Spartan Gold - Cussler Clive (полная версия книги .TXT) 📗

She nodded. “I hear voices. Laughing . . . singing along.”

“Yeah.”

They continued on and soon the tunnel came to a dead end at a set of stone steps leading upward to a wooden trapdoor. Sam lifted his head and sniffed. “Manure.”

“Then we’re in the right place.”

The music and laughter were louder now, seemingly coming from directly above their heads. Sam placed his foot on the lowermost step. At that moment, there came the thunk of a footfall on the trapdoor. Sam froze. Another foot joined the first, followed by two more, these lighter, somehow more delicate. Through the gaps in the trapdoor shadows moved, blocking and unblocking the light.

A woman giggled and said in Russian-accented English, “Don’t, Dmitry, that tickles.”

“That’s the idea, my lapochka.”

“Ooh, I like that. . . . Stop, stop, what about your wife?”

“What about her?”

“Come on, let’s get back to the party before someone sees us.”

“Not until you promise me,” the man said.

“Yes, I promise. Next weekend in Balaclava.”

The couple moved off and moments later there came the banging of a wooden door. Somewhere above a horse whinnied, then silence.

Remi whispered, “We’ve managed to stumble into one of Bondaruk’s damned parties. Talk about bad luck. . . .”

“Maybe good luck,” Sam replied. “Let’s see if we can make it work for us.”

“What do you mean?”

“Chances are decent that Bondaruk is the only one who knows what we look like.”

“Oh, no, Sam.”

He grinned. “Remi, where are your manners? Let’s mingle.”

Once certain there was no one about, Sam climbed the steps, lifted open the hatch, and had a look around. He turned back to Remi. “It’s a closet. Come on.”

He climbed up and held the hatch for Remi, then closed it behind her. Through the open closet door was another space, this one a tack room dimly lit by theater-style lights along the baseboards. They stepped through and out the opposite door and found themselves on a gravel alleyway bordered on both sides by horse stalls. Overhead was a high vaulted ceiling with inset exhaust fans and skylights through which pale moonlight filtered. They could hear horses snorting softly and shuffling in the stalls. At the far end of the stable, perhaps thirty yards away, was a set of double barn doors. They walked to them and peeked out.

Before them lay an acre-sized expanse of lush lawn surrounded by chest-high hedges and flickering tiki torches. Multicolored silk banners fluttered on cross wires suspended over the lawn. Dozens of tuxedoed and evening-gowned guests, mostly couples, stood in clusters and strolled about, chatting and laughing. Waiters in stark white uniforms moved through the crowd, occasionally pausing to offer hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. The source of Sinatra’s “Summer Wind,” pole-mounted loudspeakers strategically placed around the lawn, now emitted a soft jazz number.

To Sam and Remi’s right they could see the upper floors of Bondaruk’s mansion, its onion-domed minarets silhouetted against the dark sky. To the left, through an entrance gap in the hedges Sam could see a gravel parking lot packed with several million dollars’ worth of Bentleys, Mercedeses, Lamborghinis, and Maybachs.

“We’re underdressed,” Remi muttered.

“Severely,” Sam agreed. “I don’t see him, do you?”

Remi moved closer to the gap and scanned the throng. “No, but with the torchlight it’s hard to tell.”

Sam shut the door. “Let go check out the southeast wing.”

They went back through the tack room trapdoor, retraced their steps down the tunnel, and took the east branch. Almost immediately they found side tunnels spaced at twenty- to thirty-foot intervals along the north wall.

“Storage chambers and other exits,” Sam said.

Remi nodded, shining her flashlight on her sketch. “Bohuslav has these marked, but there’s no description of where they go.”

They shined their flashlights into the darkness, but could see nothing past ten feet. Somewhere in the distance they could hear wind whistling.

“I don’t know about you, but I vote we avoid another dungeonlike maze if we can.”

“Amen.”

They kept walking and after a few hundred yards found themselves standing before another set of stone steps.

This time Remi took the lead, crouching beneath the trapdoor and listening until certain the way was clear. She lifted the hatch, peeked out, then ducked back down again.

“It’s pitch-dark. I can’t tell where we are.”

“Let’s go up. We’ll see if our eyes adjust.”

Remi climbed through the hatch, then stepped aside so Sam could join her. He eased the hatch shut and carefully reached out, trying to measure the space. It was roughly four by four feet square. After thirty seconds of standing still their eyes slowly began to adjust and they could make out a thin rectangle of light to their left. Sam crept to the wall and pressed his eye to the gap. He pulled back, frowned, then looked again.

“What?” Remi asked.

“Books,” he whispered. “It’s a bookshelf.”

He felt along the wall and found a recessed wooden latch. He lifted it up, placed his palm against the wall, and gently pushed. Soundlessly the wall swung away from them on hidden hinges, revealing a foot-wide gap. Sam stepped into it and leaned out. He jerked his head back and had no sooner swung the bookcase shut again when a man’s voice said, “Olga, is that you?” Footsteps padded across a rug, paused, then padded in another direction. “Olga . . . ?” Silence for a few seconds, then the sound of water running. The water shut off. Footsteps again, then a door opening and shutting.

Sam pushed the bookcase open again and peeked out. “All clear,” he whispered to Remi. Together they stepped out and shut the bookcase behind them.

They were in a bedroom. Measuring twenty feet on a side, with an adjoining bathroom, the space was furnished in heavy walnut furniture, a massive four-poster bed, and well-worn expensive Turkish rugs.

“What now?” Remi asked.

Sam shrugged. “Let’s spruce up and join the festivities.”

CHAPTER 38

You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Don’t I look serious?”

“Yes. That’s what worries me.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s nuts, that’s why.”

“There’s a fine line between nuts and ingenious.”

“And an even finer line between ingenuity and idiocy.”

Sam chuckled. “I didn’t see any security guards at the party, did you?”

“No.”

“Which means they’re focused on the perimeter—on keeping people out; the guests have all been vetted and probably frisked. There were sixty or seventy people out there and I didn’t see anyone checking invitations. You know the rule: ‘Look like you belong and you belong.’ ”

“That sounds more like a Sam Fargo-ism than a rule.”

“I like to think they’re one and the same.”

“I know you do.”

“As for the guards, it’s unlikely they’d know us from the King and Queen of England. You think it’s even crossed Bondaruk’s mind that we’d try to invade his home? No chance. His ego is too big for that. Fortune favors the bold, Remi.”

“Another Fargo-ism. And what if the man himself appears?”

“We’ll avoid him. We’ll keep our eyes on the guests. Given Bondaruk’s reputation, they’ll be our best early-warning system. When he’s near they’ll part like a school of fish in shark-infested waters.”

Remi sighed. “How sure are you about this?”

“About what part?”

“All of it.”

Sam smiled and gave her hand a squeeze. “Relax. Worst case, we walk around, get the lay of the land, then come back here and plan our next step.”

Chewing her lip, she thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, let’s see if Olga is my size.”