He recalled some of her accomplishments that Igor had mentioned, realizing that she probably handled this kind of stress much better than he did. It was his own relief he’d seen reflected in Anika’s expression, not hers.
“We’re even.” His gruff tone covered his embarrassment.
From above, a voice called, “Hello.” It was Erwin Puhl.
Startled that their signal had been seen so quickly, Mercer checked his watch. Thirty minutes had passed since the fire had started, more than enough time for the expedition members to begin combating the subterranean blaze at the facility’s entrance.
“Erwin, it’s Mercer.”
“When you weren’t leading the firefighting efforts, we feared you were trapped down there. Is Dr. Klein with you? No one has seen her in a while.”
“Yeah, she’s with me. Can you lower a rope? The smoke is getting pretty thick, and the heat’s rising.”
“Back in a minute.”
“Hurry. Once the flames break through the fire doors protecting the garage, there’s going to be one hell of an explosion.” Mercer eyed the diesel tank hulking behind the wavering glow of Anika’s campfire. “Also warn the others who are working at the main entrance to clear the area.”
Ten minutes later, they were pulled up the air vent by the winch mounted on the front of a Sno-Cat Ira had driven out to rescue them. “Everyone’s back at the base camp,” Ira said as they jumped into the boxy vehicle.
“Let’s go. We’ve only got a few more minutes. The fire doors can’t hold much longer, and it must be over a hundred degrees in the garage already.” The drop in temperature from inside to out had left Mercer light-headed and trembling.
Ira didn’t need to hear anything further. He put the Sno-Cat in gear, twisted it around on its axis and tore off across the ice, feathers of churned snow blooming from under its treads. He circled around the long access trench near Camp Decade’s entrance. Smoke streamed from deep underground and a huge swath of snow was stained with soot.
He braked once they reached the mess hall a quarter mile away. Mercer was just stepping down when out across the frozen plain, the fuel tank erupted like a volcano, vaporizing a ragged eighty-foot circle of glacier. Chunks of ice the size of automobiles blasted into the sky, propelled by a towering column of flame. The concussion hit a second later, rocking the Sno-Cat on its suspension and tossing Mercer onto his backside.
Powdered ice drifted for many minutes before falling back to earth. When the last of the snow finally settled, smudge continued to billow from the hole, smearing the pristine horizon.
“What the hell were you two doing down there?” Ira asked sharply after hauling Mercer back to his feet.
Mercer fingered the scrap of paper they’d retrieved from Jack Delaney’s dead fingers. “I’m not sure yet.”
ABOARD THE SEA EMPRESS
As if enraged that its power could not rock the great cruise liner, the North Sea surged ferociously, generating huge waves that would have swamped a commercial fishing boat or pitched the largest freighter. Because of her wide-spaced twin hulls and tremendous length, the Sea Empress had several distinct wave patterns under her at any moment and their opposing crests and troughs canceled each other out. This phenomenon allowed her to sail serenely under the pewter skies as if the swells were nothing more than ripples.
Father Anatoly Vatutin had spent the first days of his journey safely in his cabin, having an occasional light meal sent to him rather than venturing to one of the many restaurants or eating in the vessel’s four enormous dining rooms. He’d left word with Bishop Olkranszy, his superior, that he hadn’t felt well since the ship had gotten under way. That wasn’t far from the truth.
Vatutin had come from peasant stock, with farmer’s hands and shoulders like a plow ox. Yet his imposing size, fierce countenance, and unwavering strength masked the fact that he possessed a delicate stomach. Even the ship’s gentle motion made him ill. Such was his dedication to his mission that he rode waves of nausea stoically, spending hours either in his bunk or hunched over the toilet bowl.
He skipped the Universal Convocation’s elaborate opening ceremonies and what some said had been the most beautiful papal blessing ever given. His rare forays to the deck to get fresh air were all under the cover of darkness, and he intentionally avoided any of the attendees he saw. Vatutin had become a nonentity at the most famous meeting in history and he was glad for it.
He had only one thing in mind. The icon.
Other than the waiters who brought him broths and bread and calls from Bishop Olkranszy inquiring about his condition, the only person Vatutin had spoken with was a cardinal named Peretti who was the pope’s secretary of state, the Vatican’s number two man. Peretti had been charged by the pontiff with returning thousands of religious artifacts belonging to other faiths that the Catholic Church had in its possession. He was the only person at the Convocation that Vatutin cared about.
Because of the sheer volume of items being returned, only a portion of the hoard was actually on the ship. These were the most precious relics — ancient texts, rare books, the most valuable statues and icons. Peretti’s shipboard office had been deluged with requests from various people to obtain an item early in the voyage rather than at its end, which had been the plan. In the name of cooperation and fellowship, Peretti had granted all such requests, detailing a dozen floreria, members of the Vatican’s technical services department, to search through the shipping containers stored in the vessel’s holds.
Peretti’s office had finally gotten to Father Vatutin’s request, and now he found himself following the broad back of a floreria. The workman wore crisp coveralls and had a pair of white gloves tucked into his belt for handling the more fragile objects. While the worker strode with arm-swinging ease, Vatutin shambled down a carpeted hallway with one hand brushing the wall for balance, although the ship was rock steady. His mouth brimmed with saliva.
They descended into the working section of the liner, where the hallways were sterile and narrow and the lighting came from institutional fluorescent fixtures affixed to the ceiling. The air had a humid chill that told Vatutin they had moved below the water line.
At a set of large watertight doors the floreria exchanged a few words with the Swiss Guards stationed there and produced a ring of keys from his pocket. A sign on the door proclaimed this to be Cargo Hold 3. As the workman unlocked and then opened the door, one guard made a joke that Vatutin believed was at his expense and the others laughed. He didn’t care. His chest felt hollow, and as he stepped into the vast hold, his pace involuntarily slowed. He couldn’t believe he had come this far. In a few moments he was about to end his lifetime quest.
Vatutin couldn’t possibly put into words what he was feeling. Everything he saw took on an added dimension of holiness. It didn’t matter that the dimly lit hold was like an industrial warehouse that managed to smell musty despite its newness. He felt he was walking into the greatest cathedral in the world, a sacred place because of what lay within. The floreria spat on the floor, and Vatutin almost struck him before realizing that this man had no idea what he was about to give back to its rightful owner.
No, Anatoly thought, there is no rightful owner except Satan himself. I am nothing more than a temporary trustee.
Checking a large manifest, the worker guided the priest through the rows of containers and boxes. Peretti’s organization had been impeccable. The manifest detailed everything from the largest painting to the smallest set of prayer beads. After a moment they were in front of a steel shipping container. The floreria produced his keys again and unlocked the mammoth crate. He waited while Vatutin unfolded the seventy-year-old photograph of the icon he was here to recover. The picture was stained in one corner with brown spots that even the priest didn’t know was blood.