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He noticed five red X’s on the map beside labels.
Konrad traced a route with his finger, following the X’s. Golebie. Barany. Sroki. Szczygielec. Jelen. Pigeons. Sheep. Magpies. Goldfinch. Deer.
“The chambers and tunnels are named for animals, birds, famous visitors, cites, provinces, people, even one for a dragon,” Konrad said. “Most of the labels are centuries old, attached when they were first hewn from the salt.”
And what an endeavor.
Block by block the salt had been removed, starting at the top and continuing down until a vein was tapped out, forming a chamber. Then the miners moved to the next, boring long straight tunnels, called drifts, to connect the chambers, all done for not only excavation but also better ventilation. The result was a maze, kilometers long, apparently made navigable only by the names attached along the way.
“The Barany Chamber is ahead,” Konrad said. “It’s the only one that intersects with this main drift. Vic said you needed a simple clear path to find the end. Here it is.”
Jonty had held off to the last minute with this final detail, now even more important given Reinhardt’s presence. “Has anyone else inquired about this?”
Konrad shook his head. “No one.”
“Do you know if anyone has been on this level the past few days?”
“Surely some of the miners have. But you can only get down here with a fob that frees the elevator. I have one, and about fifty others do, too. We check every level daily. But if you’re asking if anyone has gone to where we’re headed? Not to my knowledge. It’s fairly remote and inaccessible. There’s no reason for anyone to be there.”
They continued down the timber-lined drift, the dry salt beneath their boots crunching with every step like packed snow. A steady breeze swept over them from the ventilation system, which helped alleviate any feeling of being entombed. The air was cool but not uncomfortably so.
Vic toted a backpack containing what would make Jonty rich. He’d decided weeks ago not to keep the cache exposed. Better to place it in a secure location and let the high bidder worry about its procurement. All seven participants possessed the resources to make that happen, along with the ability to hunt down and kill him if they did not get what they paid for.
But he had no intention of cheating anyone.
Quite the contrary.
His reputation had been built on dependability, so he planned to offer Vic’s assistance, if needed, to secure what they’d paid for. Not quite a money-back guarantee, but close enough.
They kept walking and entered another chamber. This one was huge, at least twenty meters high and more than that long and wide.
He marveled at human industry.
At one point over one-third of the entire royal treasury of Poland had been derived from salt. Twenty-seven million tons extracted over seven centuries, each block hacked from the wall with picks, axes, and wedges. Until the 14th century prisoners of war worked the mine as slaves.
Then free men took over.
And no brutality existed as it did in coal, gold, or other mines. Here there was a much more normal existence, the men living below for weeks at a time, working eight-hour shifts, being paid well, which included a generous salt allowance.
The diggers had been the most important in the social hierarchy, and rightly so. Prospectors found the salt. Carriers moved the blocks from the drifts to the shafts so they could be hauled upward. Penitents had the toughest job of all, guarding against deadly methane gas, which seeped from the rock and accumulated at the ceiling. They wore soaking-wet clothes and held long poles with torches on the end, burning off the gas before it became explosive. Water was the chief enemy, seeping down from above, forming brine, chiseling the salt from the ceilings and walls, crystallizing it into cauliflower-like glazes and stalactites, many visible here on this level, reflecting back from their helmet lights.
“This is Sroki,” Konrad said. “It’s one of the largest chambers on this level, but it’s not in good shape, as you can see. Water is seeping in everywhere. Eventually, the miners will come and make repairs.”
Rising on the far side were enormous logs, stacked horizontally onto one another, forming a table-like pillared wall. Cribbing. There to counteract the enormous downward pressure from the rock and prevent a collapse. He noticed the size of the tree trunks and that most bore no evidence of a saw. Instead, they’d been chopped down with an ax from the nearby forests, the hack marks still there, which confirmed they’d been there a long time. Yet they looked relatively recent, proof of the preservation effects a salt mine had on wood. It could last forever. Provided it didn’t burn. White paint helped make it more visible and retardant. Fire had always been the greatest threat. For centuries miners worked with open lamps in clay bowls, tallow and oil for fuel. An easy matter for a spark to flare, the fire bringing not only flames and heat but also noxious carbon monoxide. There’d been many fires in the mines over the centuries. Some were deadly and had lasted for months, as there was nothing that could be done except seal the area off and allow the flames to burn themselves out. He noticed that some of the cribbing showed traces of charring.
Konrad led the way down another drift.
Offshoots appeared periodically into more dark passages left and right. Some were labeled, most were not. Then a white sign with black letters noted that an offshoot to the right was named SZCZYGIELEC.
Goldfinch.
“That was marked on your map,” he said to Konrad.
“That’s right. It will get progressively tighter from here on. This is an area no one visits. It’s known only through old charts and records.”
Vic turned to face him with a look that asked if he was going to be okay.
“I’ve never been claustrophobic,” Jonty said. “I’ll be fine.”
They kept going into the blackness, and he felt like he was descending into the abyss. Without their lights they would not be able even to see a finger touch their nose. The passageway narrowed. They found a chamber marked GOLEBIE, and finally came to one labeled JELEN.
More names from the map.
Ahead the tunnel had fallen in on itself, leaving only a small hatchway through the salt debris, big enough for a man to pass through on his belly. A dark space opened on the other side.
Vic nodded.
Jonty faced their guide. “I need you to wait here. We need to handle this alone.”
Konrad had the good sense not to argue and simply nodded.
“I also need that map,” Jonty said.
Konrad handed it over.
No sense delaying.
This had to be done.
“Lead the way,” he said to Vic.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cotton quickly corrected himself.
Not a gun.
A Taser.
Two barbed electrodes attached to conductors shot through the air. Their needles found his chest. Electricity surged through him. White-hot pain exploded in his brain, leaving a trail of quivering nerves in its path. His muscles overloaded and he collapsed to the floor, his body convulsing into contractions. Like a leg cramp amplified a thousand times. The weapon continued to click as high-voltage current passed through him. The feeling of helplessness and vulnerability seemed overwhelming. He had complete control over his mind, but not his body.
The Taser’s clicking stopped.
The whole thing lasted no more than five seconds, but it had been the longest five of his life. He stayed conscious, aware of his surroundings, with only one thought.
For the pain to stop.
And it did.
But he was immobile.
He tried to catch his breath.
Ivan bent down and plucked out the darts. “Pass on message, Malone.”
Then the Russian left.
Son of a bitch. That hurt.
He slowly sat up.
His head and mind felt dull and heavy.
Dammit.
* * *
He entered the small lo
bby of his hotel, a fine 18th-century burgher’s house converted into a cozy, elegant establishment not far from the central market. On the walk over his nerves had settled. He should call Stephanie and pass on the message. Not because Ivan wanted him to, but because she needed to know the lay of the land. He’d make that call after getting upstairs to his room, where he’d have some privacy. He remained hungry, and his hotel, though quaint and comfortable, provided no room service. He’d have to head back out to find a snack, which wouldn’t be a problem given the number of nearby cafés.
He retrieved the room key from the desk clerk and climbed two unbroken flights of wooden stairs to the third floor, pulling himself along on the balustrade. He approached his door and opened the dead bolt. Inside, he tossed the key on the dresser. His room was a small suite with a separate area for the bed, a paneled door in between, which hung half open. No lights were on, the ambient light from outside leaking in through the windows, providing more than enough illumination.
A noise came from the other room.
A squeak.
Then another.
