The Double Eagle (35 page)
Authors: James Twining
12:32
P.M.
T
he bullet lifted Van Simson clean out of his chair and he thudded to the floor, limp. Sensing his opportunity, Tom dived to his left, rolling off the platform and running into the middle of the vault. Renwick reacted instantly, firing off three shots in the blink of an eye as he tracked Tom across the room. But the bullets smashed harmlessly into the bulletproof glass sheets suspended over each of the display cases, the glass cracking but holding firm. As Tom had remembered they would.
“A pointless gesture, Thomas,” Renwick shouted coldly, the echo of the shots still pinballing around the room. “Come out now and I’ll spare you. Of course, they’ll probably send you to prison for killing poor old Darius here when they find your prints all over the murder weapon, but at least you’ll be alive.”
The room was silent.
“So be it,” Renwick muttered. He stepped off the platform and, steeling himself, leaped around the side of the case where Tom had rolled only seconds before, gun gripped in both outstretched hands.
There was no one there.
“Stop playing games,” Renwick hissed.
Nothing.
His anger was replaced by a look of grim determination. Working methodically, he moved through the room, checking behind every display case as he went, his gun leading him around the corner of each case in a series of tightly choreographed steps, the soles of his shoes squeaking against the floor like sneakers on a basketball court. Suddenly, a smile flickered across his lips. Ahead of him, barely visible, he could just see the tip of a shoe poking out from the cabinet in front of him.
He crouched and then pounced, firing two shots in quick succession before Tom could do or say anything. But the bullets just buried themselves harmlessly into the floor. There was no one there. Just two shoes neatly arranged, one next to the other. Renwick knelt down to feel them. They were still warm.
Tom jumped out from behind the neighboring cabinet and launched himself at Renwick, bringing his shoulder crashing against his side. The impact slammed Renwick into the side of the case and sent his gun skidding across the room and into the trench at the base of the far wall. Renwick collapsed to his knees, clutching his chest as Tom scrambled on all fours to retrieve the gun.
“You bastard!” Renwick shouted after him.
He was interrupted by a bright red light flashing over the vault door. Tom’s eyes immediately snapped toward the platform. Van Simson had dragged himself over to the keyboard on the desk. He looked up into Tom’s eyes and as he smiled Tom understood. He was going to lock them all in.
Renwick hauled himself to his feet and sprinted toward the closing vault door. Tom, however, realized that from where he had crawled to retrieve Renwick’s gun, there was no way he was going to be able to reach the door before it shut. Then, suddenly remembering something that Van Simson had shown them on their last visit, he bent down to open the third drawer in the display case nearest to him. The dull sheen of Nazi bullion smoldered in the darkness.
Grabbing an ingot, Tom swiveled round on the balls of his feet and in one fluid movement threw it at Renwick as hard as he could. The ingot flashed through the air like a heavy blade, climbing slowly on its upper trajectory and then accelerating fast as gravity powered it home.
It struck Renwick hard between his shoulder blades. The impact caused him to stumble and he lurched unsteadily toward the shrinking gap as the door swung shut. He put his arm out to stop himself from falling and only just slipped through the narrow opening in time. But his sleeve caught on the door frame and before he could free it, the heavy steel door crashed shut. Renwick’s hand was severed just above the wrist.
His screams were only silenced as the locking bolts slid home and the vault’s airtight seal was activated.
The vault had become a tomb.
12:36
P.M.
A
new sound now.
Running water.
Looking down, Tom realized that his feet were already submerged as water bubbled up from the trenches at the foot of the walls and surged across the floor. Van Simson’s voice echoed in his head. What had he called it? Another little precaution?
He leaped onto the top of the nearest display cabinet just as a powerful electric charge was run through the water, which had leveled off at a depth of about three inches. Near the vault door, Renwick’s hand twitched spasmodically as it floated into the darkness.
Tom knew that his best chance of escape was to try and get back to the platform and see if he could get the vault opened again from there. Problem was, of course, that he was a good fifteen feet from it, and the nearest display case at about six away. If he could somehow get onto that, however, then he could see a path through to the platform by jumping from case to case.
He maneuvered himself to the edge of the display case and stood up. This was not going to be easy. The low ceiling and the suspended glass screens made getting any sort of momentum into his jump difficult and he was barefoot, his shoes sloshing around somewhere on the floor beneath him.
He took several deep breaths, swinging his arms forward with every breath as he timed his jump. One, two, three.
He propelled himself across the void and landed heavily on the cabinet. He groaned in pain as his chest crashed down on the glass surface, his thighs and knees slamming into the steel drawers on its side. Almost immediately, he began to slip, his hands sliding across the polished surface, scrabbling for grip, his nails squeaking as his knees sank lower and lower.
He stopped, his feet only inches above the water. Slowly, he hauled himself forward until he was able to hook his left knee over the edge and pull himself up to safety. He stood up and breathed a sigh of relief.
From there it was easy. Five relatively short jumps took him over to the platform and Van Simson who had slumped back into his chair.
“Darius. Wake up.” Tom shook him by the shoulder. “Stay with me. Come on, wake up.”
Van Simson’s eyelids fluttered open.
“Darius, listen to me,” said Tom. “Renwick’s escaped. He got out. Open the door. Let me go after him. Let me get some help for you.”
Van Simson shook his head.
“No,” he whispered. “It’s too late.” His eyes shut again, until Tom shook him roughly by the shoulder.
“It’s not too late.”
Tom ripped Van Simson’s shirt open and studied the wound. A small hole in the upper-right side of his chest was bubbling with bright red blood. He pressed his ear against Van Simson’s chest, his cheek staining red.
“You’ve got a punctured lung,” Tom explained, scrabbling around on the desk for something that he could use. “Every time you breathe in, you’re drawing air into your chest cavity through the bullet hole. That’s making it harder and harder for you to breathe as the air pressure builds up and crushes your lung.”
Tom found what he was looking for. A plastic document folder and some thick tape.
“You’ll live if we get help fast.” He ripped a small three-inch square out of the folder and placed it over the bullet hole. “But you have to open the door, Darius. You have to let us out.”
Using the tape, he stuck down three sides of the plastic square to Van Simson’s skin, leaving the fourth side free. It was a simple valve, allowing air to escape as he breathed out through the unstuck side, but sealing itself back to the skin when he breathed in. Within a few minutes, Van Simson’s breathing eased and his eyes opened again. Tom spoke gently now.
“Darius, you don’t have to die here. You don’t have to die now. Open the door. I’ll get help, I promise. And then I’ll get Renwick. I’ll get him for both of us. This isn’t over.”
Van Simson stared at Tom and then nodded. He reached forward toward the keyboard in front of him. Pausing every few seconds to summon his strength, he slowly tapped out a long sequence of numbers before fainting back into the chair.
The vault door began to swing open.
12:51
P.M.
A
rmed French police swarmed into the room, the plastic visors on their sinister black helmets glinting like huge eyes, their radios spitting.
“Les mains sur la tête.”
The instructions were shouted and tense. Tom clasped his hands around the back of his head and called back.
“Il me faut un médécin.”
The policemen fanned out through the vault, cautiously making their way toward the platform, guns raised.
“A terre,”
came another barked order. Tom struggled down onto one knee and then the other, his arms still raised. Two policemen approached the platform, one covering Tom, the other stepping forward to examine Van Simson. He was still unconscious, his breathing shallow and strained.
“Une ambulance, vite,”
called the policeman.
“Tom,” Jennifer called out as she ran into the room, dodging between the policemen and the display cabinets. “Are you okay? I saw the blood outside and…oh, you’re fine.”
“You sound disappointed,” Tom joked. The police backed off, shouldering their weapons and muttering under their breath.
“No it’s just that—”
“I’ve been drugged, kidnapped, and nearly electrocuted. What does a guy need to do to get a little sympathy around here?”
“Get shot,” she said with a smile, catching sight of Van Simson over Tom’s shoulder. “Is he going to be okay?” Two paramedics had arrived. They checked Van Simson’s vital signs before fixing him to a drip and hoisting him onto a stretcher.
“He’ll live. Any sign of Renwick?”
“Who?”
“It was Harry, Jen, Harry all along. He organized the Fort Knox job. He had Ranieri and Steiner killed when they stumbled upon the coins. Then, when you showed up with the last coin, he faked his own death to steal it and tried to pin everything on me.”
Jennifer shook her head, her forehead creased in confusion.
“Harry? I don’t believe it.”
“Neither did I.” Tom’s voice was sad, hurt even. “But it was him all along. He admitted the whole thing”
“I’m so sorry, Tom.” She squeezed his hand. “I know how much he meant to you.”
The familiar shape of Jean-Pierre Dumas appeared in the vault doorway. He waved at Tom from across the room before buttonholing two policemen and shouting some orders. Tom raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“I recognized Van Simson’s voice in the cistern but this time I figured we could do with some backup. Jean-Pierre arranged all this.” She waved at the small army buzzing around them. “We came in as soon as we knew for sure that Van Simson was in the building.”
“Well done.” A powerful voice cut through the noise as a tall man strode into the room and up to the platform, his hand extended, pristine white shirt nestling under an immaculate double-breasted suit. “My name’s Bob Corbett. I’m the agent in charge of this investigation. You’ve done a great job here. A great job,” he continued, shaking Tom’s hand vigorously. “I have to admit I had my doubts, given your past history. But Agent Browne has made it clear that if it weren’t for you, we’d be nowhere. The U.S. government is very grateful.”
“It was Renwick, sir,” said Jennifer urgently. “He was behind the whole thing.”
Corbett frowned in confusion.
“Harry Renwick?” The question was almost laughed, as if the possibility was so remote as to be faintly ridiculous.
Tom nodded firmly.
“He’s been playing us off against each other all along.”
Corbett’s eyes narrowed as disbelief turned to hard-faced determination. “Tell us what you can and I’ll get on it. He can’t have gotten far.” Corbett turned to face two of his men and rattled off a series of instructions in a low voice before turning back to them, a purposeful look in his eye.
“These are yours, I believe.” Tom slid the slim metallic case off the desk and handed it to Corbett.
“Thank you.” Corbett pressed the catch and looked up gratefully. “Let’s just see if we can hang onto them this time.”
