Crusader Gold

by David Gibbins

  “Thought it’d be a while before I saw you back inside a submarine.”

  “All in a day’s work.” Ben looked serious. “Everything okay?”

  “A small brush with a growler.”

  “We noticed. We thought you were goners. The fjord’s become more active in the last twenty-four hours, with more big chunks of ice like that calving off the glacier.”

  “I want you away from here as soon as we’re gone,” Jack said.

  “What happens if you need to bail out?”

  Jack was firm. “We can surface and fire a flare. We’ve got the radio buoy. I don’t want anyone in the danger zone if this berg shifts. I want the DSRV back at the ship. We’ve had too much loss already over the last year, and I don’t want to put anyone else’s life on the line.”

  “What about me?” Costas gave Jack a look of mock indignation as he lurched out of the Aquapod and crouched down beside them.

  “Oh, you’re expendable. You should know that by now.”

  “Yeah, there’s always Lanowski to take my place.”

  Jack grimaced and the two other men laughed, a noticeable easing of the tension they had all felt. “Okay, point taken. I promise I’ll look after you like a father. Now let’s get this show on the road.”

  Jack followed Ben through the bulkhead hatch that divided the docking chamber from the main compartment of the DSRV, his tall frame stooped almost double in the confined space. Around the floor ring where the DSRV could dock with a stricken submarine were two identical arrangements of diving equipment, and Costas stooped down behind them to do a quick inventory. Jack followed Ben a few feet farther to the command station at the front of the submersible, and Costas joined them moments later. They nodded to the crewman who was sitting in the pilot’s chair, a battery of monitors and instrument panels in front of him, then squatted down on either side of Ben behind the navigation console as he activated the screen.

  “We’ve plotted a best-fit route,” Ben said. “Ideally we’d have you go in shallower, but we’re protected here by a ridge in the ice from any calving off the berg. We’ll put you in breathing nitrox, which will give you a longer bottom time than air at thirty metres.”

  “Umbilical?” Jack said.

  “Right. We’ll hook you up to the cylinders in the DSRV. That way you’ll conserve the gas you’re carrying with you.”

  “It’s crucial we avoid exhausting gas inside the berg,” Jack said. “Lanowski was clear on that one.”

  “Have no fear,” Costas interjected. “A little gizmo I’ve been playing with at HQ.

  There’s no problem with exhaust when you dive down into a wreck, right? You can prevent it pooling and damaging whatever you’re diving into by putting it through a tube that’s buoyed upwards, venting the exhaust above the wreck.

  The difficulty comes the other way, when you’re going up into a structure from below.”

  “You pump it out.”

  “Right. We’ll be hooked up to two hoses, one bringing us the nitrox and the other extracting the exhaust and venting it outside the berg. Not sure how it’s going to behave in the cold.” Costas rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Should be fun to try.”

  “Let me guess. You haven’t tested it yet.”

  “You don’t get icebergs in the English Channel.”

  Jack turned from Costas and pointed at the screen, which showed an isometric computer simulation of the DSRV against the iceberg, with a dotted red line running up at a 45-degree angle from the DSRV and then levelling to a horizontal line that ended at a dark mass near the centre of the berg. “I take it we reach ten metres below sea level as quickly as we can, then ditch the umbilical and switch to rebreathers.”

  “Correct,” Ben replied. “We’d love to kit you out with the latest IMU closed-circuit mixed-gas rebreathers, but there’s too much danger of freezing and too much to go wrong. This is one time when the old technology is best. You’ve got our tried and tested semi-closed rebreathers, with an oxygen-nitrox mix configured to give you maximum endurance at that depth. The carbon dioxide will be absorbed but not the nitrogen, so there will be a buildup in the counterlung that you’ll need to vent. But the nitrox fraction is small, and that shouldn’t happen till you’re out of the berg again. You won’t be producing any exhaust inside.”

  “Just make sure you stay above ten metres,” Costas added. “We’ll be breathing over eighty per cent oxygen, and the mix becomes toxic at that pressure. Stray any deeper and you won’t know about it, you’ll convulse and be gone.”

  “You’ll have the standard trimix package in the cylinder consoles on your backs, giving breathable mixes down to one hundred and twenty metres,” Ben said.

  “The regulators have an antifreeze cap on the first stage, so should be safe. But that’s an open-circuit system, producing exhalation inside the berg. Strictly for emergencies.”

  “Okay,” Jack said. “Now tell me about your ice-borer. Nothing technical, I just want to know how to drive the thing.”

  Twenty minutes later Jack and Costas sat kitted up on either side of the docking pool, like divers preparing to go through a hole in the ice. The Aquapod had been driven away ten minutes earlier by the two divers who had assisted them into the dock. Now the only crew members remaining were Ben and the pilot, and they had already begun finalising systems checks in preparation for departure.

  “We’ll be here until you drop the umbilical,” Ben said. “Then you’re on your own.”

  Jack nodded as he sat festooned with diving equipment, his dark hair tousled where he had tried on his helmet. Opposite him Costas ballooned as he struggled to control the inflator on his E-suit, and Jack tried to suppress a smile at his friend’s appearance. Over their E-suits both men wore compact rebreathers slung like small rucksacks on their chests, and on their backs were streamlined yellow consoles containing three high-pressure cylinders with oxygen, nitrogen and helium, as well as integrated weights.

  Ben finished his second complete check through all their equipment and then squatted beside the pool between the two men. “I have to level with you, Jack.

  It’s my obligation as security chief. Those timbers could just be some old whaler’s boat. The risk might just be too high.”

  “I know where you’re coming from, Ben, and I appreciate it,” Jack said. “But it’s a calculated risk. We can laugh at Lanowski, but I trust his judgement on this one.”

  “Okay, it’s your call.” Ben glanced at Costas, who nodded firmly at him. Without further discussion Jack and Costas put on their yellow Kevlar helmets, and Ben went to each in turn locking the neck seals, activating the twin headlamps on either side and checking that the rebreather and trimix feeds were in place. Jack and Costas pulled on their gloves and checked that the watertight seals were secure, then pressed the temperature control consoles on their shoulders to ensure that the chemical heat connection to their hands was functional. Finally they pulled on their fins, disturbing the wisps of mist that swirled off the frigid pool as it met the warm air of the compartment. Just as they were about to flip down their visors, the face of the other crewman appeared through the hatch.

  “Message from Seaquest II. For you, Jack. Something to do with tree rings.”

  “Read it to us, will you?” Jack said.

  The crewman knelt down and held up a printout. “From IMU Dendrochronology Lab, 0212 GMT. Ilulissat Fjord wood sample is Scandinavian oak, possibly Norwegian. Extensive carbonization present from burning. Match to north-west European tree-ring sequence indicates felling date of AD 1040 plus or minus ten years.”

  “Yes!” Jack punched his gloved hand into the air. “There’s your answer. I knew it in my gut all along. This could be one of the archaeological finds of the century.”

  Looking down at the water, Jack pursed his lips, then gazed across at Costas with a gleam in his eye. He was looking forward to seeing the surface above them and the sunlight as they dropped out of the DSRV, a respite from the niggling sense of claustrophobia
he always felt, but now he was itching to get inside the berg and probe its secrets. He reached down and picked up the umbilical that was coiled by his side, the twin hoses twisted together as a single mass, and plugged it into the remaining open port below the chin of his helmet.

  He watched as Costas did the same, then the two men clamped shut their visors and switched on the intercom. Jack eased himself off the bench and sat with his legs suspended over the abyss, the astonishing clarity of the water making him feel like a parachutist about to exit an aircraft. He and Costas were already in a world apart, their intercom audible only to each other. Jack gave an okay signal to Ben and a thumbs-down to indicate he was descending, and then looked at Costas.

  “Good to go?”

  “Good to go.”

  9

  THE MAN IN THE BLACK CASSOCK WALKED CONFIDENTLY towards the main entrance of the Apostolic Palace, his trappings as a Jesuit priest in keeping with the other applicants milling around the doorway. He had left the crowd in St.

  Peter’s behind him and had already passed the first security cordon at the bronze doors leading off from the square. Now he was approaching the very heart of the Vatican, the headquarters of the College of Cardinals, the hub from which the Holy See exerted its influence far beyond Rome to every corner of the globe.

  Ahead of him two Swiss guards stood resplendent in their finery with halberds crossed in front of the door, an image that could have been straight from the Renaissance except for the Heckler & Koch submachine guns slung discreetly over their backs. An officer of the guard took the Jesuit’s ID and proceeded to scrutinise him, comparing the black beard and expressionless eyes with the photo on the card. Despite the heat of the early summer, the face was pale and pinched, but it was a scholarly visage all too common inside the closeted walls of the Vatican. The officer turned to a secretary beside him, and they checked the level of authorisation on a palm computer. The officer grunted in surprise and immediately handed the Jesuit back his card.

  “You are free to enter.”

  The guards raised their weapons and the Jesuit passed through, avoiding the usual body search and metal detector. He walked straight along a wide corridor on the ground floor, then turned left at the end and continued until he came to the ornate door of a private chapel, its entrance marked by trays of dedicatory candles on either side. He knocked once and pushed the door open. In the candlelit gloom he saw another man kneeling before the simple altar at the far end of the chapel. The man crossed himself and stood, then turned towards the door. He was tall and aquiline, with white hair, and he wore the full episcopal vestments of a cardinal, with a gold cross hanging in front of his scarlet cassock.

  He had the benign, ageless face of one who had spent many years in holy orders, but with a hard edge to his eyes. It was an expression appropriate for a man such as he, a man whose ambition had brought him to the very threshold of supreme power in the Catholic Church.

  “Eminence.” The Jesuit bowed slightly, then closed the door behind him.

  “Monsignor.”

  The two men spoke in English, the Jesuit with a clipped drawl that could have been South African, the cardinal with a hint of north European in his accent.

  “He is here?”

  “The second one present at the opening of the chamber. We suspected, and he confessed. The Holy See has techniques of persuasion refined over the centuries.”

  “And the other?”

  “He is your next task.”

  The Jesuit walked forward and knelt in front of the cardinal. The cardinal quickly drew off the holy ring from the middle finger of his right hand and replaced it with another, a heavier, flat-faced ring that glinted in the candlelight as he held it out. The Jesuit took his hand and kissed the ring, closing his eyes as his lips brushed the familiar shape, and with his other hand felt his own ring hanging round his neck under his cassock. He stood, made the sign of the cross and backed reverently towards the door, then stopped for a moment and held up his right hand towards the cardinal, whispering words in a language that sounded unearthly, words never before uttered in this holy place, and which seemed to blaspheme against all that it stood for.

  “Hann til ragnarøks.”

  The Jesuit closed the door of the chapel behind him and walked down the long corridor, his footsteps echoing off the walls of the palace. He emerged into an open courtyard, raising his hands in prayer as two officials passed, then made his way towards an unassuming entrance along the other side. The bells of St.

  Peter’s suddenly began to boom across the still air of the city, asserting the sovereignty of the Holy See as they had done since the dying days of the Roman Empire. Above him the walls of the courtyard framed the sky, two huge birds of prey circling far overhead, and he could hear the dull rumble of the city outside.

  He ducked through the entrance and looked quickly behind him, then gathered up his cassock and mounted the stairway to the first floor. The corridor ahead was lined with statues, bulletin boards and posters advertising exhibits, but was empty of people, today being a holiday for the museum staff. The Jesuit reached a door with a light on inside, just where he had been told it would be, and saw the word CONSERVATORI above the lintel.

  He paused, not out of hesitation but to relish the moment. In the shadows he stood with his head bowed, his fists clenched. Sixty-five years earlier his forefathers had failed to breach these walls, had stopped short of taking the Vatican in their triumphal sweep through Rome. Now he would make amends, he would make his mark. He unclenched his left hand and raised it to his face, drawing his index finger down the ragged scar that pulsated beneath his beard, pressing it hard until he flinched in pain. He slipped his left hand back under his cassock and with his other hand knocked three times on the door.

  “Enter,” a muffled voice said in Italian.

  The Jesuit pushed the door open and closed it behind him. The room was crammed with books and manuscripts, with a computer workstation at the far end. In the foreground was a fragmentary stone relief sculpture on a pedestal, and in front of it sat a middle-aged man in jeans and a casual shirt, hunched over a notebook.

  “Monsignor.” The man finished what he was writing and looked up, his expression alert and intelligent. “I had not expected to be interrupted today.

  What can I do for you?”

  “You are the chief conservator?” The Jesuit spoke in Italian.

  “I am.”

  “You were present at the discovery of the secret chamber in the Arch of Titus, along with Father O’Connor?”

  The other man suddenly looked deflated, and tossed his notebook on the floor.

  “Now everyone seems to know. We kept it secret for the good of the Church. I wish we had never found it.”

  “So do I.”

  The silenced Beretta coughed twice and the conservator jerked back on his stool, an expression of horrified surprise on his face. He tottered over and fell heavily to the floor, coming to rest with his arm splayed awkwardly over his front, his eyes wide open and uncomprehending in death. The Jesuit pulled his left hand out of his cassock and slowly raised it to his face. He drew his finger down the scar on his cheek, again and again, as hard as he could, grimacing with pleasure as he watched the blood seep from the man’s chest and pool on the cold stone slabs beneath him.

  There would be more.

  “Activating ice probe now.”

  Costas turned to Jack as he spoke through the intercom, and the two men gave each other the okay sign. For about the fifth time Jack cast a critical eye over Costas’ equipment. Once they shed the umbilical they would be absolutely reliant on their breathing systems and on each other, with no bail-out option, no emergency escape route to the surface. The IMU equipment was state of the art, with a rock-solid computer system which took the job of calculating their breathing mix and ascent rate entirely out of their hands. It had been tested in conditions of extreme heat six months before inside a submerged volcano, but this was the first time it had been depl
oyed in water that was as cold as it could be without turning to ice.

  “Take up your position.”

  Jack swung in from where he had been hanging by one hand and gripped the metal bar beside Costas. They were like two climbers on a vast ice wall, dwarfed by the immensity of the berg. Below them the ice dropped off hundreds of metres into the abyss, where the slope of the threshold sheered off to unimaginable depths, to a place of freezing blackness no human had ever dared enter.

  “There’s only one safety drill,” Costas said. “Any sign of movement in the ice and we switch to trimix. If this baby rolls off the threshold we’re going down.

  Remember, the trimix gives us breathable gas to one hundred and twenty metres. That should at least give us some margin.”

  Jack gave another okay sign and checked the three hoses which fed into the ports in his helmet. In truth he and Costas both knew their safety drill was a forlorn hope. If the berg moved off the threshold, the vast bulk of it would slip underwater, its base plunging hundreds of feet. If the movement of the ice didn’t crush them, the pressure of a sudden descent into the abyss would kill them instantly.

  Jack shut his mind to the possibility and focussed on the outlandish device in front of them. They had just opened up the protective cage that cradled the probe against the berg, and attached the radio buoy which they planned to release to the surface once they re-emerged. The probe was already wedged partway into the ice, having been put in position earlier by the pair of divers they had seen from the Aquapod. Directly abutting the ice was a metal ring two metres in diameter, the width of the tunnel the machine would bore. The tunnel would be just wide enough for the two of them to follow on side by side, with little room to spare. The superheated element in the tube was complemented by an array of microwave and laser cutters emanating from the main body of the device, a metre-wide cylindrical canister directly in front of them. A small but powerful water jet would funnel the newly melted water away and propel the device forward. On the rear face above the guide rail a waterproof LED screen glowed a vivid green.