The Atlantis Code

CHAPTER 13

Are you familiar with the work the Social Anthropology Institute does, Professor Lourds?” Joachim Fleinhardt turned out to be an interesting man. From their phone conversations, brief and to the point, Lourds had expected the man to be a pasty and portly chap who spent far too much time in the lab.

As it turned out, Fleinhardt was six feet six inches tall at least, a stunning example of hybrid vigor. He said that his German father had married a black American officer. The genetics of the match were clearly superior. Fleinhardt’s position here at the institute and his reputation indicated that he was as bright as they came. His skin was beautiful, dark and smooth, and he was lean and handsome. He moved like a professional athlete. That was intimidating enough.

He was also impeccably dressed, which made Lourds feel awkward in his jeans shorts and loose shirt unbuttoned over a soccer T-shirt. Lourds had dressed weather appropriate but not scholastically appropriate.

“No, I’m not as familiar as I should be, I have to admit,” Lourds said.

Fleinhardt strode through the pristine hallways of the institute with authority. Other people quickly gave way before him.

“My group deals with integration and conflict,” the professor said.

“The study of tribal wars?”

“And of the slave trade. You don’t get one without the other, I’m afraid. Africa, especially North Africa after the Europeans arrived and introduced new markets that the Yoruba people and others had never thought of, changed the face of those tribes.”

“Trade often does that, for better and worse.”

“We research and document integration and conflict because we feel those elements most designate identity and difference between cultures.”

“Because of their views on kinship, friendship, language, and history.”

“Exactly.” Fleinhardt smiled in a pleased manner. “A culture’s need for rituals and beliefs give us many clues as to who they were and who they came in contact with.”

“Not only that,” Lourds said, “but it helps build a time line.”

Fleinhardt nodded. “I’m impressed. You’ve been keeping up. Most people these days don’t favor interdisciplinary training or pursuits.”

“Actually, the project caught my eye. Besides that, linguists, archeologists, and historians tend to feed at the same troughs. It’s far too difficult these days to keep up with everything going on in science. But I try to supplement as much as I can.”

“I know.” Fleinhardt frowned ruefully. “We’re losing our core knowledge, I’m afraid. The basic language scientists use to speak to each other. But then language is your field, isn’t it?”

“Yes. The core-knowledge problem is one every expanding civilization eventually faces,” Lourds said. “Even two and three thousand years ago, technology advanced more rapidly than people could share it. The advent of libraries, places where knowledge could be kept and shared, helped somewhat, but until Gutenberg came along with his printing press, sharing and distribution remained a problem.”

“Sharing and distribution are still a problem. If it weren’t for this job and the budget that comes with it, I wouldn’t be able to afford most of the technical manuals and resource books I keep on hand.”

“I understand the problem. Even the Internet, with all its pirate peer-to-peer sharing capabilities, can’t keep up. My budget never quite covers everything I want to read. I end up with huge out-of-pocket expenses every year.”

Fleinhardt laughed. “That’s the common complaint of every working scholar who’s serious about his craft.”

The room holding the Yoruba records and artifacts was smaller than Lourds had expected. Some of his disappointment must have shown on his face.

“Not everything is kept here,” Fleinhardt explained as he booted up a computer. “Even as large as the institute is, we simply don’t have enough space. Many of the documents we’ve recovered or at least made physical copies of have been translated to digital images. Our database is quite extensive.”

Lourds placed his backpack on the floor and took the seat Fleinhardt indicated.

“I took the liberty of securing the files Professor Hapaev had inquired about.” Fleinhardt tapped keys. “Is that what you’re here to see?”

“To begin with, yes. I don’t know how far my search will take me.”

“Well, if the research you’re doing here benefits your efforts for this television show, I hope you see fit to mention us. The institute can always use donations.”

Lourds said he would keep that in mind, but he was already on the prowl for information. He crawled into Yoruba mentally and got to know that country, its history, and its people. In only few moments, he was thoroughly fascinated.

“Welcome, Father. Please come in.”

Murani ignored the slight, even though he was so much more than a simple priest. He knew the speaker hadn’t intended to ignore his position. These days the old woman couldn’t remember much or keep things straight.

“Thank you, Sister.” Murani allowed her to take his coat. He wore traditional black today. His rosary hung around his neck.

“The others are in the back, Father.” The old woman hung his coat on a hanger.

Murani walked through the spacious, elegant home. Not all the members of the Society of Quirinus had remained with the Church. The society needed some autonomy and didn’t exist solely under the prying eyes of the papacy. Also, some of the members weren’t Church officials. Sometimes the money had to come from somewhere else. Deals had been struck with believers.

Once through the narrow hallways filled with paintings and sculptures that delineated much of Rome’s and the Church’s history, Murani found Lorenzo Occhetto holding court in his large study. The double doors were open.

Occhetto was a wizened man with a bald liver-spotted head. He looked like an animated cadaver, but his yellowed eyes never missed a trick. In his day, Occhetto had been a fireball for the Church, and had stood against every loss of power and prestige the Church suffered.

In addition to his host, three men occupied the room. All of them sat listening to Occhetto. A large wide-screen monitor built into the wall showed real-time footage of the excavation in Cádiz. There was no doubt about the topic of conversation.

“Ah, Cardinal Murani. It’s good to see you.” Occhetto’s voice was raspy, but it carried a sense of power. “I’m glad you could visit.”

In the end, there had been no choice. When Occhetto sent for someone, that someone had to go.

Murani shook hands.

“We have no reason to talk here. I want to walk with you a bit while I am still able.” Occhetto rose slowly from his desk.

“Over the years,” Occhetto said as he stepped into the private elevator that led to the underground section of the home, “we’ve shown you many secrets.”

The elevator was hidden behind a wall and a grandfather clock that swung inward when the latches were released. Murani entered the elevator and closed the doors.

Occhetto pressed the button and the light dimmed. After a moment, the cage jerked into a slow descent. “But we haven’t shown you every secret.”

That incensed Murani. When he’d been accepted into the Society of Quirinus, he expected to be told the whole truth.

“What haven’t you told me?” He knew the demand in his voice might cause problems, but the question was out of him before he could stop it.

Occhetto waved the question away. “We’ve told you everything, Stefano. We’ve just not shown you everything.”

The elevator bucked to a stop. Murani shoved the doors open and they walked out into large room cut from the limestone under the city.

The rooms under Occhetto’s home had been used for smuggling operations. The Occhetto family had been deeply religious, though, and had been forgiven on a regular basis. Of course, their ill-gotten gain was properly tithed so their souls would be cared for.

“What I’m about to show you is the prize of my collection.” Occhetto slowly made his way across the cavernous space and stopped at one of the rooms. There were several. Murani hadn’t even been to half of them. “Only a few members in the Society of Quirinus know that I have this.” Occhetto took a ring of keys from his pocket and fitted one to the lock.

The mechanism opened with a faint, smooth snick, proving that it was often used.

Occhetto took a candle from a shelf on the wall and lit it with a match from a box beside them. The candle flame guttered for a moment, then burned strongly. He placed it in a lamp.

The first thing that caught Murani’s attention was the Madonna in the niche carved into the opposite wall. It was almost three feet high. Mary, the Mother of God, stood with her hands out to her sides in silent supplication.

Then Murani noticed the large table in the center of the room. The candle was barely bright enough to lift enough of the shadows to reveal strange glass shapes.

Mesmerized by the sight, matching the shapes up to a pattern he still didn’t quite recognize, Murani went forward.

“Wait,” Occhetto said. “You’ll need a candle.”

Murani took one and lit it from the one in the lantern Occhetto held in a shaking hand.

“Do you see the glass reservoir on the side nearest you?” Occhetto asked.

Murani looked and said that he did.

“There’s a wick in that. Light it and step back.”

At the table, Murani dipped the candle to light the wick suspended in oil. As it turned out, the wick was strung throughout the glass model.

As Murani watched, the flame caught slowly but made its way throughout the tubing that ran through the structure. The glass amplified the light as it spread. Within minutes a miniature city stood ablaze in the darkness.

Atlantis!

Stunned by the beauty that lay before him, Murani advanced cautiously. Hot wax dripped down his hand, but he barely noticed it.

Pale green crenulated towers rose up from the darker green and amber of the glass houses and buildings at the base of the model. Yellow lamps lit narrow streets that wound through the city in concentric circles. That alone marked the city as Atlantis. Beyond the city, more glass formed the surrounding sea, but this glass burned lambent blue.

The color came from the tint of the blown glass. Each piece had been carefully made and put together.

Hesitantly, Murani lifted the candle and blew it out. The gentle light of Atlantis continued to burn.

“This was made from one of the illustrations of the city,” Murani said. The illustration had lived in his head since the time it was shown to him.

“Yes.”

“Who did the work?”

“A priest who wasn’t quite faithful in his vows,” Occhetto answered. “His name was Sandro D’Alema. He was a third son, so his father gave him to the Church. He would have been better off with a painter or sculptor, but his journals say his father was afraid he would starve. Instead, he slipped away from the Church for weeks and months at a time and studied art.”

“How did he come to make this?” Murani said. “Being uncommitted as he was in his faith, no one would have told him of the Secret Texts or Atlantis.”

“One of the cardinals wanted the drawing rendered, so he conscripted D’Alema. But he didn’t tell him what it was.”

Murani stared at the city.

“The reason I’m showing you this,” Occhetto said, “is to remind you how powerful and beautiful this city was, and how — at the end — it was so fragile. The power that was used there—”

“The Fruit of the Tree,” Murani murmured.

“Yes. But not the apple that so many painters depicted in Eve’s hand as she offered temptation to Adam. It was a book. The true Word of God as it was written down in the Garden of Eden.”

“The Word was Holy and Unknowable.” Murani repeated the story by litany from what knowledge he’d been given upon his acceptance into the Society of Quirinus. “But they tried anyway.”

“It was temptation,” Occhetto said. “So much power.” He held out a withered claw of a hand. “Right there for the taking.”

Murani said nothing, but his thoughts were filled with the possibilities of what he could do with such a power. With effort, he tore his eyes from the fiery city burning in the shadows.

“I’m telling you this so that you remember,” Occhetto went on. “Those people in that city lost the world. A far better world than we’ll ever have. And the few who survived had to make their own path through the wreckage of what was left of their civilization and back to God. Not all of them did.” He paused. “Not all of us will.”

As he held the older man’s gaze, Murani wondered how much Occhetto knew or guessed about what he was doing. The others didn’t know about the instruments. Only he had discovered that. The truth had been before them, written into the pages and drawn in the paintings of Atlantis, but no one had seen it.

If he hadn’t constantly been watching archeological sites and digging through information, he would have missed it as well.

Occhetto walked over to the glass city and leaned down. He blew on another reservoir. The flame guttered and went out.

As Murani watched, he saw how cunningly the city had been wrought. As each tiny fire died, it pulled air from the next section and created a vacuum that sucked away the flames.

In moments, the room was once more swathed in darkness.

“Let their lesson be your lesson,” Occhetto said. “Don’t covet that which should not be yours.”

“Of course,” Murani lied. The problem with the other cardinals was that they were afraid to use power. He wasn’t. whatever it took to pull the world back into order, he would do.

Less than an hour later, Murani still couldn’t get the image of the flaming city out of his mind. Ever since he’d learned of Atlantis and how closely it was tied to the Church, he’d been fascinated by the idea of it. Finding out about the Secret Texts and the Holy Word that was written there in that Book had made his fascination even stronger.

He sat in one of the back pews of Basilica di San Clemente, one of his favorite churches, and prayed for God to give him the strength to be patient.

The pew shifted slightly as someone sat beside him.

Murani opened his eyes and glanced to his right to find Gallardo sitting there. The man was punctual.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Gallardo apologized. “But I didn’t want to stand around waiting.”

Murani nodded. “That’s fine.” He took a last look around the church and stood. “We can go.”

“Lourds is in Germany,” Gallardo said as they walked along Via San Giovanni. The street was busy with shoppers, tourists and locals.

“Do you know where?” Murani walked with his hands behind his back. His cardinal’s robes drew attention, but people quickly glanced away when he threatened eye contact.

“Leipzig. At the Radisson.”

“I don’t want Lourds getting too far ahead of you.”

“He won’t,” Gallardo said. “As long as he has the Englishwoman with him, Lourds can’t get too far away.” He paused as they walked by a young mother pushing a baby carriage. “In the meantime, maybe it’s not a bad idea to let Lourds have some rope.”

Murani shook his head. “The man is dangerous. If he’s able to translate the writing…”

“You told me no one could, except you.”

That hadn’t been quite the truth. Murani had managed to decipher some of the notes about the instrument, but not much. If there hadn’t been accompanying illustrations, he wouldn’t have figured out as much as he had. But he’d come closer to reading the old language than anyone he knew.

“Lourds is highly skilled,” Murani said.

They walked in silence for a short time, gradually wandering in a square back toward the parking garage that held Murani’s car.

“Lourds is on to something,” Gallardo announced.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know what to look for when it comes to watching people. He thinks he’s on to something. That’s why he’s in Leipzig. Otherwise he would have run for home after I caught up with him in Moscow.”

“What’s there that he would be interested in?”

“I don’t know yet. If everything is quiet in Germany, I’m going to get over there in a day or so.”

“He may be gone by then.”

“If he is, we’ll find him. In the meantime, I want to hire people to break into his home back in Boston.”

“Why?”

“To get to know him better. I often have clients’ homes burglarized to check on things. Usually to find out if they have enough money to pay me. If they don’t have a good alarm system, the answer is generally no. But it would be worth checking Lourds’s home to find out if he does information dumps while he’s out of town.”

“Information dumps?”

“Sure. A guy out on the road with a computer might download his files to the hard drive at home. Or at an off-site place. If I have someone raid his home and copy his hard drive, we’ll find out what he’s seen fit to send home. Maybe we’ll discover what he knows.”

Murani hadn’t thought about that. “Do it.”

Murani returned to the parking garage where he left his car. Gallardo accompanied him. In the night’s darkness, Murani was glad the big man was there.

“As soon as you know anything about Leipzig or Lourds’s residence, let me know,” Murani said.

“I will.” Gallardo stood at the front of the car.

Just as Murani was about to get in, he spotted a familiar face in the shadows beyond the reach of the parking area’s security lights. A chill of dread spilled through him.

The pope had sent a man to spy on him.

For a moment Murani couldn’t remember the man’s name. He thought it was Antonio or Luigi. Something as predictable as that.

“What’s wrong?” Gallardo asked.

“I made a mistake,” Murani replied in a low voice. “I was followed. Or I was spotted.”

“Someone is here?”

“Yes. Across the building. Up against the back wall.” Murani was afraid that Gallardo was going to turn, but he didn’t.

“Will anyone at the Church know who I am?”

“I don’t know. But if the story comes out later about what happened in Moscow, I could be asked a lot of questions.”

Gallardo reached an instant decision. His face turned hard. “Okay, we don’t want that. Give me the keys.”

Murani’s stomach flip-flopped. Even if the junior priest ran to the pope and the pope didn’t worry about the meeting any further, the Society of Quirinus might. They protected their secrets zealously, and if they saw him as a risk, they would cut him off from the information. He couldn’t have that.

He dropped the keys into Gallardo’s palm.

“Now get into the car,” Gallardo ordered while he electronically unlocked the vehicle. “On the passenger side.”

Murani went around the car and got in.

After starting the car, Gallardo put the transmission into drive and reached under his jacket for the pistol he carried there. As he pulled out into the lane, he slid the pistol under his thigh.

“What are you going to do?” Murani asked.

“I’m going to take care of your problem.” Gallardo watched the young priest take flight and pressed down harder on the accelerator.

The priest ran, obviously in fear for his life. His robes flew around him as he ran out the exit.

Gallardo zoomed after him, tires squealing as he cut sharply to the right to follow his fleeing prey along the sidewalk.

The prey was in full panic mode. He ran for all he was worth.

Gallardo sped up. He passed the fleeing priest and cut him off. Pedestrians backed away.

The priest was trapped. His face, features taut from fear, was only inches from the other side of Murani’s window. For a moment, the cardinal faced his subordinate. Then the priest pushed away and ran down the alley.

Gallardo shoved the transmission into reverse briefly, backed up, and pulled the shift lever to drive again. The tires clawed for traction. The car shot forward and careened against a stack of trash cans.

Before he could ask what Gallardo planned, Murani knew. Gallardo’s foot hit the accelerator harder. The vehicle gained speed and overtook the priest. When the car caught up to the priest, the bumper struck him behind the legs and knocked him from his feet.

The priest disappeared beneath the car. His body turned into a series of speed bumps as the airbags deployed. The impact hit Murani in the chest with bruising force and knocked him backwards. Chemical smoke and the stench of gunpowder from the explosive charge that detonated with the airbag deployment filled the air.

Haunted by the crunching sound the tires had made as they’d plowed over the priest, knowing he’d never forget it, Murani turned in his seat and stared out at the broken body of the man where he lay still and silent on the granite block surface of the alley.

Gallardo braked the car, shoved the transmission into reverse, and backed over the priest. He stopped, burst the airbag with a knife, and got out with the pistol in his fist.

Murani had to slide across on the driver’s side to get out. His knees wobbled as he followed Gallardo.

Miraculously, the priest was still alive. The side of his head was mashed in from the contact with the ground, and one eye was missing. Blood was everywhere. He struggled to lift his head and fought for breath, but failed at both. In seconds, he slumped to the ground.

Gallardo knelt and felt for a pulse. He wiped his bloody fingers on the priest’s garments.

“He’s gone,” Gallardo said. He stood and looked at Murani. “Can you handle this?”

For a moment Murani didn’t know what the other man was talking about.

“Take out your cell phone,” Gallardo directed calmly as he shoved his pistol back into the shoulder holster. “Call the police. Report that you were just involved in a carjacking. Tell the police when they get here that you were in the car. That a man with a gun forced you over and took your car. You fought with him, and the carjacker ran over a pedestrian.”

Murani fumbled for his phone.

“Do you have that?” Gallardo asked.

“Yes. But are they going to believe me?”

Gallardo struck without warning. His big fist caught Murani on the jaw and nearly spun his head around. As he stumbled back, Gallardo hit him again. The second punch landed squarely on his nose. Blood filled his mouth, and his legs turned to water. For a moment he thought Gallardo had knocked him unconscious. He fell forward and Gallardo caught him.

“You’re more believable already. They’ll know you were in a fight.” Gallardo grinned. He stood Murani up against the car. “Make the call. Keep it short. Now you’re going to sound believable, too. I’ve got to get clear.”

As if he were out for a Sunday constitutional, Gallardo shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away. In seconds he had disappeared into the night.

Murani made the call and waited in the alley with the dead man. This wouldn’t be the end of it, he knew. The stakes had been raised. After a moment, when he was sure he could move without falling, he crossed to the young priest’s body and began administering last rites.