From Thailand with Love Page 10

  “Cheery.” I chuckle nervously. The statue reminds me of the reclining Buddha I saw in the Wat Pho temple in Bangkok.

  “This is a work of art,” Logan says, circling around the table to inspect every inch of the sculpture. “Centuries-old, as ancient and beautiful as his guardians outside… Same artist, I reckon.”

  “So you think the jolly demons outside are there to protect him?”

  Smith regales us with one of his rare conversational pearls. “Nothing else of value in here, Doctor?”

  “Nothing else?” Logan gapes, shocked. “This is the discovery of the century! The beauty, the craftsmanship it must have required to sculpt something so magnificent—”

  “All right, Professor,” Smith interrupts, “no need to get all worked up. I was just wondering if we should search for a hidden treasure chamber or something.”

  For the first time, I notice the room is a dead-end: stone walls all around and nowhere else to go. Logan seems to realize it at the same time I do, because he spins on his feet to examine each of the walls in turn. I follow his lead and brush my fingertips on the stone of the left wall. The entire surface is carved with decorations similar to those on the pillars outside. But whilst the two side walls are flat, the one at the back has a wide, square recess in its middle. Just tall enough to fit a man.

  That’s where Logan stops his focus and beam of light.

  “Well, well,” Smith says. “What do we have here… If it doesn’t look like the entrance of a secret passage.”

  In synchrony, we all approach the blocked opening.

  Logan traces its corners with his fingers. “Definitely a separate slab,” he says. “There must be a hidden mechanism somewhere to activate it.”

  I cross my arms and raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? Kind of a heavy door to move without a power source.”

  “Indeed,” Logan agrees. “A stone like this must weigh at least twenty or thirty tons. But, contrary to booby traps, secret passages were pretty common in ancient buildings. They were triggered by a wide number of counter-weight mechanisms that relied on simple balance principles to move even the greatest masses.” Still searching the stone with his hands, Logan adds, “All we have to do is find the switch.”

  “If you say so,” I reply, even more skeptical.

  Arms crossed over my chest, I lean against the side of the cave to watch Logan in his fool’s errand, but as my shoulder comes in contact with the wall, the rock doesn’t stay put.

  A carved disk about ten inches in diameter sinks inward, then stops with a loud click.

  And then the stone door begins to move.

  Eleven

  Logan

  The stone beneath my hands starts to tremble and… move!

  “Oh,” Winter gasps next to me.

  “What did you do?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says. “I was just leaning, and this piece of rock sunk back.”

  I grab her face and stamp a kiss on her forehead. “You found the switch!”

  Eyes wide and shocked, Winter blinks at me.

  I awkwardly let her go, clearing my throat. “Err, yeah. Great work.”

  I pull back, and we stare in silence as the massive stone slab rises slowly and gently from the floor, sliding upward into a cavity in the rock ceiling.

  Beautiful. A simple lever, moved ever so little by pressure at a secret spot, most likely throwing additional weight onto the hidden counter-balances, and causing the monolith to be lifted from the ground.

  The search for the mechanism could’ve taken us ages, assuming we ever found it, but with Winter’s lucky stumble… here we are.

  With the door now open, we encounter yet another dark passageway. I don’t walk in right away, my excitement so intense I’m petrified on the spot. What lies beyond? Could it really be a secret treasure chamber? What riches will we find? And what if there’s nothing? Doesn’t matter, Logan, a lost civilization is already the greatest discovery of the century. Like finding a whole new pyramid site no one knew about, not just a mere tomb. Why am I so nervous, then? Because, ah, the possibilities…

  “Are we going to check it out or what?”

  Smith’s prosaic words shake me out of my internal freeze.

  “Sure,” I say, peering again down the dark passage and then plunging inside.

  Following the tunnel for a few yards, we come to an elaborately painted wooden door standing wide open. Whoever was here last either didn’t have the time to shut it or forgot to.

  “Go on,” Smith says impatiently.

  Holding my breath, I step through the doorway.

  Winter and the soldier press in after me, and we enter a room hewn out of the living rock. On the floor, to the right, a patch of lighter stone catches my gaze. The size and shape are that of a big, missing trunk. That, and the wooden door we found ajar, point to an earlier pillaging. One that must’ve happened centuries ago.

  “Hey, Professor,” Smith calls. “Point your flashlight this way.”

  I follow his voice to the opposite side of the chamber, illuminating several large wooden boxes painted gold. About ten by twenty inches in size, they’re stacked against the far left wall from the ground up.

  “Wow,” Winter says, adjusting the headlamp on her forehead so that it points directly at one box. “What do you think is inside?”

  Just as she finishes talking, her light flickers. The device sputters for a few seconds and then goes completely dark.

  “Hey.” She takes the headlamp off and beats it on her palm to revive it, with no effect. “It’s dead!”

  “Nothing to worry about,” I say. “Mine’s working just fine.”

  We return our attention to the boxes, and I train my light on one at the top and take it down. Even if the room is dry, the lid appears to have rotted over time. Still, a golden lock keeps it secured to the base of the box. I tug at the lock gently, not wanting to break anything, but it doesn’t give way.

  Smith lets out a sailor’s curse and pushes me to the side, saying, “Let me handle it.” Before I can stop him, he punches the covering, his fist smashing through the rotten wood.

  “Hey!” I protest. “Are you crazy? We need to preserve these boxes; they’re artifacts of inestimable value, no matter what they might contain. From now on, you won’t touch a single—”

  The soldier interrupts my reprimand with a scream of pure joy. “Gold!” Smith plunges his other hand into the box as well and then draws both out full of gold coins that slip through his fingers to go tinkling down to the floor.

  I’m momentarily stunned—both by the sight of all that gold, and also by his egregious mistreatment of precious ancient artifacts. Then I regain my wits and shout, “Stop! We will not move anything before it’s been properly identified and cataloged. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Ah!” Smith says, replacing the coins, “but I have a friend here who begs to disagree with you, Professor.”

  “What friend?” I say, confused.

  The soldier flashes me a grin that sends a cold shiver down my back, while Winter positions herself next to me, touching my arm from behind.

  “Logan,” she warns in a low voice.

  “See, Professor, Uncle Sam’s retirement package isn’t as generous as I’d like. I’d be more than happy to round my pension up a little.” And then, with a snicker at the boxes, he adds, “Or a lot, if you know what I mean…”

  Comprehension finally dawns. “You mean to steal the gold!”

  Smith scoffs and cocks his head at Winter, who’s hiding behind my shoulder. “A bit slow, isn’t he?”

  I make to step forward, but Winter holds me back while Smith points his rifle at us.

  “Are you for real?” I ask incredulously. “You’ll never get away with it.”

  “We’ll see about that,” the mercenary says, leering up into my face. “For now, you be a good boy and try not to make my friend”—he pats his M16—“angry. You wouldn’t wan
t anything bad to happen to you or the lady.”

  I’d kill him with my glare if I could, but sadly eye daggers are the only weapons I have. He has me beat, and he knows it.

  “Great.” Smith nods. “I see we understand each other. Now, shall we explore the rest of the chamber? I’m sure we’re all interested in seeing what other treasures it might hold.” With the barrel of the rifle, he directs us forward. “You go first, and don’t try anything funny.”

  Still holding the only source of light on top of my head, I walk deeper into the room until I come across a nook about four feet deep and shaped like a bow window. Three stone chests rest below its arch.

  Smith comes up beside us. “And what do we have here? Open them,” he orders.

  I crouch next to the chests and study them. The stone lids aren’t secured by a lock, and when I try to lift the first, it’s heavy but it gives. I raise the lid enough to slide it over to the side and lower it to the ground, careful not to let go too quickly as not to damage it, no matter how much my straining muscles are screaming at me to just drop the damn thing.

  Once the top slab is safely on the floor, I lean forward to examine the interior of the chest. But when the light on my head comes in contact with its contents, a silvery sheen dazzles me, blinding me for a second.

  “Whoa!” Winter exclaims next to me.

  Soon, my eyes grow used to the gleam, and when I peer inside the chest again, I realize with a gasp that it’s filled with uncut diamonds, most of them of considerable size.

  “Yes!” Smith shouts. “This day keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? I’m going to be the richest man in the world. The black market is getting flooded with diamonds.”

  The mercenary hunches over and picks up a few, only to let them drop in the chest again.

  “You realize you have to carry these through an entire jungle before you can even reach the black market,” I say. “With no one catching you.”

  “You’re quite right, Professor,” Smith croaks. “But let’s first see how many stones we’re talking about.” He gestures for me to open the other chests.

  I begrudgingly follow his orders and set to work pulling the heavy stone lids off the other two chests. Both are filled to the brim with precious gems—not diamonds, but a mix of rubies, emeralds, sapphires…

  “Hoorah!” Smith chants and looks about himself. The room has come to a dead end. “Well, then, this is it. Great.”

  The rogue soldier walks back to the wooden chests of coins and beckons us to follow him.

  “Better get to work,” he says. “We have what? Sixteen… no, eighteen boxes of gold to move, gems to relocate…” He turns to the patch of lighter stone with a rueful glint in his eyes. “Pity whatever stood there got stolen already.” He sighs and shrugs. “All right, let’s get started. Give me the light, Professor, and you can begin moving those boxes outside.”

  I unstrap the headlamp and surrender it before I pick up the first box. It’s heavy—must weigh about twenty pounds—but easily transportable.

  Smith wiggles the flashlight at Winter. “You, too, Miss Knowles. In the army, we’re all for gender equality.”

  She glares witheringly at him, but the gun in her face leaves her little option but to do as she’s told. Winter picks up a box and follows me outside as Smith illuminates the way.

  We repeat the journey through the vaulted path nine times. And once all the boxes are stored outside, Smith motions for us to go back inside. When we reach the treasure chamber, he unhooks his backpack from his shoulders and tosses it to Winter.

  “Empty it,” he orders.

  Rather unceremoniously, Winter capsizes the bag, its contents tumbling to the floor: various food provisions, a water canteen, a hunting knife, a lighter, and a first aid kit. She doesn’t spare the objects on the floor a second glance; she’s too busy glaring at the colonel. But my eyes immediately fly to the blade, and Smith’s malevolent gaze follows mine there.

  “Give that a kick, Professor,” the soldier says.

  I do as he ordered, sending the weapon skittering out of my reach.

  “Now, Miss Knowles.” Smith jerks his chin toward the empty backpack. “If you’d be so kind as to fill the bag with all the gems over there, I’d be terribly grateful.”

  Winter walks back to the stone chests and, kneeling on the floor, makes a quick job of transferring the precious stones into Smith’s backpack. Once she’s done, she rejoins me in the center of the room, glaring at the soldier.

  “You can stay there and slide the bag toward me,” he instructs.

  She does, and Smith, keeping his eyes carefully trained on us, bends down and slings the now heavy sack over his shoulders.

  “Okay,” the colonel says, theatrically pointing the rifle back in our faces. “This has been tremendous fun, but I’m afraid I must leave.”

  “What?” Winter protests. “You can’t mean to leave us locked up in here!”

  “Apologies, Miss Knowles, but I must.”

  “But we’re going to die if you trap us in here!”

  “Oh, hush, don’t be so negative. You have to survive a couple of days—three, tops. I’m sure someone will come and rescue you, eventually.”

  “Smith, please, you don’t have to lock us up,” I say. “Tie our hands and leave us outside. Give us a chance.”

  “Yeah, you’re right, Professor, I don’t strictly have to ditch you here.” The mercenary seems to consider. “I could have you walk outside with me and then find something to tie you to… But this is a huge building, and there’s two of you and only one of me. Why risk it? So much simpler to just leave you here…”

  “Because we could die!” Winter repeats.

  “You have food and water.” The colonel points at the floor and at our own backpacks. “You should be fine, unless”—he takes a whiff at the room—“you run out of air.” He lets out a bone-chilling laugh. “In which case, I’m really sorry.”

  He starts backtracking toward the exit, the barrel of his rifle unflinchingly pointed at us.

  “Wait,” Winter calls desperately. “Aren’t you even going to leave us the flashlight?”

  “Sorry, miss, kind of need it out there.”

  We watch him creep away like the poisonous snake he is, the room growing ever darker. Soon he is gone, and we can only hear the stone door closing, all thirty tons of it, slowly pressing down toward the rock below and effectively sealing us in with no means of escape.

  Twelve

  Logan

  For a moment, we both stand still, engulfed in the oppressing darkness around us. Buried alive.

  No, I refuse to accept that fate. There must be a way out, another secret lever to set the door in motion from within the chamber. But we need to see to search for it.

  “Try your flashlight again,” I tell Winter.

  I hear rustling, and a few seconds later a feeble beam of light cuts through the darkness, illuminating Winter’s anxious face.

  “Great,” I say.

  “Great?” she hisses back, her features going from scared to angry. “There’s nothing great about our current situation. In case you haven’t noticed, that nice little stone just dropped to the floor and we’re standing on the wrong side of it. So unless you’re hiding a secret stash of dynamite in your backpack, I don’t see how we’re ever going to get out.”

  “Don’t be so pessimistic. Whoever built this place must have left a switch for the door on the inside—otherwise, they’d risk getting trapped themselves. We just have to find the button before your lamp goes out again.” I point at the flashlight. “Let’s go.”

  We run down the passage and stop at the door. With desperate energy, we begin to feel up and down the slab of stone and the sides of the tunnel. But we find no knob, or contraption, nor a retracting disk.

  “There’s nothing here,” Winter says in a panicked voice. “It doesn’t work from the inside.”

  I let my palms roam t
he bare walls a little longer before I have to admit defeat.

  “Let’s go back to the other room and check our supplies,” I say.

  In the treasure chamber, Winter sits behind Smith’s leftover stockpile and balances the headlamp on the floor so that the light points up in a vertical beam. Then she sorts the food, looking around herself with a forlorn expression.

  “Well,” she sighs. “At least our grave will be pretty.”

  I sit next to her. “Don’t be melodramatic. No one’s going to die.”

  “No? And how do you suppose we’re getting out?”

  “We came with a team, remember? When we don’t return, they’ll come find us.”

  “What if Smith ‘deals’ with them the way he dealt with us?”

  “Someone will notice the camp has gone silent. Both Dr. Boonjan and I checked in regularly with the satellite phone, and Somchai did too to coordinate supply runs with the villagers.”

  “Even if someone does notice we’re missing, they still have to get to us through the jungle. And then they have to figure out how to open the secret door! What if they can’t? What if they don’t even realize it’s there?” Her voice rises a notch. “We’re going to die in here.”

  She makes some excellent points, but I refuse to give up hope. We need to stay calm and coherent, and the best way to do that is to busy ourselves with mundane tasks. “We’re not going to die,” I say firmly. “Now, let’s be practical and see where we’re at with provisions.”

  My steadiness seems to calm her down, and we empty both our backpacks and spread everything on the floor. I do a quick assessment. “We have enough food for three or four days, but water is going to become a problem much sooner. We’ll have to ration it.”

  “Splendid,” Winter replies, sarcastic.

  I take a sip from my canteen and encourage Winter to do the same. We share a protein bar, allow ourselves another sip of water, and then I get up to better explore the walls of our prison, in the faint hope of finding some means of escape. But my systematic examination yields no results yet again.