CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
BÉNE HAD WILLINGLY LEAPED OVER THE SIDE, KNOWING THAT the next level was less than three meters below. His impact was broken by more water about a meter deep. He’d heard a gunshot, the sound within the rocky confines like an explosion. Had Zachariah Simon arrived? Or was it the same person who’d destroyed the dam?
The abeng he’d first heard was the question, the return wail the answer. But why had the Maroons staked out this cave?
And why flood it?
He wondered about the extra depth of water on this level, much more than above, and the answer to his question came as he sloshed his way ahead. The rock angled upward, transforming this step into a rough bowl that first had to fill before any liquid continued its downward assault.
Thank goodness.
The deeper the better.
He switched on his light, which he still held, and saw that the ledge was about ten meters wide. He glanced over its end and saw that the next one below was close, maybe two meters down, shorter and thinner, too, water quickly disappearing over its edge into more blackness.
He heard a scream from behind.
He whirled and saw lights reflecting off the ceiling in a chaotic dance. A splash, then a dark clump spilled from above and plopped into the pool two meters away.
He aimed his light and saw Sagan holding a woman.
“You can stand,” he yelled.
Sagan released his grip and steadied himself. The woman—young, small-boned, maybe in her twenties with long dark hair—swiped water from her eyes. Both of them grabbed breaths.
He kept his light angled away so as not to blind them. “You okay?”
Sagan nodded his head, sucking deep breaths of the dank air. “Simon is here.”
His nerves came alert and his head stared up. What happened to his men at the airport? Nothing good, he assumed. He caught the faint glow of light on the far cavern wall.
And knew what was happening.
Simon was climbing down.
Sagan stood. “He’s not alone.”
“His name is Rócha,” the woman said.
“Béne, this is my daughter, Alle.”
“The son of a bitch shoved me over the side,” she said. “He tried to kill me.”
Béne heard the shock in her voice.
“But you saved my life,” she said to Sagan. “Why did you do that? You jumped in and grabbed me. You went over the side first. You could have been killed.”
“I’m just glad there was water here,” Sagan said.
“We have to go,” Béne said. “I know Rócha. He’s trouble. And they’re both coming this way.”
He angled his light down and crept toward the edge. “It’s a short drop. Do it fast.”
They all three hopped down, the water now only ankle-deep.
Quickly he found the next edge and aimed his light. A series of short steps made a steep descent.
Then he noticed something.
A glow from below.
“What is that?” Sagan whispered, apparently seeing it, too.
“I don’t know, but it’s the only way to go.”
The men behind them were armed. They weren’t. Their only choice was to use the darkness to their advantage.
He switched off his light.
“Down,” he breathed.
———
ZACHARIAH SAW A LIGHT BELOW, FLICKING ON AND OFF. SOMEBODY was on the move, careful how long they betrayed their location.
Rowe? Sagan?
He and Rócha had utilized the rock ladder for the first change of levels, but now they simply hopped down each ledge. This cave was a natural chute that channeled groundwater, one level at a time, into the earth like a massive fountain. Before the dam had been destroyed rain would have been all that seeped inside. Now water poured with a peeling rumble, and he wondered where it led.
The light below had stopped strobing.
Were they armed?
Knowing Rowe, the answer was yes.
Unfortunately, he had to use the same trick, switching his flashlight on and off, since there was no way to see anything in the void.
But then he noticed something in the depths.
Light.
And constant.
What was that?
They kept descending.
———
TOM HOPPED OFF THE LAST LEDGE AND STARED AT THE AMAZING sight.
They’d made it to the bottom.
He estimated they were more than a hundred yards underground, the gushing torrent launching off into a dark, misty void in the far rock wall. The cavern that rose around them stretched at least a hundred feet high and that much wide. White stalactites dropped from the ceiling. Ten torches, projecting from the wall thirty feet up, illuminated the space, their fires spangling the darkness, trails of sparks popping skyward like comets. More climbing niches etched into the wall stretched below each torch, which explained how they were lit.
But by who?
And why?
No more darkness provided cover.
Nowhere to hide.
“What is this?” Alle asked.
He noticed that the water from above had lost nearly all of its strength, sapped by the many levels of varying lengths and depth. Several of the steps had been angled, forming pools that further arrested the flow. Here, at the bottom, the final remnants poured off the last ledge in a transparent sheet that stretched thirty feet wide and eight feet tall, pooling into a lake. To their right, the lake spilled over a rocky ledge and cascaded a few feet down to the river, which had the effect of keeping the lake level constant. A moldy smell of wet earth filled his nostrils. On the far side was another slit in the rock, large enough to walk through, a narrow ledge before it. There was no way to get to that ledge without crossing the lake. They stood on the only dry patch in the oblong-shaped cavern, the rock coated with a green, sandy patina.
A man appeared on the ledge above them.
Black-skinned, thin, older, with short hair.
Rowe seemed to know him.
———
BÉNE STARED AT FRANK CLARKE.
“We have our eyes and ears, too, Béne. Just like you. We watch those who bear watching.”
Apparently so. Maroons had always done that. In the war years they’d cultivated spies in every plantation and town, people who would keep them informed as to what the British were planning.
“Then you know,” he said, “there’s somebody else coming this way.”
“Do you have ’em?” Frank called out.
A moment later Béne saw Simon, Rócha, and two Maroons, armed with machets, on the next ledge up. They hopped down. Two handguns and flashlights were handed over to Frank.
“I see you survived,” Simon said to Sagan’s daughter.
“Go to hell,” she spat out.
Simon seemed unfazed by her rebuke. He simply turned to Clarke and asked, “And who are you?”
“We are the keepers of this place.”
“And what is this?” Sagan asked.
“Sixty years ago,” Frank said, “we were asked by a friend to hold something of great value. He was a special man, someone who understood Maroons in a deep way. He was also a Jew. There is a deep connection between Maroon and Jew, always has been.”
No one said anything.
“Yankipong is our supreme being. Our god,” Frank said. “Maroons were handpicked by Yankipong to serve as a conduit of His divine power. We have always thought of ourselves as chosen.”
“Like the Israelites,” Simon said. “Chosen by God. Singled out for divine favor.”
Frank nodded. “We noticed the similarity long ago. Maroons were able to overcome what others deemed hopeless. Jews have done the same. We’d already found the treasure the man who came here spoke of, but when he told us how sacred it was, we regretted our violation of it. That’s another thing about Maroons. We’re respectful of others’ ways.”
“You found the Temple treasure?” Simon asked.
Frank nodded. “Long ago. It was brought here for safekeeping in the time of the Spanish, by Columbus himself.”