The Lost Temple (42 page)

“Can we drill? Make it wider?”

“It’s three feet of solid rock,” said Muir. “You won’t drill through that in a hurry—not without specialist equipment.”

“Then we cut the shield apart.”

That prompted a squeal from Belzig. “You cannot! This is the most priceless treasure in the world—proof of the greatest myth in human history. It must be preserved, studied by scholars.”

“Why? As soon as Comrade Stalin has inspected it, it will be melted down for its materials. They are what is valuable.” Kurchosov gave a cruel laugh as he saw Belzig’s horror. “You wish to argue, Comrade? Better to pray we do not also liquidate you.”

Muir chuckled. “More to the point, can you cut it up? Under all that shit you can see there’s a core of solid iron. Did you bring a cutting torch?”

Kurchosov’s mouth curled up in frustration. “
Nyet
.” He thought for a moment. “So, if we do not make the shield smaller, we make the hole bigger.”

“I told you: we can’t drill . . .”

“With explosives.”

The soldiers cut off lengths of rope and tied the prisoners’ hands behind their backs. They pushed them into the chamber and left them there. Through the open doorway Grant saw them working their way round the main chamber, scooping the treasure into canvas sacks. He couldn’t bear to watch. Instead, he looked across the chamber to Jackson, who lay against the wall on the far side of the pit.

“Now that we’re all on a one-way trip to Moscow, why don’t you tell us what this was about.”

Jackson sighed. “OK, you want a story? Arms and the man and all that shit? How much do you know about the atom bomb?”

“I know I don’t want to be near one when it goes off.”

“Right. Well, just right now you’re as safe as you were ten years ago. There aren’t any.”

“I thought the Americans were building dozens of them.”

“We are—we did. Only thing is they’re all sitting in a vault in New Mexico and the worst thing they can do is make your dick fall off.” He leaned forward to take the pressure off his bound hands. “I don’t know the science. All I know is there are problems. There’s this thing called reactor poisoning: you run the factories that make the bomb fuel too long and eventually they go bad. At the same time, we find out that the bombs we have made aren’t like fine wine: they don’t age too good. So the bombs we thought we had, no one knows if they work any more, and we can’t build more because the factory’s closed for repairs. Truman’s trying to face down the Soviets, and the only thing stopping Uncle Joe from rolling his tanks all the way to Paris is that he’s convinced we’ve got a pile of bombs to drop on Moscow if he makes a move. And, at this moment in time, we don’t.”

Grant took a deep breath, trying to absorb the information. He had seen Hiroshima and Nagasaki on the newsreels, and not really understood it. “So this Element 61—Prometheum—it can make an atom bomb?”

“Well, nobody knows for sure because nobody’s ever laid their hands on it. But they’ve done the math. That’s how things work now.” He shook his head, trying to dislodge a drop of sweat that had run down into his eye. “A bunch of geniuses sit in a room with their slide rules for three years and at the end of it they make a weapon. Hell, the Hiroshima bomb they didn’t even bother to test before they dropped it. Just so long as the sums add up.”

“And did Muir know this?”

“Muir knew what it could do. He didn’t know why we needed it so bad. I hope.
Shit
.” Jackson kicked his heel against the floor. “Jack-off bastard. He’s played us all for dupes.”

Against the far wall Reed stirred. “Does it matter?”

“
Does it matter
? Have you been listening to a word I said?”

“Very carefully. You said Stalin was held in check because he
believed
in the power of your country’s atomic arsenal.”

“Which we don’t have.”

“But he doesn’t know that. If anything, your escapades here will only have made him wonder why you should be so desperate to lay your hands on this rather unlikely source of material.”

A shadow fell through the doorway. “Just thought I’d pop my head in to say hello.” It was Muir. With his damp shirt pressed against his skin he looked leaner than ever, almost feral. The look on Jackson’s face was just as primal: he seemed as though he might lunge at Muir and tear him to pieces. The steel snout of a tommy-gun poking round Muir’s shoulder made him think better of it.

“Come to spy on us some more?”

“I’ve retired now, actually. Looking forward to a sunny cottage in the workers’ paradise.”

“How long’s it been going on?” Jackson’s anger subsided as quickly as it had risen. All that remained was bitter defeat.

“Some time. I made some friends at university. Even then, a few of us could see that the Soviets were the only ones with the guts to stand up to the Fascists. Some young idiots went off to throw their lives away with hopelessly romantic deaths in Spain. We wanted to do something that would actually make a difference. We wanted to help them.”

“Help them with what? The gulags? The show trials? The executions?”

“They saved the world,” snapped Muir. “Us, the Yanks—we were just a sideshow. They won the war on the Eastern Front, grinding out victory one life at a time. Do you know how many of them died? Millions. And now look what you’re trying to do to them. Do you know why the Americans are so desperate for Element 61?”

Muir fixed Jackson with a cool, inquisitive stare. Jackson gazed at the floor and fiddled with the bonds behind his back.

“The men in Washington want to make an example of
their erstwhile allies. Give the Soviets something to think about. Not Moscow or Berlin—but maybe Stalingrad. Prove they can do what the Nazis never could.”

“That would be an edifying spectacle,” murmured Reed. “And what are you going to do with it?”

Muir shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?”

A numbness seized Grant—the same feeling he’d had in the White Mountains when he’d aimed his gun at Alexei and tried to pull the trigger. He looked at Jackson, who returned the look with cold defiance, then at Muir. “I don’t know who’s worse—you or him.”

Jackson’s face was hard and lifeless. “I guess you’ll find out now they’ve got their hands on it.”

“Nothing changes,” said Reed. He nodded at the carvings on the wall, the long tableaux of miniature men, horses, chariots and arms. In one of the panels two warriors stood between a mound of heaped-up armor and a pile of naked corpses. In another a man dragged a coffle of women toward the open door of a tent.

“Maybe,” said Muir. “But I doubt there’ll be many heroes in the next war for poets to sing about.”

The guard behind him muttered something. Muir nodded and turned to leave. “I’ll see you later, perhaps. Just wanted to clear things up for you, for old times’ sake. I hope it wasn’t too much of a surprise.”

“Not really,” said Reed, unexpectedly. “You always were a shit.”

Silence settled over the little room like dust. In the main chamber outside they could hear the clank and clatter of the temple’s treasure being swept up, occasional shouts from the soldiers. Jackson shuffled himself into a corner apart from the rest of them and pretended to sleep. Reed stared contemplatively at the carvings on the wall.

Grant wriggled his way closer to Marina. “Did they hurt you?”

“A little. Not much—they didn’t need to. Muir had told them everything.”

“If we ever get out of here I’ll kill him.”

He couldn’t see her face, but he knew she was smiling. “The look on Jackson’s face when he found out Muir was one of them . . . It was almost worth it.”

“He’s going to have the last laugh.” Grant twisted round so he could see her. “This isn’t anything to do with you. Maybe you could persuade them—your brother, after all—make them think . . .”

“No.” She tipped her head back against the wall. “Even if I could, I would not leave you.”

“We’ll get out of here somehow.”

“That does not improve your situation, necessarily,” said a voice from the door.

All four of them looked up. Belzig was standing in the doorway. He was no longer the proud Aryan archaeological conqueror he had been in the photograph. His back was stooped and the clumsy tailoring of his suit only emphasized the ragged body underneath. Heavy lines circled his eyes.

“Have you come to gloat?”

Belzig muttered something to the sentry and stepped into the square chamber. He walked across to the far wall and lifted the tarnished helmet from its alcove. He held it in front of him, staring into the bowl as if he could see the ghost of the ancient face inside, and mumbled something.

Grant stiffened. “What?”

“I have come to offer help.”

“Why?”

He jerked his head toward the door. “Do you think I am one of them? They are philistines, monsters. They do not know what they have. They will destroy this shield, this priceless artifact, and only to make a bomb. It was made by gods; now they take its power and make themselves gods.” He stared into the shadows inside the helmet. “Also, now they possess it they send me back to Siberia. Or worse.” He twitched with a shiver that seemed to come from the marrow of his bones. “I cannot go back there.”

Jackson sat up straight. “What are you suggesting?”

“They are few. Your soldiers fought well, killed many. Now there are only four guards, and Colonel Kurchosov and the English spy.” He reached into his suit pockets and pulled out two pistols, the Webley and Jackson’s Colt. “If I free you, you can kill them.”

“Are you doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”

Belzig looked puzzled by the idiom. “If you escape, you take me to America. You give me pardon. You know how they call it in Germany? A
Persilschein
.”

“Washes whiter,” Grant muttered. He stared at Belzig. He remembered Molho’s missing hand and the horrific corpse they had found in the Piraeus nightclub. He remembered Marina’s stories of Belzig’s activities on Crete. Most of all, he thought of the smirk in the photograph. The monsters which the ancient Greeks had tried to banish to the underworld—the hydras, gorgons, basilisks and Cyclops—still walked the earth. The man in front of him, with the rash on his face and the ill-fitting suit, was one of them.

“Sure,” said Jackson. “Who needs to rake up the past? You get us out of here, I promise you a first-class ticket to the USA. Maybe we’ll even find you a job at the Smithsonian.”

“And the shield—you protect it?”

“On my mother’s grave.”

That seemed to satisfy him. He pulled out a clasp-knife and squatted behind Jackson. In a moment Jackson’s hands were free. He rubbed his wrists, then grabbed the Colt while Belzig cut the others loose. Grant picked up the Webley. It was good to feel its weight back in his hand.

“Here’s what we do.”

Corporal Ivan Serotov gripped his sub-machine gun and leaned against the wall. He was desperate for a cigarette, but he resisted the temptation. He knew what the Colonel would do to him if he saw him smoking on duty. He could hold out. They had almost finished clearing the temple: by the door, his comrades were hauling out the last sack of treasure. Then it would be a short flight to Odessa, the cargo delivered and
two weeks on the sandy beach at Yevpatoria. He wondered if all that black junk they had carted out was really gold. Surely it had to be, if the Colonel would spend precious time removing it. There had been so much of it. Surely no one would miss a single cup if it went missing in transit. That would fetch a few roubles in Odessa—which he could convert in turn into vodka or women. The prospect made him smile.

He heard footsteps and half turned to see Belzig walking out of the prisoners’ room. He was carrying what looked like a rusty helmet. Serotov scowled. He hadn’t marched all the way to Berlin just to end up taking orders from this Fascist. At least he wouldn’t be weighing down the plane on the way home. Kurchosov had made it clear what was to happen to him.

Belzig paused and jerked his head back toward the door. “More treasure there,” he said in broken Russian. “You should tell Kurchosov.”

A very un-Marxist notion started to form in Serotov’s mind. He turned round and peered through the open door. Three of the prisoners—the American, the old man and the woman—sat against the back wall with their hands behind their backs. The fourth . . .

Without warning a heavy shove against his back sent him stumbling into the room. He tripped on something and sprawled forward. He dropped his gun and threw out his arms—but the ground wasn’t there. He fell face first into the pit, screaming as he landed on the exposed bones jutting up like spikes from the floor. The last thing he saw was a pair of horns looming in front of his eyes. Then something heavy landed on him, an arm reached round his throat and he knew no more.

Grant stepped out of the pit and wiped the knife on his trousers. His hands were covered in blood. He glanced through the doorway to Belzig. “Is it clear?”

To his consternation, the small, heavy eyes were wide with confusion. “
Ja—nein
.” He shook his head. “They have gone.”

“What?” Grant picked up the tommy-gun and thrust it into Marina’s hands. “Cover me.” Crouched low, he dived through the door, rolled to his left and swept the Webley around the main chamber.

It was empty. A kerosene lantern sat on a wooden crate in the middle of the room, and the bundled-up shield leaned against the wall beside the entrance, but otherwise there was nobody. He lay there for a second in the dust, checking again, but there were no corners in the room, no shadows. It was empty.

He got to his feet and brushed himself off. Jackson and Marina had followed him out; further back, Reed was peering round the door.

“They’ve gone.”

“But the shield’s still here.” Keeping the tommy-gun trained on the main entrance, Marina edged across the room to where the package lay. “They can’t have abandoned it.”

“Maybe they’re having a cigarette break.”

Nobody knew what to do. There was nowhere to hide—but no one to hide from. They drifted into the middle of the room, under the towering dome, guns half raised against a non-existent threat.