In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers (30 page)

Conall thought back to that day, months before, in the captain’s stateroom, when he’d told Hudson about Faro and the treasure map, and the way he had laughed. At last he understood. “Do the wildmen know? Is that why it’s sacred?”
 

“Tugon knows for sure, knowledge is passed down through the shaman,” the captain said. “The tribes are aware that it’s to do with nature, protecting the earth, so she can grow healthy once more. That’s why they’ll kill to protect it.”
 

“Seeds? Nothing but seeds,” Adam muttered.
 

“And priceless,” Erica still had hold of her daughter’s hand, keeping her close. “Seeds from across the world, every country and climate. Trees and plants, saved so they can be regrown. We lost so much in the warming. But the best of nature is here.”

“We can replant,” the captain said, “bring back the crops, the fruit trees, the forests. That’s why we came to Spitsbergen, why we repaired
The Arkady
. To rescue the seed bank for the future.”

Conall smiled to see the look of disbelief on his father’s face. “Can these seeds still grow, after all this time?”
 

“They weren’t all foolish, the people of the old world,” the captain said. “They put them deep inside the mountain to keep them cool even if power failed. Even if the world fell apart”
 

Safe, Conall thought, but not from the meddling of a man like Argent. “Jonah’s going to open the rooms.”
 

“And do a lot of damage.” Captain Hudson’s mouth was pulled tight, his lips white, a frown on his forehead, as if struggling with a decision that had to be made, that he didn’t want to make. “We have to warn Tugon. Send the Oduma to stop Jonah. There’s no time to lose.”

“They’ll kill him,” Conall said.
 

“It’s the greed that’ll kill him.” The captain balled his fists and rubbed the side of his face, as if condemning the man to death, sad to do it, but willing to give the order, all the same.
 

“Stop, wait, I’ll go. I’ll stop him, I promise.”
 

“He won’t listen to you,” the captain said.
 

“I’ll tell him the truth. He knows when I’m lying. And when I’m not.”
 

“You might be right,” the captain said. “For all his faults, he’s a wily old goat. Fine, go, but you don’t have long. I’ll still send Tugon. Soon as I see him, I’ll tell him. You’ve got a head start, that’s all.”
 

Adam gripped Conall’s arm, holding him back. “How will you get there?”
 

“Boat’s too slow. I’ll run.”

“And I’ll be right behind you.” Adam held up a handgun. “Go ahead, I’ll be slower than you, but if you can’t stop him, I will.”
 

Conall handed Rufus to Heather, one more time. Their eyes met, for an instant. He turned, ran across the gangplank to the quayside, jostling through the crowd, never looking back but aware that his father was close behind.
 

It was three miles or more to the site. The walk had taken the slaves a full hour of trudging. He could run it in twenty minutes. But only if he kept going. He barged through the throng on the quayside and headed for the main gate, refusing to stop for the wildmen who controlled it now. Ignoring their shouts, he kept running, headlong, desperate, and determined.

≈≈≈≈

A fresh wind coming from the north stung his cheeks. Conall’s heart pounded and his thighs burned from the effort of running. He kept watch on the fjord and the open sea beyond hoping for a sight of the patrol boat. There was no sign of it, nor the sailboat Jonah had taken. Argent and his men must have reached the site already. He kept running. He had to make it. He had to stop them.
 

By the time he neared the old airport Conall ached with tiredness, ready to drop from exhaustion. He hadn’t slept for a day and a night and his mind span, giddy but somehow clear, kept awake by persistence and need and determination. Adrenalin and stubbornness drove him forward.
 

He ran up the slope towards the stone circle. A shout from behind made him look back. His father was a half mile off, doubled over from the effort of running. Adam pointed towards the fjord. Conall followed the line of sight, and spotted it. The patrol boat was moored offshore, half-hidden from view by a rocky outcrop. Faro hadn’t fled, he wasn’t on his way to Greenland. He’d come for one more try at the treasure. Intent, it seemed, on getting himself killed.
 

Conall ran on, and as he came over a lip of land he saw the site changed utterly. The guards had gone, and the watchtowers stood empty. Even the dead bodies had been moved. But the truck was here, and someone had used it to move the rubble. A metal chain hung from the back of it, a massive boulder still attached.

The entrance to the tunnel, cut into solid rock, stood exposed to the world.

No sign of Jonah and the others, or of Faro and his slavers. Had they fled with their spoils, or they were still inside? Alive or dead, there was no way to tell, but no time to waste, and no option but to go deep into the darkness.
 

At the tunnel entrance thick metal doors had been prised open. The first line of defence protecting the seeds had been breached. He called Jonah’s name, yelled out for ‘Bones’ Bagatt and George Proctor. His voice echoed into the tunnel, but no answer came. He stepped into the gloom, cursing his own foolishness. He hadn’t thought to bring a torch or lantern, not even matches.
 

“Stop them opening the inner doors,” Captain Hudson had told him. The storage chambers would still be airtight, kept at a steady temperature all these years. Once opened, the seeds would be compromised. Thousands of species of trees and plants might be lost.
 

He ran a hand along the wall of the tunnel, expecting bare rock, but the structure had been reinforced with steel. Whoever built this place meant it to outlast the earth itself. He paced the tunnel slowly, methodically, his mind alert to every step and sound. His own breathing echoed back at him, fast and shallow.
 

The tunnel was utterly dark. No electrical power had survived the long years of waiting through the cold dark winters. He heard no sounds. He called out, his voice echoing back with the names of his comrades, and of the brother who might shoot him dead at any moment.
 

He walked deep into the mountain. The tunnel was broad and high and smooth. How could men carve their way through so much rock? How many thousands toiled to make this? How many slaves died? Then he remembered the power of the machines men used in the old days. Did they realise their folly as the Earth boiled? Is that why they dug here, burrowing back into the womb of the world that bore them, hoping one day life would be reborn?
 

He walked fifty, sixty metres into the tunnel, deep inside the body of the mountain. He kept going. Then he sensed an opening to his right, the faintest temperature change registering on his skin. He crossed the tunnel, felt along the wall. A doorway. He stepped inside, called out again, his voice hesitant. This darkness made him uneasy. He fumbled, his arms outstretched. He stumbled, groaning in anger as his leg struck the sharp corner of a wooden table.

The room was an office. Not here. He had to go deeper. Conall returned to the tunnel, running his hand along the wall, bare rock now, deep inside the naked earth, until he came to a wall blocking his way. He felt along the rock until he found the door to the inner chamber. His fingers explored the smooth metal. The airtight seal to the vault had been broken. The door was partially ajar. He took hold of the handle and swung it wide. Utter darkness. He called for Jonah. A voice groaned in pain. A torch flashed on, the light blinding, straight in his eyes.
 

“Conall?” Faro said. “What are you doing here? Stay out. Stay away.”
 

“Is Jonah here?”
 

The light flashed from his face, moving around the room. Conall heard scrabbling, then a match striking and a paraffin lamp spluttered into life. Dim, flickering, but light all the same. Faro lit a second lamp and raised it level with his shoulders. Conall made out a wide room with three doors. One was open: another airtight seal that had been penetrated. Inside he saw row after row of shelves containing rectangular black boxes.
 

From inside the seed room a man groaned in pain. Faro blocked the doorway. He held a gun.
 

“What have you done?” Conall could barely recognise his brother’s face, distorted in this light. His expression seemed tortured, as if he wrestled with himself.
 

“Caught him stealing,” Faro said.
 

“There’s no treasure. Forget it. It’s only seeds.”
 

“Know that now,” Faro said. “But they’re still mine.”
 

“They’re no use to you.”
 

“We’ll find a use,” Faro said. “Everything has a price.”
 

“Where’s Jonah?” Conall pushed passed his brother. Faro held a hand out to stop him. Conall ignored it. Faro could shoot if he had to.
 

He found Jonah lying on the floor, bleeding from a wound to his chest. Conall ripped off a strip of Jonah’s and used it to stem the flow of blood.

“Seeds,” Jonah said, his voice weak, little more than a gargle. “Nothing but damned seeds. Not worth anything.”
 

Faro laughed. “You see what he knows? He understands nothing.”
 

“That brother of yours…” Jonah said.
 

“Where’s Bagatt, the engineer?” Conall whispered.
 

“Outside, keeping watch.”
 

“Not there now.”
 

“If you’re hoping your friends will help, forget it,” Faro said. “My men took them to our boat.”
 

“So it’s just us.” Conall said it loud enough to be sure Faro would hear. But their father was coming. And he had a gun. He held his shirt tight against Jonah’s wound. He called to his brother. “Leave the seeds and go. Don’t come back or the wildmen will kill you. And the seeds stay here, for Captain Hudson. He has plans for them. And for the Oduma. They’ve protected them for years.”
 

“I’ve claimed them for the company,” Faro said. “They’re ours now. Besides, they were put here by people like us.”
 

“They belong to everyone.”

“But I’ve got them,” Faro said.
 

Adam’s voice echoed down the corridor, calling Conall’s name.
 

He had to keep his father away from Faro. He yelled as loud as he could. “Get help, get Tugon, run.”
 

“What’s going on? Conall are you all right?” Adam’s voice grew louder as he moved closer.
 

“Stay back. Get out.”
 

“Who’s there with you?”
 

“Stop.” Faro had his gun pointed at the old man. Right between the eyes.
 

“Faro, it’s me, your father.”

“I know who you are. It won’t help you. I should pay you back for what you did to us, leaving us on Shetland. You’re no father. You’re a stupid old fool.”
 

Jonah shifted position, stretched out his arm, touched his walking cane.
 

“Put the gun down, Faro,” Adam said.
 

“So you can steal our seeds? I’ve claimed them. We’ll look after them from here.”

“You won’t shoot me,” Adam said.
 

“I will,” Faro said.
 

“What about your brother? You’ll shoot him too?”
 

“Why not? I shot Jonah.”
 

Conall put his hand on Argent’s cane. He’d get one chance, no more, and if he got it wrong, one of them would die. Maybe both.

Conall froze. Hudson would send Tugon and his men but when? Not soon enough.

“These seeds belong to the wildmen,” Adam said, “they’ve protected them, for decades.”
 

“They’re savages.” Faro’s face was twisted with anger, his hand trembling as he held the gun in his father’s face.
 

If Faro hesitated, if he missed, what would Adam do? Years of slavery had made the man tough inside. He’d be slow to show mercy. In the flickering light Conall saw his father’s hand, moving towards the pocket of his jacket. One of them would kill the other. Unless he did something.
 

Conall drew the sword silently from Jonah’s cane. Jonah put a hand on his arm, urging caution. Adam and Faro argued, back and forth, too loud, too angry to notice.
 

“Forget this company. We’re your family,” Adam yelled at Faro, ignoring the gun barrel aimed at his eyes.
 

“Your family is a failure. The company looks after its people. Not like you.”
 

“We never meant to leave you,” Adam said. “It broke our hearts.”
 

“You did it though.” Faro’s neck was craned forward, the veins on his temples bulging.
 

Conall rose silently to his feet.
 

“Conall, stay out of this. That’s an order,” said Adam Hawkins.
 

Conall froze, expecting Faro to look around. His own father had given away his plan. But Faro didn’t look, he didn’t take his eyes off his father, glaring with hatred. He scowled, lips rolling, as if savouring the pleasure of revenge. Faro’s arm straightened, pressing the gun into his father’s forehead.
 

Adam Hawkins spat at his son in defiance. “Slaver. You’re no son of mine.” His hand moved into his pocket, reaching for the gun.

Faro’s finger tensed on the trigger. Conall’s breathing had stopped. His sensed Jonah watching. The first mate grasped Conall’s ankle, urging him not to move, not to act, not to strike. Adam Hawkins raised a hand, blocking Conall. “Stay out of this son.”
 

“Stay back,” Faro said. “This is between me and him.”
 

Orders. Orders. From his older brother, his new-found father, from the first mate of the ship where he crewed. All his life he’d been following one or other of these men, letting them do the thinking, make the decisions. But he was done with that. His brother or his father, both or neither, whatever happened, Conall wouldn’t be told to sit down and shut up any more.“Damn your orders, damn you all.”