Sharyn pictured the bunker being buried. “How much time will that buy us?”
“No telling,” Laurent said.
Archie glanced back up. “What about Duncan and Russo?”
Laurent shook his head. “We can’t wait for them. Not with poison in the air. We keep going.”
While fearful for the others, Sharyn did not argue. Her head hammered, and her vision had begun to pinch.
What manner of poison is this?
They continued down the steps, with Laurent leading. He set a swifter pace, likely equally afflicted. Sharyn still clutched Saint-Germain’s book against her chest with one arm, while holding aloft her flashlight. The walls down here appeared less chiseled, nearly smooth, as if worn down by rushing water or melted through by some arcane means.
“The stairs end ahead,” Laurent finally announced.
Thank god . . .
She closed upon the tall man, trying to see past his bulk. But as they neared the bottom, Laurent’s flashlight revealed a tunnel continuing onward, heading even deeper into the core of the mountain.
How far does this go?
Laurent rubbed the heel of a hand between his eyes, clearly in pain, but it did not slow him—only distracted him. As he reached the bottom, the last step sank under his weight. Thrown off balance, he tripped forward into the tunnel and crashed to a knee.
No one spoke.
All held their breath.
Behind them, a familiar grating of stone echoed down the steps. Sharyn swung her flashlight’s beam back up. Very faintly, she could spot movement. Still, it was enough to recognize their predicament.
“We’re being sealed in,” she said.
Archie glared at the offending step. “Another boobytrap.”
Sharyn remembered Laurent’s story of the pitfalls in Libya, both inside and outside the vault. He had even mentioned a pressure-sensitive trigger that had nearly collapsed the treasure cave.
“I’ve been foolish,” Laurent admitted, standing up.
Sharyn took a deep breath, struggling to hold back nausea. She hoped it was born of stress and not toxicity.
“Stuck in here,” she warned, “we won’t last long.”
Laurent turned and faced the tunnel. “Then pray there is not only treasure back there—but also a way to release the trap that holds us.”
“If so,” Archie said, “we’d better find it quick.”
58
11:24 a.m.
Duncan pressed his palms to either side of the alcove in the wall. He then ran his fingers around the edges where a door should be. Even this close, he could not discern any outline. It had vanished amid all the chisel marks.
When he had rushed down here with his flashlight a moment ago, he had caught sight of a stone slab rising, accompanied by a low grinding of rock. By the time he reached it, the opening had sealed tight, as if it were never there.
He suppressed a moan and leaned back to shout. “Sharyn! Archie! Laurent!”
He doubted his voice would reach through the thick slab of dolomitic rock. Still, he leaned his ear to the array of cracks surrounding the alcove, hoping his call had carried through somehow. He strained for any response.
Nothing . . .
