by Davis Bunn
FORTY-ONE
THEY LEFT THE BEACH IN the darkest hour. The fire had burned down to sullen embers, but still had enough heat for Harry to make a buccaneer’s brew. He dumped three handfuls of coffee and one of sugar into boiling water, then left the pot to cool and settle. Harry scooped three mugs from the pot and sipped his while loading the sleds. The coffee tasted furry and gave a proper jolt to the day ahead.
Emma joined him loading the sleds. They moved in a natural rhythm, an economy of motion, like they’d been working together for years. Like they were meant to be together.
Storm was groggy but steady. She helped Emma fit the straps around the oversized load her Jet Ski would be carrying, not asking why Harry insisted on leaving the second sled empty. Storm handed each of them four energy bars. Harry devoured one and stowed the rest away for later. He pushed Storm’s Jet Ski out to waist depth, waited for Emma to power up the second Jet Ski, then slipped on behind her. He fit his arms around her waist, feeling the woman’s supple strength. They kept the motors purring at a low and easy pace. The thrumming rose through Harry’s spine and accelerated his heart. Emma took one hand off the controls and rested it on his knee. Harry found it a struggle to focus on what lay ahead.
The Jet Skis sliced through water so calm they might have been riding on air. They rounded the rocky promontory and entered deeper waters. A gentle swell lifted beneath them, riding in easy rhythms.
When they were just off the monastery peak, Harry signaled for them to cut power. He pulled Storm’s Jet Ski in close. There was no need for a line, the water was that calm. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Emma is going to take me in alone, then come back out here to wait with you. I’ll make the top in about an hour, maybe less. Another hour to scout the church.”
Emma said, “Hold it right there, sport.”
“If I find something, I’ll signal. You bring Emma in, I’ll drop the rope, she’ll come up and help.”
Emma replied, “You never said anything about going up there alone.”
Harry went on, “If Emma comes up, lash the Jet Skis together, but have your knife ready to cut loose if things go bad.”
“We’re not leaving without you,” Storm said.
Emma said, “It’s not going to get to that point, because he’s not leaving here without me.”
Harry touched her arm. Looked at her. The first faint grey hint of dawn showed a woman ready to do battle. “I’ll move faster and quieter alone. If there’s anything, trouble or otherwise, you’ll be the first to know.” He applied a trace more pressure, stilling her protest. “That’s how it’s going to be, Emma.”
The woman was used to taking orders. Which, given her strength, was remarkable. She stifled her arguments and sat there, simmering.
The minutes stretched out long and slow. Storm shivered as a predawn mist floated in, hugging the waters. Harry slipped off his sweatshirt and draped it around her shoulders. He’d be warm soon enough. “It’s time.”
Storm reached over and hugged his neck. Emma started the motor and they pulled away. The sea was gone now, lost beneath the drifting mist. Harry carried his grin with him.
The cliffs looked monstrous in the dim light, and only loomed larger as they closed in. Harry said, “See the tight corner there? Looks like a tear in the rock?”
“I see it.”
“Aim straight for the cleft.”
He slipped off the saddle and scooted onto the sled. He squatted and checked the gear in his backpack one last time. He pulled on the driving gloves he’d bought in the market, flexed his fingers. There’d once been a time when the skin of his hands had been tough enough to handle rocks without protection. Not anymore.
Emma glanced back. “Harry, why is your safety rope still in your pack?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Answer the question, Harry.”
“I checked out the crevice yesterday afternoon. I think the fissure runs all the way to the top.”
“And? Tell me you’re not scaling that wall without roping up.”
“Emma. Please. Pipe down.”
She did, but it only made her heat more intense as she hissed, “What is this, some kind of macho stunt you’re pulling?”
“Two things. First, if I use the hammer, they might hear me. Sound carries. If I give them a reason to look over the edge, I’ll be one of those little rubber duckies in the carnival shooting booth.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
“And two, it’ll only slow me down. I want to be off that rise before the sun crests the eastern hills.”
“Don’t…” Emma stopped. And sighed.
Harry was so grateful she’d held it inside he leaned forward and kissed her soundly. He settled back on the sled and reached for the oncoming rock. “Slow and steady. That’s it. Okay.”
He stepped into the cleft and began climbing, easy as you please. Fred Astaire, step back and give a guy some room.
She powered away from the wash drenching the lower rocks. And called softly, “Harry, come back in one piece. Please.”
TENDRILS OF MIST BOILED UP, blanketing her vision as Emma drove slowly out to where Storm waited on the second Jet Ski. Storm refused to meet her eye as Emma tied the machines together. Two ladies with their hair up, waiting to see who scored the first hit. Emma slipped onto the sled and reached into her backpack. “I need to report developments to Hakim.”
“Developments,” Storm muttered. But the word was soft enough for Emma to pretend not to have heard. She slipped back into her saddle and dialed. When Hakim answered, she said, “We might have a situation here.”
Storm huffed softly. Situation.
The conversation took all of three minutes, mostly because Emma couldn’t take her eyes off the rocks. When she shut the phone, Storm demanded, “Well?”
“Hakim can’t officially help you with Bouchaud.”
“That’s it? No official slap on the wrist for breaking protocol?”
“North Cyprus is not a recognized nation-state. Interpol has no official connection to anybody on the ground. Those were his exact words. Along with wishing us all good hunting.” Emma slipped back onto the sled and stowed her cell phone. “Where did Harry put the binoculars?”
“I have them.” But when Emma reached over, Storm did not let go. “Does that mean you’re not going to help me?”
“Don’t talk silly. I don’t like the way you did it. But you might have been right to call him.”
Storm released the binoculars.
“Nothing was happening. The fibbies don’t have a case. Even if they started focusing on Bouchaud today, it could be months before they build a connection that would stand up in court. Maybe longer.”
Storm’s voice was little-girl small. “So are we still friends?”
Without stopping her scan of the cliffs, Emma reached across with the hand not holding the binoculars and gripped Storm’s hand. “I can’t find him.”
HARRY ARRIVED AT THE TOP just as the mist rose from dew-covered grass to cluster about the copse of trees bordering the cliffs. He sat there a minute, puffing hard, a little proud he’d made it. He checked his watch. Fifty-three minutes from waterline to ridge. When his heart stopped threatening to leap from his chest, he started off. Head down, legs pumping, a loose-limbed lope that scooted him along the cliff’s edge. The Jet Skis were two tiny specks floating in the fogbound sea. Harry gave them a quick wave, saw nothing in response, figured the mist and the light made it hard for them to see anything.
The trees followed the ridge about thirty feet in from the cliffs. Harry scouted constantly, but saw no movement. The military base appeared totally asleep. Which was impossible, of course. There were bound to be sentries on duty. But if there was ever a moment for a sleepy guard to grab a quick snooze, it was now. Not even the birds were chirping. Which was fine by him.
He stepped into the monastery and moved directly to the chapel. His plan was simple. Go through the place room by room, searching for an
other hole. Because Harry was certain there was no reason to go back down in that crypt.
What Harry had noticed his first minute down in the crypt were the chip marks. He’d counted a half dozen divots in the stone floor, triangular holes formed by someone using a pick. Which meant the commandant had ordered his men to search for a way through to another chamber. They’d done a far more thorough job than Harry could in a few silent minutes.
Which probably also meant they had checked out the rest of the monastery.
Harry intended to do a quick scope, see if there was something they might have missed, which he doubted. Then put his real plan into action.
Because he was certain that the treasure was linked to this place. He figured the records did not mention earthquakes in this region because there hadn’t been any. All the surrounding peaks were riddled with holes, man-made caves, ancient copper digs, the sort of opening that would have vanished in a heartbeat if the earth had given a single good shake.
Which meant one of two things. Either the image they had found described a different place entirely, which Harry was convinced was wrong. Or the image did not describe the coastline at all. Perhaps it was a carving meant to mark a secret access. Perhaps something lost to time and weather and war. But Harry would have wagered a secret hoard that the image had been misread for centuries.
So Harry planned on finding a good, safe anchor for his line, then he was going back over the edge. And search the cliff face below the monastery. For the sealed opening. The one the commandant hadn’t thought to scope out.
This was the sort of idea that the ladies might have called hare-brained, as in, how stupid was he, swinging around a cliff, suspended below a Turkish army base, looking for a cave? Was he nuts? So Harry had decided to keep that part of his plan to himself.
He started his search at the nave, just to get his bearings on where the crypt began and ended. His adrenaline rush kept the blood singing, almost a fizz in his ears. He felt light enough to flitter over the ruins. Harry Bennett was back in the game.
Then he turned and saw the sunrise.
What he saw was so intensely mind-boggling he feared he’d gotten caught in some dawn mirage, a figment of his adrenaline-drenched brain.
Which was when he dropped his gaze down to where his hands gripped the stone frame of the central window.
And saw the second sign.
HARRY SCOOTED BACK TO THE cliffs, so loopy over what he’d just discovered that his feet scarcely disturbed the weeds. The mist was almost completely gone now. Below him the sea gleamed sapphire blue. He dug the rope from his pack and knotted it to the base of the two strongest tree trunks growing close to the ledge. He slipped the rope through the hooks and slung it about his frame, forming a rudimentary rappelling harness. His fingers fumbled like a first timer’s, like he was trying to do the drill with somebody else’s hands.
He stepped to the cliff’s edge and made sure the rope lay snug and unseen on the grass. He glanced down and felt the moment congeal around a sudden lump of fear. He hadn’t rappelled in years. He hadn’t liked it then and this was way worse. Alone and a little shaky from the adrenaline flood, betting his life that the trees and this rope would hold through the descent. The worst moment was the first, turning his back to the sea, trying not to think of the seven-hundred-foot drop and the rocky teeth eager to chew his bones if he fell.
Harry forced himself to steady and took a regulation hold on the rope—left hand in front of his body and right behind. Another hard breath. Then he leaned backward over the ledge, half sitting himself into the harness, and dropped.
The rope ran through his hands and around his lower frame. Harry huffed hard with each step. His knees were rattling like dice. He kept his eyes on the rock face and skipped downward.
Not needing to look for a sealed opening in the cliff below the monastery turned out to be a very good thing.
Because right then a head popped out over the precipice.
Harry froze and crouched in tight to the rocks. Just his luck there was a sentry awake enough to see the trees shiver under Harry’s weight. Which was the only way Harry could figure the sentry had found him.
The sentry stood about a hundred yards to the right of where Harry’s rope was anchored. A voice drifted down.
Harry stepped up the pace, tripping down the stone wall. He felt the rope begin to burn through his gloves and his clothes. It made quick zipping sounds, pushing him to move faster still.
The head reappeared, along with three others. The men were all shouting.
Harry raced down, pushing out with both feet, just barely off total free fall. His gloves were smoking and his hamstrings were shrieking. The harder he pushed off, the faster he slammed back. His knees struck his chest with each impact.
One head disappeared, probably the guy bright enough to figure all they had to do was race over and cut his line. Another soldier unlimbered his pistol and took a two-fisted aim.
Harry huffed and kicked off again. The rope sizzled. A clip of rock flew off the wall in front of his face. From above came a booming echo.
Harry did not hesitate. The next time he hit the rock face, he kicked harder still, released the rope, and turned in midair.
The water looked blue as polished steel plate and a million miles down.
He flew, kicking his legs, so as to bring his boots down below his body. The rope whizzed free, its tune one shriek above a whistle.
He hit and went deep. When he came up, Emma’s Jet Ski was racking toward him.
She leaned her body into the turn, whipping about, slamming the sled into his outstretched hands. Harry gripped and rolled and screamed, “Go! Go! Go!”
FORTY-TWO
THEY SCOOTED AROUND THE HEADLAND and entered tourist mania just as two marine patrol boats thundered past, heading no doubt for the point where some nut just dove from a military-restricted cliff. They left their Jet Skis in a small cove dominated by a new hotel resort. They just lined the machines up with a half dozen hotel rentals, next to the Sunfish and the sailboards. Emma watched Harry work his magic with the lifeguard. He paid a hefty sum to have the guy refill the gas tanks, repressure their dive tanks, and store their gear in the waterfront shed. They washed off the sea salt in the hotel’s beachside changing rooms. Once they were dressed in fresh clothes, Harry led them to the front drive and loaded them into a taxi. On the way back to the center of Kyrenia, he started going through the list of supplies they needed.
Storm interrupted him with “I’ve got a few questions.”
Emma said, “I’ll give that a big affirmative.”
Storm went on, “A thirty-second explanation shouted from one Jet Ski to another is not going to cut the mustard.”
Harry jutted his chin in the taxi driver’s direction and said, “Let’s take this one step at a time.”
He settled back in his seat and dozed. When they arrived in Kyrenia he negotiated another three days’ rental from the Jet Ski shop. Then he walked back to where the ladies were storing their first purchases into the rented Suzuki. Harry slipped into the Suzuki’s backseat and said, “You know where to find me.”
He settled into a prone position, cradled his head in his arm, and started snoring softly. Bang and gone.
Emma said, “Apparently getting shot at takes a lot out of the guy.”
They returned from their shopping excursion to find Harry still asleep. He had obviously awakened at some point, however, because a map lay unfolded on the driver’s seat with a circle drawn around a village in the middle of the mountainous headland between Kyrenia and the Yayla military base. The village of Korucam sat at the end of a tiny winding road. One way in, one out. Nothing around it except bare grey map. Emma and Storm stowed the rest of their purchases in the rear and set off.
Korucam was a curious sort of place. There was a neatness not found in most North Cyprus towns. Every house looked planted. All were painted with the same off-white stucco, all had red varnished doors and clay-tiled roo
fs, all had curious oval cutouts atop their chimneys. The men wore beards and funny black caps.
“Marionites,” Harry said, popping up in the backseat. His hand scratched over his stubble as he rubbed the sleep from his face. “Old-timey Christians from the hills above Beirut. You find these villages all over the Med, mostly in hidden valleys like this one. They fled the Ottomans about seven hundred years ago. Very tightly knit.”
Emma recalled Hakim’s description after their flight to France and asked, “How are you feeling?”
Harry gave his face a hard rub. “Ready to rock and roll.”
Harry leaned in between them and pointed out the way ahead. Emma kept being surprised by this guy. He cased the area like a pro with twenty years on the force. They drove through the town on the only lane heading toward the mountains. They stopped each time they hit a lonely rise, so Harry could study the trails ahead through binoculars. Taking his time. Walking himself up the mountain.
Emma asked, “Are you sure you know which mountain we should aim for?”
“Yes.” He pointed at a medium-sized peak, one of dozens. “See that dark vein running sideways like a partly open zipper? I spotted that from the monastery. It lies just above our cave.”
When the asphalt petered out, Emma slipped the Suzuki into four-wheel drive and continued along a rutted goat path. Harry stayed close enough to breathe soft directions into her ear, which she found both nice and disconcerting. The final ascent was so steep Emma feared they were going to topple over backward. Storm moved to the front of her seat, gripping the console with both hands. They popped up over a ledge and bounced to a halt. In front of them, the trail narrowed to a footpath and grew even steeper.
Storm gave Harry a narrow-eyed focus as they emerged from the jeep. “I’m not moving a step farther until I get some answers.”
“Gather round, ladies.” Harry began sketching in the dust covering the hood. “Here’s what we knew before setting out. Three stubby peninsulas, always drawn with waves crashing around the outside.”
