Three Tales From the World of Cotton Malone (3 page)

Could she make it over the hump?

Becoming stuck did not sound pleasant.

She folded herself forward to where the rock angled back up. The space seemed wide enough so she wiggled over and pointed the flashlight downward, spotting a rock floor about two meters away littered with lichens.

Freedom?

She curled over the hump and slid head first, hands extended forward, from her confines.

Her body came free.

She stood in what appeared to be a tunnel—roomy, long, extending in both directions—and brushed dust from her clothes.

She sucked a few deep breaths.

A light appeared to her right and grew in intensity. In the ambient glow she saw Lev Sokolov.

She readied a fist.

But released it when a gun appeared in the Russian's hand.

“I am not the enemy,” Sokolov said.

“Go left? That's what you told me to do.”

He nodded. “Bomb to right.”

“Bomb to left, too.”

His face registered surprise. “I thought only one. Sorry.”

She wanted to hit him, but there was the matter of the gun, so she opted for, “What are you doing here?”

“I come for you. I hope you make it this far. We are twenty meters below the chamber where we speak before. This mountain is a big maze.”

“Where are your pals?”

He motioned behind her. “Varga and the other two. I lose them. But you will never get past them. They are back there, behind me. Not a good way out in that direction.”

He handed her his weapon.

“I am not one of them. I am scientist. I hate Soviets. I hate Russians.”

She grasped the gun, checked the magazine, and—satisfied that it was loaded—wrapped her finger around the trigger.

“You
are
a Russian,” she said, motioning with the gun.

“I hate the country and everything it is. I want to leave.”

“Find an embassy.” She brushed past him.

Sokolov grabbed her arm. “I do not go back to Russia.”

In the flashlight's glow she saw the desperation in his eyes. He was serious.

“Then leave. The Cold War is over.”

“Not for me. Russians will make me stay.”

There was nothing she could do. “Not my problem.”

“I save you,” he said, as if she owed him.

She stared him straight in the eye. “How have you saved me?”

“I can show.”

Which would buy her time to think and make a smart decision.

Besides, she held the gun.

“Okay. Show me.”

She stared at the spectacular scene.

They'd left the tunnel and were standing at the base of an inverted cone of towering rock. The funnel swept upward fifty-plus meters to a ragged opening that revealed a wind-ravaged sky.

A misty rain showered down.

The sides of the escarpment were stained black with moss and lichens. An irregular pool had formed in the floor beneath the opening high above, the water a blood red. A thousand raindrops disrupted its surface.

She stepped over and tested the water.

Warm. Red probably from iron.

She stared up to the sky. “What I wouldn't give for a rope, some crampons, and an ice pick.”

She stepped back, allowing the rock to block the rain, and checked her watch. 8:20
A.M
. Amazing the thing still worked. She watched more clouds roll past above, driven by air that could only be heard.

“Chasm is here millions of years,” Sokolov said. “Formed when mountain formed.”

“What's your story?”

“I am geologist. Oil research is my specialty, but Russians care not less. They need a rock expert. You are right. They want uranium. I come to confirm the find.”

The situation was infinitely better than just a few minutes ago, but she was still imprisoned. She should be home in France, working on her castle. Block by block she was re-creating the walls using the same tools and materials as 700 years ago. Medieval architecture was her passion. And, as Sokolov had correctly noted earlier, she could afford the indulgence. Yet here she was in southern Bulgaria, trapped inside a mountain with a man who she could not decide was friend or foe.

“Over there,” Sokolov said, pointing.

She stayed back, gun ready, and followed him to the far side where the rock floor dropped down five meters. Her flashlight beam revealed a façade chiseled from the stone, blocks rising on two sides and joined across the top, connected by clearly defined joints.

“A doorway,” she muttered.

“That is what you came for.”

She knew Thracians always framed the openings to their tombs in elaborate ways.

“I find it two days ago,” Sokolov said. “This is real tomb. The other is some sort of ante-chamber.”

“You didn't tell the others about this?”

He shook his head. “Not a word.”

“Why?”

“Go and see.”

“How about we both go?” she said.

He climbed down first, using the boulders as makeshift
steps. She followed, her finger on the gun's trigger, ready to instantly react. Was this his plan? Lure her down here. Were the others waiting inside? If so, why give her a loaded gun?

At the bottom she examined the portal more closely.

“Another level extends out,” he said to her. “Beneath where we stand, into the mountain. Maybe caused by lava flow from long ago. Not unusual. Creates caves.”

She studied the doorway as he spoke. Definitely human-made. Rubble lay piled before the portal. The remnants of a marble door, blasted away.

“I do that,” Sokolov said. “I wanted to see what is inside.”

She stared at the chunks and realized the door itself had been a precious artifact. “You've been inside?”

“Twice.”

She motioned with the flashlight and he disappeared into the blackness. She followed, met by a wall of dank, musty air. Enough daylight slipped in for her to see a circular room about twenty meters in diameter. She quickly aimed the flashlight at the far end and discovered limestone walls, still lined in places with ancient timbers. Her light angled upward and exposed the expected Thracian beehive architecture to a domed ceiling. The vault's central camera contained the image of a horseman being bestowed a wreath by a goddess, the maroon coloring of the frescoes still vibrant. A high relief of stone statues—women—encircled the vault. Parts of the walls had collapsed, rubble piled on the floor. She aimed the beam at the floor and noticed it was littered with debris. A glitter here and there alerted her that it was not insignificant.

Gold, silver, bronze, and clay objects were strewn amongst rock.

“Earthquakes do damage,” he said. “But tomb is remarkable.”

He was right. Perhaps the most fully intact Thracian sanctuary ever found.

In the center stood the deathbed, fashioned of stone, like the altar from the earlier chamber. Lying across the top were the remains of a skeleton, bones arranged anatomically as they'd been when released from the grip of flesh and muscle. The skull was large and possessed a huge gash across the right side.

“He died from head wound,” Sokolov quietly said.

Her grip on the gun tightened as they threaded a path to the remains. She drifted three steps back, adding distance between them, enough that she could see exactly what he was doing.

Bits of cloth lay scattered amongst the bones—perhaps, she thought, burial robes long gone to dust. A gold band wrapped the neck bones. Gold brooches, earrings, and greaves lay to one side. A gold armlet, corded and patterned, encircled one of the wrists. Bits and pieces of a leather belt remained, inset with a gold band. A gold dagger, figured, tapered, and burnished, lay near the right hand. Remnants of shoes embellished with gold stripes rested opposite the skull.

“He is important,” Sokolov said.

She agreed. Only Thracian leaders possessed such wealth.

She kept one eye on the Russian and studied the rest of the room. Dark shadows signaled more objects. The flashlight cut a swath through the darkness. On the far side, to the right of the entrance, stood a bronze-plated wooden chariot, its four wheels more than a meter across. Amazingly, the petrified wood had survived. She stepped toward it and noticed lavish ornamentation. She'd read about the
chariots, seen drawings, bits and pieces here and there. But nothing whole. This was a major archaeological find. Lying beside the chariot were wooden and leather objects that appeared to be harnesses. She knew somewhere nearby would be the bones of horses, sent with their master into the afterlife.

“I have wife in China,” Sokolov said. “We meet when I am there last year. I want to be with her.”

His tone suggested that he meant it. If so, she envied his conviction and wondered if she'd ever meet anybody for whom she'd risk everything.

“Russians do not let me go. I work in oil production and know too many secrets.”

“Why are you even here?” she asked. “This doesn't involve oil.”

“That was my question to you, which you never answer.”

“I came for this tomb. Nothing more.”

She saw that he believed her.

“Russian's short on experts in geology. My colleague was to come but he became sick. They tell me just few days in Bulgaria, and Comrade Varga will watch over me. He is Russian security. My keeper. Not someone to take lightly.”

She still wanted that one opportunity with Varga.

“I decide to leave,” Sokolov said. “When you show up I know the time is now.”

But she had to say, “We're both trapped.” She motioned around with the gun. “Of course, we do have a fabulous treasure.”

Beside the cart lay exquisitely shaped rhytons, amphorae, and phials, each gilded and embossed with more mythological scenes.

She shook her head. The find was priceless.

Thorvaldsen had told her that, if anything was found, he'd finance a dig to study the site. That was
the thing she admired about her friend, one way they were exactly alike. History was far more important than wealth.

“If I get to Greece,” Sokolov said. “I get to China.”

She knew the border was less than fifty kilometers south.

“Varga does not want me to go.”

She glanced beside the chariot to a stone slab where more gold bracelets, hatches, and ornaments lay. Propped at its base was some bronze body armor adorned, she saw, with more goddesses. A sword with a gold-studded pommel stood beside it. Though the Thracians had been fierce warriors and accomplished horse breeders, they'd also excelled as goldsmiths.

And this tomb was clear proof of that fact.

She stepped back toward the deathbed.

“I want to be with my wife,” he said. “Varga knows I am gone. He is looking for me.”

A detail he'd omitted earlier.

“I trust you,” he said. “You have my gun.”

“Comrade Sokolov,” a voice called out from outside.

Varga.

She stared at Sokolov.

“Did you think me that stupid?” the disembodied voice asked. “I knew you wanted to help her yesterday. Your eyes, comrade. They betray you. I was told to watch you carefully.”

Her gaze raked the tomb. Only one exit.

Had it been Sokolov's task to lead her here?

“You are important man,” Varga called out. “But I care not. Neither do your superiors. They told me to deal with any problems you create as I wanted.”

Something thudded to the ground just outside the portal.

Her gaze locked on it.

Another bundle of plastique explosive with another timer clicking down.

40 seconds.

39.

38.

Her question about Sokolov's loyalty had just been answered.

The Russian ignored the bomb and rushed toward a pile of rock.

“Help me,” he said, as he started clearing the pile.

She immediately assisted.

As they worked she saw an arched opening appear in the circular wall, maybe a meter high. Tight, but enough to crawl through. Now she knew why he'd led her here.

She glanced back.

23 seconds.

22.

“Go,” he said. “Fast.”

On all fours, still gripping the gun and the light, she scooted through the tunnel, Sokolov following.

“I find this tunnel when I am inside,” Sokolov said as they kept crawling. “It became exposed when I blast. I hide it. Is to be my way out.”

Her mind was still counting.

Under 10 seconds.

The darting beam of her light revealed the end five meters ahead and she quickened her pace, emerging and clearing a path for Sokolov, who leaped out just as the concussion from the explosion spewed dust and gravel from the crawl space.

She lay face down, arms covering her head, eyes closed.

The blast subsided. Debris settled.

She raised her head, as did Sokolov.

“Where are we?” she asked.

He stood. “Good place.” His tone had changed. More exuberant. “Come.”

She followed him through the tunnel on a straight run. Two turns and fifty meters later they emerged out into a light rain.

“This is the far side of mountain,” he said. “Long way from camp.”

She was glad to be out of there.

“Now Russians think me dead,” he said. “I can leave and no one cares.”

“I thought you were important to them.”

“This is the thing about Russians. Nothing is
really
important. That belief will be their destruction one day.”

“Are you always so depressing?”

He shook his head. “Not anymore. I am free. I know you to be a capable woman when I first see you. I am glad you do not shoot me back there.”

“How did you know that I might?”

“Not hard to realize. But you are good person. You don't pull a trigger unless necessary.”

“How would you know that?”

He pointed to her face. “It is there. I take a chance with you. Much better than trusting Russians.”

She smiled. “I assume that's a compliment?”