“One of Plato’s students.”
That seemed to elevate her, very slightly, in Belardinelli’s eyes. “Yes. Kallikrates was intrigued by the history of the wars between Athens and Atlantis. These texts”—he tapped the book—“contain his writings on the subject.”
“Well, let’s see what he said about Nantalas, shall we?” said Nina.
Belardinelli placed the book on the stone slab at the base of the arcosolium and opened it carefully, the binding creaking as he turned each glass “page.” At a particular one, he put his reading glasses back on. “This is it.”
A discolored sheet of parchment was pressed between the glass plates, the bottom part raggedly torn away and the remainder showing clear signs of damage from water and time. Tightly packed Greek text was written in faded brown ink. “What happened to the rest of it?” Nina asked.
“Nobody knows,” the old man replied. “When Kallikrates died, there was a dispute over his possessions. The Brotherhood took these texts from one of his brothers, but the rest were lost.”
She imagined that the taking had been by force, but was more eager to read the ancient document than criticize. Her parents had taught her Greek as a child, so the only problems were the occasionally poor legibility of the text and the low light. From what she could tell, the previous part of Kallikrates’s writings concerned the Atlantean royal court, before discussing the high priestess’s part in its affairs. “Seems she was quite the warmonger,” she said. Most of her supposed prophecies were more like thinly veiled entreaties to lead Atlantis into yet another battle against its many enemies.
“All Atlanteans are warmongers,” said Belardinelli accusingly. “Violence is in their blood.”
“And in the blood of their enemies too, apparently,” she shot back. “Where’s the part about the statues?”
Belardinelli indicated a section farther down the page. Nina read it out loud. “ ‘When Nantalas held the statues, a great light would fill the Temple of the Gods, giving the high priestess visions as the stone called out to her. She said that such visions let her see through the eyes of all the watching gods, and that she could feel all life in this world.’ That’s what I …”
She trailed off, not wanting to let the members of the Brotherhood in on her secrets. “What I expected based on our new excavations,” she continued before quickly reading on until she found another relevant piece of text. “ ‘The high priestess requested the presence of the king at the Temple of the Gods. She told him again that the power of the sky stone would make the empire invincible. When he demanded proof, she brought the statues together and touched them to the stone. The king was astounded when it …’ ”
That was the end of the text, nothing more than the occasional letter discernible at the torn bottom of the parchment. “That’s all there is?” she asked Belardinelli.
“Nantalas appears in a few other texts,” he replied, “but only as a name—nothing more is said about her.”
She turned to Popadopoulos. “The Brotherhood is the only organization that has this information, yes? There’s nobody else who might have copies of it, or another source?”
“Not that I am aware of,” he said.
“And you haven’t shared anything from the archives with anybody but the IHA?”
“We would not even have done that if we had not been forced,” said Belardinelli, affronted.
“Why are you asking?” said the Greek.
“Because,” she said, “I think somebody has information about Atlantis that not even the Brotherhood of Selasphoros possesses.”
Belardinelli shook his head. “Impossible! The Brotherhood has been dedicated to its task for hundreds of generations. We have found everything there is to find about Atlantis.”
“Except Atlantis itself,” Nina reminded him. “You needed me to do that.”
The Italian seemed about to explode with anger, but Popadopoulos waved him down. “What are you suggesting, Dr. Wilde?”
“When I put the three statues together in Tokyo,” she said, “I had … an experience.”
“What kind of experience?”
“Let’s just say that Nantalas might not have been a fraud. But the thing is, Takashi—the guy who had the statues—knew what to expect, as if he’d read this text.” She indicated the parchment.
“Impossible,” Belardinelli said again.
“I dunno—this could very easily be interpreted as what I experienced, certainly from the point of view of someone living eleven thousand years ago. But the thing is, that wasn’t the only thing he was expecting. There were … other effects, is all I can say right now, when the statues were put together. Physical effects, that … well, the only way I can describe them is extraordinary,” she said, with a helpless shrug. “But Takashi wasn’t at all surprised—by any of it. Not only did he know about what’s written here, but he also knew something you don’t.”
Popadopoulos was stunned. “You think this man Takashi had read the missing parts of Kallikrates’s texts?”
“Maybe. Maybe more than that. Is there anyone else who might have information about Atlantis that the Brotherhood doesn’t? Governments, other secret societies?” She glanced up at the ceiling. “Religions?”
“There is nothing in the Archivum Secretum about Atlantis,” said Belardinelli firmly.
Popadopoulos was more doubtful. “Several governments have vast secret archives of their own,” he admitted. “But we have never shared our knowledge with anyone, except the IHA.”
“So, if you’re so sure that this parchment is the only copy of Kallikrates’s work, how could Takashi know what it describes?” Nina asked.
Belardinelli took off his glasses and paced across the narrow tunnel before whirling on his heel to face Nina. “The other part of the page repeats the same information, obviously,” he said, punctuating his words with more jabs from his finger. “Someone else possesses it—and that is where Takashi read it.”
“Parchment could be expensive,” Nina countered. “I mean, look how many words Kallikrates crammed onto this. You don’t waste it by repeating yourself.”
“But that—that is the only possible explanation,” said Agnelli. Nina had almost forgotten he was there.
“No, there’s another one. You won’t like it, though,” she told the two older men. “Someone inside the Brotherhood passed on the information to Takashi’s organization.”
The silence told her that her theory had not been well received. “No!” barked Belardinelli at last. “It is not possible. Every single member of the Brotherhood is completely loyal to the cause!”
“You don’t have a cause anymore! Atlantis has been discovered, the Frosts and their followers are dead, the Brotherhood’s been exposed—and it’s now got the UN and several governments watching over it. Maybe someone decided it was time to get out, and thought that selling secrets would be the best way to set up a retirement fund.”
“It is … hard to believe,” said Popadopoulos slowly. “Agostino is right—loyalty to the Brotherhood is very important.”
“And besides,” said Belardinelli, “there are only three people who know the full contents of the archives: myself, Nicholas, and Paolo.” He crossed his arms as if that settled the argument.
“Well, that narrows the list of suspects, doesn’t it?” Nina said. As the three men exchanged glances, she looked up at the shelf from which the preserved parchment had been taken. “Huh.”
“What is it?” asked Popadopoulos.
She pointed to the left of the empty spot. “That’s Mr. Belardinelli’s handprint there in the dust.”
“Yes? So?” Belardinelli snapped. “I made it when I took down the book. You saw me do it.”
“So whose is that on the other side?” She indicated another mark in the gray layer.
“You never touched that part of the shelf, Agostino,” said Popadopoulos, moving for a better look. “But someone has—and recently. There is hardly any new dust.”
Nina turned
to Belardinelli. “Are you right-handed?”
“Yes,” he said, puzzled and angry. “What has that to do with anything?”
“When you climbed up, you used your left hand for support while you pulled the book out with your right hand—your stronger hand. But that mark was made by someone’s right hand … meaning they moved the book with their left.”
“I am right-handed,” Popadopoulos told her.
“Yeah, I thought you would be.” Now she faced Agnelli. “The computer was set up for someone left-handed. And Mr. Belardinelli here said he never uses it, so that only leaves you.” Prickles of sweat blossomed across his broad face even in the climate-controlled cool of the catacomb. “You’re left-handed, Mr. Agnelli. And you knew where the parchment was without having to check—and the ladder was even right here.” She looked back at the other men. “How does that sound?”
Their faces betrayed shock—which, she quickly realized, was far greater than her deduction deserved. She turned to Agnelli once more.
And froze. “Oh, crap.”
The young Italian was pointing a gun at her.
TWELVE
Agnelli was shaking, the small silver automatic trembling in his hand, but his index finger was tight around the trigger. “D-don’t move,” he stammered.
A chilling fear coursed through Nina. In his frightened, agitated state, Agnelli might shoot her by accident. “Okay, let’s, ah, let’s all stay calm, huh? Nobody wants to get shot. I have been before, and I didn’t like it.”
“Paolo!” exclaimed Belardinelli. “What is this?”
“I—I am sorry,” said the sweating Agnelli. “I needed the money, and they gave me fifty thousand euros for a picture of the parchment. Only that one page! I didn’t give them anything else. I didn’t betray the Brotherhood.”
“And yet you are pointing a gun at us,” Popadopoulos said in an acid tone.
“Why were you even carrying a gun?” Nina asked. “Expecting to get caught, were you?”
“Shut up!” cried Agnelli, almost hyperventilating. “Everyone shut up! Move back.”
Nina willingly retreated a couple of steps, as did Popadopoulos, but Belardinelli stood his ground. “What are you going to do, Paolo? Kill us? Is that how you repay the Brotherhood for everything it has given you? Is that how you repay me?”
“No, no, I—I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want to get out of here,” said Agnelli, wide-eyed. “Please, Agostino, move back!”
Instead, Belardinelli held out his hand. “Give me the gun, Paolo.” He stepped forward. “We can—”
The gunshot was almost deafening in the confined space.
Belardinelli staggered, clutching feebly at his chest. He looked up at the younger man, face shocked and hurt … then slowly crumpled to the floor. Agnelli’s own features conveyed equal disbelief.
Silence and stillness for a moment. Then Popadopoulos fled down the tunnel.
The gun roared again. The Greek crashed against a wall, knocking items from a loculus.
Agnelli brought the gun back around to Nina—
She too was moving—but not running. Instead, she swept up the little stepladder and flung it at him. He reeled, pulling the trigger, but the bullet went well wide of its target.
Now Nina ran, leaping over the moaning Popadopoulos and sprinting down the tunnel. Behind her, Agnelli’s shout warned her that his fear had turned to anger.
She threw herself down a curving side passage as Agnelli fired again. Where it led she had no idea, but she had no choice except to follow it.
The Italian set off in pursuit. He reached the side passage, turned—
And stopped in momentary surprise. The tunnel was in near darkness.
Still running, Nina passed beneath another lightbulb and, fist clenching her jacket’s cuff, reached up to smash it. Even with the material protecting her hand, she still winced as a glass splinter stabbed into the flesh.
But that pain was infinitely preferable to the burning hammer blow of a bullet. She was in Agnelli’s domain, the Italian knowing every twist and turn of the tunnels. Her only hope of escape was to confuse him long enough for her to get past and make a dash for the elevator.
The passage twisted around to a four-way intersection. She carried on straight ahead, breaking another light—then doubled back into the left tunnel. A boxy dehumidifier grumbled away on the floor; she jinked past it and continued on, straining to pick out Agnelli’s pounding footsteps over the machine’s noise. How close was he?
Too close, almost at the intersection.
She flattened herself into the shadows of another arcosolium as Agnelli reached the junction. He glanced to each side before continuing ahead into the darkened tunnel. Nina held her breath. His steps faded—but was it because he was getting farther away, or just that he was slowing?
It was hard to be sure over the dehumidifier’s thrum. She leaned out from her cover and looked back. Had her ruse worked? If she made a dash for the intersection, she might have a clear run to the entrance—or she might find herself face-to-face with Agnelli if he had realized her deception.
The longer she stayed in the catacomb, the greater her chances of her being cornered. She had to risk going back. She moved out of the shadows—
Agnelli reappeared at the junction.
Nina scrambled to reverse direction as he saw her. The gun snapped up, but in his haste he fired without aiming, the shot chipping the ancient stone wall several feet short. By the time reason overcame panic and he raised the automatic higher to look down its sights, she had rounded another corner.
More broken bulbs tinkled into the growing darkness as she ran through the archive’s ancient tunnels. The passage ahead split into two. On impulse she went left, smashing another light. She was outpacing the overweight Italian, the tunnel’s turns preventing him from lining up another shot, but if she found herself in a dead end he would catch up very quickly.
Or not. It sounded as though he were slowing down. He might be tiring … but Nina somehow knew that wasn’t the case. Dread rose inside her. He had stopped running because he no longer needed to.
She had nowhere left to go.
Even with that frightening knowledge, she kept moving, destroying more bulbs. The passage bent around, another light ahead. She reached up to break it—
And saw the end of the tunnel as it opened into a chamber lined with burial niches, all packed with ancient records. A cool breeze from an air conditioner wafted around her as she skidded to a halt.
No way out.
And no hiding places either. The room was cramped enough for Agnelli to find her even in the dark. She would have no choice but to fight—against a much larger and heavier foe armed with a gun. Despite having been taught the basics of unarmed combat by Eddie, she didn’t like the odds.
But it was that or stand there and wait to be shot. She was about to hit the bulb when an idea came to her.
The air conditioner. Its power cord snaked back down the tunnel …
Nina burned its position into her mind—then smashed the final light.
Agnelli blinked as the passage ahead went completely dark. He slowed to a cautious walk. The only remaining illumination was a dim glow from far behind him, and even that would be gone when he rounded the next bend.
But he knew exactly what lay ahead. “You can’t hide from me!” he called, growing more confident despite the adrenaline making the blood hiss in his ears. “And—and I can tell the Brotherhood that you shot everyone before I stopped you. They’ll believe me—they know you hate us!”
“You’ve got to find me first,” came an echoing voice from the end of the tunnel. “You fat fuck!” it added, New York accent becoming more pronounced.
Agnelli’s face tightened with pricked pride. She was insulting him? “Give up and—and I’ll make it quick for you,” he said, dredging up half-remembered dialogue from some movie in an attempt to sound more threatening.
It didn’t work. “You couldn’t be quick
if you tried, you fucking greaseball! Come on, get your fat ass down here—if it’ll squeeze through the door!”
Anger rising over his anxiety, Agnelli started to jog, right hand stretched out to feel his way along the tunnel wall as he held the gun at the ready in his left. There was no way she could slip past him in the passage, so she would be trapped in the end chamber. He went around the last turn, total darkness enshrouding him. Now he’d show her that he had more muscle than fat—
Something snagged around his ankles—and he went flying over the makeshift trip wire Nina had made from the air conditioner’s power cable, slamming down face-first in the small room. Before he could recover a foot drove into his side, followed by another kick that caught his elbow. He yelled, then panic returned as he realized he had let go of the gun.
Nina heard the clatter of metal on the floor. Run while Agnelli was down, or go for the gun and turn the tables? She chose the latter, crouching and fumbling in the blackness. Stone and dirt were all she felt. She heard the Italian also groping blindly for his fallen weapon. Where was the damn thing?
Cold, angular steel. She grabbed the gun, trying to flip it around to get a proper hold—
Agnelli gripped her wrist.
He was too strong for her to pull free, dragging her toward him. She lashed out with her other hand, hitting the side of his face, but before she could go for his eyes he bashed her hand against the floor.
She gasped in pain. Agnelli pounded her hand down again, harder. The pistol jolted loose and clacked onto the stone. The Italian batted savagely at her body with his other arm, then scrambled for the weapon—
A bell sounded, its clamor echoing through the catacomb.
Agnelli let out a gasp of horror as he realized what it meant. The wounded Popadopoulos must have managed to drag himself to the archive entrance and set off the alarm. More members of the Brotherhood would be on their way—and the old man would tell them everything.
He abandoned the gun and leapt back to his feet, scrambling down the tunnel. Ribs aching where he had hit her, Nina found the pistol in the blackness, then quickly followed the panicked Italian.
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