The Atlantis Code

CHAPTER 10

Lourds sat on the windowsill in the apartment and watched the corner drugstore that Natasha Safarov had entered. He could barely see her through the dusty window as she talked on the phone.

“Who do you think she’s calling?” Leslie asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe she’s calling the police. If she is, they’re going to take us into custody.”

“If that was what she wanted, she would have done that already,” Lourds pointed out.

“She has a gun,” Gary added. “She’s already proved she’s willing to use it.”

Leslie frowned at the cameraman.

“I’m just saying, is all,” Gary said. “It’s not like it was a bloody news flash.”

“My guess is that she’s trying to find out who she killed,” Lourds said. “The police might have had time to find out the man’s identity by now. Hopefully all of them were taken into custody.”

“That still leaves us trapped here.”

“Not necessarily,” Lourds said. “There are always circumspect ways into and out of countries.” He retreated to his backpack and took out his sat-phone. He dialed a number from memory.

Natasha stood at the phone in a corner drugstore. The window beside the phone looked out over the building where she’d left Lourds and his friends. She peered up at the apartment and thought she could see the outline of someone sitting in the window.

She scowled in disgust. Amateurs.

A thin woman with three hollow-eyed children walked through the front door as Natasha’s superior answered his phone.

“Chernovsky,” he said brusquely.

“It is Natasha Safarov. I needed to talk to you.”

A thick and repellent silence hung for a moment. Natasha disliked making Chernovsky angry. She hated disappointing him even more.

Ivan Chernovsky had a lot of experience with the Moscow police. He’d been one of those who survived the fall of Communism and still remained on the job. That said a lot. Many policemen had hooked up with the criminals they’d chased and battled on the street. Chernovsky had remained loyal to his goals.

He’d also vouched for Natasha, and — when the occasion warranted it — he’d helped cover for her. She didn’t always play according to the letter or the spirit of the law. Power and privilege still held sway in Moscow, perhaps more so now than ever. Natasha didn’t allow either of those to stand in her way.

“What do you need to talk about?” Chernovsky asked coldly. “The man you killed in the street little more than an hour ago? Or something else?”

Natasha didn’t respond to the questions. She bucked authority when she could. They both knew that. But when the day was all done, she also delivered whatever the department needed.

“I’ve got a lead on my sister’s murderers.”

“What lead?”

“I don’t want to say at this point.” Natasha watched the pedestrian traffic passing by.

“You are with the professor?” Papers rustled. “Thomas Lourds? The American, yes?”

Natasha hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”

“He is in good health?”

“Yes.”

The chair creaked again. “Tell me what is going on.”

“I don’t know. Not all of it. Professor Lourds is connected to my sister’s death.”

Chernovsky sighed. “He was obviously not responsible or he’d be dead.”

“The same people who killed Yuliya are after him.”

“To kill him?”

“I don’t think so. At least, they don’t appear ready to kill him at once. I don’t think they’re so choosy about the British people with him.”

“Ah.” More papers rustled. “The British television team.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you call me, Natasha?”

“My sister left Professor Lourds information about the project she was working on.”

“The cymbal?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she leave it for him?” Chernovsky asked.

“Because she believed he could decipher the language that it was written in.”

“No one else can do this? There are many professors in Moscow.”

“Yuliya believed in him,” Natasha said.

“Do you?”

Natasha hesitated. “I don’t know. But there was something else that was stolen from Lourds and the Britishers.”

“What?”

“A bell.”

The thin woman guided her children through the store. One small boy remained behind in the bread aisle. He couldn’t have been six years old. He looked like a bundle of sticks. He gazed at the assortment of sweet cakes out on display.

“What kind of bell?” Chernovsky asked.

“It’s equally as mysterious as the cymbal Yuliya was working on,” Natasha told him.

Chernovsky was silent for a moment. “These musical instruments aren’t so mysterious to someone.”

“That’s what Lourds believes as well.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“Go with Lourds. Yuliya was in contact with a professor of anthropology in Leipzig. Lourds intends to go there.”

“Disappearing out of the country with someone wanted for questioning involving a murder would be a magician’s trick,” Chernovsky said. “Even if you weren’t a police officer equally as wanted.”

“I know.”

“I can’t help you with that, Natasha.”

“I’m not asking you to.” But if she’d thought he could have helped, she would have asked him.

“Then why did you call?”

“Because it was the respectful thing to do. And because I need information now and may need it again later.” If it hadn’t been for the possibility of the assistance Chernovsky might be able to provide, she’d have left straightaway.

Both of them knew that as well.

“Thank you,” Chernovsky said. “What do you need?”

“Have you identified the man I shot?”

“Not yet. But we think we’ll have an ID soon. The men tried to take the corpse with them when they fled the scene. They were successful in getting away, but they had to leave the body. The forensics department has it now.”

Natasha sighed. She’d been hoping for fingerprint identification. That would have been best. Forensics was a much weaker possibility. Not even the Americans boasted the glittering array of scientific hardware of the CSI television shows.

“Do you have your cell phone?” Chernovsky asked.

“No.” Natasha knew he was reminding her she could be found through the GPS technology. “I will contact you as I can.”

“From Leipzig?”

“If I’m able.”

“Be very careful, Natasha,” Chernovsky advised. “These men that killed Yuliya are professionals.”

“I know that. But I’m used to dealing with professionals. The criminals in Moscow these days are very dangerous.”

“You can understand the criminals in Moscow, though. You know what they’re willing to risk. In this case, you don’t know what the stakes are. With these men…” Chernovsky took a deep breath. “They should not have still been here today, Natasha. They should have fled Russia.”

“But they didn’t,” Natasha said. “And that will be their mistake.”

“Don’t let it be yours,” Chernovsky chided.

“I won’t.”

“Stay in touch as you can, Natasha. I’ll do what I can to help. Your sister was a good person. So are you. Take care of yourself.”

Natasha told him thank you and good-bye. She cradled the receiver.

The mother walked through the store and made a few meager selections. Natasha dug in her pockets and found a little money. She crossed over to the boy with the hungry eyes. She could remember the times she and Yuliya had done without so many things. It wasn’t until she’d been fully grown that Natasha realized all the sacrifices her older sister had made for her.

“Give this to your mother.” Natasha pressed the money into the little boy’s hands. “Do you understand?”

The boy nodded.

The mother saw Natasha talking to her son and became agitated. Sometimes children disappeared off Moscow’s streets and were never heard from again. Rumors and half truths persisted of black market organ harvesters who took children and young adults West to parcel them off to buyers.

Natasha left immediately. Showing her police identification would only have frightened the mother more. Russia was a hard and sad place to live these days.

And it was going to be even worse without Yuliya in it.

“Danilovic’s Fabulous Antiquities,” a smooth male voice answered in English, then repeated the greeting in Russian and French. “How may I be of service?”

“Josef,” Lourds greeted.

“Thomas!” Josef Danilovic’s voice slipped from professional to near ecstatic. He spoke in English because he treasured his knowledge of the language. “How are you, my old friend? It has been far too long since I’ve last seen you.”

While sorting out languages on various illuminated manuscripts coming out of Russia, Lourds had come upon several volumes that were of questionable authenticity. None of them were radically outside canon as linguists recognized it, but knowing what was real and what was artifice was often helpful.

Lourds had chanced upon Danilovic while researching some of the illuminated manuscripts in Odessa, where some of them had been acquired. As it turned out, Danilovic had actually sold three of the manuscripts Lourds was researching to American and British universities.

Over long dinners filled with much storytelling and a few lies thrown in for good measure, Danilovic and Lourds had become friends. Danilovic had also owned up to brokering the forged manuscripts. After all, he explained, an antiquity dealer’s main task in life was to make sure a buyer felt happy about his or her acquisition. Those acquisitions didn’t necessarily have to be authentic.

Danilovic was a genteel rogue. He never robbed anyone at gunpoint, though he dealt with several unsavory types who did. Only out of necessity, he was careful to point out, but Lourds also knew the man never failed to make a profit.

“I’m doing well,” Lourds said. He watched through the window as Natasha continued her phone conversation. He and Danilovic exchanged pleasantries and a few stories, then Lourds got down to business. “I’m in a bit of a situation, Josef.”

“Oh?” Danilovic was immediately attentive. “I’ve never known you to be in trouble, Thomas.”

“It’s not trouble of my own making, I assure you. But it’s trouble nonetheless.”

“If there is anything I can do to help, you have but to ask.”

“I’m presently in Moscow,” Lourds said. “And I need to get out of the country without being found out.”

There was the briefest pause. “The police are looking for you?”

“Yes. But it’s the other people looking for me that I’m more concerned about. I don’t know if they’ve given up trying to find us.”

“Give me an hour or so. Will you be all right till then? Is there anything you need?”

Lourds was touched by the little man’s concern. Over the years, they had been in and out of each others’ lives, and the friendship had been sporadic. Still, they shared a love and knowledge of history that few could equal.

“No. We’re fine,” Lourds said.

“Good. Let me have your number and I will call you when everything is ready.”

Lourds gave his number, then added, “I’m also going to e-mail you some images.”

“Of what?”

“Some things I’d like you to quietly ask around about.” After everything Danilovic was doing for them, Lourds knew he had to include his friend in the information. He was suddenly aware of how much he was being forced to trust the man, but he was also surprised by how much he was willing to do so.

“What things?”

Lourds watched as Natasha hung up the phone and left the drugstore. She checked the street and crossed back toward the apartment building. “I’ll explain when I see you. Until then, if you can find out any information about these things, I’d be grateful.”

“Take care, my friend. I look forward to seeing you.”

Lourds said good-bye and hung up the phone.

“You can just call someone up and get us out of Moscow, mate?” Gary asked incredulously.

Lourds looked at the younger man. Gary looked stunned. Leslie’s eyebrows were arched in surprise.

“I hope so,” Lourds replied. “But it remains to be seen.”

A knock sounded on the apartment door.

Lourds glanced up from the notebook computer. It was 10:23 P.M. He’d all but given up on Danilovic’s escort service.

Gary dozed in a chair with a graphic novel spread across his chest. Leslie sat beside Lourds, where she’d been nearly the whole time. She’d worked on her own notebook computer while Lourds surfed the Internet looking for the links Yuliya had mentioned in her notes.

Natasha came from the covered window that looked out over the street. Her hand slid beneath her jacket and emerged with her pistol.

Lourds’s mouth went dry as he closed down the computer.

Natasha stood with her back to the wall beside the door. She held the pistol in both hands.

“Who is it?” she asked in Russian.

“I am Plehve. Josef Danilovic sent me.”

The tension wound up inside Lourds. He felt his heart hammering. Leslie laid a hand on his arm as he got to his feet.

“Are you alone?” Natasha asked.

“I am alone,” Plehve replied.

“If you are not,” Natasha told him, “I will shoot you dead and hope to get anyone behind you.” She opened the door in one move as she leveled the pistol before her.

An old, bent man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a weathered knee-length coat and held his battered hat in his hands.

“I would really prefer not to be shot,” Plehve said in Russian.

With one hand, Natasha pulled the man into the room. He stumbled and almost fell. Natasha maneuvered him easily. She kept her pistol close in to her body so it couldn’t be easily snatched away.

“Stand,” Natasha ordered. She had switched to English. Lourds assumed that was to keep things orderly among the non-Russian-speaking Britishers.

“Of course.” The old man stood easily and almost carelessly. He gave the appearance that being hauled into rooms in the middle of the night at gunpoint was normal.

Natasha waited on the other side of Plehve. She kept his body between her pistol and the door. After a moment, when no one broke the door down, she lowered her weapon. But she didn’t put it away. She nodded.

“May I smoke?” Plehve asked.

“Of course,” Natasha said.

The old man took a pack of cigarettes from beneath his jacket and lit one. He inhaled then released the smoke and waved it away with one hand.

“You’re late,” Natasha said.

Plehve grinned. “Your people are very good at catching individuals who try to bend the law these days. The prison systems can be awfully demanding. And perhaps Josef overestimated my abilities.”

“Not about getting us out of Russia, I hope?” Natasha asked.

“I can do that,” Plehve answered.

Minutes later, Lourds trailed after the old man. Leslie followed in Lourds’s wake with Gary walking silently behind her. Natasha brought up the rear.

After arriving back on the street, they crossed to an alley. Plehve had a ten-year-old Russian-made Zil waiting in the shadows. With a flourish, he opened the door for Leslie and Lourds.

Natasha rejected the offer of sitting in the back. She rounded the Zil and got in on the passenger side. Only then did Lourds realize the interior light hadn’t come on. Plehve was obviously a careful man.

After everyone was safely inside, Plehve slid behind the wheel and they got under way. Only when they were moving did Lourds release the tense breath he’d been holding.

No one spoke until Plehve drove them from the Moscow city limits. The old man kept his one hand on the wheel the whole time, but the other was kept busy chain-smoking. Evidently Plehve wasn’t so confident that he could accomplish the transfer as he tried to act.

He also told them the drive would take almost twenty hours if they drove straight through and didn’t stop for anything but fuel and bathroom breaks. Lourds was surprised to discover how tired he was. But part of it was in reaction to having nothing to do.

For a while, he slept.

“Why do you think my sister contacted the Planck Institute?” Natasha asked. Her eyes burned. She hadn’t rested well since Yuliya’s murder. She watched Lourds closely. Only a few minutes earlier, the man had roused from sleep.

“Yuliya believed the cymbal was probably carried up into Russia, then called Rus, by the Khazars.”

“Who are they?”

“Historians disagree on the actual beginnings of the Khazar people,” Lourds said. “Some experts link them with the lost tribes of Israel who scattered after the destruction of Israel. The general thinking that’s readily accepted today is that the Khazars were Turks. I know a bit about them because I’ve written a few monographs on the Oghuric tongue.”

Natasha didn’t say anything. She knew Yuliya had highly regarded Lourds. But Natasha also knew that she wasn’t educated enough about such matters to know if Lourds was telling the truth or fabricating the story on the spot. So she watched him for signs that he was lying. That was a skill she was quite good at.

“They were part of the Hun culture,” Lourds went on. “They formed clans and traveled the world in search of trade. Even the name has roots in that endeavor. The term Khazar is linked to the Turkish verb gezer, which translates almost literally for ‘wandering.’ They were simply wanderers.”

“My sister was an archeologist.” Natasha heard the hesitation in her voice when she spoke of Yuliya in the past tense. “She knew about history. How can you know so much?”

Lourds sipped from his water bottle. “Linguistics and archeology overlap to a degree. How much they overlap depends on how deeply the linguist or the archeologist pursues their knowledge. Yuliya and I pursued it doggedly. We learned constantly. Every day was school.”

Natasha silently agreed with that. There was never a time that she could remember her sister not having a thick book on some dusty subject near to hand.

“You’re certain the Khazars didn’t make the bell?” Natasha asked.

“Fairly certain. Yuliya felt the same way. She believed the Khazars got it from the Yoruba people.”

“Where do they live?”

“West Africa.”

“West Africa is a big place.”

“I know. That’s why we’re going to the Max Planck Institute. She had asked to see several of their papers.”

That surprised Natasha. “Yuliya was planning to go to Leipzig?”

“That’s what she said in her notes. If possible, she wanted me to accompany her to translate.”

“Why Leipzig? Wouldn’t it be simpler to go to West Africa?”

“The documents Yuliya wanted to see are no longer in West Africa. They’re being kept in Leipzig. The Max Planck Institute continues to do a lot of research and study into the history of slavery and lost African cultures.”

“Don’t they have museums in West Africa? Other places to keep dry, dusty documents?”

Lourds smiled. “Of course they do.” He took another sip of his drink. “But they don’t have the option of storing all of their history there. Many of the physical artifacts that tell such history are gone.”

From the way his eyes narrowed and he took time to scratch his beard, Natasha knew the professor was taking a moment to assemble his thoughts. Reflecting on him now, she realized that he truly was a striking-looking man. She doubted that her sister cared for Lourds only because of his mind, however fascinating that might be. Of course, Yuliya’s faithfulness to her husband was beyond doubt.

“When cultures get destroyed and subjugated the way the West African peoples’ were,” Lourds said, “their history becomes scattered, lost, and sometimes rewritten. The museums in West Africa — in Benin, Nigeria, Senegal, and the other twelve countries recognized in that region — hold only a small fraction of the material that once existed.”

“The rest was destroyed?”

“Destroyed and lost. Sold and stolen. But mostly lost. The knowledge isn’t all gone. A lot of the peoples in the region keep their culture alive orally. Tales they tell that have been handed down through generations of people. Many of those, sad to say, are gone forever. But bits and pieces of the cultural tradition of the region were bought by collectors. Much is in the hands of private collectors and museums all over the world. You never know where a piece of it might turn up. Like that cymbal.”

“You haven’t said why Yuliya believed the Khazars brought the cymbal north into Russia,” Natasha pointed out.

Lourds took out his computer and opened it. He tapped the keys in quick syncopation. Immediately afterwards, a picture of old-looking coins opened up on the screen.

“What are those?” Natasha found herself growing more interested.

“Those,” Lourds said, “were found at the same time the cymbal was. They were taken from the same site excavation. Stratigraphical comparisons indicated that they were left there at the same time.”

“ ‘Left’?”

“That was Yuliya’s guess. According to the site notes left by the archeological team that uncovered the artifacts, the cymbal and coins were found together.”

“Why would they be left behind?”

“I can only hazard a guess, but I agree with what Yuliya surmised. Whoever left the cymbal and the yarmaqs was attempting to cache them so they wouldn’t be taken.”

Natasha turned that over in her mind. The possibility that the cymbal had been sought hundreds of years ago intrigued her. Just as it was being sought now. Who would know about something that had been lost for so long? Who would remember it over the vast amounts of time since it had been cached, and would chase it now?

“These coins are what convinced Yuliya that the Khazars carried the cymbal north into Rus,” Lourds went on. “The coins are called yarmaqs. The Khazars minted them. They were so uniform and pure that they were used in trade throughout Rus, Europe, and China.”

Natasha peered at the coins in the digital image. A man lying on a litter showed on one side of the coin. Yuliya had also captured images of the obverse. That showed a structure that looked like a temple or perhaps a meeting hall.

“So we’re going to Leipzig to find out why the Khazars were carrying the cymbal into Rus?” Leslie asked. She’d evidently awakened some time during the discussion.

“Not exactly,” Lourds answered. “We’re going to Leipzig to search for documentation about the cymbal. Since the language on the cymbal, part of it at least, contains Yoruban writing, I hope that we can find some clue of where the cymbal came from. Discovering how and why the Khazars came by it would be a bonus.”