“Paul Cutler here is my legal counsel,” McKoy said.
He turned at the mention of his name.
“Mr. Cutler is available to assistHerr Doktor Grumer and myself in the event we have any legal difficulties at the site. We don’t expect any, but Mr. Cutler, a lawyer from Atlanta, has graciously volunteered his time.”
He smiled at the group, uncomfortable with the loose representations but powerless to say anything. He acknowledged the crowd, then turned back to the doorway.
The woman was gone.
Suzanne scampered out of the hotel. She’d seen and heard enough. McKoy, Grumer, and both Cutlers were there and apparently busy. By her count, five workers were there, as well. According to Grumer’s information, that left two other people on the payroll, probably at the site standing guard.
She’d caught Paul Cutler’s momentary glance, but his notice shouldn’t be a problem. Her physical appearance was far different from last week in his Atlanta office. To be safe, she’d stayed in the shadows and lingered only a few moments, long enough to see what was going on and take inventory. She’d taken a chance going to the Garni, but she didn’t trust Alfred Grumer. He was too German, too greedy. A million euros? The fool must be dreaming. Did he think her benefactor that gullible?
Outside, she hustled back to her Porsche, then sped east to the excavation and parked in thick woods about a half kilometer away. After a quick hike, she found a work shed and shaft entrance. The generators outside hummed. No trucks, cars, or people were visible.
She slipped into the open shaft and followed a trail of bulbs to a semidarkened gallery. Three halogen light bars were dark, the only available illumination was what spilled from a cavernous chamber beyond. She crept over and tested the air above one of the lights. Warm. She looked down and discovered that the trio of lamps had been unplugged.
In the shadows across the gallery she caught the glimpse of a form lying prone. She stepped close. A man in coveralls lay in the sand. She tried a pulse. Weak, but there.
She glanced into the chamber through an opening in the rock. A shadow danced across the far wall. She crouched low and slipped inside. No shadows betrayed her entrance, the powderlike sand cushioning each step. She decided not to ready her gun until she saw who was there.
She made it to the nearest truck and bent down, looking out from beneath the chassis. A pair of legs and boots stood on the side of the farthest truck. The feet moved right. Casual, unhurried. Her presence was obviously unknown. She stood still and decided to stay anonymous.
The legs stopped toward the rear of the farthest transport.
Canvas cracked. Whoever it was must be looking in a truck bed. She used the moment to slip around to the front end of the closest transport and dash to the hood of the next truck. Whoever it was now stood catty-corner to her on the opposite side. She carefully peered around at the figure twenty feet away.
Christian Knoll.
A chill swept through her.
Knoll checked inside the last truck bed. empty. These trucks had been picked clean. There was nothing in any of the cabs or beds. But who’d done that? McKoy? No way. He’d heard nothing in town about a significant find. Besides, there’d be remnants. Packing crates. Filler material. Yet nothing was here. And would McKoy leave a rich site guarded by only one easily overpowered man if he’d found a fortune in stolen art? The more logical explanation was these trucks were empty when McKoy breached the chamber.
But how?
And the bodies. Were they robbers from decades ago? Perhaps. Nothing unusual about that. Many of the Harz chambers had been pillaged, most by U.S. and Soviet armies that raped the region after the war, some later by scavengers and treasure hunters before the government took control of the area. He stepped to one of the bodies and stared down at the blackened bones. This whole scenario was strange. Why was Danzer so interested in what was obviously nothing? Interested enough to cultivate a covert source that wanted a million euros merely as a downpayment for information.
What kind of information?
A feeling surged through him. One he’d learned to trust. One that told him in Atlanta that Danzer was on his trail. One that told him now that somebody else was in the chamber.
He told himself to keep his moves casual. A sudden turn would spook his visitor. Instead, he slowly strolled down the length of the truck and led whoever it was farther from the entrance, placing himself in between. The intruder, though, intentionally avoided the light bars, allowing no shadow to betray any movement. He stopped and crouched, staring beneath the three transports for legs and feet.
There were none.
Suzanne stood rigid before one of the crushed wheel assemblies. She’d followed Knoll deeper into the chamber and heard when his footsteps stopped. He was making no effort to mask sound, and that worried her. Did he sense her? Like in Atlanta? Maybe he was looking underneath the trucks as she’d done. If so, there’d be nothing to see. But he wouldn’t hesitate long. She was not used to such an adversary. Most of her opponents did not possess the cunning of Christian Knoll. And once he ascertained it was her, there’d be hell to pay. Surely by now he’d learned about Chapaev, realized the mine had been a trap, and narrowed the list of likely suspects who would have set that trap to one.
Knoll’s path across the chamber was also cause for concern.
He was leading her in. The bastard knew.
She withdrew the Sauer, her finger instantly wrapped around the trigger.
Knoll twisted his right arm and released the stiletto. He palmed the lavender-jade handle and prepared himself. He stole another look beneath the trucks. No feet. Whoever it was obviously had used the wheel mounts as protection. He decided to act and pivoted off the rusted hood of the nearest transport and landed on the other side.
Suzanne Danzer stood twenty feet away, hugging a rear wheel mount. Shock filled her face at the sight of him. Her gun came up and leveled. He leaped in front of the adjacent transport. Two muffled shots exited the barrel, the bullets ricocheting off the rock wall.
He rose up and hurled the stiletto.
Suzanne dived to the ground, anticipating the knife. It was Knoll’s trademark, and the tip had glistened in the light as he landed for the first assault. She realized that her shots would only be enough to momentarily distract him, so when Knoll rebounded, cocked his wrist, and propelled the blade her way, she was ready.
The stiletto swooshed past, slicing into the petrified canvas of the nearest transport’s bed, its blade piercing the thin layer of rigid cloth down to the handle. There’d be only a second before he charged. She fired another shot in Knoll’s direction. Again, the bullet damaged only rock.
“Not this time, Suzanne,” Knoll slowly said. “You’re mine.”
“You’re unarmed.”
“Are you sure?”
She stared down at her gun, wondering how many shots were left in the clip. Four? Her eyes scanned the chamber, her mind reeling. Knoll was between her and the only way out. She needed something to stop the bastard long enough to allow her to escape this rat cage. Her eyes surveyed the rock walls, trucks, and lights.
The lights.
Darkness would be her ally.
She quickly popped the clip from the pistol and replaced it with the spare from her pocket. Now she had seven shots. She aimed at the nearest light bar and fired. Lamps exploded in an electrical shower of sparks and smoke. She rose and darted for the opening, firing at the other light bar. Another blinding explosion flared, then extinguished and the chamber was plunged into total darkness. She set her course just as the last bits of light faded and hoped she ran straight.
If not, a wall of rock would be waiting for her.
Knoll dashed for the stiletto as the first light bar exploded. He realized there’d be only a few more seconds of vision, and Danzer was right, without the knife he was unarmed. A gun would be nice. He’d foolishly left the CZ-75B in his hotel room, thinking it not necessary for this short foray. He actually preferred the stealth of a blade to a gun, but fifteen rounds would have come in handy right now.
He yanked the stiletto free of the canvas and turned. Danzer was racing for the opening to the shaft. He readied himself for another throw.
A light bar exploded in a blinding flash.
Then the room congealed into darkness.
Suzanne ran straight ahead and bisected the opening leading out to the gallery. Ahead, the main shaft was strung with bulbs. She focused on the glow closest to her and raced straight for it, then charged down the narrow shaft, using her gun to rake the bulbs clean and extinguish the trail.
Knoll was blinded by the last flash. He closed his eyes and told himself to stand still, stay calm. What had Monika said about Danzer earlier?
Mousy little thing.
Hardly. Dangerous as hell was a better description.
The acrid odor of an electrical burn filled his nostrils. The chamber started to cool from the darkness. He opened his eyes. Black slowly dissolved and even darker forms appeared. Beyond the opening, past the gallery to the main shaft, lights flashed as bulbs exploded.
He ran toward them.
Suzanne raced for daylight. Footsteps echoed from behind. Knoll was coming. She had to move fast. She emerged into a dim afternoon and sprinted through thick forest toward her car. The half kilometer would take a minute or so to traverse. Hopefully she had enough of a lead on Knoll to give her time. Maybe he wouldn’t know which direction she went after exiting.
She zigzagged past tall pines, through dense ferns, breathing hard, commanding her legs to keep moving.
Knoll exited the tunnel and quickly took stock of the surroundings. Off to his right, clothing flashed through the trees fifty meters away. He took in the shape of the runner.
A woman.
Danzer.
He sprinted in her direction, stiletto in hand.
Suzanne reached the porsche and leaped in. She revved the engine, slammed the gear shift into first, and plunged the accelerator to the floor. Tires spun, then grabbed, and the car lurched forward. In the rearview mirror, she saw Knoll emerge from the trees, knife in hand.
She sped to the highway and stopped, then cocked her head out the window and saluted before speeding away.
Knoll almost smiled at the gesture. Payback for his mocking of her in the Atlanta airport. Danzer was probably proud of herself, pleased with her escape, another one-up on him.
He checked his watch. 4:30P .M.
No matter.
He knew exactly where she’d be in six hours.
4:45 p.m.
Paul watched the last partner file out of the salon. Wayland McKoy had smiled at each one, shook their hands, and assured them that things were going to be great. The big man seemed pleased. The meeting had gone well. For nearly two hours they’d fended questions, lacing their answers with romantic notions of greedy Nazis and forgotten treasure, using history as a narcotic to dull the investors’ curiosity.
McKoy walked over. “Friggin’ Grumer was pretty good, huh?” Paul, McKoy, and Rachel were now alone, all the partners upstairs, settling into their rooms. Grumer had left a few minutes ago.
“Grumer did handle himself well,” Paul said. “But I’m not comfortable with this stalling.”
“Who’s stallin’? I intend to excavate that other entrance, and it could lead to another chamber.”
Rachel frowned. “Your ground radar soundings indicate that?”
“Shit if I know, Your Honor.”
Rachel took the rebuke with a smile. She seemed to be warming to McKoy, his abrupt attitude and sharp tongue not all that different from her own.
“We’ll bus the group out to the site tomorrow and let ’em get an eyeful,” McKoy said. “That should buy us a few more days. Maybe we’ll get lucky with the other entrance.”
“And pigs will fly,” Paul said. “You’ve got a problem, McKoy. We need to be thinking through your legal position. How about I contact my firm and fax them that solicitation letter. The litigation department can look at it.”
McKoy sighed. “What’s that goin’ to cost me?”
“Ten thousand retainer. We’ll work off that at two-fifty an hour. After, it’s by the hour, paid by the month, expenses on you.”
McKoy sucked in a deep breath. “There goes my fifty thousand. Damn good thing I haven’t spent it.”
Paul wondered if it was time McKoy knew about Grumer. Should he show him the wallet? Tell him about the letters in the sand? Perhaps he knew all along about the chamber being barren and simply withheld the information. What had Grumer said this morning? Something about suspecting the site was dry. Maybe they could blame everything on him, a foreign citizen, and claim justifiable reliance.If not for Grumer, McKoy wouldn’t have dug. That way the partners would be forced to go after Grumer in the German courts. Costs would skyrocket, perhaps making litigation an economic impracticability. Maybe enough of a problem to send the wolves in retreat. He said, “There’s something else I need—”
“Herr McKoy,” Grumer said as he rushed into the salon. “There’s been an incident at the site.”
Rachel studied the worker’s skull. A knot the size of a hen’s egg sprouted beneath the man’s thick brown hair. She, Paul, and McKoy were in the underground chamber.
“I was standing out there,” the man motioned to the outer gallery, “and the next thing I knew, everything went black.”
“You didn’t see or hear anyone?” McKoy asked.
“Nothing.”
Workers were busy replacing the blown-out bulbs in the light bars. One lamp was already glowing again. She studied the scene. Smashed lights, bulbs obliterated in the main shaft, one of the canvas awnings ripped down the side.
“The guy must have got me from behind,” the man said, rubbing the back of his head.
“How do you know it was a guy?” McKoy asked.
“I saw him,” another worker said. “I was in the shed outside going over the tunnel routes for the area. I saw a woman race out of the shaft with a gun in her hand. A man came out right after. He had a knife. They both disappeared into the woods.”