Alex Archer - Cradle Of Solitude

Reading between the lines, Laroche said, “The embassy has agreed to cover your costs and to provide a reasonable fee for your time. Monsieur Garrison would not discuss the specific details with me, but stated he would be happy to take your call so he could provide you with the specifics.” So Billy wasn’t so dim-witted, after all, she thought.

“Well, when do you want to get started?” Annja asked, chuckling to herself.

Laroche slowed, and then stopped. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping you would be free right now.”

Startled, Annja glanced around, only then realizing that they were standing in front of a Metro station. A pair of sawhorses stood in front of the entrance, holding a sign noting in French that the station was currently closed for repairs.

This time Annja laughed aloud. “You certainly know how to show a girl a good time, Henri!” she said. “You’ve piqued my curiosity and given me an intriguing puzzle to boot. How could I say no?”

“Excellent!” Laroche said.

They descended the stairs and entered the station proper, where Laroche used his badge to get them past the police officer stationed there.

Once past the turnstiles, Annja followed Laroche onto the subway platform and over to the far end, where a selection of equipment was stored under a tarp. The detective removed two lanterns from beneath the cover, turned them both on and passed one to Annja. Then he led her off the platform and onto the track.

The air was cool in the tunnel and Annja was glad she’d had the foresight to grab a sweatshirt when she’d left her hotel that morning. At the moment the change in the temperature felt refreshing after the heat of the bright sun above, but it wouldn’t be long before the chill seeped into her bones if they spent any length of time down below.

She was starting to suspect they would.

As if hearing her thoughts, Laroche spoke. “The entrance to the catacombs is several hundred yards ahead. I’m sorry, but there is no alternative but to walk.”

Annja smiled at his apologetic tone. “Walking’s something an arcaheologist gets used to very quickly. It’s no problem at all.”

They kept to the center of the track, where the pathway was reasonably clear of debris and the chance of one of them turning an ankle was reduced. Not that the chances of doing so were all that great in the first place; the subways in Paris were far cleaner than those back home in Brooklyn.

Annja had spent much of her professional life clambering around inside crumbling ruins and forgotten old tunnels, so the weight of all that earth above their heads didn’t bother her in the slightest. The same couldn’t be said about her companion, however. No sooner had they started down the tunnel than the conversation dried up and his repeated glances at the roof over their heads let her know just how uncomfortable he was. Figuring he’d say something if it got to be too much, Annja kept her thoughts to herself and simply walked along in his wake.

They’d been underground for about fifteen minutes when a faint glow could be seen coming from around a bend in the tunnel ahead of them. The light grew brighter as they approached, until, rounding the curve in the tunnel, Annja could see that it was coming from a set of portable arc lights that had been erected on stands near a hole in the tunnel floor. Several people were milling about, but didn’t appear to actually be doing much of anything.

Waiting for the boss to return, Annja thought.

It turned out she was right. As soon as the group caught sight of the two of them approaching, they settled down and waited to be told what to do.

“Please wait here for a moment,” Laroche said, and then stepped over to confer with his people. After listening to an update from one of his subordinates, the detective issued a flurry of orders, sending his people scurrying off in a variety of directions on several different tasks. Doing so seemed to help him forget the weight of all that earth above and it was a steadier man who rejoined her a few moments later.

“I’m told that Professor Reinhardt from the Museum of Natural History is already waiting for us below. As the official representative from my country, he will be in charge of the project, though any actions that impact the remains directly must be approved through you. Will there be a problem with that?”

Annja shook her head. Bernard Reinhardt was an old friend. She’d worked with him on several projects and tried to find time to say hello whenever she was in Paris. His conduct in the field was impeccable; she couldn’t have asked for a better partner.

“Let’s get to it,” she said.

Stepping over to the ladder that extended out of the hole in the tunnel floor, Laroche swung himself onto its rungs and started downward.

Annja gave him a moment, and then followed.

Lights had been strung along the ceiling of the tunnel and in their glare Annja could easily see the differences between this tunnel and the one above. It was narrower, for one, with walls of hewn limestone rather than concrete, and with a ceiling that was a good two feet lower than the previous passageway. Where they had been able to walk two abreast with room to spare in the tunnel above, down here they were forced to move single file down the narrow corridor. It was also quiet. Gone were the faint sounds of distant trains rumbling through the walls; the limestone surrounding them seemed to swallow up even the slightest echo, devouring it before it could move more than a few inches from its source.

The most striking difference, however, was the sense of age that filled the rough-hewn walls around them. This tunnel had been around for a long time, that much was obvious, and Annja found herself wondering just what it had seen and been witness to over the years.

“This way,” Laroche said as he led her down the tunnel. They’d only walked a dozen or so yards before the opening to a chamber loomed on their left. The string of lights led inside and Laroche and Annja followed them.

Entering the room, Annja stopped short, her eyes widening at what she saw.

The entire chamber was fashioned of bones.

Human bones.

Tibias and femurs by the thousands were stacked neatly side by side, interspersed regularly with rows of skulls, their empty eye sockets staring at her as if in accusation. Here and there the skulls had been arranged in artistic patterns, a cross being the most common. There were no intact skeletons, the goal of the arrangement clearly having been to make the best use of the space available, and Annja could only assume that the rib cages, spines and other bones that would have made up the rest of each skeleton had been used to fill in the spaces behind the larger bones. Most of the stacks rose to a height of about 5 feet and from what she could see they were a few yards deep in some places. To her left was a plaque noting the year the bones had been interred as well as the cemetery from which they had come.

Clearly they had entered the original catacombs.

“Annja!” an exuberant voice cried, pulling her away from her study of the skulls before her. She turned to find her colleague, Professor Bernard Reinhardt, emerging from the chamber just beyond, his hand extended in welcome. The smile on his face was outmatched only by the size of his handlebar mustache, which stretched a good inch past his cheeks on either side.

Reinhardt was a large, portly man in his early sixties, though he had the exuberant energy of a man half his size and age. He’d been known to work right through the night and into the next day while on an important dig, putting most of the graduate students who worked with him to shame. In the narrow confines of the underground passageway he appeared twice as big as usual and Annja found herself having to stifle the urge to back away as he thundered toward her. He was dressed in a thick flannel shirt, jeans and solid pair of hiking boots, a far cry from the three-piece suit, complete with pocket watch and chain, that he liked to wear while at the museum.