Clive Cussler - Spartan Gold

“They’re not much for civil planning, are they?” Sam said.

“It’s been here so long the government can’t bring itself to intervene,” Umberto replied. “The truth is, I can’t remember the last time anyone was buried here.”

“How many are here?”

“Many hundreds, I think. Some graves are deep, some shallow. The dead are stacked atop one another.”

Remi asked, “Where’s Laurent’s crypt?”

Umberto leaned forward and pointed through the windshield. “That one, in the far corner, the one with the domed roof.”

Sam checked his watch. “Time to find out how well the Lancia holds up to punishment.”

He started the engine, did a Y-turn on the gravel drive, then spun the wheel and drove into the meadow, the tall grass scraping the car’s underbody. He followed the fence line to the back of the graveyard and coasted to a stop behind Laurent’s crypt. He shut off the engine again.

“Where does that go?” Sam asked Umberto, pointing past Remi out the passenger window. A half mile away a pair of tire ruts disappeared over the hill and into the trees beyond.

“I have no idea. It’s an old mining road. It hasn’t been used for seventy, eighty years—since before the war.”

Remi murmured, “The road less traveled.”

“Not for long,” Sam replied.

He opened the door and climbed out, Remi and Umberto following. To Remi he said, “Why don’t you wait here? Slide into the driver’s seat and keep your eyes peeled. We’ll just be a minute.”

He and Umberto walked to the fence and hopped over.

Compared to some of its neighbors, Laurent’s crypt was small, not much bigger than a walk-in closet and barely four feet tall, but, walking around to the front side, Sam saw that it was sunk into the ground a few feet. Three moss-covered steps led to a rough-hewn wooden door. Sam pulled his LED microlight from his pocket and shined it on the lock while Umberto used the key. In keeping with the fog, the hooting owls, and the full moon, the hinges moaned as Umberto swung open the door. He glanced back at Sam and smiled nervously.

“Keep an eye out,” Sam said.

He walked down the steps and through the door and found himself facing a curtain of cobwebs. Under the blue-white glow of his flashlight, spiders scrambled across the webs and disappeared. Using his hand like a blade Sam slowly cut the curtain down the center; desiccated flies and moths pattered on the stone floor. Sam stepped inside.

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.