The Atlantis Gene: A Thriller (40 page)

“I won’t work that mine at any price.”

“Why not? The safety? You can fix it; I’m sure of it. The Army men told us you were quite clever.
The best
, they said.”

“I told her I wouldn’t work in a mine. I made her a promise. And I won’t make her a widow.”

“You assume you’ll marry her. She won’t marry without my permission.” Lord Barton inhales and watches for my reaction, satisfied that he’s cornered me.

“You underestimate her.”

“You overestimate her. But if that’s your price, you can have it, and the $2,000 per week. But you agree, right here and now, that you’ll work that dig to the finish. Once you do, I’ll give my blessing without delay.”

“You’d trade your approval for whatever’s buried down there?”

“Easily. I’m a practical man. And a responsible man. Maybe you will be too one day. What’s my daughter’s future for the fate of the human race?”

I almost laugh, but he fixes me with a stare that’s dead serious. I rub my face and try to think. I hadn’t expected the man to haggle, least of all over this business under Gibraltar. I know I’m making a mistake, but I don’t see what option I have. “I’ll have your permission now, not after the dig.”

Barton looks away. “How long to get into the structure?”

“I don’t know—”

“Weeks, months, years?”

“Months, I think. There’s no way to kn—”

“Fine, fine. You have it. We’ll announce it tonight, and if you don’t keep up your end in Gibraltar, I’ll make her a widow.”

CHAPTER 87

Associated Press — Online Breaking News Bulletin

Clinics throughout US and Western Europe report new flu outbreak

New York City (AP) // Emergency rooms and urgent care clinics across the US and Western Europe have reported a flood of new flu cases, sparking fears that it might be the beginning of an outbreak of a previously unidentified flu strain.

CHAPTER 88

Kate leaned her head against the wooden wall of the alcove and stared at the sun, wishing she could stop it right where it was. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw David open his eyes and look up at her. She opened the journal and continued reading before he could say anything.

December 20th, 1917

The Moroccan workers cower as the rock comes down around them. The space fills with smoke and we retreat back into the shaft. And then we wait and listen, ready to pile into the car that straddles the rails, ready to zoom out of the shaft at the first sign of trouble — fire or water in this case.

The first cry of a canary breaks the silence and one by one we all exhale and move back into the massive room to see how far the latest roll of the dice has gotten us.

We are close. But not quite there.

“Told you we should have drilled it deeper,” Rutger says.

I don’t remember him saying anything. In fact, I’m pretty sure he sat indolently, not even inspecting the hole before we packed it with the chemical explosive. He walks to the excavation site for a better look, raking his hand on one of the canary cages as he passes by, sending the bird into a panic.

“Don’t touch the cages,” I say.

“You’d let them choke to death on methane gas to give yourself a few minutes head start, but I can’t even rattle them?”

“Those birds could save every one of our lives. I won’t have you torture them for your own enjoyment.”

Rutger unloads the rage meant for me on the Moroccan foreman. He shouts at the poor man in French, and the dozen workers begin clearing the rubble from the blast.

It’s been almost four months since I first toured the site, since I first set foot in this strange room. In the first few months of digging, it became clear that the part of the structure they had found was an access tunnel at the bottom of the structure. It led to a door that was sealed — with some sort of technology beyond anything we could ever hope to break through. And we tried everything — fire, ice, explosives, chemicals. The Berbers on the work crew even performed some strange tribal ritual, possibly for their own sake. But it soon became clear that we weren’t getting through the door. Our theory is that it’s some sort of drainage tunnel or emergency evacuation route, sealed for who-knows-how-many thousands of years.

After some debate, the Immari Council — that’s Kane, Craig, and Lord Barton, my now father-in-law, decided we should move up the structure, into the area that contains the methane pockets. That’s slowed us down, but in the last several weeks we’ve uncovered signs that we’re reaching some sort of entrance. The smooth surface of the structure, some metal that’s harder than steel and makes almost no noise when you strike it, has begun to slope. A week ago we found steps.

The dust is clearing, and I see more steps. Rutger shouts for the men to work faster, as if this thing is going anywhere.

Beyond the dust behind me, I hear footfalls and see my assistant running. “Mr. Pierce. Your wife is at the office. She’s looking for you.”

“Rutger!” I yell. He turns. “I’m taking the truck. Don’t blast anything until I get back.”

“The hell I won’t! We’re close, Pierce.”

I grab the pack of blast caps and run to the car. “Drive me to the surface,” I say to my assistant.

Behind me, Rutger bellows out a tirade about my cowardice.

At the surface, I change quickly and scrub my hands. Before I can leave for the office, the telephone at the warehouse rings and the manager walks out. “Sorry, Mr. Pierce, she’s done and left.”

“What did they tell her?”

“Sorry sir, I don’t know.”

“Was she sick? Was she going to the hospital?”

The man shrugs apologetically. “I… I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t ask—”

I’m out the door and in the car before he can finish. I rush to the hospital, but she’s not there, and they haven’t seen her. From the hospital, the switchboard operator connects me to the newly installed phone at our residence. It rings ten times. The operator breaks on. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no answer—”

“Let it ring. I’ll wait.”

Five more rings. Three more, and our butler, Desmond, comes on. “Pierce residence, Desmond speaking.”

“Desmond, is Mrs. Pierce there?”

“Yes sir.”

I wait. “Well, put her on then,” I say, trying but failing to hide my nervousness.

“Of course, sir!” he says, embarrassed. He’s not used to the phone. It’s probably why it took him so long to answer.

Three minutes pass, and Desmond comes back on the line. “She’s in her room, sir. Shall I have Myrtle go in and see about her—”

“No. I’ll be there directly.” I hang up, run out of the hospital, and hop back in the car.

I order my assistant to drive faster and faster. We zoom recklessly through the streets of Gibraltar, forcing several carriages off the street and scattering shoppers and tourists at each turn.

When we arrive at home, I jump out, race up the stairs, throw open the doors, and storm through the foyer. Pain punches at my leg with every step, and I’m sweating profusely, but I plow on, driven by fear. I climb the grand staircase to the second floor, make a bee line for our bedroom, and enter without knocking.

Helena turns over, clearly surprised to see me. And surprised at the sight of me — sweat dripping from my forehead, the panting, the painful grimace. “Patrick?”

“Are you alright?” I say as I sit on the bed with her and brush the thick blankets back. I run my hand over her swollen stomach.

She sits up in the bed. “I could ask you the same thing. Of course I’m alright; why wouldn’t I be?”

“I thought you might have come because you, or there was a problem…” I exhale and the worry flows from my body. I scold her with my eyes. “The doctor said you should stay in bed.”

She slumps back into the pillows. “You try staying in bed for months on end—”

I smile at her as she realizes what she’s said.

“Sorry, but as I recall you weren’t all that good at it either.”

“No, you’re right, I wasn’t. I’m sorry I missed you; what is it?”

“What?”

“You came by the office?”

“Oh, yes. I wanted to see if you could slip out for lunch, but they told me you were already out.”

“Yes. A… problem down at the docks.” It’s the 100th time I’ve lied to Helena. It hasn’t gotten any easier, but the alternative is a lot worse.

“The perils of being a shipping magnate.” She smiles. “Well, maybe another day.”

“Maybe in a few weeks, when it will be three for lunch.”

“Three indeed. Or maybe four; I feel that big.”

“You don’t look it.”

“You’re a brilliant liar,” she says.

Brilliant liar
isn’t the half of it.

Our revelry is interrupted by the sound of knocking in the next room. I turn my head.

“They’re measuring the drawing room and the parlor below,” Helena says.

We’ve already renovated for a nursery and enlarged three bedrooms for the children. I bought us a massive row house with a separate cottage for the house staff, and I can’t imagine what else we might need now.

“I thought we could build a dancing room, with a parquet floor, like the one in my parent’s house.”

Every man has limits. Helena can do whatever she wants to the house; that’s not the issue. “If we have a son?” I ask.

“Don’t worry.” She pats my hand. “I won’t subject your strong American son to the dull intricacies of English society dance. But we’re having a girl.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You know this?”

“I have a feeling.”

“Then we’ll need a dancing room,” I say, smiling.

“Speaking of dancing, an invitation came by messenger today. The Immari Annual Meeting and Christmas Ball, they’re having it in Gibraltar this year. There’s to be quite a celebration. I rang Mother. She and Father will be there. I’d like to go. I’ll take it easy, I assure you.”

“Sure. It’s a date.”

CHAPTER 89

Kate squinted, trying to read the journal. The sun was setting over the mountains and dread was building in her stomach. She glanced over at David. His expression was almost blank, unreadable. Maybe somber.

As if reading her mind, Milo entered the large wood-floored room with a gas-burning lantern. Kate liked the smell; it somehow put her at ease.

Milo set the lantern on a table by the bed, where the light would reach the journal and said, “Good evening, Dr. Kate—” Upon seeing that David was awake, he brightened. “And hello again, Mr. Ree—”

“It’s David Vale now. It’s nice to see you again, Milo. You’ve gotten a lot taller.”

“And that’s not all, Mr. David. Milo has learned the ancient art of communication you know as… English.”

David laughed. “And learned it well. I wondered at the time if they would toss it out or actually give it to you — the Rosetta Stone.”

“Ah, my mysterious benefactor finally reveals himself!” Milo bowed again. “I thank you for the gift of your language. And now, may I repay the gift, at least partially,” he raised his eyebrows mysteriously, “with the evening meal?”

“Please,” Kate said, laughing.

David gazed out the window. The last sliver of the sun slipped behind the mountain like a pendulum disappearing in the side of a clock. “You should get your rest, Kate. It’s a very long walk.”

“I’ll rest when we finish. I find reading relaxing.” She opened the book again.

December 23rd, 1917

I strain to see as the dust clears. Then I squint, not believing me eyes. We’ve uncovered more stairs, but there’s something else, expanding to the right of the stairs — an opening, like a gash in the metal.

“We’re in!” Rutger screams and rushes forward into the darkness and floating dust.

I grab for him, but he breaks my grasp. My leg has gotten some better, to the point where I only take one pain pill, sometimes two, each day, but I’ll never catch him.

“You want us go after ‘im?” The Moroccan foreman asks.

“No,” I say. I wouldn’t sacrifice one of them to save Rutger. “Hand me one of the birds.” I take the Canary cage, switch my headlamp on and wade into the dark opening.

The jagged portal is clearly the result of a blast or a rip. But we didn’t make it. We merely found it — the metal walls are almost five feet thick. As I cross into this structure the Immari have been digging and diving for going on almost 60 years, I’m finally overcome by awe. The first area is a corridor, ten feet wide by thirty feet long. It opens to a circular room with wonders I can’t begin to describe. The first thing that catches my eye is an indention in the wall with four tubes, like massive oblong capsules or elongated mason jars, standing on their ends, running from the floor to the ceiling. They’re empty except for a faint white light and fog that floats at the bottom. Farther over, there are two more tubes. One is damaged, I think. The glass is cracked and there’s no fog. But the tube beside it… there’s something in it. Rutger sees it just as I do and he’s at the tube, which seems to sense our presence. The fog clears as we approach, like a curtain rolling back to reveal its secret.