The Atlantis Revelation

by Thomas Greanias

  The two were already dead by the time Midas had finished what passed for a eulogy. A minute later, he emerged from the chamber. The cyanide dispersed into the air, and two crewmen coughed. He left them to dispose of the bodies and took an elevator topside to the deck.

  As he stepped into the sunlight and blinked, he reached for the sunglasses in his shirt pocket and glanced at his hand, which trembled slightly. It was the only visible neurological damage caused by his long-term exposure to cyanide poisoning as a child. So far.

  He enjoyed watching death—it made him feel so alive. Like the salt that he now smelled in the sea air. Or the sight of Mercedes sunning topless in her chaise longue that he drank in on the foredeck. He made himself a vodka martini and stretched out next to her golden body, looking forward to tonight’s party on Corfu and letting all thoughts of Nazi submarines and American archaeologists fade away like a bad late-night movie.

  4

  Conrad Yeats stared at the skull of SS General Ludwig von Berg inside his suite at the Andros Palace Hotel in Corfu town overlooking Garitsa Bay. The balcony doors were open wide, and a gentle early-evening breeze blew in, carrying with it music from the town green below.

  He took another swig from his bottle of seven-star Metaxa brandy. His leg smarted from the harpoon dart, and his mind still reeled from the events of the morning: the Flammenschwert, the loss of Stavros and the crew, and the image of Serena Serghetti filling what he’d thought were his dying moments.

  There was a knock at the door. Conrad put down his Metaxa, picked up a 9mm Glock from under the sofa pillow next to him, and stood up. He moved to the door and looked through the peephole.

  It was Andros. Conrad opened the door, and his friend walked in. Two big security types with earpieces and shoulder holsters were posted outside.

  “We have a problem,” said Andros, closing the door behind him.

  Chris Andros III, barely thirty, was always worried. A billionaire shipping heir, Andros had squandered several years after Harvard Business School dating American starlets and hotel heiresses from Paris Hilton to Ivanka Trump. Now a consummate international businessman, he was bent on making up for lost time and owned the Andros Palace Hotel, along with a string of high-end boutique hotels around the Mediterranean and the Middle East. It was Andros who had helped Conrad find the Nausicaa. Andros claimed the sub was named after his grandmother, who, as a young nurse in Nazi-occupied Greece, had been forced to help the Baron of the Black Order recover from his gunshot wound to the head.

  “Let me guess,” Conrad said. “That superyacht I saw belongs to Sir Roman Midas, and your friends at the airstrip have no idea what was on that private jet of his that took off today or where it was going.”

  Andros nodded and saw the laptop computer Conrad had used for his research sitting at the bar, its screen filled with news and images of Midas. He seemed about to say something else when he saw the skull of SS General Ludwig von Berg on the table. “That’s him?”

  “Silver plate and all.”

  Andros walked over and studied the skull and its metallic dome. He made the sign of the cross. “I cannot tell you how many nightmares this baron gave me growing up. My parents told me stories about what happened to those who crossed the baron—or children who didn’t listen to their parents. Being a naughty boy myself, I had nightmares of his skull floating in the air and hounding me to Hades.”

  Conrad said, “I didn’t find a metal briefcase with any papers.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Andros said. “Von Berg always liked to say—”

  “‘It’s all in my head,’” Conrad said, completing the sentence. “I know. But what, exactly?”

  Andros shrugged. “At least you confirmed he’s dead.”

  “Along with Stavros and the rest of the crew of your boat,” Conrad said. “All at the hands of Sir Roman Midas. So now we plot revenge. Isn’t that what you Greeks do?”

  A cloud formed over Andros’s face. “I’m but a humble billionaire, my friend, and barely that. Roman Midas is that many times over, and far more powerful. Especially if he has this weapon you say he took from the Nausicaa. Look outside.” He walked out to the open balcony.

  “I saw it,” said Conrad, limping over with the Metaxa and looking out at Garitsa Bay.

  To their right the sun was setting behind the old town, its colonnaded houses dating back to the island’s days under British rule. To their left the stars were rising above the old Venetian fortifications.

  “Look closely,” said Andros.

  Conrad set the bottle of Metaxa on the balustrade and picked up a pair of Zeiss binoculars. Beyond the stone fortifications of the Old Fort, the superyacht Midas was anchored in the bay, with small boats ferrying well-dressed men and barely dressed women to and from shore.

  “Looks like he’s celebrating his catch of the day,” Conrad said. “Any way I can get a closer look?”

  “Not a chance. Greek coast guard boats are maintaining a perimeter. And the island is crawling with security.”

  “Why’s that?” Conrad swept the deck with the glasses and noticed the chopper had returned.

  Andros said, “The Bilderberg Group is holding their annual conference at the Achillion.”

  Conrad looked at the ornate palace atop a hill opposite the bay.

  “Ironically, it was Baron von Berg’s headquarters during the war,” Andros told him. “Built by the empress of Austria and later bought by Kaiser Wilhelm II of Bavaria as a winter retreat. It’s a fanciful place, with whimsical gardens and statues of Greek gods all over the place. I deflowered many a girl there myself.”

  “What’s the structure next to the palace?”

  “The House of the Knights,” Andros said. “The kaiser built it to house his battalions. There are nice stables, too, for the kaiser’s horses. For all its romance, the Achillion has a long history of military staging. It was strafed by Allied planes in 1943 during the baron’s stay and then turned into a hospital after the war. Later, it became a casino featured in a James Bond movie.”

  “And now?”

  “It’s a museum, used on occasion as a spectacular backdrop for meetings of the G7 nations, the European Union, and apparently, the Bilderberg Group.”

  The Bilderbergers. Conrad knew a few of them, including his late father, who had attended a couple of the conferences back in the 1990s when he was acting head of the Pentagon’s DARPA research and development agency.

  Officially, the Bilderberg Group brought together European and American royalty in the form of heads of state, central banks, and multinational corporations to freely discuss the events of the day away from the glare of the press. Unofficially, conspiracy buffs suspected the Bilderbergers set the world’s agenda, orchestrating wars and global financial panics at will to advance some totalitarian one-world government that would arise from the ashes.

  “I’m thinking Midas is a member of the Alignment,” Conrad told Andros.

  Andros looked at Conrad as if he were talking about Atlantis, which in a way he was, as the Alignment considered themselves to be the custodians of the lost civilization’s mysteries. “I’ll have the doctor check the oxygen in your blood again.”

  “The Bilderberg Group is the closest real-world equivalent to the Alignment that I know of,” Conrad said. “If there are any Alignment members left on the planet, it stands to reason that at least a few of them would be members of the Bilderbergers and use the group as a proxy to advance the Alignment’s agenda.”

  “Just as the Alignment used the Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Knights Templar, Freemasons, USA, and Third Reich?” Andros said, holding up the half-empty bottle of Metaxa with a knowing smile.

  Conrad put down the Zeiss glasses and looked Andros in the eye. “I think I know a way into the party tonight.”

  Andros frowned. “Who is she?”

  “According to Google, she’s his latest girlfriend, Mercedes Le Roche.”

  “Of Le Roche Media Generale?”

  Con
rad nodded. “Her father,” he said. “She used to be my producer on Ancient Riddles.”

  “You’re crazy,” Andros said. “Put this insane idea out of your head. Get off the island before Midas figures out you survived. Get out while you still can.”

  “I have to find out what Midas intends to do with that weapon,” Conrad said.

  “Maybe sell it?”

  “He doesn’t need the money. He’s Midas.”

  “True,” said Andros. “You say this Flammenschwert is Greek fire?”

  “No, you said it’s Greek fire. I said it’s a weapon that turns water to fire.”

  “Greek fire,” Andros repeated. “But we Greeks have always called it liquid or artificial fire. We used it to repel the Muslim Arabs at the first and second Sieges of Constantinople in the sixth and seventh centuries. That’s how Europe survived Islam for over a thousand years.”

  “But how did Greek fire work?”

  “To this day, nobody really knows,” Andros said. “The ingredients and manufacturing process were closely guarded military secrets. The emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus even warned his son in a book to never give away three things to a foreigner: a crown; the hand of a Greek princess; and the secret of liquid fire. All we know is that Greek fire could burn on water and was extremely difficult to extinguish. The sight of it alone was enough to demoralize the enemy. My father always suspected that it was petroleum-based and spiked with an early form of napalm.”

  “Maybe,” Conrad said. “But I think that the petroleum jelly your forefathers used was a crude copy of something far more devastating. Something that used a uranium-like ore that could actually consume water like oxygen, not just burn on its surface. Where did you say Greek fire came from?”

  “I didn’t,” Andros said. “But tradition says it was cooked up by chemists in Constantinople, who inherited the discoveries of the ancient Alexandrian chemical school.”

  Conrad nodded. “Who inherited the discoveries of the Atlantean school. Only the Alexandrians didn’t have access to Oreichalkos.”

  “Oreichalkos?” Andros looked mystified.

  “The mysterious ore or ‘shining metal’ mined by the people of Atlantis, according to your ancient philosopher Plato,” Conrad said. “Plato called it ‘mountain copper.’ He described it as a pure, almost supernatural alloy that sparkled like fire. I’ve seen it before.”

  “In Antarctica,” Andros said with condescension. “Pish. Atlantis was the Greek island of Santorini. I have a hotel there.”

  “Let’s not get into that debate now,” Conrad said. “The point is that this technology is older than mere Greek fire. I witnessed what a speck of it can do. I think Midas could fry oceans with it. But which one?”

  “My grandfather said Hitler wanted to use it in the Mediterranean,” Andros said. “The Nazis wanted to protect Fortress Europe with a moat of fire and burn the warships of the Allied invasion fleet before they could land. Von Berg, however, wanted to use it to dry up the Mediterranean and proclaim its one million square miles as the new Atlantis.”

  “Too big, I think, and this is a new century.” Conrad shook his head. “Where else in today’s world?”

  “Where it can do the most damage,” said Andros confidently. “The Persian Gulf.”

  Conrad paused. Here Andros, whose family’s tankers brought oil to and from the Persian Gulf, knew what he was talking about. “Go on.”

  “Midas is in deep with the Russians, and they’re running out of production. Best way to boost prices is to cut supply—preferably somebody else’s. Especially when the Americans depend on it. What better way to disrupt oil shipments through the Persian Gulf than to set it on fire? Who knows how long it would burn with this weapon?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “I think so,” said Andros. “So now you tell your friends at the Pentagon and call it a day.”

  “Or you get me into the Bilderberg bash.”

  Andros looked at the imposing Achillion on the hilltop beyond the bay. “My money reaches the Greek police. But the Bilderbergers bring their own security. Even I can’t get into that club.”

  “They publish their guest lists. Maybe I can go as somebody else before they show up. Say hello to Mercedes, get something out of her before Midas knows what’s going on.”

  “And kills you?”

  “In front of all the other Bilderbergers? No. I know guys like Midas. Appearances and respectability are paramount. He won’t lay a finger on me in front of Europe’s rich and powerful.”

  “No, he’ll simply kill you as soon as you step foot out of the palace.”

  Conrad studied Andros. “What’s going on? I say Midas, and your knees start shaking. The guy blows up your boat, kills your crew, and almost kills me, your good friend. Odysseus would have had three arrows in this guy’s throat by now.”

  Andros, in turn, studied him. “You were not always so vengeful. I want to meet the woman who hurt you so badly. So I can introduce her to my rival shipowners in Athens.”

  Conrad looked out at the lush green esplanade of Corfu town and thought of Serena. “When you find her, let me know. Because she’s not taking my calls.”

  “Forget her,” Andros said. “How did you leave things with Mercedes?”

  Conrad said nothing.

  “I thought so,” said Andros. “Why should she tell you anything about Midas or his operations? More important, what makes you think Midas would have told her anything of value that she could pass on to you? My rule is the less a woman knows, the better.”

  “Which explains the women you go out with,” Conrad said. “Look at that boat he named after himself. You know that the richer a man gets, the smarter he thinks he is. Midas is an arrogant bastard, and I’m willing to bet that in his hubris, he’s let Mercedes see more about his operations than he’s realized.”

  “Are you willing to bet your life?”

  “I did that a long time ago. Midas took his shot this morning. And I’m still here.”

  “So is he, my friend. And he has an inexhaustible supply of henchmen and money. You are only one man.”

  Conrad poured some of the brandy into a glass, gave it to Andros, and then held up his bottle in a toast. “What about my buddy the Greek tycoon, who is going to get me into that Bilderberg party tonight?”

  5

  There were lights and music coming from the Achillion Palace that evening, but no crowds of onlookers, no paparazzi to snap photos as the guests stepped out of their limousines and entered the palace. And the glamour quotient took a distant backseat to the power quotient. Everything was understated and discreet, save for the music: Coldplay live in concert. Actually, it struck Conrad as odd—a bit of contemporary fizz thrown on a very old-world gathering.

  Conrad sat in the backseat of his limousine in an Armani tuxedo as Andros played the part of his driver, nudging the sedan forward in the line of black chariots at the main gate where U.S. Marines stood.

  Andros, whom Conrad had never seen more nervous, pressed a button to unlock the trunk and then lowered his window for the Marines and spoke in Greek. “His Royal Highness Crown Prince Pavlos.”

  One of the guards flashed a light at the rear passenger window as Conrad lowered it for them to get a better look at his impression of the Greek royal. The guard matched the name and face to the computerized clipboard while three others with extended mirror plates examined the underside of the sedan and the trunk. Conrad’s resemblance to Pavlos was close enough for the Marine, who got the all-clear from the bomb squad and waved the limousine through.

  Andros let out a sigh of relief as they rolled down the drive to the entrance of the palace and looked up in the rearview mirror. “This was a bad idea.”

  “We got through the gate, didn’t we?”

  “Only because U.S. Marines don’t know what Pavlos really looks like up close and in person. His family isn’t even of Greek descent. The monarchy was originally imposed on Greece by the Bavarian ancestors of these Bilderber
gers. Trust me, the cabinet-level Greeks and Evzoni at the entrance will know on sight that you’re an impostor.”

  Conrad knew that Andros was referring to the Greek security detail dead ahead. They were members of Greece’s elite ceremonial presidential guard who, besides guarding the Hellenic Parliament and Presidential Mansion in Athens, guarded the reception of foreign dignitaries. Dressed in traditional light infantry uniforms, they wore scarlet garrison caps with long black tassels and red leather clogs with black pompons.

  “They’re just for show, Andros. Men in kilts.”

  “And carrying M1 Garand semiautomatic battle rifles with bayonets.”

  As they pulled up to the columned facade of the palace, Conrad saw four members of the Bilderbergers on the front steps welcoming guests: Her Majesty Queen Beatrice of the Netherlands; His Royal Highness Prince Phillipe of Belgium; Microsoft founder and the world’s richest man, William Gates III; and a man Andros said was Greece’s minister of finance.

  Andros said, “We’re cooked.”

  “Just remember, buddy. You’re richer than half of them and better than the other half.”

  Andros stopped the limousine, and an Evzoni opened Conrad’s door as another ceremonial guard announced his arrival in English. “Dr. Conrad Yeats, USA.”

  They knew all along it was me, he thought with a start.

  He glanced back at Andros, but the Evzoni had already waved off the limousine to make room for the next arrival, leaving Conrad alone to face a smiling Queen Beatrice, who coldly shook his hand.

  “So good to meet you, Dr. Yeats. I’m so glad you could come at the last minute as a substitute for Dr. Hawass from Cairo. We’re looking forward to hearing your perspectives on archaeology and the geopolitics of the Near East.”

  “My pleasure.” Conrad smoothly shook hands with Prince Phillipe and then Bill Gates. He knew he was a fool to have believed he ever would have slipped anything past these people. They had let him know it and were about to make him an exhibit for public viewing at their little gathering.