Douglas Preston - Riptide

She went on to discuss past lovers and husbands, and to more specific details of her anatomical preferences in men. The marquesa always approached electronic mail as if it were a medium for gossipy confessions. If the woman held true to form, her message would turn next to her chronic shortage of ready money, and to a family ancestry that dated back through the Holy Roman emperors to Aleric the Visigoth himself. This time, however, she proceeded with uncharacteristic speed to the information she had unearthed in the archives of Cadiz Cathedral. Reading, then rereading her message, Hatch felt a chill course through him.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," Hatch said as he sent the marquesa's message to the nearby printer. He glanced up at the workman who stood in the doorway, then froze.

"My God," he breathed, pushing back from his desk. "What the hell happened to you?"

Chapter 40

Fifty minutes later, Hatch was quickly climbing the path toward the Water Pit. The rays of the lowering sun blazed over the water, turning the island's fogbank into a fiery swirl.

Orthanc was empty save for Magnusen and a technician operating the winch. There was a grinding noise, and a massive bucket emerged from the Water Pit, hooked to a thick steel cable. As Hatch watched through the glass porthole, a crew at the edge of the Pit swung the bucket off to one side and tilted it into one of the abandoned tunnels. There was a loud sucking sound, and countless gallons of mud and dirt poured out in a rush. The crew righted the now-empty bucket and swung it back toward the mouth of the Water Pit, where it once again descended out of sight.

"Where's Gerard?" Hatch asked.

Magnusen was monitoring a wireframe grid of the base of the Water Pit. She turned to look at him for a moment, then returned to her screen. "With the digging team," she replied.

On the wall near the winch technician was a bank of six red phones, hardwired to various points on the island network. Hatch picked up the phone labeled WATER PIT, FORWARD TEAM.

He heard three quick beeps. In a moment, Neidelman's voice came over the channel. "Yes?" Hatch could hear loud hammering in the background.

"I need to speak with you," Hatch said.

"Is it important?" Neidelman asked, irritation in his voice.

"Yes, it's important. I have some new information about St. Michael's Sword."

There was a pause during which the hammering grew louder. "If you must," Neidelman replied at last. "You'll have to come down here. We're in the midst of setting some braces."

Hatch returned the phone to its cradle, buckled on a safety helmet and harness, then stepped outside and climbed down the tower to the staging platform. In the gathering dusk, the Pit looked even more brilliant, projecting a shaft of white light into the mists above. One of the crew members at the Pit's mouth helped him onto the electric lift. He pressed a button on the housing and the small platform lurched and descended.

He passed through the gleaming web of titanium struts and cables, marveling despite himself at the complexity. The lift descended past a team checking a set of braces at the forty-foot level. Another ninety seconds and the bottom of the Water Pit became visible. Here, activity was more pronounced. The muck and mire had been removed, and a battery of lights erected. A smaller shaft now extended down from the base of the Pit, braced on all sides. Several small instruments and measuring devices— belonging to Magnusen, or maybe Rankin—dangled from slender wires. The winch cable descended into one corner, and in the opposite corner a titanium ladder had been fitted. Stepping off the lift, Hatch went down the ladder into a roar of sound: shovels, hammers, the rush of air-filtration units.

Thirty feet below, he reached the actual floor of the excavation. Here, under the gaze of a lone closed-circuit camera, workmen were digging out the sodden earth and dumping it into the large bucket. Others were using suction hoses to vacuum up the mud and water. Neidelman stood in one corner, a construction helmet on his head, directing the placement of the supports. Streeter hovered nearby, a set of blueprints in his hand.

Malin came toward them, and the Captain nodded. "I'm surprised you haven't been down here to see this before," he said.

"Now that the Pit is stabilized, we've been able to proceed with the final digging at full speed."

There was a pause in which Hatch made no answer.

Neidelman turned his pale eyes toward him. "You know how pressed for time we are," he said. "I hope this is important."

A great change had taken place in the man in the week since Wopner's death. Gone was the look of calm certainty, the equanimity that had surrounded him like a mantle from the very first day he'd sat in Hatch's office and looked out over the Charles River. Now, there was a look Hatch found hard to describe: a haggard, almost wild, determination.

"It's important," said Hatch. "But private."

Neidelman looked at him a moment longer. Then he glanced at his watch. "Listen up!" he said to the men. "Shift ends in seven minutes. Knock off, get topside, and tell the next team to come down for an early start."

The workers laid aside their tools and began climbing the ladder toward the lift. Streeter remained where he was, silent. The large suction hoses fell silent, and the half-filled bucket rose toward the surface, bobbing on its heavy steel cable. Streeter remained, standing silently to one side. Neidelman turned back to Hatch. "You've got five minutes, maybe ten."

"A couple of days ago," Hatch began, "I came across a stash of my grandfather's papers, documents he'd gathered about the Water Pit and Ockham's treasure. They were hidden in the attic of the family house; that's why my father never destroyed them. Some mentioned St. Michael's Sword. They hinted that the sword was some kind of terrible weapon the Spanish government planned to use against Red Ned Ockham. There were other disturbing references, too. So I contacted a researcher I know in Cadiz and asked her to do some more digging into the sword's history."

Neidelman looked toward the muddy ground at their feet, his lips pursed. "That could be considered proprietary information. I'm surprised you took such a step without consulting me."

"She found this." Hatch reached into his jacket and handed Neidelman a piece of paper.

The Captain looked at it briefly. "It's in old Spanish," he said with a frown.

"Below is my friend's translation."

Neidelman handed it back. "Summarize it for me," he said curtly.

"It's fragmentary. But it describes the original discovery of St. Michael's Sword, and what happened afterwards."

Neidelman raised his eyebrows. "Indeed?"

"During the Black Plague, a wealthy Spanish merchant set out from Cadiz with his family on a barque. They crossed the Mediterranean and put ashore along an unpopulated stretch of the Barbary Coast. There they found the remains of an ancient Roman settlement. They settled down to ride out the plague. Some friendly Berber tribesmen warned them not to go near a ruined temple that lay on a hill some distance away, saying it was cursed. The warnings were repeated several times. After a while, when the plague started to abate, the merchant decided to explore the temple. Maybe he felt the Berbers had hidden something of value, and he didn't want to depart without taking a look. It seems that among the ruins he found a slab of marble behind an altar. Underneath was an ancient metal box that had been sealed shut, with an inscription in Latin. In effect, the inscription stated that the box contained a sword, which was the deadliest of weapons. Even to look upon it meant death. He had the box carried down to the ship, but the Berbers refused to help him open it. In fact, they drove him from the shore."