The Atlantis Code (8 page)

Flabbergasted, Lourds dropped into the wicker chair across the table from Leslie. Over the past three days, he’d grown quite enchanted with her wit, personality, and charm. He could easily see why the television producers had chosen her to be the show’s moderator. “You’ve read the books?”

Leslie shook her head and looked a trifle embarrassed. “I watched the movies. I’m not much of a reader. No time.”

“You’re a fan of old movies?” At least that was something. “I thought Gregory Peck was particularly good in that film.”

“I didn’t see the classic version, just the remakes with Ioan Gruffudd. I purchased them all on DVD.”

“They can’t be as good as the novels.” Lourds waved that idea away as pure folly. “Anyway, C. S. Forester wrote, ‘The best way of seeing Alexandria is to wander aimlessly.’ ”

Leslie leaned over the table and tucked her chin onto her interlaced fingers. “Surely seeing the city would be better if I had a guide.” Her green eyes glittered.

Lourds placed his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “If you find yourself in need of a guide here, just ask me.”

Leslie smiled a bit impishly and said, “I will.”

“So what brings you here?”

“Curiosity.”

“About?”

“Every night after dinner, you just disappear. I was beginning to think that I’d somehow offended you.” Leslie hesitated. “Or that maybe you were spending time with a loved one on the phone. Or even sending pictures over the Internet.”

“No. On all counts. No offense taken. I have no significant other. I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been consumed by the puzzle of the bell.”

“When I walked in and saw all the pictures in your room, I gathered that. The bell is one of the reasons I decided to drop by. I thought perhaps you needed a diversion.”

“A diversion?”

“When I get stymied on a project, I usually try to get out of my work environment and go talk it over with my friends. Sometimes that will lift something from my subconscious mind that’s been waiting for the chance to get out.”

“Are you suggesting a walk? Me and you?”

“I am.” Leslie met Lourds’s gaze directly.

Lourds looked at the wall covered with photos of the bell. He didn’t worry about leaving them here. The bell looked like what it was: a curious antique.

The question was, did he want to leave the puzzle of the bell alone long enough to spend time with an interesting and beautiful woman in one of the most romantic cities on earth?

It seemed he did.

“I can get dressed and meet you downstairs,” he said.

“Nonsense. You look fine.”

Lourds grinned at her. “Well, I need shoes, at least.” He was ready in less than a minute.

RYAZAN’ CITY, RYAZAN’
RUSSI
AUGUST 19, 2009

Frustration and excitement chafed at Professor Yuliya Hapaev as she sat at the tiny desk in the basement office she’d borrowed at Ryazan’ University while she worked on a pet project. The underground room held a chill she hadn’t been able to shake, even with a sweater under her lab coat.

Without any real hope of finding an answer, Yuliya checked her e-mail. Again. She stared at the industrial gray walls and waited for her mail client to pump out the latest messages.

She checked the time, discovering that it was almost 11 P.M. She groaned. She’d promised herself she would get back early tonight to the dorm she’d been assigned while she was working. The feeling that she’d forgotten something else nagged at her, though she couldn’t imagine what that something was. Her family was in Kazan. She had no meals to prepare, no laundry to do, nothing outside of her work to distract her here.

Working fourteen and fifteen hours a day in her chosen field was almost like being on vacation for her. Her husband didn’t like that so much, but he understood because he felt that way about some of the construction projects he worked on.

Fortune had smiled on her when her grant had been approved to study the recently uncovered artifacts found in the archeological dig on the hill between the Oka and Pronya Rivers. Although the area had been sealed off in 2005 and further digging banned, a number of things hadn’t been properly cataloged from the original excavations.

And despite the ban, a few items had wandered in after the fact.

The area between the Oka and Pronya Rivers had been a meeting place or melting pot of a myriad of cultures from the Upper Paleolithic times to the early Middle Ages. A wooden structure that had resembled Great Britain’s Stonehenge had been uncovered in 2003 by Ilya Akhmedov, an archeologist and contemporary of Yuliya’s. Scientists believed that the structure, too, had been used for mapping the stars.

The thing that had interested Yuliya most—and infuriated her beyond all measure—was the cymbal made of clay that currently lay on one of the tables out in the lab. It was definitely celadon pottery, reminding her of delicate Chinese and Japanese musical instruments. But the cymbal had writing on it that she couldn’t decipher. Nor could any of the Russian linguists Yuliya had access to.

In the end, she’d shot some pictures of the cymbal and sent them to Thomas Lourds, hoping his expertise in ancient languages would churn out an answer to the puzzle that faced her.

When the cymbal had been discovered at the site, it was locked away in a protective bone case. Remnants of that bone lay around the cymbal now. The case had either been shattered or had simply decomposed with the passage of years. Yuliya wasn’t sure which. She’d sent fragments of the bone off for carbon dating, and was waiting for the answer. The artifact was old. Maybe even impossibly old.

Her mail client dinged, letting her know the contents had come through. This time Yuliya received a response from Lourds’s graduate assistant, Tina Metcalf.

Her hands trembled as she moved to open the file.

Dear Yuliya,

Sorry. The prof’s not in. And you know how he is about
checking his e-mail.

Yuliya did know how Lourds was about e-mail. She’d never met anyone who detested electronic communications more. She often exchanged long letters with Lourds, snail mail, of course, discussing various finds they’d both taken part in, as well as the ramifications of those studies. Over the years, she’d saved all those letters; had, in fact, used some of the materials in graduate-level archeology classes she taught at Kazan State University.

She loved his letters, and she loved Lourds’s mind. That was something Yuliya’s husband, a mason, was sometimes jealous of. But Yuliya also knew that no woman was ever going to completely claim Lourds’s heart. The professor’s true love was knowledge, and he would spend his life looking for what had been lost at the Royal Library of Alexandria. No mere woman could compete with a passion like that. Still, a few of the young ones seemed to catch his eye occasionally, and some even caught more than his attention for a time.

If he’d had the inclination, she thought, Lourds could have given Don Juan a run for the money.

However,

Tina’s e-mail message went on,

I’m happy to supply you with the e-mail contact I have for
him in Alexandria.

Alexandria, eh?
Yuliya laughed. Lourds must have been drawn back into the arms of his true mistress—the search for remnants of the great library. She wondered how that mistress was treating him.

He’s over there shooting a program for the BBC. A documentary on languages or something. The dean was excited about the whole thing, tried to force him into the deal, but the BBC didn’t get the prof until the film company agreed to shoot in Alexandria. It was somewhere on their list of possible locations.

You know how he gets about Alexandria! The library and so forth. After a while, all you can hear when he opens his mouth is blah, blah, blah.

Yuliya suspected that maybe young Miss Metcalf had also been smitten by the professor, and was somewhat irritated that he hadn’t yet noticed she was female or available. Yuliya had seen women nearly swoon whenever Lourds entered the room. Not that he noticed.

I think he’s supposed to be over there for a few weeks. I don’t have a phone number for him yet, and you know he refuses to carry a cell phone. That man!

If you need anything (or if you find out how I can reach him!), please let me know.

Yours,

Tina Metcalf
Graduate Assistant to
Thomas Lourds, Ph.D
Professor of Linguistics
Department of Linguistics
Boylston Hall
Harvard University
Cambridge, MA 02138

So. No Thomas. Maybe for weeks.

Irritated, Yuliya abandoned the computer and walked back out into her borrowed lab. The clay cymbal still occupied the center of one of the tables.

It was almost like it was taunting her.

Understand me!
it said.

She only wished she could.

The low ceiling of the basement felt oppressive, like the weight of the building was slowly sinking on top of her.

After a moment, Yuliya got the distinct feeling that someone was watching her.

Strange.

No one should be at the university at this time of night. And she wasn’t the type to have ridiculous fancies.

Then another thought hit her. Security, even when there was a lot of it, tended to be abysmal here by most standards.

Fear trampled through Yuliya’s body, filling her nervous system with a huge hit of adrenaline. Rape and murder occurred on university campuses with appalling regularity.

Acting casual, Yuliya reached out for the small knife she’d used to clean the mysterious and maddening inscription she’d found. Her hand curled around the wooden handle.

“If I’d truly wanted to hurt you, you’d be too late. In fact, you’d probably already be dead.”

Anger exploded inside Yuliya as she recognized the taunting voice. She spun to face her tormentor.

Natasha Safarov leaned against the wall in the mouth of the stairwell.

At least she didn’t creep up on me and touch the back of my neck!
Yuliya absolutely hated it when her younger sister did that.

“Are you spying on me?” Yuliya demanded.

Natasha shrugged and showed Yuliya a disinterested moue. “Perhaps.”

At twenty-eight, ten years Yuliya’s junior, Natasha was an Amazon. She stood five feet ten inches tall, six inches taller than her sister. Her dark red hair fell to her shoulders and framed a model’s face. Sparkling brown eyes revealed her amusement. She wore slacks and a blouse under a long black duster. She looked like she was draped in Dior.

It was infuriating.

But Yuliya loved her sister anyway.

“Natasha, what are you doing here?” Yuliya put the knife down on the table and walked over to her sister. They hugged, fiercely, because they had always been close, even though they seldom saw each other these days.

“I called Ivan and found out you were here,” Natasha said. Ivan was Yuliya’s husband. “Since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I’d drop by.”

“I’ve got some coffee on. And rolls that are almost fresh. Would you care for some?”

Natasha nodded and followed her sister into the office. She took one of the straight-backed chairs at one of the desks. To Yuliya, she looked like royalty sitting there, despite the wretched decor of the little kitchen.

After microwaving the coffee and the rolls, Yuliya placed the plate and the cups on the desk and sat.

“This reminds me of what it was like when we were girls,” Natasha said as she took a roll. “You making breakfast for us before we went to school. Do you remember?”

“I do.” Sadness touched Yuliya’s heart. Their mother had been taken from them too young by a respiratory illness. Sometimes, late at night, Yuliya thought she could still hear her mother’s agonized wheezing. And she remembered the night that the sound suddenly went away . . . forever.

Yuliya had been fourteen. Natasha had been four. Although she tried, Natasha could never remember their mother—a big woman who loved to bake—except from photographs and from the stories Yuliya told. Their father had worked in a warehouse.

“As I recall,” Yuliya went on, “you almost made me late every morning.”

“As I recall, you were always primping for some boy.”

“I primped for Ivan. And it worked for me. We are married and have two beautiful children.”

“They get their looks from their aunt.” Natasha grinned.

“No,” Yuliya declared, going along with the old joke. “You’ll not take that from me. I am their mother.
I
made them beautiful.”

They nibbled on their rolls and sipped coffee in silence for a moment.

“I miss you making breakfast for me,” Natasha said quietly after a bit.

From her sister’s words, Yuliya knew Natasha had been off in some corner of the world that had briefly flamed into a private hell for her. Yuliya knew better than to ask where or how, though. Natasha would never talk about it.