The Knights of Atlantis

Book 17: Wilde/Chase

by Andy McDermott

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Action & Adventure; Suspense

Synopsis

AN ADRENALINE-CHARGED NEW WILDE & CHASE ADVENTURE FROM THE INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLING AUTHOR

Archaeologist Nina Wilde and her husband, former SAS soldier Eddie Chase, believe their globe-trotting adventures are over - the biggest worry being how their now-adult daughter Macy is going to spend her life.

But after the violent theft of dangerous relics, with the only surviving guard claiming his attackers were "angels", Nina and Eddie are thrust back into action. Without their knowledge, though, Macy is approached by a mysterious group called the Knights of Atlantis - who want to recruit her.

In a deadly race stretching from the glamorous French Riviera to the blistering heat of the Karakum desert, Nina and Eddie must confront mercenaries, secret societies and the machinations of the world's first trillionaire - with the fate of the world in their hands...

Praise for Andy McDermott:

'Action, adventure and mayhem aplenty' SCOTT MARIANI

'A writer of almost cinematic talent' DAILY EXPRESS

'Adventure stories don't get much more epic than this' MIRROR

(P)2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: August 8, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 512

Sample

Macy had hired a car for the vacation, but as she would be drinking, she and Rain took a taxi into Monaco. Their rented villa was in France, yet only a kilometre from the tiny Mediterranean principality’s harbour, on the hills above the densely packed tax haven. The cab was electric, as were a good percentage of the cars Macy had seen in Europe, to her approval; sales of internal combustion vehicles were only a few years from being banned in the EU. It was a far cry from the States, where gas-guzzling SUVs and trucks still ruled the roads.

Despite the prospect of a fun evening, Macy was still unhappy about the conversation with her parents. ‘Do they think I don’t want to see them any more?’ she asked.

‘No, of course they don’t think that,’ Rain assured her. ‘But you’re an adult now. You get to make your own decisions.’

‘If I knew what decisions to make. All of a sudden I have so many options open to me, but . . . I’ve got choice paralysis. And I don’t just mean about whether I even want to go to college. I’ve got this money, and I don’t just want to spend it on fancy foreign vacations and sexy dresses.’ She indicated her shimmering green outfit. ‘It’s nice to be able to, but I don’t fancy spending the rest of my life slacking off by a swimming pool – whatever my mom might think. I want to do some good in the world!’

‘You can,’ Rain assured her. ‘There are all kinds of ways you could use your money to improve things.’

‘I know. I can think of like a dozen off the top of my head. And that’s the problem.’ She sighed. ‘There’s so much wrong right now. We’ve got massive income inequality, fascism’s on the rise, Russia’s breaking apart and rogue nukes are being sold on the black market, new pandemics keep starting . . . And the whole time, the world’s getting hotter and hotter.’ She looked out at the hills over Monaco. Even in the dusk half-light the landscape was visibly parched, yellow and brown rather than green. ‘I want to make things better, but . . .’ Another sigh. ‘I could give away every penny I have, but it wouldn’t even scratch the surface. No matter how many people I helped, there’d be even more who still needed it. And . . . who am I to decide who deserves help and who doesn’t? Am I worthy of that responsibility?’

‘What do you think?’ Rain said.

‘I don’t know – that’s why I’m asking you!’

‘That’s a question only you can answer.’ She gently squeezed Macy’s hand. ‘But I think . . . because you are asking it, you probably are.’

‘You think?’ Macy asked.

Rain nodded. ‘And you don’t need to help everybody. If you do it for the right reasons, helping a few might make all the difference. Or even just helping one person.’

Macy smiled. ‘That’s very philosophical of you.’

‘I’m French,’ came the reply, with a lackadaisical shrug. ‘Philosophy is one of our national pastimes.’ They both laughed as the cab entered Monaco proper.

The nightclub was in a part of the tiny state that had not existed when Macy was born in 2015. The district of Le Portier, north of the harbour-mouth, had been reclaimed from the sea during the following decade. Other similar projects were ongoing: Monaco had long ago run out of space for development.

The taxi dropped off the two young women outside the building complex housing the nightclub. Macy felt the heat the moment she left the air-conditioned cab. Night had arrived, but the temperature was still over ninety Fahrenheit. She was glad her dress left a fair amount of skin exposed.

She and Rain went to the entrance. Macy had already booked their admission via Uzz, but the doormen – Monaco was too upmarket for mere bouncers, she thought with amusement – still checked their IDs, even after scanning the confirmation on her phone. There were no problems, though: her passport proved she was eighteen, and that put her on the right side of the local law. ‘It’s nice to get carded and be told “sure, come in” rather than “you’re too young, get lost”,’ she said to Rain as they entered the club’s lobby. ‘Europe’s very civilised. Although is it true they even let kids drink alcohol in France?’

‘Yes, but the stories are exaggerated,’ Rain told her. ‘I could have wine with a meal when I was sixteen, as long as my parents allowed it. It’s not as if kids can go into a bar after school finishes for the day.’

‘My dad said he used to. He started going into pubs in England when he was fifteen.’ She was caught between disbelief and a reluctant admiration. ‘Mind you, that was a long time ago. I suppose things were different back then.’

‘How old is your dad?’ Rain asked.

‘Fifty-eight. Born in 1975. My God, that really was a long time ago. No wonder he married Mom; he’ll need her archaeological skills to remember his childhood!’ Rain laughed, then they sauntered on their high heels into the nightclub proper.

Outside, a man in his early sixties watched the two young women disappear from view. He checked his watch, then ran a hand through his sweat-bedraggled sandy hair and started walking back towards the harbour, lighting a cigarette as he went.

The club was expensive and exclusive, drawing a wealthy clientele. Macy had thought she would enjoy the experience of mixing with well-heeled people from all around the world; she was, after all, one of them. But while she found it fun to chat with others in multiple languages, after a while she began to feel . . . dispirited, was the only suitable word. The faces eventually blurred together, as did their accessories. Look at me, look at my hand-made Italian suit and shoes, my Swiss watch, my supercar key fob. The scents of pricey perfumes and aftershaves blended into a faintly overpowering gallimaufry.

She genially but firmly said goodbye to an Indian man in his thirties who was trying to hit on her and regrouped with Rain. Her friend was receiving similar attention from someone even older. She was smiling, but even after a few drinks Macy could tell it was just a veneer of politeness. ‘Sorry, I want to talk to my BFF,’ she said, gently guiding Rain away from her wannabe suitor.

‘Thanks,’ said Rain, with relief. ‘I didn’t want to be rude to him, but he wasn’t my type. Too old, for a start.’

‘None of them seem to have heard of the “half your age plus seven years” rule,’ Macy agreed. She led Rain to a less busy spot. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes, sure. What about you?’

‘I’m fine. Just . . .’ She chewed her bottom lip, thinking of how best to verbalise her thoughts. ‘Do you think this is where I belong?’ she said at last.

The answer was immediate. ‘No. This?’ Rain gestured at the noisy, gaudy room. ‘It’s not you, not at all.’

Macy smiled. ‘Thanks. I just wanted to be sure. It’s weird. I was enjoying it, but . . . only to a point? These people have a lot of money, but all they want to use it for is to buy things, that show off to everyone else how rich they are.’

‘Welcome to Monaco,’ Rain said with a grin.

‘Yeah. It’s like I’m at a zoo, or a theme park. It’s fun to visit, but I’m not sure I’d want to live here, even if it did mean I wouldn’t have to pay any taxes. It’s not me.’ A small shrug. ‘My mom’ll be pleased about that, at least.’

‘I think it proves what we were talking about in the taxi. You want to do something good with what you have, and I don’t just mean money – I mean everything you have as a person. You want to make the world better for everyone. Perhaps you’ll find a way to do that.’

‘I hope so.’

‘You will. I’m sure of it. If you get the chance, you should take it.’

‘My BFF and my life coach. Thanks.’ Macy raised her bottle of flavoured schnapps to toast her, only to wobble on her heels. ‘Oops, better not have many more of these!’

Rain was also drinking fruity schnapps, but while Macy had tried several different flavours, she had stuck to the same one – surely not literally the same one? – all evening. ‘A good idea,’ she told her friend over the pulsing dance music. ‘You don’t want another hangover.’

Their first night out together on the Riviera had led to regrets the following morning, at least for Macy. She had told herself she wouldn’t do the same again, but . . .

Well, she was on vacation. She finished her drink and held up the empty bottle. ‘Maybe one more. How many have I had? Three, four?’

‘Seven.’

‘Shit!’ she exclaimed, startled. ‘No wonder I can’t stand up straight, I’m drunk off my ass! What time is it?’

‘Almost midnight.’

‘Okay, I’m definitely ready for bed.’

Rain raised her phone. ‘Uzz, we need a taxi.’ A notification appeared, and she nodded to Macy. ‘It’ll be here in five minutes.’

‘Good. Gives me time to stagger to the exit.’

Rain smiled, then tapped in a message as Macy found her footing.

‘Who are you texting?’

‘Um, my mom. I forgot to tell her something.’

Macy smiled. ‘Scatterbrain Rain.’

Her friend stuck out her tongue, then offered her arm to the redhead. ‘Shall we?’

‘We shall,’ Macy replied with a glassy-eyed grin. She waved to everybody and nobody as they headed for the door. ‘Ta-ta!’

They made their way outside. Even this late, the night was still hot. Their ride soon arrived. A white electric cab, a European model Macy didn’t recognise, whined to a halt nearby, and they boarded.

The shabby man, lurking behind a palm tree as he smoked a cigarette, watched them go.

The cab returned them to their villa. It was owned by a man who lived opposite; his lights were still on, Macy noticed. She paid the driver using Uzz, then she and Rain went indoors. ‘Amelie, allume les lumières, s’il te plaît,’ said Rain as they entered. The house’s digital assistant obliged, turning on all the lights.

Macy squinted at the sudden brightness. ‘Aah! Amelie, réduire la luminosité.’ The lights dimmed. She fumbled with her shoes’ straps before kicking them off. Even with her feet planted firmly on the floor, she put a hand against a wall for support. ‘Oh, God. I really am drunk.’

‘Do you need me to help?’ Rain asked.

‘Just point me towards my bedroom. Everything’s spinning.’

It was meant as a joke, at least partially, but Rain still ushered her upstairs. ‘Do you want me to stay with you tonight?’ she said as they reached the doorway.

‘Better not,’ Macy mumbled. ‘I might need to get to the bathroom in a hurry, if you know what I mean. But thanks.’ She gave her friend a smile. Rain returned it and entered her own room across the landing.

Macy half-walked, half-staggered to the bathroom. This was not the first time she had been drunk – even with America’s stricter alcohol laws, finding ways to get buzzed without parents finding out was a senior year rite of passage – but it was possibly the most hammered she’d ever been. ‘Oh, man,’ she muttered as she cleaned her teeth. Her mother definitely wouldn’t approve.

But . . . she wasn’t here. And no laws had been broken. It might have been ill-advised, and she would regret it in the morning – but it was her decision to make. Wasn’t that what being an adult was all about, learning from your own mistakes? Certainly she’d learned never to drink seven bottles of flavoured schnapps again.

She stumbled to the bed, peeling off her dress before flopping onto the mattress and fumbling for the switch beside the bed. The room went dark – but there was still a line of painfully bright light beneath the door. ‘Goddammit.’ She didn’t want to get up again, then remembered she didn’t have to. ‘Amelie? Éteignez toutes les lumières.’

The landing light went out. As did all the others in the house – her command had been too general. A startled yelp came from Rain’s room.

‘Oops! Sorry,’ she said. ‘G’night.’

She was fairly sure her friend replied, but by then a swirling, turgid sleep had swallowed her.

Macy’s suspicion that she would regret her excesses the following morning proved correct. ‘Oh, what the hell was I thinking?’ she moaned.

‘Are you awake, Macy?’ called Rain from across the landing.

‘By the strict dictionary definition, yeah.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Well, I’ve learned that drinking is a lot more fun during than after, so the experience wasn’t a total waste.’

Rain laughed sympathetically. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Sure.’ Macy donned a long T-shirt, then dropped back onto the bed.

Rain, in a similar state of dress, entered. ‘Good morning.’

‘Oh, if only. What time is it?’

‘After nine.’

‘Ugh. I need about another eight hours’ sleep.’

Rain smiled. ‘Just in time to go to another club, yes?’

‘No, no, no.’ Macy put her arm over her eyes. ‘I think tonight’ll be a quiet one.’

‘I’m fine with that.’ Rain sat beside her. ‘Do you want anything? Breakfast, coffee?’

‘Strong French coffee would be much appreciated.’ She raised her arm to look up at her friend. ‘You take good care of me, you know. Thank you.’

Rain smiled again. ‘What are friends for? I’ll bring it to you.’

‘Thanks.’ Macy covered her eyes again as Rain left the room. She still felt queasy, so stayed still, listening to the sounds of Rain working in the kitchen below . . .

A warbling chime came from the screen mounted on the wall. The whole house was connected to the digital assistant; someone was messaging her. ‘Yes, oui, what?’ she said, assuming it was Rain.

It wasn’t. ‘Hello, I want to talk to you,’ said a male, French voice.

‘Shit!’ Macy gasped, jerking upright and hurriedly pulling her T-shirt lower. The screen had split into two images; one was Rain in the kitchen, viewed from the screen in that room. The other was a frowning middle-aged man with frizzy hair. She scrambled out of frame to find some leggings. ‘Monsieur Pluc, you can’t just videocall me when I’m in the bedroom!’

‘You were the one who answered it,’ her landlord replied. ‘But good, you are both there.’

‘What do you want to talk to us about?’

‘You made too much noise when you came back last night.’

‘No, we didn’t,’ Macy protested. She couldn’t remember doing so, at least.

Pluc’s frown deepened. ‘You did. I was asleep, and you woke me up. It is very clear in the rules that there is to be no noise after ten at night – and this was not the first time.’

It was Rain’s turn to object. ‘All we did was get out of the taxi and go into the house. Then we went straight to bed. We didn’t make any noise.’

‘The taxi did.’

‘It was electric!’ Macy hooted, stepping back into view. ‘And your lights were on when we arrived. We didn’t wake you up.’

Pluc drew in a sniffy breath. ‘If it happens again, you will have to find somewhere else to stay. I don’t care how many more days you have booked. The rules are very clear. No noise after ten. Break the rules again, and you will be gone. I am giving you a friendly warning, so you cannot claim you have not been told. Now, goodbye.’ He disappeared, Rain’s section of the screen expanding to fill the whole thing.

‘But, wait—’ Macy said helplessly, before grabbing her phone and stomping downstairs, hangover all but forgotten in her outrage. ‘What the hell?’ she demanded as she entered the kitchen. ‘We weren’t making noise!’

‘I know,’ Rain agreed, filling a cafetière with freshly ground coffee beans. ‘But he’s one of those people who complains just because they can, so they can pretend they have authority.’

‘He has the authority to get a boot up his ass,’ Macy griped. Seeing that Rain hadn’t yet boiled the water, she took a metal kettle from a cupboard and filled it before lighting the gas hob.

Rain let out a little laugh. ‘That is how everyone can tell you’re an American. There’s an electric kettle, right there.’ She gestured at the appliance beside the sink.

‘Doing it the American way makes me feel better,’ Macy replied, putting the kettle on the hob. ‘God, I can’t believe that guy! Does he think he can push us around because we’re women? Or because we’re young?’

‘Perhaps both.’

‘Yeah.’ She stared at the blue flames beneath the kettle, feeling a similar heat of her own rising. ‘What an asshole! We’re paying enough to rent this place. Pluc should be bowing and scraping to us, not acting like the lord of the manor!’

‘He should,’ agreed Rain. ‘But it’s okay. It’s the first time you’ve ever done anything like this without your parents; they would have dealt with trouble, not you. How would they have handled it?’

Macy snorted. ‘Dad would have rolled Pluc up like a basketball and dunked him into a trash can. Mom wouldn’t have taken any crap from him either. She’s had people point guns in her face. She wouldn’t let some creepy little guy with pube-hair talk to her like that.’

Rain laughed. ‘You have a special way with words.’

‘I get that from my dad. He has a weird insult for every occasion.’

‘Have you heard from your parents? You said they were going to Portugal.’

‘I haven’t checked, actually.’ She raised her phone, seeing notifications. ‘Text messages! Welcome to the nineteen-nineties.’ She read them. ‘Huh, they flew out last night. They’ll be arriving in Lisbon soon. They really did drop everything to help the IHA. Must be more important than Mom was letting on.’

‘You should call them when they land,’ Rain suggested.

‘Maybe. Although I’d rather get rid of the hangover first. That way, they won’t get to wag their fingers at me.’ The kettle had started whistling while she spoke; it finally reached its shrill crescendo. ‘Oh, good. Caffeine versus hangover, round one. Fight!’

Rain grinned, then poured the water into the cafetière.



Nina and Eddie cleared customs at Lisbon’s Humberto Delgado airport. ‘Ozzy got a car for us?’ Eddie asked.

Nina checked the people waiting beyond the arrivals gate. ‘Yes, there.’ A man held a card reading PROF. N. WILDE.

‘Just you? So I have to walk, do I?’

‘Be glad you didn’t have to walk all the way from JFK.’ They started towards the chauffeur, Nina taking the opportunity to check her phone. ‘Huh.’

‘What?’

‘Macy didn’t reply to my messages.’

‘Maybe she’s got a massive hangover,’ joked Eddie.

Nina responded with a sigh rather than a laugh. ‘Maybe. I really thought we’d gotten past our loggerheads phase.’

‘You’ve both seemed okay to me. I mean, you’ve had arguments, but not like when she was younger.’

‘Until she turned eighteen,’ said Nina. Another sigh. ‘Ever since Macy got all that money, it’s changed things between us. It’s changed her. I’m worried she’s going to make a big mistake with her life because she thinks having money makes you invincible. But I know that’s not true, first-hand. Remember after I first joined the IHA? I went from splashing out on three-hundred-dollar haircuts to being unemployed in the space of two years.’

‘It was five hundred dollars,’ corrected Eddie, with the air of a Yorkshireman who had been brooding over the sum for decades.

‘The point remains,’ she insisted. ‘But she doesn’t want to listen to me because, well, who wants to listen to their mom tell them to be careful?’

‘Macy’s not stupid,’ said Eddie. ‘She’s just . . . young. Sometimes you’ve got to learn from your own mistakes rather than have someone tell you. Only way it sinks in.’

‘That doesn’t stop me from trying to protect her.’ They reached the chauffeur. ‘Hi. I’m Nina Wilde?’

‘Yes, Professor Wilde,’ he replied. ‘I will take you to Mr Seretse.’

The drive to the IHA facility at Bobadela did not take long. Lisbon’s expansion over decades meant the airport had been swallowed by the city’s sprawl. Three guards checked the car and its occupants at the main gate, other uniformed men patrolling the perimeter fence. ‘Fair bit of security,’ Eddie noted as they drove on to the main building.

‘From what Oswald said, I suspect it’s a case of locking the stable door after the horse has bolted,’ Nina replied.

More guards watched at their destination. Waiting under the baking sun were two men. One was Oswald Seretse, urbane and formally dressed as always despite the heat. The other was someone Nina had only previously met briefly but had developed an antipathy towards, purely because of what he had done to ‘her’ agency. John Hoffman was in his mid thirties, wearing his hair in a short ponytail. ‘Professor Wilde – Nina,’ he said as the new arrivals exited the car. Like her he was American, but from Oregon rather than New York. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘And you, John,’ Nina replied politely. They shook hands. ‘This is my husband, Eddie Chase.’

‘Hello,’ said Hoffman, giving Eddie a more cursory handshake. ‘Thank you for coming all this way.’

‘Oswald expressed the seriousness of the theft,’ she told him as she greeted Seretse. ‘I’ll do what I can to help.’ She faced both men. ‘So exactly what’s been stolen?’

‘I’ll tell you inside,’ said Hoffman. He led the group indoors.

To Nina’s relief, the facility was air-conditioned. Hoffman led them through a security checkpoint – the doors appeared new, unpainted – into a large room filled with aisle after aisle of storage cabinets. ‘This is our main physical archive,’ he explained, guiding them through the cavernous maze. ‘The bulk of our collection is in here.’

‘This is from where the stolen items were taken,’ Seretse added.

‘So what are these items?’ Nina asked.

‘I’ll show you,’ said Hoffman. At one side of the chamber was a cabin-like structure; he entered and showed them into a conference room. The rear wall was one large screen. He invited the visitors to sit, then activated the video wall.

The image that filled it was something she recognised at once. ‘That’s not Atlantean,’ she said. ‘That’s a baraka – a Nephilim artefact.’ The spear-like weapon was a product of the ancient humanoid race that over a hundred millennia earlier had attempted to build an empire. The Nephilim were products of interbreeding between another ancient race, the Veteres, and primitive humans; the Veteres had ultimately defeated their offspring, only to be driven into extinction themselves by their smaller, less intelligent, but more aggressive and vicious cousins, Homo sapiens.

Hoffman nodded. ‘It was recovered from the Nephilim craft that landed in Australia. It’s damaged; the crystal that gave it its power was broken.’

‘So whoever took it didn’t want you to have it even though it was knackered,’ Eddie suggested.

Nina got straight to the point. ‘Were you trying to reverse-engineer it?’

‘It was one of numerous artefacts undergoing deep systemic analysis, yes,’ said Hoffman.

‘Oh, is that what you call it now?’ She regarded the image with disquiet. Barakas drew upon earth energy to unleash bolts of raw power that caused whatever they hit to explode – whether an inanimate object or a living being. She had both used and been the target of such fearsome weapons. ‘What else was stolen?’

Hoffman clicked through more photographs. The first was a gauntlet or vambrace, a piece of armour protecting the wearer’s wrist and forearm. The metal was a distinctive reddish-gold: orichalcum, an alloy of gold and other elements, often used by the ancient Atlanteans. A thin line of glinting crystal was set into the metal, running from the back of the hand to a protruding slot midway along the armour’s length. ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘We’re not sure,’ Hoffman admitted. ‘The crystal is the same kind found in the baraka and other artefacts, which suggests it channels earth energy. But its function?’ He shrugged. ‘All we know is that the next stolen item fits into it.’ He showed it.

‘Looks like a bird,’ said Eddie. A ruler alongside revealed the missile-like artefact to be roughly six inches long, a stylised orichalcum bird of prey with a sharp pointed beak of silvery metal. Small crystals represented its eyes. Fine feather-like patterns were inscribed around its body.

‘It’s missing something,’ Nina noted. ‘Wings.’

‘We’d thought there was another piece we hadn’t found,’ said Hoffman, ‘but there are no holes or pegs anything could mount onto. It’s interesting, though. We x-rayed it. See the feather markings? They’re not carved into the body, but are individual sheets of metal. Very small and thin, thousands of them. Whoever made it put a hell of a lot of work into it.’

‘You said it fits into the vambrace?’

Another picture appeared, showing the golden bird sitting atop the slot in the armour. ‘Yes, perfectly. But there’s nothing to hold it in place.’

Nina pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Maybe if the wearer can channel earth energy, it would stay put.’

‘It’s a possibility. Not one we’ve been able to test, though.’

‘You don’t have anybody at the IHA who can do that?’

Hoffman gave her a patronising look. ‘It turns out that the percentage of people who are descended from the Atlanteans and have the specific genes that let them channel earth energy is very small. If you express that number as a subset of people who are also qualified archaeologists and have the necessary security clearance to work at the IHA . . .’ He smirked. ‘Perhaps you should come back and work for me.’

‘I’m happy where I am, thanks,’ said Nina firmly. ‘What else was taken?’

The last item Hoffman showed was different from the other artefacts: a stack of orichalcum sheets, the topmost inscribed with what Nina immediately recognised as Atlantean text. Unlike the other pictures, there was nothing present to provide scale. ‘These are a very recent discovery,’ said Seretse. ‘So recent, they have not even been publicly revealed. Do you know Dr Salman Zaidi?’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ Nina replied. ‘He’s been working in Central Asia, hasn’t he?’

The diplomat nodded. ‘His most recent dig was in Uzbekistan, where these were found. They had only just been delivered to the IHA.’

‘Two days before they were stolen,’ added Hoffman. ‘We hadn’t even started working on them. Dr Zaidi took this in Uzbekistan just before they were shipped out. It’s the only one we have of them, at least in a semi-clean state. He catalogued their unearthing, of course, but they were covered in dirt. Most of the text was illegible.’

‘So you hadn’t even translated them?’ said Nina, surprised. When she had been in charge of the IHA, such work would have begun immediately upon the texts’ arrival. ‘Oh, I see. Nothing obvious to reverse-engineer – sorry, undergo deep systemic analysis.’ Her voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘So they went on the back-burner.’

‘Every artefact receives full attention in due time, based on our assessment of its importance,’ was Hoffman’s snippy response. ‘In this case, perhaps we underestimated.’

‘Just a bit,’ Eddie rumbled. ‘Since the other stuff they nicked looks like weapons and armour, and they were willing to kill some poor sod for it.’ He cocked his head as a thought occurred. ‘You said these hadn’t been translated yet, and you haven’t even announced you’ve got ’em?’

‘That’s right,’ said Hoffman.

‘So how did the robbers know about them?’

Seretse drew in an unhappy breath. ‘Unfortunately, we cannot rule out the possibility of a leak from within the IHA itself. The investigation has so far produced no suspects, but . . .’ He shook his head. ‘That the raiders took those specific items while leaving others of greater apparent value suggests inside knowledge, both of the IHA’s archive system and of the purpose of the artefacts. They knew exactly where to find them – and seemingly their nature.’

‘Even though you don’t know,’ said Nina.

‘Precisely. Which, as you can imagine, is a serious security threat. And why we asked for your help. If you can determine why these particular artefacts were taken . . .’

‘It’ll help you find who took them,’ she concluded. ‘Okay, so what else do I need to know?’

‘It wasn’t just that things were taken,’ said Hoffman. ‘Something else was destroyed.’ He headed to the exit. ‘I’ll show you.’

They left the conference room and continued through the archive. A hefty vault-like door stood in its rear wall – but Nina and Eddie’s attention instantly went to the large, ragged hole beside it. ‘Christ, looks like a bank robbery,’ said Eddie. ‘What do you keep in there?’

‘Something I think you’ll recognise,’ Hoffman told them. He ducked to pass through the opening.

Nina regarded its torn edges as she followed. The wall was thick concrete reinforced with steel rebar. Yet it had been utterly pulverised. ‘Did they blast this open with the baraka they stole?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re certain it was unusable. They brought something of their own.’

She was alarmed. ‘They had an earth-energy weapon?’

Hoffman gave her a grim look. ‘It’s what they used to kill the security guard. The biggest part left of him was his foot.’

‘Jesus.’ She entered the vault – and froze.

She did indeed recognise what the room contained. It was the vimana-kal: a flying craft built by the N