The Atlantis Code (15 page)

Murani didn’t care for the reporter’s cavalier tone.

“Poseidon met the woman and fell in love with her,”
Silver continued.
“Together, they had five pairs of twins. All boys. Poseidon built a palace on a low mountain on the island. The story goes on to describe three moats that he created that surrounded the city.”

The image on the television reflected Silver’s description of the mountain and the three rings that represented the moats.

“Poseidon named the eldest of the first twins Atlas and made him king of the island,”
Silver said.
“The Atlantic Ocean is actually named after him. The people who lived on the island became known at Atlanteans. They built bridges across the moats to get to the rest of the island. They also, supposedly at least, chopped holes through the moat walls so ships could pass, and even sail into the city.”

An artist’s rendering of the fabled city appeared on the screen. Ships with full canvas stretched tight sailed elegantly through the canals and tunnels near the beautiful city at the center of the moats.

“Walls were supposed to reinforce each of the city’s rings,”
Silver said.
“According to Plato, the walls were made of red, black, and white rock that was dug up from the moats. Then they were covered with orichalcum, brass, and tin.”

The computer-generated image gleamed with the glint of sunlight on metal.

“Sounds like a scenic getaway,”
the desk anchor replied.

The camera picked up Silver again for just a moment. On the screen, Silver smiled and nodded.
“In its day, it probably was. But then—one day—Atlantis disappeared.”

“How?”

“Plato doesn’t know for certain. His best guess was that the Atlanteans got into a fight with the Athenians. The Athenians were able to gather enough of the locals to put up staunch resistance against the Atlanteans because the Atlanteans were reputedly slavers of the worst sort.”

“I didn’t know about the slavery issue.”

“History is fascinating stuff,”
Silver said, sounding as if history were a new invention.
“At any rate, the island got racked by earthquakes and floods. The island is supposed to have submerged beneath the Atlantic Ocean in a single day.”

“But if Atlantis was an island, why is Father Sebastian working there?”
the desk anchor asked. “
The site isn’t an island.”

“You have to remember, Father Sebastian hasn’t claimed to be searching for Atlantis. He merely claims to be researching ancient ruins. Those Atlantis tales are rumors that have sprung up around the dig.”

“Deciding that the area might be Atlantis seems like a big jump. Why would anybody think that?”

“Because, when viewed from space, this part of Cádiz looks a lot like the description of Atlantis.”

A new image formed on the television screen. An overlay of the simple diagram of the proposed Atlantean moats in concentric circles around the city appeared. As Murani watched, the image overlaid the topography of the area where Father Sebastian labored. It was a close fit. However, as Murani knew from his work with the Society, a lot of other pieces had been close as well.

“The island could have become part of the mainland,”
Silver said.
“Plato made it plain that the island was connected—though underwater—to the mainland.”

“All these years, treasure hunters have sought out Atlantis
,” the desk anchor said.
“They thought they were looking for a sunken city.”

“For a time, this chunk of land was sunken,”
Silver said.
“So was most of Europe—paleontologists dug up a prehistoric whale buried in an Italian mountain not that long ago. But high sea levels, continental drift, tsunamis, anything could have exposed it from the seabed, raised it, or nudged it into the mainland so that it became part of the coastline.”

Murani stared at the way the template fit over Cádiz’s topographical features. Of course an artist had put those images together, the original drawing of Atlantis was based on Plato’s millennia-old secondhand description, and he knew that its ratios and proximities were matters open to discussion. But even to Murani, it seemed to be an amazingly close fit.

“If you look,”
Silver was saying,
“you can see where Atlantis once stood. Maybe. Father Sebastian’s excavation has uncovered what might be one of the three moats, and a series of tunnels that pass through it. Looking at this, you can see why the rumors started.”

Murani’s phone rang. He muted the television and answered.

“He was picked up by the FSB,” Gallardo said. There was no need to use names. Both of them knew whom Gallardo was talking about.

“Why?”

“The archeologist’s sister turned out to be a police inspector.”

Murani leaned back in his comfortable chair to examine the implications. “That’s unfortunate.”

“It might have helped to know that before I went after the cymbal,” Gallardo said. “We could have taken care of our current problem last night.”

Murani silently agreed. “He couldn’t have told her anything. He can’t know anything.”

“He knows more than I like. He’s tied the two artifacts together somehow. You already knew that because you sent me here.”

“Upon further reflection,” Murani said, “it seems that I might have been remiss in my decision to call you off him.”

“I think he knows something we don’t. We’re following him closely. From the way he’s moving, he’s got an agenda.”

Murani turned to his computer and pulled up the file on Professor Thomas Lourds. The man was acknowledged by many as the world’s foremost linguist.

“The film crew took pictures of the Egyptian artifact,” Murani said, putting it together in his mind. “The archeologist had pictures of the artifact in his hotel room. With the digital images in hand, the images on the bell could be legible.”

“Do you think he translated the inscription?”

Murani did
not
want to think that was true. All the scholars in the Society of Quirinus had studied the bell and the images of the cymbal. The cymbal hadn’t yet arrived at Vatican City. But none of them had been able to manage a translation.

But Lourds . . .

Unease spun through Murani like a spider’s web, anchoring to all the doubts in his mind. He didn’t like taking chances. Everything he did so far, all the subterfuge he’d masterminded behind the backs of the other members of the Society, had been carefully weighed for risk. As he planned this caper, Murani had discounted the possibility of trouble.

Now Lourds was a wild card.

“Find out if Lourds managed to translate either of the inscriptions,” Murani said. “If he has, I want to talk to him. Somewhere private. But if he doesn’t know, make certain he doesn’t involve himself in this any further.”

MOSCOW, RUSSIA
AUGUST 21, 2009

Y
ou haven’t said where we’re going.”

Lourds looked at the young woman and tried to comprehend what she’d said. “What?”

“I said, you haven’t said where we’re going,” Leslie repeated. “I’ve tried to remain quiet, be the good little soldier, but that’s not working for me.”

“Me, neither,” Gary said from the backseat. He was the camcorder operator Leslie had enlisted for the jaunt into Moscow. Gary Connolly was in his mid-twenties. Long, curly hair hung to his narrow shoulders. He wore round-lensed glasses and a black U2
SHAKE, RATTLE, AND HUM
concert T-shirt that showed its age.

As a rule, Lourds didn’t like revealing everything about his agenda or his thinking until he was ready. He wanted to give Leslie something, though. He felt he owed her that. “We’re going to M. V. Lomonosov Moscow State University.”

“What’s there?”

“As I said, Yuliya Hapaeve and I consulted on various work projects we introduced over the years.” Lourds’s voice tightened. “Yuliya sometimes worked on documents that contained state secrets. Some of her finds revealed things powerful people in Russia didn’t want known by other countries. In Russia, even modern Russia, that can be a death sentence.”

“I’m with you so far, but that doesn’t explain why we’re going to college.”

“Yuliya was a devoted craftsman in her chosen field,” Lourds said. “She hated to think that whatever great story she was working on would never see the light of day. She always wanted someone to be able to finish her projects in case something happened to her. So we—”

“—set up a drop at the Moscow State University,” Leslie finished. She grinned with both excitement at what lay before them and her own prowess at figuring out the reason for their trip.

“Exactly.”

“The trick is going to be getting out of the country with whatever she left you.”

Lourds didn’t say anything, but he felt certain escaping the country would be only one of the tricks involved.

M. V. LOMONOSOV MOSCOW STATE UNIVERSITY
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
AUGUST 21, 2009

“I didn’t know it would be this big,” Leslie admitted.

Lourds craned his neck and stared up at the imposing structure. Moscow State University’s main building’s central tower stood thirty-six stories tall. The university had been founded in 1755, but Joseph Stalin had ordered the construction of the main building. It had been one of seven projects the former General Secretary of the Soviet Party had conscripted during his term. In the 1950s, the university’s main building was the tallest structure in Europe.

Giant clocks, barometers and thermometers, statues and reliefs all decorated the building’s exterior. Inside, the building contained its own police station and post office, administrative offices, bank offices, a library and swimming pool, and several shops.

It was, Lourds had to admit, extremely impressive to someone seeing it for the first time. “I know,” he told Leslie. “I felt the same way the first time I saw it. I don’t think you ever truly get used to it.”

They left the car near the street rather than parking inside the university area. Leslie asked why they were walking so far, and Lourds told her he didn’t want to call any attention to themselves.

Reluctantly, Leslie agreed to the long walk. Gary, the cameraman, was less enthusiastic.

The grounds, despite the economic hardship the country faced, were well appointed and clean. Flowering shrubs and bushes, though modest, made their presence known.

Several students and teachers paraded across the sidewalks and gathered in front of the buildings. A pang passed through Lourds when he saw the groups. He thought of his classes. His graduate assistants were capable and passionate about their studies, but Lourds enjoyed the first few days of class because he got to meet the students before they immersed themselves in their studies.

A few professors greeted him as he strode purposefully. He returned the greetings without thought, in the speaker’s language and accent. Once, though, he noticed how pensive Leslie looked. Then he remembered she didn’t speak Russian, much less any of its dialects.

Lourds could barely remember how that felt, because it had been a long time since he’d been anywhere he couldn’t communicate. But he could remember how awkward and vulnerable he felt whenever he was out of place—like that time a girlfriend had taken him to a baby shower. Lourds imagined Leslie felt something like that—didn’t know the rules, the vocabulary, or the point of the exercise.

He led the way up a flight of stairs and took advantage of the fact that they were alone for a moment. “Just smile and nod,” he told Leslie and Gary. “I’ll handle the conversations.”

“I know,” Leslie said. “But this is strange. It’s not like going shopping in Chinatown. I can get by there, even though I don’t speak Chinese. I know I can talk to people because most of them know at least rudimentary English.”

“The people here,” Lourds cautioned, “know a lot more English than that. Most Americans don’t speak a foreign language. English schoolchildren are exposed to more languages than American children, so I’d imagine you’re bilingual at least. Here in Russia, they’ve taken pains to learn our language. In many cases, very well.”