"These lines represent the tunnels in use at the time the mine was closed. As you can see, the main shafts run here, here, here, and here. The largest tunnel coming from the direction of the monastery would be this one," she indicated a line drawn in red, "and the one a person or group coming from there most likely would follow if they were trying to get out. That is, as far as we can tell. These tunnels, these shafts, are very old, not used for more than eighty years. Sections of many will have collapsed. It means the map is helpful but not reliable."
"Suppose they did take this tunnel," Strait said. "Two of them or twenty," Strait indicated the main shaft, "and using the 3:37 time of the earth movement as a starting time, how far would they be along it by now?"
"It would depend on the state of the president's health. If they have to carry him. Or stop to give him medical attention. Or if they have lights. As you might imagine, the shafts are dark as a tomb. Also if they chose this tunnel and not one of the several dozen others down there."
"Might they have gone another way?"
"We are not with them. They could have done anything for any reason. This main tunnel could have been blocked and so they took some other. We have come to this location because it is the most direct and therefore the most likely route out if it has not been blocked by cave-ins. We are on the outermost edge of it and will make our way toward the monastery while other teams will work from there toward us while others still will explore the side tunnels. We—" Diaz stopped suddenly to listen to a radio communication directed at her.
"Sí, sí," she said finally into the tiny microphone on her lapel. "Gracias." Again she glanced at Lowe and Marshall, then turned to Bill Strait.
"Drilling equipment is being flown in now. Soon they will begin to bore into the tunnels from above and then send down night-vision cameras equipped with listening devices."
"Good," Strait said, then turned back to the map. "Assume they are in this tunnel. How close are we to an exterior entryway, a chimney where we can get in?"
"Very difficult to answer. The chimneys are not mapped. We have to find them and have asked help from the Agentes Rurales, the mountain and forest patrol, who know the area. But even if we find chimneys or access points there is no way to know how big they are. If someone can get down and into the shaft or if they would have to be cut or drilled or blasted. Something else," Captain Diaz shifted her gaze to take in Marshall and Jake Lowe, "something you must understand, gentlemen. It is quite possible that those inside, if in fact they are down there, are dead, your president included."
"That's why we're here, captain," Lowe said quietly. "One way or the other, we're going to bring him out."
112
• PARIS, GARE DU NORD, 8:10 P.M.
"Thank you," Victor smiled and pocketed his first-class ticket, then turned from the passenger services window and walked back toward the platform area. Train 243 for Berlin was to leave at 8:46 but would not arrive in the station until 8:34. That gave him a little more than thirty minutes to kill. The last ten would be spent on the train making sure he had his assigned seat and that his suitcase was stored. Taking one's seat early was important because even with a reservation people often sat where they wanted. If one's assigned seat was already taken trying to get it back usually involved some level of confrontation that was often in a foreign language. He had seen more than one of these become heated, and an argument over a seat that might bring a trainman or the police was the last thing he needed; especially the police, who might ask to see his passport and want to know where he was going and where he had been. But at the moment there was no train and therefore no seat, which meant he still had nearly twenty minutes to either sit and wait or wander around the station, neither of which he liked because it left him at the mercy of the public. The major story of the day, at least in the Paris tabloids, seemed to be the single-shot murder of the two jockeys early that morning in Chantilly. And newspapers at kiosks throughout the station had it as their lead.
L'OMS A TUÉ LES JOCKEYS?
DEUX AVEC UN PROJECTILE!
MUERTRE DANS LES BOIS DE CHANTILLY!
(Who killed the jockeys?
Two with one shot!
Murder in the Chantilly woods!)
Chantilly was twenty minutes by train from Paris, and the Gare du Nord, where he was now, was the same station he had arrived in when he'd come from Chantilly. How did he know that someone there, someone he might simply pass by, hadn't seen him in both places; a railroad worker maybe or a commuter he had shared the morning train with who was returning home and might suddenly remember him?
Victor kept his head down as he walked. When he had killed the man in the New York Yankees jacket in Washington, Richard had been right there to meet him and get him out of there, driving him straight to the airport and putting him on a plane before the story was even reported. Here it was different, here he was alone and at the mercy of the faces in the crowd and he didn't like it. All he wanted was for the train to come so that he could board it and claim his seat and at least get that much out of sight.
He carried his bag into a small restaurant across from the tracks. There was room at the counter and he sat down. "Coffee," he said to the counterman, "black, please."
"Café noir?"
Victor nodded. "Café noir."
113
• LA IGLESIA DENTRO DE LA MONTAÑA,
THE CHURCH WITHIN THE MOUNTAIN. 8:20 P.M.
Demi walked alongside the line of sixty monks, photographing them as they left the candlelit caverns and entered the church, walking single file, heads bowed, chanting as they went. She used the Canon digital first and then switched to the 35mm Nikon, then back to the Canon, the smart phone concealed beneath the long scarlet dress Cristina had brought her, secretly transmitting the Canon's images to her Web site in Paris.
The monks' collective song echoed off the temple's stone surfaces like a delicate prayer, its single melodic line rising and then slowly falling only to rise once more. At first Demi thought the chant, like the family names on the great stones above the burial vaults on the church floor, was in Italian but it wasn't. Nor was it Spanish. Instead it was sung in a language she had never before heard.
The monks circled the church once and then again and then left, passing through a high portal to an ancient stone amphitheater outside. There the verse was repeated twice more and then twice again as they formed a semicircle in the light of three bonfires that burned in a triangle on the outside edges of a massive circular stone. A stone that was the amphitheatre's centerpiece and had carved at its midpoint the balled cross of Aldebaran.
Demi moved guardedly to a place across from the bonfires, near the amphitheater's seating area where there were easily two hundred spectators—men, women, children—the very old to infants held in their mother's arms. All were dressed in the same long scarlet gown Demi wore.
Beyond the bonfires she could see the valley she had passed through on the way there and where the thin ground fog of earlier in the day had now grown heavy, rising up like sea mist and beginning to swirl in around them. Above everything rose the high mountain peaks, which served to isolate the church and over which a full moon slowly ascended above darkening clouds.
Suddenly the monks' chant stopped and for a long moment there was silence. Then a powerful male voice rose from the dark behind them. Deep and melodic, it sounded as if it were some kind of pagan calling, a brief prayer to the spirits spoken in the same language as the monks.
Immediately the spectators responded as if a chorus, repeating in unison whatever had been said.
The voice came as before, carrying out from the darkness. Then a hooded, black-robed figure stepped into the light of the bonfires and moved to the center of the stone circle. Instantly the figure raised its arms and threw back its head. Demi felt the breath go out of her. It was Reverend Beck, the first time she'd seen him since they'd arrived. Immediately she stepped away from the congregation and into the shadows. Cameras up, she began photogra
phing deliberately: Beck, the congregation, the monks, using one camera and then the other as she had before.
Head thrown back, arms held high above his head, Beck thundered a command to the heavens as if he were reaching to the moon and beyond to call spirits forth from the night. Immediately he turned to the darkness between the bonfires. Again he raised his arms and spoke the same command he had just thrown toward the sky. For a long moment nothing happened and then a vision in white slowly appeared from the dark, moving past the bonfires into the circle.
Cristina.
Beck turned toward the congregation and spoke again, his right arm extended, making a sweep of the stone's great circle. The congregation responded. Repeating what he had said and then adding words that Demi could describe only as sounding like the names of distant stars. There were four in all, spoken quickly and in staccato as if they were calling forth gods.
Cameras firing, Demi inched closer.
Now Beck stepped out of the firelight. In his place, so quickly it almost seemed like a magical trick, Luciana appeared. Her robe was bright gold and in her hand she carried a long, ruby wand. Her rich black hair was pulled back in a tight bun. Equally dark eye makeup was accentuated by theatrical streaks that ran dagger-like from the corners of her eyes to the hollows of her ears, while hideously long nails, eleven inches easily, were fixed to the tips of her fingers.
In a move as graceful as a ballerina's, she stepped behind Cristina and drew a circle in the air above her head with the wand. Then, with the same suppleness, she stepped away to pass the wand around the great circle of stone. Done, she looked to the congregation. Her bearing and manner that of the high priestess, the sacerdotessa, she was. Abruptly she called out a phrase filled with power and certainty, as if she had just cast a spell. Then she stepped forward to the circle's edge, her eyes moving fiercely across the congregation and called out the certainty once more.
And then again.
And then again.
114
• 8:47 P.M.
Listen!" Marten said and stopped, the axe-handle torch burned short and now little more than a flicker in the pitch black of the tunnel.
"What is it?" The president stopped too.
"Don't know. Sounded like it came from behind us."
They listened intently, but there was nothing.
"Maybe I'm crazy—" Marten said at the silence, then: "There. Hear it?"
From somewhere behind them came a distant high-pitched screeching. It went on for maybe twenty seconds, stopped, then started again.
"Drilling," the president said quickly, "through stone. I've cut enough wells to know the sound."
"Your 'rescuers' have arrived. They know we're here."
"No, they think we're here. But they're still behind us. A mile, more if we're lucky." Instantly the president's eyes found Marten's. "Once they cut into the tunnel they'll drop in listening equipment, maybe night-vision cameras. Sound carries through these shafts almost as sharply as it would under water."
"How many do you think there are?"
"Up there, coming after us?"
"Yes."
"Too many. From here on not a word above a whisper. And whatever that word is, make it damn short."
Marten stared at him for the briefest moment, then turned the torch forward and they moved on.
• 8:50 P.M.
The expanse of rock they were crossing was black as midnight. Miguel stopped and swung his flashlight behind him, lighting the way for a lagging Hap Daniels to catch up.
"Careful with that damn light, you can see it for miles," Hap rasped as he came forward. By now he was cradling his left arm in a sling fashioned from his necktie to help ease the strain on his shoulder.
Behind them a full moon struggled through thickening clouds descending over the distant mountaintops. Rain was coming and they knew it. When it would arrive, how heavy it would be, and how much time they had before it reached them were unanswerable questions.
"You sure you want to keep on?" Miguel was watching Hap as he moved close. It was obvious he was struggling and in pain.
"Yes, dammit."
"You want to rest for a minute? Take the pain pills?"
"Where the hell are the guys?"
"Here!" Amado's voice popped from the dark a dozen yards in front of them. Instantly Miguel swung his flashlight toward a rocky precipice twenty feet away.
"Jesus God!" Hap grabbed Miguel's arm with his good hand, "turn that thing off!"
• 8:52 P.M.
Hap and Miguel peered into a fissure in the rocks below. Ten feet down Hector and José huddled around a large fracture in the stone, their flashlights illuminating the way for Amado as he climbed down into it. A second later he disappeared from sight. Immediately José followed.
"How far does it go?" Miguel asked just loud enough to be heard.
"Maybe thirty feet more," Amado answered from below.
"To what?"
"Another break in the rock."
"When you reach it use the stones. See what you get."
Miguel took a breath and looked at Hap. Then they waited.
Three full minutes passed. Finally they heard it.
CLACK, CLACK. CLACK, CLACK. CLACK, CLACK.
Amado was hitting two stones together in the shaft below, making a sound that would carry a great distance through the rock openings and hopefully into the hard surface of the tunnel underneath.
CLACK, CLACK. CLACK, CLACK. CLACK, CLACK.
Amado tapped the stones again.
All five held a collective breath listening for a return signal.
Finally they heard Amado's voice. "Nothing."
"Again!" Miguel demanded.
"No! No more!" Hap said sharply. "That's the end of it!"
"Why?" Miguel stared at him in surprise, "How else are we going to find them in an endless tunnel?"
"Miguel, the Spanish police, the Secret Service, the CIA. They will have brought in all kinds of listening and night-vision devices. If the president and Marten can hear those rocks, they will too. They find us, we will vanish. All of us, the boys, you, me. Then the president is dead."
"So what do we do?"
"Find a way into the tunnel and walk it."
"Walk it?"
"Flashlights. Mark where we came in, mark our trail along the way so we can get back. Amado and his friends know their way inside these tunnels. That's why we're here, yes?"
Miguel nodded.
"My men don't know those shafts, and I'm betting the Spanish police don't either."
Miguel's face twisted up in anguish. "We're five against all that. It's not possible."
"Yes it is. We just have to do it better and faster and very, very quietly."
"Hap, you are in no shape to climb down in there. Stay here, I'll go with the boys."
"Can't."
"Why?"
"I don't know the exact satellite positions. But at some point soon they will be directly overhead. When they are they will provide thermal images of the heat radiated by bodies on the ground. The authorities know who their men are, where they are, and how many."
"You mean they will be able to see us."
"They'll see whoever's out here that isn't one of theirs."
"Then I think you better go down into the shafts."
"Right."
115
• 9:03 P.M.
Jake Lowe and Dr. James Marshall stood just outside the Chinook helicopter looking toward a rocky flat where Bill Strait's Secret Service team and Captain Diaz's CNP unit had set up work lights and were cutting their way down through the soft sandstone with power saws.
Behind them, inside the Chinook, a medical team—two doctors, two nurses and two emergency medical technicians—made preparations to receive an injured president. Thirty yards away Bill Strait, Captain Diaz and a seven-man team of Secret Service, CIA, and CNP tech specialists worked to set up a command post from which they could coordinate the activity of the teams in the field.
Lowe glanced behind them to make sure they were alone, then looked at Marshall. "The Spanish police could be a real problem if the president is alive and says something," he said quietly.
"We can't very well send them home."
"No, we can't."
"Jake," Marshall stepped closer and lowered his voice. "The police believe what everyone else believes, that the president is either dead, the captive of Marten or a terrorist bunch, or simply stumbling along mentally ill. If they bring him out alive anything he says will be taken as the ramblings of a man who has undergone major psychological trauma. In minutes he'll be here and in the Chinook and then we're gone."
"It's still too damn iffy. Too much can still go wrong," Lowe looked off, clearly troubled, then abruptly turned back to Marshall. "I'm just about ready to put the brakes on Warsaw. Call it off. I mean it."
"Can't do that, Jake, and you know it," Marshall said coolly. "The vice president has given the go-ahead. Things are moving forward and everyone knows it. We pull it back now we show major weakness, not only with our people but with our friends in France and Germany. So relax, we're the ones in control. As I said before, have a little faith."
Suddenly there was a scurry of activity at the command post. Bill Strait was standing up, talking animatedly into his headset. The others had stopped to watch him, Captain Diaz included. Lowe and Marshall started toward them on the run.
"Repeat that please," Bill Strait said, his hand to his headset trying to hear clearly while still monitoring the tense communication between his own teams using other broadcast channels. "Good! Damn good!"
"What is it?" Lowe asked quickly as he and Marshall came up. "Your tech guys hear something? Pick up sounds? Is it him? POTUS?"