“I’ve got it.” Remi said through clenched teeth, taking Sam’s end. “Go ahead.”
Sam hurried forward, bent over the lid, and slipped his fingers under its near side. He leaned backward and straightened his legs. The lid popped up and slid free between his legs. The L bracket popped free with a metallic twang.
Together, they stepped around the lid and leaned forward, their headlamps panning over the sarcophagus’s contents.
“Bones, bones, and more bones,” Remi said.
“And not a glint of gold in sight,” Sam replied. “One down, two to go.”
Though neither of them voiced the worry, Sam and Remi both had the gut feeling that whichever sarcophagus they chose next, it too would be the wrong choice. Similarly, neither of them dared acknowledge the nagging voice of doubt in the back of each’s head—that Father/Bishop Besim Mala had not been faithful to the King of Mustang’s request and that the second Theurang disk had been long ago discarded or lost, along with the Golden Man and, if Jack Karna were right, the location of Shangri-La.
Thirty minutes and a second sarcophagus lid later, they found themselves staring at a second set of bones and a second strikeout.
Ninety minutes after they entered the church, they slid back the lid of the third and final sarcophagus. Exhausted, Sam and Remi sat before it and took a minute to catch their breath.
“Ready?” Sam said.
“Not really, but let’s get it over with,” replied Remi.
On hands and knees, they crawled forward, went on either side of the stone lid, and, after taking a deep breath, peeked over the edge into the sarcophagus.
From the blackness a sliver of gold winked back at them.
25
SOFIA, BULGARIA
Shortly after dawn, exhausted but triumphant, they were back on the peninsula and on their way to the hotel in Vlorë.
Having already expressed to Selma concern over shipping the Theurang disk back to San Diego via standard means, Sam and Remi found their chief researcher had, predictably, made alternative arrangements. Rube Haywood, their old CIA friend, had given her the name and address of a reliable and discreet courier service in Sofia. Whether the service was somehow affiliated with his employer, Rube declined to say, but the sign over the building’s door, which read “Sofia Academic Archivist Services Ltd” told Sam all he needed to k
now.
“It’ll be there no later than noon tomorrow local time,” Sam told Remi. “You have directions for me?”
Remi smiled and held up her iPad. “Plugged in and ready to go.”
Sam put the Fiat into gear and pulled out.
When they got to within a half mile of their destination, Remi’s iPad became unnecessary. Signs in both Cyrillic and English led them down Vasil Levski Street, then past the Parliament building and the Academy of Sciences, then into the plaza encircling Sofia’s religious heart, the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral.
The cross-domed basilica dominated the square, its gold-plated central dome rising a hundred fifty feet above the street and its bell tower twenty-five feet above that.
Reading from her downloaded tourist guide, Remi said, “Twelve bells at a total weight of twenty-four tons, ranging in weight from twenty pounds to twenty-four thousand pounds.”
“Impressive,” Sam replied, following the flow of vehicles around the cathedral. “And deafening, I would imagine.”
They circled the tree-lined square twice before Sam pulled onto a side street and found a parking spot.
Their stop at Alexander Nevsky Cathedral would merely be a launching pad, they both knew. While both Selma and Karna agreed that Bishop Arnost Deniv had died in Sofia in 1442, neither had been able to find any details about his final resting place. They hoped the head librarian at Alexander Nevsky would be able to point them in the right direction.
They got out and walked into the square, following the stream of locals and tourists to the cathedral’s west side, where they mounted the steps headed toward the massive wooden doors. As they approached, a blond woman with a bobbed haircut smiled at them and said something in Bulgarian—a question, based on the inflection. They caught the word “English,” assumed the gist of the query, and repeated: “English.”
“Welcome to Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. How may I help you?” she said.
“We would like to speak with the head of your library,” replied Remi.
“Library?” the woman repeated. “Oh, you mean archivist?”