Spartan Gold (43 page)

“Check for keys,” Sam whispered.

They checked each boat; there were no keys in the ignitions. “Guess that explains what Kholkov was doing in here,” Remi said.

“Cutting off our exit. It’s either that or the staff keeps the keys in another location.”

“Either way, something tells me he wouldn’t have relied just on keys to keep us here.”

In turn, Sam lifted each boat’s engine hatch and checked the system under the glow of his LED microlight. In each case a wire had been removed from the engine’s starter solenoid.

“Not cut,” Remi said, looking over his shoulder. “Removed.”

Clearly Kholkov was planning his own eventual exit strategy.

“Smart, but not smart enough,” Sam murmured. From the time he’d been old enough to work a screwdriver, he’d been tinkering with things, starting with his mother’s toaster when he was five years old, and both his degree and his work at DARPA had only honed his do-it-yourself skills.

“Keep a lookout,” Sam said. Remi moved to the door and dropped to her knees, peeking through the gap between the hinges.

He climbed into the middle boat, clicked on his LED, then clamped it between his teeth and wriggled his way under the helm console.

The dashboard electrical system was a simple affair, the bundled cables hidden behind a plastic panel on the underside of the helm. In short order he traced the wires for the ignition system, the headlight, the horn, and the windshield wipers. Four snips from his Swiss Army knife’s scissors and he had two seven-inch lengths of excess wire, both of which he stripped and noosed at each end. He spliced one into the engine’s solenoid and pocketed the other.

“What else?” Sam whispered absently. “Something easy, but not too obvious.”

Remi looked over her shoulder and shrugged. “You’re asking the wrong gal. Any way you can rig something nasty for them?”

“Like a bomb? I wish. There’s not enough here.”

He kept looking. It took two more minutes, but he found what he was looking for: a bent brush arm inside the alternator. He adjusted the arm back to its original position.

Satisfied he’d found all of Kholkov’s handiwork, he ducked back under the dash, found the ignition wires, then scraped away the insulation and let them dangle. He crawled back out and climbed onto the dock. It took only a minute to find what he needed hanging from a wall pegboard—a two-foot-long bungee cord with a hook at each end. He secured the cord first to the steering wheel, then to the throttle, which he pushed to its forward stops. Finally he untied the boat’s bow and stern lines and let them drop into the water.

Now came the tricky part: the timing.

“How’re we doing?” he asked Remi.

“See for yourself. No sign of them.”

He crept back to the door and peeked out. The landing area was lost in the falling snow. He pulled Remi away from the door. “Soon as you hear the ignition spark, take off. Retrace our steps and we’ll meet back at the woodshed.”

“Right.” Remi got into position beside the door.

Sam returned to the rigged boat and crawled beneath the helm console again.

“Cross fingers,” he muttered, then touched the exposed ignition wires and gave them a twist. There was a spark, then a pop. Sam wriggled backward, jumped to the dock, raced for the door.

“Go,” he rasped to Remi.

She peeked out, then darted into the gloom.

The boat’s engines gurgled to life. Gray smoke burst from the manifolds and filled the boathouse. The water beneath the stern turned to froth and the boat surged forward, nosing through the doors and disappearing into the drifting snow.

“Sail true,” Sam said, then turned and ran.

H
e had taken three strides out the door when he heard a snow-muffled voice to his left shout, “There!” Unsure whether it was for the escaping speedboat or for him, Sam veered right, along the curve of the building, then sprinted onto the lawn in the direction of the sextant statue. If Kholkov and his partner were in fact after him he didn’t want to lead them back to Remi.

When he saw the statue appear ahead, he dove into a headfirst slide that took him behind the pedestal. He flipped onto his belly and looked back the way he’d come. Ten seconds passed. He heard the sound of feet pounding on gravel. Through the blowing snow he saw two figures appear around the corner of the building and duck into the boathouse. Now the question was, how long would it take Kholkov to reverse his own sabotage? The solenoid wire would take less than a minute, but returning the flywheel to its proper position would be trickier. The longer it took, the harder their automaton boat would be to find.

One minute passed. Two minutes. An engine growled to life and revved up. After a few seconds it faded, moving out onto the lake. Sam got up, circled to the rear of the chapel, and found Remi crouched in the semidarkness of the woodshed.

“I heard,” she said. “The question is, how much time did it buy us?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes at least. In this weather it’ll take them at least that long just to find our decoy. Come on.”

He helped her to her feet. They climbed the steps to the rear door and pushed through.

After the wind and snow, the relative warmth of the chapel felt like heaven. Compared to its grand exterior, the chapel was surprisingly simple, with reddish brown stone tiles, scarred wooden pews, and white walls bearing framed religious icons. Above their heads a balcony spanned the rear wall, while the vaulted ceiling was filigreed in light pink and gray paint. Tall mullioned windows on the side walls cast the interior in milky white light.

They made their way down the center aisle to the far end of the chapel to a narrow door. Through it they found a crescent-shaped room dominated by a spiral staircase. They started upward. After thirty or forty steps they found themselves at a wooden trapdoor secured by a sliding hasp and padlock. The padlock wasn’t locked.

“Looks like somebody missed an item on the evacuation check-list,” Remi said with a smile.

“Our good luck. Wasn’t looking forward to defiling a Bavarian national landmark.”

Sam removed the padlock and slid back the hasp bolt. He carefully lifted the trapdoor, climbed through, then helped Remi up and closed it behind them. Aside from what little light seeped through the shuttered slit windows, the octagonal space was dark. They clicked on their flashlights and began looking around.

“Here,” Remi said, kneeling down. “Got something.”

“Here, too,” Sam said from the opposite wall. He moved to Remi and inspected what she was shining her flashlight on. Stamped into the heavy timber molding beneath the window, nearly obliterated by layer upon layer of paint and lacquer, was a cicada symbol.

“Yours the same?” Remi asked.

Sam nodded and they moved to the opposite side. A second cicada symbol was stamped into the wood. “Why two?” he wondered aloud.

“The line—‘a trio of Quoins’ . . . they must have meant it to apply to more than just the sextant.”

It took them less than thirty seconds to find the third. The first two cicada symbols were situated near the front of the minaret, the third at the rear.

“Let’s form it up,” Sam said.

He crouched beside one of the stamps, and Remi did the same, then they extended their arms, each pointing at the other as well as the third stamp.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Sam said, “but this is an isosceles triangle.”

“It is indeed. But which way is it meant to point?”

“If we extend the lines, the two at the front would point at the lake and into the mountains. The third one points inland—behind us.”

Sam lowered his arms as he sat down, back against the wall. His brows furrowed for a few seconds, then he smiled.

“What?” Remi asked.

“The last part of the line,” Sam replied. “I knew something looked familiar.” He dug into his pants pocket and came up with the Saint Bartholomae’s tour brochure. He flipped through it. “There.” He handed it to Remi. “Frigisinga.”

Remi read: “ ‘Until 1803 the hunting lodge adjacent to the chapel was the private retreat of the Prince-Provosts of Berchtesgaden, the last of whom, Joseph Conrad of Schroffenberg-Mös, had also served as the Lord Bishop of Freising.’ ”

“I knew I’d read something about that during our research,” Sam said. “I mentally misplaced it. The eighth-century name for Freising was Frigisinga.”

“Okay, so this Schroffenberg-Mös fella was here?”

“Not just here. He lived here, and we’ve already been there.”

They climbed back through the hatch and down the spiral staircase, then retraced their steps through the chapel and out the back door and started down the path toward the woods. Five minutes later they were back at the cabin in whose loft they’d first sought shelter. They stopped at the post-mounted plaque beside the front door.

Remi read: “ ‘Once served as the private hunting lodge and warming cabin for the last of Berchtesgaden’s Prince-Provosts, Joseph Conrad of Schroffenberg-Mös.’ ”

“ ‘Formerly of Frigisinga,’ ” Sam finished.

They stepped inside. While most of the cabin was made of heavy timber, both the stanchion footers and the foundation, which rose eighteen inches from ground level, were constructed of blocked stone.

“Let’s check the stonework first,” Sam said. “Timber can be easily replaced; stone, not so much.”

“Agreed. How are we on time?”

Sam checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes since our rabbit ran.”

Knowing what they were looking for, they made quick work of the search, splitting up and walking hunched over along the walls, flashlights playing over the blocks.

“Grasshopper marks the spot,” Remi called. She was kneeling beside a footer beneath the loft. Sam hurried over and crouched beside her. Stamped into the upper-left corner of the block abutting the footer was the familiar cicada stamp.

“Looks like we’re going to have to do a little defiling after all,” Remi said.

“We’ll be gentle.”

Sam looked around, then trotted over the open-hearth fireplace, grabbed a steel poker from the mantel rack, and returned. He went to work. Though the poker’s end was slightly spatula-shaped, it was still wider than the gaps between the stones so it took a precious ten minutes of inching the block outward before together they could pull it free. Remi reached her hand into the alcove.

“Hollow spot around the footer,” she murmured. “Hang on. . . .”

She lay down on the floor and wriggled her arm into the hole until she was elbow deep. She stopped. Her eyes went wide. “Wood.”

“The footer?”

“No, I don’t think so. Pull me out.”

Gently Sam grabbed her ankles and dragged her away from the wall. Her hand emerged from the alcove, followed by an oblong wooden box. Hand clenched like an eagle’s talon, her fingernails were sunk an eighth of an inch into the lid.

Silently they stared at the box for a long ten seconds.

Then Remi smiled. “You owe me a manicure.”

Sam smiled back. “Done.”

The heft of the box told them it wasn’t empty, but they checked anyway. Snug in its bed of straw and enveloped in its oilskin wrappings was another bottle from Napoleon’s Lost Cellar.

Sam closed the lid and said, “I don’t know about you but I think I’ve had enough sightseeing for one day.”

“I’m with you.”

Sam stuffed the box into his rucksack and they stepped outside into the clearing. This far from the boathouse they wouldn’t have been able to hear the sound of a returning speedboat, so they moved quickly but carefully, stopping frequently to hide and watch until finally they were back at the chapel.

“Almost there,” Sam said. Remi nodded and hugged herself. Sam embraced her and rubbed his hands vigorously on her back. “We’ll be drinking warm brandy in no time.”

“Now you’re singing my song,” she replied.

They circled left around the chapel, following the straight and curved walls until they reached the front of the building. Sam stopped ten feet short, signaled for her to wait, then crab-walked ahead and peered around the corner. After a few seconds he pulled back and returned to her.