The Atlantis Code

CHAPTER 17

The headline on CNN Headline News caught Lourds’s attention as he sat in the boarding area awaiting the flight to Dakar, Senegal.

Leslie’s production company had, though grudgingly, set up a separate accounting to foil whoever had been spying on the travel expenses. They’d also sent her a bundle of traveler’s checks instead of credit cards to pay expenses.

But it hadn’t had a positive effect on Leslie’s mood. When she’d finished the negotiations that accomplished this, she returned to their hotel in Paris in a particularly foul mood. She hadn’t spent the night with Lourds since Leipzig. At present she sat wrapped in a light jacket and slept in the row of seats across from Lourds.

Gary lounged in another seat nearby and played a PSP video game player that he seemed totally absorbed by. Earphones trapped him in whatever virtual world he was experiencing through the tiny game platform.

Lourds didn’t know where Natasha was. He was fairly certain, aside from brief catnaps here and there, that she hadn’t slept. He was also certain that being bereft of her weapon inside the airport was driving her slightly insane.

There was nothing he could do about any of it. He turned his attention back to the broadcast.

“Nearly thirty hours ago, the Cádiz excavation site — which has received international media coverage for the last few months as myths of sunken Atlantis have surrounded it — suffered a serious setback,” the young black news anchor said.

The scene cut to stock footage of the Cádiz dig site. Dump trucks and handbaskets trundled earth from the open mouth of the excavation area to the coastline less than a hundred yards away. Great earthen bulwarks held back the tide.

“Early on the morning of September fourth,” the anchor continued, “Father Emil Sebastian led explorers into a new cave that had just been opened up.”

More stock footage rolled. It showed Sebastian talking to crews inside the base camp cavern. The media — according to the Time, Newsweek, and People articles Lourds had read on the plane — hadn’t been allowed past the base camp, and hadn’t been allowed there often.

“We’ve received unconfirmed reports that the explorers were examining a burial vault filled with dead.”

“Cue scary music,” Gary said.

Glancing over at the cameraman, Lourds discovered the young man had put his PSP away and was focused totally on the story playing on the television.

“Decided to leave the cyber realms?” Lourds asked.

Gary grinned. “If I had my way, mate, I’d still be there. Freaking batteries are dead. I gotta go charge ’em.”

Gary looked around for a power source, and Lourds watched the monitor screen.

“Although those reports have been unconfirmed by the excavation team,” the anchor said, “we do have a report from an undisclosed source inside the work party who stated that bodies were found in the cavern. We also have a picture that shows the cave with the alleged graves carved into the side of a wall.”

A picture showed up on the monitor. It was splotchy and too dark. But it did look like an ancient burial chamber with a wall of crypts. The image was too fuzzy for Lourds to identify any iconography or scripts.

The camera switched back to the anchor. “We’re told that two men drowned in the accident before they could be rescued.”

Pictures of a young man and a middle-aged man formed on the flashy digital backdrop behind the anchor’s head. Neither of them were Father Sebastian.

“Father Sebastian has stated that the newest cavern was nearly flooded by the water,” the anchor said. “The mishap has put the excavation behind schedule, but Father Sebastian says they will continue their work there. The Vatican, which has funded the excavation, has offered no comment when contacted.”

“I’m telling you, mate,” Gary said, “the blokes crawling around in the guts of the earth like that have got some bloody big balls on them. You wouldn’t catch me that far underground with the sea just waiting to pounce in on me.”

“Not even for a chance to see a new culture?” Lourds asked.

“Not for love or money. And I wouldn’t be here either, if it wasn’t all so exciting.” Gary shook his head. “Truth to tell, I shouldn’t even be haring about with you, Leslie, and Natasha the Terminator.”

Lourds frowned. “I don’t think Natasha would like hearing you refer to her in that manner.”

“Prolly not. That’s why I don’t do it around her.” Gary shot him a crooked grin, then got up to go connect to a nearby wall outlet.

Lourds took a last glance at Leslie, feeling troubled all over again but realizing there was nothing he could do about the way things were between them. Resolving to let matters lie until he could manage them better, he turned his attention to the Yoruban documents he’d copied at the Max Planck Institute.

He paid particular attention to the legend of the five instruments: the cymbal, the drum, the flute, the bell, and the pipe. If he’d translated everything right, he might be on to something.

Father Sebastian stood at the balcony of the pope’s private study and peered out over Vatican City. After spending months in Cádiz, rarely journeying outside the base camp and the small town that had sprung up nearby to cater to the excavation team’s needs, the city felt claustrophobic to him.

But it didn’t come close to how he’d felt that night in the burial vault when the cavern flooded. If not for the Swiss Guards who watched over him, he would have died.

No, he told himself. Not just the guards. If God hadn’t saved you from harm, you would have died. Never forget whose hands you’re ultimately in.

“Emil,” a boisterous voice called in greeting.

Turning, Sebastian saw the pope approaching.

“Your Holiness,” Sebastian said as he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

Pope Innocent XIV helped his old friend to his feet and they embraced.

Sebastian could never get over the fact that his dear friend had become the pope. They’d never even joked about such a thing when they’d worked together in the Church libraries.

The pope, back when he’d been a nothing more than a parish priest, was fascinated by Sebastian’s stories about journeying with his father. He’d even read all Sebastian’s journals from those times.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” the pope said. “When I first heard about the cavern collapse and thought you were lost to us, I prayed for your survival. I felt guilty for sending you there.”

“Nonsense.” Sebastian waved that away, then wondered if such a gesture was permissible now that his friend was pope. “You’ve given me back my life, Your Holiness. I love the work of uncovering the past. It is something my father, God rest his soul, would have loved to do. This excavation has brought me back to him — and to myself — after too many years.”

“I’m glad you feel that way. Especially in light of everything that’s happened. The flooding… I heard what the news channels said, but they dramatize everything. How bad is it?”

“Bad, but perhaps not permanent. Dario Brancati insists that he can pump Cave Forty-two dry in two weeks or possibly three. After that, we can resume exploration.” The idea filled Sebastian with cold fear. He had yet to walk back into the cavern after the collapse, and truthfully didn’t know if he could.

“Where’s the water coming from?”

“Brancati’s divers believe it’s from another chamber deeper in the catacombs. They’re searching for the source now. We’re fortunate that the air pressure equalized as quickly as it did.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we opened the burial vault, the air pressure that had been trapped there escaped. The change allowed the water to break through a compromised wall in the cave system. It could have been much worse. The whole system could have become submerged. Had such been the case, the casualties would have been much, much worse. I certainly wouldn’t be standing here.” Sebastian paused as a chill ghosted over him. He believed his escape could truly have only been divine intervention. “You have to remember, Your Holiness, all of the Atlantic Ocean waits close by, ready to reclaim those caves.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched between the two men for a time. Sebastian could tell by the strained look on the pope’s face that his thoughts were as troubled as his own.

“Even though we were lucky, we lost two men this time, Your Holiness,” Sebastian said.

The pope sighed and shook his head. “You’re wondering if what we’re doing is worth those lives.”

Sebastian remained silent. He couldn’t bear to put his fears into words.

“I told you when I first put you in charge of this excavation that this was possibly the most important work any of us could be doing at this time.”

“You mean the graves?”

“More than that. I mean the necklace you found.”

“You mean this?”

Taking his hand from his robe, Sebastian opened his fingers and released the pendant. The shining figure, one hand stretched forth and the other holding the Sacred Text, spun in the ambient light.

“May God have mercy,” the pope whispered. He reached for the pendant with trembling fingers.

“After everything mankind has done to reject God’s gifts, I don’t know how He could possibly have any mercy left for us.”

The pope cradled the pendant tenderly.

“Do you think it still exists down there, Your Holiness?” Sebastian couldn’t even mention the name aloud. “The sea has destroyed so much.”

“Everything God created is eternal.” As if torn by some emotion too strong for words, the pope squeezed the pendant so fiercely, the skin of his knuckles turned white. “When you get to the end of your journey down in that dig of yours, my friend, you’ll find the Garden of Eden. But you’ll also find the greatest danger that God ever set forth in the world.”

Lourds sat in the passenger seat of the Land Rover they’d rented at Dakar-Yoff-Léopold Sédar Senghor International Airport and stared out at the hot afternoon sun that baked Dakar. Heat waves shimmered on the hot pavement even through the sunglasses he wore.

The city was the westernmost of the continent of Africa. They traveled the highway leading from the airport. The Atlantic Ocean spilled across the white sand beaches that led up to modest houses flanked by pockets of scrub trees that offered scant shade. Fishermen and tourists plied the water.

Dakar was a mix of the old and modern. Tall buildings stabbed at the sky, but small houses ringed the city. Many of them were without modern utilities. The future and the past sat side by side.

“So,” Gary said good-naturedly, “I assume Gorée Island is an island and we can’t drive there.”

“We’ll take the ferry,” Lourds said.

“But you haven’t mentioned why we’re going there.”

“Île de Gorée, as the island was once known, has an infamous past. It held the large slave markets that supplied the whole world with African slaves. Thousands of men, women, and children were funneled through there and auctioned off to bidders from nearly everywhere. Even though England and a few other countries eventually outlawed slavery on their home turf, there were always men willing to buy them here and sell them in the Americas and the Caribbean.”

“Doesn’t explain why we’re going there, though.”

“During the long years of the slave auctions,” Lourds went on, “Île de Gorée also became a repository for documents and artifacts. Ships’ logs. African carvings and pottery. Jewelry. Everything that came out of Africa was put on display there.”

“Surprised they didn’t sell it.”

“Actually, they did. For a profit. Much of what once existed in the lands where whole tribes were decimated by the slavers has now disappeared. Whole cultures were lost to time and greed.”

Seagulls and egrets spun out over the gray-blue water. Farther out, a few cruise ships and fishing boats departed and arrived at the port.

“But that’s an old story,” Lourds went on. “Everywhere one civilization has risen in power over another, that’s happened. In England, the Picts were routed by the Romans and all but destroyed. They were forced to retreat to the Scottish Highlands. In the Americas, it was the Native Americans. Many tribes were wiped out entirely as European settlers swept over the continent, and even today the ones who remain are struggling to hang on to their cultural identity. Cultural destruction is most complete when the cultures being flattened have only oral histories instead of written ones. When you kill the storytellers of a tribe without written language, you kill the culture forever.”

“So what are you hoping to find on that island?” Gary asked. “Storytellers?”

“I want to follow up on an interesting legend I read about while at the Max Planck Institute.”

“What legend?” Natasha asked in Russian.

Ah, the language barrier, Lourds thought. Bilinguals can always use that to isolate themselves from others. And to point out the differences between us and them.

“There’s an ancient legend,” Lourds answered in English, “that involves a set of five instruments. A pipe, a flute, a drum, a bell, and a cymbal. And how they were divided among cultures after a flood.”

“Our bell?” Leslie asked in English.

“The cymbal Yuliya was working on?” Natasha asked in Russian.

“Which flood?” Gary asked.

“Good questions, all of you. I don’t know if it’s the bell and cymbal we’ve come in contact with,” Lourds admitted. “But I think this was the direction Yuliya was pursuing while she was researching. Remember, she knew that the cymbal hadn’t been made in Rus.”

“She believed it had been brought there by traders,” Natasha said in English. Evidently she decided to join the others in their language since Lourds wasn’t going to acknowledge hers.

“Correct.”

“Except that it didn’t make sense because the cymbal wasn’t worth anything.”

“Also correct.” Lourds paused for a moment. “Technically. But what if the instruments had a worth that wasn’t tied in to their intrinsic value? What if they were all tied to a common disaster?”

“The flood?” Gary asked.

“One of the most common archetypes of the universal mythic base found in all cultures is that of the flood. Besides the story of Noah, you’ll find tales of deluges in Sumerian, Babylonian, Norse — though those concerned a deluge of blood from the frost giant Ymir — Irish, Aztec, and many other countries. The Greeks feature stories about the world ending in flood three times.”

“Including the one that sank Atlantis,” Gary said.

“Actually, those flood tales don’t include Plato’s yarn about the sinking of Atlantis,” Lourds amended. “That was a different story entirely. In it, the world survived, just not Atlantis. The flood story with the instruments was bigger. Much bigger.”

“You think the instruments were linked to the great ancient flood?” Natasha asked. “The Hebrew flood that God sent to wipe evil and wickedness from the world?”

“The legend I read wasn’t clear. I don’t know. Possibly. But it’s just as possible that it’s another flood entirely. The world has — at one time or another — undergone major floods that inundated most of the land masses. Much of the United States was once undersea. Archeologists constantly find evidence of prehistoric marine life in the deserts and wastelands of the West. Much of Europe has been underwater, too. They’ve found a whale skeleton halfway up a mountain in Italy.”

“But, the instruments… You think they’re tied to that flood?” Leslie asked.

“I don’t know. It’s an old legend, from an oral tradition that was almost lost. It doesn’t matter what they’re tied to. I just want to confirm the myth that talks about those instruments. If I can, I’d like to find out if there’s any more to that tale than the bit I know. I think it might be important.”

Even though Murani had arrived for the meeting early, he was the last to enter the room. He wore his cardinal robes, laying claim to the power of his office through the virtue of God’s armor.

The underground room was not well known throughout the Vatican. Only a handful of people had keys to the two doors that allowed entrance to it. Due to the huge labyrinth carved out beneath the Vatican in the course of the thousands of years the site had been occupied, some of it in disrepair, it was easy for such rooms to exist without the knowledge of the general populace. In fact, it was easy for such spaces to exist where no one knew about them at all.

There was probably no more private space on earth.

Wall sconces held candle lanterns that lent a golden glow to the stone walls and the burnished wood of the long table in the center of the room. Someone had clearly wiped it off when they brought in the lanterns. A thick layer of dust coated the cobblestone floor and the cobwebs in the corners. This wasn’t a space on the itinerary of the cleaning roster. The chamber hadn’t been used much, and never since Murani had taken office.

All of the twenty-three men around the table were members of the Society of Quirinus. Since not all of them were there, Murani had to assume that some of them weren’t available.

Lorenzo Occhetto had even come. He sat at the head of the table in all his regalia, so frail and aged, he looked like a well-dressed corpse. He waved a hand at the empty chair to his left.

“No thank you,” Murani said. “If this is to be an inquisition, I’d prefer to remain standing.”

His comment drew baleful looks from the other cardinals.

“Your impropriety is out of place here,” Occhetto said in his dry whisper.

“Actually,” Murani said, choosing to be defiant, “impropriety is out of place everywhere. That’s part of what makes it impropriety.”

“Don’t seek to amuse yourself at our expense,” Occhetto rebuked.

“I’m not amused,” Murani told them. “I’m angry.” He folded his hands behind him and walked around the table. He met the gazes of every man there.

“Sit down,” Occhetto commanded. But his weak voice failed to carry authority.

“No.” Murani remained defiantly upright at the end of the table. “This is a farce, and it’s gone quite far enough. I will not allow it any longer.”

“You will not allow it?” Cardinal Jacopo Rota exploded. He was in his early fifties and was known for his temper. A hulking man who’d done manual labor in his youth and retained the muscles to prove it, he rose threateningly from his chair at Occhetto’s right hand.

“No,” Murani said in a calm voice. “I will not.”

“You murdered poor Fenoglio,” Rota said. “You will account to God for that.”

“To God, perhaps,” Murani said, though he didn’t believe that. “But not to you.”

“Then you admit it?” Occhetto asked. “You admit to the murder?”

“Is Fenoglio’s death the first committed by the Society of Quirinus to protect all those precious secrets you covet?” Murani demanded.

“We did not order his death. We do not murder,” Emilio Sraffa said. He was barely thirty, the youngest of them, and — in Murani’s opinion — the most innocent.

“Yes,” Murani said. “We do. You’ve just not been made part of it yet.”

Sraffa looked around the rest of the table for someone to deny the charges. No one did. No one even took their gaze off Murani. The rest of them knew.

“Those lives that we ordered taken,” Occhetto said, “were—”

“—Ones you deemed obstacles to what you desired,” Murani interrupted. He waved the old man’s further comments away, rode right over his words. “Justify it any way you want to. Say that you killed only men who had no true souls before God. I don’t care. You have killed before. Often.”

“You murdered a priest,” Rota accused.

“Your precious pope put Fenoglio onto me,” Murani said. “While I’ve been doing what all of you are afraid to do.”

“We’re not afraid to do anything,” Occhetto said.

“Oh, no? Then tell me why Father Sebastian is heading up the excavation instead of one of us?”

No one had an answer for that.

Filled to bursting with energy and anger and his sense of mission, Murani paced around the table. “You sit here in the dark like scared old women instead of taking control of the Church.”

“It isn’t our place—,” Occhetto began.

“It is your place,” Murani said loudly. “Who else has been entrusted with the secrets you’ve been given custody of? The pope you elected wasn’t even one of us. He didn’t know about the Sacred Texts. He didn’t know what really happened to the Garden of Eden until you told him.”

“We couldn’t elect one of our own,” the old cardinal said. “We don’t hold enough votes in the Sacred College. We—”

“—don’t want to get caught out in the light,” Murani said viciously. “I know you. You scurry for the safety of the darkness like cockroaches.”

“We have always worked from the shadows,” Occhetto declared. “For hundreds of years, through dozens of popes, we’ve kept the necessary secrets locked away.”

“Your actions, your choices, have weakened the Church,” Murani accused. “You weren’t protecting the secrets. You were protecting your own lives.”

“You go too far,” Rota stated. “Now you’re either going to sit down and listen to what we have to say or I’m going to sit you down.”

“No.” As the man moved to stand, Murani banged his fist hard against the table, shocking all the men gathered within the hidden chamber. “Sit!”

Rota’s dark eyes blazed with defiance, and he remained where he was, halfway to standing.

“I said, ‘Sit!’ ” Murani said. “You should listen to me. You know what I am capable of. Think of Fenoglio. Think of what you’re accusing me of. Do you think one body more will matter?”

Scowling, Rota sat.

Murani kept his back to the nearest door but stood to one side so he could see if it opened. This meeting was secret, but he didn’t know what words his fellow society members had let slip through the years. The Swiss Guard was always about.

No place, no matter how secret, was truly safe.

“While you’ve been sitting safe in Vatican City, nattering like children,” Murani said, “I’ve been working. I’ve been out in the world. I have deciphered some of the passages regarding the Sacred Texts.”

That caught them all by surprise.

“You lie,” Occhetto accused.

“No. I speak the ultimate truth. The five instruments will open the final vault where the Sacred Texts are kept,” Murani said.

“We all know that.”

“I have two of them,” Murani said.

Instantly the voices of the cardinals filled the room. Occhetto raised his hands and quieted them all. Slowly, order returned.

Murani gazed at the men before him. Pride and fear ran through him like an electric current. He’d never dared to say so much so openly before. None of them had.

“Where are the instruments?” Occhetto asked.

“Safe,” Murani said. “Where I can get to them.”

“Those are not yours to control.”

“They are now. And soon the other instruments will be mine, too.” Murani was convinced that Lourds would lead Gallardo to the others, or perhaps he could use the bell and the cymbal to locate the remaining instruments. God’s will would not be denied, and Murani was certain he was following God’s will.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Occhetto said. “If you have the instruments, then you must give them to us.”

“Why? So you can lock them away in the dark and they can get lost? Again?”

“They aren’t supposed to be together. Everything we’ve read tells us that God intended for those instruments to be apart.”

“Then why didn’t God destroy them? Why did he leave them here for me to find?”

“This is heresy,” Rota said.

“This is God’s design,” Murani said. “I am His divine force come to bring the Church back to power.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Occhetto asked.

“Through the power of the Sacred Texts.”

The cardinals objected loudly. Murani ignored them all.

“Those Texts destroyed the world once,” Occhetto said. “Possibly even twice. They could do the same thing again.”

“They won’t,” Murani said. “They’re going to help remake the world. They’re going to empower the Church in a way that’s never been seen before.” He glared at them. “I will find them. And you can’t stop me.”

“We can,” Rota said. “Don’t forget yourself.”

Murani smiled at the big man. “You’re talking about the Swiss Guards?”

No one said anything.

“Your handpicked crews among the guards have been doing your dirty work for hundreds of years,” Murani said. “One more murder, done in the name of the Society of Quirinus, wouldn’t be that much, would it?”

“It wouldn’t be murder,” Rota said. “It would be justice.”

“None of you that sit in this room have clean hands,” Murani accused. “You’ve all been involved in some bit of treachery and death.”

Sraffa looked troubled. He was weaker than Occhetto assumed. He still had a conscience. He didn’t give everything over to God’s hands.

“Not murder,” Occhetto said. “Not really.”

“So if you had me killed?” Murani asked. “Would that be murder, then?”

“No,” Occhetto said. “It would be justifiable homicide, a mercy killing in the name of the Church.”

“Perhaps.” Murani strode toward the old cardinal. “It would also be foolish. It would destroy you and wound the Church you profess to love.”

Occhetto quavered and closed his eyes. Murani knew that the man was afraid.

“I’ll tell you why,” Murani said. “I’ve written down your names. I’ve written down your deeds. I have recordings and documents to prove them. You were fools, to keep records of such things. You covered up my dealings with Fenoglio. Now you are all involved in that crime, accessories to murder. I’ve given all the evidence to a man who will mail the undeniable proof of it to the proper authorities, and to the world’s press, should something happen to me. Do you think the Church can handle a scandal like that, on top of everything else that has become public in the last few years? Do you think the pope or your red robes will protect you?” A gasp in the room confirmed the accuracy of the intelligence he’d paid for. “Yes, I know your secrets well. And the world will share them, should anything happen to me.”

Outrage showed in Occhetto’s eyes. “You can’t do this, Murani.”

“It’s already done,” Murani said in a cold voice. “If you touch me, I’ll touch you back. Just try it.”

Silence filled the room.

“Here’s how we’re going to handle this,” Murani said in a soft, deadly voice. “You’re going to stay out of my way from this point on, or I will have you destroyed.”

“You’re a madman,” Occhetto whispered.

“No,” Murani argued. “I’m a man of faith and conviction. God has revealed to me what must be done. And I’m going to do it. We all want those secret texts. I’m the man who will stop at nothing to get them.”

He looked at all the cardinals sitting there. Without hesitation, Murani turned his back on them all and walked toward the door.

No one followed him.

He took out the flashlight that he’d used to reach the room and started back through the underground maze the way he’d come. He felt certain that the Society of Quirinus hadn’t finished with him, but he now had more breathing space than at any time before.

They feared him. And they would not act against him.

Everything was going according to Murani’s — and God’s — plan.

From the ferry, Lourds spotted Ismael Diop standing on the landing. Lourds recognized the man from photographs he’d seen on the Internet.

Diop was black and thin to the point of emaciation. In his seventies now, according to the bio Lourds had read, he still got around to conventions on African history and the Atlantic slave trade in particular. He also published regularly despite being retired. He was a professor emeritus from the University of Glasgow.

He wore white twill shorts, a khaki shirt with the sleeves hacked off, and a battered panama hat festooned with fishing lures. Gray stubble showed on his cheeks and chin.

Beyond Diop, the setting presented a picturesque view of the harbor. It looked like a tourist postcard, in fact. Pirogues, small canoes, knifed through the water carrying tourists, teenagers, and fishermen. The brightly colored houses stood out against the blue sky and white sand. Canopies on stilts shaded patches of the beach for tourists and vendors. Papaya and palm trees shared space with lime and sandbox trees. Lourds recognized them from the research he’d viewed concerning Île de Gorée.

When the ferry put in to the pier, Lourds waited till the ship was still, the lines were made fast, and the gangway was lowered. Then he stepped onto the pier. Leslie was behind him, while Gary and Natasha brought up the rear.

Diop stepped forward. A big grin split his face and he offered his hand.

“Professor Lourds,” Diop greeted.

“Professor Diop,” Lourds responded.

“No,” the old man said, waving a hand. “Please. Call me Ismael.”

“There’s a famous line in there,” Lourds observed with a smile.

“Indeed there is. But trust me when I tell you I’ve heard it before.” The old professor’s voice was softly melodic with just a hint of a British accent.

Diop stood and shook hands as Lourds introduced the others.

“This heat and humidity make speaking out here unbearable,” Diop said. “I took the liberty of securing a room at a local tavern if that’s all right with you all.”

“Cold beer?” Gary asked as he wiped at his face with a towel. “I’m in.”

Diop laughed. “Yes. This way, then. It’s only a short walk. It’s not a big island.”

Lourds followed Diop through a narrow alleyway lined with bushes and bougainvillea. The bright purple, red, and yellow flowers made the area seem festive. Blossoms of a mango tree added to the color, and the shade was a welcome relief from the punishing glare of the sun.

“This is beautiful,” Leslie said.

“It is,” Diop agreed. “We have color all year round. But I’m afraid that means we also have to suffer the heat.”

At the end of the alley, they came out onto a place that fronted a large pinkish building with sweeping staircases that coiled toward each other. A small balcony stretched between them over a large wooden door.

“Is that the slave house?” Gary asked. He stepped off to capture video of the house.

“Yes.” Diop stood and waited patiently. “The French called it Maison de Esclaves. The House of the Slaves. They passed through the door beneath, which they called the Door of No Return, and waited — shackled — in the holding areas within till they were brought out and sold.”

“Grim.” Gary frowned and put the camera away.

“Very grim. If those walls could talk, they’d fill your ears with horrors, I’m sure.” Diop stared at the building. “Still, if it weren’t for the Atlantic slave trade, no one would have thought this area important enough to try to save. A lot of information we have now would have been lost.” He paused. “Including the information you came for, Thomas.”

“It’s always fascinating to see how the bones of history get preserved longer when guilt is involved,” Lourds commented.

“And how quickly the truth of it is all forgotten,” Diop said. He nodded toward the children playing in the open area. “The young people here know of the history, but, for better or for worse, it exists as something separate from them. It has no true impact on their lives.”

“Except for the fact that they can make money from the tourists,” Natasha said.

Lourds looked at her unhappily, thinking perhaps she’d transgressed politeness.

“It’s the same in my country,” Natasha said. “Westerners come to Moscow and want to see where the Communists lived and where the KGB were located. Like it was a movie set, not a matter of life and death in Russia for nearly a century.”

“Too many James Bond films, I suppose.” Diop smiled.

“Far too many,” Natasha agreed. “We don’t set out to be a stereotype, but I think sometimes we end up as one to outsiders. Especially to Western eyes. Perhaps that building is the same.”

Diop nodded. “I think perhaps you’re right.”

The beer came to their table in bottles so cold, they iced up in the humidity then immediately started to sweat it off. Thick lime wedges blocked the open necks, but only temporarily.

Lourds removed a lime wedge and drank deeply.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Diop said.

Lourds started to ask what the old professor was referring to; then the brain freeze almost shattered his mind. He closed his eyes and suffered through it.

“Ouch. Got it. I’ll go slower in the future.”

Diop laughed gently. “I brought us here because the beer was cold and the food is excellent. I didn’t know if you’d had the time to eat.”

“No,” Leslie said. “I’m famished.”

“Perhaps we could talk over a meal,” Diop suggested. “It is traditional, yes? The breaking of bread among friends?”

They all agreed.

As he sipped his beer more cautiously, Lourds noticed that Natasha had immediately taken the seat with her back to the wall. She never went off guard. Like an Old West gunfighter, he thought.

The tavern was small. Hardwood floors showed scars from decades of use and abuse. The tables and chairs were all mismatched. Wicker-bladed fans swept slowly by overhead but did little more than stir the thick air. Bougainvillea dripped from ceramic pots and planters. The fragrant blossoms filled the air with scent.

Diop waved a young woman over and quickly ordered in French. Lourds paid only a little attention as he opened the Word document on his iPAQ where he’d made a list of the questions he wanted to ask the professor once he tracked him down.

The server brought over another round of beers and quickly departed.

Diop took his hat off and tossed it to the hat rack against wall. The Panama sailed elegantly and came to a rest on one of the pegs.

“Good shot,” Gary complimented.

“Either you’re very good with that little trick,” Lourds commented, “or this is a favorite place.”

“It’s a favorite place.” Diop ran his long-fingered hands across his shaven scalp. “And that hat and I have been together for years.” He paused and looked at Lourds. “I was sorry to hear what happened to Professor Hapaev.”

“Did you know her?” Natasha asked eagerly.

“No. Other than a few e-mails there at the end.”

“She was my sister.”

“My condolences.”

“Thank you.” Natasha leaned slightly across the table. “I don’t know exactly what Professor Lourds has told you about why we’re here.”

“He said you were looking for more information about the cymbal Professor — your sister — was working on.”

“I’m also looking for my sister’s killers.” Natasha took her identification from her pocket and laid it on the table.

Diop reached out and quickly folded the ID closed. “This is not a place to be flashing badges. Many of the people here still pursue quasi-illegal business. And a number of other people don’t want to deal with authority figures. Do you understand?”

Natasha nodded, but Lourds had the impression she’d known exactly what she’d been risking. She put the ID away.

“While you’re here,” Diop said seriously, “it might be better for you to forget you are a policewoman. That could get you killed on the mainland. Here, it could get you worse.”