Temple of the Gods

by Andy McDermott

  Scarber followed, coming closer to him. ‘There are two people. One of them is only interested in seeing your wife dead – you’re not even on his radar. It’s the other who has a personal grievance.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Victor Dalton.’

  The name sent a shock running through him. Victor Dalton – the ex-President of the United States. The man who two years earlier had tried to have Eddie and Nina killed to cover up his involvement in a conspiracy, and in return had been forced to resign from office in utter humiliation when a video of him having sex with Eddie’s ex-wife Sophia Blackwood hit the Internet.

  Which would explain his grudge, certainly.

  ‘Dalton?’ echoed Eddie, stunned.

  Scarber took her hand from the bullet wound. ‘Hell of a thing, huh, kiddo?’

  All kinds of questions sprang to his mind, but one was far and away at the head of the list. ‘So who’s the other per—’

  A flat snick, and Scarber’s hand suddenly slashed at his throat. He instinctively whipped up his gun arm to block it – then jumped back with a pained yell as something stabbed into his forearm. Before he could recover, another swipe knocked the Smith & Wesson from his hand with a clack of metal against metal.

  The former agent still had a trick up her sleeve – literally. A slender blade jutted out from beneath her wrist: a spring-loaded weapon strapped to her arm. She jabbed it at Eddie’s face again, forcing him to stumble back or be blinded.

  The approaching train was now much nearer, racing towards them at full speed, but Scarber’s focus was entirely on the fallen gun. She bent to retrieve it, then whirled and pointed it at Eddie—

  He drove a fearsome spin-kick into her stomach, sending her flying backwards – into the path of the oncoming train.

  The whump as its pointed prow hit her at a hundred and eighty miles per hour was audible even over the thunder of motors and the scream of displaced air. The shinkansen’s white nose suddenly became a bright red.

  Eddie dropped to the concrete, shielding his ears as the train blasted past. Even if the driver reacted instantly to the collision and slammed on the emergency brakes, it would still take a mile for the express to come to a stop. The moment the rearmost car passed, he hurried back to collect the bag, then ran for the end of the viaduct. With two bullet trains now halted and bodies littering the scene, a major police operation would soon begin, and he needed as big a head start as possible.

  Once he was clear, though, he knew his next step. He had to get back to the United States.

  And deal with Victor Dalton.

  11

  Rome

  Returning to New York via Italy hadn’t been Nina’s plan, but she had been left with more than enough time while waiting to deal with the Japanese authorities to think about the full implications of the events in the Takashi building.

  Foremost on her mind was her husband. Three months without even an attempt to communicate, then he appeared out of the blue? She didn’t know whether to be overjoyed or furious – though his accusing her of being in league with Stikes tipped her feelings a little towards the latter.

  Stikes’s presence was itself a concern. She was sure Takashi had lied about the mercenary’s being a mere delivery boy; he was involved with whatever was going on. As for what that might be, though . . .

  Could she believe Takashi’s claims about the goals of his mysterious organisation? That Stikes was connected to it at all made her doubt its true commitment to ending global conflict, for a start – as a gun for hire, his livelihood depended on that. But someone else was opposed enough to take action to stop him. Drastic action. The helicopter attack had been intended to kill her, Takashi and Stikes alike.

  And Eddie. Somebody wanted him dead too. But why? What was the connection?

  The statues were the key, she was sure.

  Takashi had known what to expect when the figures were brought together. But nothing Nina knew of suggested even remotely that the statues could use the planet’s own energy fields to counter the force of gravity – to say nothing of her extraordinary mental experience.

  Which meant that someone, somewhere, had information that outstripped even the IHA’s discoveries. She only knew one group that might fit the bill. And that was why she had come to Rome.

  ‘Dr Wilde,’ said Nicholas Popadopoulos, turning her name over in his mouth like a piece of slightly unpleasant food. She had dealt with the stooped old man before. The Brotherhood of Selasphoros possessed an enormous trove of ancient texts concerning Atlantis; the organisation’s purpose had been to suppress knowledge of the lost civilisation.

  It had done so by trying to kill anyone who got too close to the truth, which was why Popadopoulos’s antipathy was more than matched by Nina’s. She had been targeted, as had her parents. She had survived. They had not. The thought still caused a knot of anger to tighten within her.

  She tried to suppress it. Her life might now depend on something in the Brotherhood’s archives. ‘Mr Popadopoulos,’ she replied, voice studiedly neutral. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘And you,’ he said, less than convincingly. ‘This visit is unexpected, though. We have cooperated fully with the IHA in providing anything it requested, so why you felt the need to come here in person . . .’

  ‘Your definition of “full cooperation” isn’t quite the same as ours,’ Nina said with a thin smile.

  ‘We are doing everything asked of us!’ Popadopoulos’s resentment was clear in every word. ‘We are the only people who know everything in the archives. It would take outsiders years just to understand how it is catalogued. Perhaps you think you can do it without us?’

  Her smile turned colder. ‘I dunno, maybe we should try. You could have a nice long vacation . . . paid for by the state. What do you think?’

  He glowered at her through his little round spectacles. What was left of the Brotherhood after the battles leading to Atlantis’s discovery had been forced to open its records under threat of being held to account for the organisation’s past crimes. ‘I will see if things can be done more . . . expediently,’ he conceded.

  ‘Thank you. Although that isn’t actually why I decided to pop in.’

  ‘What? Then why are you here? Just to bully and harass us?’

  ‘No, I want some information. Expediently.’

  The old man was annoyed at having his words turned back at him. ‘What information?’

  ‘I want to know if you have anything in the archives about Nantalas.’

  ‘The priestess?’

  Nina arched an eyebrow. ‘Then I guess you do have something.’

  ‘She was an important figure prior to the sinking of Atlantis.’ He leaned thoughtfully back in his seat. ‘She claimed to have visions, I remember. Of war, usually, but that was the major occupation of the Atlanteans. She also claimed to have magic powers.’

  ‘These powers – they wouldn’t have been connected to three statues, by any chance?’

  Popadopoulos sat back up, surprised. ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘We excavated some of the texts from the Temple of Poseidon.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ His face tipped into a frown. ‘It would be nice to receive updates on the IHA’s progress in Atlantis. Anyone would think you did not trust us.’

  ‘Really,’ said Nina scathingly. ‘So what else do you know about the statues?’

  ‘It is many years since I last read the text, but I think they were how she received her visions. They were the keys to her powers . . . No, the powers were not actually hers. The statues were how she channelled them, but they came from something else, a stone . . . Wait, the sky stone, that is it.’

  ‘And what were these powers?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t remember. It was all magic, nonsense. I paid it no mind.’

  Nina fought to keep her frustration in check. ‘And you didn’t think it might be worth telling the IHA this? You must have known that we had two of the statues.’

  ‘We prov
ide exactly what is asked for,’ Popadopoulos told her. ‘Nothing less – and nothing more.’

  ‘Well, you might want to feel a bit more of the volunteer spirit in future,’ she snapped. ‘But in the meantime, I want to know everything about the statues. Even the stuff you think is nonsense.’

  ‘I told you, I would have to read the text again.’

  ‘Well, I’m not busy right now, and if you’ve got time to see me you can’t be either. So let’s go.’

  ‘You want to see the original text? In the archive?’ He appeared horrified by the suggestion.

  ‘Yep, pretty much.’

  ‘That was never part of the deal! It was agreed that the Brotherhood could maintain the secrecy of its archives.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn about your secrets. What I do give a damn about is that somebody else knows about the power of these statues – at least two groups of somebodies, in fact, and they’re already fighting over them. Did you see the news about that skyscraper in Tokyo?’

  ‘Yes, of course. They said it was attacked by a helicopter.’

  ‘I was in the penthouse!’ He regarded her in astonishment. ‘I had the statues, all three of them, in my hands. And something happened, something I didn’t understand – but something incredible. I need to know what it means. I think the answer’s in your archive.’

  Popadopoulos sat back again, deep in thought. At last, with a decidedly conflicted expression, he stood. ‘Very well, Dr Wilde. But these are exceptional circumstances, yes? I am not willing to have other members of the IHA “pop in”, as you say, whenever they want.’

  ‘Just show me what you’ve got on the statues and I’ll be out of here.’

  For the first time, he liked something she had said. ‘Come with me.’

  The Brotherhood’s activities in Rome were hidden behind the cover of a law firm, its offices within sight of the high walls of the Vatican. Popadopoulos led her through the narrow corridors to one particular door on the ground floor. ‘In here.’

  Nina eyed the interior dubiously. ‘Seriously?’ It was a closet containing shelves of cleaning products, a tiny barred window high on one wall.

  He sighed and entered, waving her inside. She squeezed into the cramped space as the Greek closed the door and reached for a light switch. Instead of flicking it, though, he took hold of the casing and gave it a half-turn. A click, a muted hum from somewhere below – and Nina gasped as the floor began a slow descent down a shaft of dark old bricks.

  Popadopoulos chuckled at her uneasiness. ‘Do you like our elevator?’

  ‘It’s, uh . . . different.’

  ‘It was installed over a hundred years ago. The Brotherhood has owned the building since it was built in 1785 – but the archives have been here for far longer. I hope you appreciate that I am actually giving you a very rare privilege,’ he went on. ‘The number of outsiders who have seen them in, oh, the past five hundred years can be counted on both hands. Even members of the Brotherhood were rarely allowed to enter if they were not involved with record-keeping.’

  The elevator stopped around thirty feet below street level. A passage led off to one side, dim bulbs strung along its length. Heavier-duty electrical cables ran along the walls. ‘Follow me,’ said Popadopoulos.

  After twenty yards the brickwork gave way to older and rougher stone. The tunnel continued ahead for some distance. Nina tried to get her bearings. ‘It’s a catacomb,’ she realised. ‘We’re going under the Vatican?’

  ‘Yes. The catacombs beneath the Holy See stretch for tens, maybe even hundreds of kilometres – they have never been fully mapped. These sections were sealed and donated to the Brotherhood in the ninth century by a cardinal who was also a supporter of the cause.’

  Nina was impressed. ‘Your own version of the Vatican Secret Archives.’

  ‘Yes – although our records contain material that even the Archivum Secretum does not.’

  ‘I’m guessing that the scope of your records is more limited, though.’

  ‘You would be surprised by the scope of our records,’ he said smugly. ‘But yes, Atlantis is its focus. The Atlantean empire, its rulers, its society . . . and the threat it poses.’

  ‘Posed, surely,’ Nina corrected. ‘Past tense. Unless you’re saying there are more genocidal nuts like the Frosts plotting to resurrect it?’

  ‘You were the one who was attacked over the statues,’ he pointed out. ‘But here we are.’ Ahead, the passage was blocked by a heavy steel door. Beside it was a keypad; Popadopulos, after making sure Nina couldn’t see over his shoulder, tapped in an entry code. The door rumbled open, bright lights shining behind it. The low hum of ventilation machinery became audible.

  Popadopoulos went through and called out in Italian. ‘The librarians may be deep in the archives,’ he added for Nina, before shouting again. ‘Agostino!’

  An echoing reply came from down one of the other tunnels leading from the large room. ‘He is on his way,’ said the Greek. Nina nodded, looking around while they waited. Two entire walls were taken up by the stacked wooden drawers of a card index system; while there was also a PC on a desk that apparently served the same function, she suspected from the contrast between the lovingly polished old hardwood and the rather dusty computer that the librarians preferred the traditional method of locating a specific document. The electrical cables branched out to power other pieces of equipment: air-conditioners, dehumidifiers, pumps, everything needed to keep conditions throughout the underground labyrinth as dry and stable as possible.

  After a minute, shuffling footsteps heralded the librarians’ arrival. Two men emerged from a tunnel – one an old, white-bearded man with a bulbous nose, behind him a somewhat overweight, shaggy-haired youth. The elder didn’t appear pleased to have been interrupted, and his look became one of outright hostility when he saw Nina. He snapped in Italian at Popadopoulos, who gave him a resigned placatory response before making introductions. ‘Dr Wilde, this is Agostino Belardinelli, chief archivist of the Brotherhood, and his assistant, Paolo Agnelli. Agostino, this is—’

  ‘I know who she is!’ Belardinelli said angrily, jabbing a gnarled finger at Nina. ‘You brought her in here? It is a, a . . .’ Another burst of outraged Italian as he mimed stabbing himself in the heart.

  ‘Agostino’s son was also a member of the Brotherhood,’ Popadopoulos told Nina awkwardly. ‘He, ah . . . lost his life in Brazil.’

  ‘Did he now,’ she said coldly. That meant Belardinelli’s son had been one of those trying to kill her and the team searching for a lost Atlantean outpost deep in the jungle.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Popadopoulos, ‘it would be best if we got this over with. Agostino, Dr Wilde needs to see everything concerning the Atlantean priestess Nantalas and the three statues that she said granted her powers.’

  That provoked another highly emotional outburst from the archivist. Popadopoulos listened with growing impatience, before finally cutting in. ‘Agostino! Once she has seen what she needs, she will leave, and then we can discuss this. But for now, let us find it as soon as possible, hmm?’

  Muttering to himself, Belardinelli crossed to one of the ranks of drawers. ‘Nantalas, Nantalas,’ he said, finger waving back and forth like a radar antenna. ‘She was mentioned in one of the Athenian annals. Now, was it Akakios, or . . .’

  Agnelli spoke for the first time. ‘It was Kallikrates,’ he said hesitantly. ‘One of the parchments in the fourteenth arcosolium.’

  ‘Kallikrates, yes.’ Belardinelli had evidently memorised the intricacies of the index, as he went to a particular drawer and flicked through the hundreds of cards within. Taking one out, he donned a pair of reading glasses and peered at it. ‘Ah, his ninth text. I thought so. And it is in the fourteenth arcosolium.’

  ‘Well done, Paolo,’ said Popadopoulos. ‘It seems we really do not need a computer after all.’

  ‘I, uh – I have been memorising the catacombs,’ said Agnelli.

  Nina wondered why he seemed so nervous ab
out the admission, but Belardinelli’s irritable words gave her an explanation. ‘Yes, he is always wandering off when I need him!’ He returned the card to the drawer, giving the computer a contemptuous glare. ‘Still, at least he is learning for himself. Better than being told the answer by a machine. I never use it myself. If God had meant machines to think for us, why give us brains?’ He jabbed distastefully at the mouse on the left of the keyboard.

  ‘The text?’ prompted Popadopoulos.

  The old man grunted in annoyance. ‘Down here.’

  He led the others into one of the tunnels. Unlike the route from the elevator, these were more than mere access passages. Carved into the walls were long, low niches, stacked as many as four high. Loculi, Nina knew: burial nooks, in which the ancient Christians had placed the bodies of their dead.

  There were no corpses present now, to her relief. Instead, the niches were home to shelves holding wood and metal boxes, carefully wrapped bundles of thick cloth, sealed glass tubes containing rolled papers and parchments. A great repository of ancient knowledge.

  Stolen knowledge. Not even famous historical names had been safe from the Brotherhood’s attentions; one of the items in the archive had been Hermocrates, the lost dialogue of the Greek philosopher Plato. She wondered what secrets were contained in the documents she passed – and how many people had been killed for them.

  But there were more important issues than her disgust at the Brotherhood. They went deeper into the catacombs, Belardinelli turning without hesitation at each junction to lead them to their destination. ‘Here,’ he said, stopping at a larger, arched niche, reliefs of figures and Latin text carved into the stonework. ‘The fourteenth arcosolium.’

  Within the ornate burial nook was a tall grid of shelves, upon which were dozens of cloth-wrapped objects. Books, but very large ones; Nina had seen a similar example when Popadopoulos brought the original text of Hermocrates to her in New York. The ‘pages’ were actually sheets of glass, the fragile parchments carefully preserved between them and the whole thing bound together by metal.