The Atlantis Code

by Charles Brokaw

  SACRED COLLEGE OF CARDINALS

  STATUS CIVITATIS VATICANAE

  SEPTEMBER 4, 2009

  Even though Murani had arrived for the meeting early, he was the last to enter the room. He wore his cardinal robes, laying claim to the power of his office through the virtue of God’s armor.

  The underground room was not well known throughout the Vatican. Only a handful of people had keys to the two doors that allowed entrance to it. Due to the huge labyrinth carved out beneath the Vatican in the course of the thousands of years the site had been occupied, some of it in disrepair, it was easy for such rooms to exist without the knowledge of the general populace. In fact, it was easy for such spaces to exist where no one knew about them at all.

  There was probably no more private space on earth.

  Wall sconces held candle lanterns that lent a golden glow to the stone walls and the burnished wood of the long table in the center of the room. Someone had clearly wiped it off when they brought in the lanterns. A thick layer of dust coated the cobblestone floor and the cobwebs in the corners. This wasn’t a space on the itinerary of the cleaning roster. The chamber hadn’t been used much, and never since Murani had taken office.

  All of the twenty-three men around the table were members of the Society of Quirinus. Since not all of them were there, Murani had to assume that some of them weren’t available.

  Lorenzo Occhetto had even come. He sat at the head of the table in all his regalia, so frail and aged, he looked like a well-dressed corpse. He waved a hand at the empty chair to his left.

  “No thank you,” Murani said. “If this is to be an inquisition, I’d prefer to remain standing.”

  His comment drew baleful looks from the other cardinals.

  “Your impropriety is out of place here,” Occhetto said in his dry whisper.

  “Actually,” Murani said, choosing to be defiant, “impropriety is out of place everywhere. That’s part of what makes it impropriety.”

  “Don’t seek to amuse yourself at our expense,” Occhetto rebuked.

  “I’m not amused,” Murani told them. “I’m angry.” He folded his hands behind him and walked around the table. He met the gazes of every man there.

  “Sit down,” Occhetto commanded. But his weak voice failed to carry authority.

  “No.” Murani remained defiantly upright at the end of the table. “This is a farce, and it’s gone quite far enough. I will not allow it any longer.”

  “You will not allow it?” Cardinal Jacopo Rota exploded. He was in his early fifties and was known for his temper. A hulking man who’d done manual labor in his youth and retained the muscles to prove it, he rose threateningly from his chair at Occhetto’s right hand.

  “No,” Murani said in a calm voice. “I will not.”

  “You murdered poor Fenoglio,” Rota said. “You will account to God for that.”

  “To God, perhaps,” Murani said, though he didn’t believe that. “But not to you.”

  “Then you admit it?” Occhetto asked. “You admit to the murder?”

  “Is Fenoglio’s death the first committed by the Society of Quirinus to protect all those precious secrets you covet?” Murani demanded.

  “We did not order his death. We do not murder,” Emilio Sraffa said. He was barely thirty, the youngest of them, and—in Murani’s opinion—the most innocent.

  “Yes,” Murani said. “We do. You’ve just not been made part of it yet.”

  Sraffa looked around the rest of the table for someone to deny the charges. No one did. No one even took their gaze off Murani. The rest of them knew.

  “Those lives that we ordered taken,” Occhetto said, “were—”

  “—Ones you deemed obstacles to what you desired,” Murani interrupted. He waved the old man’s further comments away, rode right over his words. “Justify it any way you want to. Say that you killed only men who had no true souls before God. I don’t care. You have killed before. Often.”

  “You murdered a priest,” Rota accused.

  “Your precious pope put Fenoglio onto me,” Murani said. “While I’ve been doing what all of you are afraid to do.”

  “We’re not afraid to do anything,” Occhetto said.

  “Oh, no? Then tell me why Father Sebastian is heading up the excavation instead of one of us?”

  No one had an answer for that.

  Filled to bursting with energy and anger and his sense of mission, Murani paced around the table. “You sit here in the dark like scared old women instead of taking control of the Church.”

  “It isn’t our place—,” Occhetto began.

  “It is your place,” Murani said loudly. “Who else has been entrusted with the secrets you’ve been given custody of? The pope you elected wasn’t even one of us. He didn’t know about the Sacred Texts. He didn’t know what really happened to the Garden of Eden until you told him.”

  “We couldn’t elect one of our own,” the old cardinal said. “We don’t hold enough votes in the Sacred College. We—”

  “—don’t want to get caught out in the light,” Murani said viciously. “I know you. You scurry for the safety of the darkness like cockroaches.”

  “We have always worked from the shadows,” Occhetto declared. “For hundreds of years, through dozens of popes, we’ve kept the necessary secrets locked away.”

  “Your actions, your choices, have weakened the Church,” Murani accused. “You weren’t protecting the secrets. You were protecting your own lives.”

  “You go too far,” Rota stated. “Now you’re either going to sit down and listen to what we have to say or I’m going to sit you down.”

  “No.” As the man moved to stand, Murani banged his fist hard against the table, shocking all the men gathered within the hidden chamber. “Sit!”

  Rota’s dark eyes blazed with defiance, and he remained where he was, halfway to standing.

  “I said, ‘Sit!’ ” Murani said. “You should listen to me. You know what I am capable of. Think of Fenoglio. Think of what you’re accusing me of. Do you think one body more will matter?”

  Scowling, Rota sat.

  Murani kept his back to the nearest door but stood to one side so he could see if it opened. This meeting was secret, but he didn’t know what words his fellow society members had let slip through the years. The Swiss Guard was always about.

  No place, no matter how secret, was truly safe.

  “While you’ve been sitting safe in Vatican City, nattering like children,” Murani said, “I’ve been working. I’ve been out in the world. I have deciphered some of the passages regarding the Sacred Texts.”

  That caught them all by surprise.

  “You lie,” Occhetto accused.

  “No. I speak the ultimate truth. The five instruments will open the final vault where the Sacred Texts are kept,” Murani said.

  “We all know that.”

  “I have two of them,” Murani said.

  Instantly the voices of the cardinals filled the room. Occhetto raised his hands and quieted them all. Slowly, order returned.

  Murani gazed at the men before him. Pride and fear ran through him like an electric current. He’d never dared to say so much so openly before. None of them had.

  “Where are the instruments?” Occhetto asked.

  “Safe,” Murani said. “Where I can get to them.”

  “Those are not yours to control.”

  “They are now. And soon the other instruments will be mine, too.” Murani was convinced that Lourds would lead Gallardo to the others, or perhaps he could use the bell and the cymbal to locate the remaining instruments. God’s will would not be denied, and Murani was certain he was following God’s will.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” Occhetto said. “If you have the instruments, then you must give them to us.”

  “Why? So you can lock them away in the dark and they can get lost? Again?”

  “They aren’t supposed to be together. Everything we’ve read tells us that
God intended for those instruments to be apart.”

  “Then why didn’t God destroy them? Why did he leave them here for me to find?”

  “This is heresy,” Rota said.

  “This is God’s design,” Murani said. “I am His divine force come to bring the Church back to power.”

  “How do you propose to do that?” Occhetto asked.

  “Through the power of the Sacred Texts.”

  The cardinals objected loudly. Murani ignored them all.

  “Those Texts destroyed the world once,” Occhetto said. “Possibly even twice. They could do the same thing again.”

  “They won’t,” Murani said. “They’re going to help remake the world. They’re going to empower the Church in a way that’s never been seen before.” He glared at them. “I will find them. And you can’t stop me.”

  “We can,” Rota said. “Don’t forget yourself.”

  Murani smiled at the big man. “You’re talking about the Swiss Guards?”

  No one said anything.

  “Your handpicked crews among the guards have been doing your dirty work for hundreds of years,” Murani said. “One more murder, done in the name of the Society of Quirinus, wouldn’t be that much, would it?”

  “It wouldn’t be murder,” Rota said. “It would be justice.”

  “None of you that sit in this room have clean hands,” Murani accused. “You’ve all been involved in some bit of treachery and death.”

  Sraffa looked troubled. He was weaker than Occhetto assumed. He still had a conscience. He didn’t give everything over to God’s hands.

  “Not murder,” Occhetto said. “Not really.”

  “So if you had me killed?” Murani asked. “Would that be murder, then?”

  “No,” Occhetto said. “It would be justifiable homicide, a mercy killing in the name of the Church.”

  “Perhaps.” Murani strode toward the old cardinal. “It would also be foolish. It would destroy you and wound the Church you profess to love.”

  Occhetto quavered and closed his eyes. Murani knew that the man was afraid.

  “I’ll tell you why,” Murani said. “I’ve written down your names. I’ve written down your deeds. I have recordings and documents to prove them. You were fools, to keep records of such things. You covered up my dealings with Fenoglio. Now you are all involved in that crime, accessories to murder. I’ve given all the evidence to a man who will mail the undeniable proof of it to the proper authorities, and to the world’s press, should something happen to me. Do you think the Church can handle a scandal like that, on top of everything else that has become public in the last few years? Do you think the pope or your red robes will protect you?” A gasp in the room confirmed the accuracy of the intelligence he’d paid for. “Yes, I know your secrets well. And the world will share them, should anything happen to me.”

  Outrage showed in Occhetto’s eyes. “You can’t do this, Murani.”

  “It’s already done,” Murani said in a cold voice. “If you touch me, I’ll touch you back. Just try it.”

  Silence filled the room.

  “Here’s how we’re going to handle this,” Murani said in a soft, deadly voice. “You’re going to stay out of my way from this point on, or I will have you destroyed.”

  “You’re a madman,” Occhetto whispered.

  “No,” Murani argued. “I’m a man of faith and conviction. God has revealed to me what must be done. And I’m going to do it. We all want those secret texts. I’m the man who will stop at nothing to get them.”

  He looked at all the cardinals sitting there. Without hesitation, Murani turned his back on them all and walked toward the door.

  No one followed him.

  He took out the flashlight that he’d used to reach the room and started back through the underground maze the way he’d come. He felt certain that the Society of Quirinus hadn’t finished with him, but he now had more breathing space than at any time before.

  They feared him. And they would not act against him.

  Everything was going according to Murani’s—and God’s—plan.

  ÎLE DE GORÉE

  DAKAR, SENEGAL

  SEPTEMBER 6, 2009

  From the ferry, Lourds spotted Ismael Diop standing on the landing. Lourds recognized the man from photographs he’d seen on the Internet.

  Diop was black and thin to the point of emaciation. In his seventies now, according to the bio Lourds had read, he still got around to conventions on African history and the Atlantic slave trade in particular. He also published regularly despite being retired. He was a professor emeritus from the University of Glasgow.

  He wore white twill shorts, a khaki shirt with the sleeves hacked off, and a battered panama hat festooned with fishing lures. Gray stubble showed on his cheeks and chin.

  Beyond Diop, the setting presented a picturesque view of the harbor. It looked like a tourist postcard, in fact. Pirogues, small canoes, knifed through the water carrying tourists, teenagers, and fishermen. The brightly colored houses stood out against the blue sky and white sand. Canopies on stilts shaded patches of the beach for tourists and vendors. Papaya and palm trees shared space with lime and sandbox trees. Lourds recognized them from the research he’d viewed concerning Île de Gorée.

  When the ferry put in to the pier, Lourds waited till the ship was still, the lines were made fast, and the gangway was lowered. Then he stepped onto the pier. Leslie was behind him, while Gary and Natasha brought up the rear.

  Diop stepped forward. A big grin split his face and he offered his hand.

  “Professor Lourds,” Diop greeted.

  “Professor Diop,” Lourds responded.

  “No,” the old man said, waving a hand. “Please. Call me Ismael.”

  “There’s a famous line in there,” Lourds observed with a smile.

  “Indeed there is. But trust me when I tell you I’ve heard it before.” The old professor’s voice was softly melodic with just a hint of a British accent.

  Diop stood and shook hands as Lourds introduced the others.

  “This heat and humidity make speaking out here unbearable,” Diop said. “I took the liberty of securing a room at a local tavern if that’s all right with you all.”

  “Cold beer?” Gary asked as he wiped at his face with a towel. “I’m in.”

  Diop laughed. “Yes. This way, then. It’s only a short walk. It’s not a big island.”

  Lourds followed Diop through a narrow alleyway lined with bushes and bougainvillea. The bright purple, red, and yellow flowers made the area seem festive. Blossoms of a mango tree added to the color, and the shade was a welcome relief from the punishing glare of the sun.

  “This is beautiful,” Leslie said.

  “It is,” Diop agreed. “We have color all year round. But I’m afraid that means we also have to suffer the heat.”

  At the end of the alley, they came out onto a place that fronted a large pinkish building with sweeping staircases that coiled toward each other. A small balcony stretched between them over a large wooden door.

  “Is that the slave house?” Gary asked. He stepped off to capture video of the house.

  “Yes.” Diop stood and waited patiently. “The French called it Maison de Esclaves. The House of the Slaves. They passed through the door beneath, which they called the Door of No Return, and waited—shackled—in the holding areas within till they were brought out and sold.”

  “Grim.” Gary frowned and put the camera away.

  “Very grim. If those walls could talk, they’d fill your ears with horrors, I’m sure.” Diop stared at the building. “Still, if it weren’t for the Atlantic slave trade, no one would have thought this area important enough to try to save. A lot of information we have now would have been lost.” He paused. “Including the information you came for, Thomas.”

  “It’s always fascinating to see how the bones of history get preserved longer when guilt is involved,” Lourds commented.

  “And how quickly the tru
th of it is all forgotten,” Diop said. He nodded toward the children playing in the open area. “The young people here know of the history, but, for better or for worse, it exists as something separate from them. It has no true impact on their lives.”

  “Except for the fact that they can make money from the tourists,” Natasha said.

  Lourds looked at her unhappily, thinking perhaps she’d transgressed politeness.

  “It’s the same in my country,” Natasha said. “Westerners come to Moscow and want to see where the Communists lived and where the KGB were located. Like it was a movie set, not a matter of life and death in Russia for nearly a century.”

  “Too many James Bond films, I suppose.” Diop smiled.

  “Far too many,” Natasha agreed. “We don’t set out to be a stereotype, but I think sometimes we end up as one to outsiders. Especially to Western eyes. Perhaps that building is the same.”

  Diop nodded. “I think perhaps you’re right.”

  The beer came to their table in bottles so cold, they iced up in the humidity then immediately started to sweat it off. Thick lime wedges blocked the open necks, but only temporarily.

  Lourds removed a lime wedge and drank deeply.

  “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Diop said.

  Lourds started to ask what the old professor was referring to; then the brain freeze almost shattered his mind. He closed his eyes and suffered through it.

  “Ouch. Got it. I’ll go slower in the future.”

  Diop laughed gently. “I brought us here because the beer was cold and the food is excellent. I didn’t know if you’d had the time to eat.”

  “No,” Leslie said. “I’m famished.”

  “Perhaps we could talk over a meal,” Diop suggested. “It is traditional, yes? The breaking of bread among friends?”

  They all agreed.

  As he sipped his beer more cautiously, Lourds noticed that Natasha had immediately taken the seat with her back to the wall. She never went off guard. Like an Old West gunfighter, he thought.