Ghosts of Atlantis (Immortal Montero Book 3) Read online

  I knew we lived a life of near paradise. Over the course of our first year together, we fell deeply in love with each other, me bewitched by the calm passion inside her, and a will that beat like the oceans, patient and implacable. She remembered the first night I had told her of my love for her.

  “We were at vespers during the Festival of Santa Tecla,” she said. “You kissed me and told me you loved me. It was the first time you had said it, and I saw it in your face. When you took me to bed that night with all those candles and undressed me in front of the mirror . . . ”

  “Yes?”

  She slapped the top of my head. “That time, knowing you really loved me . . . ” I looked up. Her face turned crimson. “I never crested so many times in my life. I thought the tremors would never stop. That night, when you put your arms around me before going to sleep, I thought I was going to die of happiness again.”

  “Me, too,” I said, pulling her wrist until she leaned toward me. I gave her a kiss.

  “Eww. You stink, dear. Must you smoke in the house?”

  I uncrossed my legs and stood. “First the compliment, then the complaint.”

  I never took a single day of it for granted. I don’t think about that period of my life often these days. I was old then, but not so old as I am now, and every once in a while, I wonder if those will always be the happiest days of my life.

  Chapter 29

  Saturday, February 14, 4:06 p.m.

  “There was a curious consistency in every file on this computer,” Preston said, after bringing Hamilton up to date. “They were all created after dark and before dawn.”

  Dappled sunlight gilded swaying palm trees outside the picture windows of Preston’s office.

  “So the guy had a day job,” Hamilton said.

  “Over a two-year period?” Preston shook his head. “All internet activity, and every other interaction with the computer, occurred when the sun was down. Even if he had a day job, you would expect him to have worked with the computer during daylight hours at least two or three times over a 24-month period. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Naturally, I did not add anything to the analysis.

  “Maybe homie was a vampire,” Hamilton theorized.

  The man began to annoy me. His intuitive leaps were too accurate—even if he didn’t believe what he was saying.

  Preston watched me.

  “Yes?” I asked.

  “How did you find the Spellman house?”

  I winced. My secret was in the wind.

  Hamilton swiveled, remained silent. The silence was a temporary condition, I knew. Unfortunately, I had to answer Preston, knowing Hamilton would be furious that this story was different from the one I had given him.

  “I know someone with whom Spellman was acquainted,” I said carefully, glancing at Hamilton. “He led me to the man’s house, where we discovered the portal.”

  “At five a.m.”

  “Yes.”

  The question of what Spellman’s “journal” might reveal had become academic. Preston would break the encryption algorithms soon. If the diary revealed the existence of vampires, I was no longer sure he would consider the account outlandish. Lo que será, será.

  In a quiet voice, Hamilton said, “You and I need to have a word later.”

  “Have it now,” Preston urged. “Sebastian obviously told you I had given him Spellman’s address.”

  “Have you forgotten who signs your checks, Mr. Preston?”

  “I know you’re not like that,” he replied. “Come on. You two know I’m a clam. Go ahead.”

  “No, I think a private chat is required here,” Hamilton answered. “Don’t you, Sebastian?”

  “Yes.”

  Preston drummed his fingers on his desk. “Have it your way.” Turning to his computer, he brought up a picture of the gold sun medallion we had recovered at the crime scene. There was text and a graphic analysis next to it. “Now for Mr. Spellman’s interesting piece of jewelry. We extracted a small sample and ran it through our mass spectrometer. Composition is an alloy of gold…and an unidentified metal.”

  “Unidentified? A problem with the equipment?” I asked.

  “Not at all. Whatever it is, it has a radioactive signature unknown on earth. The number of electrons per unit volume is greater than lead. This would make an effective shield against gamma radiation.”

  I thought about the priest who had handled the Apollo Ring during the execution. If his scars were the result of exposure to the ring, the acolytes would not have exposed everyone to it for such a long time as we spent in the glade.

  Then I remembered. The ring had not been exposed the entire time. The head priest had removed it from the case moments before the execution, and replaced it immediately after. The composition of the box must include this alloy.

  “Are you saying Spellman’s bling came from the other dimension?” Hamilton asked.

  Preston nodded. “That’s the only explanation.” He enlarged the image of the gold sun with pointed flames, the trident at its center within a triple circle.

  “Any interpretation of the central design?” I asked. I wondered if he would guess the design referred to Atlantis.

  “The trident is an extremely common symbol. It could mean anything.”

  “It can’t be that common.”

  “You own a Maserati, don’t you, Sebastian?”

  Sometimes you walk right into them.

  “Are the three circles equally common?” Hamilton asked.

  “The Holy Trinity, Newton’s Three Laws of Motion, the sacred Buddhist art known as a mandala, the three quark layers of a proton or neutron, the Celtic—”

  “Could you write the book later?” Hamilton said.

  “Combined with the portal in Spellman’s house, this unknown metal confirms the existence of another reality.” Preston said.

  “But that’s all it does,” Hamilton observed. “It doesn’t get us any closer to discovering who the killer is.”

  True, though it did support the possibility that the murderer was someone from this parallel world.

  “Actually, the metal’s unique signature strengthens a theory I have about the medallion’s design, and the origin of the gold it’s made from,” Preston told us. “I think the three circles represent harbors, and the trident is the island the harbors protected.”

  “Which island?” I asked.

  “Atlantis.”

  Geniuses.

  “I thought Atlantis was a myth,” Hamilton said.

  “So did I,” Preston admitted.

  “But now you don’t?”

  “The confirmation of an interdimensional doorway offers an explanation.”

  Hamilton and I leaned forward, not wanting to miss any of Preston’s statement.

  “The main reason most scholars consider the Atlantis story a myth is simple. Not only have no artifacts of the place been discovered, the island itself has never been found.”

  “I thought it sank,” Hamilton said.

  “We’ve mapped the planet, including the contours of the ocean floor. There is no land mass above or below the water representing a lost continent. Even if Atlantis did sink to the bottom of the sea, we would be able to detect its presence. We don’t.

  “However, if Atlantis was part of an interdimensional reality, it may have extended into ours through some sort of a flux rift. The mathematical equations to M theory conclude that there are other universes existing in the same space we occupy, vibrating at a different frequency. The idea that such branes could develop an interconnection is an old theory.”

  “How could such a bridge be created?” I asked. “In layman’s terms, Mr. Preston.”

  “There are no layman’s terms. Superconducting electrical fields of specific wavelengths can generate hyperdimensional environments that create intersections, or corridors, between universes, using M-state materials.”

  “Sounds like science fiction to me,” Hamilton said.

  “The st
udy of the subatomic world has changed the way we perceive the universe, even physical reality. Research is leading to new discoveries daily. For now, much of it is beyond our understanding, scientifically. M-state materials are exotic matter and it’s possible the Atlanteans know how to stabilize the corridors using monatomic metallic fields charged by magnetism.”

  Hamilton sighed. I didn’t blame him. Even I couldn’t keep up with Preston this time.

  “And then . . . ?” I prompted.

  “Obviously, when the corridor closed, Atlantis was pulled back into its native reality, leaving no trace on this side.”

  “What would cause the doorway to close?” I asked.

  “Something big.” Preston thought for a moment. “The explosion of the island of Santorini could account for it. It’s in the right geographic area. Scientists believe it was the largest volcanic eruption in four millennia, and produced the loudest sound in history, louder than Krakatoa.”

  “And you think it disrupted the interdimensional tunnel?”

  “If such a rift existed, and it was close to Santorini, a blast that size certainly would have affected it.”

  “Enough theory,” Hamilton said. “This speculation stuff is giving me a headache, okay? We know the tunnel exists. How do we use that information?”

  “If we can discover what Spellman was doing on the other side,” I said, “it may help us determine the motive for his murder.” I knew Spellman had created a virus for the computer controlling the interdimensional network, but did not say it, not wanting to explain the source of my information.

  “Would this friend who led you to Spellman’s place have an answer for that?” Hamilton asked.

  “I intend to ask him.”

  “That’s nice. You will take me with you?”

  “Of course,” I lied.

  Knowing diplomacy could earn back some of the points I had lost, I added, “Preston also discovered what appears to be a journal on Spellman’s hard drive. It’s encrypted, but he’s confident he can break the code.”

  Hamilton opened his mouth.

  “Unknown,” Preston told him. “A day. A week. I’ll know more in a couple of hours. You’re both on speed dial.”

  “You have the tracking device I requested?”

  “Shoeshine does.”

  I sighed. “He wants me to collect it myself?”

  “He said he hasn’t seen you in a long time.”

  “Who’s Shoeshine?” Hamilton asked.

  “Perhaps the best creative electrical engineer in the world,” I said. “Marvin Newsome. He thinks he’s Underdog.”

  Hamilton turned to Preston. “What are you guys talking about? The cartoon?”

  “Yes. Underdog,” Preston said. “He even has Wally Cox’s voice down pat.”

  “Underdog was one of my favorite characters when I was a kid,” Hamilton said.

  “You can work with him.”

  “I didn’t like him that much.”

  “That’s what I thought. Everyone in the company knows about Newsome. They know they are to treat him as if he were Underdog. Anyone breaking that rule is subject to immediate dismissal.”

  “You guys are nuts, you know that?” Hamilton said. “Why would you even bother with something—someone—that crazy?”

  “He’s a genius in magnetic applications,” I told him. “His inventions will change the world. Even the way the police function.”

  Preston shook his head. “No, Sebastian. It’s not ready. We should not show this to anyone.”

  “Last week’s tests have been verified, haven’t they?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Anything else on your mind?”

  He deliberately turned to Hamilton, gave him a stony look. “This is ultra-secret work. Government. He’s not cleared for it.”

  “I’m funding this project.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Relax, Mr. Preston. He’s on our side.”

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  “Nothing,” Preston said.

  “The latest in personal security,” I told Hamilton.

  “Sebastian . . . ”

  “Give Underdog a call for us, will you? Tell him to set up a demo.”

  “We don’t have anyone—”

  “I’ll serve as the test subject for this.”

  He sat there. I stood, gestured for Hamilton to follow. I looked down at Preston. “Call him, Mr. Preston. Now.”

  “Goddamn billionaires,” he said under his breath before picking his phone up and punching buttons. “Hey, Shoeshine boy, the boss wants you to show him the new toy. Yes, he’s on his way there. What? No, I told you, I don’t have your damn ring!”

  Chapter 30

  Saturday, February 14, 4:27 p.m.

  “Here are the rules with Newsome,” I said as we walked to the elevators. “If he’s wearing a big baggy red shirt with a yellow U on it, call him Underdog.”

  We stepped onto the elevator and I hit ‘S1’ for the first sublevel.

  “If he’s not wearing that, but is wearing glasses and looking mild-mannered, call him Shoeshine.”

  “You didn’t just say mild-mannered, did you?”

  “Trust me.”

  Newsome met us at the security entrance. As he approached, we could see through the glass doors he wore a small cap, round glasses, and a brown vest, with a plain white shirt and tan khakis.

  “Shoeshine,” I said to Hamilton.

  “You’re right,” he said before Newsome pushed the door open. “He does look mild-mannered.”

  The door hissed open. “Come in, come in.” Newsome waved us into the secure area.

  “Congratulations on solving the velocity problem on the PMDS,” I said.

  “”If at first you fail your deed, try again ’til you succeed.”” He looked at us expectantly.

  “Ah,” I said, wracking my brain. I had memorized all the episodes, but this was a generic quote. Guessing was my only option as I could think of three episodes where Underdog had said that. “One of my favorites of your adventures. That’s when you stopped Overcat from stealing all of earth’s cows, wasn’t it?”

  “Even though he had me in the Rubber Trap.”

  “Yes,” I said, relieved. “It was a good thing you had your…power…what’s wrong?”

  He looked around, stricken. “I needed my ring in that one, too. And I can’t find it anywhere.”

  I had had fifty of the rings made when I realized how often Newsome lost his. There was always a staff member who could ‘find’ it for him. Naturally, I also knew where some of them were. If his anxiety became acute, I could retrieve one before we left.

  “Listen, Shoeshine, I’d like to show Detective Hamilton your new device.”

  “Detective?”

  Hamilton held out his hand. “LAPD. It’s nice to meet you, uh, Shoeshine.”

  Newsome shook with him. “One of our boys in blue? Good, good, that’s who it’s for. Come with me.”

  He led us toward one of the ballistics testing cubes. There were three of them, all soundproofed. The first two were the size of a basketball court. State-of-the-art HD cameras captured everything from sixteen different angles in super-slow-motion, aided by many experimental sensors my teams had developed themselves. Some of them we even shared with the military.

  “What did he mean, that’s who it’s for?” Hamilton asked.

  Newsome trotted ahead of us. I kept my voice low. “It’s for police issue sometime in the future. Once we’re sure it’s perfect and can get the component cost down to a level practicable for production, we’ll make them available to all law enforcement operations around the world.”

  “All about the Benjamins, isn’t it?”

  “My businesses conduct R&D no investor or company would ever fund. This project is an excellent example. Newsome has been with us fifteen years, and has spent fourteen of those on this one project—though he has made some revolutionary strides in battery size and power along the
way. But no other company would employ someone, and fund the project, for that long with no results.”

  We arrived at BR-3, the end room. Newsome ushered us inside and closed the door. This cell was the size of a racquetball court. A table with a Tek-9 submachine gun on top was set up at this end.

  The Personal Magnetic Defense Shield sat on a steel table to our right, next to a chambray shirt studded with sensors. The shield was size of a CD case, but much slimmer. Four wires extended from the silver device, two on top and one on each side. I removed my shirt without unbuttoning it, picked up the silver mechanism, and placed it on my chest.

  Newsome moved behind me and joined the wires behind my neck and chest. “We don’t have the auto-connect feature worked out yet,” he said. The square hung at the level of my ribs.

  I pressed a small button on the side, and a hum vibrated the room, then faded to nothing. I slid the striped chambray shirt over my head and fastened the second button.

  “Definitely not your style,” Hamilton said. “So, what is that thing?”

  “Personal Magnetic Defense Shield. PMDS.”

  “Yeah? Defense against what?”

  “Anything physical, once it’s activated. It would probably work against etheric creatures, too, but I’m not sure about that one. Are we set up, Shoeshine?”

  “All set. Ten shots?” Newsome stood next to the gun. A robotic arm gripped the Tek.

  “No. Give me a fifty shot burst.” I moved to the other end of the enclosure.

  “Very good.”

  Hamilton watched Newsome punching numbers into the pad next to the roboticized gun. The arm rose silently and swiveled the Tek, targeting my chest with a blue laser beam.

  “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

  “Just a brief demonstration.”

  “Are you crazy? That little piece of metal is supposed to protect you from fifty nine-millimeter bullets?”

  “Please step back where Shoeshine is standing. Some of the bullets might ricochet.”

  Hamilton moved behind a clear wall. Newsome handed him a pair of sound dampening headphones. They both put them on. “Sebastian,” Hamilton said, his voice louder than usual. “Don’t do this.”

  “Five seconds,” Newsome called. “Fire in the hall!”