"But I can show you what I showed Father Giovanni!" Lyle suddenly said brightly. "It's not a cave, but it's just as good."

"What?" Gray asked.

"Come see. My friends and I play down there all the time." Lyle took off like a shot. They had to run to keep up with him.

"We're not in that big of a hurry," Kowalski grumbled.

"Speak for yourself," Rachel said.

Lyle led them back around the tower. This time he headed in the opposite direction from before. He came almost full circle, but then stopped not far from the tall Celtic cross. He pointed to a square hole in the ground, framed by stones.

"What is it?" Wallace asked.

Gray dropped to his knees and stared down. The sides were stacked bricks. Near the bottom, a black niche was cut into one wall.

"Like I said," Lyle answered, "it's not a cave."

Gray grabbed his flashlight. "It's a crypt."

"Aye. Lord Newborough's tomb. Course he's not down there any longer. At least I don't think he is."

"We have to search it," Gray said.

Kowalski shook his head and backed two steps away. "No, we don't. Whenever you go in a hole, bad things happen."

Chapter 20

October 13, 12:41 P.M.

Svalbard, Norway

Monk sent a silent prayer of thanks to the engineers who invented heated handgrips for snowmobiles. The day's temperature continued to drop as the polar storm rolled across the Arctic archipelago. Even bundled in a snowsuit, helmet, gloves, and layers of thermal undergarments, Monk grew to appreciate the advancements of modern snowmobile technology.

He and Creed rested their vehicles in a snowy valley below the entrance to the Svalbard Global Seed Vault. Two hundred yards away, the angular concrete bunker stuck out of the side of Mount Plataberget. It was the only evidence of the vast underground depository.

That, and the patrolling Norwegian army.

Creed's voice came over the radio in his helmet. "Got company coming."

Monk twisted in his seat. Behind them, a two-man Sno-Cat came charging around an icy escarpment. Its tracks chewed across the terrain and cast up a rooster tail of ice and snow.

For the past hour, he and Creed had been playing a cautious game of cat and mouse with the outlying patrols. They tried their best to keep a wary distance without looking as if that was what they were doing. The rental company's logo on the sides of their snowmobiles would only allow them so much latitude.

"What should we do?" Creed asked.

"Stay put."

Their smaller machines could probably outmaneuver the bulkier Sno-Cat, but to flee now would only draw the full attention of the Norwegian army upon them. Instead, Monk lifted an arm in greeting.

Might as well say hello to the neighbors.

For the past hour, Monk had been observing the soldiers, noting their behavior. They spent most of the time chatting with each other in huddled groups. He noted a few cigarettes glowing. Occasionally a bark of laughter would echo off the mountain and reach them. He recognized the general pattern: boredom. Out here in the hinterlands of the frozen north, the soldiers plainly placed their full confidence in the isolation and harsh terrain.

No reason to dispel that attitude.

"Just play it cool," Monk said into the radio.

"If I was any cooler, I'd be shitting ice cubes."

Monk glanced over at him. Was that Creed cracking a joke? Monk lifted his eyebrows. There might be hope for the kid yet.

The side door to the Sno-Cat popped open. Steam wafted out of the heated cab. The soldier didn't even bother to pull up his parka's hood. In fact, he left the coat unzipped. With his blond hair and apple cheeks, he looked like he'd just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog, the Norwegian version.

See the Norwegian in his natural habitat...

Monk took off his helmet, to look less intimidating. Creed did the same. The soldier waved an arm at them and spoke in Norwegian. Monk didn't understand him, but the general gist was plain.

What are you doing here?

Creed answered in turn, stumbling a bit with the language. Monk heard the word American. The kid must be laying out their cover story. Monk supported him by pulling out a book from his parka's pocket, a field guide to birds that he'd picked up at the rental agency. He also lifted the binoculars from around his neck.