Gates of Hades (28 page)

“These people want to make a statement. Having something from the earth incapacitate the victims, in their minds, is a sort of revenge by nature.”

“But whatever it is does not
kill
anyone,” Maria protested. “These men, these eco . . . ?”

“Ecological terrorists,” Jason supplied.

“These men do the actual murder of helpless people.”

Jason leaned back in his chair. “There's no understanding the thought process of lunatics, fanatics, but making a natural product of the earth they believe their victims are destroying makes the ecology—nature—a partner in revenging what they see as an evil done to the earth.”

Both Maria and Eno were giving him skeptical looks.

“Okay, Okay, so I'm just guessing. We may get the real answer at Baia.”

“Or Cumae,” Eno added.

“Cumae?” Both Jason and Maria were staring at the professor.

“Cumae,” he repeated. “The gases, they could have come from there. The Sibyl, she maybe . . . how you say? High? Yes, she maybe high on some sort of gas when she give future statements.”

“Your book suggested epilepsy, not gas,” Jason noted.

Eno shrugged. “A guess. Who for sure know why make statements?”

“Prophecies,” Maria corrected.

“Prophecies,” Eno continued, grinning. “She only one high in Vatican.”

Jason looked at Maria, puzzled.

“The Sistine Chapel,” she explained, “Michelangelo included the Cumae Sibyl in the group of prophets around the edge of the ceiling. According to readers of Virgil, she foretold the coming of Christ; at least, the emperor Constantine thought so. She's the only pagan figure on the ceiling.”

Jason absorbed this information before saying, “Another question: how did Alazar, the Moslem who sold whatever this is to Eco, find out about gases in an ancient Greek religious site, one that wasn't even in Greece?”

Eno shrugged. “Arabs long know Greek culture,” the professor began before lapsing into Italian.

Jason waited impatiently for Maria to translate.

“When Rome fell to various hordes of barbarians,” she began, watching Eno, “much of the Greco-Roman knowledge was in danger of being lost, in addition to what the Greeks and Romans had learned from the Egyptians, Babylonians, Sumerians, and whoever else. A lot of wisdom was lost forever. The Moorish traders in the Mediterranean, the Arabs along the ancient Silk Road, the Byzantine, then Ottoman emperors saved what they could use. Had it not been for them, Greek and Roman sciences—and the ancient knowledge before that—in medicine, astronomy, mathematics, would have been lost. We would not know the geometry of Euclid, Ptolemy's geography or astronomy, or Pliny's history. During the so-called Dark Ages, much was forgotten that had originated in Europe and been learned by the Muslim merchants. It was only during the crusades that some of this knowledge began to filter back west. Even then, most forms of science were bitterly opposed by the Church, hindering even further the restoration of ancient learning in the Christian world. Eno says he wouldn't be surprised if the Arabs haven't known of Baia and Cumae longer than current Western civilization. After all, the stories of Virgil and Homer, the plays of Euripides, were known and enjoyed in the Mideast while most of Europe was divided into tiny, warring principalities run by kings who could not even read their own languages. An Arab arms dealer was only passing along something adopted by his culture a long time ago.”

Jason was quiet for a few seconds. He turned to Eno. “Any chance of the government giving us grief about going down into whatever it is in Baia?”

Eno shrugged, a man asked a question to which there was no apparent answer. “They have it closed, but I do not know if they guard it. Entry is prohibited.”

If the country observed that law to the same degree as traffic laws, there would be no problem.

“Obviously somebody's been there. That's where the ethylene seems to have come from,” Maria observed.

“Perhaps,” Eno said. “Many such places are closed but not guarded. This one may not be watched by the authorities, but these people you seek will be watching, I theenk.”

Jason said, “I'll keep that in mind when Adrian and I get there.”

“Adrian, you, and
I,”
she added.

“Thought you were through as soon as you'd helped me with Eno here.”

“And miss a chance to observe an underground volcanic system that, with two exceptions, has been closed off from study for two thousand years?”

 

 

Albergo del San Giovanni

Via Roma, Turin

The next morning

Jason's head was buried alternately in the
International Herald Tribune,
the
New York Times,
and the
Washington Post's
English-language newspaper distributed throughout Europe. He was sitting in the hotel's small dining room, where a buffet breakfast of breads, sausages, fruit, jams, cereals, and juices was lined up on white tablecloths. Across the table, Maria was finishing her third coffee.

Jason lowered his paper long enough to glance at the one inches away. Like an old married couple, he thought, each too engrossed in the morning's papers to engage in conversation. Just as well. Other than ecological extremists trying to kill them, exploring hell, or last night's sexual acrobatics, what did they have to talk about?

An article on the front page drew him back to the news. He read, then re-read it, then sat in silent thought for a moment. He folded the
Herald Tribune
's front page and shoved it over the top of Maria's paper like an invading army breaching a castle wall.

She lowered the barrier long enough to give him a peevish look. “I thought you read that paper only for the comics.”

“It's the only one that still carries ‘Calvin and Hobbes.' ”

“Oh, that makes a difference.”

He used the hand not holding the paper to point. “Look at this.”

Frowning like a primary school teacher accommodating one of her less bright pupils, Maria scanned the article. “So?”

“The man's nuts,” he said. “He'll never make peace with those people any more than you could placate a rattlesnake.”

She finally laid her paper down, regarding him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “Your president is ‘nuts'? And to think how many Americans got angry when we Europeans first made the observation. Do you think he is any different from any other politician? A politician would be willing to forgive and forget the biggest mass murder in your history if he thinks it will get him reelected.”

“Like Jimmy Carter trying to negotiate with Iran to free American hostages? It lost him the next election.”

She smiled. “Perhaps now it is your role to give political advice?”

She stood, went to the buffet and selected a pear, and returned to her chair. She took a noisy, moist bite before sitting down. “And so?”

He put the paper down, subject exhausted. “If Adrian and I go . . .”

She held the pear out to him for him to sample. “If you, Adrian, and
I
go.”

The fruit seemed to turn to a mellow syrup in his mouth. Like most Italian fruit, it was fresh, flavorful, and just ripe enough—So good that Jason suspected there was an official Italian fruit manufacturing agency that produced synthetic goods. He'd never sampled anything that good from Mother Nature.

He swallowed before saying, “Your choice. Eno was right: if Cumae or Baia is a supply of the gas, somebody will be watching.”

“Is that a fact?”

Neither Jason nor Maria had seen Adrian emerge from his hiding place behind another paper in the far corner of the room.

“Truly alert you are, laddie,” he gloated to Jason. “Coulda killed you a dozen times. Ye're na' payin' attention t'er surroundin's.” He pointed to the half-eaten pear. “Or too busy wid the forbidden fruit in this garden.”

The SAS man was right: Jason had given scant notice to the other diners, any one of whom could have been Eglov himself hiding behind a copy of
la República.
He had felt so good, so happy as a result of last night's lovemaking, he had momentarily forgotten a darker world where inattention was frequently a capital offense.

As Adrian planted an avuncular kiss on Maria's cheek, Jason dared envision, just for a second, a life where it wasn't necessary to get neck cramps looking over your shoulder. A life . . . well, a life pretty much like what he and Laurin had planned before she was taken from him.

The reflections shattered like crystal dropped on bricks when Jason realized Adrian was asking questions.

“Was Professor Calligini helpful? Be we off, then? Where to? Baia? Will we be needin' special kit?”

It was the latter question that had brought Jason back to reality. “According to the last explorer, the gas wasn't a problem. Still, I asked Maria to request air tanks so we won't be taking the risk. They should be waiting when we get there.”

“And where would ‘there' be?” Adrian wanted to know.

“Naples. We can be there in a few hours.”

As they left the room, Jason looked back to where the
Herald Tribune
lay in the chair he had occupied. There was something about that meeting in Washington that he knew without being aware of his knowledge, something . . . Past
experience told him the thought was not yet ripe enough to fall into his full conscious. It would become clear in its own good time.

He only hoped that would be soon enough for . . . what?

 

 

114 Taylor Street
Queens, New York
The same day

Rassavitch had no trouble blending into the enclave of Russian emigrants. Every evening and twice on Sunday he attended the concrete-block building that had begun life as a grocery store and now served as an Orthodox church. It still had a faint odor of spoiled fruit. He was a religious man, a man convinced he had survived the communists to serve God by restoring the Master's will on earth.

He did God's will, and he had been called here by like-thinkers to make certain others did, too. At the moment, God was displeased with the use being made of the Earth, the despoliation of His greatest gift to man. It was far past time someone, some group, wreaked vengeance on those who defiled the Earth.

Rassavitch had finally found just such an organization. That was God's will, too.

If there was one thing distinctly Russian, it was a peasant's love for the land, a commodity for centuries owned exclusively by the State, by the Czars, then the Party. Now,
at least in theory, any Russian could own a few hectares. The catch—and in Russia there was always a catch—was that only the wealthy could afford to buy, the very people who raped the earth with poisonous fertilizers, who polluted the rivers with chemicals and defiled even the air all had to breathe.

The injustice of it made Rassavitch grind his teeth.

But the Russians here didn't seem to care. Oh, a few of the old babushka tended thumbnail-sized patches of sickly vegetables, but most of the populace had no interest in the land that had been the sustenance of the Russian people since before the czars. Instead, the young people would rather work at jobs in the city and spend their leisure time wearing American blue jeans, the dye from which Rassavitch was sure polluted some stream, and listening to the noise they called music.

At first, he worried his fellow Russians who had shed the old ways might notice him, perhaps report him to the authorities. Then it dawned upon him that nobody cared. In America, everyone was far too busy making a dollar and watching television to be interested in what someone else did.

Including defiling the earth, the water, the air.

Soon, very soon, Americans would realize the earth could and would strike back.

 

 

Via Della Dataria
Rome
That afternoon

Unlike most Romans,
Inspectore
Santi Guiellmo did not leave work between one and four o'clock, the hours when offices, museums, shops, and even churches were closed for employees to enjoy a long lunch and, perhaps, a restorative nap. A crisp salad brought to his desk to eat while he scanned the day's headlines was all the break he required from routine. The lengthy recess in the city gave him time to think. It silenced the disruptive telephone and halted the parade of subordinates seeking answers to questions they were too lazy to find for themselves.