The Atlantis Code

by Charles Brokaw

  The tavern was small. Hardwood floors showed scars from decades of use and abuse. The tables and chairs were all mismatched. Wicker-bladed fans swept slowly by overhead but did little more than stir the thick air. Bougainvillea dripped from ceramic pots and planters. The fragrant blossoms filled the air with scent.

  Diop waved a young woman over and quickly ordered in French. Lourds paid only a little attention as he opened the Word document on his iPAQ where he’d made a list of the questions he wanted to ask the professor once he tracked him down.

  The server brought over another round of beers and quickly departed.

  Diop took his hat off and tossed it to the hat rack against wall. The Panama sailed elegantly and came to a rest on one of the pegs.

  “Good shot,” Gary complimented.

  “Either you’re very good with that little trick,” Lourds commented, “or this is a favorite place.”

  “It’s a favorite place.” Diop ran his long-fingered hands across his shaven scalp. “And that hat and I have been together for years.” He paused and looked at Lourds. “I was sorry to hear what happened to Professor Hapaev.”

  “Did you know her?” Natasha asked eagerly.

  “No. Other than a few e-mails there at the end.”

  “She was my sister.”

  “My condolences.”

  “Thank you.” Natasha leaned slightly across the table. “I don’t know exactly what Professor Lourds has told you about why we’re here.”

  “He said you were looking for more information about the cymbal Professor—your sister—was working on.”

  “I’m also looking for my sister’s killers.” Natasha took her identification from her pocket and laid it on the table.

  Diop reached out and quickly folded the ID closed. “This is not a place to be flashing badges. Many of the people here still pursue quasi-illegal business. And a number of other people don’t want to deal with authority figures. Do you understand?”

  Natasha nodded, but Lourds had the impression she’d known exactly what she’d been risking. She put the ID away.

  “While you’re here,” Diop said seriously, “it might be better for you to forget you are a policewoman. That could get you killed on the mainland. Here, it could get you worse.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  CHEZ MADAME LOULOU

  ÎLE DE GORÉE

  DAKAR, SENEGAL

  SEPTEMBER 6, 2009

  W

  hat do you know about the bell and the cymbal?” Diop asked. He held the eight-by-ten photos of the two instruments that Lourds had directed Gary to make. He’d taken a pair of glasses from his pocket for the close-up work.

  “Not enough. They’re part of a set of five instruments,” Lourds replied. “The other three still missing are a pipe, a flute, and a drum.”

  Diop studied Lourds over the glasses for a moment. “Do you know where any of these instruments are?”

  “No. I know where two of them have been.” Lourds quickly relayed the story of the bell and the cymbal and how they’d been taken.

  During that time, the young woman returned with fried plantains and pastels—a Portuguese-style stuffed pastry that was deep-fried. She also brought fresh beers. Natasha opted for water instead, and Lourds knew it was because she didn’t want to risk getting intoxicated. He doubted she ever let her control slip enough to indulge.

  “Patrizio Gallardo,” Diop mused. Then he shook his head. “A number of artifact dealers—legitimate and black market—ply their trade here and on the mainland. The past is always for sale to collectors.”

  “Do you know anyone who’s been looking for these instruments?” Lourds asked.

  “No.” Diop handed the pictures back.

  “I’ve read your work.” Lourds put the photos into his backpack. “What have you heard about them?”

  “There’s an old Yoruba tale about five instruments,” Diop said. “Perhaps it’s about the same five instruments you’re searching for. I don’t know. I’ve concerned myself more with the history of this place than the fables of the various cultures that have passed through here.”

  “But you have heard the story?” Leslie asked.

  “Yes.” Diop shrugged. “It isn’t so different from a lot of creation myths.”

  “Can you tell it to us?” Lourds asked.

  “Once, long and long ago,” Diop said, “the Creator—call him whatever you wish according to your own religious beliefs—grew angry with his children here in this world. In that time, they lived only on one land.”

  “What one land?” Gary asked.

  “The legend doesn’t say. It merely calls it the ‘beginning place.’ There were some scholars I tipped a few beers with who insisted that the land might have been the Garden of Eden. Or perhaps it was Atlantis. Or Lemuria. Or any of other countless supposed lands of wonder that disappeared into the dark recesses of time.”

  “When you put it that way,” Leslie said, “it sounds like pure hokum.”

  Lourds glanced at the young woman briefly. Was she really beginning to lose faith in what they were searching for? Or was she only saying that to needle him? Or maybe it was to challenge Diop. Lourds didn’t know. He tried to keep from being irritated, but he wasn’t altogether successful.

  Evidently Diop took no offense. He grinned. “If you stay around Africa long enough, Miss Crane, you’ll hear all kinds of things. But if you stay around even longer than that, you’ll find that many of those things—each in their own way—have a kernel of truth.”

  The server returned, followed by two others. All of them carried huge platters of food. As the food was placed, Diop quickly explained what they were about to eat.

  Thieboudienne was the traditional Senegalese dish, consisting of marinated fish prepared with tomato paste and an assortment of vegetables. Yassa was chicken or fish simmered in onion with garlic, lemon sauce, and mustard added to enhance the taste. Sombi was a sweet milk rice soup. Fonde was millet balls rolled in sour cream.

  Eating and talking, Lourds noted, didn’t bother Diop. The scholar left the conversation at appropriate places for questions to be asked while he ate.

  “After his anger had passed, the Creator saw what he’d done to his children and he was sorry,” Diop said. “So he made them a promise that he would never destroy the world again that way.”

  “Sounds like the covenant of the rainbow,” Gary said. “Or the whole lost Ark business with Indiana Jones.”

  “As I said, many of these tales are similar,” Diop agreed. “Even the animal stories—such as how the bear lost his tail—are similar in regions that have long had those animals.”

  “So you think a bear actually used his tail to go ice fishing?” Gary asked. “Then froze it off in the ice?”

  Diop laughed. “No. I believe the bear was lazy and tricked the kangaroo into digging for water. As an act of vengeance, the kangaroo used his boomerang to cut the bear’s tail off.”

  Gary grinned. “Now that one, mate, I had not heard.”

  “The Australian aborigines tell it.” Diop forked up some spicy couscous and ate. “The point being, every culture tells stories to explain things they don’t know.”

  “But there’s more to this story,” Lourds said. “I’ve seen the bell. And I’ve seen digital images of the cymbal. They both share a language that I can’t decipher.”

  “Is that so unusual for you?”

  Lourds hesitated a moment. “At the risk of sounding egotistical, yes, it is.”

  “Ah, no wonder you’re so intrigued by these things.”

  “Some other intrigued person killed my sister for that cymbal,” Natasha stated flatly.

  “But you have the name of one of the men who murdered your sister,” Diop pointed out. “You could pursue him.”

  Natasha didn’t say anything.

  For the first time, Lourds realized that. He was amazed he hadn’t noticed that fact himself.

  “Of course, if Gallardo and his people are tr
uly searching for the same five instruments that Thomas is,” Diop said, “it only makes sense to stay with the professor. Sooner or later they’ll come to you, eh?”

  Natasha’s eyes remained frozen like ice even when she smiled. “Sooner or later,” she agreed.

  Gallardo nursed a beer while he leaned against the Auberge Keur Beer guesthouse and watched the festivities taking shape in the courtyard. Children played soccer with homemade balls while men wrestled in the sand and women pounded millet. Vendors sold baguettes and iced drinks to the tourists and locals.

  Tired from the long trips he’d taken lately, Gallardo longed for a soft bed and plenty of time to rest. He didn’t know how Lourds and his companions kept going.

  He stared at the table where Lourds sat with some black man. It irritated Gallardo that they sat there with impunity. All of them—

  All of them?

  For the first time Gallardo realized the Russian woman had disappeared from the table where Lourds and the others sat under a broad umbrella. Candlelight played over their faces and showed they were deep in conversation.

  Dammit. The woman is missing. Where the hell is she?

  Gallardo finished his beer, left the bottle sitting on the nearby windowsill, and stepped back into the shadows. His hand dropped to the back of his waistband and closed around the handle of the 9 mm he’d purchased off a black market dealer soon after his arrival in Dakar. He continued sweeping the area for the woman but didn’t find her.

  “I know a man,” Diop said as they sat at the table, “who might be able to help you with this legend. But it will take you a few days to reach him. He lives in the old Yoruba lands.”

  “Where?” Lourds asked.

  “In Nigeria. Ile-Ife. It’s the oldest Yoruba city that anyone knows of.”

  Leslie looked up from her beer. “How far away is that?” she asked.

  “You can get there by plane in a matter of hours,” Diop said.

  “Who’s the man?” Lourds asked.

  “His name is Adebayo. He’s the oba of Ile-Ife.” Diop pronounced the title as orba.

  Lourds recalled from his reading that oba meant “king.” The bearer of the title was the traditional leader of a Yoruba town. The title might be traditional, but the position still carried weight. Obas were often consulted by present-day government bodies—they said more out of respect and an effort to keep the peace than to acknowledge any power they might have. But, in fact, it acknowledged what really shaped the society they were dealing with.

  “He knows the story?” Lourds asked.

  Diop grinned. “More than that, Thomas. I believe Adebayo has the drum you’re looking for.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because I’ve seen it.”

  Natasha hated being without a gun. She was better with one. She’d left her weapons behind for their plane flight. Still, that situation might remedy itself in the next few moments.

  She paused in the shadows next to the bed-and-breakfast overlooking the courtyard. The mortar in the stones was loose and had crumbled away under the attack of years, vines, and salt spray. Plenty of finger and toe room existed between the stones.

  In the darkness, she stepped out of her shoes and peeled off her socks. Then, knife clenched between her teeth, she started her assault on the side of the building up to the window where she’d spotted the man watching Lourds and the others.

  There were other men. She knew that from studying the darkness and seeing them move.

  Only moments ago she’d excused herself from the table. She’d barely drawn the attention of the others because they’d been so rapt in their conversation with Diop. When none of the watchers had followed her, she figured she’d eluded them as well.

  Her arms and legs strained a little under her weight. It was one thing to use arm and leg strength to assault a vertical climb, but it was another to use only fingers and toes. She breathed in and out rhythmically and worked to clear her lungs of carbon dioxide buildup.

  Soon enough, still under the cover of darkness, she reached the fourth-floor balcony and gradually shifted her weight over to it.

  The man she’d spotted lounged in the darkness and watched Lourds and the others.

  They wouldn’t last an hour on their own, she thought. Moving slowly, she hauled herself over the side and silently crossed the terraced balcony floor. Only two chairs, a potted palm, and the watcher shared the space. She took the knife from her teeth and gripped it tightly in her hand.

  The man stood almost six feet tall. He was European, pale white in the night. He smoked a cheap cigar that stank so badly, Natasha could have found him by the scent of that alone.

  At the last moment, the man turned as if he sensed something. Dormant senses from a less-than-civilized lifestyle came online.

  But it was too late.

  Natasha slid behind the man, gripped his chin in one hand, and put the point of her blade against the side of his neck with the other.

  “Move,” she whispered in English, “and I’ll slit your throat.”

  The man froze, but she could feel him quiver in terror.

  Heart thumping wildly as she battled her own fears, Natasha reached under his shirt and relieved him of the 9 mm pistol in shoulder leather. He carried another at his waistband. She took it as well.

  The radio receiver crackled at his ear. Someone spoke in Italian.

  “What does he want to know?” she asked the man.

  “He wants to know where you are,” the man replied.

  The fear intensified inside Natasha. She removed the knife and placed the barrel of one of the 9 mms she’d just acquired against the back of his head.

  “Don’t shoot me,” the man whispered hoarsely. “Please don’t shoot me.”

  “What is he saying?” Natasha asked.

  “He’s noticed that you’re missing,” the man added.

  “Is it Gallardo?” Natasha asked.

  The man nodded.

  “Give me the radio.” Natasha held out her hand.

  The man gave her the radio.

  Natasha keyed the SEND button. “Gallardo.”

  There was a moment of silence; then a man’s voice demanded, “Who is this?”

  “You killed my sister in Moscow,” Natasha said. “One day soon, I’m going to kill you.”

  “Not if I kill you first.” His voice was hard and arrogant.

  “I hope you can get off the island tonight,” Natasha said. “Otherwise you’re going to be answering a lot of questions from the police.”

  “Why?”

  Without betraying what she was about to do, Natasha shoved the man over the low balcony. The fall was a short one by some standards, with nicely tilled garden soil at its end. She doubted it would kill him, but he screamed on the way down. Then he stopped—abruptly.

  Natasha stayed back from the balcony’s edge and resisted the impulse to look down. The rush of conversation below let her know that the man’s fall had drawn a crowd.

  She walked back into the room, emptied a small suitcase on the bed, and found two boxes of ammunition for the pistols. There was also a small package containing what looked suspiciously like marijuana. The drug wouldn’t cause too much of a disturbance on the island, but it would make for a long question-and-answer session with the Gorée police until payment could be arranged to buy the man out of trouble.

  She left it and the clothes behind.

  She dumped the ammunition and pistols into the suitcase, zipped it closed, and walked out the door in her bare feet.

  “I think he’s broken his leg,” someone said.

  “What happened?” another asked.

  “He fell from the balcony.”

  “Is he drunk?”

  “If he isn’t, I’m betting he wishes he was about now.”

  Standing on the outside of the crowd of tourists that had gathered around the man writhing painfully on the ground, Lourds glanced around. An uneasy feeling dawned in the pit of his stomach.
<
br />   “Where’s Natasha?” Leslie asked at his side.

  Lourds shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think she—?” Leslie hesitated.

  “Wasn’t her,” Gary said. “I’ve seen her work. She’d have shot him.”

  “Not if I simply wanted to create a disturbance so we could get out of here.”

  Lourds turned and found Natasha standing behind them. She held a suitcase.

  “Where did you get the suitcase?” he asked.

  “From his room.” Natasha nodded toward the man curled into a fetal position on the ground.

  “You did that?”

  Natasha returned his gaze without guilt. “I considered shooting him. But I doubt we would have been able to walk away without answering a lot of questions.” She shrugged. “As it is now, it simply looks like a tourist had an accident.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s a tourist.”

  “No. Gallardo is here. I hope dumping his minion over the balcony will attract enough law enforcement attention to chase him into hiding for now. Meanwhile, we need to go into hiding ourselves.”

  Lourds marveled at how coolly and calmly she handled everything. She hadn’t even worked up a sweat facing an armed man and overpowering him.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t injured or killed,” he said.

  “You’re lucky Gallardo doesn’t want you dead.” Natasha nodded toward a nearby alley at the foot of the bed-and-breakfast the man had fallen from. “We needed a diversion to get out of here.”

  Diop shook his head in wonder. “Well, then, that’s certainly what I’d call a diversion.” He glanced back at Lourds. “You do keep interesting company, Thomas.”

  You don’t know the half of it, Lourds thought.

  “I’d also suggest we not spend the night on the island.” Natasha found her shoes in the alley and stepped into them. “In case the police decide they want to talk to us as well. Gallardo’s little friend might be persuaded to give up information about us as well as his employer.”