The path began to twist as we crested a small ridge—the first of many on the drive in from the paved roadway. Out of sight of passersby, on the far side of the slope, the plantings began in earnest. The trees may have been natural to the area, but there were well-tended privet hedges and flowering azalea bushes that suggested an intentional effort to make the property even more appealing—and more private.
The trees got thicker as we drove along, and now there were small posters warning of deer crossing. Another bend and we could see horses in a fenced field, this time off to the left.
There was still no sign of any humans, although I could make out several pickup trucks—empty, it seemed—on different parts of the property.
The fourth ridge was by far the tallest. When we nosed over the top of it, the vista changed entirely. There was a series of barns ahead of us, exactly in the style of the Kenner stables with which they had once been paired. It was a completely tranquil pastoral scene, reminiscent of the Virginia countryside where I had spent my law school years. Real old-fashioned horse country.
And off to the right side of those buildings was the mysterious lump in the ground—an enormous swell on the earth’s surface that looked like a gigantic burrowing mole had pushed up the dirt while making his home below. It was the old bomb shelter, now transformed into the ideal wine storage site known as Stallion Ridge Cellars.
“Looks like we’re in time for lunch with the boys,” Mike said.
Mulroy’s silver SUV was parked in a gravel-covered area next to the largest barn. Beside it were two white pickups, both with the SRC logos on their doors.
Mike wound his way down the incline to the parking area.
“Aren’t you surprised there’s no security to ask who we are?” I asked.
“I bet there are cameras in half of those trees, Coop. If it’s so high-tech and well concealed here, they don’t need a guardhouse to stop the cars.”
Mike got out of my SUV and stood next to it, to do a 360-degree sweep of the property. There were no unusual noises, just natural sounds of birds and the occasional neigh of a horse.
“Door’s open,” he said. “You got any cheese and crackers on you?”
“Thoughtless of me, wasn’t it?” I said, getting out of the car. “The old K rations will just have to do.”
There was a small wooden shed, low and shingled in the style of the larger barns, which formed the entrance to the bunker. Both its doors were swung back and latched on hinges, creating an eight-foot-wide opening. Bales of hay were stacked to the right and left inside the shed, giving the appearance that it was part of the horse operation.
But standing in the threshold, I could see the gleaming steel door of the storage vault. It looked so out of place in this bucolic setting. I could imagine one just like it at the entrance to the Federal Reserve Bank, protecting the billions of dollars stored there against invasion or assault.
The steel entry was open—displaying its thickness and impenetrability from all angles.
I stopped just short of the massive door when I heard men’s voices from within. For almost the length of the room I could see a long passageway, lined on both sides with wine boxes from floor to ceiling.
“Move along, kid.”
“Let me wait here, okay?”
“Claustrophobic?”
I nodded. “And not feeling very confrontational today.”
“I’ll give you a pass. I’m not planning a confrontation either. No need to let on about any of our suspicions. I’m just making like I want to glue myself to Luc so you guys have a few hours together, and I get to explore this storage facility for a few minutes,” Mike said, patting me on the back. “Don’t leave without me.”
“I won’t go anywhere, so long as you promise to come out with a bottle of nineteenth-century Lafite,” I said. “Just don’t channel yourself into Cary Grant.”
“How so?”
“Notorious.” Mike knew it was my favorite movie. The tense scene in the wine cellar of the villain’s mansion in Rio was one of the most exciting in film history. “Black sand—uranium—in the broken wine bottle. Nazis against Cary, and he found the right vintage at the wrong moment. Don’t drop any bottles, okay?”
“That’s an idea,” he said, walking through the doorway. “If I see anything interesting, we can always come back with a warrant.”
I watched Mike walk down the center aisle of the storage shelter until he reached the wall at the far end. He stopped for a minute, as though trying to determine where the voices were coming from, and then disappeared out of sight, off to the left.
I wedged myself between several bales of hay and sat down on a low pile near the front of the shed, where I could still feel the fresh afternoon breeze as it wafted by.
I started to play with my phone, seeing whether I could text or send e-mails. But there was no signal. Maybe Luc hadn’t contacted me because there was no cell availability in the bunker. I composed a few messages and sent them, but the red “x” that popped up seconds later informed me that they couldn’t be transmitted.
Almost ten minutes passed before I heard footsteps coming in my direction. I was used to the pacing of Mike’s walk and the sound of his well-worn loafers. This wasn’t his tempo at all. I pulled myself back against the wall, in the shadow of the loft above me.
The man who emerged was neither Mike nor Luc nor Jim Mulroy. It was Peter Danton, one of the partners who had acquired the real estate next to Lutèce, as well as this unusual wine cellar.
Danton didn’t notice me, so I sat quietly to see what he was up to.
He stopped in the doorway of the shed and held something up to his mouth. It was a walkie-talkie. I suspected I was right that cell phones didn’t work inside, and perhaps there wasn’t even a tower on the entire property. That was another way to ensure complete privacy, even from intruders who wandered on, unable to summon assistance if they became stranded.
“Where are you?” Danton demanded of the person who answered. “Am I paying for a goddamned security system or not?”
The device crackled and he held it to his ear to get an answer.
“Yes, yes, I see it. A navy-blue SUV with New York plates. The guy that drove it here happens to be a New York City detective.”
More crackles and another comment.
“Yes, I told you we were meeting here at noon, but this cop isn’t part of the meeting, okay? It’s supposed to be Mulroy and Rouget, who came together in that silver car, and Josh Hanson, who’s with me. So as soon as I can get rid of the detective, I’m going to ask you to escort him off the property. Nice and easy, but off. Is that clear enough?”
A static-filled response, and Danton shifted the phone to his right hand. As he tried to keep a grip on the walkie-talkie, I could see the two fingers that had been sliced in half.
“What other person?” Danton asked. “In the blue SUV?”
He waited for an answer.
“Find her for me. Maybe she likes horses, maybe she’s wandering around the barns. Find her and make sure she’s strapped into her seat belt in the car. In the meantime, until we can regain control of the situation,” Peter Danton said, “I’ll go back inside, and I’ll be locking the door to the vault when I do.”
FIFTY-ONE
My heart was racing as Peter Danton turned and went back inside the bunker. He pulled the door after him, and it closed as tightly as if it was the breach door on a submarine.
I slid off the hay bale and ran to the great steel handle, twice the size of a steering wheel. I turned and pulled at it, but nothing moved.
Outside the shed, I heard several trucks speeding across the gravel and stopping just in front. It sounded as though there were three different voices, as the men exchanged comments with each other.
“I think she’s got light hair,” the first one said. “I could see it on the tape when they drove in. Danton wants you to check the horse barns. Maybe she’s out walking over to the animals.”
“How abo
ut the shed?” another asked, as I flattened myself against the wall, behind the tallest pile of bales.
“That’s where Mr. Danton was standing when he called me. Fan out and look for her. No need to be unpleasant. Just bring her back to this blue car. They’ll be leaving soon.”
“Who’s watching the surveillance screens?” the second guy wanted to know.
“There’s only the three of us working today. One of you will be back on that duty after you find the girl.”
I was relieved that nothing unpleasant was in store for me, and also to know that the security team was understaffed. But I didn’t feel comfortable enough to identify myself to them as long as Mike was on the other side of a locked door. And I didn’t want Mercer to meet any resistance if he drove in before we were able to get out.
I exhaled when I heard the workmen leave. But now all I could focus on was that two of the men who meant the most to me in the world—Luc and Mike—were locked in the underground storage facility and had no reason to know that Peter Danton was unhappy to have Mike there.
I didn’t want to be “found” by the searchers, so I squeezed myself farther back between two tall stacks of hay bales.
There must have been a legitimate purpose for the meeting Danton had arranged, I tried to convince myself. Both Jim Mulroy and Josh Hanson had expressed their interest in investing in Lutèce. Had Luc been lured here to see the vault, and then been obligated to sit down with the group to accept their offer to expand his team?
And what did he know about Gineva Imports? Had Gina Varona not been invited to this impromptu get-together, or was she simply unable to make it on short notice?
I saw the giant wheel on the steel door begin to spin only minutes after Danton had gone back inside. Maybe the discussion had been aborted because of Mike’s presence, and the foursome was coming out. But it was Peter Danton, this time accompanied by Josh Hanson.
Danton walked to the opening of the shed and must have seen his workers scrambling around, inside and out of the other barns.
He held the walkie-talkie to his mouth with his good hand.
“Haven’t you found her yet?” he demanded.
I couldn’t hear the answer.
“Just get her back to her car. I’ll have the detective out to her shortly. He’s just poking around before he leaves.”
I was frozen in place.
Peter Danton turned and started talking to Josh Hanson. “It’s time to break up our meeting. I want to get Chapman out of here before he does any more snooping. Go back in and tell Luc you’ve got to hurry back to your kid’s soccer game. Understood? We’ll deal with your cut of the business another time.”
“That’s fine.”
“Get rid of the detective and Luc, so we can move the stuff out of here if we need to. Worst he can do is come back in a couple of days looking for it, if he’s half as smart as he thinks he is. I’ll rejoin you in a few minutes. Just keep Chapman away from that bin behind the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti.”
“Will do.”
Josh Hanson went back through the open steel door, and Peter Danton took one more look outside the shed.
He pressed the walkie-talkie to find his security head. “Where is everybody?”
The machine crackled back at him.
“If the detective’s traveling companion wasn’t in any of the barns, then check the closest trails,” he said. “She can’t be that far away.”
“Say that again? You’ve just gone back to watch the surveillance tape a second time?” Danton held the device to his ear. “You’re telling me she came into this little building with the detective but never left?”
Danton turned and started to look around the small shed. “No, no. You go out with the other men and keep looking. I’m doing fine right here.”
Peter Danton put the walkie-talkie in his rear pants pocket, then walked to the door of the vault. He pushed it closed and locked it, with four men still inside, to begin his search for me.
FIFTY-TWO
“Alexandra Cooper.” Peter Danton repeated my name aloud, over and over. Each time he said it, he lifted a bale of hay from one of the taller piles and threw it onto a smaller one.
With three or four more tosses, I would be completely exposed.
“I’m going to find you in a moment or two, Alex, and then you and I are going to join the party.”
He lifted another block and bounced it off a nearby pile.
“You could scream, of course, but then the only people who might hear you are the men who work for me. The vault is completely soundproofed. Nobody wanted to hear those bombs exploding around them in the good old days,” he said. “And the men who work for me don’t have a reputation for being the friendliest sort.”
I heard another bale land on the floor.
“That’s what I get for hiring ex-cons to do my security. They’re a little rough around the edges—all the edges—but then again, they don’t scare easily out here in the boondocks, which so many people do. Well, there you are!”
I was crouched in a corner of the shed, and now my cover was completely gone.
“You can come to me, Alex, or I’ll just get over to you and drag you out. It might take a minute or two longer, but I’ll get there.”
I stood up. I stepped on the pile of hay between me and Peter Danton. He reached out to grab my arm and pull me down beside him.
“Sorry. I was up most of the night. I just fell asleep back here.” I figured I looked dazed enough to make believe I hadn’t heard any of the conversation.
“I would have thought you’d be the type to enjoy some fresh air,” he said, “which would have been much healthier for you. But now I think it’s time for a rendezvous with your friends in the vault.”
I looked out the door of the small shed and thought about making a run for my car. I’d prefer anything to being entombed in a bomb shelter. Mike had a gun and knew how to use it, though the idea of leaving him and Luc trapped behind the steel door terrified me.
“If you want me to take off, I’ll just get in the car and go,” I said.
“A little late for that plan, don’t you think? And don’t look so longingly at all that open land out there. My foreman is a great hunter. Unfortunately, he once mistook his wife for a deer, I guess. Did twelve years for it and I’d say he’s completely rehabilitated.”
I was backed against the hay bales when Danton grabbed my right arm, above my elbow, with his good hand. “Just listen to what I say and stay calm,” he said. “You’re walking with me.”
Peter Danton led me toward the steel door, the entrance to the vault. I looked back over my shoulder, hoping against hope that Mercer would be arriving any minute. But there was no sign of anyone approaching the graveled parking lot.
“I’ve got the lives of your dear friends in my hands, Alex, and Luc tells me you’re a very emotional girl. High-strung is what he called you.”
There would be time for me to argue with Luc about that one later on.
“You’d be wiser to control yourself once we see the others. Maybe we can sort this out and get you on your way.”
“I’m sure we can do that,” I said, knowing that my brain was scrambling to think of ways to counter whatever Danton had in mind.
“I don’t scare easily, Alex. I lost one finger to my own negligence a long time ago in a kitchen, as I told you,” he said. He had clamped his other hand on my neck to keep me close to him. “The other one was hacked off by a drug dealer in Nigeria who thought I’d been poaching from his stash. Both times without the benefit of anesthesia.”
He laughed at his own story, or maybe at the look on my face as I checked out his mutilated fingers.
“Don’t look so surprised, Alex. You and the detective obviously came up here today because—”
“I asked him to bring me here to find Luc. That’s all. I was desperate to spend a few hours with Luc before he goes home.”
“Such a sweet thought. But I think the truth is that your fr
iend Chapman believes I knew something about Luigi and his drug business. He’ll be happy to see you come in with me, Alex. Both Mike and Luc will be glad you’re there.”
I tried to dig my heels into the seams of the wooden floorboard, but Peter Danton pulled me forward. “I’ve learned to work with what I’ve got left, in case you’re thinking there isn’t much strength in my hands.”
I wanted them off me—off my neck. I shook my head but he grasped me even tighter.
“Come along, Alex,” he said, as he steered me through the opening of the vault. “Don’t keep everyone waiting. It’s cold in there. Bone-chilling cold.”
FIFTY-THREE
The temperature dropped the minute we crossed the threshold into the subterranean shelter. Outside it had been a warm, sunny April afternoon, but once the steel door closed behind us, the fifty-five-degree temperature—and the sudden injection of fear—had me shivering uncontrollably.
Peter Danton kept a firm grip on my neck as he moved me forward. There was a single corridor—a long, gray cement floor lined with cases and cases of wine, stacked floor to ceiling. Overhead, the long fluorescent lights cast an eerie glow in the windowless space.
I could hear voices in the distance. I thought about screaming, but there was no point in creating chaos without an understanding of what had gone on. I knew that Mike had a gun, and it didn’t appear that Peter Danton did.
Every ten cases or so, an alley had been created between the cartons, each ending against a solid concrete wall. I looked from side to side but saw no one.
I paused to catch my breath and rub my hands together. The boxes stacked on my right side were different than the wine cases. They were brown cardboard, labeled ENERGY LIFE PACK, which seemed ironic at the moment. The date stamp said 1960, and they had obviously been sealed for more than fifty years. In small print below that was a list of uses: ATOMIC WARFARE/BACTERIA WARFARE/HURRICANES/EARTHQUAKES. I wondered if their contents would be of any help today to interlopers buried alive in an out-of-date bomb shelter.
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