Eighteen-wheelers owned the interstate late at night. They rushed by with a blaze of headlights and a whoosh of air that made the old flatbed truck shiver, sometimes so hard that Rassavitch feared the single container on the back might come loose from its restraints.
The container.
When he had arrived at the Savannah bus station, a man had brushed by him, shoving a slip of paper into his hand. The paper bore what Rassavitch thought was a street address, a guess confirmed by the cabbie who had driven him away from the Greyhound terminal. In minutes, the taxi had been cruising through a seedy neighborhood where the few functioning streetlights showed houses thirsting for paint and weedy yards hosting rusted hulks of automobiles. The occasional resident strode quickly along cracked sidewalks as though in a hurry to get off the street, casting only a glare of resentment at the wealth implied by a taxi ride.
The cab slowed and the driver was scanning the few street numbers. He stopped in front of a house showing no lights but with a flatbed truck in the dirt driveway. 'This looks like it.' He turned his head, looking up and down the deserted street as if expecting an assault any minute. 'You want, I kin wait here till you inside.'
Rassavitch shook his head, peeling the fare off the wad of bills that was ever diminishing.
As the cab's taillights hastily retreated to an area where passengers were more likely, Rassavitch circled the truck. Through the slats of the sides he could see a single large box on the flatbed. He looked around. Surely someone had been watching the vehicle. In this neighborhood, it would not have still been here otherwise.
The door to the cab was unlocked. As he heaved himself into the driver's seat, he noted that the key was in the ignition and a road map of the eastern United States was taped to the dash. He cranked the engine, surprised at an even purr inconsistent with the shabby body. He made one last effort to peer into the shadows around the house before putting the gear into reverse.
So far, the ride had been uneventful, the silver-on-green mile markers slipping by rhythmically. Between eighteen-wheelers, the symphony of a late-spring night in the South flooded the cab through an open window: the constant argument of the katydids, the chirp of crickets, and an occasional shriek of some night raptor. The sounds were almost hypnotic, totally unlike the moan of the night wind across the Siberian steppes of his youth.
Another behemoth of the road roared by, drowning out the music of living things and snapping Rassavitch's attention back to the highway in his lights.
I-95 had been marked in red on the map with a small town in Virginia just south of Washington circled. On the margin, in Russian, had been the words for tomorrow night. He had torn them off and shredded the small slip of paper. He had no idea why he must deliver the truck and its cargo overnight, nor would he ask.
He would simply do it.
Chapter Forty-three
Baia
Jason no longer touched the carved stone wall; only empty space. With his hand holding Maria's left, he probed the darkness.
'We must be in the chamber,' he whispered. 'The secret passage is here somewhere on the left.'
The flicker of lights from behind them as becoming a constant glow.
'Aye,' Adrian replied sotto voce, 'but can we find it in time?'
'Only if we all try. Let's spread out as far as we can and still hold one hand; use the other to search the wall.'
Jason was moving when he heard voices echoing in the tunnel in front of them. Lights were getting close enough that he could distinguish gray forms that were Adrian and Maria. He estimated that the two groups would meet in minutes.
With the three of them between.
'Here!' Maria said triumphantly. 'I found it.'
She pulled Jason toward her to verify that there was a void in the stone. As soon as his hand could define the opening, he pushed her inside, using his other hand to tug Adrian along. The passage was too narrow. Not only did Jason's shoulders touch both sides, but he had to stoop to avoid smacking his head on the ceiling. Turning his body would have been difficult.
He managed to look over his shoulder in time to see six or seven men pick their way single file along the main corridor behind them, each carrying a flashlight in one hand and a pistol in the other. They wore no gas masks. Their bulky Kevlar body armor attested to the fact they expected trouble of a more ordinary sort. Jason felt Maria tense, and he became aware he was holding his breath rather than risk the sound being heard.
When the dark finally swallowed the reflection of flashlight beams, Jason gave Maria a gentle push. 'If we're lucky, we can make it back to the main passage and out of here….'
He was interrupted by a shout, words distorted as they echoed down the long tunnel. The staccato burst of an automatic weapon was followed by the popping sounds of pistols.
'Who in hell…?' Adrian asked.
'In hell, indeed,' Jason said. 'Whatever's happening, let's get out of here before they stop shooting at one another and start looking for us.'
With shots and voices reverberating behind them, Maria risked turning on the lamp on her miner's helmet. Although it illuminated the narrow way, it did little to define the rubble over which the trio hurriedly stumbled. The broad sweep of the light showed the intersection with the main corridor just as Maria stopped suddenly.
Jason ran into her back as Adrian ran into his. 'What?'
'Don't you feel it?'
'Feel what?'
Before she could reply, he had his answer. With each series of gunfire there was a faint quiver beneath his feet, as though he were feeling the sound. A string of automatic fire sent an almost imperceptible tremor through the wall Jason was touching.
Adrian spoke Jason's mind. 'Best we be on our way, 'fore this bleedin' fox's burrow falls in on our heads.'
As if in reply, a stream of dust poured from overhead, followed by a rock the size of Jason's fist.
'It's the vibrations,' Maria explained needlessly. 'There's nothing shoring the rock up.'
Her observation was punctuated by a grinding sound overhead, another eruption of dust, and a crash as the top of the side tunnel they had just passed through collapsed.
This time Jason was less than gentle as he shoved her forward. 'Move!'
Quick movement was difficult. The beams from their lights reflected from dust particles to form a choking, shimmering fog that obscured visibility more than a few inches in any direction. A short distance away, Jason heard the crash of larger stones striking the floor. His sight was wavering as the dust stung his eyes. Every breath felt as if he were inhaling sand. He coughed and tried to spit out the grit grinding between his teeth. His mouth was desert dry.
Were they behind or in front?
Adrian gave voice to the fear Jason was trying to stifle. 'How th' bloody hell're we supposed to know which way is out?'
'A fifty-fifty chance,' Jason said without the slightest intent of being facetious.
'Aye, laddie, but a certain chance of bein' crushed if we dinna move quick.'
THE WASHINGTON POST
CEREAL HEIRESS'S HOME TO BE SITE OF CONFERENCE WASHINGTON The location of the president's environmental conference was announced today as Hillwood, the last home of cereal heiress and legendary Washington hostess Marjorie Merriwether Post, who resided there from 1957 until her death in 1973.
Ms. Post's former husband, Joseph Davies, served as ambassador to Russia from 1937 to 1938, during which time a cash-pressed Soviet Union was selling art treasures confiscated from both the Catholic Church and the deposed Romanov family. Ms. Post and her husband became connoisseurs of Russian art, and Hillwood contains the
