Spartan Gold

“We can’t accept this,” Sam said.

“Of course you can. When you’re done here, you can return it. Besides, I have another. My father was an exceptionally good liberator. Come, we’ll go now.”

CHAPTER 25

The graveyard to which Yvette had had Laurent’s remains moved had no name, Umberto told them, but it was hundreds of years old, dating back to when Elba was still a French protectorate. Nor was it on any map.

They took the Lancia and followed the main road to the outskirts of the village then turned north, heading higher into the mountains, now in complete shadow as the sun set. After ten minutes Umberto, who was riding in the backseat, said, “Stop the car, please.”

“What’s wrong?” Sam said.

“Just pull over, please.”

Sam did so, shutting off the headlights and coasting to a stop. Sam and Remi turned around to see Umberto rubbing his forehead. “I’ve done something terrible,” he murmured.

“What?”

“I’m leading you into a trap.”

“What are you talking about?” Remi asked.

“This afternoon, while we were still in town, Bianco came to my home. Teresa called me. He threatened to kill us if we didn’t help him.”

“Why are you telling us this?”

“The gun. My father took that gun from a man who was threatening his family, his friends. He was afraid, too, I am sure, just like I am, but he fought back. I have to do the same. I’m very sorry.”

Sam and Remi were silent for a few minutes, then Remi said, “You told us. That’s enough. Are they waiting for us?”

“No, but they’re coming.” He checked his watch. “Thirty minutes, no more. I am to let you open the crypt and recover whatever you’ve come for, then they’ll take it and kill you both, I imagine. And perhaps me as well.”

“How many men?” Sam asked.

“I don’t know.” Umberto pulled a spare magazine for his own Luger from his pocket and handed it over the seat to Sam. “The bullets in yours are dummies.”

“Thanks, but why give us a gun at all?”

“I wanted to gain your trust. I hope you can forgive me.”

“We’ll let you know in an hour or so. If you cross us—”

“You have my permission to shoot me.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Sam said, staring him in the eyes.

Remi said, “What about Teresa? Won’t she—”

“She’s already gone,” Umberto replied. “I have cousins in Nisporto; they’ll protect her.”

“Well, we have the sat phone. Call the police. Umberto?”

The Italian shook his head. “They wouldn’t get here in time.”

“We can turn around or keep going and do our damnedest to get in and out before they get here.”

“There are only two roads in and out of here,” Umberto said, “and Bianco will have both watched. You can be sure of that.”

Remi looked at Sam. “You’re quiet.”

“Thinking.” The engineer in him was looking for an elegant solution, but he quickly realized he was overthinking the situation. Much like with their initial run-in with Arkhipov at the boiler graveyard, they had neither the time nor the resources for a sophisticated plan.

“Fortune favors the bold,” he finally said.

“Oh, no. . . .”

“He who dares, wins,” Sam added.

“I know what that means,” Remi said.

“What?” Umberto asked. “What’s happening?”

“We’re going to make it up as we go along.”

Sam started the car, put it in gear, and pulled out.

They found the graveyard in a weed-filled meadow surrounded on three sides by hillocks covered in pine and cork trees. Only an acre in size, it was surrounded by a waist-high wrought-iron fence that had long ago been overtaken by rust and vines. Befitting the evening’s task, a low fog filled the meadow, swirling around the headstones and crypts. The sky was clear, showing a bright full moon.

“Okay, I’m officially creeped out,” Remi said, staring through the windshield as Sam brought the car to a stop before the gate. He shut off the engine and doused the headlights. Somewhere in the trees an owl hooted twice, then went silent. “All we’re missing is howling wolves,” she whispered.

“No wolves on Elba,” Umberto replied. “Wild dogs. And snakes. Many snakes.”

The graveyard was arranged haphazardly with no regard to spacing or symmetry. Headstones jutted from the weeds at odd angles, some within a foot of its neighbor, while crypts of all shapes and sizes rose from the ground in various states of disrepair, crumbling or overgrown by foliage or collapsed altogether. In contrast, several crypts, freshly painted, were islands of manicured grass and flowers.

“They’re not much for civil pla

“It’s been here so long the government can’t bring itself to intervene,” Umberto replied. “The truth is, I can’t remember the last time anyone was buried here.”

“How many are here?”

“Many hundreds, I think. Some graves are deep, some shallow. The dead are stacked atop one another.”

Remi asked, “Where’s Laurent’s crypt?”

Umberto leaned forward and pointed through the windshield. “That one, in the far corner, the one with the domed roof.”

Sam checked his watch. “Time to find out how well the Lancia holds up to punishment.”

He started the engine, did a Y-turn on the gravel drive, then spun the wheel and drove into the meadow, the tall grass scraping the car’s underbody. He followed the fence line to the back of the graveyard and coasted to a stop behind Laurent’s crypt. He shut off the engine again.

“Where does that go?” Sam asked Umberto, pointing past Remi out the passenger window. A half mile away a pair of tire ruts disappeared over the hill and into the trees beyond.

“I have no idea. It’s an old mining road. It hasn’t been used for seventy, eighty years—since before the war.”

Remi murmured, “The road less traveled.”

“Not for long,” Sam replied.

He opened the door and climbed out, Remi and Umberto following. To Remi he said, “Why don’t you wait here? Slide into the driver’s seat and keep your eyes peeled. We’ll just be a minute.”

He and Umberto walked to the fence and hopped over.

Compared to some of its neighbors, Laurent’s crypt was small, not much bigger than a walk-in closet and barely four feet tall, but, walking around to the front side, Sam saw that it was sunk into the ground a few feet. Three moss-covered steps led to a rough-hewn wooden door. Sam pulled his LED microlight from his pocket and shined it on the lock while Umberto used the key. In keeping with the fog, the hooting owls, and the full moon, the hinges moaned as Umberto swung open the door. He glanced back at Sam and smiled nervously.

“Keep an eye out,” Sam said.

He walked down the steps and through the door and found himself facing a curtain of cobwebs. Under the blue-white glow of his flashlight, spiders scrambled across the webs and disappeared. Using his hand like a blade Sam slowly cut the curtain down the center; desiccated flies and moths pattered on the stone floor. Sam stepped inside.

The space measured five feet deep and eight feet wide and smelled of dust and rat droppings. To his right he heard the faint scratching of tiny claws on stone, then silence. In the center the sarcophagus, which was devoid of either markings or adornment, stood on a three-foot-high platform made of red brick. He stepped around the sarcophagus to the rear wall, then placed the flashlight between his teeth and gave the lid a tentative shove. It was lighter than he’d anticipated, sliding a couple inches with a hollow grating sound.

Sam pushed the lid another few inches, then grabbed the projecting end and walked the lid around until it was sitting perpendicular to the sarcophagus. He shined his light inside.

“Nice to finally meet you, Monsieur Laurent,” he whispered.