by Brad Meltzer
“I hate to break it to you, but it is a research lab.”
“You know what I mean,” Sauls shot back.
“That still doesn’t mean you should just risk it all for—”
“Listen, don’t tell me how to run my own operation. I hired you because—”
“You hired me because two years ago, a scaly little Taiwanese silk dealer with an Andy Warhol dye job had a surprisingly finer eye for art than you anticipated. Remarkably, just as he rang the inspector to call you out on that poorly forged Pissarro—which you must admit had none of the lushness of the original—that tiny bug of a man suddenly disappeared. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” Janos asked.
“Truly,” Sauls replied, surprisingly calm. “And to be clear, the Pissarro was the original—it’s the museum that has the fake—not that you or Mr. Lin were ever sharp enough to consider that, am I right?”
Janos didn’t answer.
“Do your job,” Sauls demanded. “Understand? We clear on the mine now? Once the system’s in place and we can clean out all the local trash, this place’ll be locked down tighter than a flea’s dickhole. But in terms of calling in security, y’know what? I already did—and you’re it. Now fix the problem and stop with the damn lecturing. You found their car; you found their tags—it’s just a matter of waiting at the mine.”
Hearing the click in his ear, Janos turned back to the elevator shaft. He was tempted to call the cage and go down into the tunnels himself, but he also knew that if he did, and Harris and Viv got off on a different level, he’d just as easily miss them. For now, Sauls had it right. What goes down must come up. All he had to do was wait.
52
THE RUSTED STEEL SAFETY gate lets out a high-pitched howl as I tug it from the ceiling of the cage and send it pounding to the floor. The metal rollers spin as it crashes into place. We’re on the 4,850 level of the mine, finally settling into the cage that’ll take us the rest of the way to the top. Like before, I ignore the leaky water that drips from above and go straight for the intercom.
“Stop cage,” I announce as I press the goo-covered button. “We’re all clear—going to one-three.”
“One-three,” the operator repeats. The same level we started at.
“Hoist cage,” I say.
“Hoist cage,” she repeats.
There’s a sharp tug from above. The steel cable goes taut, the cage rockets upward, and as we fly toward the surface, my testicles sink down to my ankles.
Across from me, Viv’s eyes and jaw are clamped shut. Not in fear—in pure obstinacy. She lost it once; she’s not letting it happen again. The cage is banging back and forth against the wood shaft, raining even more water against the top of our helmets. Fighting to keep her balance, she leans back against the greasy walls, but the ride feels like we’re surfing the top of a moving elevator. Aside from a quick glance at the oxygen detector—“20.4,” she says—she stays completely silent.
I’m still breathing heavy, but some things can’t wait. Wasting no time, I open the Midas Project notebook.
“Wanna shine that candle over here?” I ask, hoping to take her mind off the ride.
Between the two of us, she’s still got the only light—but right now, it’s staying aimed down at the metal floor. For Viv, until we’re actually out of here, this box isn’t just a moving leaky coffin. It’s a mountain. A mountain to be conquered.
The only good news is, as we rocket up toward the surface, we don’t have far to go. The oxygen numbers continue to rise: 20.5 . . . 20.7 . . . Fresh air and freedom are only a minute away.
53
THE INSTANT THE STEEL cable started moving, Janos pounced for the nearby phone on the wall.
“Hoist . . .” the female operator answered.
“This cage that’s coming up right now—can you make sure its next stop is at the Ramp?” Janos asked, reading the location from the sign.
“Sure, but why do you—?”
“Listen, we got an emergency up here—just bring the cage as fast as you can.”
“Everyone alright?”
“Did you hear what I—?”
“I got it . . . the Ramp.”
Buttoning his jacket, Janos watched as the water rained down and a cold wind blew from the mouth of the open hole. Shoving his hands in the side pocket of his jean jacket, he felt for the black box and flicked the switch. Thanks to the rumble of the approaching cage, he couldn’t even hear the electrical hum.
Over his shoulder, the wood benches started to rattle. Farther up the tunnel, the fluorescent lights began to flicker. The bullet train was on its way, and from the deafening roar, it wouldn’t be long.
With a final wheeze, the metal vault popped up from the abyss.
Janos dove at the latch on the corroded yellow door. Don’t give them a chance to catch their breath. Grab them and keep them boxed in.
Yanking on the lock, he whipped the door open. A slap of shaft water flicked him in the face. As the door crashed into the wall, Janos’s jaw shifted to the right. He clenched his teeth even tighter.
“Sons of bitches . . .”
Inside the cage, drips of water rained down from the ceiling and slithered down the greasy metal walls. Other than that, the cage was empty.
54
HURRY . . . RUN . . . !” I yell at Viv as I shove open the door to the cage and sprint through the wide room that stretches out in front of us. According to the sign on the wall, we’re at level 1-3—the same level we came in on. The only difference is, we used a different shaft to get out. Wasn’t hard to find—all we had to do was follow the spray-painted Lift signs. Eight thousand feet later, we’re back on top.
“I still don’t see why we had to take the other shaft,” Viv says, trailing behind me as I dart forward.
“You’ve met Janos once—you really want to go on a second date?”
“But to say he’s waiting for us . . .”
“Look at your watch, Viv. It’s almost noon—that’s plenty of time to catch up to us. And if he’s already within spitting distance, the last thing we need to do is make it easy.”
Like the tunnels down below, the room up here has metal rail tracks running all along the floor. There are at least half a dozen empty man-cars, two mud-soaked Bobcat diggers, a small swarm of three-wheel ATVs, and even a few red toilet wagons. The whole place stinks of gasoline. This is clearly the vehicle entrance, but right now, all I care about is the exit.
Sidestepping between two man-cars, I continue running toward the enormous sliding garage door on the far wall—but as I get there, I spot the chain and the padlock that’s holding it shut. “Locked!” I call back to Viv.
Searching around, I still don’t see a way out. Not even a window.
“There!” Viv yells, pointing to her right, just past all the red wagons.
As I follow behind her, she runs toward a narrow wooden door that looks like a closet. “You sure that’s it?” I call out.
She doesn’t bother to answer.
Moving in closer, I finally see what’s got her so excited—not just the small door, but the sliver of bright light that’s peeking through underneath. After all that time underground, I know daylight when I see it.
I’m two steps behind Viv as she throws the door open. It’s like coming out of a dark movie theater and stepping straight into the sun. The blast of sunlight burns my eyes in the best way possible. The whole world lights up with fall colors—orange and red leaves . . . the baby blue sky—that seem neon when compared with the mud below. Even the air—forget that recycled stuff downstairs; as I head up the dirt road in front of us, the sweet smell of plum bushes fills my nose.
“And on the tenth day, God created candy,” Viv sings, sniffing the air for herself. She stares around to take it all in, but I grab her by the wrist.
“Don’t stop now,” I say, tugging her up the dirt road. “Not until we’re out of here.”
Two hundred yards to our left, above the trees, the triangular outline
of the main Homestead building slices toward the sky. It takes me a second to get my bearings, but from what I can tell, we’re on the opposite side of the parking lot from where we first started.
A loud siren bursts through the air. I follow it to a bullhorn up on the metal teepee building. There goes the alarm.
“Don’t run,” Viv says, slowing us down even more.
She’s right about that. On the steps of one of the construction trailers, a stocky man with overalls and a buzz cut glances our way. I slow to a casual walk and nod my mining helmet at him. He nods right back. We may not have the overalls, but with the helmets and orange vests, we’ve at least got part of the costume.
A half-dozen men run toward the main mining entrance. Following the road past the trailers, we head in the opposite direction, letting it lead us back to the parking lot. A quick scan around tells me everything’s just as we left it. Tons of cruddy old pickup trucks, two classic Harleys, and— Wait . . . something’s new . . .
One shiny Ford Explorer.
“Hold on a sec,” I say to Viv, who’s already climbing into our Suburban.
“What’re you doing?”
Without answering, I peek through the side window. There’s a map with a Hertz logo on the passenger seat.
“Harris, let’s go! The alarm . . . !”
“In a minute,” I call back. “I just want to check one thing . . .”
55
HOIST . . .” THE FEMALE operator answered.
“You were supposed to bring the cage straight here!” Janos shouted into the receiver.
“I-I did.”
“You sure about that? It didn’t make any other stops?”
“No . . . not one,” she replied. “There was no one in it—why would I make it stop anywhere?”
“If there was no one in it, why was it even moving?!” Janos roared, looking around at the empty room of the basement.
“Th-That’s what he asked me to do. He said it was important.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“He said I should bring both cages to the top . . .”
Janos clamped his eyes shut as the woman said the words. How could he possibly miss it? “There’re two cages?” he asked.
“Sure, one for each shaft. You have to have two—for safety. He said he had stuff to move from one to the other . . .”
Janos gripped the receiver even tighter. “Who’s he?”
“Mike . . . he said his name was Mike,” the woman explained. “From Wendell.”
Locking his jaw, Janos turned slightly, peering over his shoulder at the tunnel that led outside. His cagey eyes barely blinked.
“Sorry,” the operator pleaded. “I figured if he was from Wendell, I should—”
With a loud slam, Janos rammed the receiver back in its cradle and took off for the basement stairs. A shrill alarm screamed through the room, echoing up and down the open shaft. In a flash, Janos was gone.
Rushing up the stairs two at a time, Janos burst outside the red brick building and tore back toward the gravel parking lot. On the concrete path in front of him, the man in the Spring Break T-shirt was the only thing blocking his way. With the alarm wailing from above, the man took a long look at Janos.
“Can I help you with something?” the man asked, motioning with his clipboard.
Janos ignored him.
The man stepped closer, trying to cut him off. “Sir, I asked you a question. Did you hear what I—?”
Janos whipped the clipboard from the man’s hands and jammed it as hard as he could against his windpipe. As Spring Break doubled over, clutching his throat, Janos stayed focused on the parking lot, where the black Suburban was just pulling out of its spot.
“Shelley . . . !” a fellow miner shouted, rushing to Spring Break’s aid.
Locked on the gleaming black truck, Janos raced for the lot—but just as he got there, the Suburban peeled out, kicking a spray of gravel through the air. Undeterred, Janos went straight to his own Explorer. Harris and Viv barely had a ten-second head start. On a two-lane road. It’d be over in no time. But as he reached the Explorer, he almost bumped his head getting inside. Something was wrong. Stepping back, he took another look at the side of the truck. Then the tires. They were all flat.
“Damn!” Janos screamed, punching the side mirror and shattering it with his fist.
Behind him, there was a loud crunch in the gravel.
“That’s him,” someone said.
Spinning around, Janos turned just in time to see four pissed-off miners who now had him cornered between the two cars. Behind them, the man with the Spring Break ’94 T-shirt was just catching his breath.
Moving in toward Janos, the miners grinned darkly.
Janos grinned right back.
56
WITH MY EYES ON THE rearview mirror, I veer to the right, pull off the highway, and follow the signs for the Rapid City airport. There’s a maroon Toyota in front of us that’s moving unusually slow, but I’m still watching our rear. It’s barely been two hours since we blew out of the mine parking lot, but until we’re on that plane and the wheels are off the ground, Janos still has a shot—a shot he’s aiming straight at our heads. Slamming my fist against the steering wheel, I honk at the maroon car. “C’mon, drive!” I shout.
When it doesn’t budge, I weave onto the shoulder of the road, punch the gas, and leave the Toyota behind us. Next to me, Viv doesn’t even look up. Since the moment we left, she’s been reading every single word in the Midas Project notebook.
“And . . . ?”
“Nothing,” she says, flipping the notebook shut and checking her side mirror for herself. “Two hundred pages of nothing but dates and ten-digit numbers. Every once in a while, they threw in someone’s initials—JM . . . VS . . . there’s a few SCs—but otherwise, I’m guessing it’s just a delivery schedule.”
Viv holds the book up to show me; I look away from the road to check the schedule for myself.
“What’s the earliest date in there?” I ask.
Resting it back on her lap, Viv flips to the first page. “Almost six months ago. April fourth, 7:36 A.M.—item number 1015321410,” she reads from the schedule. “You’re right about one thing—they’ve definitely been working on this for a bit. I guess they figured getting the authorization in the bill was just a formality.”
“Yeah, well . . . thanks to me and Matthew, it almost was.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“But it almost was.”
“Harris . . .”
I’m in no mood for a debate. Pointing back to the notebook, I add, “So there’s no master list to help decipher the codes?”
“That’s why they call ’em codes. 1015321410 . . . 1116225727 . . . 1525161210 . . .”
“Those are the photomultiplier tubes,” I interrupt.
She looks up from the book. “Wha?”
“The bar codes. In the lab. That last one was the bar code on all the photomultiplier boxes.”
“And you remember that?”
From my pocket, I pull out the sticker I ripped off earlier and slap it against the center of the dashboard. It sticks in place. “Am I right?” I ask as Viv rechecks the numbers.
She nods, then looks down, falling silent. Her hand snakes into her slacks, where I spot the rectangular outline of her Senate ID badge. She pulls it out for a split second and steals a glance at her mom. I look away, pretending not to see.
Avoiding the main entrance for the airport, I head for the private air terminal and turn into the parking lot outside an enormous blue hangar. We’re the only car there. I take it as a good sign.
“So what do you think the tubes and the mercury and the dry-cleaning smell is for?” Viv asks as we get out of the car.
I stay silent as we head under a bright red canopy and follow the sign marked Lobby. Inside, there’s an executive lounge with oak furniture, a big flat-screen TV, and a Native American rug. Just like the one Matthew used to have in his office.
“That’s us,” I reply. Pointing over my shoulder, I add, “I didn’t know where to return the car . . .”
“There is fine. We’ll have it picked up for you, sir.”
It’s one less thing to worry about, but it doesn’t even come close to lightening my load. “So the plane is all set to go?”
“I’ll let the pilot know you’re here,” she says, picking up the phone. “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
I look over at Viv, then down at the notebook in her hands. We need to figure out what’s going on—and the way I left things in D.C., there’s still one place I need to follow up on. “Do you have a phone I can use?” I ask the woman at the reception desk. “Preferably somewhere private?”
“Of course, sir—upstairs and to the right is our conference room. Please help yourself.”
I give Viv a look.
“Right behind you,” Viv says as we head up the stairs.
The conference room has an octagonal table and a matching credenza that holds a saltwater aquarium. Viv goes for the aquarium; I go for the window, which overlooks the front of the hangar. All’s clear. For now.
“So you never answered the question,” Viv says. “Whattya think that sphere in the lab is for?”
“No idea. But it’s clearly got something to do with neutrinos.”
She nods, remembering the words from the corner of each page. “And a neutrino . . .”
“I think it’s some type of subatomic particle.”
“Like a proton or electron?”
“I guess,” I say, staring back out the window. “Beyond that, you’re already out of my league.”
“So that’s it? That’s all we’ve got?”
“We can do more research when we get back.”
