The Atlantis Code

CHAPTER 3

Fewer than a thousand people lived inside the walls of Vatican City, but millions of tourists and faithful visited from all around the world every year. Consequently, the smallest nation in Europe also had the highest per capita crime rate on the planet. Every year, along with the tourists and faithful, the purse snatchers and pickpockets turned out in droves.

Cardinal Stefano Murani was one of the year-round dwellers in the Holy City, and — for the most part — he loved living there. He was treated well, and was given immediate respect whether he wore his robe of office or an Armani suit, which was what he often donned when he wasn’t in his vestments. He wasn’t in them today, because he was on personal business and didn’t care to be remembered afterwards as an agent of the Roman Catholic Church.

At six feet two inches tall, he was a good-looking man. He knew that, and he always took care to make certain he looked his best. His dark brown hair, cut once a week by his personal stylist, who came to Murani’s private suite to groom him, lay smooth. A thin line of beard traced his jawline and flared briefly at his chin to join the razored mustache. Black eyes dominated his face, and those were the things most people remembered when they met Murani. He’d been told by some that they were cold and pitiless. Others, who were not so experienced in the worst the world could offer, thought his eyes were merely direct and unwavering, a sure sign of his faith in God.

His faith in God, like his faith in himself, was perfect. He knew that.

His work was God’s work, too.

At the moment, the ten-year-old boy struggling in Murani’s grip was convinced that the devil himself had hold of him. Or so the boy had said, before Murani silenced him. Now terror widened the boy’s eyes and drew plaintive mewling sounds from him. He was a thin whisper of a boy, no more than bones and rags.

Murani felt the boy should not have been allowed entrance to Vatican City. He should have been stopped and turned away at once. Anyone could see he was a thief, a pickpocket only now beginning to learn his trade. But there were those who believed that it only took a visit to Vatican City to forever alter the lives of men. So even the vermin from the street, like this specimen, were allowed in. Perhaps, those believers in mercy and access said, they would find God here.

Murani didn’t count himself among the fools who thought that.

“Do you know who I am?” he demanded.

“No,” the boy said.

“You should learn the name of a man whose pocket you’re about to pick,” Murani went on. “It might direct you in your choice of targets. Since you don’t know me and I don’t know you, your punishment will be swift and light. I’ll break only one of your fingers.”

Frantic, the boy tried to kick Murani.

The cardinal dodged to one side so the ragged tennis shoe missed him by inches. And he snapped the boy’s forefinger like a breadstick.

The boy dropped to the ground and started howling.

“Don’t ever let me see you again,” Murani told the boy. “If I do, I’ll break more than a finger next time. Do you understand me?” It wasn’t a threat. It was fact, and they both knew it.

“Yes.”

“Now get up and get out of here.”

Without a word, the boy struggled to his feet and lurched through the crowd, cradling his injured hand.

Murani stood and dusted off his knees, taking his time till he was sure the dark fabric was once more clean. He gazed around at Vatican City, ignoring the stares of the tourists. Those people were nothing, not much more worthy than the young thief he’d released. Gawkers and sheep, they lived in awe and fear of true power. And he was part of that power.

One day, he believed, he would be all of that power.

He walked across Saint Peter’s Piazza, his physical presence dwarfed by the massive bulk of Sistine Chapel to the left and the Palace of the Governership behind him. The Excavations Office and the Sacristy and Treasury stood ahead on the right, flanked by the Vatican Post Office and the information booth at the entrance. Michelangelo’s Pietà stood before him.

Gian Lorenzo Bernini had created the overall effect of the plaza in the 1660s, laying the area out in a trapezoid. The fountain designed by Carlo Maderno became a primary focus as people walked through the area, but the huge Doric colonnades stacked four deep seized everyone’s attention immediately. The colonnades created an imperial look, laying out areas for everything, especially the Barberini Gardens. At the very center of the open area, an Egyptian obelisk stood nearly 135 feet tall. The obelisk had been crafted thirteen hundred years before the Blessed Birth, had spent time in the Circus of Nero, and then Domenico Fontana had moved it to the square in 1586.

Over the centuries, the square had been added to and changed. The cobblestone pathway had been moved. Lines of travertine broke up the look. Circular stones added in 1817 were scattered around the pavement surrounding the obelisk, creating a towering sundial. Even Benito Mussolini had been impressed with the piazza and had torn down buildings to provide a new entrance to the area, the Via della Conciliazione.

Murani had first come to Vatican City as a small boy with his mother and father. He’d been filled with a wonderment that never left him. When he told his father that he was going to live in the palace someday, his father had only laughed.

As his father’s son, Murani could have had his pick of mansions and villas scattered around the world. His father was a wealthy man several times over. As a boy, Murani had been impressed with his father’s millions. People treated his father well and with respect wherever he went, and many of them even feared him. But his father had his own fears as well. Those fears included other men as ruthless as he was, and policemen.

Only one man walked through Vatican City fearless, and Murani hoped to one day be that man. He wanted to be the pope. The pope had money. Vatican City yielded over a quarter billion dollars annually through its various tithes, collections, and commercial enterprises. The money wasn’t what Murani wanted, though. He wanted the pope’s power. Even when the position of pope had been filled by men bent by age, illness, and infirmity, the respect for the office had been there. They were mighty.

The people — the believers and the world at large — thought the pope’s word was law. That was without a show of force, without any attempt to demonstrate the power the pope wielded.

Cardinal Stefano Murani was one of the few that truly knew the amount of power the pope could raise if he so chose. Unfortunately the current pope, Innocent XIV, didn’t believe in flexing the power of the office. He was trying to preach about peace despite the constant terrorist attacks and economic devastation that troubled the world.

The old fool.

At an early age, Murani had been drawn to the Catholic Church. He’d served as an altar boy in the church he’d grown up around in Naples and loved the organized way the priests performed. He wasn’t supposed to become a priest. His father had had other ideas for Murani. But when he became a young man and had explored his father’s business interests and found them lacking, he turned to the cloth.

His father had gotten angry at that announcement, and had even tried to beat such a notion from his son’s head. For the first time in all his twenty-five years, Murani discovered that his willpower was stronger than his father’s: he could take all the abuse his father handed out and still not waver. But he did find his father’s training of some use in his new career. When he was ordained, he continued his studies in the field of computers and excelled. He was fast-tracked to Vatican City and soon made his way to the top of the computer division where he now served. He’d eventually been made a cardinal, one of the men capable of electing a pope. He’d barely missed out on the last papal convocation, but he been part of the gathering of cardinals that placed Innocent XIV into power.

During the last three years, just days before his forty-first birthday, he’d been brought into the Society of Quirinus, the clandestine group of the Church’s most powerful, men who held the most closely guarded secrets within the Church.

Most of those secrets were minor matters — instances of papal mistakes or children born out of wedlock to cardinals and archbishops, or high-ranking priests who paid too much attention to the altar boys. Those were things that could be quietly dealt with, although even that was getting harder to do in this day of instant media attention. Tales of sexual misconduct dogged the Church these days, bringing her down into the gutter and making her appear weak. In 2006, a priest had even been convicted of a particularly abhorrent murder.

The scars to his beloved church troubled Murani.

For the last three years, Murani had become convinced that the popes before him — and he did think of himself as papal, for he knew that he would one day be among them, without a doubt — had squandered their power, constantly backing away from securing what was rightfully theirs. People needed faith. Without faith, they couldn’t understand all the confusing things that were a part of simply being alive. The great masses had an animalistic panic about them today. But being truly faithful meant being truly penitent, truly fearful.

Perfect fear was a beautiful thing.

He loved to inflict it.

Murani intended to bring that fear of the papacy back into the world.

As a child, he’d sat on his mother’s knee and listened to the old stories of the Church. In those days, the pope’s blessing could make kings more powerful, wars last longer or end abruptly, and trigger conquests and shatter empires. The world had been better organized and operated during those years when the papacy had ruled supreme.

Murani craved that kind of power. His father had turned from him, but his mother was wealthy in her own right, having inherited from her father. What Murani’s father would not give him, his mother would.

One day, when he was pope — and Murani was certain that day would not be long in coming — he would break his father and make him acknowledge the fact that his chosen course — no, his destiny—had delivered more power than had all his father’s ill-gotten gains.

Concentrating on his goal, Murani stepped from Vatican City and spotted Gallardo’s dark blue Hummer waiting at the curb.

Gallardo reached across the passenger seat and opened the door. Murani stepped onto the running board and slid into the passenger seat.

“Did you have any further trouble in Alexandria?” Murani asked.

Gallardo checked back over his shoulder, found a lull in the traffic, and pulled smoothly out into it. He shook his head and frowned. “No. We got away clean. We left nothing behind that leads to us. The TV personnel will move on to the next big story. They always do. And Lourds is a university professor. A mere flea in the grand scale of things that matter. How much trouble could he possibly be?”

“He’s also one of the most erudite men on the face of the planet when it comes to languages.”

“So he knows how to say, ‘Please don’t shoot me!’ in several languages.” Gallardo smiled. “I can’t say that I’m impressed. The woman with him is worth ten professors. She alone prevented us from killing the witnesses. But she is merely a woman. Admittedly, she found something that you want.”

“Where is it?”

“There’s a hidden compartment.” Gallardo pointed a beefy finger toward the passenger-side floorboard.

“In the car?” Murani peered hard at the detailed carpet.

“Yes. Just push down. Hard. And twist to the right.”

Murani did and a section of the floorboard popped up almost imperceptibly. If he hadn’t been looking for it, with precise instructions to locate it, he didn’t think he would have found it.

The cardinal’s hands shook a little as he reached inside the hiding space for the box. The trembling in his fingers surprised him. He wasn’t given to physical weakness of any sort. Growing up with a hard taskmaster like his father, he didn’t let his emotions show unless he wanted to.

Gallardo gave him the code to the locked box.

Murani punched in the sequence of numbers and heard the lock whir within. Only days ago, he’d found the bell while searching through Web sites dedicated to archeological discussions. He’d been searching for the musical instruments since he’d heard of them from the other members of the Society of Quirinus. No one among them had thought to search the Internet, believing the instruments to be either myth or destroyed.

They were content merely to protect their secret. Most of them were old men without many years left to them. Ambition and desire had been milked away from their ancient bones by the security and the crumbs of recognition given to them by the Church.

Murani had ambition enough for all of them.

He traced his fingers covetously over the bell’s surface. The inscription on both sides was worn, feeling smooth beneath his fingertips instead of edged. He supposed that, after five thousand or more years, its continued survival was a miracle.

An act of God? he thought. If so, it was the God of the Old Testament, not the God of the New Testament. The God who had allowed the bell to come into existence was vengeful and jealous enough to have drowned the world in floods not once but twice.

The secrets of the bell were many. Murani knew some of its history, but he didn’t know all of it — and he certainly did not know enough about its usage.

“Can you read it?” Gallardo asked.

Murani shook his head. He had studied several languages, oral and written, in addition to his work on languages in the computer field. According to legend, only those special few born every generation could read what was written on any of the instruments. “I can’t.”

“Then why do you want it so badly?”

Tenderly, Murani replaced the bell in the case, reseating it carefully once more into the foam cutout. “Because this bell is one of five keys that will open the greatest treasure in the history of mankind.” He gazed at the bell. “With this, we will be closer to knowing God’s Will than we have ever been.”

The cardinal’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He answered it smoothly, hiding the excitement that coursed through him.

“Your Eminence,” Murani’s secretary, an enterprising young man, said.

“What is it?” Murani asked. “I gave express orders that I wasn’t to be disturbed this afternoon.”

“I understand that, Your Eminence. However, the pope has requested that everyone from his offices give a written statement of support for a dig site in Cádiz. He wants the statement now.”

“Why?”

“Because the archeological excavation is drawing fire from some of the media.”

“Surely the pope can issue a statement on behalf of the Church.”

“The pope feels that he is so new to his office that statements should also be issued by senior members among his staff. You were one of those named.”

Murani agreed, said he would attend to that upon his return, and closed the phone.

“Problem?” Gallardo asked.

“The pope’s worried about Father Emil Sebastian’s efforts in Cádiz.”

“Talk radio is filled with speculation about why the Vatican would take such an interest in those ruins down in Cádiz.”

At a stoplight near the Piazza del Popolo, Gallardo reached back between the seats for a copy of La Repubblica. He opened the national newspaper for Murani to see. The banner headline proclaimed:

Murani scowled.

“The paper is poking fun at the Church’s interest,” Gallardo said.

Unfolding the paper, Murani quickly read the accounts of how the concentric rings in the swamps near Cádiz had been located through satellite imagery. The site was located not far from the Nature Parks near the basin of the River Guadalquivir north of Cádiz.

Cádiz was the oldest city in Spain. In 1100 B.C., the city started out as a trading post. The Phoenicians named it Gadir, and most of the goods exported from there were silver and amber. The Carthaginians followed, building the seaport up and increasing the trade still more. The Moors followed, but Cádiz had come into its own by then and was accepted as the main trading port to carry on business with the New World. Two of Christopher Columbus’s voyages launched from the city’s docks. Later, the city was invaded by Sir Francis Drake. Napoléon Bonaparte was nearly taken there by his enemies.

And now, perhaps, Atlantis had been found there. For millennia, since Plato had first written of the fabled city that had experienced some kind of environmental disruption and sank into the sea, all mankind had talked of the glories that might be found in the lost civilization. Claims that Atlantis was a city of superscientists, of magicians, and even of aliens from another star system all constantly circulated through the conspiracy Web sites on the Internet.

No one knew the truth.

No one except the Society of Quirinus.

And Cardinal Stefano Murani.

And he didn’t plan to share his knowledge.

“Truthfully, I wondered at the Church’s interests there,” Gallardo said.

Murani said nothing as he read the story. Happily, it was tissue-thin, nothing but speculation. There were no concrete facts, only guesswork on the part of the reporter. Father Emil Sebastian, the director of the dig, was quoted as saying the Vatican was interested in recovering any artifacts that might once have belonged to the Church. A sidebar, much more factual, documented Father Sebastian’s previous involvement with various archeological efforts. He was listed as an archivist in Vatican City.

“The Church works in mysterious ways,” Murani said, but he was thinking that the newspaper reporter would have been more interested, even more dogged in his pursuit of the truth if he’d known what Father Sebastian’s true field of study was. The title of archeologist barely scratched the surface of what the priest did. The man had hidden away far more secrets than he’d ever revealed.

“What are you supposed to do for Father Sebastian?” Gallardo asked.

Murani folded the paper and put it into the backseat once more. “Write a letter praising Father Sebastian’s efforts.”

“His efforts to do what?”

“Restore the Church’s past.”

“The Church had a presence in that area?” Gallardo shook his head doubtfully. “From what I’ve read and seen on CNN, that section of Spanish swampland has been underwater or close to it for thousands of years.”

“Probably.”

“The Church was there?”

“Possibly. The Church has been all over Europe since its earliest days. We often attend notable new excavations.”

Gallardo drove in silence for a time.

Murani thought about things. He hadn’t counted on the dig in Cádiz generating so much attention. That could be a problem. The Society’s business should be conducted in absolute secrecy.

“I could go over to Cádiz,” Gallardo suggested. “Take a look around and let you know what I find out.”

“Not yet. I have something else for you to do.”

“What?”

“I’ve located another object that I want you to acquire for me.”

“What?”

Murani took a DVD and a sheet of paper from inside his jacket. “A cymbal.”

“A symbol of what?”

Unfolding the paper, Murani showed Gallardo the clay cymbal, a grayish-green disk against a black background. “I’ve got more information regarding the cymbal’s location on the DVD.”

Gallardo took the DVD and shoved it into his pocket. “Can just anyone find it?”

“If they know where to look.”

“So how much competition should I expect?”

“No more than you had in Alexandria.”

“One of my men is still puking up pap after that bullet hit his stomach.”

“Do you care?” Murani asked.

“No.” Gallardo regarded him.

“Then keep looking.” Murani cradled the box containing the bell.

“This is going to be expensive.”

Murani shrugged. “If you need more money, let me know.”

Gallardo nodded. “Where’s the cymbal?”

“Ryazan’, Russia. Have you been there?”

“Yes.”

Murani wasn’t surprised. Gallardo was well traveled. “I’ve got an address for Dr. Yuliya Hapaev. She has the cymbal.”

Gallardo nodded. “What’s she a doctor of?”

“Archeology.”

“You seem to be focusing on linguists and archeologists.”

“That’s where these items turned up. I have no control over such things.”

“Do Hapaev and Lourds know each other?”

“Yes. As colleagues and as friends.” Murani’s background research had revealed that tie. “Dr. Hapaev has often consulted with Professor Lourds.”

“It’s a problem, then. That connection could start people looking,” Gallardo pointed out. “First Lourds loses an artifact, then Hapaev — assuming I’m successful.”

“I have the utmost faith in you.”

Gallardo grinned. “I’m flattered. But we still have the problem of the connection. Has Hapaev been in contact with Lourds concerning the bell?”

“No.”

“She has no reason to suspect that anyone might come looking for her?”

Murani shook his head.

“When do I leave?” Gallardo asked.

“The sooner,” the cardinal told him, “the better.”