knew they had one, but I didn't know where they kept it. I guess they didn't think it would matter if I saw it today. They planned to kill me, after all.'
'Who?' asked Libby, not liking Claire's tone of voice. 'Who's got one?'
'Rourke. Rourke has the only other sat-radio in the Plaza.'
#
Merc had recognized Dale from the newspaper photos immediately.
In the pictures, Dale always seemed to be in some pub, his hair waxed into crazy shapes. A fresh-faced, blue-eyed pretty-boy. He'd looked more like a slick pop star than the 'Bad Lad' the British press had nicknamed him. The French had dropped the story pretty quickly, but the British tabloids made it easy for Merc to follow developments, what little there were.
Dale Brish, the Houdini thief.
That was about the only thing Merc found appealing about Dale.
His story.
Spader had gotten Merc interested. Sitting on the train to Liverpool, the only two in an overnight carriage, Spader showed Merc a magazine with an article about Dale.
‘Look familiar?’ asked Spader.
Merc studied the photos. ‘Yeah. That’s the pub on Raspail Boulevard. We were just there a month ago. What happened?’
‘Read for yourself.’ Spader dropped the magazine in Merc’s lap. Merc hadn't noticed the magazine in the carriage when they boarded, so Spader must have brought it with him. It was a French magazine. That was the first strange thing that caught Merc's attention. Why would Spader have brought a magazine back from their last operation?
Pointing to Dale's picture, Spader said, 'If he ever turns up alive, this guy will be fun to watch. He's got loads of potential.'
Merc had first scanned the article and then reread it carefully. He and Spader shared a strange history when it came to reading-material. It had all started in Marion. It always had a purpose, and in the past had the habit of changing Merc's life completely.
It turned out that Dale had orchestrated an incredibly complex heist that had gone very wrong. One newspaper headline read: 'Gone sour at the eleventh hour!'
Dale Brish was the only person who escaped both death and the law that day. No one had established how he survived. He disappeared into thin air. A genuine Houdini, locked in a sealed room filling with water. However he had done it, however he had survived the impossible, those skills had bought Dale's way into Spader's team. That's what Merc guessed, anyway, three weeks later when Spader presented Dale to the team.
Until today, Dale's secret was the only interesting thing about him.
He called me ‘Mercy’. A coincidence?
Unlikely. 'Mercy' was a name from Mercerelli's past that Spader had helped him leave behind. No one had called him Mercy in more than five years. No one that was still alive, anyway. No one except Spader.
'OK, these are all ready,' said Dale, sealing up the last of the silver bags into which they had carefully packed the artifacts. 'I'm going to foam them up.'
Merc spoke over the bags. 'Be careful. That foam burns if it touches your skin before it hardens. And don't go over 20 psi. They're going to expand in the - '
Merc's comment was cut short by a huge explosion from the north-east.
'Fontana just took out the comm-tower,' realized Merc, checking his watch. 'Right on time. That's a first for him.'
Dale shook up the can of foaming agent, inserted the nozzle into the first silver bag and squeezed the trigger. The bag expanded like a long silver party balloon. The artifacts in the bag were now encased in a nonreactive, ph-neutral insulating agent. They
were safe from heat, cold, moisture and vibrations until Spader released them with a special foam-corrosive. Dale shuffled along the floor doing all the bags, eighteen in total, quickly and with a sure hand. Merc watched the pressure gauges as the foam hardened. He had made a very costly mistake two years ago in highland China when he hadn't taken into account the changes in pressure between altitudes. A week later, Spader had opened the bags at sea level and found half the contents unrecognizable.
Spader had laughed, throwing the powder into the wind, but Merc wouldn't make that mistake again.
Dale capped the foam can. He placed the can in his right cargo pocket. 'OK, we got three minutes before we can move these.'
'Five minutes,' corrected Merc, checking his watch again. 'You touch them a second before that and I'm gunna break your arm.'
Merc knew Dale couldn't last five minutes - hell, five seconds - without speaking. Hopefully he would get the hint and keep his mouth shut for a -
'What's your first name?' Dale asked, interrupting Merc's thoughts.
Merc raised an eyebrow. 'Why?’
'You know my name. You seem to know more about me than I know about you. Like you said, our lives are in each other's hands now.'
Merc shrugged like it didn't really matter anyway. 'Giorgio.'
Dale raised an eyebrow. 'Giorgio Mercerelli? Sounds like the name of a posh shoe designer.'
Merc checked his watch. Could the time pass any slower? He said, 'A shoe designer, huh? Well, you're going to get a steel cap boot up the ass if you don't watch those valves. How'd you like that for some shoe designing?'
'Jesus, touchy,' complained Dale. 'You should be happy you have a suave-sounding name. I bet the ladies love it. Better than Dale Brish. Sounds like a type of paint brush. I might use your name next time I go out.'
Merc sniggered. 'I wouldn't. It's probably more trouble than it's worth. Besides, it doesn't suite you. Stick with Brish. I see Randy took your stitches out.'
Dale felt his forehead above his left eyebrow. 'Yeah - thanks for that. I really didn't think I had enough facial scarring.'
Merc's laugh was genuine, if quiet. 'You fell badly. Not my fault. Makes you look less like a pretty-boy.'
Dale tested the rough edges of the two-inch wound that arched perfectly above his left eye like a spare pink eyebrow. 'Next time you can show me the right way to be beaten unconscious and fall into a table.'
'Why do you pick fights you can't win anyway?'
'Clear the air.' Dale shrugged and didn't elaborate. He checked his watch and started making annoying little smacking sounds with his lips and teeth.
If possible, the irritating noise was worse than Dale's voice. 'For Christ’s sake,' hissed Merc, 'stop making that noise. Do something else. Tell me about Paris then.'
Dale held his hands up in mock-surprise. 'Oh, so now you want the truth? I thought you knew it all already....'
'Cut me some slack. I'm making an effort here.'
After another thirty seconds of silence, when Merc just about gave up on hearing Dale's story, Dale suddenly said, 'You know how in Paris it's common for people to maintain their own security vaults underground, right? No? Well, it is. Nobody trusts anybody over there.'
'I've heard something like that,' confirmed Merc. Spader had talked about it. 'Older the culture, the more elaborate and independent the security system.'
Dale seemed to agree. 'Well, I learned about some merchandise held in an underground vault off Boulevard Raspail. You know that area?'
‘Near the cemetery.' Merc nodded. One of Spader’s favorite pubs was on that street. Merc had downloaded street maps off the internet and sat for hours looking at the place Dale had committed the Paris operation, wondering how Dale had escaped. Part of his dislike for the young man certainly had to do with the fact that he couldn't figure it out. This had Merc feeling mentally inferior before he'd even met Dale. He hadn't been able to establish in weeks of study what Dale had figured out in frantic seconds.
'Well,' continued Dale. 'It's a difficult place to escape if things go south. We wanted to delay discovery for a few hours.'
'Was that your idea?' asked Merc. He knew it was.
Dale shrugged. 'More or less. We leased the building next door. I got a permit to renovate. Then I contracted a builder to excavate a new wine cellar. We paid him to get things rolling.’
Merc nodded, seeing the logic. 'Clever. The builder was the only face people remembered. The guy sounded genuine because he thought everything was on the level.'
Dale grinned. 'The best liar is the person who thinks they're telling the truth. He arranged everything. We only communicated by phone. Once the hole was dug, I told him our financial investors had withdrawn. The guy actually felt sorry for us. He was the nicest guy.’
'But you didn't suspend work?' prompted Merc, getting Dale back on track.
'Clearly not,' agreed Dale. 'We still had all the equipment, and as far as anyone else knew, the building project was going ahead. We dug a horizontal tunnel from the bottom of our new cellar to the vault’s outer shell.’
'How’d you find the vault?' asked Merc. ‘That’s a lot of work if your tunnel misses the target.’
Dale nodded. ‘We drilled a one-inch pilot hole until we hit the vault’s cement shell. After that, the digging was easy. Too easy, actually. That should have been our first sign something was wrong. We just considered it good fortune that we hadn't hit bedrock.'
'OK. You found the vault. Three cheers for Dale Brish. Then what?'
'We turned the cellar into a giant swimming pool. We filled the entire hole and the tunnel with mains water. Then I used scuba gear to swim down our flooded tunnel, lay a time-delayed charge on the vault’s shell, then swim out again. We set off the charge and - Boom! - gravity did her thing. Water flooded the vault and poured up through the owner’s house.'
Mercerelli had heard this before, but hearing it from Dale made it fresh. 'So it appeared the vault flooded because of your construction work. Ruptured water pipes or something.'
'That was the idea. One thing was sure; they weren't going to realize anything was missing in a hurry. The only obvious crime was shoddy building practices.'
'So when did things go wrong?' prompted Merc. 'All sounds pretty good up until then. You'd gotten through the worst part. When did it all go south?'
Dale was quiet for a moment as his thoughts turned inwards. ‘When we dived down that tunnel...there were five of us. The newspapers reported all kinds of numbers, but there were only five. Debris was flying absolutely everywhere. It looked like an underwater sandstorm of dirt and clay and wood and cement flakes and frigging everything. You can’t imagine what it looked like down there.’
'From the vault?' guessed Merc.
'No, from the tunnel,' corrected Dale. 'Ripped from the walls by water pressure. We lined the tunnel with silt fabric and steel mesh, but it wasn't enough. The explosion shredded the tunnel walls. Imagine swimming in coffee. I only knew ‘up’ by tracking my bubbles. When we finally reached the vault, the hole was half the size we expected. Just big enough to crawl though without scuba gear. We had to remove our scuba gear underwater, crawl backwards into the vault feet first, then pull our gear through afterwards. Imagine doing that in zero visibility. Inside the vault the water was clearer, but the current coming through the hole was whipping everything around like a bloody washing machine.'
'Sounds delightful,' said Merc.
'Then it got really bad,' continued Dale. 'The current began pushing the tunnel debris into the vault. Lumps of clay started blocking the hole. I mean lumps the size of car batteries. We had to keep dragging the clay and muck through the hole and into the vault to keep our escape route clear. But that made the vault dirtier and dirtier for the two guys working the crowbars. Turns out we should have brought boltcutters, not crowbars. By the time we realized our mistake, the vault had turned into a nightmare.’
We kept dragging all this muck into the vault, making it dirtier and dirtier.
It was so messy and confused, at one stage I thought I counted six of us.'
'Six?'
‘Six divers. There were supposed to be only five of us. Not six. Visibility was shocking, but for a second I could have sworn....anyway, right about then something ripped off my mask. Maybe the current. Maybe an accidental kick. Either way, the mask washed up and onto the street. Apparently a policeman picked it up.'
'Unlucky.'
Dale smirked. 'All hell must have broken loose up top. The police had responded to the vault's security alarm. To be honest, it didn’t really matter. We were already being punished. The last thing I saw was our escape hole clogged shut. After losing the mask, I couldn’t see a thing, but I guess the others managed to clear it.’
Merc nodded. ‘And they all squeezed back into the tunnel and abandoned you inside?’
Dale shrugged. ‘Who knows what they were thinking. All I know is they never escaped that tunnel.’
'I never understood that,' said Merc. 'They escaped the vault. Why didn’t they just swim in a straight line back to your cellar?'
'A straight line didn't exist down there anymore,' said Dale soberly. 'When the police drained the tunnel they found our steel reinforcing mesh had collapsed into the tunnel. Anders, Wickerman, Daniels and Reilly found themselves trapped. If I hadn't lost my mask, I would have been in there with them. Losing my mask meant I couldn't find the hole, so I never made it back into the tunnel.'
'Reilly?' tested Merc. 'The unidentified fourth dead diver. His name was Reilly? The police never gave his name. Who was he?'
'School friend,' admitted Dale. 'He came to me because he needed money for medicine or something for his sister. The police didn't know who he was because he didn't have a criminal record. He should never have been down there with us.’
For Merc, this was all new. He hadn't read anything about Reilly or the missing mask or that Dale hadn't reached the tunnel. 'So then how did you get out?'
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