brains, mon! Here they are... Floyd, mon, give me the tools.'
Floyd reached into his field jacket and produced a five-inch stone chisel and an all-metal folding hammer. He handed them down to his superior. 'You want help?' he asked.
'There is not room for two,' replied Barak as he started hammering along the cracks.
Three minutes later Moore had managed to dislodge the first block from its surrounding adhesive; he tugged at it, pulling it slowly out of the-cistern wall. Whitehall held the flashlight now, his eyes intent on Moore's manipulations. The block came loose; Floyd reached down and took it from Barak's hands.
'What's behind?' Whitehall pierced the beam of light into the gaping hole.
'Space, mon. Red dirt and space,' said Moore. 'And I think the top of another box. A larger box.'
'For God's sake, hurry!'
'Okay, Charley-mon. There is no dinner engagement at the Mo'Bay Hilton, mon.' Barak chuckled. 'Nothing will be rewritten by a hidden mongoose.'
'Relax.' McAuliff did not look at Whitehall when he spoke. He did not want to. 'We have all night, don't we? You killed a man out there. He was the only one who could have interfered. And you decided he had to die for that.'
Whitehall turned his head and stared at McAuliff. 'I killed him because it was necessary.' Whitehall transferred his attention back to Barak Moore. The second block came loose with far less effort than the first. Barak reached into the space and rocked the stone until the cracks widened and it slid out. Floyd took the block and placed it carefully to one side.
Whitehall crouched opposite the hole, shining the flashlight into it. 'It's an archive case. Let me have it.' He handed Floyd the flashlight and reached across the pit as Barak pulled the receptacle out of the dirt and gave it to him. 'Extraordinary!' said Charles, fingering the oblong box, his knee pressed against the top of the first receptacle on the floor beside him. Whitehall was not going to let either out of his possession.
'The case you mean, mon?' asked Moore.
'Yes.' Whitehall turned the box over, then held it up as Floyd shone the beam of light on it. 'I don't think any of you understand. Without the keys or proper equipment, these bloody things take hours to open. Watertight, airtight, vacuumed, and crushproof. Even a starbit drill could not penetrate the metal... Here! See.' The scholar pointed to some lettering on the bottom surface. 'Hitchcock Vault Company, Indianapolis. The finest in the world. Museums, libraries... government archives everywhere use Hitchcock. Simply extraordinary.'
When the sound came. It had the impact of an earth-shattering explosion, although the noise was distant - that of the whining low gear of an automobile racing up the long entrance drive from the road below.
And then another.
The four men looked back and forth at one another. They were stunned. Outside there was an intrusion that was not to be. Could not be.
'Oh my God, Jesus, mon!' Barak jumped out of the pit.
'Take those tools, you damn fool!' cried Whitehall. 'Your fingerprints!'
Floyd, rather than Barak, leaped into the cistern, grabbed the hammer and chisel, and put them into the pockets of his field jacket. 'There is only the staircase, mon! No other way!'
Barak ran to the stairs. McAuliff reached down for the first receptacle at Whitehall's side; simultaneously, Whitehall's hand was on it.
'You can't carry both, Charley-mon,' said Alex in answer to Whitehall's manic stare. 'This one's mine!' He grabbed the box, jerked it out from under Whitehall's grip, and followed Moore to the stairs. The automobiles, in grinding counterpoint, were getting nearer.
The four men leaped up the stairs in single file and raced through the short corridor into the darkened, rugless living room, the beams of headlights could be seen shining through the slits in the teak shutters. The first car had reached the compact parking area; the sounds of doors opening could be heard. The second vehicle roared in only seconds behind. In the corner of the room could be seen, in the strips of light, the cause for the intrusion: an open-line portable radio. Barak ran to it and, with a single blow of his fist into the metal, smashed the front and then tore off the back antennae.
Men outside began shouting. Predominately one name:
'Raymond!'
'Raymond!'
'Raymond! Where you at, mon!'
Floyd assumed the lead and raced to the rear centre door. 'This way! Quick, mon!' he whispered to the others. He yanked the door open and held it as they all gathered. McAuliff could see in