“Where is it?” Frost demanded. “We need to defuse it.”
Sinclair stared at him, uncertain what to say. There was no way to describe where to look for it. They both knew Frost couldn’t find it by himself—at least not in time.
“OK, I’ll show you. Let’s go,” Sinclair said without hesitation, turning back toward the entrance again.
“Get back!” Frost shouted to the others. He waved them all away. “Get out of here! Now!”
“Sinclair!” Charles yelled. It was a howl of outrage. Sinclair turned around and stood before the door of the vault, suspended.
“Sinclair, no!” Charles shouted, and threw up his hands to the sky as if to demand why. The possibility of death hung between them, acknowledged but unspoken.
“There’s no other way!” Sinclair called.
Charles stared at him in disbelief. “Sinclair, you can’t!” he howled.
“Charles, please. Take care of her for me,” Sinclair called.
Charles dropped his hands, defeated. He nodded, once. A commitment made. Cordelia turned back at the sound of their voices. She saw immediately what was happening and started running toward Sinclair. Charles caught hold of her, to stop her from following. She struggled to break free.
“John!” Her scream was frantic. “No, please! Don’t!”
“Cordelia, I have to!”
“Please, don’t,” she cried. “Please, John.”
“I’ll be back,” he shouted. “I promise.”
Sinclair turned and ran back into the International Seed Vault. Frost followed.
For Sinclair, the run back into the vault was entirely different from the exit they had made moments before. He was immensely relieved that Cordelia was safe. But a heavy, oppressive feeling overcame him. Sinclair was conscious of the full weight of the mountain bedrock above. Tons and tons of granite rested on this small tunnel. And as he ran deeper and deeper into the mountain it felt as if the tunnel were narrowing, and he had to bend over to stop the terrible weight from crushing him.
Just moments before, when his sole focus had been on getting Cordelia out, he hadn’t given the tunnel a thought. But now his mind was playing tricks. Now the situation had all the qualities of his most dreaded nightmare. In his mind, he met his old phantoms: the dark snowy night, the overturned car. He kept running in an effort to fight the attack of claustrophobia he knew was imminent. He needed to push the panic out of his mind, but suddenly the blackness and the sweating terror crashed in on him. He slowed his pace and stopped, barely able to breathe.
He and Frost reached the circular desk with the three tunnels arrayed in front of them. His eye was drawn to the corridor on the left, and suddenly it seemed even smaller and darker than he remembered.
He didn’t want to go in there. It looked like death—the terrible fear of death had haunted him ever since the car accident. It was his grave. He knew it. He knew he would die in that little tunnel in this remote place. He would never see Cordelia again. He knew it more than he had ever known anything in his life.
“What’s wrong,” demanded Frost. “Did you forget which way it is?”
Sinclair lifted his hand and pointed to the corridor on the left, leading to vault 3. Frost cast him a curious glance and ran off into the tunnel.
Sinclair stood still. He begged his mind to let go of the fears that kept him a prisoner. He had tried so hard to get free of that horrible night when he was trapped in the car. He had relived the memory with relentless tenacity for years. Surely it was time to let it go. He had to be cured by now.
He took a deep breath, as if preparing to dive underwater. And then he followed the sound of Frost’s footsteps.
Cordelia clung to Charles, tears streaming down her face. She had fought and struggled against him to go after Sinclair, but Charles had held her tightly.
“Charles, he is going to die!! I have to stop him!”
Charles kept his arm around her as sobs racked her slim body. Damn Sinclair and his heroics! Despite all odds, they had managed to get out of the vault safely, but Sinclair had to run back in to save the day. Didn’t he know that his life was more precious to Cordelia than any other in the world? How could he do this?
Charles was absolutely furious. If Sinclair got out of there alive, he was going to kill him himself. He released Cordelia tentatively, ready to catch hold of her again.
“Delia, we have to move farther down the mountain. In case . . .” He couldn’t finish.
She nodded passively. She seemed defeated. She offered no resistance as Charles took her hand. He kept an arm around her shoulders to steady her as they went down the steep road. She wound both her arms around him, crying so hard she could barely see.
A line of Norwegian police vehicles passed them going down the mountain. One van stopped next to Charles and Cordelia. There were two uniformed Norwegian officials in the back.
“Get in. You need to evacuate,” the officer said in English. “The vault is going to explode in five minutes.”
Charles winced. He would have given anything to have spared Cordelia that statement. He handed her up to the outstretched hands in the back of the vehicle, and then launched himself after her. The truck careened down the mountain in a cloud of dust, leaving the vault behind.
Sinclair found Thaddeus Frost crouched over the digital device. The red numbers glowed 3:00 minutes. For some reason, Sinclair was surprised they had that much time left. It had felt like an eternity as he had stood in the tunnel and tried to overcome his fear. But it must have been less than a minute.
Now his mind was focused and calm, and every object in the room stood out in crystalline clarity. Frost was working a small screwdriver into the back of the device.
“Do you know what to do?” asked Sinclair.
“Quiet!” said Frost. Then he looked up at Sinclair as if he had just noticed him.
“Get out of here while you still can!” Frost said urgently.
“No, I won’t leave you,” Sinclair replied.
Frost gave him a puzzled stare, then looked down again at the device and went on working. Sinclair squatted next to him. He couldn’t let Frost die here alone. That much he owed him.
He had failed so badly. He had bungled almost every step of the way. Erin was dead. His utter incompetence had nearly gotten Cordelia killed also. He had promised to help her, and then he had failed. He didn’t deserve her; he simply didn’t deserve her.
But there was one thing he could do. He could stay here with Frost and not abandon him. This moment was still under his control. He needed to see it though—even if it meant death.
A bead of sweat worked down Frost’s forehead and dripped onto the floor. The device read 2:00 minutes.
Sinclair looked around at the vault. Box after box of seeds had been labeled and placed in neat rows along the shelves. Imagine killing for this. Imagine wanting to destroy this so badly that human life was worthless to you. What kind of people were they?
Sinclair settled back and thought about his own imminent death. He had always heard that heroes can’t imagine their own death, and that is why they could rise so easily to the moral heights of sacrificing themselves for a greater good. He wasn’t that way. He imagined his own death every time he had a claustrophobic attack. And now he knew he was going to die in the godforsaken vault.
It was funny, having all this time to think about death. Sinclair had often assumed that his final moment on earth would end with what were called “bioscopic fantasies”—scenes of his life flashing before his eyes with vivid and incredible speed. It was a phenomenon reported by many who had been on the verge of death. But now he realized that for him the final moments were going to be calm and utterly under control. And, astonishingly, he could breathe, without any symptoms of claustrophobia. The attack had vanished. Wouldn’t it be ironic if he were cured so late in life—just moments before he died?
Sinclair had one regret—that he had not been able to get the deed for Cordelia. Then, with a rand
om flash, Sinclair remembered the journal tucked under the front seat of the Volvo. Perhaps the deed was folded in the journal. Why not? The book and the deed both belonged to Elliott Stapleton. Why hadn’t he checked? Silly, really. No time now.
The device said 1:00 minute. Sinclair finally allowed himself to think about the fact that he would not see Cordelia again. His heart ached in his chest. The physical pain of loss was so intense he couldn’t bear it. He could feel his spirit dying. It would be a few more seconds of hell. And then he would be gone.
Cordelia and Charles stood on level ground at the base of the mountain. The Norwegian police recruits were positioned in the middle of the road, blocking access to the seed vault. Everyone was looking up at the mountain, waiting. The entrance of the vault stuck out like an iceberg from the rugged bedrock—shining silver in the light. It would be only moments now.
Charles wondered if they would hear the blast. Or would it just be a fireball inside the structure? Would Sinclair feel anything? He hoped not. Charles tightened his arm around Cordelia’s shoulder and vowed to protect her for the rest of his life. He had promised.
Sinclair had been a big brother, mentor, and friend—even a father figure, in a way. Who knew how deep the emotional bonds were? My God, he loved him.
Charles had a sudden image of Sinclair throwing back his head and laughing. He thought about Sinclair lounging on a yacht, joking about some thing or other. But that wasn’t the real Sinclair. Charles had another image of Sinclair standing in his dig in Ephesus, covered in dust, looking up and smiling as he approached. How many times had that happened? More times than Charles could count. And for Charles that was the image that pierced his soul with sadness.
The device said :30 seconds. The moment had taken on a totally surreal quality. For Frost and Sinclair, only a few more seconds until death. For eternity.
Now, more than anything, it was important to hold on to the image of Cordelia. He wanted to cherish it until the very last second of consciousness. His last thought. As Sinclair conjured up and sorted through all his mental images of her, he came up with his favorite—Delia sitting on his couch in Ephesus, curled up with Kyrie, reading the journal. He had lived an entire lifetime since they met in Monaco. The gala. Her blue dress. Holding the award. Walking on the deck of the ship. Reading the journal together. What a waste. It was over.
Sinclair looked at Thaddeus Frost. His face was gray. Sinclair realized that Frost would “die trying,” as the cliché went. His hand holding the screwdriver was steady, but his eyes were frantic.
Sinclair stared down at the device. Relentlessly the numbers continued their reverse progression of seconds, :19, :18, :17 . . . Suddenly the red numbers blinked twice, followed by—And the device went dead. He had done it!!
Frost looked up, his eyes deeply shadowed. Sweat ran down his temple. Although he looked at Sinclair, he didn’t appear to see him. He had a faraway stare. Finally his eyes focused on Sinclair, squatting on the floor next to him.
“Thanks for staying.” Frost’s mouth quivered with the effort of speaking.
Sinclair looked back at him with nothing less than awe.
“It was the least I could do,” said Sinclair sincerely.
Frost closed his eyes and slumped back against the shelf, exhausted.
Cliffmere
The lawn of Cliffmere had never looked this green. It was late fall, and Cordelia sat out under the oak tree with a cashmere throw over her knees. She had an approved grant proposal on her lap for a joint venture by the Oceanographic Institute of Monaco and the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution. The paperwork was not urgent, as the project would not start until the spring. That was fine with her. She wanted some time off. After all that had happened. After all that had not happened.
Was it only two months ago she had seen him in London? It seemed longer. But the details were etched in her mind.
The London office of Bristol and Overton had exuded the gravitas of a century of documents, signed, sealed, delivered, notarized, and executed, and whatever else they did to documents in London. Cordelia had signed over the deed. Funny how it had turned up in the journal after all. Not the journal she had been reading, but the one Sinclair found at the museum. It had been tucked in there by the curator for safekeeping.
Jim Gardiner and Sinclair had watched Cordelia sign over the land deed. Gardiner had been weak as he sat in his wheelchair. He was still quite sick. But he was getting stronger now, and they said with physical therapy he might walk normally in another six months. No permanent damage, they had explained, but recovery would take time. It was lovely of Paul Oakley to take such an interest in Gardiner’s recovery. They were becoming quite a couple, with their daily walks though the park—Jim in a wheelchair, Oakley pushing him along.
Cordelia was glad to sell the land to the Bio-Diversity Trust. They had insisted on paying market rate. It was more money than she could ever spend in a lifetime. Thaddeus Frost would run the seed vault for real, as he should. After all, he had nearly died protecting it. The trust was a nonprofit organization, not affiliated with any government. Norway had been reasonable about the land, and the Americans didn’t fight with them. Only the Russian government was annoyed. But, thankfully, the Russian mob was out of it now.
Cordelia had tried not to think about Sinclair. But she kept seeing him standing in the lawyer’s office at the deed signing, dressed in the navy blue suit that made him look so tall and handsome. When he left, he had kissed her on the cheek. He smelled of sunlight and herbal lemon verbena cologne. The touch of his lips to her cheek seemed formal, but tender at the same time. She felt the kiss on her skin long after he left. Just after he kissed her, he had promised to call. That was two months ago.
Of course, Charles had come to Cliffmere. He had promised, and sure enough, he had arrived, with his dashing clothes and his impeccable manners. She had watched him talking to Tom and Marian Skye Russell and was so grateful he was there, even though he had come alone.
And then, when she and Charles had sat together in the study, Sinclair had been in both their thoughts. How was he? she had asked. Fine, working in Ephesus. After that, Charles didn’t mention him and neither did she. But they were both conscious of not saying his name. They were both suffering.
Sinclair was gone. That was all she knew. Charles wouldn’t speak of it. Out of loyalty. To her and to Sinclair. In the end, Charles had bent over and kissed her hand tenderly.
“Cordelia, we all need some time.”
That was all he had said.
And now she sat on the lawn, unwilling to go back to California and the Alvin to resume her old life. She couldn’t even face London and her town house. All she wanted to do was to stay at Cliffmere until spring. Family. She needed family. And Tom and Marian were there for her, insisting she stay. Sinclair was in her thoughts every day, all day. She clung to him, but never spoke of him aloud. Neither did Tom and Marian. She would go to Monaco in the spring. Yes, she would go to Monaco in the spring, and maybe Sinclair would be there.
Ephesus
Sinclair stood at the edge of his terrace and looked out over the dry landscape of Turkey. Kyrie was pressed against his leg. She had been keeping close since he came home. The dog sensed that something had changed in him the minute he walked through the door. Svalbard had changed him. Charles had always said, “A dog knows the truth.”
Charles. He missed him. They hadn’t spoken about that day in the vault. They would. He was sure someday they would, but it was too soon. Charles had visited only once, to beg him to call Cordelia. He had walked through the streets of Ephesus looking for him.
Sinclair had been glad to see Charles. He had climbed up from his excavation, and they had sat together on the warm marble slabs of the ruins and talked. It had felt normal until Cordelia’s name came up. Charles had seen her. At first Charles had been polite, but underneath Sinclair could see he was angry.
How was she doing? Not all that well, Charles had explained. There was uns
poken accusation at first. Sure, Sinclair knew he should not have disappeared like that after the deed signing. But wasn’t that the honorable thing to do? Of course he loved her, he had explained. But he had done so much wrong, had put her in such danger. He had missed all the warning signs, and only by the grace of God had he managed to preserve her life. Only a few minutes later and she would have been dead. He couldn’t forgive himself. He couldn’t promise to love and protect when he knew he had failed her so miserably. She deserved better. She certainly deserved a man better than he.
Charles had replied in an angry tirade, and didn’t hold back. He called Sinclair a fool and a stubborn egotist. Harsh words, but Sinclair could tell he meant well. He knew that Charles was trying to goad him into action. In the end, Charles had left angry and disappointed. They hadn’t talked much since, only for business.
Sinclair heaved a sigh and reached to touch the dog’s head. It was time to make something to eat. Another day alone. It was almost unbearable.
Sinclair walked into the stone house high above Ephesus, looked around the simple room, and thought instantly about Cordelia. He looked at the couch where she had curled up reading the journal. It was the last memory, the one he had chosen.
He walked around the empty room aimlessly. Was there never to be any peace for him? He walked to the front window and looked out at the empty courtyard. The sun was baking the earth and it was nearly noon.
Sinclair looked down. The evil-eye amulet he had bought her in Kuşadas1 was on the writing desk. He picked it up and held it in his hand. Weeks ago, he had sent it out to the jeweler to have the chain repaired, and now it just sat on his writing desk, day after day.
He reached for his cell phone. He didn’t consciously make the decision, and even now he hardly realized what he was doing. It just happened.
He closed his eyes. Malik picked up on the other end.
“Malik, it’s Sinclair. I need to get a charter flight. Yes, this afternoon. Leaving for London.”
The Explorer's Code Page 38
