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Cast with immaculate care, the women’s golden torsos were draped in robes so finely detailed Sam and Remi could see tiny creases and stitching. On each woman’s head rested a laurel wreath; each stem and leaf and bud was a work of art unto itself.
“Who moved them?” Remi said. “Laurent? How could he have done it by himself?”
“That,” Sam replied, then pointed.
Lying beside the wall was a makeshift sled constructed of a half dozen overlapping shields. Made of lacquered wicker and leather, each shield was a five-foot-tall hourglass. They were bound together with what looked like catgut to form a shallow canoe shape.
“We saw one of these at Bondaruk’s estate,” Sam said. “It’s a Persian gerron. Imagine it: Laurent, in here working alone for days, building his sled, then dragging each Karyatid across that bridge. . . . Amazing.”
“But why leave them here?”
“I don’t know. We know there’s a gap in his biography a few years before he hired Arienne and the Faucon. Maybe Napoleon ordered him to try to get the columns out. Maybe Laurent realized he couldn’t do it without help, so he left them behind assuming he’d return.”
“Sam, daylight.”
He looked up. Remi had moved farther down the wall and was kneeling beside a shoulder-wide crack in the wall. The interior had collapsed and was choked with rock. A pencil-sized shaft of sunlight showed at the far end.
“Napoleon and Laurent might have come in this way,” Remi said, “but we won’t be using it to get out.”
“Time to go,” Sam said. “Let’s go get reinforcements.”
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 o
f 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.
