Then she had a shocking realization. The stout clay pot shown in the photo had been cut precisely in half, probably with a laser, so as to free the hardened core that encased Lilith’s head. The halves had been put back together and were on display to the right of the case holding the head. Similar razor-sharp lines ran down both sides of the jar, suggesting that it had also been cut in two to study the contents.
Could the original contents still be inside the jar? Or was this just the reassembled vessel? Brooke’s heart began racing at the thought of it.
She studied the glass case containing the jar. It had a hinged top with a slim release arm running down to the base. And on the base was a small keypad, similar to the case from which Stokes had removed the clay map. She’d seen the numbers Stokes had pecked to access the map. Odds were the code was the same for this box. Wouldn’t hurt to try.
Brooke glanced over at Lilith’s head again. The witch was still glaring at her, as if transcending space, time and death to start a cat fight. But Brooke’s excitement easily trumped the perceived threat. ‘Screw you, lady,’ she said in a haughty tone. ‘If I can open this box, I’m having a look at your goody bag. I almost died because of you. So as I see it, you owe me one.’
Brooke looked back over her shoulder towards the open door. She could see Flaherty with his phone to his ear, standing over Stokes. Stokes was still face down on the floor, not moving, with his hands cuffed behind his back.
‘Here goes nothing,’ she said, turning back to the case. She punched in the code …
The keypad changed from asterisks to plus signs, flashed three times. Then the top’s locking mechanism snapped open.
Grinning, Brooke unhinged the top. She held her breath, reached into the case and pulled the cover off Lilith’s clay jar.
72
The container’s hi-tech interior baffled Corporal Shuster. Overhead, the fluorescent tubes looked like the ultraviolet lights one would find in a plant nursery — something used to mimic nourishing sunlight. The oxygen-rich air was redolent with an ammonia-like scent.
Mounted like cubbyholes along the side walls were seven levels of adjoined Plexiglas cells. Each cell was the size of a foot-locker and had a clear hinged front panel that was vented with a dense grid of tiny air holes.
Cages? wondered Schuster.
All the front panels were tilted wide open by a mechanized piston so that whatever had inhabited the cages seemed to have been set free. When was anyone’s guess. Inspecting one of the cages, he saw a thick wire mesh bottom with a tray liner that angled towards a slot on the side wall. Perforated tubes looping around the tray’s edges were likely intended to flush away waste.
But there was plenty of waste on the floor. Liquid and grape-sized pellets — black against the purple light — oozed between the grated floor panels as he stepped over them. He crouched down for a better look, but recoiled from the acrid stench. Coating almost every surface were short black hairs, as straight as pins. Millions of them.
Along the back side of each cage, a dozen short metal tubes with rolling ball ends protruded from the wall like nipples. He used his index finger to push in on one of the tips. Milky fluid streamed out over his fingertips. He held his fingers to his nose. Oddly, it smelled like wheat beer. A feeding system, he guessed. Probably linked into the PVC supply lines he’d seen running up to the ceiling.
Air pumped in from above. Food pumped in from above, he pondered.
By all appearances, it seemed as if the whole operation was automated from the outside.
Ramirez brushed aside the plastic flaps and made his way inside. He came to a stop after two steps. ‘What kind of freaky shit is this?’ He buried his nose in his sleeve.
‘Breeding kennels, I think,’ Shuster said.
Ramirez wasn’t buying it. ‘For what?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Maybe Al-Qaeda’s selling puppies on the black market to fund the jihad.’
‘Funny.’
Shuster tried to figure how many creatures one cage might have accommodated, but without knowing the size of one of them, it was tough to crunch the numbers. If the other six containers were of the same design, he guessed that the mystery brood could conservatively number in the thousands.
‘Who could have built this?’ Ramirez asked.
Shuster shook his head. ‘Got me.’
‘Creepy,’ Ramirez muttered. He sidestepped the corporal and paced slowly along the aisle, trying to make sense of it all.
Standing outside the container, Private Holt swept his disbelieving gaze over the sophisticated installation that had been constructed inside the cave. Definitely no small operation. Just how deep beneath the mountain was he standing, anyway?
He peered through the container’s door and could see Ramirez and Shuster pacing back and forth along the centre walkway. Then he turned to see what the Kurd was up to. Not far from where they’d entered the cave, Hazo was using a flashlight to inspect what looked like a hole in the wall. The surrounding blackness made it appear that the interpreter was floating in space.
‘Everything all right over there, Hazo?’ he called out, his voice echoing through the cave.
Hazo signalled that he was okay.
Then the ventilation system’s motor turned off with a loud thunk, startling Holt.
‘Hey,’ he called into the container. ‘Did you guys switch the air off?’
‘No,’ Shuster called back. ‘It’s probably on a timer. Nothing to worry about.’
‘Right,’ Holt said, calming himself. But when the fan whirred to a stop, other sounds masked by the humming motor suddenly came to the foreground. It took a moment for his ears to adjust, but the sounds were definitely there — subtle scratching noises. The vast space made it difficult to discern where they were coming from, but they seemed loudest towards the rear of the cave. ‘Guys, I hear something weird out here.’
No answer.
‘Guys?’ He peered into the container and could see Ramirez talking to Shuster, bitching loudly. The sounds persisted. Scratching. Shifting and shuffling. Holt aimed his M-16 towards the disturbance, moved the light slowly from right to left through the soupy darkness, but saw nothing.
The more he listened to the sounds, the more he tried to convince himself they were nothing at all. Probably some other piece of machinery buried deeper in the cave that was in need of a little grease.
Holt moved stealthily down the excavated path, pausing outside the door of each container and glancing into its interior. There was no movement inside any of them. What exactly were these things? he wondered.
As he cornered the final container, the noises grew louder. Much louder. He deliberated on whether to investigate or turn back. Then his light settled on a wide opening in the cave’s rear wall.
He stood perfectly still and angled his right ear for a better listen.
Now he was certain that the noises were coming from inside the burrow. What if the terrorists were holed up in there waiting to make a move?
He looked back and saw Ramirez coming out from the first container, Shuster right behind him. When Ramirez didn’t see Holt, he got nervous and began hunting the darkness with his light. ‘Holt! Where’d you go?’
‘Over here,’ Holt called out quietly, reluctant to draw attention to himself so close to the tunnel.
Ramirez shined his light directly into Holt’s eyes. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Hey! You’re blinding me!’ Holt said in a loud whisper.
The light diverted away.
‘Sorry.’
‘I hear something over here,’ Holt said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’m gonna check it out.’ He blinked a few times, but Ramirez’s light had spotted his vision.