The Atlantis Code (28 page)

Murani nodded. “That’s fine.” He took a last look around the church and stood. “We can go.”

______

“Lourds is in Germany,” Gallardo said as they walked along Via San Giovanni. The street was busy with shoppers, tourists and locals.

“Do you know where?” Murani walked with his hands behind his back. His cardinal’s robes drew attention, but people quickly glanced away when he threatened eye contact.

“Leipzig. At the Radisson.”

“I don’t want Lourds getting too far ahead of you.”

“He won’t,” Gallardo said. “As long as he has the Englishwoman with him, Lourds
can’t
get too far away.” He paused as they walked by a young mother pushing a baby carriage. “In the meantime, maybe it’s not a bad idea to let Lourds have some rope.”

Murani shook his head. “The man is dangerous. If he’s able to translate the writing . . .”

“You told me no one could, except you.”

That hadn’t been quite the truth. Murani had managed to decipher some of the notes about the instrument, but not much. If there hadn’t been accompanying illustrations, he wouldn’t have figured out as much as he had. But he’d come closer to reading the old language than anyone he knew.

“Lourds is highly skilled,” Murani said.

They walked in silence for a short time, gradually wandering in a square back toward the parking garage that held Murani’s car.

“Lourds is on to something,” Gallardo announced.

“How do you know?”

“Because I know what to look for when it comes to watching people. He thinks he’s on to something. That’s why he’s in Leipzig. Otherwise he would have run for home after I caught up with him in Moscow.”

“What’s there that he would be interested in?”

“I don’t know yet. If everything is quiet in Germany, I’m going to get over there in a day or so.”

“He may be gone by then.”

“If he is, we’ll find him. In the meantime, I want to hire people to break into his home back in Boston.”

“Why?”

“To get to know him better. I often have clients’ homes burglarized to check on things. Usually to find out if they have enough money to pay me. If they don’t have a good alarm system, the answer is generally no. But it would be worth checking Lourds’s home to find out if he does information dumps while he’s out of town.”

“Information dumps?”

“Sure. A guy out on the road with a computer might download his files to the hard drive at home. Or at an off-site place. If I have someone raid his home and copy his hard drive, we’ll find out what he’s seen fit to send home. Maybe we’ll discover what he knows.”

Murani hadn’t thought about that. “Do it.”

Murani returned to the parking garage where he left his car. Gallardo accompanied him. In the night’s darkness, Murani was glad the big man was there.

“As soon as you know anything about Leipzig or Lourds’s residence, let me know,” Murani said.

“I will.” Gallardo stood at the front of the car.

Just as Murani was about to get in, he spotted a familiar face in the shadows beyond the reach of the parking area’s security lights. A chill of dread spilled through him.

The pope had sent a man to spy on him.

For a moment Murani couldn’t remember the man’s name. He thought it was Antonio or Luigi. Something as predictable as that.

“What’s wrong?” Gallardo asked.

“I made a mistake,” Murani replied in a low voice. “I was followed. Or I was spotted.”

“Someone is here?”

“Yes. Across the building. Up against the back wall.” Murani was afraid that Gallardo was going to turn, but he didn’t.

“Will anyone at the Church know who I am?”

“I don’t know. But if the story comes out later about what happened in Moscow, I could be asked a lot of questions.”

Gallardo reached an instant decision. His face turned hard. “Okay, we don’t want that. Give me the keys.”

Murani’s stomach flip-flopped. Even if the junior priest ran to the pope and the pope didn’t worry about the meeting any further, the Society of Quirinus might. They protected their secrets zealously, and if they saw him as a risk, they would cut him off from the information. He couldn’t have that.

He dropped the keys into Gallardo’s palm.

“Now get into the car,” Gallardo ordered while he electronically unlocked the vehicle. “On the passenger side.”

Murani went around the car and got in.

After starting the car, Gallardo put the transmission into drive and reached under his jacket for the pistol he carried there. As he pulled out into the lane, he slid the pistol under his thigh.

“What are you going to do?” Murani asked.

“I’m going to take care of your problem.” Gallardo watched the young priest take flight and pressed down harder on the accelerator.

The priest ran, obviously in fear for his life. His robes flew around him as he ran out the exit.

Gallardo zoomed after him, tires squealing as he cut sharply to the right to follow his fleeing prey along the sidewalk.

The prey was in full panic mode. He ran for all he was worth.

Gallardo sped up. He passed the fleeing priest and cut him off. Pedestrians backed away.

The priest was trapped. His face, features taut from fear, was only inches from the other side of Murani’s window. For a moment, the cardinal faced his subordinate. Then the priest pushed away and ran down the alley.

Gallardo shoved the transmission into reverse briefly, backed up, and pulled the shift lever to drive again. The tires clawed for traction. The car shot forward and careened against a stack of trash cans.

Before he could ask what Gallardo planned, Murani knew. Gallardo’s foot hit the accelerator harder. The vehicle gained speed and overtook the priest. When the car caught up to the priest, the bumper struck him behind the legs and knocked him from his feet.

The priest disappeared beneath the car. His body turned into a series of speed bumps as the airbags deployed. The impact hit Murani in the chest with bruising force and knocked him backwards. Chemical smoke and the stench of gunpowder from the explosive charge that detonated with the airbag deployment filled the air.

Haunted by the crunching sound the tires had made as they’d plowed over the priest, knowing he’d never forget it, Murani turned in his seat and stared out at the broken body of the man where he lay still and silent on the granite block surface of the alley.

Gallardo braked the car, shoved the transmission into reverse, and backed over the priest. He stopped, burst the airbag with a knife, and got out with the pistol in his fist.

Murani had to slide across on the driver’s side to get out. His knees wobbled as he followed Gallardo.

Miraculously, the priest was still alive. The side of his head was mashed in from the contact with the ground, and one eye was missing. Blood was everywhere. He struggled to lift his head and fought for breath, but failed at both. In seconds, he slumped to the ground.

Gallardo knelt and felt for a pulse. He wiped his bloody fingers on the priest’s garments.

“He’s gone,” Gallardo said. He stood and looked at Murani. “Can you handle this?”

For a moment Murani didn’t know what the other man was talking about.

“Take out your cell phone,” Gallardo directed calmly as he shoved his pistol back into the shoulder holster. “Call the police. Report that you were just involved in a carjacking. Tell the police when they get here that you were in the car. That a man with a gun forced you over and took your car. You fought with him, and the carjacker ran over a pedestrian.”

Murani fumbled for his phone.

“Do you have that?” Gallardo asked.

“Yes. But are they going to believe me?”

Gallardo struck without warning. His big fist caught Murani on the jaw and nearly spun his head around. As he stumbled back, Gallardo hit him again. The second punch landed squarely on his nose. Blood filled his mouth, and his legs turned to water. For a moment he thought Gallardo had knocked him unconscious. He fell forward and Gallardo caught him.

“You’re more believable already. They’ll know you were in a fight.” Gallardo grinned. He stood Murani up against the car. “Make the call. Keep it short. Now you’re going to sound believable, too. I’ve got to get clear.”

As if he were out for a Sunday constitutional, Gallardo shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away. In seconds he had disappeared into the night.

Murani made the call and waited in the alley with the dead man. This wouldn’t be the end of it, he knew. The stakes had been raised. After a moment, when he was sure he could move without falling, he crossed to the young priest’s body and began administering last rites.

MAX PLANCK INSTITUTE FOR SOCIAL ANTHROPOLOGY
HALLE AN DER SAALE, GERMANY
SEPTEMBER 3, 2009

L
ourds found a drawing of the cymbal on Wednesday afternoon. Despite the seemingly endless days of sorting through the wealth of material the institute had on the Yoruba people, he’d maintained hope that something would be there.

What he regretted most, though, was the search for a specific something. Although he was somewhat aware of the Yoruba people and the impact they’d had on West Africa and beyond, he hadn’t truly known the extent of that influence.

He hadn’t known how well developed the city-states had been. In his opinion, the Yorubans had rivaled their European counterparts. Even though they’d been ruled by monarchies, the rulers ruled by the will of the people and could be ordered by the senators to abdicate the throne.

Not exactly the savages they were reputed to be
, Lourds thought grimly. The Yoruba had been governing at that level for hundreds of years before the Europeans started raiding the African nations for slaves.

Unfortunately, the Yoruba—generally known as the Oyo Empire at that time—gave in to the easy wealth that could be made from the slave trade. They’d waged wars against other kingdoms and city-states to capture slaves.

Several extensive documents from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries tempted him. Lourds would have loved to read them. But there was no time. So, with Fleinhardt’s permission, he uploaded several of the files to the off-site server he used at Harvard.

Of course, that server was already overflowing with material he intended to get around to. Some days it got frustrating simply acknowledging how much he
wasn’t
going to get to know no matter how hard he strived. Life just wasn’t long enough to satisfy Lourds’s curiosity.

But he read about the cymbal and he grew even more certain they’d touched only the tip of the iceberg.

RADISSON SAS HOTEL LEIPZIG
LEIPZIG, GERMANY
SEPTEMBER 3, 2009

By eight o’clock, Lourds was settled in to dinner with his companions. Leslie had insisted on him getting at least one proper meal and bringing them up to date with his research.

They ate in the hotel’s restaurant. Generally it was empty enough, they could get a table in the back and quiet enough, they could talk in relative privacy.

“You found the cymbal?” Leslie’s eyes gleamed with excitement.

“I believe so.” Lourds took his notebook computer from his backpack and placed it on the table well away from the wineglasses.

They’d all become accustomed to eating and talking about their work—illustrations by computer when needed—at the same time, but they continued to draw curious glances from the restaurant’s other patrons and the waitstaff.

“This is a drawing of the cymbal. Not a picture. But I think it’s close enough.” Lourds tapped the keys and brought up the digital image of the cymbal he’d downloaded from the institute’s archives.

In the drawing, the cymbal looked like a flat disk with an inscription on it. The man holding the cymbal wore a long cape and a crown.

“I’d guess he’s the king,” Gary said blithely.

“More than a king, actually,” Lourds said. “That’s a representation of Oduduwa.”