The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller (36 page)

“50 Papiermarks per week.”

50 anything would have been a joke, but Papiermarks is a slap in the face. They may as well pay me in fools’ gold. Given how the war is going for Germany, Papiermarks won’t be worth burning in a year or two. German families will be carrying them to the baker’s shop in wheelbarrows to buy a loaf of bread.

“I’ll take my payment in US Dollars.”

“We have dollars,” Kane says casually.

“And a lot more of them. I want 5,000 upfront — just to look at your tunnels.” I look over at Helena. “If they’re poorly dug, or the support work is shoddy, I walk away, with the 5,000 dollar advance.”

“They’re very well made, Mr. Pierce. They were dug by Germans.”

“And I want $1,000 a week.”

“Absurd. You ask a king’s ransom for the work of a peasant.”

“Nonsense, I hear Kings, Kaisers, and Czars aren’t as valuable as they used to be. But a clear chain of command does have its place. It can keep a man alive, especially in dangerous places like underwater mines. If I take this job, when I’m in the mines, I’m in charge, no exceptions. I won’t put my life in the hands of a fool. Those are my terms; take ‘em or leave ‘em.”

Kane snorts and puts his coffee cup down.

I lean back and say, “Of course, you could always wait for the war to end. I agree it won’t be long. Then you could get a German team in, assuming there any Germans left, but… I certainly wouldn’t take that bet.”

“And I won’t take your terms.” Kane rises, nods at Helena, and walks out, leaving Craig looking confused. The cagey man stands, hesitates for a moment, whipping his head back and forth between me and his fleeing master, then chases after Kane.

When the door closes, Helena leans back in her chair and runs a hand through her hair. “God, I was scared to death you were going to take that job.” She stares at the ceiling for a moment. “They told me they wanted you for some sort of research project. I told them you were quite clever and that it could be a good fit. I never would have let those scoundrels in here if I’d known what they were after.”

The next day, when Helena is at work, Mallory Craig calls. He stands on the stoop holding his flat cap in his hand at his chest. “Apologies for that nastiness yesterday, Mr. Pierce. Mr. Kane’s under a great deal of pressure, what with… Well, I’ve, uh, come to say we are quite sorry and to give you this.”

He holds out a check. $5,000 drawn on the account of Immari Gibraltar.

“We’d be honored to have you lead the dig, Mr. Pierce. On your terms of course.”

I told him I was uninspired by the conversation yesterday and that I would be in touch, one way or the other.

I spent the rest of the day sitting and thinking, two things I was never good at before I left for war, two things I’ve had a lot of practice with since. I imagine myself walking back down into that mineshaft, the light of day giving way to candlelight as the air grows cold and damp. I’ve seen men, just back from a cave-in or other injury, strong men, crack like an egg on the side of the skillet at breakfast as the light disappears. Will I? I try to imagine it, but I won’t know until I walk down that tunnel.

I consider what else I could do for work — my options. I can get mining work, at least until the war ends. After that, there will likely be more miners than ever, some newly trained in the war, many more former miners returning from it. But I’ll have to leave Gibraltar to find mines that need a man like me — there’s no way around it. The other issue, which I don’t linger on long, is that it would be a hell of a thing to sail to America or South Africa just to piss myself in a mineshaft and scurry out.

I eye the check. $5,000 would give me a lot of options, and touring their dig could be… revealing personally.

I’ll “just have a look,” I decide. I can always walk away, or, depending on my bowel control, run away.

I tell myself that I’ll probably rule out the job and there’s no reason to tell Helena. No reason to worry her. Being a nurse at a field hospital is stressful enough.

CHAPTER 80

Situation Room
Clocktower HQ
New Delhi, India

Dorian rubbed his temples.

“We’re getting satellite footage, sir,” the technician said.

“And?” Dorian replied.

The squirrelly man leaned in, studying the computer screen. “Several targets.”

“Send the drones.”

The monasteries were like needles in a giant Tibetan haystack, but they finally had eyes on them. It wouldn’t be long now.

CHAPTER 81

Kate scrutinized the wound and changed David’s bandages. It was healing. He would come out of it soon. She hoped. She picked up the journal again.

August 9th, 1917

When Craig called yesterday he told me Immari Gibraltar was “just a small local concern.” He quickly added, “although we’re part of a larger organization with other interests here on the continent and overseas.” Small local concerns don’t own half the wharf and they don’t do it through a half a dozen fronts.

The tour of the dig site is the first indication that Immari isn’t what it seems. I arrive at the address on Mallory’s card and find a rundown three-story building in the heart of the shipping district. The signs on the buildings all end in some variation of “Import/Export Company” or “Shipping and Sea Freight” or “Shipbuilders and Retrofitters.” The long names and liveliness of the buildings contrast sharply with the dimly lit, seemingly abandoned concrete structure with “Immari Gibraltar” scrawled in black block letters just above the door.

Inside, a lithe receptionist pops up and says, “Good morning, Mr. Pierce. Mr. Craig is expecting you.”

Either she knew me by the limp, or they don’t get many visitors.

The walk through the office reminds me of a battalion HQ, hastily set up in a city that had just fallen in a siege, a place that will be abandoned quickly as soon as more ground is taken or in the event of a sudden retreat. A place that doesn’t warrant settling in.

Craig is gracious, telling me how happy he is that I decided to take them up. As I suspected, Kane is nowhere to be seen, but there is another man there, younger, late 20s, about my age, and strikingly similar to Kane, especially the condescending smirk on his face. Craig confirms my suspicions.

“Patrick Pierce, this is Rutger Kane. You’ve met his father. I asked him to join us on the tour, as you’ll be working together.”

We shake. His hand is strong, and he squeezes like hell, almost grunting. The months in bed have weakened me, and I draw my hand away.

Kane Jr. seems satisfied. “Glad you’ve finally come, Pierce. I’ve been after Papa to find me a new miner for months; this damn war’s held me up long enough.” He sits and crosses his legs. “Gertrude!” He looks over his shoulder as the secretary reaches the door. “Bring coffee. Do you take coffee, Pierce?”

I ignore him, directing my flat statement at Craig. “My conditions were clear. I’m in charge in the mines — if, I take the job.”

Craig holds both his hands up, cutting Rutger off, and speaks quickly, hoping to placate both of us. “Nothing’s changed, Mr. Pierce. Rutger here has worked on the project going on a decade, practically grew up in those mines! You all probably have a lot in common, I imagine, ah, from what I hear. No, you all will work together. He’ll offer invaluable advice, and with his knowledge and your skill in mining, we’ll be through, or making smart progress, in no time.” He stops the secretary as she creeps in carefully with the tray. “Ah Gertrude, could you put the coffee in a Thermos? We’ll take it with us. Uh, and some tea for Mr. Pierce.”

The entrance to the mines is almost a mile from the Immari office — inside a warehouse along the harbor next to the Rock. Two warehouses to be exact, joined on the interior with two separate facades to make them look like two warehouses from the street. A warehouse this large would stick out and inspire curiosity. Two common-sized warehouse fronts, however, could easily go unnoticed.

Inside the oversized warehouse, four lighter skinned black men are waiting for us. Moroccans would be my guess. Upon seeing us, the four men silently set about removing a tarp from a structure in the middle of the warehouse. When it’s revealed, I realize it’s not a structure at all — it’s the opening to the mine. A giant mouth spreading out at each side. I had expected a vertical shaft, but that’s the least of the surprises to come.

There’s a car, an electric one. And two large rails leading down into the mine. Clearly they’re moving a lot of dirt out.

Craig points to an empty rail car and then toward the harbor and the sea beyond the warehouse door. “We dig by day and load out by night, Mr. Pierce.”

“You dump the dirt—”

“In the bay if we can. If the moon is full, we sail farther out.” Craig says.

It makes sense. It’s about their only option to get rid of so much dirt.

I walk closer and inspect the mine shaft. It’s supported by large timbers, just like our mines in West Virginia, but there’s a thick black cord running from timber to timber, stretching as far as I can see. There are two cords actually, one on each side of the mine shaft. At the far side of the opening to the mine, the left cord attaches to… A telephone. The right-side cord simply runs into a box attached to a post. It has a metal lever, like a switch box. Power? Surely not.

When the Moroccans throw the last of the tarps aside, Rutger strides over and chastises the men in German. I understand a bit, one word in particular: “feuer.” Fire. My skin crawls at the sound of it. He points at the car, then the rails. The men look confused. This is no doubt for my benefit, and I turn away, refusing to watch the show and their humiliation. I hear Rutger retrieving something, and there’s clanging on the rails. I turn to see him lighting a wick inside a round paper bag atop a mini railcar, no bigger than a plate. Rutger attaches it to a single rail, and several of the Moroccans help him with a slingshot device that sends the plate and flame whizzing into the dark mine. The paper protects the flame from instantly blowing out.

A minute later we hear the distant poof of an explosion. Firedamp. Probably a methane pocket. Rutger motions for the Moroccans to send another volley, and they rush to the rail with another plate-car carrying a paper bag full of flame. I’m impressed. In West Virginia, I’m sorry to say, we use donkeys. On a good day, you strap the flame to the donkey’s back, slap him on the ass, and find him at the end of the mine — alive and wandering in the dark. On bad days you smell the barbecued flesh as you enter the mine, a sick smell of hair and organs fried with muscle and fat. I could never bring myself to eat the animal once we reached it, but I was almost alone in that. The mines are deep and the wages are paltry. Good meat is hard to come by. Every now and then a donkey would charge out alive and on fire, like some bad omen from a Biblical tale. But that was rare; hitting a methane pocket is like finding a live grenade — the explosion is instant and total. If the flame doesn’t kill you, the cave-in will.

This is a dangerous mine.

We hear the poof of the second volley, deeper this time.

The Moroccans load and launch a third trial.