The Atlantis Revelation: A Thriller

by Thomas Greanias

  Vadim’s eyes dilated at the truth of Conrad’s words. Indeed, Vadim seemed to be reconsidering his relationship with Midas.

  “What’s more likely?” Conrad asked, relentless. “That Midas is going to kill you because I got away? Or because you know what he stole from the sub and where it might be?”

  “Kill him,” said Davies. “But get out of him what he knows.”

  Conrad looked at Vadim. “The only way to pull it off is like this: You have to make Midas believe you killed me before I said anything. But how is he going to believe that and keep you around? You have to make it look like I killed one of the Brits while trying to escape and that the other one came in and shot me.”

  “How stupid do you think I am, Dr. Yeats?” Vadim pulled out a 9mm Rook pistol of the type favored by Russian special forces and put it to Conrad’s forehead.

  “Quite stupid, actually,” Conrad said.

  Vadim shook his head, swung his arm to the side, and shot Davies in the head. Davies fell to the floor.

  “Bloody hell!” screamed the other Brit, and pointed his Browning pistol at Vadim. “You killed him!”

  Vadim shot the other Brit, and Conrad watched him crumple on top of his fallen comrade. Conrad, still in agony from the shock baton, kept laughing as Vadim put his gun away.

  Vadim picked up the shock baton and glared at him. “You will now reveal the four-digit code, Professor Yeats.”

  “Look!” Conrad was staring at the bloody black hole in his thigh. “Look at what you did.”

  With a smile, Vadim bent over to take a closer look.

  Conrad kneed him with both legs to the face, driving the protruding harpoon shard into Vadim’s eye. The Russian snapped his head back with a howl. Then Conrad used his bound feet to sweep the leg of the table with the basin of water, sending it crashing to the floor.

  As Vadim staggered back, his boot slipped on the water, and he lost his grip on the shock baton. Conrad watched the baton fall to the floor and lifted his feet as a blue wave of electrical light rippled across the water, electrocuting Vadim like an X-ray.

  When Vadim came to a few minutes later, the yacht’s “abandon ship” alarms were blaring, and Conrad was gone. In his place was a gray-green brick of C4 explosive with a timer and Davies’s cut-off middle finger sticking up on top.

  The display on the timer was down to one minute and twenty-three seconds. “Chyort voz’mi!” Vadim cursed, and scrambled topside to discover that the skeleton crew had left with the shuttle tender, leaving him no choice but to jump overboard and swim for his life.

  10

  Serena was alarmed to see Mercedes come up from the lower gardens alone and immediately went out on the terrace to search for Conrad, to no avail. She did, however, find Packard by the stone balustrade with a drink in his hand.

  “What are you doing, Mr. Secretary?” she demanded. “Where’s Conrad?”

  “Elvis has apparently left the building,” Packard told her. “And Midas doesn’t look too happy.”

  Serena followed his gesture toward the statue of Apollo, where Midas seemed to be having a low-key but sharp exchange with Mercedes.

  “Guess Midas just figured out that you’re not the only woman here tonight who has a past with Yeats,” said Packard, taking another sip of his drink. “Now, what’s up in the Arctic?”

  Serena tore her eyes away from Midas and looked at Packard. “Midas is prepping to mine it for the Russians.”

  “You sure it’s for the Russians?”

  “Who else?” Serena asked.

  Packard finished his drink. “Your friends in the Alignment.”

  Serena looked out over the bay, where she could see Midas’s yacht sparkling on the waters. “I have no friends in the Alignment,” she told him. “Only enemies.”

  “But thanks to your corrupt holy order, Dominus Dei, of which you are now the head, you are by definition one of the Thirty.”

  Serena took a deep breath. “And as soon as I figure out who the rest are, I’ll let you know.”

  “You were talking to one of them.”

  “Midas?” she said. “How do you know he’s not just working for them?”

  “He knows too much,” Packard said. “More than you, it seems. Financial records in London show that Midas’s trading firm went long on oil and gold futures this morning. If he really expected the Russians to succeed in the Arctic, he’d be shorting oil on the expectation that a new supply would depress global prices. Instead, he’s betting on a spike in prices.”

  “Interesting,” Serena said. “Midas must be anticipating a disruption in oil production.”

  “Or some other event that would shoot up the price of oil. Maybe a major war.”

  “So he knows something we don’t,” she said, and then she realized something. “And so does Conrad.”

  “You should fix that.”

  “Listen, I told you about Midas’s operations in the Arctic. Have you given any thought to returning that celestial globe to the Vatican?”

  “Have you given any thought to returning the terrestrial globe you stole?” Packard shot back.

  “We’ve been over this, Mr. Secretary. The Masons inherited them from the Knights Templar.”

  “Who in turn stole them from Solomon’s Temple,” said Packard. “So maybe we give them both back to the Israelis.”

  Serena sighed. “Along with another American weapons system, perhaps? That will help the situation in the Middle East.”

  “The only thing you can do to help the Middle East and the rest of the world is to give us the real names and faces of the Alignment’s so-called Thirty,” Packard said. “Before Yeats finds out you’re one of them. Get busy. Here comes Midas.” Packard walked away as Midas approached her.

  “Was that the former U.S. secretary of defense?” Midas asked Serena innocently enough.

  “Yes,” she said. “Confessing all his country’s sins. Do you have any confessions you want to share?”

  “Actually, I was looking for Dr. Yeats. He seems to have disappeared.”

  There was a feigned playfulness in Midas’s voice, but his eyes were hard. He was lying, she realized. Midas knew exactly where Conrad was.

  “So has Mercedes,” she said, and his smile vanished.

  Midas said, “She had a headache. Dr. Yeats upset her.”

  “He has that effect on women,” Serena said when her Vertu phone rang with the song “He’s a Tramp” from Disney’s old Lady and the Tramp cartoon. “Speak of the devil.”

  Midas cocked his head and narrowed his eyes with suspicion as she took the call.

  Conrad’s voice, breathless, filled her ear: “Have Benito pick me up in front of the Andros Palace Hotel in Corfu town in two hours. I need to hitch a ride with you on your jet.”

  “We’re all here for three more days,” she said, eyeing Midas.

  “I don’t think these Bilderbergers like talking to police,” Conrad said. “They’re all going to scram before they give any statements about what they saw.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Take a look out at the Midas in the bay. She sure looks like a beauty out there on the water, all lit up.”

  Serena glanced at Midas, then out at the water. “Yes, she does.”

  Suddenly, the superyacht blew up into the night sky like fireworks, drawing gasps from the crowd on the terrace. An explosion like thunder rolled over the bay. Midas crushed his glass in his fist. Wine and blood dribbled through his fingers. Serena watched his face twist into a monstrous mask of rage as the glowing debris of his beloved ship rained down upon the waters.

  11

  A panic-stricken Andros was waiting for Conrad at the service entrance behind his hotel. “You blew up the Midas!”

  “Where’s the head of Baron von Berg?” Conrad demanded as they hurried through the kitchen.

  “In your bag in the room’s closet. I couldn’t stand the sight of it. Nor of you now, my friend.”

  They were standing at t
he service elevator. Conrad, his tuxedo soaked, realized he had been dripping a trail of water behind them. Two Greeks with mops were furiously following in their footsteps. The hotel’s owner, Conrad had heard, was a stickler for cleanliness.

  “All you have to do is smuggle me off the island, Andros,” Conrad said, and pressed the elevator button again.

  “I’m working on it, but the police and coast guard are everywhere now.” Andros shook his head. “You’ve really done it this time, Conrad. Mercedes is up in your room.”

  “What?” Conrad stopped cold as the light dinged and the elevator doors opened.

  “She showed up just before you did.” Andros nudged him inside. “You have to see her.”

  “But Midas sent her.”

  “Of course,” said Andros. “Which is why you have to see her. He must hope to get something out of you.”

  “You mean the ice pick she’ll plant in my back?”

  “Maybe, but you might get something out of her. Meanwhile, give her some disinformation to take back to Midas. I’ll have your ride off the island ready in twenty minutes.”

  “This could take longer than twenty minutes,” Conrad said, knowing that Mercedes wasn’t going to divulge important information to him just because he’d asked.

  “Nonsense,” said Andros, all business. “It took you only half as long with my cousin Katrina, and that’s how you found me.”

  The doors closed, and Conrad rode the elevator to the top floor, where he walked down a short hallway to his room. Two security guards with earpieces were posted on either side. Conrad fished inside his pocket for his key card and realized he had lost it. That was probably how Midas and Mercedes had learned where he was staying.

  “Parakalo?” Conrad asked a guard in Greek. “Please?”

  The guard opened the door for him, and he walked inside. The lights were dimmed, and the smooth jazz of Nina Simone was playing over the stereo speakers.

  Mercedes was standing outside on the balcony, just beyond the rippling drapes, a glass of wine in her hand. It must have been at least her third glass, because the bottle in the ice bucket was almost empty. Her head tilted when the door clicked shut behind him.

  He walked up beside her. Out in the bay, the Greek coast guard had spotlights over the wreckage of the Midas. He could hear the garble of megaphones in the wind. “What do you think we’re going to do here tonight, Mercedes?”

  She turned to him with her crystal-blue eyes, which were dried out and bloodshot. He had never seen her cry, and it appeared he never would. “You have no idea who Midas is and who his people are, Conrad.”

  “Oh, you mean the Alignment,” he said, taking the glass from her hand and finishing the wine, aware of her stare. “I know. They’re a sinister centuries-old group who count themselves as the heirs to the knowledge and power of Atlantis. They use the stars to wage their endless campaign to manipulate governments, armies, financial markets, and the course of human events. Their goal is a one-world government in effect if not name. In other words, ultimate power. Based on what they’ve already accomplished with the worldwide depression and de facto one-world central bank, I’d say they’re halfway there.”

  She didn’t appreciate his glibness. Her eyes turned into slits. “Then you know we’re both dead.”

  “Speak for yourself, Mercedes. But I think you’re better off telling Midas that your charms of old worked, that we slept together and you know I’m taking a plane out of here in the morning to Paris, where your well-heeled family can help me. Better yet, you’re on that plane with me. Only we’re landing in Dubai, where my well-heeled friends can help you.”

  She said nothing for a minute, her eyes drifting to the wine bottle and seeing it was nearly empty. “I am not a whore, Conrad.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “You were the one willing to prostitute yourself for the sake of your useless digs around the world,” she went on. “You were willing to make love to me just to get my father to fund your stupid TV show. And you ditched me in Peru with those animals.”

  “I have no excuse, Mercedes. I’m sorry. And I know there’s nothing I can do to make it up to you.”

  She put her hand on his chest and gently pressed him back toward the bedroom. “Oh, but there is, Professor,” she said, regressing to her producer’s “role” as his beautiful graduate assistant when he was still dividing his teaching duties between the University of California at Los Angeles and the University of Arizona.

  “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” he told her as she began to unbutton his shirt.

  “Like you and Serena? You two don’t add up. You never did and never will.”

  “What about you and Midas?”

  “He’s rich and powerful. Powerful in a way you’ll never understand.”

  “Because he’s a player for the Alignment?”

  “Maybe.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  “What did he do to make their ranks? Or did they make him?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, moving to his ear. “Hard to tell with most of them.”

  “What does Midas do for the Alignment?”

  “Mining and money,” she said, clearly displeased to be discussing business. “His mining operations help governments, and his futures trading firm in London evens things out in the financial markets. As per Alignment protocols, his top traders use astrological charts to hedge their bets. That’s why Midas Minerals & Mining is also called M3.”

  “And I thought M3 was my old BMW sports car.”

  “M3 is a constellation,” she said.

  Conrad perked up. “A constellation?”

  “Canes Venatici. It’s thought to represent the two dog stars of—”

  “The herdsman in the sky, Boötes,” Conrad said, unable to forget from his last run-in with the Alignment that the White House in Washington, D.C., was by design aligned to the alpha star of Boötes, Arcturus. Boötes was mythologically connected to the constellation Ursa Major—the Great Bear—from which Russia took its own identity. “I hate all this Alignment bullshit.” He hated it because it reminded him of how ignorant he was of just how deep the celestial machinations and symbols of the Alignment went, and how far back—eons and eons. It was like encountering an alien race. And Mercedes had knowingly thrown in her lot with them.

  It was all very suspicious, and he was already past the twenty minutes Andros had given him.

  Conrad gently folded his hands around hers. “Where is Midas taking the Flammenschwert?” he asked.

  Her face was blank. “Flammenschwert?”

  “It was the name of a hammerhead torpedo the Nazis developed using some advanced technology. It means ‘Sword of Fire.’”

  “I know what Flammenschwert means,” she told him curtly. “My German always was better than yours. But I know nothing of any Flammenschwert.”

  “Oh, you think Midas took his yacht out to deeper waters this morning simply for pleasure cruising?”

  “Yes,” she said, clearly irritated.

  “So you never wondered why he outfitted his superyacht with a submersible and a chopper pad?”

  “I always assumed it was for effect.” She sniffed.

  He looked into her eyes—wide open now—and felt she was telling him the truth. It made sense to him that she’d projected onto Midas some of the foibles of her past and the men who were part of it, including him.

  “Know anything about the four-digit code Midas is looking for?” he asked.

  The slits returned. “How do you know about it? Did she tell you?”

  By “she,” Conrad figured Mercedes meant Serena. “No,” he told her, letting her read his own eyes. “You think it’s for the Flammenschwert?”

  “No,” she said, and Conrad could see the light go out of her eyes as she sat on the bed. “It’s for a safe deposit box.”

  “And Midas owns it?”

  “No,” she said. “You asked me if Midas has purchased anything lately. He owns the bank in Bern tha
t holds the box. Gilbert et Clie.”

  Conrad wasn’t sure he understood. “So he bought the bank to get to the box? That’s one way to raid a tomb. What’s in the box?”

  “Nobody knows. It belonged to some Bavarian prince. Ludwig von Berg.”

  “Baron von Berg the Nazi?” He had to force himself to keep his eyes fixed on hers, to not let them drift to the closet where Andros had stashed the bag with the skull.

  “Yes, yes,” Mercedes said. “It’s an older type of box with a chemical lining. It has a four-digit alphabet code. One wrong letter in the combination, and the contents of the box are destroyed. There’s only one chance to open the box. And Midas needs whatever is inside within the next seven days.”

  “Seven days?” Conrad asked, realizing the world was going to be introduced to the Flammenschwert in short order.

  “Seven days,” she repeated. “Good Friday, two days before Easter.”

  “Is that significant to the Alignment?” Conrad asked. “Is there a connection?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s significant to me because Easter is the only Sunday of the year that I’ve ever gone to church.”

  “You’re a real saint,” he said. “But what’s Midas doing spending three of his precious seven days with the Bilderbergers?”

  “The Achillion was Baron von Berg’s headquarters during the war,” Mercedes said. “Midas had hoped to find some clues the baron might have left behind.”

  “He didn’t leave any,” Conrad said. “He kept everything in his head.”

  “I know. So I can’t help you. And you can’t help me.”

  Conrad, holding her hand, got down on one knee. “I told you, Mercedes. Come with me to Dubai and we’ll figure it out.”

  She shook her head. “You know more than anybody else that there’s no escaping the Alignment.”

  “Then come with me to Dubai,” he told her. “Andros has the jet waiting. We’ll be there in under three hours.”

  “And then what, Conrad?” She challenged him with her eyes. “We live happily ever after? Or you ditch me again?”

  “I’m not going to ditch you, Mercedes.”