The Atlantis Code by Charles Brokaw Page A

immediately accelerated. Glancing through the balcony windows, he saw that full night had descended upon the city. It was late. Especially for someone unannounced.
    Although the attack on the television set had taken place three days ago and Lourds trusted the hotel security, a wave of panic still ran through him. He pushed it back into the dark corner of his mind it had come from. Then he straightened up, feeling the familiar ache in his back and shoulders from staying hunched over the desk too long.
    With the help of Leslie Crane’s studio team, he’d blown up the pictures of the bell. In the hotel room, he’d taped them to the wall over the desk, then taken them down to study and try—in vain, so far—to crack the mysterious language. He didn’t doubt that he would eventually get it, but success, it seemed, was going to take time.
    Crossing to the door in his bare feet, clad in a T-shirt and walking shorts, Lourds halted before his hand hit the doorknob, then thought better of where he was standing, considering recent events. He stepped into the closet beside the door. His hand curled around the iron mounted on the wall. It wasn’t much of a weapon perhaps, but at least with it in his hand he didn’t feel so vulnerable.
    Ah, Lourds, you’re a Neanderthal at heart, aren’t you?
He knew he wasn’t, though. Otherwise nearly getting killed three days ago wouldn’t have bothered him so much. He just wasn’t civilized enough—or foolish enough—to believe the Alexandrian police had everything in hand, no matter what they said. They still had no clue who had invaded the television studio.
    Or who had killed poor James Kale. The sight of the man’s burned body in the hospital morgue, with the fingers cut off one hand, still gnawed at Lourds’s dreams. He’d gone with Leslie and the crew that day to identify the man’s remains.
    The knock sounded again.
    Lourds realized he’d hidden but forgotten to speak. “Who is it?” He was embarrassed at how his voice cracked, like he was going through puberty all over again.
    “Leslie.”
    Now that he knew the young woman was outside his door, Lourds wasn’t quite so concerned as he’d been about getting a bullet through his head when he checked the peephole. He peered through the fish-eye lens, saw only Leslie standing there, and opened the door.
    She was dressed for the heat, clad in sandals, bronze capris, and a lime-green sleeveless crop top that showed a delicate diamond stud in her belly button. The gem winked up at Lourds in a fascinating manner. During the last three days he’d spent with her, he wouldn’t have guessed she would wear such a thing.
    Something quite primitive and very interested stirred inside him, displacing all thoughts of the dead producer for the moment.
    “Did I catch you ironing?” Leslie asked.
    Perplexed, Lourds looked at her and wondered what she was talking about. Then he realized he was still holding his weapon du jour, the iron.
    “Sorry. I was just feeling a little insecure. I don’t normally greet guests with an iron in my hand.” Lourds turned and replaced it on the mount in the closet.
    “Personally, I prefer a golf club,” Leslie said.
    “Do you golf?”
    Leslie smiled. “Not as well as I’d like, but my dad gave me a pitching wedge for home protection. I asked for a Glock. He gave me a golf club.” She shrugged, clearly shorthand for,
What are you supposed to do?
    “Where did you learn to shoot?”
    “Dad gave in to my love of firepower eventually. He taught me to do both—golfing and handling weapons. He spent time in Special Forces, then served as a trainer before he retired. He’s a great teacher. Good thing, huh?”
    “After the incident the other day, I’d have to agree,” Lourds said. “Won’t you come in?”
    Leslie entered and looked around. Lourds was curious. In the three days that Lourds had been there, she’d never come calling before.
    “I’m impressed,” she said.
    “At what?”
    “The