The Hunt for Atlantis (4 page)

“There’s still also the possibility of confusion if the figures were converted from a different numerical base…” Nina could feel the situation slipping away from her. “I’m not saying that all my figures are correct. That’s why I’m here—I have a theory that fits the available data, and I want… I would like,” she corrected, “the opportunity to test that theory.”

“A sonar survey of the entire Gulf of Cádiz would be a rather expensive way of testing it,” Rothschild said smugly.

“But if I’m right, then I’ve made the greatest archaeological discovery since Troy!” said Nina.

“And if you’re wrong, the department has wasted potentially millions of dollars chasing after a myth, a fairy tale.”

“I don’t want to waste the department’s resources any more than you do! I have complete documentation backing up my theory, all the historical references—I’ve spent two years of my life researching this. I wouldn’t have brought it to you if I weren’t totally sure that I was right.”

“Why are you doing this, Nina?” asked Philby.

The personal tone of the question took her by surprise. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Philby said, a look of sad sympathy on his face, “are you pursuing this goal for yourself … or for your parents?”

Nina tried to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.

“I knew Henry and Laura very well,” Philby went on, “and they could have had spectacular careers—if they hadn’t been fixated on a legend. Now I’ve followed your career ever since you were an undergraduate, and some of your work has been quite remarkable. I believe that you have greater potential than even your father. But… you’re in danger of going down exactly the same path that he and your mother did.”

“Jonathan!” Nina cried almost involuntarily in her mixture of shock, outrage—and pain.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you throw away everything you’ve accomplished on this … this wild goose chase. Such a costly failure would cause enormous harm to your reputation, possibly irreparable.”

“I don’t care about my reputation!” Nina objected.

“But we care about the reputation of this university,” said Rothschild, a faint smile on her thin lips.

“Maureen,” warned Philby, before looking back at Nina. “Dr. Wilde … Nina. Your parents died for this. If you follow them, the same thing could happen to you. And for what? Ask yourself, truthfully—is it worth dying for a legend?”

She felt as though someone had just kicked her in the stomach, such was the horrible impact of Philby’s words. Through clenched teeth she asked him, “Does this mean my proposal has been rejected?”

The three professors exchanged glances and unspoken words before turning back to her. It took Philby a moment to look Nina directly in the eye. “I’m afraid so.”

“I see.” She turned and disconnected her laptop from the projector, the screen going blank. Tight-lipped, she faced the panel. “Well. In that case, thank you for your time.”

“Nina,” said Philby. “Please, don’t take this personally. Professor Rothschild is right, you know. History and mythology are two different things. Don’t waste your time, your talent, on the wrong one.”

Nina stared at him for a long moment before speaking. “Thanks for the advice, Professor Philby,” she said bitterly, before turning away and exiting, closing the door with a bang.

It took ten minutes of hiding in a stall in the ladies’ rest-room before Nina felt ready to show her face to the world again. Her initial shock had been replaced by a stunned anger. How dare Philby bring her parents into it?

Since the deaths of her mother and father, Philby had been … not a surrogate parental figure, certainly—nobody could replace them—but a supportive presence, a mentor as she rose through academia.

And he’d rejected her. It felt like nothing less than a betrayal.

“Son of a bitch!” she spat, banging a fist against the cubicle wall.

“Dr. Wilde?” said a familiar voice from the next stall. Professor Rothschild.

Shit!

“Uh—no, no speak good English!” Nina gabbled, frantically flinging the door open and hurrying out of the restroom, laptop under her arm. Anger replaced by embarrassment, she soon found herself at the building’s main entrance. The familiar skyline of uptown Manhattan greeted her as she emerged.

Well, now what?

She had refused to consider even the possibility of failure, never mind such a crushing defeat, and was now at a complete loss as to what to do next.

Go home, that was probably the best bet. Eat too much comfort food, get drunk, then worry about the consequences tomorrow.

She walked down the steps to the sidewalk and looked for a cab.

Then as she raised her purse to check that she had enough money, she realized she was being watched.

She looked around. The person—a man—kept his eyes on her for just a moment too long before finding something fascinating to examine across the street. He was leaning against the wall of the university building, a broad figure with very short receding hair, wearing jeans and a well-worn black leather jacket. His flat nose looked to have been broken more than once. While he wasn’t much taller than Nina herself, no more than five eight, his muscular build indicated considerable strength—and there was an indefinable hint of danger in his square face that suggested he would have little hesitation in using it.

Living in New York, Nina was no stranger to threatening-looking characters, but there was something about this one that made her nervous. She looked up the street at the approaching traffic, but kept the man in the corner of her vision.

Sure enough, he was watching her again. Even though it was rush hour on a busy street, Nina couldn’t help but feel a twinge of worry.

She waved an arm with considerably more vigor than necessary to flag an approaching cab down, relieved when it pulled over. As she got in and gave her destination, she looked out of the rear window. The man—she guessed he was in his midthirties, but the coarseness of his features made it hard to tell exactly—stared back, his head turning to follow her as the cab set off … then was blocked from sight by a bus. She let out a relieved breath.

So, a stalker, humiliation and dismal failure. She slumped in the seat. “What a crappy day.”

Once at home in her small but cozy apartment in the East Village, Nina decided to follow at least part of her instincts and make a start on the comfort food.

Armed with a huge bag of potato chips and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s, she went into the living room, glancing at the answering machine as she passed. No messages. No surprise.

She let down her hair, then huddled up on the couch under a large knitted blanket. All she needed to complete the portrait of a sad, lonely loser was a CD of sappy, depressing songs. And maybe three or four cats.

Briefly amused at the thought, she curled her legs up against her chest and opened the bag of chips. Her hand brushed against her pendant.

“Some good luck you were,” she complained, holding it up. Even though the fragment of metal was heavily scuffed, it still shone with an odd reddish gleam when she held it up to the light. The markings on one side—groups of tiny apostrophe-like ticks counting up from one to eight beneath short lines inscribed along its length—stood out clearly. Not for the first time she wondered what they represented, but the answer was as unforthcoming as ever.

Nina almost decided to take off the pendant, figuring that her luck couldn’t get any worse today—but then changed her mind and let it fall back to her chest. No point tempting fate.

She had just crunched the first potato chip in her mouth when the phone rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone to call—who could it be?

“Y’llo,” she mumbled as she answered, still chewing.

“Is this Dr. Nina Wilde?” said a man’s voice.

Great. A salesman.

“Yeah, what?” She stuffed a couple more chips into her mouth, ready to hang up.

“My name’s Jason Starkman, and I work for the Frost Foundation.”

Nina stopped chewing.

The Frost Foundation? Philanthropic work around the world, developing medicines and vaccines, funding all kinds of scientific research …

Including archaeological expeditions.

She gulped down the half-chewed chips. “Um, yes, hello!”

“I was sorry to hear that the university rejected your proposal today,” said Starkman. “That was very shortsighted of them.”

Nina frowned. “How did you know about that?”

“The foundation has friends at the university. Dr. Wilde, I’ll get to the point. Your colleagues may not have been interested in your theory on the location of Atlantis, but we most certainly are. Kristian Frost has personally asked me to contact you and find out if you would be willing to discuss it with him this evening.”

Nina’s heart jumped. Kristian Frost? She couldn’t remember his exact ranking in the list of the world’s richest men, but he was definitely in the top twenty. She forced herself to stay calm. “I’d, ah, I’m sure I’d be willing to discuss it, yes. To what, um, end?”

“To the end of funding a full oceanographic survey expedition to see if your theory is correct, of course.”

“Oh, well, in that case … yes! Yes, definitely willing to discuss it!”

“Excellent. In that case I’ll arrange a car to bring you to the foundation’s New York offices for a meeting and dinner. Will seven o’clock be all right?”

She glanced at the clock on her VCR. Just after five-thirty. An hour and a half to get ready. It would be a rush, but…“Yeah, yeah, I… that’ll be fine, yeah!”

“In that case, I’ll see you then. Oh, and if you can bring your notes, that’ll be a great help. I’m sure Mr. Frost will have lots of questions.”

“No problem, no problem at all,” she spluttered as Starkman hung up. Putting the phone down, she sat still for a moment before kicking off the blanket and letting out a whoop of glee.

Kristian Frost! Not only one of the world’s richest men, but… Well, normally she wasn’t attracted to older guys, but from the pictures she’d seen of him, Kristian Frost could make her change her mind.

Nina lifted her pendant again, then kissed it. “I guess you’re good luck after all!”

Nina paced nervously, glancing down at the darkening street each time she passed the window. She had rushed out after Starkman’s call and subjected her credit card to a battering by buying a low-cut blue dress that was suitable for dinner with a billionaire. She hoped.

She could still barely believe it. Kristian Frost wanted to meet her! To discuss her theories on the location of Atlantis! She stopped pacing and mentally ran through all the points she needed to present. If she convinced Frost she was right, competing for the financial scraps the university could offer would be a thing of the past. No need to charter expensive survey ships. Frost owned survey ships.

She checked the window again. No sign of any car pulling up outside, but…

Who was that?

Her building was on the corner of a block. Across the street, someone ducked out of sight around the side of the apartments opposite.

Someone in a black leather jacket.

She watched the sidewalk intently. People walked past, but the man didn’t reappear.

Just a coincidence, she told herself. New York was a big city, and a lot of men wore black leather jackets.

Something else caught her attention, a large silver car pulling up in front of her building. She looked at the clock. Just before seven.

A man got out and walked to the front door. A moment later, the entry phone buzzed.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Wilde?” came the echoing voice from the street. “It’s Jason Starkman.”

“I’m on my way down!” she told him, picking up the folder of printouts she’d prepared earlier. She paused to check herself in the mirror by the door—hair carefully brushed and styled, makeup elegant without being overdone, all traces of potato chips brushed away—then hurried out.

Starkman was waiting downstairs. She hadn’t formed much of a mental image of him from his voice, which had revealed little beyond a hint of a Texas accent, but was impressed by what she found. Starkman was tall, well built and dressed in an expensive blue suit and pristine white shirt. He looked to be in his late thirties, and something about the skin around his eyes gave Nina the feeling that he had traveled extensively. She’d seen the same kind of sun-baked lines on other men before, including her father.

He held out a large hand. “Dr. Wilde. Good to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She shook it; his skin was rough.

He glanced at her pendant, which was exposed above the neck of her dress, before turning his attention to the folder under her arm. “Are those your notes?”

“Yes. Everything I need to convince Mr. Frost that I’m right, I hope!” she said, laughing nervously.

“From what we’ve already heard about your theory, I doubt he’ll need much convincing. Are you ready to go?”

“Of course!”

He led her to the car, which she at first took to be a Rolls-Royce before realizing that it was actually a Bentley. Just as luxurious, but more sporty—not that she knew from personal experience.

“Nice car,” she commented.

“Bentley Continental Flying Spur. Mr. Frost always buys the best.” He opened the rear door for her.

The interior of the Bentley was as opulent as she had imagined, the seats and trim in a soft pale cream leather. There was another suited man at the wheel. Starkman closed the door behind her, then got into the front passenger seat. He gestured, and the driver pulled away from the curb, stopping at the intersection. Nina, out of habit, checked for traffic … and across the street saw the man who had been watching her outside the university. He was talking on a cell phone, but his eyes were fixed on her.

She drew in a shocked breath.

“Something wrong?” asked Starkman, looking back at her.

“I …” The Bentley set off and turned the corner, the man dropping out of sight behind her. She considered telling Starkman about her apparent stalker, but decided against it. If he posed any threat, that was what the police were for—and besides, she barely knew Starkman any better than she did the man in the leather jacket. “Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

Starkman nodded and looked away. The Bentley turned again, now heading west.

Something about that struck Nina as odd. She’d checked on the Internet to find out where the Frost Foundation’s New York headquarters were—they were in east Midtown, not far from the United Nations. The easiest way to reach them from her apartment would have been to head east, then go straight up First Avenue…

She decided to wait before bringing this up. The Bentley had a satellite navigation system; it was possible there was some traffic problem farther uptown that meant a detour would be faster.

But they continued west for another block, then another…

“Where is it we’re going again?” she asked, with feigned lightness.

“The Frost Foundation,” Starkman replied.

“Isn’t that on the East Side?”

In the mirror, Nina caught a glimpse of the driver’s eyes. They betrayed a flash of … concern? “We’re making a slight detour first.”

“Where to?”

“It won’t take long.”

“That’s … not really what I asked.”

The two men exchanged looks. “Aw, hell,” said Starkman, his Texas accent growing stronger. “I was hoping to get there first, but…” He turned in his seat, reaching into his jacket and pulling out—

A gun!

Nina stared at it in disbelief. “What’s this?”

“What does it look like? Thought you PhDs were supposed to be smart.”

“What’s going on? What do you want?”

Starkman held out his other hand. “Your notes, for a start.” The gun was pointing at her chest. Numbly, she handed him the folder. “Too bad you didn’t bring your laptop. Guess we’ll have to pick that up after.”

“After what?” His silence and stony expression brought her to a horrible realization. “Oh my God! You’re going to kill me?”

“It’s nothing personal.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Desperate, she looked around frantically for any way to escape.

She tugged at the door handle. It moved, but only a little. Child locks. Even though she knew it was pointless, she threw herself across the seat and tried the other door. It too refused to open.

Trapped!

Panic rose inside her, constricting her chest. Her green eyes wide with fear, she looked back at Starkman.

His expression had changed to one of surprise, his gaze flicking away from Nina to the rear window—

Whump!

Nina was flung forward as something rammed the Bentley from behind. Starkman’s breath whooshed from his mouth as he was slammed against the dashboard. He angrily shoved himself upright and aimed the gun at the rear window. Nina shrieked and dived out of the line of fire.

“It’s Chase!” Starkman shouted. “Son of a bitch!”

“How the hell did he find us?” the driver asked.

“I don’t give a shit! Ram that Limey bastard off the road and get us out of here!”

The Bentley swerved sharply. Nina slid over the smooth leather, banging her head against the door. Above her, Starkman swung the gun, tracking something outside.

Another impact!

This time it came from the side, the two-ton car lurching violently as metal crunched and twisted. Through the window Nina saw another vehicle, a large black SUV.

Starkman fired. Nina screamed and clapped her hands to her ears as the side window blew apart in a hail of glittering fragments. The SUV dropped back sharply, tires howling. Wind whipped through the broken window.

Two more shots rang out from Starkman’s gun, the rear windshield shattering and spraying Nina with chunks of safety glass. Car horns hooted furiously, the sound rapidly Dopplering away behind them as the Bentley accelerated. The driver swore and swerved again to dodge something, sending Nina slithering back across the seat.

“Go right!” Starkman shouted. Nina barely had time to brace herself before the Bentley screamed into a sharp turn.

“Shit!” the driver gasped as the car hit something with a flat thud. A person, Nina realized with horror. Shouts and screams came from outside as somebody tumbled from the car’s hood. But the driver didn’t stop, instead struggling to keep the Bentley under control as he accelerated again.

Starkman fired two more shots. Nina heard the other vehicle’s powerful engine revving behind them. As he took aim again, the gun was right above her.

She grabbed his wrist with both hands and pulled his arm down, sinking her teeth into the flesh of his hand as hard as she could.

He let out a roar of pain—and fired.

The flash was blinding, and the noise, just inches from her head, momentarily overpowered all her senses. The bullet slammed into the back of her seat.

Starkman pulled his hand free. Huge colored blobs danced in Nina’s vision, afterimages from the gun’s muzzle flame. Her hearing started to return in time to hear more gunfire.

But not from Starkman’s gun.

The headrest of the driver’s seat burst apart in a flurry of shredded leather and stuffing, followed a millisecond later by the driver’s head. Dark red blood and gray brain matter splattered the pale lining of the roof and the front windows.

The Bentley swerved as the driver’s corpse slumped to one side. Starkman yelled and grabbed the steering wheel. The vehicle straightened, throwing the stilldazed Nina back across the rear seat.

Wham!

The SUV rammed them again.

Swearing, Starkman leaned over the dead driver and grasped the door handle. The door opened. He stabbed the seat belt release and shoved the corpse out onto the road, then pulled himself over the center console and dropped into the driver’s seat just as the SUV hit again, harder. The Bentley snaked from side to side before Starkman regained control, sawing at the wheel and flinging the car into a hard turn to the left as he stomped on the accelerator. The tires shrieked in protest, the heavy car wallowing.

Nina’s head hit the right-hand door again as the turn flung her across the car. She pulled herself up. If Starkman was occupied with driving, then he couldn’t use the gun …

The other vehicle, a Range Rover, drew level with them. She recognized the face at the wheel—the man in the leather jacket!

With a huge silver gun in one hand, pointing at the Bentley.

“Stay down!” he shouted.

She dropped flat onto the seat again as two booms like cannon fire came from outside. Starkman ducked and shielded his face as the windshield burst apart, the wind driving the fragments back into the car.

Holding the wheel with one hand, he twisted and fired three shots over his left shoulder. Nina heard the Range Rover’s tires screech as it swerved for cover directly behind its quarry.

More horns sounded as Starkman wove the Bentley through the evening traffic, a nerve-shredding grind of metal assaulting Nina’s ears as it sideswiped another car. She looked up. They were somewhere around 17th or 18th Street and rapidly approaching the western side of Manhattan, only the broad lanes of the West Side Highway ahead, and beyond that the cold waters of the Hudson River.

Starkman fumbled with his gun, barely keeping hold of the wheel. Nina realized what he was doing. The automatic’s slide was locked back; he was reloading …

Which meant he couldn’t shoot!

She sat up sharply and clawed at Starkman’s face. He swiped at her, trying to use his weapon as a club. She ducked to one side and continued her attack, feeling something soft beneath the middle finger of her right hand.

His eye.

She drove her nail against it. Starkman howled, thrashing the gun violently at her.

“Stop the car!” she screamed. A glimpse of the speedometer told her that the Bentley was doing sixty and still picking up speed as it careened down the street, directly towards a knot of traffic waiting at the lights.

She screamed again, this time in panic, and pulled her hands from Starkman’s face. Blood covered her fingers. He saw the danger just in time and threw the wheel to the right to miss the rearmost car by mere inches, slamming the Bentley up onto the sidewalk. A trash can spun into the air as they plowed into it, but that was the least of Nina’s concerns, because now they were heading right into the path of the traffic racing along the West Side Highway—

To her horror, Starkman sped up.

The Bentley flew off the end of the sidewalk and smashed back down onto the road, the underside of the car grating against the asphalt. Nina saw headlights flash and heard the desperate shrill of locking brakes. Cars slewed in all directions to avoid a collision, only to be hit from behind by other drivers too close to stop in time.

They shot across the northbound lanes, reaching the median unharmed—only for Starkman to turn into the traffic on the other side, heading uptown directly against the southbound vehicles!

“Oh my God!” Nina shrieked as he flung the Bentley between the lanes of cars and trucks. Other vehicles flashed past on either side just inches away, their drivers swerving frantically to dodge the maniac charging straight at them. More horns blared ahead and behind, an orchestra of fury and fright. “Stop the car before you get us both killed!”

She struck at his eyes again—but this time he was ready.

The gun smacked into her forehead, driving a spike of intense pain deep into her skull. She fell back, dizzy and sickened, as Starkman threw the Bentley hard to the left and plowed through a metal gate onto one of the piers jutting out into the Hudson.

Wind sliced through the shattered windows as the Bentley accelerated along the wharf. Nina struggled upright to see warehouses flying past on one side, the rust-streaked flanks of ships on the other.

And directly ahead, nothing but open water and the distant lights of New Jersey beyond.

She gasped, realizing what Starkman was about to do.

He looked around at her for a moment. His right eye was squeezed tightly shut, deep scratches cutting across it, blood trickling down his cheek.

Then he threw the door open and rolled out, tucking up his arms to protect himself as he fell. In a flash, he was gone, the door slamming behind him—leaving the Bentley still racing towards the end of the pier, the cruise control active and holding its speed at almost fifty miles per hour!