Except for the time in Nevada, I had never been on a more terrifying journey in all my life. We stopped when Jack said, "Rest break, just for a moment," and I dropped the case I was carrying and lifted up my hand to my face. The old cliché of not being able to see one's hand before one's face came horribly alive. There was nothing but the darkness, nothing at all except the smells of decayed objects and wet concrete, and the sounds of our breathing and of our feet on the ground and of dripping water, and the touch I had of the person in front of me, and the touch on my shoulder of the person behind me.
Gus spoke quietly. "Hell of a thing, ain't it."
I turned my head, replying just as quietly. I didn't want Jack to lose count. "Let me guess. Among the other lies you've told me, you were in charge of photographing and removing the Libyan body. And you took off the lapel pin, right?"
Gus just laughed, for a moment. I went on. "How did you two get hooked up? Did you intercept the first contact between him and the Libyans?"
Gus laughed again, but again kept it short. "Man, you are as dumb as the day is long. What do you think, that old yard worker up there dropped a postcard to Libya and they opened up negotiations? Hell, no. He contacted us. Found an article about us in
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or some damn thing, sent a threatening letter to NEST. Said he had this uranium and would dump it in Boston's water supply if we didn't pay him a half million dollars."
I took a breath. "And the letter came to you, didn't it."
"Uh-huh. Nobody else saw it except me. So I decided to take some initiative. Contacted him and offered something a bit more rich. A million-dollar finder's fee if he turned the uranium over to me, and I would turn it over to the Libyans. Keep it nice and simple and quiet, just the two of us. But the damn Libyans, I thought they bad a more secure communications system than the one they used, ‘cause having Laura Reeves and other fools crawling around wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Killing the Libyan contact, was that part of the plan?” I asked.
“No, that was the idea of that idiot in front of you. Jack demanded a one-on-one with the Libyan guy, sort of to size him up. You know, man-to-man crap, stuff like that. I thought it was a dumb idea. Just made sense to get the deal done. But Jack had the uranium, and I didn't. And they had the meet and it went wrong, didn't it, Jack."
No answer, just breathing from the old man in front of me.
Gus continued. "From what little that geezer told me, it seems Jack took offense at some things that the Libyan was talking about. You know, stepping onto the grounds of the Great Satan, dealing with whores and thieves, blah-blah-blah. I guess Jack lost it and popped him one. Right, Jack?"
Again, just the steady breathing. I spoke up.
"And what about the pot shot at me yesterday? Whose idea was that?"
"Oh, his, who else?"
"And you were the shooter, right?"
"Right." Gus squeezed my shoulder and I felt nauseous.
"Lucky you, Jack didn't want you dead. Just wanted to scare you away, make you go to ground for a couple of days. Looks like you guessed wrong, Jack, huh? It would've been better if I had splattered ol’ Lewis's head across your museum parking lot."
There was another squeeze of his hand and I shook my shoulder in irritation. I said, "Next time, Gus, you're going to be in my gun sites, and I promise you I won't be as agreeable as you were."
"If there's a next time, sure," Gus said.
Jack spoke up. "Stop your yapping, both of you. It's time to get moving."
The shuffling started again.
Over the next few minutes my mind began to play tricks on me. At first I imagined I was seeing a glow out in the distance, like a burning candle or lamp, and only if we moved faster would it get brighter, and I was frustrated by the slow pace. And then the glow would disappear and I wouldn't see anything, and I knew my mind was trying to bring something to the fore to reassure me. Other times I was convinced that I had gone blind, that something in the dark bowels of the tunnelworks had caused me to lose my sight, and that Jack’s method of getting to the uranium would fail and we would wander in the darkness, getting tired and hungry and thirsty, finally dying in here listening to one another's yells and shouts.
The sound of our footsteps seemed to change, to get more dim, and I sensed that we were in a larger room. Jack stopped and said, "We're moving to the right. You move along with me and we'll get there just fine. Any problems, I might choose the wrong corridor, and you'd end up in the bottom of a gunpit, broken bones and all, dying of thirst 'cause nobody comes down here. Nobody at all."
"But Keith did, didn't he? How did he know about the uranium down here?"
Jack ignored me but Gus took the question. "Sure he did, but who's going to believe a fool like that? Ol’ Jack's dad, he was the one who stole the uranium out of the shipyard. The war in Europe was over, massive layoffs were coming down, and some of the less-legal members of the workforce started taking souvenirs. Jack's dad grabbed the uranium and stashed it here, just as this place was winding down and being decommissioned. And here it sat, year after year, gathering dust, 'cause old Grandpa died in a drunk-driving accident a year or two later. The old man's grandson Keith, he started going through dear old Grandpa's papers and found out what had been stored here. He passed that along to Jack, and then Jack wrote a letter to me."
Jack said, "Let's get a move on, now. Come along."
My right arm ached from being placed on Jack's shoulder all this time, and my left hand was cramped from carrying that damn black case. Again, we began the shuffling motions and I almost groaned in pain and dismay at what we were going through. My mind's tricks started again, especially when Jack called out, "Water coming up. Don't worry, it's only about ankle deep," and we splashed through cold water that had a foul smell. After going through the water, I imagined again that Jack was lost, that he didn’t know where he was going, and that he would tumble us over into a pit that was a hundred feet deep. My toes began to curl back up against themselves, and I was thinking of what it might feel like to step out into nothing but deadly air.
I was afraid I was going to start moaning in fear, moaning out loud and making noises like a coyote caught in a leghold trap, when Jack said calmly, "We're here. Close your eyes and cover them with your hands. It helps."
I dropped the case and almost sighed out loud in relief as I brought my hands up to my eyes. Yards, I thought, I was literally yards away from my comfortable home and safe bedroom at Tyler Beach, and here I was, buried underneath tons of dirt and concrete, living at the whim of two killers, each of whom seemed eager as hell to strike out at the other.
Suddenly light glared through my fingers and my closed eyelids, like being on a Nevada test range as an atomic bomb goes off. I blinked hard and slowly opened my eyes, which were tearing from pain, and looked around. We were in what seemed to be the central area of the emplacement, with concrete-lined corridors running out like spokes on a wagon wheel. More homemade lights were hung from rusting pipes, and cable conduits from the cement ceiling. Gus was off to my right, and Jack was to my left, and again I had the feeling of being a target, as both ensured that I was between them.
I looked around some more. The place was a mess. Graffiti --- WORSHIP SATAN, 666, WORK sucks --- had been spray-painted in large looping letters on the walls, along with the names of Freddy, Jen, Krystal and Byron, and the usual cryptic graffiti symbols that look like relatives of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Beer cans, broken whiskey bottles and crumpled cigarette packages and snack containers were scattered across the floor. Faded black paint in careful block letters above some of the corridor openings said PLOTTING ROOM, RADIO ROOM, OOD STATION. Despite all that was going on, I felt a flash of anger at what years of teenagers had done here, trashing a place where men had come to work every day, defending their home, their soil. It was like seeing a graveyard being desecrated.
Near where Jack was standing was a rusted metal door, bowed in at the center, which looked as if generations of troubled youth had tried to kick it in. A gate was placed at eye level in the door, and Jack-keeping the shotgun trained on us-poked around the trash on the ground until he came up with a short length of pipe. He inserted the pipe at a particular angle through the grate, and something made a loud click. Jack had a satisfied smile on his face as he took the pipe out and dropped it to the floor.
"My dad was handy with tools and such," he said, grabbing hold of the grate and swinging the door open. "Nobody knew anything was back here for nearly a half century. A little spring lock and pressure plate. That's all it took."
The door opened up and more lights came on. A shorter concrete corridor extended in, and the floor was covered with empty beer and soda cans, no doubt tossed in through the grates. Jack kicked them aside with practiced moves, heading to another metal door at the end. This one was in better shape, and a combination lock was holding it in place. Gus and I followed Jack in, each of us carrying one of the black plastic cases.
"Lewis," Jack said. "Not that I don't trust my partner in crime here, but please keep your distance between us two as I get to work."
I moved back, as I was getting that tingly feeling, as if a large bull's-eye were painted in the middle of my spine. Jack worked the combination lock and popped it open, and I sensed Gus looking around me as the door swung wide.
And there they were, illuminated by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. Lined up against a wall were ten metal cases, nine inches to a side. Such a small collection of containers, such a small thing that had caused all this death and deceit and hate. And as if to symbolize all the death and hate, emblazoned on the side of each container, just as Keith Emerson had told me, were the German eagle and swastika, and the words: EIGENTUM DER OKW. There were other items in there as well: a couple of furled flags or banners leaning against the wall; a small pile of what looked like uniforms in the corner, and a moldering collection of pamphlets and books, all in what looked to be German. Near the door was a long metal handcart with four wheels, and by the cart were some old canvas sacks. From behind me Gus seemed to sigh in satisfaction. He said, "Jack, I need to ensure that those boxes contain what we both think they do. If they contain sand or rocks or Spam, it sure'd be a hell of a thing."
Jack said, "Makes sense."
"One of these cases has detection equipment. I'll open it up in full view of you, just to make sure nothing… well, make sure nothing untoward goes on. All right?"
Jack nodded and moved in with Gus, shotgun still in hand, as Gus knelt down and laid out the case flat on the soiled concrete. He deftly went through the combination and undid the side latches. Jack looked on intently as the lid was slowly lifted up, revealing dark gray foam-rubber protection and some instrumentation, and what looked like a metal probe, about a foot long.
"Lewis," Gus said, without looking at me. "Go on over and grab one of those cases. Bring it to me."
I wanted to tell him off, but kept my mouth shut. I stepped into the tiny room and lifted up the case with no problem. Unbelievable. More than a half century ago, German technicians had carefully packed away this uranium, confident that they were helping their Axis ally get the Bomb. Thousands of miles and decades later, these careful packages were soon going to be on their way to a place that, like wartime Japan, wanted the Bomb and hated America.
I placed the metal container down and stepped back. "It's welded shut," I said.
"Doesn't make any difference," Gus said, placing the end of the probe against the container, and working some of the instrumentation inside the case. "This close up, it... aaah, that's nice. Jack, my friend, you are now officially one million dollars richer; by this time next week, I should be humping two young things from Ipanema."
Jack smiled, for the first time I had seen him smile tonight, and he said, "The money. Pass it over. That's the deal. You've got the uranium, and I get the cash."
"Sure,” Gus said, sliding the other case over to him, but Jack just shook his head and slipped it back. “Nope. You open it.”
Gus said, "Hell, I'll tell you the combination. You can open it just as easy as I did this one."
Another shake of the head. "And have that damn thing blow up in my face? No, you open it."
"Gee, you're being awfully distrustful tonight," Gus said in mock disappointment, and he went to work on the case. He popped it open, and piled in tight rows were bundles of hundred dollar bills, the benign face of Benjamin Franklin looking up at me. He slid the case back, and once again Jack didn't look happy.
"Lewis, that money sure looks good, but I wouldn't put it past this character to have some sort of pressure switch on the bottom, set off a charge once I start emptying it. So... " He reached back into the small room, past the handcart, pulled out a bag. He tossed the bag at me and I let it fall to the floor. "Please be so kind as to transfer the money from the case to that bag."
"No," I said.
Jack looked right at me, and moved the shotgun closer in my direction. "I'm afraid you don't have any choice."
"Maybe not, but I'm tired of being everybody's gofer tonight," I said. "So to hell with you, and to hell with putting that money away. You want it so bad, do it yourself."