The Atlantis Code

by Charles Brokaw

  “If you look,” Silver was saying, “you can see where Atlantis once stood. Maybe. Father Sebastian’s excavation has uncovered what might be one of the three moats, and a series of tunnels that pass through it. Looking at this, you can see why the rumors started.”

  Murani’s phone rang. He muted the television and answered.

  “He was picked up by the FSB,” Gallardo said. There was no need to use names. Both of them knew whom Gallardo was talking about.

  “Why?”

  “The archeologist’s sister turned out to be a police inspector.”

  Murani leaned back in his comfortable chair to examine the implications. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “It might have helped to know that before I went after the cymbal,” Gallardo said. “We could have taken care of our current problem last night.”

  Murani silently agreed. “He couldn’t have told her anything. He can’t know anything.”

  “He knows more than I like. He’s tied the two artifacts together somehow. You already knew that because you sent me here.”

  “Upon further reflection,” Murani said, “it seems that I might have been remiss in my decision to call you off him.”

  “I think he knows something we don’t. We’re following him closely. From the way he’s moving, he’s got an agenda.”

  Murani turned to his computer and pulled up the file on Professor Thomas Lourds. The man was acknowledged by many as the world’s foremost linguist.

  “The film crew took pictures of the Egyptian artifact,” Murani said, putting it together in his mind. “The archeologist had pictures of the artifact in his hotel room. With the digital images in hand, the images on the bell could be legible.”

  “Do you think he translated the inscription?”

  Murani did not want to think that was true. All the scholars in the Society of Quirinus had studied the bell and the images of the cymbal. The cymbal hadn’t yet arrived at Vatican City. But none of them had been able to manage a translation.

  But Lourds . . .

  Unease spun through Murani like a spider’s web, anchoring to all the doubts in his mind. He didn’t like taking chances. Everything he did so far, all the subterfuge he’d masterminded behind the backs of the other members of the Society, had been carefully weighed for risk. As he planned this caper, Murani had discounted the possibility of trouble.

  Now Lourds was a wild card.

  “Find out if Lourds managed to translate either of the inscriptions,” Murani said. “If he has, I want to talk to him. Somewhere private. But if he doesn’t know, make certain he doesn’t involve himself in this any further.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  AUGUST 21, 2009

  Y

  ou haven’t said where we’re going.”

  Lourds looked at the young woman and tried to comprehend what she’d said. “What?”

  “I said, you haven’t said where we’re going,” Leslie repeated. “I’ve tried to remain quiet, be the good little soldier, but that’s not working for me.”

  “Me, neither,” Gary said from the backseat. He was the camcorder operator Leslie had enlisted for the jaunt into Moscow. Gary Connolly was in his mid-twenties. Long, curly hair hung to his narrow shoulders. He wore round-lensed glasses and a black U2 SHAKE, RATTLE, AND HUM concert T-shirt that showed its age.

  As a rule, Lourds didn’t like revealing everything about his agenda or his thinking until he was ready. He wanted to give Leslie something, though. He felt he owed her that. “We’re going to M. V. Lomonosov Moscow State University.”

  “What’s there?”

  “As I said, Yuliya Hapaeve and I consulted on various work projects we introduced over the years.” Lourds’s voice tightened. “Yuliya sometimes worked on documents that contained state secrets. Some of her finds revealed things powerful people in Russia didn’t want known by other countries. In Russia, even modern Russia, that can be a death sentence.”

  “I’m with you so far, but that doesn’t explain why we’re going to college.”

  “Yuliya was a devoted craftsman in her chosen field,” Lourds said. “She hated to think that whatever great story she was working on would never see the light of day. She always wanted someone to be able to finish her projects in case something happened to her. So we—”

  “—set up a drop at the Moscow State University,” Leslie finished. She grinned with both excitement at what lay before them and her own prowess at figuring out the reason for their trip.

  “Exactly.”

  “The trick is going to be getting out of the country with whatever she left you.”

  Lourds didn’t say anything, but he felt certain escaping the country would be only one of the tricks involved.

  M. V. LOMONOSOV MOSCOW STATE UNIVERSITY

  MOSCOW, RUSSIA

  AUGUST 21, 2009

  “I didn’t know it would be this big,” Leslie admitted.

  Lourds craned his neck and stared up at the imposing structure. Moscow State University’s main building’s central tower stood thirty-six stories tall. The university had been founded in 1755, but Joseph Stalin had ordered the construction of the main building. It had been one of seven projects the former General Secretary of the Soviet Party had conscripted during his term. In the 1950s, the university’s main building was the tallest structure in Europe.

  Giant clocks, barometers and thermometers, statues and reliefs all decorated the building’s exterior. Inside, the building contained its own police station and post office, administrative offices, bank offices, a library and swimming pool, and several shops.

  It was, Lourds had to admit, extremely impressive to someone seeing it for the first time. “I know,” he told Leslie. “I felt the same way the first time I saw it. I don’t think you ever truly get used to it.”

  They left the car near the street rather than parking inside the university area. Leslie asked why they were walking so far, and Lourds told her he didn’t want to call any attention to themselves.

  Reluctantly, Leslie agreed to the long walk. Gary, the cameraman, was less enthusiastic.

  The grounds, despite the economic hardship the country faced, were well appointed and clean. Flowering shrubs and bushes, though modest, made their presence known.

  Several students and teachers paraded across the sidewalks and gathered in front of the buildings. A pang passed through Lourds when he saw the groups. He thought of his classes. His graduate assistants were capable and passionate about their studies, but Lourds enjoyed the first few days of class because he got to meet the students before they immersed themselves in their studies.

  A few professors greeted him as he strode purposefully. He returned the greetings without thought, in the speaker’s language and accent. Once, though, he noticed how pensive Leslie looked. Then he remembered she didn’t speak Russian, much less any of its dialects.

  Lourds could barely remember how that felt, because it had been a long time since he’d been anywhere he couldn’t communicate. But he could remember how awkward and vulnerable he felt whenever he was out of place—like that time a girlfriend had taken him to a baby shower. Lourds imagined Leslie felt something like that—didn’t know the rules, the vocabulary, or the point of the exercise.

  He led the way up a flight of stairs and took advantage of the fact that they were alone for a moment. “Just smile and nod,” he told Leslie and Gary. “I’ll handle the conversations.”

  “I know,” Leslie said. “But this is strange. It’s not like going shopping in Chinatown. I can get by there, even though I don’t speak Chinese. I know I can talk to people because most of them know at least rudimentary English.”

  “The people here,” Lourds cautioned, “know a lot more English than that. Most Americans don’t speak a foreign language. English schoolchildren are exposed to more languages than American children, so I’d imagine you’re bilingual at least. Here in Russia, they’ve taken pains to learn our language. In
many cases, very well.”

  “Okay.”

  “So you could probably converse with anyone we meet here. But I’d rather not be mentioned to anyone just now as the bunch of foreigners trooping through the halls.”

  “Point taken,” she said.

  Lourds flashed the library identification Yuliya had arranged for him. He exchanged pleasantries with the older man who shepherded the collections contained within the large library. The man remembered Lourds from previous visits with Yuliya.

  “Ah, Professor Lourds,” the man said. “Back with us again?”

  “For a short time,” Lourds agreed as he handed his card over to be scanned.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” The man handed Lourds’s card back.

  “No, thank you. I know the way.”

  Lourds walked to the back of the large space filled with bookshelves. Out of sight of the librarian, he strode through the stacks, taking a meandering route to his ultimate goal. The library was wired with surveillance cameras. He didn’t want to look too purposeful.

  Only a few students and teachers were in the stacks. None of them appeared more than casually interested.

  Lourds went deeper into the stacks and found the section that held books on linguistics. He noted with satisfaction that books bearing his name had increased in quantity on the shelf. Of course, many of them were his translation of Bedroom Pursuits. The worn bindings indicated they’d seen serious circulation.

  “I see that the reading tastes of college students don’t really change from nation to nation,” Leslie commented dryly.

  “Not hardly. Still, whatever brings them to quest for knowledge is fine by me. Sex, or at least the promise of sex, garners more attention than anything else in the world, especially if you are a healthy nineteen-year-old.” Lourds glanced at Leslie. “And it isn’t just teens who like it. As I recall, it was that book that brought me to your attention. And doubtless it was that book that you used to win over your producers.”

  Leslie’s cheeks flamed a bit. “Marketing loved the idea, of course.”

  “Of course. And I expect that it will be touted on the advertisements for the television series.”

  “Will that bother you?”

  “Not at all. I get royalties from that book.” Lourds grinned. “As you can see, it’s been something of an international best-seller. It’s afforded me quite a different lifestyle than that of a simple academic.”

  Lourds knelt in front of the books. He moved four of them out of the way. Reaching up, he ran his hand across the bottom of the next shelf up. He felt nothing.

  Disappointment coursed through him. He hadn’t really expected to turn away empty-handed. He drew back.

  “What’s wrong?” Leslie asked.

  “Nothing’s there.”

  Leslie knelt beside him and crouched to look under the shelf.

  “Maybe she didn’t have time to leave anything.”

  “Has it always been this shelf?”

  “Yes.”

  Glancing up, Leslie pointed at the books above the shelf they were investigating. “Some of your books are shelved here.”

  Lourds looked and found that it was true. “Apparently the library has seen fit to acquire more copies of my works.” He ran his hand under the upper shelf and felt the straight edges of micro flash drive secured there. He pulled on it, but it didn’t come loose.

  “What’s wrong?” Leslie asked.

  “It’s stuck.” Lourds took a penflash from his pocket and looked up at the small protective plastic case. Light glistened on the dollops of dried liquid that showed around the edges.

  “That looks like an adhesive,” Leslie said.

  “I hadn’t expected that.” The shelf shivered under his attack. On a second attempt, the case tore away with a loud rip. Lourds pulled his hand away. He held the case between his fingers.

  “Man,” Gary said, “I hope you didn’t break that micro flash drive.”

  Lourds peered through the pale blue patina of the protective case but couldn’t clearly see the contents. He, too, hoped he hadn’t damaged it.

  At that moment a figure moved into view at the end of the row.

  “Professor Lourds?”

  Looking up, Lourds saw the librarian standing there.

  “Is something wrong?” the little man asked. “I thought I heard a noise.”

  Lourds didn’t know what to say. There was no time to hide the micro flash drive. The librarian had to have seen it.

  Gallardo felt exposed as he walked through the library at the Russian college. He wore street clothes—khakis, an oxford, and sweater—and covered it all with a long woolen coat.

  But his wardrobe couldn’t do anything about the look in his eyes.

  One glance, and anyone would know he was no student.

  DiBenedetto and Cimino covered his flank. The younger man made small talk with passing women. He smiled often and looked as if he were a student himself off to work on a paper.

  Miroshnikov, one of the men Gallardo had retained to help him inside Moscow, waited at the door to the library. He had been the one to follow Lourds and the television team into the building.

  “He’s still inside?” Gallardo asked. He spoke in English because that was the only language he and Miroshnikov had in common.

  “Yes.”

  Gallardo nodded and dropped a hand into his coat pocket to touch the silencer-equipped pistol he carried there. “Where?”

  “At the back.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Miroshnikov took the lead. Gallardo followed at his heels. A ripping noise sounded off to the left. The old man behind the library counter went on point immediately. He slipped from behind the counter and went in the direction of the noise.

  Gallardo fell in behind the old librarian but motioned for DiBenedetto and Cimino to spread out. They disappeared into the stacks of books almost at once.

  Miroshnikov stayed just ahead of Gallardo and to the left. Gallardo had a clear field of fire. His hand formed a fist around the pistol.

  The librarian stopped so suddenly, Miroshnikov nearly ran up his back.

  “Professor Lourds,” the librarian exclaimed quietly. There was a note of accusation in the address.

  Gallardo stopped just out of sight and listened. Miroshnikov crossed the aisle and fell into position at the next stack.

  When Lourds spoke, Gallardo recognized the professor’s voice but not what was said. Lourds evidently spoke fluent Russian.

  Peering around the corner, Gallardo saw Lourds and the television crew standing like guilty children in front of the old librarian. The wizened man stepped into their midst. He was obviously concerned over what had happened.

  Gallardo’s attention was riveted on the small plastic case in Lourds’s hands. As upset as the librarian was, Gallardo feared that security would be called. He knew he couldn’t allow that to happen.

  He freed the pistol from his pocket, pulled his ski mask down to cover his face, and stepped around the stack. Miroshnikov mirrored his movements. The silencers screwed onto the barrels of the pistols made them look huge and menacing. Gallardo hoped their appearance would be enough to keep anyone from being foolish.

  “I’ll take that,” Gallardo barked in English.

  Showing obvious irritation, the librarian turned around. Gallardo guessed the man intended to deliver a scathing retort, but the initiative died on the man’s withered lips when he saw the pistol.

  “Down on your knees,” Gallardo ordered. “Cross your ankles.”

  The librarian dropped and barely managed the feat.

  Lourds maintained enough presence of mind to start backing away. He caught the young woman with one hand and pulled her behind him.

  “If I have to shoot you, Professor Lourds, I will.” Gallardo held the pistol level. “I’m beginning to think you’d be far less trouble to me dead.”

  DiBenedetto stepped out from cover at the other end of the aisle.

  With hi
s escape route closed off, Lourds froze.

  Gallardo grinned. He knew the expression would show through the ski mask—menacingly, of course. He advanced slowly. Miroshnikov trailed him.

  “I say we just kill them here,” DiBenedetto said. “We don’t need them alive.”

  A meaty smack sounded behind Gallardo before he could make a reply. Ahead, DiBenedetto stepped to the side and leveled his pistol in both hands, taking deliberate aim at Gallardo.

  “Look out,” DiBenedetto warned.

  Gallardo tried to turn. He heard the movement behind him. His head swiveled and he saw Miroshnikov lying unconscious on the library floor. At the same moment a pistol barrel screwed into the side of Gallardo’s neck.

  “If you move,” a cold female voice warned, “I’m going to shoot you.”

  Standing behind the big man, Natasha Safarov kept her pistol barrel tight against his neck. If she squeezed the trigger, the round would tear his throat out.

  Adrenaline surged through her as she tried to figure out where the other man was. She’d arrived at the university after Lourds and the men trailing him. They hadn’t noticed her, as she’d parked farther up then doubled back to the library only a short distance behind them.

  “Tell your friends to put their weapons down,” Natasha advised. “Otherwise I’ll kill you and take my chances with them. Personally, I like my chances. How do you feel?”

  Before the man could answer, Lourds charged into action. Natasha wanted to scream in frustration. The professor was going to get himself killed.

  Lourds caught the young gunman’s hand and shoved it into the air. The pistol made a slight coughing noise. The bullet thudded into the ceiling high overhead. Only a thin stream of plaster dust trickled down. Before the younger man could recover, Lourds raked a thick book from the shelf and slammed the gunman in the face with it.