Free The Atlantis Code by Charles Brokaw Page A

and sent it to all the scholars I knew, no one could tell me what language was on it. Or languages, I suppose.”
    Lourds stopped walking and looked at her. “You put pictures of the bell on the Internet?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did anyone respond to your Internet postings?” Lourds asked.
    “A few people did.”
    Excited, Lourds gripped Leslie’s elbow and turned her. He glanced around, got his bearings—only then did Leslie realize he’d been following C. S. Forester’s advice of wandering aimlessly through the city—and headed back to the hotel.
    “Where are we going?” Leslie asked.
    “Back to the hotel,” Lourds answered. “I think we may have just discovered how the thieves targeted us.”
     

RYAZAN CITY, RYAZAN’
RUSSIA
AUGUST 19, 2009
     
    Gallardo waited in the Russian-made GAZ-2705 cargo van outside Ryazan State Medical University, where Professor Yuliya Hapaev was working. Magnetic signs on the van’s sides advertised a local cleaning company that had contracts with the university.
    Shifting in the seat, Gallardo forced himself to remain detached and not take the long wait personally. He’d expected the woman to step out of the building before now and return to the dorm where she was staying.
    So where was she? Even a workaholic wouldn’t work this late.
    “Someone’s coming out,” Farok called over the radio.
    Gallardo picked up the night-vision binoculars from the glove compartment.
    “It’s her,” Farok said.
    Training the binoculars on the lone figure that walked out of the building, Gallardo studied her. The night-vision capability washed out the woman’s color, turning everything into soft greens. He couldn’t tell if she was a brunette or not, but the size and shape looked right.
    Gallardo knew that Farok and DiBenedetto’s team would close in and prepare to take the woman. “Is she carrying anything?”
    “No,” Farok answered.
    Gallardo thought about that. “The object must still be inside the building.”
    “Yes.”
    Gallardo opened the van door and got out. The light didn’t come on, because he’d removed the dome light as a precaution. He caught a brief glimpse of the woman, striding purposefully back to the parking lot; then she was gone.
    “Take the woman,” Gallardo instructed. “I’ll get the prize.”
    After Farok responded that they would take the woman alive if possible, Gallardo transferred his pistol from its shoulder holder to the right pocket of his coat. Then he trotted toward the building, staying in the shadows as much as he could.
     
     
    Natasha Safarov knew the men were following her. She’d been followed before, so she knew what to look for and what to listen for. Her heart rate increased slightly as her body readied itself for fight or flight. She kept her breathing slow and even. In the cold, anyone watching her could tell if that changed, because the gray puffs of her breath would give her away.
    Her mind flew, taking in her options and laying out her odds. Everywhere she went was a potential battlefield. She’d been trained to take advantage of whatever was there. She always saw terrain, not scenery. It might not help her here, though. On the university grounds this time of night, there wasn’t much in the way of useful cover.
    She wondered who the men might be, wondered if they were part of that bad business that had taken place in Beslan. A faction of militant Ossetians, rioting again for the return of their ancestral lands, had taken hostages. Natasha had gone in and retrieved them. There had been considerable bloodshed. She didn’t doubt that some of their number would want revenge. Nor that she would be a likely target.
    And if it isn’t the Ossetians
, Natasha reflected,
it could be many others.
She’d left a long line of enemies behind her. The job demanded it. Anger seeped into her because these men had brought violence so close to her family.
    She focused, listening to the rhythm of her pursuers, picking out the sound of their feet