Spartan Gold

by Clive Cussler

  “Is this the place?” Sam asked, pushing himself up onto his elbows and looking around. The tunnel was roughly oval in shape, roughly five feet tall and six feet wide.

  “I’d say so,” Remi said, pointing.

  Bolted to the ceiling at the mouth of the tunnel was a crisscross bulwark of thick tar-covered oaken beams supported by vertical timbers bolted to the walls. Dangling from the center of the bulwark was a rusted block-and-tackle pulley system linked by thick hawser rope to a hand-crank winch affixed to the uprights. A pair of narrow-gauge rails sitting atop wooden cross ties and crushed gravel ballast stretched into the darkness.

  “Well, the winch isn’t original, that’s for sure,” he said. “Unless, that is, Zaporozhian Cossack technology was way ahead of its time. See here . . . those bolts are precisely machined. This might go back to the Crimean War, but my guess is World War II. Just look at the mitered joints . . . this thing could have lifted thousands of pounds.” He stepped up to the mouth of the tunnel and peered over the edge. “Ingenious. See how they placed this, just above this natural bulge in the face? Even in daylight it would’ve been invisible from the water.”

  “I see it.”

  “Wow, look at this—”

  “Sam.”

  “What?”

  “I hate to stifle your imagination, but we’ve got a bottle of wine to steal.”

  “Right, sorry. Let’s go.”

  Having used Google Earth to draw up their own overhead sketch of Bondaruk’s estate, complete with angles and distances, as well as annotations from Bohuslav’s notes, they kept track of their steps as they headed into the tunnel.

  Under the moving beam of their flashlights Sam could see signs of limited blast work along the walls, but it appeared most of the tunnel had been carved out the old-fashioned way, by hammer, chisel, and backbreaking labor.

  Here and there on the floor were wooden toolboxes, coils of half-rotted rope, rusted pickaxes and sledgehammers, a pair of half-rotted leather boots, canvas coveralls that partially disintegrated when Remi nudged them with her shoe. . . . Attached to the right-and left-hand walls every ten feet were oil lamps, their glass globes black with soot, their bronze reservoirs and handles covered in a scabrous green patina. Sam tapped one with his index finger and heard sloshing inside.

  After fifty yards of walking, Remi stopped, studied the sketch, and said, “We should be just under the outer wall. Another hundred yards or so and we should be directly under the main house.”

  She was off by only a few yards. After another two minutes they reached a widened intersection, the tunnel and tracks continuing straight as well as to the right. Five old-fashioned ore carts sat in a line against the left-hand wall, while a sixth sat on the north-south tracks.

  “Straight ahead to the stables, and right to the east wings,” Sam said.

  “I think so.”

  He checked his watch. “Let’s check out the stables first and see what we can see.”

  After another half mile or so of walking, Remi stopped suddenly and placed her index finger to her lips and mouthed, Music. They listened in silence for ten seconds then Sam leaned in and whispered in Remi’s ear, “ ‘Summer Wind’ by Frank Sinatra.”

  She nodded. “I hear voices. Laughing . . . singing along.”

  “Yeah.”

  They continued on and soon the tunnel came to a dead end at a set of stone steps leading upward to a wooden trapdoor. Sam lifted his head and sniffed. “Manure.”

  “Then we’re in the right place.”

  The music and laughter were louder now, seemingly coming from directly above their heads. Sam placed his foot on the lowermost step. At that moment, there came the thunk of a footfall on the trapdoor. Sam froze. Another foot joined the first, followed by two more, these lighter, somehow more delicate. Through the gaps in the trapdoor shadows moved, blocking and unblocking the light.

  A woman giggled and said in Russian-accented English, “Don’t, Dmitry, that tickles.”

  “That’s the idea, my lapochka.”

  “Ooh, I like that. . . . Stop, stop, what about your wife?”

  “What about her?”

  “Come on, let’s get back to the party before someone sees us.”

  “Not until you promise me,” the man said.

  “Yes, I promise. Next weekend in Balaclava.”

  The couple moved off and moments later there came the banging of a wooden door. Somewhere above a horse whinnied, then silence.

  Remi whispered, “We’ve managed to stumble into one of Bondaruk’s damned parties. Talk about bad luck. . . .”

  “Maybe good luck,” Sam replied. “Let’s see if we can make it work for us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Chances are decent that Bondaruk is the only one who knows what we look like.”

  “Oh, no, Sam.”

  He grinned. “Remi, where are your manners? Let’s mingle.”

  Once certain there was no one about, Sam climbed the steps, lifted open the hatch, and had a look around. He turned back to Remi. “It’s a closet. Come on.”

  He climbed up and held the hatch for Remi, then closed it behind her. Through the open closet door was another space, this one a tack room dimly lit by theater-style lights along the baseboards. They stepped through and out the opposite door and found themselves on a gravel alleyway bordered on both sides by horse stalls. Overhead was a high vaulted ceiling with inset exhaust fans and skylights through which pale moonlight filtered. They could hear horses snorting softly and shuffling in the stalls. At the far end of the stable, perhaps thirty yards away, was a set of double barn doors. They walked to them and peeked out.

  Before them lay an acre-sized expanse of lush lawn surrounded by chest-high hedges and flickering tiki torches. Multicolored silk banners fluttered on cross wires suspended over the lawn. Dozens of tuxedoed and evening-gowned guests, mostly couples, stood in clusters and strolled about, chatting and laughing. Waiters in stark white uniforms moved through the crowd, occasionally pausing to offer hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. The source of Sinatra’s “Summer Wind,” pole-mounted loudspeakers strategically placed around the lawn, now emitted a soft jazz number.

  To Sam and Remi’s right they could see the upper floors of Bondaruk’s mansion, its onion-domed minarets silhouetted against the dark sky. To the left, through an entrance gap in the hedges Sam could see a gravel parking lot packed with several million dollars’ worth of Bentleys, Mercedeses, Lamborghinis, and Maybachs.

  “We’re underdressed,” Remi muttered.

  “Severely,” Sam agreed. “I don’t see him, do you?”

  Remi moved closer to the gap and scanned the throng. “No, but with the torchlight it’s hard to tell.”

  Sam shut the door. “Let go check out the southeast wing.”

  They went back through the tack room trapdoor, retraced their steps down the tunnel, and took the east branch. Almost immediately they found side tunnels spaced at twenty- to thirty-foot intervals along the north wall.

  “Storage chambers and other exits,” Sam said.

  Remi nodded, shining her flashlight on her sketch. “Bohuslav has these marked, but there’s no description of where they go.”

  They shined their flashlights into the darkness, but could see nothing past ten feet. Somewhere in the distance they could hear wind whistling.

  “I don’t know about you, but I vote we avoid another dungeonlike maze if we can.”

  “Amen.”

  They kept walking and after a few hundred yards found themselves standing before another set of stone steps.

  This time Remi took the lead, crouching beneath the trapdoor and listening until certain the way was clear. She lifted the hatch, peeked out, then ducked back down again.

  “It’s pitch-dark. I can’t tell where we are.”

  “Let’s go up. We’ll see if our eyes adjust.”

  Remi climbed through the hatch, then stepped aside so Sam could join her. He eased the hatch shut and
carefully reached out, trying to measure the space. It was roughly four by four feet square. After thirty seconds of standing still their eyes slowly began to adjust and they could make out a thin rectangle of light to their left. Sam crept to the wall and pressed his eye to the gap. He pulled back, frowned, then looked again.

  “What?” Remi asked.

  “Books,” he whispered. “It’s a bookshelf.”

  He felt along the wall and found a recessed wooden latch. He lifted it up, placed his palm against the wall, and gently pushed. Soundlessly the wall swung away from them on hidden hinges, revealing a foot-wide gap. Sam stepped into it and leaned out. He jerked his head back and had no sooner swung the bookcase shut again when a man’s voice said, “Olga, is that you?” Footsteps padded across a rug, paused, then padded in another direction. “Olga . . . ?” Silence for a few seconds, then the sound of water running. The water shut off. Footsteps again, then a door opening and shutting.

  Sam pushed the bookcase open again and peeked out. “All clear,” he whispered to Remi. Together they stepped out and shut the bookcase behind them.

  They were in a bedroom. Measuring twenty feet on a side, with an adjoining bathroom, the space was furnished in heavy walnut furniture, a massive four-poster bed, and well-worn expensive Turkish rugs.

  “What now?” Remi asked.

  Sam shrugged. “Let’s spruce up and join the festivities.”

  CHAPTER 38

  You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Don’t I look serious?”

  “Yes. That’s what worries me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s nuts, that’s why.”

  “There’s a fine line between nuts and ingenious.”

  “And an even finer line between ingenuity and idiocy.”

  Sam chuckled. “I didn’t see any security guards at the party, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Which means they’re focused on the perimeter—on keeping people out; the guests have all been vetted and probably frisked. There were sixty or seventy people out there and I didn’t see anyone checking invitations. You know the rule: ‘Look like you belong and you belong.’ ”

  “That sounds more like a Sam Fargo-ism than a rule.”

  “I like to think they’re one and the same.”

  “I know you do.”

  “As for the guards, it’s unlikely they’d know us from the King and Queen of England. You think it’s even crossed Bondaruk’s mind that we’d try to invade his home? No chance. His ego is too big for that. Fortune favors the bold, Remi.”

  “Another Fargo-ism. And what if the man himself appears?”

  “We’ll avoid him. We’ll keep our eyes on the guests. Given Bondaruk’s reputation, they’ll be our best early-warning system. When he’s near they’ll part like a school of fish in shark-infested waters.”

  Remi sighed. “How sure are you about this?”

  “About what part?”

  “All of it.”

  Sam smiled and gave her hand a squeeze. “Relax. Worst case, we walk around, get the lay of the land, then come back here and plan our next step.”

  Chewing her lip, she thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, let’s see if Olga is my size.”

  The fit wasn’t perfect, but with a few safety pins Remi found in the bathroom she was able to tuck and gather the black V-necked evening gown until only a fashion designer would be able to tell it hadn’t been fitted for her. Remi did the same for Sam’s classic black tuxedo, cinching the waistband and gathering the shirt at the small of his back with a pin. With their faces washed, hair combed, and camouflage coveralls and backpacks safely stashed inside the bookcase, they gave one another a once-over, stuffed Sam’s pockets with a few essential items, then left.

  Arm in arm, they started down the hall, which like the bedroom was decorated in somber dark wood, heavy rugs, tapestries, and landscape oil paintings. They counted doors as they walked but stopped after they reached thirty; assuming the room they’d just left wasn’t an aberration, it seemed clear this was Bondaruk’s guest wing.

  “One problem,” Remi muttered as they reached the end of the hall and stepped into a high-ceilinged room flanked by a pair of brown granite spiral stairways. The rest of the space was divided into seating areas of well-worn leather chairs and divans. Here and there sconces cast soft pools of light on the walls. Arched doorways to their right and directly ahead led to other parts of the house.

  “What problem?” Sam asked.

  “Neither of us speaks Russian or Ukrainian.”

  “True, but we do speak the international language,” he replied as another couple entered the room and strolled toward them.

  “Which is?”

  “A smile and a polite nod,” he replied, giving both to the passing couple, who returned the greeting. Once they were out of earshot Sam said, “See there? Magical.”

  A waiter appeared before them holding a tray of champagne flutes. They each took one and the waiter disappeared.

  “And if someone tries to strike up a conversation?” Remi asked.

  “Have a coughing fit. It’s the perfect excuse to slip away.”

  “So, which way do we go?”

  “West. If his collection is here, that’s where we’ll find it. You have the sketch?”

  “In my cleavage.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Behave yourself.”

  “Apologies. Okay, let’s see how close we can get to the secure utility room before we see signs of security. I haven’t seen any cameras yet, have you?”

  “No.”

  Another couple approached. Sam and Remi raised their glasses, smiled, and kept going. “I just had a thought,” she said. “What if we run into Olga and her husband and they recognize their own clothes?”

  “Well, that would be a problem, wouldn’t it?”

  The next room they entered was what Bohuslav had called in his survey the “Sword Room”; upon entering they instantly realized the name was woefully inadequate. Measuring seventy by forty feet, the walls were painted a flat black and the floor covered in black rough-cut slate. In the center of the room was a rectangular glass case lit from within by recessed spotlights in the floor. Smaller than the room by only a few feet and bordered by bloodred carpet runners, the case was filled with no fewer than fifty ancient edged weapons, from axes and swords to pikes and daggers, each resting on its own marble pedestal bearing a placard written in both Russian and English.

  Eight or ten couples circulated around the room, staring in fascination at the case, their faces lit from below as they pointed at different weapons and murmured to one another. Sam and Remi joined them, but were careful to remain quiet.

  History buff that he was, Sam immediately recognized many of the weapons: the famous claymore, the Scottish two-handed broad-sword; a bardiche, a Russian poleax; a short, curved French falchion; a shamshir, a Persian saber; an ivory-handled Omani khanjar; the Japanese katana, the samurai’s weapon of choice; the classic Roman short sword known as the gladius.

  Still others were new to him: a British Mameluke saber; a Turkish yataghan; a Viking throwing ax known as the Mammen; a ruby-inlaid Moroccan koummya.

  Remi leaned in close and whispered, “Not very original, is it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A murderer having a knife collection. It would have been so much more interesting if this case were filled with porcelain dolls.”

  They reached the far end of the case, rounded the corner, and paused to admire a gleaming, sickle-shaped Egyptian khopesh. From the other side of the case there came a murmuring of voices. Through the length of the glass case Sam and Remi could see couples stepping aside as a figure entered the room.

  “The shark has arrived,” Remi murmured.

  “And here I am without my bucket of poison chum,” Sam said.

  Speaking in lightly accented English, Hadeon Bondaruk’s deep basso voice filled the room: “Good evening, ladies and gentleme
n. I can see by your expressions you find my collection fascinating.”

  Shoulders back, hands clasped behind his back like a general inspecting a line of soldiers, Bondaruk strolled down the side of the case. “The tools of war often have that effect. As so-called civilized people we try to pretend we’re not captivated by death and violence, but it’s in our genetic makeup. In our hearts we’re all Neanderthals fighting for survival.”

  Bondaruk stopped and looked around as though daring anyone to disagree with him. Seeing no challengers, he continued walking. Unlike his guests, he wore not a tuxedo, but a pair of black trousers and a matching black silk shirt. He was a lean man, with sharp facial features, glittering black eyes, and thick black hair tied into a short ponytail. He looked ten or fifteen years younger than his reported age of nearly fifty.

  He paid no attention to his guests, all of whom respectfully stepped aside at his approach, the men watching him warily, the women studying him with expressions that ranged from outright fear to curiosity.

  Bondaruk stopped and tapped the glass before him. “The kris dagger,” he said to no one in particular. “The traditional weapon of the Malay. Beautiful, with its wavy blade, but not very practical. More for ceremony than for killing.” He walked on, then stopped again. “Here’s a fine piece: the Chinese dao. Perhaps the best melee weapon ever produced.”

  He continued on, stopping every few feet to hold forth on another weapon, offering either a brief history lesson or his personal impression of the weapon’s efficacy. As he neared the end of the case, Sam casually stepped backward, drawing Remi along with him until they were standing with their backs to the wall. Bondaruk, his face reflected in the glass, turned the corner and stopped to admire a six-foot-tall halberd. He stood less than six feet away now.

  Remi tightened her hand on her husband’s forearm. Sam, his gaze fixed on Bondaruk, tensed himself, ready to charge the moment Bondaruk turned toward them. That he would recognize them wasn’t in doubt; whether Sam could subdue him and turn him into a human shield was the question. Without that advantage the guards would swarm them inside of a minute.