Gates Of Hades lr-3

by Gregg Loomis

  At first, he worried his fellow Russians who had shed the old ways might notice him, perhaps report him to the authorities. Then it dawned upon him that nobody cared. In America, everyone was far too busy making a dollar and watching television to be interested in what someone else did.

  Including defiling the earth, the water, the air.

  Soon, very soon, Americans would realize the earth could and would strike back.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Via Delia Dataria

  Rome

  That afternoon

  Unlike most Romans, Inspectore Santi Guiellmo did not leave work between one and four o’clock, the hours when offices, museums, shops, and even churches were closed for employees to enjoy a long lunch and, perhaps, a restorative nap. A crisp salad brought to his desk to eat while he scanned the day’s headlines was all the break he required from routine. The lengthy recess in the city gave him time to think. It silenced the disruptive telephone and halted the parade of subordinates seeking answers to questions they were too lazy to find for themselves.

  Even had the Chief been in the habit of taking the allowed time off, he would not have done so today.

  This morning, Dr. Maria Bergenghetti had surfaced. Well, perhaps not surfaced, exactly. She had telephoned a coworker at the Bureau of Geological Studies, requesting certain equipment: six air tanks with three regulators and backpacks, as well as spelunking gear such as miners’ helmets, harness, and rope. She also wanted some scientific apparatus, the function of which was unclear, something the names indicated had to do with detecting, analyzing, or measuring gases.

  Guiellmo stared at the inventory as though ordering it to give up its secret. The volcanologist was going to explore the crater of a volcano or a deep cave. Unfortunately, Italy was riddled with both. Since no fire retardant clothing had been requisitioned, it was a safe bet the woman and her companions were not headed for the caldera of an active volcano. Yet why else would she want a source of breathable, air?

  If she was, in fact, in the company of this American, Peters, what interest did he have in caves, volcanoes, or gases? It was not likely he would find more Russians to kill in such places.

  Not that Guiellmo was particularly sympathetic to Russians. Their national image since the fall of communism was one of lawlessness, of crime, corruption, and violence that made the old American West look tame. Although many people decried stereotypes as based on prejudice, Guiellmo saw them as based on observation. And observation of crime in Russia was not encouraging for law enforcement.

  But Italy was not going to tolerate its soil being used to stage an open season on Russians or anybody else, lawless or not.

  He stood and went to look down on the Piazza del Quirinale, now empty other than the presidential guards, still as statues, and the resident pigeons, busily searching for the last crumb of pizza crust dropped by the morning’s horde of tourists.

  Breathable air in a cave? Unlikely it would be needed. That left extinct volcanoes. The most obvious was Vesuvius, killer of Pompeii and Herculaneum, inactive since 1944. Was it considered extinct?

  He returned to his desk and sat heavily. No matter. Bergenghetti had requested the equipment be assembled at the old Vesuvius Observatory, the nineteenth-century structure that served as a base for recording data, the research facilities having moved to Naples. A good choice. The building was known by few, and there would be only one or two technicians present.

  As usual, Guiellmo preferred the involvement of as few people as possible in an investigation.

  Chapter Thirtyfive

  Vesuvius Observatory

  Mount Vesuvius

  Late the next afternoon

  The drive from Turin had been exclusively on the Autostrada, Italy’s equivalent of the interstate system, until the last thirteen kilometers south of Naples. They parked in front of a red-and-white neoclassic building that resembled a wealthy family’s villa more than a structure dedicated to scientific endeavors. Other than the Volvo, the spacious square in front held only one car, a motor scooter, and a tour bus chugging diesel fumes. Maria, Adrian, and Jason climbed out of the Volvo, stretching and yawning from hours on the road.

  Jason worried that the car, lacking its rear windshield and sporting suspiciously round holes in the coachwork, might draw attention.

  “In Rome, mebbe,” Adrian assured him. “In Naples, many o’ th’ cars are rolling junk heaps.”

  Perhaps. But did they look like the former owners might have been Bonnie and Clyde?

  Jason paused to admire the view of vineyards and small settlements nestled in the folds of the volcano’s verdant slopes. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s worried about another eruption anytime soon.”

  “The soil’s rich in alkali and phosphorus,” Maria said, turning to share the view. “Perfect for grapes. The Lacryma Christi wine comes from here.”

  “It’d suit the growin’ of malt f good whiskey, too,” Adrian observed. “But it’s na’ for the bonny scenery we’re here.”

  Inside, the building housed an impressive polyglot library and a huge collection of minerals, presumably the vomitus of the mountain itself. Maria led them around a group of thirty or so white-haired tourists, listening intently as a blond tour director lectured in German as she pointed with an umbrella to indicate a large boulder.

  Maria paused in front of a small elevator until its door slowly parted, revealing an open platform designed to carry freight more than passengers. Inside the shaft, a simple switch gave a choice of only two floors, the main one and one above. They exited the elevator after a wait that made Jason wonder if the contraption really was moving. A short, dimly lit corridor ended at an open door.

  A twelve-by-twelve-foot office managed to contain two metal desks back-to-back, computers, and an array of machines that seemed to be drawing graphs, recording temperatures, and completing functions at which Jason could only guess. A man and a woman interrupted a conversation as the three entered, looking up in surprise.

  Or was it guilt?

  Maria’s smile faded as she asked a question, ” Dove Guiedo?”

  Where’s Guiedo?

  The two technicians exchanged glances before the man replied.

  Maria nodded her head, asked another question, and received a slightly longer response. “Our gear is on the loading dock around back. One of the people who usually works here packed it for us.”

  The woman gave Jason and Adrian a stare that was far more steady than curious before she asked another question, to which Maria responded by introducing Jason and Adrian with an explanation that Jason’s very limited Italian couldn’t follow.

  This time the man inquired, to which Maria shrugged before answering.

  The number of queries were making Jason uncomfortable. He sensed Adrian shared his feelings when the Scot said, “Best we’re off, lassie. Bid your friends farewell.”

  As they were loading the gear into the back of the Volvo, Jason asked, “What was all the question-and-answer about?”

  Maria opened a canvas bag, removing and returning three regulators. “The man was curious about where we will be using the equipment. I told him there are a series of caves around Lake Averno that we were investigating.”

  “Lake Averno?”

  “I mentioned it that night in Sicily. With what happened, I can understand your not remembering. One of the Phlegraean lakes near where we are actually going. Lots of underground volcanic activity. In fact, there are places where the ground itself is hot. The Greeks thought the entrance to Hades was nearby, as we learned from Eno that it is. ‘Averno’ comes from the Greek a-ornom, without birds. Apparently in ancient times, the vapors were suffocating, deadly to anything flying over it.”

  Adrian hefted an air tank in each hand. “That’s why we would need to get kitted out. Good thinking.”

  Maria started to lift a third and nodded gratefully as Jason took it. “I certainly was not going to tell them we were going someplace forbidden by the government, even if
Guiedo had been there.”

  “You knew those two?” Jason asked.

  “Never saw them before. There are not that many peo-ple who work for the bureau. I thought I knew them all by sight.”

  Adrian put down the tank he was lifting as Jason asked, “And Guiedo, the one you made inquiry about, he was someone you know?”

  “Known him for years. The woman said he’d gone to Rome to see to his sick mother.”

  An hour later, Jason was driving the Via Nuova Marina, a wide, six-lane boulevard skirting Naples’s harbor. The water was to his right. On his left, the city’s hills swept upward abruptly, festooned with apartments displaying the day’s wash on a thousand clotheslines.

  He had expected the traffic of Rome, the mostly absent stoplights, kamikaze dashes through busy intersections, and the use of horns rather than brakes. Naples presented different but equally traumatic hazards: Without warning, cars would pull over to park two or three deep along the curb, doors opening into traffic. Or a vehicle would simply choose to park in the middle of the street, occupants stepping fearlessly into lanes of moving cars, trucks, and scooters. Jason not only feared hitting someone nonchalantly getting out of an automobile, but that the casual merging of pedestrians and cars would conceal an ambush until the last second.

  By the time the Nuova Marina became Via Cristforo Columbo (having already been Via Amerigo Vespucci), Jason was certain of two things: they had exhausted the list of Italian navigators, and Neapolitans all had death wishes.

  He felt relief as the Volvo began to climb the ridges that separated the city from the inland. At the top, Maria promised they would find another Autostrada, this one heading west to Cumae.

  As the number of vehicles began to thin out above the city, Jason noticed a lone motorcycle keeping a consistent distance behind them, always at least two cars back. Jason lifted his foot and a Fiat passed with an angry horn blast.

  But the bike simply slowed and fell in behind an egg-shaped Smart.

  “We’ve got company,” Jason said, putting out a hand to prevent Maria from turning around.

  Adrian knew better than to telegraph the fact that their tail had been spotted. “How many?”

  “A single motorcycle.”

  In the rearview mirror Jason could see Adrian nod. “We’re only being observed, then.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Y’ ken how long?”

  Jason shook his head. “Dunno.”

  “Since the observatory,” Maria said.

  Jason risked cutting his eyes from the road to her and back again. “The observatory? How do you know that?”

  “Guiedo.”

  “Your friend who was visiting his mother in Rome?”

  Maria nodded slowly. “Yes, but I just remembered, Guiedo’s mother lives in small town just outside Bologna.”

  “How well do you know him?”

  She shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “Not too well. He was young, just out of university. I think he… what did we say? Yes, I think he thinks I’m hot.”

  Guiedo at least had his priorities in order.

  Jason flicked a glance to the rearview mirror. The bike was still two cars back. “Any chance she could have moved since you last talked to him, maybe to a nursing home or something?”

  She was staring straight ahead. “Italians, most of them, would be humiliated to pack a parent off to let someone else care for them. It is possible the woman moved, though, I suppose.”

  “Not bloody likely,” Adrian piped up from the backseat. “Having not one but two sods that Maria didn’t know back there, we can bet we’re being followed.”

  “By who?” Maria wanted to know.

  So did Jason.

  “I dinna think we want to be findin’ out,” Adrian observed, unfolding a road map. “Try exitin’ yer nex’ chance.”

  Jason wasn’t surprised when the motorcycle followed. “Still there.”

  “Bastard’s not ‘xactly subtle,” Adrian growled. “Doesn’t give a damn if we know he’s there.”

  “Or he thinks we won’t notice.”

  “I’ll…” Jason stopped midsentence. “He’s gone!”

  “Gone?” both Adrian and Maria chorused.

  “We turned right; he turned left.”

  “Guess we became excited over nothing,” Maria ventured.

  “Maybe,” Jason said. “But I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “We were meant to see the laddie on the cycle,” Adrian explained. “Long as we concentrated on him, we wouldna ken there was another when the first turned away.”

  Jason stopped, backed up, and returned to the Autostrada. There were several suspicious cars, but each eventually passed the Volvo.

  “Unless they’ve got multiple tails, I can’t identify any,” Jason admitted.

  “So, let’s flush ‘em out,’ Adrian suggested.

  Once again, Jason left the multilane highway system with cars both in front and behind. Minutes later the Volvo was laboring up a steep hill behind a truck. Several automobiles were strung out along the winding road for half a mile or so. Without giving a signal, Jason pulled onto one of the periodic overlooks that gave the casual traveler a panorama of Naples across an azure bay.

  The rumble of passing traffic faded from Jason’s mind as he imagined the pigments he would use to transfer the scene to canvas.

  If he ever painted again.

  No one seemed interested in the Volvo. Jason elected to continue along the scenic if narrow two-lane that skirted the northwestern corner of the Bay of Naples. He was growing less certain they had been followed at all.

  Then an idea evaporated what little complacency he had enjoyed.

  “Maria, you’ve traveled this road before?”

  She glanced at him, curious. “One or two times, yes.”

  “It goes where?”

  “Miseno, both the lake and the town. The town sits just south of the ruins at Baia and farther south of the ruins at Cumae.”

  “Are there any turnoffs, roads that go somewhere else?”

  She pointed to the slopes above and the steep dropoff into the water below. “Where would one build any such towns? Other than a few private villas, I think there are no crossroads till we get to Miseno.”

  From the backseat, Adrian voiced what Jason was thinking.

  “There’s no need to follow us. Have someone wait ahead, another to make sure we dinna double back, and we’re like beetles in a bottle.”

  The analogy was less than comforting.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Miseno

  An hour later

  Miseno looked like a resort. Roads branched off in seemingly random fashion like spaghetti, leading to cottage-lined small lakes. The almost perfect circles of the shorelines gave a clue as to origins as volcanic craters. Large restaurants were flanked by even larger parking lots. The area anticipated a successful tourist season.

  For now, traffic was light.

  Jason pulled onto a grassy embankment that fell steeply off into a lake the color of midnight despite the sunny blue sky above. The few vehicles that passed paid them no attention.

  Adrian and Jason exchanged puzzled looks before the latter said, “Guess we weren’t followed after all.”

  The Scot shook his head slowly. “Aye, but dinna be dropping your guard yet.”

  Maria stretched her arms and yawned. “Where first?”

  “Cumae, I think,” Jason answered. “I know Eno’s book attributed epilepsy to the Sibyl, but I’d like to check to make sure her cave isn’t a source of that ethylene, too. How far?”

  “Maybe four or five kilometers. Let me drive.”

  The reason for her request became quickly obvious. Climbing and descending, she took what seemed a haphazard course. From one hill, Jason could see the lakes, from another the sea in the opposite direction.

  At last she pulled into a small unpaved parking lot with no indication as to its purpose, turned off the ignition, and got out.

&n
bsp; Jason followed, staring up at the surrounding low hills. “This is it?”

  Maria nodded, walking around to the trunk. “It is.”

  “But there’s no…” He was looking at a deserted ticket booth and an iron gate hanging open on the last of its hinges.

  “No tourists?” She filled in the blank. “Cumae is not one of the popular destinations. Few people other than archaeologists come here.”

  Cumae must be remote indeed if no one was selling tickets, picture brochures, or cheap souvenirs. Jason suspected that, in Italy, tickets would be printed for a dogfight if it could be anticipated in time.

  Maria was digging through the trunk. “I doubt we will encounter the gas you seek here, but we will test the air.” She held up a device with a meter attached to a hand pump. “This wall tell us if ethylene is present.” She handed a miner’s helmet to both Jason and Adrian. “And you will need these.”

  She led Jason and Adrian along a dirt path that skirted the base of the hill to their left. After the trail made a ninety-degree turn, she stopped. The trio were looking at a passageway cut along the side of the hill. The exposed rock was yellow in color, the tufa Maria had explained was native to the region. Rather than round, the opening was square for its first three or four feet, then towered upward about eight feet in a lopsided A shape. Like floor-to- ceiling windows, open spaces alternated with stone. Even from outside, Jason could see the effect of equal areas of light and dark as the end of the tunnel vanished into shadow.

  “You’re right,” Jason said. “Too open. No gas could be held there.”

  Maria entered. “The Sibyl’s cave is not so open.”

  The passageway was not quite wide enough for two abreast. Gauge in hand, Maria led the way, followed by Jason and Adrian. Without looking behind him, Jason rested his hand on the SIG Sauer in its holster, and he sensed Adrian also was prepared for whatever might happen. Although only a few feet away, Maria appeared and disappeared in much the same way described by Severenus Tactus two millennia ago.

  Jason wondered what other parts of the Roman’s account would prove accurate.