Spartan Gold - Clive Cussler

Leaving out the finer details, Sam told her about finding the Château d’If hiding place empty. Remi added, “The cicada was there, though, and it looked like a perfect match for Laurent’s chisel stamp.”

“That’s better than nothing,” Selma said. “I’m making some headway on deciphering lines three and four on the bottle, but as for the rest, zilch. And I think I know why: There’s a third key.”

“Explain,” Sam said.

“Laurent’s book is one key and the bottle we have is another—at least the first four lines are. I’m guessing the third key is another bottle. We need all three to cross-reference and decode the rest of the lines.”

“This feels convoluted,” Remi said.

“From our perspective, maybe, but we’ve got to make some assumptions: first, that Laurent intended to hide the twelve bottles from the original case individually, at scattered locations—his ‘arrows on a map’ to whatever’s at the end of all this.”

“We need to find a name for this thing,” Sam said.

“Napoleon’s Gold,” Remi suggested with a shrug.

“Works for me.”

Selma said, “Okay, Napoleon’s Gold. I suspect he meant it to work like this: Find one bottle, decode it with the book, then follow the riddle to another bottle—”

Sam caught on: “Then use that label’s code with the book and the first bottle to decode the next line—”

“And its riddle, which leads to yet another bottle . . . and so forth. The good news is—and this is another guess—I don’t think there’s any sequence to the code—in other words, Laurent designed it so any bottle would lead to another riddle.”

Remi said, “If all this is right, why did he hide three bottles together at d’If?”

“No idea. We might find out down the road.”

“We’re ignoring the elephant in the room,” Sam said. “We know for sure one of the bottles is lost—the shard from the Pocomoke proves that. Without that bottle, we could be missing the last riddle—the one that points us to Napoleon’s Gold.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Remi replied. “I guess we won’t know until we reach the end.”

“Selma, what are the chances the bottle Kholkov recovered in Rum Cay is doing them any good?” Sam asked.

“Slim. Unless they have a codebook, that is. And based on how he’s been on your heels every step of the way, I’d say they’re lost.”

“Here’s elephant number two,” Remi said. “At some point we’re going to have to get our hands on the Rum Cay bottle.”

“Which means,” Sam said, “a trip into the lion’s den.”

SEVASTOPOL

Two thousand miles east of Marseille, Hadeon Bondaruk sat at his desk, hands clasped before him. Spread across the burgundy leather blotter were a dozen high-resolution color photographs, each one highlighting a separate line of symbols. For the tenth time in an hour, he picked up a lighted magnifying glass and studied each photo in turn, focusing on the minute details of every symbol—the right angle of this square, the looping curve of a truncated omega, the tilt of a crescent moon . . .

Nothing. There was nothing!

He tossed the magnifying glass across the desk then swept his arm over the surface, scattering the photos.

Despite its monetary value, alone the bottle was worthless to him, and now that the Fargos had Arnaud Laurent’s book, he had to assume they would quickly begin to unravel the code. As much as he wanted to blame Kholkov for the book’s loss, Bondaruk had to admit he’d also underestimated the Fargos. They were treasure hunters—adventurers. Neither he nor Kholkov had anticipated they would be this much trouble. Or this resourceful. Perhaps they should have foreseen this. After all, it stood to reason the Fargos’ escapades had landed them in enough dicey situations to have seasoned them.

Still, their resources couldn’t hope to match his own. On Napoleon alone he’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars. His researchers had dissected the man’s life, from cradle to grave, had tracked down not only his every known descendant, but those of the dozens of friends and advisers and lovers Napoleon might have confided in, Arnaud Laurent included. Every book written about Napoleon had been scanned into their computer database and parsed for clues. Period artwork, from battle scenes to portraits to rough sketches, had been scoured for anything that might point the way—a symbol on a tunic button, a finger pointing at something in the background, a book on a shelf behind Napoleon’s head. . . .

And for all that, for all the money spent and time invested, he had nothing but a useless bottle of wine and a pictograph of a damned insect.

His desk phone chimed and he picked it up. “It’s me,” Vladimir Kholkov said.

“Where have you been?” Bondaruk growled. “I was expecting your call last night. Tell me what’s happening.”

“We tracked them to Marseille yesterday afternoon. I met them and proposed a truce—and a partnership.”

“You what? I didn’t tell you to do that!”

“Proposing a truce and keeping a truce are two different things, Mr. Bondaruk. At any rate, they didn’t budge.”

“Where are they now?”

“Back in Marseille.”

“Back? What does that mean?”

“I had to leave France; I’m in La Jonquera, on the other side of the Spanish border. The French police are looking for me. Someone put out a bulletin.”

“The Fargos. It has to be. How would they do that?”

“I’m looking into it. It doesn’t matter. If they leave, I’ll know it.”

“How?”

Kholkov explained, and Bondaruk said, “What about the book?”

“I had a man watching their house, but Fargo wasn’t bluffing: They’ve got security. I think it would cause more trouble than it’s worth. And since we’ll know where they’re going and when, we can let them do the hard work for us.”

“Agreed.”

Bondaruk hung up, strode to his window, and forced himself to take a calming breath. Kholkov was right: There was still time. The Fargos were ahead, but they had a long way to go and many hurdles to clear before they reached the end. Sooner or later they would make a mistake. When they did, Kholkov would be there.

CHAPTER 34

SEVASTOPOL

Sam pulled their rented Opel coupe off the dirt road and coasted to a stop a few feet from the cliff’s edge. Sunset was an hour away and the sun was already dropping toward the western horizon, cast ing the surface of the Black Sea in tones of gold and red. Directly below them the palisades of Cape Fiolent plunged directly into the blue-green water and just offshore dozens of spires of jagged rock jutted from the water, each surrounded by a whirlpool of churning surf.

In the distance, a gull cawed, then went silent, leaving only the sound of wind rushing through Sam’s open window.

“A little foreboding,” Remi murmured.

“Just a tad,” Sam agreed. “Then again, it does suit his reputation.”

The “he” in question was Hadeon Bondaruk. Knowing that without another bottle with which to complete the next lines of the cipher, Sam and Remi had chosen the only course open to them: stealing Bondaruk’s bottle.

It was a dangerous if not foolish idea, but their adventures had taught them a number of things, one of which Sam had dubbed the Inverse Law of Power and Assumption of Invulnerability. Given Bondaruk’s power and notoriety, who in their right mind would try to steal from him? Having reigned as Ukraine’s mafia kingpin for so many years, Bondaruk, like many powerful men, had likely begun to believe his own press. Certainly he and his property were well guarded, but, like muscles that haven’t been exercised for many years, there was a fair chance his security had grown lax—or at least that was the theory.

Of course, neither of them were ready to risk such a venture on guesswork alone, so they had asked Selma to do a feasibility study: Were there any exploitable weaknesses in Bondaruk’s home security? There were, she found. One, he kept his antique collection on display at the estate, along with a small team of experts who maintained and supervised the pieces. Two, the estate itself was sprawling and steeped in history, a piece of which Selma felt certain might offer them a way in.

They climbed out of the car, walked to the edge, and gazed north. A mile away along the undulating coast, perched before a rock bridge jutting from the cliff face, was Bondaruk’s hundred-acre estate, officially named Khotyn. The bridge, undercut by millennia of erosion, extended to a pillar of rock that rose from the ocean like a skyscraper.

Bondaruk’s home was a five-story, thirty-thousand-square-foot Kievan Rus-style castle, complete with steeply pitched slate roofs, deep-set gabled windows, and onion-domed copper minarets, all surrounded by a low white-stuccoed stone wall and serpentine groves of evergreen trees.

Khotyn began its life in the mid-eighteenth century as home to a Crimean Khanate chieftain whose line had split from the Mongol Golden Horde in the sixteenth century to settle in the area. After a hundred years the chieftain’s clan was ousted by Muscovite Russian forces led by a Zaporozhian Cossack hetman who claimed it as a spoil of war only to have it taken from him thirty years later by a yet more powerful hetman.

During the Crimean War, Khotyn was commandeered by Tsar Nicholas II’s most prominent Black Sea Fleet admiral, Pavel Stepanovich Nakhimov, to serve as a retreat, after which its role changed four times, first as a museum dedicated to the Siege of Sevastopol; then as a Wehrmacht headquarters during World War II; then again as a military summer house for Soviet high commanders after the city was liberated. From 1948 to the fall of the Soviet Union Khotyn fell again into ruin, sitting mostly abandoned until Bondaruk purchased it from the money-starved Ukrainian government in 1997.

Given the estate’s rich history, Selma had had little trouble finding plenty of tantalizing research trails to follow, but in the end it was one of the basest of human motivations—greed—that gave away the chink in Khotyn’s armor.

“Give me the story again,” Sam told Remi as he stared at the estate through his binoculars.

“His name was Bogdan Abdank,” Remi replied. “He was the Zaporozhian Cossack who took it over from the Mongols.”

“Right.”

“Seems Abdank was only a part-time Cossack. The rest of the time he was a smuggler—fur, gems, liquor, slaves—anything he thought he could sell on the black market, he trafficked. Problem was, there were plenty of other Cossack clans and Kievan Rus warlords who wanted to take over Abdank’s action.”

“But old Bogdan was crafty,” Sam replied, warming to the subject.

“And industrious.”

According to the online archives Selma was able to unearth in the National Taras Shevchenko University of Kiev, Abdank had used slave labor to dig into the cliffs and hills surrounding Khotyn a series of tunnels in which to hide his illicit goods. Cargo ships laden with Romanian sable or Turkish diamonds or Georgian prostitutes bound for the West would weigh anchor in the waters below Khotyn for off-loading into launches, which would then disappear into the night, ostensibly for further off-loading into the smuggler’s tunnels beneath the mansion.

“So, more caves in our future,” Remi said now.

“Looks like it. The question is, how familiar is Bondaruk with Khotyn’s history? If the tunnels exist, does he know about them, and has he sealed them up?”

“Better still: Has he followed in Abdank’s footsteps and put them to use?”

Sam checked his watch. “Well, we’ll know shortly.”

They had a contact to meet.

As it turned out, Selma’s research into Khotyn became something of a one-stop shopping trip, giving them not only a hint about how they might sneak into Khotyn, but also, hopefully, a road map of exactly how to go about it.

The archive curator at Taras Shevchenko University, a man named Petro Bohuslav, hated his work with a passion and he desperately wanted to move to Trieste, Italy, and open a bookstore. After some parrying, he’d made his pitch to Selma: For the right price he was willing to share a set of rare, as yet unarchived blueprints of Khotyn, as well as his personal knowledge of the grounds.

They found him in a mom-and-pop restaurant overlooking the Balaclava marina, a few miles down the coast. Night had fully fallen by the time they arrived and the interior of the café was dimly lit by hurricane lamps on each table. Soft kobza folk music played over loudspeakers hidden by hanging ferns. The air smelled of sausage and onions.

As they entered, a man in a corner booth lifted his head and studied them for five long seconds, then put his face back into his menu. A hostess in a bright red shirt and white blouse approached them. Sam smiled and nodded at the man and they made their way through the tables to the booth.

“Mr. Bohuslav?” Remi asked in English.

The man looked up. He had receding white hair and a bulbous drinker’s nose. He nodded. “I am Bohuslav. You are Mr. and Mrs. Jones?”

“That’s right.”

“Sit, please.” They did. “Something to eat? Drink?”

“No, thank you,” Remi said.

“You want into Khotyn, yes?”

“We didn’t say that,” Sam replied. “We’re writers doing a book on the Crimean War.”

“Yes, your assistant told me. Tough woman, that one.”

Remi smiled. “She is that.”

“So, this book you are writing—it is about the Siege of Sevastopol or the war?”

“Both.”

“You need special details. You are willing to pay?”

“Depends on the details,” Sam replied. “And how special they are.”

“First, tell me: You know who lives there now?”

Remi shrugged. “No, why?”

“A bad man bought Khotyn in the nineties. A criminal. His name is Bondaruk. He lives there now. Many guards.”

“Thanks for the information, but we’re not planning an invasion,” Sam lied. “Tell us about you. How do you know so much about the place? Not just from the blueprints, I hope.”

Bohuslav grinned, displaying a trio of silver front teeth. “No. More than that. You see, after the war, after we drove the Germans out, I was stationed there. I was a cook for the general. After that, in 1953, I moved to Kiev and worked at the university. Started as a janitor, then became research assistant in the history department. In 1969 the government decided to make Khotyn a museum, and they asked the university to head the project. I went with others from the department to do a survey. Spent a month there, mapping, taking photographs, exploring. . . . I have all my original notes and sketches and photos, you see.”

“Along with the blueprints?”

“Those, too.”

“The problem is,” Remi said, “that was forty years ago. A lot could have changed in that time. Who knows what the new owner has done since you were there.”