The Lost Temple

by Tom Harper

  “How did they get the bull down the entrance shaft?” Grant wondered.

  The three men skirted the pit and edged into the chamber. It was a small room, but almost every inch of its walls was covered with carvings: hunts, sacrifices, battles—even after three thousand years the life in the stone had lost none of its savage intensity. In the far wall two niches flanked a huge sculpted roundel that seemed to bulge out of the stone. Inside them . . .

  “The armor!” With a cry of delight Reed ran to the alcove and lifted out the object inside. He held it above his head as if he was about to crown himself. In that position it was easy to see that it was, or had been, a helmet. The dome tapered to a strange, key-shaped spike, while rounded cheek pieces projected down like rabbit ears. Grant, no historian, thought it looked more like Kaiser Bill’s Prussian cavalry helmet than the angular, slit-faced headpieces he had always imagined in ancient Greece.

  “And the greaves.” Reed crossed to the other alcove and pulled out two lumps of metal that looked like hollowed-out split logs. “These would have protected his legs. Achilles’ legs,” he added in absolute wonder.

  “Maybe if he’d worn them backward he could have protected his heel.”

  “But where’s the goddamn shield?” With the flame from Grant’s lighter, and Jackson’s flashlight, there was plenty of light to see by in the small room. Apart from the two pieces of armor, and the bones in the pit, it was empty.

  “Maybe in the pit?”

  Jackson jumped down and began scraping away the grime that caked the floor with an ox bone. Grant scanned the walls, looking for a chink or crevice that might betray a hidden door or secret chamber. Nothing. Inevitably, his eyes returned to the massive round carving between the two alcoves. The workmanship on it was much finer than the rest of the room. The figures were smaller and the designs seemed more intricate—though it was hard to tell with all the black age that covered them. In fact, the closer he looked, the more he realized it had a different texture to the surrounding walls.

  “That’s not a carving.”

  He stood in front of it. That close to, he could see each individual figure: men and women, shepherds and plowmen, lawyers and merchants, soldiers and gods—a microcosm of the world. He rubbed it with his arm and felt cold metal through the sleeve of his shirt. It came away black—but on the surface in front of him a golden smear illuminated the dirty metal.

  No one spoke. Jackson scrambled out of the pit, opened his pocket knife and worked the blade into the thin crack between the shield and the surrounding stone. It fitted its carved socket almost perfectly, but gradually—carefully—he and Grant managed to prise it free. They lowered it to the floor and leaned it up against the wall—even with two of them its weight was immense. Then they stepped away, almost pushed back by its power, and stared at the shield of Achilles.

  CHAPTER 32

  Is that it?”

  After so much effort, so much struggle, there was something inadequate about finally seeing the shield. It was perfectly round, though chewed at the edges, about three feet across and curved like a lens. Under the coat of grime the embossed designs gave its surface a mottled, almost organic look, like tree bark. Grant wondered if it had ever been used in battle.

  “How are we going to get it out of here? We won’t fit it through that shaft we came down.”

  Jackson stared at him, then back at the shield. “We have to. It must have come down there once upon a time, right?”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t move it.”

  “What?” Jackson swung round toward Reed. “Have you been asleep in class for the last three weeks? We didn’t come here just to prove a theory, snap some pictures for the folks back home and go. The whole reason we’re here is to take this thing back to get the metal out of it.”

  “And Marina,” Grant reminded him.

  Jackson looked confused for a second. “Right—Marina.” He grasped the shield in both hands and strained to lift it. Half carrying, half dragging, he moved toward the door.

  “In modern ages not the strongest swain, could heave the unwieldy burden from the plain,” Reed murmured. He looked at Grant. “Do you have your pistol with you?”

  Grant pulled out the Webley and showed it to Reed. “Why?”

  “If Mr. Jackson takes another step, please shoot him.”

  Grant couldn’t believe he’d heard him right. “Excuse me.”

  “Ask him what he intends to do with the metal from the shield—if we manage to get it out of here.”

  Jackson glared at them with a look of pure fury. “Are you crazy? Put that gun down.”

  The Webley wavered in Grant’s hand. “What the hell are you on about, Professor?”

  “He’s wasting time,” hissed Jackson. “He’s in league with the Russians.”

  Reed looked calmly between the two of them. “This mysterious Element 61 has a name now, I believe. They called it Prometheum.”

  “How do you know that?” Jackson demanded. “It’s classified.”

  “You shouldn’t leave your ciphered messages lying around your hotel room. Have you come across Prometheus, Grant? He was a Titan; he stole fire from heaven and put it in the hands of men.”

  Grant stared at Reed, then at Jackson. His legs were hidden behind the shield and his face was in shadow. “Are you saying . . .”

  A noise outside the door interrupted him. Forgetting Jackson, Grant turned and ran back into the main chamber. It was much brighter than before—a mustard-yellow light filled the dome, illuminating the painted warriors and the treasure at their feet. Grant barely noticed them.

  She was standing a few feet in front of the entrance, holding up the lantern so he could see her face. It was scratched and stained with mud; a purple bruise ringed her right eye where they must have hit her and her hair was tangled. She still wore the same clothes he had last seen her in: a white blouse and a black skirt that hugged her hips, now torn and filthy.

  “Marina!” He ran toward her. She lifted her head and gave a tired smile—but there was no joy in it.

  “Halt there.”

  The voice, harsh and cold, rang out of the passage behind her. Halfway across the room Grant stopped as if he’d been kicked in the guts.

  “Drop your guns. Drop them or I will terminate her now.”

  A tall, lean figure stepped through the doorway. His boots rang on the stone floor. He wore a green uniform with the gold bars of a full colonel on the epaulettes. His cheeks were hollow, his thin gray hair slicked back to his skull, his one eye sunk in darkness. A triangular black patch covered the other. In his arms he cradled a tommy-gun, which he aimed at Marina. “Put them down,” he said, jerking the gun. “You and the American.”

  “Forget it,” said Jackson. “She’s one of them.”

  Grant ignored him. He looked at Marina and saw the defiance in her eyes.

  “You know what we said in the war,” she said in Greek. “No compromises; no sentiments.”

  “That was our war. This . . .” Grant was numb. His muscles refused to move. More men ran down behind Kurchosov and fanned out around the room—too many, now. All of them carried guns.

  “OK,” Grant said flatly. “You win.” He bent down and laid the Webley on the floor.

  Behind him Jackson was still hesitating. Kurchosov swung the gun round and pointed it straight at him. “I will count to three, Mr. Jackson. Then I will kill you. Odeen . . . dva . . .”

  Grant heard the Colt clatter on to the ground.

  He looked back—and paused. At the back of the chamber he could see someone moving in the darkness to the right of the door. He stared in disbelief. “Muir?”

  Muir stepped out of the shadows. An unpleasant leer played across his face. He took out a cigarette and lit it. “If you’re waiting for me to rescue you, you’re in for a nasty fucking disappointment.”

  Kurchosov turned to Muir and shook his hand. “Well done, Comrade. Comrade Stalin will be a happy man.”

  “We’ll break out the
Beluga when we’ve got the shield in Moscow.”

  “Christ, Muir.” Jackson ground his heel against the floor. “There’s a word for men like you.”

  Muir gave a wicked grin. “I always was a hopeless romantic.”

  “Do you have any idea what they’re going to do with that shield?”

  “Do with it? Why the hell do you think we went to all this fucking trouble?”

  Muir turned as another man came striding out of the passage. As he stepped into the lamplight, Grant recognized Belzig’s stocky frame and straw-blond hair. He seemed to be wearing the same brown suit he had worn that day at the library in Athens. But then, he was a prisoner too, Grant supposed.

  “Is it here?” Even his ugly voice was touched with a childlike awe as he stared around the great domed chamber. “Mein Gott, ist das schön. Have you found the shield?”

  “It’s in there.” Muir pointed to the side chamber. Between them the Russian, the German and the Scot seemed to have settled on English as their common language. “Mind your step when you go in.”

  Belzig hurried across, snatching the lamp from Marina’s hand as he ran past. He ducked under the doorway. The gasp of astonishment from inside the little chamber echoed around the dome.

  “That’s not all.” Muir took a lamp from one of the Russian soldiers and beamed it at the black hoard on the floor. He picked up a cup and tossed it in his hands. “It may look like junk, but there’s more gold in this room than in the Bank of England. A nice bonus for the party.”

  “Indeed. It will take much time to remove it. The Americans made us pay heavily to take the valley.”

  “Did any of them survive?”

  Kurchosov gave a dismissive twitch of his head. “Not even those who surrendered.” He looked back to the center of the room where Grant, Marina, Jackson and Reed stood huddled together. “What about our prisoners?”

  Muir shrugged. “They’ve all worked for British Intelligence—even the professor. Let the interrogators at the Lubyanka sink their teeth into them when we get to Moscow, find out what they know.”

  Kurchosov pursed his lips, then nodded. “Da. But first the shield.” He snapped something in Russian; two of his men put down their guns and ran across to the side chamber. Grant eyed up the guns. Too far away.

  The men returned, carrying the shield between them. Belzig trailed behind. They held it up like a sporting trophy for Kurchosov to inspect.

  “So this was the shield of the god Achilles. The first hero of the great war of East and West. Only now it is the East who have won.” He stroked his fingertips over the metal, then pulled them away as if he’d been burned. He glanced at Muir. “Is it safe?”

  “God knows.” He exhaled, watching the smoke curl up off the shield. “You’ll need to test it in the laboratory.”

  “Then we must get it out of here.”

  The soldiers fetched two lead-lined blankets. They sandwiched the shield between them and trussed it up with ropes, then carried it out of the door into the passage beyond. Grant watched it go with indifference; beside him Jackson trembled with anger.

  “Put the prisoners away until we are ready.”

  The remaining guards herded their four prisoners toward the side chamber, making sure to keep well back. They were almost there when a commotion by the main door paused them. They all looked round. Belzig and the two soldiers had returned. They still had the shield.

  “It does not fit through the hole,” Belzig explained.

  Anger flashed on Kurchosov’s face. “It must. How else could it come in otherwise?”

  Belzig took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Perhaps there was another entrance. Perhaps they have built the temple round the shield, so that no one can take it away. But it does not go out now.”

  “Can we drill? Make it wider?”

  “It’s three feet of solid rock,” said Muir. “You won’t drill through that in a hurry—not without specialist equipment.”

  “Then we cut the shield apart.”

  That prompted a squeal from Belzig. “You cannot! This is the most priceless treasure in the world—proof of the greatest myth in human history. It must be preserved, studied by scholars.”

  “Why? As soon as Comrade Stalin has inspected it, it will be melted down for its materials. They are what is valuable.” Kurchosov gave a cruel laugh as he saw Belzig’s horror. “You wish to argue, Comrade? Better to pray we do not also liquidate you.”

  Muir chuckled. “More to the point, can you cut it up? Under all that shit you can see there’s a core of solid iron. Did you bring a cutting torch?”

  Kurchosov’s mouth curled up in frustration. “Nyet.” He thought for a moment. “So, if we do not make the shield smaller, we make the hole bigger.”

  “I told you: we can’t drill . . .”

  “With explosives.”

  The soldiers cut off lengths of rope and tied the prisoners’ hands behind their backs. They pushed them into the chamber and left them there. Through the open doorway Grant saw them working their way round the main chamber, scooping the treasure into canvas sacks. He couldn’t bear to watch. Instead, he looked across the chamber to Jackson, who lay against the wall on the far side of the pit.

  “Now that we’re all on a one-way trip to Moscow, why don’t you tell us what this was about.”

  Jackson sighed. “OK, you want a story? Arms and the man and all that shit? How much do you know about the atom bomb?”

  “I know I don’t want to be near one when it goes off.”

  “Right. Well, just right now you’re as safe as you were ten years ago. There aren’t any.”

  “I thought the Americans were building dozens of them.”

  “We are—we did. Only thing is they’re all sitting in a vault in New Mexico and the worst thing they can do is make your dick fall off.” He leaned forward to take the pressure off his bound hands. “I don’t know the science. All I know is there are problems. There’s this thing called reactor poisoning: you run the factories that make the bomb fuel too long and eventually they go bad. At the same time, we find out that the bombs we have made aren’t like fine wine: they don’t age too good. So the bombs we thought we had, no one knows if they work any more, and we can’t build more because the factory’s closed for repairs. Truman’s trying to face down the Soviets, and the only thing stopping Uncle Joe from rolling his tanks all the way to Paris is that he’s convinced we’ve got a pile of bombs to drop on Moscow if he makes a move. And, at this moment in time, we don’t.”

  Grant took a deep breath, trying to absorb the information. He had seen Hiroshima and Nagasaki on the newsreels, and not really understood it. “So this Element 61—Prometheum—it can make an atom bomb?”

  “Well, nobody knows for sure because nobody’s ever laid their hands on it. But they’ve done the math. That’s how things work now.” He shook his head, trying to dislodge a drop of sweat that had run down into his eye. “A bunch of geniuses sit in a room with their slide rules for three years and at the end of it they make a weapon. Hell, the Hiroshima bomb they didn’t even bother to test before they dropped it. Just so long as the sums add up.”

  “And did Muir know this?”

  “Muir knew what it could do. He didn’t know why we needed it so bad. I hope. Shit.” Jackson kicked his heel against the floor. “Jack-off bastard. He’s played us all for dupes.”

  Against the far wall Reed stirred. “Does it matter?”

  “Does it matter? Have you been listening to a word I said?”

  “Very carefully. You said Stalin was held in check because he believed in the power of your country’s atomic arsenal.”

  “Which we don’t have.”

  “But he doesn’t know that. If anything, your escapades here will only have made him wonder why you should be so desperate to lay your hands on this rather unlikely source of material.”

  A shadow fell through the doorway. “Just thought I’d pop my head in to say hello.” It was Muir.
With his damp shirt pressed against his skin he looked leaner than ever, almost feral. The look on Jackson’s face was just as primal: he seemed as though he might lunge at Muir and tear him to pieces. The steel snout of a tommy-gun poking round Muir’s shoulder made him think better of it.

  “Come to spy on us some more?”

  “I’ve retired now, actually. Looking forward to a sunny cottage in the workers’ paradise.”

  “How long’s it been going on?” Jackson’s anger subsided as quickly as it had risen. All that remained was bitter defeat.

  “Some time. I made some friends at university. Even then, a few of us could see that the Soviets were the only ones with the guts to stand up to the Fascists. Some young idiots went off to throw their lives away with hopelessly romantic deaths in Spain. We wanted to do something that would actually make a difference. We wanted to help them.”

  “Help them with what? The gulags? The show trials? The executions?”

  “They saved the world,” snapped Muir. “Us, the Yanks—we were just a sideshow. They won the war on the Eastern Front, grinding out victory one life at a time. Do you know how many of them died? Millions. And now look what you’re trying to do to them. Do you know why the Americans are so desperate for Element 61?”

  Muir fixed Jackson with a cool, inquisitive stare. Jackson gazed at the floor and fiddled with the bonds behind his back.

  “The men in Washington want to make an example of their erstwhile allies. Give the Soviets something to think about. Not Moscow or Berlin—but maybe Stalingrad. Prove they can do what the Nazis never could.”

  “That would be an edifying spectacle,” murmured Reed. “And what are you going to do with it?”

  Muir shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  A numbness seized Grant—the same feeling he’d had in the White Mountains when he’d aimed his gun at Alexei and tried to pull the trigger. He looked at Jackson, who returned the look with cold defiance, then at Muir. “I don’t know who’s worse—you or him.”