The Atlantis Code

by Charles Brokaw

  “You’ve got your eyes so firmly on the prize that you’re forgetting others are doing the same. Only we’re the prize. We’re a threat to whatever they’re doing.”

  “And they can’t have that?”

  Natasha shook her head. “Apparently not. Otherwise they wouldn’t have sent Gallardo after us.”

  “But how did they find us in Odessa?”

  A mirthless smile curved Natasha’s mouth. “That is the question, isn’t it? How would you think Gallardo found us?”

  “If this were a spy movie, one of us would be carrying a tracking device. But we haven’t had that much contact with Gallardo—or his minions—for that to happen.”

  “I agree.”

  “His presence in Odessa wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “If you thought so even for a moment, I’d consider you dangerously ignorant. For a university professor, your survival skills are impressive.”

  “But not enough to keep me from getting killed.”

  “Probably not.”

  Lourds winced. “That’s brutally honest.”

  “You live longer if you’re aware.”

  “That leaves only one possibility, and I refuse to entertain it.”

  “Then you’re more foolish than I’d hoped.” Disappointment showed on Natasha’s beautiful face.

  “You’re insinuating that someone—either Leslie, Gary, or Josef—betrayed us.”

  “Gallardo and his men nearly got us,” Natasha pointed out. “That’s more than someone telling him that we were in Illichivsk.”

  Lourds silently conceded the point. “There has to be another answer.”

  “There is. I could have turned us in.”

  That surprised Lourds.

  Natasha looked at him and shook her head. She looked both sad and amused. “That thought never entered your head?”

  “No,” Lourds said truthfully.

  “Why?”

  “You’re Yuliya’s sister. You wouldn’t do that.”

  “You are a man of the world, Professor Lourds. But do you know what my sister most enjoyed about you?”

  Lourds shrugged.

  “Your naiveté. She always maintained that you were one of the most innocent men she’d ever met.” Natasha stood. “It’s an early morning before us. I’d suggest you get some rest before then. Good night.”

  “Good night.” Lourds watched her walk away. She had an admirable walk and a figure to flaunt it. He appreciated both in a manner that he considered was not overly naive.

  CHAPTER

  13

  MAX PLANCK INSTITUTE FOR SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY

  HALLE AN DER SAALE, GERMANY

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  A

  re you familiar with the work the Social Anthropology Institute does, Professor Lourds?” Joachim Fleinhardt turned out to be an interesting man. From their phone conversations, brief and to the point, Lourds had expected the man to be a pasty and portly chap who spent far too much time in the lab.

  As it turned out, Fleinhardt was six feet six inches tall at least, a stunning example of hybrid vigor. He said that his German father had married a black American officer. The genetics of the match were clearly superior. Fleinhardt’s position here at the institute and his reputation indicated that he was as bright as they came. His skin was beautiful, dark and smooth, and he was lean and handsome. He moved like a professional athlete. That was intimidating enough.

  He was also impeccably dressed, which made Lourds feel awkward in his jeans shorts and loose shirt unbuttoned over a soccer T-shirt. Lourds had dressed weather appropriate but not scholastically appropriate.

  “No, I’m not as familiar as I should be, I have to admit,” Lourds said.

  Fleinhardt strode through the pristine hallways of the institute with authority. Other people quickly gave way before him.

  “My group deals with integration and conflict,” the professor said.

  “The study of tribal wars?”

  “And of the slave trade. You don’t get one without the other, I’m afraid. Africa, especially North Africa after the Europeans arrived and introduced new markets that the Yoruba people and others had never thought of, changed the face of those tribes.”

  “Trade often does that, for better and worse.”

  “We research and document integration and conflict because we feel those elements most designate identity and difference between cultures.”

  “Because of their views on kinship, friendship, language, and history.”

  “Exactly.” Fleinhardt smiled in a pleased manner. “A culture’s need for rituals and beliefs give us many clues as to who they were and who they came in contact with.”

  “Not only that,” Lourds said, “but it helps build a time line.”

  Fleinhardt nodded. “I’m impressed. You’ve been keeping up. Most people these days don’t favor interdisciplinary training or pursuits.”

  “Actually, the project caught my eye. Besides that, linguists, archeologists, and historians tend to feed at the same troughs. It’s far too difficult these days to keep up with everything going on in science. But I try to supplement as much as I can.”

  “I know.” Fleinhardt frowned ruefully. “We’re losing our core knowledge, I’m afraid. The basic language scientists use to speak to each other. But then language is your field, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. The core-knowledge problem is one every expanding civilization eventually faces,” Lourds said. “Even two and three thousand years ago, technology advanced more rapidly than people could share it. The advent of libraries, places where knowledge could be kept and shared, helped somewhat, but until Gutenberg came along with his printing press, sharing and distribution remained a problem.”

  “Sharing and distribution are still a problem. If it weren’t for this job and the budget that comes with it, I wouldn’t be able to afford most of the technical manuals and resource books I keep on hand.”

  “I understand the problem. Even the Internet, with all its pirate peer-to-peer sharing capabilities, can’t keep up. My budget never quite covers everything I want to read. I end up with huge out-of-pocket expenses every year.”

  Fleinhardt laughed. “That’s the common complaint of every working scholar who’s serious about his craft.”

  The room holding the Yoruba records and artifacts was smaller than Lourds had expected. Some of his disappointment must have shown on his face.

  “Not everything is kept here,” Fleinhardt explained as he booted up a computer. “Even as large as the institute is, we simply don’t have enough space. Many of the documents we’ve recovered or at least made physical copies of have been translated to digital images. Our database is quite extensive.”

  Lourds placed his backpack on the floor and took the seat Fleinhardt indicated.

  “I took the liberty of securing the files Professor Hapaev had inquired about.” Fleinhardt tapped keys. “Is that what you’re here to see?”

  “To begin with, yes. I don’t know how far my search will take me.”

  “Well, if the research you’re doing here benefits your efforts for this television show, I hope you see fit to mention us. The institute can always use donations.”

  Lourds said he would keep that in mind, but he was already on the prowl for information. He crawled into Yoruba mentally and got to know that country, its history, and its people. In only few moments, he was thoroughly fascinated.

  TRASTEVERE

  ROME, ITALY

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  “Welcome, Father. Please come in.”

  Murani ignored the slight, even though he was so much more than a simple priest. He knew the speaker hadn’t intended to ignore his position. These days the old woman couldn’t remember much or keep things straight.

  “Thank you, Sister.” Murani allowed her to take his coat. He wore traditional black today. His rosary hung around his neck.

  “The others are in the back, Father.” The old woman hung his coat on a hanger.


  Murani walked through the spacious, elegant home. Not all the members of the Society of Quirinus had remained with the Church. The society needed some autonomy and didn’t exist solely under the prying eyes of the papacy. Also, some of the members weren’t Church officials. Sometimes the money had to come from somewhere else. Deals had been struck with believers.

  Once through the narrow hallways filled with paintings and sculptures that delineated much of Rome’s and the Church’s history, Murani found Lorenzo Occhetto holding court in his large study. The double doors were open.

  Occhetto was a wizened man with a bald liver-spotted head. He looked like an animated cadaver, but his yellowed eyes never missed a trick. In his day, Occhetto had been a fireball for the Church, and had stood against every loss of power and prestige the Church suffered.

  In addition to his host, three men occupied the room. All of them sat listening to Occhetto. A large wide-screen monitor built into the wall showed real-time footage of the excavation in Cádiz. There was no doubt about the topic of conversation.

  “Ah, Cardinal Murani. It’s good to see you.” Occhetto’s voice was raspy, but it carried a sense of power. “I’m glad you could visit.”

  In the end, there had been no choice. When Occhetto sent for someone, that someone had to go.

  Murani shook hands.

  “We have no reason to talk here. I want to walk with you a bit while I am still able.” Occhetto rose slowly from his desk.

  ______

  “Over the years,” Occhetto said as he stepped into the private elevator that led to the underground section of the home, “we’ve shown you many secrets.”

  The elevator was hidden behind a wall and a grandfather clock that swung inward when the latches were released. Murani entered the elevator and closed the doors.

  Occhetto pressed the button and the light dimmed. After a moment, the cage jerked into a slow descent. “But we haven’t shown you every secret.”

  That incensed Murani. When he’d been accepted into the Society of Quirinus, he expected to be told the whole truth.

  “What haven’t you told me?” He knew the demand in his voice might cause problems, but the question was out of him before he could stop it.

  Occhetto waved the question away. “We’ve told you everything, Stefano. We’ve just not shown you everything.”

  The elevator bucked to a stop. Murani shoved the doors open and they walked out into large room cut from the limestone under the city.

  The rooms under Occhetto’s home had been used for smuggling operations. The Occhetto family had been deeply religious, though, and had been forgiven on a regular basis. Of course, their ill-gotten gain was properly tithed so their souls would be cared for.

  “What I’m about to show you is the prize of my collection.” Occhetto slowly made his way across the cavernous space and stopped at one of the rooms. There were several. Murani hadn’t even been to half of them. “Only a few members in the Society of Quirinus know that I have this.” Occhetto took a ring of keys from his pocket and fitted one to the lock.

  The mechanism opened with a faint, smooth snick, proving that it was often used.

  Occhetto took a candle from a shelf on the wall and lit it with a match from a box beside them. The candle flame guttered for a moment, then burned strongly. He placed it in a lamp.

  The first thing that caught Murani’s attention was the Madonna in the niche carved into the opposite wall. It was almost three feet high. Mary, the Mother of God, stood with her hands out to her sides in silent supplication.

  Then Murani noticed the large table in the center of the room. The candle was barely bright enough to lift enough of the shadows to reveal strange glass shapes.

  Mesmerized by the sight, matching the shapes up to a pattern he still didn’t quite recognize, Murani went forward.

  “Wait,” Occhetto said. “You’ll need a candle.”

  Murani took one and lit it from the one in the lantern Occhetto held in a shaking hand.

  “Do you see the glass reservoir on the side nearest you?” Occhetto asked.

  Murani looked and said that he did.

  “There’s a wick in that. Light it and step back.”

  At the table, Murani dipped the candle to light the wick suspended in oil. As it turned out, the wick was strung throughout the glass model.

  As Murani watched, the flame caught slowly but made its way throughout the tubing that ran through the structure. The glass amplified the light as it spread. Within minutes a miniature city stood ablaze in the darkness.

  Atlantis!

  Stunned by the beauty that lay before him, Murani advanced cautiously. Hot wax dripped down his hand, but he barely noticed it.

  Pale green crenulated towers rose up from the darker green and amber of the glass houses and buildings at the base of the model. Yellow lamps lit narrow streets that wound through the city in concentric circles. That alone marked the city as Atlantis. Beyond the city, more glass formed the surrounding sea, but this glass burned lambent blue.

  The color came from the tint of the blown glass. Each piece had been carefully made and put together.

  Hesitantly, Murani lifted the candle and blew it out. The gentle light of Atlantis continued to burn.

  “This was made from one of the illustrations of the city,” Murani said. The illustration had lived in his head since the time it was shown to him.

  “Yes.”

  “Who did the work?”

  “A priest who wasn’t quite faithful in his vows,” Occhetto answered. “His name was Sandro D’Alema. He was a third son, so his father gave him to the Church. He would have been better off with a painter or sculptor, but his journals say his father was afraid he would starve. Instead, he slipped away from the Church for weeks and months at a time and studied art.”

  “How did he come to make this?” Murani said. “Being uncommitted as he was in his faith, no one would have told him of the Secret Texts or Atlantis.”

  “One of the cardinals wanted the drawing rendered, so he conscripted D’Alema. But he didn’t tell him what it was.”

  Murani stared at the city.

  “The reason I’m showing you this,” Occhetto said, “is to remind you how powerful and beautiful this city was, and how—at the end—it was so fragile. The power that was used there—”

  “The Fruit of the Tree,” Murani murmured.

  “Yes. But not the apple that so many painters depicted in Eve’s hand as she offered temptation to Adam. It was a book. The true Word of God as it was written down in the Garden of Eden.”

  “The Word was Holy and Unknowable.” Murani repeated the story by litany from what knowledge he’d been given upon his acceptance into the Society of Quirinus. “But they tried anyway.”

  “It was temptation,” Occhetto said. “So much power.” He held out a withered claw of a hand. “Right there for the taking.”

  Murani said nothing, but his thoughts were filled with the possibilities of what he could do with such a power. With effort, he tore his eyes from the fiery city burning in the shadows.

  “I’m telling you this so that you remember,” Occhetto went on. “Those people in that city lost the world. A far better world than we’ll ever have. And the few who survived had to make their own path through the wreckage of what was left of their civilization and back to God. Not all of them did.” He paused. “Not all of us will.”

  As he held the older man’s gaze, Murani wondered how much Occhetto knew or guessed about what he was doing. The others didn’t know about the instruments. Only he had discovered that. The truth had been before them, written into the pages and drawn in the paintings of Atlantis, but no one had seen it.

  If he hadn’t constantly been watching archeological sites and digging through information, he would have missed it as well.

  Occhetto walked over to the glass city and leaned down. He blew on another reservoir. The flame guttered and went out.

  As Murani watched, he saw how cunningl
y the city had been wrought. As each tiny fire died, it pulled air from the next section and created a vacuum that sucked away the flames.

  In moments, the room was once more swathed in darkness.

  “Let their lesson be your lesson,” Occhetto said. “Don’t covet that which should not be yours.”

  “Of course,” Murani lied. The problem with the other cardinals was that they were afraid to use power. He wasn’t. whatever it took to pull the world back into order, he would do.

  Less than an hour later, Murani still couldn’t get the image of the flaming city out of his mind. Ever since he’d learned of Atlantis and how closely it was tied to the Church, he’d been fascinated by the idea of it. Finding out about the Secret Texts and the Holy Word that was written there in that Book had made his fascination even stronger.

  He sat in one of the back pews of Basilica di San Clemente, one of his favorite churches, and prayed for God to give him the strength to be patient.

  The pew shifted slightly as someone sat beside him.

  Murani opened his eyes and glanced to his right to find Gallardo sitting there. The man was punctual.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt,” Gallardo apologized. “But I didn’t want to stand around waiting.”

  Murani nodded. “That’s fine.” He took a last look around the church and stood. “We can go.”

  ______

  “Lourds is in Germany,” Gallardo said as they walked along Via San Giovanni. The street was busy with shoppers, tourists and locals.

  “Do you know where?” Murani walked with his hands behind his back. His cardinal’s robes drew attention, but people quickly glanced away when he threatened eye contact.

  “Leipzig. At the Radisson.”

  “I don’t want Lourds getting too far ahead of you.”

  “He won’t,” Gallardo said. “As long as he has the Englishwoman with him, Lourds can’t get too far away.” He paused as they walked by a young mother pushing a baby carriage. “In the meantime, maybe it’s not a bad idea to let Lourds have some rope.”