both hands. Even members of the Brotherhood were rarely allowed to enter if they were not involved with record-keeping.’
The elevator stopped around thirty feet below street level. A passage led off to one side, dim bulbs strung along its length. Heavier-duty electrical cables ran along the walls. ‘Follow me,’ said Popadopoulos.
After twenty yards the brickwork gave way to older and rougher stone. The tunnel continued ahead for some distance. Nina tried to get her bearings. ‘It’s a catacomb,’ she realised. ‘We’re going under the Vatican?’
‘Yes. The catacombs beneath the Holy See stretch for tens, maybe even hundreds of kilometres – they have never been fully mapped. These sections were sealed and donated to the Brotherhood in the ninth century by a cardinal who was also a supporter of the cause.’
Nina was impressed. ‘Your own version of the Vatican Secret Archives.’
‘Yes – although our records contain material that even the Archivum Secretum does not.’
‘I’m guessing that the scope of your records is more limited, though.’
‘You would be surprised by the scope of our records,’ he said smugly. ‘But yes, Atlantis is its focus. The Atlantean empire, its rulers, its society . . . and the threat it poses.’
‘Posed, surely,’ Nina corrected. ‘Past tense. Unless you’re saying there are more genocidal nuts like the Frosts plotting to resurrect it?’
‘You were the one who was attacked over the statues,’ he pointed out. ‘But here we are.’ Ahead, the passage was blocked by a heavy steel door. Beside it was a keypad; Popadopulos, after making sure Nina couldn’t see over his shoulder, tapped in an entry code. The door rumbled open, bright lights shining behind it. The low hum of ventilation machinery became audible.
Popadopoulos went through and called out in Italian. ‘The librarians may be deep in the archives,’ he added for Nina, before shouting again. ‘Agostino!’
An echoing reply came from down one of the other tunnels leading from the large room. ‘He is on his way,’ said the Greek. Nina nodded, looking around while they waited. Two entire walls were taken up by the stacked wooden drawers of a card index system; while there was also a PC on a desk that apparently served the same function, she suspected from the contrast between the lovingly polished old hardwood and the rather dusty computer that the librarians preferred the traditional method of locating a specific document. The electrical cables branched out to power other pieces of equipment: air-conditioners, dehumidifiers, pumps, everything needed to keep conditions throughout the underground labyrinth as dry and stable as possible.
After a minute, shuffling footsteps heralded the librarians’ arrival. Two men emerged from a tunnel – one an old, white-bearded man with a bulbous nose, behind him a somewhat overweight, shaggy-haired youth. The elder didn’t appear pleased to have been interrupted, and his look became one of outright hostility when he saw Nina. He snapped in Italian at Popadopoulos, who gave him a resigned placatory response before making introductions. ‘Dr Wilde, this is Agostino Belardinelli, chief archivist of the Brotherhood, and his assistant, Paolo Agnelli. Agostino, this is—’
‘I know who she is!’ Belardinelli said angrily, jabbing a gnarled finger at Nina. ‘You brought her in here? It is a, a . . .’ Another burst of outraged Italian as he mimed stabbing himself in the heart.
‘Agostino’s son was also a member of the Brotherhood,’ Popadopoulos told Nina awkwardly. ‘He, ah . . . lost his life in Brazil.’
‘Did he now,’ she said coldly. That meant Belardinelli’s son had been one of those trying to kill her and the team searching for a lost Atlantean outpost deep in the jungle.
‘Yes, well,’ said Popadopoulos, ‘it would be best if we got this over with. Agostino, Dr Wilde needs to see everything concerning the Atlantean priestess Nantalas and the three statues that she said granted her powers.’
That provoked another highly emotional outburst from the archivist. Popadopoulos listened with growing impatience, before finally cutting in. ‘Agostino! Once she has seen what she needs, she will leave, and then we can discuss this. But for now, let us find it as soon as possible, hmm?’
Muttering to himself, Belardinelli crossed to one of the ranks of drawers. ‘Nantalas, Nantalas,’ he said, finger waving back and forth like a radar antenna. ‘She was mentioned in one of the Athenian annals. Now, was it Akakios, or . . .’
Agnelli spoke for the first time. ‘It was Kallikrates,’ he said hesitantly. ‘One of the parchments in the fourteenth arcosolium.’
‘Kallikrates, yes.’ Belardinelli had evidently memorised the intricacies of the index,