The Lost Ark Read online

  I climbed quickly, jumping the remaining half, as did Wally. I hit the sand in a tight roll, coming up to my feet, before stumbling to my knees. In the Olympics, I would have been penalized for a poor landing, but in aeronautics I would have been lauded for a safe set down.

  Torch in hand, I led the others to the small opening at the base of the far wall.

  Caesar bent down and examined the hole. “Rather small,” he concluded.

  “I’ll go first,” I said.

  “By all means,” he said, grinning, slapping me heartily on the back.

  And as the wind thundered through the small opening, whistling like something from the soundtrack of a cheesy horror flick, I dropped to my knees and thrust the torch before me, and crawled into the small tunnel.

  * * *

  Before daybreak, with only a couple of hours of sleep behind her, a sudden noise brought Faye instantly awake. She looked up from the table, up from her folded arms which had served as bed and pillow and watched as Kazeem strode confidently into the tent, motioning away the solitary guard. The big prince ducked under a low-hanging lantern and stood before her, hands on hips. He watched her silently, breathing noisily through his flared nostrils. His deep-set eyes glowed with wild anticipation, and Faye instinctively glanced around for a weapon. All she could find was her laptop computer. Where was a bottle of beer when you needed one—

  “Your father and the others have escaped,” said Kazeem in clipped English. “For now.”

  Faye’s eyes widened with pleasure. A faint glimmering of hope surfaced from far, far below. But she said nothing, just watched the big prince.

  Kazeem continued, “They have escaped into the mountain. Escape, however, may be too loose of a term as I suspect they have not gone far.” Kazeem slid a hand inside his robe and produced a laminated map—her father’s laminated map. “Your assistance may be necessary. Come.”

  Chapter Forty

  The tunnel was similar to the size and shape of a heating/air conditioning duct, and as the others were less agile and a lot slower, I stopped routinely to allow them to catch up. Rather sporting of me.

  I was waiting for them now, idly sweeping the torch from side to side, illuminating dark stone walls and a filthy dirt floor. Gloomy. Not the place to be if one were claustrophobic.

  Wally approached from behind. Breathing hard and fast. I might have spoken too soon.

  “You okay, Wally?”

  He swallowed hard. “I feel as if the weight of an entire mountain is precariously balanced above me.”

  “I don’t know how precarious, but there is an entire mountain above you.”

  “That’s not helping. Is it me or is this tunnel getting smaller?”

  “Try not to think about it,” I said sagely.

  Indeed, as we continued forward, the tunnel was getting smaller: the walls closing in, the ceiling descending. Almost like a mathematical formula: the more the walls closed in around us, the harder and faster Wally’s breathing became.

  Soon, we were forced to slither on our sides, to reach out with our hands and pull forward with our arms. It was a hell of a way to make progress. It was also hell on your fingertips and fingernails. Sweat dripped steadily from my brow and nose, to be absorbed by the fine dust scattered over the stone floor, making tiny mud pies. Behind me, I could hear the desperate clawing of fingernails, and I was reminded of a crocodile pulling itself out of a lagoon, its dinosaur-like claws scrabbling over the sun-baked shore. That had been long ago on assignment for the National Geographic, in a far better place, with a whole lot more sunshine.

  Shortly, mercifully, the narrow tunnel ended, dropping down to a smooth stone floor ten feet below. One after another, we slipped out of the narrow crawlspace. Here, the tunnel was more pre-disposed towards bipedal primates. It was glorious to stand erect again, to feel the weight of your body on the soles of your feet, as opposed to your elbows and knees.

  The tunnel was narrow, the ceiling non-existent, as shadows disappeared into the gloom above. We walked single file, which would have made our first grade teachers proud. By my estimates, the passage led deeper into the mountain, but then again it didn’t take an advanced degree in geology to come up with that one. Lichen clung to the walls, glowing softly in the torchlight. The floor itself was a mixture of uneven rock protrusions and beach-like sand. As usual, our breathing reverberated around us, and we sounded like six, not three. Somewhere water dripped. The air was musty and stagnant, almost tangible, like the basement of an abandoned mansion. Haunted, of course.

  “We need to get out of here, and go back for Faye. She’s alone with those animals,” I said. “Where’s the map, professor?”

  He removed it from his boot. “Finding a way out may prove more difficult than you think. Remember, Sam, the computer program only showed the way to the cave.” Caesar peered at the map through his bifocals as I held the torch over him. “Obviously, now that we’re in the cave, we’re on our own.”

  “Obviously.”

  “However, I’ve spent some time pouring over the pages of Struys’s account, and believe I have gleaned a rather accurate map of the tunnel systems within Ararat.” Caesar turned the map over. “I’ve carefully noted each turn, each direction, each choice of tunnel that was made. Now, whether or not Struys neglected to mention a fork in the passage, or a particular left or right decision, is beyond my control.”

  “Good enough,” I said. “We’ll follow you, professor. And if we get lost, we eat you first.”

  Caesar moved forward, and I followed; Wally took up the rear. For the time being, the tunnel led in only one direction, which eliminated the decision-making process.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, we came to our first decision: a fork in the tunnel. One tunnel led off to the left, and the other continued to the right. After consulting the map, Caesar confidently pointed to the right and Wally and I followed without question like lambs to the slaughter.

  Perhaps an hour later, we came to yet another fork in the road, but to my dismay, Caesar frowned at the map, shaking his head.

  I said, “You’re shaking your head, professor, because you can’t believe how remarkably easy this is to decide which tunnel to take.”

  Caesar turned the map over and upside down, which I took as a bad sign. He rubbed his jaw. “I’m beginning to think,” he said, “that I don’t know how to read this.”

  “We can save time and eat you now,” I said. “After all, we haven’t had breakfast.”

  Caesar ignored me. “There’s supposed to be three choices here, not two.”

  I handed the torch to Wally, who held it out for Caesar, as I stepped forward to examine the two tunnel entrances. Both stretched as far as the light would reach. I knelt down and studied the floor.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Wally.

  “I’m looking for some indication as to which tunnel to choose. Perhaps an ancient scuffmark from an ancient pair of leather boots. Something, anything.”

  I didn’t find a scuffmark, but I did come across something unusual. What first appeared to be a shadow from a rock protrusion, was actually something entirely—

  Caesar suddenly yelled, “Wally, the map!”

  I closed my eyes, praying Caesar hadn’t just said: “Wally, the map!”

  I turned, my worst fears realized. The flame had burned a hole in the map. Caesar blew gently as ashes drifted down in the torchlight. The map looked as if a fiery cannonball had been shot through it from a pirate ship.

  Wally dropped the torch and stammered, “I-I’m sorry.”

  I moved quickly, retrieving the torch before the flame winked out. Caesar closed his eyes. The older man seemed to be fighting an urge to cry. Instead, he said simply, “The map is quite useless.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Wally again. “I was just trying to help.”

  The professor took a deep breath, face crimson with anger, contrasting with his silver beard. But then, in a heartbeat, the anger was gone and the
familiar old grin returned. His eyes sparkled as if lit by torches of their own. He reached up on tip-toes and mussed the kid’s hair. “You’ve always had two left feet, Wally. Now, I suppose, you have two left hands.”

  Wally grinned, perhaps relieved that the professor hadn’t given him a noogie instead.

  I studied what was left of the map. The hole was nine inches across, spanning the interior route within the mountain, from the entrance to the final picture of a little ark that Caesar had drawn. The drawing looked more like a row boat than the vessel that had preserved life as we know it.

  “Well,” I said and walked over to the shadow along the wall and pushed aside a cobwebbed veil. “The good news is that I’ve found the third tunnel.”

  * * *

  “The bad news,” I said, “is that we don’t know which tunnel to take.” I waved the torch at all three. “The left, middle, or right?”

  The professor said quickly, “The middle tunnel.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Sure enough to risk our lives?”

  He started to nod, but then paused in mid-nod. His thick eyebrows scrunched together in a hairy shelf above his orbital ridges. He dropped his hands to his sides. “Suddenly, I’m not so sure, Sam.”

  Wally stepped forward, speaking confidently. “I propose we go right.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the main tunnel seems to naturally progress to the right.”

  “A valid point,” said Caesar. “But the wind seems to be coming from the left tunnel, which might indicate a way out.”

  “But, professor, you just said the middle tunnel,” I pointed out, exasperated.

  “I was caught-up in the heat of the moment, Sam. Plus, I’ve been known to frequently change my mind. It’s a character flaw. To be honest, I wouldn’t bet a wooden nickel on the middle tunnel.”

  I chewed my lip thoughtfully, or maybe hungrily. Finally, I said, “We will each follow a tunnel, and report back here in ten minutes. Do we all have watches?”

  They nodded.

  “Good,” I said. “Wally, you go right. Professor, you check the left. And I’ll follow the middle. Remember, spend five minutes moving into the tunnel, and five minutes coming back. No one gets lost. We meet back here in ten minutes and report on our findings.”

  “But what do we do for torches?” asked Wally, wetting his lips nervously with his tongue. I decided that Wally always looked nervous. Hell, he was making me feel nervous.

  I removed the pistol from behind my back and the pocketknife from my hip. I placed the handle of the torch against a suitable rock, then used the butt of the pistol to hammer the pocketknife into the wood. A half dozen whacks later and I had split the torch into three torchettes. I handed one each to Caesar and Wally, keeping the third for myself.

  “Ten minutes,” I said, and stepped into the middle tunnel.

  * * *

  In the middle tunnel, as I contorted my body like a belly dancer on steroids around protrusions and limestone stalagmites (once I was even forced to limbo), I was beginning to think that I had gotten the short end of the proverbial stick. The tunnel was difficult to traverse at best.

  But shortly, as the light from the torchette crawled over the wall like liquid fire, I came upon a small pile of neatly stacked stones in the shape of a finger. Or a phallic. Either way, I was sure it was another marker (and one that would intrigue any Freudian psychologist). I grinned and looked at my watch. Time to go back.

  And that’s when Wally’s high-pitched scream echoed down the undulating tunnel.

  Chapter Forty-one

  I backtracked through the convoluted tunnel system, banging my head and shins more times than I cared to admit, meeting the professor in the main tributary. The professor was huffing and puffing and holding his chest.

  I need to sharpen my CPR skills, I thought.

  “Wally,” he gasped, pointing to the right tunnel.

  When the professor had caught his breath, we stepped into the right tunnel, which was wide enough to drive a Volkswagen Beetle through. So what had happened to the kid? Had he stubbed his toe and fallen?

  Holding the torches before us, as shadows scuttled over the uneven floor like fleeing mice, I noticed the tunnel was noticeably cooler than the others, as a small wind meandered over our skin, groping us with phantom hands.

  The wind blew louder, howling and I instinctively slowed the pace. It was a good thing, because the stone floor suddenly disappeared into total blackness. One moment it was there, the next it was gone, a straight drop to an unknown depth. I was able to stop in time, teetering on the ledge. A small pebble, kicked by my boot, plummeted over the edge, and I never heard it drop. Maybe it was still falling. The professor, however, bumped into me. I grabbed hold of the old man, and held on. When we untangled ourselves, Caesar moved cautiously forward and held his light near the edge of the pit. “My, God. It’s almost invisible. As if it’s man-made.”

  “No time for conspiracy theories, professor.”

  I leaned out over the pit, careful of the loose rock around the lip—and breathed a sigh of relief. The kid was down there, sprawled on a narrow rock shelf, which had saved him from falling farther into the pit. His torch lay next to him, extinguished. Although I couldn’t tell if Wally was breathing or not, at least his neck didn’t appear broken.

  “He’s down there,” I said, “but it doesn’t look good.”

  Caesar called down to the boy, a note of hysteria in his voice, but there was no response. I quickly removed my jacket and flannel shirt, tying the sleeves together. I told Caesar to do the same. The nylon jackets were thin, designed exclusively to repel wind and rain. Still, the material should be strong enough to hold a man. And the flannel shirts were well-made and thick, and time would only tell if they would hold up.

  I glanced down into the pit. We needed another five feet of material, at least. I removed my boots, then pants. Working in my long underwear, I put the boots back on, knowing I looked ridiculous as hell, but also knowing that I would need the boots for traction.

  There was an amused sparkle in the professor’s eyes. “Cute,” he said.

  “You’re next, professor. Come on, hand them over.”

  With our pants tied together, we had enough material. I studied the great hole in the floor, which stretched from wall to wall. There was no way around the pit, from one side to the other, unless there was a vine hanging from above and I was Tarzan of the Apes. Near the side wall, however, there was an upthrust of rock that could be used for leverage.

  “How are you with heights, professor?” I asked.

  “Better, if I wasn’t half naked.”

  * * *

  Braced against the rock, the tow of clothing wrapped around my back in a classic single rope belay, I eased Caesar over the lip and down into the pit. The material was tied between his legs and around his waist, in a sort of harness.

  “All you have to do is sit there and hold the torch,” I said. “And pray.”

  The edge of the pit was worn smooth, preventing any friction. I eased the professor down a foot or so at a time, grunting with the effort as my quads burned like hell, for they were in fact doing most of the work. I did this until Caesar hollered up that he was down. Indeed, the weight suddenly slackened, and I stopped myself from shooting back into the wall behind me.

  I caught my breath, stretched my aching fingers. Silence surrounded me. Occasionally I could hear Caesar grunting in the pit as he worked to secure the limp form of Wally. I wondered how long until the silence behind me turned into insane Kurds with machine guns.

  The line of clothing jerked in my hands, Caesar’s way of telling me the kid was ready.

  The knots, interspersed from sleeve to sleeve and pant leg to pant leg, provided perfect handholds. Like catching a marlin, I leaned forward, gripped the material, and leaned back as far as I could. I repeated the process until my legs quivered, as if made of rubber. Clenching my jaw, I wondered if my teeth would shatter in my mouth.


  And then I saw Wally’s inert form appear above the pit. I leaned forward and gripped the kid under an armpit and pulled. He spilled over the rim in a heap of elbows and knees and other sharp body parts.

  I spent a minute catching my breath, alternately slapping Wally in the face. I wasn’t sure how effective slapping Wally in the face was, but it sure seemed to make me feel a hell of a lot better. The kid didn’t respond, but he appeared to be breathing fine. Finally, I dragged him off to the side, away from the pit, giving me room to haul up the professor.

  My only solace was that the professor wasn’t dead weight. He would help when he could, although the walls were sheer and smooth, like a frozen waterfall, and impossible to climb solo.

  I tossed the clothing down to the professor, who had been waiting patiently in the pit. He caught hold of the material and spent some time tying it between his legs and around his waist, holding his torch in his mouth, the flames inches from his gray beard. Finally, he gave me the thumbs up sign.

  I grabbed the first knot and pulled hard. My arms shook like powerlines in a storm. I had the sensation that I was reliving the same nightmare. Nevertheless, I pulled with relentless doggedness, pausing only to catch my breath. The chain of clothing piled slowly around me. Too slowly.

  I paused again, but it was a long pause, my chin resting against my chest as the weight of one man hung from my fingertips. Sweat poured from my brow, burning my eyes, wetting my lips.

  Just a few more pulls—

  And then Wally appeared behind me, shaking his head as if kick-starting his brain. He gripped the line of clothing. He braced his huge feet against an out-cropping of rock, and leaned back. He could have been pulling an oar for his college row team. Together, we worked until Caesar’s pale hand appeared over the ledge. And when the old man scrambled over the side, I lay back exhausted in a pool of my own sweat.