Then a few words burst through the static. It squashed his momentary hope. Painter’s words were chewed apart by the static, but there was no mistaking the threat.
“Down here… a warhead… We’ll try to …”
Static cut off the rest.
Before Monk could relate the bad news to Creed, a rumbling echoed over the mountains, accompanied by the whining roar of snowmobiles.
They all turned.
Down the mountainside, a cluster of vehicles slowly wound up from the lower valley, heading their way.
Monk lifted his binoculars and focused on one of the snowmobiles. Men were double mounted. While one drove, the other had a rifle up on a shoulder. They were all dressed in polar suits. Snow-white, with no military insignia.
A stray Norwegian soldier had somehow made it halfway down the mountain already. He waved at the approaching party.
A rifle cracked.
Blood spattered against the white snow.
The soldier dropped. Monk lowered his binoculars.
Someone had come to clean house.
1:09 P.M.
Painter didn’t know if his radio transmission got out. He had plugged the SQUID into the wall and hoped for the best.
All he could do now was run.
He pushed a caterer’s serving trolley ahead of him. Strapped on top with bungee cords was the warhead. He sprinted up the hundred and fifty yards of the tunnel.
The LED display glowed back at him.
04:15
As he ran, he watched it tick down below the four-minute mark. At last, he spotted the outer blast door at the top of the exit ramp. It had been left open by the guard who had peeked out. Chunks of ice had spilled inside, but beyond the door was a solid wall of broken glacier.
With a surge of speed, he shot up the ramp. He wanted the charge placed as close to that opening as possible. Reaching the top, Painter shoved the trolley cart toward the door, spun on a toe, and sprinted in the opposite direction.
At least it was all downhill from here.
He fled, breath gasping, trying to lengthen his stride.
If he couldn’t stop the bomb, he might as well make use of it. He didn’t know how thick the plug of ice was over the door, but the warhead’s thermobaric payload was unique. The initial blast could help break some of the ice; then, as the cloud of fluorinated aluminum ignited, the searing heat would vaporize and melt more. But it was upon the secondary blast wave that Painter pinned all his hopes.
The biggest threat of a thermobaric bomb was its sudden and massive burst of pressure. Exploded inside caves or closed buildings, the pressure wave would travel outward and kill around corners and far down passageways. It pulverized and sheared flesh. Burst eardrums, exploded lungs, squeezed blood out of every orifice.
Painter hoped it could also blast out that plug of ice, pop it free like a champagne cork.
But, of course, without crushing them all to pulp in the meantime.
As he hit the bottom of the tunnel, he sprinted into the lower cross passage. He skidded around the corner and sped to the center air lock.
He ripped the door open, heard the pressure pop, then slammed the hatch shut behind him. Air valves in the ceiling chugged to bring the pressure back up. As Painter crossed the air lock, the door flew open ahead of him.
Senator Gorman held it and waved Painter into the seed room. “Hurry!”
Painter dove through. Gorman closed the door with a steel clang.
A crowd gathered around the door, keeping together despite the size of the vault. The seed bank itself was unremarkable, just a cavernous room full of numbered shelves. Identical black storage bins filled the racks, like a warehouse club that sold only one item.
Someone in the group was counting down loudly.
“Eleven … ten … nine…”
Painter had barely made it back in time. After breaking the air lock seal, he prayed the pressure had a chance to rebuild in time. Their best chance to survive the coming blast was to fight pressure with pressure.
If the air lock didn’t hold, they’d all be crushed.
“Eight… seven … six…”
Karlsen pushed through to join Painter. His eyes were wide. “Krista’s not here,” he said, as if Painter knew what that meant.
Someone else did. “Krista … Krista Magnussen? Jason’s girlfriend?”
Anger flashed in Senator Gorman’s voice.
Painter shoved the two men apart. “Later.”
First, they had to survive.
The countdown continued.
“Five… four … three …”
21
October 13, 12:32 P.M.
Bardsey Island, Wales
As Gray prepared to descend into the crypt, the true heart of the storm rolled over Bardsey Island. It was as if the gods themselves warned against violating the tomb.
With a crack of thunder, the skies opened up. Rain poured down in large drops that shattered like bombs upon gravestones and markers. To the north, lightning crackled in forking chains.
“I’ll go first,” Gray said between thunderclaps.
The boy Lyle had run to the nearby chapel house to fetch a rope. But with the rain falling so hard, Gray feared the tomb could flood before any of them had a chance to search it.
The crypt’s opening was a hole in the ground about two feet wide, barely enough room for one person to climb through. It dropped seven feet to a stone floor. Below, it was wider, maybe twice as large as the opening. He couldn’t see more without going down.
Grabbing the sides, Gray lowered himself into the hole. He used his legs to brace himself, then dropped the rest of the way down. He landed in a crouch and freed his flashlight.
He stared up at the others’ faces.
“Be careful,” Rachel said.
“Let me know what you see,” Wallace added.
Both Kowalski and Seichan hung farther back.
Gray clicked on his flashlight and searched the main shaft. The sides were natural rock archways that framed brick walls, slightly inset. He imagined coffins and moldering bones behind those bricks. And perhaps one of those bodies was Lord Newborough’s.
As rain sluiced down the walls, Gray took the time to examine each surface. He ran his hands over them, searching for loose stones, some indication that Father Giovanni had been here and discovered something.
“Well?” Wallace called down.
“Nothing.”
Rachel pulled away, but her voice reached him. “Lyle’s coming back with the rope.”
Gray turned his attention to the fourth wall. Here the bricks framed a low archway, barely taller than midthigh. Crouching, Gray shone his light down into it. The space was plainly meant to hold a coffin. Afterward, the archway would have been walled up like the others. But currently the niche was empty.
He knew the hole had to be important. This wall faced the ruins of the abbey’s tower. Dropping to his hands and knees in the pooled water, Gray crawled into the niche. It was deep. Beyond the opening, the bricks disappeared and solid rock surrounded him. Gray worked slowly to the back of the tomb.
He patted the sides, ran his palms over the surfaces.
Nothing.
Though frustrated, he remained confident. Whatever was hidden had to lie beneath the ruins of Saint Mary’s. But maybe he was wrong about the access point. Maybe it wasn’t this crypt. Father Giovanni could have searched it upon Lyle’s suggestion—just as Gray was doing—then moved on.
He heard a splash behind him as someone joined him in the crypt.
He retreated and climbed out of the niche. Rachel stood there. Her hair clung wetly to her face. Her eyes glowed under the shine of his flashlight, full of hope. He could not fail her.
“Dead end?” she asked.
He grimaced, not appreciating her choice of words, nor happy with his lack of success. “I don’t see any sign that Father Giovanni has been down here.”
“Can I try?” she asked and held out her hand for his f
lashlight. How could he refuse?
He passed her the light. She crouched on one hand and sidled into the empty tomb. Her lithe physique allowed her more maneuverability in the tight space. Her flashlight swept along the walls.
“See anything?” he asked.
“No.”
From above, Wallace voiced Gray’s earlier concern. “Maybe we’re in the wrong hole.”
Rachel gave up and swung around. In a demonstration of limberness, she turned herself fully around in the niche and headed back out—then froze.
“What is it?” Gray asked. “Come see.”
Her flashlight was pointed straight back at him. Shielding his eyes, he started to crawl in toward her.
“No,” she warned. “Slide in on your back.”
Gray obeyed. Soaking wet, he rolled over and scooted on his elbows and pushed with his legs into the niche. Faceup was the proper position for lying in a grave.
“What’dya see down there?” Wallace called.
“Don’t know yet,” Gray answered as he shimmied deeper.
“All the way back,” Rachel urged.
He kept sliding in. Eventually his head rested between her knees. She leaned over him with the flashlight. She smelled of wet wool. He was all too conscious of her breasts above his head.
“Look,” she said.
He was, but she probably meant where the flashlight was pointed. He had to squirm up to his elbows and look back toward the entrance. He didn’t see anything at first, just the back half of the brick wall that closed off the natural stone niche.
“Notice how all the bricks are laid horizontal, but look at the three around the lip of the opening. At the top and to either side.”
Gray saw it now, too. “They’re placed vertically.”
The opening was a perfect half circle. The three vertical bricks marked off the 12, 3, and 9 o’clock positions.
“Do you think it’s significant?” Rachel said. Gray did. “It’s like half of the pagan cross.”
In the reflection off the pooled water, he could almost see the other half of the circle. He pictured completing the symbol, drawing lines to connect the stones. It would form the Druid cross they’d been following from the beginning.
“But what does it mean?” Rachel asked.”
Let me try something.”
Gray crab-crawled on his elbows back out of the niche, then reversed himself and went in on his belly, feetfirst this time. He hoped he wasn’t completely soaking himself for no reason.
Wallace called down, “Well?”
“Still working,” Gray answered in a strained voice.
He got under the entrance and examined the three bricks. The two to the side seemed nondescript and solidly mortared. Stretching up, he grabbed the top brick. It seemed no different—until his probing fingers scraped along the top lip. There was a slight indentation, perfect for a grip.
He snagged his fingers in place and tugged.
The stone pivoted out. It caught for a moment, but as he pulled harder, a metallic snap sounded behind him—followed by a grinding of rock. They both twisted and glanced over their shoulders. The back wall swung open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down.
“The entrance,” Rachel murmured near his ear. “We found it.”
It took some maneuvering to back their way through the door and into the stairwell. Though narrow, it was wide enough to stand up in.
Rachel shone her flashlight down the short flight of brick steps. “Is that a tunnel at the bottom of the stairs?”
Gray climbed down to investigate, but as his boot hit the fifth step, he felt the stair sink an inch under his weight.
Another metallic snap sounded.
His heart stopped as a single word crystallized in his mind. Trap.
Behind them, the door swung closed. Rachel yelled and leaped for the exit. She was too late. The door sealed with a distinct and final click.
She pounded on the stone door, but it was no use. They were locked in.
12:42 P.M.
Seichan heard Rachel yell—then a crack of thunder deafened everyone standing over the crypt.
As it echoed away, Wallace leaned over the hole. “Didya find something down there?”
There was no answer.
Seichan also noted that the glow of the flashlight had vanished. Something was wrong. Reacting on instinct, she tucked her arms and dropped smoothly through the narrow entrance. She landed with a splash, absorbing the impact with her knees. Her fingers already clutched her lighter. She shoved her arm into the dark niche and flicked the lighter on. The flame’s glow flickered all the way to the back of the crypt.
It was empty.
“What’s going on?” Wallace called from above. “They’re gone.”
Kowalski moved closer to the crypt, dripping wet and sullen. Lyle had gone to fetch some umbrellas. “What did I tell you … never go down a hole with Pierce.”
“It might be a good thing,” Wallace said.
Kowalski turned on him with a baleful eye.
“They must have found the secret entrance,” Wallace elaborated.
But Rachel’s cry had not been a happy one of discovery.
Seichan leaned into the crypt. She shouted with all her lung power. “Pierce! Rachel!”
Lightning flashed and thunder rolled, but Seichan made out a faint call. At least they were still alive. She climbed in farther. “I can’t understand!” she shouted.
A loud splash startled her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Wallace standing behind her, one hand on the rope. “I wouldn’t do that,” Kowalski warned from above. “Be quiet!” Seichan snapped.
She cocked her head and listened. She made out Gray’s voice. She closed her eyes, straining. His commands were clipped. She imagined him cupping his mouth and shouting.
“Just inside! A vertical brick! Above the entrance! Yank it!”
Needing both hands to search, she flipped her lighter closed and twisted her body fully into the crypt. Feeling blindly along the entrance to the crypt, fingering the bricks, she found one that fit Gray’s description. She reached to the top, discovered a carved indentation to grip, and yanked hard.
A loud snap sounded.
The back wall of the crypt swung open. She spotted the panicked face of Rachel. Gray stood at her shoulder.
“Got locked in,” Gray said. “Get the others, but be careful of the fifth step. It seals the door.”
Behind Seichan, Wallace shone his flashlight at them. “You found the way in. Brilliant! Simply brilliant!”
After a minute of wrangling, they all made it safely down the stairs to the lower tunnel. A dark stone passageway headed steeply away.
Kowalski declined to join them, calling down from above. “You go on. I’ll wait for the umbrellas.”
Off to the side, Rachel spoke. “Look at this.” She pointed her flashlight at a thick bronze lever in the floor near the foot of the stairs. “I think it might be a release to unlock that secret door.”
“Must have been how Father Giovanni came and went,” Gray said. “Still, we should keep the exit jammed open just in case.”
As a precaution, he had lodged a loose chunk of headstone from the cemetery to hold open the doorway. Seichan respected his decision. She preferred keeping a back door open in case of trouble.
Wallace pointed his flashlight down the tunnel. “Medieval monks often crafted trapdoors and hidden rooms in their abbeys and monasteries. Places were riddled with secret passageways like this. It was one of their means of hiding from marauders. Additionally, the tunnels offered a way to spy on their guests. Knowledge proved to be as much of a defense in those hard times as any shield.”
“Then let’s go see what these monks were hiding down here,” Gray said and led the way.
The others followed. Seichan stayed at the rear.
The passageway dropped steeply, but it did not take long to reach the end. The tunnel opened into a domed space. There were no other exits.
“We must be directly under the ruins of the tower,” Gray said.
Wallace ran one hand along the wall. “No chisel or pick marks. It’s a natural cavern.”
But the professor’s eyes remained focused on the middle of the chamber. A massive sarcophagus rested in the center of the room. It stood waist high and looked like it was carved out of a single block of stone.
Beyond the casket, against the far wall, stood a Celtic cross.
As the others moved toward the sarcophagus, Seichan studied the cross. It was not as ornate as the others in the abbey cemetery. This one was stark and more crudely hewn, making it seem more ancient. The only decorations were a few spirals done in bas-relief, and the cross’s circular element had been scored into tiny blocks.
Dismissing the cross, the others had turned their attentions to the stone coffin resting on the floor. The sides were featureless, its lid secured in place.
“Could it be Lord Newborough’s resting place?” Rachel asked.
Wallace leaned a hand on the lid and ran his fingers over the rough side. “Too old. If Newborough’s down here, he’s most likely buried off in one of those other sealed crypts. This is someone else’s grave. Also, the sarcophagus is made out of bluestone, same as the region’s Neolithic standing stones. It must have been quarried somewhere on the mainland and shipped all the way here. Quite an undertaking. My guess is that this is the grave of one of those ancient ring-builders, possibly one of their royalty.”
Rachel spoke. “Like the Fomorian queen?”
“Yes, our dark goddess,” Wallace said, but he suddenly became distracted.
With a frown, he leaned down. He held his flashlight against the side of the sarcophagus and cast his light across its surface. His fingers ran along the stone. “It looks like there was once a carving here. Some type of decoration, maybe even writing. But someone ground it mostly off.”
His frown deepened at such desecration.
Gray glanced up. “If this dates back to the Neolithic period, the Church could have scrubbed away the original markings.”
“Aye. That would be like them. If something didn’t mesh with their dogma, it was often destroyed. Look what happened to the Mayan codices, a vast font of ancient knowledge. The Church deemed them to be the devil’s work, and all but a few were burned.”