Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Through the Cradle of Fear

Sheba put down the towel. “Oh, I like this one, Gabriel,” she said.

So he told her—the whole story, starting with the call from Jim Kellen in Dublin and the midnight flight to Hungary, then the abduction in New York and the plane ride to Egypt, the secret chamber deep inside the Sphinx and the cavern beneath Anavatos. He told her about the two sculptures he’d found and the two coins, and the two maps, too, with their inscriptions pointing to ancient Taprobane. Dayani listened to it all without any change in her expression, concentrating on her driving, until finally she pulled to a stop in a lot behind the Golden Temple, put on the parking brake, and turned the keys in the ignition. The car’s engine grumbled once and was silent.

“Gabriel,” she said, turning to face him over the back of the seat, “that’s the craziest story I’ve ever heard. It’s madness—sheer madness. Grown men chasing about, getting killed, over a fairy tale about monsters and treasures…how could anyone believe anything so, so détraqué ?”

“You asked,” Gabriel said. “You wanted to hear it. Now you’ve heard it. Maybe it’s crazy and maybe it’s not. But it’s true—I can promise you that. The men who are looking for this treasure are real, and the bullets in their guns are real, and they’re all of—” He checked the unit in his pocket. “—ninety-one miles away. Which probably means they’ve just landed in Colombo. We’d better get going again.”

“You can’t even wait for the rain to let up?” Dayani said.

“They won’t,” Gabriel said.

She looked over at Sheba. “Have you tried to talk some sense into him?”

“Hey,” Sheba said, “you spend some time with a gun to your head or a sword at your throat, sister, and then you can talk.”

Gabriel saw Dayani’s eyes blaze and he put a hand up between the women. “We don’t have time for this. Dayani—can you let us borrow the car? Actually,” he said, “I guess I should start by asking whether you can even get there by car.”

“You can get pretty close,” Dayani conceded after a moment. “You’ll have to walk the last half mile or so.”

“Then you’ll let us borrow it?” Gabriel said. “Please, Dayani. It’s important.”

Dayani stared into Gabriel’s eyes half regretfully, as though she could read there some terrible future consequences of her decision. “You think I can say no to you?” she said. “Just be careful, for heaven’s sake. Bad enough to get yourself killed over something real, something that matters. To die for a rich man’s fantasy…”

“Many have died for less,” Gabriel said.

“ Oui. And many have died for nothing. But I don’t care about many. I care about you.” To Sheba she said, “Close your eyes, dear. You won’t want to see this.”

Sheba didn’t close her eyes as Dayani planted a palm on each of Gabriel’s cheeks and pressed her lips to his, but when the kiss lasted past the ten-second mark, she turned to look out the window. At twenty seconds she said, without turning back, “Maybe you can enlighten me, Gabriel, on just what we do and don’t have time for.”

“Sorry,” Gabriel said, pulling away.

“Be safe,” Dayani whispered. “You, too,” she said to Sheba, and gripped her hand briefly. Then she was out of the car and heading through the pouring rain toward the back door of the administrative building by the Temple’s side. She looked back once, then went inside.

“All of us,” Gabriel said, and he climbed into the front seat.

Chapter 23

The readout of the tracking unit, which Gabriel had propped upright between them, was slowly counting down. When they’d gotten back onto the highway it had said 83SW ; now it was down to 77.

The pitch-black sky overhead was lit suddenly by the jagged forks of a lighting strike, followed seconds later by a monstrous crack of thunder and the sound of a tree smashing through branches and leaves to the jungle floor. It sounded just yards away, and Gabriel half expected to see a portion of the tree’s massive trunk drop into view in their path. The car’s headlights illuminated only a few feet ahead of them; it felt like anything might be out there, just out of sight, a collision waiting to happen.

He felt the slope of the road increase as they went, the little car’s brakes straining harder to grip the surface, its engine straining to make some of the steeper climbs. It was a Tata Motors import from India, the best Dayani could afford, no doubt, on the amount UNESCO paid her, and it probably did fine for ferrying her to and from work. It was waterproof; the windshield wipers worked. But it had surely never been tested under the sort of stress cars regularly were forced to endure under Gabriel’s hand, and he very much doubted this one could take the punishment. Just as well, then, that they’d be leaving it at a safe distance from their destination.

They came to the turnoff from the highway and shot through a muddy patch at the start of a road whose paving was cracked and uneven. Municipal services were not the country’s strong suit and road repair took a backseat in the fight for what resources there were. But the rains kept coming, seven months out of the year, battering each manmade incursion into the jungle as if eager to erase its presence. They drove over potholes that would make even a New Yorker look twice. You could’ve bathed a baby in some of them.

But even cracked pavement was preferable to an unpaved dirt road, and Gabriel braked to a halt when he realized that was what he was driving on. Already, the mud beneath their tires was dragging at them, making progress difficult—he didn’t want to get the car stuck entirely. Revving the engine, he switched into reverse and backed up out of the muck till he was on asphalt again and under the overhang of a healthy-sized tree limb. Pocketing the keys, he got out. Sheba followed, the towel held over her head.

“We walk from here,” Gabriel said, and led the way.

Their first sight of Sigiriya came with a sudden strobe of lightning overhead. The rock didn’t look like a lion. It looked a little like Devil’s Tower—that same impression almost of a geyser of stone spouting from the ground, like a gargantuan oil strike frozen in mideruption. In front of the rock, a space had been cleared in the jungle, a thousand feet of little square gardens and paths and ponds, all of them now awash with rainwater. He strode quickly along the main path, mud sucking at his boots, the bandage around his ankle waterlogged and cold. Sheba walked beside him, hugging the bag from the plane to her side. Gabriel reached into it and drew out the flashlight—rubber-sheathed and waterproof and with a beam roughly as ineffective as the car’s headlights had been. It was better than nothing.

The rock grew in stuttering snapshot steps as they approached it, larger each time it was made visible by a crooked branch of lightning zigzagging through the sky. In certain spots the highest levels of the rock overhung the lowest, and Gabriel made for one of these. Though the wind continued to blow the rain against them, here at least was some small shelter from the storm. He could see how Sigiriya would have recommended itself to monks in the fourth century—BC or AD, it didn’t matter which—desperate for relief from the island’s thunderous deluges. That there were caves, too—warm, dry, possibly home to a local animal or two who could be cooked over a fire for dinner—was all the more reason.

But he and Sheba didn’t have the luxury of crawling into a cave and waiting out the storm. Shielding it with one hand, he drew Lucy’s device from his pocket once more. Sixty miles exactly. That wasn’t much time at all.

Squeezing through a narrow opening between two tall walls of rock, Gabriel found a set of shallow stone steps leading up along the side. He put out one hand to steady himself against the rock face and shouted back for Sheba to do the same. For a moment she held onto the waterlogged towel, then she crammed it in the bag. “Hell with it,” she said. She didn’t bother putting up the hood. Her hair was plastered to her scalp within seconds.