“That’s your call. You can stay up here and be shot, or go down there and take your chances.”
They had both leaned out too far, and suddenly they were falling, tumbling down beside the U-boat into the water. They hit the surface in a tangle and went down a few meters, and then Landor released himself and swam down quickly into the gloom toward the base of the chamber, his weak leg trailing behind him as he pulled with his arms. Jack grabbed one of his regulator hoses and put the mouthpiece in, taking a breath and dropping after him. Without a mask, the water was a blur, but he could see Landor on the bottom, looking up, his arms held wide, blowing the remaining air out of his lungs.
Landor had deliberately gone too deep to surface by himself without drowning. But Jack knew him well enough to know that this was not suicide. Landor was playing him, again, and Jack had no choice but to go along with it. Landor knew that Jack would not let him die, not like this, not underwater, when there was a chance of rescue. It would go against all their training, everything they had learned together all those years ago. It was not suicide, but the depth was enough that if Jack gave him air from his tank, it would almost certainly bring on another bend, enough to require immediate medical attention. Landor would have guessed that they would have brought medics with them, and that a naval vessel from CTF 150 would be on the way, probably with the only recompression chamber in miles and one to which the medics would be obliged to send him. He knew that the game was up, that he was not getting away now with any of the gold, and he was seeking a way out. To be captured unharmed by the Somalis would mean festering in a Mogadishu jail; to be medevacked out to a ship in international waters might mean a chance of escape, a chance for Deep Explorer’s lawyers to get involved and for Landor to live to play this game another day.
All of that flashed through Jack’s mind as he sank to the bottom. He pulled in the octopus rig and tested the purge valve, holding the mouthpiece at the ready. He could see Landor watching him, eyes wide, suddenly terrified, wondering if he had miscalculated. Then Landor grabbed the regulator and breathed from it, hard and fast, the bubbles billowing above him. Jack knew they only had seconds before the tank would run empty, and he pulled at Landor’s arm, trying to kick up toward the surface. Landor resisted, hyperventilating, knowing that the more air he breathed under pressure the more likely he would be to have a bend. Jack felt his own breathing tighten, and then he pulled the octopus regulator away, pushing Landor back. This time Landor kicked hard and began to ascend, breathing out as he did so, Jack following close behind. They both broke surface to the glare of headlamps from the Somali marines who were standing on the dock with their weapons trained, Costas and Ahmed squatting alongside, ready to help.
Jack gave an okay signal, and looked over to where Landor was bent double in the water, struggling to keep his head up. “Get him on pure oxygen,” he said, seeing the medic among the marines. “And then get him out of here.”
Half an hour later, Jack stood with Costas again at the entrance to the Ahnenerbe chamber. He had stripped off his tank and his tool belt and drunk several water packs brought along by the marine medic, quickly revitalizing himself after his encounter with Landor. All of his attention now was on what lay in front of him. The scene beyond the bullion room was astonishing, one of the most extraordinary sights of his archaeological career. The chamber revealed by their head torches was small, the size of a modest bedroom, but was crammed from ceiling to floor with ancient artifacts, as if they had opened the treasury of a latter-day King Tut. Jack could immediately make out objects of Abyssinian origin on one set of shelves to his left, elaborate gold crosses of a distinctive Ethiopian shape, chalices and cups, a golden crown set with emeralds and rubies. On the other side were trays of artifacts that he recognized from the report that Zaheed had shown him of material that had disappeared from the museums in Somalia and Ethiopia at the time of the fascist occupation, and from the churches.
“Congratulations, Jack,” Costas said. “It looks like we’ve hit pay dirt.”
“It’s fantastic,” Jack replied. “When I was reading Captain Wood’s account of his Abyssinia experience in 1868, I researched all of the treasures known to have been looted from Magdala, and their present whereabouts. Hardly anything was recorded of the drumhead auction that General Napier held afterward, and a lot of artifacts disappeared without a trace into private hands. But this collection shows that some of the missing items thought to have been looted then were in fact taken from Abyssinia years later by the Nazis.”
“You told me that the Patriarch mentioned that secret chamber beneath the church at Magdala, and the Ahnenerbe men spending days scouring the place. Maybe they found other secret caches that the Abyssinians had managed to conceal from the British.”
Jack held up the crown, and looked pensively at the ground. “I only wish Zaheed had been able to see this. It would have made his day. It’s going to put Ethiopia and Somalia back on the map archaeologically.”
“Finding this stuff and getting it back to the museums is the greatest credit you can give Zaheed. We wouldn’t have got here without him.”
Jack made his way through exotic furniture and other artifacts cluttering the floor to a heavy wooden chest in the far corner of the chamber. He lifted the lid, and gasped. “I’ve never seen anything like this outside a Hollywood movie.”
Costas came over and knelt down beside him, his jaw dropping too. The chest was full of gold and silver coins, thousands of them, of all shapes and sizes. Jack plunged his hands in, grasping what he could and pulling them out, letting the overflow cascade back down and inspecting what was left. “Incredible,” he said. “I’m seeing lots of medieval issues of the sultanate of Mogadishu, and Axumite gold coins of the fourth and fifth century, many of them mint issues. Look at that one: the inscription reads ‘Basileus Axomitus,’ King of the Axumites. I’d say the Ahnenerbe must have got hold of a couple of hoards. But there are also lots of others, Egyptian, Arabian, Indian, gold dinars, lots of Byzantine Roman issues of Theodora and Justinian. Some of those have holes in them showing they were reused as jewelry, very common in India. It looks as if the Ahnenerbe scoured the whole of the Indian Ocean region for this, not just the Horn of Africa. It’s a fantastic porthole into the Indian Ocean trade in antiquity, and it’s going to occupy numismatists for years to come. Not to speak of being a spectacular centerpiece for a museum display.”
Ahmed appeared at the entrance, leaning in. “That’s the place secured. Landor’s in custody pending evacuation to a secure military hospital in Mogadishu. We’re not letting him out of the country. Captain Ibrahim has radioed to say that a second patrol boat is on the way, as well as a frigate from CTF 150, with a team prepped to deal with removing the uranium. And it’s game over for the Badass Boys. None of them are left alive. We’re scouring the place in case there are any Nazi munitions that need to be made safe.”
Costas looked up, dropping the gold coin he had been holding. “Ordnance disposal? Count me in.”
“Not a chance,” Jack said. “You’re helping me here.”
Ahmed suddenly saw what Jack was doing. “Merciful Allah,” he exclaimed. “That’s incredible. It looks as if you’ve got your hands full here too.”
Costas rocked back on his haunches, looking thoughtfully at Jack. “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum,” he sang quietly.
Jack turned to him, his arms half buried in gold. “Don’t go there. I mean, just don’t. We are not pirates.”
“Have you seen yourself? I wish I had a camera. Jack Howard gone over to the dark side.”