The Atlantis Legacy - A01-A02 (27 page)

ROME

S
ERENA’S PLANE FROM
S
YDNEY
came into Rome as dusk was setting in. She was met by Benito in a black sedan and taken to the Vatican for a debriefing with the pope. They talked in private until almost three in the morning. At the end, His Holiness placed his trembling hands on her forehead and uttered a brief prayer.

“Well done,” he said simply. “The city is buried, the Americans know only half the story and will keep it to themselves, and now the U.N. can focus its energies on more productive causes. And since Colonel Zawas is gone, all evidence has been swept away.”

For the most part, Serena thought, this was true. But the memories were there all the same. And she doubted she could ever sweep those away.

The pope looked her in the eye. “What about Doctor Yeats?”

“He won’t talk,” Serena said. “If he does, nobody will believe him. I have his digital camera and the original Sonchis map.”

Serena reached into her pack and produced a green thermos. The pope leaned forward expectantly as she felt for the outer shell and frowned. There was no outer shell. It was a different thermos. When she turned it upside down, a frozen cylinder of ice slipped out. Encased inside was a rose in full bloom.

“Problems?” His Holiness asked.

Serena thought back to her visit at Conrad’s bedside and the teary good-bye. “He stole it!”

The pope’s craggy face broke into a wide grin, and he laughed harder than she had ever heard him laugh. So hard, in fact, that he began to cough and required a gentle pat on the back.

Serena didn’t find anything funny about it. “I promise I’ll find a way to get the map back.”

The pope, breathing easier now, waved her off with his gnarled hand. “I believe that’s his plan, Sister Serghetti.”

“Sister?” she repeated. “Your Holiness, I have—”

“Been reinstated, if you so desire.”

Serena paused. This was an incredible offer, a second chance that would not be repeated in her lifetime.

“But why, Your Holiness?” she asked him. “Why now?”

“I don’t have long to live, Sister Serghetti,” he told her. “And I do not know who will follow me. But for as many days as the Lord sees fit to keep me here on Earth, I will extend to you all the privileges of such reinstatement, including unfettered access to the Vatican Archives.”

“The Archives?” she repeated in wonder. Only two or three men—and they were all men—enjoyed such access. His Holiness would be sharing with her the Church’s most cherished—and cursed—secrets. “You tempt me, Your Holiness. You tempt me with knowledge, much like the serpent in the Garden of Eden.”

“This is no temptation, Sister Serghetti, I assure you,” the pope said. “This is a trust. This is a gift. And if I were you, I would accept it. For the one who follows me may not be as accommodating to you as I have been.”

Serena understood, but hesitated. To officially declare herself a bride of Christ again would permanently keep her from Conrad and cut off any possibility of them ever consummating their relationship.

The pope seemed to sense her inner conflict. “You love Doctor Yeats,” he said.

“Yes, I do,” she replied, shocked to hear the words come out of her mouth.

“Then surely you must know he is in greater danger now than ever.”

Serena nodded. Somehow she had sensed this ever since leaving Antarctica.

The pope said, “You will need all the resources of Heaven and Earth to protect him.”

“Protect Conrad?” she said. “From what?”

“All in good time, Sister Serghetti, all in good time. Right now, we have more pressing duties.”

What could be so much more pressing? she wondered when the pope showed her the front page of the
International Herald-Tribune.

“Four nuns were raped and murdered in Sri Lanka by Hindu nationalists with ties to the government,” he told her. “The crimes against Muslims have now turned against Christians once again. You must go there first thing in the morning and do what you do best, plead our case with the world watching.”

“But it is the morning, Your Holiness.”

“Yes, you must be tired. Rest a few hours.”

Serena nodded. The concerns of the real world were too overwhelming, so overwhelming that they crowded out even thoughts of a lost civilization buried under the ice. There were larger battles to consider, she realized, battles against hate, poverty, and disease.

“I will go as you request,” she told him, pausing for a moment. “First I will go to Sri Lanka to document the crimes. Then I will go to Washington, D.C., and press this issue with the American Congress before I take it up with the United Nations.”

“Very well.”

She let Benito drive her to her apartment overlooking the Piazza del Popolo. It was a plain room, nothing more than a bed and nightstand. But she felt better back in her own world, the one in which she first took her vows.

Next to the French doors that framed a pale moon was a crucifix on the wall. She knelt before the crucifix in the early morning light. As she looked up at the figure of Christ, she confessed to God her arrogance in thinking that she knew more about suffering and loss than he did, and she thanked him for his provision for humanity’s sin in Jesus.

Then she stepped out onto the balcony and looked across the piazza at the Egyptian obelisk brought to Rome by Augustus two thousand years ago.

The monument reminded her of another obelisk, one buried in a
pyramid under two miles of ice in Antarctica. And she wondered: was it really Christ’s redeeming work on the cross that broke the curse of the ancient “sons of God” and saved the world? Or was it the selfless act of a godless man like Conrad, who sacrificed his life’s obsession and returned the obelisk to the star chamber? In the end, she concluded that the latter could not have happened without the former.

As she listened to the cheerful sounds of traffic in a city that never slept, she reached into her pocket and removed the lock of hair she had cut from his head. In time, if she could ever let it leave her grasp, it would be analyzed.

For now she simply prayed for the immortal soul of Conrad Yeats, whoever he was, and for the forgiveness of her own, knowing in her heart of hearts that, one way or another, they would meet again.

F
IVE SOLDIERS
of the U.S. Provisional Army came to an abrupt halt at the Georgetown wharf and dismounted their horses. The sleet had stopped, but it was bitter cold outside. The commanding officer looked out across the water at Suter’s Tavern. It was the middle of the night, but he could hear music from inside. A lone lantern flickered in the middle window of the second floor.

That was the sign.

The man they were after was inside.

The officer signaled his men. They moved quickly toward the front door in single file. Their boots splashed lightly in the moonlit puddles, the bayonets at the end of their muskets glinting. Two soldiers went around the back to take positions behind the kitchen. The other two pounded the front door with the butts of their muskets.

“Open in the name of the United States of America!”

The door opened a crack to reveal the face of a small boy, who fell back in alarm as the soldiers pushed their way inside. The thirty or so revelers in the tavern sat fast in their chairs, their mugs of ale midair and their mouths open. The music stopped, the sudden silence broken only by the crackling of the fireplace flames.

The commanding officer, a head taller than most in the room, grabbed the boy by his collar and demanded, “We are looking for a runaway slave, a cook who goes by the name Hercules.”

Hercules was in the kitchen, chopping onions for one last serving of his popular stew. His wiry dark hair was pulled tight to his scalp
and stuck straight back like the handle of an iron skillet. Rules of the house. But he had refused to shave his beard. As his stew rose to a slow boil he suddenly realized that the noise in the tavern had died down. He cocked his ear.

The kitchen door flew open, and in stormed four Green Coats. Their commanding officer, who identified himself as Major Cornelius Temple of the U.S. Provisional Army, shouted, “Which of you is Hercules?”

Hercules froze. So did the other kitchen staff, all slaves. None of them said a word, but their anxious gazes drifted toward Hercules.

Hercules had been a slave until he ran away from his master two years ago. He had been making his way as a cook ever since, having perfected his renowned Southern dishes at the General’s homes in New York, Philadelphia, and Virginia. If all he ever did was cook for his master, he would never have left. But his master made him carry out other missions, too. Secret missions. Dangerous missions. Now his past had finally caught up with him.

He just hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

Hercules laid down his chopping knife on the table and stepped forward, praying that the only thing the soldiers were after tonight was a runaway slave, and not the secret his master had him bury years ago.

The major looked down his nose at Hercules. “Come with us, slave.”

Hercules was only average in height, but he was as muscular as his namesake. Standing proud, he gazed directly at the commanding officer. The major’s green coat reached the knee and sported yellow lapels and cuffs. His vest was white, single breasted, with white buttons. The white fringed strap epaulette on his right shoulder designated his rank. But it was the major’s black three-cornered hat that had transfixed Hercules, specifically its small but spellbinding silver insignia.

The Regiment of Riflemen.

Hercules understood then that he was in the presence of killers, sanctioned by the new federal government. Until now Hercules knew of the Regiment of Riflemen by reputation only. Earlier that year Congress authorized the formation of a specialized unit of snipers
that engaged in unconventional tactics. “The first in the field and last out” was the regiment’s motto, and their tactics borrowed heavily from the Light Infantry and even Indians. That much was clear from the major’s belt, which along with a leather cartridge and bullet cases held a tomahawk and scalping knife.

Hercules would not resist arrest, if only for the sake of the other slaves.

He turned to open a small closet door and heard the
click
of a musket hammer behind him.

“Slowly, slave.”

“Jus’ gettin’ my coat.”

Hercules calmly removed his herringbone overcoat with ivory buttons from its hook. The wool was so finely woven it gave the whole coat a glossy sheen.

The young soldier released the cocked flintlock and lowered his special model French Charleville. But before Hercules could button up, the butt of another musket smacked him in the side of his head and he went down on all fours.

“You run away with that coat, slave?” the major snarled, as he kicked Hercules in the side like an animal.

Hercules knew the drill. The major had no feelings for him one way or another. He simply needed to make him an example to any other slaves in the kitchen who might think that they, too, could one day run away.

“I bought it righteously, suh,” Hercules managed to say with a grunt before four strong arms pushed him outside.

“He’s a freedman by law in Pennsylvania!” cried one of the cooks.

“He’s not in Pennsylvania anymore,” the major barked as the door slammed shut behind him.

A flat-bottom boat, manned by four boatmen, waited at the wharf, the icy waters of the Potomac lapping at its sides. The sleet had returned, coming down even harder than before. The soldiers pushed Hercules to the stern. A moment later he was sitting between two soldiers and opposite the major and two others as they shoved off into the dark.

“The General is looking for you, slave.”

Hercules shivered. The General, his master, was a just man and a
great leader. But he had burdened Hercules with secrets too heavy for any American patriot to bear, let alone a slave.

Lord, please don’t let this be about the globe.

Hercules gazed at the white exterior of the Presidential Palace as they floated by. Now in its seventh year of construction, it was still unoccupied; President Adams lived in Philadelphia with his family. In the distance loomed Jenkins Hill and on top of it the new U.S. Capitol Building, or at least part of it.

The General had once told him that more than a century ago the hill was called Rome and the Potomac the Tiber, because the property owner, a man named Francis Pope, had a dream that one day a great empire to rival ancient Rome would rise on these banks. But all Hercules could see was marshland, half-finished buildings, and tree stumps along what was supposed to be a grand thoroughfare—Pennsylvania Avenue—linking the great white Presidential Palace to what they were now calling Capitol Hill.

The boatmen were rowing vigorously now, as a few floating chunks of ice struck the sides of the boat. Even the major had to grab an oar. Hercules at first wondered why they didn’t make him row, too. But he figured they didn’t want to hand a runaway slave an oar only to have him swing it at them.

Hercules pulled at the collar of his coat as pellets of sleet slapped his face. He felt the stare of the major in the bow, whose own coat was not so heavy. But Hercules had paid for the coat himself, and his tailored wool trousers and buckled shoes, too. The General had allowed him to cook outside of the Philadelphia house in nearby taverns to earn extra money. Much of it he spent on fine clothing, which offended soldiers in the General’s charge who were not paid nearly as much nor dressed as well.

Finally the sleet stopped and the boat struck the opposite shore. The soldiers pulled him out and escorted him toward steps that led up the hill to the General’s estate.

Mount Vernon was ablaze with light. There were torches everywhere, and Hercules saw carriages and horsemen five deep in the court as he was marched toward the servants’ entrance. An express courier galloped past on horseback, shouting for them to get out of the way, and almost trampled them.

Inside the manor, at the bottom of the back stairs, Hercules waited with several parties of private citizens and military officers and wondered what he was doing among such august company. The General’s personal physician, the lanky Dr. Craik, was exchanging sharp words in hushed tones with a portly Catholic priest. Hercules couldn’t hear what they were saying, and he was embarrassed by the curious glances from the others. They all seemed to know some terrible secret that he did not.

A few minutes later, a gaunt-looking man Hercules recognized as the General’s chief of staff, Colonel Tobias Lear, plodded down the steps. Hercules anxiously watched the group part as Colonel Lear walked straight up to him. His military escort, seeing no chance for him to flee, stepped back and released him.

Lear looked him over. “My God, man, they were supposed to bring you, not beat you senseless.”

Hercules didn’t understand what Lear meant, nor Lear’s glare at the major, whose expression remained emotionless.

“I been beaten worse,” Hercules said.

Lear glanced about the room in search of Dr. Craik, but the General’s physician was still occupied with the priest. He took out his own handkerchief and touched it to Hercules’ temple. When Lear withdrew his hand, Hercules saw blood on the cloth. Instantly worried about his coat, Hercules glanced down and was relieved to find no soiling.

“His Excellency will see you now,” Colonel Lear said.

Hercules glanced back at his military escort and then followed Lear up the stairs. Lear paused before the door to the General’s chamber.

“Brace yourself, man,” Lear said and opened the door.

Hercules at last beheld the cause of all the hue and cry: There, in his bed, writhing in pain and gasping for air, lay General George Washington, first president of the United States of America and current commander-in-chief of its armed forces. A string was tied around the great man’s arm, where blood, thick and heavy, oozed from a vein.

They’re bleeding him
, Hercules realized. A bad sign.

Sobbing quietly at the foot of the bed was the General’s wife,
Martha, who rose to her feet and smiled weakly at Hercules. Young Christopher, the General’s personal servant, helped her out of the room and shut the door, all the while averting his eyes from Hercules. The guilty look on his face made Hercules wonder if he was the servant who gave him up and told Washington his whereabouts.

“The General asked for you,” Lear said now that they were alone. “As you can see, he’s dying.”

How can this be?
Hercules wondered. The last time Hercules saw his master, he seemed as robust and regal a man in his 60s as he had ever laid eyes upon. That was shortly before Hercules had run away. Terror seized his heart as he approached the bed, anxious to know what punishment his master might have in store for him.

“Massa Washington,” Hercules said. “I didn’t mean no disrespect. I just wanna be free, like you said the law allowed back in Philly.”

“Don’t be alarmed, Hercules,” Colonel Lear said. “His Excellency understands the reasons for your departure and apologizes for the abruptness of your summons. He wants you to know all is forgiven. But he asks one final favor of you, not as a slave but as a freedman and patriot. Apparently, you are the only man he trusts with it.”

Astonished, Hercules drew himself up to his full stature, his pride mixed with fear. For years the General had trusted him with his life—every time he put a fork in his mouth—like the Pharaohs of Egypt and their taste-testers, paranoid of conspirators who would poison them. But this was different.

Washington tried to speak but struggled with it, forcing Hercules to bend his ear. “The republic requires your services,” Washington gasped hoarsely, in so low and broken a voice that Hercules could hardly understand him. He could smell vapors of vinegar, molasses, and butter on the General’s breath. “I would be most grateful.”

Hercules, moved deeply, bowed low. “Massa Washington, I ain’t up to something like this no more.”

But the General seemed not to hear him and gestured to Colonel Lear, who held out an envelope for Hercules.

Despite his protest, Hercules took the yellowed envelope and saw the bold letters written across that spelled STARGAZER. Like most of Washington’s slaves, Hercules couldn’t read, and he often wondered if this was another reason why the General trusted him
with these sorts of communiqués. But he knew the code name all too well.

Colonel Lear asked, “Do you know the Christian name of this patriot, this agent with the code name Stargazer?”

Hercules shook his head.

“Neither do I, and I know more about the General’s military papers than anybody else,” Lear said. “But you know where to find him?”

Hercules nodded.

“Very well, then. Two of the General’s officers will escort you to the woods outside the Federal District. From there you will take the route the General says you have taken before for him, and deliver the letter to its proper destination.”

Hercules put the letter in his coat, aware of Washington’s anguished eyes following the path of the letter closely. The General preferred his spies to carry secret communiqués at the bottom of their knee-high boots. But tonight Hercules was wearing his shiny buckled shoes, which the General considered far less secure, so that was not an option.

“One more thing,” said Lear, and presented Hercules with a small dagger in a leather sheath. “As a token of his appreciation, the General would like you to have this. It’s one of his favorites. During the Revolution you apparently proved yourself very good with a knife.”

Hercules took the dagger in his hand. Engraved on the handle were strange symbols that Hercules would never understand but which, after decades in the service of his master, he recognized as Masonic. He slipped it under his coat and into his belt behind the small of his back.

The General seemed to approve and strained to say something. He gulped air to breathe and made a harsh, high-pitched respiratory noise that frightened Hercules.

“Hercules,” he gasped. “There is one evil I dread, and that is their spies. You know whom I mean.”

Hercules nodded.

“Deliver the letter,” Washington hissed, his voice losing strength. “Rid the republic of this evil. Preserve America’s destiny.”

“Yessa.”