It was Jack who broke the spell and urged them on. He turned towards the other two, his face streaked with grime and his rugged features underscored by pain.
“This is where the text was leading us,” he said. “The sanctuary of Atlantis is somewhere here.”
Without further ado he pushed himself forward and limped ahead, his willpower the only thing keeping him from buckling. Costas walked alongside and Katya immediately behind, her face set impassively as they made for the lip of the platform.
Just as the throne began to come into view over the edge of the platform, they were blinded by a beam of light. They instinctively cowered and shielded their eyes. Through the glare they made out two figures that materialized to right and left.
Just as suddenly the light disappeared. As their vision cleared, they saw that the two figures were clad in black just like their assailants in the submarine, and each carried a Heckler & Koch MP5 levelled menacingly from the hip. Jack and Costas raised their hands; they would have no chance of reaching their weapons before being cut down in a hail of bullets.
Ahead a flight of twelve shallow steps descended to the dais. A portable searchlight was aimed at them beside the stairs. A raised walkway led directly to the bull’s horn sculpture whose tips they had seen above the platform edge. It was the ostentatious backing for a massive stone seat, more ornate than the others.
The seat was occupied.
“Dr. Howard. A pleasure to meet you at last.”
Jack recognized the voice, the same drawling, guttural tone that had come over Seaquest’s radio from Vultura three days ago. He and Costas were pushed roughly down the stairs and the bloated form of Aslan came clearly into view. He was slouched on the throne, his feet planted firmly in front and his immense forearms draped over the sides. His pale and ageless face would have seemed almost like some priest of old were it not for the signs of rampant excess in his corpulent frame. With his billowing red robe and oriental features he seemed the epitome of an eastern despot, an image straight from the court of Genghis Khan, except for the thoroughly modern warriors on either side of him, each carrying a submachine gun.
Directly to Aslan’s right stood a diminutive figure at odds with the rest of the entourage. It was a plain-featured woman wearing a drab grey overcoat, her hair pulled back in a bun.
“Olga Ivanovna Bortsev,” Katya hissed.
“Your research assistant has been most helpful,” Aslan boomed good-naturedly. “Ever since she reported back to me I have kept your vessel under constant surveillance. I have been wanting to visit this island for a long time. Fortunately my men found a way up outside and into this chamber. It seems we arrived in the nick of time.” Suddenly his voice hardened. “I am here to claim lost property.”
Costas could restrain himself no longer and lunged forward. He was immediately sent sprawling as the butt of a gun slammed into his stomach.
“Costas Demetrios Kazantzakis,” Aslan said with a sneer. “A Greek.” He spat out the word contemptuously.
As Costas struggled to his feet, Aslan turned his attention to Katya, his dark eyes narrowing and the corners of his mouth betraying the hint of a smile.
“Katya Svetlanova. Or should I say Katya Petrovna Nazarbetov.”
Katya’s look had changed to angry defiance. Jack felt his legs slip out from under him as his body finally gave in. Her reply seemed to come from somewhere else, from a shadowy netherworld disconnected from reality.
“Father.”
CHAPTER 23
Ben shifted almost imperceptibly on his haunches, never once letting his eyes waver from the smudge of light that emanated from the control room at the far end of the passageway. He had held the same position for hour after hour, relieved only for short spells by Andy from the torpedo room below. With his body pressed against the casing and dusted with white precipitate he seemed almost a part of the submarine’s fabric, little different from the macabre corpse of the zampolit hanging in the darkness only an arm’s length behind.
Despite his E-suit the cold had crept insidiously into his body, and the fingers curled round the trigger guard of the AKSU had been numb for hours. Yet he knew how to compartmentalize pain, how to push away everything except what was needed to watch and wait. Years before he had learned that the true test of toughness was extreme endurance, the rare quality that had singled him out among all the other applicants for Special Forces.
He had taken his visor off and an acrid smell reached him before he sensed any movement.
“I managed to get up a brew.” Andy crept behind him and thrust a steaming mug under his face. “Some foul Soviet muck.”
Ben grunted but cradled the coffee gratefully in his free hand. They had no food other than the high-energy bars in their emergency packs, but had found some sealed water bottles in the wardroom and had made sure they were well hydrated.
“Anything yet?” Andy asked.
Ben shook his head. It had been almost eighteen hours since Jack and the others had left, a full day since they had last seen sunlight. Their watches told them it was early evening, yet with no link to the outside world they had little sense of the passage of time. Ahead of them their opponents had noisily consolidated their position below the escape hatch, periods of activity and raised voices punctuated by long silences. For hours they had endured the moans and wails of a wounded man until a muffled gunshot had put an end to it. Half an hour before there had been an intense commotion which Ben knew was the enemy submersible docking with their own deep submergence rescue vehicle, and he had heard the clatter of footsteps down the entry hatch. He had tapped a prearranged signal for Andy to join him in expectation of the worst.
“Here we go.”
Suddenly a torch shone down the passage towards them. Despite the harsh brightness neither man flinched. Ben put down the mug and flipped off the safety catch on the AKSU, and Andy pulled out the Makarov and melted into the darkness on the other side of the bulkhead.
The man’s voice that came down was hoarse and strained, the words half in English, half Russian.
“Crewmen of Seaquest. We wish to talk.”
Ben replied sharply in Russian. “Come any closer and we will destroy the submarine.”
“That will not be necessary.” The words this time were English and came from a woman. Ben and Andy kept their eyes averted, aware that a moment’s blindness in the torchlight could lose them their advantage. They could hear that she had advanced ahead of the man and stood only about five metres in front of them.
“You are pawns in other men’s games. Come over to us and you will be richly rewarded. You may keep your weapons.” The woman’s ingratiating tone made her accent seem even colder, harsher.
“I repeat,” Ben said. “One step closer.”
“You await your friends.” There was a contemptuous laugh. “Katya,” she spat out the word, “is an irrelevance. But I had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Howard in Alexandria. Most interesting on the location of Atlantis. And most enjoyable to make his acquaintance and that of Dr. Kazantzakis again this morning.”
“You have been warned for the last time.”
“Your so-called friends are dead or captured. Your ship is destroyed. Nobody else knows the location of this submarine. Your enterprise is doomed. Join us and save your lives.”
Ben and Andy listened impassively, neither of them baulking or believing a word. Ben looked at Andy, then turned back.
“Not a chance,” he said.