The Explorer's Code (42 page)

“Charles?” she began.

He looked at her resignedly. “Yes,
chérie
?” he replied, his tone dismal. His expression suggested he knew what she wanted to ask. His reticence was practically an indictment of Sinclair. Cordelia stood up and walked briskly to the door.

“Come on, Charles, we both need some coffee. Look at it this way; it can’t get any worse for either of us. What else could
possibly
happen?”

Charles smiled mirthlessly.

Sinclair was driving the final leg of the mountain track to the hotel. He berated himself for being so negligent about the time. It was unthinkable that he had left Charles and Cordelia on their own in Longyearbyen.

The track was rough, and he had to reduce his speed. The narrow road wound back and forth, as steep and serpentine as any switchback he had ever driven in the south of France. There were large boulders on either side of the route, left by seasonal rockfall off the mountain. Large chunks
of granite hampered his visibility, and he could see only the dirt track immediately in front of his vehicle.

The Land Rover labored up the incline. As he rounded a blind curve, a figure stepped out from behind a rock. He saw a woman in a green Wind-breaker. It was Erin, standing directly in front of his vehicle, and she waved for him to stop. He pulled up abruptly. She came around to his window.

“Can you give me a ride back to the hotel?” she asked. To his surprise, she didn’t seem at all annoyed that he had left her behind. He looked at her closely. Her Windbreaker didn’t seem enough protection against the chill. He also immediately noticed that despite all warnings, she wasn’t carrying a rifle.

“What are you
doing
out here? Hop in,” he said, reaching across and pushing the passenger door open for her to climb up.

“I can’t believe you aren’t carrying a rifle. Erin, that’s
dangerous
.”

She hoisted herself into the front seat. Sinclair watched, registering subconsciously that there was something unnatural in the way she was moving. She looked tense; her gait was stiff. Something was wrong. He looked at her face. She returned his gaze, and her eyes signaled a warning.

“Erin, what . . . ?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone dash out from behind the boulder. Another figure sprinted toward the car from the other side of the road. Before he could finish his sentence, two men were in the backseat, behind him.

“Turn around and go back down the mountain,” a male voice said. “I have a gun in your back.” His accent was Russian.

Sinclair flashed a dark look at Erin. “Lady, you are nothing but trouble,” he said.

For the first time since Sinclair met her, she actually looked embarrassed.

In the lounge of the Spitsbergen Hotel there were only two guests. Charles was sprawled in a chair, and Cordelia was standing at the plate-glass window looking out over the landscape. She had been there for an hour without speaking.

Charles finally got up and walked quietly to the front desk, so as not to disturb her. Clearly she had a lot on her mind.

“Excuse me,” Charles asked the young man. “When did you last see John Sinclair?”

“This morning. Is anything wrong?” the young man asked.

Charles took the clerk by the elbow and led him away to the back office, out of earshot.

“The lady over there by the window is Miss Stapleton,” Charles explained.

“I know,” said the clerk.

“What was the name of the woman who stayed in room twelve with Mr. Sinclair last night?”

The clerk looked confused. “Miss Stapleton,” he answered.

“The same woman who is standing at the window?”

“Yes,”
said the clerk. “What is this all about?”

“The woman by the window flew in to Longyearbyen with
me
this afternoon. Someone else must have stayed with Mr. Sinclair.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that,” the clerk said. “The woman who stayed here last night registered as Miss Stapleton. She came in with Mr. Sinclair yesterday. She showed me ID. I have the registration here.”

The clerk went back to the desk, collected the registration book, and showed Charles the signature.

“And the woman by the window is the same woman who signed this?” asked Charles.

“Yes,” said the clerk. “In fact, this morning Mr. Sinclair came down and asked me about going to talk to the town clerk for a marriage license.”

“A marriage license!”

“Yes. He thought it would be romantic to get married here.”

“Well, Miss Stapleton was with
me
last night in Paris. So Mr. Sinclair was clearly here with another woman,” said Charles.

“Well, if that is the case, she looks just like
her,
” said the clerk. “But, hey, it’s not my business. I think you have to sort this one out on your own. I don’t want to get involved.”

Suddenly a flash of inspiration hit Charles. Bait and switch, Sinclair had said. Sinclair must have come here with a decoy while he and Cordelia went to Paris.
Oh, the stupid fool! Why didn’t he say so?
It must be someone from Frost’s team trying to find the killers who were after Cordelia. It was so obvious now that he figured it out. Of course Sinclair and the other woman stayed in the same room, to give the impression that the woman was Cordelia.

“Did they go out together?” asked Charles.

“No, I told you, he went out early this morning, and she went out later. He said she was all worn out and would sleep until noon.” The young clerk smirked a little, conveying the clear implication that Sinclair had kept her up all night in amorous activities.

“Did you see her go out?” Charles asked, willfully ignoring the innuendo.

“Yes, she went out about two hours ago. She was going to walk into town. I told her to take a rifle and stay on the road.”

Charles patted him on the shoulder. “Keep all this to yourself,” he said.

“Sure,” said the desk clerk. “Believe me, I don’t know what is going on. And I don’t want to. I don’t want any trouble here.”

“Don’t worry, there isn’t any reason for trouble. Everything is
fine,
” Charles assured him, realizing that he was truly turning into a champion liar.

Mine number 2 in Svalbard was normally used as an excursion for tourists. In summer, visitors could don helmets and descend a few hundred yards into the mine. The guides would point out where, in the early 1900s, miners used to cut black coal by hand from the ceiling of the shaft. The walk downhill and the tour usually took forty-five minutes.

This late in the afternoon, there were no tourists, and the mine was closed. A white sign with a clock dial pointed to 10 a.m. tomorrow as the next opening time. Only a flimsy plywood partition prevented anyone from entering the tunnel to the mine.

One of the gunmen kicked at the barrier and it fell away with one blow. Then he walked ahead carrying an oil lantern. Sinclair and Erin were in the middle, and the other followed. They made a tense little procession. Footing was uneven, and Sinclair could see only the small glow of light from the lantern, illuminating the black walls of the tunnel. The mine was already chilled from the night air, and there was only the sound of their steps as they stumbled along the coal-strewn surface of the tunnel.

Sinclair had to bend forward to avoid bashing his head on the irregular ceiling. His height was a handicap in the confined space, and his size substantially limited his movements. He could not, and dared not, turn around to check Erin. After walking for about twenty minutes, the lantern
revealed a chain stretched across the pathway. The chain was meant to delineate the end of the accessible part of the mine. But Sinclair could see that the tunnel continued, and they all stepped over the chain and continued to walk deeper into the mine.

Sinclair had never seen his captors before, but he assumed they were both Russian. While he was walking, he spent his time calculating an escape. A hundred times, Sinclair thought about putting up some resistance, and the same number of times he knew that either he or Erin would end up dead in the scuffle. There was no room in the cramped tunnel for a real fight, and he couldn’t risk it.

As they moved lower into the mine, the air grew even colder. Erin was visibly shivering in her light Windbreaker. Sinclair signaled a pause, and then took off his coat and put it around her shoulders as the two gunmen waited.

“Come on, Romeo,” one growled in his harsh Russian accent. “Date night is just beginning.” They both laughed.

Sinclair was glad to shed the clothing. As they headed lower, the confined space was beginning to bother him, and he struggled against wave after wave of claustrophobia. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his legs felt weak from the effort of fighting off the panic. He knew in another couple of yards he would start to feel the debilitating chest restriction and shortness of breath of a full-blown episode.

At the Spitsbergen Hotel, Charles walked over to Cordelia and took her by the elbow. Her face was set, and she looked exhausted.

“I just figured out what is happening,” Charles said. “You know . . . about the room.”

“Don’t even try to make excuses for him,” Cordelia said coldly. “I know you are his friend, but do me a favor—don’t give me any stories about John Sinclair. I am
not
going to believe them.”

Charles shifted to a conciliatory tone. He put his arm around her and squeezed affectionately.

“Honestly, Cordelia, I am not going to even attempt to try to explain what went on in that room. That is for you and John to sort out.”

“I’m not sure I even
want
to sort things out at this point,” she said angrily.

“Perfectly understandable,” Charles assured her. “But I think we should
do two things right now. One is get you fed—you look hungry. And two, we need to figure out where Sinclair and the female agent went.”

“Agent?” A small flicker of hope passed over her face.

“Yes, it was a bait and switch. You were playing girlfriend with me, and he had a fake Cordelia with him. He and Thaddeus Frost were trying to flush out the Russians, or whoever they are.”

“Are you sure?”
She whirled on him, her face awash with relief. He nodded.

“Did you know about it all along?” she burst out.

“Of
course
not! Sinclair never told me about this part of the plan. And I was so focused on keeping you safe, I never thought to ask. I assumed he was coming here alone.”

“So how do you know it’s true?” she asked doubtfully, her hope wavering like a flag in the breeze.

“Why else would he be here with a woman who looks like you? The desk clerk thought it
was
you because she registered as you. No other explanation makes sense.”

Cordelia stood suspended, tense, trying to believe him.

“They
had
to share a room,” Charles explained. “He couldn’t very well book two rooms when he was supposed to be here with you.”

She nodded slowly.

“He never would have sent for you if he were cheating on you, now would he?” Charles asked reasonably.

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted.

“You don’t know this guy like I do. It’s so typical of him—he knows what is going on, but he never bothers to explain it to anyone else.”

“What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.

“He just doesn’t communicate. Believe me, he’s been this way for years.”

“You don’t think they . . . slept together . . . ?” Cordelia asked, her voice barely audible. “Do you?”

“No, I don’t. But I think you should ask him yourself. Just to clear up any doubt about it.”

“Believe me, I will.”

She turned to the window and looked out.

“I want to get this deed and get out of here.”

“Me too,” said Charles, looking out over the jagged mountains. “But where in
hell
is Sinclair?”

Sinclair was sweating heavily in the narrow passage and trying to breathe. The gunman prodded him forward, and suddenly the tunnel emerged into a large cavernous area. He could see the ceiling soared some twenty feet high, but the cave was dark and indeterminate in breadth. The extra height of the space quelled his attack. Sinclair wondered if there were other hidden pathways that could serve as escape routes, but it was too dark to see. The space appeared empty except for some old mining equipment scattered around.

A figure emerged from the shadows and greeted him with a demonic grin.

“Sinclair,” he said. “How nice of you to visit. Have you found anything interesting we should know about?”

“Who the hell are you?” asked Sinclair.

“I’ve been tracking you since Monaco.”

“Let me guess—you have a red Ferrari?”

Evgeny didn’t answer. Sinclair scrutinized the man and took his measure. A bulky thug in his midthirties, he was muscular and powerful. But he had short legs, which were slightly bowed, and that feature alone marred his looks.

Sinclair figured he could fight him and beat him in other circumstances. But even with Erin they were outnumbered three to two, firearms not included.