David Gibbins - The Gods of Atlantis

Ahead, beyond the houses, he saw what looked like eroded rocky outcrops sticking out of the sand, but as he got closer he realized that they were the crumbling towers of an ancient desert stronghold, probably abandoned a millennium or more ago when the trade routes dried up. The road changed to a rough track covered with fragments of old pottery as it took him under a precarious-looking stone gatehouse. Inside was an ancient timber door, wind-worn and rent with cracks. He peered through, seeing a desolation of ruins surrounding a domed structure half buried in the sand, once perhaps a mosque or a Nestorian church. He pushed the heavy iron latch, to no avail, and then stood back, protected by the tower roof from the sun and the blowing sand. Suddenly there was an electric hum, and the entire surface around him began to lower, an elevator platform large enough to take a small truck. He had expected something like this, but even so it took him by surprise. As it dropped below head height, another platform slid over to close the opening, and he was plunged into darkness. Then all movement ceased and a fluorescent light illuminated the elevator chamber, showing three tunnels leading off in different directions. Doors slid down over two of the entrances, and the elevator platform turned so that he was facing the remaining one. He paused for a moment, touching his tie and brushing the sand off his legs, and then walked forward.

After about a hundred metres, another door slid down behind him and he was in darkness again. He stopped walking, and felt the ground beneath him moving, some form of escalator. It came to a halt, and he was left in utter stillness. There was a curious scent in the air, jasmine perhaps, and he sensed that he was in a larger space. Then a shaft of light came down from high above and lit up a leather chair a few metres in front of him, facing away. Another shaft lit up a large table in front. A man with Chinese features was sitting behind the table, his face looming out of the shadows, the outline of a computer monitor to his right. The man in the suit walked up to the chair, then carefully smoothed his overcoat beneath him and sat down.

The man behind the desk stared at him for a moment and then spoke in English, his accent a mixture of refined British and American. ‘So. You found out how to contact me, and now you have discovered my fortress. Normally anyone who comes within fifty kilometres of this place without my invitation is liquidated by my men, but for you I have made a temporary exception.’

The other man said nothing, but crossed his legs and looked casually at the ceiling, then to his left and right. It was as if his gaze had activated a lighting system, and the dark recesses of the chamber filled with subtle shades of colour. He saw that he was within a domed structure, seemingly extending off into infinity. Above him was a dazzling representation of the night sky, projected on to the inside of the dome as if they were in a planetarium. To his left was a long rectangular pool, its water dark and utterly still, surrounded by long-legged ibexes, some with their necks up and others bent down with their bills close to the water. But the most striking apparition was the rows of warriors on either side, hundreds of them, identically armoured and holding long poles terminating in elaborate bronze dagger-axes. They seemed alive, staring at him, their eyelids occasionally flickering, a slight rustle and rasp of movement in the background. Beyond them the sky appeared to be swirling, like a desert dust storm, the illusion of movement enveloping the chamber as if they were in a tunnel about to be sucked with the warriors down a vortex into the eye of the storm.

He let his gaze fall back to the man behind the desk, and then spoke. ‘A representation of the interior of the third-century BC tomb of the first Chinese emperor Shihuangdi, based on the Records of the Grand Historian by Sima Qian.’ He spoke quietly and precisely, his English impeccable but with a hint of a French accent. ‘The tomb chamber, of course, remains undiscovered beneath the great mound at Xian, though the terracotta warriors and the bronze birds from the pits surrounding the mound are real enough. I hosted a reception at the British Museum at the opening of the travelling exhibition last year. The weapons are more varied than the classic Qin dagger-axe you present here, but then you surely know that. It is a small point.’ He gestured up at the stars. ‘Outside this chamber, I imagine, you can see this very view at night, in the desert sky unpolluted by the modern world. But you would be deathly cold, and the sand would sting your eyes. In here, you have the illusion of control over the cosmos. That was the conceit of the First Emperor too. It was a conceit that began when Stone Age men first turned their backs on the world of nature, the world they could not control. To some, it made them think they were gods. But such fantasies are just that. The First Emperor remains dead in his hole in the ground, surrounded by crumbling illusions. Adolf Hitler came to a squalid end in a ditch outside the Fuhrerbunker.’ He waved his hand dismissively at the room. ‘In my world, power does not come from computer-generated fantasies.’ He took off his gloves, laid them on his knee and folded his hands over them. ‘I have come to discuss a business arrangement.’

The other man stared at him, then tapped a keyboard set into the table. The entire phantasm disappeared, the warriors and the ibexes and the night sky, and the two shafts of light returned. He swivelled his chair and looked at the computer monitor. ‘Jean-Pierre Saumerre. Born in Marseille of Algerian Muslim background, but one grandfather French. Educated at the Sorbonne and Cambridge University. After completing a doctorate in econometrics, worked for his family company Arancho, a conglomerate with numerous interests across Europe, Africa and the Middle East. Eight years ago relinquished his role as CEO to enter European Union politics. Meteoric rise through the corridors of power in Brussels, becoming Director-General for Business Affairs eighteen months ago. Board member of the European Central Bank, and presently up for election to vice-presidency of the European Commission.’

He peered at Saumerre over the screen, and then sat back on his chair with a cold smile on his face. He picked up a vicious little knife and pressed the end of the blade gingerly with the tip of one index finger. ‘A man very close to holding the purse strings in Brussels, the biggest black hole for tax money in the world. Perhaps, Dr Saumerre, you did not relinquish your family business interests after all.’ The man licked the tip of his finger where he had drawn blood, raised the knife with his other hand and suddenly flicked it past Saumerre’s face to the wall opposite, where it buried itself to the hilt. He put his hands palm-down on the table and stared at Saumerre, the smile gone. ‘You talk of a business arrangement?’

Saumerre waved his hand in the air where the knife had passed as if whisking away a fly, then reached into the breast pocket of his overcoat and extracted a brown envelope, pulling a sheet half out. ‘Shang Yong. Born into one of the oldest clans in China, tracing their descent back to the warriors of the First Emperor. A computer-simulation expert, educated in Hong Kong and at boarding school in England, then at UCLA and MIT. After graduating, he disappeared back into China, where he re-emerged as head of the Brotherhood of the Tiger, an ancient secret society that has developed lucrative business interests on the back of the Chinese economic boom. Front companies in Hong Kong and Shanghai, but suspected of operating from a secret base somewhere in the Taklamakan Desert, aiming at virtually feudal control over the frontier region of western China. A megalomaniac who is ruthless to those who stand in his way and responsible for numerous murders in China and around the world. After the usual terrorist suspects, about the top name on Interpol’s most-wanted list.’