The Simeon Chamber (34 page)

From his vantage at the top of the ladder Sam scanned the room, searching for anything that looked like a bound volume. But the clutter of the room was too much for a casual appraisal from a distance.

He scampered down the ladder and joined Nick.

“This could take a while.” Nick wiped perspiration from his forehead.

“It’s incredible. Symington said that they used the chamber to stash things from time to time, but I wasn’t prepared for this. You could play a football game in here.” Sam kept turning in slow circles as he walked toward the center of the room. He gazed in utter disbelief at the rows of shelves lining the walls. He walked to one of them and picked up a small urn, one of the few items left from what appeared to be a final looting of the chamber by the committee. It was bronze and looked Greek in origin—and thousands of years old. He replaced the urn and swept a pile of raffia and excelsior from the shelf onto the floor.

“Now I know what a Pharaoh’s tomb must look like after it’s been plundered,” said Sam.

“Look at this,” Nick cried out in hushed tones from behind some crates in the center of the room.

“What is it?”

Sam made his way around the 9

sarcophagus and looked over Nick’s shoulder. On the back of one of the wooden boxes was the emblem of an eagle resting on a swastika. The lettering beneath was in German. The box was empty.

A sinking feeling came over the two men as they considered the possibility that the journal had once rested in the box at Nick’s feet.

“They didn’t leave much of value, did they?” said Nick.

“No.”

“What’s inside that crate?” Sam pointed to the only unopened box left on the floor.

Nick took out his pocketknife. Prying carefully to avoid snapping off the blade, he slowly lifted one edge of the lid enough to get his fingers under it. He tugged on the top of the box and the lid came free with a screech that echoed off the concrete walls. Nick threw the top aside and reached into the box to remove the shredded hemp used as packing material. He strained to lift the object from the wooden box. His eyes squinted to take in the intricate detail of a silver jewel casket encrusted with precious and semiprecious stones. Two large oval windows fashioned from shimmering polished stone crystals each several inches in diameter pierced the front of the casket.

“It’s worth a fortune,” said Nick, still on his knees. “Italian Renaissance—fifteenth, maybe sixteenth century. It’s a prize. Look at the engraving. It’s magnificent.”

Sam took the casket and placed it back in the box. “Come on, we’ve got to look for the journal and get the hell out of here.” He started in one corner of the room, Nick in the other, searching the shelves for books and looking in crates that might contain Drake’s journal.

They looked for more than two hours, standing on boxes to reach the higher shelves.

As they moved around from opposite ends of the room toward each other, closing the distance of remaining area to be searched, Sam felt a sense of desperation. His eyes scanned the limited area between them and his hope began to sink. Nick had just finished going through the last box. They had not found a single bound volume.

“It’s useless,” said Sam, his voice tinged with bitterness. “It’s not here. Either Symington lied or the committee was able to get to it before Hearst banished them all from the hill.” 1

“I’m not so sure,” said Nick.

Bogardus looked at him.

“What about that?” He pointed to the sarcophagus.

“Forget it, I already looked inside. It’s empty,” said Sam.

“No, that’s not what I mean. I mean how did they get it in here?”

Sam looked at the mammoth block of carved marble. “Of course.” The coffin was too large for the opening at the top of the ladder above the service closet.

“You’re right. There has to be another opening in here.”

Nick looked about at the shelves lining the walls. Each section was supported by long four-by-four posts and braced at the back by an open framework of crossed two-by-fours—

except for one set of shelves. It had a solid wooden back made of notched tongue-and-groove planks. From a distance the shelf appeared to rest squarely against the concrete wall. Nick walked over to it and looked at the shelf. The back was set into the wall as if the concrete had been poured to fit it. Sam went to the other end and the two men alternately pulled and pushed, trying to move it. The shelf did not budge; it was somehow fixed to the wall. Sam moved his hand to gain a better grip and felt an edge of hard metal under one of the shelves. He knelt and looked underneath. A small handle was fastened to the underside, and a cable ran from the handle through the panel on the back. Bogardus gripped the handle and pulled. As he did, the entire section of shelf began to roll silently away from him, back into what had appeared to be the solid concrete wall but was in fact a door, large enough to admit a small truck. The section of shelving swung like an opening barn door in slow motion until it came to rest against the wall of a long tunnel carved from solid rock. On the floor of the tunnel was a narrow set of rusted rails.

“What is it?” asked Sam.

“A mine shaft.” Nick stared down the dark passageway.

“What’s it doing here?”

“My guess is it was here long before Hearst built the house. The committee must have used it to advantage when they designed the chamber.

Unless I miss my bet they had 3

George Hearst to thank—William Randolph’s father. He bought the Piedra Blanca in the last century, believing there were valuable mineral rights. This is probably one of the early hard rock shafts he drilled looking for cinnabar or silver.”

At the end of the long cavern Sam could see a faint hint of light.

“Just a second.” Nick ran to the other side of the cavern and picked up the box with the jewel casket. “No sense leaving empty-handed.” He joined Sam at the open door.

Sam led the way, followed closely by Jorgensen. Guided by the narrow beams of their flashlights on the rusted rails the two men stepped around an abandoned ore cart and moved slowly down the tunnel. They had gone about three hundred feet when they came to a cross-shaft.

The place was turning into a maze. The thought flashed through Sam’s mind—one wrong turn and they might never find their way out.

They walked on for several minutes, watching the ground for obstacles or down-shafts. As they rounded a slight curve in the tunnel Nick breathed a sigh of relief. There ahead of them were the bars of a large gate leading to the surface.

He ran up to the iron bars and pushed. They were locked. He examined the lock.

“No sweat. It’s a Swiss Army special.” Nick laughed, reaching for his knife. “I’ll have it open in a second.”

“Not yet. There’s something we left back there.”

“What’s that?”

“The journal.”

“It’s not there, Sam. We looked.”

“Yes it is. We just looked in the wrong place.” Sam’s voice carried the confidence of a man who was no longer guessing. “It’s back there in the other shaft. The one that leads off in the direction of the house.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Symington’s obsession with art.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sam looked at his watch. It was nearly 2:00 A.M. “There’s no time to explain. Come on.”

Nick placed the box with the jeweled casket by the entrance to the shaft and ran to catch up with Sam. They moved more slowly through the other 435

tunnel, careful to avoid down-shafts, and made their way underground toward the cluster of buildings on Hearst’s Enchanted Hill. As they walked, the walls of the cross-shaft narrowed, forcing the two men to proceed single file. The passage was carved from solid gray granite. Sam could see occasional drill holes where ledges of rock had been pried or blasted away from the mountain.

Jorgensen’s doubts were mounting with each step as the tunnel narrowed and closed in on them. He was now moving sideways with the walls to negotiate the opening in the rock. His ration of good humor had been consumed when Bogardus suddenly stopped.

“Let’s get the hell out of here before I get claustrophobia.” He reached over to grab Sam’s shoulder just as Bogardus stepped out of the narrow corridor of rock into a broad cavern a dozen feet across. Framed by timbers, an arched wooden door with metal escutcheons was embedded in the rock wall directly across from the two men.

“It’s incredible.” Nick struggled in the dim illumination of his flashlight. “This door is Spanish Renaissance, fifteenth century.”

He traced the delicate painted panels with his finger. “Solid oak.”

“What’s it doing down here?”

“You want my guess? A relic from the Spanish Civil War.”

Sam searched the door for a keyhole. There was none. He reached up and gripped the large iron ring mounted in the center of one of the panels. He twisted the ring and pulled. The door opened. Sam aimed the beam of his flashlight beyond the threshold and looked first at the floor. It was covered in large uneven tiles.

Sam took several steps toward the interior of the room when suddenly without warning the room was instantly bathed in bright light. Sam squinted and turned, startled. Nick leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the room, smiling, his hand on the switch, an ancient affair similar to the one in the storeroom near the animal enclosure.

The walls were covered in white plaster.

Overhead the ceiling was constructed of wood with heavy beams supporting it. The room was small, no more than ten feet square. There were no furnishings. Two wall-mounted lamps made of wrought iron provided the light. In the far corner two steps led to a small landing partially hidden behind a wall. Nick walked up 437

the stairs to the landing.

“This way. There’s a flight of stairs going up here.”

Sam followed. The stairs were steep and long, illuminated by a series of light fixtures in the curved plaster ceiling overhead. As they scaled the stairs, Sam looked back several times at the landing below that was receding into the distance.

“We’re going to have to get out of here shortly if we’re gonna have any chance to get down the mountain before daybreak,” said Nick.

“Keep going.”

The head of the stairs opened onto another small room. Nick found the light switch and turned it. The room was suddenly bathed in soft white light. Bogardus and Jorgensen stood speechless at the threshold near the top of the stairs. The plaster walls were cluttered with an array of oil paintings, each magnificently framed—austere faces staring from lightless backgrounds, broad landscapes and pastoral scenes. Nick moved in a near trance around the room, passing an area littered with scores of oval miniatures, each bearing the regal continence of European nobility, tiny faces from another age. They had found Arthur Symington’s private chamber.

The high ceiling was formed of delicate wood panels painted in faded shades of green and gold, an obvious prize from some European castle. Surrounding the room halfway up the wall was a balustrade with a wrought-iron railing that ringed the interior walls of the room. A ladder lead to the balcony.

“These are masterpieces. Holbein, Titian, Correggio.” Nick traced an index finger over the signature of a large portrait high on the wall in the corner of the room. “My God—Fra Angelico. Do you have any idea what these are worth? We’re looking at the plunder from major museums and galleries.”

Sam ignored him and quickly climbed the ladder to the balustrade. High up, embedded in the plaster walls, were several bookshelves sealed behind leaded-glass cabinet doors.

He reached the first cabinet, opened the doors and rifled the contents. Four shelves running from floor to ceiling were covered with bronze statuary.

He ran around the balustrade to the next 439

and peered through the glass. Several books appeared on the shelf along with a miniature oil painting. He opened the cabinet and grabbed the books one at a time. He pawed through their pages only briefly. Each was too small to match the parchments back in the safe deposit vault in the city, and the paper was of a different texture than the Davies parchments. He went to the next cabinet. There on a shelf lay a single parcel wrapped in oilcloth. He swung open the cabinet doors and lifted the package. It was heavy, more than four inches thick, eighteen inches on one side and a foot on the other, tied with a hemp cord. He turned it over, his pulse pounding with anticipation. Bogardus paused only momentarily as his eyes drank in the swastika and eagle of the Third Reich emblazoned on the cloth cover.

His breathing became erratic as he felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Sam turned to look toward Nick, who was busy studying a Cellini bronze from the first cabinet.

“I think I’ve got it.”

Nick scurried around the railing. He stopped just behind Sam and, seeing the hemp cord, pulled the small knife from his pocket. In a single motion he severed the cord. Carefully Sam unwrapped the oilcloth. Inside was a large book bound in heavy leather. There were no markings on the spine or on either cover. Sam opened the front cover and felt the paper. It had a texture and color identical to the four pages of parchment sent to Jennifer. He turned the page and stared at the first visible letters, his eyes riveted on the bold scrawl across the center of the page. The large ornate script with wisps of ink trailing from the letters required no translation. He read the words aloud: KNOW YE ALL MEn THE JOURNAl OF FRANCIS DRAKe GENERALLE AND COMMANDER OF HER MAJESTIES SHIP “PELICAN”

“That’s it,” said Nick. “The
Pelican was Drake’s ship before she was rechristened the
Golden
Hinde.”

Sam’s heart raced and his temples pounded as he scanned several of the pages quickly. 441

Each page followed the same form. In the far left margin were dates of departure and discovery followed by lengthy narrative, all in the same elegant hand—a bold elliptic script. The right margins were covered with numerous small ink drawings, some in colored inks of red, green and brown, many of the drawings so delicate in their design that they approached the quality of miniatures, while others showed signs of haste in their composition.