Atlantis

“My apologies for being late,” he said breathlessly. “We have had a busy night. Yesterday evening a Turkish Air Force Boeing 737 early warning aircraft detected an explosive shock wave on the coast of Abkhazia near the Georgian border.” He winked at Jack. “We decided it was a threat to national security and sent a Special Forces rapid reaction team to investigate.”

“The works of art?” Jack asked.

“Most were still inside Aslan’s domestic quarters, and most of those being removed were outside the main blast area. As we speak they are being transferred by Navy Seahawks to Istanbul’s Archaeological Museum for identification and conservation and then will be returned to their rightful owners.”

“A pity,” Costas interjected. “They’d make a unique travelling exhibit. Examples of the finest art from all periods and cultures, never before seen together. It would be an astounding show.”

“A few anxious curators might want to see their property first,” Jack said.

“But an excellent idea,” Efram Jacobovich pitched in with quiet enthusiasm. “It would be an appropriate use for the funds confiscated from Aslan’s accounts. Meanwhile I can think of one private benefactor who might provide the seed money.”

Jack smiled appreciatively and turned back to Mustafa. “And the security situation?”

“We have been seeking an excuse to go into Abkhazia for some time,” Mustafa replied. “It has become the main transit point for drugs from central Asia. With the terrorist link now firmly established we have been assured of full co-operation from the Georgian and Russian governments.”

Jack tried hard to conceal his scepticism. He knew Mustafa was obliged to toe the official line even though he was well aware that the chances of concerted action beyond the present situation were minimal.

They looked towards the low shape of Kazbek and the flotilla of Turkish and Russian FAC craft which had arrived overnight, evidence of the process already under way to ensure the nuclear warheads were removed and the submarine returned to its home port for decommissioning. Following disposal of the reactor core, the bodies of Captain Antonov and his crew would be left on board and the submarine sunk as a military grave, a final monument to the human cost of the Cold War.

“What about the hardware?” Jack asked.

“Anything reusable will go to the Georgians. They need it most. We had hoped to offer them Vultura, but I now see that will no longer be possible.” He grinned at Jack. “So they get a brand-new Russian Project 1154 Neustrashimy-class frigate instead.”

“What will happen to Vultura?” Katya asked quietly.

They all looked out at the distant hulk which had been towed into position above the underwater canyon. It was a pitiful sight, a smouldering pyre that was the last testimony to the avarice and hubris of one man.

Mustafa checked his watch. “I believe you will have the answer about now.”

Exactly on cue the air was rent by the high-pitched screech of jet aircraft. Seconds later two Turkish Air Force F-15E Strike Eagles thundered overhead, their twin afterburners flaring red as they flew in close formation towards their objective. About two kilometres beyond the island a canister dropped from the left-hand jet and skipped over the sea like a dambuster bomb. As the two aircraft tore away to the south, the sea erupted in a wall of flame that engulfed the wreck in an awesome display of pyrotechnics.

“A thermobaric bomb,” Mustafa said simply. “The tunnel-buster first used by the Americans in Afghanistan. We needed a live-fire target to test the delivery system on our new Strike Eagles.” He turned as the noise rumbled past them and gestured towards the door. “Come. Let us go in now.”

The cool air of the passageway provided a welcome respite from the sun which had begun to beat down uncomfortably on the rock outside. For those who had not yet seen it, their first view of the audience chamber with its vast domed ceiling far exceeded anything they had imagined. With all evidence of Aslan gone, the chamber was pristine, the thrones standing empty as if awaiting the return of the high priests who had vacated them more than seven thousand years earlier.

The chimney was now dormant, the last of the rainwater having dissipated overnight, and instead of a vapour plume a brilliant shaft of sunlight illuminated the dais like a theatrical spotlight.

For a few moments there was silence. Even Hiebermeyer, not usually at a loss for words and accustomed to the splendours of ancient Egypt, took off his misted-up glasses and stood speechless.

Dillen turned to face them.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we can now take up where the text left off. I believe we are one step from the supreme revelation.”

Jack never ceased to be amazed by his mentor’s ability to switch off from the excitement of discovery. Wearing an immaculate white suit and bow tie, he seemed a throwback to another age, to a time when effortless elegance was as much a part of the scholar’s tools of trade as the sophisticated gadgetry of his students’ generation.

“We have precious little to go on,” Dillen cautioned. “The papyrus is a tattered shred and the Phaistos disc is equally elusive. We can infer from the entranceway inscription that Atlantis refers to this citadel, this monastery. To outsiders it probably meant the city as well, but for the inhabitants it may have specifically denoted their most sacred place, the rocky slopes and caves where the settlement began.”

“Like the Acropolis in Athens,” Costas ventured.

“Precisely. The disc implies that within Atlantis is a place I translate as ‘place of the gods,’ Katya as ‘holy of holies.’ It also mentions a mother goddess. As far as I can tell none of your discoveries fits this bill.”

“The nearest would be the hall of the ancestors, the name we gave to the cave painting gallery,” Jack said. “But that’s Palaeolithic and contains no representations of humans. In a Neolithic sanctuary I’d expect to see anthropomorphic deities, a grander version of the household shrine we saw in the submerged village at Trabzon.”

“What about this room, the audience chamber?” Efram Jacobovich asked.

Jack shook his head. “It’s too large. This space is inclusive, designed for congregational gatherings like a church. What we’re looking for is something exclusive, hidden away. The holier the place, the more restricted the access to it. Only priests would be allowed entry, as befitted their status as intermediaries with the gods.”

“A tabernacle,” Efram suggested.

Katya and Aysha appeared on the ledge beside the ramp. While the others had been talking they had carried out a quick reconnaissance of the doorways surrounding the chamber.

“We think we’ve found it,” Katya said, the excitement of once again exploring and discovering the secrets of Atlantis pushing aside the nightmare of the last few days. “Altogether there are twelve entrances. Two we can discount because they’re the passageways we know about, one from outside and the other coming up from below. Of the remainder, nine are either blanks, false doorways leading nowhere or passageways leading down. I assume we’re going up.”

“If this is truly the mother of all peak sanctuaries,” Jack replied, “then the higher the better.”

Katya pointed towards the door at the western extremity of the chamber, directly opposite the entrance passageway. “That’s the one. It also happens to be capped by the sign of the outstretched eagle god.”

Jack smiled broadly at Katya, glad to see her beginning to recover from her ordeal, and turned to Dillen.

“Professor, perhaps you would lead us in.”

Dillen nodded courteously and walked beside Jack towards the west door, his dapper form a striking contrast to his former student’s weather-beaten appearance. They were followed by Katya and Costas and then by the other four, with Efram Jacobovich unobtrusively bringing up the rear. As they neared the entrance Jack glanced back at Costas.

“This is it then. A gin and tonic by the pool awaits.”

Costas cast his friend a crooked smile. “That’s what you say every time.”

Dillen paused to inspect the carving on the lintel; it was an immaculate miniature of the spread-winged eagle god the others had seen in the hall of the ancestors. Jack and Costas switched on their flashlights and shone them into the darkness ahead. Like the walls of the submerged passages, the basalt had been polished to a lustrous hue, its mottled surface sparkling with mineral inclusions which had welled up from the earth’s mantle as the volcano formed.

Jack stepped aside to let Dillen take the lead. About ten metres in he suddenly halted.

“We have a problem.”

Jack came alongside and saw that a massive stone portal blocked the passageway. It melded almost