by Brad Thor
Having tested the anchor points to make sure they would hold his weight, Harvath holstered his ice axes and began his descent. With every crack and pop of ice, he immediately froze. There was no telling how stable the remaining portion of the shelf above him was. If it collapsed, he’d be crushed beneath it, and if the ice around his pitons gave way, he’d be set loose on an unstoppable trajectory straight at the wall of ice on the other side.
Inch by inch, Harvath played out the rope, trying to judge how much further he had to go. Crystals of snow hung in the air, obscuring everything from view. Twenty feet, forty feet, fifty—soon Harvath began to lose all concept of how far he had rappelled. His muscles ached more from the careful, measured descent than if he had been tackling it at regular speed, but he knew all too well that regular speed was only advisable under perfect conditions. What he now found himself in were definitely less than perfect conditions.
Harvath needed to take a breather, just for a moment, and as he sat back in his harness, he contemplated calling out for Jillian. The upside of the idea was that if she was alive and could call back to him, he’d be able to get a fix on her location. The downside was that the vibrations from his shout could very well bring the remainder of the shelf crashing down on top of him. Harvath decided it was best to err on the side of caution and held back any yelling for the time being.
Thirty feet later, as his crampons touched the icy floor of the chasm, Harvath saw a pile of what looked like broken snow-white surf-boards, and sitting atop it assessing her injuries was Jillian Alcott.
She was alive! Harvath couldn’t believe his eyes. After securing the balance of his rope, he carefully picked his way across the ice and climbed up the mound of broken snow. “Are you okay?” he asked as he scanned her head and face for any signs of trauma.
Jillian gave him a pained look and said, “I don’t think I like ice climbing very much.”
Forgetting that she had medical experience as well, Harvath continued in triage mode. “Anything hurt?”
“My right shoulder,” she replied as she tried to roll it forward.
“Your legs and everything else are okay? Nothing’s broken as far as you can tell? You can move everything? Fingers? Toes?”
“Just the shoulder,” replied Alcott. “I think it’s bruised.”
It was an absolute miracle. “I can’t believe I’m looking at you, “He said. “What happened? Judging by how much rope I played out, we’ve got to be at least eighty feet down.”
Jillian used her good arm to brush the snow off her climbing pants as she replied, “I did what you told me. I let the rope out nice and slow.”
Harvath was dumbstruck. “How? How is that possible?”
“I’ve got to admit, it scared the hell out of me. I just grabbed the rope as hard as I could.”
“But when it drew tight, it would have pulled you in and smashed you against the wall.”
Jillian shrugged her shoulders. “Whatever we were standing on was made up of a lot of snow, because a huge slab of it wound up between me and the cliff face and broke the impact, but my shoulder still bore some of the brunt of it.”
Harvath marveled at her. “And you just lowered yourself the rest of the way down here?”
Jillian looked at him as if he was a moron. “I had about five hundred pounds of snow on top of me. The only way I was going was down.”
“I think you’re going to find going up a lot less stressful than coming down.”
“I’d better.”
“In the meantime,” said Harvath as he fished through Alcott’s pack and came up with a headlamp for her that matched his own, “maybe we ought to see what we came all the way down here for.”
Jillian took the lamp from Harvath and placed it over her head. As they turned the lamps on, they saw the only path available to them—a narrow ramp that led deeper into the bowels of the ice cave.
The four-foot-wide passageway sloped downward at such an angle that they had to lean back in their crampons to prevent picking up too much speed and losing control.
The walls of ice were so close on each side that they could reach out and touch them both at the same time. It was like walking through a narrow slot canyon.
After several minutes, the path began to level out, and Harvath and Alcott no longer needed to lean back in their crampons. As they approached the end of the passageway, they crawled beneath a jagged overhang and entered a wide antechamber. The chamber was honeycombed with low tunnels feeding off in all directions. The most magnificent feature of all, though, was a soaring, translucent wall of ice at the far end of the room. Even from where they stood, there was no mistaking what was frozen behind it. Ignoring everything else in the chamber, they walked over to get as close a look as possible.
The ceiling of the antechamber rose steadily higher, and the light from their headlamps cast an otherworldly glow over the scene. Like some sort of enormous, subzero aquarium, the wall of ice held three perfectly preserved elephants.
There was no question what they were looking at. They had unearthed Dr. Ellyson’s discovery, and both Scot and Jillian were speechless.
Finally, Harvath tugged on Jillian’s parka, and they spread out to examine other portions of the cavern. Moving deeper into one of the tunnels, they began finding bodies—remnants of Hannibal’s elite guard. There had to be over thirty of them, most of which were still encased in ice of varying degrees of thickness. Modern equipment lay scattered across the tunnel floor, and they could see places where the ice had been purposely melted away to remove some of the frozen bodies and strip them of their artifacts and God only knows what else.
The naturally formed tunnels bent and doubled back on each other, and Jillian and Harvath drifted in different directions, allowing their own natural sense of curiosity and wonder dictate their individual courses. Even when they were in separate tunnels, the echo of crampons scrapping along the floor of ice notified each of the other.
The lights from their headlamps were the only accompaniment to their own private thoughts as they stared into the face of history. Here and there, Harvath came across random artifacts, propped up against walls or carefully arranged inside narrow alcoves of ice, waiting to be catalogued and placed in plastic bags to be taken back to the Lavoines’ barn. They had stumbled upon an amazing work in progress, and though many of the artifacts had already been removed, the historical significance of what remained was still astounding.
Looking at the breastplated soldiers frozen in the walls of ice with their eyes bulging and mouths agape in silent screams was like passing through some sort of ancient house of horrors. It looked as if they had all been preserved in a state of abject terror. And just like the elephants, they seemed as if they could come back to life at any second and burst through the ice with their swords and war hammers held high, ready to do battle.
Besides Ellyson, Bernard, and their Sherpa, Maurice, no one had seen any of these soldiers for over two thousand years. Harvath could only imagine how Ellyson must have felt upon discovering them for himself. It must have been an incredible rush, both personally and professionally.
Harvath’s reverie was abruptly interrupted by the sound of Jillian frantically shouting his name.
FORTY-SIX
P inpointing Jillian’s exact location was no easy task. The labyrinth of tunnels bounced the sound of her voice in so many directions that it was impossible to tell if she was in front of or behind him.
Eventually, Harvath exited the system of tunnels into another large room and found her along with the reason she had been calling for him. Lying at the mouth of the tunnel were three very contemporary yet very dead bodies that had been frozen into bizarre contortions. With their arms outstretched and fingers curled, they appeared to be both begging for help and trying to reach out and grab anyone unlucky enough to come close. Apparently, Jillian had almost tripped right over them.
Taking a closer look, Harvath could see that two of them had been shot in the back of their heads.
With his bushy black beard, Bernard was the easiest of the three to identify. Harvath guessed the other man lying next to him was Maurice, which left only one other person. A little apart from the two men, dressed in expensive North Face climbing clothes, was the body of Dr. Donald Ellyson. His throat had been cut from ear to ear, and his parka, as well as his trousers and the ice all around him, were stained a deep crimson bordering on black. Harvath had seen some grisly crime scenes in his day, but this one was pretty horrific.
Jillian asked, “Who could have done this?”
There were a million possible answers, but only one that made sense. “Rayburn.”
“Why him?”
“Why not him? He was in charge of the expedition. He knew they were here. It makes perfect sense.”
“Look at all the artifacts lying around here. Why would he leave them behind?”
“Maybe he was in a hurry.”
“But Marie told us that Ellyson never shared with Rayburn exactly where the dig was. She didn’t trust him, remember?”
Jillian was right. “Maybe Rayburn followed them, or maybe he hired somebody else to do it. Whoever it was didn’t want these men talking about what they had found.”
“You mean Hannibal’s weapon,” said Jillian as she watched Harvath bend down toward Bernard’s corpse. “What are you doing?”
Gently, he removed a gold chain with a small medallion from around the man’s neck. “Ironic, “He said as he held the medallion up for her to see. “Saint Bernard, patron saint of mountain climbers, Alpinists, and skiers.”
Jillian sadly shook her head.
“I think Marie would want to have this,” said Harvath.
“I think you’re right,” she replied as she walked away from the bodies. She didn’t want to look at them anymore, and there was something half buried in ice on the other side of the small room that had caught her eye.
Harvath placed the chain in his pocket and then went through Bernard’s pockets, where he found a pair of ancient wrist cuffs made from gold and set with amethysts and small pieces of creamy white marble. It bore the same wolf’s head with intertwined vipers as the breastplates. They were definitely something special, and he could see why Bernard had singled them out to bring back. There was something, though, about the way the snarling wolf looked that bothered him.
“Scot, come over here,” said Jillian, interrupting his thoughts. “You need to see this.”
Harvath tucked the wrist cuffs into his jacket pocket and joined Jillian on the other side of the room, where she was staring at a large wooden chest, its lower half frozen in a solid block of ice.
“Look at these,” she said as she pointed to a series of carved figures along the lid.
“The wolf and intertwined vipers,” replied Harvath. “The same as on the breastplates.”
“Exactly. And these panels along the side seem to tell some sort of story.”
Harvath studied the carvings.
“Somebody melted away this ice on purpose,” continued Jillian, “to get into the box.”
The carvings reminded Harvath of images he had seen in books of the Ark of the Covenant being carried into battle. “Do you think this was used to transport Hannibal’s weapon?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” she said as she carefully raised the lid.
Together, they both looked inside. The long box was intricately partitioned, but other than that was completely empty.
“Damn it,” said Jillian. She spent a few more minutes studying the box and then moved on to investigate something else near the mouth of one of the tunnels.
Harvath stayed with the crate, trying to decipher its story. It was an allegory, but its meaning was difficult to understand. “You know what?” he yelled over his shoulder as he continued to stare at the intricately carved relief. “I’m not so sure that these are actually supposed to be wolves.”
“No?” replied Jillian, engrossed in something inside the tunnel. “What are they then?”
“I think they’re supposed to be dogs.”
“You may have missed your calling in life,” came a man’s voice from behind.
It was a voice he recognized—a voice he knew almost as well as his own. It belonged to the man he had been chasing for months, the man who had set him up in Baghdad and had tried to kill him in Cairo, London, and Paris—Khalid Sheik Alomari.
Harvath wanted it to be a figment of his imagination, but he knew it wasn’t. As he turned and saw the al-Qaeda assassin standing there with a fully automatic machine pistol in his hand, Harvath began to reach for his gun. The problem, though, was that he had left it in his pack to help weigh it down. Defenseless, Harvath did the only other thing he could think of. He yelled for Jillian to run.
FORTY-SEVEN
C all the woman back in here,” commanded Alomari as Jillian disappeared down one of the tunnels. “If I have to go looking for her, I assure you I will make her death as painful as I am going to make yours.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Wrong answer,” replied the assassin as he stepped forward and struck Harvath across the face with his Steyr tactical machine pistol.
Harvath stumbled backward against the chest. It was all he could do to keep from losing his balance.
“We’ll try this again. Call the woman back in here, now.”
“Call her yourself, asshole,” replied Harvath, who could taste blood in his mouth.
The assassin waved Harvath away from the box with his weapon and said, “Have it your way. She won’t get far. “As Harvath complied, Alomari continued, “I’ve enjoyed watching you on television. It’s unfortunate that al-Jazeera was not able to address your good side.”
“What’s unfortunate,” replied Harvath, clenching his hand into a fist, “is that I wasn’t able to address your good side.”
“You had your chance, though, didn’t you?”
That was a fact Harvath was all too well aware of. “How the hell did you find this place?”
“I’ve been here before,” said Alomari as he raised his TMP and pointed it at Harvath’s chest. “I didn’t think I’d ever come back, but before our mutual friend at Sotheby’s died, she suggested I might want to make a return visit. I would have been here sooner, but it took me a while to find a doctor I could trust to pull your bullet out of my shoulder.”
Harvath hated him for his command of English, as well as all the other languages he used to move so effortlessly around the world carrying out the dirtiest of al-Qaeda’s dirty work. But in his anger, Harvath found some small measure of satisfaction and couldn’t help smiling. One of his bullets in Paris had definitely found its mark.
“You find my injury amusing,” replied the assassin. “I guarantee you it isn’t half as painful as what I intend to inflict upon you and your colleague. Now, take those ice axes from your belt and slowly drop them on the floor.”
Harvath had no intention of doing anything the man asked of him. “If you’re going to shoot me, go ahead and pull the trigger.”
“That would be too easy. I have something else in mind for you. Now drop those axes. I will not ask you again.”
“Fuck you,” Harvath responded.
Alomari stepped forward and struck him again with his weapon, this time twice as hard.
Harvath’s head spun and he saw stars, but he wasn’t going to go down without a fight. Trying to focus on the al-Qaeda operative, he gathered his strength and lunged at the man with all his might.
Despite his shoulder injury, Alomari easily sidestepped the attack and watched as, even with his crampons on, Harvath lost his footing and banged his head against the entrance to one of the tunnels.
Before Harvath could slide to the ground, Alomari was on him. The powerful killer pulled him up by the neck of his parka and then swung his machine pistol around hard into Harvath’s solar plexus, knocking the wind from him. As Harvath doubled over in pain, Alomari came up from below with a searing punch that connected with Harvath’s jaw and snappe
d his head straight back.
Harvath flailed his arms, trying to grab onto anything to break his fall, but got nothing but air. What finally broke his fall was the icy ground, and when it did, Harvath’s head hit it with such a loud smack it echoed throughout the cavern and into the tunnels. Once again, he saw stars, but this time there was something more, an overwhelming blackness that threatened to completely overcome him. Harvath fought it off. The only hope he had of staying alive was staying conscious. Alomari was playing with him, but the minute Harvath passed out, the assassin would finish him off. He knew it as sure as he knew he never should have left his gun in his backpack.
Rolling over onto his stomach, Harvath struggled to get up onto his knees. When he did, Alomari kicked him hard, right in the ribs and right in the same place he’d been kicked by the security guard at Sotheby’s two days before.
The extra gear he had stowed in his parka did little to soften the blow. The precious bit of air Harvath had managed to get back into his lungs was forced back out, and his chest started heaving. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a faint voice told him to consider giving up. He was no match for Alomari. The man was much too strong for him. The voice was a sign of weakness, and Harvath despised weakness. Now, he not only slammed the iron door of his mind tight against it, he willed himself to suck in large gulps of air. He had to pull himself together. He had to rally his strength and his wits or he was going to die here, just like Ellyson, Bernard, and their Sherpa, Maurice.
As his lungs heaved for air, Harvath looked around him for anything that could be used as a weapon. He tried to remember what he had stuffed in his parka and whether any of those items could be used to his advantage. He rapidly sorted through the possibilities, but none of them seemed as if they would do the trick. Then it hit him, literally.