The Midas Legacy (Wilde/Chase 12) Page 2

  Her eyes locked on to his. ‘I believe you.’

  He was a little startled. ‘About . . . ?’

  ‘Atlantis. Your theory about Atlantis – I believe it. You. Both.’ She gave him a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘I’m Laura, Laura Garde. We’re in the same class. But I guess you already know that.’ There was a distinct New England twang to her words, most likely Connecticut or Massachusetts, and Henry got the impression that she was from old money.

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ he replied, amused. ‘You, ah, kinda stand out with your hair.’ He indicated her vivid red ponytail.

  ‘And you kinda stand out with your height. And your hair.’ Henry’s six-foot-four frame was topped by an ice-blond mop, which though he would never have admitted it to anyone he had modelled on Robert Redford’s in the movie Jeremiah Johnson.

  ‘Jack Philby,’ said Jack hopefully from beside him.

  ‘Hi,’ said Laura, giving him a polite nod before turning back to Henry. ‘I’d heard that Atlantis was your big thing, but I hadn’t imagined you’d make such a convincing case for its location.’

  ‘You thought it was convincing?’ asked Henry, pleased.

  ‘Absolutely. I don’t think Professor Brighthouse was at all justified in criticising your methodology. It seemed to me that you’d gone above and beyond to source your research. And you even had some things I’d never heard before.’

  ‘You’re interested in Atlantis too?’

  Laura nodded. ‘Although not nearly as much as you, it seems! I’ve loved reading about it ever since my mom told me the legend as a kid. Though maybe it’s not a legend after all. Like I said, I believe you. And . . .’ She looked down, coyly twisting the toe of one sandal against the tiled floor. ‘I was wondering if you might be interested in talking some more about it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I’d love to see the rest of your work. You must have tons of notes.’

  ‘A few pages,’ Henry joked. ‘Okay, I admit it: boxes.’

  ‘I have to kick them out of the way every time I try to open my closet,’ added Jack.

  She laughed. ‘Wow! I guess you really are an Atlantis expert.’

  ‘So when would you like to talk about it?’ asked Henry, not quite sure where this would lead. He’d had the occasional date since starting at Columbia University, but nothing serious; the fact that he inevitably ended up explaining his theories about Atlantis tended to lead to ‘let’s just be friends’ very soon afterwards. Laura was attractive, and they definitely had common interests, but surely the universe couldn’t be that generous?

  ‘Whenever you like. I’m free after class today,’ she told him. ‘We could meet at your place, maybe?’

  Henry took back his reservations about the generosity of the universe. ‘Yeah. Yeah, we could,’ he said, nodding a couple of times too many.

  Jack huffed. ‘I suppose you’ll be wanting me to go see a movie, then?’

  ‘That would be good!’

  ‘No, no, you can stay,’ said Laura at the same time. ‘I don’t want to put you out.’

  Henry cursed silently, but not with any real annoyance. Just being able to talk about his obsession with someone who shared it would be enjoyable enough in itself. ‘Cool. What time? Six?’

  ‘Six is fine,’ she replied. ‘Where’s your room?’

  ‘McBain Hall, on 113th Street.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see you there at six. It’s a date. Well, not a date date.’ She blushed a little. ‘Not with both of you there. Free love is one thing, but that’s going a bit too far.’

  Henry laughed. ‘Definitely for a first non-date date. So, see you later. Hopefully I won’t bore you to death about Atlantis!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Laura as she turned to leave. ‘I absolutely won’t be bored.’

  Once she had gone, Jack let out another huff, much louder. ‘Goddamn, Henry! You got yourself a date without even asking. It’s that hippie haircut of yours. Maybe I should try it myself.’ He ran a hand through his own much shorter hair.

  ‘It’s not a date,’ Henry reminded him, unable to hold in a broad smile. ‘Well, not this time.’

  ‘You think she’ll want to see you again after you drone on about Atlantis for the whole evening?’

  Henry moved to the exit to watch the redhead walk away. ‘It’s funny, but . . . yeah. Somehow I think she will.’

  Laura headed through the spring sunshine across the quad, a smile still on her lips, towards a bench. An older woman, her hair a more auburn shade than Laura’s, looked up at her approach. ‘So?’ she demanded. ‘Is there anything to this Henry Wilde’s theory?’

  ‘I really think so, yes. It’s actually very exciting!’ Laura sat beside her, talking quickly in her enthusiasm. ‘He didn’t go into specifics, because he was mostly concerned with locating Atlantis itself, but he definitely believes that the Atlanteans established outposts as far afield as the Himalayas.’

  ‘He actually said that?’ Laura nodded. ‘And he has evidence to back it up?’

  ‘I just spoke to him. Apparently he’s got boxes and boxes of research notes.’

  ‘All well and good, but it’s not finding Atlantis itself we’re concerned about. We need to stay focused on Talonor’s journey, and the cave.’

  ‘Don’t the others still want to investigate Santorini?’

  The woman shook her head in annoyance. ‘Yes. I think they’re wasting their time, but we were outvoted, so . . .’ Another shake, then: ‘Anyway, if this boy has anything promising, it may render all that academic. You should try to get hold of his work and find out if he really has anything concrete about the Himalayas.’

  Laura smiled. ‘I’m meeting him tonight.’

  ‘In his room?’ The words were filled with disapproval.

  ‘Oh, Mother!’ protested the younger woman. ‘It’s not a date; his roommate’ll be there.’

  ‘Even worse! I know what these college boys are like.’

  ‘I don’t think I have anything to worry about. He seems very nice.’

  ‘Does he now?’ The woman regarded her daughter sternly. ‘Just remember that this is business, for the Legacy. You’re looking for anything that could lead us to the Midas Cave, not a boyfriend.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ Laura replied.

  ‘Are you sure? Because I always know when you’re not telling me everything . . .’

  ‘Okay, yes, he’s very tall and very handsome,’ she admitted, exasperated. ‘But he’s also smart – and I genuinely want to find out more about his Atlantis theories.’

  ‘So long as you keep your interest to the theoretical, that’s fine.’

  Laura sighed. ‘I do at least have permission to enjoy myself while I’m doing it, don’t I?’

  ‘Ah, the joys of parenthood: sarcastic children.’ Her mother stood. ‘Well, since you clearly have everything worked out, I’ll let you get on with it.’ Her tone softened slightly. ‘Do be careful, Laura.’

  ‘I will, Mom,’ she said, smiling again. ‘But I think Henry’s going to change things. I just have a feeling . . .’

  1

  Forty-four Years Later

  Nina Wilde gazed in wonderment at the ruins of Atlantis rolling past beneath the submersible. Ten years had passed since she’d discovered the lost civilisation, using the lifelong work of her parents, Henry and Laura Wilde, as the foundations of her own research. The intervening decade had seen others join the task of excavating the wonders lost for eleven millennia, what had once been a rolling expanse of silt eight hundred feet beneath the Atlantic now dotted with buildings, many still surprisingly intact despite the earthquake and deluge that had dropped an entire island below the waves. It was an incredible sight.

  But to her frustration, she wasn’t seeing it in person.

  Th
e submersible was relaying the images picked out by its spotlights and laser scanners up an umbilical cable to a research vessel above, which in turn was transmitting them to an operations centre in the offices of the International Heritage Agency at the United Nations in New York. As much as Nina desperately wanted to revisit the site, she had – with deep reluctance – settled for watching the expedition unfold on a screen several thousand miles away. Adding to her annoyance, her husband was aboard the submersible . . . despite not especially wanting to go.

  ‘Wish you’d kept up your dive certification,’ said Eddie Chase over the comm system, his deep voice with its broad Yorkshire accent reverberating inside his spherical acrylic helmet. ‘Then you could be freezing your bum off down here while I sit around drinking coffee in a nice comfy chair.’

  ‘You remember what the IHA’s office chairs are like, right?’ Nina replied, a little tersely. ‘And, y’know, having a baby kind of affected our priorities. You missed those new Star Wars movies; I didn’t qualify to use a new version of a deep submergence suit. Not that I needed some certificate when I was running the IHA,’ she added, with a glance at the man beside her. ‘I just learned how to use the thing, then used it.’

  Dr Lester Blumberg peered over his horn-rimmed glasses with a patronising smile. ‘Yes, but we’re a lot less – how shall I put it? – improvisational now than when you were in charge, Nina. Everyone needs proper training and certification for any IHA operation. Health and safety, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Nina’s own smile was decidedly lacking in both humour and warmth. After her resignation almost four years previously, the post of director of the IHA had eventually been filled by the Minnesotan. Blumberg would not have even made it on to her shortlist, as she considered him merely competent at best – safe and unimaginative, a plodder – but she’d had no say in his appointment.

  She turned her attention back to the screens. The main display showed a pilot’s-eye view of the submersible’s voyage, but one of the smaller monitors flanking it had an angle on one of its passengers, standing on a landing skid: Eddie. ‘How much further?’ he asked.

  An Australian voice came over the comm. ‘Be there in about three minutes,’ said the couple’s friend Matt Trulli from inside the sub. It could accommodate three, but today he was the only person in the cabin, making it far less cramped than normal.

  The two men holding on to its hull had no such luxuries. On the other skid was a second diver, Nerio Cellini. The Italian was only young, in his mid-twenties, but already had years of experience of underwater exploration. His enthusiasm made Nina nostalgic for when she had been filled with the same youthful vigour, and also a little jealous of it.

  ‘I see the site,’ Cellini reported.

  Nina looked back at the main monitor. The blue-green lasers used to pierce the water’s murky cloak had the side effect of leaching away all colour except an eerie turquoise, but a small patch of white faded into sight at the screen’s centre. ‘That’s it?’ she asked Blumberg.

  ‘That’s it,’ he replied. ‘The Temple of Poseidon.’

  The glow came from powerful spotlights standing on the roof of a massive structure rising from the sea floor. Even in ruins, the centrepiece of the lost city was still awe-inspiring. When Nina had first discovered it, the great temple had been largely buried by silt. Most of the surrounding sediment had since been cleared, but the building itself had suffered massive damage when her survey ship was deliberately scuttled and smashed down on top of it. Some of the RV Evenor’s remains were still in place, the wreck too big and costly to remove entirely. But parts had been cut away to give access to what remained of the temple.

  The submersible approached the northern end of the huge vaulted ruin. The lights encircled an area where the damaged roof had been carefully opened up. Beneath it was the altar room, not merely a place of religious importance, but also an archive: the entire history of the Atlantean civilisation was recorded within, scribed into the sheets of gold alloy covering the walls. Some had been lost when the ceiling collapsed, but others were still intact, including an account of the doomed civilisation’s last hours.

  It was a different record that the expedition hoped to discover, however.

  ‘Matt, move to drop-off position,’ Blumberg ordered. ‘Nerio, Eddie, you’re up.’

  The submersible stopped above the ring of lights, pulsing its thrusters at low power to hold position against the ocean’s slow but relentless current. ‘Okay, guys, we’re here,’ said Matt. The two divers each collected an equipment case, then Eddie leaned his shaved head closer to the camera and grinned at Nina, revealing the gap between his two front teeth, before stepping off the skid.

  ‘Good luck,’ she told him.

  ‘Hope we don’t need it,’ Eddie replied. The deep suit – comprised of a hard casing around his body that let him breathe air at normal atmospheric pressure to eliminate any risk of the bends, heavy-duty seals at the shoulders and hips allowing his drysuited limbs to move freely – was neutrally buoyant, but the case was heavy enough to let him drift lazily downwards. A spool of hair-thin fibre-optic communications line played out behind him, keeping him in direct contact with the sub and the IHA. His feet made gentle contact with the ancient stone. ‘Touchdown! It didn’t collapse, so that’s a good start.’

  Cellini landed a few feet away. ‘This part of the temple should be very stable,’ he said. ‘Only below the altar room is it . . .’ He searched for the best English word, waggling his free hand from side to side. ‘Wobbly.’

  ‘And guess where we’re going,’ Eddie sighed. He became more serious as he surveyed his surroundings.

  He had visited the altar room before, as well as near-identical copies the Atlanteans had built after abandoning their homeland; one in a vast cavern within a Himalayan mountain, the other deep in the jungles of Brazil. The archaeologists cataloguing the lost city on the Amazon had since discovered more chambers beneath its altar room – not hidden, exactly, but neither had they been immediately obvious. Meanwhile, the teams exploring Atlantis itself had uncovered references to a previously unknown treasure held somewhere within the Temple of Poseidon, and all the clues pointed to one of those secondary rooms.

  There were two problems. The first was that nobody was sure if the Brazilian temple’s chambers were exact duplicates of the original – sonar searches suggested open spaces beneath this altar room, but the results were far from conclusive. The second, and bigger, was that even if they existed, the Evenor’s destructive landing had dropped countless tons of debris into the temple’s interior, making it impossible to know what was beneath.

  Until someone remembered that Nina and Eddie had been inside the temple while it was still intact . . .

  There was a camera mounted on the Yorkshireman’s right shoulder. ‘Nina, you seeing this?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, all looking good,’ his wife replied. ‘I can see the stairs.’

  An opening in one wall descended into darkness. The rubble blocking it had been removed, only for the IHA’s explorers to find another, more solid obstruction further down. Small underwater drones had been able to squeeze past it to confirm that the stairway continued beyond, but in turn were stymied by further debris. To the fury of their controllers, the second blockage looked loose enough to be cleared by hand, but the little robots lacked the power to do so.

  Which was why, the previous day, Cellini and another diver had used precision explosive charges to split apart the first obstacle. The blast had stirred up debris and sediment, turning the water in the tunnel completely opaque. It had now settled, so he and Eddie could check if the stairway was passable, and if so, explore its depths.

  The Italian gestured to his dive partner. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Sure,’ Eddie replied. ‘I’ll try not to wreck the entire place.’ He smiled to reassure the younger man, who clearly knew his reput
ation.

  Blumberg’s voice came through his earpiece. ‘That would be appreciated this time.’

  ‘Twat,’ said Eddie under his breath, though deliberately just loud enough for his microphone to pick up. The IHA’s director was making an implied criticism of his predecessor and her husband; despite their best efforts, the Temple of Poseidon was far from the only archaeological site to be seriously damaged after Nina had discovered it.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Must have been a fish farting. Okay, Nerio, let’s go.’

  Eddie used the controller stalk attached to the deep suit’s chest to start its ducted propellers, gliding at low speed to the entrance. Cellini touched down beside him, directing his suit’s lights down the steeply sloping passage. Stone steps receded into the murk for about twenty feet before the path came to an abrupt halt.

  A huge stone slab had been dislodged from the ceiling, pulverising everything beneath it. It had originally come to rest at an angle, leaving a gap just big enough for the drones. Now, though, the space was much larger. The explosives had split the great block in two, the lower half dropping on to the steps and the upper wedging against it.

  Rather than use the thrusters, Eddie carefully walked to the slab and took a powerful hand-held light from his case, shining it over the carved stone. It looked as if the divers could swim past – but first there was a question that had to be answered.

  Cellini voiced it. ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘Who am I, Dustin Hoffman?’ Eddie waited for a reply, but got only a bemused stare from the young man. ‘You haven’t seen Marathon Man?’ Another blank look. ‘You haven’t even heard of . . . Oh, I give up. Kids today!’

  ‘Just wait until our kid’s older,’ Nina joked. ‘Macy’ll be like, “Dad, all your cultural references are from the twentieth century! Mom’s the archaeologist, not me.”’

  ‘I dunno, if ever a kid was destined to follow in her mother’s footsteps . . .’ He used his hands to test the blocks. They stayed firm.

  Cellini added his torchlight to the Englishman’s. ‘So we will fit, yes? Help me through.’ He swam to the gap. ‘Is my suit clear?’