Russian’s hand.
“I am not the enemy,” Sokolov said.
“Go left? That’s what you told me to do.”
He nodded. “Bomb to right.”
“Bomb to left, too.”
His face registered surprise. “I thought only one. Sorry.”
She wanted to hit him, but there was the matter of the gun, so she opted for, “What are you doing here?”
“I come for you. I hope you make it this far. We are twenty meters below the chamber where we speak before. This mountain is a big maze.”
“Where are your pals?”
He motioned behind her. “Varga and the other two. I lose them. But you will never get past them. They are back there, behind me. Not a good way out in that direction.”
He handed her his weapon.
“I am not one of them. I am scientist. I hate Soviets. I hate Russians.”
She grasped the gun, checked the magazine, and—satisfied that it was loaded—wrapped her finger around the trigger.
“You
are
a Russian,” she said, motioning with the gun.
“I hate the country and everything it is. I want to leave.”
“Find an embassy.” She brushed past him.
Sokolov grabbed her arm. “I do not go back to Russia.”
In the flashlight’s glow she saw the desperation in his eyes. He was serious.
“Then leave. The Cold War is over.”
“Not for me. Russians will make me stay.”
There was nothing she could do. “Not my problem.”
“I save you,” he said, as if she owed him.
She stared him straight in the eye. “How have you saved me?”
“I can show.”
Which would buy her time to think and make a smart decision.
Besides, she held the gun.
“Okay. Show me.”
She stared at the spectacular scene.
They’d left the tunnel and were standing at the base of an inverted cone of towering rock. The funnel swept upward fifty-plus meters to a ragged opening that revealed a wind-ravaged sky.
A misty rain showered down.
The sides of the escarpment were stained black with moss and lichens. An irregular pool had formed in the floor beneath the opening high above, the water a blood red. A thousand raindrops disrupted its surface.
She stepped over and tested the water.
Warm. Red probably from iron.
She stared up to the sky. “What I wouldn’t give for a rope, some crampons, and an ice pick.”
She stepped back, allowing the rock to block the rain, and checked her watch. 8:20 A.M . Amazing the thing still worked. She watched more clouds roll past above, driven by air that could only be heard.
“Chasm is here millions of years,” Sokolov said. “Formed when mountain formed.”
“What’s your story?”
“I am geologist. Oil research is my specialty, but Russians care not less. They need a rock expert. You are right. They want uranium. I come to confirm the find.”
The situation was infinitely better than just a few minutes ago, but she was still imprisoned. She should be home in France, working on her castle. Block by block she was re-creating the walls using the same tools and materials as 700 years ago. Medieval architecture was her passion. And, as Sokolov had correctly noted earlier, she could afford the indulgence. Yet here she was in southern Bulgaria, trapped inside a mountain with a man who she could not decide was friend or foe.
“Over there,” Sokolov said, pointing.
She stayed back, gun ready, and followed him to the far side where the rock floor dropped down five meters. Her flashlight beam revealed a façade chiseled from the stone, blocks rising on two sides and joined across the top, connected by clearly defined joints.
“A doorway,” she muttered.
“That is what you came for.”
She knew Thracians always framed the openings to their tombs in elaborate ways.
“I find it two days ago,” Sokolov said. “This is real tomb. The other is some sort of ante-chamber.”
“You didn’t tell the others about this?”
He shook his head. “Not a word.”
“Why?”
“Go and see.”
“How about we both go?” she said.
He climbed down first, using the boulders as
“I am not the enemy,” Sokolov said.
“Go left? That’s what you told me to do.”
He nodded. “Bomb to right.”
“Bomb to left, too.”
His face registered surprise. “I thought only one. Sorry.”
She wanted to hit him, but there was the matter of the gun, so she opted for, “What are you doing here?”
“I come for you. I hope you make it this far. We are twenty meters below the chamber where we speak before. This mountain is a big maze.”
“Where are your pals?”
He motioned behind her. “Varga and the other two. I lose them. But you will never get past them. They are back there, behind me. Not a good way out in that direction.”
He handed her his weapon.
“I am not one of them. I am scientist. I hate Soviets. I hate Russians.”
She grasped the gun, checked the magazine, and—satisfied that it was loaded—wrapped her finger around the trigger.
“You
are
a Russian,” she said, motioning with the gun.
“I hate the country and everything it is. I want to leave.”
“Find an embassy.” She brushed past him.
Sokolov grabbed her arm. “I do not go back to Russia.”
In the flashlight’s glow she saw the desperation in his eyes. He was serious.
“Then leave. The Cold War is over.”
“Not for me. Russians will make me stay.”
There was nothing she could do. “Not my problem.”
“I save you,” he said, as if she owed him.
She stared him straight in the eye. “How have you saved me?”
“I can show.”
Which would buy her time to think and make a smart decision.
Besides, she held the gun.
“Okay. Show me.”
She stared at the spectacular scene.
They’d left the tunnel and were standing at the base of an inverted cone of towering rock. The funnel swept upward fifty-plus meters to a ragged opening that revealed a wind-ravaged sky.
A misty rain showered down.
The sides of the escarpment were stained black with moss and lichens. An irregular pool had formed in the floor beneath the opening high above, the water a blood red. A thousand raindrops disrupted its surface.
She stepped over and tested the water.
Warm. Red probably from iron.
She stared up to the sky. “What I wouldn’t give for a rope, some crampons, and an ice pick.”
She stepped back, allowing the rock to block the rain, and checked her watch. 8:20 A.M . Amazing the thing still worked. She watched more clouds roll past above, driven by air that could only be heard.
“Chasm is here millions of years,” Sokolov said. “Formed when mountain formed.”
“What’s your story?”
“I am geologist. Oil research is my specialty, but Russians care not less. They need a rock expert. You are right. They want uranium. I come to confirm the find.”
The situation was infinitely better than just a few minutes ago, but she was still imprisoned. She should be home in France, working on her castle. Block by block she was re-creating the walls using the same tools and materials as 700 years ago. Medieval architecture was her passion. And, as Sokolov had correctly noted earlier, she could afford the indulgence. Yet here she was in southern Bulgaria, trapped inside a mountain with a man who she could not decide was friend or foe.
“Over there,” Sokolov said, pointing.
She stayed back, gun ready, and followed him to the far side where the rock floor dropped down five meters. Her flashlight beam revealed a façade chiseled from the stone, blocks rising on two sides and joined across the top, connected by clearly defined joints.
“A doorway,” she muttered.
“That is what you came for.”
She knew Thracians always framed the openings to their tombs in elaborate ways.
“I find it two days ago,” Sokolov said. “This is real tomb. The other is some sort of ante-chamber.”
“You didn’t tell the others about this?”
He shook his head. “Not a word.”
“Why?”
“Go and see.”
“How about we both go?” she said.
He climbed down first, using the boulders as