The Gods of Atlantis

by David Gibbons

  ‘I said you need children.’

  Costas gently removed the hand. ‘Of the many strange things I’ve heard you say over the years, that’s just about the strangest.’

  ‘I was only sharing that passion this morning with my girlfriend.’

  Costas’ jaw dropped. ‘Your what?’

  Lanowski reached into his shirt pocket and tossed out a picture of a raven-haired beauty. ‘She’s Brazilian. Models for Vogue. That’s how she paid her way through college. She’s got a PhD, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jack murmured, scratching his chin.

  ‘And she hit on you, just like that,’ Costas said incredulously. ‘A Brazilian Vogue model with a PhD. You’ve kept that well under wraps.’

  ‘Well.’ Lanowski coughed, moved his long, lank fringe from his forehead, then pushed up his glasses again. ‘We haven’t actually met.’

  ‘You haven’t met.’

  ‘Well, not as such. Not hands-on.’

  ‘How do you know she wants children, if you haven’t actually met?’

  ‘Her profile says she wants children, and my profile says I want children. Do the math.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jack said, putting his head down to hide his expression.

  ‘Ah,’ Costas echoed. ‘You’ve got an internet girlfriend. Have you, um, sent her your picture?’

  ‘That’s why I was getting you to take a photo of me in the submersible yesterday, at the controls.’

  ‘I was wondering what that was all about.’

  ‘I just mentioned to her that submersibles were my latest thing, with my friend Costas, and she jumped on it,’ Lanowski said. ‘That’s the great thing about internet dating. You learn right away about shared passions.’

  Costas nodded sagely. ‘Could have taken you years to find that out.’

  ‘The picture might do the trick,’ Jack murmured.

  ‘Well, my friend,’ Costas said, slapping Lanowski on the back, ‘you know where to find me if you need a best man.’

  Lanowski looked at him gratefully, then at Jack, not batting an eyelid. ‘I’ll remember that. Now for the ROV program.’ He turned and walked quickly back to the monitoring station, sat down and put on the headphones.

  Costas turned to Jack, speaking quietly. ‘Was he being serious?’

  ‘Lanowski’s got a brain about the size of Jodrell Bank observatory. He can spot you coming a mile off.’

  ‘But maybe?’

  ‘Maybe. Look out for the virtual-reality engagement ring.’

  Jeremy ruffled his shock of blond hair. ‘About Rebecca. I knew you couldn’t make it back to Troy to see her off because of your covert diving operation here, so I went with her in the Lynx to Istanbul airport. She sent me a text as soon as she landed at JFK in New York. She’s back in school now. Her mother’s friends – her foster-parents, I should say – met her at the airport, Petra and Mikhail. Rebecca really looks forward to going back to see them, you know, to tell them about this whole new life she has with you.’

  ‘They’re great people,’ Jack said, sitting back. ‘After Elizabeth sent Rebecca away from Naples for her own safety as a little girl, they looked after her for almost fifteen years, until Elizabeth was killed in the Mafia hit and I learned that I had a daughter. I owe them a lot. I spent a week with them last summer after returning from Troy, on their farm in upstate New York. It was really interesting to hear for the first time about Mikhail’s background. He trained at the elite Moscow State Institute for International Relations. Officially he’s a research professor at Columbia, but he’s been on the payroll of the CIA since his defection. He’s a specialist in the early Cold War period, and we talked a lot about the Soviet conquest of Berlin in 1945. He thinks there’s more to be found out about the treasures from Troy that were taken from Berlin to Moscow after the war, and he was going to look into that for me. Rebecca wants their place in the Adirondacks to continue being her main home while she’s still at high school, using the apartment in New York City during termtime, and I’m fully behind it. All that matters to me is her happiness wherever she can find it, especially after her mother’s death. And last summer, being out in the fields and in the woods at the farm, I could see where she developed her independent streak.’

  ‘Maybe a bit of genetics in that too, Jack,’ Costas murmured.

  ‘It’s a brilliant place,’ Jeremy enthused. ‘Completely cut off by the forest. The lake at the back’s great for canoeing and fishing, isn’t it? You can camp on the island. Perfect.’

  Jack raised his eyes in surprise. ‘You’ve been there too?’

  Jeremy shrugged. ‘I thought you knew. You’re always running between projects, Jack. Kind of hard to pin down over the last six months. Rebecca told Mikhail and Petra I was going back to the States last autumn to spend some time with my folks. Their place is only a couple of hours away.’

  ‘Huh. She didn’t mention it. I suppose I’ve been a bit preoccupied. I really wanted to get the Troy excavation wrapped up by now, to clear the decks for what lies ahead. Coming back to Atlantis has been a dream of mine, but it definitely wasn’t on the cards.’ Jack paused, pursing his lips. ‘Maybe I’ve had my foot pressed a little too hard on the accelerator. After Rebecca’s kidnapping last year, I thought the best thing for both of us would be to submerge ourselves in work, to get on top of the Troy project and tie up the loose ends before we took some off-time together.’

  ‘Some pretty big loose ends still out there,’ Costas said quietly. ‘Have you heard from Maurice yet?’

  Jack took a deep breath, then shook his head. ‘Not yet. But he should be at the bunker in Germany by now. Last week I spoke on the phone to the British army officer in charge of the excavation, which is being carried out by a NATO nuclear, biological and chemical team because of the risk of what might lie inside. The excavation is top secret and under a massive security cordon, exactly what we insisted on when I first approached my secret-service contact in London six months ago and told her what we knew. There’s a full MI6 team in charge of the Saumerre case. Officially Maurice is there to provide expert guidance on any stolen art and antiquities that might be inside the bunker, but we all know there’s more to it than that. We got in pretty deep last year, and Saumerre is playing his waiting game with us, not with the security services.’

  ‘What about Rebecca’s safety?’ Costas asked.

  ‘Saumerre won’t go anywhere near Rebecca again or anyone else in IMU as long as I threaten to expose him, but that could change if he thinks we’ve discovered what he wants in the bunker and he decides that he’s got nothing to lose.’

  ‘You know Ben Kershaw was with her on the flight?’ Jeremy said. ‘I had no idea until I spotted him boarding the aircraft at the last minute.’

  ‘He is our security chief,’ Jack said grimly. ‘After what happened last year, Ben told me he wasn’t letting her out of his sight until Saumerre was history. Ever since he took over IMU security following Peter Howe’s death out here six years ago, Ben has really come into his own. There are two others already on the ground in New York to provide round-the-clock surveillance, one ex-SAS like Ben and the other a serving MI6 agent provided by our case officer in London. Petra and Mikhail are fully aware of the situation. Mikhail was a Soviet officer in the Afghan war before he became an academic and defected with Petra, one of the reasons why Elizabeth thought he’d be a good guardian for Rebecca when her family’s Mafia connections in Naples became too much of a threat. I think he’s enjoyed turning their farm into a temporary armed compound. It doesn’t mean I rest easy, but it means I know she’s being looked after by the best people, and my presence would only be an interference as long as the security is ramped up. It means I can focus on the archaeology now.’ He paused, then looked at Jeremy quizzically. ‘Speaking of which, how did Rebecca do in the potsherd cleaning programme at Troy?’

  ‘Brilliantly. She discovered at least a dozen more sherds painted with the reverse-swastika pattern. It firms up your theory that it really w
as the symbol of ancient Troy. She stuck with it far longer than I expected, even turned down a chance for some impromptu training in the Lynx. I kept her under close supervision all the time.’

  Costas coughed. ‘I’m sure you did.’

  ‘She’s seventeen,’ Jack said to Jeremy firmly. ‘Lots to learn. And you’re what, twenty-six?’

  Costas glanced at Jack, then waved his hand breezily. ‘A year or two from now, the age difference won’t mean a thing. And as you said, Jack. Happiness wherever she can find it.’

  Jack narrowed his eyes at Costas, then turned back to Jeremy with a resigned smile. He got up, put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder and guided him to a seat. ‘Okay. Let’s talk about Atlantis.’

  ‘Macalister asked me to remind you that the Lynx is fuelling up for your departure. The Turkish geological team is due in at 1500 hours, and the helipad needs to be clear by then.’

  Jack glanced at his watch. ‘That gives us forty-five minutes.’ There was a sudden whoop from the far side of the room, and they all turned to look. Lanowski had moved from the ROV station to one of the computer consoles, its screen facing away from them. He was talking to himself, occasionally chuckling and leaning back in his chair, then leaning forward again and staring. He suddenly went ramrod straight. ‘Eureka,’ he exclaimed. ‘Eureka.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Costas said quietly to Jack. ‘The girlfriend?’

  Jack raised his voice. ‘What is it?’

  Lanowski looked up. ‘Something I’ve been working on. Something I have to thank Maurice Hiebermeyer for.’

  ‘Hiebermeyer?’ Jack exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t aware that the two of you had ever exchanged a word.’

  ‘Email. He’s my new friend. My new best friend.’

  ‘What about me?’ Costas muttered.

  ‘Looks like you’ve been knocked off your pedestal,’ Jack replied, looking with concern at Lanowski. ‘Are you going to share with us?’

  ‘Of course, I’ve read everything Hiebermeyer’s ever written, and I’ve even donated two of my books to his institute in Alexandria,’ Lanowski said more to himself than to anyone else, looking at the screen as if he were talking to it. ‘Egyptology’s always been a fascination of mine. Engineering problems, mathematical problems. Pyramids, mummies, papyrus. Codes.’ He stared at them, his eyes gleaming. ‘Yes, gentlemen. Codes.’

  ‘What on earth is he on about?’ Costas whispered.

  Jack spoke firmly. ‘What about the ROV, Jacob, what you’re actually here for?’

  Lanowski kept his gaze on the monitor, but waved one arm behind him. ‘It’s running itself. If it’s still transmitting and anything shows through, it’ll appear on the big screen above the ROV station.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jack said. ‘We’re at Atlantis, not in Egypt, and we haven’t got all day. While we’re waiting for Jeremy’s image to upload, I want to talk to you about altered consciousness.’

  Lanowski continued staring at the screen, then suddenly looked up. ‘About what?’

  ‘Altered consciousness. Costas said that neuropsychology was another one of your fascinations.’

  Lanowski tapped a key and got up, then pushed back his chair and walked over to Jack, staring at him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I had a couple of interesting experiences on the dive today. First in the tunnel going down into the volcano, a strange sensation of being in a vortex. Then in the final seconds before reaching the submersible, when I was out of air. Looking back on it, I remember more of what I sensed. The instant I knew I was about to black out I saw sparkly lights all round me in a kind of lattice pattern, and then a tunnel with a light at the end that I seemed to be drifting towards, with a face appearing and multiplying all around me. The face was Costas, of course, leaning out to pull me in, and the light was the open hatch of the submersible, but the closer I swam towards it, the further away it seemed. I wanted to relax and let it draw me in.’

  Lanowski nodded. ‘Anoxia, dopamine, adrenalin, fear, survival instinct. A common feature of altered-consciousness experiences is the sensation of floating underwater. And you were in a high-stress situation, and experiencing sensory deprivation. Odd thing is, it can feel good. Addictive. Diving must tap into something hard-wired in our brains. I’ve been trying to work out what makes you guys always want to go deep. It’s not just nitrogen narcosis, is it?’

  ‘There’s something to that,’ Jack said, leaning back again. ‘But for me it’s always been cognitive, by which I mean how my own sense of observation and analysis is ramped up by being underwater, and that’s something I relish and want to experience whenever I can. I’ve always seen diving as an interface between present and past, as if putting on the equipment and getting underwater puts you into a different state of awareness, more acute, with the pressure on time making you think quickly and opening up lots of avenues in the mind. Maurice Hiebermeyer says the same thing about going down tunnels, opening up tombs. Being in that state for only a few moments can give those critical insights that don’t always come from hours of patient excavation on land. But my experience today was a different kind of altered consciousness and made me think about the Neolithic. What I’m really interested in now is putting myself in the minds of those shamans who went down tunnels in their minds, who perhaps saw visions that we can understand in terms of neuropsychology but they interpreted as manifestations of a spirit world.’

  Costas shook his head in disbelief. ‘So when you were having your near-death experience and I was saving your life, you had a blinding flash of inspiration about the Neolithic? Archaeologists never cease to amaze me.’

  Lanowski flicked away his fringe and pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘When I was a first-year undergraduate at Princeton, I worked evenings in the neuropsychology lab. I needed money, and I signed on as a guinea pig.’

  ‘Uh-oh,’ Costas muttered. ‘This is about to explain a few things.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lanowski said cheerfully. ‘Only a few mild opiates, and some marijuana. Far less than most students were consuming around me. And the beauty of it was, I didn’t need it. I could put myself into an altered state of consciousness without drugs.’

  ‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Costas said.

  ‘If you really believe in the world of your visions, then the mind can easily take you there,’ Lanowski continued. ‘That’s the essence of religious experience. There’s little difference in that respect between a shaman having visions in front of a cave wall and a worshipper in a church transfixed by a statue of the Virgin Mary. Neither of them needs hallucinogenic drugs to get there. Or as in my case, you can really believe in the power of your own mind and your ability to control it.’

  ‘This lab you worked in,’ Costas said. ‘Let me guess. You did most of their analytical work for them too?’

  ‘It came out as a paper in the Journal of Cognitive Archaeology. My name isn’t in the author list because I wasn’t officially part of the team, being merely a guinea pig.’

  Jack stared at him. ‘That paper? That was your work?’

  ‘I was in the lab one evening and saw the garbled manuscript they were working on, so I rewrote it until it actually made sense. It was sent off the next day with each of the authors assuming the others had fixed it up. They were hardly on speaking terms anyway. My first publication, anonymously.’

  Jack turned to Costas. ‘That paper’s become the launch pad for exactly what I’ve been pondering, the mind-state of people in the late Stone Age.’

  Jeremy pulled a battered old book out of his pocket. ‘I’m not a neuropsychologist, but I do like poetry,’ he said. ‘What you’re describing, the religious experience, we tend to think of as rapture in the face of God. But you don’t have to believe in a god to experience rapture, to have the same sort of visions and pleasure as the believer contemplating the Virgin Mary. In deep prehistory, the experience of rapture may have been the preserve of the shaman or seer. In the West today, I’d argue that the shaman’s role is largely taken by the poet and the mu
sician and the artist. In fact, you could say that the mark of a true gift in a poet, the poet as shaman, is whether we can see rapture in the process of creativity, and whether we can experience something of that when we read the work.’

  He flipped through the book and found a page, and Costas leaned over to look. ‘Ah. “The poet who had drunk the milk of paradise”.’

  Jeremy nodded. ‘Samuel Taylor Coleridge, his poem Kubla Khan. And for milk of paradise, read opium.’

  Costas glanced at Jack. ‘While we were working on the ROV, Jeremy and I went through his undergraduate dissertation on Homeric imagery in the poetry of W. H. Auden. There’s all that dark imagery of the fall of Troy and modern war in “The Shield of Achilles”, and for relief we went for some eighteenth-century romantic euphoria. That meant Coleridge. This poem’s good because of the watery imagery, and I can relate it to the experience of diving in the way you were just describing.’

  ‘Coleridge wrote the poem one night in 1797 after what he described as a “sort of reverie” brought on by two grains of opium,’ Jeremy continued. ‘So in this case, drugs were used, but it’s the effect we’re interested in, and that fits closely with what you’re talking about. Coleridge had just been reading an account of the Tartar emperor Kublai Khan’s pleasure palace by the sea, and that seems to have made him think about creative power that works with nature and creative power that doesn’t. That’s also what made me think of the poem, the idea of a tension between two Neolithic belief worlds, the one of the shaman and the one of the gods, the one attuned to nature and the other to man. But just now I also thought of Coleridge’s dream images, and how they were like the ones Lanowski was describing. A lot of them have to do with with rivers and the sea.’ He read from the page:

  ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

  A stately pleasure-dome decree:

  Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

  Through caverns measureless to man