“I knew that ten years ago,” Francesca said.
Brynhild’s thoughts were on the future, not the past. “You’ve instructed my technicians so they can make the process work?”
“Yes. I had to make only a few adjustments in the procedure. You were quite close to perfecting the process, you know.”
“Then we would have developed it in time?”
Francesca thought about it a moment. “Probably not. Your process and mine were like parallel lines. No matter how close they come they never touch. Now that I have done what I said I would, it is time for you to fulfill your side of the bargain.”
“Ah, yes, the bargain.” Brynhild took the radio from her belt and switched it on. She smiled, her cold blue eyes boring into Francesca’s, and said, “Tell the Kradzik brothers that the NUMA woman is all theirs.”
“Wait!” Francesca grabbed Brynhild’s muscular arm. “You promised—”
Brynhild easily shook the smaller woman off. “I also reminded you that I could not be trusted. Now that you have demonstrated your process, your friend is of no use to me.” She brought the phone up to her ear again. Her smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a frown. “What do you mean?” she snapped. Storm clouds gathered on her wide brow. “How long ago?”
She tucked the radio in her belt. “I’ll deal with you later,” she promised Francesca. With a military heel spin she marched for the staff elevator.
Francesca was frozen in shock. T
hen, as Brynhild’s treachery sank in, the fiery anger that had sustained her for ten years was rekindled. If Gamay were dead, it would only make her decision easier to live with. With her jaw set in renewed determination, she headed back into the labyrinth of pipes.
39
GAMAY WAS ALMOST RELIEVED when the pair of husky guards came to take her away. She was bored to pieces, having concluded that the cell was escape-proof unless she could figure a way to blow the door off its hinges. She resolved to talk to someone at NUMA about coming up with James Bond gadgets. But that would have to wait. Her only option now was to watch for a chance to run for it once she was out of the cell.
Her heart sank as the guards ushered her through a maze of corridors. She would become lost before she went ten feet. They stopped in front of a pair of heavy bronze doors at least eight feet high. The surface of the doors was cast with mythological scenes. The theme was heavy on skulls, but for variety there were giants and dwarfs, strange monsters, fierce horses, twisted trees, runes, and lightning around a central motif, a sleek double-ended sailing ship.
One guard pressed a button on the wall, and the doors swung in noiselessly. The other guard prodded her into the room with his gun.
“This isn’t our idea,” he said in what sounded like an apology. The doors clicked shut, and she looked around to get her bearings. “Charming,” she murmured under her breath.
She was in an enormous chamber bigger than a football field. She could trace its outline by the torches lining the walls of the cavernous space. In the center of the room, illuminated by four tall braziers, was a ship, its one square sail unfurled, that looked like the twin of the vessel carved on the doors.
Before becoming a marine biologist Gamay had been a nautical archaeologist, and she knew immediately that it was a Viking ship or a very good replica of one. She wondered if she were in a museum. No, she decided, it was more like an elaborate crypt. Maybe the ship served as a sepulchre as was the custom of the Norsemen. Partly out of curiosity, but mostly because there was no alternative, she began to walk toward the vessel.
As she made her lonely way across the great hall two pairs of red-rimmed eyes observed her progress from the shadows. The same eyes had hungrily watched her earlier on a TV monitor as she languished in her cell. The Kradzik twins had spent hours in front of the screen. They had taken in her every physical feature, from the distinctive dark red hair to the long, slim legs. There was nothing sexual in their voyeurism; that would have been too natural. Their interest was purely in inflicting pain. They were like a dog trained to balance a treat on its nose until the owner gives the okay to swallow. With Gamay enticingly within their reach, their sadistic urges surfaced. Gamay and the other woman had been promised to them. With Brynhild busy in the lab, they decided to claim their toy.
They ordered Gamay brought to the Great Hall. The guards obeyed with some reluctance. The small army that protected Gogstad and occasionally projected its reach, as in Alaska, were all ex-military men, plucked from elite services around the world. In their ranks were former French Legionnaires, U.S. Special Forces, SEALs, Red Army infantry, British paratroopers, and other assorted mercenaries. It was jokingly said in their barracks that a dishonorable discharge was a minimum requirement to work for Gogstad, and jail time was worth a bonus. They would shoot to kill on order, but they considered themselves professionals simply doing their job. The Kradziks were different. Everybody knew the stories of massacre and murder in Bosnia, and there were rumors of their special assignments for Gogstad. The men also knew of their close ties to Brynhild. When they were ordered to deliver the prisoner, they did so without argument.
Gamay was halfway to the ship when she heard the unmistakable sound of motors starting up. The staccato snarl was made even more intense as it echoed off the hard stone walls. Single headlights appeared to the right and left of the ship and began to move slowly in her direction.
Motorcycles.
She could see the silhouettes of the riders. Gamay felt like a deer caught crossing a highway. Then the motors revved up to a high-pitched whine, and the motorcycles came at her like twin rockets.
Her eyes went to the sharp-pointed lances resting on the handlebars.
The riders came at her like grotesque caricatures of jousting knights. Just when it seemed the spears would penetrate her midsection, the motorcycles swerved off. They quickly reversed course and came in behind her. She whirled as they flashed by in a precision criss-cross. They spun around, their motors idling, and once more the headlights faced her on either side like the glowing eyes of a huge purring cat.
The Kradziks were riding the Yamaha 250 dirt bikes that the security guards used to patrol the perimeter of the giant compound. The lances had been borrowed from the weapon collection decorating the Great Hall. The twins were not imaginative men, and their activities, whether the victim was a teenage girl or an elderly man, always followed the same formula: intimidate, terrorize, inflict pain, and kill.
A voice came out from the darkness on the left: “If you run fast . . . ”
Then from the right, “. . . maybe we won’t catch you.”
Fat chance, Gamay thought. She could tell from the voices that she was dealing with the same metal-mouthed morons who had broken into her house. It was obvious to her they simply wanted a little challenge in their sport. She called out, “Let me see you.”
The only sound was the popping idle of the motors. The Kradziks were accustomed to having victims cower and beg for their lives. They didn’t know how to deal with questions, especially from a defenseless woman. Curious, they edged their bikes closer and stopped a few yards away.