Spartan Gold

by Clive Cussler

  The space measured five feet deep and eight feet wide and smelled of dust and rat droppings. To his right he heard the faint scratching of tiny claws on stone, then silence. In the center the sarcophagus, which was devoid of either markings or adornment, stood on a three-foot-high platform made of red brick. He stepped around the sarcophagus to the rear wall, then placed the flashlight between his teeth and gave the lid a tentative shove. It was lighter than he’d anticipated, sliding a couple inches with a hollow grating sound.

  Sam pushed the lid another few inches, then grabbed the projecting end and walked the lid around until it was sitting perpendicular to the sarcophagus. He shined his light inside.

  “Nice to finally meet you, Monsieur Laurent,” he whispered.

  Arnaud Laurent, now nothing more than a skeleton, had been buried in what Sam assumed was the full dress uniform of a Napoleonic-era army general, complete with ceremonial sword. Lying between his black-booted feet was a wooden box the size of a large hardcover book. Sam carefully lifted the box free, blew off the layer of dust covering it, then knelt down and placed it on the floor.

  Inside he found an ivory comb, a flattened musket ball speckled with a flaky brown substance Sam guessed was blood, a few medals in tiny silk pouches, an oval-shaped gold locket inside which he found a picture of a woman—Laurent’s wife, Marie, he assumed—and finally, a palm-sized brown leather book.

  Breath held, Sam gently opened the book at its midpoint and could see in the narrow beam of his flashlight a line of shapes:

  “Bingo,” he whispered.

  He returned the other items to the box, returned it to its place between Laurent’s feet, and was about to close the lid when his flashlight glinted off something metallic. Wedged between Laurent’s boot and the wall of the sarcophagus was what looked like a thumb-sized steel chisel. Sam fished it out. It was a die stamp, he realized, a type of stone chisel. One end was flattened like the head of a nail; the other end was concave with a knife-edged border. He shined his flashlight into the indentation. It was the outline of a cicada.

  “Thank you, General,” Sam whispered. “I wish we could have met two centuries ago.”

  He pocketed the stamp, closed the lid, and stepped out.

  Umberto was nowhere to be seen.

  Sam walked back up to ground level and looked around. “Umberto?” he whispered. “Umberto, where are—”

  At the cemetery’s gate a pair of headlights flashed to life, pinning him in their glare. He held his hand before his eyes, squinting.

  “Don’t move, Mr. Fargo.” A Russian-accented voice echoed through the graveyard. “There is a rifle aimed at your head. Raise your hands above your head.”

  Sam complied, then muttered out of the side of his mouth, “Remi, go, get out of here.”

  “That’s going to be a problem, Sam.”

  Slowly, he rotated his head over his shoulder.

  Standing beside the Lancia’s driver’s-side door, a revolver pressed against Remi’s temple, was Carmine Bianco.

  CHAPTER 26

  Gun never wavering from Remi’s head, Bianco stared at Sam with a smug barracuda’s grin. The headlights went dark. Sam looked back toward the gate and could see two figures walking toward him. Behind them, the dark outline of an SUV.

  “Remi, are you okay?” Sam called over his shoulder.

  “Shut up!” Bianco barked.

  Sam ignored him. “Remi?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Kholkov walked up through the knee-high weeds and stopped ten feet away. To his right, Mustache held a scoped hunting rifle at his shoulder, its muzzle level with Sam’s chest.

  “You’re armed, I assume?” Kholkov said.

  “Seemed the prudent thing to do,” Sam replied.

  “Very carefully, Mr. Fargo, let’s have it.”

  Sam slowly pulled the Luger from his pocket and dropped it on the ground between them.

  Kholkov looked around. “Where’s Cipriani?”

  “Hog-tied and gagged in his barn,” Sam lied. “After a little coaxing, he told us about your partnership.”

  “Too bad for him. At any rate, here we are. Give me the book.”

  “First call off Bianco.”

  “You have no leverage. Give me the book or at the count of three I’ll order Bianco to shoot her. Then my friend here will shoot you and we’ll take the book.”

  Ten feet behind and to Kholkov’s left, a shadowed figure rose from the weeds alongside another crypt and started creeping forward.

  Sam kept his eyes fixed on Kholkov. “How do I know you won’t shoot us once you have the book?”

  “You don’t,” said Kholkov. “As I said, you’ve got no leverage.”

  The figure stopped just beyond arm’s reach behind the Russian.

  Sam smiled, shrugged. “I have to disagree.”

  “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

  “I think he’s referring to me,” Umberto said.

  Kholkov tensed, but didn’t move a muscle. Mustache, however, started to spin toward Umberto, who barked, “He moves another inch and it’ll be my pleasure to shoot you, Kholkov.”

  “Stop!” the Russian ordered.

  Mustache froze.

  Umberto said, “Sorry for the disappearing act, Sam. I saw them pulling in and only had a moment to decide.”

  “You’re forgiven,” Sam replied. Then to Kholkov: “Tell Bianco to give Remi the gun and join us.”

  Kholkov hesitated. Sam could see the muscles in his jaw pulsing. “I won’t ask again,” Sam said.

  “Bianco, give her the gun and climb over the fence.”

  Bianco shouted something. While Sam’s Italian consisted of little more than simple greetings, he felt certain his response was either scatological or carnal in nature, or both.

  “Bianco, now!”

  Without turning, Sam called over his shoulder, “Remi . . . ?”

  “I’ve got the gun. He’s climbing over the fence now.”

  “Kholkov, tell your mustachioed friend to take his rifle by the barrel and toss it over the fence into the trees.”

  Kholkov gave the order and the man complied. Bianco appeared on Sam’s left and walked around to join Kholkov and Mustache.

  “Now you,” Sam told Kholkov.

  “I’m not armed.”

  “Show me.”

  Kholkov took off his jacket, turned it inside out, gave it a shake, then dropped it on the ground.

  “Shirt.”

  Kholkov pulled his shirttails from his waistband and slowly spun in a circle. Sam nodded at Umberto, who circled around Kholkov and backed across the open space, stopping to retrieve the Luger, which he handed over to Sam.

  “Stronzo!” Bianco barked.

  “What did he say?” Sam asked.

  “He seems to think my mother and father were not married when I was born.”

  “I will kill you,” Bianco spat. “And your wife!”

  “Shut up. Now I recognize that one—the one with the mustache.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A nobody. He’s a petty thief, a thug.” Umberto called to the man, “I know who you are! If I see you again, I’ll cut off your nose!”

  Sam said, “Kholkov, here’s how this is going to work: You’re all going to lie on the ground and we’re going to leave. If you follow us, I’ll burn the book.”

  “You’re lying. You won’t do that.”

  “Bad gamble. To save our lives, I’ll do it without a second thought.”

  It was a lie, of course, and Sam knew that Kholkov knew it, too, but he was hoping to plant even a slight seed of doubt, enough to buy them some running room. He’d considered other options—tie them up, disable their vehicle, call the police, but his every instinct was telling him to put as much distance as possible between themselves and Kholkov, and to do it as quickly as possible. And were he a different man, there would be a fourth option: Kill them right now. But he wasn’t that kind of man and didn’t want cold-blooded murder on his
conscience.

  Kholkov was a superbly trained soldier who knew more ways to kill than most chefs had recipes. Every minute he, Remi, and Umberto spent around these men increased the chances of the tables being turned.

  “You won’t get off the island,” Kholkov growled, lying down.

  “Maybe, but we’re going to give it the old college try.”

  “Even if you do, I’ll find you again.”

  “That’s a bridge we’ll cross when we get there.”

  Umberto said, “Sam, a favor if I might. I’d like to take Bianco along with us. I’ll make sure he’s no trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  Sam considered this, then nodded.

  “Let’s go!” Umberto ordered Bianco. “Hands up!”

  Under Umberto’s gun, Bianco started walking toward the fence. Once they were over it and standing beside the car, Umberto plucked Bianco’s handcuffs from his belt, secured them around his wrists, frisked him, then shoved him in the backseat and climbed in behind him. Remi started the car, then opened the door for Sam and slid over to the passenger seat.

  Sam got in the car, put it in gear, turned around, and headed around the fence toward the main road.

  “How long do you think they’ll wait?” Remi asked.

  Sam glanced out the side window. Kholkov and Mustache were already on their feet and running back through the graveyard.

  “About five seconds,” he said and stepped on the accelerator.

  CHAPTER 27

  Sam sped down the fence line, heading for the main gate. In the corner of his eye he could see Kholkov and Mustache sprinting in the same direction, dodging headstones as they went, fog swirling in their wake.

  “Gonna be close,” Sam muttered.

  “Where are you going?” Remi said. “You heard Umberto . . . Bianco will have the roads watched.”

  “How’s your aim tonight?”

  “What? Oh.” She held up Bianco’s gun as though suddenly remembering she had it. “Fine, why—”

  “I’m going to make a quick pass by their SUV. See if you can get the tires. Umberto, are you sure you can handle him?”

  In the backseat, Bianco was leaning in the corner wearing that same smug grin. Umberto reversed the Luger in his hand and smacked Bianco across the temple; he went limp and slid into the floor. “I am sure!”

  The corner of the fence was coming up fast; thirty feet beyond that and to the right was the SUV. Kholkov had pulled ahead of Mustache and was seconds from reaching the gate.

  “Get ready!” Sam called.

  Remi rolled down her window, stuck the pistol out the opening, and braced her arm on the door. “You’re going too fast!”

  “Have to. Just do your best. If you can’t get the tires, try for the windshield. Damn!”

  Kholkov raced through the gate and skidded to a stop beside the SUV’s driver’s-side door. The interior dome light popped on.

  Remi snapped off two shots. The bullets sparked on the SUV’s quarter panel, but missed the tire. “Too fast!” Remi called.

  “Windshield! Empty it!”

  Remi squeezed off four shots, the gun’s barrel spouting orange flame. Three spiderwebbed holes appeared in the SUV’s windshield.

  “Atta girl!”

  Suddenly Kholkov appeared around the front of the car, dropping into a crouch, a gun coming up in his hands. Sam spun the wheel hard left. The Lancia’s tail whipped around, the front tires spinning freely in the moist grass before finally finding purchase. Two metallic thunks echoed through the car as Kholkov’s bullets hit the car’s trunk. Sam accelerated again, straightening the car out and heading back into the meadow toward the hills.

  “Everybody okay?” Sam asked.

  Umberto peeked his head over the front seat, said, “Yes,” then disappeared again. Remi nodded and said, “Sorry I couldn’t get the tires. We were going too fast.”

  “No worries. You got the windshield; that’ll slow them down. They’ll either have to punch it out or drive with their heads out the side windows.”

  Remi turned in her seat and saw Kholkov and Mustache standing on the SUV’s hood stomping on the windshield. “Option A,” she said. The windshield collapsed inward; Kholkov and Mustache knelt down, dragged it out, and tossed it aside. Seconds later the SUV’s lights popped on and it surged forward, speeding into the meadow.

  “Here they come. With that four-wheel drive they’ll—”

  “I know,” Sam muttered. “Hold on!”

  The Lancia lurched sideways as the front wheels slipped into the mining road’s ruts. Sam tapped the brakes, gave the wheel a jerk, felt the rear wheels follow, then punched the accelerator again. The Lancia surged up the hill. The road was narrower than he’d imagined, no wider than six feet. When they reached the crest the trees closed in around them, boughs scraping the car’s sides and blotting out the sky. Headlights washed through the back window as the SUV started up the hill.

  On the downslope now, Sam started to accelerate, but immediately tapped the brakes as the road veered right and deeper into the trees. Behind them the SUV’s nose cleared the crest, went airborne, then slammed down again.

  “He’s going to miss it,” Remi said.

  She was right. Still bouncing from its impact, the SUV overshot the turn and skidded to a stop, its hood buried in the trees. Sam glanced in the mirror in time to see the SUV’s brake lights pop on just before the Lancia plunged down another slope. Sam caught a fleeting glimpse of washboard ruts ahead and shouted, “Hold on.” Wheels thumping and shock absorbers shrieking in protest, the Lancia bumped over the patch, then up another slope, down the other side, and onto a straightaway. Sam accelerated. Branches slapped at the windshield, pinecones bouncing over the hood and over the roof. The SUV reappeared behind them, its headlights bouncing wildly as Kholkov negotiated the washboard.

  While more durable and powerful than the Lancia, the SUV was also two feet wider, a disadvantage Sam now saw was bearing fruit. Where the pine boughs had simply swiped at the Lancia, they were thrashing the SUV’s hood and into the hole where the windshield had been. Branches were snapping off, jutting from the grille, and becoming entangled with the windshield wipers. The headlights fell back.

  “Sam, watch out!”

  He tore his eyes from the rearview mirror in time to see a boulder looming ahead. He spun the wheel hard right, sending the Lancia in a sideways skid. The boulder filled Sam’s window. He stepped on the gas as the Lancia lurched forward, but not quickly enough. With a crunch, the rear quarter panel glanced off the boulder and the rear side window shattered. The impact spun the Lancia’s tail around, off the road, and under the pine boughs. The side bumper smashed into a trunk and they jerked to a stop. The engine sputtered and died. Pine needles rained down on the windshield.

  “There goes our deposit,” Remi said.

  “Everybody okay?” Sam asked. “Remi?”

  “Fine.”

  “Splendid,” called Umberto.

  “Bianco?”

  “Still napping.”

  Out Sam’s window they saw the SUV’s headlights filtering through the trees. He turned the ignition. Nothing.

  “Still in gear,” Remi said.

  “Damn. Thanks.”

  He put the shifter into park and turned the ignition again. The engine chugged and wheezed but didn’t catch. He tried again.

  “Come on, come on. . . .”

  Down the road the SUV was halfway down the straightaway and approaching the boulder.

  The Lancia’s engine caught, revved up, then coughed out.

  “Cutting it close, Sam,” Remi said, teeth clenched.

  He closed his eyes, said a quick prayer, tried again. The engine caught. He shifted into drive, spun the wheel right, and accelerated back onto the road.

  “Umberto, slow them down!”

  “Okay!”

  Umberto stuck his Luger out the window and squeezed off two shots, and then two more. The bullet
s thudded into the grille, shattering the driver’s-side headlight. The SUV swerved left, heading straight for the boulder, then jinked right. The side mirror scraped the rock, shattered, and bounced away into the darkness.

  The SUV’s lights filled the Lancia’s interior. Sam squinted and slapped the rearview mirror off-angle. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a hand holding a gun jut through the windshield gap.

  “Down, get down!” he yelled. Remi slid to the floorboards.

  The gun roared from the SUV, muzzle winking from the darkened interior. Umberto poked his head up over the seat, said, “I’ll slow them down,” then leaned out the side window with the Luger.

  “No, don’t!”

  Two more shots. Umberto screamed and rolled back into the car. “I’m hit!”

  “Where?”

  “The forearm! I’m okay,” he gasped.

  “The hell with this,” Sam muttered. “Brace yourselves!”

  He stood on the brakes for a two count, then punched the gas again. The SUV skidded, swerved, then slammed into the Lancia’s bumper. Sam had timed it well, accelerating just before the moment of impact. They pulled ahead of the SUV: twenty feet . . . thirty . . . four car lengths.

  “Whoa!”

  Abruptly, the trees disappeared from either side of them.

  Remi popped her head up. “Oh, no!”

  The Lancia’s wheels thumped over a berm and they were airborne. Open space loomed in the windshield. The Lancia landed again and bounced, the tires spraying gravel.

  “Shoulder!” Remi called.

  “I see it,” Sam replied and spun the wheel left. The Lancia went into a tail skid. He eased right, compensating, then straightened out. Out Remi’s window a boulder-strewn embankment dropped several hundred feet into a ravine.

  Engine roaring, Kholkov’s SUV sailed over the berm and slammed onto the road.

  “He’s not going to make it,” Remi said.

  “Let’s hope.”

  The SUV went into its own skid, but Kholkov overcompensated. The passenger-side rear tire crunched into the rocks along the shoulder and slipped over the edge. Carried by its own momentum, the rear third of the SUV’s chassis scraped over the dirt, edging inch by inch over the precipice until it stopped, partially suspended in space.