The Atlantis Code (23 page)

Father Sebastian’s effort endangered the Swiss Guard as much as it did the Church. Their leader, Commander Karl Pulver, recognized the threat of the Secret Texts as well, though he was not knowledgeable about what they contained.

“Something more should be done,” Murani said.

Wariness entered Rezzonico’s eyes. “Like what?”

“Father Sebastian is the pope’s picked man. He’s not one of us.”

“But that’s even better,” Rezzonico said. “If Sebastian should find something, he won’t recognize it for what it is. Only we know what the Secret Texts are.”

“The pope thinks he knows.”

Rezzonico waved the comment away. “The pope knows only what we told him. Even then he lacks our understanding.”

Murani shook his head. “That’s not enough. We need to control that site. Without any interlopers involved. To do that, we need to be in charge of it.”

“The pope chose Father Sebastian. The man was clearly a good choice. His field is archeology. Of us all—”

“He’s the least reliable.” Murani hardened his voice. “He was out in the secular world for a long time before he came to the Church.”

Rezzonico’s face darkened. “We could take steps to correct the situation.”

Murani’s voice softened. “Other priests and cardinals could have taken charge of that dig site.”

Rezzonico smiled. “Like you, perhaps?”

Murani didn’t even try to feign modesty. “Yes. I would have been the perfect choice.”

“Why you?”

“Because since my earliest days I have given my life to the Church. I believe in the power of the papacy. The Church needs to take her proper place in the world. The Church has gotten weaker and weaker. The loss of the Latin Mass as well as the talks with the other religions and countries. The papacy has conducted their office since Vatican Two like they’re heads of state—”

“Which the popes have been,” Rezzonico pointed out.

“—and treated other nations and religions as if they were equals.” Murani’s voice hardened. “
No one
is the equal of the Church. We were put here by God Himself to shepherd the people He has given us to care for. We’re supposed to guide and shape their lives. We can’t do that when we constantly give up the power and prestige that make us God’s chosen instruments.”

Rezzonico took a quick breath and let it out. He hesitated. “All the points you make are valid—”

“I know that they are.”

“—but—”

Murani overrode the other man. “Don’t keep saying
but
. The Church is sacrosanct. It is, and should be, the ultimate power here on earth. And any objects that control that kind of power belong to the Church. Sacred artifacts are ours by right and by the grace of God Himself.”

“The world is a different place, Stefano,” Rezzonico said softly. “We have to move with more care and deliberation these days.”

“We’re talking about books and artifacts capable of ending this world and launching a new one,” Murani said. “They’ve been buried for untold years, and they’re about to reemerge.”

“Only if we’re correct about the dig.”

“Do you doubt?”

“It has yet to be proved.”

Murani leaned back in his chair in disgust. “You need to have faith.”

For the first time, Rezzonico’s glance turned to ice. “Don’t forget yourself, Stefano. You’ve ridden roughshod over other, lesser priests and cardinals, but I’m here at the behest of the Society.”

That announcement took Murani back a little. However, he’d expected as much. Despite his overtures toward autocracy and independence, Rezzonico often served as a lapdog for the more senior among the Society of Quirinus.

Murani counted to ten and marshaled his reserve control. “We wouldn’t be in this shape if the selection of the pope had gone differently.”

“Spilled milk,” Rezzonico said.

The Sacred College of Cardinals had gotten split in their decision. Each faction had picked one from among their number. The two who
should
have become pope, men already entrusted with the divine duty to protect the world from the Secret Texts, were left bereft of enough votes to win. A third faction, seeking to further their own aims, had suggested Wilhelm Weierstrass as an alternative. In the end, because of the split, the new pope to take office knew nothing of the Sacred Texts.

In fact, Murani wasn’t certain Pope Innocent XIV believed in the Sacred Texts even after he’d been told. The man had listened to everyone, but kept his own counsel. In the end, until he chose to send Father Sebastian to take command of the dig. That had, in Murani’s estimation at least, spoken volumes.

“You’re right,” Murani said.

Rezzonico studied him for a moment. Then he said, “Everything is in order, Stefano. You’ll see. What the Society would like you to do is keep a low profile. The pope’s trust in us is a fragile thing. Especially now. If he’d come to power at another time, we might be more certain of our influence over him.”

Murani quietly disagreed. Wilhelm Weierstrass had been left amid his books in the libraries far too long. The man had opinions about everything. And he didn’t hesitate to use the power of his office. He’d shown that by choosing Father Sebastian over the other candidates the Society of Quirinus had put forth.

And he’d shown it again by calling Murani on the carpet this morning. In fact, Murani realized only then that the act had been more a warning to the whole Society of Quirinus than just to him.

Suddenly seeing that, Murani realized as well that things were in more dire straits than he’d thought.

“Fret not, Stefano,” Rezzonico said. “You have many friends among the Society of Quirinus. I hope you continue to count me as one of them. I have only your best interests at heart. We are in this together. You must be more patient.”

“I know.” Murani sipped his wine. “But this is the closest we have been to the Secret Texts.”

Rezzonico nodded. “Everyone is aware of that. Everything is in place. Nothing can happen that we don’t control.”

That might be true, Murani thought but none of them were prepared to use those texts. The Society of Quirinus controlled a great many secrets. Over the years, they’d quietly and brutally killed those who stood against them or tried to reveal the secrets they hid.

They weren’t afraid to get blood on their hands. Neither was Murani.

SEVENTH-KILOMETER MARKET
OUTSIDE ODESSA, UKRAINE
AUGUST 23, 2009

“Where did this place come from?” Leslie asked.

Lourds had to smile at the young woman’s naiveté. For all that she was a “worldly” television journalist—and probably well traveled in her own right—the world remained a big unimagined place for her. She hadn’t seen as much of it as she believed.

The Seventh-Kilometer Market was a raging circus of black marketing slavishly devoted to capitalism. The market covered nearly two hundred acres and was filled with steel shipping containers made over into buildings. Narrow streets filled with people meandered between them.

The containers came from all over the world. They ranged from twenty-foot-long ones to the monster sizes coming in at fifty-three feet. Merchants warehoused their goods in the containers and often lived in them. The containers were new and old, and every color of the rainbow. Most of them had been added to and connected.

They looked like small metal buildings with advertising and sidewalks, sometimes stacked to two and three stories. Cars and trucks backed up to the front of the stories to load and offload. Voices rang out everywhere in a multitude of languages. Mounted lights at intervals along the “streets” made certain darkness wouldn’t stop the sales.

Lourds was tired and cramped from riding in a car for something under twenty-six hours. But he couldn’t help rising to the chance to be both a tour guide and an educator. The old man who had brought them turned back toward Moscow immediately.

“Welcome to Seventh-Kilometer Market.” Lourds waved to the complex maze of shipping containers. “The original market was located inside Odessa city limits, but when capitalism invaded the area after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, more merchants set up shop.”

“This is incredible,” Leslie said.

Gary took footage with the minicam.

“Be careful with the camera,” Natasha ordered.

“Why?” Gary placed the camera back into the protective case hanging from one shoulder. “Don’t they allow tourist pictures?”

“They do,” Lourds said, “but several of the merchants in the marketplace aren’t legitimate.”

“Many of them are wanted by police and intelligence communities of different countries,” Natasha said. She remained watchful. Despite the day spent traveling, she still appeared rested and ready to go. “If one of those men thinks that you’ve been sent here to spy on them, they could try to slit our throats.”

“Oh.” Gary definitely didn’t look pleased with that possibility.

“When the market began to grow inside Odessa, it was ordered out of the city,” Lourds said. “It simply became too successful. It relocated here: seven kilometers outside Odessa.”

“Hence the name,” Leslie said.

“Exactly.” Lourds took the lead. They passed by containers offering Asian electronics and tourist goods as well as counterfeit high-end Western products. “Over six thousand shops here rent space, paying thousands of dollars a month. Renting space alone is a huge moneymaker, but the sales exceed twenty million in U.S. dollars.”

“Twenty million a year?” Leslie asked.

Lourds smiled at her. “Twenty million dollars a day.”

Leslie stopped at a four-way intersection and glanced in all directions. People choked the passageways and stood haggling with merchants.

“Efforts were made to shut the market down after it started growing,” Lourds said. “By then it was too late. The market had taken on a life of its own. It continues to grow. But Russia would still like to shut this place down. Merchants and buyers would take up arms to prevent that.”

“Why would anyone want to shut this place down?”

“Because they couldn’t control it.”

“Why would they want to control it?”

“For taxation purposes.”

“These are all untaxed goods?” Leslie stopped in front of a container that advertised Italian purses. “Twenty million dollars a day and it’s all untaxed?”

“Yes. Basically what you’re looking at is Europe’s largest marketplace. Interestingly enough, it’s also a smuggler’s den. You’ll find legitimate goods, counterfeit goods, and illegal products—munitions and drugs—all here for sale. The businesses simply operate in the open because no one can stop them.”

Leslie examined one of the purses sitting on a small table. Women, Lourds knew, couldn’t pass up bargains. Although he sincerely doubted anything bought off that table would be a bargain.

“We don’t have time to shop,” Natasha said.

Reluctantly, Leslie returned the purse.

“Where are we supposed to meet your friend?” Natasha asked.

“It’s not far,” Lourds replied.

An hour later, Lourds stood nursing a cup of Turkish coffee in front of a shop advertising American jeans for sale. Leslie had immediately dismissed them as knockoffs. Lourds wouldn’t have known. Gary passed the time filming bits and pieces of different shops, and even had Leslie doing lead-ins and closings for a proposal they were going to do for the BBC.

“Are you certain your friend is still going to be here?” Natasha asked in Russian.

“Josef said he would be here,” Lourds replied in English. He didn’t want Leslie and Gary to feel shut out of the conversation.

Another uncomfortable minute passed. It slowly stretched into five more.

Natasha moved to stand in front of Lourds. For an instant he thought she was going to take umbrage with him over their situation, but her attention was focused on a young man who was approaching them. Her hand was in her coat pocket.

There was no doubt about the young man’s destination. He stopped a few feet away. Both his hands were in his pockets. Lourds knew what the young man had his hands on. The man’s eyes never left Natasha’s, and Lourds figured that was because the man had assessed her as the most dangerous among them.

“Professor Lourds.” The young man’s English was impeccable.

“Yes.”

“Josef Danilovic sent me.”

“Do you have any proof?” Natasha demanded.

The young man grinned and shrugged. “This isn’t a place for proving things. Nor is it a place for police. I come to offer you a way out of the city. It’s your choice whether you follow me.”

Lourds’s phone rang. He answered it. The battery charge was almost exhausted. “Hello.”

“Thomas,” Danilovic greeted in a jovial voice that betrayed a little tension.

“Hello, Josef. I think we’ve just met your intermediary.”

“His name is Viktor,” Danilovic said. “You can trust him.”

Lourds knew the young man was expecting the call. Viktor remained totally relaxed. Natasha hadn’t let her guard down.

“Perhaps you could describe him,” Lourds suggested. “We tend toward a little paranoia at this end these days.”