The Explorer's Code (43 page)

The gunmen seized Erin and bound her hands in front of her with plastic restraints. Then they advanced on Sinclair, one holding a gun, the other tearing at his clothes in a rough body search. One gunman gave his testicles a deep jab when feeling between his legs for a weapon. Then he thumped Sinclair with an elbow between the shoulder blades and drove him to his knees.

“Nothing,” he announced to Evgeny, who watched the process dispassionately.

“Too bad,” said Evgeny. “Now the woman.” He smiled at Erin in a lecherous way. “I look forward to our evening together, Cordelia.”

She gave him a look that could sear meat.

One gunman held them in his sights while the other manhandled Erin in a thorough search. She set her face in a grimace.

“Nothing,” said the man again.

“Well, I guess it can’t be helped.” Evgeny sighed. “Cordelia and I will
have to have an intimate chat.” His face held a strange expression of eagerness mixed with malice.

“Say good-bye to your girlfriend, Sinclair. Unless there is something you need to tell us. It might make it easier on her if you shared it with us now.”

Sinclair looked at Erin for an indication of what to do. She gave the slightest shake of her head. Tell them nothing, she was saying. Sinclair felt sick, helpless. She was going to be the one they put pressure on, and there was nothing he could do.

“Wait, she doesn’t know anything,” said Sinclair.

“We shall see,” said Evgeny, grabbing her by her upper arm. He stripped Sinclair’s coat off her shoulders and threw it back to him.

“She won’t be needing clothes,” Evgeny said, leading her to the back of the cave. Erin looked over her shoulder as she was pulled off into the blackness.

They disappeared. One man sat on the mining tractor and kept his gun pointed at Sinclair. The other one took out a thin plastic strip similar to the type used by law enforcement. He bound Sinclair’s hands in front of him and pushed him against the wall. Wordlessly the gunman waved his weapon at Sinclair to tell him to sit down on the floor of the mine.

Immediately Sinclair felt the tingle of restricted circulation. His hands would be numb in an hour if he couldn’t get the thing off. He heard Evgeny beginning to question Erin—his voice punctuated by the sound of violent slaps.

The chef at the Huset restaurant was not at fault. Rave reviews from the
Financial Times
of London and the
New York Times
hung in laminated plaques on the wall. Charles and Cordelia had ordered the reindeer steak with cloudberry-apple chutney, but the food sat on their plates almost untouched. Charles looked around at the ultramodern Nordic décor, accented by Svalbard memorabilia: miners’ hats, pickaxes, polar bear skins, and reindeer antlers.

“It’s a pretty nice place, considering what’s outside,” he remarked.

Cordelia took a sip of her mineral water and managed a weak smile. The pall of anxiety had hung over the table all evening. They had left word
at the hotel that if Sinclair turned up he should call them. But Charles’s cell phone sat silently on the table as they both tried not to look at it.

The mine was freezing cold, and quiet, and Sinclair could no longer hear Evgeny. The interrogation had gone on endlessly, and then, just a few moments ago, all sound had died down after a few strangled gasps. The silence was ominous. He was furious with himself, and depressed. There was nothing he could do to help Erin.

In his area of the cavern, the oil lamp had burned low. The gunmen, increasingly obscured by the diminishing light, had not bothered to get up to trim the wick. The flame had finally gone out.

He wondered what was next. There was only the sound of a drip of water somewhere nearby. Perhaps Evgeny had led Erin somewhere else. Sinclair waited. He could sense both gunmen still sitting there. It was clear they had instructions not to move. But he couldn’t understand why they didn’t relight the lamp.

All of a sudden, Sinclair heard a sound that gave him hope—a snore. The guards were
asleep
in their surveillance positions. He started to get to his feet, trying to unbend his stiff legs and maneuver with the restraints digging into his flesh. But as he started to move he suddenly felt a hand close over his mouth. It was a woman’s hand. He flinched. He had no idea anyone was that close to him. He couldn’t see her, but he could smell the faint scent of Aphrodite.

A quick flick of a knife between his hands and the restraint was cut. The circulation started flowing again, burning and itching as blood coursed through his fingers. Erin sat next to him and whispered into his ear.

“You take the one on the left, I’ll take the right.”

Her voice was so soft it could have been a breeze. No one could have heard it, certainly not the sleeping guards. He nodded his head so she could feel his assent.

She tapped her index finger on his arm in a silent count.

One . . . two . . . three.

She was gone. He could hear her garroting the sleeping guard, his boots thrashing the ground. Sinclair was not as nimble, but managed to charge the other man, groping to find him in the dark. A shot went off, and it echoed eerily in the empty mine. He had no clear technique to his
attack, simply smashing the man over and over against the hard floor until he no longer moved. Sinclair finally stopped, not sure if he had killed him or just knocked him unconscious.

“Sinclair,” she said. “Help me light this.”

She pressed the illumination dial on her watch to find the lantern. Sinclair rummaged through the gunman’s pockets and found a butane lighter. He touched it to the wick and the lantern flared. In the light she looked a fright. The dark wig was gone. Her hair was matted with blood, and her face was a swollen purple mess. Her shirt was in shreds. She had lost her Windbreaker, and she stood there in her bare feet, the red nail polish on her toes a macabre match with the blood on her face.

Sinclair gasped.
“Erin, you’re hurt! Oh my God I am so sorry,”
he burst out.

She ignored him, put down the oil lamp, and walked over to the dead man.

“I need some shoes.” She began unlacing the boots from the feet of the man she had just killed.

“Where is the other . . . guy who was questioning you?” Sinclair asked.

“Dead,” she said.

“How did you . . . ?”

“You know, Sinclair, raping a woman is terribly distracting. You tend to forget to defend yourself,” she said grimly.

“
Rape
?” Sinclair gasped.

“You think I
let
him? He was dead before he could even—” She never finished the sentence. The boot came free in her hand. She calmly began putting it on.

“Still light outside,” Charles remarked. “I can’t believe it’s nine o’clock at night.”

“Yes, it’s getting late,” Cordelia agreed, nodding thanks to the waiter for her coffee. Where could he have gone? In every direction there was only wilderness, populated only by Arctic fox, Svalbard reindeer, and polar bears. People didn’t venture far at night in this territory. He
had
to be in town.

“Let’s head back,” Charles said, pushing his half-eaten dinner away.

“OK,” said Cordelia.

Back in the car, Charles said what had been previously unspoken. “If he doesn’t turn up tonight, we should go to the authorities tomorrow.
Somebody would have noticed him in the village. With his height, he doesn’t blend in easily.”

Cordelia nodded. Charles started the Land Rover and put it in gear.

Back at the hotel, the clerk just shook his head. No messages. Charles took his key and hers, and followed Cordelia upstairs. They stood outside room 12.

“Do you want to stay in John’s room, in case he comes back later tonight?” Charles asked.

In her mind Cordelia could still see the white lace bra and the bottle of Aphrodite perfume on the dresser.

“No, I want to stay with you. I would feel safer. Do you mind, Charles?”

“Of course I don’t mind. Please. It’s the least I can do. I will leave a note in Sinclair’s room to let him know we are here. He’ll see it if he turns up.”

Charles let himself into room 12 with Cordelia’s key, shutting the door.

Suddenly alone in the empty hallway, Cordelia felt nervous. All her senses were on high alert. As angry as she was with Sinclair, in her gut she knew something had happened to him. He would never leave her and Charles at risk like this.

When Charles returned to the hallway, her anxiety diminished. Charles would know what to do—at least she had him. As they entered room 15, Charles looked at the bed.

“Why don’t you just lie down for a bit?”

“If you don’t mind,” she said. “Charles, I
know
John will turn up.”

“He will, don’t worry.”

Cordelia lay down on the bed and pulled the long green coat over herself for warmth.

“I will just close my eyes for a moment,” she said to Charles.

“Good. You should rest,
chérie
. Take a nap. I will sit up for a while.”

He pulled up the armchair and hunkered down into it, propping his feet on the other corner of the bed and closing his eyes.

Cordelia watched him get comfortable, pulling his coat over himself. But even though he was supposedly in repose, his face was still tense and vigilant. She felt herself getting sleepy under her warm coat and let herself give in to it, secure in the knowledge that Charles would never let anything happen to her.

The loud banging on the door frightened her awake. She lurched up, clutching at her coat. The lights were still on and Charles was now stretched out beside her on the bed, fully dressed with his shoes still on. He was also jolted awake, but she was the first to reach the door.

“Stop, Cordelia. Don’t open it. Check who is there!”
Charles burst out.

“Who is it?” she asked cautiously.

“Cordelia, it’s me. John,” came the muffled response.

She yanked the door open and he pulled her into his arms. He smelled of smoke, dirt, coal, and sweat. She breathed in his scent and clung to him.

“John, I was so frightened. We couldn’t find you—”

Then, over his shoulder, she saw a woman with red hair. The woman was partially turned away, her gun pointing down the hall. Cordelia stopped hugging Sinclair and stared at her.

The woman reacted to the silence and turned around to look at them. Cordelia could now see her face was mottled with bruises, and her face, hands, and arms were scratched and bleeding. The woman, despite her long red hair, was the exact height and build as herself.

“Nice to meet you, Cordelia,” Erin said.

“Who are you?”

“Erin Burke.”

“Who did this to you?” Cordelia gasped.

Sinclair gave Erin a warning look. “Give me a moment, will you?”

Erin regarded them both, with their arms around each other. “Sure. No problem. Where should I go? I don’t think I’m dressed for the lounge downstairs.”

“Why don’t you go to our room,” Sinclair said. “I’ll stay here with Charles and Cordelia and fill them in.”

“I
could
use a shower,” Erin said, and walked away.

Sinclair turned back to Cordelia.

“Oh, Sinclair,” Erin called from down the hall.

“Yes?”

“Key.”

Sinclair fished it out of his pocket and tossed it to her. Erin caught it and turned to open the door of room 12. Cordelia watched in silence.

“Sinclair, thank God you’re back,” said Charles. He looked at Sinclair’s wrists, raw from the restraints. There was blood all over the front of Sinclair’s jacket, and his face was smeared with black coal dust. He put a gun down on the dresser and sank into the chair.

Charles looked somber. “Who were they?”

“Russians. They took us down into a mine at gunpoint and beat Erin up pretty badly. They were trying to get her to tell them about the deed.”

“Did she say anything?” asked Charles.

“She doesn’t know where it is. I found it this morning without her.”

“Why?” asked Charles. “Aren’t you working together?”

“I wanted to dig around on my own. I didn’t trust her,” Sinclair admitted. “I see now what a mistake that was. She never said a word even though they were trying to beat it out of her.”

Cordelia shuddered at the thought of it. “Will she be OK?”

“Yes, she says she just has bruises and a couple of cuts. No broken bones.”

“We need to get more help,” said Charles.

“I’ve already called Thaddeus Frost,” said Sinclair. “Jim Gardiner will be here to take care of any legal complications. He’ll be here in a few hours.”

“Good,” said Charles.

“So here’s what we need to do,” Sinclair said, and pulled his chair closer to begin outlining his plan.

J
im Gardiner got up at 5:00 a.m. to take the SAS flight out of Heathrow to Oslo. He was carrying his legal case filled with Stapleton documents. If the Norwegians wanted proof, he had the entire legal record of the Stapleton family going back three generations.

The day was rainy and starting to turn into typical London damp, a hint of the winter season to come. Gardiner easily found a taxi outside the Connaught Hotel. He would land in Svalbard in nine or ten hours.