The Captain stared at him, his gaze unreadable.
"Radiation poisoning causes hair loss, makes your teeth drop out. Just like those pirate skeletons. What else could be the cause of that mass grave? There were no signs of violence on the skeletons. Why else would the rest of the pirates have left in such a hurry? They were running from an invisible killer they didn't understand. And why do you suppose Ockham's ship was found derelict, the crew all dead? Because they'd received, over time, a fatal dose of radiation, leaking from the casket that held St. Michael's Sword."
Streeter dug the gun barrel cruelly into his ear, and Hatch tried vainly to twist free. "Don't you get it? God knows just how radioactive that sword is. It must be hot as hell. If you expose it, you'll kill not only yourself, but who knows how many others. You—"
"I've heard enough," Neidelman said. He looked at Hatch. "Funny. I never thought it would be you. When I was selling the idea of this dig to our backers, juggling numbers for risk analysis, you were the one stable factor in the equation. You hated the treasure. You'd never let anyone dig on your island. Hell, you'd never even been back to Stormhaven. If I could only secure your cooperation, I knew I'd never have to worry about greed." He shook his head. "It pains me to think how much I misjudged you."
There was a final hiss of steel, then Magnusen stood up. "Done, Captain," she said, removing the visor and reaching for the electrical box that controlled the winch. There was a whine as the cable went taut. With a thin metallic protest, the plate was lifted from the iron slab. Magnusen angled it to the far corner of the shaft floor, settled it to the earth, then unhooked the cable from the base of the large bucket.
Almost despite himself, Hatch found his eyes traveling toward the ragged square that had been cut into the iron plate. The dark opening to the treasure chamber exhaled the faint perfume of ambergris, frankincense, and sandalwood.
"Lower the light," the Captain said.
Her heavy body trembling with suppressed excitement, Magnusen plucked a basket lamp from the ladder and swung it down into the hole. Then Neidelman dropped to his hands and knees. Slowly, carefully, he peered inside.
There was a long silence, punctuated only by the dripping of water, the faint hiss of the forced air system, and the distant sound of thunder. At last the Captain rose to his feet. He staggered slightly, then caught himself. His face had become rigid, almost masklike, and his damp skin was white. Struggling with suppressed emotion, he mopped his face with a handkerchief and nodded to Magnusen.
Magnusen dropped quickly, pressing her face into the hole. Hatch could hear her involuntary gasp echo up, strangely hollow, from the chamber beneath. She remained at the opening in the floor, rigid, for several long minutes. Finally, she stood up and moved to one side.
Neidelman turned to Hatch. "Now it's your turn."
"My turn?"
"That's right. I'm not without feeling. These riches would have been half yours. And it's because of you we were able to dig here. For that I remain grateful, despite all the trouble you've caused. Surely you want to see what we've worked so hard for."
Hatch took a deep breath. "Captain, there's a Geiger counter in my office. I'm not asking you to believe without seeing—"
Neidelman slapped him across the jaw. It was not hard, but the pain that shot through Hatch's mouth and ear was so unbearable he sank to his knees. He was dimly aware that the Captain's features had suddenly turned crimson, contorted into a look of intense anger.
Wordlessly, Neidelman gestured toward the iron plate. Streeter grabbed Hatch by the hair and twisted his head downward into the opening.
Hatch blinked once, then twice, as he struggled to comprehend. The light swung back and forth, sending shadows across the vault. The metal chamber was about ten feet square, the iron walls furred with rust but still intact. As he stared, Hatch forgot the pain in his head; forgot Streeter's hands twisting sadistically in his hair; forgot Neidelman; forgot everything.
As a boy, he had once seen a photograph of the antechamber to King Tutankhamen's tomb. Staring at the casks, boxes, chests, crates, and barrels that lined the walls of the chamber beneath him, the memory of that photo came rushing back.
He could see the treasure had once been carefully wrapped and stored by Ockham and his men. But time had taken its toll. The leather sacks had rotted and split, pouring out streams of gold and silver coins that mixed and mingled in small rivers. From the wormy, sprung staves of the casks spilled great uncut emeralds, rubies dark as pig's blood, sapphires winking in the flickering light, topazes, carved amethysts, pearls, and everywhere the scintillating rainbows of diamonds, cut and uncut, large and small. Against one wall lay bundles of elephant tusks, narwhal horns, and boar's ivory, yellowed and cracked. Against another were enormous bolts of a material that had clearly once been silk; now it had rotted into lumps of decaying black ash, shot through with masses of gold threads.
Along one wall rose a stack of small wooden crates. The sides of the topmost crates had fallen away and Hatch could see the butt ends of rough gold bars—hundreds, perhaps thousands of them—stacked back to back. Ranged along the fourth wall were crates and bags in odd shapes and sizes, some of which had tumbled over and broken open, revealing ecclesiastical treasures: gold crosses encrusted with pearls and gemstones, elaborately decorated gold chalices. Beside them, another bag had burst open, revealing a bundle of braided gold epaulettes taken from unfortunate sea captains.
Atop the center of this fantastic hoard was a long, lead coffin, trimmed and edged with gold, strapped with iron bands that anchored it to the vault's floor. A massive brass lock was attached to its top face, partly concealing the golden image of an unsheathed sword etched into its lid.
As Hatch stared, barely able to breathe, he heard a clink, then a rush, as a rotten sack burst and a stream of gold doubloons poured out, running in rivulets among the piled treasures.
Then he was jerked to his feet and the wondrous, nightmarish sight was gone.
"Get everything ready on the surface," Neidelman was saying. "Sandra will winch the treasure up in the bucket. Two trailers are attached to the ATV, correct? We should be able to get the bulk of the treasure out to the Griffin in half a dozen trips. That's all we can chance."
"And what do I do with him?" Streeter asked.
Neidelman simply nodded. A smile creased Streeter's features as he raised his gun toward Hatch's head.
"Not here," Neidelman murmured. The sudden rage had passed, and he was calm again, looking down toward the treasure chamber, his expression far away. "It must look like an accident. I wouldn't like to think of his rotten corpse drifting in on the tide with a bullet in its brainpan. Take him into a side tunnel, or ..."
He paused.
"Put him with his brother," he said, his eyes drifting toward Streeter for the briefest of seconds before returning to the flickering hole at his feet. "And Mr. Streeter—"
Streeter paused in turning Hatch toward the ladder.
"You said there's a chance Isobel survived. Eliminate that chance, if you please."
Chapter 52
As Bonterre clambered cautiously up to the observation post, ready to leap for the ground at a moment's notice, Rankin turned and saw her. His beard split into a huge grin, then fell almost comically as he got a better look.
"Isobel!" he cried, coming forward. "You're soaked. And what the hell—your face is all bloody!"
"Never mind," said Bonterre, stripping off her wet slicker and sweaters and wringing them out.
"What happened?"
Bonterre looked at him, wondering how much she should say. "Boat wreck," she replied after a moment.
"Jesus. Why didn't the—"
"I will explain later," she interrupted, shrugging back into the damp clothes. "Have you seen Malin?"