Free Wayward Son by Tom Pollack Page B

a.m. She dressed in jeans, a blue and gold UCLA T-shirt, and a thin pullover. Half an hour later, she knocked on Juan Carlos’s door, and the two of them went downstairs to the kitchen together. Renata had prepared a simple breakfast of rolls, fruit, and coffee. Silvio, freshly shaven and immaculate in a starched white long-sleeved shirt and khaki slacks, appeared a few minutes later. During breakfast, the group reviewed Amanda’s chief objectives.
    “If you get the doors open,” Silvio said, “just make a quick survey of what lies behind. I know it will be tempting for you, as a professional, to begin a detailed inventory. But the season has only thirty days to run, till the end of October. We won’t be able to fit a large project into the schedule. It will be much better if you can give us an overview, so that we can plan for next season—and try to raise funds for larger equipment to widen the crack if we need to.”
    Amanda nodded.
    “How much time do you think she should spend in there, nonno ?” Juan Carlos asked his grandfather.
    “No more than three hours,” Silvio replied. “If we can’t get the door open by ten o’clock, we’ll have to call it quits. There’s too much chance of attracting attention. We also have to reckon with the danger of Amanda’s inhaling poisonous gases. At the slightest hint on the gas meter, Amanda, you get out fast.”
    “Okay,” she agreed. “Anyway, if I can’t crack the code, at least I can brush away a lot of the debris and get better photographs than what we have now.”
    With breakfast finished, Silvio donned a light jacket, while Juan Carlos fetched the tote bag that Carmelo had delivered last night with Amanda’s equipment: notepad, pens and markers, copies of the robot’s digital pictures, headlamp attached to a wireless headset and microphone, digital camera for stills and video, miniature digital tape recorder, measuring tape, trowel, brush, a small pick, a gas emissions meter, a gas mask, a clinometer for measuring slopes, a prismatic compass, and an alidade for showing degrees of arc.
    Renata met them at the front door. Kissing Amanda on both cheeks, she murmured, “ Buona fortuna , Amanda. See you at lunch time.”
    “Arrivederci, Renata,” Amanda replied.
    The streets of Ercolano were deserted. A brisk fifteen-minute walk brought the archaeologists to the site, where Carmelo and three other team members were already waiting.
    “ Buongiorno, amici ,” Silvio saluted them. All the men shook hands formally. “ Cominciamo bene ” (let’s begin).
    They all descended the makeshift steps. Amanda transferred the contents of the tote bag to her backpack, and then attached the pack to a strong cord that she wound around her waist. Juan Carlos handed Amanda one last item: his fancy S. T. Dupont lighter.
    “In case you need it. A good luck charm,” he said, kissing her softly. “ Coraggio , Amanda. You’ll do just fine,” he said. She looked at him with a smile. The concern in his eyes would be her best ally.
    “Remember,” warned Silvio. “Not more than three hours. Use the wireless headset to keep us informed, and try to be back here by ten at the latest.”
    She nodded, tapping her Timex.
    Juan Carlos chimed in, “And then we can head to the eleven o’clock mass, just like old times!”
    Amanda paused, then smiled. “All this working on a Sunday was making me wonder about you, Johnny. Just don’t expect me to remember all those hymns!”
    Facing the jagged crack, Amanda waved to the group with a thumbs-up sign, placed her backpack on the ground, squeezed through, and then dragged it after her.
    She found herself in a long, narrow corridor. She paused, let her breathing settle, and began to step gingerly over small cracks. Switching the headlamp on, she oriented herself by comparing what she saw with some of the robot’s digital pictures. About twenty meters ahead the corridor curved abruptly to the right.
    Following the route and making the