Riptide (49 page)

She crept forward, keeping low, using the tall grass as cover. A hundred feet out she stopped again, hiding behind a clump
of tea roses. Here the view was much better. The figure had its back to her, and she waited. As it moved into the light she
saw the broad shoulders and long, dirty-blond hair of Rankin, the geologist. He appeared to be alone.

She hesitated, sheltering the Radmeter from the rain as best she could. It was possible that Rankin might know how to use
it, or at least have a better idea. But that would mean taking him into her confidence.

Streeter had deliberately tried to kill them. Why? True, he’d hated Hatch from the beginning. But Bonterre couldn’t believe
that was enough provocation. Streeter didn’t seem the type to act rashly.

Then again, Hatch was trying to shut down the dig.

Were others in on it?

Somehow, she could not imagine the open, hearty Rankin being party to first-degree murder. As for Neidelman… she couldn’t
allow her thoughts to turn that way.

There was a searing bolt of lightning overhead, and she shrank away from the thunderclap that followed. From the direction
of Base Camp, there was a sharp crackle as the last generator failed. The lights atop Orthanc blinked out for a moment, and
then the control tower was bathed in an orange glow as the emergency batteries came on.

Bonterre clutched the Radmeter closer. She could wait no longer. Right or wrong, she had to make a choice.

A
faceful of mud brought Hatch back to the black reality of the tunnel. His head throbbed from Streeter’s blow, and something
was pressing relentlessly on his back. The cold steel of what Hatch knew must be a gun barrel was digging into his torn ear.
He hadn’t been shot, he realized groggily; he’d been knocked on the head.

“Listen up, Hatch,” came Streeter’s whisper. “We had a nice little chase, but the game’s over now.” The barrel ground into
his ear. “And you’re it. Understand?”

Hatch tried to nod as Streeter jerked his head back cruelly by the hair. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Hatch croaked, choking mud.

“Don’t twitch, don’t jerk, don’t even sneeze unless I tell you to, or I’ll turn your brains into a pink mist.”

“Yes,” Hatch said again, trying to muster some energy. He felt stupid, cold, barely alive.

“Now we’re going to get up, nice and smooth. Slip in the mud and you’re dead.”

The pressure on his back was released. Hatch rose to his knees, then his feet, slowly, carefully, fighting to quell the pounding
in his head.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” came Streeter’s voice. “We’ll return to where the tunnel forked. Then we’re going to head
straight down the Boston Shaft. So start walking. Slow.”

Hatch put one foot in front of the other as carefully as he could, trying not to stumble in the darkness. They reached the
fork, then continued down the main shaft, following the wall.

It seemed to Hatch that he should be able to escape. It was pitch black, and all he had to do was break free somehow. But
the combination of the gun barrel grinding into his hurt ear and the thickness in his mind made clear thinking impossible.
He wondered, momentarily, why Streeter hadn’t simply killed him.

As they moved forward cautiously, he began to wonder just how well Streeter knew the Boston Shaft. There were few horizontal
tunnels on the island, and almost all of them were riddled with intersecting vertical shafts. “Any pits along here?” he asked
at last.

There was a harsh laugh. “If there are, you’ll be the first to know.”

After what seemed an eternity of nightmare shuffling through the blackness, wondering if the next step would be into open
space, Hatch saw a faint glow ahead. The tunnel took a gentle turn and he made out a ragged opening, framed in light. There
was a faint hum of machinery. Streeter pushed him forward at a faster pace.

Hatch stopped at the point where the tunnel opened onto the main shaft of the Water Pit. Momentarily blinded after the long
chase, it took him a moment to realize that only the banks of emergency lights running along the ladder array were still lit.
Another sharp pain in his ear, and Streeter forced him forward onto the metal catwalk that connected the Boston Shaft to the
array. Following behind, Streeter punched a keypad bolted to the side of the lift rail. There was a humming sound from below,
and in a few moments the lift itself came into view, slowed, then locked into place beside the catwalk. Streeter prodded Hatch
onto the platform, then took up position behind him.

As they descended toward the base of the shaft, Hatch realized the dank, rotten smell of the Water Pit was now mixed with
something else: the stench of smoke and hot metal.

The ladder array ended at the base of the Pit. The walls were narrower here, the air thick despite the ventilation systems.
In the center was the narrow shaft of freshly dug earth that led down to the treasure chamber itself. Streeter gestured for
Hatch to climb down the ladder. Clinging to the rails, Hatch clambered past the complex tracery of titanium struts and braces.
From below came the crack and fizzle of acetylene.

Then he was at the bottom of the shaft, at the very heart of the island, swaying on uncertain feet. Streeter dropped to the
ground behind him. Hatch could see that the earth before him had been cleared away from the top of a massive, rusted plate
of iron. As he stared, the last ember of hope died away. Gerard Neidelman was kneeling before the plate, angling an acetylene
torch into a narrow cut about three feet square. A bolt had been welded to the top of the plate, and from it a cable was fixed
to the large bucket. In the far corner of the shaft stood Magnusen, arms folded, staring at Hatch with a mixture of cold hatred
and contempt.

There was an angry hiss as Neidelman cut the flame on the torch. Laying it aside, he stood up and raised his visor, staring
expressionlessly at Hatch.

“You’re a sorry sight,” he said simply.

He turned to Streeter. “Where did you find him?”

“He and Bonterre were trying to come back to the island, Captain. I caught up with him in the Boston Tunnel.”

“And Bonterre?”

“Their dinghy was crushed on the reef. There’s a chance she survived drowning, too, but the odds are against it.”

“I see. Pity she had to get involved in this. Still, you’ve done well.”

Streeter flushed with the praise. “May I borrow your sidearm for a moment, Captain?”

Neidelman slid the pistol from his belt and handed it to Streeter, an inquiring expression on his face. Streeter pointed it
at Hatch and gave his own gun to Neidelman. “Could you reload that for me, sir? I ran out of ammo.”

He gave Hatch a crooked smile. “You missed your opportunity, Doctor. There won’t be another.”

Hatch turned to Neidelman. “Gerard, please. Hear me out.”

The Captain slapped a fresh clip into the gun, then snugged it into his belt. “Hear you out? I’ve been hearing you out for
weeks now, and it’s getting rather tedious.” He shrugged the visor from his head and handed it to Magnusen. “Sandra, take
over the torch, please. The island’s battery system will only last two hours, maybe three, and we can’t waste any time.”

“You
have
to listen,” Hatch said. “St. Michael’s Sword is radioactive. It’ll be suicide to open that casket.”

A weary look crossed Neidelman’s face. “You never give up, do you. Wasn’t a billion dollars enough?”

“Think,” Hatch went on urgently. “Think past the treasure for a moment, think of what’s been happening on this island. It
explains everything. The problems with the computers, the system acting flaky. Stray radiation from the treasure chamber would
cause the anomalies Wopner described. And the rash of illnesses we’ve had. Radiation suppresses the immune system, lowers
the white blood count, allows opportunistic diseases to intrude. I’ll bet that we’d find the worst cases among those who spent
their time in this Pit, day after day, digging and setting braces.”

The Captain stared at him, his gaze unreadable.

“Radiation poisoning causes hair loss, makes your teeth drop out. Just like those pirate skeletons. What else could be the
cause of that mass grave? There were no signs of violence on the skeletons. Why else would the rest of the pirates have left
in such a hurry? They were running from an invisible killer they didn’t understand. And why do you suppose Ockham’s ship was
found derelict, the crew all dead? Because they’d received, over time, a fatal dose of radiation, leaking from the casket
that held St. Michael’s Sword.”

Streeter dug the gun barrel cruelly into his ear, and Hatch tried vainly to twist free. “Don’t you get it? God knows just
how radioactive that sword is. It must be hot as hell. If you expose it, you’ll kill not only yourself, but who knows how
many others. You—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Neidelman said. He looked at Hatch. “Funny. I never thought it would be you. When I was selling the idea
of this dig to our backers, juggling numbers for risk analysis, you were the one stable factor in the equation. You hated
the treasure. You’d never let anyone dig on your island. Hell, you’d never even been back to Stormhaven. If I could only secure
your cooperation, I knew I’d never have to worry about greed.” He shook his head. “It pains me to think how much I misjudged
you.”

There was a final hiss of steel, then Magnusen stood up. “Done, Captain,” she said, removing the visor and reaching for the
electrical box that controlled the winch. There was a whine as the cable went taut. With a thin metallic protest, the plate
was lifted from the iron slab. Magnusen angled it to the far corner of the shaft floor, settled it to the earth, then unhooked
the cable from the base of the large bucket.

Almost despite himself, Hatch found his eyes traveling toward the ragged square that had been cut into the iron plate. The
dark opening to the treasure chamber exhaled the faint perfume of ambergris, frankincense, and sandalwood.

“Lower the light,” the Captain said.

Her heavy body trembling with suppressed excitement, Magnusen plucked a basket lamp from the ladder and swung it down into
the hole. Then Neidelman dropped to his hands and knees. Slowly, carefully, he peered inside.

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the dripping of water, the faint hiss of the forced air system, and the distant
sound of thunder. At last the Captain rose to his feet. He staggered slightly, then caught himself. His face had become rigid,
almost masklike, and his damp skin was white. Struggling with suppressed emotion, he mopped his face with a handkerchief and
nodded to Magnusen.

Magnusen dropped quickly, pressing her face into the hole. Hatch could hear her involuntary gasp echo up, strangely hollow,
from the chamber beneath. She remained at the opening in the floor, rigid, for several long minutes. Finally, she stood up
and moved to one side.

Neidelman turned to Hatch. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“That’s right. I’m not without feeling. These riches would have been half yours. And it’s because of you we were able to dig
here. For that I remain grateful, despite all the trouble you’ve caused. Surely you want to see what we’ve worked so hard
for.”

Hatch took a deep breath. “Captain, there’s a Geiger counter in my office. I’m not asking you to believe without seeing—”

Neidelman slapped him across the jaw. It was not hard, but the pain that shot through Hatch’s mouth and ear was so unbearable
he sank to his knees. He was dimly aware that the Captain’s features had suddenly turned crimson, contorted into a look of
intense anger.

Wordlessly, Neidelman gestured toward the iron plate. Streeter grabbed Hatch by the hair and twisted his head downward into
the opening.

Hatch blinked once, then twice, as he struggled to comprehend. The light swung back and forth, sending shadows across the
vault. The metal chamber was about ten feet square, the iron walls furred with rust but still intact. As he stared, Hatch
forgot the pain in his head; forgot Streeter’s hands twisting sadistically in his hair; forgot Neidelman; forgot everything.

As a boy, he had once seen a photograph of the antechamber to King Tutankhamen’s tomb. Staring at the casks, boxes, chests,
crates, and barrels that lined the walls of the chamber beneath him, the memory of that photo came rushing back.

He could see the treasure had once been carefully wrapped and stored by Ockham and his men. But time had taken its toll. The
leather sacks had rotted and split, pouring out streams of gold and silver coins that mixed and mingled in small rivers. From
the wormy, sprung staves of the casks spilled great uncut emeralds, rubies dark as pig’s blood, sapphires winking in the flickering
light, topazes, carved amethysts, pearls, and everywhere the scintillating rainbows of diamonds, cut and uncut, large and
small. Against one wall lay bundles of elephant tusks, narwhal horns, and boar’s ivory, yellowed and cracked. Against another
were enormous bolts of a material that had clearly once been silk; now it had rotted into lumps of decaying black ash, shot
through with masses of gold threads.