The Atlantis Code

CHAPTER 11

Tension gnawed at Cardinal Murani’s stomach and flayed his nerves as he sat outside the pope’s study. The chair was comfortable despite the ornamentation. He occasionally flipped pages in a book on Eastern European history, but he didn’t read. His mind was too jumbled for that.

He glanced at his watch and found it was 8:13 A.M. The time was only three minutes after he’d looked at it previously. He reached to turn a page and found that his hand trembled slightly. The tremor seized his attention. He studied it with bright interest.

Fear? he wondered. Or anticipation? He didn’t know why the pope had called this meeting.

He flexed his fist and willed it to be still. It became so. He smiled at his control over himself. In the end, that was all that really mattered.

The door to the pope’s study opened. A young priest stepped from within and looked at Murani.

“Cardinal Murani?” the young priest asked.

At first Murani thought the priest was being impudent by having to ask his name. After all, he was known throughout the Vatican.

Then Murani realized he didn’t know the man. Of course, that was acceptable. Murani didn’t trouble himself to learn the names of priests unless they aided him or offended him.

“Yes,” Murani answered.

The young priest nodded and waved toward the study. “His Holiness will see you now.”

Murani placed the book back into the leather bag he carried. Then he stood. “Of course he will,” he said. But he wished he felt more confident.

“Good morning, Cardinal Murani.” Pope Innocent XIV waved a hand at one of the plush chairs before his huge desk. The polished surface reflected the opulence of the room. “I trust I didn’t keep you waiting overly long.”

“Of course not, Your Holiness.” Murani knew no other answer was permitted. He approached the pope.

Pope Innocent XIV looked good for a man in his early seventies. His spare frame held no extra flesh, and his blue eyes gazed clearly. He had a hawk’s beak for a face, pulled out behind his large, long nose. Years of poring over arcane texts had left his head slightly sunken between his shoulder blades. The overall effect was that of a predatory bird. His white robes resembled a dove’s plumage, but Murani knew that image was misleading. There wasn’t anything gentle about the pope.

Before he had been elected to the papacy by the Sacred College of Cardinals, Wilhelm Weierstrass had been a librarian within that body. Prior to that he had been a bishop with an undistinguished career.

And, Murani felt certain, his years as pope were going to be equally undistinguished. He would change nothing, lead nothing, and — in the end — accomplish nothing toward reaffirming the Church’s place in the world. Murani hadn’t voted for the man.

“I’ve been told you’re feeling better,” the pope said.

“I am, Your Holiness.” Murani briefly knelt and kissed the Fisherman’s Ring on the pope’s finger before sitting. Gazing around the room, Murani took note of the two Pontifical Swiss Guardsmen inside the room. They stood at attention on either side of the pope.

The Pontifical Swiss Guard had been created in 1506 by Pope Julius II, but Pope Sixtus IV and Innocent VIII had provided the groundwork for recruiting the mercenaries for protection. To date, the Pontifical Swiss Guard was the only such unit still in existence. They’d begun as an offshoot of the regular Swiss mercenary army that had placed soldiers throughout Europe.

Although the Swiss Guard still wore their traditional red, blue, yellow, and orange uniforms during special occasions, most often they were dressed as they were now in solid blue uniforms, a white collar, brown belt, and black beret. The ones in the pope’s chambers also carried SIG P75 semiautomatic pistols. The sergeant carried a Heckler & Koch submachine pistol. The weapons had been integrated into the bodyguards’ armament after Pope John Paul II had nearly been assassinated.

Murani placed his elbows on the chair arms and rested his fingers under his chin. He didn’t feel comfortable in the pope’s chambers, but he strove to give the appearance of being so.

“You’ve been sick for a few days,” the pope said.

Murani nodded.

“I was wondering if perhaps you might think it was time to seek a physician’s attention.”

For a moment Murani sat puzzled. Then he realized that Innocent XIV was actually pointing out the fact that throughout his continued “illness” he hadn’t once been to a doctor.

It was an oversight. Murani promised himself that he would be more careful in the future. “I think it was just a bout of the flu, Your Holiness. It was nothing to trouble a physician with.”

The pope nodded. “Still, this… flu has claimed a number of days from your work.”

Heavy and oppressive silence rang throughout the room. Murani knew that the pope didn’t believe him. “Yes, Your Holiness. Thankfully, I have many more years to give in my service to God.”

“It also comes to my attention that you’ve taken an inordinate interest in Father Sebastian’s work in Spain.”

“The world seems to have taken an inordinate interest in Father Sebastian’s effort,” Murani countered. “The dig at Cádiz seems to have captured the attention of everyone.”

“That is, perhaps, unfortunate. I feel the world would be better served if it turned its attention to other pursuits.”

Murani knew that the pope wasn’t overly concerned with the attention of the world. It was Murani’s attention that the pope was addressing.

“Surely only another two or three days will pass before an incident in the Middle East, the economy, or the death of a celebrity will seize their attention,” Murani said.

“I wouldn’t wish for any of those things to happen,” the pope said.

Anger stirred within Murani, and he barely restrained it. No, he thought fiercely, you wouldn’t have anything happen if that was under your control. You would simply fill the office of the pope and churn out more of the emptiness the Church has suffered for the last several popes.

He made himself breathe calmly, but his rage was a rock in his chest that threatened to break free. Innocent XIV was merely one more cancer that thrived on the Church and leeched away her strength.

“I know you have a great many things to do, Cardinal Murani.” The pope flicked his gaze to the appointment book on the desk before him. “You and I haven’t had a chance to talk for some time. I thought it was best if we became reacquainted.”

“Of course, Your Holiness.” Murani knew he was being put on notice. The pope was watching. The message — as well as the implicit threat — was clear.

“You’ve been remiss in your duties, Stefano.”

Murani looked at the older man seated across from him at the small, elegant table. Murani snapped a breadstick and kept silent.

Cardinal Giuseppe Rezzonico was in his early sixties. His white hair was carefully combed, and he was attractive enough to draw the attention of several women at nearby tables. Tall and thick through the middle these days, he still radiated power. He had come to service in the Church at a late age but had risen quickly among the scholars till he achieved a position within the Sacred College of Cardinals. Like Murani, he wore a dark blue business suit.

Staring at the man, Murani shook his head. “And what duties would those be?”

“The duties of your office, Stefano,” Rezzonico replied. “Calling in. Canceling the appointments you were assigned on behalf of the Church. Those things are red flags to our present pope.”

“Your pope,” Murani said sourly.

Rezzonico frowned. “Everyone is aware that you didn’t vote for His Holiness.”

“No, I didn’t.” Murani placed his breadstick aside.

“I’m quite sure the pope knows that, too.”

“Do you think he’s being vindictive, then?”

“No.” Rezzonico shook his head. “His Holiness wouldn’t succumb to that.”

“So you’ve already placed him next to Godliness, have you?” Murani found that interesting. Rezzonico normally didn’t get taken in quite so easily. “He’s still just a man, you know. Despite the office and vestments.”

Rezzonico’s frown deepened. “That’s sacrilege.”

“It’s the truth.” Murani wouldn’t let it go. He’d had to stand and be embarrassed before Innocent XIV this morning; he wasn’t going to allow himself to be bribed with a good meal and a kind word. “He’s shortsighted and you know it. He continues to entertain talks with the Jews and the Muslims.”

“Of course he does,” Rezzonico said reasonably. “The things that happen in those places affect the rest of the world. The economies are tied too closely today for it to be otherwise.”

“Would you listen to yourself?” Murani shook his head. “The economies? That’s what the Church is about these days? The economies?”

The older man leaned back and regrouped. “You swore an allegiance to the pope.”

“I swore an allegiance to God,” Murani said harshly. The anger and frustration were loose in him now. He was unable to stop himself. “That supersedes any oaths of fealty I might make to anyone else.”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground.”

A young female server brought out salads and more wine. They ceased talking till after she’d gone.

“We’re all treading on dangerous ground these days.” Murani had himself under better control.

Rezzonico’s eyebrows shot up. “Because of Father Sebastian’s excavation?” He shook his head. “We don’t yet know that anything will come of that.”

“And if something does? If Father Sebastian does find something? Even if it’s not the book, what if it’s something else that points to the Secret Texts?”

“Then we will deal with it.”

Murani scoffed. “Dealing with something after it’s happened is worthless.”

Rezzonico shot up. “Stefano, please listen to me. I’m your friend. Everything is under control.”

Murani refused to believe that. “Everything is not under control.” He wanted to tell Rezzonico about the bell and the cymbal, and what he thought they might be. But he couldn’t. Rezzonico was part of the Society of Quirinus, and Murani didn’t trust them not to take everything away from him. That was something he couldn’t bear.

For a moment Rezzonico just looked at him. “We control the Swiss Guard. They’ve got members at the dig site. Should Father Sebastian find something—anything—they have orders to step in and seize it.”

Murani knew that. He’d helped arrange that negotiation. Thankfully, after all their years of service, many of the leaders within the Swiss Guard maintained the same core beliefs as the Society of Quirinus. For both those bodies, the preservation of the Church was of the utmost importance. Lives would be taken and lies would be told to get that job done.

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.

“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.”

“Certainly. These are very paranoid times.” Danilovic provided a good description.

“Thank you, Josef. I hope to see you soon.” Lourds ended the call.

“Is this him?” Natasha asked.

“Yes. Josef described him. Including what he was wearing.”

Viktor grinned again. “Of course, I could have an associate who’s holding a gun to your friend’s head. I mean, if you want to follow your paranoid tendencies. But if you do, I doubt you’ll ever leave this marketplace.”

Lourds gathered his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. “Let’s go.”

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, old friend,” Lourds congratulated. He referred to the table laden with food that sat in the large dining room of Danilovic’s home. Lourds had been there on several occasions as a guest and was used to the opulence with which Danilovic furnished his home.

An ornate dining room table and chairs that could have graced a royal’s home occupied the center of the room. The walls were covered with paintings while vases and other collectibles filled in the gaps.

Danilovic waved the compliment away. He was a small fastidious man with a thin mustache. He wore his expensive suit with confidence and pride.

“I figured if I were going to affect an escape from Moscow for you, then it should be one of great style, yes?” Danilovic’s wide smile revealed a gap between his teeth. He held his forefinger and thumb a small distance apart. “And, perhaps, with just a hint of danger.”

“I’ll take a pass on the danger if you don’t mind,” Lourds said ruefully. “In my opinion, we’ve had quite enough of it for the last few days.”

The table even had name cards to designate the seating arrangement. Lourds and Danilovic occupied the ends. With no real surprise, Lourds noted that Danilovic positioned the two women at his end of the table.

White-bloused servers poured wine; then the chef came out to announce the menu. Despite the tension on the faces of everyone at the table, Lourds saw that all of them listened to the chef raptly.

“I thought perhaps a French cuisine might be in order,” the chef said. “We will begin with a nice salad, boeuf bourguignon, a nice beef stewed in red wine, escargots de bourgogne, with parsley butter, fondue bourguignonne, gougère, and pochouse, which is one of my specialties.” He clicked his heels and returned to the kitchen.

“I don’t know what he said,” Gary told them, “but it sounded great.”

“Auguste is an excellent chef,” Danilovic replied. “I borrowed him from one of the restaurants for the evening.”

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Lourds protested.

“I know,” Danilovic said. “For you, you would have been satisfied with a sandwich and a beer. But for the ladies—” He glanced at Natasha and Leslie. “—them I was most eager to impress.”

“I’m duly impressed,” Leslie said.

“Thank you, my dear.” Danilovic picked up her hand and kissed it.

You old ham, Lourds thought, even as he couldn’t help but smile at his friend’s antics. Danilovic was one of the most social men Lourds knew. He enjoyed putting on a show and being at the center of it.

Dinner followed in short order. A zesty, crisp salad followed by the beef soup, then escargots baked in their shells. Gary balked at the snails and wouldn’t eat them. Lourds thought the parsley butter was the best he’d ever had and sent word back to the chef.

The fondue had pieces of beef that rounded out the flavor and made it even more tasty. The gougère were cheese balls rolled in choux pastry. But the crowning achievement was the pochouse, fish stewed in red wine.

Desert was a strawberry-and-mascarpone-cream tart that melted in the mouth.

Later, they gathered in Danilovic’s den in front of a fire that staved off the outside chill of the night. Lourds and Danilovic fired up cigars, and both were surprised when Natasha agreed to smoke one as well. They drank brandy from large glasses.

“You don’t know these men who are pursuing you?” Danilovic asked.

Lourds shook his head. “I think I recognized some of them from Alexandria.”

“So you think they are on the same trail as you?”

“It’s the only answer.” Lourds had settled into a deep easy chair that he found entirely too comfortable. “There’s no reason for them to be interested in me.”

Danilovic leaned forward and patted Lourds on the knee. “I’ve always found you interesting, my dear professor.”

“You’re drunk,” Lourds accused.

“Perhaps a little.” Danilovic looked at Leslie. “But perhaps it was not you, my friend. Perhaps it was our television star.”

“I’m no star,” Leslie said. “And I don’t know anything about history or language or artifacts.”

“You know that they all go together,” Danilovic said. “Most people don’t know that.” He tapped ash into an ashtray as he gazed at her speculatively. “Yet you found the bell in Alexandria.”

“That was quite by accident.”

Danilovic shrugged. “I tend to be a man of faith, dear lady, though I am in a profession that some might feel descried that. These other men, the ones who pursue you, were already looking for this bell — or at least something similar — otherwise, they wouldn’t have come for it.”

“We can figure out who is chasing you,” Natasha stated quietly. “By identifying them, by knowing more about why they want the instruments, we know more about the instruments themselves.”

Danilovic smiled beatifically. “Yes. You see, my friend, whenever I sell a piece that has come into my possession, I have to know who I’m getting it from, who I’m selling it to, and enough about the item to know what makes it valuable to both. Why are you so interested in these items?”

“Because of the language,” Lourds answered immediately.

“That’s your value, but few people would be interested in a dead language that might take years to unravel.”

“I don’t think it will take that long,” Lourds said. “If I can figure out what the instruments pertain to, I should be able to make an educated guess and back that up with facts.”

Danilovic patted Lourds on the shoulder. “I’m sure that you will. However, the materials those instruments are made of are basically worthless. Not gold or silver. Not encrusted with gems. Plain things. With secrets written on them.”

“But the people who swiped those instruments already know what’s written on them,” Gary said. He leaned forward excitedly. “At least, they know whatever’s supposed to be written on them. Like a treasure map or something.”

Lourds considered that. “The people who took the instruments know what they’re looking for. They just don’t have what’s written on the instruments.”

“So where did their knowledge come from?” Leslie asked.

“That’s one of the questions you should be asking,” Danilovic said. “By asking that, you’ve already narrowed the field of who might be chasing you.”

“And why are they still after us?” Gary asked.

“For two reasons,” Natasha announced quietly. “One is that they’re afraid Professor Lourds will crack the language and possibly expose the secrets they’re protecting. And the other is that Professor Lourds has been, by luck or by design, in touch with two of the instruments they’re searching for.”

“We’re going to have to be off to Leipzig as quickly as we can, old friend,” Lourds said to Danilovic.

“And quit my hospitality so soon?” Danilovic looked surprised.

“If it were for any other reason—”

Danilovic held up a hand and smiled. “I take no slight. I understand your pressing need. The matter has already been arranged. Viktor will take you to a ship in the morning that I’ve secured passage on for you.”

“Thank you,” Lourds said.

“For tonight, we should enjoy what’s left of this fine brandy and talk of old times.”