Clive Cussler - Spartan Gold

“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 gentlemen. 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.

Finally Bondaruk said, “The halberd: Leave it to the British to come up with a weapon that is both ugly and purposeless.”

The guests chuckled and murmured their agreement, then Bondaruk walked on, turning the corner and beginning his strolling lecture down the opposite side of the case. After a few more comments, Bondaruk strode to the door, turned to the crowd, nodded curtly, then disappeared.

Remi let out her breath. “Well, he’s got a presence, I’ll give him that.”

“It’s cruelty,” Sam muttered. “He wears it like a cape. You can almost smell it on him.”

“I got the same odor from Kholkov.”

Sam nodded. “Yes.”

“I thought for a moment there you were going to go for him.”

“For a moment I thought so, too. Come on, let’s find what we came for before I change my mind.”

CHAPTER 39

The farther west through the mansion they walked the fewer party guests they encountered. While the mansion and its wings were laid out as a peace symbol, the main portion of the house was an octagon with sitting rooms, parlors, dens, and libraries surrounding a central foyer. After twenty minutes of wandering they found themselves in a darkened conservatory filled with potted palms and hanging-trellis half walls overflowing with flowering vines. Through the arched glass ceiling they could see diamond-speck stars against the black sky. To their left, through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls, was a long porch surrounded by hedges.

Set into the northwest wall was a single door. They made one circuit through the conservatory to check for cameras and to make sure they were alone, then headed to the door. It was locked.

Sam was reaching into his pocket for his pick set when a voice behind them said, “Excuse me, sir, may I ask what you’re doing?”

Sam didn’t give himself a chance to think, but simply reacted on instinct. He turned on the man and barked in what he hoped was passable Russian-accented English, “Finally! Where have you been? Do you know the humidity-control sensors have been going off in there?”

“Pardon me—”

“You are security, yes?”

“Yes, sir. However—”

“Mr. Bondaruk told us to come straight here, that someone would meet us. We’ve already been standing here for what, dear, five minutes?”

Remi didn’t miss a beat, nodding firmly. “At least that.”

The guard narrowed his eyes at them. “If you’ll wait just a moment I’ll confirm—”

“Fine, do what you must, but let me ask you this: Have you ever seen what condensation can do to a nine-hundred-year-old bardiche with a Mongolian red maple handle? Have you?”

The guard shook his head, his portable radio halfway to his mouth.

Sam said, “Here, look at this palm—this is a perfect example of what I’m talking about . . . do you see the leaves?” He took a step forward and to the guard’s left, pointing at a nearby palm tree. Already distracted by his own radio, the guard reacted with natural curiosity, turning his head to look at what Sam had indicated.

In that fleeting moment Sam reversed direction. Spinning on his right heel, he swept his left foot in a short arc, hooking the man’s right ankle and kicking it out from under him. Even as the guard stumbled backward Sam was spinning again, this time with a perfectly timed uppercut that caught the man squarely on the chin. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

“Wow,” Remi breathed. “And here I thought your judo was just a hobby.”

“It is. It just happens to be a very practical hobby. Next one’s yours, by the way.”

“Find me a foil and you’ve got a deal. Mongolian red maple? Is there such a thing?”

“I have no idea.”

Sam knelt down, scooped up the man’s radio, then frisked him, finding a Glock nine-millimeter pistol in a hip paddle holster, a set of handcuffs, a hotel-style card key, and a key ring. This he tossed to Remi, who began trying keys in the door. Sam rolled the guard onto his belly, cuffed his hands behind his back, gagged him with his own tie, then dragged him by the collar into the corner and rearranged a few potted palms so he would be harder to spot.

“Got it,” Remi said, turning and holding up one of the keys.

“Did you check the door?”

She nodded. “Didn’t see any alarm wires. The striker plate and latch look pretty standard.”

“Well, we’ll know for sure in about five seconds,” Sam said, then inserted the key into the lock and turned the knob. Silence. No whooping alarms, no blaring Klaxons.

“Still could be a silent alarm,” Remi said.

“True. Hurry, over there.”

They sprinted to the corner and ducked down with the guard’s body. One minute passed. Two minutes and still there were no pounding footsteps or loudspeaker announcements.

“It can’t be this easy,” Remi said. “Can it?”

“No chance. No turning back now. Unless you want to, that is?”

“Me?” she replied with a smile. “I’m just starting to enjoy myself.”

“That’s my girl.”

On the other side of the door they found a ten-foot-long corridor painted in pure white and lit by recessed overhead fluorescent lights. At the far end of the corridor was another door, this one made of heavy steel and controlled by a wall-mounted card reader.

“Very tricky,” Sam said. “See that quarter-sized clear screen above the reader?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a biometric thumbprint scanner.”

“Which means there’s probably a security control center somewhere.”

“I agree. It looks like we need our friend. Wait here.”

Sam stepped out the first door then reappeared dragging the guard behind him. He handed Remi the card key, then together they hoisted the man up so Sam could wrap his arms around his waist and Remi had access to his cuffed hands.

“We might get as few as two chances at this before we trip something and attract some more company,” he said.

“Swipe first, then the thumbprint?”

“Right. I think.”

“Great.”

Sam spread his legs wider for leverage, then shuffle-walked the man’s limp form to the reader. Remi swiped the card, then grabbed the guard’s thumb and pressed it to the scanner.

The reader emitted a squelchy beep.

“Strike one,” Sam said.

“I’m nervous.”

“Second time’s the charm. Hurry, this guy’s getting heavy.”

She took a break, then tried again.

The reader let out a soft, welcoming chime, followed by a metallic snick as the lock disengaged.

“Open it just an inch before the lock reengages,” Sam said, backing away and laying the guard down. “Be right back.” He dragged the guard back out the first door, then returned.

“See anything?” Sam asked.

Remi eased the door open another inch, pressed her eye to the gap for a few seconds, then pulled back and whispered, “No cameras that I can see.”

“Let’s go.”

Remi opened the door and they stepped through. The room was circular, with gray-painted walls and navy blue carpet. Pot lights in the ceiling cast pools of light on the floor. Directly ahead of them, at the ten o’clock and two o’clock positions on a clock face, were two card reader doors. They each took a door, Sam left, Remi right, and checked for wires. They found none.

Repeating their earlier swipe/thumb process, they first checked the left-hand door. Inside was a small landing and a set of steps that descended fifteen feet to a burgundy-carpeted corridor lit by soft baseboard lights.

They checked the right-hand door. “It’s a square alcove, about ten by ten feet,” Remi whispered, pulling it open an inch. “Straight ahead is another door—a latch but no lock that I can see. The wall to the right is glass from waist height to the ceiling. On the other side is what looks like a control room—a couple computer workstations and a radio console. There’s another door, behind the workstations.”

“Lights?”

“Dark except for the glow of the computer monitors.”

“Cameras?”

She peeked again, this time dropping into a crouch and craning her neck. She pulled back again and nodded. “Only one that I can see—a blinking green light near the ceiling in the right-hand corner.”

“Is it fixed?”

“No, rotating.”

“Good for us, bad for them.”

“How so?”

“In a space that small they should have gone with a fixed camera and a fish-eye lens. No blind spots to hide in. Watch it, count how long it takes to make a complete pan.”

She did so. “Four seconds.”

Sam frowned. “Not a lot of time. You have a preference?”

“No.”