by Pam Jenoff
I gulp several mouthfuls of water, then pass the canteen back to him as we reach the top of a bluff. On the far side, the ocean comes into view once more. The rugged coastline forms a wide curving inlet, a thin strip of sand giving way to blue sea. The water is rougher here, waves crashing against the shoals.
I reach out and grab his arm. “How much further?” I ask, concerned that if I do not stop him, he will take me all the way to the caves. We are exposed now, atop the ridge, and I do not want anyone to see him approaching with me.
“There it is,” Jared says, a note of reluctance in his voice. He points downward to the deepest part of the cove, where a massive expanse of sheer cliff face gives way to a wide opening, partially obscured by a huge freestanding rock.
“All right, then this is the end of the line for you.”
“But—”
I cut him off. “It’s too risky for you to be here, Jared. I shouldn’t have even let you bring me this far. Someone could see you. Once I have the wine, I’ll head toward the harbor.”
“Do you know the way?”
I nod. “I can find it. But what am I supposed to do once I’m there?”
“The man didn’t say. I assume he’ll find you. The case is probably heavy, though. How are you going to get it there alone?”
It is a question I had not considered. “I’ll manage. I want you to go back to the cottage and wait in case the men call again. I’ll let you know as soon as I have Noah.”
I expect him to argue further, but he does not. “The entrance is only passable for about another forty minutes,” he informs me instead. “After that, the water will rise and the cave will be flooded.” I notice then that the tide is high, the water lapping against the rocks.
“What about the wine? Don’t the waters jeopardize it?”
He shakes his head. “When you enter the cave, the path you’ll take rises to what Nicole called the upper chamber. She said it doesn’t flood, so the wine remains safe and dry. Here.” He pulls a flashlight from his pocket and hands it to me. “I’m not sure exactly where you go once you’re inside, but Nicole said she followed the writing on the wall.”
“What kind of writing?”
“I don’t know. Something left by the partisans, maybe, though the caves are ancient, so it could be much older than that.” He looks at his watch. “We’d better hurry.”
“Not we,” I correct. “Me. You’re going back.”
“I can’t let you do this alone. It’s too dangerous, and you need my help.”
“Jared, we’ve been over this already. If they see you, they might not show . . . or things could get very ugly. You could be endangering Noah even further.” I watch as he processes what I’ve said. “Go straight back to the cottage and wait for my call. If you don’t hear from me in two hours . . . ” I do not finish the sentence.
He nods, understanding. “Jordan,” he says as I start to walk away. I turn back once more. He opens his mouth helplessly but no words come out. It is a plea, a prayer to save his son.
I reach out and put my arm on his shoulder. I failed him once; I will not do it again. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring him home.”
I make my way down the narrow path toward the beach, struggling to keep my footing on the rocks, which grow damp and slippery as I near the water. A few minutes later I look over my shoulder, expecting to see Jared still standing there, but he is gone. I am surprised—he has always been so stubborn. Did he really return home, as I told him to do, or is he somewhere nearby, hiding out of sight? Suddenly the magnitude of what I am doing crashes down upon me. Jared is trusting me, counting on me to save his son.
What am I doing here anyway? I found Jared, finished what I set out to do. This wine business was never my fight. But I have the chance to help Jared as I could not a decade ago and save his child as I could not save ours. This child, who a day ago I did not know existed, suddenly means everything.
If I can do it, I think, reaching down and wrapping my hand around Ari’s gun. Hostage situations are a unique area of expertise and I’ve never handled one, had only the most cursory training. Despite the confidence I tried to portray to Jared, I’m pretty sure I’m in over my head. But I have to try.
I hurry down the path toward the entrance to the cave. The water is higher now, swallowing the thin swatch of sand. I bend down and take off my sandals, carrying them as I wade through the surf, cool water licking at my ankles.
Inside the entrance to the cave, the water ebbs, giving way to damp sand. Daylight quickly disappears and I stop, trying without success to adjust my eyes, then reaching for the flashlight. The pale yellow beam illuminates the ground just a few feet ahead of me before being swallowed by the darkness. I point it around, trying to acclimate myself. The cave is enormous, passages off the main chamber leading in several directions.
I put my sandals back on, then shine the flashlight along the walls, searching for the writing Jared described. About twenty feet inside the cave on the left wall are markings etched in the stone. I move closer. Names, I realize, of those who have been here before, written in a single lengthy scroll that runs for several feet. I follow the writing deeper into the cave, wondering who had carved the artful, flowing script, whether he or she made it out alive. It must have taken forever. I take a deep breath, inhaling the cool, moist air.
The writing ends as abruptly as it began, a final flourish fading into a crevice. I look up. The path has narrowed to a tunnel less than a foot across and just tall enough for me to stand, inclining sharply upward and bordered by high rock walls on either side.
A few feet farther, the tunnel ends as the wall to my left disappears, giving way to open space. My heart pounds. The path is no more than a ledge here, dropping off sharply into the abyss. I shine my flashlight down. It is a gorge, so deep I cannot see the bottom. Water trickles, unseen, far below.
I stop, panicking. I am alone in this cave with no means of contacting anyone if I fall and get injured, or worse. I think of Ari, his fear of heights. Though I know he would hate this, I cannot help but wish he were here with me now. Steeling myself, I continue along the narrow path, forcing myself not to look down. I clutch the rocky wall to my right, concentrating on each step to keep myself from falling into the unforgiving abyss below.
Then there is a break and the rock beneath my hand seems to move. Something flies out of the wall, fluttering against my face. I raise my hands to ward it off, dropping the flashlight.
“No!” I cry as it falls to the ledge and goes out. My voice echoes through the cavern.
I bend over, trying not to lose my balance as I feel for the flashlight. My fingers brush the handle but it rolls away, clattering close to the edge. I reach for it again and begin to wobble, my arms flailing dangerously. Steadying myself, I run my hand along the ground, finally touching the flashlight and picking it up.
I grab the wall again, straightening. It was a bat, I recognize, regaining my balance, forcing myself to breathe. Disgusting, but relatively benign under the circumstances.
Trembling, I continue forward until the emptiness beside my left hand ends. Ahead, the flashlight dimly reveals two steps leading to a doorway. I step up through it into some sort of room. There is a different smell here, musty and man-made, of dirt and wood that is somehow familiar.
I shine the light around the room, revealing wooden racks that line the walls from floor to ceiling, reminding me of the Contis’ wine cellar. This must be the upper chamber.
I walk toward one of the racks, hope rising in me. If only I can find the wine. Suddenly, as if by magic, the chamber is illuminated. I start to turn to see where the light has come from, but then there is a clicking sound and someone grabs me from behind.
“Hello, Nicole,” a man’s voice says behind me, his breath warm and foul against my ear.
My heart stops. An accent—Russian, I think, surprised. Does Santini have Russians working for him? The man could also be affiliated with the financier, Ivankov, but it seems a stretc
h. He must have been following me, but for how long? Had he seen Jared?
“Y-yes,” I manage, trying to mimic Nicole’s accent. “But you said to come to the harbor—”
He presses a gun into my ribs. “The wine.”
I swallow. “Where’s my son?”
He smashes me against the wall, knocking the wind out of me. “First the wine.”
I struggle to catch my breath. “No good. I need proof that Noah is safe.”
The man calls out something in Russian and out of the corner of my eye, I see a second man appear, holding a small child. I fight the urge to cry out at the sight of the tiny version of Jared. He looks tired and dirty, but otherwise unharmed.
“Darling.” I pull back from the wall. The child looks bewildered, and for a moment I fear that he will say something to give away the fact that I am not his mother, but he continues to stare at me, wide-eyed.
“Enough,” the man says, grabbing me once more. “The wine.”
I move slowly, getting a good look at him for the first time, noting his black ponytail and dark eyes, the scar that runs from his right temple to his chin. The man who holds Noah is shorter and stockier, with sandy hair and an unkempt mustache. Details, I realize through my panic, that will be important in case they get away.
But whether or not these men are apprehended is the least of my worries right now. I need to give them the wine, then get Noah and get out. I start toward the racks, eyeing the dusty crates and boxes. They are mostly unmarked and the few that have labels are faded and illegible, one indiscernible from the next. How am I ever going to figure out which one contains the Cerfberre Bordeaux?
Suddenly there is a clattering sound behind me. I turn in time to see another man appear. There, pushed before him with arms behind her back, is Nicole.
chapter NINETEEN
PANIC FLOODS MY brain. What is Nicole doing here? She’s supposed to be in Zante, warning Ari.
“I’ve found her, Ivan,” the man holding Nicole says in English, gesturing with his head. He must not be Russian like the other two. Turkish, I think, processing his accent and swarthy complexion.
The man he called Ivan looks at him blankly. “Who?”
“Nicole.”
Ivan’s eyes widen. “That’s Nicole?” He turns back in my direction. “Then who the hell are you?”
For a minute I consider continuing to insist that I am Nicole, that this other woman is an impostor. But then Noah reaches out in Nicole’s direction. “Mama!” he cries, and I know the charade is over.
“I’m Nicole’s cousin,” I manage, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. “I was at her house when you called and said we had to give you the wine in two hours and I didn’t think she could make it so I came instead.”
But Ivan is not fooled. “Police,” he hisses, his expression turning from surprise to anger.
“I’m not . . . ” I begin, but he slams me up against the wall again, harder this time. My jaw bangs into the rocks, sending pain shooting upward through my head. Before I can recover, he twists my arms behind my back with one hand in a single fluid motion. Holding my arms in a vicelike grip, he uses his other hand to frisk me, plucking my gun from my waist and flinging it away.
Then he walks to Nicole. “I told you, alone,” he says, hitting her across the mouth so hard that she breaks from the Turk’s grip. Noah begins to cry.
“Darling . . . ” Ignoring her now bleeding lip, Nicole starts for the child, but the Turk grabs her once more and pulls her back roughly, throwing her to the ground. Noah’s cry rises to a wail, his face growing beet red. The sandy-haired man clamps a hand over Noah’s mouth, but he begins flails wildly, unwilling to be contained.
Anger flashes white hot through me, and I start toward Noah, heedless of any danger. But Ivan steps between us, leveling his gun at me and cocking it. Now that he has the real Nicole, I am just a liability. He does not have any reason to keep me alive.
“Wait . . . ” I step back, raising my hands. I need to buy time, to come up with a reason for him not to kill me this very moment. I glance from my gun, which lies on the ground several feet away, to the man holding the now-limp Noah. I cannot risk his safety by diving for it, and reaching it and using it would be virtually impossible.
“You,” Ivan waves the gun in Nicole’s direction. “Get the wine.”
“But I don’t understand,” Nicole replies, her voice trembling. She gestures toward the man who brought her in. “Like I told him, I’ll give you the money and—”
“Now!” Ivan cuts her off, then raises the gun menacingly.
Cowering, Nicole goes to a lantern that hangs from the wall. She takes it down and lights the wick inside with a match. She looks at the wine racks hesitantly, seeming to stall for time.
“Enough,” Ivan growls. He walks to Noah, shaking the child until he squeals. “The wine. And no games.”
A mixture of horror and rage crosses Nicole’s face as she struggles not to lunge for her child. “Do it,” I urge her in a low voice. I don’t think the men are bluffing and we can’t take a chance.
Defeated, she hurries to one of the wine racks, the bottles dancing green in the light as she nears. She pushes aside the rack with surprising ease. It’s a decoy, I realize, surprised. The bottles are empty. Behind it is a rusty gate, held in place by a padlock. Nicole produces a key and struggles with the lock for several seconds until there is a loud popping sound. She pushes the gate open to reveal a deep closet. I wonder what she is doing, if she is somehow trying to mislead the men, but I know that she would not jeopardize her son.
With great effort, Nicole drags a wooden crate out into the chamber. Ivan nods and the Turk moves quickly to the box, kneeling before it and producing a metal tool from his jacket pocket. He pries open the crate, then pulls a bottle from the straw lining and lifts it to the light, running his hand over the label and appraising it with a knowing eye.
As the other men watch intently, I glance toward the door. Now that they have what they’ve come for, it’s only a matter of time before they dispose of us. We have to get out of here.
“Come on,” I say, stalling for time. “You’ve got the wine. Why don’t you let us go? Or at least let Nicole take the child out of here. You can keep me, if you’re worried about getting away.”
There is no response. The Turk stands, still holding the wine bottle. “It’s good,” he says to Ivan. Then, without warning, he lets go of the bottle. It drops to the dirt, breaking loudly. Liquid seeps into the earth, begins to disappear.
I search Ivan’s face, expecting to see dismay. Surely he will have to answer to Santini for losing the priceless bottle. But his face remains nonplussed as the Turk lifts a second bottle from the case and holds it out, ready to break that one, too. Nicole and I exchange stunned looks.
“Wait,” I call, surprise overcoming fear. All three men turn to me. “What are you doing?”
“Destroying the wine,” the Turk replies, as though it should be obvious. He drops the bottle to the ground.
“But it’s so valuable.” My mind whirls. Why would Santini order his men to destroy the wine he’d gone to such lengths to get? “Surely the people you work for . . . ”
He lifts three more bottles, dropping them in unison, adding to the pile of broken glass at his feet. “Wait,” I say again, but he ignores me and picks up another bottle, this time hurling it so it smashes against the wall. Noah yelps, alarmed by the sound.
The Turk picks up speed, breaking four more bottles in rapid succession. His movements are almost festive now, as if smashing plates at a Greek celebration. Only two more bottles left. Then the wine will be completely gone—and the men will have no reason to keep us alive any longer.
“You know, you really should save those last two bottles of wine,” I say, “as an insurance policy.”
Ivan walks toward me, brandishing his gun impatiently. “This one talks too much.”
But the Turk takes a step forward, a bottle of wine still su
spended in his hand. “Insurance policy?”
I swallow. “To make sure that the people you are working for give you everything you’ve been promised—and that they don’t finger you if something goes wrong.”
“We can’t,” Ivan replies. But the Turk’s eyes dart back and forth as he considers my idea.
“If the wine is all gone, you have no leverage. But as long as you have a few of the bottles, they’ll do anything you want. You could even ask for more money,” I add, gaining steam.
“And the wine is worth a fortune,” Nicole chimes in, following my lead. “You could sell those bottles on the black market for a great deal.”
The Turk tucks the last two under his arm. “Let’s go.”
“We can’t take those,” Ivan protests again. “We were hired to destroy all of the bottles.” Nicole and I exchange glances, trying to figure out how to use the dissent to our advantage or at least prolong the debate. But then the sandy-haired man who has been holding Noah says something in Russian to Ivan. It is, I realize, the first time I have heard him speak.
Seemingly outvoted, Ivan shrugs. “Take them.” He points his gun in our direction, gesturing toward the chamber exit. “Move.”
I blink with surprise as Ivan starts for the door. I was certain that they were going to kill us here. Surely they do not intend to let us go. Something isn’t right. I try to catch Nicole’s gaze to signal to her, but she has hurried to the man holding Noah, who releases him into her arms. Not looking back, she scampers for the exit, clutching the child tightly.
Following Nicole from the chamber, my mind races. The men are about to get away with the last of the wine. Let them, I decide. Get Nicole and Noah to safety first, then figure out what to do.
I step through the doorway down onto the ledge that runs along the gorge. Halfway down the narrow path, Ivan stops and turns back toward the Turk, who is behind me. “Here?” The Turk asks. Ivan nods.
