The Atlantis Code

by Charles Brokaw

  Only then did Sebastian realize that the whole cavern was shaking. The skeleton wasn’t moving under its own power. He looked down the row of crypts as several other skeletons vacated their premises and clattered to the stone floor. Embalmed corpses fell, too, with a sound much different from the crack of hard bone against the stone floor.

  Lights in the hands of the other men whipped around the cavern’s interior. The panorama of illumination presented a dizzying light show.

  Then someone cried out, “Flood! Flood!”

  It’s happening again, Sebastian thought. The sea’s reclaiming Atlantis and the Garden.

  The Swiss Guards grabbed him under the arms and yanked him to his feet as inches of water suddenly covered the stone floor. They ran and pushed him back toward the opening they’d come through. With every step, though, the water swirled higher and higher.

  RADISSON SAS HOTEL LEIPZIG

  LEIPZIG, GERMANY

  SEPTEMBER 4, 2009

  Confronted by the hotel security staff, Natasha froze for just a moment as she tried to figure out what to do. She didn’t want to get embroiled with the local security people, and she couldn’t just put down her weapon, because then they’d be sitting ducks for Gallardo’s people.

  At that moment Gary stepped out of the lobby area and walked up behind the security men. He leaned over the first man’s shoulder and whispered something.

  “Horst,” the first man said as he slowly raised his arms. “He has a gun on me. Surrender.”

  The second guard hesitated for just a moment. Then he raised his weapon, too.

  Natasha rushed forward and took both men’s weapons. “Down on your faces,” she ordered.

  As they got down, Gary flashed her a sickly grin and showed her the ballpoint pen he’d used to run his bluff.

  Spare me Americans and Brits and their macho television shows, Natasha said to herself.

  “You could have gotten killed,” she whispered to Gary.

  “I kind of planned not to,” he replied hoarsely. “And it wasn’t like I had a lot of time to figure things out.”

  “Go.” Natasha pushed him into motion toward the main entrance. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Gallardo start out of the fire escape.

  She lifted the pistol and fired rapidly. Her bullets drummed the door and wall. The small inset window emptied in jagged pieces.

  Gallardo ducked back into the stairwell and cursed loudly.

  By then Lourds, Leslie, and Gary had reached the main entrance. They were through it by the time Natasha arrived. They ran toward the street and tried to flag down a passing taxi, but it kept going.

  The next taxi had its light off and obviously had no intention of stopping. Natasha stepped out into the street, drew her own pistol because it wasn’t silenced, and fired into the air.

  The flat report echoed across the street, and the muzzle flash reflected in the windshield. Natasha aimed the pistol at the taxi driver.

  The taxi screeched to a stop in front of Natasha. Keeping her weapon trained on the driver even though she had no intention of shooting him, she made her way to the driver’s side door.

  “Get out,” she told the driver in German.

  The driver got out while Lourds helped Leslie into the rear seat. He didn’t join her, though. Instead he sat up front with Natasha. Gary got in on the other side.

  As soon as they were aboard, Natasha put her foot down on the accelerator.

  “Where are we going?” Lourds asked.

  “I don’t know,” Natasha replied.

  “The airport,” Leslie said. “I contacted my supervisor earlier and cleared us for a trip to West Africa.”

  Natasha looked at the woman sharply. “You did what?”

  “Professor Lourds—”

  Now we’re back to Professor Lourds? Natasha wondered. After you’ve bedded him?

  “—has said that he thinks he’s gotten all the information that was possible at the Max Planck Institute,” Leslie continued. “He thinks there are more complete records and ties to our missing artifacts in Africa.”

  As she drove, Natasha said, “You’ve been talking to your supervisor this whole time? Telling him what we are doing?”

  “Yes.” Leslie looked sullen. “I have to. The corporation has been paying for everything. They deserve to know what we’re up to.”

  Natasha looked at Lourds and couldn’t help feeling that part of this was his fault. “You do realize that’s how Gallardo has been keeping tabs on us? Through the BBC’s financial support?”

  To his credit, Lourds looked guilty. “No. I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, you know it now.” Natasha turned away from him, too angry to speak for the moment. Nothing good would come out of her mouth, and she didn’t want to say anything she’d feel guilty about or regret later. She concentrated on her driving as she looked for a place to dump the taxi. They couldn’t take it all the way to the airport. Surely the driver had already called in his stolen vehicle. It was time for new wheels.

  “The woman stopped a taxi in front of the hotel. I will track her through the streets.”

  Until she abandons the vehicle, Gallardo thought as he ran back up the seven stories to the roof. His legs burned from the effort, and panic started to set in when he thought he might not make it.

  “No,” Gallardo huffed as he dragged himself up the last flight of stairs. DiBenedetto and Farok followed him. Pietro and Cimino were both down. The sounds of pursuit—footsteps ringing on the steps—echoed after them. “We have bigger problems right now.”

  Up on the roof, Gallardo ran and waved his flashlight. He watched the helicopter approach the rooftop and hang in the air only inches from the surface. He ran toward the craft and pulled himself into the passenger seat.

  “What about the others?” DiBenedetto asked from the rear section.

  “They’re not here,” Gallardo said. “They’re not coming. You wish to die or be captured while we wait for them?” He pulled the headset on and gave the pilot a thumbs-up.

  The pilot lifted the helicopter immediately and swung to the west. The emergency plans were clear. They’d planned to get out of the city and drop the helicopter in the trees. Air traffic control might be able to track the chopper, but the police wouldn’t be able to catch them before they drove away in the cars stashed at the staging area outside the city.

  But right now Gallardo was less concerned with where they were going than he was with where they’d been.

  Back on the hotel rooftop, the doors from the stairwell opened again and two of Gallardo’s hired help rushed out. They stood and stared after the departing helicopter.

  Only seconds later, hotel security staff flanked by Leipzig police officers came through the door. Muzzle flashes lit up the night briefly as the two men exchanged fire with the police and security guards. When it ended, both of Gallardo’s hired men were down.

  Quietly, Gallardo damned Lourds. The linguistics professor was having an incredible run of luck. But there would be an accounting. No one’s luck lasted forever. He turned to DiBenedetto.

  “Did you get the chance to raid the professor’s room?”

  DiBenedetto nodded and handed over the book bag holding all the papers and books he’d been able to get from Lourds’s hotel room.

  Gallardo searched through the bag. Most of the information seemed to be centered on West Africa, and on a single tribe. He smiled. At least they had a probable destination to check out if the professor disappeared.

  “Natasha has a point,” Lourds said quietly. “Gallardo and his men have managed to dog our heels. Your continued contact with your employer could present a danger to us.”

  Leslie glared at him in exasperation. “I understand that she has a point. Truly I do. But I also have a point: Without the backing of my corporation, we wouldn’t be here. And we won’t be able to continue. Unless you think we can hitchhike to Dakar?” Spots of color darkened her face as they sat in an all-night diner.

 
Gary was at the counter flirting with the female cashier. She’d been drawn to the concert T-shirt he was wearing that featured a German speed metal band. Lourds thought the cameraman was definitely having a better time than he was.

  “No,” Lourds said finally. “I don’t think we could hitchhike to Dakar.”

  “Good. At least that’s something.”

  “I don’t think she was accusing you of betraying us—”

  “Trust me,” Leslie said, “I know an accusation when I hear one. That was definitely an accusation.”

  “Do you really think she would believe you would risk your own life by telling Gallardo and his minions where we were?”

  “Maybe you should ask her. She’s the one with all the answers. Maybe she believes I think getting shot at serves some special, twisted kink I have.”

  Lourds frowned. He hated getting in the middle of a war of wills between women. On one hand, it could be dangerous for everyone. On the other, they could join forces at any moment and come after him together. In many ways, he worried about that danger more than he worried about getting shot at.

  “Perhaps you might ask your supervisor to see if he couldn’t get us the money he agreed to let us use in a different fashion.”

  Leslie crossed her arms over her chest. “Maybe you could call Harvard and ask them for the money to fund an expedition to Dakar?”

  Lourds sipped his green tea and thought about that. He almost laughed. He’d have a better chance of hitchhiking to West Africa. Especially since he couldn’t tell them what the expedition was really about.

  “No,” he said. “You’re right.” He paused. “We’re not in a good spot. The question right now is whether we should continue, knowing these people are out there trying to kill us.”

  “Could you actually walk away from this thing right now? Just forget about it after we’ve come this far? Do you know what kind of story this is going to be?”

  “This isn’t a game, Leslie. Those people murdered one friend of mine and almost killed another. And that doesn’t count all the other corpses they’ve left scattered in their wake. Remember how they killed your producer?”

  “Do you want them to get away with that? Do you want them to get whatever it is they’re after? Don’t you want to save the artifacts?”

  “This is too big for us,” he said. “We need to get help.”

  “We went to the police. In Alexandria, remember? They didn’t do anything. The only police that seems to be interested in acting on this is Natasha.”

  “She has a vested interest. They killed her sister.”

  “So do you. They’ve been shooting at you for days. They nearly killed your neighbor. Just think, if you hadn’t been there the day they took the bell, we wouldn’t have had a clue about what was going on.”

  “We still don’t.”

  “Then why are we going to Dakar?”

  Lourds didn’t answer. She had a point, but he didn’t have to admit it.

  “I don’t think it’s just because you’d like to go to West Africa,” Leslie said. She leaned in closer to him. “You believe there’s an answer there.” Her eyes held his. “You believe it.”

  Seeing the desire for knowledge in her eyes, Lourds felt his own need to know fanned to a fever pitch. “Maybe.”

  “Why do you think something’s there?”

  “Because the Yoruba culture is the oldest we’ve yet encountered. Because I’ve seen hints that they had these instruments at one time. If these instruments all came from one area, it stands to reason that they came from the oldest known civilization.”

  “Then we need to go there.”

  “Those men may be waiting,” Lourds said.

  “And they may be waiting back home for you as well,” Natasha said.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Lourds found her standing there. He hadn’t even heard Natasha approach. It was another grim reminder that he was clearly out of his element while dealing with dangerous felons.

  “As I was telling Leslie, we should go to the police.”

  “The police are seeking to detain us. They’ve got witnesses who have seen us shoot at armed men. It doesn’t inspire trust in a municipal police department to have that happen. The radio is full of our descriptions and the news that we are wanted.”

  “That’s just absolutely brill,” Leslie grumped. “I suppose you know that getting out of the country by airline, train, ship, and bus is absolutely out of the question if what you say is true.”

  “I do. However, I was able to secure a car so we can get to France.”

  “Why France?” Leslie asked.

  “We’re not wanted in France,” Natasha replied. “The E.U. has open borders. We won’t be stopped entering France if we drive. From France we should be able to book passage to Dakar.”

  Gary wandered over from the counter. He looked slightly nervous. “I was just watching the telly. You were right. We made the news.”

  Looking at the television mounted above the counter, Lourds watched as hotel surveillance camera footage of the gunfight at the Radisson rolled. So far police and hotel management weren’t releasing any details, but four men were confirmed dead at the scene.

  “You said you only killed two,” Leslie accused.

  “I did,” Natasha replied.

  And that exchange drew attention from nearby patrons.

  Lourds gathered his backpack and eased out of the booth. “On that note, ladies and gentleman, I think it best if we adjourn somewhere else. Before the police arrive.”

  RESTRICTED LIBRARY STACKS

  STATUS CIVITATIS VATICANAE

  SEPTEMBER 4, 2009

  “Cardinal Murani? Yes, he’s here.” Beppe’s hoarse voice carried in the quiet library.

  Seated at the table, Murani gazed at the drawing of the man offering his right hand while holding a book in his left. The figure had occupied his thoughts for years.

  No, he corrected himself. Not the figure. The book.

  Footsteps headed in his direction.

  Cardinal Giuseppe Rezzonico followed the old librarian to Murani.

  “Cardinal.” Beppe bared a toothless grin. “You have a guest.”

  “Thank you, Beppe.” Murani waved to a chair on the other side of the table.

  Rezzonico seated himself. He looked like he’d just gotten up from bed and wasn’t too happy about it. “Father Sebastian’s excavation team just began exploring the new cavern they found.”

  “Cave number forty-two.” Murani nodded. He’d been keeping up with the exploration of the catacombs.

  “It turned out to be a burial vault. A large one.”

  Murani couldn’t hold himself back. “Who was buried there?”

  “We don’t know. The Swiss Guard relayed us digital images over the Internet.” Rezzonico passed over a digital camera. “I downloaded them to this.”

  Murani took the camera and quickly flicked through the images.

  “This is them,” Murani said hoarsely. “The Atlanteans. Those that lived in the Garden.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Murani couldn’t believe it. He stared at Rezzonico and anger filled him. “How can you doubt this? If your faith were as strong as it should be, you’d know this for what it was.”

  “It’s a burial vault,” Rezzonico said. “That’s all I know for certain.”

  After checking the size of the digital files, Murani discovered they were almost five megabytes each. They could be blown up considerably.

  Without a word, Murani got up from the table and walked to the back of the room. High-tech digital equipment occupied a small area in the stacks.

  He sat at the desk and popped the SDRAM memory chip from the camera and inserted it into the reader slot on the front of the computer. It took only a few keystrokes to bring up the images.

  “This isn’t why I came here,” Rezzonico protested. “We need to talk.”

  “I’m listening. But let’s look while we talk.” Murani examined each of the pictures in turn.
Slowly, he followed Father Sebastian into the crypt.

  “The council wants to talk to you. They don’t believe that you had nothing to do with Father Fenoglio’s death.”

  For a moment Murani couldn’t remember who Father Fenoglio was.

  “They know the pope had Father Fenoglio following you,” Rezzonico said.

  “The pope should feel guilty about that. Not me. I didn’t put Fenoglio in harm’s way.” Murani glanced up at Rezzonico. “Furthermore, why didn’t the council see fit to tell me that the pope had someone following me?”

  “They thought Fenoglio would be more circumspect.”

  “Why would the pope assign someone to spy on me?”

  “Because he doesn’t trust you.”

  “I’ve proved myself very trustworthy for years.”

  “Not to this pope. He believes you’re far too interested in the Secret Texts for your own good.”

  “I’m here, not in Cádiz,” Murani snorted. “I couldn’t be much further removed from the Secret Texts. The pope has already seen to that.”

  “Yet here you are,” Rezzonico said, “prowling through the stacks dedicated to the Secret Texts and all that pertains to the Garden of Eden.”

  Murani took a deep breath and let it out. “I should have been the one to go to Cádiz. I should be the one heading up the excavation. No one knows more about the Secret Texts, the Garden of Eden, and Atlantis than I do. No one.”

  “The Society didn’t want to fight the pope.”

  “The pope isn’t right in his approach to the Church!”

  Self-consciously, Rezzonico glanced around. “Please keep your voice down, Stefano. I beg you. You’re already in enough trouble.”

  “What trouble?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? The council suspects that Fenoglio’s death was no accident.”

  “Of course it was no accident. The carjacker ran him down. I know. I was there. I nearly was killed myself—the bruises haven’t fully faded yet.”

  “And the car backed over him, according to the police report.” Rezzonico’s gaze remained level. “That was something you didn’t mention.”