The smallest of the five men crouched by the elevator, pressing his thumbs into a thick claylike mound, making sure to smear the entire lower-right-hand corner of the door with the substance. He then pulled a thin metal strip no bigger than a stick of gum from his pocket, shaped a tiny hillock within the mound, and wedged the strip into it. “Step back,” he said.
Sarah watched as the mound began to heat up, soon bubbling into a red mass, a lick of a flame at its center. In a sudden flash, a spark ignited and began to race up the length of the elevator, a fuse seemingly in search of explosives; halfway to the ceiling, the spark darted right, momentarily gone, then reappeared as a pulsing dot coursing behind the wall’s plaster.
“Locates the source of power,” said O’Connell. “All very much in the experimental stages.”
About three feet from the door, the dot flared bright and then vanished, the man already at the point of implosion to chisel out a section of the wall. The sound of steel on steel forced him to stop; he began to apply another wad of clay to the area, this time, though, much thicker. The man worked far more delicately, careful to leave a thin border of steel untouched. He then pulled several wafer-thin strips of something resembling dried mud from his pack and placed each one in the mound in a little rectangle. Again, he produced a strip of metal, sunk it into the clay, and stepped back. This time, there was no spark, only intense heat, a blue flame that literally ate into the steel. Within seconds, it had cut through to open air; almost at once, the flame fizzled out, for some reason uninterested in the wires it had just revealed. Scraping out the excess with his knife, he explained, “Only eats through metals.”
The electronics man now stepped in and stripped the casing from the wires; he pulled what looked to be a voltage meter from his pack and tested each line. Then, removing yet another box, he clamped it to two of the exposed wires and flicked a switch on its side; a moment later, the elevator door released and slid about two inches from the wall. “Magnetics reversed,” he said. Immediately, the man with the clay wedged two cylinders into the opening, placing them about four inches from the ceiling and floor. Very slowly, the tiny objects began to expand, pushing the door farther and farther from the wall; locking in placing, they created just enough room for a single body to slip through. O’Connell peered down the shaft.
“It’s about a hundred feet,” he said, scrutinizing the area with his flashlight. “Bad news is, the cables have been cut.”
He stepped to the side as two of the other men now removed long coils of nylon line, clipped them to the top cylinder, and tossed the lines into the shaft. One by one they rappelled down. The remaining six watched as the cords stretched taut, twin lines beating out the descent in contrapuntal intervals. Half a minute passed before a voice came through. “Solid steel, boys, the whole way down.” The twang was Deep South. “No chance of gettin’ into that car. It looks like we’re goin’ to have to go huntin’ for hollows.” Sarah turned to O’Connell for explanation.
“Ducts or vents behind the shaft,” he answered. “Another toy we’re using these days. A little device that sends out a high-pitched tone, then checks for resonance. Determines location and size. We’ll see if we get lucky.”
Two minutes into the search, he had his answer. “We got us one about twenty feet from the base,” came the voice from below. “By the sound of it, might even be wide enough for you, O’Connell.” No sooner had the information piped through than the man with the clay reached for a line and disappeared into the shaft. Within a minute, a blue glow began to emanate from the darkness.
It wasn’t long before the southerner once again broke the silence. “We got us an openin’, folks. Time to go huntin’.”
“Reverse the last two in the sequence, then reenter,” said Lundsdorf, his eyes scanning the three terminals directly in front of him. He removed his finger from the intercom and sat back. “You see how simple it is, Anton. How simple a thing it is to alter the very name of supremacy.”
“Yes, I … can see that,” answered Votapek. He had grown far less comfortable in the last four minutes. “I thought Jonas would be joining us. And Alison. That everything had been … cleared up.”
“Do you think we should have Jaspers here when it engages?” Votapek said nothing. “You know, it suddenly strikes me, Anton, Xander has never seen all three of the manuscripts together.” Lundsdorf caressed the ancient volumes on the desk in front of him. “What a treat that will be.” He pressed down on the intercom. “Paolo, would you be so kind as to fetch Dr. Jaspers?”
There was a pause before the Italian responded. “Do you think that would be … wise, to have him out in the open while—”
“Are you questioning me, Paolo?” Lundsdorf waited. “Good. Then bring him.” He turned again to Votapek, a quizzical smile in his eyes. “You look troubled, Anton. Am I wrong to think you would prefer not to be here? Is the prospect of death so frightening?” Votapek remained silent. Lundsdorf nodded. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you should go.” Lundsdorf reached under the desk. Before Votapek could react, a door cracked open behind the old man, a sudden burst of cold air streaming into the booth. “So you see, there was another way through. Paolo’s idea. I never understood, but now, of course, I see it does serve a purpose. A tunnel. A car waits at the other end.” Votapek hesitated, then stood. “Do not run too far away, Anton. I will need you in the weeks to come.” Votapek moved to the door. “What a shame, though. To have come all this way and to miss such a perfect moment.”
Sarah was the last into the vent, the aluminum casing leaving her about four inches to maneuver on either side. To make things easier, the man at the front had been greasing the duct as he went; even so, she could feel each metal seam as she pulled herself along, her ribs throbbing. The grease, though, had been more for O’Connell, the Irishman having taken several stabs at entry before squeezing himself in. Amused by it all, Toby had chosen that moment to describe his strict aversion to tight spaces, prompting O’Connell to say something about other tight spaces. Toby had quickly taken the line, hoisted himself up, and had slipped quietly into the vent.
About thirty feet in, the small convoy stopped. “It splits off,” said the lead man. “Looks like six different tunnels.”
“Slice out a look,” ordered O’Connell, his breathing already heavy from the jaunt. Lying on her stomach, Sarah pressed her fingers into the metallic walls and understood what he had meant. A sharp knife would be able to penetrate the casing and give the man a view of the area below.
“It’s insulation strips and a lot of wiring,” came the response, “most of it heading along one of the left-hand branches, back the way we came.”
“Is there any green coiled wire?” It was Toby who spoke, his tone more serious than Sarah expected. “Anything that looks … like a thick Slinky?”
Silence. “Yeah. Wrapped in something like Saran Wrap. It runs separately, but in the same direction as most of the wires.”
“That’s it,” answered Toby. “It’s what they’re using for the satellite hookups. Whichever way it goes, that’s where you’ll find the op center.”
“Then we go the other way,” O’Connell cut in. “Some place nice and quiet to get out of these vents. Pick another tunnel, then move your ass.”
Paolo clutched Xander’s arm as he led him down the corridor, neither saying a word, no explanations of Stein or Tieg. The request had been curt, the gun an unnecessary inducement. Now, as they neared the elevator, the Italian suddenly stopped. No warning as the grip on Xander’s arm grew tighter. For a moment, Paolo stared into the distance; he then cocked his head to the left, eyes lost in concentration. He spun quickly to his right, his expression far more animated as he began to sniff at the air. A moment later, the radio was at his lips. As the Italian spoke, he stared at his captive.
“Professor. … Yes, I have him. … No, but traces of the gas are coming in through the vents. … Exactly. I suggest— Yes, of course.” Paolo pulled the radio from his mouth, flicked a
switch on its side, and spoke again. “Seal the vents. … Fine, then open up the auxiliaries. I’m also going to need men. … No, they could be anywhere. … Start wide, pull to the center. … And lock down the lab. I’ll be with the professor.” Paolo returned the radio to his belt and ushered Xander down the hall. A moment later, the fluorescents disappeared and the blue lights reengaged, Paolo’s grip on his arm having grown considerably tighter. “Your friends are making this more entertaining than I expected. Don’t worry. The fun’s about to come to an end.”
Sarah was the last to jump from the vent to the cement floor, a storage room with boxes piled high. “Toss the masks,” said O’Connell as he knelt at the door and drew his gun. He tried the handle—no luck. Moving away, he nodded for the man with the clay to take care of the lock. A minute later, O’Connell pulled back the door and slowly edged his face out into the blue light. No sooner had he done so than he raised his gun and fired.
The point man quickly darted out into the hall, only to return with a dead woman in his arms. He placed her on one of the crates, drew his gun, and nodded for the others to follow. Five seconds later, O’Connell and the electronics man slipped out, then three more, and finally Toby and Sarah.
She found herself scurrying through an open area, a space perhaps twenty-five feet by thirty, six numbered doors along each wall. The only exit stood in the middle of the far wall, the point man leading them toward it and—according to Toby’s green-wire theory—the operation center. Weaving her way through tables and chairs, Sarah noticed a pool table and television set on opposite ends of a galley kitchen—all the trappings of living quarters for those planning to spend an extended period of time underground. A bunker, she thought. How appropriate. At the exit, she heard the sound of a snap. Like the others, she stopped. The man at the front was cautiously edging his way around a distant corner, a second snap moments later to indicate all was clear. Once again, they started moving in pairs. Sarah matched Toby stride for stride until another snap, another junction of corridors. She watched as the point man and O’Connell spoke, both of them nodding before O’Connell turned to the team and strapped on a second set of lenses they all carried. The rest did the same, Sarah unsure what he had seen to warrant the change. He then disappeared around the corner, Sarah the last to make the turn.
Instantly, she knew they had made a mistake. The corridor was too long, too narrow, and with no place for them to take cover. Instinct screamed at her to pull Toby back, but before she could turn, men had appeared at either end of the hall, guns drawn. The next few seconds were the longest she had ever known as she waited for the icy lance of bullets to drive into her flesh; instead, a bright flash exploded all around her, her sight momentarily lost, gunfire everywhere, no time to ask why she was still alive. She scrambled to her left, firing behind her wildly, her eyes clearing to reveal the men of Eisenreich scattering in confusion. She watched as they groped for the walls, for one another, for some way out of the darkness; then she understood.
The flash had blinded them.
O’Connell had known, and he had been ready. He had baited them out, and they had come. Within fifteen seconds, the corridor had fallen silent again.
Seven men lay dead, one wounded, none from the team who now pulled the lenses from their eyes. O’Connell moved to the wounded man and hoisted him to his feet, pressing his fingers into the soft flesh of the man’s throat.
“You’re the lucky one, aren’t you?” he whispered. “So I’m going to ask you once, and then not again. You may choose to answer, or you may choose to die.” O’Connell drove his fingers deeper into the skin. “Where are the computers, and how much security?”
The man shook his head once.
Without hesitation, O’Connell aimed the silencer and shot the man in the kneecap, all the while holding on to his throat so as to stifle the scream. Saliva dripped from the man’s mouth, his entire body shaking. “I didn’t say how I’d kill you,” added the Irishman, “but now that’s my choice, isn’t it?”
“Third corridor … left,” came the choked response, “vault door … ten technicians … unarmed—”
O’Connell swung his gun across the man’s chin and let the body fall to the ground. Two minutes later, the team passed the elevator and stopped ten feet from the steel door that guarded the entrance to the lab.
“I don’t think I trust our friend back there,” said O’Connell, the demolitions expert already at the door. “Not likely they’ll be unarmed. Keep Toby back. And put on the lenses.” He turned to the computer man. “We wouldn’t want to lose you this late in the game, now would we, Toby?”
Half a minute later, the air lock on the door released, leaving a space wide enough for two more of the small cylinders, this pair far more powerful than their predecessors. The sound of voices and running feet spilled from the lab, the movement in stark contrast to the easy posture of the man at the door; he calmly removed two canisters, twisted the tops of each, and tossed them through the ever-expanding gap. Bracing for the explosion, he turned away as a series of blinding flashes erupted beyond the door. Then, dropping to a crouch, he spun through the opening and into the lab, four others from the team quickly behind him. O’Connell followed. Sarah waited until her old friend was through the opening and then slipped past the door, Toby in tow.
The scene from the balcony was unreal, men and women below fumbling along the floor, others against the wall, hands and fingers trying to give direction to their sightless eyes. Still others sat in front of terminals, staring aimlessly into screens they could no longer see. A few guns lay scattered here and there, dropped or lost at the instant of blinding explosion, none a threat to the men who cautiously descended the stairs. Sarah scanned the faces for Xander, the team already tying up its captives, O’Connell pulling explosives from his pack. As she reached the bottom step, a hollow pain rose in her stomach—too easy. And there was still no sign of Xander.
“Welcome.” A voice boomed from an unseen monitor; almost at once, a series of steel slats snapped open from underneath the balcony, revealing a glass-encased booth. Inside, Xander stood at center, his arm in the grasp of a second man, still another man seated to their left, behind a desk. It took Sarah a moment to recognize the face. “Ah, Miss Trent,” continued Lundsdorf, “you are alive. How interesting. One of these others, no doubt, is our mysterious motorcyclist—perhaps the large fellow with the explosives?” Sarah kept her eyes on the glassed-in trio. “No matter,” he added. “As you can see, Dr. Jaspers is here with me; together, we have just witnessed a most remarkable moment. Can you guess, Miss Trent?” He paused. “Quite right. The codes—all transmitted. You and your friends are naturally free to tie up my staff, but it would appear that you have come a bit too late. The final stage cannot be reversed.”
Sarah looked at Xander. His face showed no emotion, no reaction to Lundsdorf’s words, only a vacant stare. For several seconds, all movement seemed to stop, until Xander turned toward the glass, his gaze fixed on her, his expression unchanged. “Blow it up,” he said, his voice as distant as his eyes. “I’m dead anyway. Just—”
“That would not make any difference,” interrupted Lundsdorf. “What Dr. Jaspers does not realize is that any attempt to do so would only trigger an … automatic pilot. … I believe that is what Arthur called it. Something to do with satellites and stored information, that sort of thing. You may, of course, do what you will with your devices, but you should know that even an explosion here in the lab would have little impact. True, our ability to monitor the teams over the next few days would be severely limited, but the overall results would be the same. A little less control for me, but one learns to adapt as one grows older.” He smiled again and looked at Jaspers. “Does that surprise you, Xander?”
Jaspers said nothing; O’Connell turned to his computer man. “Is what he is saying true?”
“I … don’t know,” answered Toby. “I’d have to—” He stopped and looked up at the booth.
“Go right
ahead, young man,” said Lundsdorf. “See for yourself.”
Toby turned to the nearest terminal and typed in a few words. “I don’t know. These are substations, secondary terminals. They process information only when they’re hooked into the mainframe. Otherwise, they stay dormant. Right now, they’re off. Until I see the big boy, I can’t be sure.”
“Oh, you can be sure, my young friend,” answered Lundsdorf.
Sarah had kept her focus on Xander throughout the exchange, drawn by the strange detachment in his eyes, a look she had seen only once before—at the motel when he had recalled Feric’s death. Now, however, she sensed something behind the stare, a strength. It seemed to grow, focus his thoughts, until, with a sudden explosion of movement, he lunged across the desk at Lundsdorf.
Immediately, Paolo was on him, a gun pressed deep into his neck. The Italian pulled Xander to his feet and lowered the gun to his ribs.
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