Spartan Gold
After seven years at DARPA Sam retired with the vague notion of bringing some of his own wild ideas to reality, and moved back to California. It was there, two weeks later, that Sam and Remi met at the Lighthouse, a jazz club on Hermosa Beach. Sam had wandered into the club for a cold beer and Remi was there celebrating a successful research trip looking into rumors of a sunken Spanish ship off Abalone Cove.
Though neither of them had ever called their first meeting a case of "love at first sight," they'd both agreed it had certainly been a case of "pretty damned sure at first hour." Six months later they were married where they'd first met, in a small ceremony at the Lighthouse.
At Remi's encouragement Sam dove headfirst into his own business and they struck pay dirt within a year with an argon laser scanner that could detect and identify at a distance mixed metals and alloys, from gold and silver to platinum and palladium. Treasure hunters, universities, corporations, and mining outfits scrambled to license Sam's invention and within two years the Fargo Group was seeing an annual net profit of three million dollars, and within four years the deep-pocketed corporations came calling. Sam and Remi took the highest bid, sold the company for enough money to see themselves comfortably through the rest of their lives, and never looked back.
"I did a little research while you were in the shower," Sam said. "From what I can gather, I think we may have a real find on our hands."
The waiter came, deposited a basket of warm ciabatta and a saucer of Pasolivo olive oil, and then took their orders. To start they ordered calamari with red sauce and porcini mushrooms. For entrees, Sam selected a seafood pasta with pesto-sauteed bay scallops and lobster, while Remi chose a stuffed shrimp-and-crab ravioli in basil white cream sauce.
"What do you mean?" Remi asked. "Isn't a submarine a submarine?"
"Good Lord, woman, bite your tongue," Sam said, feigning shock.
Where Remi's forte was anthropology and ancient history, Sam loved World War II history, another passion he'd inherited from his father, who'd been a marine during the United States' island-hopping campaign in the Pacific. The fact that Remi had little interest in who exactly sank the Bismarck or why the Battle of the Bulge was so important was something that never ceased to amaze Sam.
Remi was an anthropologist and historian without peer, but she tended to take an analytical approach to things, while for Sam history had always been stories about real people doing real things. Remi dissected; Sam dreamed.
"Apologies for the gaffe," Remi said.
"Forgiven. Here's the thing: Given the size of the inlet, there's no way it can be a full-sized submarine. Plus, that periscope looked way too small."
"A mini sub, then."
They found the graveyard in a weed-filled meadow surrounded on three sides by hillocks covered in pine and cork trees. Only an acre in size, it was surrounded by a waist-high wrought-iron fence that had long ago been overtaken by rust and vines. Befitting the evening's task, a low fog filled the meadow, swirling around the headstones and crypts. The sky was clear, showing a bright full moon.
"Okay, I'm officially creeped out," Remi said, staring through the windshield as Sam brought the car to a stop before the gate. He shut off the engine and doused the headlights. Somewhere in the trees an owl hooted twice, then went silent. "All we're missing is howling wolves," she whispered.
"No wolves on Elba," Umberto replied. "Wild dogs. And snakes. Many snakes."
The graveyard was arranged haphazardly with no regard to spacing or symmetry. Headstones jutted from the weeds at odd angles, some within a foot of its neighbor, while crypts of all shapes and sizes rose from the ground in various states of disrepair, crumbling or overgrown by foliage or collapsed altogether. In contrast, several crypts, freshly painted, were islands of manicured grass and flowers.
"They're not much for civil planning, are they?" Sam said.
"It's been here so long the government can't bring itself to intervene," Umberto replied. "The truth is, I can't remember the last time anyone was buried here."
"How many are here?"
"Many hundreds, I think. Some graves are deep, some shallow. The dead are stacked atop one another."
Remi asked, "Where's Laurent's crypt?"
Umberto leaned forward and pointed through the windshield. "That one, in the far corner, the one with the domed roof."
Sam checked his watch. "Time to find out how well the Lancia holds up to punishment."
He started the engine, did a Y-turn on the gravel drive, then spun the wheel and drove into the meadow, the tall grass scraping the car's underbody. He followed the fence line to the back of the graveyard and coasted to a stop behind Laurent's crypt. He shut off the engine again.
"Where does that go?" Sam asked Umberto, pointing past Remi out the passenger window. A half mile away a pair of tire ruts disappeared over the hill and into the trees beyond.
"I have no idea. It's an old mining road. It hasn't been used for seventy, eighty years -- since before the war."
Remi murmured, "The road less traveled."
"Not for long," Sam replied.
He opened the door and climbed out, Remi and Umberto following. To Remi he said, "Why don't you wait here? Slide into the driver's seat and keep your eyes peeled. We'll just be a minute."
He and Umberto walked to the fence and hopped over.
Compared to some of its neighbors, Laurent's crypt was small, not much bigger than a walk-in closet and barely four feet tall, but, walking around to the front side, Sam saw that it was sunk into the ground a few feet. Three moss-covered steps led to a rough-hewn wooden door. Sam pulled his LED microlight from his pocket and shined it on the lock while Umberto used the key. In keeping with the fog, the hooting owls, and the full moon, the hinges moaned as Umberto swung open the door. He glanced back at Sam and smiled nervously.
"Keep an eye out," Sam said.
He walked down the steps and through the door and found himself facing a curtain of cobwebs. Under the blue-white glow of his flashlight, spiders scrambled across the webs and disappeared. Using his hand like a blade Sam slowly cut the curtain down the center; desiccated flies and moths pattered on the stone floor. Sam stepped inside.
The space measured five feet deep and eight feet wide and smelled of dust and rat droppings. To his right he heard the faint scratching of tiny claws on stone, then silence. In the center the sarcophagus, which was devoid of either markings or adornment, stood on a three-foot-high platform made of red brick. He stepped around the sarcophagus to the rear wall, then placed the flashlight between his teeth and gave the lid a tentative shove. It was lighter than he'd anticipated, sliding a couple inches with a hollow grating sound.
Sam pushed the lid another few inches, then grabbed the projecting end and walked the lid around until it was sitting perpendicular to the sarcophagus. He shined his light inside.
"Nice to finally meet you, Monsieur Laurent," he whispered.
They found another opening, this one barely larger than the slit they'd come through earlier. At the other end was an alcove and another side tunnel, this one leading back in the general direction of the main cavern. For twenty minutes they picked their way along until finally they reached an intersection. To the left they heard the sound of rushing water.
"The waterfall," Remi said.
They crept down the tunnel to the mouth, stopping a few feet short. Directly across from them lay the dragon's-teeth curtain; to the left, the platform. They could just make out the glow of Sam's chem light on the wall behind the barrel stalactite.
"I don't see anyone," Sam said.
"Me neither."
They started across the cavern, angling toward the platform.
Sam saw the movement in the corner of his eye a split second before the gun roared. The bullet struck the stalactite beside Sam's hip. He ducked. Beside him, Remi spun, took aim on the charging figure, and snapped off a shot. The figure spun and fell, but almost rolled onto his side and started to rise.
"Run!" Sam barked. "That way!"
With Remi in the lead they sprinted for the dragon's teeth, through the gap, and onto the water-slick bridge. Never slowing, Remi crashed through the waterfall, followed by Sam. When they reached the far ledge Remi kept going, ducking into the tunnel, but Sam skidded to a stop and turned back.
"Sam!"
Through the waterfall he could see a figure running across the bridge. Sam dropped the Xiphos and the spear, scooped up a double handful of gravel, and tossed it across the bridge. A second later the figure crashed through the waterfall, his gun extended before him. His lead foot skidded over the gravel and shot out from under him. Eyes wide, his arms windmilling, he stumbled backward, his face upturned into the waterfall. He slammed back first onto the bridge. His leg slipped over the edge and he scrambled with his opposite leg, trying to find purchase. Then he was gone, screaming as he tumbled into the crevasse.
Remi appeared at Sam's shoulder. He picked up the spear, then stood up and turned toward her. "Two down, two to -- "
"Too late for that," a voice said. "Don't move a muscle."
Sam pivoted his head. Surrounded by billowing mist, Kholkov stood on the bridge in front of the waterfall. His nine-millimeter Glock was pointed at them.
Remi whispered, "I've got one more bullet. They're going to kill us anyway."
"True," Sam murmured.
Kholkov barked, "Stop talking. Fargo, step away from your wife."
Sam turned his body slightly, still covering Remi's gun hand as he very slowly extended the spear toward Kholkov. Instinctively the Russian's eyes flicked toward the spearhead. Remi didn't miss the moment. Instead of raising the .357 to shoulder height, she simply lifted it to waist level and pulled the trigger.
A neat hole appeared in Kholkov's sternum; a red stain spread across the front of his sweater. He collapsed to his knees and gaped at Sam and Remi. Sam saw Kholkov's gun hand twitch, saw the Glock start to rise. Spear held before him, Sam charged onto the bridge. Kholkov's fading reflexes were no match for the spear's seven-foot reach. The steel head plunged into Kholkov's chest, then out his back. Sam leaned forward, wrenched the Glock from Kholkov's hand, then planted his feet and gave the spear a twist. Kholkov tumbled over the side. Sam stepped to the edge and watched him spin out of sight.
Remi walked up. "Couldn't have happened to a nastier person."
Back in the cavern, they picked their way through the stalactites, frequently checking behind and to the sides on their way back to the platform. Bondaruk was nowhere to be seen. They half expected him to step from the darkness of one of the tunnels, but nothing moved. Aside from the distant rush of the waterfall, all was quiet.
They stopped at the platform. "I'll play ladder this time," Sam said, then knelt down and formed a stirrup with his hands. Remi didn't move.
"Sam, where's the chem light?"
He turned. "It's right over -- "
Behind the barrel, the green glow of the chem light shifted.
Sam looked questioningly at Remi. She thought for a moment, then nodded grimly.
Sam began half dragging, half walking him across the cavern toward the dragon's teeth.
"Let me go!" Bondaruk shouted. "What are you doing?"
Sam kept walking.
"Stop, stop, where are we going?"
"We?" Sam replied. "We're not going anywhere. You, on the other hand ... you're taking the express elevator to hell."