Riptide (50 page)

Along one wall rose a stack of small wooden crates. The sides of the topmost crates had fallen away and Hatch could see the
butt ends of rough gold bars—hundreds, perhaps thousands of them—stacked back to back. Ranged along the fourth wall were crates
and bags in odd shapes and sizes, some of which had tumbled over and broken open, revealing ecclesiastical treasures: gold
crosses encrusted with pearls and gemstones, elaborately decorated gold chalices. Beside them, another bag had burst open,
revealing a bundle of braided gold epaulettes taken from unfortunate sea captains.

Atop the center of this fantastic hoard was a long, lead coffin, trimmed and edged with gold, strapped with iron bands that
anchored it to the vault’s floor. A massive brass lock was attached to its top face, partly concealing the golden image of
an unsheathed sword etched into its lid.

As Hatch stared, barely able to breathe, he heard a clink, then a rush, as a rotten sack burst and a stream of gold doubloons
poured out, running in rivulets among the piled treasures.

Then he was jerked to his feet and the wondrous, nightmarish sight was gone.

“Get everything ready on the surface,” Neidelman was saying. “Sandra will winch the treasure up in the bucket. Two trailers
are attached to the ATV, correct? We should be able to get the bulk of the treasure out to the
Griffin
in half a dozen trips. That’s all we can chance.”

“And what do I do with him?” Streeter asked.

Neidelman simply nodded. A smile creased Streeter’s features as he raised his gun toward Hatch’s head.

“Not here,” Neidelman murmured. The sudden rage had passed, and he was calm again, looking down toward the treasure chamber,
his expression far away. “It must look like an accident. I wouldn’t like to think of his rotten corpse drifting in on the
tide with a bullet in its brainpan. Take him into a side tunnel, or…”

He paused.

“Put him with his brother,” he said, his eyes drifting toward Streeter for the briefest of seconds before returning to the
flickering hole at his feet. “And Mr. Streeter—”

Streeter paused in turning Hatch toward the ladder.

“You said there’s a chance Isobel survived. Eliminate that chance, if you please.”

A
s Bonterre clambered cautiously up to the observation post, ready to leap for the ground at a moment’s notice, Rankin turned
and saw her. His beard split into a huge grin, then fell almost comically as he got a better look.

“Isobel!” he cried, coming forward. “You’re soaked. And what the hell—your face is all bloody!”

“Never mind,” said Bonterre, stripping off her wet slicker and sweaters and wringing them out.

“What happened?”

Bonterre looked at him, wondering how much she should say. “Boat wreck,” she replied after a moment.

“Jesus. Why didn’t the—”

“I will explain later,” she interrupted, shrugging back into the damp clothes. “Have you seen Malin?”

“Dr. Hatch?” Rankin asked. “Nope.” A small beeping sounded on a far console and he hurried over to take a look. “Things have
gotten pretty weird around here. The digging crew reached the iron plate over the treasure chamber around seven. Neidelman
dismissed them, sent them home because of the storm. Then he called me up here to relieve Magnusen and monitor the major systems.
Only most everything is down. The generators are off-line, and the backup batteries can’t support the whole load. I’ve had
to shut down all noncritical systems. Communications have been out since lightning trashed the uplink. They’re on their own
down there.”

Bonterre walked toward the center of the structure and stared down through the glass porthole. The Water Pit was dark, a glowing
ember of light deep at its core. The skeletal tracery of struts and braces that filled the Pit shone dimly in the reflected
emergency lamps.

“So who’s down there?” she asked.

“Just Neidelman and Magnusen, far as I know. Haven’t seen anybody else on the monitors, anyway. And they went out when the
generators failed.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the closed-circuit monitors, now awash in snow.

But Bonterre continued to stare down toward the faint light at the base of the Pit. “How about Streeter?”

“Haven’t seen him since we had all that company in the lobster boats, earlier in the day.”

Bonterre stepped away from the glass floor. “Has Neidelman broached the chamber?”

“Like I said, I lost the video feeds. All I got left are the instruments. At least the hardbody sonar is giving clearer signals
now that all the dirt’s been removed. I’ve been trying to get a cross section of…”

His voice died as Bonterre became aware of a faint vibration, a tremor at the edge of perceptibility. She glanced out the
windows, sudden fear washing over her. But the battered cofferdam was still holding back the fury of the sea.

“What the hell?” breathed Rankin, staring at the sonar screen.

“Do you feel that?” Bonterre asked.

“Feel it? I can
see
it right here.”

“What is it?”

“Damned if I know. Way too shallow to be an earthquake, and anyway it isn’t throwing out the right P-waves.” He tapped briefly
on a keyboard. “There, it’s stopped again. Some tunnel caving in somewhere, I’ll bet.”

“Look, Roger, I need your help.” Bonterre set the sopping nylon bag onto an instrument panel and unzipped it. “Ever seen a
machine such like this one?”

Rankin kept his eyes on the monitor. “What is it?”

“A Radmeter. It is for—”

“Wait a minute. A Radmeter?” Rankin looked over from the monitor. “Well, what the hell. Yeah, I know what it is. Those puppies
aren’t cheap. Where’d you get it?”

“You know how to work it?”

“More or less. Mining company I worked for used one for tracing strikes of pitchblende deposits. Wasn’t as fancy as this one,
though.”

Coming over, he snapped it on and typed a few instructions on the miniature keyboard. A glowing, three-dimensional grid appeared
on the screen. “You aim this detector,” he said, moving the microphonelike device, “and it traces a map of the radioactive
source on the screen. The intensity is color-coded. Blues and greens for the lowest-level radiation, then up through the spectrum.
White’s the hottest. Hmmm, this thing needs calibration.” The screen was streaked with dashes and spots of blue.

Rankin tapped a few keys. “Damn, I’m getting a hell of a lot of background noise. The machine’s probably on the fritz. Just
like everything else around here.”

“The machine is working just fine,” said Bonterre evenly. “It is picking up radiation from St. Michael’s Sword.”

Rankin glanced at her, squinting his eyes. “What did you say?”

“The sword is radioactive.”

Rankin continued looking at her. “You’re jiving me.”

“I do not jive. The radioactivity has been the cause of all our problems.” Bonterre quickly explained while Rankin stared
at her, his mouth working silently behind his thick beard. When she finished, she braced herself for the inevitable argument.

But none came. Rankin continued staring, his hirsute face perplexed. Then it cleared and he nodded suddenly, great beard wagging.
“Hell, I guess it’s the only answer that explains everything. I wonder—”

“We do not have time for speculation,” interrupted Bonterre sharply. “Neidelman cannot be allowed to open the casket.”

“Yes,” said Rankin slowly, still thinking. “Yes, it would have to be radioactive as hell to be leaking all the way to the
surface. Shit, he could fry us all. No wonder the equipment’s been acting up. It’s a wonder the sonar’s cleared up enough
to…”

The words died on his lips as his gaze turned back to the bank of equipment.

“Christ on a bicycle,” he said wonderingly.

N
eidelman stood motionless at the base of the Water Pit. Above his head, the lift hummed as it carried Streeter and Hatch up
the array until they were lost from view in the forest of struts.

Neidelman did not hear the lift recede. He glanced at Magnusen, face pressed again to the hole in the iron plate, her breathing
rapid and shallow. Without a word, he eased her aside—she moved sluggishly, as if exhausted or half asleep—grasped his lifeline,
hooked it to the ladder, and lowered himself through the hole.

He landed next to the sword casket, knocking loose a dozen rattling streams of precious metal. He stood there, gazing at the
casket, blind to the dazzling wealth that filled the chamber. Then he knelt, almost reverently, his eyes caressing its every
detail.

It was about five feet long and two feet wide, the sides made of engraved lead chased with silver, the corners and edges decorated
with elaborate gold work. The entire casket was strapped to the iron floor of the treasure crypt by four crossed bands of
iron: a strangely crude cage to hold such a magnificent prisoner.

He looked more closely. The casket was supported by claw legs of pure gold. Each leg was formed as an eagle talon gripping
an orb: obviously of Baroque origin and added much later. Indeed, it seemed the entire casket was an amalgam of styles, dating
from the thirteenth century to the early Spanish Baroque. Evidently the lead casket had been added to over the ages, each
decoration more sumptuous than the last.

Neidelman reached out and touched the fine metalwork, surprised to find it almost warm. He slipped his hand inside the iron
cage and traced the workmanship with a slender fingertip. Over the years, no day passed in which he hadn’t imagined this moment.
He had often pictured what it would be like to see this casket, to touch it, to open it—and, in the fullness of time, draw
out its contents.

Countless hours had been spent musing on the sword’s design. Sometimes, he imagined a great Roman sword of beaten electrum,
perhaps even the Sword of Damocles itself. At other times, he imagined a barbarous Saracen weapon of chased gold with a silver
blade, or a Byzantine broadsword, encrusted with gems and too heavy even to lift. He had even imagined that perhaps it was
the sword of Saladin, carried back by a knight from the Crusades, made of the finest Damascene steel inlaid in gold and set
with diamonds from King Solomon’s mines.

The possibilities, the speculations, filled him with an intense emotion, more overwhelming than anything he had known.
This must be how it feels to behold the face of God,
he thought.

He remembered there was not much time. Removing his hands from the silky metal of the casket, he placed them on the steel
bands that surrounded it. He tugged, first gingerly, then with force. The cage that surrounded the casket was solid, immovable.
Odd, he thought, that the bands went
through
slots in the iron floor and seemed to be attached to something below. The extraordinary security with which the casket was
guarded confirmed its incalculable value.

Digging into a pocket, he drew out a penknife and gouged it into the rust that coated the nearest band. A few flakes came
away, showing bright steel underneath. To free the chest, he would have to cut through the bands with the torch.

The sound of loud breathing disturbed his thoughts. He looked up to see Magnusen peering down through the opening. Her eyes
looked dark and fevered in the swinging glow of the basket lamp.

“Bring down the torch,” he said. “I’m going to cut this chest loose.”

In less than a minute she landed heavily beside him. Falling to her knees, the torch forgotten, she stared at the sea of riches.
She picked up a fistful of gold doubloons and fat louis d’ors, letting them slide through her fingers. Then she picked up
another handful, more quickly; and then another, and another. Her elbow bumped against a small wooden casket and it ruptured
into powder, spilling diamonds and carnelians. Then a momentary panic overwhelmed her and she scrabbled for them, stuffing
the winking gems indiscriminately into her pockets, lurching forward and breaking additional bags in her haste. At last she
fell facedown into the priceless mass, arms buried in the loose gold, legs spread, softly laughing, or crying, or perhaps
both.