“Find the entrance. It has to be here somewhere.” The four men nodded obediently and scurried off to search every corner of the church. In the meantime, Brice approached the altar. The first thing that caught his eye was the impressive Bible. He picked it up and turned a few pages.
“You’ve done some first-class work here, old man,” he whispered, impressed, as his fingers glided over the recesses in the cover. He put the Bible aside and his gaze moved over the altar until he saw the open casket. It was empty.
“And Wagner? Whose brilliant idea was it to bring fucking Tom Wagner into this?” he said through clenched teeth, his fingers clawing at the ancient wood.
“Sir?” Qadir asked in confusion.
“It was a rhetorical question.” In a rage, Brice threw the casket back onto the altar—too hard, knocking everything onto the floor.
He turned around and stalked back toward the entrance. Halfway there, he suddenly froze and looked down. He was standing at the center of an ornamental relief more than six feet across, depicting the seven days of Creation. He crouched and rain his fingers along the edges of the metal frame that separated the panels.
“I’ve found it, you good-for-nothing idiots.” He straightened up and stamped his feet on the floor. The four soldiers hurried over.
“Here! Open it!”
One of the men immediately ran outside and returned a moment later with a tire iron, with which he set to work on the embedded metal frame. But his efforts were futile. The metal construction had been built too precisely, not even the tire iron would fit.
“Am I surrounded by morons?” Brice bawled, snatching the tire iron from the man’s hands and throwing it aside. He snatched one of the hand grenades dangling from the man’s tactical vest, pulled the pin and pressed the grenade back in the bewildered man’s hand. He clapped him on the shoulder and walked outside calmly with Qadir.
“Whenever you’re ready, soldier,” he shouted back as he disappeared out the door. Seconds later the grenade exploded, just as the last of the soldiers charged out through the door to safety. When the dust had settled, Brice went back inside. The seven-paneled relief had been reduced to twisted metal and a gaping hole in the floor. He stared down into the shaft, satisfied.
“The gateway to Kitezh,” he sighed, awestruck. He’d had his doubts about whether he would ever get to see this fabled place. The four soldiers, not looking happy at all, came back inside, dusting off their uniforms.
“Right, get down there!” Brice ordered. The soldiers just looked at him less than enthusiastically.
“But . . . the earthquake?” one said, earning an angry, intimidating glare from the Welshman. After a moment’s hesitation they followed the order—he was the money man, after all—and began to descend the stairs. The staircase was very narrow, and at the start the soldiers had trouble getting down it with their AK-47s.
“I want that treasure in my hands today,” Brice said. He followed the soldiers down, with Qadir bringing up the rear.
64
Beneath the Church of Our Lady of Kazan, Lake Svetloyar
It took a long time, but they finally reached the bottom of the winding stairs, where they found themselves in a sloping hall the size of the center court at Wimbledon, but with considerably less headroom. Suddenly, they heard a thundering roar overhead and the stairway vibrated loudly. Their first thought was another quake, and Tom and Hellen swung their flashlights toward the stairs.
“That was no tremor,” said Tom, pointing back up the way they’d come. “That was an explosion. Brice is in a hell of a hurry.”
“La vache!” Cloutard took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. Climbing down the stairs had already taken him out of his comfort zone.
“Then we’d better pick up the pace ourselves,” said Arthur.
“How far is it?” Hellen asked.
“We are almost there, my dear,” Father Lazarev assured her, and he pointed toward a V-shaped passage between walls of rock. Hellen shone her light in the direction he indicated. “And you won’t be needing those anymore,” he added, nodding toward Hellen’s flashlight. “It took my father and me more than a year,” he said, flicking a switch in an old electrical cabinet next to the stairs, “just to install these lights.”
When the lights came on, the four newcomers looked around in amazement. Cables were strung like garlands along the walls. A bulb shone every ten yards, in a string that disappeared down the passageway.
“As a young man, I swore that for as long as I lived, I would explore every inch of this underground wonderland, and I was not going to do it with a lamp strapped to my head,” Father Lazarev said with a chuckle.
Tom and Hellen switched off their flashlights.
“I hear footsteps. They’re on their way. We have to move,” Tom said urgently.
“This way.” Father Lazarev took the lead into the narrow passage, following the lights. The priest and his father had not only installed the lights; they had also wedged wooden planks where the rock walls came together at the bottom of the V. Slowly, the team balanced their along the planks through the gap in the rock.
“What’s that?” Hellen looked up in surprise.
“What’s what?” Tom asked, close behind her.
“That sound.” She snapped on her flashlight again and shone it up into the high passageway. Something moved in the shadows.
“Wow! Look at that!” Hellen cried in amazement as she gazed up at hundreds of bats hanging from the ceiling.
“Mon dieu, all this tomb raiding is not for me,” said Cloutard, shaking his head in disgust and walking faster. “This is why I always stuck to management.”
“Watch out you don’t get one in your hair,” Tom said to Hellen with a laugh, and she smiled as he tousled her hair.
But then his grin vanished. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and in the same instant he heard the sound of the bolt being racked on an AK-47.
“Run!” Sparks flew as a hail of bullets struck the rocks around them. They were lucky not to be hit by a ricochet. Ducking low, hands over their heads, they ran on as fast as they could. As they ran, they heard the fluttering of wings and the squeals of hundreds of bats dropping from the ceiling and flying away above their heads.
“Keep going,” Tom shouted, waving his friends onward. “I’ll try to stop them.”
Russian curses and the sound of gunfire reverberated along the passage as the swarm of bats reached the pursuing soldiers. For Tom, the bats created a welcome diversion. Looking up at the ceiling, he had an idea. He ducked into a dark cleft for a moment until he saw the first soldier coming. Tom fired and the man went down. Then he aimed his pistol upward and emptied the entire magazine. It worked: an avalanche of stone broke loose, tumbling down on top of the fallen soldier, burying him and blocking the passageway with a good six feet of rubble.
That should keep them busy for a while, Tom thought, as he turned and hurried after his friends. Behind him he heard the shouting and cursing of Berlin Brice. Moments later, when Tom stepped out of the passage, his jaw almost hit the floor.
65
Beneath the Church of Our Lady of Kazan, Lake Svetloyar
Tom had stepped into another world. Open-mouthed and silent, Hellen, Cloutard and Arthur were standing on the shore of an enormous subterranean lake, staring into a seemingly endless cave.
“Oh. Mon dieu. This must be what Otto Lidenbrock felt like.”
“Gollum would feel right at home here,” said Arthur.
“The perfect place to hide a Horcrux,” Hellen whispered.
“All that’s missing is Nazis riding dinosaurs,” said Tom, joining his friends.
Father Lazarev smiled. When his father had brought him down here for the first time, his own reaction had been similar. Now, however, he felt a tinge of sadness—all of it might soon be destroyed for good, and he would never again see this magical place.
The roof of the magnificent cave, created by the last earthquake 800 yea
rs earlier, hung suspended about thirty feet over the surface of the lake, which was many times larger than Lake Svetloyar, far above their heads.
They first had to digest the knowledge that they were standing several stories below the bed of little Lake Svetloyar. Only then was it possible to appreciate the next wonder: far out on the gigantic lake rose the top section of a tower, crowned by a gleaming, golden onion dome.
“Ow!” Hellen cried. Tom had pinched her arm.
“Just checking,” he said cheekily.
She rubbed the spot he’d pinched and turned to Father Lazarev. “How did you . . . how is it . . .” She was so overcome that she could not even finish a sentence. Influenced by her father, Hellen had grown up around archeology and had become an authority of some renown herself. But this place completely undid her understanding of what her profession meant. This place shouldn’t exist—and yet here it was.
Father Lazarev was overjoyed to be able to share his secret with someone else at last, if only for a few final hours.
“Do you know what this means?” Hellen said to Tom, Arthur and François, who were still gazing out over the lake. All three answered with a simple shake of their heads. “If this place actually exists, a place that people out there think of as no more than an exciting bedtime story, then there must be countless other secrets and myths just like this one, waiting to be discovered.
“So what do we do now?” Cloutard asked.
“We have to row over there with the boat,” Father Lazarev said, pointing out to the tower. “At the foot of the tower there is a chest. Inside we’ll find Siegfried’s cloak and the sword with which he is said to have slain the dragon.”
For a moment, they had forgotten the bloody-minded mercenaries at their heels. But they had another, far more dangerous enemy, which made its presence felt just then with a merciless display of power: once again, the earth trembled. Tom and his companions had trouble staying on their feet, and boulders crashed from the ceiling.
“Come on. To find the treasure we have to get out to the tower.” Father Lazarev waved the others to follow him. Arthur, who was closest, immediately trotted ahead into a passage that Father Lazarev pointed him toward, the priest close behind him.
“Hurry,” the priest called. Tom, Hellen and Cloutard began making their way around a large boulder, but before they reached the passage Father Lazarev cried “Stop! It’s going to collapse!”
“Grandpop!” Tom shouted. Looking ahead, he saw only his grandfather’s fear-filled face. Cloutard had to hold Tom back as dust, sand and small stones began raining down.
“Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see the truth,” Father Lazarev called, looking intently at Hellen.
In a rumble of rock and dust, the narrow passage collapsed, burying Father Lazarev and Tom’s grandfather.
“Grandpop!!” Tom cried in horror. He pushed past Cloutard and began clawing at the stones that had fallen from the cave roof, but Cloutard pulled him back just in time, as a second rockfall came crashing down.
As quickly as it had begun, the foreshock came to an end. Tom struggled to break free of Cloutard’s and Hellen’s grip. Tears flooded his eyes and he sank to his knees on the cave floor, overcome with grief. After his parents had been murdered, Arthur had raised him. He had become more like a father than a grandfather to Tom, and more: he was the best friend Tom had. Hellen stepped forward and laid a consoling hand on his cheek.
“Tom. Tom, we don’t know what happened. Maybe they made it. We don’t know how far along the passage collapsed. Father Lazarev is sure to know another way out.”
Tom nodded, still distraught. He wiped his eyes and struggled to calm down.
“We should get out of here as quickly as we can,” Cloutard said.
“No!” Tom said, his voice like iron as he got to his feet. “If my grandfather is dead, he cannot have died in vain. We’re going to get that damned cloak if it’s the last thing we do.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth,” they suddenly heard Berlin Brice say. The Welshman stepped out of the main passage with a .22-caliber revolver in his hand.
“Drop your gun!” Qadir snapped, appearing from the passage right behind Brice with the three remaining soldiers. Tom could see they had no chance. He laid his pistol on the floor and kicked it aside. He, Hellen and Cloutard raised their hands.
“What’s become of Father Lazarev and your grandfather?” Brice asked. He got no answer, but none was necessary. He could see it in their faces. “My sincere condolences. All I wanted was the cloak and to finally get to see this incredible place. No one had to get hurt or die. But that selfish guardian wanted to keep it all for himself and no one else. He wanted to hide it away from the world.”
“That’s because the world isn’t ready for a power like—” Hellen began, but Tom cut her off.
“Hellen, don’t make this sociopath any angrier than he already is.” Tom had leaned close to Hellen as if to whisper in her ear, but had spoken loudly enough for everyone to hear what he said.
“You must think you’re a funny guy, don’t you?” Brice said, and he nodded almost imperceptibly toward Qadir. Qadir stepped forward and slammed his fist into Tom’s stomach with all his strength. Tom fell to his knees, gasping for air.
“Tom!” Hellen cried. She lowered her hands and went to help him up, but the sight of Qadir’s Kalashnikov in her face changed her mind.
“Well, then,” Brice said, pacing back and forth in front of them. “Shall we move on to the uncomfortable part? Where do we go from here? I have no doubt the good padre told you where to find the cloak.”
Hellen and Cloutard said nothing. Tom was struggling to get back onto his feet. “It’s hidden up your ass,” he said, but broke down coughing and dropped to his knees again, unable to catch his breath.
“Wait!” Hellen pleaded, positioning herself between Tom and Qadir.
“Hellen, no,” Tom wheezed. “Don’t tell him anything.”
“We have to take the boat,” Hellen began, pointing to the little dinghy tied up at the shore of the lake, “and row out to the tower.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Brice said, waving Hellen and Tom down toward the shore. “Stay here and watch the Frenchman,” he said to Qadir. Hellen and Tom climbed into the boat, followed by one of the soldiers. Brice pushed the boat away from the shore and climbed in after them.
66
Kitezh church tower, beneath Lake Svetloyar
“What are you doing?” Brice asked as Hellen took a flare out of her rucksack.
“I want to take a look down below, that’s all.”
Brice’s eyes flicked from Hellen to the flare, then to the surface of the lake. He nodded, signaling with his little revolver that Hellen should throw the flare into the dark water, where it sank slowly toward the lakebed. The water was crystal clear and seemed almost bottomless. Hellen tossed a second flare after the first one and she and Brice gazed eagerly into the depths. The fiery light allowed them to see at least a little of what lay hidden beneath the surface, enormous structures appearing hazily in the flickering red-orange of the flares. The ruins seemed to go on forever, and some of the remains looked remarkably intact. An explorer could spend months diving here without seeing everything, Hellen thought.
For a moment, she forgot that she and Tom were on the wrong side of an AK-47. The young soldier holding it would obviously have liked to risk a glance over the side, but he kept his focus on Tom.
Hellen was both thrilled and deeply saddened. All of what she was looking at would soon be gone forever. And if she knew that if she ever told anyone about it, they would not believe her.
Cracking and grinding echoed through the endless cave. The rock seemed to be alive. Her and there, chunks broke free and plunged into the lake. Water from Lake Svetloyar had begun to find its way through cracks in the cave roof, forming little waterfalls. “Tom, look!” Hellen pointed back over Tom’s shoulder at the water streaming from the roof, but he just
kept rowing and did not turn around. Hellen was worried about him. She had never seen him so grim and determined.
In a few minutes, they had reached the huge tower and now drifted beside it. From the shore, it had looked like the steeple atop a small village church. How deceptive distance can be, Hellen thought. The circular tower was enormous. It loomed from the water like the tip of an iceberg, tilted slightly, its golden, onion-shaped dome almost reaching the roof of the cave.
“Impossible,” Hellen said, looking up at her distorted reflection in the golden bulb. “The oldest known dome in this style is part of the Cathedral of the Dormition in Moscow—it wasn’t built until 1475, 250 years after Kitezh was founded,” Hellen said, unable to contain her amazement.
“Fascinating,” Tom replied, his face a stony mask. He got to his feet and, reaching up, was able to grab hold of the edge of the small window below the golden dome. Without a word, he pulled himself up and crawled through the window, then turned and reached back down to help Hellen.
“No tricks, or my good friend Qadir might be forced to harm your dear Cloutard.”
Hellen stood to grasp Tom’s hand and he pulled her up after him. Inside, the tower was about fifteen feet in diameter. Their flashlight beams shone into fathomless darkness. A narrow staircase spiraled downward around the inside wall of the tower. There was no railing, and Tom and Hellen stuck close to the wall as they made their way down.
“Do you have any idea how to get us out of this?” Hellen asked.
The Invisible City (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 3) Page 16