“I won’t work that mine at any price.”
“Why not? The safety? You can fix it; I’m sure of it. The Army men told us you were quite clever. The best, they said.”
“I told her I wouldn’t work in a mine. I made her a promise. And I won’t make her a widow.”
“You assume you’ll marry her. She won’t marry without my permission.” Lord Barton inhales and watches for my reaction, satisfied that he’s cornered me.
“You underestimate her.”
“You overestimate her. But if that’s your price, you can have it, and the $2,000 per week. But you agree, right here and now, that you’ll work that dig to the finish. Once you do, I’ll give my blessing without delay.”
“You’d trade your approval for whatever’s buried down there?”
“Easily. I’m a practical man. And a responsible man. Maybe you will be too one day. What’s my daughter’s future for the fate of the human race?”
I almost laugh, but he fixes me with a stare that’s dead serious. I rub my face and try to think. I hadn’t expected the man to haggle, least of all over this business under Gibraltar. I know I’m making a mistake, but I don’t see what option I have. “I’ll have your permission now, not after the dig.”
Barton looks away. “How long to get into the structure?”
“I don’t know—”
“Weeks, months, years?”
“Months, I think. There’s no way to kn—”
“Fine, fine. You have it. We’ll announce it tonight, and if you don’t keep up your end in Gibraltar, I’ll make her a widow.”
CHAPTER 87
Associated Press — Online Breaking News Bulletin
Clinics throughout US and Western Europe report new flu outbreak New York City (AP) // Emergency rooms and urgent care clinics across the US and Western Europe have reported a flood of new flu cases, sparking fears that it might be the beginning of an outbreak of a previously unidentified flu strain.
CHAPTER 88
Kate leaned her head against the wooden wall of the alcove and stared at the sun, wishing she could stop it right where it was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw David open his eyes and look up at her. She opened the journal and continued reading before he could say anything.
December 20th, 1917
The Moroccan workers cower as the rock comes down around them. The space fills with smoke and we retreat back into the shaft. And then we wait and listen, ready to pile into the car that straddles the rails, ready to zoom out of the shaft at the first sign of trouble — fire or water in this case.
The first cry of a canary breaks the silence and one by one we all exhale and move back into the massive room to see how far the latest roll of the dice has gotten us.
We are close. But not quite there.
“Told you we should have drilled it deeper,” Rutger says.
I don’t remember him saying anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure he sat indolently, not even inspecting the hole before we packed it with the chemical explosive. He walks to the excavation site for a better look, raking his hand on one of the canary cages as he passes by, sending the bird into a panic.
“Don’t touch the cages,” I say.
“You’d let them choke to death on methane gas to give yourself a few minutes head start, but I can’t even rattle them?”
“Those birds could save every one of our lives. I won’t have you torture them for your own enjoyment.”
Rutger unloads the rage meant for me on the Moroccan foreman. He shouts at the poor man in French, and the dozen workers begin clearing the rubble from the blast.
It’s been almost four months since I first toured the site, since I first set foot in this strange room. In the first few months of digging, it became clear that the part of the structure they had found was an access tunnel at the bottom of the structure. It led to a door that was sealed — with some sort of technology beyond anything we could ever hope to break through. And we tried everything — fire, ice, explosives, chemicals. The Berbers on the work crew even performed some strange tribal ritual, possibly for their own sake. But it soon became clear that we weren’t getting through the door. Our theory is that it’s some sort of drainage tunnel or emergency evacuation route, sealed for who-knows-how-many thousands of years.
After some debate, the Immari Council — that’s Kane, Craig, and Lord Barton, my now father-in-law, decided we should move up the structure, into the area that contains the methane pockets. That’s slowed us down, but in the last several weeks we’ve uncovered signs that we’re reaching some sort of entrance. The smooth surface of the structure, some metal that’s harder than steel and makes almost no noise when you strike it, has begun to slope. A week ago we found steps.
The dust is clearing, and I see more steps. Rutger shouts for the men to work faster, as if this thing is going anywhere.