The Atlantis revelation

29

Serena swung her seaplane over the treetops and came in for her final approach on the shimmering waters of Lake Garda. The breathtaking Villa Feltrinelli rose on the distant shore like a fairy castle. The sheer audacity of Conrad's selection of such a romantic locale, and this while he was on the run, amazed and angered her. A virgin like her wouldn't last the night at a place like this, especially with a man like him.

She'd flown her first high-wing Otter as a missionary in the Australian outback. Later, she'd flown in the African bush. This plane was a propeller-driven DHC-3, powered by a single six-hundred-horsepower Pratt amp; Whitney Wasp radial and fitted with floats, just like the type she'd used in the Andes during her work with the Aymara tribe. That was where she'd first met Conrad, on Lake Titicaca, the highest lake in the world and her personal favorite. No doubt it was an association he had hoped to evoke here.

She prayed in advance for God's wisdom and strength to do what her mission required of her. The only problem was that she had so many missions these days, often at cross purposes. Her challenge here, she had to remind herself, was to steal from Conrad whatever he'd stolen from Midas, find out what else he knew, and then somehow get rid of him in such a way as to satisfy the Alignment and her own conscience.

Keeping her vows of purity, therefore, was the least of her worries.

She eased back on the throttle and put the Otter down into the water. The water was calm and gold in the late-afternoon sun, perfect to land on because of the enclosed nature of the lake. To her starboard, the hills looked like black paper cut out against twilight. Lots of peace and quiet here, she thought, which suited her just fine after the events of recent days and the days to come.

She taxied toward the boathouse in front of the villa. A man stood on the stone jetty with a rope tie. It wasn't Conrad. It was a porter from the villa who came alongside the Otter to tie it down.

She switched off the engine and climbed down to the plane's float. It was definitely more balmy and sensual here than in Paris at this time of year. She steadied herself for a second under the wing while she reached back into the cabin to pull out her little leather backpack. Then she took the extended hand of the young porter, who helped her step onto the jetty.

"Baroness von Berg. The baron is waiting for you."

I'm sure he is, she thought, and nodded with a smile but said nothing as she followed him down the jetty toward the villa. She could see that the Villa Feltrinelli offered everything a couple like her and the baron could want.

She looked out at the lake. If the porter knew who she was, he was saying nothing. That was one thing she had to give Conrad: Even if every member of the staff thought the holy Mother Earth had come for a secret tryst with her lover, and hazarded a guess this was her habit, nobody else would know. As much as she wanted to avoid the appearance of moral failure, this scenario was what it was, and people could think what they wanted.

He led her to the boathouse, which apparently was an even more private suite than those that occupied the main villa. Bravo, Conrad, she thought, and thanked the porter.

"Gianni," he offered helpfully.

She nodded. "Like the legendary soccer player Gianni Rivera?"

"Si!" he said, eyes wide. "I was named after him."

Serena smiled. These days Rivera was a member of the European Parliament for the Uniti nell'Ulivo party. She followed Canadian hockey more closely than European football, but she knew enough about Rivera to know that he'd been the Wayne Gretzky of soccer in his day, able to instinctively know where the ball was going before it went there. It was an ability she had tried to cultivate in her own arena, where religion and politics squared off.

She switched to fluent Italian for Gianni's benefit: "We'll need his kind of passing game this year if our team is going to have a shot at the World Cup."

Gianni nodded enthusiastically as the door to the boathouse opened.

A remarkably gorgeous Conrad stepped out and handed Gianni a wad of Euros. "Tausend dank," he said, and waved Gianni away.

Gianni reluctantly walked off to the main villa, glancing back every now and then as if afraid to leave the baroness in the clutches of the barbarian Baron von Berg.

"I think he's in love," Conrad told her, and looked at her with sparkling eyes. "We all are."

Without warning, he kissed her full on the lips. She threw both arms around his neck and kissed him back passionately. She felt him lift her up like a groom his bride and carry her across the threshold into their suite, where he nudged the door shut behind them and set her down.

She was breathless as they stared at each other, each waiting for the other to break the mood with some glib remark to coolly reestablish the uncrossable cosmic chasm that fate had always thrown up between them.

It's always me, she thought. I'm always the one to push him away.

But she didn't want to push him away. She wanted him to do it, prayed to God that he would do it. And Conrad, who could read her soul like one of his glyphless mysteries of antiquity, obliged for her sake and not his.

"Show me yours and I'll show you mine," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

He reached up to her neck, his fingers caressing her skin ever so gently. She put her own hand to his. But then he yanked the Dei medallion off her neck, leaving a slight red burn line.

"Conrad!" she yelled, and gripped her throat while he dangled the medallion in front of her face, his eyes on fire.

"So what's Her Holiness of the Roman Catholic Church doing holding the face of Baal between her breasts?" he demanded.

"I know." She swallowed hard. "It's not the Tribute Penny of Jesus."

"No, it's a Shekel of Tyre. Just like one of those thirty goddamn pieces of silver Judas took to betray your Lord and Savior."

"No, Conrad," she gasped, trying to catch her breath. "It is one of the Judas coins."