Chapter 33 - The Cobh Bastion
Three days later, the emerald cliffs of southern Ireland rose out of the rolling ocean fog like ancient sentinels. The town of Cobh sat nestled along the hillsides, its colorful Victorian houses rising tier upon tier above the deep-water harbor where thousands of emigrant ships had once set sail.
We docked in a private berth under the cover of a rainy twilight. The smell of burning peat and cold sea salt hung thick in the air.
"We have less than forty-eight hours before Julian Vance’s legal team files a preemptive seal on the old Admiralty registry," Alistair said as we hurried down the gangway into an awaiting black sedan. His leather briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist. "Grandfather Douglas purchased the freehold of the Old Custom Quay in 1968 under a holding company named 'Sovereign Haven.' The vault is beneath the old stone warehouse at the mouth of the harbor."
Hayes kept his hand inside his trench coat, his eyes darting across every alley and parked vehicle along the waterfront. "Julian has private security stationed at every commercial port from Dublin to Belfast. He knows we landed here. We must assume we’re being watched."
The car wound down a narrow cobblestone street slick with rain, stopping before a massive, moss-covered limestone warehouse that had weathered two centuries of Atlantic storms. An iron gate stood chained across the driveway, but the padlock bore the exact three-masted insignia that was engraved on my iron key.
I stepped out of the vehicle, the cold mist stinging my cheeks. I inserted the heavy key into the lock. With a resounding, metallic clatter that echoed off the damp stone walls, the tumblers gave way.
Inside, the warehouse smelled of ancient timber, cured rope, and dry dust. At the rear of the floor, half-hidden beneath stacked barrels of aged port, was an iron trapdoor set flush into the flagstone floor.
"Down there," Alistair whispered, shining a high-powered flashlight into the gloom. "The Sterling Vault of 1845."
We descended a flight of narrow stone steps into the subterranean chill. The chamber below was constructed of solid granite blocks, completely dry and insulated from the rising sea tides. In the center of the room stood an immense, Victorian-era floor safe, flanked by bronze plaques bearing the names of the original six barques of the Sterling transatlantic fleet.
"Lenora," Hayes said softly, pointing his flashlight at the floor in front of the safe.
Fresh footprints were visible in the thin layer of dust.
May you like
My heart seized. "Someone has already been down here."
Before we could retreat, the heavy iron trapdoor above us slammed shut with a thunderous boom, plunging the room into shadows before the beam of our flashlights caught the sinister figure standing in the doorway at the far corner of the subterranean hall.
