The Atlantis revelation

7

Serena stood by the bronze statue of the dying Achilles, having traded her parka in the Arctic for a backless Vera Wang. To her left was Roman Midas, the man she had come to meet, representing the Bilderbergers' back channel to Russia. To her right was General Michael Gellar of Israel. Neither man was particularly pleased with the other, as Gellar had essentially accused Midas of providing the uranium for a Russian-built nuclear reactor that Israeli jets had bombed the month before. Now the mullahs in Tehran were threatening to attack Israel through their Palestinian proxies in Gaza and the West Bank.

"Any direct attack on Jerusalem or Tel Aviv will invite a devastating response on Tehran," said Gellar, his hawklike, craggy face looking like it had been cut from the rocks of Masada. "Israel has a right to exist and to defend herself."

Serena eyed Midas as he calmly sipped his vodka and nodded. She had been invited by the Bilderbergers as a Vatican back channel between both of them in hopes of averting the latest Middle East crisis. But she also wanted to get Midas alone to press him about his mining in the Arctic.

"As you know, General Gellar, I'm a Russian expatriate often at odds with my homeland." Midas affected an odd British accent that Serena thought made him sound like a roadie with Coldplay. "I can vouch from personal experience that these are thugs running Russia now. The government itself is a mafia-like criminal organization. They are looking for any pretext to punish Israel through their Arab allies. If you attack Tehran, you will be handing them that pretext. And then what are you going to do? Nuke Moscow?"

"If our existence as a state is threatened, of course," Gellar said.

"Then Russia attacks America, and we have Armageddon," Midas said. "No more oil. And I'm out of business." He was trying to make a joke out of it, and Gellar grudgingly cracked a half-smile.

Seeing an opening, Serena made her move. "I hear there's always oil in the Arctic," she said, looking at Midas.

"I think the ice would have something to say about that," he said. "But I'd be there in a second if we could drill and ship. It would be the fifth-largest field of oil in the world."

"But what about the damage to the environment?" she asked.

"Moot point," he said. "By the time we ever drilled the Arctic seabed, the ice cap would have already melted completely, and we'd be drilling to fuel the rebuilding of whatever was left after the global floods." As an afterthought, he added: "Global warming is a tragedy."

"Nothing that fossil fuel consumption in the form of oil has anything to do with, I suppose?"

Midas smiled and pushed the conversation back at her. "That medallion," he said, noticing the ancient Roman coin that dangled just above her gown's sequined neckline. "What is it?"

"Oh, it's a coin from the time of Jesus," she said, touching it with her fingers. The medallion designated her status as the head of the Roman Catholic Church's ancient society Dominus Dei, which had started among the Christian slaves in Caesar's household near the end of the first century. It was also a sign, she was convinced, that as head of the Dei, she was one of the Alignment's legendary Council of Thirty. She had begun to be more public in her display of the medallion in an effort to ferret out the faces of others in the council. "My order's tradition says that Jesus held it up when He told His followers to give to God what is God's and to Caesar what is Caesar's."

General Gellar said somewhat dubiously, "That's supposed to be the actual coin?"

"You know some traditions," she said, smiling. "There are enough pieces of the cross for sale at churches in Jerusalem to build Noah's ark."

Gellar nodded wanly.

So did Midas. "Jesus suffered terribly at the hands of the Jews."

Oh God, Serena thought, watching for a sign of outrage on Gellar's face, but there was none. His face was a craggy slab of stone. But then Gellar had fought anti-Semitism from the Nazis, Russians, Europeans, Arabs, and regrettably, even the Church his entire life. He had mastered the art of overlooking the small offenses and forgoing the small battles so long as he won the war. And he had never lost one.

Midas, meanwhile, seemed delighted with the direction the conversation had taken and asked with feigned earnestness, "Tell me, Sister Serghetti, what is Caesar's and what is God's?"

Serena sighed inside, having realized she was foolish to believe Midas would be a gusher of information about his Arctic expeditions. "Basically, Jesus said to pay our taxes but give God our hearts."

"See, this is the problem with the world's monotheistic religions," Midas said quite passionately. "And I include the Russian Orthodox Church. They demand people's hearts. Then they demand people's hands. Then wars start. The world would be better off without religion."

"Wars rarely start over religion," she said diplomatically. "Usually, they start over something two or more parties want."

"Like land?" Midas asked.

"Or oil?" Gellar echoed.

"Yes," said Serena. "They simply use the cloak of religion to disguise their naked ambitions."

"Then let's remove the masks and solve the problem. Like I am doing. By creating more oil."

All at once Midas had made himself and technology the uniter of the world and Serena and her presumably backward faith its divider.

"Technology is no cure for evil, suffering, or death," she reminded Midas. "It is but a tool in the hands of fallen men and women. It cannot redeem the human heart or reconcile the peoples of the earth."

At that the blood drained from Midas's face, as if he had seen a ghost, and the hair on the back of Serena's neck stood on end even before a familiar voice behind her said, "Gee, Sister, how does reconciliation happen?"

Slowly, Serena turned to see Conrad Yeats standing before her in an elegant tuxedo, holding a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. She blinked and stared at him. There was a smile on his lips but hatred in his eyes. She had no idea what he was doing there, only that with Conrad Yeats, there was no telling what he would do, and she was genuinely frightened.

"Dr. Yeats," she faltered. "I didn't know you were a Bilderberger."

"Oh, they'll let anyone join these days," he said, looking at Midas before locking his hazel eyes on her. "So you just forgive and forget?"

There was a pregnant pause, and Serena could feel his gaze on her, along with everybody else's. Except for Midas. His ice-blue eyes, wide with shock, stared at Conrad in disbelief, and in that split second she grasped that Midas had thought Conrad was dead.

"Forgiveness isn't the same as reconciliation," she answered, sounding detached even though her heart was racing faster than her head. "You can forgive someone, like a dead parent, without resuming the relationship. Reconciliation, however, is a two-way street."

"Interesting," said Conrad. "Go on."

"Well," she said, pursing her lips. "The offending party first must show remorse and ask for forgiveness."

"And then?"

"Next the offending party must pay some kind of restitution. After he met Jesus, the tax collector Zacchaeus repaid everybody he ripped off four times over to show his remorse."

"Sounds good to me," Conrad said, puffing on his cigar. "Is that it?"

"No," she said. "Last, the offending party must show a real desire to restore the relationship. That takes trust. And trust takes time."

Conrad nodded and blew a circle of smoke into the air. "What if the offending party doesn't give a rip or return your calls?"

Serena took a deep breath, aware that Midas and Gellar were gone and the circle had broken up, leaving her alone with Conrad, who was ruining everything. "Then you should forgive them but not resume the relationship in hopes of reconciliation."

Conrad looked around and acknowledged that they were speaking privately. "Thanks for clearing that up, Serena. I thought I had just one reason to hate you for the rest of my life after you stole from me and then ditched me in D.C. But you keep giving me more."

"What are you doing here, Conrad?"

"I was going to ask you that very question," he shot back. "I thought Jesus hung out with the poor, the oppressed, the sick. Not the rich and powerful."

"It's not like that, Conrad."

"Then enlighten me, please."

She told him. "I think Midas is helping the Russians mine the Arctic. I want to stop them."

"Interesting," Conrad said. "Midas tried to kill me this morning."

"Really?" she said, hiding her concern. That meant both Midas and Conrad knew something she didn't. It had to be something terrible to bring together two such extreme men in her life. "I hope he has a ticket. The line seems to get longer each year."

"Lucky you," he said, looking over her shoulder. "It looks like my number is up."

At that moment Sir Midas's girlfriend, Mercedes, waved and headed toward them with a smile. "Conrad!" she called out.

Serena whispered into Conrad's ear: "Squeeze her for information. She might confess some things to you that she wouldn't to a nun."

He looked at her with contempt. "You want me to sleep with her because your vows keep you from sleeping with Midas?"

"Something like that," she said. "You were going to anyway, weren't you?"

The look in his eyes told her that she had hurt him, and she hated herself for it. But it was better than him harboring any hope for her, as much as she was dying to be with him. Because there wasn't any hope as long as the Alignment lived.

"You're just a cast-iron bitch with a crucifix, aren't you?" he said.

The words pierced Serena's heart as Mercedes arrived, but she forced a smile.

"Professor Yeats!" Mercedes said, giving him two air kisses on each cheek.

Serena said innocently, "I forgot you two worked together."

"Truth be told, Professor Yeats worked for me until he didn't work out at all," Mercedes said, and gave her a wicked wink. "Sister Serghetti, if you'll excuse us, I'm going to have to take the professor away and spread him around."

Serena wanted to reach out and grab Conrad's arm to keep him from walking away with the woman. But she could only nod politely as she stood by herself next to the statue of the dying Achilles.