He crouched and then pounced, firing two shots in quick succession before Tom could do or say anything. But the bullets just buried themselves harmlessly into the floor. There was no one there. Just two shoes neatly arranged, one next to the other. Renwick knelt down to feel them. They were still warm.
Tom jumped out from behind the neighboring cabinet and launched himself at Renwick, bringing his shoulder crashing against his side. The impact slammed Renwick into the side of the case and sent his gun skidding across the room and into the trench at the base of the far wall. Renwick collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest as Tom scrambled on all fours to retrieve the gun.
“You bastard!” Renwick shouted after him.
He was interrupted by a bright red light flashing over the vault door. Tom’s eyes immediately snapped toward the platform. Van Simson had dragged himself over to the keyboard on the desk. He looked up into Tom’s eyes and as he smiled Tom understood. He was going to lock them all in.
Renwick hauled himself to his feet and sprinted toward the closing vault door. Tom, however, realized that from where he had crawled to retrieve Renwick’s gun, there was no way he was going to be able to reach the door before it shut. Then, suddenly remembering something that Van Simson had shown them on their last visit, he bent down to open the third drawer in the display case nearest to him. The dull sheen of Nazi bullion smoldered in the darkness.
Grabbing an ingot, Tom swiveled round on the balls of his feet and in one fluid movement threw it at Renwick as hard as he could. The ingot flashed through the air like a heavy blade, climbing slowly on its upper trajectory and then accelerating fast as gravity powered it home.
It struck Renwick hard between his shoulder blades. The impact caused him to stumble and he lurched unsteadily toward the shrinking gap as the door swung shut. He put his arm out to stop himself from falling and only just slipped through the narrow opening in time. But his sleeve caught on the door frame and before he could free it, the heavy steel door crashed shut. Renwick’s hand was severed just above the wrist.
His screams were only silenced as the locking bolts slid home and the vault’s airtight seal was activated.
The vault had become a tomb.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
A new sound now.
Running water.
Looking down, Tom realized that his feet were already submerged as water bubbled up from the trenches at the foot of the walls and surged across the floor. Van Simson’s voice echoed in his head. What had he called it? Another little precaution?
He leaped onto the top of the nearest display cabinet just as a powerful electric charge was run through the water, which had leveled off at a depth of about three inches. Near the vault door, Renwick’s hand twitched spasmodically as it floated into the darkness.
Tom knew that his best chance of escape was to try and get back to the platform and see if he could get the vault opened again from there. Problem was, of course, that he was a good fifteen feet from it, and the nearest display case at about six away. If he could somehow get onto that, however, then he could see a path through to the platform by jumping from case to case.
He maneuvered himself to the edge of the display case and stood up. This was not going to be easy. The low ceiling and the suspended glass screens made getting any sort of momentum into his jump difficult and he was barefoot, his shoes sloshing around somewhere on the floor beneath him.
He took several deep breaths, swinging his arms forward with every breath as he timed his jump. One, two, three.
He propelled himself across the void and landed heavily on the cabinet. He groaned in pain as his chest crashed down on the glass surface, his thighs and knees slamming into the steel drawers on its side. Almost immediately, he began to slip, his hands sliding across the polished surface, scrabbling for grip, his nails squeaking as his knees sank lower and lower.
He stopped, his feet only inches above the water. Slowly, he hauled himself forward until he was able to hook his left knee over the edge and pull himself up to safety. He stood up and breathed a sigh of relief.
From there it was easy. Five relatively short jumps took him over to the platform and Van Simson who had slumped back into his chair.
“Darius. Wake up.” Tom shook him by the shoulder. “Stay with me. Come on, wake up.”
Van Simson’s eyelids fluttered open.
“Darius, listen to me,” said Tom. “Renwick’s escaped. He got out. Open the door. Let me go after him. Let me get some help for you.”
Van Simson shook his head.
“No,” he whispered. “It’s too late.” His eyes shut again, until Tom shook him roughly by the shoulder.
“It’s not too late.”
Tom ripped Van Simson’s shirt open and studied the wound. A small hole in the upper-right side of his chest was bubbling with bright red blood. He pressed his ear against Van Simson’s chest, his cheek staining red.
“You’ve got a punctured lung,” Tom explained, scrabbling around on the desk for something that he could use. “Every time you breathe in, you’re drawing air into your chest cavity through the bullet hole. That’s making it harder and harder for you to breathe as the air pressure builds up and crushes your lung.”
Tom found what he was looking for. A plastic document folder and some thick tape.
“You’ll live if we get help fast.” He ripped a small three-inch square out of the folder and placed it over the bullet hole. “But you have to open the door, Darius. You have to let us out.”
Using the tape, he stuck down three sides of the plastic square to Van Simson’s skin, leaving the fourth side free. It was a simple valve, allowing air to escape as he breathed out through the unstuck side, but sealing itself back to the skin when he breathed in. Within a few minutes, Van Simson’s breathing eased and his eyes opened again. Tom spoke gently now.
“Darius, you don’t have to die here. You don’t have to die now. Open the door. I’ll get help, I promise. And then I’ll get Renwick. I’ll get him for both of us. This isn’t over.”
Van Simson stared at Tom and then nodded. He reached forward toward the keyboard in front of him. Pausing every few seconds to summon his strength, he slowly tapped out a long sequence of numbers before fainting back into the chair.
The vault door began to swing open.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
Armed French police swarmed into the room, the plastic visors on their sinister black helmets glinting like huge eyes, their radios spitting.
“Les mains sur la tête.” The instructions were shouted and tense. Tom clasped his hands around the back of his head and called back.
“Il me faut un médécin.”
The policemen fanned out through the vault, cautiously making their way toward the platform, guns raised.
“A terre,” came another barked order. Tom struggled down onto one knee and then the other, his arms still raised. Two policemen approached the platform, one covering Tom, the other stepping forward to examine Van Simson. He was still unconscious, his breathing shallow and strained.
“Une ambulance, vite,” called the policeman.