Atlantis

They had lost track of time since embarking in the DSRV from Seaquest the previous day. The jumble of rock was a twilight world of shadows and flickering shapes. As they negotiated a short flight of steps cut into the rock, the conduit became gloomier still, and they once again had to rely on the eerie glow from the lightsticks.

The tunnel followed the drift of the basalt, each successive layer clearly visible in the stratigraphy of the walls. The flow had undermined the gas-charged lava of the cone, the ash and cinders compressed like concrete with chunks of pumice and jagged scoriae embedded in the matrix. The higher they climbed, the more porous it became, with rainwater dripping through the clumps that protruded from the ceiling. The temperature was becoming noticeably warmer.

After about twenty metres the tunnel narrowed and funnelled the water flowing against them into a violent current. Jack stumbled sideways, his body suddenly convulsed with pain. Katya waded over to help him stay upright against the torrent which was now waist high. With agonizing slowness the two of them forced their way past the constriction while Costas forged ahead and disappeared into the veil of mist. As they staggered forward, the walls suddenly opened out again and the flow diminished to little more than a trickle. They rounded a corner and saw Costas standing motionless, his dripping form silhouetted against a background of opaque illumination.

“It’s a huge skylight,” he announced excitedly. “We must be just below the caldera.”

The opening far above was wide enough for faint daylight to reveal the awesome scale of the chamber in front of them. It was a vast rotunda, at least fifty metres across by fifty metres high, the walls rising to a circular aperture which framed the sky like a giant oculus. To Jack it was astonishingly reminiscent of the Pantheon in Rome, the ancient temple to all the gods, its soaring dome representing mastery over the heavens.

Even more breathtaking was the apparition in the centre. From skylight to floor was an immense column of swirling gas exactly the width of the oculus. It seemed to project the daylight straight down like a giant beam, a glowing pillar of pale light.

After gazing in awe for a moment they realized it was rocketing upwards at immense speed, giving the illusion that they themselves were hurtling inexorably downward into the fiery depths of the volcano. All their instincts told them there should be a deafening roar yet the chamber was eerily quiet.

“It’s water vapour,” Costas finally exclaimed. “So this is what happens to the rainwater that isn’t channelled out. It must be like a blast furnace down there.”

The increasing heat they had felt during the ascent was emanating from the chimney in front of them.

They were standing on the outer edge of a wide platform that ran round the rotunda several metres above the central floor. Evenly spaced doorways, identical to the one they had just emerged from, had been cut into the rock all the way round the perimeter. Each one was topped with the now familiar symbols. Beyond the inside edge of the platform they could just make out the central dais of the chamber. Backing onto the vapour column were four stone seats, each in the shape of bull’s horns and arranged at cardinal points of the compass. The one facing them was obscured by the platform but was clearly larger than the others, the tips of the horns reaching up towards the oculus.

“It must be some sort of throne room,” Costas said, awestruck. “An audience chamber for the high priests.”

“The hall of the ancestors. The funerary chamber. And now the audience chamber,” Katya murmured. “This must be our last staging post to the holy of holies.”

They had been in a state of constant high excitement, exhilarated by the thrill of discovery since leaving the submarine. Now as they confronted the very core of the volcano their exuberance was tempered with unease, as if they knew the ultimate revelation would not be yielded without a price. Even Costas faltered, reluctant to abandon the security of the tunnel and pitch himself forward into the unknown.

It was Jack who broke the spell and urged them on. He turned towards the other two, his face streaked with grime and his rugged features underscored by pain.

“This is where the text was leading us,” he said. “The sanctuary of Atlantis is somewhere here.”

Without further ado he pushed himself forward and limped ahead, his willpower the only thing keeping him from buckling. Costas walked alongside and Katya immediately behind, her face set impassively as they made for the lip of the platform.

Just as the throne began to come into view over the edge of the platform, they were blinded by a beam of light. They instinctively cowered and shielded their eyes. Through the glare they made out two figures that materialized to right and left.

Just as suddenly the light disappeared. As their vision cleared, they saw that the two figures were clad in black just like their assailants in the submarine, and each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 levelled menacingly from the hip. Jack and Costas raised their hands; they would have no chance of reaching their weapons before being cut down in a hail of bullets.

Ahead a flight of twelve shallow steps descended to the dais. A portable searchlight was aimed at them beside the stairs. A raised walkway led directly to the bull’s horn sculpture whose tips they had seen above the platform edge. It was the ostentatious backing for a massive stone seat, more ornate than the others.

The seat was occupied.

“Dr. Howard. A pleasure to meet you at last.”

Jack recognized the voice, the same drawling, guttural tone that had come over Seaquest’s radio from Vultura three days ago. He and Costas were pushed roughly down the stairs and the bloated form of Aslan came clearly into view. He was slouched on the throne, his feet planted firmly in front and his immense forearms draped over the sides. His pale and ageless face would have seemed almost like some priest of old were it not for the signs of rampant excess in his corpulent frame. With his billowing red robe and oriental features he seemed the epitome of an eastern despot, an image straight from the court of Genghis Khan, except for the thoroughly modern warriors on either side of him, each carrying a submachine gun.

Directly to Aslan’s right stood a diminutive figure at odds with the rest of the entourage. It was a plain- featured woman wearing a drab grey overcoat, her hair pulled back in a bun.

“Olga Ivanovna Bortsev,” Katya hissed.

“Your research assistant has been most helpful,” Aslan boomed good-naturedly. “Ever since she reported back to me I have kept your vessel under constant surveillance. I have been wanting to visit this island for a long time. Fortunately my men found a way up outside and into this chamber. It seems we arrived in the nick of time.” Suddenly his voice hardened. “I am here to claim lost property.”

Costas could restrain himself no longer and lunged forward. He was immediately sent sprawling as the butt of a gun slammed into his stomach.

“Costas Demetrios Kazantzakis,” Aslan said with a sneer. “A Greek.” He spat out the word contemptuously.

As Costas struggled to his feet, Aslan turned his attention to Katya, his dark eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth betraying the hint of a smile.

“Katya Svetlanova. Or should I say Katya Petrovna Nazarbetov.”

Katya’s look had changed to angry defiance. Jack felt his legs slip out from under him as his body finally gave in. Her reply seemed to come from somewhere else, from a shadowy netherworld disconnected from reality.

“Father.”

CHAPTER 23

Ben shifted almost imperceptibly on his haunches, never once letting his eyes waver from the smudge of light that emanated from the control room at the far end of the passageway. He had held the same position for hour after hour, relieved only for short spells by Andy from the torpedo room below. With his body pressed against the casing and dusted with white precipitate he seemed almost a part of the submarine’s fabric, little different from the macabre corpse of the zampolit hanging in the darkness only an arm’s length behind.

Despite his E-suit the cold had crept insidiously into his body, and the fingers curled round the trigger guard