The Tombs fa-4

by Clive Cussler

  “So the bodies at the site could be Huns and the fighting could have been related to the tomb.”

  “It’s too early to rule out very much, even that. And if anyone ever finds the tomb, this is probably the way it will happen—someone looking for something else will stumble on it.”

  Sam said, “Let’s deal with the discovery you already have. We need to give you a chance to complete your excavation safely.”

  “I don’t see how we can do that now. Some of Bako’s men were shot.”

  Sam smiled. “Would that have bothered Attila?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then it won’t bother Bako. He may even try to keep the incident quiet. He can’t tell the police somebody stole his kidnap victim. And for the moment, your excavation is his best chance of learning anything new. He’ll want you to get to work.”

  “He’s too dangerous. We can’t start excavating as long as he’s here.”

  “Maybe you can. Do you know any important Hungarian archaeologists?”

  “A few of them. Dr. Enikö Harsányi is a professor right here at Szeged University. So is Dr. Imre Polgár. I had planned to consult them before I was abducted. They know this area’s history better than I do.”

  “Then call them in now. What we need is not to hide this excavation. We need to make it as public as possible. We need to get lots of people involved, to be there on the site, and to help with the project. Three foreigners digging in a remote area are in danger. Fifty or a hundred local scholars digging are an expedition.”

  “Students and graduate students,” said Albrecht. “Of course.” He looked at the telephone. “I’ll call them right— I forgot. I don’t have my address book with their numbers. They can also help to guard the site.”

  Remi said, “Call Selma and tell her what you need.” She yawned, looking at her watch. “It’s still daytime there, and she’ll be up. I’m going to pick this bedroom over here for Sam and me and go break it in. You can have the other one, Albrecht. Good luck with the calls.”

  The next afternoon, Albrecht, Sam, Remi, Professor Enikö Harsányi, and Professor Imre Polgár were standing beside a tour bus with Tibor Lazar. They were watching a cadre of six graduate students, each supervising ten volunteer undergraduates, laying out the field in a grid with stakes connected by lengths of twine. A little farther along, three more professors from the Institute of Archaeology of the Hungarian Academy of Science were examining soil samples.

  “In European spodosol, the base rate of soil addition is fifty-three years for an inch,” said one. “We should expect about thirty inches of soil added here. But it’s flat land, and we have a river nearby that overflows its banks.”

  Another said, “That would add alluvium to the thirty inches.”

  “How often has the Tisza flooded this high since 450?”

  “I’d say every hundred to a hundred fifty years. Say ten times. And the most recent floods seem to have been worse than early ones. The one that destroyed the city of Szeged in 1879 was undoubtedly the worst. To be safe, we should expect remains to appear as deep as six feet or as shallow as thirty inches.”

  Sam saw Tibor get on the bus, so he left the others and followed him inside. As Tibor sat down in one of the front seats and picked up a newspaper, Sam said, “Good morning, Tibor. How are we doing?”

  “I have two cousins on the road at that end and two down the road at the other end. They’re all heavily armed and have telephones to warn us. I have a van with six men a mile off who can come up behind either group—my wife’s brothers.”

  “That’s great,” Sam said. “We have to keep the diggers safe. Thank you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For letting me help take something from Bako for once. And because your check wasn’t a fake.”

  “Your help wasn’t fake. You saved Albrecht’s life.”

  “You saved Albrecht. I just said, ‘Do as I say or this crazy man will kill you.’”

  “You must have said it right.”

  Tibor studied him. “You’re planning something else. What is it?”

  Sam smiled. “They don’t need me to dig up this field. But I think I can do something that will fool Bako and keep his men busy so these people can do their work.”

  “Arpad Bako is a very big man. You saw just one of his businesses. He has money and power, and he has rich, powerful friends here and elsewhere. You have to be careful.”

  “He’s after the tomb of Attila the Hun, just as you thought.”

  Tibor laughed. “Not the Fountain of Youth? Not the Ladder to Heaven?”

  “I’m sure you know the stories. Attila was supposed to have been buried in secret with his treasure and then the Tisza River diverted to cover the grave.”

  “Ah, of course. We’re all told that as little children,” said Tibor. “Arpad Bako must be the only child who ever believed it. Besides, the Tisza is a thousand kilometers long, and it used to be even longer. Lots of it has been diverted, some parts cut off and left dry. All the swampy parts were drained.”

  “That’s the beauty of it, Tibor. Remi and I are not going to find the tomb. We’re just going to make Bako watch us look for it.”

  “I want to join you.”

  “Welcome aboard. Speaking of boats, do you have any relatives with boats?”

  “Not a relative, a friend. He would rent it for, say . . . nothing.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Well, you just risked your life to rescue a friend from a compound full of armed men and paid me a fortune for spending a day and a night helping you. It’s good business to be your friend.”

  The next morning, a thirty-foot fishing boat, Margit, puttered up the Tisza River at five to ten knots. Sometimes it would idle, barely holding against the lazy current of the river, and then begin to make diagonal crossings. The Margit was towing something, but it was impossible to tell from the shore what it was because it never rose above the surface.

  A sharp-eyed observer might have seen that there were five people aboard—a helmsman, two men who stood watch, a man who operated whatever was being towed, and a slender auburn-haired woman who watched the screen of a laptop computer on a shelf that was mounted just inside the cabin.

  After less than an hour of this, a truck with an enclosed cargo space moved slowly along the road above the river.

  In the cargo space were four men, sitting on a bench along one side. They used a camera with a telephoto lens, two marksman’s spotting scopes, and a video camera with a powerful zoom lens, all mounted through holes in the side of the truck. The leader of the group was a man named Gábor Székely. He was in the first position behind the driver so he could direct the actions of any of the others.

  His cell phone buzzed and he lifted it and said in Hungarian, “Yes?” He listened for a time and then said, “Thank you.” He put the phone away and announced to the others, “The man in the stern with the cable in his hands is Samuel Fargo. He had some equipment flown in overnight: a metal detector, some pairs of night vision goggles, and a Geometrics G-882 marine magnetometer, which detects small deviations in the earth’s magnetic field, especially those caused by pieces of iron.”

  “The iron coffin,” said the man beside him.

  Gábor didn’t see fit to acknowledge that. “The woman must be his wife, Remi Fargo. They have been staying at the City Center Hotel.”

  The third man said, “We’ve got rifles here with scopes. We could easily kill anyone on deck from this truck.”

  “We don’t want to do that just yet,” said Gábor Székely. “The Fargos are experienced treasure hunters. They’ve found important treasures in Asia and the Swiss Alps and elsewhere. They have the boat and the equipment for the search.”

  “We’re going to wait until after they find it?”

  “Yes. That’s what we’re going to do. When they find the outer casket of iron, we’ll move in before they can raise it to the surface. They’ll h
ave a terrible accident and we’ll find the tomb. Mr. Bako will be a hero for finding a national treasure.”

  In the boat on the river, Remi Fargo studied the display from the magnetometer on her laptop computer screen. “This is insane.”

  Sam said, “What’s wrong? Not getting anything?”

  “The opposite. I’m getting everything. The riverbed is full of metal. I’ve got images that look like sunken boats, anchor chains, cannons, ballast, junk, bundles of rebar encased in cement. I think I’ve picked up a couple of bicycles, an anchor, and what looks like an old stove in the past five minutes.”

  Sam laughed. “I guess there’s enough to keep it interesting. If you spot anything that’s buried ten feet down and looks like an iron coffin, it might be worth a closer look.”

  “I assume we’re going to dive the river no matter what we see.”

  “The more we do what Bako and his people think is getting us closer to the underwater tomb, the more they’ll ignore Albrecht and the others.”

  Tibor said, “We may have Bako all confused and frustrated now, but don’t let it make you too comfortable. He has enough men to do many bad things at once.”

  They spent several days on their magnetometer survey of the lower river. Each evening, they went to see Albrecht and his team at the building in the city center that they had rented as a lab.

  “It’s definitely a battlefield,” said Albrecht.

  “How could it be anything else?” said Enikö Harsányi. “So far, we’ve found six hundred fifty-six adult male bodies, all armed, and all apparently killed together and then buried where they fell.”

  Imre Polgár said, “Many of them—perhaps a majority—show signs of having serious wounds that had healed. We found impact fractures, stab and slash wounds that hit bone. These were career fighters. The term should probably be warriors rather than soldiers.”

  “And who are they?” asked Remi.

  “They’re Huns,” said Albrecht.

  “Definitely Huns,” Enikö Harsányi agreed. “All of them so far.”

  “How can you tell?” Sam asked. “DNA?”

  Albrecht took them to a long row of steel tables, where skeletons lay in a double row. “There isn’t a DNA profile of a Hun. The core group in the first and second centuries were from Central Asia. As they came west, they made alliances with or fought, defeated, and absorbed each tribe or kingdom they met. So by the time they were here on the plains of Hungary, they still had many individuals with genes in common with Mongolians, but others who appeared to be Scythian, Thracian, or Germanic. What they shared wasn’t common ethnicity but common purpose. It’s like asking for the DNA profile of a seventeenth-century pirate.”

  “So how do you identify them?”

  “They were horsemen. They traveled, fought, ate, and sometimes slept on horseback. We can tell by certain skeletal changes that all of these men spent their lives on horses. But there’s much more conclusive evidence.”

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.

  “The Huns weren’t regular cavalry, they were mounted archers. In Asia they developed this tactic with the help of an advance in the bow and arrow.”

  He very carefully picked up a blackened piece of wood with irregular curves. “Here it is. It’s a compound bow, and the style is distinctive. See the ends where you nock the string? They’re called siyahs. They’re stiff, not flexible. The wood isn’t just a piece of wood. It’s layers of laths glued together. There are always seven siyahs, made of horn, and the grip is bone. It made for a very short bow that they could use on horseback and it gave much greater velocity to the arrow. This is probably as good a specimen of a Hun bow as exists today. So far, we’ve found over four hundred of them.”

  “Huns against who?” asked Sam.

  “That, I’m afraid, is a more difficult question. The victims were all over the field together. They were laid out with no separation for affiliation, simply covered with earth where they fell. They all had the sort of armament that a Hun would use, primarily the compound bow. They also carried a long, straight, double-edged sword in a scabbard that hung from the belt, and a short sword, or dagger, stuck horizontally in the belt. They wore goatskin trousers and a fabric or fur tunic. Some had leather vests.”

  “There are still puzzles and mysteries,” said Dr. Polgár.

  “I can see some right here,” Remi said. “Nobody looted the battlefield.”

  “That’s one,” said Dr. Harsányi. “A well-made sword was a prized possession. A compound bow made of wood, bone, and horn took a very skilled craftsman much preparation, a week of labor, and months of drying and curing. It’s not the sort of thing one leaves on the field.”

  Remi pointed at the nearest skeleton. “And the wounds are peculiar, aren’t they? They’re not random the way they usually are in a blade fight.”

  “No,” said Albrecht. “The Huns were archers, and yet we haven’t found any arrow wounds—no arrowheads that stuck in a bone or pierced a skull. And we haven’t seen the sorts of injuries usual to the battles of the period. No arms lopped off, no leg wounds that must have bled out. Every wound is a big, fatal trauma—there are nearly four hundred beheadings and a very large number of what I believe to be throats so deeply cut that the blade hit the anterior side of the vertebrae.”

  Sam said, “What it looks like to me is a mass execution. We don’t see a second faction because the killers buried the victims and walked away.”

  “It does look that way,” said Remi. “But if these men died so heavily armed, why would they let themselves be killed?”

  “We don’t know,” said Albrecht. “We’ve just begun our work, but we’re asking ourselves these questions as we recover the rest of the remains.”

  The next day, Sam and Remi arrived in the morning at the dock where the Margit was waiting to tow the magnetometer. Tibor sat, eagerly reading a newspaper. When he saw them, he said, “Sam. Remi. You have to see this article.”

  “What is it?” asked Remi.

  Tibor spread the paper out on the dock so they could all look at it at once. On the front page were pictures of six people. The photographs looked like mug shots, with the subjects staring straight into the camera. Remi knelt on the dock. “Sam! It’s them, the people from Consolidated Enterprises.” She turned to Tibor. “What does it say?”

  “Six people, all carrying American passports, have been arrested by Szeged police on suspicion of having committed an armed raid on the Bako pharmaceutical factory a week ago. In the raid, eight security personnel from the Bako company were killed.”

  “Eight?” said János. “It must be all of the five we hit and the three we tied up in that building. Bako must have had those men killed himself.”

  “It sounds that way,” Sam said. “I was sure most of the five were just wounded and we didn’t harm the other three at all.”

  “What can we do?” Remi asked. “We can’t let these idiots take the blame for murder.”

  Sam took out his phone and dialed the house in La Jolla. The phone rang once.

  “Hi, Sam. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Selma. The six people from Consolidated Enterprises seem to have been sent to Szeged to keep spying on us. They’ve been arrested for the raid on Bako’s factory. But I think that at the time when that happened, they were still in the custody of Captain Klein in Berlin.”

  “You want me to straighten this out for them?”

  “Let’s put it this way. If they were to remain in jail for, say, thirty days, I would not be unhappy. If they were to be convicted of eight murders, I’d feel awful, and Remi would make sure I felt worse.”

  “You bet I would,” she said.

  “Hear that?” he said.

  “I did,” said Selma. “From what I’ve learned about Consolidated, they’re awful people, but they don’t deserve capital punishment just yet. I’ll call Captain Klein in Berlin and get what I need to spring them, but I won’t pass it on to Consolidated’s New York office unless things get really ugly. Ho
w does that sound?”

  “Great. Thanks, Selma.” He hung up and looked at Remi. “I hope we haven’t just made ourselves the only suspects.”

  “Us? I don’t think we’ve got much to worry about,” Remi said. “Remember? There was an order for the local police to keep us under surveillance. If they arrested us, they’d have lots of explaining to do.”

  “She’s right,” said Tibor.

  “Get used to that,” said Sam.

  The excavation of the field grew much larger as the students and their professors worked. It was the next week that the lawyers arrived. Tibor’s guards saw them first and called Tibor on the boat.

  There were a half dozen of them in two big black cars. They pulled up along the road next to the excavation and got out. They all wore immaculate white shirts, dark suits, and striped neckties. When they walked, they were careful to step just on the pavement so no dust would dull the shine of their Italian shoes.

  One of them, a shorter, thicker, older man than the others, came forward. He approached a blond female student who was running dirt through a screen with a wooden frame to find small objects. He said, “Go get your bosses.”

  “The professors?”

  “Are they professors?” he said. “Then tell them class is in session and don’t be late.”

  The student ran off along one of the narrow paths that had been left among the grids and stopped at a spot where Albrecht Fischer, Enikö Harsányi, and Imre Polgár were conferring with some other colleagues in khaki clothes. The girl delivered her message, and they all came back up the path.

  Enikö Harsányi arrived first. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Dr. Harsányi. Can I help you?”

  The older man in the suit said, “My name is Donat Toth and I’m an attorney. I have an injunction here to make you stop digging on this land.” He held out the paper.

  A second woman stepped from the group and took the paper. She glanced at it and said, “I’m Dr. Monika Voss. I’m the regional director of the National Office of Cultural Heritage. My office has granted this group a permit to carry out this excavation.”

  Albrecht Fischer held out an official-looking document. Donat Toth took it, glanced at it, and handed it to one of the other suits, who examined it and passed it on. When it came back, he said, “This is out of date. My client now owns the land and will be taking possession today.”