The Hunt for Atlantis

  “Hardly. We are the Illuminati.”

  Nina stared in disbelief. “What?”

  “Not in the sense that I’m sure you’re imagining. Our organization dates back to long before any of the sects that adopted the name from the sixteenth century onwards. And the name, Illuminati, is derived from Latin, whereas our name comes from the ancient Greek. The Brotherhood of Selasphoros—the light-bearers.”

  “Ancient Greek?” Nina turned to Philby for some support against the lunacy, but while he still couldn’t look her in the eye, there was nothing in his expression suggesting he doubted Qobras’s words. “So you’re saying you’re the leader of some secret anti-Atlantis organization that dates back two and a half thousand years? Bullshit!”

  “It dates back much farther than that,” said Qobras, unfazed. “I’m sure you remember Critias—the mention of the war between the Athenians and the kings of Atlantis?”

  “Of course. ‘The war that was said to have taken place between those who dwelt outside the Pillars of Heracles, and all who dwelt within them.’ But that’s the only mention, apart from a few lines in Timaeus.”

  Qobras shook his head. “No. There is more.”

  “Critias was never finished.”

  “Critias was suppressed,” Qobras countered. “By the Brotherhood. The complete text included an account of the war between the two great powers, and how the Athenians and their allies drove the invaders from the Mediterranean. It also described the Athenian counterattack on Atlantis itself—which ended with the Athenian army caught on the island as it sank.”

  “That’s not consistent with Timaeus,” Nina objected. “‘And in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men as a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea.’ Two different events.”

  “The same event, according to the original text of Critias.”

  “But that—” Nina stopped as the full import of Qobras’s words hit her. “You mean the original text? As in, transcribed directly from Plato’s own words?”

  “We have more than you could imagine in our vaults, including the complete text of Critias—and the third of Plato’s dialogues about Atlantis, Hermocrates.”

  “But Hermocrates was never written …”

  “So we convinced the world. The Brotherhood has been working to prevent the rediscovery of Atlantis for thousands of years. Anything that might assist the descendants of the Atlanteans in that task, we have gone to great lengths to keep out of their hands.”

  “Great lengths including murder,” Nina scowled.

  “It is not something we are proud of, but sometimes it has been necessary. Other times… it has been justified.”

  “But why?” Nina asked. “This is insane! Yes, Atlantis is one of the most famous ancient legends in the world, but in the end it’s just an archaeological site, a dead city full of ruins!”

  Qobras rose in his seat. “The city might be dead, but what it stands for is very much alive, Dr. Wilde. And it is just as dangerous today as it was in 9500 BC. The discovery of Atlantis would serve to rally all the descendants of the Atlanteans, uniting them as one powerful force for evil.”

  “Atlantis has already been discovered,” Nina pointed out. “By me. And everybody from the Evenor knows where it is. You think you can keep that quiet?”

  “The site may have been discovered, but the knowledge it contained has been destroyed. And the Brotherhood has influence in many areas.” He glanced at Philby. “We can keep the academic world distracted, certainly.”

  “So that’s why you turned down my proposal, Jonathan?” Nina asked. “You were in this guy’s pocket the whole time?”

  “I was trying to protect you,” Philby replied. “I didn’t know if your theory would bear any fruit or not. But I couldn’t take the risk that it would. I didn’t know they would try to kill you right there in Manhattan to suppress it, you have to believe me! I never wanted you to get hurt!”

  “I’m so grateful for your concern.” Philby avoided her eyes, shamefaced.

  “As for those others who might take an interest,” Qobras continued, “there are ways in which we can divert their attention. But now it may no longer even be necessary. If you are telling the truth about the last outpost of the original Atlanteans, then we can destroy that too. With the last link gone, their descendants will never be able to unite to begin a new war of conquest.”

  “The Frosts are hardly warmongers,” protested Nina. “Unless you count philanthropy as a WMD?”

  Qobras let out a harsh laugh. “Philanthropy? Hardly! Everything Kristian Frost has done is in support of his ultimate goal, the restoration of Atlantean rule under his leadership. Spending millions on medical aid is just a means to that end. Do you really think the Frost Foundation’s work is about helping the sick?”

  “Then what is it about?”

  “Kristian Frost has been using the Frost Foundation’s medical projects as a cover to map out the worldwide distribution of the Atlantean genome, finding the people who share his DNA,” said Qobras. “People like you. Yes, we know about the DNA test the Frosts carried out on you. We also know that over the last decade, he has devoted an enormous amount of money and resources to finding Atlantis—far more than he has revealed publicly, or, I suspect, to you. You are not the first person with a theory on the location of Atlantis whose expedition he has funded.”

  “Did you try to kill them too?” Qobras’s look was the only answer she needed. “Oh God.”

  “As I said, we are not proud of the fact, but it had to be done. Yet despite that, because of you … the Frosts are building to the culmination of their plan.”

  “And what plan would that be, exactly?”

  “We don’t know the precise details. None of our operatives have been able to penetrate Frost’s organization deeply enough to discover his true objective. But we have learned enough to know that his plan hinges upon not merely the discovery of Atlantis, but the recovery of certain Atlantean artifacts. But the Brotherhood is about to ensure that never happens.” He gestured at the window. “We are approaching the Golden Peak.”

  Looking out, Nina saw the first light of the morning sun as it rose over the rugged silhouette of the Himalayas …

  And to the west, the pinnacle of the middle of three peaks lit up with a dazzling orange glow, as if the tip of the mountain had burst into flame. Even the streaks of bare rock visible through the pure white snowcap seemed to be on fire, sunlight glinting from slender veins of gold within the cold stone.

  “My God,” she whispered.

  “The Golden Peak,” said Qobras. “A local legend, which supposedly hid a great treasure. The Ahnenerbe believed it was connected to Atlantis. As did your parents.”

  Nina looked sharply at him at the mention of her family, but Qobras had turned away to issue instructions to the pilot. The helicopter descended, sweeping towards the mountain. It landed on a broad snow-covered ledge.

  “The Path of the Moon,” Qobras announced as he climbed from the helicopter, his feet crunching in the snow. “I never imagined I would see this place again.”

  Nina pulled her coat tightly around herself as she stepped out after him, her ever-present guards following. “You’ve been here before?”

  “Yes, but I thought there was nothing of value here. It seems I was wrong.” He put a hand on Philby’s shoulder. “Perhaps you and I should have spent more time here. It would have saved us a lot of trouble.”

  “You’ve been here as well?” Nina asked Philby. He made a vague, almost fearful sound of confirmation.

  “He was here with your parents,” said Qobras. Nina gaped at him, shocked.

  “Giovanni, don’t, please,” Philby pleaded. “There’s no need to …”

  Qobras gave him a stern look. “I’ve done many things I am not proud of, but I will admit my part in them. You should do the same … Jack.”

  “Jonathan?” Nina strode up to him, no longer caring abou
t her guards. “What does he mean? Did my parents come here? What do you know?”

  He tried to turn away. “I… Nina, I’m sorry, I…”

  She grabbed him by his coat. “What do you know, Jonathan?”

  “Come this way, Dr. Wilde,” said Qobras, pointing up the slope. Starkman pulled her away from Philby. Despite the cold, the professor was sweating.

  The group trudged uphill, the second helicopter announcing its arrival with a biting spray of ice particles as it landed behind them. Qobras led the way, examining the rock face intently as he ascended. At last, he stopped.

  “There,” he said. Nina looked where he was indicating. At first she saw nothing but snow and barren rock, the strata twisted to the vertical by eons of geological pressure, but upon closer inspection she spotted a patch of darkness against the cold blue-gray of the mountain.

  A crack in the rock, an opening …

  “Kind of a tight squeeze,” noted Starkman. At its widest, the crack was less than a foot across.

  “There must have been another rock slide. Have the men bring the digging equipment.”

  Starkman issued the order. Within minutes, another ten men arrived from the second helicopter. They set to work tearing into the pile of loose stones beneath the snow with picks. Before long the opening was clear enough to allow passage, but Qobras ordered his men to keep digging. “We need it wide enough to fit the bomb through.”

  “Bomb?” gasped Nina. “What bomb?”

  He shot her an almost impatient look. “This is not an archaeological expedition, Dr. Wilde. We came here to destroy the last link to Atlantis. Whatever lies inside this mountain, nobody else will ever see it.”

  “You’re worse than the Taliban,” she growled. “They destroyed priceless artifacts out of dogma. You’re doing it for a conspiracy theory!”

  “A conspiracy that I’m happy to say will end here. Once the last outpost is destroyed, every trace of the ancient Atlanteans will be gone forever.”

  “So then what? You going to retire to the Bahamas? Or are you just going to keep on killing people you don’t like because of their DNA?” Qobras didn’t answer, looking back at the widening opening.

  After another five minutes of activity, he finally seemed satisfied. “Bring the bomb,” he ordered. “We’re going inside.”

  His men headed back to the helicopters as Qobras led the way into the cave, followed by Starkman and Philby. Nina came next, her two guards flanking her. Powerful flashlight beams flitted through the dark space. To Nina, it looked as though a natural cavern had been widened to form a passage leading into the mountain.

  “Over here,” said Starkman, aiming his light off to one side. Nina gasped in surprise when she saw what he had found.

  Bodies.

  Five desiccated corpses stared silently back, their skin shriveled and reduced to parchment. The way they were sitting, in a row against one side of the cave, suggested to Nina that they had succumbed to starvation or exposure—but it also appeared that somebody had searched them after their death.

  “The fourth expedition of the Ahnenerbe,” said Qobras grimly. “Jürgen Krauss and his men. They followed the path from Morocco to Brazil, and finally to Tibet.”

  “The fourth expedition?” asked Nina. “There were only three.”

  “Only three that were recorded. At least, in known records. There were other documents.” His tone became somber. “Your father came into possession of some of them. They were what led him first to Tibet, in search of the Golden Peak … and then to here.”

  “Here?” said Nina, puzzled … but also with a growing sense of awful foreboding.

  “This way.” Qobras directed his flashlight down the passage at the rear of the chamber, nodding at Starkman to bring Nina. Philby hung back, his face filled with fear.

  And something else, Nina realized.

  Guilt?

  She followed Qobras down the passage. His light illuminated what lay at the end of the passage.

  It was a tomb, an Atlantean tomb; the aggressive architecture and Glozel inscriptions were unmistakable. That realization, though, became insignificant when Nina saw what else was within the chamber.

  More bodies.

  But unlike the corpses of the Nazi expedition, these had not died peacefully. They lay against the walls in twisted, frozen poses of agony. She saw pockmarks in the stone behind them: bullet holes, surrounded by faded brown splashes that could only be long-dried blood.

  And among the faces of the dead were …

  Nina raised her hands to her mouth. “No …” she whispered. Qobras looked back at her, then gestured to Starkman, who pulled her forward. She resisted, only for him to drag her.

  “No!” This time it was a wail, an uncontrolled release of horror and despair.

  Time and cold had turned the skin a dry leathery brown, soft tissues long since decayed to leave the eye sockets as empty black holes. But Nina still recognized the faces. They had been in her thoughts every day for the past ten years.

  Her parents.

  They hadn’t died in an avalanche. They had died here, gunned down.

  Murdered.

  Starkman forced her forward, closer to the terrible reality pinned in Qobras’s light. She struggled and kicked at him, not wanting to look but unable to avert her gaze. “You did this!” she screamed at Qobras. “You killed them! You bastard, you fucker! I’ll fucking kill you!” The two guards moved as if to protect their boss, but he held up a hand for them to stop. They stood back and waited as Nina’s screams lost coherence, reduced to angry, anguished sobs.

  “I’m sorry,” Qobras said in a low voice. “But it had to be done. Kristian Frost could not be allowed to obtain the secrets of the Atlanteans.”

  “What secrets?” Nina cried bitterly. “There’s nothing here! It’s just a tomb!” Her eyes narrowed with hatred. “You killed my parents for nothing, you son of a bitch.”

  “No …” Qobras slowly panned his flashlight around the walls. “I thought there was nothing here ten years ago, that the tomb had been plundered. But if the last inscription from the temple in Atlantis itself is true, there must be something more to this place.” He turned to the two guards. “Search every centimeter of the walls. Look for anything that might indicate another opening—a crack, a loose block, a keyhole—anything!” As they moved to obey, Qobras himself started examining the walls around him in minute detail. Starkman kept hold of Nina.

  Her sobs of grief slowly died away … replaced by a cold, expressionless mask.

  Almost expressionless. Only her eyes gave away the fury burning inside her.

  The search took only a few minutes before one of the guards called out to Qobras. Everyone hurried to where he stood, carefully tracing a line almost concealed between the columns.

  “Doors,” said Qobras, sliding a fingertip down the narrow gap. “There doesn’t seem to be any way to open them from outside. We’ll need to break them open.”

  One of the guards was sent back to the helicopters to bring the necessary equipment. In the meantime, more of Qobras’s men arrived, hauling with them on a fattired cart the large crate Nina had seen being loaded onto the second helicopter. A chill of fear ran up her back. Even if the bomb it contained was only half the size of the crate, it would still be larger than a man.

  The charges Qobras intended to use on the doors, however, were far smaller. A drill was used to carve out a fist-sized hole in the stone. Once the hole was made, Qobras placed the explosive—a fat disc the size of a silver dollar—into it.

  “You’re just going to blow it up?” said Nina.

  “Yes.”

  “What about them?” She pointed at the bodies. “You going to blow them to pieces as well? It’s not enough that you killed them, now you’re going to desecrate them too?”

  Starkman made an impatient noise, but Qobras paused, considering her words. “Jason, get some of the men to take them into the entrance chamber,” he said at last.

  “It’s a wa
ste of time, Giovanni,” Starkman said, barely concealing his disapproval. “We should be getting the job done, not letting her delay us. And what difference does it make? They’re already dead.”

  “Dr. Wilde is right. Move them.”

  Starkman scowled, but followed his orders, summoning a group of men to assist in removing the bodies. Nina couldn’t watch, feeling a new burst of almost unbearable anguish as the corpse of one of the Tibetans was lifted up as if he weighed no more than a child. That was all that was left of these people, of her family, nothing more than husks. Her throat clenched so tightly with resurgent grief that she could barely breathe. She fought past it, refusing to break down in front of her enemies.

  Once the bodies were gone, Qobras returned his attention to the explosive. He attached a timer to it before quickly retreating, ushering everyone else back to the cavern.

  “CL-20,” explained Starkman to Nina, without being asked. “The most powerful chemical explosive ever made. A piece the size of an Oreo can blow a hole right through six inches of armor plate.”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed by that?” she replied sourly.

  “Maybe not. But you might want to cover your ears.”

  Nina saw that the others were doing just that, and hurriedly followed suit. A moment later there was an earsplitting bang and a swirling cloud of dust.

  Qobras was the first to move, his flashlight beam slicing through the dust like a laser. “Clear all the debris from the doors so we can get the bomb through them,” he ordered. “Jason, Jack, Dr. Wilde—come with me.” Nina was unsurprised when her two guards came as well.

  What had appeared to be a solid wall was now a gaping hole. Huge chunks of the shattered door were scattered over the tomb floor. The other door was still in place, though seriously damaged.

  Beyond the doors lay darkness.

  Qobras stepped over the debris, leading the way down what turned out to be a smooth slope descending deeper into the heart of the mountain.

  The air was cool and, to Nina’s surprise, fresh, lacking the almost indefinable stale, ancient mustiness she associated with long-sealed environments. Presumably there was another entrance, or at least some way for air to reach it from outside.