The Atlantis Origins

by S. A. Beck

  Amir and Isadore came to the same conclusion at the same time—Mohammad el Aoufi was not about to open his door in the middle of the night to some street punk.

  As Isadore tucked the canister and pistol back in her pockets, Amir popped off the pull tab of his canister and pushed it through the grille.

  “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way,” Isadore grumbled.

  There was a shout from behind the door, followed by a faint hissing sound. That would be the sleeping gas shooting out of her little bomb. Amir backed away, holding his hand over his nose and mouth.

  Isadore fished out a small gas mask that she put over the lower half of her face and hurried over to the door just in time to hear a low thud on the other side. That would be Mohammad el Aoufi falling to the floor unconscious.

  She peeked through the door and, through the haze of the sleeping gas, saw a short marbled hallway leading to a courtyard. Someone farther inside the building shouted a question in Arabic.

  Isadore cursed and bent in front of the lock. Pulling out a vial of acid and a glass siphon, she poured a generous amount of hydrochloric acid onto the mechanism.

  Stepping back from the acrid smoke, she watched as the lock melted away. Then she took a short crowbar, fitted it in between the door and the frame, and gave it a good tug.

  The door popped open.

  She retrieved her pistol and gas bomb and stepped through. Behind her, Amir’s street gang had shown up, each with a kaffiyeh covering nose and mouth to hide their features and to protect themselves from the last traces of the sleeping gas.

  Mohammad el Aoufi lay at her feet, knocked out from the gas, his mouth hanging open.

  “Sorry, but you’re a witness. Nothing personal,” she told him.

  She aimed the pistol at his head and pulled the trigger. The silencer dampened the sound enough that the neighbors wouldn’t awaken, but that voice farther inside the hotel was shouting again, and this time, whoever it was sounded worried.

  Stepping over the mess she had made, Isadore went to find the source of that voice and shut it up.

  Isadore motioned to Amir. The gang leader hurried up to her.

  “What’s he saying?” she asked.

  “It’s this man’s son,” Amir said, indicating the mess lying on the floor. “He’s asking what’s going on.”

  “Tell him you’re a guest who had just arrived and Mohammad el Aoufi has fallen ill.”

  Amir called up to him. Isadore told Amir and his followers to stay where they were and moved up to the end of the entrance hallway, peeking out into a courtyard with a fountain in the center, open to the sky above. The three floors of the hotel looked onto the courtyard, but as far as she could see, all the windows remained shuttered and closed.

  Isadore cursed. This place looked bigger than she’d been told. How was she going to find the hacker—kick in every door and gun down everyone who didn’t fit the description?

  She shrugged. If that was what it took…

  She heard the sound of feet running down unseen stairs. She readied her pistol.

  A young man in a djellaba hurried around the corner. Isadore was about to shoot him through the skull when at the last moment she had a better idea and used her free hand to give him a karate chop to the solar plexus. The man doubled over with a groan.

  Isadore stuck her gun in his face.

  “Amir, tell him to keep quiet or I’ll shoot him.”

  The hotel worker froze in terror, eyes wide as he focused on the black circle of the gun barrel inches from his eye.

  “I think he already understands this,” Amir said.

  “Then ask him where the computer hacker is.”

  Amir asked the question in Arabic. The man stuttered, trying to spit out a reply, and then looked beyond the menacing pair looming over him to the bloody corpse of Mohammad el Aoufi lying in the hallway.

  His face contorted in shock that quickly turned to rage. Slapping the gun away, he landed a punch into Isadore’s stomach.

  Or at least he tried to. Isadore was already turning to dodge it and only received a glancing blow to the ribs. Snarling, she aimed the gun again and sent him to join his father.

  “Okay, we’re doing this the hard way,” she said, turning to Amir and his men. “Pretty straightforward. We go to each of the rooms one by one. You, Amir, will knock on the door, saying you have a message from Mohammad el Aoufi. When whoever is inside opens the door, I shoot them if it isn’t the hacker. Then we go to the next room until we find the nerd. Have some of your men guard the entrance. Stop anyone trying to leave or who tries to raise the alarm. Use knives, not guns. We need to keep the neighbors from hearing. If the police get called, we’ll have a tough time on our hands.”

  Amir struck a cocky pose. “I am not afraid of the police.”

  Isadore glared at him. “I’ll make you afraid of me if you mess this up. Now get your men in order and follow me.”

  Amir’s eyes narrowed, but he did as he was told. He was getting paid enough to swallow his pride, and Isadore knew none of the other members of his gang spoke English, so he hadn’t lost face in front of them.

  He issued some curt orders, and his men moved out. Two stuck with him and followed as Isadore methodically moved through the hotel, checking each room.

  Fortunately for the guests, she only had to kill five rooms’ worth of them before she hit upon the room the hacker was staying in.

  As soon as she got to the door, she sensed this was the right one. Despite the late hour, she could see light shining from under the door.

  Amir knocked and called out, “I have a message from you from Mohammad el Aoufi. A letter came!”

  “Slip it under the door,” an American voice replied.

  “It is too big. A package.”

  “Huh? Hold on,” the voice said, sounding annoyed.

  The door opened, and Isadore immediately knew she had the right place. The man looked in his midtwenties, dressed in an old Superman T-shirt and sweatpants, neither looking as if they’d been washed this month. His hair was unkempt, his eyes bloodshot from staring at the computers sitting on a desk in the other corner of the room, and he didn’t look as though he’d ever seen the inside of a gym.

  Isadore sneered. “And to think you people are taking over the world.”

  She pointed the pistol at his head.

  “W-Who are you?” the hacker said, raising his hands.

  “Your new best friend,” she said, giving him a mocking smile. “You’re going to share all your secrets with me. You might think you won’t, you might try not to, but you will. Oh, but you will.”

  Chapter 12

  August 7, 2016, OUALATA, SAHARA DESERT, SOUTHEASTERN MAURITANIA

  2:30 P.M.

  * * *

  Jaxon was thrilled to finally be getting close to the border with Mali, although she had to admit it didn’t look much different from the rest of the land they’d driven through. The Land Rovers were driving through the same rocky lowlands, the same sand dunes, and under the same blinding sun.

  “Are we there yet?” she asked.

  “Got a couple more days,” Grunt said from the driver’s seat.

  “This drive is taking forever,” Otto complained.

  “You two sound like a couple of whiny kids complaining on a family road trip,” the mercenary grumbled.

  “I want to stop for ice cream,” Jaxon whined in a bratty-little-girl voice. Otto laughed and started whining too.

  “Oh, God, save me,” Grunt groaned.

  Otto turned to Jaxon. “If we don’t behave, he’s going to turn this car right around.”

  “And take us all the way back to the last sand dune!” Jaxon replied, laughing.

  “Tempting,” the mercenary growled. “But don’t worry, we are actually getting a pit stop in an hour or so.”

  “Really? Where?” Jaxon asked.

  “Little town called Oualata, at one of the oases. We need to stock up on gas and a few other supplies.”
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  “Shouldn’t we avoid towns until we get to Timbuktu?”

  Grunt shook his head. “We need the gas. We’re almost out. Searching for you and Vivian and then going back to that cave took up some of our extra supply. I didn’t want to stop so soon, but we’ll have to risk it.”

  “Won’t the cops be wondering about a bunch of foreigners driving around the desert in the middle of nowhere?” Otto asked.

  “You’re beginning to think like a soldier, Pyro. That is going to be a problem,” Grunt said. Jaxon noticed how proud Otto looked at the compliment, puffing out his chest and grinning. He really was getting into this gung-ho stuff.

  Grunt went on. “Now, if you’ll remember, back in Marrakech, we arranged for fake visas in our passports for both Mauritania and Mali. Faking the stamp is easy enough, but if the cops call it in to check, they’ll find no record of it. So it’s best if we don’t have to show our passports to anyone. Now, our story is that we’re an archaeological team scouting for new places to dig. This is just a preliminary survey, you see, so we don’t have to lug around a bunch of equipment. Yuhle’s done some background reading, so let him do the talking. Yamazaki is another archaeology professor, and me and Vivian are workers. You two are college students. Congratulations on getting in without ever having graduated high school.”

  “Oh yeah, school. We’ve skipped a ton of it by now,” Jaxon said.

  “You’re getting a better education out here,” Grunt said. “Another thing we have to worry about is if they search the Land Rovers. If they find the guns, we’re in trouble.”

  “Why not get rid of them?” Jaxon said. She frowned as both men laughed.

  “You don’t want to be in this part of the world without some firepower!” Otto said.

  Like you ever even shot a gun before last month, Jaxon thought.

  Out loud, she said, “What good are they? If Agerzam’s militia had wanted to kill us, they would have. If the army or the police want to kill us, they can. If those terrorists that got bombed had come after us, they would have beat us too. We only have two people who know how to fight.”

  “Three,” Otto corrected.

  “Two and a quarter,” Grunt said. “It’s not just about who can beat who, Jaxon. It’s about having a backup. If you got guns, people are much less likely to mess with you. Say we bumped into some terrorists. If we don’t have guns, they take us. If we do, they might decide we’re not worth the fight and move on. Plus, there are all the smaller threats, like bandits and thieves and slavers. We need guns.”

  Jaxon said nothing. She felt like pointing out that the one time they were in real danger—the sandstorm and being lost in the desert—guns had been no help at all. That logic wasn’t going to get through Grunt’s thick tattooed head.

  An hour later, she had something else to think about, because they got onto a faint dirt track running through the low dunes and soon came out onto a more open area. In the distance, she could see a cracked two-lane highway with a couple of trucks driving on it and, nestled on either side of the road, the first real settlement she had seen in days.

  The houses didn’t look much different from the desert. Most were low, square buildings made of adobe the color of brick, almost the same color as the sand they’d been driving through all these days. A few larger concrete buildings and a tall minaret were the only things to break the monotony. The place didn’t look very big, maybe a few thousand people, but after so many days not seeing any buildings at all, it looked bigger than Los Angeles.

  Grunt steered the Land Rover down a valley and onto the highway. To suddenly get a smooth ride after endless hours of bouncing along sand dunes felt weird, as if she were floating. Dr. Yamazaki steered the other Land Rover onto the highway right behind them.

  Vivian’s voice crackled through the radio. “Let’s get what we need and get going, honey.”

  Grunt picked up the radio on the dashboard. “Agreed. The less time we spend among people, the better.”

  As she looked at the town they were approaching, Jaxon had other ideas. She’d been in North Africa for a couple of weeks now, and except for a couple of times sneaking away in Marrakech, she’d hardly seen anything. She leaned over to Otto.

  “Want to do some sightseeing?” she whispered.

  “We should stay close to the Land Rover,” he whispered back.

  Jaxon nudged him. “Come on, we’re in an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. Aren’t you curious?”

  “I’m not curious about what could happen to me here.”

  “Chicken.”

  Otto rolled his eyes. “Here we go again.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”

  Otto cocked an eyebrow. “You mean I’ll protect you.”

  “No, you’ll keep the creepy men away, but if we get in a fight, I’ll be the one saving you, or did you develop some Atlantean powers you haven’t told me about?”

  “Har har.”

  They were entering the outskirts now, and Jaxon saw the town was much more attractive close up than it was at a distance. The little homes were beautifully plastered in red, the frames of the doors and windows decorated with white plaster that made elaborate geometric or arabesque designs. The water from the oasis fed palm trees lining some of the roads, and little gardens of vegetables grew in their shade. Young boys and girls dressed in loose robes herded flocks of sheep and goats that nibbled on bushes and patches of grass. To see so much life after hundreds of miles of wasteland sent a tingle down Jaxon’s spine. She had to get out and explore this place.

  Past a little roadside market where women in brightly colored robes and headscarves sold produce and a few cheap old household items, they found a gas station consisting of a couple of old pumps, a huge mound of rotting tires, and a little tin shack.

  As soon as they got out, they attracted a circle of onlookers. The children were the boldest, coming right up to them and staring with open curiosity or touching the Land Rover and peeking through the windows. The men hung back, reserved, while the women kept an even greater distance but still gathered to watch.

  “Guess they don’t get many outsiders here,” Jaxon said.

  “No, they don’t, although they should,” Yuhle said, getting out of the other Land Rover and stretching. “This place should be a tourist destination. It’s one of the old stops on the ancient caravan routes, one of the last stops before Timbuktu, as a matter of fact. There’s some amazingly well-preserved architecture here and a historic mosque, plus a big collection of medieval manuscripts in the local museum. The whole place is a World Heritage Site.”

  “Thanks, tour guide.” Otto chuckled.

  “Manuscripts, like the ones we’re going to check out in Timbuktu?” Jaxon asked eagerly.

  “Well, yes,” Yuhle said, adjusting his glasses.

  “Then maybe they have something about my people.”

  “We’re getting gas and some extra food and getting out of here,” Grunt called over his shoulder. He was standing with the owner of the gas station, an older man in a greasy djellaba and a battered old baseball cap.

  Jaxon hesitated. The crowd around them was growing. It felt disconcerting after so many days of solitude. They’d been out in the desert specifically because they didn’t want to attract attention, and now they were getting plenty of it.

  But still…

  The town beckoned to her. She couldn’t tell if it was the same sort of pull she had felt at the well or if it was her boredom and natural curiosity urging her on, but she had to check this place out.

  “We’re going to take a look,” Jaxon declared. “Otto will come with me.”

  “No,” Grunt said. Vivian and the scientists nodded agreement.

  “It’s going to take you some time to buy supplies. We won’t be long.”

  “I’ll go with them too,” Yuhle said. “Perhaps we might learn something.”

  Grunt sighed. “You still got that Moroccan SIM card in your phone?”

  Yuhle nodded.


  “Call me if there’s any trouble, and get back soon,” Grunt said. He gave Jaxon a glare. “I’ve given up trying to keep you in line.”

  “Thanks,” Jaxon said, giving him a hug.

  “Don’t do that,” he said. “This is a Muslim country.”

  “I go to the ends of the Earth, and people are still laying rules down on me,” Jaxon grumbled.

  “Where to?” Otto asked as they headed off.

  “Let’s find that manuscript museum,” Yuhle suggested.

  “How?” Jaxon asked. “None of us speak the language.”

  Yuhle glanced at the little crowd of curious children tagging along behind them. “And somehow I don’t think these kids know any English.”

  “Bonjour!” one of them said, prompting a bunch of giggles from her friends.

  “These kids speak French?” Jaxon asked.

  “Mauritania used to be a French colony. They probably study it in school.”

  “That doesn’t help,” Otto said. “None of us speak French.”

  They wandered through the dusty streets, the group of children growing. Adults stared at them from market stalls and front doors. A few smiled and greeted them in Arabic. Jaxon smiled back. They didn’t seem hostile or unfriendly, but they had a reserve around them, as if they didn’t know how to handle seeing a stranger.

  The children weren’t like that at all. They skipped along beside them, mostly paying attention to Yuhle and Otto. Jaxon figured they didn’t get to see many white people. One girl who looked about eight tagged along beside Jaxon and kept trying to speak to her in Arabic and another language she didn’t recognize and looked confused when Jaxon couldn’t answer.

  “I think this kid takes me for a local,” Jaxon said and laughed.

  “That’s a good sign,” Yuhle said. “It means we’re getting closer. I’ve been looking for typical Atlantean faces in this crowd but haven’t seen any. The way these kids are reacting to you, they’ve seen some themselves, though.”

  Although they had only been walking about ten minutes, they found they had already walked across the entire town. The homes were more spread out here, and large gardens took up the space in between, fed by little stone-lined channels of water. A mosque stood not far off, the same color as the houses, with a tall, square minaret. A battered old loudspeaker hung at an angle from the top.