Theresa's heart was racing as they walked down the long corridor. The house was quiet and the lights were turned low, lending the appearance that Tatiana and Borjin had retired to their private quarters in the south wing. The emptiness was broken when the short doorman popped out of a side room, holding a bottle of vodka. He gave a haughty glance to the captives, then scurried off toward the stairwell and the servants' quarters downstairs.
Wofford hobbled along with exaggerated effect, playing the role of harmless invalid to full effect. Reaching the end of the main corridor, he slowed at the turn, quickly scanning the side passages to ensure there were no other guards or servants about. Passing through the foyer, Wofford waited until they were close to their rooms along the north hall before making his move.
By all appearances, it was simply a careless act. He poked his cane forward and a little out of line, tapping the ground in front of Theresa's right foot. Stepping forth, she caught her foot on the cane and lurched forward in a fall worthy of a Hollywood stuntman. Wofford followed suit, staggering forward as if to fall, then kneeling down on his good leg. He looked over at Theresa, who was sprawled flat on the floor, barely moving. It was up to the guard now.
As Wofford had predicted, the Mongolian guard proved himself more gentleman than barbarian and reached down to help Theresa up. Wofford waited until the guard grabbed Theresa's arm with both hands, then he sprang like a cat. Driving off his good leg, he jumped up and into the guard, whipping his cane up by the stock in a pendulum motion. The curved handle of the cane struck the guard flush under the chin, popping his head back. The force of the blow snapped the wooden cane in two, the loose handle clattering across the marble floor. Wofford watched as the guard's eyes glazed over before he tumbled backward to the ground.
Theresa and Wofford remained motionless in the still household, nervously waiting for a charge of guards down the corridor. But all remained quiet, the only sound in Theresa's ears being the loud thumping in her chest.
"You all right?" Wofford whispered, bending over to help Theresa to her feet.
"I'm fine. Is he dead?" she asked, pointing with a tentative finger at the prone guard.
"No, he's just resting." Wofford pulled out a drapery cord he had purloined from his room and quickly bound the guard's hands and feet. With Theresa's help, he dragged the man along the polished floor to the first of their rooms and across the threshold. Yanking a pillowcase off the bed, he gagged the guard's mouth with it, then closed the door and locked him inside.
"You ready to earn your pyromania stripes?" he asked Theresa.
She nodded nervously, and together they crept to the main foyer.
"Good luck," he whispered, then slipped behind a side column to wait.
Theresa had insisted that she return to the study alone. It made more sense, she convinced Wofford. He moved too slow and noisily on his game leg, which placed them both in greater jeopardy.
Hugging one wall, she scurried down the main corridor as quickly as she dared, stepping lightly on the stone floor. The hallway was still empty and quiet, save for the ticking pendulum of an old clock. Theresa quickly reached the study and ducked through its open door, thankful the guard had turned the lights off on the way out. The dark room gave her cover from the illuminated hallway, and she allowed herself a deep breath to help reduce the anxiety.
Feeling her way across the familiar room, she reached the rear bookcase. Grabbing a stack of books at random, she knelt down and began quietly tearing the pages out in handfuls, crumpling the sheets as they broke free of the bindings. Accumulating a small mound of kindling, she then built a pyramid-shaped stack of books around it, cracking open the spines and facing the loose pages inward. When she was satisfied with her handiwork, she stood and probed around the back of the study until finding a small corner table. Perched on the tabletop was a cigar humidor and a crystal decanter filled with cognac. Theresa grabbed the decanter and began pouring its contents around the room, dumping the last quarter's worth onto her paper pyramid. She returned to the table and opened the humidor, feeling around inside until she found a box of matches that Wofford had discovered earlier. Gripping the matches tightly, she tiptoed to the front of the room and carefully peeked out the door. The main corridor was still quiet.
Creeping back to the book pile, she leaned over, lit one of the matches, and tossed it
onto the cognac-soaked papers. There was no explosive ball of fire or immediate inferno, but just a small blue flame that traveled across the cognac-stained carpet like a river.
"Burn," Theresa urged aloud. "Burn this bloody prison down."
-52-
THEY LOOKED LIKE bogeymen, black-rubbery-skinned ogres moving ghostlike through the trees. Moving in silence, the three dark figures crossed the road in a cumbersome gait, then inched their way up to the side of the aqueduct. A few yards away, the rushing waters of the mountain river echoed across the hillside with a pounding fury. One of the figures stuck an arm into the aqueduct, then flicked on a small penlight. The clear water swirled past at an easy current, unlike the raging river beyond. Pitt turned off the light, then nodded at his companions. They had waited an hour after sundown, until the forested hilltop was nearly pitch-black. A late-rising moon would allow them plenty of darkness for at least another hour or two. Climbing into the back of the truck with Giordino and Gunn, Pitt found their gear organized into three stacks.
"How deep is the aqueduct?" Gunn asked as he slipped into a black DUI neoprene dry suit.
"No more than six feet," Pitt replied. "We could probably get by with snorkels, but we'll use the rebreathers in case we need to stay under a bit longer."
Pitt had already zipped up his dry suit and was slipping on a Drager rebreather harness. Weighing just over thirty pounds, the system allowed a diver to breathe a contained supply of purified air recirculated with carbon dioxide scrubbers. Replacing the large steel air tank with a small tank and pack, the rebreather nearly eliminated visible exhaust bubbles as well. Pitt strapped on a weighted dive belt, then attached a waterproof dive bag. Inside he had placed his shoes, two handheld radios, and his Colt .45. Climbing out of the truck, he surveyed the perimeter area, then ducked his head back into the rear.
"You gentlemen ready for a midnight swim?" he asked.
"I'm ready for a warm bath and a glass of bourbon," Gunn said.
"All set, just as soon as I load up my breaking-and-entering tools," Giordino replied. He rummaged around a toolbox until producing a hacksaw, monkey wrench, crowbar, and portable underwater torch, which he clipped to his belt, then hopped out the back. Gunn followed him out of the truck with an earnest look on his face.
The men made their way to the aqueduct in their black dry suits, each carrying a pair of lightweight dive fins. At the side of the V-shaped channel, Pitt took a final look around. The moon had yet to appear, and visibility under the partly cloudy skies was no more than thirty feet. They would be virtually undetected in the aqueduct.
"Try to keep your speed down. We'll pull out under the small bridge just inside the compound wall," Pitt said, pulling on his fins. He checked his regulator, then pulled down his mask and gently rolled into the aqueduct. Gunn splashed in a few seconds behind, then Giordino slipped in to follow from the tail position.
The bone-chilling river water would have frozen an unprotected man in minutes, but for Pitt in his dry suit, it felt like only a cool breeze. He'd nearly overheated hiking to the aqueduct in the insulated dry suit and was actually thankful for the cooling effect, despite the bitter chill around his mouth and face mask.
The gravity-induced water in the aqueduct flowed faster than he expected, so he shifted his feet forward and lay prone on his back. Lazily kicking his fins against the downward flow, he was able to slow his speed to a walking pace. The aqueduct followed the winding course of the road, and Pitt felt himself snake from one side to the other as he descended. The concrete channel was coated with a thin layer of algae, and Pitt bounced and slipped easily off its slimy walls.
It was almost a relaxing ride, he thought, gazing up at the sky overhead and the thick pine trees lining the bank. Then the trees gradually fell away, and the aqueduct channel straightened as it flowed through an open clearing. The dim glow of a light shined ahead, and Pitt could just make out the top of the compound wall rising in the distance.