The Warsaw Protocol: A Novel(27)
Konrad stopped and faced him and Vic, removing something from his pocket. A piece of paper that he unfolded.
“This is a map for this level.”
They were dressed in coveralls. Each wore a carbon dioxide absorber. The only light on the map came from their helmet lamps, which collectively illuminated a printed maze of tunnels and chambers. The routes twisted, curved, and intersected like spaghetti. With so many chambers it would be impossible to keep any of it straight if not for the fact that the vast majority were named.
He noticed five red X’s on the map beside labels.
Konrad traced a route with his finger, following the X’s. Go??bie. Barany. Sroki. Szczygielec. Jeleń. Pigeons. Sheep. Magpies. Goldfinch. Deer.
“The chambers and tunnels are named for animals, birds, famous visitors, cites, provinces, people, even one for a dragon,” Konrad said. “Most of the labels are centuries old, attached when they were first hewn from the salt.”
And what an endeavor.
Block by block the salt had been removed, starting at the top and continuing down until a vein was tapped out, forming a chamber. Then the miners moved to the next, boring long straight tunnels, called drifts, to connect the chambers, all done for not only excavation but also better ventilation. The result was a maze, kilometers long, apparently made navigable only by the names attached along the way.
“The Barany Chamber is ahead,” Konrad said. “It’s the only one that intersects with this main drift. Vic said you needed a simple clear path to find the end. Here it is.”
Jonty had held off to the last minute with this final detail, now even more important given Reinhardt’s presence. “Has anyone else inquired about this?”
Konrad shook his head. “No one.”
“Do you know if anyone has been on this level the past few days?”
“Surely some of the miners have. But you can only get down here with a fob that frees the elevator. I have one, and about fifty others do, too. We check every level daily. But if you’re asking if anyone has gone to where we’re headed? Not to my knowledge. It’s fairly remote and inaccessible. There’s no reason for anyone to be there.”
They continued down the timber-lined drift, the dry salt beneath their boots crunching with every step like packed snow. A steady breeze swept over them from the ventilation system, which helped alleviate any feeling of being entombed. The air was cool but not uncomfortably so.
Vic toted a backpack containing what would make Jonty rich. He’d decided weeks ago not to keep the cache exposed. Better to place it in a secure location and let the high bidder worry about its procurement. All seven participants possessed the resources to make that happen, along with the ability to hunt down and kill him if they did not get what they paid for.
But he had no intention of cheating anyone.
Quite the contrary.
His reputation had been built on dependability, so he planned to offer Vic’s assistance, if needed, to secure what they’d paid for. Not quite a money-back guarantee, but close enough.
They kept walking and entered another chamber. This one was huge, at least twenty meters high and more than that long and wide.
He marveled at human industry.
At one point over one-third of the entire royal treasury of Poland had been derived from salt. Twenty-seven million tons extracted over seven centuries, each block hacked from the wall with picks, axes, and wedges. Until the 14th century prisoners of war worked the mine as slaves.
Then free men took over.
And no brutality existed as it did in coal, gold, or other mines. Here there was a much more normal existence, the men living below for weeks at a time, working eight-hour shifts, being paid well, which included a generous salt allowance.
The diggers had been the most important in the social hierarchy, and rightly so. Prospectors found the salt. Carriers moved the blocks from the drifts to the shafts so they could be hauled upward. Penitents had the toughest job of all, guarding against deadly methane gas, which seeped from the rock and accumulated at the ceiling. They wore soaking-wet clothes and held long poles with torches on the end, burning off the gas before it became explosive. Water was the chief enemy, seeping down from above, forming brine, chiseling the salt from the ceilings and walls, crystallizing it into cauliflower-like glazes and stalactites, many visible here on this level, reflecting back from their helmet lights.
“This is Sroki,” Konrad said. “It’s one of the largest chambers on this level, but it’s not in good shape, as you can see. Water is seeping in everywhere. Eventually, the miners will come and make repairs.”
Rising on the far side were enormous logs, stacked horizontally onto one another, forming a table-like pillared wall. Cribbing. There to coun teract the enormous downward pressure from the rock and prevent a collapse. He noticed the size of the tree trunks and that most bore no evidence of a saw. Instead, they’d been chopped down with an ax from the nearby forests, the hack marks still there, which confirmed they’d been there a long time. Yet they looked relatively recent, proof of the preservation effects a salt mine had on wood. It could last forever. Provided it didn’t burn. White paint helped make it more visible and retardant. Fire had always been the greatest threat. For centuries miners worked with open lamps in clay bowls, tallow and oil for fuel. An easy matter for a spark to flare, the fire bringing not only flames and heat but also noxious carbon monoxide. There’d been many fires in the mines over the centuries. Some were deadly and had lasted for months, as there was nothing that could be done except seal the area off and allow the flames to burn themselves out. He noticed that some of the cribbing showed traces of charring.