by Zoë Archer
His eyes flashed. “I’m not going to fail.”
“I never said that you would.” She struggled to find the right words. “I can’t simply hand over the fate of my mother and father to someone else. Can’t sit back idly hoping it works out. I need … I need to be a part of this. To know I did my damnedest to help. That I never took the easy way out.” Frustration curled her hands into fists. “Hell. I’m not making much sense.”
“Makes perfect sense,” he said with surprising thoughtfulness. “Still, it’s safer if I go it alone.”
She glanced toward the door of the vault. It was massive, nearly fifteen feet high, and the man guarding it seemed almost as big.
“If you were to try to breach the vault,” she said, “what would be your plan?”
Denisov also gazed at the guarded door. “He’s a big bastard, but I could take him down easily. Then force my way inside.”
“But look. There are patrolling guards, too.” As she spoke, another large, well-armed man walked past the guard standing outside the door. The two men exchanged nods, and the patrolling guard moved on. “The moment they see any trouble, they’ll come running. And there’s the strong possibility that once the guards see something’s happening outside, they’ll activate a higher level of security inside. Which will make the task of getting to the astrolabe even more difficult.”
Denisov must have seen the logic of her reasoning, because he cursed under his breath. “I can find another way in besides the front door.”
They moved through the shadows ringing the building. “There doesn’t appear to be any other entrance or exit. Wait, no, I see something. It’s on the side wall.”
She pointed to a spout ten feet up the wall. It would serve to drain off any rainwater from the catwalk. The spout appeared to be about a foot and a half in diameter, with a stone lip on its bottom edge to help direct water away from the building.
“Climb in through the rainspout,” he murmured, approving. “That’d work.”
“You’ll never be able to fit into it.” She glanced back and forth between the spout and Denisov’s incredibly broad shoulders. “Unless Man O’ Wars have collapsible skeletons.”
He scowled. “Not part of the design plan.” He nodded toward a grated window on the catwalk. “I’ll get in that way. Easy enough for me to run up the wall or jump to the height of the window’s sill, then pull it open.”
Though she marveled at the idea that he could so easily scale the height, his plan held flaws. “Doubtless the grate covering the window is locked from the inside. Even if you could pull the grate off, it’d make so much noise that you’ll alert the guards.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly becoming exasperated. “All right, professorsha. Since you seem so learned when it comes to breaking into highly secured vaults, tell me what you’d do.”
She gave him a small smile. “It’s not what I would do, or what you would do, it’s what we will do.”
CREDIT WAS DUE. He listened to her plan, and didn’t once snort or scoff or dismiss her. Though it didn’t look as though the scheme entirely pleased him, either.
“Wish there was another way to do this that didn’t involve you,” he muttered. “It’s going to be dangerous.”
“I may be an academic, Captain,” she said, “but I assure you, I have a strong sense of self-preservation.”
His rueful smile did alarming things to her pulse. He didn’t trust her, had no reason to, and claimed to be involved for purely mercenary reasons. Yet he sought to protect her. Here was a man who was far more complex than he even knew.
At the least, they seemed to be in agreement about her plan.
They waited until a patrolling guard passed by and turned the corner. At the same time, the guard in front of the door became distracted by the sound of music and women’s laughter spiraling out from an adjoining street. He turned toward the source of the noise, tapping his foot in time with the beat of the doumbek.
This was the moment they needed. Daphne and Mikhail hurried around the side of the vault, keeping low and to the shadows. They stood at the base of the wall, just below the rainspout. At her nod, he quickly picked her up. She felt like a dandelion puff in his hands, he lifted her so easily.
She stretched up, trying to reach the lip of the spout. Her fingers just skimmed it—not enough for a decent purchase. She strained higher. Finally, she had enough height to grip the lip and stare into it. The wall it traversed was nearly two feet thick. Not too far a distance for her to crawl through. But being this close, she realized that the passage would be a tight squeeze to wriggle through, even in her jacket, boots, and trousers. For the first time in her life, she was grateful she didn’t have elaborate feminine curves or wear fussy gowns and dresses.
No time for hesitation. She took a breath and then pulled herself up and into the spout. Though she’d explored the passageways of narrow tombs, she had been a child at the time. Now, she squirmed her way through the rainspout, one arm forward, one arm trailing, as if she were swimming. Breath wasn’t easy to come by. It was as if she was willingly being swallowed by a boa constrictor.
Finally, she got her hand out of the spout, using the tiled floor for leverage. She pulled her head through the opening. A quick check in both directions revealed that no guards were around. With very unladylike grunts, she managed to writhe the rest of her body through the spout. It took her a moment to regain the ability to breathe, but once she had, she took stock of the situation.
She was inside the catwalk running around the perimeter of the vault. But the vault wasn’t built like a European structure, all solid walls and enclosed spaces. For one thing, European vaults wouldn’t have an interior courtyard. From her vantage on the catwalk, she peered through the columns. A guard smoking a pipe stood in the enclosure below. Further investigation had to wait. She needed to open the grated window for Denisov, and she must act quickly.
Daphne swore under her breath when she saw the mechanized lock on the window. Curse it, she was an anthropologist, not an engineer. Arabic numerals were marked on enameled buttons, indicating that there was a code that needed to be entered. No doubt if she entered the wrong code sequence, an alarm would go off, finding her trapped inside the vault and Denisov stuck outside.
What numbers might be important to Khalida? Warlords were notorious for their arrogance, so it had to be a number that held significance. She didn’t know Khalida’s birthday, or the date that the warlord took over as the leader of her tribe. It had to be an important number. But what?
Words flashed into her mind, words from the sacred text of Islam.
And He it is Who has made the stars for you that you might follow the right way thereby in the darkness of the land and the sea; truly We have made plain the communications for a people who know.
A fitting description for the astrolabe.
Fingers working quickly, she keyed in the number six, and then ninety-seven, for that passage in the Qur’an was from Surah 6, Ayah 97.
Breath lodged in her throat, she waited.
The lock gave a single, soft chime, then opened.
Resisting the impulse to yelp in triumph, Daphne carefully unlatched the grate and pushed it open. She peered down, and there was Denisov, looking as dangerous and alluring as ever.
He winked at her—a weapon, that wink—then, taking only a few steps back, ran twelve feet up the wall and grabbed hold of the window sill. Despite his size, he did it quickly, effortlessly, as if flying. She couldn’t help but lose her breath at this display of acrobatic grace. With the same fluid movement, he pulled himself up and inside, landing noiselessly.
She closed the window, making sure to cover their tracks.
“Damned clever of you,” he said, “deciphering a lock like this.”
Her face heated from his praise, but thankfully he didn’t notice, his interest trained on the lock in question. “I’ve seen these types of devices before,” he noted. “They’re attuned to sound. Gunfire, speci
fically. If a gun goes off, the locks respond, become double-enforced.”
“Then we can’t let anyone fire a gun,” she whispered in response. “But,” she added, striving for optimism, “we’ve done it. We’re inside.”
She and Denisov peered down into the central courtyard. Here, too, only one guard stood, but she caught the movement of a few others patrolling beneath the arcade formed by the catwalk.
His mouth curled. “That was the easy part.”
Chapter Eight
* * *
INSIDE THE VAULT at last, and it would only get more difficult from here. Damn Denisov for pointing that out. Yet he was right, and from this point forward, she needed all her wits, all her vigilance.
She did have a particular skill: observing. So she took careful note of the courtyard. It held a few potted palms, and the columns surrounding it were painted with traditional patterns. One object in particular caught Daphne’s attention.
“What is that?” she whispered to Denisov, pointing to the item in question.
“A ladder of some kind. Looks like it can be extended.”
“Why would there be a guard for a ladder?” For the man stood close to it as it lay upon the tiled floor. The ladder was on wheels, like a small wagon.
“Some part of the vault’s security, I can only assume.” He stared intently into the courtyard. “There are at least five guards down there, and I’m guessing at least one of them will patrol up here soon.”
She understood. They couldn’t puzzle out the uses for the ladder, when they had a much more important errand that required attention. Crouching so they couldn’t be seen by any of the sentries below, they hurried along the catwalk. A set of stairs heading downward lay at the end.
It had to lead somewhere, and wherever they wound up, they could figure out their next move.
“Not much of interest there,” he said, glancing toward the courtyard. “Best bet is the door at the bottom of the stairs.”
“But the guard can see it—and us, if we try to use it.”
“The guard’s pipe is losing its glow.”
Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t see what he could. Only a Man O’ War could make out such detail at this distance.
“He’ll have to relight it,” Denisov continued. “Away from the draft that’s coming down the stairs.”
Just as Denisov predicted, the guard turned his back to the stairs in order to relight his pipe.
The moment they’d waited for. They both hurried down the stairs.
It seemed strange that the door at the bottom was unlocked, but they stepped through the doorway. She shut the door quickly behind them to ensure the guard wouldn’t be made aware of their presence.
As she turned back to face the chamber, she solved the mystery of the unlocked door.
“What the hell is this?” Denisov growled.
“Remember those security systems we talked about earlier? This must be one of them.”
They stood at one end of a corridor. Its walls were at least twenty feet high, but there was no ceiling. Instead, the corridor was open to the air. It seemed a strange thing to have a hallway thus exposed, but looking up, Daphne saw that bladed fans were suspended on axles between the walls. The fans turned in the breeze. Their axles were attached to what she thought might be small electromagnetic generators bolted to the tops of the walls.
The open ceiling, fans, and generators weren’t the only odd features of the corridor. Suspended six inches off the floor was a grid of braided wires. The grid itself was anchored to the walls of the hallway with metal bolts.
“Look there.” Denisov indicated the wires that ran from the generators down to the grid. “They’re supplying power to it.” He turned to her. “Got anything leather in that satchel of yours?”
She rifled through her bag until she produced her compass, enclosed in a small leather case. After removing the compass, she handed the case to Denisov. He tossed it onto the metal grid.
Smoke. The acrid smell of burnt leather. She threw her arm up to protect herself from the sparks. The case finally fell to the ground, black and charred.
Dear God, the whole grid was electrified. And the fan-driven generators supplied the power. If anyone tried to cross the passageway, they’d be turned to a scorched husk.
“Perhaps we ought to find another route,” she said.
“We’re right where we’re supposed to be.” He nodded toward the door at the other end of the corridor. “You don’t use a Gatling gun to defend a pile of dung. Whatever’s behind that door, it’s damned valuable.”
“The astrolabe.” She glanced toward a key-shaped slot in the wall directly behind them. “Here’s how Khalida comes and goes without being broiled.”
“Can’t pick a lock like that,” he said with the air of a man who possessed knowledge of such things. He scowled at the door at the other end of the corridor, and cursed. “It’s too far to jump, and the only way I can fly is with an airship.”
“So we turn off the generators.” She stared at the conduit connecting the generators to the grid. “Divert their power, perhaps.”
Silence fell as both she and Denisov mulled this over. Her mind churned through possibilities, yet none of them seemed right. How could they do this? It seemed an impossible task, but she couldn’t give up. There was a solution … somewhere.
Her mind kept hitching on the notion of diverting the generators’ power. What could be used for that purpose?
Standing close to Denisov, she felt his heat, the power he emanated. As though he gave off as much power as the grid.
He did. Because of his implants. Her gaze fell on the pack he wore. And suddenly, inspiration struck.
“Your batteries,” she said. “We can use them to absorb the generators’ power.”
His expression hardened. “Want to see me rip this place down with my bare hands? Or maybe you’d like to watch me literally tear the guards apart? Because that’s what’ll happen if I don’t have the batteries drawing energy from me. Battle madness.” His eyes grew dark. “I saw it once. In training. They kept a Man O’ War from discharging his energy. Poor bastard. He punched holes in solid stone walls. Killed two officers.”
He pinned her with his gaze. “Friend or foe, it won’t matter if the madness gets me. Nobody would be safe. Including you.”
The chill of his voice made her shiver. Having seen glimpses of Denisov’s strength, she could only imagine the destruction he’d wreak if his control broke and he lost his mind. “Have you tested that on yourself?”
“Seeing it was enough.”
“It would be. But,” she pressed, “if we took just one battery, surely that won’t compromise you overmuch.”
“It means I have less time away from my ship. Five days instead of seven.” He ran his hand over his chin, considering. “But I don’t plan on spending a long holiday here.” Quickly, he removed one of the batteries from his knapsack and handed it to her.
The brass cylinder was lighter than she expected. Another marvel of the modern era she didn’t fully understand. But she didn’t need to know how or why it worked, only that it did. The telumium plate atop the battery should siphon energy away from the grid. Gingerly, she moved to place the battery’s contact onto the electrified grid.
He suddenly grabbed the battery from her hands. “Electricity’s going to be flying. I’ll absorb the shock better than you.”
She couldn’t object to this, so she waited, heart pounding and breath scarce. He said he could handle the electrical current better than she could, but he wasn’t immortal or impervious to harm.
Denisov edged close to the grid, battery in hand. Then, in a swift movement, propped the battery onto the grid. He took a step back.
“Let’s see if it worked,” she said.
He made a sound of surprise when she placed her hand on his abdomen. Even through the fabric of his waistcoat, the steel of his muscles twitched beneath her touch.
What’s more electrifying? The
metal grid, or him?
“Trying to get back in my favor?” he asked, sardonic.
“Trying to keep us alive.” She tugged, then held up a silver buckle. Glancing down to see the loose thread on his waistcoat, he smirked.
She tossed the buckle onto the grid. It touched the wires, and a much smaller spark than the one beforesizzled. The buckle then simply fell to the ground. The battery was working, drawing most of the electrical charge into itself.
Denisov’s brows rose. Clearly, he hadn’t been certain her strategy would work, and she couldn’t help feeling a flare of gratification.
She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, then she and Denisov took the first step together, stepping into the open spaces in the grid. She winced when her shin contacted one of the wires, but all she felt was a mild buzzing sensation, nothing like the fatal shock she would have received without the battery’s assistance.
They made their way quickly down the corridor. Once they reached the door at the other end, she finally allowed herself a full exhalation. They’d done it!
Her relief wasn’t going to last long. “There’s more danger on the other side of this door, isn’t there?”
To his credit, he didn’t try to feed her palliative lies. “Most likely. One way to find out.”
She reached out, and opened the door.
SHE KEPT IMPRESSING him with her courage. Mikhail didn’t want to admire her, not after her duplicity. Still, his respect for her reluctantly grew as Daphne Carlisle gamely pressed forward.
The door swung open, revealing a long, wide set of stairs leading downward. Gas lamps flickered on the stone walls, and the air held a distinct subterranean smell. Wherever these steps led, they’d take them deep beneath the city.
With Miss Carlisle following, he descended the stairs, cautious in case any of the steps were booby-trapped.
“Those tapestries are beautiful,” she murmured behind him.
He glanced up. The tapestries hung at regular intervals from the walls, the upper corners of the weavings anchored into the stone. They were, in fact, quite striking, depicting the heavens—constellations and celestial bodies in gold upon deep indigo skies—the craftsmanship so fine that they had to have been woven by hand and not machine.
