Descendant: A Mira Raiden Adventure (Dark Trinity Book 2)

by Sean Ellis

  “Mr. Atlas, please do not insult my intelligence. Your facility was destroyed by the American government, in retaliation for your own assault on the Los Alamos National Laboratories. My government is, understandably, concerned about how this proposed partnership might be perceived, particularly by the Americans. They might, erroneously, conclude that you were acting with our support and approval.”

  Atlas pursed his lips together, perhaps realizing that his situation would not improve with further protestations of innocence.

  Xu smiled and took another sip of tea. “Coincidence. It is an interesting concept; two significant events occurring at almost the same time, yet apparently without any relationship. My superstitious ancestors did not believe in it either, though for quite different reasons; spirits and demons, cause and effect on a cosmic scale. I am skeptical because, quite frankly, my experience tells me that coincidences do not occur. There is always a relationship.

  “Consider for a moment two seemingly unrelated events. First, we have the American raid on your Libyan facility, where I think it’s safe to assume that they recovered the item that you took from Los Alamos.”

  Atlas started visibly at that statement. Interesting, thought Xu. Is he surprised to learn that the Americans had recovered their stolen property, or surprised that I know of it? The deputy minister pretended not to notice. “A few days later, three people walk into the White House for an unauthorized visit with the president. Two of them are members of the US Navy Special Warfare Group—almost certainly part of the team that returned from Libya. The third is the woman who reputedly discovered Atlantis last year, along with the artifact that everyone remains so interested in.”

  The color drained from Atlas’ face, confirming Xu’s suspicion that the man knew far more than he was admitting. Xu wasn’t as interested in learning Atlas’ secrets as he was in turning that information into power. “No one knows what was said in that meeting, but shortly thereafter the president began calling her counterparts all around the world, asking them to help her mount a historical summit meeting for the leaders of the great religious faiths of the world.

  “China is very tolerant toward those who wish to practice traditionally accepted religions, though the majority of our people have evolved beyond such superstitions. We are rightly concerned that the voice and opinions of the Chinese people will not be heard in this interfaith meeting, a meeting that might well have a profound effect on global policy. We are also troubled by the inclusion of the Dalai Lama, who is more a political agitator than a spiritual leader.”

  Xu held up a hand as if to stop himself from going off on a tangent. “I spoke of coincidences that I cannot accept as such. There is a connection between what happened in Libya, this artifact from Atlantis, and the president’s sudden urge to unite the world religions. Do you deny it?”

  The other man heaved a miserable sigh, as if Xu’s words had confirmed some deep-seated fear, and shook his head.

  The deputy minister fixed his guest with a piercing stare. “I believe there is an opportunity here, for you and for the People’s Republic of China, but there can be no secrets between us. You must tell me everything you know.”

  Atlas stared at the tabletop for several long seconds before raising his head to meet Xu’s gaze. “It’s much worse than you think.”

  24.

  New York City

  She could sense his approach, faint at first, but like a whistling kettle, the sensation grew in intensity until it was almost unbearable. That was the moment at which Michelangelo DiLorenzo burst from the main entrance to the NYPD 20th Precinct headquarters and saw her.

  “Mira!” He rushed toward her, his face alight with the unrestrained joy of a reunion that he had clearly not been expecting…and then he stopped.

  The change was as abrupt as a balloon popping. He skidded to a stop in front of her. His arms, which had a moment before been outstretched in preparation to hug her, dropped to his sides. The smile was still there, but there was something else in his eyes.

  “Hello, Mike.”

  He shook his head. “I thought….”

  “I know.”

  The meeting was going about as badly as she had expected it would.

  The handsome, dark-haired detective looked a lot better than she remembered, though in fairness, when she’d last seen him, he had only just awakened after several days in a sort of psychic bondage to find himself in the middle of a battle with mercenaries, ancient automatons, a pack of abominable snowmen, and a titanic monster created by the Trinity. Still, notwithstanding those qualifiers, he looked good; very good.

  “What happened?”

  She took a breath, and then shut up the emotions that seeing him—hell, that just thinking about him—had brought to the surface. “I…can’t really talk about it. Not yet anyway. You’ve got to believe me, keeping quiet this long...it wasn’t my idea.”

  He nodded slowly, comprehending but clearly not understanding, and then raised his arms, guiltily renewing the offer of an embrace. “But you’re here now, right?”

  She stepped in and let him enfold her. It felt good to be close to him, but she could tell he was holding back.

  Maybe he’s found someone else.

  It was a fleeting thought, but for an instant, she felt a strange kind of relief at the idea. If he had moved on, then she maybe she could, too. Then, just as quickly, the thought gave her a pang. She wasn’t ready to give him up after all, and even though that made what she was about to do almost impossibly difficult, it also gave her a measure of hope where she’d thought there was none left to be had.

  He released her after a polite squeeze and then, with nothing that could be mistaken for reluctance, held her at arm’s length. “You look….”

  He ended the sentence with an eager, but nevertheless ambiguous nod, which wasn’t, Mira thought, far from the truth.

  The new clothes were a definite improvement. She now wore a pair of charcoal gray cargo pants and a long-sleeve knit top of creamy jade. She had demanded a spa day before leaving DC, much to Booker’s annoyance, but damn it, she’d been locked up for four months; at the very least, she deserved a few hours of personal time. The French manicure looked rather nice, though her nails were a bit too short to completely pull it off. She’d even splurged on make-up, just some eye-liner, mascara and a couple different shades of lipstick.

  Yet, those cosmetic touches couldn’t mask the more dramatic changes that had been wrought on her physically and emotionally. Atlas had seen to her basic nutritional needs, but her diet had been subsistence fare, and her self-imposed regime of calisthenics had transformed her toned musculature into a hard leanness that bordered on being severe. She was also pale from months of sequestration, and her hair, normally sun-faded to a dark coppery auburn, was now almost an indifferent brown.

  How did she look? The person that now looked back at her from the mirror was not the person she remembered being. Her reflection couldn’t answer the question of how deep those changes went.

  “Mike, I wish this were a social visit, but the truth is that we are here about the Trinity.”

  “We?”

  DiLorenzo’s focus drew back to take in the rest of the scene. His gaze immediately fell on Booker, still wearing blue jeans and leather, casually sitting on the front fender of their rental car. The SEAL gave a polite nod, and then reached out to accept DiLorenzo’s proffered hand.

  Mira could sense the testosterone-fueled grip-crushing contest in the moments that followed, but neither man so much as winced for the duration.

  Booker introduced himself first, giving just his name and no other information about himself. “I’ve heard a lot about you, detective.”

  “Wish I could say the same for you, Mr. Booker.” DiLorenzo flashed a look at Mira that wasn’t merely accusatory, but almost wounded. She frowned, realizing only then—guiltily, stupidly—what he was thinking, but before she could even find words to explain, he was speaking again. “So, the Trinity again? So
rry, it’s kind of short notice; I’m not sure that I can help out this time.”

  Even though he was smiling, the words were abrupt, rife with subtext, yet she couldn’t tell if what he really wanted was for her to beg him to help, or if this was his way of effectively saying, ‘You can’t dump me, I’m dumping you.’

  “I understand,” she answered, trying to feign indifference. “Actually, what we…what I’m looking for, is hopefully right here in the city.”

  “Go on.”

  “I need to see Walter Aimes’ personal effects.”

  DiLorenzo nodded slowly, the look in his eyes changing from injury to something more like regret. “Rachel Aimes was his only next of kin. Officially, the investigation into his…ah, murder, is closed, so the state saw no reason to hang on to any of it. His stuff was sold at auction about a month ago.”

  “I’ll need a list of the buyers then.”

  “What exactly is it you’re looking for? I searched through everything. There weren’t any artifacts or relics or anything like that.”

  “I seem to recall that he had a lot of books. I’m hoping one of those will help me figure out where he found the pieces of the Trinity.”

  DiLorenzo was immediately suspicious. “You already know where he found them.”

  “I know where those cities were ten thousand years ago. I need to know where to look for them today.”

  “So you’re off to find another lost city?”

  She gave a weary sigh. “Mike, this wasn’t my idea, but yes, it’s the job I’ve been given and it’s important. So, can you tell me who bought Walter’s books?”

  “Yeah, I can help you with that.”

  Mira wasn’t at all surprised to learn that Walter Aimes’ personal library had been purchased by a single buyer—the American Museum of Natural History—or that the man nominally in charge of the collection was Jonathan Overby. Although she didn’t know the full details of the relationship the two men shared, she knew that there was a long history between them. Aimes and Overby had worked with Mira in making the Treasures of Lost Atlantis exhibit a reality, and the latter had been devastated by the tragic assassination that marred its opening. She wondered if Overby knew the truth about Aimes—who he really had been, and how he had nearly destroyed the world with his hunger for revenge.

  What did come as a surprise however was the fact that DiLorenzo had a swipe card allowing him access to the museum’s employee entrance and a key to the locked storage area where Aimes’ books were kept.

  “After I got back,” he explained as they entered the room, “I remembered all those crazy books about lost cities that we found in his apartment, and I realized that I actually had the answers those people were just guessing at.”

  He gestured to a bookshelf containing several dozen volumes, all displayed spine out. The mosaic of inconsistent sizes, perfect paperback bindings, lurid colors and block letter titles hinted at the less than academic nature of the collection.

  “I knew the truth about Atlantis and all those other places. At first, I think I was just curious to know what they got right. Then I discovered the other books.” He pointed to the bottom shelf, which held several leather bound volumes with no markings on the displayed spines. “The books Aimes wrote for himself.”

  “Then he did keep notes on his discoveries.” Mira felt a surge of anticipation and knelt to inspect the hand written journals.

  Booker, who had been unusually quiet since meeting the detective, idly ran a fingertip along the books on the uppermost shelf. He stopped when he saw one with the word “Shambala” in the title and teased it out of the row.

  “Yes and no,” DiLorenzo replied in a reserved tone. “You’ll see what I mean in the first one.”

  Mira pulled out the journal and flipped it open to reveal lines of spidery cursive letters. The first page began with a date “24 July, 1943” and the opening paragraph explained the detective’s cryptic comment:

  The German has taught me a valuable, if bitter lesson. When I delivered the Shambala Ring to him, he demanded that I also hand over my personal record of the expedition. Of course, I protested and told him that I might need my notes in the search for Lemuria, but he was unyielding. He told me that my agreement with the Ahnenerbe was not merely to hand over the relic, but everything I discovered about the ancient city, which included my personal observations. The fool. He seized my journals before I could record how I actually found the city. If he and that band of lunatics tries to follow my footsteps, they’ll learn that having knowledge is not the same as knowing a thing. Regardless, the Ahnenerbe now have my original notes, and I have learned this simple lesson; never trust the Nazis.

  After she finished reading the passage aloud, Mira slammed the book shut and breathed a name, making it sound like a curse. “Ahnenerbe.”

  “The Nazi occult think tank?” Booker didn’t sound at all surprised. “That’s the stuff of Indiana Jones movies; teams of scientists and explorers sent to hunt down the Holy Grail, Atlantis, and generally anything that might support the theory of the Aryan master race.”

  “I take it you’ve read all these.” Mira waved toward the shelf. “Is there anything more about the original search for Shambala?”

  DiLorenzo shook his head. “Nothing specific. Only that it’s in Tibet, but then you already knew that.”

  Mira turned to Booker. “We have to go to Germany.”

  “Germany?” Booker and DiLorenzo said it almost with one voice.

  “The Nazis never threw anything away,” Mira’s tone was more desperately hopeful than authoritative. “Isn’t that right? We’ll track down the Ahnenerbe, find where they kept their records. Maybe Walter’s journal is still there.”

  Booker’s forehead creased into a frown. “Even if the Nazis did keep it, the Allies seized everything of importance at the end of the war. If we didn’t get it, the Soviets probably did.”

  Mira knew that what Booker was saying was the most likely answer, and yet her intuition was goading her onward. She licked her lips. “I’ve got a feeling about this.”

  Booker glanced at DiLorenzo, as if asking for a second opinion, but the latter’s gaze was riveted on Mira.

  “Aimes had a lot to say in those journals.” The detective spoke haltingly, the words stubbornly refusing to be articulated into a coherent thought. “Fifty years of his life.”

  Mira looked up suddenly, the calculation already done in her head. Fifty years, counting forward from 1943, only a small portion of Aimes’ notes would address his search for Shambala; the rest would detail his activities in the postwar period, including his work for the Agency, work that had included her.

  She shook her head. “I can’t worry about that right now. I’ll take a look at it later, when I get back.”

  DiLorenzo studied her for a moment. “So you do plan on coming back this time? Is that a promise?”

  She thought about a sarcastic or playful retort, but decided instead to tell the detective what he wanted to hear. “Absolutely.”

  If only it were that easy.

  25.

  Mira’s intuition—feminine, not psychic—told her that as soon as he got a chance, Booker would begin probing her for information about her relationship with DiLorenzo, but he surprised her by instead focusing on the task at hand.

  “So I’ve been thinking about what we’re doing,” he said when they had settled in at John F. Kennedy Airport, awaiting their turn to board the flight to Frankfurt. “Trying to find one old diary in the German national archives is a longshot at best. We need a contingency plan.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to be happy about misreading him, or feel insulted. Maybe he’s gay?

  She shook her head. He was a professional; that was all that mattered. Besides, idle flirtation, even if harmless, would just make her feel guilty about the way she’d left things with DiLorenzo.

  “What have you got in mind?”

  He held up the book on Shambala that he’d been perusing at the museum.
>
  “Sticky fingers?”

  “I don’t think anyone will miss it, and I promise to bring it back.”

  She took it from him, skimmed through the back matter, and then returned it with a shrug. “How does that help us?”

  “I had a vision about Shambala and the other cities. You had the same vision, right? Like implanted memories. I can still see it when I close my eyes. Now, I realize that the guy who wrote this book never found the real thing, but he looked for it. And maybe he found something important without realizing it, something that only someone who has actual memories of Shambala—like us—would recognize.” He opened the book to a section of black and white photos in the middle of the book. “Maybe he got a picture of some important landmark without even realizing it.”

  “Not bad. We’ll make a treasure hunter out of you yet.”

  During the long trans-Atlantic flight, they took turns reading the book and using Booker’s mobile phone to search the Internet for any information that might help them narrow their focus. They didn’t find any direct clues to point them toward the mythical city, but Mira did learn a lot about the Ahnenerbe’s fascination with Tibet, an obsession that went back much further than the history of the Nazi party. During the 1930s and ‘40s, if the author of the book was to be believed, the Nazis, or more accurately, the Thule Society—a group of occult fanatics who had co-opted the National Socialist Party to advance their pet theories of a master race—sent a dozen expeditions to Tibet for the express purpose of locating the guardians of the mystical cities of Shambala and Agartha.

  Despite dubious claims to the contrary, Mira knew that the Nazis had failed to find either city, but somehow the man she remembered as Walter Aimes had succeeded. What had he known that the Ahnenerbe, with the resources of the Third Reich behind them, had somehow missed?

  She turned to get Booker’s speculations on the subject, but found him fast asleep, snoring gently. As she tried to follow his example, she discovered that, while the first-class berth was spacious enough, especially for someone of her petite proportions, it was a poor substitute for the luxurious accommodations she had enjoyed at the Ritz-Carlton.