The Oracle (Fargo Adventures #11) - Clive Cussler Page 0,116
water.”
Lazlo returned his attention to the mosaic. “Simply stunning. Imagine what it would’ve looked like back in the day.”
Hank nodded. “I expect they’d have a couple of chairs on the far wall so one could sit and admire the beautiful floor.”
“Or sit and admire where this map is hidden.”
Hank glanced at Lazlo. “You think there really is a map down there?”
“I have no idea. But I always say, no time like the present to look.” As Lazlo shifted his feet, bits of dirt and gravel from the platform dropped into the water, the surface rippling as it hit. He watched, fascinated by the subtle changes the moving water had on the pattern of the mosaic, especially the blue and white tiles, which he assumed were originally meant for the reflecting pool in front of the temple.
“You know what I find odd,” Hank said. “The artist didn’t include Narcissus’ reflection in the mosaic. That’s a big part of the legend.”
Narcissus, on the bottom step of the temple, seemed to be looking at his hand draped into the water. “Perhaps,” Lazlo suggested, “beyond the artist’s skills? The reflecting pool is rather digital-looking in comparison to the detail of the temple, the trees, and . . .”
“And what?” Hank asked.
“Quite extraordinary . . . The blue and white squares in the reflecting pool. It’s a pixelated version of the temple.”
José agreed. “Like a digital photo that’s been enlarged.”
“The six columns, the portico, the pediment . . . And Narcissus’ reflection.”
“Where?” Hank asked.
Lazlo said, “Close your eyes and look through your lashes—it’ll smooth out the pixels. See where Narcissus is pointing? The reflection of the stairs? Those tiles on that side are actually darker. Could it be . . . ?”
“Be what?” Hank asked.
“I daresay, it’s a hidden staircase.”
Hank squinted. “Son of a gun . . . It was here the whole time. In the temple ruins.”
“We need photos.” Lazlo patted his pocket. “Left my bloody phone in the kitchen,” he said as a shadow darkened the opening above them.
They looked up to see Amal looking down at them.
“Just in time,” Hank said. “I think we’ve found the map.”
José nodded. “A hidden staircase.”
Hank’s attention was on Amal. “Something wrong?”
“No. Just that Professor Kemp left his phone in the kitchen.”
“Oh, good show,” Lazlo said. “I wanted to take pictures.”
José moved to the edge of the platform, grabbed the ladder, and started down to the bottom level. “I’ve got my phone. I’ll take some photos.”
Lazlo looked at him, then back up to Amal. She had yet to move. “I say, are you well?”
“Fine,” she said and climbed down the ladder.
Below them, José sloshed through the water.
Hank’s attention was on Amal. “Where’s the professor’s phone?”
“In the kitchen. I didn’t want to pry. I . . . I just thought he should know.”
Something in her voice caught Lazlo’s ear. He looked in her eyes and saw fear.
“Don’t move, professor,” Hank said, his gun drawn and aiming at Amal. “You might be willing to sacrifice your own safety, but not someone else’s. Hand me your gun, then down you go.”
“I don’t have a gun,” Lazlo said, holding his hands away from his body. “Whatever you’re thinking, we can get past this. It’s just money.”
“Yes. And your employers have plenty of it. Had Fargo simply allowed his wife to be kidnapped, as I’d first planned, I’d have my ransom and no one would be the wiser. I could’ve safely returned the embezzled funds, paid my debt to Tarek, and we’d all be happy.”
“You set up the kidnapping? Not Warren?”
“I owed Tarek a fortune.” He glanced at Amal. “I doubt anyone would’ve noticed the occasional missing artifact I used to help fund my own search for the scroll until the Fargos arrived.”
“Why?” Amal said, her voice filled with disbelief. “We were all in this together.”
“Together? You don’t get rich working for the university. Just ask LaBelle. Had the Fargos not discovered the missing money, I could’ve continued my search uninterrupted. I was almost home free, until Warren started looking into everything.”
Amal stumbled back against the ladder, her face paling. She started mumbling unintelligibly.
Hank ignored her, instead pointing his gun at Lazlo. “Get the rope.”
Lazlo picked it up, eyeing the tool bucket.
“Just the rope,” Hank said and jerked his jaw at Amal. “Tie her hands behind her back. Make sure it’s tight.”
“You’ll be okay,” Lazlo said softly, wrapping the thick cord around her wrists, then knotting it. “Just stay calm.”
If she heard him, she gave no indication. Her stare seemed vacant. She