The Atlantis Prophecy

by Thomas Greanias

  The lead special agent nodded. "Yes, sir."

  Seavers took her by the arm and escorted her out the door.

  "Where are you taking me, Max?"

  "Somewhere safe," he told her. "There's no telling what this maniac might do."

  He led her down the hallway to a service closet that turned out to be an express service elevator. It linked the small kitchen of the 10th-floor club room to the hotel's main kitchen on the ballroom level. They took it all the way down and emerged in the service corridor between the back of the ballroom stage and the main kitchen.

  Waiting for them were six Secret Service agents, who instantly formed a protective ring around them.

  They turned down another hallway behind the back of the ballroom, a curving corridor with wood-paneled walls and portraits of every president and first lady since George Washington. Step by step they passed through succeeding epochs of administrations until they came to the portraits of the sitting American president and his wife and then a small, unmarked door.

  Inside was a special VIP room with red carpets and gold walls that reminded Serena of a funeral parlor. The president's advance Secret Service detail was there. So, too, were Secretary Packard, Senator Scarborough, and several Chinese officials, all awaiting the president.

  "Sister Serghetti," said Packard. "You know Senator Scarborough."

  She was caught off guard but smiled and shook the hand of the father of the dead woman she had just seen. "How are you, Senator?"

  "On behalf of the Presidential Prayer Breakfast, I'd like to personally thank you for offering up the opening prayer."

  "The honor is mine, Mr. Senator."

  "And this is Mr. Ling, China's top Olympics ambassador. Max Seavers is going to show him and all the Olympics delegates some real fireworks tomorrow on the Fourth."

  Mr. Ling was all smiles. "I told my wife I was going to see the Fourth of July from the ultimate skybox—the observation deck of the Washington Monument. She didn't believe me."

  Senator Scarborough looked at his watch. "Well, Mr. Ling and I have to get backstage. Sister Serghetti, you simply walk out when Bono is finished performing and open the breakfast in prayer. The rest of the program will take care of itself."

  Serena nodded. "Yes, Mr. Senator, thank you."

  She watched Scarborough leave with Ling and two Secret Service agents. It was just her, Seavers, and a glaring Packard in the room now, along with the president's personal advance team.

  "What the hell is going on, Seavers?" Packard burst out.

  "We found the body of Senator Scarborough's daughter in a room checked out to Yeats. Yeats murdered her."

  "God Almighty!" Packard said. "This is a nightmare!"

  "I don't believe Dr. Yeats murdered Ms. Scarborough," Serena said quickly. "Not for one second. Dr. Yeats is an American patriot of the first order and comes from a family of patriots. I also know he had feelings for her and would never kill without just cause."

  Packard looked at Max Seavers. "What's Yeats doing here at the Washington Hilton of all places, anyway?"

  Seavers said, "We believe his primary target is the president, sir."

  "What!" Serena cried. "You can't be serious."

  She was astounded, considering his relationship with Conrad, that Packard seemed to think it plausible.

  "I suggest you mass e-mail a photo of Yeats to all agents on the premises immediately, Mr. Secretary," Seavers pressed. "He's wanted not only for the death of a security guard and an attack on the Library of Congress, but now the slaying of a U.S. senator's daughter. And the senator will have all our heads if we fail to apprehend Yeats."

  That was enough for Packard, whose purse strings were controlled by Scarborough as chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee.

  "OK, do it."

  Max Seavers nodded, clearly proud of himself.

  Serena realized that Seavers had cleverly managed to turn the one person she and Conrad needed to reach—the president of the United States—into the one person he would never be able to get close to.

  "What about Sister Serghetti, sir?" Seavers asked. "She has a history with Yeats and might pass along intel to him. Or some key or means to escape."

  "That's absurd, Mr. Secretary." She then looked at Seavers. "You want to frisk me, Max?"

  Seavers motioned to a couple of the stone-faced Secret Service agents but was cut off by Packard.

  "This is the Presidential Prayer Breakfast, goddammit," Packard said. "Sister Serghetti is in the program for the opening prayer. We can't hold her, Seavers. We'll just watch her."

  A Secret Service agent walked up and said, "Mr. Secretary, the presidential motorcade is two minutes away."

  "I'll be back in a minute to walk with the President to the ballroom." Then Packard offered her his arm. "Ladies first."

  "Thank you, Mr. Secretary."

  Packard looked back at Max Seavers and the security detail. "After the breakfast we'll meet here with the president and break the news of his daughter's slaying to Senator Scarborough," Packard barked. "By then you better pray that you've got Yeats in custody. Now go find that goddamn bastard."

  38

  IF CONRAD had his way, right now he'd be digging for the second globe beneath the Sarah Rittenhouse armillary in Montrose Park. He had already figured out that the secret access tunnel had to be the cave that his father had shown him as a child, and that the globe was probably at the bottom of that old Algonquin well in the back. It all made sense now, every wacky thing his crazy ass father had put him through.

  But by 5 a.m. all entrances and exits to the Hilton had been sealed off in anticipation of the president's arrival. He was trapped in a hotel room with Harold and Meredith from Highland Park, Texas.

  The most he could hope for now was to warn Serena and the president about the second globe and Seavers's plan to release a bird flu contagion. His best shot at reaching them was the prayer breakfast. And thanks to some bad blowfish the night before, Harold was going to be saying his prayers in the toilet while Conrad—or rather "Pastor Jim"—escorted Meredith to the breakfast.

  Together they stood in the long line of thousands of prayer breakfast attendees who had emerged from packed elevators and stairwells to follow the directions of young ushers in blue blazers down two escalators to the ballroom level for the 57th Annual Presidential Prayer Breakfast. And dead ahead, just before the ballroom's open doors, the Secret Service had set up an elaborate and impenetrable security checkpoint.

  "This is just like the end of time when God's angels will separate the sheep from the goats," Meredith joked.

  Conrad chuckled nervously. He had pulled a switch with the tickets back in Harold and Meredith's room, taking Harold's ticket and leaving him his own. But he also had the silver cornerstone plate. Whatever hope he had of slipping through the checkpoint would vanish as soon as he tripped the metal detectors and drew unwanted attention.

  Meredith slipped her arm under Conrad's and looked up at him starry-eyed. "Ooh, I feel so dangerous, Pastor Jim!"

  As the metal detection gates at the checkpoint began to loom larger, Conrad felt his chest tighten. There was no way the trained agents were going to miss the fact he looked nothing like Harold's picture unless Meredith distracted them first.

  "Hey, Meredith," he said, and removed the silver cornerstone plate from his inside breast pocket. "This souvenir I bought from Mount Vernon. I want you to have it."

  "Why, thank you, Pastor Jim!" she said and took it from his hand and ran a perfectly manicured fingernail across the surface. "How pretty! I'll treasure it," she cooed and slipped it into her little pink purse.

  When they reached the security gates a few moments later, Conrad could see there were checkpoints about ten feet apart. Armed agents in windbreakers stood at one table next to the first gate.

  "Please empty your pockets and place any metal objects on the table," said a young female officer. "Thank you."

  Beyond the gate an impossibly large black agent stood
with a wand in his hand for full body scans.

  "Oooh, this is so exciting," she said to the officer as she emptied her purse. "Oh, wait, hon, you go through first, I better turn this over," she said and pulled out the cornerstone plate from her purse. "Don't want to set off any alarms with my souvenir."

  Conrad presented his ticket, walked through the metal detector, and looked back to see the officer return the cornerstone plate to Meredith.

  "Please move on, ma'am."

  Conrad let out a low breath as Meredith bounced over to him with a smile. He calmly led them away from the security checkpoint and toward the open doors of the giant ballroom. Soon as they crossed the threshold, he tried to ditch her.

  "I'm at table 232," he told her. "Where are you?"

  She had trouble letting go of his arm. "I'm over in the 700s."

  "I just realized something," he said. "That souvenir I gave you—I had promised it to someone else. I feel horrible."

  "Oh, now don't you worry about a thing, Pastor Jim." She looked disappointed, but gave it back without a second thought. "You gotta be a man of your word."

  Conrad smiled at her as they parted ways. "You're a saint."

  * * *

  Seavers left the gold room with a couple of Secret Service agents and marched toward the security checkpoint outside the ballroom. He showed the agents on duty Yeats's picture. None of them had seen him.

  "Are you sure?" Seavers pressed one young man, who had hesitated.

  "I'm almost positive," he swore, though Seavers could see the doubt in his eyes.

  "Almost?" Seavers seethed.

  Just before he killed her, Brooke had told him that Yeats had discovered the existence of a second globe. Seavers knew he had to find out what Yeats knew and stop him before he told the good sister or the feds.

  Seavers then heard some kind of row and turned to a man being frisked at the metal detection gate by two agents.

  Seavers hurried over. "What's going on?"

  "We flagged his ticket—Carl Anderson."

  Seavers looked at the man. He obviously wasn't Conrad Yeats, but the man must have had contact with him. "I take it your name's not Carl?"

  "My name's Harold," the red-faced man said. "I don't know how I got that ticket. Look, my wife is already inside with Pastor Jim Lee. You know, the bestselling author?"

  "Does Pastor Jim look like this?" Seavers held up the photo of Yeats, which looked familiar enough to startle Harold.

  "That's him!"

  "Not quite," Seavers said. "You just handed off your wife to a terrorist wanted for the slaying of law enforcement agents and attacks on America's most sacred landmarks."

  "Dear God!" Harold cried. "I didn't know! You have to believe me!"

  "Can you recognize your wife, at least?"

  Harold shot him an angry look. "I'm pretty sure I can."

  "Then take me to her in the ballroom," Seavers said.

  * * *

  The gigantic ballroom was as big as a football field. The domed ceiling a couple of stories high only added to the aura of an indoor sports stadium.

  Conrad, now free of Meredith, slipped between hundreds of round tables with white cloths and gold chairs toward a table to the right of the stage. It was near the staff door to the hotel's main kitchen, where hundreds of waiters shuffled in and out.

  He picked an empty seat at the table, the least desirable chair because its back was to the stage, but perfect for him. He sat down and faced the wall by the kitchen entrance and six smiling table companions: a young couple from California, an older self-proclaimed "Lake Wobegon" couple from Minnesota, a middle-aged rabbi from New York, and a tall black woman from D.C. It was a United Nations of faith.

  "You're never going to see anything good looking this way," joked the rabbi. "Would you mind passing the cantaloupe? They pray later."

  Conrad looked down at the table full of fruit, pastries, juices, and coffee. Because of security issues and the crowd, everything had been prepped beforehand, and he had to remove a clear plastic wrap from the chilled plate of cantaloupe.

  "Here you go," he said and passed it over. As he did, his eyes swept the ballroom for Serena. She was already on stage with various generals and senators, including the presumptive Democratic and Republican party nominees for the presidency in November. They were waiting for the president.

  Most everybody else in the ballroom was seated, except hundreds of waiters attending to the tables. Conrad helped himself to some coffee and looked over the navy blue program with gold leaf trim in front of him. The opening prayer was to be offered by Sister Serena Serghetti following a contemporary rendition of "Amazing Grace" by the rock group U2's lead singer, Bono.

  Conrad was about to pour himself a second cup of coffee when the young California man, who was Asian-American, said, "You might want to think twice about that. Security won't let you go to the bathroom while the president and first lady are in the ballroom."

  "Thanks, I'll hold off "

  "It's Jim," the man said, offering his hand and Conrad shook it. "Jim Lee."

  Conrad cocked his head. "Like Pastor Jim, the bestselling author?"

  The black woman and the rabbi snorted a giggle. Conrad didn't get the joke.

  "Pretty much," said Pastor Jim. "That's me."

  "Oh!"

  Conrad suddenly realized that Meredith from Texas had known from the start he wasn't Pastor Jim.

  The old-timer from Minnesota said, "Is it true that there are more Christians in China than America, Pastor Jim?"

  "Yes," said Pastor Jim. "But my family is Korean."

  "From Seoul?"

  "Burbank."

  The old-timer, realizing he perhaps made some sort of faux pas, nodded enthusiastically. "You people make good citizens."

  "Thank you." Pastor Jim smiled.

  The black woman next to Conrad said, "He sells almost as many books as Bishop Jakes, you know."

  Conrad nodded absently and, scoping the room for any sign of Seavers, said, "You sure don't see this kind of event in any other country on Earth."

  "You mean elected officials acknowledging they're not God?"

  "You got it," Conrad said, surprised by her dig. "You must work for one of them?"

  "All of them. I'm a sergeant with the Capitol Police."

  "I'd have never guessed," Conrad said slowly. There was something very familiar about her. But if she was feeling likewise she wasn't showing it. "Tell me, is it true what they say about politicians here in Washington?"

  "What's that?"

  "That the only ones with convictions are in jail?"

  "You're funny! I'm Wanda, by the way. Wanda Randolph."

  "J-Jack," he said, glancing over at Pastor Jim, who was now talking to the rabbi.

  She put out her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Jack."

  "The pleasure's mine."

  The instant Conrad grasped her hand he knew it belonged to the woman who held his in the ambulance the night before, the same one who pumped several bullets his way in the tunnels beneath the U.S. Capitol a couple of days ago.

  She knew it, too. Her smile froze and she looked down at his hand, not letting go. Her eyes widened like she had just been shocked with an electric buzzer.

  "This your first time here, Jack?" she asked him, even as she glanced over her shoulder at the small army of plainclothes security surrounding the ballroom.

  "First and probably last," he told her, not taking his eyes off her.

  "Why is that, Jack?"

  "I just feel like I don't belong, you know? Like I'm a criminal here with all the saints."

  There were glances around the table. Then a few vigorous nods.

  "We all are, brother," said the man from Minnesota. "But too few of us are honest enough to admit it and seek forgiveness at the foot of the cross. Isn't that right, Pastor Jim?"

  Pastor Jim, his mouth full with an almond croissant, could only nod.

  Conrad looked at Wanda as her hand reached into her purse. He slipped b
oth of his own under the table and for a wild second was ready to upend it if necessary.

  But her hands emerged with a card and a pen. "I know from the ballistics report that you didn't kill my man Larry last night," she whispered to him as she wrote a phone number on the back of her card. "But I can't yet prove that Max Seavers did." She slid the card across the tablecloth to him.