Cotton followed Stephanie and their guide down the tunnel on Level IX. The trip into the bowels of the mine had required two elevators, one to Level III, then a second from there to Level IX. Patrycja had used her fob to activate both elevators, confirming her previous observation that not just anyone could descend this deep. She’d also noted that a count was kept of everyone who entered the mine, including every tourist. At the end of each day the ins and outs were reconciled so that nobody could remain. Cleaning crews worked during the day on the upper levels, so at night the mine was essentially shut down, the last tour switching off the lights, everything left in blackness until the following morning.
The time was approaching 6:00 P.M., another hour and a half before the site officially closed. They needed to work fast, staying ahead of not only the tourists but also the Russians, the Poles, and any new Americans who might show up.
A chilly, salt-laced breeze blew in his face, helping dissipate any feelings of claustrophobia. It wasn’t enclosed spaces that drove him nuts. It was enclosed, tight spaces he hated. He had to keep telling himself to ignore the fact that over nine hundred feet of rock lay between him and daylight. Patrycja told them that following the direction of the air served as a means of navigation, one the miners still used. The rough floor was full of obstacles and slippery in places. The silence pressed onto him as if the tunnel were collapsing. He imagined the sounds from a former time, when horses moved the heavy salt blocks, their hooves clunking on the hard floor. Railcars eventually replaced them, which came with the screech of metal on metal.
“You know your way around these tunnels?” Stephanie asked as they walked.
“I bring groups down here all the time. They grind salt like the miners once did.”
The whole place had an air that did not speak of things neglected. Offshoots appeared with regularity leading into more absolute blackness.
“I assume it would be easy to get lost,” he noted.
“More misdirected,” Patrycja said. “At some point you’ll come to stairs or an elevator leading up. It’s big, but it’s a finite world.”
He smiled at her sarcasm.
“Keep an eye out for the White Lady, though,” she said.
Had he heard right? A Dame Blanche? Obviously not a chocolate sundae. So he asked what she meant.
“The miners called her Bieliczka. Supposedly a spirit that roams the tunnels looking for a miner she’d once loved.”
Good to know.
The tunnel spanned about six feet wide and eight tall, and the steady breeze kept bringing a measure of comfort. The darkness seemed omnipotent and impenetrable, but not frightening. No sunrises or sunsets happened here. No midnights or middays. For those long-ago miners who worked here for weeks at a time, only the light from their lanterns had brought a reprieve.
He thought of those miners and how they probably heard down here, for the first time, the sound of their own breath, their own heartbeat. How odd that must have been. But the silence was also threatening since it lulled the brain into a false sense of security. He had to constantly tell himself to stay alert. Trouble could be around the next turn. Or behind them? Hard to know anything for sure.
If Cassiopeia could see him now.
She would not be happy.
But at least he’d be done and back in Copenhagen by tomorrow evening. They’d have a great weekend. Dinner at Nyhavn. Then Tivoli on Saturday or Sunday. They both loved the amusement park. She’d stay until Tuesday or Wednesday, then head back to southern France. Her castle reconstruction project kept going forward. No surprise. She was a determined woman who could do anything she set her mind to.
He focused on thoughts of her as a way to avoid the obvious discomfort around him. How she painted her bread with butter in short, even strokes covering every square inch until the knife was shiny clean. Salt was always poured into her open palm before being dispensed. Never did she eat ice cream in a cone—too much pressure to perform before it melted. She hated apple juice, but loved apples, green ones especially. And potato chips. She loved them with only spicy mustard.
Everyone had their quirks.
God knew he had a long list of them.
He’d have to come clean about all that had happened this week, and she wouldn’t be happy to have been left out. But she’d understand, like always. That was their way. They both tended to find trouble. And they both always tried to handle it—by themselves. Admitting they needed help seemed a weakness.
But he trusted no one more than Cassiopeia.
She’d never let him down.
Nor would he disappoint her.
The tunnel drained into a chamber.
Several shadows, large and fast, detached themselves from the darkness and assumed form in their lights. Two weathered statues, whose florid features had fallen into a portrait of despair. They framed the entrance to a nave cut into the far wall through the salt.
“St. Peter of Alcantara on the left. St. Casimir on the right,” Patrycja said. “Not in good shape, as you can see. Leached by humidity and water leaks. Everything on this level has succumbed to some degree.”
With his headlamp he studied the rest of the chamber.
“The chapels were strategically placed,” Patrycja said. “Near wells and shafts, where new salt deposits were found, so prayers could be conducted. They were also landmarks. Lamps burning inside them were source points for workers, a place where they could safely congregate and reignite their own when it extinguished.”
Stephanie stayed quiet and he saw the concern on her face. Here they were. Underground. One gun between them. Were they alone? So far, so good. He found her gaze and said with his eyes, Why don’t you stay here? Let me finish this.
She shook her head.
My problem. My fix.
“St. Bobola is that way,” Patrycja said, pointing to an exit off to the right.
He gestured for Stephanie to go first.
Something echoed in the distance.
A clattering sound.
Far off, like a stone down a deep well.
And the hair on the back of his neck bristled.