The Sacred Vault

  ‘But some pages have already been made available online by the IHA.’

  ‘That was my predecessor’s decision, not mine,’ said Nina, acid in her voice at the thought. ‘One I reversed as soon as I was appointed director. I rate science higher than publicity.’

  ‘Both have their place. And you are no stranger to publicity yourself.’

  ‘Not always intentionally, I can assure you. But that’s why we chose to display these particular pages of the Codex.’ Nina indicated the scribed metal sheets. ‘Pictures of them had already been released.’

  ‘But it is these pages that caught my interest.’ For the first time, a hint of emotion - excitement - came into Khoil’s mechanical voice as he pointed out the bottom half of the second page. ‘This text here - it is not Atlantean, but Vedic Sanskrit.’ He looked at Nina. ‘The language of ancient India.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It was in use up to about six hundred BC, when it was replaced by Classical Sanskrit, but nobody was sure how long it had been used before that - until now, anyway. Atlantis sank around nine thousand BC, so for Talonor to have encountered the language it must have existed before then.’

  ‘And so must Indian civilisation.’ Khoil circled the display case to examine the impression in the book’s thick cover. ‘A civilisation based on the teachings of the Vedas . . . which are still followed today. Making Hinduism the world’s oldest surviving religion.’ He smiled, the expression oddly out of place on his placid face. ‘And increasing the likelihood of one of its schools being the only true religion, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I try not to get involved in religious debates,’ Nina said firmly. The conflict between archaeological discoveries and dogma had almost got her killed on more than one occasion.

  Khoil put his face almost against the glass as he peered intently at the indentation. Standing nearby with Vanita, Eddie felt compelled to break the silence. ‘So, Mrs Khoil,’ he said, ‘how did you meet your husband?’ She gave him a dismissive look, not interested in small talk. He took that as a challenge. ‘What first attracted you to the billionaire Pramesh Khoil?’

  Vanita bared her teeth in response to the little joke. ‘Do you think I’m some kind of gold-digger?’ she snapped.

  ‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ said Eddie hastily. ‘It was just—’

  ‘I got my doctorate in psychology before Pramesh even started his company! Did you assume that because I’m a woman I’m some passive and subservient adjunct to my husband?’

  ‘No, I think he assumed that everybody appreciates his, uh, distinctive sense of humour,’ Nina said quickly. The mayor was looking horrified that a faux pas had been committed on his watch. ‘There wasn’t any offence intended.’

  Eddie nodded. ‘Yeah. If I’m trying to offend someone, I don’t muck about.’

  ‘Honey, not helping,’ Nina said through gritted teeth. She turned back to Vanita. ‘We’re both very sorry for any misunderstanding.’

  The Indian woman maintained a tight-lipped silence, but her husband spoke up instead. ‘We accept your apology, Dr Wilde. Now, we were discussing the Talonor Codex. Are you sure the IHA would not be interested in using my company’s software to assist with the translation work?’

  He wasn’t just a genius programmer, but also a determined salesman, Nina thought. ‘No, but thank you for the offer. As I said, only a few people have access to the full text for security reasons.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. I am not suggesting that you give it to strangers. No, I am offering the services of Qexia.’

  ‘I’m not a computer expert,’ Rowan said, puzzled, ‘but I don’t see how putting the text into a search engine would help with the translation.’

  ‘It is more than just a search tool. It is a system of analytical algorithms, a deductive computer.’ Khoil was becoming impassioned again. ‘When you use Qexia to find information on a particular subject, you see not a list, but a “cloud” of interlinked results, yes? The relative importance of each result is not decided solely by a count of its connections to other web pages, like some inferior search engines.’ He glanced at one of the Silicon Valley bigwigs, who scowled. ‘Qexia analyses each page, finds connections to other pages through deductive logic based on its profile of the user. It can apply the same principles to translation. The more data it has, the better the results. Give it all the information you have on the Atlantean language, and it will provide a full and accurate translation.’

  ‘Computer translations?’ said Eddie. ‘They always come out like the manual for a cheapo DVD player. “Having the insertions of disc in tray slot . . .” ’

  Khoil prickled at the implied slight on his technology. ‘Qexia is much better than that.’ He faced Nina. ‘It will even make part of your profession obsolete. There will be no need to waste years piecing together scraps of data in order to find an archaeological site. Such as Atlantis.’ He gestured at the exhibits. ‘It took you how long to deduce its location? Years? Given the same data, my software could have found it in days. Perhaps even hours. Then all you would need would be strong arms to do the digging.’

  Now it was Nina who bristled. ‘There’s more to archaeology than just assembling data,’ she said scathingly. ‘You need a broad base of knowledge in areas that might seem unrelated. When I worked out Atlantis’s location, I didn’t have all the facts, so I had to fill in the gaps based on my own experience - and intuition. A computer can’t do that.’

  ‘We’ll have to agree to disagree, then,’ said Vanita, joining Khoil. ‘I know the power of Pramesh’s software. It will change the world.’

  ‘So you are definitely not interested in my offer, Dr Wilde?’ Khoil asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Nina. ‘If nothing else, it’d take all the fun out of the work.’

  He shrugged. ‘As you wish. But I am sure the Codex will—’ He broke off at the approach of a woman holding a cell phone. She was Indian, dressed in a formal and slightly staid business suit, an employee rather than an executive. Her long dark hair was styled to cover, but couldn’t fully conceal, a scar slicing down her forehead over her right eye. ‘Yes, Madirakshi?’

  ‘The call you were waiting for, Mr Khoil,’ said the woman.

  ‘My apologies, but I must take this,’ Khoil told Nina. He stepped away, Vanita and Madirakshi following as he answered the call. ‘Yes? No, no change. As we discussed, yes.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I didn’t have any trouble hearing her voice,’ muttered Eddie, regarding Vanita. ‘And Christ, he sounds like he learned English from a Speak & Spell.’

  ‘Is everything all right, Dr Wilde?’ asked Boyce, with a hint of anxiety.

  ‘Fine. Just a minor misunderstanding.’

  ‘Happy to hear it!’

  Another VIP asked Nina a question about Atlantis as Khoil ended his call and he and Vanita returned to the group, their assistant briskly departing. Eddie watched her go, noticing that now the presidential entourage and the Secret Service agents had left, the exhibition hall was noticeably less crowded. A clear social hierarchy was visible as a result: Boyce’s bodyguards and the building’s own security staff at the very edges of the room, with groups of PAs and secretaries and business underlings orbiting the centre where their bosses schmoozed and networked. The woman, Madirakshi, joined three Indian men in a far corner, one of them a bearded giant standing head and shoulders above the others.

  He looked towards the high windows as Nina continued talking. There was a plaza outside, headlights dimly visible on the foggy street beyond. He hoped conditions would improve tomorrow; there wouldn’t be much point touring the city if they couldn’t see it . . .

  He stiffened, suddenly alert as he registered that something wasn’t quite right. It was the headlights. They were pointing directly at the windows.

  But the street ran past the exhibition hall, not towards it—

  The headlights moved.

  Coming at him.

  ‘Mr Mayor!’ he barked to Boyce. ‘Get security, there’s—’ br />
  The windows exploded under blasts of gunfire.

  4

  ‘Everyone down!’ Eddie yelled, covering Nina with his body. Shattered glass spilled across the polished floor. The hall filled with panicked screams - which were quickly drowned by the roar of engines.

  Several motorcycles charged into the room, their riders sheathed in black leather, faces hidden behind mirrored visors. More gunshots crackled as the riders spread out across the hall, firing MP5Ks in sweeps just above the guests’ heads to force them to the floor - then aiming lower to pick off specific targets. Blood-spattered bodies tumbled, the hall’s security personnel and the mayor’s bodyguards cut down.

  Another engine, louder, a vicious snarl. A vehicle smashed through the remains of the windows and made a sweeping 180-degree handbrake turn, swatting aside people unlucky enough to be in its path and demolishing a display case. It resembled a Range Rover, only hugely bulked up and steroidal, thick bullbars protecting its front and rear and oversized tyres bulging beneath its heavy-duty suspension. A Bowler Nemesis, a powerful off-road racing vehicle that could outpace many sports cars - and do so over the most punishing terrain.

  The bikes were also off-roaders, Eddie saw. The attackers had a getaway plan that would take them somewhere no police car could follow.

  The Nemesis backed further into the hall, people on the floor scrambling out of its way. Some of the bikers dismounted, guns covering the crowd, while three rode towards Eddie and Nina’s position.

  Nina’s gaze went to the Atlantean crown. Priceless, she had called it less than thirty minutes earlier - but now someone intended to find exactly what that translated to in the real world.

  The bikers stopped and climbed off their machines, guns raised. No shouted orders, no demands, no threats. They had made their intentions perfectly clear - and another burst of fire from an MP5K as a prone security guard tried to draw his weapon hammered the point home.

  ‘What do we do?’ Nina hissed. ‘We can’t let them steal the crown!’

  ‘Y-yes, we can!’ Boyce said, voice quavering. He raised his head as the faceless trio approached. ‘I’m the mayor of San Francisco. Please, take what you came for and leave. Nobody else has to get hurt.’ Nina scowled at him, but knew there was nothing else they could do.

  The Nemesis kept reversing. Its rear bullbar clipped another display case, which toppled over and smashed. The golden trident clanged across the floor as the big 4x4 stopped behind the three men.

  They regarded the crown impassively . . . then at a gesture from the tallest of the trio, apparently the leader, moved to the next case.

  The one containing the Talonor Codex. Through her fear, Nina felt a moment of shock. That was their objective?

  Rowan’s reaction was a more exaggerated version of her own. ‘No, you can’t take it!’ he cried, springing up—

  The leader shot him.

  A bullet hit Rowan’s upper chest, slamming him back down with a spurt of blood. His head cracked against the floor.

  ‘Rowan!’ Nina screamed. Eddie forced her down as she tried to crawl to him. Her friend was still alive, feebly writhing, but blood was running down his shirt.

  The leader fired a single shot at the case. The toughened glass splintered, crooked cracks radiating out from the bullet hole, but didn’t entirely break - until a blow from the butt of his MP5K finished the job. He lifted out the Codex, cradling the heavy book in his arms as another man went to the Nemesis and raised its hatchback. There was a large metal box inside, lined with foam rubber. He lowered the ancient artefact into it, then closed the case and slammed the hatchback shut. The off-roader’s engine revved.

  The bikers closest to the broken windows rode out into the fog. The Nemesis bulled its way through the scattered debris and terrified guests after them.

  The trio who had taken the Codex mounted up. Two of them set off without a pause; the leader glanced back at Nina’s group before moving—

  Eddie dived, landing by the golden trident. He snatched it up and leapt to his feet, flipping it round so the three spearheads were pointing backwards.

  Nina rushed to Rowan. ‘Somebody help me!’ she cried, pressing her palm against the wound to try to staunch the bleeding. He groaned.

  The Nemesis and the first two bikers reached the windows, crunching over the glass. The leader followed—

  Eddie hurled the trident. It flew across the hall like a gleaming javelin, spearing down at its target . . .

  Not the rider, but his bike.

  The shaft shot between the rear wheel’s spokes to be slammed against the forks, instantly locking the wheel. The rider was thrown off as the bike crashed to the floor.

  Eddie ran at him. Catch the leader, and this would be over—

  The raider rolled, cat-like, back on his feet in a moment - and drew his gun.

  Eddie hurled himself behind one of the surviving display cases as bullets sprayed across the room. They smacked into the thick glass, crazing and cracking it - then the onslaught stopped. The gunman dropped his weapon. Out of ammo.

  Engine snarl. The Nemesis’s driver had heard the gunfire and quickly reversed back into the hall. The rider ran to the vehicle and jumped in.

  A siren grew in volume outside. Somebody on the street had called 911, the police responding rapidly to an incident at the mayor’s location—

  More gunshots as the bikers opened fire on the approaching cops. Staccato clangs of lead striking steel and cracks of glass, then the police car veered across the plaza, coming to an abrupt stop against a concrete planter. The siren fell silent, strobes flicking eerily through the fog.

  The Nemesis surged away with a V8 bellow.

  Eddie ran to the abandoned bike and yanked the bent trident out from the wheel. He pulled the vehicle upright. It had stalled; he jumped on and slammed his heel down on the long kick-start lever. The engine rasped to life. He twisted the throttle, pulling the front wheel round.

  ‘Eddie!’ Nina yelled across the hall. ‘What’re you doing?’

  ‘Going after them!’

  ‘No, wait—’

  Too late. He powered through the opening, turning hard to head after the fleeing Nemesis. The bike’s tail light vanished into the fog.

  One of the guests, a balding, middle-aged man, hurried over to Nina and Rowan. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he told her. ‘Please, move your hand - I need to see the wound.’

  Nina reluctantly lifted her hand from Rowan’s chest, cringing as a thick crimson gush pumped from the hole. ‘Will he be okay?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the doctor, quickly assessing the damage before putting his own palm firmly over the injury. ‘It missed his heart, but it might have punctured a lung.’

  ‘I’ve called for an ambulance,’ one of his companions reported, waving a cell phone.

  Anguished, Nina looked between the injured man and the broken window through which her husband had just disappeared. Rowan read her expression. ‘Nina,’ he gasped, his breathing hoarse and laboured. ‘Go help Eddie. Get - get the Codex back.’

  ‘But I can’t leave you!’

  ‘I’ll be okay.’ He forced a once very familiar smile through the pain. ‘Go on. Bring me some chocolates at the hospital. Dark ones.’

  Nina gripped his hand. ‘As if I’d forget what you like.’ She squeezed it more tightly, then, after a moment of hesitation, let go and stood. Rowan winked at her. Reassured, however slightly, she turned. Through the broken window, the police car’s blinking strobes caught her attention. ‘Mr Mayor!’

  Boyce struggled upright, shaking with adrenalin and fear. He looked round at Nina’s insistent shout. ‘W-what?’

  Nina grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the plaza. ‘There’s a police car outside - tell them to put up roadblocks. Now!’

  He was still too shocked to think straight. ‘But - I can’t just order them to do things—’

  ‘You’re the goddamn mayor!’ Nina reminded him as they reached the police cruiser. It was a Dodge Charg
er, a powerful four-door sedan in SFPD black and white - but both officers inside were slumped over, unconscious or dead. ‘Damn it!’

  ‘My God,’ gasped Boyce, recoiling at the sight. ‘Now what do we do?’

  Nina looked in the direction Eddie had gone - and made a decision. ‘We follow them. You can guide the cops to block them.’ She opened the driver’s door. The man at the wheel was dead, hit by several bullets. Suppressing her revulsion, she unfastened his seat belt, then dragged out the body.

  Boyce gawped at her. ‘You can’t do that! It’s - a crime scene or something!’

  ‘Just get in! No, in the front!’ she shouted as he opened the rear door. ‘I need you to use the radio!’

  The other cop was also dead, a bloody hunk of skin and bone hanging off his temple. Shuddering, Nina released his seat belt as Boyce ran round the car. ‘Don’t look at his face, just pull him out,’ she ordered.

  The mayor tried to follow her advice, but couldn’t help glimpsing the wound and had to stifle a yelp of disgust. However, he reluctantly manhandled the body out of the car, calling to someone inside the exhibition centre to watch over the dead men.

  ‘Come on!’ said Nina impatiently. Boyce climbed in beside her. She put the Charger into reverse. Metal and plastic graunched where the front bumper had jammed against the planter, then ripped free. She powered into the fog. ‘Get on the radio.’

  At the wheel of the Nemesis, Zec flipped up his visor to look anxiously at Fernandez. ‘Are you okay?’

  The Spaniard kneaded his bruised shoulder. ‘I think so. Thanks for coming back for me.’

  ‘I was hardly going to abandon you, Urbano. You haven’t paid us the rest of our money yet!’ He smiled, but Fernandez was not amused. ‘Who was it? A guard?’