Flagg had arranged for the fighter to transport Austin on the last leg of the trip because it would be less obvious than a U.S. Air Force plane in Cyprus, where the British had long maintained a military foothold.
A car drove out onto the tarmac and paced the fighter jet until it stopped. Three men dressed in black slacks, turtlenecks, and berets got out of the car to greet Austin as he climbed from the plane.
“Good evening, Mr. Austin,” said the group’s leader, a swarthy Greek American who identified himself as George. He said he had been brought in from Athens to rendezvous with agents from Cairo and Istanbul. A fourth man, who was attached to the American embassy in Nicosia, and was familiar with the island, had gone ahead to scout out the situation.
“Are you armed?” George said.
Austin patted a bulge in the front of his jacket. While Austin was flying to Maryland, Flagg had had someone from Langley pick up a change of clothes and the Bowen revolver from Austin’s boathouse and deliver it to Andrews.
George smiled. “I should have known better than to ask an ex–company man. But these might come in handy.” He handed Austin a pair of night vision goggles and a beret.
Austin was bundled into the Land Rover. An air force car escorted them to the exit, and a guard waved them through the gate. They traveled along a darkened highway at speeds of nearly a hundred miles an hour for a time before the driver braked and turned off onto a road that ascended into the mountains.
George handed Austin a satellite photo and a flashlight. The photo showed a perfectly square building whose remote mountain-top location was accessed by a single road.
George’s phone chirped. He listened for a few moments and clicked off. He turned to Austin. “A car and an ambulance just arrived at the castle.”
“How long will it take us to get there?” Austin said.
“Less than an hour. It’s slow going on these mountain roads.”
“This is a matter of life or death,” Austin said.
George nodded, and told the driver to pick up the pace. The car accelerated, and went through a series of g-force turns around the hairpin switchbacks.
As they neared their destination, George got a second call from his advance man. He had seen the car ascending the hill below and asked the driver to blink his headlights to identify himself. The driver hit the dimmer switch a couple of times. Seconds later, someone signaled with a flashlight from the side of the road.
The car pulled over and George rolled his window down. A man’s face was framed in the other car’s window.
“The road is about fifty yards ahead,” the man said.
“We’ll go on foot from here,” George said to the advance man. “You lead the way.”
Austin got out of the Land Rover and slipped his night vision goggles over his eyes. He and the others followed the advance man along the edge of the road in a distance-eating trot.
BALTAZAR CARRIED Carina up the stairs and lowered her onto the statue’s upraised arms.
The drugs that had kept her unconscious for hours were wearing off. She awakened with an oily smell in her nostrils. As her vision cleared, she saw the hideous bronze face of Ba’al. Her arms and legs were bound in bandages, but she was able to move her head. She craned her neck and saw Baltazar standing at the base of the statue.
“I’d advise you not to struggle, Sheba. You’re on a precarious perch.”
“I’m not Sheba, you demented fool. And I want you to let me go.”
“Your queenly haughtiness betrays you,” Baltazar said. “You are Sheba’s descendant. You have Sheba’s blood in your veins. You tempted me as your ancestor tempted Solomon. But Ba’al sent Austin to remind me of my family duty.”
“And you are a madman as well as a fool.”
“Perhaps,” Baltazar said.
He studied the elements of the scene like an artist contemplating a potential subject. He was reaching for a wall torch when he heard what sounded like gunfire.
AUSTIN HAD halted at the edge of the access road and dropped down on one knee.
A match had flared ahead, and the breeze carried cigarette smoke his way. He could see a figure pacing back and forth in the grainy green vista produced by the night vision goggles.
George tapped Austin on the arm. He pointed to himself and then to the sentry.
Austin gave him an okay signal. George bent low and crept up on the unsuspecting guard. Austin watched as the figures merged. There was a grunt, and the guard dropped to the ground. George waved the others on.
“Sloppy,” George said as he stood over the unconscious guard. “Sorry about that.”
Some of the guards had heard the sentry’s grunt and came running to investigate. Shouts were coming from every direction. George was illuminated by light from an electric torch. He raised his hands to shield his eyes. Austin threw a flying block that knocked George out of the path of the fusillade that came next.
George scrambled to his feet and unleashed a short burst from his machine pistol. The light went out, followed by screams of pain.
Austin sprinted toward the castle and ran across the bridge over the dry moat. The mercenary guarding the door was trying to make sense of the shouts, moving lights, and gunfire. Unlike Austin, he didn’t have the advantage of night vision. He didn’t see the figure racing toward him with shoulders lowered until it was too late.
Austin hit the man like a bowling ball. The guard crashed backward, and his head snapped against the castle’s wall. He slumped unconscious to the ground.
Austin opened the heavy door and stepped into the coldness of the castle. With his Bowen extended in both hands, he quickly searched the first level and found the room with the big fireplace. The door at the back of the fireplace had been left open slightly, allowing a sliver of torchlight to escape.
Tossing his night vision goggles aside, Austin kicked the door open and ran down the stairs. He stepped through an arched portal and took in the scene. The circular room with its grotesque statuary. The heavy smell of oil. Carina on the upraised arms. And Baltazar, who stood calmly beside the statue as if he had been expecting Austin.
“Austin!” he said, his face contorted into a mask of fury. “Somehow, I knew it was you.”
As a start, Austin wanted Baltazar away from Carina. He aimed the Bowen. “Fun’s over, Baltazar. Come down from there.”
Baltazar ducked behind the statue and spoke into the voice tube. The hollow voice seemed to issue from the open mouth of the statue.
“Too late, Austin. Sheba rests in the arms of Ba’al.”
Austin heard a grinding noise underfoot and stepped back as the trapdoors slid open to reveal the oil pit.
Clenching his teeth in concentration, he stood with his feet wide apart, aimed the Bowen at the statue’s face, and squeezed the trigger. Chunks of metal went flying. The statue’s nose disintegrated, to expose its hollowed interior. Austin let off another round. The heavy bullet took off a cheek. Then he methodically shot out the rest of the statue’s evil face.
There was a shriek of pain, and Baltazar stepped out from behind the statue. His face was bloodied from flying metal. He reached out and grabbed a torch from the wall. Austin snapped off a wild shot. It missed, but in his haste to seek cover, Baltazar dropped the torch on the stairs.
Baltazar descended the stairway to retrieve the flaming torch. Austin’s gun was empty. He tucked it into the holster and sprinted up the stairs.
Baltazar snatched up the burning brand and stuck it in Austin’s face. Austin ducked and threw his shoulder into Baltazar’s midsection. Baltazar dropped the torch but he was a physical match for Austin, and his rage gave him added strength. They struggled for a moment, lost their footing, and rolled down the staircase to the edge of the pool.
Baltazar head-butted Austin, got to his feet, and kicked Austin in the ribs. He aimed another kick at Austin’s face. Austin ignored the searing pain, grabbed Baltazar’s boot, and twisted. Baltazar stood on one foot, trying vainly to maintain hi
s balance, and then fell head-first into the pool.
Austin scrambled to his feet and saw Baltazar trying to swim in the thick liquid. His head and face gleamed with the black oil.
“Get back, Kurt!”
The bandages that held Carina had stretched during her travels. She had freed herself and climbed off the statue’s arms. Now she stood on the stairs, holding the torch in her hand. With her white dress, and lovely features contorted in anger, she looked like an avenging angel.
“Wait,” Austin said. He started up the stairs.
Carina hesitated. She started to lower the torch. Then she saw that Baltazar was trying to climb out of the pool, a task made difficult by the oil on his hands. He struggled at the edge like a reptilian monster emerging from the deep. Carina raised her arm back and threw the torch. It arced through the air ahead of a trail of embers and landed in the middle of the oil pit.
There was a loud whoof.
Austin raced up the stairs and grabbed Carina around the waist. He pushed her into the space behind the statue and threw his body on top of hers.
Although the statue shielded them from the searing heat, they were in danger of choking from the cloud of greasy black smoke that billowed up to the ceiling. Even with smoke escaping through the vent in the ceiling, the chamber was filled with toxic fumes within seconds.
Austin was wrapping his arm tighter around Carina’s slim body when he felt a handle on the wall. He pulled the handle and a section of wall slid back. Cold air flowed from the rectangular opening. Austin was barely able to get the words out but he shouted at Carina to crawl through the opening. Then he followed her and slid the wall section shut.
Austin dug a penlight out of his jacket and flashed it around. They were in a room barely bigger than a closet. The air was musty but free of smoke. He guessed that it had been built to protect Baltazar’s ancestors when they were making sacrifices to Ba’al.
They stayed behind the statue until the oil burned itself out. Austin slid the door open a crack. The air was foul but mostly free of smoke. They used some of Carina’s gauze bandages to fashion makeshift smoke masks. Then they crawled out from behind the statue and made their way down the stairs to the door.
As they passed the smoking fire pit, Carina averted her eyes. Austin glanced into the pool as if he expected Baltazar to crawl from the depths. But all he saw was the noxious blackness of the abyss.
Chapter 54
AFTER HIS QUICK PHONE CALL to Baltazar, Adriano had driven to New Jersey to work on his plans for NUMA.
He stayed in a cheap motel, where he devised an intricate plan for NUMA that involved multiple assassins, car bombs, biological agents, and old standbys, such as high-powered rifles. He methodically plowed through staff listings and gave priority to targets that would gut the agency. He moved on the next day and stayed in another motel. By the third day, he had put the finishing touches on his scheme for mass death and destruction. Then he waited for word from Baltazar.
After two days, Adriano tried to call Baltazar but got no answer. He hung up on the busy signal and punched in another number that connected him with the recording device he had planted in Austin’s tree.
“Hello, Joe,” Austin’s voice said. “How’s your research going?’
“We’ve got the mine pinned down,” Zavala said. “The papyrus told us exactly where to find it.”
Adriano raised an eyebrow and listened intently.
“Terrific! Feed me the details.”
Zavala told him about the hotel submerged under the lake in St. Anthony’s Wilderness, and went into great detail about the shaft leading from the kitchen into the mine. He gave Austin the GPS coordinates.
“How soon can we make an exploratory dive?” Austin said.
“I’m pulling together a dive team now. We can be on site in forty-eight hours.”
“Good work. We’ll go over the details tomorrow.”
The two men hung up after some unrelated chitchat.
The call had been made earlier that day. Adriano read the notes he’d written down. He checked out of his motel room and drove to a storage unit, one of several he maintained near Washington. The unit contained weapons and ammunition, money, changes of clothing and identity, and, for his immediate purposes, a complete set of scuba gear, which he loaded into the trunk of his car.
The next morning his car was bumping along the dirt road into St. Anthony’s Wilderness. He parked at the edge of the lake, got into a wet suit, and slipped into his buoyancy compensator and tank. Adriano was an accomplished diver, having learned his skills from the SEALs who’d been on Baltazar’s payroll.
He swam to a buoy floating in the lake, glanced at the reading on his portable GPS, and dove down to the hotel with powerful flutter kicks. He made his way to the kitchen and found the shaft. He dove into the opening without hesitating. Even if he hadn’t been anxious to get to the mine, it was doubtful he would have noticed the block-shaped plastic objects buried in the rubble within a few feet of the shaft opening.
When Adriano got to the bottom of the shaft, he was surprised to see a waterproof slate with an arrow drawn on it and the words: THIS WAY.
He followed the direction the arrow was pointing and came to another slate indicating a tunnel off the main cave. He followed it to an intersection. Another slate, another arrow. He came to the end of the tunnel. A fourth arrow pointed the way into the large mine chamber with the dais.
AS ADRIANO followed the arrow on the slate, two figures slipped quietly from the woods and made their way to the water’s edge. Austin checked his watch. “It’s been thirty minutes,” he said.
“That would put him down the shaft and into the mine,” Zavala said.
The phony telephone conversation had been set up as bait. Time to spring the trap. Austin waded into the water up to his waist. He was holding a transmitter protected in a waterproof case. He waited a few minutes, then lowered the transmitter into the water and pressed a button. Seconds later, multiple mounds of foam disturbed the surface of the lake.
Austin watched, tight-lipped, until the expanding ripples washed against his chest.
Then he turned and sloshed his way back to shore.
He was met by a grim-faced Zavala, who gave him a folder he’d found in Adriano’s car. The folder was marked NUMA.
FAR BELOW THE SURFACE of the lake, Adriano heard the explosions as a series of thuds.
He considered turning back but decided to keep on. Adriano had a robotlike sense of purpose, which made him an effective assassin, and he was determined to find the mine and its gold.
Following the arrow, he swam into the altar room. His pulse quickened at the sight of the raised dais, where the Thomas Jefferson box had rested.
Nestled in the shreds of wood was a diver’s slate with the words:
WHEN YOU GET TO HELL, ADRIANO, GIVE MR. BALTAZAR OUR REGARDS.
Austin again.
Adriano stared at the message, then threw the slate aside and swam with all his strength along the route that would take him back to the shaft. When he got there, he discovered a pile of rubble that was the only evidence of the collapsed shaft.
He glanced at his air gauge. He had minutes left. Even if there was a way out, he didn’t have enough air to search for it. Adriano sat on the pile of rubble until his air ran out completely. The last in the line of Spain’s official garrotters died, in a twist of irony, of asphyxiation.
Chapter 55
“AHOY, MR. NICKERSON,” Austin said. “Request permission to come aboard the Lovely Lady.”
Nickerson poked his head out the open door of the salon and smiled when he saw Austin. “Permission granted.”
Austin went up the gangway and shook hands with the State Department man.
He tapped a black plastic pouch. “I have something to show you, if you’ve got a few minutes.”
“I always have time for you, Mr. Austin. Come below, and I’ll brew up some coffee. I’ll mix in something to chase away the chill.”
>
“It’s eighty degrees, Mr. Nickerson.”
“No matter. It’s chilly somewhere,” Nickerson said.
They went into the cabin, and Nickerson made a pot of strong coffee, which he laced with slugs of Kentucky bourbon. They clicked glasses, and Nickerson said, “Well, now, what do you have for me?”
Austin opened the pouch and produced the squares of vellum. He handed one to Nickerson. “This is the piece Jefferson acquired from an Indian. Meriwether Lewis came across the other vellum in his travels. Together, they form a map showing the location of Solomon’s mine in Pennsylvania.”
“Wonderful! I knew you could do it. Have you explored the mine?”
“Yes, we have. That’s where we found the vellum sections. They had been placed there by Thomas Jefferson.”
“That’s beyond belief! And what of the relic?”
“The gold Ten Commandments? I think you might know the answer to that question.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“There was another text written under the map. It’s apparently a set of the Ten Commandments that’s quite a bit different from the original. Probably what’s on the gold tablets.”
“Go on, Mr. Austin.”
“These commandments were handed down by several pagan gods, including one who demanded human sacrifice. Now I know you know why you were so worried. The Mideast situation wasn’t the real reason for your concern.”
“Indeed. The Ten Commandments are supposed to be infallible moral guides, declared by a monotheistic god. They provide the foundation for religions followed by millions of people and the underpinnings of Western governmental thought. Some people say they are the inspired source of the legal systems of all Western countries. If the original Ten Commandments were based on pagan writings this frail foundation could be eroded further.”
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