The Atlantis Code

by Charles Brokaw

  Instead of stopping, though, Natasha walked to the rear of their four-by-four and unstrapped one of the jerry cans of gasoline. A dark splotch of blood showed on her right shoulder.

  “What are you doing?” Lourds asked.

  “The motorcycle is out of gas.”

  “You could ride with us.”

  Natasha shook her head. “Two vehicles give us a better chance to react if Gallardo had another vehicle around that I didn’t see.”

  “He hasn’t followed us thus far.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s not out there.”

  Lourds had to silently admit that was true. Gallardo had managed to keep finding them at every point in the journey so far. His uneasiness grew by the heartbeat.

  Natasha turned to grip the jerry can.

  “Let me get that,” Lourds offered.

  “I can do it,” Natasha insisted stubbornly.

  “I’ve no doubt of that.” Lourds stepped up to take control of the jerry can as it came free. For a moment he thought Natasha was going to hit him. Then she turned on her heel and walked back to the motorcycle.

  She took a water bottle from one of the motorcycle’s saddlebags and drank deeply.

  Knowing the woman wasn’t going to talk until she was ready to, Lourds put the jerry can down and opened the motorcycle’s gas tank. A quick rap on the side told him it was running on fumes. He hefted the can and topped the tank off without spilling any of the fuel.

  “I had him in my sights,” Natasha whispered.

  Lourds placed the cap back on the tank. “Who?”

  “Gallardo. I had him in my sights and I missed.” Natasha tucked a length of lank hair behind her ear.

  Lourds didn’t point out that she might well have another opportunity. That would hardly be comforting. Although there hadn’t been any signs of pursuit, he wasn’t willing to rule out the possibility. Like a bad penny, Gallardo had a way of continuing to turn up.

  “He killed Yuliya,” Natasha said.

  “You don’t know that,” Lourds said softly. “Not for sure. There were many men involved in that attack.”

  “I know it here.” Natasha put a fist to her heart. “In the part of me that is Russian, I know it.”

  “Let me have a look at your wound.”

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  “In this heat, with all the dust and grime we’re facing, not to mention the local flora and fauna, it’s dangerous to let it go untended. Infection could set in.”

  She shrugged. “Do whatever you wish. But make it fast. We need to keep moving.”

  Lourds called out to Gary, who had returned to the vehicle, to bring the first-aid kit over. Lourds took out a penflash and a bottle of antiseptic.

  “Need any help?” Gary asked.

  Before Lourds could answer, Natasha said, “No.”

  “Okay. Cool. I’m just going to be over to the lorry if you need anything.” Gary left the first-aid kit and retraced his steps to the vehicle.

  “Feeling antisocial?” Lourds asked.

  “If I hadn’t been concerned about all of you,” Natasha told him, “I would have stayed behind and killed Gallardo then.”

  Lourds said nothing. Her way of dealing with her sister’s death was very different from his. He wanted to carry her work on. Natasha wanted to end her sister’s killer. He couldn’t imagine cold-bloodedly killing someone. On some of his international hunts for artifacts and manuscripts, he’d sometimes crossed paths with professional soldiers. To a degree, he’d understood their mentality, but he never once believed he could have been one of them. But Natasha had made him realize there was a place for such people in this dangerous world.

  “Well, I’m glad you were concerned about us.” Lourds pulled at her blouse sleeve and realized he’d never be able to roll it up high enough to clear the wound. “Can you take off your shirt? I can’t—”

  Natasha slipped a lock-back knife from her pocket, flicked the blade open with her thumb, and sliced through the material.

  “Thanks.” Lourds ripped the material farther to give himself access to the wound. He played the light over her shoulder and quashed the queasiness that blossomed in the pit of his stomach.

  “It’s nothing to worry about. The bullet only grazed me,” Natasha said.

  Not trusting his voice, Lourds nodded. The ragged tear across the top of her shoulder looked nasty and painful, but it didn’t look life-threatening.

  However, he could not help thinking how much different things would have been had the bullet been six or seven inches to the left. It would have smashed through Natasha’s throat. If the wound hadn’t killed her outright, she would have drowned in her own blood.

  And she was acting as if it were nothing.

  She was amazing.

  “This may sting,” Lourds warned.

  “If I can’t bear it, I’ll let you know.”

  That was what Lourds was afraid of.

  Lourds poured antiseptic over the wound and flushed the blood away. He cleaned up the area as best he could without pulling at the edges, because he didn’t want to risk starting it bleeding again.

  Natasha never said a word.

  Once he was satisfied that the wound was as clean as he was going to get it, he applied an antibacterial ointment and a bandage. He taped everything in place.

  “Where do we go from here?” Natasha asked as he taped the ragged edges of her bloodstained shirt together.

  “I don’t know. We’ve got to make contact with the other two Keepers.”

  “Are they like the old man?”

  “His name is Adebayo,” Lourds replied. “And I don’t know. I think all people tend to be products of their culture rather than of the assignment they’ve been handed down.”

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Staying here in Nigeria wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  Lourds nodded. “I agree. But, we’re flying to London.”

  Natasha frowned and shook her head. “She’ll have all the power there.”

  Lourds knew there was no question who Natasha referred to. “It’ll be safer there. For all of us. Leslie’s been able to arrange a temporary visa for Adebayo through the British Consulate.”

  Natasha looked at him. “She’s been on the phone?”

  “Yes. She also arranged flights for us that will—” Lourds discovered he was talking to Natasha’s back.

  Natasha bent down and hefted the jerry can without a word. Then she walked over to the edge of the forest where Leslie stood with her sat-phone pressed to her ear.

  Lourds hurried to catch up. The situation suddenly didn’t look good.

  “Give me the phone,” Natasha demanded.

  Leslie glared at her, then looked at Lourds for help. When it wasn’t forthcoming—and Lourds knew for sure he didn’t want to step into the buzz saw that existed between the two women—Leslie returned her glare to Natasha.

  Behind Leslie, Gary, Diop, and Adebayo all stepped back out of harm’s way as if of a single mind.

  “The phone,” Natasha demanded again.

  “Excuse me,” Leslie said, “but I happen to be on the phone this moment trying to negotiate—”

  Natasha reached for the phone. Leslie blocked the effort only because the Russian woman reached with her wounded arm and was slower than normal.

  “You cheeky cow!” Leslie exploded. “How dare you try something like that!”

  Lourds inserted himself between the two women, and immediately decided that it was one of the more foolish gestures he’d ever made in his life. Before he could do anything, Natasha chopped him in the throat with the edge of her hand and kicked his feet out from under him. He fell gracelessly and landed on his back hard enough to knock the wind out of his lungs.

  Natasha drew her pistol and pointed it between Leslie’s eyes.

  “The phone,” Natasha said. “Now.”

  Unbelievably, Leslie threw herself at Natasha. She swung th
e phone like a club toward Natasha’s face. The Russian woman blocked the blow with her pistol and knocked the phone from Leslie’s grip. Before it hit the ground, Natasha caught the phone easily.

  Leslie came at her again, but Natasha spun aside and tripped her. Leslie sprawled on the ground beside Lourds, who still hadn’t regained his breath.

  Natasha hunkered down and took Lourds’s sat-phone, too. Then she demanded Gary’s and Diop’s. Both men, faces tense and astonished, handed their phones over.

  “Gallardo and his people have been tracking us,” Natasha said as she threw the phones onto the ground. “This is how they find us. They know where we are through the global positioning satellite signatures of these phones.” She scowled at Leslie. “Most probably yours, with the way you’ve been on it all the time.”

  Leslie said something totally unladylike and uncomplimentary.

  Natasha ignored her and reached for the jerry can. “Personally, I’d love another chance at Gallardo and his people. But I don’t think you’d live through another assault.” She sloshed gasoline over the phones.

  “What are you doing?” Leslie screeched in disbelief.

  “Making sure they can’t follow us anymore.”

  Lourds took his first real breath since he’d been knocked over as Natasha knelt down and started the pyre with her lighter. The flame lapped at the gasoline quickly and blazed in the gathering darkness. In seconds the phones started to melt and caught fire.

  “What if we need help?” Leslie demanded as she pushed herself to her feet. “Did you happen to think of that?”

  “If we need help,” Natasha said, “we help ourselves.” She walked back toward the motorcycle. “We’re more likely to need it if Gallardo finds us again. Get back in the truck. We need to put as much distance between us and this place as we can, as fast as we can.”

  Gingerly, wondering if something had been broken, sprained, or torn, Lourds got up. He stood for a moment and felt the heat off the fire.

  “You brought her along,” Leslie accused.

  Lourds knew that wasn’t exactly true, but he wasn’t going to argue the point. “Maybe we should get moving.”

  Natasha didn’t give any signs of waiting up for them. She threw a leg over the motorcycle seat and pushed the ignition switch to start the engine. The low rumble vibrated through the forest and chased away the night sounds. A moment later the headlight came on and burned through the darkness.

  Lourds picked up his dusty hat, slipped it on, kicked enough dirt over the burning phones to put them out, and slid behind the old four-by-four’s steering wheel. Diop, Gary, and Adebayo climbed into the back.

  Leslie stood for a moment at the side of the truck with her arms crossed. She looked as stubborn as a child.

  Natasha roared ahead.

  “It’s a long walk back, Leslie,” Lourds commented. “Even from here. And you wouldn’t like the neighborhood.”

  Cursing, Leslie opened the door and swung herself inside. She sat in the seat with her arms crossed again and glared at the disappearing motorcyclist.

  “She’s not the boss of me,” Leslie said petulantly.

  Lourds didn’t comment. He put the truck in gear and let off the clutch. They gained speed as they followed the motorcycle. He just hoped that Leslie would see that he wasn’t interested in having this conversation. It wouldn’t do any good to talk about it. No matter what they said, the phones were still burned and what had happened still would have happened. He wasn’t even sure she was wrong. Natasha was the most trouble-ready among them. Not following her was stupid.

  “Why didn’t you do something back there?” Leslie demanded.

  Despite his efforts to intercede, which had collected him a nice assortment of bruises, Lourds knew it wouldn’t do any good to point out now that he’d tried.

  “I can’t believe you let her set my phone on fire.”

  It’s going to be a long trip back, Lourds realized.

  CAVE #41

  ATLANTIS BURIAL CATACOMBS

  CÁDIZ, SPAIN

  “Are you all right, Father?”

  Father Sebastian looked at Dario Brancati. The construction foreman stood beside the priest and looked as worn and haggard as Sebastian felt.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Brancati,” Sebastian replied. “I’m just tired. That’s all. It’s nothing that a few more hours of sleep won’t cure. You look as though you could use some sleep yourself.”

  “I’ll sleep when we’re finished with this,” Brancati said. “I apologize for the early hour.”

  According to Sebastian’s watch, it was almost three in the morning. He’d had barely four hours sleep even though he’d promised himself he would get to bed earlier.

  “I would have waited,” Brancati said, “but I thought perhaps you’d want to see this for yourself.”

  “I do.”

  Brancati handed him a fresh flashlight and a new hard hat.

  “I’ve already got a hat,” Sebastian said. He held the old hat up.

  “How fresh are the batteries in that?”

  Sebastian hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “That’s why you need a new hat.”

  The two Swiss Guards accompanying Sebastian also got new hats. Sebastian struggled to remember their names—Peter was the one with the small scar over his eyebrow. He’d gotten it in a fight with his brother as a boy, some mix-up over a coveted toy. And the other, Martin, had a cleft chin. Good men, both. They’d insisted Sebastian wear a lifejacket with handgrips on it in case they had to get him out of the cavern in a hurry. Together, they followed Brancati and his team into Cave #42.

  Nervous energy filled Sebastian as he carefully waded into the waist-deep water. The pumps growled incessantly as they removed the water from the cave. Most of it was gone, but the crews remained vigilant in case another leak sprang up. The ground radar had confirmed the presence of water on the other side of several walls. They walked through a rock bubble that hung 150 feet below the level of the Atlantic Ocean.

  The floor was treacherous. Bodies and parts of bodies still floated—mostly submerged—beneath the oil-black water. Once Sebastian felt something strike his leg and saw a skull float up for a moment before disappearing once more.

  “We should have the rest of the water out of here in the next few days, Father,” Brancati announced. His voice carried in the cavern, but it was almost buried in the throb of the vacuum engines pulling water from the cave.

  “That’s good.” Sebastian followed the man through the burial crypts. Only a few of them had tenants at the moment.

  “We didn’t see it last time, because we weren’t in here long enough before the cave gave way,” Brancati said. “Even when it was found this time—” He shook his head. “Nobody believed we’d found it.”

  A few minutes later, Sebastian gazed up at Brancati’s find.

  The door was immense. It spanned at least fifteen feet across. The oval shape gleamed in the reflected light and had a metallic cast to it. Strange symbols covered the surface. As Sebastian watched, the symbols shimmered and wavered. In only seconds, he could read what was there.

  KNOW YOU OUR HONORED DEAD.

  THIS PLACE IS PROTECTED, KEPT SAFE BY THE HAND OF GOD.

  THESE PEOPLE ONCE LIVED ON GOD’S HOLY GROUND.

  LET THEM SLEEP WELL.

  Sebastian read the inscription again. When he tried to concentrate, he didn’t see the writing. He saw only the symbols. But he was certain of what he’d read.

  In the center of the door, though, was the same figure he’d seen hanging from the dead man’s necklace. He stood tall and handsome, the book under one arm and the other offered to help whoever wanted it.

  Below that was a seal Sebastian recognized from the materials Pope Innocent XIV had given him. It showed a glowing hand on an open book with flames leaping from the pages.

  He stopped cold, shock ringing through him until it nearly stopped his heart.

  “It’s some kind of
metal alloy,” Brancati said. “But we haven’t yet determined what kind yet. The way it’s built into the rock is way ahead of the time period we’re talking about. We couldn’t do it today. Not like that. I don’t have an explanation for it.”

  “It’s just lost tech,” one of the construction workers said. “Just like the way the Egyptians built the pyramids. We can guess how they did it, but we don’t know for sure.”

  “Oh my God,” Sebastian whispered hoarsely as he stumbled forward. He would have fallen if one of the Swiss Guards hadn’t reached out and caught him. He stretched out his hand and touched the seal.

  It was still well defined and hard edged, gleaming as though it had been struck yesterday.

  It’s true. All of it. Sebastian ran his trembling hand over the seal.

  “Father,” the guard who held him, young Peter, said softly.

  “I’m all right.” Sebastian pulled at his arm. “Please. Release me.”

  With obvious reluctance, Peter did so, but he remained close at hand.

  Cold fear twisted through Sebastian. It had nothing to do with the depths of water waiting outside the cave walls to drown them. The fear that flooded the priest now focused solely on the figure on the great door ahead. Sebastian dropped to his knees and felt the cold brine he’d waded through climb to his chest.

  He put his hands in front of him and prayed for mercy and salvation, not just for himself, but for all the souls that had been lost when Atlantis had been lost to the ocean.

  God hadn’t been merciful then. He wouldn’t have been. God’s loss of his son and the effrontery shown by the priest-kings of Atlantis had been inexcusable.

  That was why he had pulled the island continent beneath the sea.

  But why is this here now? To test us again? Is that what you want, God? A test?

  If it was a test, Sebastian feared they would fail once more. He feared that even he might be tempted by what lay beyond the strange metal door.