ancient defiance and lordly power.
She stared upward.
The abbey's towering edifice seemed to lean forward, curving slightly inward, its twin yellow towers connected by a balcony that faced due west. She imagined a time when monks and prelates surveyed their domain from that lofty perch. 'The Fortress of God,' she recalled one medieval chronicler proclaiming of the site. Alternating amber and white-colored stone walls lined the exterior, capped by a rust-colored tile roof. How fitting. Amber. Maybe it was an omen. And if she believed in anything other than herself, she might have taken notice. But, at the moment, the only thing she noticed was the feeling of being watched.
Certainly Wayland McKoy would arouse interest. Maybe that was it. Somebody else was here. Searching. Watching. But where? Hundreds of windows lined the narrow street, most up several stories. The cobblestones were crowded with too many faces to digest. Someone could be in disguise. Or maybe somebody was a hundred meters up on the balcony of the abbey gazing down. She could just make out tiny silhouettes in the midday sun, tourists apparently enjoying a grand view.
No matter.
She turned and entered the Hotel Garni.
She approached the front desk and told the male clerk in German, 'I need to leave a message for Alfred Grumer.'
'Certainly.' The man pushed her a pad.
She wrote,
'I'll see
She smiled and handed him five euros for his trouble.
Knoll stood inside the Christinenhof's lobby and carefully parted the sheers for a ground-floor view of the street. He watched while less than a hundred feet away Suzanne Danzer stopped and looked around.
Did she sense him?
She was good. Her instincts sharp. He'd always liked Jung's comparisons of how the ancients viewed women as either Eve, Helen, Sophia, or Mary--corresponding to impulsive, emotional, intellectual, and moral. Danzer certainly possessed the first three, but nothing about her was moral. She was also one other thing--dangerous. But her guard was probably down, thinking he was buried under tons of rock in a mine forty kilometers away. Hopefully, Franz Fellner passed the word to Loring that his whereabouts were unknown, the ploy buying the time he'd need to figure out what was going on. Even more important, it would buy time to decide how to settle the score with his attractive colleague.
What was she doing here, out in the open, headed into the Hotel Garni? It was too much of a coincidence that Stod happened to be the headquarters for Wayland McKoy, that particular hotel where McKoy and his people were staying. Did she have a source on the excavation? If so, nothing unusual there. He'd many times cultivated sources on other digs so Fellner could have first crack at whatever might be uncovered. Adventurers were usually more than eager to sell at least some of their bounty on the black market, no one the wiser since everything they found was thought lost anyway. The practice avoided unnecessary government hassles and annoying seizures. The Germans were notorious for confiscating the best of what was pulled from the ground. Strict reporting requirements and heavy penalties governed violators. But greed could always be counted on to prevail, and he'd made several excellent purchases for Fellner's private collection from unscrupulous treasure hunters.
A light rain began to fall. Umbrellas sprouted. Thunder rolled in the distance. Danzer appeared back out of the Garni. He retreated to the window's edge. Hopefully, she wouldn't cross the street and enter the Christinenhof. There was nowhere to hide in the cramped lobby.
He was relieved when she casually rolled up her jacket collar and strolled back down the street. He headed for the front door and cautiously peered out. Danzer entered another hotel just down the street, the Gebler, as the sign out front announced, its cross-beamed facade sagging from the weight of centuries. He'd passed it on his way to the Christinenhof. It made sense she'd stay there. Nearby, convenient. He retreated back into the lobby and watched through the window, trying not to appear conspicuous to the few people loitering around. Fifteen minutes passed, and still she did not reappear.
He smiled.
Confirmation.
She was there.
THIRTY-EIGHT
1:15 p.m.
Paul studied alfred grumer with his lawyer eyes, examining every facet of the man's face, gauging a reaction, calculating a likely response. He, McKoy, Grumer, and Rachel were back in the shed outside the mine. Rain peppered the tin roof. Nearly three hours had passed since the initial find, and McKoy's mood, like the weather, had only dampened.
'What the fuck's going on, Grumer?' McKoy said.
The German was perched on a stool. 'Two possible explanations. One, the trucks were empty when they were driven in the cavern. Two, somebody beat us inside.'
'How could somebody beat us to it? It took four days to bore into that chamber, and the other way out is sealed shut with tons of crap.'
'The violation could have happened long ago.'
McKoy took a deep breath. 'Grumer, I have twenty-eight people flyin' in here tomorrow. They've invested a shitload of money into this rat hole. What am I suppose to say to 'em? Somebody beat us to it?'
'The facts are the facts.'
McKoy shot from the chair, rage in his eyes. Rachel cut him off. 'What good is that going to do?'
'It'd make me feel a whole lot better.'
'Sit down,' Rachel said.
Paul recognized her court voice. Strong. Firm. A tone that allowed no hint of doubt. A tone she'd used too many times in their own home.
The big man backed off. 'Jesus Christ. This is some shit.' He sat back down. 'Looks like I might need a lawyer. The judge here certainly can't do it. You available, Cutler?'
He shook his head. 'I do probates. But my firm has a lot of good litigators and contract-law specialists.'
'They're all across the pond and you're here. Guess who's elected.'
'I assume all the investors signed waivers and acknowledgments of the risk?' Rachel asked.
'Lot of damn good that'll do. These people have money and lawyers of their own. By next week, I'll be waist deep in legal bullshit. Nobody'll believe I didn't know this was a dry hole.'
'I don't agree with you,' Rachel said. 'Why would anyone assume you'd dig knowing there was nothing to find? Sounds like financial suicide.'
'Maybe that little hundred-thousand-dollar fee I'm guaranteed whether we find anythin' or not?'
Rachel turned toward Paul. 'Maybe you should call the firm. This guy does need a lawyer.'
'Look, let me make somethin' clear,' McKoy said. 'I have a business to run back home. I don't do this for a livin'. It costs to do this kind of shit. On the last dig, I charged the same fee and made it back with more. Those investors got a good return. Nobody complained.'
'Not this time,' Paul said. 'Unless those trucks are worth something, which I doubt. And that's assuming you can even get them out of there.'
'Which you can't,' Grumer said. 'That other cavern is impassable. It would cost millions to clear it.'
'Fuck off, Grumer.'
Paul stared at McKoy. The big man's expression was familiar, a combination of resignation and worry. Lots of clients looked that way at one time or another. Actually, though, he wanted to stay around. In his mind he saw
