The Cradle of Life (6 page)

Two of the attackers were poised over the water near where she'd entered it, spearguns at the ready. As she watched, first one, then the other fired into the pool, then stood over it a moment, waiting.

She noted they were Asian, as well.

The two men were firing blind, hoping to hit her. Not such a bad strategy, since the pool was not very big at all.

The two men exchanged a glance, then reloaded their spearpistols, and started circling the pool again.

Lara scanned the rest of the temple interior. Along the far wall, three other attackers were finishing what Jimmy and Nicholas had started—loading up the DPVs with the filled treasure bags. She didn't see the sixth man anywhere.

But there was the Alexander statue—now covered almost up to the knees by water. Lara took a deep, quiet breath and swam for it. Five feet away, she spotted the Colt. Without surfacing, she picked up the gun and released the safety.

Then she turned around. Closest to her were the two men circling the pool with spearguns, hoping to spot her.

Lara raised the gun, sighted, and fired.

The bullet exploded out of the water and caught her target square in the chest. He flew backward through the air, and even before he'd hit the ground, the other man was spinning, quick as lightning, raising his speargun and pointing it right at Lara.

But she was quicker. She fired a second time, and that man fell, as well.

Lara rose up out of the water and spun, aiming toward the first of the other three men, clumped near the DPVs.

Movement from above distracted her, and even as she squeezed the trigger, she knew her shot was off. That upset her.

What upset her even more was the source of that movement above her—the sixth attacker, Jimmy's killer, determinedly making for the Orb.

That was hers.

A spear whizzed past her.

Lara dove for the ground, and rolled, once, twice, then coming to rest flat on her back.

She raised the Colt, targeting the sixth man.

The sixth attacker raised his spearpistol. He smiled as he closed his hand around the Orb, and took aim at Lara.

The three remaining attackers—spread out along the far wall with him—did the same.

Lara's finger tightened on the trigger of her Colt. A split second before firing, she stopped herself.

This was her last shot.

She had four targets—four men to kill.

Only one way to take them all out.

Lara spun and fired at the base of the column behind her, shattering the last bits of supporting marble.

With a loud thunk, the column dropped five feet straight down, to the temple floor. A huge chunk of the temple roof came with it.

And then the entire cave began to collapse. Bits of earth and tile plunged all around her—from one of the leaks in the ceiling, a torrent of ocean water began pouring in.

Lara began to run toward the DPVs, and the treasure. Toward the hole in the temple floor that was the only way out of what was now a death trap.

A meter-square piece of tile plunged directly toward the attackers.

To Lara's immense disappointment, the sixth attacker—Jimmy's killer—shattered it with a well-aimed spear from his gun.

Even as he fired, he was pushing the others back toward the DPVs, shouting in Mandarin as he did so. On a course to intercept Lara.

She gritted her teeth, and willed herself forward, even faster.

As she passed the Alexander statue, a huge chunk of the petroglyph mural collapsed in front of her. She tried to leap over it, but her timing was off, and she clipped it with one foot, stumbled, and fell to the ground.

A cloud of earth and dust collapsed directly on top of her.

By the time it had cleared, the two men were dead, two had escaped, and the remaining DPV was useless.

She coughed up some of the dust she'd swallowed, and started crawling on her hands and knees toward where she knew the hole in the temple floor had to be. She found it, eventually. Only one problem.

Lara no longer had her breathing mask. Or oxygen. And by the most optimistic of reckonings, she was a hundred fifty feet from the surface. Surfacing without any sort of decompression was risky, but she'd have to take that risk.

Behind her, the temple rumbled again. Another portion of the wall collapsed.

First things first, Lara thought. Get out of here.

Taking a deep breath, she plunged headfirst into the tunnel.

Squeezing through the opening in the coral that she'd made with her DPV, Lara made her way through the winding passageway, out into the open ocean at the floor of the cliff base.

As she emerged, she nearly collided with a tiger shark, swimming by the entrance to the tunnel.

Lara reached reflexively for the knife at her belt. Brandished it in front of her, to warn the animal off. It paid her no mind whatsoever, and kept swimming—looking for an easier target, she supposed.

She slid the knife back into her belt and tensed her body, preparing to spring off the ocean floor for the long swim to the surface above.

But when she looked up, that surface—the dim light of day—seemed impossibly far away.

She'd been holding her breath for too long already—she would never make topside, even swimming as fast as she could now.

She needed to think this through.

She swam back into the tunnel, through the break in the coral, and emerged back into the collapsed ruins of the Luna Temple. To a rude surprise.

The air pocket above her was barely the size of a coffin.

Somewhere off in the distance, she heard a great rumbling. Soon even this little air pocket would be gone, she knew, taking one deep breath, then another. The last air she would get until she reached the surface.

And she would reach the surface, there was no doubt in her mind about that. She would find a way—she would have to—because she had to pay back the men that had killed Nicholas and Jimmy. Pay them back in kind, put a knife of her own into their hearts, make sure that those vicious killers would not get away with—

Vicious killers
, Lara thought.

She pulled the diving glove off her left hand, and slid it, backward, over the glove already on her right. An extra layer of protection.

She would need it.

Lara pulled the knife out of her belt again, and slashed her right forearm. Blood welled up instantly in the cut.

She stuck the knife away again, and dove.

Through the coral, through the tunnel, toward the open ocean again. Felt a rumbling behind her as she swam that she knew was the final collapse of the Luna Temple.

Blood billowed from her arm as she emerged from the underwater cliff.

The tiger shark was nowhere in sight.

Come on, you cold-blooded bastard, Lara thought, waving her cut arm about in the water. Thrashing like a wounded animal. Come and get me.

The first attack came from directly behind her.

She spun just as the shark shot past. A bolt of blue-and-gray lightning. God, it was fast. But that run had just been a test—a feint to see how badly injured Lara was. It hadn't come within five feet of her.

Not close enough for what she planned.

Now the animal was circling. It came about and faced her again, its cold, dead eyes weighing her.

Lara let herself go limp.

And the shark struck—even faster this time, coming straight for her.

At the last possible second, Lara's left hand shot forward, clenched into a fist. She punched the shark right in the nose. An old diver's trick—the shark veered off, convinced again that this prey was not worth the risk.

As it swam past, Lara grabbed onto its fin with her double-gloved right hand, and held on for dear life.

The shark bolted for the surface, thrashing and weaving as it tried to rid itself of its unwelcome passenger.

For her part, Lara just concentrated on holding on. Her breath was already gone, and she felt the beginnings of a faint queasiness that she knew could represent the bends, but she couldn't worry about either of those things now, as she narrowed her whole world down to her right hand and the fin, to squeezing with every ounce of her strength, ignoring the throbbing pain in her wound, the rush of the water sliding past her, the seemingly endless expanse of blue above…

The shark swam.

The animal thrashed hard to the left—Lara's body went with it.

Then the shark thrashed back to the right, and its tail caught Lara square in the stomach.

She went flying backward—her hand let go of the fin.

No
, she thought.

“No.”

She said the word aloud—and opened her eyes to find herself bobbing on the surface of the ocean. Calm, featureless, no sight of land or boat anywhere.

Her entire body was a bruise. Her right hand was numb.

She felt consciousness slipping away.

She reached out and grabbed a piece of wood as it drifted past.

Draped herself over it and activated the transmitter on her collar.

Everything went black.

 

Later. The sun burned down on her from high above. She felt something sticky, and wet on her face. Dried saltwater—dried blood, who knew which?

Not her.

She closed her eyes again.

She opened them with a start.

It was later now. The sun was at four o'clock, drifting toward the horizon.

Something was wrong.

Lara pulled herself up farther on the driftwood.

The water around her shifted.

Before she could move, something slammed into her from beneath.

The shark? No, too big for the shark, too hard for the shark.

Whale, she thought, adrenaline surging through her system as she rolled to the side and—

Touched metal.

The thing beneath her rose up, breaking the surface, sending her rolling backward.

It was a submarine.

Lara found a railing and held on.

The conning tower popped open. Hillary burst through the door, a panicked expression on his face.

Bryce followed a second later.

“Oh my God,” Hillary said, stumbing down the ladder in his haste to get to her. “Oh my God.”

He knelt down next to her, and from somewhere, produced a mug. It smelled like tea.

He held it up to her lips, and Lara drank.

It was tea.

“Oh. I needed that,” Lara croaked.

Hillary continued to look stricken.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

“It's not that bad,” she repeated, struggling to sit up.

“It's awful!”

Lara turned and saw Bryce poking at the remnants of her new digicam, which dangled off her shoulder.

“This is awful,” he repeated, looking as distressed as Hillary had. “Lara, I spend countless hours making sure you have the best equipment. I don't think you appreciate that—”

“Bryce,” Hillary interrupted, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Not now.”

Bryce humphed, and glared at Lara. “That means you don't appreciate me.”

She reached out and shoved him to the deck. He looked up at her, shocked.

“What did I say?”

“Not what you said—what you are. A pain in the arse.”

It was only then she saw the piece of driftwood she'd been hanging on to.

With the word
Konstantinos
painted on it.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, an hour out from the airport, the waiting finally got to Monza.

“Ridiculous!” He'd been holding his pen in one hand, flicking the point in and out, his impatience growing with each passing minute. Now he squeezed the barrel tight between thumb and forefinger, only for an instant, but his strength—like the rest of him—was prodigious.

The barrel snapped.

Monza laid the shards on the table in front of him, and cleared his throat. “Did you—did any of you know he'd moved the meeting to…this?”

As he spoke he spun in his chair, making eye contact with each of the five people sharing the main cabin with him in turn. First those seated behind him, San, Krev, and Al-Sabah—then, directly across the cabin, Duvalier—and finally, the sole woman in their group, seated directly across a small serving table from him, Madame Gillespie.

All shook their heads.

Monza snorted. He'd spoken more out of exasperation than anything else, wasn't really expecting that any of the others had any more advance knowledge than he had of the change of location. He was frustrated, that was all—moving the meeting had upset his schedule, ruined some carefully laid plans of his.

He glanced forward now, to the curtain that separated the main cabin from the Gulfstream's forward compartment, said compartment being—presumably—where their host waited to make his appearance. As Monza looked, he thought he saw a shadow pass behind the curtain. He craned his neck, trying to peer around the edge of the fabric, but it was no use. The curtain was drawn too tight.

Monza snorted, and downed the rest of his wine. When Monza was frustrated, he tended to indulge. It was a fault of his, he knew it, but not one he had any desire to change.

As he settled back in his chair, one of the serving girls stepped forward to refill his glass. She avoided making eye contact with him—not surprising, really, people—particularly people of the opposite sex—had been treating Edgar Monza that way for his entire life. When he was younger, it was because his physical appearance—his size, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, and acted—repelled them.

Now that he had earned himself a reputation—one that had clearly preceded him aboard this plane—it was because they feared him.

Which Monza far preferred.

“What's the matter? Don't you like me?”

The girl—she and the other server, the blonde, had introduced themselves as he'd boarded the plane, but Monza had forgotten their names immediately—forced herself to smile. Tried to laugh as she finished pouring his wine, but Monza could see through that.

She was terrified.

Monza reached for his drink, and deliberately knocked the glass over.

The girl bit her lip, trying not to show emotion. Monza smiled.

“Can I have some more. Please?”

She avoided his eyes, wiped up the spill. Then she picked up his glass and started pouring again.

Monza put his hand on her bottom, caressed her.

“I'm sorry, angel, if I seem irritated,” he said. To her credit, she didn't spill a drop. Monza smiled even more broadly. She had more spunk than he'd given her credit for. He thought about taking her to the back of the plane, indulging some of his other desires with her. He wondered if their host would be annoyed.

He rather hoped so.

“I am not patient like my friends,” he continued. “I don't like it when plans are changed for no reason—”

“Really, Mister Monza.”

Monza looked up.

The curtain at the front of the cabin had been pulled back—

And Dr. Jonathan Reiss stood in the doorway.

“I should think you know me better than that.”

The girl took advantage of Reiss's appearance to back quickly away. Monza let her go, took a sip from his glass as he studied their host.

Reiss was immaculately turned out, as always, in a tan suit—probably Italian, obviously custom-made, it hung off him perfectly, made him look like he'd stepped out of the pages of a catalog, his hair perfectly coiffed, matching shoes, tie, and handkerchief completing the ensemble. Monza, who had his suits made by the finest tailors in the world and yet could never quite avoid rumpling them, could never get them to fit properly, thought that another reason to dislike the doctor—as was the grateful smile the serving girl flashed at Reiss as she scurried to her post at the back of the plane.

“You'll all accept my apologies, of course,” Reiss said, “but behind every choice I make, one will always find a reason. In this instance, the six of you in one room makes for a tempting target for NATO. Rather than move any of you, I decided to move the room.” Reiss flashed a brief smile. “At six hundred miles per hour.”

The others nodded understandingly. Mr. San, in the chair just behind Monza, even chuckled.

Monza was not as amused.

“That's not an apology!” he shouted, banging his hand on the table. “It's our money that pays for the shirt on your back, not to mention this jet! Yet you make us wait like dogs!”

There was silence after his outburst—a silence born out of tension, and expectation. Everyone—Monza included—waited to see what Reiss would do, how he would react.

The doctor locked eyes with Monza a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. He smiled.

“Then I apologize, Mr. Monza.” He looked around the room, including the others in the conversation. “To you, and to everyone. Please—let's drink to it.”

He waved the serving girls forward. They poured from new bottles—Monza swallowed what remained of his drink in a single gulp and held out his glass for one of the girls to refill.

To his surprise, the brunette—the one he'd been amusing himself with—stepped in front of the other server to see to his glass herself. Their eyes met as she poured, and Monza was surprised to see her so cool, so composed.

Odd
, he thought, as she stepped away. Then her eyes went to Reiss, and he understood. Reiss was here, and she felt safe, protected.
False security
, Monza thought. His plans for today might have changed, but Jonathan Reiss would not be able to offer this delicate flower a safe haven for too much longer.

“Gentlemen—and lady,” Reiss began, and he turned to the back of the plane a moment, seemed to study something there, though Monza couldn't tell what, there was only a painting of some kind, a clock, and the toilet of course.

“There is an expression,” Reiss said, walking forward as he spoke. “It's not nice to fool Mother Nature. And yet, whether it be sarin gas for Mr. San—” he stopped next to San just then, and laid a hand on the other man's shoulder “—improved typhoid for Mr. Krev to use in the Balkans,” he continued, lifting his hand and nodding toward Krev, “or enhanced cholera for Mr. Duvalier,” and at those words, he and the Frenchman exchanged the briefest of smiles, “or the more exotic work I've done for you, Mr. Monza,” Reiss said, and Monza looked up to find the doctor's eyes focused on him now, “that is precisely what I've been doing.”

Something in the doctor's gaze unnerved Monza. He turned away, and took another sip of his wine. Different vintage, this, he decided. There was an aftertaste he didn't care for.

Reiss turned away, and glanced back at the rear of the plane again. Again, Monza wondered why. As he wondered, the doctor began speaking again.

“Yet while those weapons served their purpose, there are always limitations; stable diseases aren't lethal, deadly ones burn out too quickly…Mother Nature can only be fooled so much. So, after years of fighting her, I've surrendered. Rather than take a disease and attempt to transform it into a weapon of mass destruction, I've gone and found the one such weapon Nature ever gave us. Something meant for more than scaring the public into wearing gloves when they open their mail. This is why I've called you all here today—to show you the way that Mother Nature levels nations. And to offer you a chance to possess that power for yourselves.”

Monza saw the others in the cabin exchange glances; he met Madame Gillespie's eyes and saw the hunger in there, felt that same hunger from all the others, felt it fill the sudden silence left by the doctor's words. Reiss had them.

And that didn't fit into Monza's plans at all.

The big man barked out a laugh.

“Crap,” Monza said, the word slicing through the silence like a knife. “We've come all this way to hear crap. Forgive my crude outburst, doctor,” and he made the title sound like a sneer, an insult, “but for years men like you have promised such a weapon and for years they have failed.”

The doctor's eyes narrowed. “You've never heard the promise from me.”

Monza laughed again, and felt a tickle in his throat. Some sediment in the wine—something stuck there. He coughed, and the slight tickle turned into a burning sensation farther down. Indigestion, acid reflux—he had them all. Nothing serious, never serious. He cleared his throat, and met Reiss's eyes again. Steel on steel—the two men eyed each other warily.

“Gentlemen—Madame Gillespie,” Reiss said. “Your governments have attacked their enemies. Those enemies fought back. You've terrorized their citizens—those citizens rallied around waving flags.”

Spare us the philosophizing
, Monza thought, and opened his mouth to speak again, but instead let loose another cough.
Damn
.

He had a glass of water next to him, untouched. He picked it up now and drank.

“Deploy my weapon,” Reiss continued, “and those same citizens will tremble at the sight of one another. As they begin to die, they'll blame their own government. Looting will erupt. Rapes, murders—your enemies, however great, will collapse from within like a house of cards. Or like…”

Reiss stopped, hung over Monza with a strange sickening smile.

“Like Mister Monza here,” he finished.

Monza swallowed, and felt the burning in his throat again. Worse this time.

Looked up at the mocking smile on Reiss's face.

And looked down at the glass of water in his hand, the one he'd just drank from, saw red streaks in it, not wine, no, it was—

He gurgled, and set down the glass of water.

No. God, no.

Through the sudden fire in his chest, he was vaguely aware of Duvalier jumping to his feet, backing away from him.

“What the hell is going on?” Duvalier shouted.

“What's going on?” Reiss repeated, his voice sounding eerily calm, sounding to Monza as if it was coming from a million miles away. “He told M-I-Six about our meeting. That's why I changed the location.”

The burning in his chest was unbearable now—Monza pulled the napkin from under his glass, and coughed into it. Felt something tear in his throat.

The napkin came away stained red, and white.

“Bastard,” Monza whispered. “Bastard.”

He looked up at Reiss, disbelievingly. The doctor continued to smile.

Monza knew he was dying—whatever Reiss had given him was sure to be lethal.

But perhaps—just perhaps—he could take the good doctor with him.

There was a gun inside his jacket—he had to reach for it without seeming to make a threatening move, disguise it somehow, yes, pretend he was reaching for a handkerchief, pretend—

A sudden spasm of coughing overtook him, and with it, an equally sudden attack of nausea. Monza felt his whole body wrenching upon itself, his insides twisting and turning themselves inside out and—

He moaned, and the moan turned into a gurgle, and a viscous stream of grayish matter poured out of his throat.

Monza stared, disbelieving, at the napkin, coated with what had just come out of him.

Everyone else in the cabin moved reflexively backward, seeking to put more distance between themselves and Monza. Everyone except Dr. Jonathan Reiss.

The doctor allowed himself a small shiver of pleasure, and then moved closer. He wanted to enjoy every second of Monza's death throes.

“He was going to turn me in, then seek asylum from the West,” Reiss said. He noted sweat breaking out on Monza's forehead—the disease was progressing as rapidly as Holliday and the others on the team had said it would. Faster, even.

Monza was trying to get up. Reiss put his hand on the man's neck and forced him back into his chair.

“A smart man would have known I was on to him, would never have gotten on this plane. But I knew you would, because you actually thought—” Reiss found Monza's eyes, and a spark of whatever reasoning consciousness remained in the man, in the face of the unbearable agonies his body was suffering through right now “—you actually thought you could fool me.”

The doctor shook his head pityingly.

Monza had another coughing fit, this one the worst yet. Halfway through Reiss heard a loud crack, and shook his head in wonder. That was a rib going, he thought. And there—another crack, another bone.