Sam pulled back on the drill and carefully removed the extension and the original bit. Sam inserted the rigid fiber-optic borehole viewer into the hole and extended it downward. The image of what the viewer was seeing was visible on Remi’s laptop screen. The end of the viewer was a color video camera and a bright light, so the image was very clear and natural. After Remi had turned the viewer on and gotten the picture, she moved it up and down a little. “I think we’re in luck,” she said. “You’re all the way to the top of the rectangle and either you cracked the upper stone surface with the drill or just pushed between two stones. The next layer looks like wood. It has a grainy texture.”
She turned the screen toward him. He said, “It looks like wood to me too. There’s no bark on it, so it may be thick planks instead of tree trunks.”
“Then get back to work.”
Sam reinserted the bit and attached its threaded extension and began to drill. The wood was hard and had a dense grain, but he definitely could tell he was drilling through wood and not stone. He was cautious because if he broke the drill, he didn’t have another. At the end of about ten minutes, it abruptly sank a few inches. “We’re through the wood,” Sam said. “We’re there.”
He removed the drill and its extension and set them aside. He and Remi fed the fiber-optic rig down into the new shaft while Remi watched the image on the screen. When the tip light and camera reached the place where the drill had sunk suddenly, the space opened up and the computer image changed.
As they lowered and turned the rig, they could see the inside of the rectangular space clearly. “It’s the tomb,” said Remi. “I’m recording it.” With difficulty, Sam turned his body in the narrow space of the box to join her in front of the computer screen. They could see a body, now a skeleton, lying on a mat at the rear of the tomb. He was dressed in a rich red costume, with a cape, a pair of high boots, and a piece of headgear unlike anything they’d ever seen. This hat, or helmet, was at least two feet in length, shaped like a narrow cone, with a complicated design of gold that protruded an inch or two from the front above the forehead. He wore a belt with a long straight sword in a scabbard and a dagger that was about half as long. His coat was held in place by gold buttons, and then more gold buttons studded his outfit. The chamber was well supplied with weapons, including a round shield with a silvery plated surface, bows, and quivers full of arrows. They could see jade and gold jewelry, carved ivory boxes, saddles and bridles decorated with more gold.
They manipulated the fiber optics, the size and brightness of the computer image, and searched for the most important part of the treasure, the message from Attila. After twenty minutes or so of recording every item in the tomb, Remi whispered, “I haven’t seen anything that could be it, have you?”
“No. I’m going to try something else.” Sam pulled the rigid rig up, then went to work on it. He removed the metal tubes that housed the cable and then he removed the extension. What he had left was a long, black, insulated optical fiber. On the far end was the rounded tip with the light and the tiny camera. Slowly, carefully, he inserted the flexible cable into the drill hole. Many times he had to pull it back an inch or two to straighten it or twist it to get around a snag. At last, after many minutes of feeding it in, it cleared the drill shaft, then curled a bit so they could see the sides of the stone chamber. “Wait. I see something.”
“There,” said Remi. “There it is.”
She took the fiber-optic cable and twirled it with her fingers so she could aim it. The image was a set of deep scratches made with a knife on the wall. Ego Attila filius Munzuci. It went on, and Remi made sure to get every bit of it recorded, then sent it to Selma’s computer, and then copied it on the disk, which she took out and put into the deep cargo pocket of Sam’s pants. They began to dismantle their equipment and put it into their backpacks. As they began to open the hinged bottom of the box, Sam stopped.
“Wait,” Sam whispered. “I hear something. Footsteps.”
Remi closed the computer, turned off the fiber-optic light, and pulled it out of the hole. Sam put it into one of the backpacks, with the drill and bit, while Remi put the computer into the other backpack.
They listened. Remi lowered her head to the ground and squinted through the opening at the edge. “It’s men. Five—no, six. They’re coming this way, of all the million ways.”
The footsteps grew louder and louder, as did the men’s voices. There was laughter. They were loud and jovial. There was the clank of a bottle dropping into an empty steel drum used as a trash barrel. Sam and Remi remained motionless, barely breathing.
The footsteps passed by so close that Remi thought she could pick out each man from the others. There was one who seemed to have a stone in his shoe because his walk was scrape-thump, scrape-thump, trying to get it out from under his foot. He called out to his friends as they moved off.
Next there was a creaking sound. The man had sat on top of their box. He took off a shoe, and when he shook it to get the stone out, they could hear the squeak of the dowels in the holes. He put his shoe back on and tied it, and then they heard him trot off after his friends.
Remi exhaled and leaned on Sam. They sat still for a few minutes, and then she looked out again. “It’s clear.”
They opened the hinged section of the box, crawled out, put their backpacks on, then unhooked the box’s sides and top and made it into a pile. Sam took a cap from the end of the fiber-optic machine, pushed it a couple of inches into the hole he had drilled, and then poured dirt over it and walked across it a couple of times.
They began to walk away from the spot toward the edge of the green market, carrying the pieces of their box. As they did, they heard the sound of a car starting. They stepped close to a wall in the shadows and waited until the car pulled up, its headlights off, and stopped. Nurin got out and opened the trunk. They put the collapsed box inside and then the backpacks. They got into the car and Nurin drove off toward the Zhambyl Hotel.
Sam took out his telephone and called Selma. “Sam?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s around five in the evening there, right?”
“That’s right. And five a.m. there.”
“Remi just sent you the video of the inside of the tomb, including the message.”
“We’ve got it and it’s unbelievable. Here’s Albrecht.”
“Sam. Does the other side know where the tomb is?”
“No. When we saw them, they seemed to be waiting for something, not searching with archaeological equipment. They were just sitting around a table at an outdoor café.”
“Then I implore you, don’t try to excavate. It’s not essential that we be the ones to excavate Mundzuk’s tomb and attempting to do so could easily get you both killed. As soon as we’re there, I’ll send a letter, with the magnetic map and the exact position marked, to Taraz State University and the national government in Astana. The country takes enormous pride in its heritage and they have more right to the burial you found than we do.”
“As soon as you’re where? Here?”
“Rome, Sam. Rome!”
“What?”
“That’s right. You haven’t read the message. It says, ‘I am Attila, son of Mundzuk. My father is dead and so I am to be sent to the Romans to secure the peace, but one day I will conquer Rome. You find my father here, but I will be buried in Rome, guest of a daughter of the Flavian emperors.’”
“Does that suggest a location to you?”
“I know exactly where it is,” said Albrecht. “I’ve been there.”
Selma cut in. “Sam? I’ve already chartered your plane. It will be waiting for you at Taraz Airport at noon today. It’s shockingly expensive, but it will take you to Rome, where we’ll be waiting for you. We’ll be staying at the Saint Regis Grand Hotel.”
Remi said, “We’ll try to manage it in our busy social schedule. Good-bye, Selma. See you there.”
Nurin pulled up in front of the hotel and let them off and then drove on to the c
ar lot behind the building. Sam and Remi went up to their room. They opened it and stood still in the doorway, looking in.
The room had been thoroughly searched. The mattress and springs were leaning against the wall, all of the drawers from the dressers were stacked in two neat piles, the chairs had been overturned so someone could look beneath them. The cushions were all unzipped. The towels that had been piled neatly in the linen cabinet were draped over the shower curtain. The Bokhara rug had been rolled up.
Remi said, “The expression having your room tossed doesn’t really apply, does it? This is the neatest break-in we’ve ever had.”
“They’re pros. They were quiet so the hotel guests and employees wouldn’t hear anything.”
“What do we do about it?”
Sam said, “Nurin.” He stepped back toward the door.
“Oh, no.”
“Bring the laptop and leave everything else.”
They closed the door and hurried down to Nurin’s room. They knocked, but there was no response. They ran outside and around to the back of the building. There was Nurin, backed up against his car. Two of the men they had recognized from Poliakoff’s estate were with him. One of them held a gun on him, while the other punched him. Nurin was bent over, unable to do anything but use his arms to try to protect his vital organs.
Sam and Remi came closer and closer, moving quietly and hoping the sound of Nurin’s groans would cover their footsteps. At home, he and she had trained together for years and practiced for every unpleasant situation they could think of. They both knew that the only one to fear was the man with the gun and that both of them should attack him at once.
As soon as she was close enough, Remi took two running steps and leapt. She had the laptop computer raised above her head with both hands, tilting it so the thin edge would come down on the back of the gunman’s head.
In the last half second, the man heard or felt the Fargos’ presence. He half turned in time to have the computer hammered against his head right at the eyebrow. Remi’s trajectory brought the computer downward from there to break his nose while its flat side obscured his vision for an instant.
As the man rocked backward, Sam’s powerful punch to his midsection broke two ribs and bent him over. Sam grasped the man’s gun hand and wrist, spun him and twisted his arm behind him, and ran him face-first into the car as he wrenched the gun out of his hand.
The man who had been punching Nurin raised his hands and stepped backward, but Nurin used his feet to push off from the car and drive his head into the man’s solar plexus like a linebacker and run him into the side of the building. The man’s injuries could not be determined, but he lay on the blacktop, clutching his thorax and shallowly gasping for air. Nurin’s foot delivered a soccer kick to his face.
Sam quickly dodged in front of Nurin and pushed him away from the man, shaking his head. “No, Nurin. Please. We don’t want to kill anybody.” Sam’s soothing tone restrained Nurin and seemed to bring him back to his usual calm. He nodded and leaned back against his car, touched his mouth, and looked at the blood on his hand.
Sam pointed at the two men, then held up his hands as though the wrists were tied. Nurin opened the trunk of his car and pulled out a length of nylon rope. Sam hog-tied the two men, then used a length of electrical tape from the trunk to secure some rags in their mouths for gags. Then he opened the driver’s door and pushed Nurin toward it. “We’ve got to go now. Please, drive us.” He pretended to be steering a car.
Nurin got in and started the car, then looked at them, half dazed from the beating and not sure he understood what Sam wanted. As he started out of the lot, Remi opened the laptop computer.
“Amazing how tough these things are,” she muttered as she typed the word airport into the Internet browser search engine. There was a large color photograph of a major airport that looked like Heathrow, with a varied group of airplanes shouldered up to the terminal. She tapped Nurin on the shoulder and tilted it toward him.
After that, he drove with speed and confidence, heading toward Taraz Airport, beyond the southwest edge of the city. Nearly all of the traffic was heading in, bringing workers and merchants and country people into the busy city as the day began.
As Nurin drove, Remi typed some more. She brought up a map of southern Kazakhstan, then adjusted the screen so it showed the route from Taraz to Almaty. When Nurin reached the airport, she held it up so he could see it. She pointed at Nurin and then the map and said, “Go home to Almaty, Nurin.” Then she pointed at herself and then Sam and then at the airline terminal, and said, “We’re going away.” She used her hand to imitate an airplane taking off.
Sam took out all of the tenge from his wallet and his pockets, and then almost all of his American cash, handed it to Nurin, and then patted his shoulder. “Thank you, Nurin. You’re a brave man. Now go to Almaty before somebody finds the two Russians.” He held the computer and ran his finger from Taraz to Almaty.
He and Remi got out of the car, waved to Nurin, and stepped into the terminal. Remi stopped when Sam went to the ticket counter and went back to look out the door. Nurin was pulling his car away from the terminal. As he reached the turn onto the highway, she saw him put on his sunglasses and turn to the east toward Almaty.
* * *
IN MIDAFTERNOON, Sergei Poliakoff got off his airplane at Taraz Airport. He hated leaving Nizhny Novgorod now that he was middle-aged and financially comfortable. He would not have minded going with Irena to Paris or Barcelona or Milan, but coming to this godforsaken place had taken him a whole day and night and, here he was, on a pile of sand and rock. All he had learned before he had left home was that Sam and Remi Fargo had been spotted in Taraz. He could hardly believe that they were simply continuing their hunt for the spoils of the Huns as though nothing serious had happened to them.
Poliakoff was aware that the Fargos often solicited help, or even backup, from various allies and authorities. But coming here was insane. Fargo had just finished rescuing his wife and forcing Poliakoff to burn his own house down. Had they never heard of revenge?
The police who had been digging around in the smoking ruin of Poliakoff’s house had thought the chemical content of the ash and debris in the basement to be unique in their archive. They had no idea what it contained, and Poliakoff hoped that they had not enough patience to analyze it. He had been born a Russian and so he knew that an “unknown chemical substance” recorded on a police report could always one day be made to look like just about anything—even something worse than the truth. So he had not allowed the substance to remain mysterious. He had said in his deposition that the mess was the residue of various medicinal compounds because he had been working in a chemistry lab in his basement to concoct lifesaving drugs.
The two jumping horses belonging to his daughters had been found safe in a farmer’s field seventeen miles from his house, so that part had worked out without trouble. But he hated that this couple, the cause of all his misery, seemed not to be afraid that they might fall into his hands a second time. They were wrong not to be afraid. He’d had four men here for days, watching for them. He also had a group of oil drillers from Atyrau searching for the tomb of Attila’s father in the hills.
As he came into the baggage area, he saw two of his men waiting for him. One of them—the blond—had helped with the kidnapping of Remi Fargo, the last thing Poliakoff could recall that had been done right. As he approached, he said, “Tell me what’s going on now.”
“They were here,” said the blond man.
“They ‘were’ here? Where are they now?”
“They took off about two hours ago.”
“For where?”
“They filed a flight plan for Odessa.”
“Odessa?” he said. “That’s not their destination. That’s a refueling stop.” He reflexively looked up and away from them toward the terminal building. He would have to dream up some way of finding out the plan they would file in Odessa.
“There!” The blon
d man pointed. “Danil and Leo. They were at the hotel, searching the room. They must have found something.”
Poliakoff saw the two men get out of a cab and begin to hurry toward him. He could see that one man’s face was bruised and the other man could barely walk. He didn’t need to speak with them and ask what had happened. He knew.
* * *
BEING AIRBORNE was a relief. Sam and Remi lay, with their seat backs tilted and their legs up, in big leather seats like overstuffed easy chairs. After the private plane landed in Odessa, Sam sat looking out the window as the ground crew chocked and grounded the plane and then hooked up hoses and began to refuel. He pressed the button for Tibor Lazar’s number in Hungary. It rang once and there was Tibor’s voice. “Sam?”
“Yes.”
“How is the search going so far?”
“It’s done. Let’s leave it at that. Do you remember the morning when we were in your car on the way to Budapest and all agreed to be partners in this project?”
“Of course.”
“Well, now is the moment for all of us to come together one more time. We’ve read the fifth message,” said Sam. “We’re going to find and open the tomb of Attila.”
“Woohoo!” Tibor called out. It was a wordless shout, a celebration.
“Come to Rome,” Sam said. “There will be a room for you in the Saint Regis Grand Hotel. You can bring János and anybody else you want. Just be sure Bako’s men don’t follow you and nobody knows your destination.”
“I will bring János, but we’ll need to leave the others here to warn us if Bako or his men move.”
“All right. Come as soon as you can.”
“We’ll leave tonight. I wouldn’t miss this if I had to walk to Rome.”
Sam hung up. “Well, he seems enthusiastic.”
“Without that enthusiasm, the rest of us would be dead—Albrecht, you, me.”
The Tombs fa-4 Page 27