renewed surge of claustrophobia, he realized that an air-tight seal had been activated, the better to preserve the mortal remains of the entombed loved ones. Then, as panic was about to set in, he saw Jenny's face as she switched on her pencil flashlight. A sly smile crossed her oval face. And then he understood-the air seal was what would save them from the tear gas. No matter how saturated the inside of the mausoleum got, the gas could not affect them in here.
They started as the sharp report came to them from the other side of the casket door. Bravo felt sweat break out on his skin, but his mouth was abnormally dry. He remembered his father telling him of the terror-filled moments just before the desperate retreat from the Nairobi embassy. 'I was sweating all over, but curiously, my mouth was dry. Fear does that to you, Bravo. And I was relieved, which you might find even more curious, but the truth is, those who aren't afraid wind up dead.'
At close range Donatella examined the two casket doors, tapping here and there, softly, softly in a rhythmic pattern, her head cocked all the while, her ear close enough to evaluate the sounds returning from her gentle probing.
All at once her eyes widened and she drew out of her pocket a length of a puttylike material. Without haste, she worked the pliable material into the hinges of the lower casket door. She flipped open a lighter and held the flame against one end of the material until with a bright flash it began to burn with a devastating heat. She smiled and, with grim satisfaction, said, 'Yes, indeed, I have you now.'
Another noise came to them, an evil sound as of the hollow rattle of a poisonous serpent, and then a blast of heat like the livid flame of a blowtorch was transmitted by the metal.
He heard her voice, soft but filled with urgency, 'They're melting the hinges off the door. Quickly, now! Go!'
In the brief flare of the penlight he saw her point across his chest to his right, and in an awkward sort of wriggle he began to move, but to where? he wondered.
As if divining his question, she used the narrow beam of her penlight in lieu of words. Turning his head, he saw a passageway that sloped steeply downward, presumably below the mausoleum's foundation. As he wriggled his way toward it he marveled at the ingenuity, for the escape route must have been devised at the time of the mausoleum's construction.
Bravo crawled through the darkness, hemmed in on every side, with the unseen but very much heard enemy howling at his heels. The mineral scent of wet limestone mingled with the odors of decomposition that conjured up images of freshly turned earth, leaf mold, corkscrewed worms and ash. With Jenny close against his spine, he experienced a sense of the space ahead narrowing even further until it was no larger than his own body, and he discovered a fear inside himself, irrational and therefore overwhelming, that he was going to become stuck in this tunnel, unable either to move forward or back.
'What is it?' Jenny whispered in his ear. 'Why have you stopped?'
Bravo said nothing. At the same time, he felt incapable of moving.
The heat seemed to follow them, growing in intensity. And with it he thought he could discern the first crack of light as the hinges on the casket door gave out.
Sensing his paralysis, Jenny said, 'Lie flat on your back.' She slithered atop him. 'Press your shoulder blades against the floor.' She stared down at him, her breasts flattened against his chest, her breath quick on his cheek. Her heat began to seep into him. There was nowhere left for him to move. Terror crept through him, primitive and compelling, and he fought to keep it at bay lest it lock him in its vise.
'Bravo!'
Light now, definitely, a sliver like the blade of a knife. And then, startlingly, a female voice-undoubtedly Donatella's-sang in a lilting alto, 'Come out, come out wherever you are…'
Jenny was gripping his jaw, her eyes boring into him, willing him to comply. As if in a dream he did as she asked, exhaling deeply, and after a moment of slow and torturous maneuvering, he felt her sliding, hips first, then midriff and shoulders, onto the far side.
She took his hand in hers, squeezed it briefly. 'It gets wider from here.'
Belatedly, he understood. She was ahead of him, in a position to lead them on and, hopefully, out.
The tunnel's ceiling did get higher, but not by much. At the same time the downward slope grew steeper, so that they half slid, half tumbled in a blur of sickening motion, scraped elbows and bruised hips. Bravo recognized a certain grimness to their flight. Like an animal being brought to bay, he felt the pressure of pursuit, as well as the terrible consequences should they be caught.
At length, there was enough room for them to crawl on hands and knees, though every so often the rough ceiling scraped across his back, further abrading his clothes. He felt a growing desire to look back, to judge the progress of their pursuit, but that would have meant stopping. In any case, there was no room to simply look over his shoulder.
They came at last to the end of the tunnel, were faced by a cement wall seeping water. Directly in front of it was an iron ladder that rose vertically and disappeared into what, in the limited light from the pencil flash, seemed to be misty infinity.
Without hesitation, Jenny grasped the rungs and hauled herself upward. Bravo scrambled after her. Just before he rose off the floor of the tunnel, he saw a piercing flash of light coming from behind them.
Jenny, climbing quickly and surely, soon reached the upper reaches of the escape route, which was a circular section of stones-a well, Bravo soon saw. In seconds, they emerged from the wellhead into a small clearing surrounded by dense underbrush and just beyond a pair of massive weeping willows, which provided natural cover and a kind of bower that, rising up and falling in a profusion of cascades, blocked out sun and sky.
The ground was uneven here. To their left, it sloped away steeply; to their right, it rose toward a flat plateau above which the oldest of the headstones could be made out through the trees.
Jenny gave him a small, tight smile of encouragement and began to lead them up toward the graves. At that moment, there was a small rustling off to their left, and Rossi appeared from behind the bole of one of the willows. He was holding a handgun at arm's length, aiming it with his left hand cupped beneath the butt to hold the weapon steady.
Bravo called out, his voice sharp in warning. Jenny was in the process of turning when Rossi fired. She spun toward Bravo, her eyes wide and staring blankly. Then her knees buckled and she toppled over into the grass.
At once, Rossi swiveled toward Bravo, who turned on his heel and took off in a ragged zigzag down the slope toward the sanctuary of the other willow. Something flew by his ear, and he flung himself sideways, tripped over a root and went sprawling head over heels down the slope.
There came a furious crashing behind him, as of a beast run amok. It was Rossi tearing full tilt after him, his head and torso pitched backward to keep himself upright. But at that pace there was no chance to get off a second shot.
Bravo, his attention divided between front and rear, stumbled as his shoe sole skidded off a rock slick with damp moss. Instinctively, he extended an arm, and a jolt of pain shot up from his hand as he went down hard. He was on the bank of the lake by this time, the ground steeply pitched, but his fall had slowed his forward momentum considerably, so that Rossi overtook him with heart-stopping suddenness.
Partly out of instinct, partly out of self-defense, Bravo extended his upper leg. Rossi, in the process of trying to forestall his headlong momentum, was unable to avoid tripping over it. At once Bravo was on him. Caught up in the other's momentum, Bravo found himself rolling over and over as he struggled to keep his grip on Rossi's gun wrist. Faster and faster they spun, locked in a death grip. Weeds whipped by them and mud flew off them as they kicked and clawed at each other, teeth bared, hearts hammering in their chests. They might have been two beasts fighting over territory, over a female, a breeding ground. Fists hammered against muscle and bone-they fought for the advantage of position as well as for the killing blow. Intellect was swept away in the dark undertow of primitive instinct. Preoccupied with survival, they plunged into the lake and immediately disappeared beneath the water. The water became an enemy to them both, slowing them down, entangling them, drawing them down into its airless embrace.
Spray flew as they rose up out of the lake, gasping, locked together. They slipped and slid on the gluey bottom. As they were toppling over, Rossi slammed his forehead into the bridge of Bravo's nose. Bravo felt as if he had been struck by lightning. He must have blacked out for an instant because the next thing he knew, he was
