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"I see you know the answer, too," Malone said.
Henn said nothing. He just forced the flat iron tip beneath the floorboards and pried them upward, revealing a black yawn in the ground and the top of a wooden ladder.
"How did you know?" Christl asked him.
"This cabin sits in an odd spot. Makes no sense, unless it's protecting something. When I saw the photo in the book, I realized what the answer had to be."
"We'll need flashlights," Werner said.
"Two are on the sled, outside. I had Taperell pack them, along with extra batteries."
SMITH AWOKE. HE WAS BACK IN HIS APARTMENT. 8:20 AM. HE'D managed only three hours' sleep, but what an excellent day already. He was ten million dollars richer, thanks to Diane McCoy, and he'd made a point to Langford Ramsey that he wasn't someone to be taken lightly.
He switched on the television and found a Charmed rerun. He loved that show. Something about three sexy witches appealed to him. Naughty and nice. Which also seemed best how to describe Diane McCoy. She'd coolly stood by during his confrontation with Ramsey, clearly a dissatisfied woman who wanted more-and apparently knew how to get it.
He watched as Paige orbed from her house. What a trick. To dematerialize from one place, then rematerialize at another. He was somewhat like that. Slipping in, doing his job, then just as deftly slipping away.
His cell phone dinged. He recognized the number.
"And what may I do for you?" he asked Diane McCoy as he answered.
"A little more cleanup."
"Seems the day for that."
"The two from Asheville who almost got to Scofield. They work for me and know far too much. I wish we had time for finesse, but we don't. They have to be eliminated."
"And you have a way?"
"I know exactly how we're going to do it."
DOROTHEA WATCHED AS COTTON MALONE DESCENDED INTO THE opening beneath the cabin. What had her grandfather found? She'd been apprehensive about coming, both for the risks and unwanted personal involvements, but she was glad now that she'd made the trip. Her pack rested a few feet away, the gun inside bringing her renewed comfort. She'd overreacted on the plane. Her sister knew how to play her, keep her off balance, rub the rawest nerve in her body, and she told herself to quit taking the bait.
Werner stood with Henn, near the hut's door. Christl sat at the radio desk.
Malone's light played across the darkness below.
"It's a tunnel," he called out. "Stretches toward the mountain."
"How far?" Christl asked.
"A long-ass way."
Malone climbed back to the top. "I need to see something."
He emerged and walked outside. They followed.
"I wondered about the strips of snow and ice streaking the valley. Bare ground and rock everywhere, then a few rough paths crisscrossing here and there." He pointed toward the mountain and a seven-to eight-yard-wide path of snow that led from the hut to its base. "That's the tunnel's path. The air beneath is much cooler than the ground so the snow stays."
"How do you know that?" Werner asked.
"You'll see."
HENN WAS THE FINAL ONE TO CLIMB DOWN THE LADDER. MALONE watched as they all stood in amazement. The tunnel stretched ahead in a straight path, maybe twenty feet wide, its sides black volcanic rock, its ceiling a luminous blue, casting the subterranean path in a twilight-like glow.
"This is incredible," Christl said.
"The ice cap formed a long time ago. But it had help." He pointed with his flashlight at what appeared to be boulders littering the floor, but they reflected back in a twinkly glow. "Some kind of quartz. They're everywhere. Look at their shapes. My guess is they once formed the ceiling, eventually fell away, and the ice remained in a natural arch."
Dorothea bent down and examined one of the chunks. Henn held the other flashlight and offered illumination. She joined a couple of them together: They fit like pieces in a puzzle. "You're right. They connect."
"Where does this lead?" Christl said.
"That's what we're about to find out."
The underground air was colder than outside. He checked his wrist thermometer. Minus twenty degrees Celsius. He converted the measurement. Four below Fahrenheit. Cold, but bearable.
He was right about length-the tunnel was a couple of hundred feet long and littered with the quartz rubble. Before descending they'd lugged their gear into the hut, including the two radios. They'd brought down their backpacks and he toted spare batteries for the flashlights, but the phosphorescent glow filtering down from the ceiling easily showed the way.
The glowing ceiling ended ahead where, he estimated, they'd found the mountain and a towering archway-black and red pillars framing its sides and supporting a tympanum filled with writing similar to the books. He shone his light and noted how the square columns tapered inward toward their base, the polished surfaces shimmering with an ethereal beauty.
"Seems we're at the right place," Christl said.
Two doors, perhaps twelve feet tall, were barred shut. He stepped close and caressed their exterior. "Bronze."
Bands of running spirals decorated the smooth surface. A metal bar spanned their width, held in place by thick clamps. Six heavy hinges opened toward them.
He grasped the bar and lifted it away.
Henn reached for the handle of one of the doors and swung it outward. Malone gripped the other, feeling like Dorothy entering Oz. The door's opposite side was adorned with the same decorative spirals and bronze clamps. The portal was wide enough for all of them to enter simultaneously.
What had appeared topside as a single mountain, draped in snow, was actually three peaks crowded together, the wide cleaves between them mortared with translucent blue ice-old, cold, hard, and free of snow. The inside had once been bricked with more of the quartz blocks, like a towering stained-glass window, the joints thick and jagged. A good portion of the inner wall had fallen, but enough remained for him to see that the construction feat had been impressive. More iridescent showers of blue-tinted rays rained down through three rising joints, like massive light sticks, illuminating the cavernous space in an unearthly way.
Before them lay a city.
STEPHANIE HAD SPENT THE NIGHT AT EDWIN DAVIS' APARTMENT, a modest two-bedroom, two-bath affair in the Watergate towers. Canted walls, intersecting grids, varying ceiling heights, and plenty of curves and circles gave the rooms a cubist composition. The minimalist decor and walls the color of ripe pears created an unusual but not unpleasant feel. Davis told her the place had come furnished and he'd grown accustomed to its simplicity.
They'd returned with Daniels to Washington aboard Marine One and managed a few hours' sleep. She'd showered, and Davis had arranged for her to buy a change of clothes in one of the ground-floor boutiques. Pricey, but she'd had no choice. Her clothes had seen a lot of wear. She'd left Atlanta for Charlotte thinking the trip would take one day, at best. Now she was into day three, with no end in sight. Davis, too, had cleaned up, shaved, and dressed in navy corduroy trousers and a pale yellow oxford-cloth shirt. His face was still bruised from the fight but looked better.
"We can get something to eat downstairs," he said. "I can't boil water, so I eat there a lot."
"The president is your friend," she felt compelled to say, knowing last night was on his mind. "He's taking a big chance for you."
He cracked a brittle smile. "I know. And now it's our turn."
She'd come to admire this man. He was nothing like she imagined. A bit too bold for his own good, but committed.
The house phone rang and Davis answered.
They'd been waiting.
In the apartment's hushed quiet she could hear the caller's every word.
"Edwin," Daniels said. "I have the location."
"Tell me," Davis said.
"You sure? Last chance. You might not come back from this one."
"Just tell me the location."
She cringed at his impatience, but Daniels was right. They might not come back.
Davis shut his eyes. "Just let us do this." He paused. "Sir."
"Write this down."
Davis grabbed a pen and pad from the counter and wrote quickly as Daniels provided the information.
