The group made its way through a marble-paved courtyard to the great red block of the Torre de Comares. The guide halted outside and began a reverent spiel, but by now Nina was too impatient to listen. She slipped through the broad arched doorway and finally entered the Hall of the Ambassadors.
It was a large square room, occupying almost all of the tower’s base. In its heyday, it would have been an explosion of colour and finery, the sultan showing off his wealth in a most extravagant manner. The silk curtains were long gone, the paint faded from the walls, but the stucco carvings were still there, still magnificent.
She raised her gaze higher. A row of windows ran around the upper walls, countless tiny squares of glass worked into elaborate filigree latticeworks. Beyond them, over fifty feet above her head, was what she had come to see.
Even half shrouded in shadow, the ceiling of the Hall of the Ambassadors was a marvel. Constellations of hundreds of precisely carved suns made of golden wood were set into the darker cedar of the firmament: the Seven Heavens of Islamic lore.
Nina was only interested in something very much of the physical world. But the rest of the tour group were now filing into the chamber. How could she test her theory without attracting attention?
She would have to wait until they left. Their guide had already shown himself lax at keeping track of his charges, needing to be told more than once that people had fallen behind the main group rather than counting for himself. If she hung back, she might have just enough time to get the room to herself before the next group arrived – or anyone in her own noticed she was missing. She took out a digital camera she had risked using her credit card to buy at the mall, and took pictures of the ceiling.
The tour guide pottered about, taking questions and delivering facts and figures about the hall. Finally he called for everyone to leave. Nina waited for her companions to filter out, standing just inside the door as if taking a final picture. The last tourists, an elderly Asian couple, passed—
She rushed into action, hurrying to the little square of tiles marking the room’s exact centre, taking out the Atlantean artefact and placing it on the floor. Next, she removed the cardboard disc from her book’s covers, then found the flashlight. Hopefully that would be all she needed.
If it wasn’t, she was screwed.
She stood the real marker on its extended arm and fitted her home-made counterpart to its upper surface, then put the flashlight into the metal hoop. A moment of concern; its length forced the lens to stand a couple of inches proud of the floor. If the light source was meant to be flush with the hoop, the difference could throw off the result.
No choice now. Another tour group was entering the courtyard.
She switched on the flashlight and looked up.
What she saw almost made her gasp. She had been right. The pattern produced by combining the two markers was indeed connected to the image of the heavens, the repeating clusters of soft light closely matching the stars set into the ceiling. How, she didn’t know, but before she could figure it out, she had to find out exactly which points were important.
She had not yet aligned the marker to any particular direction, so while the pattern she had created was similar to the carved stars, the lights did not correspond to any of them. She rotated the relic. The points rolled around the Seventh Heaven. Some passed over the wooden suns, but no deeper meaning leapt out at her . . .
Wait—
The discs fitted together in one specific way, and knowing the Atlanteans, it was unlikely to have been chosen at random. She looked at the orichalcum disc’s arm. Maybe it wasn’t just a spacer – it might also be a pointer. But to what?
The next tour group was getting closer. She was running out of time. Where to aim the marker?
The sultan’s throne had long since disappeared, along with the rest of the chamber’s furnishings, but she knew where it had been: directly opposite the main entrance, so he could watch his visitors approach. She turned the marker to align the arm with the space where he had once sat, then looked up again.
Disappointment filled her. Very few of the spots of light touched the ceiling’s stars. She had been wrong.
Or had she?
Some would align – if they all moved slightly inwards towards the centre. The flashlight’s lens was in the wrong position, higher than it should be. She couldn’t push the torch down into the stone floor to meet the hoop . . . but she could raise the hoop to meet it.
The next tour leader was approaching the entrance. Work fast, Wilde—
She lifted the marker slightly, then raised her eyes once more – and this time she did let out a gasp.
The points of light were now sharper, the beams radiating from the flashlight passing cleanly through the angled holes. They didn’t quite align with the stars, but were close enough for Nina to see that, had the flashlight been flush with the floor, they would indeed have matched perfectly.
No time to muse on their meaning. All she could do was grab the camera and take a couple of pictures, then shove the marker back into her bag just before the tourists arrived.
The guide gave her a suspicious look: visitors were not supposed to wander the Nazrid Palaces unattended. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ Nina said with a breathlessness that was not entirely feigned. ‘Just taking a last photo!’ She closed the bag and scurried for the exit.
Back in the courtyard, she saw that her own tour guide had belatedly realised his party was one short and come back to find her. ‘I’m here, I’m here!’ she called out. ‘Had to change my camera battery.’ He rolled his eyes and gestured for her to keep up.
The tour continued, but Nina was no longer paying attention. Her mind was now fully occupied. Only some of the lights she had cast aligned with the carved stars above, which meant the pattern they formed had to be significant. When the group stopped in the next room, she took out her camera to check the pictures on its little screen.
Their quality was poor, but clear enough for her to make out. Twelve of the stars corresponded to the points projected through the marker. And as she stared at the image, a feeling of familiarity came to her. She had seen the constellation-like pattern before. But where?
Something connected to Atlantis, it had to be. She continued on, the Alhambra’s wonders going unnoticed as she turned her mind to the problem.
Granada, like Seville, had its share of cheap hostels for the casual or fiscally strapped traveller. After descending back into the old city, Nina found one in a block of run-down buildings. Again, the man at the desk did not request identification, or anything other than cash up front, though he did ask, ‘American?’ She confirmed her nationality with a nod, only thinking afterwards that she should have claimed to be Canadian. Another degree of disguise, however small, could only have helped her.
She went to her room, which was directly above reception. Soundproofing had not been a priority for the hostel’s builders, as she soon discovered she could hear every footfall, slammed door and conversational exchange of people coming and going. She sighed, but knew that once she became fully involved with solving the mystery, she wouldn’t even notice the noise.
She sat on the bed and examined the picture on her camera again. She was more certain than ever that she had seen the constellation before, and that it was linked to Atlantis. How, though? Where had she seen the star map?
No . . . not a star map. An actual map. And there was a room in the submerged ruins of Atlantis dedicated to maps . . .
She snatched up her book – only to remember that she had gutted it in Seville, keeping only the covers. ‘Oh goddammit!’ she moaned. There had been a picture of exactly the room in question, but now she would have to buy another copy. It was already evening, too late to search for a bookstore in a city she didn’t know.
That didn’t mean she couldn’t start working, though. She still had her memories of what she had seen in the Hall of the Ambassadors, as well as her knowledge of the Atlantean empire’s history, and she was already developing
an explanation for how a piece of fourteenth-century Islamic art might possibly be the key to a puzzle created millennia earlier.
The main door banged below her again, but she barely registered it, her mind already travelling through time and space.
22
Venice
Eddie faced the six other people in his hotel room. ‘Hope you all enjoyed breakfast, ’cause it’s time to get to work,’ he said dramatically. ‘Now, everyone knows me, but not all of you know each other. You can socialise over cocktails later, but for now I’ll do a quick rundown.’ Starting from his left, he indicated each person in turn. ‘Matt Trulli. Underwater expert and submarine engineer. And I’m guessing the big box he brought has got one of his toys in it.’
‘You guessed right, mate,’ the chunky Australian replied. ‘Had a few I could have chosen, but I figured Ringo was the best option.’
‘Congrats on getting married, by the way.’
Matt smiled and showed off his ring finger. ‘Thanks.’
‘A shame your wife couldn’t come,’ said Olivia.
‘Husband,’ he corrected.
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh! Ah . . . sorry. Not because you’re, you know,’ she added hastily.
Eddie smirked at Olivia’s discomfort before he moved on to a tall, lean man in his early thirties with tightly curled black hair. ‘Jared Zane. Works for . . . let’s say the Israeli government. He’s brought some useful bits and bobs as well. Knows his stuff – even if he is barely out of nappies.’
‘At least I still have hair, alter kocker,’ said Jared. The Yiddish insult was an affectionate way of saying ‘old fart’.
The hulking, bearded Russian beside the Israeli was the only person besides Macy who had not understood Eddie’s description of Jared as a veiled way of saying he was in the Mossad, a perplexed frown further crinkling his heavily scarred forehead. ‘Oleg Maximov,’ the Yorkshireman continued. ‘Former Spetznaz commando, went freelance, started off on the wrong side from me and Nina. Luckily for him, he switched.’
‘Lucky for you,’ Maximov said, with a humorous jab of his thick forefinger at his host.
‘Next, Ana Rijo. Used to be a cop until someone put a price on her head. Got me and Nina into this mess, now trying to make things right by getting us out.’ Ana looked abashed, but still managed a faint smile. ‘And then there’s my family – Olivia Garde, who’s Nina’s grandma, and my little girl, Macy. Who really, really wants her mum back safe and sound, so if you can help with that, you’ll be making her very happy. All right?’
‘Ahem,’ came a voice over Eddie’s phone, which was on a table in speaker mode.
‘And last, and very much least,’ Eddie said with faux-weariness, ‘Peter Alderley. He’s the head of MI6, but don’t get too impressed. He’s still a bell-end.’
A sigh from London. ‘I don’t have to be here, Chase. I do have other matters requiring my attention – the defence of the realm and all that.’
‘What’s a bell-end?’ Macy asked.
‘Er, just, ah, the noisy part of a bell,’ said Eddie hurriedly, as laughter came down the line.
The others exchanged quick greetings. ‘So what’s the objective?’ asked Jared. ‘Beyond “help Nina”.’
‘There’s a bloke called Gideon Lobato,’ Eddie began. ‘You’ve probably heard of him – tech billionaire who’s into solar power, electric cars, stopping climate change, all that kind of stuff. Sounds like a good guy, but nope. He’s framed Nina for stealing an Atlantean artefact and put her on the run in Spain. Why he did it, I don’t know yet . . . but I’m going to.’
‘I should point out,’ said Alderley, ‘that Nina actually did steal a different Atlantean artefact. She’s wanted by the Spanish police.’
‘They haven’t caught her yet, have they?’
‘No.’
‘Then we’ve still got a chance of fixing this before they do. So, back to Lobato. He’s a hard man to find with the whole jet-setting billionaire thing, but tonight he’s giving a lecture at the Scuola Grande here in Venice. He’ll have bodyguards; we need to get him away from them so I can have a quiet chat. Once I knew who could help, I worked out a plan that’ll let each of you do what you do best. But obviously, now I need to tell you what it is.’
‘You make plans?’ Alderley joked. ‘I always thought it was more desperate improvisation with a hefty dose of luck!’
‘Bit of both,’ admitted Eddie. ‘But if anyone’s got any suggestions, I’m all ears. Okay, let’s get started.’
Two hours later, his rough-and-ready plan had been considerably improved by his friends’ advice. Whether it would work was a question that could only be answered in the field. But Eddie was confident – as much as he could be.
‘So you can get that to us in time, Alderley?’ he asked.
‘It’s . . . shall we say, pushing the boundaries of legality with regards to SIS operations in an allied nation,’ said the spy chief, who had dropped in and out of the discussion to deal with other matters in London. ‘But the nation owes you a considerable debt, so I’ll see to it on my personal authority.’
‘Great.’ Eddie looked back at those in the room. ‘Everyone knows what they’re doing?’
Maximov nodded. ‘Move planks, deliver boat, then pick up bag.’
‘Open the grille, show you the way in, then stand by with the fireworks,’ said Matt.
‘Good so far,’ Eddie said. ‘Jared?’
‘Follow you inside, then get Lobato’s attention,’ the Israeli replied. ‘Once we’ve got him, I’ll meet you at the Institute. I’ll need to find the quickest route, though. You’re not giving me much time to get there.’
‘Once we’re finished here, we’ll check it out in person. Ana?’
She nodded to the Mossad agent. ‘Keep Lobato talking after Jared finds him. Then slow down anyone following you.’
‘Good. Alderley?’
‘I’ll have a courier from our Rome station deliver the juice to you,’ Alderley assured him. ‘They should have some in their medicine cabinet. Then once you’re inside, I’ll keep tabs on everyone in the building.’
‘You can really do what you said earlier?’ asked Olivia with a mix of scepticism and dismay.
‘We can.’
‘And I thought people were simply being paranoid about the intelligence services!’
‘The only way to stay off our radar is to live in a deep cave and never communicate with anybody else, ever,’ Alderley told her with a chuckle. Her concerns were not assuaged.
Eddie spoke to her next. ‘And you remember what you’re doing, Olivia?’
‘Of course I do. I’m old, not senile. I’ll do my dying swan act – not literally, I hope! – for Gregorio’s benefit, then keep his back to Macy.’ She gave him a warning look. ‘Eddie, are you absolutely sure about involving her? You’re putting an awful lot of responsibility on a seven-year-old – and it could be dangerous. If anything happens to her . . .’
‘I can do it, Grams,’ Macy insisted. ‘I want to do it. If it helps get Mommy back, I’ll do anything.’
‘That’s my girl,’ said Eddie, before crouching before his daughter. ‘Are you absolutely sure, though? Because if you’re worried at all, we’ll think of some other way.’
‘I can do it,’ she repeated, with the total confidence of youth. ‘I have to drop my toy down the stairs’ – she held up the plastic trikan the Emir had bought her, with which she had been practising while the adults talked – ‘and put the paper in the door. I tried it on the bathroom, look.’
Matt, closest to the bathroom, checked. ‘She’s right, Eddie. It’s jammed in tight. Nobody’d better settle down on the dunny, ’cause that door’ll pop open if a mouse breathes on it.’
‘How long did it take you to do it?’ Eddie asked his daughter.
‘Five seconds? Maybe ten.’
‘You’ll have to be quicker, love,’ he said, not wanting it to sound like a criticism.
She scurried to the bathroom door. ‘I’
ll do it in three seconds. Watch me!’
Matt laughed. ‘She doesn’t take no for an answer, does she? Gee, I wonder where that comes from?’
‘If it’s good, from me. Anything else, blame Nina,’ Eddie replied with a grin, which quickly disappeared at the thought of his missing wife. ‘Okay, so I’ll go in, grab Lobato, then escape with him.’
‘It all sounds so easy when you put it like that,’ Alderley said sarcastically.
‘If I thought about it too hard, I’d probably bottle out of doing it at all.’
‘Well, nobody’s ever accused you of thinking too hard, Eddie,’ said Jared, smirking.
Eddie made sure Macy wasn’t watching before shooting the younger man an obscene gesture. ‘What is this, a tag team? If we’re all done, then—’
‘Finished!’ cried Macy. ‘And I did it in less than five seconds, I timed myself!’
Her father checked her handiwork. ‘That’s in nice and tight,’ he said approvingly. ‘Macy?’
‘Yes, Daddy?’
‘Well done.’ She beamed with pride. ‘All right,’ he told his team, ‘let’s get started.’
Nina had also spent the morning working. She had found a bookstore and bought another copy of her latest book, this time in Spanish, as well as an atlas.
The book did indeed contain the picture she was after. It had been taken in a chamber concealed inside the great Temple of Poseidon, at the heart of the Atlantean capital. Submerged for eleven thousand years, the temple had suffered considerable damage during Nina’s first exploration of the lost city – not her fault, she always had to point out to counter the entirely unfair public perception that she was an archaeological wrecking ball. It had suffered a further collapse on a later survey – again, not my fault! – meaning that the hidden room now only existed in photographs.
One of which would help her solve the riddle of the spear markers.
The Spear of Atlantis (Wilde/Chase 14) Page 21