The atlantean artifact, p.1
The Atlantean Artifact, page 1
THE ATLANTEAN ARTIFACT
HARVEY BENNETT THRILLERS
BOOK 6
NICK THACKER
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Jennifer
2. Jennifer
3. Jennifer
4. Sarah
5. Al Jazeera
6. Sarah
7. Rachel
8. Rachel
9. Journal Entry
10. Graham
11. Sarah
12. Rachel
13. Sarah
14. Rap
15. Reggie
16. Ben
17. Reggie
18. Sarah
19. Julie
20. Rachel
21. Rachel
22. Journal Entry
23. Graham
24. Ben
25. Sarah
26. Sarah
27. Rachel
28. Graham
29. Ben
30. Julie
31. Graham
32. Reggie
33. Sarah
34. Graham
35. Reggie
36. Ben
37. Ben
38. Julie
39. Sarah
40. Sarah
41. Reggie
42. Sarah
43. Julie
44. Julie
45. Graham
46. Ben
47. Ben
48. Ben
49. Julie
50. Ben
51. Reggie
52. Graham
53. Ben
54. Ben
55. Reggie
56. Reggie
57. Julie
58. Ben
59. Reggie
60. Ben
61. Julie
62. Sarah
63. Graham
64. Ben
65. Graham
66. Ben
67. Ben
68. Reggie
69. Julie
70. Ben
71. Ben
72. Reggie
73. Sarah
74. Graham
75. Graham
76. Sarah
77. Ben
78. Ben
79. Julie
80. Sarah
81. Reggie
82. Ben
83. Ben
84. Julie
85. Julie
86. Ben
87. Reggie
88. Ben
Epilogue
Afterword
PROLOGUE
It is like the Pesach, he thought. Passover. A symbol, yes, but at the same time a very real reflection of the Lord’s power.
Stephan wheeled the heavy cart through the hallways as he recited the verse in his head.
‘For the Lord will pass through to smite the Egyptians; and when he seeth the blood upon the lintel, and on the two side posts, the Lord will pass over the door, and will not suffer the Destroyer to come in unto your houses to smite you.’
Stephan turned left, shifting his weight so he could pull the cart to a stop with his left hand and simultaneously swipe the access door with the card in his right. He heard the beep and the click, then saw the green light appear above the mechanism.
Tonight was like the Pesach, and Stephan himself was going to play the distinguished role of the Destroyer.
He continued reciting, this time from another section of the book of Exodus: ‘And it came to pass at midnight that the Lord struck all the firstborn in the land of Egypt, from the firstborn of Pharaoh who sat on his throne to the firstborn of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all the firstborn of livestock. So Pharaoh rose in the night, he, all his servants, and all the Egyptians; and there was a great cry in Egypt, for there was not a house where there was not one dead.’
He walked through, pushing the cart in front of him once again, now in the main hall. He put the card back into his pocket and pressed his uniform flat with his now-free hand.
He made the sign of the cross with his right hand, taking a moment to appreciate the significance of this event. This is my Passover, he said silently to himself. My Pesach.
And it was only his Pesach — his employer was not as devoutly religious as he; his employer thought of religion the way most secular people thought of it: as an unnecessary distraction to everyday life.
But to Stephan, religion was the everyday life — everything else was the distraction.
He had been groomed for this work, taken in by the Church long ago and churned through a system of fraternal orders that eventually found him as a student of the Ancient Way. It was a fraternity within the Church, but the belief system the Ancient Way shared could not have been more different from the Church’s.
That he had found the Ancient Way and his employer was a stroke of luck — or, as he liked to think, of God’s hand guiding him along the pathways of his life. He had risen through the ranks of the Ancient Way and discovered that his employer was looking for men just like him — men ready to take their fate into their own hands — and while his employer was not an advocate of his religious beliefs, it was clear their purposes and goals were remarkably aligned.
The cart had a squeaky front wheel, but he managed to get it turned so that the squeak was unnoticeable. There were still people milling about, as the gala hadn’t started yet, and he didn’t want to earn any unwanted attention. He felt vulnerable enough as it was, wearing the uniform of a guard he’d left dead in the access hallway.
The halls of the Athens National Museum of Archeology were dark, kept that way by design, to corral its visitors through the network of exhibits and rooms in a constant stream. Small ambient fixtures spread warm, yellowish glows down onto paintings, glass cases and the bright LED uplighting inside them held priceless artifacts from Greek history. Amber tracklighting illuminated the path ahead. No other light, natural or otherwise, reached Stephan’s eyes.
He liked the dark. It was comfortable to him, a way to hide. He’d never been much for socialization, and the dimly lit museum seemed to be mocking him.
Try to hide, the museum said, I know you’re here. And what you’re about to do.
He swallowed a heavy lump that had risen in the back of his throat.
My Pesach, he reminded himself. My job to do.
The cart was heavy, but it was mostly empty. A single jar full of a whitish powder sat beneath a sheet on the top of the cart, but the rest of the weight came from the cart itself and its industrial-strength casters. They rolled smoothly, but he still had the friction gravity provided to contend with.
The path he had chosen was clear: a left turn out of the access hallway into the main museum’s atrium, then a right turn into a smaller, central atrium that housed his final destination: The Antiquities of Thera exhibit, a brand-new spectacle that Athens and its museum was quite proud of. He’d seen the advertisements for the grand opening: hundreds of artifacts, thought to be from the islands near the coast of Greece, all from thousands of years ago.
Tonight was not the grand opening, but a sort of ‘soft opening,’ a celebration of the museum’s newest attraction, and a way to generate — hopefully — more offerings from the museum’s most distinguished donors. The gala was a closed-door affair, an invitation-only event that began as soon as the building closed to the public.
As such, Stephan was in a bit of a hurry. He wouldn’t turn any of the guests’ heads as long as the museum was open during normal business hours, but once the gala began, security would tighten a bit.
These people were, after all, some of Athens’ finest, and that meant they were worth more to the museum than the standard day visitor. These donors and VIPs would begin arriving at any moment, so his window of opportunity would be closing soon.
There were a few minutes between the shift changes when it was safest to move about, without fear that he’d be seen by a regular employee who might not recognize him and grow suspicious.
Relax, he told himself. Follow the plan. The plan is good, the plan is sound.
My Pesach.
CHAPTER 1
JENNIFER
In addition to the brand-new Antiquities of Thera exhibit, the National Museum had a world-class collection of antiques and sculptures in its numerous divisions, including the well-known Antikythera Mechanism and a massive Epigraphical wing. Built originally in 1829, the museum had moved locations and acquired new curators, exhibits, and names during its nearly 200-year existence.
Now located on a beautiful and grandiose green space in the heart of downtown Athens, the National Museum of Archeology was a glorious throwback of a sight in the midst of a bustling and modern cityscape. Pillared Ionic columns that hearkened back in an upgraded homage to the Parthenon’s own Doric architectural design.
As the entrance wound into the first of the grand lobbies where the herd of guests had congealed, Jenny Polanski tugged gently on her husband’s arm. Let’s go, she thought. We’re going to be late.
She didn’t dare say anything.
Her husband, the salt-and-peppered man standing next to her and a full head taller than her, was deep in conversation with another couple in front of them. Both couples were wearing their most elegant outfits — tuxedos for the men and formal dresses for the women. Jenny’s own dress was snug, tightly shaped to her lithe, athletic body. Red sequins sparkled out from strategic spots on the dress, calling attention to areas on the outfit she knew would earn admiring looks from the male attendees and a few uneasy glances from their female counterparts.
& nbsp; She hadn’t picked out the dress — that had been her husband’s work, as he liked everything to be ‘perfect,’ as long as ‘perfect’ was defined by him. Jonathan Polanski was a rising star in the political arena in Massachusetts, and his work as a lawyer during the bankruptcy of Greece had earned him a spot among the Athens elite. They were here tonight to rub elbows with the other VIPs in attendance, including leading economic advisors, political players, and the upper echelon of high-class Grecian celebrities.
She sighed, almost inaudibly, but loud enough that Jonathan would hear. He was a phenom when it came to working a room, and she knew he would have been able to detect her social cues from across the expansive lobby. The fact that he was ignoring her while she was hanging on his arm — again, by his design — meant that he was sending her a nonverbal cue as well.
You’re not as important as these two, he was saying.
She made a face, but pointed it toward the marble floor.
The couple her husband was conversing with was one of the high-flying Athens elite — a movie star and his wife, a stunning blonde with a dress that barely covered her thighs and only stretched up far enough to show off an impressive upper body. The dress seemed as though it had been fashioned out of a single, skimpy piece of fabric.
Sheer, nearly see-through fabric.
She knew her husband well enough to know that he was hardly interested in what the other Greek movie star — a man who offered Jonathan Polanski no political value — had to say.
She shook her head.
“We should probably get going,” the blond suddenly said, interjecting.
“Right, of course,” Jonathan replied. He made a show of looking at his fabulously expensive watch, a gift from President Pavlopoulos of Greece. He looked down at Jenny. “Ready, honey?”
She smiled, but she knew he was reading the fury in her eyes. Sure, darling, she thought. I’m ready.
He nodded, taking the lead as he dragged Jenny out of the lobby of the museum and down a corridor leading to their destination: the brand-new Antiquities of Thera exhibit. The opening was set for a week from tonight, but the museum staff had been working overtime to get this ‘soft opening’ gala set up for the VIP attendees tonight. It would be another event like all the others, according to Jenny. Plenty of elaborate displays of hors d’oeuvres, shrimp cocktails on massive ice sculptures, bright green inedible flora and fauna that provided a colorful backdrop to the real food, and, of course, live music.
She could hear the strains of one of Haydn’s quartets reaching her ears even before they stepped into the lavishly appointed hall. A black-tie staff member greeted them, handing her a program — her VIP husband wasn’t deemed lowly enough to carry a piece of paper apparently — and ushered them to their table.
“Will you be dining with Mr. and Mrs. Ellison?” the staffer asked. He motioned to the couple behind them.
The movie star and his trophy wife beamed. “That would be exceptional, if you do not mind,” the movie star said.
Jonathan clenched his jaw once, a tick that Jenny had long ago interpreted as annoyance, and nodded. “Sure,” he said. “That’s fine.”
CHAPTER 2
JENNIFER
Always the politician, she thought. Her husband had likely run through the scenarios in his mind in that split-second and decided that it wasn’t worth the possible political ramifications of denying the movie star a bit of one-on-one conversation. She knew he had been hoping to get across the table from one of the power players in the room, perhaps a Ralph Friedman, Europe’s modern-day John D. Rockefeller, who was bringing solar power to the masses in Western Europe, or Prince Alwalam bin Alam, an oil tycoon and philanthropist who had made his riches the best way possible: by being born into them.
The tables were all-four tops, and the waiter brought them to one near the far corner of the room. It was another slap in the face to her husband, who was now going to be sitting so far out of the limelight he would be lucky to even be noticed by the occupants of the tables right next to them.
I’m sure I’ll pay for this later, she mused. He would be craving attention by the end of the night, and if he didn’t throw himself on top of her during the limousine ride back to their hotel, it would surely happen as soon as they got into the suite’s bedroom.
If Jenny was lucky, her husband might even try to pry the actress-supermodel wife of the movie star off her man’s arm and set up a late night ‘work meeting’ somewhere downtown with her, leaving Jennifer alone to curl up with the latest David Berens novel.
They sat, the waiter pulling Jenny’s chair out for her. She placed her clutch on the table beside her and eased down into the seat. The man moved across and performed the same motion for the actor’s wife, then stood at the edge of the table and took their drink orders.
Jenny mindlessly ordered ‘something with vodka in it, and don't be stingy,’ while she watched another black-suited museum staff member hustling through the half-empty room, wheeling a cart in front of him. He seemed nervous, but he kept his gaze straight toward the center of the room.
The waiter left, spinning quickly and heading toward the table nearest theirs. Jenny watched the area just past him, in the center of the large hall, where a beautiful antique bell-shaped object sat, lights from the LED fixtures far above her head shining down on it. It appeared to be some sort of metal — bronze or silver — but it was matte in some places, its sheen worn off from centuries of weather. She took in the scene for a moment, appreciating for the first time since they’d entered the marvelous design of the museum’s interior.
The staffer pushing the cart headed straight toward the center of the room. There were two tables flanking the central bell exhibit, one closer to Jenny and one on the opposite side, closer to the man and his cart. Both tables had collections of smaller artifacts on them, each with a tent card in front of it with writing on it. She assumed each one depicted the item in question and where it had been found. The whole display was grand, but it was nothing compared to the stage and food tables set up in the wide nook at one edge of the long hall which could just now be noticed behind the central exhibit display. She had been right about most of it — the ice sculpture, the greenery, the hors d’oeuvres — but one thing was off.
There was no ice sculpture. Or rather, there was no single ice sculpture. Arranged around the food, using strategically placed leaves of parsley and other garnishes as tiny pops of color on the otherwise monochromatic sculpture, was a pair of two massive humans, both carved out of ice.
The ice men were embroiled in an intense hand-to-hand duel, their swords still hanging by their sides, both shirtless, wearing a leather cloth around their waist and sandals on their feet.
She caught her breath. It was strikingly beautiful, and the sheen of the slowly melting ice added to the effect, giving her the impression that the two sculptures were actually sweating as they fought one another. The sculptor had somehow even given one of them a ponytail of hair on the back of his head, floating magically in space as the frozen warriors whipped out at one another.
