David Gibbins - The Crusader's gold

Jack grunted. It was not the news he wanted to hear. “Thanks. Do what you have to do.”

The captain left for the bridge and James Macleod got up from the computer console where he had been evaluating data from the icefjord. Everyone in the room was aware of Jack, but had been keeping their distance. Some of them had been on the first Seaquest and could remember the loss of Peter Howe in the Black Sea, how Jack had taken the responsibility personally. Maria had been enormously popular among the crew and scientists alike during their sojourn in the icefjord. Even Lanowski was subdued, quietly passing Jack a series of printouts of the longship in the iceberg he had finalised from the photogrammetric images.

Macleod sidled up to the window beside him. “How long do you think we’ll be here, Jack?” he asked quietly.

Jack turned and looked at him, his face drawn and distant, then stared back out to sea. “I don’t know, James. I just don’t know.” He pursed his lips and put down his coffee. They had been back on board for almost six hours now, and there was still no word from Iona. All they had to go on was a brief phone message to IMU headquarters from O’Connor’s colleague in the monastery, the man Jack remembered seeing briefly in the church. Apparently the police were keeping the scene completely under wraps, and there was a media blackout. But there was no doubt of the facts. Father O’Connor was dead, and Maria was missing.

“We have to assume she’s been kidnapped.” Ben had been within earshot, and had moved up to Jack’s other side. “Until there’s a body, that is.”

“I know.” Jack exhaled forcefully, then stood back from the railing with his hands on his hips, his usual demeanour returned. “We have to keep on top of this. We have to assume we’ll be hearing more soon. Until then there’s nothing we can do. It has to be situation normal.” He looked at Macleod, his expression grim but determined. “There’s your answer. My plan after visiting Chichen Itza had been to collate all possible evidence from the north Yucatan datable to the second half of the eleventh century, to the time when Harald might have been here. Wall-paintings, glyphs, structures. Anything that might provide a clue.” He gestured to Jeremy, hunched over a screen in the corner, surrounded by open books. “I put Jeremy on it the moment we got back.”

“He’s taken the news very badly,” Macleod murmured.

“He revered O’Connor,” Jack said quietly. “And Maria’s his mentor. For someone like him, that’s like pulling the rug out from under your life.”

“He’s got us now,” Macleod replied.

“He’s a good guy,” said Jack.

Costas had been tapping at the workstation next to Jeremy, and leaned back on his chair as they looked over. “Jack. Something to look forward to. I’ve jumped the gun and been in touch with the IMU guy for the Caribbean, Jim Hales out of Grand Cayman. You know he’s an old pal of mine from the US Navy submersibles research lab. He was straight on to Mexico City and they’ve given us the go-ahead for Chichen Itza. Amazing how that guy clears the red tape. Any time you want to talk setting up a project in that cenote, I’ve got the contact numbers.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jack caught Costas’ eye, and knew they both sensed the need to keep positive, to look ahead. “I’ll put first claim on the sub-bottom borer after the Golden Horn’s done. Jeremy, you in on this?”

Jeremy looked at them, pale and distracted. “Huh? If Maria will let me.” He suddenly checked himself, and the room went silent.

“She will,” Jack said firmly.

Jeremy tried hard to keep a brave face. “Anyway, I’m not sure if the Well of Sacrifice is where I want to do my first open-water dive.”

“Don’t worry.” Costas stretched his hand over and placed it on Jeremy’s back. “We’ll do some coral first.”

A red light began flashing in the centre of the room. Ben looked at Jack, his face deadly serious. “To the bridge.” The two men quickly made their way out of the control room and up the stairway, followed by Costas. The captain was busily engaged with the chief officer at the binnacle but immediately gestured to the chart room. “Priority message on the security channel.” Ben was first in the room and snatched up the radio receiver, talking quickly and then putting it down. “That was IMU HQ. There’s been an email message. It’s directed us to a secure site and given us a password.”

Costas was already seated at the computer beside the chart table. “Okay. We’re on line. Address?” Ben read it out and Costas tapped the keyboard. “Password?”

Ben hesitated, then glanced at Jack. “Menorah.”

Costas let out a low whistle. “Well, that gives the game away.”

Jack’s knuckles were white as he gripped Costas’ chair, and his voice was hoarse. “We guessed who we were up against. This confirms it.”

“It’s addressed to you, Jack.” Costas leaned aside to let Jack read the short email that had appeared on the screen.

To: Jack Howard

You and Kazantzakis will arrive by Zodiac at 2300 this evening at the beach landing point you visited this morning. Bring cave diving equipment. You will blindfold yourselves and await our arrival. Any attempt to involve security or make contact with an outside body and your colleague will be executed.

“Maria’s alive,” Jack breathed. “Thank God.”

“The beach landing point,” Ben murmured. “Doesn’t surprise me they knew where we were. Probably the Mexican police. If it’s Reksnys, he’ll have prying eyes everywhere along this coast.”

“And cave gear,” Costas murmured. “What the hell’s that all about? I’m not going cave diving while it’s raining. All the air pockets will flood.”

“They must have found something,” Jack said.

“That password?”

“I truly hope not.”

“Maria’s somewhere here, near us,” Ben said. “They must have flown her in from Iona. Reksnys has a private jet, and his own runway in the jungle. It’s one of the few things you can’t disguise from satellite surveillance. And he must have known Seaquest II was on the way here even before they hit Iona.”

“My guess is the hit was a one-man show,” Jack said bleakly.

“Loki.”

“We’ve been sent a photo. Better prepare ourselves.” Costas clicked on an attachment below the message, and a picture began to download. It had been taken with a flash inside some kind of chamber with an irregular stone floor and old walls covered in green growth. As the image opened they could see a figure slumped on the floor, a woman. It was horrifying, an image of torture, the kind of image that leaked out of Iraq and untold Third World hellholes. She was filthy, wearing a clinging T-shirt partly ripped open over her breasts. Her dark hair was matted to her neck, and her arms were streaked with green from the floor. She had been trying to look at the camera but had flinched in the flash. Her eyes were puffed up and closed, her mouth flecked with white, and she had an ugly abrasion over her cheekbone which was oozing blood and pus.

Jack felt a lurching shock of recognition. “Maria.” He felt physically sick. His hands slipped off the back of the chair and he sat down heavily on the bench beside it. As he looked at the image again, his horror turned to anger, to seething rage.

The captain appeared at the door. “Message from Iona. There’s a police forensics guy who’s been allowed to talk to us.” He saw the screen, faltered.

“Coming.” Jack’s voice was cold, emotionless.

Ten minutes later Jack was back in the control room. It was empty except for Jeremy; Macleod and Lanowski had left for the bridge deck a few minutes before. Jeremy was still at his screen, working quietly, printing images from the web and bookmarking pages of Toltec art. Above him the window was flecked with the first lashings of rain, and Jack could see that the weather was deteriorating rapidly. He paused, feeling utterly drained from what he had just heard, looked again at Jeremy, then made his way through the consoles. He did not know how to break the news. He pulled up a chair and flipped it round to sit with his back to the window, then looked intently at Jeremy’s images.