"Dr. Hatch?" Rankin asked. "Nope." A small beeping sounded on a far console and he hurried over to take a look. "Things have gotten pretty weird around here. The digging crew reached the iron plate over the treasure chamber around seven. Neidelman dismissed them, sent them home because of the storm. Then he called me up here to relieve Magnusen and monitor the major systems. Only most everything is down. The generators are offline, and the backup batteries can't support the whole load. I've had to shut down all noncritical systems. Communications have been out since lightning trashed the uplink. They're on their own down there."
Bonterre walked toward the center of the structure and stared down through the glass porthole. The Water Pit was dark, a glowing ember of light deep at its core. The skeletal tracery of struts and braces that filled the Pit shone dimly in the reflected emergency lamps.
"So who's down there?" she asked.
"Just Neidelman and Magnusen, far as I know. Haven't seen anybody else on the monitors, anyway. And they went out when the generators failed." He jerked a thumb in the direction of the closed-circuit monitors, now awash in snow.
But Bonterre continued to stare down toward the faint light at the base of the Pit. "How about Streeter?"
"Haven't seen him since we had all that company in the lobster boats, earlier in the day."
Bonterre stepped away from the glass floor. "Has Neidelman broached the chamber?"
"Like I said, I lost the video feeds. All I got left are the instruments. At least the hardbody sonar is giving clearer signals now that all the dirt's been removed. I've been trying to get a cross section of. . ."
His voice died as Bonterre became aware of a faint vibration, a tremor at the edge of perceptibility. She glanced out the windows, sudden fear washing over her. But the battered cofferdam was still holding back the fury of the sea.
"What the hell?" breathed Rankin, staring at the sonar screen.
"Do you feel that?" Bonterre asked.
"Feel it? I can see it right here."
"What is it?"
"Damned if I know. Way too shallow to be an earthquake, and anyway it isn't throwing out the right P-waves." He tapped briefly on a keyboard. "There, it's stopped again. Some tunnel caving in somewhere, I'll bet."
"Look, Roger, I need your help." Bonterre set the sopping nylon bag onto an instrument panel and unzipped it. "Ever seen a machine such like this one?"
Rankin kept his eyes on the monitor. "What is it?"
"A Radmeter. It is for—"
"Wait a minute. A Radmeter?" Rankin looked over from the monitor. "Well, what the hell. Yeah, I know what it is. Those puppies aren't cheap. Where'd you get it?"
"You know how to work it?"
"More or less. Mining company I worked for used one for tracing strikes of pitchblende deposits. Wasn't as fancy as this one, though."
Coming over, he snapped it on and typed a few instructions on the miniature keyboard. A glowing, three-dimensional grid appeared on the screen. "You aim this detector," he said, moving the microphonelike device, "and it traces a map of the radioactive source on the screen. The intensity is color-coded. Blues and greens for the lowest-level radiation, then up through the spectrum. White's the hottest. Hmmm, this thing needs calibration." The screen was streaked with dashes and spots of blue.
Rankin tapped a few keys. "Damn, I'm getting a hell of a lot of background noise. The machine's probably on the fritz. Just like everything else around here."
"The machine is working just fine," said Bonterre evenly. "It is picking up radiation from St. Michael's Sword."
Rankin glanced at her, squinting his eyes. "What did you say?"
"The sword is radioactive."
Rankin continued looking at her. "You're jiving me."
"I do not jive. The radioactivity has been the cause of all our problems." Bonterre quickly explained while Rankin stared at her, his mouth working silently behind his thick beard. When she finished, she braced herself for the inevitable argument.
But none came. Rankin continued staring, his hirsute face perplexed. Then it cleared and he nodded suddenly, great beard wagging. "Hell, I guess it's the only answer that explains everything. I wonder—"
"We do not have time for speculation," interrupted Bonterre sharply. "Neidelman cannot be allowed to open the casket."
"Yes," said Rankin slowly, still thinking. "Yes, it would have to be radioactive as hell to be leaking all the way to the surface. Shit, he could fry us all. No wonder the equipment's been acting up. It's a wonder the sonar's cleared up enough to..."
The words died on his lips as his gaze turned back to the bank of equipment.
"Christ on a bicycle," he said wonderingly.
Chapter 53
Neidelman stood motionless at the base of the Water Pit. Above his head, the lift hummed as it carried Streeter and Hatch up the array until they were lost from view in the forest of struts.
Neidelman did not hear the lift recede. He glanced at Magnusen, face pressed again to the hole in the iron plate, her breathing rapid and shallow. Without a word, he eased her aside—she moved sluggishly, as if exhausted or half asleep—grasped his lifeline, hooked it to the ladder, and lowered himself through the hole.
He landed next to the sword casket, knocking loose a dozen rattling streams of precious metal. He stood there, gazing at the casket, blind to the dazzling wealth that filled the chamber. Then he knelt, almost reverently, his eyes caressing its every detail.
It was about five feet long and two feet wide, the sides made of engraved lead chased with silver, the corners and edges decorated with elaborate gold work. The entire casket was strapped to the iron floor of the treasure crypt by four crossed bands of iron: a strangely crude cage to hold such a magnificent prisoner.
He looked more closely. The casket was supported by claw legs of pure gold. Each leg was formed as an eagle talon gripping an orb: obviously of Baroque origin and added much later. Indeed, it seemed the entire casket was an amalgam of styles, dating from the thirteenth century to the early Spanish Baroque. Evidently the lead casket had been added to over the ages, each decoration more sumptuous than the last.
Neidelman reached out and touched the fine metalwork, surprised to find it almost warm. He slipped his hand inside the iron cage and traced the workmanship with a slender fingertip. Over the years, no day passed in which he hadn't imagined this moment. He had often pictured what it would be like to see this casket, to touch it, to open it—and, in the fullness of time, draw out its contents.
Countless hours had been spent musing on the sword's design. Sometimes, he imagined a great Roman sword of beaten electrum, perhaps even the Sword of Damocles itself. At other times, he imagined a barbarous Saracen weapon of chased gold with a silver blade, or a Byzantine broadsword, encrusted with gems and too heavy even to lift. He had even imagined that perhaps it was the sword of Saladin, carried back by a knight from the Crusades, made of the finest Damascene steel inlaid in gold and set with diamonds from King Solomon's mines.
The possibilities, the speculations, filled him with an intense emotion, more overwhelming than anything he had known. This must be how it feels to behold the face of God, he thought.
He remembered there was not much time. Removing his hands from the silky metal of the casket, he placed them on the steel bands that surrounded it. He tugged, first gingerly, then with force. The cage that surrounded the casket was solid, immovable. Odd, he thought, that the bands went through slots in the iron floor and seemed to be attached to something below. The extraordinary security with which the casket was guarded confirmed its incalculable value.
Digging into a pocket, he drew out a penknife and gouged it into the rust that coated the nearest band. A few flakes came away, showing bright steel underneath. To free the chest, he would have to cut through the bands with the torch.