From that point, marked by the sign of Scorpio, the geolabe will show the way.
Up until now, Tyler had just assumed that a map was hidden somewhere, possibly in this well. But Grant was right. The map wouldn’t be hidden in the tunnels. The spy would have brought his drawn map back with him to Syracuse, and Archimedes would have destroyed it to keep it from falling into Roman hands.
Tyler sucked in a breath at Archimedes’ boundless ingenuity.
The geolabe will show the way.
The geolabe wasn’t leading to a map that would show them how to find the Midas treasure. The geolabe was the map.
THIRTY-ONE
A fter two days cooped up in his cell, Sherman Locke was spending most of his time trying not to go stir- crazy. He’d persuaded his captors to let him read the newspaper they used in the proof-of-life video, but the copy of USA Today could have been purchased anywhere, so it didn’t tell him anything about his location. With a diet of Subway sandwiches and McDonald’s hamburgers, he could be anywhere. He spent the majority of his time doing calisthenics. When his chance at escape came, he would need to be ready.
The only time they let him out of the cell was to record the daily proof-of-life video. His two choices were to escape when he was brought out for the video or to break out of the cell. With just the one crude window in the heavy steel door, the cell was virtually impregnable. That left overpowering two or more guards while he was shackled at his wrists and ankles, then breaking Carol out before escaping the building.
The odds were slim, but he had a plan. The only question was when to try it.
On his first day, only two men had been there to make the video. Sherman would have tried his plan on the second day, but three of them had been present. There was no way he could take out three men. It had to be when there were only two recording him.
He had the means to get out of the handcuffs, but the problem was the short time he had to put them on after they handed him the cuffs through the hole in the door. If they weren’t paying attention, he just might be able to make his plan work, but it would require split-second timing, and he’d get only one chance.
The garage door opened, letting in reflected rays of the dawning sun through the crack in the portal.
Sherman rose and went to the door. Through the sliver of space, he saw the second van return and pull in next to the semi they’d brought in the day before. The trailer of the semi was the same steel gray it had been when they brought it in, but Gaul had pasted a new logo saying WILBIX CONSTRUCTION onto the blue cab’s door over the old logo saying DWIGHT’S FARM SERVICES. Sherman hadn’t seen any clue to what the trailer might contain.
Crenshaw had been working around the clock on some kind of project out of Sherman’s view. Sherman would occasionally hear the grind of metal or see the bright spark of a welder, but otherwise he couldn’t tell what Crenshaw was doing. The man would emerge wearing headphones and nodding his head to music, and he kept his interactions with the other men to a minimum.
The van door opened, and Gaul, Orr, and Phillips got out dressed entirely in black. Gaul stuffed a balaclava in his pocket and slid the side door open. He and Phillips pulled two handcuffed men out. They were both wearing hoods, which Gaul removed, revealing two skinny dark-skinned men in their twenties, one in a short-sleeved white shirt and slacks, the other dressed in a T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Both were of Middle Eastern descent.
“Who are you?” the one in the T-shirt said in a thick Arabic accent. “Why have you kidnapped us?”
“I have done nothing wrong,” the other one said, sobbing. “I am in this country legally.”
“I know,” Orr said. “Why do you think we chose you?”
“Chose us for what?” the T-shirt man said.
“That was rhetorical. Put them away.”
“But I don’t understand! Are we under arrest?”
“That’s right. You’re under arrest. And you’ll be tried soon enough.”
As they continued to protest, Gaul and Phillips dragged them to the other cells next to Sherman and locked them in. He watched in silence. There was nothing he could do for them.
Orr walked toward Sherman’s door, and Sherman crept back to his cot. Orr opened the covering on the portal and stared at Sherman, who returned his gaze without blinking. Then Orr smiled.
“Hello, General Locke.”
Sherman didn’t respond.
“You’re the stoic type. I like that.”
“Who cares?” Sherman said.
Orr laughed. “Your son must have had a great time growing up with you.”
“My son doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me.”
“You two might have your disagreements, maybe a lot of them. But blood is thicker than water. If he didn’t care about you, you’d be dead already.”
“Maybe the FBI is on their way here right now.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Well, I think I just said I wasn’t sure, but I’ve been evading the authorities for a very long time, and they haven’t caught me yet.”
“There’s always a first time,” Sherman said, “which would be the last time for you.”
“You can’t get high rewards without high risks. As a former fighter pilot, you should know that.”
“And you should know that Tyler will never let you get away with whatever you’re planning.”
“So you’ve been observing our preparations on your little excursions out of the cell. Have you put all the pieces of the puzzle together?”
“You’re either a traitor to your country plotting some low-rent terrorist action or you’re a greedy bastard with some plan to get rich quick with money you don’t deserve.” Sherman remembered when Gaul had talked about his payment. That was the only time he’d seen Orr get a gleam in his eye about anything. “My bet is on the greed. You don’t look like someone who gives a shit about politics.”
Orr smiled. “This has certainly been a fun pissing match. Now, let’s do your video.”
He threw the wrist and ankle cuffs into Sherman’s room. Gaul and Phillips were standing outside, one with a pistol, the other with the Taser.
Sherman put the cuffs on. With three of them out there, this wasn’t the opportunity for his escape, but it would have to be soon.
According to the newspaper, it was now Friday. He’d heard Orr say something about getting the truck out by Monday. Whatever they were planning would be done by then, and if Sherman didn’t make a break in the next three days, he never would.
THIRTY-TWO
G rant watched Boerst Properties and Investments from inside the cafe across the street. Designed to blend in with the eighteenth-century construction of the other stone buildings north of Marienplatz, the structure had been built by Boerst only two years before as a showpiece headquarters. From his position, Grant could see the ground-level entrance into the seven-story underground parking garage as well as the door leading from the garage into the glass-encased lobby.
Boerst abutted another new building, whose first floor was taken up by an exotic car dealership showing off its merchandise to tourists who gawked through its windows. A truck pulled up, and Grant was worried that it would block his view, but it stopped in front of the dealer and began unloading a bright yellow Lamborghini Gallardo.
Grant looked at his watch. Nearly four in the afternoon. On his laptop, he checked the GPS readout for the
