Chapter 54
What do we do now?” Sharyn asked, fighting down panic.
The sweep of the helicopters had grown deafening, even down this deep. It was loud enough to rattle the skeletal bedframes in the room. Then a huge gust of wind blew from the stairwell, carrying with it a trace of snowy powder.
Duncan craned up. “One of the helicopters must have buzzed the tower.”
“It’s not like they have to guess where we are,” Archie said. “This bunker is a hot coal sitting in the snow.”
“They’ll be on us before long,” Laurent agreed.
“Maybe not,” Russo said.
They had already explained the danger to her.
Laurent frowned. “What do you mean—”
“I know these mountains. I can buy you some time.” Russo pointed to Duncan. “With me, young man. And be quick about it.”
Before anyone could object or question her, the woman set off, cradling her injured hand. Duncan looked back at the group, plainly as mystified as any of them, then took off.
Sharyn turned to the alcove in the wall and pulled off her crossbody bag. “Maybe we should burn the book.”
Laurent looked aghast at this suggestion.
“It’s the only key to the door,” she explained. “If nothing else, we can keep the treasure from the Brotherhood’s grasp.”
“Destroying the book will only delay them. Once they eliminate us, they’ll eventually bring in excavation equipment and dig the gold out.”
“Even so, without Saint-Germain’s diary, they’ll lose the final treasure, whatever remains encrypted by the Third Adage.”
Laurent slowly shook his head, his eyes pained. “Not only will the Confrérie suffer this loss, so will the world. I’d rather the Brotherhood win here and offer humanity some hope for a better outcome in the future.”
“If the enemy is holding the key,” Sharyn argued, “what hope is there? With the Brotherhood wielding the power behind the Third Adage, those murderous bastards could make things far worse for humanity.”
“I’d still rather take that chance. The Confrérie are not of one mind. Various factions within their organization war with one another. We can only hope their better angels will eventually prevail.”
Sharyn frowned at such an optimistic viewpoint. She remembered how she had prayed night after night for her father’s better angel to show up.
It never did.
And the Confrérie were far worse.
Instead, she placed her trust in a proverb that had proven true throughout history: Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
“Then what do we do?” Archie asked, repeating Sharyn’s earlier question.
Laurent faced the alcove and sighed. “We open this door. Before I die, I would like to set eyes on the treasure beyond it.”
Archie frowned. “I’d like to avoid the die part, if possible. Maybe there’s a back door somewhere in there. A way to slip out.”
Sharyn knew this was not likely. They had escaped out back doors before. At the King’s House, at the Barbiers’ chateau. But that would not be possible here, of that she was certain.
Still, she unzipped her bag and pulled out the copper-clad volume, coming to a decision, agreeing with Laurent on one point:
I want to see this treasure, too.
She stepped over and placed the book into the alcove.
As she did, the roar of the helicopters died to a distant rumble. She glanced back. The trio of aircraft must have landed. Likely on the football field–size plateau nearby.
“We’d better be quick,” Sharyn warned.
Laurent stepped forward and withdrew the small leather box from a pocket in his parka. He flipped it open and shook out two magnets into his palm.
Sharyn backed to give him room.
As before, Laurent set the poles of the magnetic rods to the top and bottom of the crystal orb, then slowly rotated the eye one full turn. Once this was done, the book’s copper bands snapped open.
They all retreated.
Nothing happened.
Archie grimaced. “Maybe we should try—”
A gong-like chime sounded from the fissured wall. A rectangular crack appeared in the rock, framing the alcove—then the whole outlined section slowly sank away.
Sharyn recalled Laurent’s words last night, explaining the source of this supposed magic: an alchemy of magnetism cast between the machinations inside Saint-Germain’s diary and the magnetite impregnated in the surrounding rock.
“The book,” Archie warned.
Sharyn flinched, then reacted quickly, alerted by his warning. She rushed forward and retrieved the volume from its niche before the slab dropped away. She hugged the book to her chest and stumbled back.
We dare not lose this.
As the slab receded into the floor, a stairway appeared beyond the threshold, descending deeper into the mountain.
Trembling, unsure how much time they had left, Sharyn moved closer. She stabbed the beam of her flashlight down its length. A wash of stale air exhaled out, no doubt ripe with poison.
Ignoring this danger, she took the first step toward the mystery below.
Let’s go see what our deaths have bought us.