Original Copyright © 2023, Translation © 2025 by Roberts & Maclay (Roberts & Maclay Publishing). All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Imprint: Independently published / Paperback ISBN 9798297755314

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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“All that was great in the past was ridiculed, condemned, combated, suppressed—only to emerge all the more powerfully, all the more triumphantly from the struggle.”

NIKOLA TESLA

CHAPTER 1

ROTUMA ISLAND, REPUBLIC OF FIJI, SOUTH PACIFIC

Theresia de Mey stepped onto the terrace of her small villa and took a deep breath. The warm, salty air smelled of hibiscus and coconut and had a calming effect. The sun warmed her skin, and the sound of waves lapping against the shore relaxed her even more.

She had initially planned to decline the offer from Aaron Hamblin, the man who had made a fortune with a handful of smartphone apps. For quite some time, she had wanted to suggest to her daughter Hellen that they start their own joint project, preferably a humanitarian effort where both could leverage their expertise and connections around the world to do some good.

A tropical bird landed on her veranda and began to warble. Its song mingled with the rustling of the palm trees.

She laughed out loud. “But who could possibly say no to this!” she said to herself as her gaze wandered over the endless beaches. The billionaire had invited her to his private island to look at his house and discuss his extensive art collection—a collection that didn’t yet exist and that Theresia de Mey was supposed to seek out and acquire for Hamblin from around the world. The offer was simply too good to pass up.

She leaned contentedly against the veranda railing as a car appeared in the distance, its polished black surface glittering in the sunlight. The vehicle approached, kicking up small clouds of sand. Theresia’s anticipation grew. Finally, she would get to meet the billionaire Aaron Hamblin in person, and the great adventure could begin.

She took a deep breath, went outside, and walked toward the car. The driver got out, circled the limousine, and opened the door for Theresia. She took a moment to examine every detail—the supple leather seats, the gleaming dashboard, and the faint scent of expensive perfume hanging in the air.

“Mr. Hamblin is expecting you. It’s only a short drive,” the chauffeur said tersely. The car started to roll, and Theresia leaned back, relaxing. She took out her phone to send Hellen a message but immediately remembered that while Hamblin made vast amounts of money with mobile apps, he did not use a cell phone himself. His house had a landline, and that was all; there was no mobile network on the island.

She’ll be angry I haven’t contacted her since I arrived, thought Theresia. Yesterday evening, she had been brought to this island spontaneously by helicopter and then to her personal villa. She had had no way to send her daughter a message since then.

“Is everything all right?” asked the driver, who had noticed her agitation.

“Of course,” answered Theresia, forcing herself to smile and hoping her voice sounded more confident than she felt.

The car rumbled along the sandy roads. In the distance, palm trees swayed. Theresia leaned back and enjoyed the ride. There were only a few roads on the island, and she knew that Hamblin’s estate had been built on the northern tip of the coast. She gazed out the window, knowing the entire journey would follow the picturesque coastline.

This is paradise on earth, thought Theresia. But she was suddenly startled when the car turned sharply onto a narrow path leading away from the coastal road.

“Wait, why are we going this way?” she asked with concern in her voice.

“Shortcut,” muttered the driver, seemingly unfazed by Theresia’s concern.

“A shortcut?” repeated Theresia, growing restless. Something wasn’t right. There was barely anything else on the island, just a few utility buildings, a power generator, and a water treatment plant, all owned by Hamblin. Shortcuts made no sense. She tried to calm herself with deep breaths. But the nagging feeling that something was wrong wouldn’t go away. Her eyes darted between the rearview mirror and the driver’s stoic face, searching for a sign of reassurance or explanation.

A few minutes later, they had already crossed the island, and the coast appeared again. The man braked sharply, reached into the glove compartment, took out a pistol, and pointed it directly at Theresia.

“Get out,” he commanded in a cold, detached voice.

Theresia’s heart nearly stopped. Was this a joke? She had heard that the billionaire had an odd sense of humor, but this was going too far. She summoned all her courage and slowly opened the door.

“Let me tell you one thing. Aaron Hamblin will not be pleased when he hears about this.”

“Hamblin doesn’t get here until tomorrow,” said the driver.

“What … what do you want from me?” asked Theresia, her voice almost failing her.

Only now did she notice the motorboat gently rocking back and forth at a pier by the shore.

“Move it,” barked the chauffeur, waving the gun toward the beach.

Theresia nodded and walked ahead to the pier, each step marked by fear.

“Get in.”

“All right, all right,” muttered Theresia, moving slowly, trying to buy time. With a deep sigh, she climbed into the boat and felt the restless rocking beneath her feet. Seconds later, they were on their way, speeding toward a yacht anchored far offshore.

“I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sure we can find a solution,” insisted Theresia, hoping her words would penetrate the driver’s icy demeanor.

“Shut your mouth,” snapped the driver as he steered the boat toward the stern of the yacht, never taking his eyes off Theresia. He cut the engine and signaled for her to climb the ladder. Keeping his pistol ready, he followed close behind.

When Theresia reached the top, a door on the upper deck swung open. Theresia shielded her eyes and looked up. A large, imposing man had appeared on deck and approached the railing. The elegant dark suit he wore seemed somewhat out of place against the sun-drenched backdrop. The man’s face seemed uncannily familiar to her.

“Theresia de Mey,” he called, his tone authoritative but not unfriendly.

“I know you …” said Theresia. It was more a question as she struggled to keep her voice steady. Her fear threatened to overwhelm her, especially when she saw that he also was carrying a pistol. She was alone with two armed men. A hopeless situation.

Suddenly, the face of the man on the upper deck contorted into a diabolical grimace. He raised his pistol and fired a precise shot into the head of the man who had brought him Theresia.

She screamed in horror as blood and brain matter sullied the pristine white deck.

The shooter’s expression became friendlier again. She almost had the impression that he was two different people. Despite her panic, she couldn’t shake the question: from where did she know this man?

“Since, presumably, I now have your undivided attention,” said the man with serene composure, “let’s talk a little about François Cloutard.”

Theresia was now completely confused. What did this mean? “François Cloutard? I barely know the man,” said Theresia. “He works with my daughter. That’s all I can say about him.”

With theatrical slowness, the man came down the stairs and approached the corpse on the deck below. Casually, with the tip of his shoe, he traced the edge of the spreading pool of blood as it oozed across the deck, almost as if he wanted to draw a pattern with it. Then he looked up and gazed deeply into Theresia’s eyes.

“Mrs. de Mey, you have seen what I’m capable of. Do you really want to take me for a fool? I know that you and the Frenchman had a little fling. And I also know that he once helped you with a very rare artifact for a deal with the Vienna Museum of Art History.”

Theresia drew in a sharp breath.

“And it is the whereabouts of that artifact that I would very much like to have a chat with you about.”

CHAPTER 2

A CONFERENCE ROOM AT THE SMITHSONIAN, WASHINGTON, USA

Dr. Phoebe Cross adjusted her glasses and tucked a strand of her red hair behind her ear as she entered the large conference hall of the Smithsonian. She wasn’t the only one who felt the excitement. Something big was happening, something that had cost many lives and raised many questions. Recently, a tsunami had caused unspeakable devastation along the Cuban coast. The seaquake had been felt as far away as the Florida Keys and even in Miami. Conspiracy theories were circulating that the tsunami was not of natural origin, but man-made.

The brightest minds were gathered there today: representatives from DARPA, the Smithsonian, the White House, professors from various universities and scientific fields, and even a representative of the Catholic Church, Apostolic Nuncio Cardinal Rossi. And in the middle of it all was Dr. Phoebe Cross, one of the leading experts on Nikola Tesla’s inventions and president of the ITI, the International Tesla Institute. A mathematician and physicist herself, she was just one of countless scientists there to contribute their expertise to unraveling the mystery behind the terrible event.

“Phoebe, glad you could make it,” said Dr. Tobiasz Bartnik, a longtime colleague and friend, in greeting. “This should be interesting.”

“Indeed,” she replied, scanning the crowd and noting the concerned faces of her colleagues, all aware of what was at stake.

“Let’s begin,” said a man she had never seen before. He appeared to be chairing the meeting.

“Who’s that?” Phoebe whispered.

“A guy from the White House. He reports directly to the president. That’s all I know,” Doctor Bartnik answered.

“We all know about the tragedy that occurred off the coast of Cuba,” the chairman began. “Our main goal today is to determine the causes and to rule out potential dangers for the future.”

The usual back and forth began. A seismologist, whose name Phoebe promptly forgot, started with a presentation: numbers, data, facts. The first participants were already eyeing the small bar with drinks and cookies that had been set up at the end of the room.

Phoebe decided to speed things up. There was no point in putting it off. No matter when she spoke up, the reactions would be the same. She felt how nervous she was. This was the moment to put forward her theories. She took a deep breath and raised her hand.

“Based on my research,” she began, interrupting the seismologist and trying to keep her voice steady, “I believe the tsunami could have been caused by a machine constructed by Nikola Tesla.”

The room fell silent for a moment before erupting in disbelief.

“Tesla? You’re joking, right?” scoffed Dr. Terri Wells, a DARPA scientist.

“Dr. Cross, as much as we respect your expertise on Tesla,” Dr. Harper, the Smithsonian representative, said diplomatically, “do you seriously expect us to believe that a long-dead inventor built a machine that can cause such destruction in the present? An inventor surrounded by more conspiracy theories than Area 51?”

Phoebe clenched her fists, determined to make them understand. “Yes. Tesla’s work was far ahead of its time. He was a genius, and I have reason to believe he had the ability to build such a machine.”

“This is absurd,” muttered the seismologist, not alone among the other scientists.

She looked around and her gaze met Cardinal Rossi’s. To her surprise, the Catholic delegate seemed fascinated by her claims and raised a curious eyebrow.

“An earthquake machine?” snorted the seismologist now, while another shook his head in disbelief. He was visibly annoyed that Phoebe had disrupted his wonderful presentation.

Phoebe’s fingernails dug into her palms. “That’s what it’s commonly called, yes. But it’s important to understand that its actual purpose wasn’t destruction, but energy generation.”

“Phoebe, this is absurd,” Harper interjected angrily. “You’re clutching at straws. Tesla was brilliant, yes, but attributing this catastrophe to one of his inventions is preposterous.”

Phoebe had now stood up and moved to the front. The chairman watched her with eagle eyes.

“His machine, actually a high-frequency oscillator, caused strong vibrations for power generation. In 1894, it even triggered a major emergency response in Manhattan. And an article in World Today Magazine in 1912 reported that the machine, which was small enough to hide under his coat, set a bridge vibrating. He also claimed that he could use it to bring down the Brooklyn Bridge in less than an hour. Furthermore, he also claimed that if the machine were to be tuned to the frequency of the earth, it could cause earthquakes.”

“That’s quite a stretch,” the chairman now spoke up. He looked at Phoebe strangely. Interest was evident in his expression.

“Far-fetched or not, the possibility exists,” she insisted, raising her chin defiantly. “I’ve spent years studying Tesla’s work and believe there’s a connection between his technology and the recent tsunami.”

“Enough of this nonsense,” scolded another scientist, rolling his eyes in annoyance. “We should focus on real solutions and not engage with wild conspiracy theories.”

“Wild conspiracy theories?” Phoebe repeated, her face reddening. “How many times are we going to be taken by surprise by unforeseen events before we start taking them seriously? Please, listen to me,” she urged, ignoring the skeptical murmurs filling the room. “Many consider Tesla to be just an inventor and eccentric, but there’s more to his research than meets the eye.”

“Phoebe, we’ve all heard the stories about Tesla’s supposed secret inventions,” Harper said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder, an attempt to show friendship and familiarity, which Phoebe found completely inappropriate. “But there’s no solid evidence, just conspiracy theories.”

“Conspiracy theories aside,” Phoebe replied determinedly, “We can’t ignore the possibility that Tesla might have built a machine capable of causing such a catastrophe, and that it might have been further developed.”

A heated discussion broke out in the room, a cacophony of skepticism and frustration. But Phoebe remained steadfast. She knew she stood alone in her conviction, but she wouldn’t give in, not when the truth was within reach.

“Enough!” Cardinal Rossi suddenly called, silencing the room. “Regardless of our individual beliefs, it’s clear that Dr. Cross has a unique perspective on this matter. It would be wise to at least consider her research before outright rejecting it.”

“Thank you, Cardinal,” Phoebe whispered gratefully, feeling a glimmer of hope.

CHAPTER 3

JEWEL CHANGI AIRPORT, SINGAPORE

“Wow,” Hellen breathed. Like Alice in Wonderland, her gaze fixed upward, she stumbled through the crowd while her eyes darted over the lush vegetation and the architectural masterpiece surrounding it.

“Look at these high arches. It’s like something from a futuristic dream. And these gardens right in the middle of the terminal …t’s like walking through the Garden of Eden.”

After landing, Tom Wagner and Hellen de Mey had decided to take a quick look at the airport they’d heard so much about before plunging into their next adventure. They traveled extensively but often lacked the time to stop and smell the roses, as the saying goes. Tom could only agree—the sight was breathtaking. Exotic plants and tropical flowers in vibrant colors surrounded them everywhere they looked. Despite the beauty of the place, he felt a strange mixture of excitement and unease that prevented him from truly enjoying the moment. On top of that, he constantly had to make sure Hellen didn’t crash into people, as she only had eyes for the building.

“Look at that!” Hellen exclaimed, pointing to the waterfall that plunged through a large circular hole in the middle of the glass dome. “They call it the Rain Vortex. It’s the world’s tallest indoor waterfall,” she said. The Rain Vortex was a fascinating blend of natural wonder and technical achievement. The cascading water transformed into a fine mist that filled the air with refreshing coolness.

Tom couldn’t deny how exciting it was to be in such an impressive place, but he also knew they weren’t here for the sights. They had a mission to complete. For a moment, his thoughts returned to London, where he had confronted the killer known only as the Mantis on a rooftop and watched her plummet through a skylight into the depths below. He had been certain she couldn’t possibly have survived, but after local police investigated the scene, it turned out the skylight was above an indoor pool. So she had escaped with her life. After days spent sifting through surveillance camera footage, Akira, the team’s hacker, had managed to track her to Singapore. But after she left the airport in a limousine, Akira had lost her trail.

“Enough sightseeing, our car is waiting,” Tom said firmly, bringing his wife, still delighting in the almost surreal and mystical environment, back to reality.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming. Hopefully, Akira has organized everything,” Hellen said, hurrying after him. They navigated through the busy airport, collected their luggage, and made their way to the exit.

“Over there,” Hellen whispered as the automatic doors opened in front of them. She nudged Tom and pointed to a young man who was looking around with a bored expression, chewing gum and holding a sign. It read “Wägner” in bold letters.

Tom had to smile. Hellen had immediately spotted the little joke Akira had played on Tom. Like everyone in Tom’s immediate circle, Akira knew that he absolutely couldn’t stand it when someone pronounced his last name the German way. His father was American, and he insisted on the correct English pronunciation.

He felt anticipation rise inside him for this new chapter of their adventure. Singapore had something mysterious about it, seeming to promise excitement and adventure at every turn. They approached the chauffeur, who immediately snapped to attention. But before they could say anything, the man spoke up.

“Mr. Wagner, Mrs. de Mey, nice to meet you,” the chauffeur said with a slightly trembling voice, having just swallowed his chewing gum. “I’ll be your driver today. Your car is right outside.”

“Thank you,” Tom replied, studying the young man carefully. They followed him outside. He immediately opened the rear door, as expected, then stepped aside and went to the trunk.

“I was instructed to give you this package,” he said, retrieving a small metal case with a digital lock from the trunk and handing it to Tom.

Tom nodded his thanks and climbed into the back of the limousine. The chauffeur closed the door behind him. The finest leather seats, polished wood accents, and a minibar welcomed them. The atmosphere inside the car resembled an oasis amid the city traffic. It was enough to make them forget their surroundings—which is exactly what happened.

Neither Tom nor Hellen noticed the black van that pulled out from a parking space a short distance behind them and followed at a respectable distance. With its tinted windows and inconspicuous exterior, it blended perfectly into the cityscape, concealing its true intentions.

“Only the best for our clients, Mr. Wagner,” said the chauffeur, after glancing over his shoulder and noticing how his passengers were examining the interior.

The limousine left the airport at the eastern tip of the island. Life pulsed on the highway from Changi Airport to the heart of the metropolis. In the distance, Singapore’s skyscrapers rose like sentinels of glass and steel guarding the city. Tropical greenery flanked the road.

Tom took the small case and discreetly typed in the code Akira had given him. As he did so, he kept his eyes on the driver. He reached inside, felt something cold, and paused. He looked at Hellen. She understood and nodded. The tension between them grew.

“Are you enjoying Singapore so far?” asked the driver, attempting small talk.

“Very much,” replied Hellen, her voice calm despite her nervousness. “The architecture is breathtaking.”

“Indeed it is,” the driver agreed.

Tom clutched the cold object and looked out the window. He needed to wait for the right moment. When the driver turned off the highway, Tom and Hellen knew the moment had come.

“What brings you to Singapore? Vacation? Or are you in the city for business?” asked the driver as he steered the car into a side alley that had been given to him as the destination. He looked in the rearview mirror and started, what he saw instantly bringing sweat to his brow. He turned around and found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. He reflexively yanked the steering wheel and, for a terrifying second, nearly crashed into a large trash container in the alley.

“We’re here because we have some questions only you can answer.”

CHAPTER 4

A CONFERENCE ROOM IN THE SMITHSONIAN, WASHINGTON, USA

The Apostolic Nuncio leaned back in his chair and furrowed his brow in concentration.

“Dr. Cross,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall. “I must admit that I find your theory fascinating, although rather unconventional. Could you please explain how this machine might have caused the recent tsunami?”

Relief washed over Phoebe, and she took a deep breath. She had brought a graphic on her iPad that was now transmitted via Wi-Fi to the large flat screen on the wall. “The power production of Tesla’s machine would have put our current power plants to shame. Take a look at these numbers.”

She pointed to a small table comparing the efficiency of the machine with that of today’s power plants. A murmur ran through the crowd. She continued, “But it is precisely this efficiency that led to significant side effects, including intense vibrations that could be felt over long distances and deep within the earth.”

As she spoke, she saw the Cardinal’s interest deepen, his fingers thoughtfully tapping the armrest of his chair.

“It would be easy for today’s scientists to scale these vibrations up, turning the side effect into the main effect, creating landslides and even tsunamis. Of course, it would also be possible to counteract them.”

Phoebe looked out at the crowd. Some glances were now less dismissive than they had been just minutes before.

“Thank you, Dr. Cross,” Cardinal Rossi said with an approving nod. “I think we should seriously consider this possibility.”

Yet despite the Cardinal’s support, doubts lingered in the room. Murmurs of disapproval spread like wildfire among the assembled experts, whose faces showed a mixture of impatience and disdain.

“Really, Your Eminence,” scoffed one scientist, “we cannot waste our time on wild speculation. It’s absurd to believe that technology more than a century old could cause such a catastrophe.”

Others agreed, and Phoebe felt her heart sink. She had used all her powers of persuasion, but her words had fallen on deaf ears.

“Very well,” Cardinal Rossi conceded, disappointment evident on his features. “If no one else sees the benefits of such an investigation, we must return to conventional interpretations.”

The seismologist sighed with relief and resumed his presentation. Hours passed and nothing significant happened. Phoebe wanted to speak up occasionally but thought better of it. It would have made no difference anyway.

The session was adjourned without concrete results, and the attendees began to disperse, discussing more plausible explanations for the tsunami.

Phoebe packed up her materials and left the room. With a dull thud, the heavy door fell shut behind her. She leaned against the cold marble wall, disappointment still gnawing at her, and a quiet flicker of anger flared inside her. If they won’t listen to me, I’ll find evidence myself, she thought.

She stared out the window, watching raindrops run down the glass. The storm outside mirrored the tempest of emotions brewing within her, fueled by frustration and a sense of isolation. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” A voice pulled her from her reverie. The man leaned against the window frame beside her.

Phoebe looked up to see a well-dressed man in his late forties. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his eyes sparkled with the same determination she felt inside. It was the man who had led the meeting.

“Oswald Hubbard,” he introduced himself, extending his hand with a slight smile. “I report directly to the president.”

“Washington can be beautiful in the rain,” she admitted, letting her gaze linger on the distant silhouette of the Capitol.

“Especially when you feel like you’ve just fought a losing battle.” Hubbard’s voice sounded sympathetic, but there was something else in it. Curiosity perhaps? Phoebe wondered.

“Is it that obvious?” asked Phoebe, unable to suppress a bitter laugh. “I thought I had hidden my disappointment well.”

“Your passion for Tesla’s work is admirable, Dr. Cross. When someone is so committed to their cause, it’s hard not to stand out.”

“But my commitment didn’t help me make the theory of Tesla’s earthquake machine credible,” said Phoebe. “Do you have any idea why the Vatican sent a representative to this meeting?” she asked, without considering that she might be asking a presidential confidant for classified information.

“No. I was informed that the Cardinal would be present, but that’s all. I’m as puzzled as you are.”

Phoebe smiled mildly. “So I’ve only managed to make myself the laughingstock of my colleagues.”

“Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the truth,” Hubbard replied, looking at her steadily. “But that doesn’t mean you have to take this journey alone.”

Phoebe raised an eyebrow in surprise. What could a man like him want from her?

Hubbard noticed her skepticism. “I’m a big Tesla fan. He was a genius, as you said. Ahead of his time,” Hubbard said, his admiration evident in his voice. “And you, Dr. Cross, are one of the few who truly recognize that.” He quickly pulled a photo from his breast pocket and handed it to her. It was an old black and white photograph. The subject was Tesla himself, standing proudly in front of the Statue of Liberty.

Phoebe stared at the photo, feeling a mixture of pride and curiosity. “What do you want from me, Mr. Hubbard?”

“Your autograph, actually,” he answered, chuckling slightly at her startled reaction. “I’ve been following your work for years and appreciate the hard fights you’ve fought for Tesla.” He paused briefly and sighed.

Phoebe’s heart swelled, but a certain mistrust also stirred within her. “Why do you want my autograph?”

“Consider it a sign of my admiration for your commitment and perseverance,” he explained, holding her gaze. “And perhaps also as a symbol of our shared belief in Tesla’s legacy.”

Phoebe hesitated for a moment. Hubbard could be the ally she needed, someone with access to resources and power. But could she trust him? He seemed sincere enough, but there was always the possibility that he had ulterior motives.

“All right,” she finally agreed, taking the photo and pulling a pen from her pocket. As she scribbled her name, she felt a new determination. Whether Hubbard was friend or foe, one thing was certain: she would not give up her search for the truth.

“Thank you, Dr. Cross,” said Hubbard, tucking away the signed photo. The hint of a smile on his lips revealed that he knew more than he was ready to admit. “Unfortunately, even I can’t make headway with the many Tesla documents that are still classified. DARPA has control of them now.”

“Are you offering me your help, Mr. Hubbard?” Phoebe raised an eyebrow, fascinated by his words but still suspicious of his intentions.

“Let’s just say I’m interested in learning more about your research and what led you to believe that Tesla’s invention might have been involved. And I believe I can be of some small assistance when it comes to uncovering the many secrets surrounding the man.”

Phoebe raised an eyebrow. That sounded interesting. There were questions for which she had wanted answers for many years. And she would do quite a lot for those answers. “All right. But I won’t be deterred from my path, no matter how many people laugh at me,” she declared, her green eyes sparkling with determination.

“Neither will I,” Hubbard assured her. “And I’d like to propose a toast to our shared conviction. What do you say?”

“Mr. Hubbard, are you offering to buy me a drink?” She hesitated, weighing the pros and cons of confiding in him. But there was something about Hubbard that reassured her and made her feel she could entrust him with the deepest secrets of her research.

“Please, call me Oswald.”

“All right, Oswald,” Phoebe agreed. “One drink.”

“Excellent.” He offered her his arm, and together they walked through the dimly lit corridors of the Smithsonian. “I might know someone who can help you, actually. Someone who employs somewhat unorthodox methods,” he said, and Phoebe’s interest in Oswald Hubbard grew significantly.

CHAPTER 5

IN A SIDE STREET AWAY FROM THE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE, SINGAPORE

“What … what do you want from me? Money? I don’t have any money. All payments are processed through the limousine service,” the man stuttered.

Tom’s heart pounded in his chest. Hellen wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation either. Normally, they avoided strategies like this, especially in a country like Singapore, where you could be hanged just for possessing a small amount of weed. But this was about the Mantis, and as long as they didn’t know the extent to which this chauffeur was involved with her, they wanted to play it safe.

“Pull over behind that car,” Tom commanded in a cold, firm voice, pointing to the only car in the alley, parked on the side of the road just ahead.

The driver obeyed and parked the vehicle as instructed. If he hadn‘t been gripping the steering wheel so tightly, his hands would probably have been shaking like crazy. He seemed afraid to even blink. Sweat ran down his cheeks.

“Keep your hands on the wheel. Answer our questions truthfully, and nothing will happen to you,” Tom said now in a slightly gentler voice.

“What … what do you want to know?” stuttered the young man, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

“Who is this woman?” Hellen said sharply, holding her phone with a photo up to the driver. It was a screenshot from a security camera showing the Mantis in an expensive outfit and large sunglasses, getting into the exact limousine they were now sitting in.

“What? Who?” stammered the chauffeur. His eyes darted anxiously between Tom’s weapon and the phone in Hellen’s hand. They could almost smell his fear, he was sweating so profusely.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” Tom pointed the barrel of his pistol at the man in the photo. “We want to know who this woman is and where you took her. Nothing more.” Slowly, Tom turned the weapon back toward the chauffeur.

The man swallowed hard and quickly looked forward again. He clearly didn’t know what to say. Tom also wondered if he was so panicky because of them, or if he might be more afraid of the Mantis, suggesting he was more than just her driver.

The man needs a bit more persuasion, thought Tom as he got out. He opened the driver’s door and yanked the man out of the car. With raised hands and lowered head, the man fell to his knees in front of Tom.

“Talk, or do I need to put a hole in that nice suit of yours first?” growled Tom, leaning forward and pressing the barrel of his pistol against the man’s shoulder. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation — the man seemed to be a simple chauffeur, no more — but being cautious couldn’t hurt.

“Okay! Okay!” the man gasped. His breath came in short, frightened bursts. “I know the woman, she’s a Lady ‘Something-or-other.’ She has some strange European name.” Tom and Hellen exchanged a glance. “I drove her again just a few days ago. She’s a regular client at the company I work for. She never speaks, and I have instructions not to address her either. When she gets into the limousine, she raises the partition, and that’s it. These rich snobs want their privacy.”

“Where did you take her?” Hellen pressed. She had also gotten out of the car and was standing next to Tom. She wanted to make sure her husband didn’t go too far. When it came to the Mantis, Tom was capable of anything.

“An address in Marina Bay,” he answered and swallowed hard. “But I swear, that’s all I know!”

“Give us the address,” Tom ordered, his voice threatening again. “Now!”

The man gave them the location. “It’s in one of those skyscrapers. Please, I’m just the driver. I have nothing to do with her,” he added, looking up imploringly at Tom and Hellen.

“Shut up now,” said Tom, his glare cold and unyielding. He grabbed the driver by the collar, dragged him to the back of the limousine, and opened the trunk. “Get in,” he commanded and reached for the zip ties that Hellen was holding out like a nurse assisting at an operation. The man hesitantly climbed into the trunk of his own vehicle and Tom bound his hands and feet. Hellen handed Tom a roll of duct tape. Tom tore off a piece and used it to seal the man’s mouth.

“If you stay quiet, you might get out of this alive,” Tom said, and he slammed the trunk shut.

Tom retrieved their belongings from the back of the limousine. Then he walked over to the only other car in the alley, reached up into the wheel well at the front, and pulled out a key. He pressed the remote, opened the car, and got in. Hellen put their things in the trunk and sat down in the passenger seat. Then she took her phone, dialed Akira’s number, and put it on speaker. Akira answered after one ring.

“Akira, you’re the best. Everything worked out. We have the address. The chauffeur’s in the trunk of his limousine. Give us two more hours, then send someone to free him.”

“Sure, will do,” Akira replied. “Ummm …” she continued somewhat nervously.

“What’s wrong?” asked Tom.

“Well, are you really sure you want to do this alone? Hagen explicitly told you that he and Vittoria would handle it.”

“The wheels of police and intelligence services turn too slowly for me. Besides, we have a tactical advantage. Hagen doesn’t know the Mantis is in Singapore.”

“Yeah, right,” Akira blurted out, “I …I just wanted to make sure. Be careful,” Akira said and she ended the call.

“What’s up with her?” asked Hellen, putting her phone away.

“I’ve been wondering that since the day we met her.”

“You know she has a social phobia.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I mean. She’s just an odd bird,” said Tom.

“A very talented odd bird.”

Tom nodded and accelerated.

Ten minutes later, they reached the address the chauffeur had given them. They parked the car across the street, got out, and looked up at the skyscraper’s glass facade.

“This is it,” said Hellen.

“From one haystack to another,” muttered Tom with a sigh. “How are we going to find this needle now?”

“Simple. We ask,” said Hellen and walked with confident steps toward the entrance.

The concierge looked up suspiciously from behind his reception desk as Tom and Hellen entered the lobby. Tom, as he had learned through years of training, immediately absorbed every detail. He instantly weighed cameras, escape routes, and potential dangers against each other.

“Good evening,” said Hellen. “Could you please inform the penthouse that Mr. and Mrs. Esterházy are here? We’ve traveled all the way from Vienna and need to speak with Milady immediately,” Hellen said in a tone Tom had never heard from her before. He was impressed—she sounded like an old aristocrat who had been served cold tea.

“You have an appointment?” said the man, sounding more like a security officer with military training than a high-end concierge. Tom studied the man and continued scanning their surroundings as inconspicuously as possible. He spotted a camera aimed directly at the reception desk and instinctively lowered his head, although he knew very well it was probably already too late.

“No, but it is a matter of the utmost urgency,” Hellen continued.

Now the man stood up, and Tom noticed a slight bulge in his jacket: the man was wearing a shoulder holster with a pistol.

“I’m sorry, but Milady has left explicit orders not to be disturbed. I suggest you make an appointment next time,” the man replied and pointed conspicuously toward the exit.

Hellen was about to continue her performance, but Tom grabbed her hand.

“Darling, the man is right.” Tom looked intently at his wife. “We should have made an appointment. We’ll just call tomorrow. It’s already late. Our suite at the Peninsula Excelsior is waiting for us.” Tom gently but firmly guided Hellen toward the exit.

Hellen immediately understood and went with him. “Thank you, sir,” she called back to the concierge as she left.

Tom turned around momentarily and, from the corner of his eye, saw that the man behind the reception desk was already on the phone.

“That guy was armed,” Tom muttered as they exited the building. “I saw another one like him at the end of the corridor. Not your normal security guards.”

“So what do we do now?”

“We need to find another way to get in, fast. I’m pretty sure that one’s warned the Mantis that⁠—”

Tom didn’t finish his sentence. A black van screeched to a halt beside them, and the side door was yanked open. Tom and Hellen barely had time to react before four men pounced on them, pulled sacks over their heads, and dragged them into the vehicle.

CHAPTER 6

UNKNOWN LOCATION, SINGAPORE

Here we go again, thought Tom. The hood thing was such a damn cliché, but effective. He couldn’t see anything. At least this time the sacks weren’t old and stinky.

“Hellen, are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m here,” she answered.

To Tom’s relief, Hellen sounded composed. For her too, this kind of situation was nothing new.

“Shut your mouths,” commanded a voice with a strong accent, followed by the sound of the slide on a pistol being pulled back. Apparently, the kidnappers were locals. If he wasn’t mistaken, he had counted four men just before the hoods were pulled over their heads.

Five with the driver, thought Tom.

What did they want from them?

Were they local gangsters working for the Mantis?

Had the concierge mobilized them with his call?

Before Tom could think about how they might escape their situation, the van stopped again. He could have sworn they had driven into an underground parking garage. And he would be proven right.

The sliding door opened, and they were dragged outside again. The hoods were removed.

“Didn’t I tell you to let us handle this?” said a male voice that Tom knew only too well.

Speechless, they stared into the faces of Isaac Hagen and Vittoria Arcano. Hagen, an agent of the British intelligence service, had played a major role in bringing down the terrorist organization “Absolute Freedom.” Tom had met Vittoria years before in Rome on her first day on the job for Interpol.

Tom looked around and saw that the four “kidnappers” were members of a SWAT team. Several police vehicles and countless other officers were milling about in the garage, preparing for an operation.

“What the hell was that about?” Hellen burst out, upset. “You scared us to death. How did you even get here?”

“Akira,” said Tom, shaking hands with Hagen and Vittoria. “That’s why she was acting so strangely. She ratted us out.”

“And it’s a good thing she did,” said Vittoria. “Do you know what would have happened to you if the police had caught you doing this nonsense and we hadn’t intervened?”

Tom and Hellen looked at each other.

“By the way, the chauffeur is fine. We managed to talk him out of pressing charges,” Hagen said sternly.

“So, what are you doing here?”

“Akira informed me a few days ago, right after she tracked down the Mantis. Together with Interpol,” Hagen nodded to Vittoria, “we immediately issued a Red Notice and requested that the authorities here work with us to arrest the Mantis on an official warrant.”

“Then we should hurry. Can I have my pistol back?” Tom said, more as a demand than a question.

“Take it easy, McClane,” said Hagen. “Why the sudden rush?”

“Well, we may have unintentionally alerted the Mantis to our presence,” said Hellen. “By ‘we,’ I mean Tom and me. We couldn’t have known you were here.”

Hagen growled, turned away from them, and spoke with the leader of the SWAT team. A moment later, the man barked a few words in Malay and immediately the troops sprang into action. Vehicles were started and the SWAT team got ready, jumping onto running boards along the sides of the tactical vehicles and holding onto the roof rails.

Hagen pressed a bulletproof vest into Tom’s hand. “You stay behind me at all times, understood?”

“No gun?”

“You don’t need one,” the SWAT team leader snarled. “Observer only.”

Hellen also received a vest from Vittoria and climbed into a patrol car with her. Tom followed Hagen and they jumped into the last two free spaces in another vehicle. With squealing tires, the police vehicles raced out of the underground garage.

The towering skyscrapers of Marina Bay looked even more impressive at night. Despite the late hour, many people were still out on the streets. The black, armored tactical vehicles stopped a short distance from the entrance. The deep rumble of their engines fell silent. The SWAT officers jumped clear, and Tom pulled on his bulletproof vest while Hagen briefed the teams.

“Team Alpha, main entrance. Team Beta, to the back entrance. And secure the stairwell. Team Charlie, keep things under control out here and deal with the passersby,” Hagen ordered.

“See you upstairs,” said Tom and kissed Hellen.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she said and followed Vittoria and her team to the back of the building.

Team Alpha, consisting of Tom, Hagen, and four other men, moved in a fluid formation from the side toward the main entrance.

“I counted only two armed men in the lobby earlier,” said Tom.

Hagen nodded and peered around the corner through the glass portal. Then he gave the “Go.”

The concierge nearly fell off his chair when he saw the heavily armed six-man team coming toward him through the lobby. Undecided whether to reach for his weapon or the phone, he resignedly raised his hands. A SWAT officer disarmed him and restrained him with zip ties.

“Access card to the penthouse,” Hagen said to the man. Then he moved farther in with the others, including Tom, heading toward the elevators.

Hagen tapped two of his men on the shoulder. “Find the second one,” he whispered. They nodded and ran off.

Tom pressed the button to call the elevator. At the same moment, the SWAT officer from the reception desk ran up and handed Hagen a keycard printed with the word “Access card.”

Hagen nodded a thank-you. “You hold the position down here.” Then he turned to the last remaining man: “You come with us.”

With a “ping,” the elevator doors slid open, and Tom, Hagen, and the third man entered the luxurious elevator. Hagen held the keycard to the reader, pressed the button for the penthouse, and the express elevator began to rise.

Meanwhile, the Beta Team had reached the rear of the building, where a lone security guard was sitting in a small guardhouse reading a newspaper.

“Let me handle this,” whispered Hellen. Removing her bulletproof vest, she stepped out of the shadows and walked toward the back entrance.

With her phone in hand and gesticulating wildly, Hellen talked rapidly to the man. Vittoria and her team used her distraction. Hunched low, they crept to the back entrance.

Suddenly the man jumped up, drew his pistol, and shouted something into his radio. Hellen realized that the man had seen Team Alpha pushing into the lobby on one of his monitors.

Hellen quickly backed away, and before the man could do anything else, he found himself staring down the barrels of four assault rifles. He dropped his weapon, and his arms flew into the air.

“Open it,” said Vittoria, gun at the ready, nodding toward the door of the guard room. “Very slowly.”

As if in slow motion, the man lowered one hand. Beads of sweat ran down his face. He kept his eyes on Vittoria’s gun as he pressed a buzzer under his desk. Vittoria opened the buzzing door, pushed the man away from the desk, and forced him to the floor. Two men followed her in and restrained him.

Vittoria sat at the small desk and switched between the different surveillance cameras. She watched as two members of Team Alpha took down another guard.

Finally, she found the elevator camera.

“They’re on their way up,” Vittoria said to Hellen, who had now stepped into the guardhouse behind her. “We should hurry.”

On the monitor, they saw the elevator doors open. For a split second, flashes of light flickered across the screen. Then there was nothing but static.

CHAPTER 7

ON THE WAY TO THE PENTHOUSE, SINGAPORE

Sparks flew as a third and fourth shot hit the elevator’s side wall, striking the surveillance camera. Tom managed to pull Hagen out of the line of fire at the last second, saving him from the fate that befell the officer who had exited the elevator first.

Tom pressed the button frantically to close the elevator doors. Almost as soon as the elevator started moving again, he hit the emergency stop button. With a jerk, the car came to a halt between two floors.

“What the hell just happened?” Hagen shouted, getting to his feet. “How did they know we were coming?”

Vittoria Arcano’s distorted voice suddenly blared from Hagen’s radio. “Team Leader Alpha, please respond. Isaac, please respond, over.”

“Team Leader here, we’re okay. One man down.”

“Is Tom all right?” Hellen’s voice came through now.

“Yes, I’m fine,” said Tom, after Hagen held the radio up to his face.

“We’re on our way. Out,” Vittoria said. The static fell silent.

“Team Charlie, disable all elevators, the freight elevator, too. And block all stairwells. She must not escape. Remember, we need her alive. Over.”

“Yes sir. Out,” came the brief response to Hagen’s instructions.

“How about that gun now?” Tom asked, looking somewhat reproachfully at Hagen.

“Okay, you win. Just don’t kill anyone if you can avoid it. Too much paperwork.” With that, Hagen slid his pistol from its holster, turned it around, gripped it by the barrel, and handed it to Tom with the grip forward. “Here, just in case,” he added, taking two spare magazines from his vest and handing those to Tom as well.

Tom checked the load status and slipped the spare magazines into the loops of his vest.

“What now?” Hagen asked.

“It may not be Christmas, and this isn’t the Nakatomi, and you’re not Bruce Willis, but …” Tom grinned and looked upward.

Hagen sighed. “At least we’re wearing shoes,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

Hagen took his rifle, turned it around, and struck the elevator ceiling with the butt. The emergency hatch popped open and flipped upward. Hagen dropped to one knee, and Tom stepped onto his other thigh and pushed himself upward.

He grabbed the edge of the hatch and hauled himself through the opening. Once up, he turned around and reached down. First, he took Hagen’s rifle and then pulled Hagen up until he too could grasp the edge. Hagen closed the hatch behind him and followed Tom’s gaze up the elevator shaft.

“We’ll try from above through the machine room,” he said.

They climbed the ladder on the side of the elevator shaft, picked the lock on the entry hatch, and crawled through into the machine room.

“Beta Team Leader, what’s your position?”

The answer took a moment. When the radio finally crackled, Vittoria’s panting voice was barely audible.

“Two minutes to target, out.”

“Okay, two minutes,” said Tom. “I’ll try going over the roof, and you, Hellen and Vittoria take out the two bastards who just shot at us.” Without waiting for Hagen’s response, he shot the lock off the access door to the machine room. The door opened into a hallway. They were now halfway outside. The hallway had wide louvers along one entire side—a cool breeze was blowing in. At one end, a door led to the stairwell; at the other, a narrow ladder led up to the roof.

“I’ll meet you in the penthouse,” said Tom and took off running. Hagen ran in the opposite direction and disappeared into the stairwell.

“Where’s Tom?” whispered Hellen, as the two women, breathless, finally met Isaac Hagen on the top floor, where he had just come down the stairs from above.

“He’s trying to come in from the roof,” he answered quietly, pointing upward. “Vittoria, do you have a flashbang?”

She nodded and handed it to him.

“Hellen, stay behind this door. We’ll let you know when the coast is clear.”

Hellen nodded and took cover behind the door to the penthouse level. The Briton got into position, and Vittoria placed her hand on the doorknob.

Hagen raised his hand and extended three fingers. One by one, he bent his fingers until he had formed a fist. At that moment, Vittoria opened the door. Hagen pulled the safety pin from the grenade and threw it through the gap. Vittoria immediately closed the door again.

A volley of screams and shouts sounded just before a deafening bang, and a white flash flickered through the gap under the door. Vittoria yanked the door open again, and Hagen darted forward with his rifle at the ready.

After a brief scuffle, it was all over. The flash and detonation had disoriented the two security men, and they put up no real resistance for Hagen and Vittoria.

Tom felt the bullet’s airstream brush his cheek as he pushed open the roof hatch. The shot had missed his head by a hair’s breadth and struck the thin metal of the hatch behind him.

He ducked, extending only his hand with the pistol. He fired three shots. Only then did he risk another look. And then he saw her.

The Mantis was running across the roof in a black catsuit, wearing a bulky backpack. She disappeared behind a rooftop outbuilding.

Tom jumped out onto the roof and gave chase. You won’t get away this time, he thought as he ran at full speed, jumping over pipes and air conditioning vents.

When he rounded the corner behind one of the roof structures, he was surprised to see the Mantis standing motionless on the roof ledge.

“Drop the weapon,” Tom called out.

At first, she didn’t react. But then she began to speak. In a calm voice, she said: “Isn’t this view breathtaking? How the city spreads out beneath us like a shimmering carpet of light.”

Tom hadn’t noticed until then.

For a moment, his gaze drifted. Against the starry, indigo sky, he saw in the distance the silhouette of the famous Marina Bay Sands hotel, its three tall columns crowned by an enormous ship-like structure.

“Drop the weapon,” Tom repeated. He took another step closer.

“That’s close enough,” said the Mantis. To Tom’s surprise, she actually dropped her weapon and turned around. She looked directly at him.

“When will you finally learn that we’ll always be one step ahead of you?” she said.

“I think this time you’re really at the edge of the abyss. And I know a parachute when I see one, and what you’ve got on your back isn’t one.”

“Good observation. But you’ve forgotten one thing.”

“And what’s that?”

“When you’re at rock bottom, there’s nowhere to go but up.”

Puzzled by her cryptic statement, he took another step forward.

“Enough nonsense. Get down and hands up!”

The Mantis merely smiled and raised her hands.

Only now, far too late, did he look up. He heard the engine noise of the Bell V-280 Valor, a tiltrotor aircraft. But the Valor made no attempt to land. It simply flew straight ahead about a hundred and fifty feet above their heads.

“Goodbye, Tom,” said the Mantis. At the same moment, she took off like Supergirl.

“No!” Tom bellowed at the top of his lungs as the woman, who had been within arm’s reach, suddenly vanished into the night sky. He hadn’t noticed the dark rope with the small balloon rising into the night sky.

CHAPTER 8

THE MANTIS’S PENTHOUSE, SINGAPORE

Frustrated and somewhat out of breath, Tom burst through the door into the penthouse’s anteroom and paused for a moment. In the lavish foyer, two men in Brioni suits sat on the floor, tied up. A SWAT team member was guarding them. With a nod, the officer indicated to Tom that the others were already inside the penthouse. Tom saw a large bloodstain on the carpet. The fallen officer had already been taken away.

“Did he make it?” Tom asked the SWAT officer. But the man merely shrugged and shook his head. Apparently, he knew nothing about his comrade’s fate.

“Whoa, what happened here?” Tom asked, wide-eyed, as he stepped through the wide-open entrance door with a nearly sixteen-inch hole gaping in it.

“That was the butler,” said Vittoria, approaching Tom. “He greeted us with a shotgun.” She pointed to a man in his sixties in handcuffs, currently being attended to by another SWAT officer in the marble entrance hall.

“Where’s Hellen?” Tom asked.

“She’s in there,” said Vittoria, pointing beyond a trickling fountain flanked by two massive, curved staircases leading to the upper floor. “Where have you been for so long?” Vittoria asked.

At that moment, Hagen stepped out onto the staircase. “Finally. Nobody was here except the butler and those two guys at the entrance,” said Hagen as he walked down the curved staircase. “Our bird has flown the coop.”

“Literally,” Tom said quietly. He looked around awkwardly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vittoria asked.

“Well …” Tom began, and he recounted what had just happened outside. “What I didn’t realize was that she had a kind of skyhook balloon and a long rope in her backpack. She must have sent it up just before I turned the corner. The Valor caught the buoy as it passed over, and she flew away like a bird.”

Vittoria opened the large, curved double doors beneath the staircase, and they entered a circular room.

“Great,” Hagen muttered. “So this was all for nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hellen said. She was standing beside the sideboard in the enormous round study, pointing at the wall.

“These paintings were previously considered lost. If we don’t find anything better, we can at least count this a success. Vincent van Gogh’s ‘Vase with Carnations.’ And here, Vermeer’s ‘The Concert.’ They’re worth millions.”

Tom approached Hellen and embraced her wordlessly. Then he went to the bar, poured himself a drink, and collapsed onto the large sofa.

“Did I miss something?” Hellen asked when she saw her colleagues’ frustrated faces.

“Your divine husband here just let our target fly away,” said Hagen, irritated.

“And what, in your opinion, was I supposed to do? Shoot her? Didn’t you explicitly insist that I shouldn’t kill anyone and that the Mantis was to be captured alive? Oh, by the way, here’s your gun back. It’s missing three, no four bullets. We wouldn’t want you to have too much paperwork,” Tom said, tossing Hagen his pistol. “You should be grateful I saved your ass in the elevator, otherwise you’d be lying out there in the anteroom too.”

“Hey,” Hellen snapped at them. “Pull yourselves together.”

Hagen and Vittoria’s eyes widened. They had never seen Hellen like this before. “The fact that the Mantis escaped is not ideal, obviously, but we’ll get her eventually. In the meantime, we should still count this as a win. Just look at all the art and culture in this room alone. This weapons collection,” she said, pointing to the sideboards curving along the walls from the entrance in both directions to the centerline of the room, “spans all periods of our history. And this,” she pointed to one particular artifact, “is the ‘Sword of Islam,’ a ceremonial sword that once belonged to Benito Mussolini and disappeared in 1943 after the Duce’s fall. So stop behaving like children and start looking for clues about where the Mantis might be and what she’s planning.”

For a moment, there was silence. Nobody moved. Everyone looked at each other and then at Hellen.

“Chop-chop,” she barked, breaking the silence. She slapped the nearest sideboard twice with the flat of her hand. Before any of them could react, they heard a click and a sound as if something had slid aside somewhere.

“Hey, look at this,” said Hellen, staring at the sideboard next to her hand. Tom put down his glass and jumped up, and all three went over to where Hellen was standing.

“Jackpot,” said Tom as he saw the palm scanner that had appeared under a section of the sideboard that had slid aside.

“And how exactly is this supposed to help us? If you hadn’t let the Mantis get away, we—” Hagen grumbled in frustration.

“Guys!” Hellen interrupted him, giving Hagen a stern look.

“The scanner must mean there’s a secret compartment or hidden room somewhere here,” Vittoria suggested tentatively.

“She’s right,” Hellen agreed. “We just have to find it. Go,” Hellen ordered. Leading by example, she began tapping on the wall paneling. Tom searched the sideboard cabinets, Vittoria followed Hellen’s lead and knocked on the walls on the other side, while Hagen examined the huge antique desk.

A sudden hollow sound made everyone pause. With a mischievous grin, Hellen alternately tapped on the solid and hollow spots between two pieces of artwork on the wall. Tom joined her and together they knocked along a whole section of the wall.

“There’s definitely something behind here,” said Tom, placing his palms flat against the wall and pushing. But nothing moved.

“We don’t know what’s behind it,” said Hagen. “Be careful, it might be booby-trapped.” Tom paused and looked at Hagen, who picked up his radio. “This is Alpha team leader, we need assistance up here.”

Half an hour later, two members of the SWAT team had opened the panel, and Tom, Hellen, Hagen, and Vittoria were alone again.

In the illuminated niche, they found three empty white velvet cushions, and on a shelf above them an empty stand where a folio had presumably been placed.

“Three cushions?”

“Of course,” said Hellen. “What has the Mantis escaped with, twice now? During the ritual at the Teatro Greco in Syracuse, she produced something with the help of the Medusa, a yellow crystal of some sort. And at Château Chaumont in France, she took that green stone.” Hellen pointed to two of the cushions in the niche.

“So she’s looking for three ‘stones’?” said Tom, with air quotes around the word ‘stones.’ “What does she want with them?”

“No idea, but as far as we know, she only has two out of three.”

“Thin. Very thin,” Tom murmured.

“I think I’ve found something here,” said Hagen, who had been searching the desk in the meantime. “Documents from Blue Shield. And some kind of notebook belonging to a certain Nikolaus Count Pálffy von Erdöd.”

Hellen paled.

CHAPTER 9

TOM WAGNER’S HOUSEBOAT, BANKS OF THE DANUBE, EASTERN OUTSKIRTS OF VIENNA, AUSTRIA

The evening sun cast a warm glow on the rippling waters of the Danube as Phoebe Cross steered her rental car along the dirt road. The houseboat came into view, moored at a secluded spot, surrounded by tall reeds and willows. As she parked and approached the shore, she couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling. What if this wasn’t a good idea after all? Was it wise to follow the advice of a man she’d gotten drunk with after a frustrating meeting? Even if he did report directly to the president. They’d drunk so much that night that she’d suffered something of a blackout afterward.

“Maybe this is your chance, Phoebe,” she muttered to herself, walking with determined steps toward the dubious “building.”

With its peeling paint and weathered wood, the floating house had definitely seen better days. But it had a certain charm that revealed quite a lot about its owner. She took a deep breath, raised her hand, and knocked on the door.

“Qui est-ce?” called a voice from inside.

Phoebe hesitated. Oswald Hubbard had described Tom Wagner to her as an Austrian-American. He had told her quite a bit about him, and she could easily imagine that he was the right person to help. But the French response confused her.

The door opened and a man appeared. Phoebe instinctively found him attractive. She estimated him to be in his mid-fifties, his mouth framed by a perfectly groomed mustache. He wore a cook’s apron and was drying his hands on a kitchen towel. A tantalizing aroma wafted from inside the houseboat. Phoebe suddenly realized she hadn’t eaten anything substantial since that ridiculous food that passed for dinner on airplanes.

“Bonjour, Madame,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”

Phoebe looked at the Frenchman. Hubbard had shown her pictures of Wagner, and this man was definitely not him.

“Uh … I’m looking for Tom Wagner. He’s supposed to live here?”

The Frenchman smiled at her.

“Je suis désolé. Tom and his wife, Hellen, are not in Vienna. They have business in Singapore. I am afraid I do not know when they will be back.” He extended his hand to her. “My name is François Cloutard. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“Phoebe Cross. Mr. Wagner was recommended to me. He’s supposed to be good at solving problems,” she replied, shaking Cloutard’s hand.

“Ah, oui. That he certainly is,” Cloutard said with a grin. A second later his expression changed. “Oh, mon Dieu, where are my manners? Please, do come in.” He opened the door and ushered her inside. “As you can see, I am just preparing dinner.” He shook his head in annoyance. “Although it is practically impossible to prepare even a halfway decent meal in Tom’s kitchen.”

Phoebe looked around. It seemed as if the small space, which simultaneously served as living room, bedroom, and kitchen, had been transformed into a grand kitchen. Despite the utter chaos that reigned, she felt immediately comfortable. She didn’t know if it was due to the intoxicating aromas drifting from the stove or Cloutard’s charismatic presence.

“Tom, Hellen and I are … let us say, a kind of team. Perhaps my humble self can be of service, Madame Cross?”

Phoebe had done some research on Tom Wagner. Though she hadn’t been able to find out much, she had learned that he was part of a three-person team that had accomplished quite a lot in recent years. The Library of Alexandria, pirate treasures, even Excalibur were words that had come up repeatedly in her search.

Their eyes met, and Phoebe’s response was momentarily delayed. The Frenchman’s mischievous smile confused her. Pull yourself together, she told herself, straightening up.

“The reason I’m here might sound a little strange,” she began, her voice growing louder the longer she spoke. “It may sound like a crazy conspiracy theory, but I have reason to believe the recent tsunami off the coast of Cuba was of human origin and possibly connected to a lost technology of Nikola Tesla.”

Phoebe studied Cloutard, expecting him to react like everyone else did when she talked about her theories on Tesla. But Cloutard didn’t bat an eye, as if what she had just claimed was the most normal thing in the world.

“Ça a l’air intéressant,” Cloutard murmured.

Phoebe was astonished. She was being taken seriously. She was in the right place after all. Although she wasn’t quite sure if it wasn’t also because she found this Frenchman damn attractive.

“Tesla, you say?” Cloutard’s eyes narrowed, his curiosity piqued. Phoebe nodded, briefly explaining her role at the ITI and summarizing what had happened at the meeting at the Smithsonian.

“Hmm … I do not know any Oswald Hubbard myself,” he said. “But Tom has worked with various government agencies in the US. He is quite well-known there.” A horrified look suddenly crossed Cloutard’s face. “Mon Dieu, un moment,” he said hastily and hurried to the stove.

Phoebe watched him go and smiled.

CHAPTER 10

THE POPE’S CHAMBERS, VATICAN CITY

Cardinal Rossi had been within these walls countless times. He knew many—though certainly not all—of the secrets hidden behind them. But today, a somber atmosphere hung over the holy ground. At least, that’s how it felt to Cardinal Rossi. He couldn’t shake the dark thoughts that had been plaguing him since the meeting at the Smithsonian.

He stared tensely at the intricately carved wooden door, knowing the Pope would receive him at any moment. Despite the cool interior, beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. His nerves were on edge as he paced back and forth in the waiting room. Again and again, he mentally repeated the words he had prepared so carefully for this important meeting. When the heavy wooden doors opened with a soft creak and the Camerlengo invited him in, his throat went dry.

The Pontiff’s mere presence in his white robes filled the room with an air of authority. Cardinal Rossi had carried out a great many assignments for the Pope’s predecessor—assignments that no one should ever learn about.

The Holy Father rose, and his Camerlengo left the room, closing the door behind him. Cardinal Rossi and the Holy Father were left alone. The Cardinal knelt and kissed the Fisherman’s Ring. The Pope raised his gaze and looked at Rossi expectantly.

“Your Holiness,” said the Cardinal, his voice trembling slightly. He lowered his head and waited for the Holy Father’s acknowledgment.

“Speak, Gabriel,” commanded the Pope in a quiet but firm voice. His ancient eyes, full of wisdom and experience, bored into the nuncio’s soul.

“Your Holiness,” Rossi whispered, “there is an urgent matter about which I must inform you.” He swallowed hard.

“The meeting at the Smithsonian?” asked the Pope knowingly. “Has what I feared come to pass?” The Pope’s expression remained stoic, but a concerned flicker in his eyes betrayed his inner unrest.

Rossi nodded. The Pope had risen and gone to the window. He seemed lost in thought, as if he hadn’t really been listening.

“What do you think, Gabriel? How many of the Lord’s highest servants have stood here, gazed out upon St. Peter’s Square, and had to make similar decisions to the one I now face?”

Cardinal Rossi bowed his head. He was surprised. “I don’t understand, Holy Father,” he whispered. He tried to maintain his reserve, not wanting to anger the Pope with a foolish response.

“In recent months, several truly disturbing things have happened.” The Pope’s words hung heavily in the air, as if trying to paint a picture of the precarious situation they found themselves in. “The Regent is positioning his chess pieces,” said the Pope, his gaze fixed on the obelisk that stood majestically in the center of St. Peter’s Square.

“He is,” said the Cardinal. “And we must keep an eye on him. I also wanted to inform Your Holiness about a curious theory that was discussed at the meeting.”

The Pope turned and looked steadily at Cardinal Rossi. “You speak of the tsunami in Cuba, triggered by human hands?”

Cardinal Rossi’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You know about that? So it’s really not a conspiracy theory? Is it truly possible? Did Nikola Tesla really build such a machine?”

“I didn’t know it for certain. I only feared it. The signs are mounting.” The Pope’s eyes narrowed, his face showing anger and concern. “The situation is much worse than you think, Gabriel,” he said. “The fate of humanity could be at stake.”

“Your Holiness … I cannot follow,” stammered the Cardinal, perplexed by the Pope’s sudden change of demeanor.

“Nikola Tesla was merely a tool, a plaything of the devil. All he did was begin to assemble the building blocks. Building blocks that should have disappeared from this world forever.”

Cardinal Rossi was suddenly unsure if the Pope was being serious.

“You are blessed by God that you don’t know what I know. That you don’t know that everything the Apostle John wrote in his Revelation could come true. Yes, and that the world has even already once stood on the brink of the apocalypse. Triggered by the ‘Ancients.’”

“That is true as well? Do they really exist? Then we should indeed act quickly,” replied Rossi. “I have a suggestion, Your Holiness. Since my days in service are behind me, we could deploy Father Matthew.”

The Pope looked up and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“A good choice. Contact him,” said the Pope, his voice firm but with an urgency and seriousness that sent a shiver down the Cardinal’s spine. “We indeed need his skills in this matter. Do you believe he can handle it all alone?”

The Cardinal nodded. “Absolutely. His training in his former life was exceptional. It practically predestined him for this. Besides, I know him very well. I guided him through his difficult time and sent him on the undercover mission that he didn’t even know was a mission.”

The Pope looked thoughtfully at the Cardinal. Father Matthew was known for his extraordinary past and the practices and methods it involved.

“Good. Let’s do it that way, Gabriel. Without delay. Perhaps he will prove a worthy successor,” the Pope confirmed, looking into the Cardinal’s eyes to convey the seriousness of the situation. No further explanation was necessary. The Cardinal understood that much was at stake.

“Go,” said the Pope. “We have no time to lose.”

“Is it really that bad?” The Cardinal’s voice trembled slightly.

“More than you can imagine,” answered the Pope. “We must act quickly and with the utmost discretion. The apocalypse is near.”

CHAPTER 11

TOM WAGNER’S HOUSEBOAT, BANKS OF THE DANUBE, EASTERN OUTSKIRTS OF VIENNA, AUSTRIA

Cloutard handled the pots, pans, cooking spoons—and several utensils that Phoebe had never seen before—with complete confidence. She was a real foodie herself and enjoyed good cuisine whenever she could, but she was a miserable cook.

“Perhaps we can continue this discussion over dinner? Then I can also try to reach Tom and Hellen,” Cloutard said. Without waiting for her response, he cleared the small table crowded with kitchen implements and food items and set a second place with practiced elegance.

“Voila, Madame,” he said, his smile becoming dangerously charming to her. “I have ventured into Austrian cuisine, although naturally it cannot hold a candle to French cooking.”

Phoebe sat up and nodded in agreement. “Of course it can’t,” she said with a smile, a hint of irony in her voice. She had no idea what was happening here. She was sitting in a rather run-down houseboat on the outskirts of Vienna with a complete stranger and had to admit, to her own surprise, that she felt indescribably comfortable. For a moment, her Tesla problems were forgotten. She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t even notice that Cloutard had already brought the food.

“Traditional Viennese Tafelspitz, boiled beef with two sauces—a chive sauce and one with apple and horseradish—fried potatoes, creamed spinach, and dill-seasoned squash. I took the liberty of adding some herbs de Provence. To go with it, a Bâtonnage 2019 from Burgenland, a most rebellious wine.”

He filled her bulbous wine glass and sat down beside her.

“Santé,” he said as their glasses clinked.

After the first bite, Phoebe felt she’d arrived in paradise. “This is … exquisite,” she gushed.

“Alors, Madame. Let us enjoy our meal.”

Phoebe nodded. She took another bite but then couldn’t contain herself.

“Have you ever wondered what Nikola Tesla would think of our modern world?” she asked. Her red hair glowed like a fiery halo in the evening light. “All the wireless technology we have today—I wonder if he would feel vindicated or horrified.”

Cloutard smiled. The woman was passionate about her subject. Tesla was clearly her calling.

“I must confess, to my shame, that I know relatively little about Tesla. I am a man of the arts. I have …” He hesitated and weighed his words. “… spent my entire life working with artworks. At first, in my youth, I was actually somewhat interested in technology, but art rapidly conquered me.”

Cloutard looked into her eyes as he spoke those last words. He had to admit that a storm was raging inside him at that moment, threatening to conquer him once again. He found this woman immensely attractive.

Phoebe hesitated before answering, as if unsure whether to reveal her most secret thoughts. “Tesla has always fascinated me. Since my teens, I’ve always dreamed of uncovering the truth about Tesla’s inventions and discoveries, and getting to study the countless documents that were confiscated by the FBI and which are still kept classified by the US government. I would literally kill for that!”

Cloutard raised his eyebrows. She wanted to continue, but the ringing of a phone interrupted her. The Frenchman, who had just raised his fork with a piece of Tafelspitz to his mouth, glanced at his phone and grimaced.

“Merde,” he grumbled. “I hate being interrupted during supper. But it is Tom, from Singapore. So we can get to your matter without further ado. Alors, mon ami,” he said as he answered the phone. “Have you finally caught the Mantis?”

Phoebe’s expression changed abruptly. She looked at Cloutard in astonishment. He immediately realized that he needed to exercise a little more self-control or else he would scare this woman away, and that was the last thing he wanted.

“No, she escaped us. Again.”

Cloutard’s fingers tensed around the device at his ear.

“But we found something exciting,” Tom continued. “The Mantis had got her hands on the old Pálffy files.”

Cloutard went pale. “Pardon?” he exclaimed in horror.

“Yeah, Hellen couldn’t believe it either. Exactly the files that Pálffy compiled when he was still head of Blue Shield. With all his unsolved projects.”

“Some of which we have already been able to check off,” said Cloutard, who had regained his composure.

Tom briefly summarized their suspicions regarding the mystical stones.

Cloutard furrowed his brow. “Was there any indication of what these stones are about?”

“No, unfortunately not. But the good news is that the Pálffy documents also contained a clue about where to find the third one.”

“Formidable,” Cloutard blurted out, so loudly that he made Phoebe, beside him, jump and she choked on her fried potatoes. A sip of wine quickly solved the problem. With a guilty conscience, she looked at Cloutard — her choking had distracted him, and he was only half-listening as Tom continued speaking.

But then Cloutard realized what Tom was saying, and it hit him like a thunderbolt.

“What was that? The third stone is supposed to be in a Fabergé egg?” Cloutard’s voice trembled. He didn’t notice that Phoebe also perked up at the word Fabergé.

“Unfortunately, not just any Fabergé egg, but one of the lost ones. The Nécessaire Egg.”

Cloutard was silent. He stared at the table, though Phoebe could tell he was gazing into empty space.

After a few seconds of silence, Cloutard now heard Hellen’s voice on the line. “François?”

Cloutard remained silent. Slowly, his right hand moved to the inside pocket of his jacket. With slightly trembling hands, he pulled out his flask of Rémy Martin Louis XIII, opened it slowly, and took a deliberate sip. Phoebe observed the scene. The Frenchman was clearly upset.

“François?” It was Hellen’s voice again, now also audible to Phoebe, as Cloutard had placed his phone on the table and switched to the speaker. “François? Are you still there?”

But Cloutard’s silence continued. His gaze wandered from his phone to Phoebe and back again. He was weighing whether he should speak freely or be more on his guard in Phoebe’s presence. He had never had much luck with relationships. But with Phoebe, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. His gut feeling told him she was one of the good ones and that she could safely hear what he had to say.

He straightened up and cleared his throat. With a shaky voice, he said: “The Nécessaire Egg is in my possession!”

CHAPTER 12

CAPPELLA DI SAN PIO V, VATICAN CITY

Father Matthew hesitated at the entrance to the chapel, his gaze wandering upward to the frescoes on the vaulted ceiling. Ornate columns rose skyward, supporting the breathtaking space like a silent testament to the divine. The religious icons on the walls seemed to look down upon him, like solemn witnesses to the great task that apparently awaited him. It had to be something special, something perhaps no one else in the Holy Father’s circle could accomplish.

Moonlight fell through one of the windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the chapel’s marble floor. It was a sight that never failed to inspire awe in Father Matthew. He took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of incense that filled the chapel. He wasn’t actually on active duty anymore. To be precise, he hadn’t been on active duty since he’d donned the cassock. He no longer wanted it. But he probably wouldn’t be asked for his opinion.

With measured steps, he approached the altar where the Pope was kneeling, his head bowed in silent prayer. The atmosphere was infused with deep reverence. Matthew felt his heart beat faster and his palms grow damp with anticipation—a clear sign that he truly hadn’t been on duty for a long time.

As Matthew drew closer, the Pope’s murmured prayer became audible, intensifying the sanctity of the moment. Father Matthew stood beside the kneeling figure and waited respectfully.

The Pope’s prayer ended, and the Holy Father rose slowly. Father Matthew observed the lines in the Pope’s face, which had deepened with the intensity of his devotion and the weight of the responsibility he carried. Before Father Matthew stood not only the head of the Catholic Church but also a man struggling with the burden of his destiny.

“Brother Matthew,” the Pope greeted him with a calm but troubled voice. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Your Holiness,” Father Matthew replied, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “I am always at your service.”

The Pope reached for a leather folder lying beside him on the altar and removed an old, worn document. The parchment was yellowed, the edges frayed, the ink partially faded to a ghostly script. He handed it to Father Matthew, and their eyes met in a silent exchange of understanding.

“Brother Matthew, what I now entrust to you is of great importance,” the Pope began in a serious tone. “This manuscript is part of a collection of documents that have been passed down by my predecessors for generations. Each Pope received these documents immediately upon taking office. They contain information reserved only for the leader of our Holy Mother Church.”

Matthew’s hands trembled as he took the delicate paper. He didn’t even dare to breathe heavily, fearing he might damage the priceless document.

“Your Holiness,” he stammered, struggling for composure. “Why are you giving this to me? What is this task you have in mind for me?”

“You are receiving only a portion, the part that explains your mission. Are you proficient in classical Aramaic?”

Father Matthew nodded silently. Still, he dared not look at the document.

The Holy Father placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then you will quickly understand what task awaits you. But I warn you: You must be strong in faith and remain so. The information in this document will confuse you and make you doubt everything you have ever believed in. But always remember our Lord’s Way of the Cross. He walked His hard path of suffering, even though He could have called legions of angels to His aid. He was unwavering. Follow His example, in everything He did. Do not question, do not doubt. Simply do as you are commanded, and you will see the Kingdom of Heaven.”

The Pope’s final words had grown stern. There was no doubt about the significance of the task. “Dark forces are at work, attempting to destroy everything humanity stands for.”

The Pontiff reached under his cassock and pressed a small object into Father Matthew’s hand.

“First read the ancient document. Then you will understand. Afterward, you will find further instructions here. Before your departure, hand the document over to the Camerlengo.”

Matthew’s throat went dry as he looked at the USB drive the Pope had given him.

“Your Holiness, I will do everything in my power to carry out this mission. But … what if I should fail?”

“Failure is not an option,” the Pope answered sternly. “You must trust in God’s guidance and in your own abilities. Do not allow doubt to cloud your judgment or weaken your resolve. And do whatever is necessary to prevail.” The Pope hastily crossed himself. “And I truly mean whatever it takes! It is possible you may not return.”

“Of course, Your Holiness,” Father Matthew replied. He had heard this phrase all too often in his previous missions. It wasn’t the first potential suicide mission he had undertaken.

The Pope sighed deeply, his forehead creasing with worry. “This must remain between us, Brother Matthew. If the existence of this document and its contents were to become known, it would have catastrophic consequences. It could trigger panic, division within the Church, even worldwide war. We cannot risk that. Not a word to anyone.”

The Pope extended his hand with the Fisherman’s Ring to Father Matthew. Immediately, Matthew bowed, kissed the ring, and left the chapel.

With quick steps, he crossed the Vatican Gardens and made his way to his quarters in the “Domus Sanctae Marthae,” the guesthouse where cardinals are accommodated during the conclave. He entered his chamber and immediately closed the door behind him.

With trembling hands, he picked up the ancient document. The parchment crackled under his touch, threatening to disintegrate after centuries of concealment. The weight of history bore heavily upon him as he began to read. The words described catastrophic events that had occurred long ago and told of destructive perils—and they took his breath away.

“By the Almighty,” he whispered as he recognized the magnitude of what lay before him. His thoughts raced as he tried to comprehend the extent of his task.

CHAPTER 13

TOM WAGNER’S HOUSEBOAT, BANKS OF THE DANUBE, EASTERN OUTSKIRTS OF VIENNA, AUSTRIA

There was silence on the other end of the line. Phoebe furrowed her brow. She was no art expert, but even she had heard of the missing Fabergé eggs.

“You own a Fabergé egg?” said Hellen. Her voice sounded both aghast and impressed at the same time.

“Okay, François,” said Tom, sounding far more annoyed than Hellen. “Van Rensburg had us chasing all over the world after these eggs, refusing to tell us why he’d suddenly developed this collecting obsession—when exactly were you planning to tell us about your Fabergé egg?”

Cloutard took another sip from his flask. Before he could set it down on the table beside him, Phoebe grabbed it from his hand and, without asking, took a large swig.

“Hmm, Louis XIII,” she whispered.

The trace of a smile flitted across Cloutard’s face, but he could only briefly enjoy the fact that Phoebe appreciated his favorite drink.

“François?” Tom’s voice had become demanding. “Is someone else there with you?”

Cloutard’s expression grew somewhat desperate. Things were getting complicated. This charming woman, the missing Mantis, the mystical stones, and of course the crowning glory—the Fabergé egg.

“I’m Dr. Phoebe Cross, Mr. Wagner. I’m the president of the International Tesla Institute. You were recommended to me.” Phoebe glanced in Cloutard’s direction. He didn’t mind at all that she had taken control. “I suspect that an invention by Nikola Tesla might have triggered the tsunami off Cuba, and your team, Mr. Wagner, was recommended to me by the highest authority. I was told that you would be the right people to investigate this. Since I was unable to find you personally, Monsieur Cloutard has kindly taken me under his wing.” Her gaze shifted to Cloutard, and her smile momentarily took his breath away.

“And there’s something else. There’s a connection between Carl Fabergé and Nikola Tesla. It’s a myth, but if you ask me, it’s a myth with substance. Fabergé liked to experiment with various materials in his work, and Tesla supposedly assisted him with his knowledge in this regard.”

Everyone fell silent.

“Okay, aside from the fact that Monsieur Cloutard concealed from us that he owns a Fabergé egg,”—Hellen’s voice carried a great deal of irony—“I also find the connection fascinating. And I would be very surprised if this were a coincidence, Dr. Cross.”

“That’s my view as well, Dr. de Mey,” said Phoebe.

No one could see Tom rolling his eyes at the other end of the line.

“Doctor. Doctor. Doctor. Doctor,” said Tom and waited. No one reacted. “Oh, man. Am I the only one who’s seen ‘Spies Like Us’?” Again, no one reacted. “Okay, whatever. Let’s take this slow,” said Tom, still annoyed that no one got his insider movie joke. “We have a Fabergé egg that, until now, hardly anyone except François knew about, and that the Mantis presumably wants,” said Tom.

“Correct,” said Cloutard meekly.

“And according to Dr. Cross, there’s a suspicion that the tsunami off Cuba is of human origin and a Tesla invention is behind it.”

“Correct,” said Phoebe.

“And we suspect there could be a connection between the Fabergé egg and Tesla.”

“Correct,” said Hellen.

“Thanks, all three of you, for your enthusiastic participation,” said Tom, but only Hellen could see his grin. “Dr. Cross, you said we were recommended to you. By whom, if I may ask?”

“A man named Oswald Hubbard, he reports directly to the US president.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” said Tom. “So that means POTUS is also involved in all this.”

“It certainly looks that way,” said Phoebe.

For a few seconds, everyone was quiet.

Softly, almost whispering, Cloutard began to speak.

“Perhaps we should take a closer look at my egg to see if it actually contains one of the stones. It is also possible, of course, that the stone is in one of the other missing eggs.”

“Or in one of those that van Rensburg owns,” Hellen added. “All the other known eggs have been examined thoroughly enough—there can’t be any secret compartment in them,” said Hellen.

“You are right about that,” said Cloutard. “I suggest we meet in Luxembourg, at my personal safe in my private bank there.”

“Yes, we should do that,” said Tom.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to come along,” said Phoebe. Her gaze drifted to Cloutard, who smiled with delight. “I’ve been convinced for years that there’s a great secret surrounding Tesla’s research. With you, I might be able to figure it out.”

“Formidable,” said Cloutard.

At the other end of the line, Tom and Hellen exchanged doubtful glances. Then Tom spoke up: “All right. Let’s do it that way. Send us the address of the bank, François,” said Tom. They said their goodbyes, and Tom set the phone aside, only to pick it up again a second later.

“What now?” asked Hellen.

“I’m contacting Akira. She should check out this Dr. Cross.”

CHAPTER 14

ON THE KIRCHBERG, LUXEMBOURG’S BANKING DISTRICT

The Luxembourg private bank rose like a fortress, its imposing gray stone façade adorned with elaborate sculptures of mythical creatures and ancient gods. The mysterious allure of the bank was unmistakable, exuding an air of wealth and exclusivity accessible only to the privileged. The bank, however, looked like a foreign body among the massive palaces of steel, concrete, and glass that towered around it in Luxembourg’s banking district.

Standing before this bastion of power, Cloutard adjusted his Panama hat and turned to Phoebe, who was gazing around in awe.

“Ms. Cross,” he began with a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “This place awakens memories, both good and bad.”

“Call me Phoebe,” she said, her voice so definite that Cloutard could not refuse.

“All right. But only if you call me François.”

They both grinned.

“So—François—what memories does this place stir up?” she asked, her green eyes searching his face for answers.

Cloutard’s eyes narrowed. Once again, he didn’t know why he was revealing himself so quickly to this woman.

“You should know, before I worked with Tom and Hellen, I was – let us say - operating in some rather gray areas,” Cloutard answered vaguely, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. He took a slow sip from his flask. “Sometimes I still miss that kind of thrill, but those days are far behind me.”

As Phoebe watched him, she couldn’t help but be drawn to the mysterious atmosphere surrounding the Frenchman. She caught herself moving closer, hanging on his every word. “Thrill?” she asked, “What kind of thrill?” She wanted more than anything to learn more about this enigmatic man.

“Perhaps another time, Phoebe,” Cloutard replied softly, running his finger around the rim of his flask before offering it to her. “For now we should focus on the task ahead of us.”

Phoebe gratefully took a sip and nodded, hiding her disappointment behind a mask of professionalism. She couldn’t deny that the atmosphere of mystery surrounding François Cloutard had captivated her, and she looked forward to learning more about his hidden past. She had to focus to keep her actual goal in sight.

Tom and Hellen rounded the corner.

“Ah, there you are!” Tom called when he spotted Cloutard and Phoebe.

After brief hugs and mutual introductions, Tom pointed to the entrance.

“Shall we?”

They strolled toward the entrance. Hellen and Phoebe walked ahead. As scientists, albeit in different fields, they hit it off immediately.

Tom pulled Cloutard aside. “Can we agree on one thing for the future? No more secrets! I want us to be able to rely on each other one hundred percent. We absolutely can’t have anyone doing their own thing or hiding skeletons in their closet.”

“Bien sûr,” said Cloutard, gritting his teeth.

“Ready for a treasure hunt?” Tom’s eyes sparkled with excitement, and his dark blonde hair was tousled by the light breeze.

“Always, mon ami,” replied Cloutard, his gaze lingering on Phoebe a moment longer than necessary. Hellen immediately noticed the subtle interaction between the two. But she kept her observations to herself, preferring to focus on the task ahead.

As they entered the bank, the air around them seemed to thicken with opulence and exclusivity. The marble floor shimmered in the soft light from the chandeliers, casting intricate patterns on the walls adorned with priceless works of art. The plush carpet muffled their steps, giving the atmosphere an almost reverent silence. They walked together to the reception, and Cloutard recalled the last time he had been there.

Cloutard reached into his jacket pocket and slid his passport and keycard across the modern counter to the receptionist.

“François Philibert Cyrille Cloutard.”

“Seriously?” whispered Tom. “Philibert? Cyrille?”

Hellen elbowed Tom in the side. “Shut up,” she hissed.

The man at reception swiped the magnetic card through a reader and checked Cloutard’s passport.

“Your key, Monsieur Cloutard?” asked the man.

Cloutard handed over the key. The bank employee typed in the serial number and compared it with the data stored in the system.

“The password, Monsieur.”

A touchscreen opened before Cloutard, revealing a virtual keyboard.

“Les Confidences d’Arsène Lupin,” Cloutard typed in proudly.

“Thank you, Monsieur. One of our staff will escort you to your safe shortly.”

He looked at Tom, Hellen, and Phoebe. “Should your companions also be granted access to the vault room?”

“Bien sûr,” said Cloutard.

“Then I will also need your passports, please,” said the man.

The three handed over their passports, and they were issued three temporary visitor passes.

“Monsieur Cloutard, your safe deposit box is ready.” Another employee in an identical dark gray suit motioned for them to follow him into a hallway with gilded doors.

Their anticipation rose. They entered an elevator and descended seven floors in silence. Their route led them through several security checkpoints equipped with voice recognition, palm and retina scanners, magnetic keys, and numeric codes.

Finally, they reached an elongated room with massive vault doors on both sides. Cloutard purposefully approached the door numbered 1138 and inserted his key.

Tom grinned. “1138? François’s an even bigger movie nerd than I am!”

“Be quiet,” Hellen hissed.

At the same moment, the bank employee took another key from a box bearing the logo of the “Banque Privee Secrets Précieux” and inserted it on the opposite side of the vault door. They turned the keys simultaneously. A green light illuminated. Then they slid their magnetic cards into the designated slots. A second light came on. Cloutard entered a numeric code, and the last light lit up, followed by a tone that played the beginning of the Marseillaise. With a soft hiss, the massive door opened.

The bank employee nodded to Cloutard. “I’ll wait for you in the hallway.”

The man turned on his heel and left the four alone.

CHAPTER 15

FRANÇOIS CLOUTARD’S PRIVATE VAULT, PRIVATE BANK LUXEMBOURG

Cloutard paused and gently placed his hand on Hellen’s shoulder. His eyes met hers, and his forehead creased with concern.

“Hellen,” he said softly, “I must warn you: there are things in this vault that might upset you a little.”

Hellen wanted to respond, but Tom was quicker.

“You mean this is the secret storage for your old break-ins and scams?” he said, clapping his hands enthusiastically. “I’m pumped! Let’s go.”

Cloutard glanced at Phoebe, who didn’t seem the least bit bothered that Cloutard kept stolen artwork in a private bank in Luxembourg. Her expression revealed enthusiasm, coupled with curiosity and admiration.

Hellen’s was staring expectantly on the vault entrance. She took a deep breath and felt her husband’s reassuring hand on her shoulder. Her determination grew, and she nodded to Cloutard. “Okay, François. I’m ready.”

They entered the vault room, which was the size of a spacious basement compartment. The four of them fit inside without any problem.

Phoebe gasped and Tom let out a soft whistle. The first impression was that the vault was a mix of art museum and pirate’s lair. Hellen’s eyes wandered over the various art objects, and she audibly inhaled and exhaled several times. Her trained historical eye cataloged and evaluated each piece. Then her gaze fell on a familiar painting, half-hidden behind an ornate vessel. She could hardly believe what she was seeing.

“Is that …?” she began, her voice catching in her throat as she pointed to the painting. Cloutard followed her gaze and nodded solemnly.

“Oui, it is what you think it is. ‘The Storm on the Sea of Galilee’ by Rembrandt,” he confirmed proudly. “One of my earlier acquisitions.”

“From the Isabella Stewart Gardner heist?” she breathed. “The FBI and Interpol have been looking for this painting for over thirty years.”

Cloutard looked at her indignantly. “Would you please stop making constant allusions to my age?”

Tom grinned.

“Someday I’ll tell you the story of how I came into possession of this painting,” Cloutard continued. “It was my first coup, a true adventure.” He winked at Hellen, his eyes twinkling mischievously.

“But we’re here for something completely different,” said Tom.

Cloutard nodded. “The Nécessaire Egg.”

He went to a shelf where several caskets were stored. Hellen was very tempted to examine everything closely, but she decided against it. That would only turn Cloutard against her, and she didn’t want that. His friendship was worth more to her than any artwork, no matter how precious and valuable.

While Cloutard searched through the caskets, Tom came across a few more paintings. His eyes narrowed. He put his hand on Hellen’s head and turned it toward the paintings. Hellen raised her eyebrows.

“François,” said Tom. “We found that exact same painting in the Mantis’s luxury apartment.”

“What are you talking about?”

“‘The Concert’ by Vermeer. That’s also from the Boston heist, isn’t it?” said Hellen, stepping toward the painting.

Cloutard didn’t even look up. He triumphantly raised the sought-after casket. “I found the egg,” he said.

“François,” Hellen’s tone was serious. “We asked you something. The Vermeer?”

“Oh, that. Yes, that’s also from Boston. And I know exactly how many forgeries of it exist. The Mantis must have one of them.” He chuckled. “I hope she didn’t pay anything for it.”

Cloutard went to the small table in the middle of the vault and reverently placed the box on it. “Allow me to present my masterpiece,” he said. Tom grinned.

Cloutard opened the casket and took out a shimmering Fabergé egg, its intricate decorations and jewels on the exterior reflecting light in fascinating patterns. The group moved closer, their excitement palpable.

“Exquisite,” whispered Hellen, staring as if mesmerized at the ornate object.

“En effet,” Cloutard agreed, smiling at her admiration.

“But what’s supposed to be inside it is even more extraordinary,” said Tom.

Cloutard tried to twist the lid of the egg, but it wouldn’t budge. His fingers trembled slightly as he struggled with the stubborn artifact. The tension in the room rose, and everyone held their breath in anticipation.

“Damn it,” Cloutard muttered softly, as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Phoebe bit her lip, her eyes flickering with concern that they had reached a dead end.

“Give it here, let me try,” offered Hellen, stepping forward.

“She’s proven many times that she’s better at this,” added Tom. With a determined but respectful look, Hellen took the egg from Cloutard’s hand.

“Be careful, ma chérie,” warned Cloutard.

Hellen nodded and held the egg firmly. With a deep breath, she turned the egg in all directions, examining it closely. Then she pressed on one of the gemstones and a soft click sounded. She carefully placed her hand on the lid and twisted. To everyone’s surprise, it yielded easily to her skilled fingers and slowly opened.

All four looked inside expectantly.

CHAPTER 16

LA VALSAINTE CHARTERHOUSE, VAL-DE-CHARMEY, CANTON OF FRIBOURG, SWITZERLAND

Father Matthew’s gaze wandered over the picturesque landscape. The old streets with their small houses and shops radiated warmth and grandeur. Around the village, the gentle hills dotted with wildflowers gradually gave way to mighty mountains, a scenic backdrop that made it hard for him to believe this peaceful place could hold great secrets for him. The sun-drenched monastery towered over the town. Matthew’s gut instinct stirred. He didn’t know what it was, but the charterhouse had something mysterious about it.

As Matthew strolled through the narrow lanes, he couldn’t silence his intuition. Despite his military background and the recent turbulence in his life, he found comfort in the beauty and tranquility of Val-de-Charmey while simultaneously feeling a restlessness he couldn’t describe. The weight of his task lay heavy on him.

The monastery belonged to the Carthusian Order, known for its strict commitment to silence, solitude, and simplicity. The Carthusians, founded in 1084 by Saint Bruno, dedicated themselves to a life of prayer and contemplation, avoiding the world and its distractions. Within the walls of the charterhouse, the monks lived according to a strict daily schedule designed to minimize interaction and encourage self-reflection; their time was divided between solitary prayer, physical labor, and study.

Matthew was fascinated by the history of the Carthusians and the depth of their devotion. It was said that the monks lived like hermits, rarely speaking even to each other and seeking to avoid any unnecessary contact with the outside world. In their pursuit of spiritual enlightenment, they demonstrated a level of asceticism that few could endure.

The Carthusian Rule emphasized the importance of silence, not only as a means for contemplation but also as an essential element in their quest for purity and holiness.

As Matthew reached the entrance of the charterhouse, his heart was pounding. Although he had been in situations far more dangerous than anything “normal” people would ever experience, things felt different here. He knocked on the door.

It was some time before anything happened. Then the gate opened just a crack. A tall, imposing figure stood before him, dressed in the traditional white habit of the Carthusian Order. The monk’s steel-gray eyes looked at him sternly, his deeply lined face testifying to years of prayer and contemplation, his gaze unwavering and intense.

“My name is Father Matthew. The Holy Father himself sends me.” Matthew bowed slightly. “I must speak with the abbot.” Matthew’s voice wavered slightly, betraying his nervousness. He took a deep breath and regained his composure, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter marked with the papal insignia. The monk’s eyes widened, and without further ado, he was led to the abbot, his countenance no less stern and forbidding than the monk who had opened the door, who now retired without another word.

The abbot, too, was astonished to see the papal bull, an official decree issued by the Pope himself. Such documents were extremely rare and held great significance in the Church. “By the Almighty,” murmured Abbot Martin, crossing himself.

“His Holiness has entrusted me with a task of great importance,” Matthew revealed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the distant ring of a bell. The abbot read the papal bull attentively, his jaw tightening as if preparing for an invisible blow. Finally, he looked up at Matthew, whose eyes flashed with fear and determination.

“All right,” the abbot said gruffly. “But know this: the path you will walk is fraught with danger.” The abbot stared at Matthew for another moment before nodding his agreement. “Follow me, Father Matthew. We have a long march ahead of us.”

The sun was already sinking below the horizon, casting long shadows across the old monastery grounds. The two men left the village and followed a path into the mountains. After walking first on level ground and then uphill for a stretch, they approached the tree line and saw a steep path leading farther up the mountain. Matthew’s gaze followed the path to a small chapel near the distant summit, its outline barely visible against the darkening sky.

“Is that where we are going?” asked Matthew, needing a moment to catch his breath.

“Yes,” replied the abbot. “It conceals a secret not meant for many eyes. Steel yourself, Father Matthew. This path will test both your body and your spirit.”

The ascent began. The air grew thinner, and Matthew’s chest rose with each breath. Despite the cold, he began to sweat through his suit. His muscles protested, but he walked on, driven by an inexplicable force that seemed to emanate from the mountain itself. At the same time, Matthew was impressed by the fortitude with which the abbot endured the physical hardship. The old man was at least seventy-five years old, but he moved as if he was just taking a stroll after dinner. Father Matthew’s respect for the Carthusian grew.

“Abbot Martin,” Matthew gasped between breaths, “what is hidden up there? What is so important that it must be kept in such a remote location?”

“Patience, Father Matthew,” the abbot cautioned. “All will soon be made clear.”

Finally, they reached the small chapel. Its modest facade resembled that of the Carthusian monastery below. But the abbot walked past the chapel to a narrow entrance behind it, skillfully hidden by shadows and moss, that led to a passage running deeper into the mountainside.

After a short march through narrow passageways, they entered a prayer room. Matthew stopped, forgetting his fatigue at the sight before him. The familiar Christian symbols that had adorned the monastery below were gone. Instead, the room was a vibrant homage to ancient Egypt, and yet different, even older. Much older. The walls were covered with a form of hieroglyphics and images of gods. In the center stood a massive stone altar, dominated by an intricate solar disk with golden rays extending in all directions.

Confused, Matthew stared first at the walls and then at the abbot.

“This is not what you expected, is it,” the abbot solemnly confirmed, observing Matthew’s reaction.

“Not at all,” Matthew admitted, struggling to reconcile the existence of this place with everything he knew about the Carthusian Order and its strict adherence to Christian tradition.

“Then let us continue,” said the abbot, leading Matthew to the altar. “Here is where your true quest begins. Look closely,” he instructed. His voice was barely audible as he pointed to the wall beside the altar. “There lies hidden the answer you seek.”

Matthew’s gaze followed the abbot’s hand to a section of wall that seemed no different from the others. He blinked, trying to discern a clue. Seeing his efforts, the abbot then pressed a seemingly random sequence of hieroglyphics on the wall and then the center of the solar disk. With a soft grinding sound, a portion of the wall slid back to reveal a small, dark cavity.

“Amazing,” breathed Matthew, unable to hide his astonishment. His mind raced with questions.

“Please,” urged the abbot, nodding toward the compartment. Matthew hesitated for a moment, then reached in and carefully lifted out the leather-wrapped object inside.

“What is this?” Matthew began, but the abbot merely raised an eyebrow, prompting him to unwrap the artifact himself.

As he peeled away the leather, Matthew first felt the true weight of the object in his hands—both physically and metaphorically.

“Abbot Martin,” Matthew whispered, his voice filled with emotion. “What is this? I sense its importance, but I don’t understand it.”

“You hold in your hand part of an ancient relic,” the abbot replied earnestly, “older than the Church itself. Its true nature has been guarded for millennia and is known to only a few.”

A shiver ran down Matthew’s spine as he clutched the artifact, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He was not a man to shrink from his duty, but he sensed that this exceeded anything he could have imagined.

“It was prophesied that this artifact will play a crucial role in a great battle between good and evil. The time for this battle draws near, and you have been chosen to fight at the forefront.”

“Chosen?” Matthew’s thoughts raced. “By whom?”

The abbot ignored his question. “Your next task awaits you in the largest church in the world—at Noah’s legacy.”

With a final encouraging nod, Abbot Martin turned away, leaving Matthew alone with the artifact, and began his descent. In silence, Father Matthew watched him go. The abbot had fulfilled his task. He would learn nothing more from him.

CHAPTER 17

THE PRIVATE VAULT OF FRANÇOIS CLOUTARD, LUXEMBOURG

“I’m no expert, God knows,” said Tom, furrowing his brow, “but that’s not a stone.”

Disappointment spread across their faces, their excitement deflating like a popped balloon.

“Is that … just a piece of paper?” asked Tom with a trace of disbelief.

“Looks like it,” confirmed Hellen, carefully unfolding it. She frowned as she examined it, a mixture of curiosity and frustration playing across her face.

“Une mauvaise surprise,” murmured Cloutard, disappointment clouding his eyes. He had expected so much more, and the dispiriting revelation pained him deeply.

“Maybe there’s more to it,” suggested Hellen, her optimism undiminished. She looked at Cloutard with a reassuring smile.

“Maybe,” Cloutard conceded.

Phoebe’s eyes widened as she peered over Hellen’s shoulder at the sheet of paper, her breath catching. “Wait,” she whispered barely audibly. “I recognize this handwriting.”

“Whose is it?” asked Tom, his curiosity piqued.

“Tesla’s,” breathed Phoebe, her voice trembling with excitement. “This is Nikola Tesla’s handwriting! I’ve studied him and his papers for years!”

The group fell silent, their disappointment vanishing with Phoebe’s announcement.

“What does it say?” asked Hellen, unable to make sense of the numbers and letters.

“It must be some kind of formula. Tesla sometimes used a type of shorthand. I’ll need to examine it more closely, but to decipher it conclusively, I’d need some documents … that are unfortunately considered lost.” Their faces darkened. “I have an idea where they might be, but I haven’t yet found the courage to take that step.”

“What do you mean? What step?” said Cloutard, looking at Phoebe sympathetically. She was clearly struggling with herself.

“For years, Tesla occupied two rooms at the New Yorker Hotel in Manhattan. He lived in one and worked in the other. And rumor has it that one of the rooms or the basement areas of the hotel contains one of Tesla’s laboratories.”

Phoebe looked around expectantly.

“Then we should take a closer look at the hotel,” said Hellen.

Tom raised his hand. “I think we should follow up another lead as well.”

“Do we have one?” asked Cloutard.

“Van Rensburg,” said Tom. “He collects Fabergé eggs and he’s never told us what he intends to do with them.”

Cloutard and Hellen exchanged a knowing nod. Then Hellen turned to Phoebe and said, “Van Rensburg is our former client. It would take too long to explain everything now, but Tom is right. We should also have a word with him.”

“Are you suggesting we split up?” asked Cloutard, looking between Tom, Hellen and Phoebe.

“Yes,” Tom agreed, fixing his gaze on Cloutard and Phoebe. “Dr. Cross and you, François, follow Tesla’s trail in New York, while Hellen and I talk to van Rensburg.”

“A good plan,” said Phoebe, thrilled at the thought of discovering new leads about Tesla with Cloutard by her side. She could barely contain her excitement.

They were leaving the vault when Hellen paused once more. “I can’t believe it. So this isn’t a myth either.”

Hellen pointed to an Egyptian death mask made of gold, which clearly had feminine features.

“The death mask of Nefertiti,” said Cloutard proudly. “Another story I will tell you one day.”

They left the vault, went back upstairs, and shortly afterward were standing outside the private bank on the Kirchberg plateau.

“Don’t forget to activate the ‘Find My’ function on your iPhone. That way we’ll always know where each other is,” said Tom.

“You old stalker,” Hellen quipped.

“À la prochaine, my friends,” said Cloutard, raising his flask in a toast. “May luck be with us all.”

“And hey, try not to have too much fun without us,” Hellen said.

“Impossible,” replied Cloutard with a wink, his gaze lingering on Phoebe a moment longer than necessary. Their flirtatious exchange didn’t escape Hellen’s notice, and she smiled.

CHAPTER 18

A CONFERENCE ROOM AT THE KIMPTON SAWYER HOTEL, SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA, USA

“This way, sir.”

The concierge gestured down the lobby and Eon van Rensburg followed him.

The sun was low on the horizon, casting an amber glow over Sacramento as its rays streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of a well-lit conference room in the Kimpton Sawyer Hotel. The spacious room was bristling with the technology needed to enable practically any type of communication at the highest technical level. The city stretched out beyond the windows, which offered a sweeping view of the bustling metropolis.

“I can count on having a secure VPN connection?” Van Rensburg pointed to the eighty-inch flat screen on the wall, above which three professional webcams had been mounted.

The concierge nodded rapidly. “Of course, sir. Our high-speed connections are secure and routed through countless nodes. Even the NSA would find it nigh impossible to join your conversation.”

He doesn’t know Akira, thought van Rensburg, but he nodded gratefully. The concierge flipped a switch that closed all the curtains, ensuring complete privacy, then left the room.

Van Rensburg took a seat at the large conference table and pulled the mouse and keyboard toward him. As he moved the mouse, the flat screen came to life. From the written message he had recently received in an envelope, he typed in a multi-digit IP address, followed by a password to initiate the secure connection.

A few moments later, the usual video-call interface appeared. Van Rensburg’s gaze was immediately drawn to the bottom right corner of the screen, where he recognized the Vatican coat of arms. When the Pope appeared larger than life on the screen a second later, van Rensburg’s brow furrowed.

“Your Holiness,” he said, immediately adopting a more formal posture and trying to hide his confusion. “This is quite an unusual meeting. May I ask why we’re conversing this way? Unless I’m mistaken, we’re still quite far from the annual meeting date between our two institutions.”

A hint of weariness lay in the Pope’s eyes as he replied: “I apologize for the inconvenience, Mr. van Rensburg. But the matter I need to discuss with you is exceptionally urgent.”

“Very well,” van Rensburg conceded. “I’m listening.”

“Orichalcum. I have set it in motion,” whispered the Pope.

Van Rensburg’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the word, and concern crept up inside him at the gravity in the Pope’s voice. “Your Holiness, you don’t mean …” Van Rensburg paused, searching for the right words.

“Indeed,” confirmed the Pope. “The signs are mounting, and I had to act.”

“Your Holiness,” began van Rensburg, skepticism entering his voice, “forgive me, but I can’t help questioning your true intentions. To put it mildly, you have a complicated past.”

The Pope’s eyes darkened, his gaze expressing regret and bitter agreement. He knew immediately what van Rensburg was alluding to, that he wasn’t sitting in the Chair of St. Peter by accident. The terrorist organization that called itself Absolute Freedom had arranged the killing of his predecessor, hoping to have a perfect puppet in him.

“I am well aware of my past sins, Mr. van Rensburg,” he said, his voice marked by shame. “But through the dismantling of AF and the death of their commander-in-chief, God has granted me a second chance—a chance to serve humanity and make amends for my mistakes. I assure you that my intentions are pure.”

Van Rensburg studied the Pope’s face, looking for any hint of deception or ulterior motive. The man before him looked genuinely remorseful—far removed from the cunning, power-hungry figure he had once known. Van Rensburg himself hadn’t directly experienced the whole affair. He had learned part of it from the media, some from various events with high-ranking individuals, and more from Tom’s and Hellen’s accounts. But he couldn’t be certain about the Pope’s true convictions.

“Could you be mistaken?” asked van Rensburg, returning to the main subject.

The Pope sighed heavily, his slumped shoulders betraying the weight of his burden. “I understand your concerns, Mr. van Rensburg. But my intelligence service is not only the oldest but also the best in the world. We are certain that we should at least be prepared. DARPA is also involved, and you know exactly what they are working on.”

Van Rensburg nodded. “And you’ve already dispatched someone? A reliable man, ready to give his life?”

“I have. I am convinced that time is of the essence,” replied the Pope. Van Rensburg remained silent. “Mr. van Rensburg, you must trust that we have the best interests of humanity at heart. Our past may not be without blemish, but we all strive for redemption and the common good.” The Pope’s voice carried a seriousness that gave van Rensburg pause for thought. He could not take this lightly. Since his predecessor, Damjam Mandalov, had martyred himself, the entire responsibility now rested on his shoulders as the “Supreme Servant of the Ancients.”

“If there is anything you still have to do to perfect the orichalcum, now would be the right moment,” the Pope added.

“Thank you,” said van Rensburg, standing up. “I will. We’ll stay in touch.”

The Pope made the sign of the cross. “We shall. The fate of humanity depends on it.”

Seconds later, the screen went black, and van Rensburg was left alone with his troubled thoughts.

The abrupt end to their conversation sent a chill down his spine and compounded his feeling of unease. On slightly trembling legs, he rose from the table and began to pace the room, each step heavy with the weight of his thoughts.

Yes, there was something he still had to take care of, but he had no idea how to do it. Because the crucial puzzle piece—which, for years, he had been sending his people in search of—was still missing.

Pensive, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out an elegant card, the invitation that had brought him to California. He skimmed its contents and was suddenly struck by something. For the first time, he noticed the topic of the keynote speaker, printed in bold letters on the immaculate cardstock.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. As Van Rensburg stared at the words, he hardly dared to breathe.

CHAPTER 19

FÉLIX HOUPHOUET BOIGNY AIRPORT, ABIDJAN, IVORY COAST

Father Matthew entered the arrival hall of Abidjan’s bustling airport. The Ivory Coast welcomed him with sweltering heat, a tangle of voices, and an exotic mixture of scents hanging heavily in the air. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and his clerical collar felt tighter than usual.

After clearing customs and spotting his driver holding a name sign, he walked purposefully over to him. He fervently hoped to reach the Basilica of Our Lady of Peace in Yamoussoukro as quickly as possible.

The car sped through the lively streets, weaving between vendors offering their wares, locals going about their daily lives, and the occasional stray animal. Matthew couldn’t help but be swept up in the energy, his thoughts passing by as quickly as the landscape.

As they approached the Basilica of Our Lady of Peace, Matthew was impressed. The enormous structure, like a mountain of marble with its massive dome, soared into the sky before him. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The circle of columns, standing tall and proud and distantly reminiscent of St. Peter’s Square, reflected the African sun. With its panoramic grandeur, the gigantic dome dominated the skyline, dramatically tall and clearly influenced by Byzantine architecture. Its ivory-white facade glittered like a beacon of hope, surrounded by manicured gardens that mirrored the vibrancy of the structure. The massive cross at the top cast an awe-inspiring shadow. Each of the gleaming stained-glass windows depicted a different story. The glasswork was dominated by a magnificent tableau of Christ’s ascension.

As Father Matthew stepped out of the car, a gust of wind rushed through the palm trees lining the walkway, carrying with it the scent of the nearby Boubo River.

“Good Lord,” he murmured as he passed through the massive doors of the basilica. Traces of incense wafted through the air, mingling with the faint smell of beeswax from countless flickering candles. He approached a figure dressed in dark clothing standing near the entrance. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Father Idrissa Diawara,” he said. “I have something important to discuss with him,” Matthew said in a calm and steady voice.

“Of course,” the man replied, studying Matthew carefully. “Whom may I announce?”

“I am an emissary of the Holy See,” said Matthew, showing him the document bearing the Papal seal.

The man hastily crossed himself. “Of course, please follow me.”

The man led Matthew to a small, dimly lit room at the back of the basilica. Seated at his desk, Father Idrissa Diawara was a tall, imposing figure with deep-set, penetrating eyes and a wise man’s face, revealing a life spent in service to his faith.

“Father Diawara,” Matthew began, holding out the papal bull to him. “I am here at His Holiness’s behest.”

Father Diawara took the document. He paused as he recognized the seal. His initial uncertainty gave way to earnest comprehension. “How may I serve our Mother Church?” he asked, looking steadily at Matthew.

Matthew reached into his pocket, removed the leather case, and opened it carefully. He held it out to Father Idrissa, who stared at it wide-eyed.

Father Idrissa hesitantly extended his hand toward the artifact it contained. As his fingers grazed the surface of the object, he recoiled as if burned. A shudder ran through him. Fear filled his eyes, but he quickly masked it with determination.

“Come,” he said firmly. “We should waste no time.”

Father Matthew followed him as they stepped back into the basilica. “The splendor of this Basilica of Our Lady of Peace … it is simply breathtaking,” said Matthew, awestruck.

Idrissa responded with a smile and nodded in agreement. “Ah, yes. It is indeed a monument of faith. Its opulence is often compared to St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. It is one of the largest churches in the world, you know.”

“It was President Félix Houphouët-Boigny’s vision, wasn’t it?” inquired Father Matthew, eager to learn more about the impressive structure.

“Yes,” Idrissa nodded, “he wanted to give our country’s identity a sense of spirituality and grandeur. And he dedicated it as a personal gift from his ‘golden heart’ to Jesus and the people of Ivory Coast, despite controversy and criticism. A large portion of his own fortune, as well as public funds, went into its construction. The pope himself consecrated it in 1990. It is an impressive testament to our president’s vision.”

“Yes, it is,” marveled Matthew. “And I’ve read that it can accommodate about eleven thousand worshippers?”

“That’s correct,” Father Idrissa replied with evident pride. “Seven thousand seated or eleven thousand standing. And the larger area with the surrounding terrace increases the total capacity for open-air services to about two to three hundred thousand.”

Matthew looked around enthusiastically. “Incredible. A true work of God.”

“It truly is, Father,” Idrissa nodded. “A monumental testament to human devotion and divine worship.”

They walked to an inconspicuous door on the side of the basilica. Idrissa unlocked it and began descending the stairs. Matthew peered over Idrissa’s shoulder but couldn’t see the end of the staircase.

“The basilica was not built at this exact location by chance,” Idrissa murmured.

They descended deeper and deeper, navigating through a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors where the scent of incense grew stronger with each step. Finally, they arrived at another door, this one adorned with pale symbols that seemed to glow in the faint light.

“Behind this door lies a secret known only to a few,” Father Idrissa explained solemnly. “Prepare yourself, for what you’re about to see might challenge everything you know.”

As the door creaked open, they entered a vast hall that drew a reverent sigh from Matthew. Towering columns lined the walls, their surfaces decorated with the same hieroglyphs and religious symbols that Matthew had seen only once before—in the small chapel in Switzerland. The room itself was bathed in a gentle, golden light that seemed to emanate from the stones themselves. It was like stepping into the heart of an Egyptian temple. Literally.

“Impossible,” Matthew murmured, his thoughts racing with questions. “How can this be? We’re thousands of miles from Egypt.”

“It is not purely Egyptian,” Father Idrissa responded, his voice quiet and reverent. “But the Ancients had a strong influence on Egyptian art.”

“The Ancients?” asked Father Matthew, examining the symbols more closely.

“Though many don’t know or want to acknowledge it today, the religions as we know them all have the same origin: The worship of the sun. It has just been modified to varying degrees over the centuries and millennia. The Ancients are the source that shaped everything that followed. The builders of this underground hall wanted to honor their memory and wisdom.”

Matthew took in the incredible scene. He felt the weight of history bearing down on him, a force more powerful than he could ever have imagined. And yet, amid the grandeur and majesty lay a premonition, as if the air were charged with danger.

“Father, what does this place represent?” asked Matthew, unable to shake the unease that had settled in his stomach.

“It is an ancient shrine,” explained Father Idrissa, “where the secrets of the past are hidden from those who would abuse them. Our path lies here, among these relics from a time long gone.”

As they ventured farther into the vault, new areas of the hall illuminated as if by magic, and Matthew’s eyes widened in astonishment. The sight of the enormous structure bewildered him. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing.

CHAPTER 20

SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, CALIFORNIA, USA

Despite the early hour, San Francisco International Airport was bustling with life, a bedlam of noise and movement. After their largely sleepless overnight flight, Tom and Hellen navigated through the crowd, dodging hurried businesspeople and families overloaded with luggage. Announcements boomed overhead, adding to the chaos.

“Welcome to California,” Tom muttered, eyes rolling as they narrowly avoided colliding with a group of college students.

They were approaching the baggage claim area when Hellen’s phone buzzed in her bag. “Oh, that might finally be a message from Mom,” she said. She pulled out her phone and looked at the display. “A text from Akira. You know, I’m slowly getting worried about my mother.”

“She’s on a South Pacific island with a billionaire discussing how to spend millions of dollars. How bad could she possibly have it?” Tom said.

Hellen grinned. “You’re right.”

“Do we finally know why Akira sent us to San Francisco and how and where we can reach van Rensburg?” Tom asked, his eager eyes on Hellen’s phone as she read the message.

“Akira says we need to sneak into the annual meeting of the Bohemian Club in Monte Rio,” she said quietly. “Van Rensburg will be there.”

“Why didn’t Wikus tell us that when we asked him? He’s his damn attack dog, he must know where his boss is.” Tom said, not trying to hide his irritation.

“Maybe he wasn’t allowed to tell us? Van Rensburg fired us, remember.”

“We quit. But still, all this secrecy is annoying. At least Akira figured it out.”

Tom spotted his luggage and lifted it from the conveyor belt. “What exactly is this Bohemian Club anyway? Never heard of it.”

Hellen continued scanning the message.

“I only know it’s an obscure event run by an even more obscure organization. I think I heard something about it once in a conspiracy podcast on Spotify.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Tom said with a grin.

Hellen scrolled further through the message.

“Okaaay …” Hellen distinctly stretched the last syllable. “This doesn’t just cross the boundaries of normality, it obliterates them.” Helen pointed to a bench at the edge of the baggage hall, sat down with her phone in hand, and leaned forward until her elbows rested on her knees. Tom sat down beside her.

The seriousness in Helen’s voice made him take notice.

“The Bohemian Club,” Hellen began, “is a fraternity, similar to an American college fraternity, founded in San Francisco in the 1870s. It started quite innocently as a community of artists, journalists, musicians, and others who wanted to engage intellectually outside their everyday lives. Jack London and Mark Twain were among its members. But it evolved into something … much more fascinating.”

The noise of the airport suddenly seemed to fade away. “Over the years, the club has evolved, becoming more and more secretive. Today, it’s a gathering of the richest and most influential men in the United States. It’s said that Fortune 500 CEOs, powerful politicians, and tech moguls meet at the Bohemian Grove, the club’s secret retreat in Monte Rio. Apparently, they leave business behind and let their hair down for two weeks. Bohemian lifestyle: music, theater, relaxation. The ultimate retreat for the ultimately powerful. Summer camp for billionaires, basically.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “A retreat … in today’s world, a gathering of power is never just a retreat.”

Hellen leaned back and nodded.

“I always thought it was just a conspiracy theory, a myth. But Akira’s research goes pretty deep,” said Hellen. “Every year, the meeting begins with a ceremony called ‘Cremation of Care,’” she murmured.

“That’s strange,” said Tom, pointing to a passage in the text. “A kind of theatrical performance that represents the banishment of worldly concerns and allows members a carefree life for the duration of the retreat. What does that mean?”

Hellen let out a short, sharp cry that was lost in the noise of the airport. “It gets even more bizarre. During the ceremony, they fake a human sacrifice, Tom. A dummy called Dull Care is ‘sacrificed’ to an oversized concrete owl statue they call Moloch.” Hellen’s jaw dropped slightly at the strange ritual and a mischievous smile played on Tom’s lips.

“And supposedly,” she continued, giving Tom an amused look, “the spectacle doesn’t stop there. In the middle of the forest, they perform musicals and plays, performed by these influential men who essentially run the world. Can you imagine? Billionaires and politicians on a stage in the middle of nowhere.”

“Sounds like a bunch of rich boys playing dress-up and drinking too much,” muttered Tom, unconvinced. “What does this have to do with van Rensburg? I can hardly see him standing on a forest stage in a Papageno costume, warbling the bird-catcher’s aria.”

“I think there’s more to it. The Bohemian Club isn’t just any association. It seems to be a network of power, secrecy, and covert operations, orchestrated by some of the most influential men in history,” said Hellen.

“And we’re supposed to sneak in there?” asked Tom. “Does Akira have any idea how we’re going to pull that off?”

CHAPTER 21

JOHN F. KENNEDY AIRPORT, NEW YORK, USA

“Welcome to New York City. We have just arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York City. Local time is 3:45 pm and the outside temperature is a pleasant seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit. Please remain seated until the fasten seatbelt sign has been turned off. Thank you for flying with us today.”

Everything inside the aircraft seemed to come to life as the announcement ended. Passengers pushed past each other to retrieve their luggage from the overhead compartments while excited chatter filled the cabin.

François Cloutard sat quietly by the window. The brim of his Panama hat cast a shadow over his face. His mustache twitched expectantly as he glanced over at Phoebe, still fast asleep beside him. Her fiery red hair framed her face, giving her a peacefulness that did not match the adventure they were about to embark on.

As the plane taxied to the gate, Cloutard realized once again how curious he was about the mysterious woman next to him. In their brief conversations so far, she had revealed little about herself and the mysterious Tesla papers she was after. He could only wonder what secrets might be hidden in those pages.

“Phoebe,” Cloutard whispered, gently shaking her awake. “We’re here.”

Her green eyes fluttered open, blinking away the remnants of sleep. She stretched and suppressed a yawn before turning to him. “Already?” she murmured, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Time flies.”

“Oui, that is true,” Cloutard agreed, his anxiety giving way to amusement for a moment. He couldn’t help but marvel at how quickly she had moved from deep sleep to wakefulness, as if a switch had been flipped and the scientist in her had awakened.

“Well, let’s get going,” Phoebe said resolutely, unbuckling her seatbelt and gathering her things as the plane came to a stop.

The honking of horns and the bustle of the city greeted Cloutard and Phoebe as they left JFK airport and climbed into a waiting taxi. With a practiced motion, Cloutard adjusted his Panama hat to shield his eyes from the sunlight as he slid onto the back seat.

“Manhattan, the New Yorker Hotel,” he instructed the driver before turning his attention back to Phoebe. “What exactly are we looking for, madame?” He said the last words with a playful a wink.

Phoebe smiled. “Not here,” she said. “We’ll talk in the hotel.”

Cloutard raised his eyebrows. Did she know more than she was revealing or was she was just being overly cautious? But he reminded himself that this kind of adventure wasn’t part of Phoebe’s everyday life.

The taxi wound its way through the dense New York traffic. They remained silent, both looking out of the window. The atmosphere of the Big Apple immediately captivated them—the intoxicating soundscape, the tireless energy of the city that never slept.

This became increasingly evident as the taxi made its way down the Van Wyck Expressway. In the distance, skyscrapers shimmered like kaleidoscopes against a sky that was beginning to take on the colors of the setting sun. They drove through the dense urban streets of Queens, the intersections teeming with noise and the inimitable vitality of the city.

Their route took them past Flushing Meadows Corona Park, a green patch in the otherwise gray city. The cityscape changed again as they crossed the Ed Koch Queensboro Bridge. The skyscrapers loomed closer. The sight of the glittering city left Cloutard in awe every time. He briefly recalled his first time in the USA, though it was a different city, Boston, and he was barely twenty years old. He couldn’t help but smile as he thought about his first heist. He was young and inexperienced and had made many mistakes back then. But Boston was where he had laid the foundation for his successful, if perhaps rather dubious, career.

Below them, the East River glittered, reflecting the city lights and the shadows of the bridges, while Cloutard watched Roosevelt Island pass by on his left, an oasis of calm amid the urban hustle. The final stretch along 10th Avenue revealed the heart of New York—the tall billboards of Times Square and the wild throngs of tourists milling among native New Yorkers. As they continued, they approached the unmistakable silhouette of the Empire State Building, standing like a lighthouse amid the other towering concrete blocks.

As they turned onto 34th Street, just a heartbeat away from what was once the tallest building in the world, the taxi stopped in front of the New Yorker Hotel. An art deco masterpiece, the hotel was a reminder of the city’s golden age.

Through the revolving door of the hotel, Cloutard and Phoebe entered the opulent lobby, an opulence reflected in the marble floors and ceiling paneling. The chandeliers cast a soft golden light on the busy room, where guests engaged in animated conversations and bellhops maneuvered luggage carts with practiced precision.

The keys to the two rooms, 3327 and 3328, were quickly handed over.

“How did we get these rooms at such short notice?” asked Phoebe. “Tesla fans from all over the world come here. The rooms are usually booked solid.”

Cloutard smiled as they walked to the elevator. “That was Akira’s doing. She worked a little hacker magic for us.”

“Oh, she’s part of the team too?”

“Oui, but you probably will not meet her anytime soon. She does not like going out.”

The elevator doors closed and they began to ascend. Phoebe’s eyes shone with excitement. Cloutard couldn’t help himself—he found this woman absolutely enchanting.

CHAPTER 22

A MASSIVE HALL BENEATH THE BASILICA OF OUR LADY OF PEACE, YAMOUSSOUKRO, IVORY COAST

Matthew stared in bewilderment at the hall before him, nearly the size of two football fields. The remains of a gigantic wooden ship, apparently professionally excavated, protruded halfway from the floor. Its timbers were old, very old. The marks of time were clearly visible, but the ship was still intact.

“Father Idrissa … what … what … Is this …?” he stammered, unable to form a complete sentence.

“Your assumption is correct, my brother,” the priest replied solemnly, his eyes filled with reverence. “It is Noah’s Ark.”

Matthew struggled to comprehend both the fact and its magnitude. This ancient vessel, a symbol of salvation and divine providence, had somehow found its way here and was buried in this crypt. He stepped closer, running his fingers over the rough wood, feeling the echoes of millennia flowing through him.

“Come,” urged Father Idrissa, leading him to the side of the ship, where a small shrine decorated with sun symbols stood.

The atmosphere around the shrine seemed pregnant with significance, charged with a strange mixture of holiness and ancient wisdom. Matthew felt goosebumps forming on his arms as Father Idrissa knelt before the shrine and murmured a prayer.

“Who built this shrine?” asked Matthew, eyeing the sun symbols curiously.

“We know little about them. Only their name has survived: The Servants of the Ancients,” explained Father Idrissa, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Father,” Matthew spoke hesitantly, “what does this have to do with the artifact? What is our purpose here?”

Father Idrissa beckoned Matthew toward the shrine, its sun symbols casting eerie shadows on the walls of the crypt. Together, they approached a small, artfully carved casket that stood in the center of the altar, emanating a sacred atmosphere.

“In this casket is another piece,” murmured Father Idrissa. Before lifting the lid, he crossed himself. As the priest reached inside, Matthew’s pulse quickened. He was eager to know what secret this second casket contained.

“Take this, Matthew,” said Father Idrissa solemnly, handing him a leather-wrapped object very similar to the first artifact. “It is now your responsibility to protect and preserve it.”

As the weight of the second artifact settled in Matthew’s hands, awe and apprehension flowed through him. He had barely had time to process the revelation of Noah’s Ark, and already he was being entrusted with another mysterious relic.

“What happens next, Father? Do you know my next destination?” His own question seemed foolish to him, given the revelations of the last few minutes, but Matthew had a mission to fulfill. The urgency in his voice made that clear.

Father Idrissa sighed and paused for a moment, as if carefully weighing his words. “The third and final piece is being watched over by Phidias’s statue of Zeus.”

Matthew blinked in disbelief, his mind racing at the impossibility of what he had just heard. The Zeus statue no longer existed; it was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, almost all of which had vanished from the face of the earth. Only the Great Pyramid of Giza had survived the ages. How could he retrieve something watched over by a statue that no longer existed?

“Father, I … I don’t understand,” stammered Matthew, his voice betraying his confusion. “How can I find something that no longer exists?”

“The truth always comes to light, even when it is hidden beneath the veil of myth and legend,” Father Idrissa answered cryptically. “You must trust in divine guidance and follow it.”

Frustration boiled up in Matthew. This wasn’t helping him. He needed answers, not more riddles. But he didn’t want to question Father Idrissa. Instead, he swallowed his doubts and nodded in agreement.

“The third piece is not as easy to find as the others,” said Idrissa quietly, his voice almost inaudible. “You must seek out the modern version of the Zeus statue. And watch for the red eyes.”

Matthew frowned, confused by Idrissa’s puzzling words. A modern version of the Zeus statue? And what could the red eyes possibly symbolize? He felt another surge of frustration but held his tongue and pondered.

“Father Idrissa, I don’t understand,” he finally admitted, trying to decipher the enigmatic message. “The statue no longer exists. How am I supposed to find a … modern version?”

“With a little research, you will discover that all of the ancient wonders have a modern descendant,” answered Idrissa patiently, his penetrating eyes full of conviction. “You must trust in God’s guidance. The path will reveal itself.”

“A modern descendant? You mean there are new versions of the old wonders?”

“You will figure it out. You are a clever man, otherwise the Holy Father would not have entrusted you with this mission.”

With these words, Father Idrissa turned and made his way back upstairs, while Matthew stood in the great hall, clutching firmly the two leather cases. One last time, he wanted to take in the sight of that wondrous place. Finally, he took a deep breath and followed Idrissa, determined to uncover the truth.

As they climbed the stairs, Matthew’s thoughts whirled like a cyclone, but found no solid ground. What could the modern version of the statue be? Where should he even begin his search? And what did the red eyes signify?

Father Matthew left the hall, the two cases secure in his hands.

“Good luck on your quest, Brother Matthew,” called Idrissa as their paths parted. “May God be with you.”

As Matthew moved away from the Basilica of Our Lady of Peace, the sun hung low in the sky, casting an eerie light across the landscape. In that moment, he realized that his understanding of the world had been irrevocably changed. “God help me,” he whispered as the sun sank below the horizon, plunging the world into shadow.

CHAPTER 23

SAN FRANCISCO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, CALIFORNIA, USA

“Akira really worked out a plan,” said Hellen. “She’s arranged for us to be part of the catering staff. We’ll pose as waiters and kitchen staff to gain access to the club’s inner circle.”

“I can’t hold more than two glasses without dropping them. And you can’t cook. Perfect cover.”

Hellen punched him in the side. “I can’t cook? Don’t say that.”

Tom pulled Hellen close and kissed her tenderly. “Honey, I love you, but you can burn tea.”

They both laughed heartily and forgot for a few seconds the task that lay ahead of them. For a moment, they were just a couple holding each other, simply enjoying the moment. Hellen looked into Tom’s eyes. “We have far too little time for ourselves,” she said. It wasn’t an accusation, just an observation.

Tom nodded. “You’re right. Maybe we should finally slow down a bit.” He kissed her on the forehead, and she held on to him in silence. Then Hellen pulled away a little and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

“Can we talk about this when this adventure is over and figure out how to move forward? Especially regarding our living situation. The houseboat just doesn’t work anymore.”

Again, Tom nodded. “Absolutely. As much as I like adventure and action, we’ve had more than our share in the last few years.”

“We haven’t always had a choice,” Hellen added, fearing that things wouldn’t change overnight. Then she pushed the thought aside. “Akira’s left a package for us in one of the lockers here. Let’s get it and the car and drive to the catering company. They’re in in Santa Rosa,” Hellen said with determination in her voice.

As they approached the car rental counter, they both felt the familiar adrenaline coursing through their veins—the thrill of a new adventure, which had become a strange normality for both of them.

“Good morning,” the employee greeted them with a smile. “How can help?”

“We have a reservation under Wagner,” replied Tom in his professional voice.

“Wagner, yes, here it is.” The employee tapped a few keys on the keyboard before handing him the rental agreement and a set of keys. As Tom completed the paperwork, the employee said, “Your car is in B12. Enjoy your time in California!”

“Thank you,” said Hellen, smiling politely as she turned to leave.

At the parking lot, Hellen grinned, and Tom rolled his eyes. “A Prius? Seriously?” he sighed. “I’m never letting Akira reserve a car again.”

“At least she cares about the environment,” Hellen grinned as they loaded their luggage into the trunk.

Tom started the Prius’s engine with an icy expression. Hellen tapped on the GPS screen and entered the address in Santa Rosa that Akira had sent them.

“All set,” she said, now firm and focused. “We have about an hour’s drive ahead of us. Akira said we should be there at 5:30 AM. In the meantime, I’ll try to find out more about the Bohemian Club.”

The color of the horizon shifted from deep black to rich blue, heralding the approaching sunrise as Tom and Hellen left the bustling city behind. Brightly lit skyscrapers gave way to suburbs, which eventually transitioned into gently rolling hills and sprawling vineyards.

Hellen continued reading. “Uh, Tom …” she said, exhaling audibly, “US presidents are also involved with the Bohemian Club.”

“Excuse me?” said Tom, raising his eyebrows. “Presidents? Plural?”

“Many presidents of the United States have been connected to the Bohemian Club.” Hellen’s eyes narrowed. “It started with Herbert Hoover. He supposedly wrote his acceptance speech for the Republican nomination at Bohemian Grove. It’s even claimed that the Manhattan Project, which led to the development of the atomic bomb, was discussed in those same secluded woods.”

Tom shook his head in disbelief. “Who else?”

Hellen counted off the names on her fingers: “Richard Nixon was a member before he took over the Oval Office. Reagan was also a member before becoming president. Then there were Eisenhower, Teddy Roosevelt, and even George Bush Senior and Junior were associated with this … club.”

She twisted her lips at the last word, emphasizing the frightening power embedded in the club. The Bohemian Club wasn’t just a playground for the powerful, but also a strange place where American history was mysteriously intertwined with secret rituals.

“Become a member and we’ll make you president,” joked Tom. “But let’s first focus on getting there,” he said.

“The catering company should be just up ahead,” said Hellen, glancing at the navigation.

As they drove through the charming streets of the sleepy town of Santa Rosa, Hellen couldn’t help but notice the contrast between their current surroundings and the world of intrigue and danger that took place behind people’s backs. “Take the next left.” Hellen pointed to a narrow street with picturesque shop windows and cozy cafes. “We’re almost there.”

As they turned onto the shopping street, the scent of freshly baked bread reached their noses, drawing their attention to the small catering company nestled between a flower shop and a café. An unassuming exterior of red brick and modest display windows gave little indication of what was going on behind the walls.

“Is this it?” asked Hellen.

“Looks like it,” confirmed Tom with a yawn, pointing to the simple sign above the entrance: “Culinary Creations.”

Tom turned off the engine, and the purr of the Prius gave way to peaceful silence. They got out and stepped into the mild California morning air.

“It’s so idyllic here. I love small Californian towns,” said Hellen. Tom looked at her, and she knew they were thinking the same thing. If they had a choice, they wouldn’t dive headfirst into the next adventure right away.

Tom pushed the door open and entered a dimly lit room that smelled of warm bread and spices. A gray-haired woman with a friendly smile greeted them from behind a counter. She eyed them curiously but didn’t seem surprised to see them.

“Can I help you?” she asked kindly but with reserve.

“Uh, yes,” stammered Tom, trying to settle into his new role. “We’re here about the open positions. We were asked to report here today.”

“Ah, of course,” the woman replied, relaxing. “I’m Martha, the manager. We need to hurry. I can only brief you quickly here. The buses to Bohemian Grove leave in half an hour. All the security checks will happen on-site.” She pushed her glasses down and looked at Tom and Hellen over the rims. “I know these security measures are annoying, but we have to be very strict. Journalists are always trying to sneak in. Best to leave your phones in the car—they’re strictly forbidden.”

Let’s hope Akira did a good job, Tom and Hellen thought simultaneously.

CHAPTER 24

NEW YORKER HOTEL, MANHATTAN

With a ping, the elevator stopped and Cloutard and Phoebe stepped out. Determined, she immediately set off.

“Have you been here before? In rooms 3327 and 3328?” asked Cloutard, his interest piqued when Phoebe, without hesitation, strode off ahead.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” Phoebe said excitedly. “I didn’t find anything though. But maybe a master thief can help!”

As Phoebe walked down the hallway, she suddenly stopped and turned around, and Cloutard nearly ran her over. For a few seconds, their faces were only inches apart, their bodies briefly touching, and it took a moment before they stepped away from each other. Cloutard could smell Phoebe’s perfume. “J’adore” by Christian Dior, thought Cloutard, captivated.

“Pardon,” Cloutard mumbled, lowering his gaze to the floor. “Uh … Phoebe,” he began cautiously, “you mentioned earlier that Tesla lived here.”

Phoebe had to smile. Cloutard was so flustered that he could think of nothing better to save the awkward situation.

“Yes,” she said, deciding to go along with it. “From 1933 until his death in 1943.” Immediately her green eyes lit up and her lips curved into a crooked smile. “They say he spent his final days here, working feverishly on his great invention. Let’s start here.”

Phoebe opened the door, which was adorned with a brass plaque: “3327 - The Nikola Tesla Room.”

They entered, and Cloutard groaned: “Oh, mon Dieu, it’s tiny.”

He looked around. Cloutard hadn’t exactly expected a suite, but he had imagined something more spacious. The room was utterly average. A bed, a nightstand, a wardrobe, and a door to the bathroom. All unremarkable.

“You know,” she began, her voice sounding excited, “there are theories that at the time of his death, Tesla was working on something truly groundbreaking. Something so revolutionary that it could have changed the world.”

“Really?” His fingers drummed distractedly on the flask he had pulled from his pocket. He was glad the embarrassing moment from before was already forgotten. They had a job to do here.

“Ah oui, mon ami,” Phoebe continued with a ready smile. “Some believe he was on the verge of finding a way to transmit energy wirelessly—not just electricity, but any kind of energy. Can you imagine what that would mean?”

“Mon Dieu,” Cloutard murmured, as the implications ran through his mind. “That would undoubtedly be a breakthrough. Such a discovery would have made him even more powerful than Edison.”

“Exactly,” Phoebe agreed, her gaze intense. “And that’s precisely why some people believe his work was deliberately suppressed. They say that powerful interests—like Edison and his allies—had too much to lose if Tesla’s discoveries became public.”

“Ah, the age-old battle between visionaries and those who profit from the status quo,” Cloutard thought. “But perhaps we should look around now.”

Phoebe leaned closer to him, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Some claim that Tesla’s most important records—including his research on wireless energy transmission—are hidden in this room, just waiting for someone brave enough to find them.”

But after about thirty minutes of turning the room upside down, it was clear there was nothing to be found.

“We still have a second chance,” said Cloutard. “We should search 3328 as well.”

Phoebe nodded, and they went to the room next door. Its door also carried a brass plaque: “3328 - The Nikola Tesla Study.”

The room looked like a clone of 3327. And again, the same frustrating result. Nothing.

“I think I need a drink now,” said Phoebe, looking expectantly at Cloutard.

He shrugged apologetically. “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to fill the flask since landing.” He unscrewed the cap and turned the flask upside down. Not a drop came out. “I think we need to consult room service.”

“Good idea,” said Phoebe. “Your place or mine?”

Cloutard looked at her in confusion. Her smile was seductive. “I mean, shall we drink the Louis XIII in room 3327 or 3328?”

“As Madame wishes,” said Cloutard, stroking his mustache and winking at her.

“Then we’ll just stay here.”

Cloutard reached for the phone and ordered a bottle of his favorite cognac and a bottle of still mineral water.

“Well then, Monsieur Cloutard,” Phoebe began playfully, barely able to contain her excitement. “Let me tell you something about the Tesla files that the FBI seized immediately after Tesla’s death, which was extremely suspicious in itself. For years, there have been rumors about an underground laboratory that Tesla built beneath New York. Some believe it’s where he conducted his most secret experiments, far from prying eyes.”

Cloutard frowned with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. “And you believe such a place exists?”

“Absolutely. I would even go so far as to claim that it’s located beneath this hotel,” Phoebe replied. “And if we were to find this hidden laboratory, we might uncover secrets that could change the world.”

At that moment, there was a knock at the door. “Room service,” a Spanish-accented voice squeaked.

CHAPTER 25

THE FOREST EDGE OF BOHEMIAN GROVE, MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

The catering company’s bus came to a stop, and Tom and Hellen got out with the others. They exchanged a glance before joining the bustle of crew members. The odor of coffee from one of the many stands set up at the forest’s edge hung in the air. The white tents of the catering company stood out against the green backdrop of tall pine trees.

“This way,” said one of the supervisors, pointing to one of the larger tents.

Inside the main tent, long stainless-steel tables gleamed under spotlights, waiting to be loaded with exotic foods from around the globe. Crates bearing the names of some of the world’s finest food and wine regions were scattered about, being unpacked.

“Security check first,” said another staff member, waving them on.

With pounding hearts, Tom and Hellen made their way to the check-in tent. The line of people ahead of them was long.

“I hope all this effort is worth it.”

Tom looked around. “On the one hand, this all looks like normal catering …”

“But on the other, there’s way too much security, isn’t there?” Hellen added quietly. Tom nodded thoughtfully.

As they approached the front of the line, they observed each staff member being thoroughly questioned. Beside the man asking the questions sat another employee, his fingers flying over his laptop keyboard.

“I hope Akira did her homework,” Hellen murmured, trying to cover her concern with a thin layer of humor.

“Doesn’t she always?” Tom whispered back, his eyes scanning their surroundings once more.

“We’re not paying her, remember? She still works for van Rensburg,” Hellen hissed.

“And yet she organized fake papers for us and left them at the airport. It’ll work out,” Tom reassured her.

“Next!” called the official, snapping Hellen out of her thoughts. She stepped forward, her hand holding the forged documents trembling only slightly.

“Name?” asked the man without looking up, his voice monotone and distant.

“Sylvia Trench,” Hellen answered, passing her papers to the man.

“Function?”

“Kitchen staff.”

Tom chuckled audibly when he heard the name. Hellen turned around and shot him a dirty look. He glanced down at his own documents and laughed again.

The man at the computer checked Hellen’s documents, while the man next to him peered sternly at his screen.

“Thank you, next.” “Name?” asked the man, again without looking up.

“Terence Young,” said Tom, and only Hellen saw how he struggled to keep from laughing.

The man checked his documents and looked at his computer neighbor, who suddenly turned to Tom.

“Terence Young? Isn’t that the …”

“Yes, busted. Same name as the director of the first James Bond film, ‘Dr. No,’” Tom said, grinning.

“Your parents must have been big 007 fans,” said the man at the computer. Tom’s expression briefly turned serious, but he quickly recovered.

“I guess they were,” he said.

“Thank you, everything’s in order. You can proceed to the briefing.”

“Who is Sylvia Trench?” Hellen asked as they walked toward the main tent.

“She was the first Bond girl. It was supposed to be a running gag. Sylvia Trench was meant to appear in every Bond film and never really get Bond. But she only made it into two films. Then the actress was fired.”

“Akira has adopted your weird sense of humor. I need to talk to her,” Hellen said.

They entered the main tent. Inside, a tense atmosphere prevailed as the new employees waited for their briefing.

“Welcome,” said a severe voice, cutting the air like a knife. A tall, imposing woman stood before them, her sharp gaze immediately falling on Tom and Hellen. “I’m Mrs. Bannister, your supervisor for this event.”

Hellen felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up as she studied the woman’s cold, unyielding expression. Something about her sent a shiver down Hellen’s spine, but she fought down the growing discomfort.

“Listen carefully, because I’ll only say this once,” Mrs. Bannister began in an uncompromising tone. “You must follow all rules and regulations on these grounds without asking questions. Any misconduct will not be tolerated and will result in immediate dismissal.”

A list of “dos” and “don’ts” followed. After each point, Mrs. Bannister looked scrutinizingly around the room. She paused for a moment and let the words sink in before continuing.

“The men serve as waiters, the women work in the kitchen. Women are not allowed to leave the kitchen tent. You are not to be seen on the grounds at all. This is a Bohemian Club requirement. You are at a prestigious event, and we expect nothing less than perfection.”

Hellen was annoyed by the sexist undertone in Mrs. Bannister’s speech. She exchanged a glance with Tom, who clenched his jaw in silent agreement.

“Why such a strict separation?” Hellen suddenly said aloud. Tom winced inwardly. They were undercover. They needed to do everything they could to avoid drawing attention.

“The Bohemian Club makes the rules. We’re just the company responsible for the catering. Any other relevant questions?” Mrs. Bannister said, looking around the room with narrowed eyes.

“None, ma’am,” answered Tom, his voice remaining impressively calm despite Hellen’s slip-up.

“Good. Then get to work.”

“What was that about?” asked Tom as they left the tent. “This isn’t the right time to discuss emancipation.”

“I know. But being relegated to the kitchen and not even being allowed out is pretty extreme.”

“You’re right,” said Tom. He thought it over for a moment but then couldn’t stop himself. “I like the women’s movement,” he said, and Hellen looked up at him. “As long as it’s rhythmic.”

“You’re an idiot,” she hissed, but couldn’t suppress a smile. She knew Tom, and she knew that while he might come across as macho, he would never think that they weren’t both one hundred percent equal.

“You two, over here,” called a wiry man in a catering uniform, waving Tom and Hellen over.

“Yes?” asked Hellen. She hoped they weren’t in trouble because of her slip-up.

“The transport is right over there,” the man said in a terse, efficient voice. “You’ll get your work clothes there, and we’ll take you to your stations.”

They followed the man, who walked ahead briskly.

“Damn it,” Tom suddenly hissed.

“What’s wrong?” Hellen’s breath caught in her throat as she followed his gaze.

Leaning against a car, with his characteristic authority, was none other than Wikus de Waal, Eon van Rensburg’s butler and bodyguard. And at that moment, he looked up. Their eyes met. Wikus’s hand was already reaching for his radio.

CHAPTER 26

THE NIKOLA TESLA ROOM, NEW YORKER HOTEL

The two cognac snifters clinked again.

The room service girl had brought the bottle of Louis XIII just ten minutes before, and they were already on their third glass.

“I grew up with three brothers who were big gin fans,” Phoebe said, almost apologetically. “So I can handle quite a bit.”

“I can tell,” said Cloutard. “But we should stop anyway. Louis XIII is far too precious to just throw back like this.”

Phoebe nodded and put down her glass.

“You’re right,” she said. “I was just about to get comfortable.”

She smiled, and Cloutard felt a genuine warmth in his heart. For the second time in a short period, he was reminded of his first stay in the USA, but this time it was because he had met his first great love in Boston back then. And not since that time had Cloutard felt something like that for another woman. Until today.

“Phoebe,” Cloutard said softly, touching her arm. His fingers were warm on her skin and sent a shiver through her system. “You know we need to continue our search …”

He trailed off as he pulled her closer. Their eyes met, and the world around them faded. And then, without another word, their lips met in a symbiosis of tenderness and passion.

Despite the urgency of their mission, Phoebe sank into the embrace, and her thoughts fell silent for a moment at the sensation of Cloutard’s hands on her back, his warm, inviting skin. She savored the undeniable attraction they shared.

“François,” she whispered as they finally parted, her breath coming in shallow draws. “I don’t know what it is between us, but⁠—”

“I cannot say what it is, either,” he admitted, his eyes searching hers with a vulnerability she had never seen before. “Je ne peux résister,” he whispered, and his voice swung with the unmistakable weight of desire. He pulled her to him again. With trembling hands, she unbuttoned his shirt. Phoebe felt his warmth on her skin as Cloutard undid her blouse, button by button.

As if driven by a force beyond their control, they stumbled back onto the bed, their bodies pressed tightly together in their passion.

“François,” Phoebe gasped between kisses, “I know we have other things to do, but⁠—”

“Oui,” he answered gently, brushing the red hair from her face. “This is no ordinary adventure, and you are no ordinary woman. Our meeting has changed me, awakened something in my heart that I did not know still existed.”

“Really?” she asked, her voice hopeful and vulnerable.

“Oui, vraiment,” he said. “I am not one for grand declarations of love, but what we have cannot be ignored.”

“I don’t want to keep ignoring it, either,” Phoebe admitted, kissing Cloutard on the neck and beginning to open his belt.

“Then let us not waste any more time,” Cloutard groaned.

CHAPTER 27

THE EDGE OF BOHEMIAN GROVE, MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

Tom didn’t waste any time either. His gaze swept left and right. They were standing by a row of tents pitched close together. For the moment, they appeared to be unobserved.

For Tom, everything now happened in slow motion. His body ran on instinct. No movement needed conscious thought or planning. In situations like this, he was on autopilot.

With one fluid motion, Tom rushed Wikus, precise and lightning-fast. Before Wikus could react, Tom’s arm was around his neck, holding him in a vise-like chokehold. A brief, futile struggle followed. Wikus clawed at Tom’s forearm, but his grip was unyielding.

“Go to sleep,” Tom whispered in Wikus’s ear, his voice cold and determined. Wikus’s eyes widened in panic, then slowly rolled back as he lost consciousness and his body went limp in Tom’s grip.

Around them, the catering staff continued their work, oblivious to the incident that had just taken place. The noise of clattering dishes and laughter drowned out any sounds of the brief struggle. Tom felt a flicker of relief when he saw that none of the staff had witnessed Wikus’s abrupt departure.

At the same moment, Hellen sprang into action. After so many adventures together, they were a perfectly coordinated team. She looked around and quickly found what she needed. As was typical at such events, there were plenty of useful items lying around. Gaffer tape and zip ties were available in abundance.

She gagged Wikus expertly, making sure the gag was tight enough to muffle any sounds but not so tight that he would suffocate.

“Take his hands,” she whispered, handing Tom a pair of zip ties before attending to Wikus’s legs.

Tom nodded and bound Wikus’s wrists with practiced efficiency. They could be discovered at any moment. Close by, the waiters and waitresses continued working, unaware of the dramatic scene unfolding just a few yards away behind Wikus’s car.

“Come on,” said Tom, “we need to get rid of him.”

Tom spotted the radio on Wikus’s belt and grabbed it. He quickly turned it off, clipped it to his own belt, and pulled his shirt over it. Then he drew Wikus’s pistol from its holster and tucked it into the back of his pants.

“Better safe than sorry,” Hellen said with a smile.

“That’s usually my line, but I’m happy to loan it to you,” said Tom, scanning their surroundings for potential witnesses. Together, they dragged the unconscious man to a delivery van parked behind Wikus’s car.

Hellen peered inside. The cargo area was filled with drink crates. Not an ideal hiding place, but it would have to do.

“Help me lift him,” Tom groaned, struggling under Wikus’s weight. They hoisted him up and maneuvered him behind the crates. It was very tight, but they managed to stow him securely.

Tom checked the restraints one more time. Hellen looked at her husband with concern. “What if he wakes up?”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t, and we should probably get a move on!” Tom replied grimly.

“Yes. We need to get inside before someone notices we’re missing,” said Hellen, taking one last look at the unconscious Wikus before Tom closed the truck door, locking him in darkness.

“What the hell is he doing here anyway?” Hellen asked as they made their way back to the main tent.

“No idea. Probably accompanying van Rensburg.”

“And why didn’t we just talk to him first?”

Tom thoughtfully tilted his head from side to side. “He saw us. And the first thing he did was reach for his radio. I don’t think he was going to welcome us with open arms. Since our relationship with van Rensburg has cooled, and Wikus already showed us that he wasn’t willing to tell us where van Rensburg was, I figured he’s not on our side,” said Tom. Hellen nodded in agreement.

“Hey, have you seen Wikus?” a young caterer suddenly asked.

“Wikus? Who’s that supposed to be?” Tom asked, surprised by his own spontaneity.

“One of our security guys. Tall, thin. Serious looking dude with a scar, black suit.” The young man immediately realized this wasn’t a particularly good description.

Tom felt the blood drain from his face and his pulse quicken. He glanced at Hellen, who looked equally unsettled, her eyes wide open and unblinking.

“Oh, him. He went to the bathroom. He ate at Denny’s early, and the Lumberjack Slam didn’t agree with him,” Tom lied casually. “He should be back soon.”

“Okay, thanks,” the man replied, turning away and disappearing into the catering crowd without another word.

As Tom and Hellen exchanged worried glances, they reality of their situation hit home. The clock was ticking. It was only a matter of time before they were discovered.

“Wikus is security. Just great. It won’t be long before someone notices he’s not answering his radio,” he said, pointing to his belt.

“By the way, it frightens me how well you can lie,” said Hellen.

“I’m always honest with you, my darling.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Hellen shot back.

CHAPTER 28

BOHEMIAN GROVE, MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

After being assigned to their stations, Tom emerged from one of the tents. A tray of glasses had been thrust into his hands moments before. Immediately, the atmosphere of the gathering enveloped him. A group of older men conversed animatedly, their discussion punctuated by soft laughter and meaningful glances. The clatter of dishes and the rustling of leaves in the surrounding trees filled the air, while sparkling glasses were raised for toasts or lowered after quick sips of champagne.

Tom thoughts turned briefly to Hellen. She had been dispatched to the kitchen and wasn’t much help to him at the moment.

Tray in hand, he mingled with the restless crowd. He had to concentrate hard to prevent the glasses from crashing to the ground after just a few steps. Fine motor skills weren’t his strong suit. He stopped repeatedly to look around, searching for van Rensburg. The man had something to hide, that much was clear. Too many clues suggested he was deeply involved in the whole affair. And the way he had dealt with them shortly before the Nostradamus case had dissolved any mutual trust.

But now he needed to focus on the immediate problem: walking with a full tray of glasses while simultaneously surveying the crowd, for Tom a seemingly impossible combination. He didn’t want to blow his cover in the first few minutes, so he had to keep the damn glasses on the tray.

The tension was palpable, hanging in the air as heavily as the smell of expensive cigars and aged whiskey.

Slowly and deliberately, Tom made his way through the crowd, consisting exclusively of men. The attendees had gathered around a small pond, and all seemed to be waiting for something. On the opposite shore, Tom could make out a small stage with a podium.

He had to pause repeatedly to look around. It didn’t help that men were constantly lifting glasses from his tray from all directions. First, the whole thing was already balanced precariously, and second, they were placing their empty glasses back on his tray.

Cliff diving, bungee jumping, shootouts, and car chases rarely fazed Tom. This, however, stressed him more than any of those. But he suddenly smiled as his eyes locked onto his prey: Eon van Rensburg.

“Got you,” he murmured quietly, and a feeling of relief spread through him.

With each step Tom took toward van Rensburg, it seemed to get easier. Suddenly he no longer needed to focus on the glasses on the tray. The crowd was no longer in his way; it was his cover. Van Rensburg suspected nothing, his attention focused entirely on the whiskey glass he was turning thoughtfully in his hand.

“Excuse me,” Tom said softly as he passed a man in a Navy dress uniform. Rear admiral, thought Tom, remembering his deceased uncle, Admiral Scott Wagner. This man wasn’t the first who looked familiar to Tom. There were indeed many men there who decided the fate of the world.

The admiral gave him a brief glance before returning to his conversation. Tom thought he recognized a former CIA director in the circle around the admiral and could only hope that no one was there who knew him from the White House or from his escapades with DARPA and the FBI.

Focus, Tom reminded himself as he continued on his way, well aware that one wrong move or false glance could jeopardize the entire mission.

He reduced the distance between them—just a few more steps and he would be directly behind van Rensburg. He had worked out a plan, but exactly how he would implement it wasn’t so clear to him at that moment.

Just before he reached van Rensburg, the crowd grew restless. Everyone moved closer to the stage. Although Tom had nothing to do with the gathering, he sensed that the atmosphere had suddenly changed. For the first time, he truly perceived the place and its apparent magic.

The clearing with the pond stood in stark contrast to the dense forest of Bohemian Grove that surrounded it: an oasis of openness amidst secrets and shadows. Sunlight glittered on the still water and cast mystical rays of light through the trees.

“My dear friends, may I have your attention?” a voice interrupted the hushed conversations. “The main presentation of this year’s camp is about to begin.”

Tom had to decide. Would it be easier to isolate van Rensburg from the crowd during the speech, or would it complicate his plan?

Applause erupted, and all eyes turned to the stage. Tom sensed that his chance had come. He just needed to get rid of his tray. He scanned the crowd. Directly behind van Rensburg, he spotted an abandoned podium with several empty glasses already on it. All five men who had been gathered around the podium just moments before had now turned toward the stage and were standing a few steps away. Boldly, Tom set down his tray and reached behind to his waistband where he had hidden the gun. It hadn’t been easy to position his shirt to cover the weapon while maintaining the look of a well-dressed waiter.

Applause spread across the clearing like ripples on the surface of a pond as the speaker took the stage. Tom’s heart beat a little faster, and with each beat, his determination to close the gap between himself and van Rensburg grew. He weaved through a handful of other presumably influential people, their excited murmurings merely a backdrop to the silent chase playing out before them.

“… and so, without further ado, I present our esteemed guest!” The voice announced, but Tom paid no attention. His entire being was focused on one person: van Rensburg. Like a predator stalking its prey, Tom edged ever closer to his target.

“Excuse me,” he murmured softly as he passed a dignitary, not noticing the man’s raised eyebrow.

“Can you believe it?” someone nearby whispered, their words barely comprehensible among the ongoing conversation on all sides. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when …”

Tom ignored the rest of the words and pressed on. A man appeared on stage, and the applause died down, but Tom’s gaze remained fixed on van Rensburg. Everyone else was focused on the stage.

Tom had almost made it; his hand moved back to the gun. His fingers grasped the grip, ready to draw and press it into van Rensburg’s side.

The crowd around him fell silent, their attention now directed at the stage.

“The world will never be the same,” began the speaker on the stage, his voice sweeping over the silent crowd.

Tom froze, his hand still on the pistol. His heart skipped a beat, only to hammer against his chest twice as hard a moment later. He recognized the voice instantly. He would have known it among a thousand others. But it took a second for the information that Tom’s ears delivered to his brain to be processed by his consciousness, and a few more for the confusion to dissipate and for him to form a clear thought. For the first time, he turned away from van Rensburg and looked at the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the man said with an authoritative tone, “I stand before you today to speak about a topic of great importance: the discovery of perpetual energy and the competitive advantages this will give the United States of America.”

The crowd murmured.

The man speaking should actually be sitting in a high-security prison, Tom thought. He himself had handed him over to the authorities after storming the yacht Avalon and dismantling the Absolute Freedom terrorist organization. And yet here he was, on the stage, surrounded by the most important men in the United States, all of them hanging on his every word.

On stage stood Noah Pollock. Tom’s former best friend and now archenemy.

CHAPTER 29

ROOM 3328, THE NIKOLA TESLA STUDY, NEW YORKER HOTEL, MANHATTAN

The air in the hotel room was heady with the passion that had left visible traces on both François and Phoebe. Cloutard’s gaze swept over the rumpled sheets, the bottle of Louis XIII with the two glasses on the nightstand, and the clothing scattered randomly across the floor. The sun bathed the room in a warm, golden light that only enhanced the sensual atmosphere.

“That was …” Phoebe sighed contentedly, “extraordinary.”

“Extraordinary?” asked Cloutard, looking at her with amusement. “You must have British roots. No American woman would use a word like ‘extraordinary’ to describe what happened in the last hour.”

Phoebe laughed lightly, a hint of redness flushing her cheeks—either from exertion or a touch of embarrassment. Whatever it was, Cloutard loved it.

As they lay in bed, their bodies enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and intimacy, Cloutard had to admire how Phoebe’s figure melded perfectly with his own. Her soft red hair nestled like silk against his chest, her supple legs wrapped around him, conveying a sense of vulnerability and trust. He breathed in the scent of her body and felt his heartbeat synchronize with hers as they shared this special moment together.

As his fingers traced the curve of her spine from her buttocks upward, he discovered a small wound on the lower part of her neck. It looked like a scratch, the skin around it slightly raised and reddened. Curious, he wondered what might have caused such an injury, but as a gentleman he chose to say nothing about it—he didn’t want to intrude or make her feel uncomfortable in this tender moment. He did not want to risk destroying the magic of that moment.

Instead, he let his hand wander back down her spine, his touch gentle and soothing. He glanced at the two half-empty glasses on the nightstand, considering whether to refill them with another round of Rémy Martin Louis XIII.

“A little more cognac, chérie?” he asked, his fingers already reaching for the bottle.

“Thank you, François,” Phoebe answered with a smile, gently placing her hand on his to stop him. “I think I’ve had enough to drink for today.”

As Cloutard watched her, he noticed a subtle change—her eyes seemed to cloud over, as if she were remembering something.

“Is everything all right?” he asked with concern.

Phoebe exhaled slowly, and her gaze refocused on Cloutard. “Yes, of course. I had a strange experience a few days ago. I probably had a few drinks too many. It was a kind of … blackout.”

“Blackout?”

Cloutard leaned forward to kiss her tenderly. As their lips met, her thoughts seemed to disappear for a moment, replaced by the warmth they found in each other’s embrace.

“It was after the meeting at the Smithsonian. The leader of the meeting, Oswald Hubbard, approached me afterward and invited me for a drink.”

“That was the man who gave you Tom as a contact person, n’est-ce pas? And after the drink, you had a blackout?” asked Cloutard.

“Right,” said Phoebe, stroking Cloutard’s chest lightly.

“Alors … Oswald Hubbard.” Cloutard stroked his mustache thoughtfully, “The name still doesn’t ring a bell,” he said with forced indifference, but his sixth sense had been triggered. He had decades of experience sensing trouble, and now his alarm bells were ringing.

“Tell me more about him,” Cloutard urged, his curiosity piqued as he watched her struggle to recall the blurry details.

“He seemed so sure of himself, as if he knew things others didn’t,” she continued, frowning. “Oh, I have a photo of him,” she said, sitting up in bed and glancing at her handbag.

“A photo?”

“Yes, he asked me for one. He said he was a big Tesla fan and admired my work,” Phoebe explained.

Quickly, Cloutard ran through his mental list of scams. Over the years, he had dealt with impostors and con artists of every kind. He knew all the tricks.

“But after the blackout, nothing was missing? I mean, you weren’t robbed, or …?”

Phoebe shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

Then she stood up, and Cloutard felt himself becoming aroused once again by her elfin figure. But he suppressed the urge. He needed to know what was going on, and what role this mysterious man might play in their current situation.

Phoebe rummaged through her handbag and found her phone. Then she bent down, collected her panties and bra, and put them on. Cloutard acknowledged this with a disappointed face, but at the same time, he looked forward to taking them off again. Then she jumped back into bed with him. After another passionate kiss, she unlocked her smartphone.

“Let’s see if I can find the photo,” she said. Her fingers moved purposefully across the screen as she scrolled through her gallery. Cloutard watched her attentively. “Where is it?” she mumbled quietly to herself, frowning in frustration. “I know I took it.”

Her fingers moved skillfully across the screen, flipping through countless photos, searching for the one she couldn’t find. The seconds passed, and Cloutard could see her frustration growing—but she was determined to find the image and show it to him.

“Ah! Here it is!” Phoebe exclaimed triumphantly. She held her phone out to Cloutard. His gaze immediately fell on the face of the man standing next to Phoebe in the photo. It was a face he knew all too well.

“Mon Dieu,” breathed Cloutard, his horrified expression reflecting the sinister premonition that had seized him. The relaxed atmosphere they had shared just moments before seemed like a distant memory, replaced by a threatening cloud of apprehension.

“What’s wrong, François? Do you know this man?”

“Oui,” said Cloutard. “Too well. And he really told you his name was Oswald Hubbard and that he works for the US president?”

Phoebe nodded slowly. She sensed that something had happened that would change everything.

“His name is Noah Pollock,” Cloutard said, unable to hide the tremor in his voice. “He is a dangerous man and should be in prison right now. He is a former Mossad agent. If he is out there claiming to work for the American president, we need to be very careful.”

“Are you saying he’s behind all this?” asked Phoebe, her voice barely above a whisper. She was slowly becoming aware of just how serious the situation was.

“Perhaps,” Cloutard answered, a slew of possibilities running through his mind. Phoebe’s picture of Noah Pollock seemed to etch itself into Cloutard’s brain, triggering a sudden storm of doubt and mistrust. He felt the tendrils of paranoia creeping into his thoughts. The woman he had loved, the woman with whom he had shared such intimate moments—could she be connected to this dangerous man? Was she truly as innocent as she appeared?

His gaze shifted from the photo to Phoebe, searching her face for signs of deception. She looked back at him, nothing but concern in her expression, but that did little to alleviate his unease.

“François, what’s wrong?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly. “You’re scaring me.”

“Phoebe, I need to know,” Cloutard began with a firm voice that nevertheless held a trace of vulnerability. “Are you involved with Noah Pollock?”

He knew how foolish the question was, of course. If she were a fraud, she would not admit it to his face. The very fact that he had asked the question and expected an honest answer from her showed how vulnerable he was. It was a personal trait he knew all too well—and he hated it. It would not be the first time that his love for a woman could lead him to ruin.

Clearly distressed, Phoebe looked at Cloutard but didn’t answer.

“Forgive me, chérie,” Cloutard sighed, struggling for composure. “But when it comes to Noah, I cannot take any risks. This man is looking for revenge. It can only be malicious intent that made him send you to us.”

“If I’m involved with him?” repeated Phoebe, stunned by the accusation. “No. Of course not. I barely remember him, let alone have anything to do with him.”

Her voice had turned icy. She seemed hurt.

But before she could say any more, the door to the room suddenly shattered under the force of a powerful kick, and wood splinters flew across the room. Time seemed to slow down as Cloutard and Phoebe turned toward the door, their eyes wide with shock.

CHAPTER 30

BOHEMIAN GROVE, MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

Tom clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. Noah. Standing up there. Captivating the audience with his magnetic presence. Tom couldn’t believe it. It made him sick how easily his former friend turned traitor could bewitch this crowd of possibly the most powerful men in the world.

Once, they had been brothers in arms—Tom as a member of the elite Cobra unit, Noah as a Mossad agent—until that fateful day when Noah was confined to a wheelchair after a failed joint mission. At first, Noah had feigned friendship, only to stab him in the back at a crucial moment. A moment that also cost Tom’s Uncle Scott his life.

Since then, Noah had become his archenemy, rapidly climbing the ranks within Absolute Freedom. Now, quite obviously, he had arrived directly at the gates of power. Noah’s change of sides, at some level, was understandable—AF had allowed Noah to walk again, funding and providing an experimental treatment.

How and what Noah had to do with this whole affair wasn’t yet clear to Tom, but he was convinced that Noah was involved. He knew there was more to the story, with the hidden secrets and all the illusions that Noah had so skillfully constructed.

Damn it, Tom thought bitterly as he looked toward the stage. “He’s got them eating out of his hand.”

But he couldn’t allow his feelings for Noah to distract him from the task at hand. His target: Eon van Rensburg, his former boss, billionaire entrepreneur and art collector, who held the key to solving the mystery surrounding the Fabergé eggs.

Taking a deep breath, Tom silently pushed his way through the crowd again. He was just a few steps away from van Rensburg. “Almost there,” he murmured to himself and grinned sardonically. The inside joke amused him a little, and his bitterness at Noah’s presence dissipated. He was focused again.

The crowd’s attention was fixed firmly on Noah, and Tom used the distraction to approach his target. Quietly, unnoticed, he slid the pistol from his waistband and in one fluid motion pressed it into van Rensburg’s back. The billionaire flinched.

“Hello, Mr. van Rensburg,” Tom said in a quiet, calm voice. “We have something to discuss. Don’t make a scene.”

Van Rensburg’s face changed color, and his eyes widened. He recognized Tom’s voice immediately and knew how serious he was. Van Rensburg had witnessed many times what Tom was capable of. The billionaire tried to maintain his composure—no easy task. His fingers balled into a fist and his knuckles turned white.

“What do you want, Mr. Wagner?” stammered van Rensburg as sweat broke out on his forehead. He had pronounced Tom’s last name in German, knowing exactly how much it could drive Tom up the wall.

“This is the wrong time for jokes like that. I want answers,” said Tom.

“Answers? To what?” whispered van Rensburg, looking around. No one noticed anything. Applause had just erupted, but neither he nor Tom quite caught what had been said on stage.

“Let’s take a walk,” suggested Tom, nodding toward the large kitchen tent. “Somewhere we can talk in private.”

“Of course,” agreed van Rensburg, his voice trembling.

“Move it,” hissed Tom, and van Rensburg slowly walked ahead. “Remember,” Tom said, pressing the pistol a little more firmly into van Rensburg’s back. “One wrong move and it’s all over.”

Van Rensburg nodded almost imperceptibly as they moved away from the gathered crowd. Each step taken with caution, the two men passed through the crowd. Like shadows, unseen and unnoticed.

“Where are we going?” asked van Rensburg through clenched teeth.

“The kitchen tent,” Tom answered curtly. “Hellen is also very excited to see you.”

Between the closely packed tents of the kitchen staff, van Rensburg could already see Hellen.

“Mr. van Rensburg, hello,” she said. She appeared less harsh, as though she was a little uncomfortable putting her former employer in such a position. But as so often, the end justified the means.

“Dr. de Mey,” said van Rensburg with strained voice, forcing himself to smile.

Hellen approached Tom and whispered in his ear. “Is that Noah on the stage?”

Tom nodded bitterly.

“We’ll deal with that later. One thing at a time,” he said. He turned back to van Rensburg. “You’re going to tell us everything about the Fabergé eggs, now. No games, no lies. Just the truth. Why are you searching for them so desperately?”

“They’re just … collector’s items, like everything else. You know my personal collection at my house in South Africa,” stammered van Rensburg, trying to sound indignant. “They’re unique pieces of art history that I’d like to call my own.”

“Oh, cut the crap,” Tom snapped, sounding irritated. “We already know there’s more to these eggs than meets the eye.”

“You mean apart from the fact that they’re worth millions?” said van Rensburg defensively.

“Don’t push me too far,” said Tom, quickly glancing around. He searched van Rensburg’s face for a sign of guilt or fear. “You wouldn’t be looking for them so desperately if they were just another showpiece in your collection, would you?”

Van Rensburg remained silent. He was visibly struggling with himself.

“We’ve found another egg,” Hellen suddenly said in a much more conciliatory tone. By now, Tom and Hellen had perfected their “good-cop-bad-cop” routine.

Van Rensburg looked at her in surprise.

“François has one of the eggs, the Nécessaire Egg, in his safe in Luxembourg,” said Hellen, and van Rensburg’s gaze narrowed. He wanted to say something but then decided against it. “We opened it and found a sheet of paper inside,” Hellen continued. “It appears to be from Nikola Tesla and contains part of a formula. That surely means something to you, doesn’t it?”

At the mention of Tesla, van Rensburg’s eyes widened and his breath caught, causing his mask to drop for a moment. Hellen, the attentive observer, noticed the flash of panic in his eyes. She furrowed her brow and her gaze became suspicious.

“Tesla?” repeated van Rensburg, his voice betraying his confusion. “You’re talking about Nikola Tesla, the famous inventor, right? What does he have to do with Fabergé eggs?”

“Don’t act so innocent. You certainly know that Tesla has a great deal to do with them,” Tom replied curtly. The muscles in his jaw twitched as he worked to suppress his impatience. “But we don’t have time for a history lesson now. What we want to know is what you’re hiding about the eggs!”

“No—nothing!” Van Rensburg stuttered, his palms growing moist. “I swear it!”

“Wrong answer.” Tom pressed the gun harder into van Rensburg’s back, eliciting a flinch from the billionaire. “You’re going to tell us everything you know about these eggs. Now!”

The tension was palpable, each breath feeling heavier than the last. Hellen looked around nervously, knowing that time was running out.

“All right. Fine,” Van Rensburg finally said. “It’s true. I’m searching for the Fabergé eggs for a very specific reason.” Van Rensburg’s gaze darted around, searching one last time for a way out. But he could see that no one would come to his aid. They were standing between two closely positioned tents. The kitchen and service staff were frantically preparing for the end of the speech. The attendees’ attention was directed toward the stage and Noah. No one was taking any notice of the trio. “Very well,” said van Rensburg with an audible sigh. “You want the truth? You’ll get it. But you’ll never believe me!”

CHAPTER 31

LINCOLN MEMORIAL, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA

Father Matthew stood alone on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, letting his gaze sweep the horizon as the sun disappeared behind the skyline. Tourists milled about, their voices mingling with the whistling wind as they admired the imposing stone figure of Abraham Lincoln. Despite the bustling surroundings, Father Matthew was lost in thought.

Turning to faith a few years earlier, he had wanted to leave his past behind forever. But clearly, that wasn’t being made easy for him. He had moved on from all that. The secret operations around the world, the targeted killings, the excuses that everything he did was only serving national security. He knew he had committed many sins, and he had been glad when he saw the light of faith on the horizon. Faith had guided him through his post-traumatic stress disorder, had helped him come to terms with his past and find new meaning in life. He could sleep again, even if not always soundly. Everything seemed to be going well until this assignment came along—one he was only given because of his military background, and which not only forced him back into “mission mode” but also required him to reactivate contacts from his former life.

Father Idrissa had been right. It had only taken a little research to figure out what the priest had meant with his cryptic messages. A quick call to Colonel Cynthia Barr, a very surprised former colleague at the Defense Intelligence Agency—the military intelligence service and umbrella organization for the intelligence services of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Coast Guard, and Marine Corps—had quickly brought clarity.

As he gazed at the grand monument, he pondered the information he had received since landing in Washington. Although Colonel Barr had repeatedly emphasized that what she was telling him were not facts but actually only a small and harmless conspiracy theory, Father Matthew’s gut told him he was on the right track.

It indeed seemed as if the USA had gradually rebuilt the seven wonders of the ancient world. He had learned that the Woolworth Building in New York City bore striking similarities to the ancient Lighthouse of Pharos. Then there was Fort Knox, whose layout followed the model of the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus. And the United States Supreme Court building represented a 1:1 copy of the Temple of Artemis. Father Matthew almost smiled at the stories surrounding the Rose Garden in the White House and its symbolic bow to the Hanging Gardens of Semiramis. And then, of course, there was the ancient Colossus of Rhodes, the torch in his hand raised high into the sky. Father Matthew was still amazed that he had never noticed the parallel with New York’s most famous landmark.

Are these just coincidences or is there more to it? Perhaps a hidden message? thought Father Matthew, furrowing his brow pensively. The former Army Ranger, now a man of faith, couldn’t shake the feeling that these parallels had a deeper meaning that might bring him closer to fulfilling the mission entrusted to him by the Pope.

Matthew’s gaze fell on the imposing statue of Abraham Lincoln, and he was inevitably reminded of another godlike figure from history—Zeus. He recalled his conversation with Colonel Barr, who was fascinated by how much the depiction of Lincoln resembled the ancient Greek deity. The Lincoln Memorial and Phidias’s ancient Zeus statue could be twins. The thought had stayed with Father Matthew. These could not be coincidences.

Fascinated and determined, he decided to examine the monument more closely, hoping to find hidden clues that might lead him closer to the sought-after prize.

As he approached the statue, Father Matthew’s trained eye scanned every inch of the monument. He examined the intricate carvings on the walls, the subtle differences in the texture of the stone, and even the patterns created by the shadows cast by the towering figure above him. Like a seasoned detective, he searched for anything unusual, any sign that could point him in the right direction.

“Look closely, Matthew,” he whispered to himself, his breath fogging in the cool evening air. “There must be something.”

His fingers traced the edges of the engravings, feeling the tiny grooves that hid secrets he knew were eluding his grasp. His eyes moved from one corner of the monument to another, examining every minute detail as if trying to coax answers from the stones. As inconspicuously as possible, he examined every inch of the entire Lincoln Memorial, but to no avail.

God, give me the wisdom to see what is hidden before me, he prayed silently, his eyes never leaving the monument in front of him.

He exhaled audibly, but he couldn’t shake the feeling gnawing at his resolve. As the sunlight dimmed and cast long shadows across the monument, his desperation grew. “Perhaps the clue isn’t here,” he whispered, running his fingers over the cold granite one last time. “Lord,” he breathed, clasping his hands together in fervent prayer, “give me a sign that I’m on the right path. Show me the way, if not for my sake, then for the sake of those who rely on me.”

As the sun sank below the horizon, the tourists dispersed, leaving Matthew virtually alone in the deepening twilight. The imposing monument loomed over him.

“Is this your will?” he asked, his voice bitter in the still air. “To leave me without direction?”

Father Matthew sat on the cold stone steps of the monument, darkness beginning to envelop him like a shroud. His head hung low, defeat etched in every line of his face.

As if in response, two red lights suddenly flashed on in the distance, on the capstone of the massive Washington Monument obelisk, which stood facing the Lincoln Memorial, the two monuments separated by the Washington Mall. For a moment, Father Matthew sat completely dumbfounded.

“Of course!” he whispered, “The Washington Monument. Its height above sea level is the same as the Great Pyramid of Giza, another wonder of the world.” He sighed and turned back to the statue. “And Lincoln watches over it.”

Could it be that simple? Had he been searching in the wrong place all along? The red lights flashed again, staring at Father Matthew like two red eyes. They were warning signals for planes landing at the nearby Reagan Airport. But to Father Matthew, they meant much more.

With renewed determination, he rose from the steps. He took a deep breath and strode away purposefully toward the Washington Monument. His steps gradually quickened until he finally broke into a run.

CHAPTER 32

BOHEMIAN GROVE, MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

Van Rensburg was about to speak when thunderous applause erupted once again. For the first time since bringing van Rensburg here, Tom thought about Noah and wondered what his presentation was about that was generating such enthusiasm. He knew it would give them one hell of a headache later.

“I collect these Fabergé eggs,” van Rensburg whispered, “because I know that one of them contains something very valuable.”

Tom shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a feeling of uneasiness taking over his body.

“We already know that,” he said impatiently. “We just want to know what you have to do with it. And by the way, there was no stone in Cloutard’s egg. Just Tesla’s formula.”

“Where is the egg now?” asked van Rensburg.

“Still in Cloutard’s safe in Luxembourg. But like I said, there was no stone in it. Could you finally tell us what the deal is with these things?”

“Could it be that Tesla had one of them?” asked Hellen, barely audible through the applause that once again accompanied Noah’s speech.

Van Rensburg looked indecisively at the ground and tapped his fingertips thoughtfully against his chin. “It’s possible,” he admitted. “But if that’s true, and Tesla had already begun experimenting with it, then we have a real problem. Because then we’d be dealing with forces that we cannot comprehend. From what I’ve read, Tesla could perform many simulations in his head. He probably recognized the terrible potential already.”

Hellen looked at van Rensburg and instinctively sensed how difficult it was for him to reveal the whole truth.

“Mr. van Rensburg,” she said with emphasis, “I feel like you’re still hiding something from us. What do you mean by Tesla recognizing the terrible potential?”

Van Rensburg closed his eyes for a moment, as if collecting himself. He breathed in and out audibly a few times and opened his eyes again.

“If I didn’t know that you two have already been through several adventures involving strange artifacts, I would be even more hesitant to tell you what I’m about to.”

Hellen felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise, and Tom also looked tense.

“The three stones you’re talking about come from Atlantis.”

For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Coincidentally, Noah also made a brief dramatic pause in his speech just then, presumably to emphasize something special. For a moment, one could only hear the wind whistling through the trees.

By now, Hellen used to this kind of news and had adopted quite a bit of Tom’s cynicism. “Nice. Atlantis was missing from our bucket list anyway,” she said nonchalantly.

Van Rensburg looked at her in confusion. Tom also seemed to be taking the news in stride. Apparently, the billionaire had expected a more emotional reaction.

Tom and Hellen looked at van Rensburg expectantly. “And? What else?” Tom asked.

Van Rensburg shrugged briefly and decided that the two were probably quite hardened when it came to the great open questions of humanity. “Together, these three stones are the source of eternal energy.”

Tom’s eyes widened, but van Rensburg already knew what he was going to say. “Yes, exactly what’s being covered in that presentation right now.”

“How do you know this about the stones? Or better yet, how do you know it’s not complete nonsense?” asked Hellen, the scientist in her emerging again.

“During the affairs with Medusa and Nostradamus, you have already heard of the Servants of the Ancients.”

Tom and Hellen nodded.

“The ‘Ancients’ refers to the Atlanteans, the first civilization that existed on Earth. And the Servants of the Ancients are the direct heirs to the knowledge of the Atlanteans.”

Van Rensburg spoke the last sentence with evident pride. Hellen immediately made the connection.

“And you’re one of these Servants of the Ancients?” she asked.

Van Rensburg nodded. “Recently, I’ve even become the Supreme Servant,” he said.

“Like a butler?” said Tom, which earned him a withering glare from van Rensburg.

“Just ignore him,” said Hellen. “We binged ‘Downton Abbey’ during our honeymoon. Since then, he thinks he knows all about servants.”

Van Rensburg shook himself briefly as if to banish Tom’s silly interjection from his mind.

“More precisely, I became the Supreme Servant after Damjam Mandalov died,” said van Rensburg.

That genuinely surprised both Hellen and Tom.

“Mandalov sacrificed himself to prevent more stones from being created by Medusa’s gaze.”

“What?” said Tom. “Now I’m lost.”

“Let me explain it more clearly,” said van Rensburg, his voice barely audible because the crowd had once again grown loud. “The Atlanteans were the first advanced civilization on Earth. No one knows where they came from, but we do know that they experimented with the three stones and with eternal energy. However, that didn’t end well,” said van Rensburg with a serious expression. “Our ancestors used these stones to achieve unimaginable power and technological advances. But they also learned that using this power comes with a terrible price.”

Tom felt the weight of this revelation settle on his shoulders. He glanced at Hellen, who looked equally concerned.

“And what was the terrible price?” asked Hellen.

“The Atlanteans stopped experimenting with the stones because … because they almost destroyed the Earth with them,” van Rensburg answered with reverence. His eyes were dark and tormented, as if he carried the burden of his ancestors’ actions.

“According to our ancient texts,” he continued, “the power of the three stones together caused unimaginable natural disasters. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, storms of apocalyptic proportions—including the greatest flood the world has ever experienced.”

“The great flood? The flood mentioned in the Bible?” Hellen almost choked on her question as she imagined the devastation and terror that must have seized the people of Atlantis as their world collapsed around them. She glanced at Tom, who was listening attentively, his expression grim.

“So much power … No wonder the Mantis wants the stones,” murmured Tom.

“Indeed,” agreed van Rensburg, his voice filled with regret. “But our ancestors weren’t entirely without wisdom. When they recognized the catastrophic consequences of their experiments, they took measures to ensure that knowledge of the stones would be preserved but never again used by those who cannot control their power.”

“Measures?” asked Tom, his curiosity piqued.

“One of the three stones can be destroyed. And they did that, knowing that the stone could be recreated by Medusa.”

“Of course! That’s why Mandalov destroyed Medusa’s head. But what does Medusa have to do with Atlantis?” asked Hellen.

“Parts of Greek mythology are not simply invented. They go back to the real world of the Atlanteans. But the Atlanteans did even more. They built a massive ship that could survive even the worst catastrophes and filled it with the sum of their knowledge—including the secrets of the magical stones.”

“Wait,” Hellen interrupted, her eyes widening in realization. “Are you talking about Noah’s Ark?”

“Exactly,” confirmed van Rensburg with a hint of pride in his voice. “It’s much more than a myth or a religious story; it’s a testament to the ingenuity and determination of the Atlanteans to protect their legacy. Civilizations like the Egyptians and the Greeks emerged from knowledge that the Atlanteans managed to save.”

“So parts of Egyptian mythology are also based on real events?” asked Hellen.

Van Rensburg nodded. Tom and Hellen were impressed.

“Okay, let’s take it slow,” said Tom. “Just to summarize again …”

Tom paused briefly to review what he’d heard. Suddenly, Noah’s voice in the background became a little louder, and all three listened to what he said: “I’m here to talk about an incredible breakthrough that will change the course of history. Together with DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, we have worked tirelessly to tap into the ultimate energy source—eternal, limitless, and clean.”

Tom exchanged an uneasy look with Hellen and van Rensburg. The implications of what Noah was saying were staggering—and terrifying.

“Imagine a world without power shortages, where energy is abundant and accessible to everyone,” Noah continued, his voice radiating false enthusiasm. “We are on the threshold of such a world, my friends. We are about to hold this technology in our hands. And with it, our small circle here—we alone—will control the most important market in the world: energy!”

“Is he talking about doing exactly what the Atlanteans wanted to prevent? Something that could destroy the Earth?” whispered Hellen. Her voice was barely audible as thunderous applause filled the forest.

“Definitely,” murmured Tom. This was bad. Very bad. If Noah and DARPA also got their hands on the third stone, they would stop at nothing.

“Imagine the impact this will have on our society! Infinite possibilities, endless progress!” exclaimed Noah, his excitement growing with each word.

Van Rensburg’s face paled as he recognized the implications of Noah’s speech. “If they find the last stone, they will have access to the power of Atlantis itself,” he murmured, his voice trembling. “That would be catastrophic. These stones have nearly destroyed the world once before,” said van Rensburg quietly, his eyes full of fear. “We cannot allow history to repeat itself. The three stones will destroy humanity and the Earth as we know it.”

At that moment, Tom spotted him—a stocky man with a shaved head who had stepped out of the crowd and turned toward them. Slowly, staring at Tom and Hellen, the man lifted his radio to his mouth and spoke into it.

“Damn,” cursed Tom. “We’ve been made.”

Hellen and van Rensburg had now also noticed the man.

“You must stop Noah at all costs,” said van Rensburg. “You have access to all my resources again. Take my jet if you need it. I’ll notify the pilot. Go, now.”

“Tom, come on, let’s get out of here,” whispered Hellen urgently, grabbing Tom by the arm.

CHAPTER 33

ROOM 3327, THE NIKOLA TESLA ROOM, NEW YORKER HOTEL, MANHATTAN, USA

The Mantis, her slender figure casting an ominous shadow across the dimly lit room, stood arrogantly before them, aiming a pistol at Phoebe’s head. The assassin’s raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders like a dark waterfall, framing her cold, calculating eyes. The delicate curve of her lips formed a cruel smile. Her posture resembled that of a predator that had cornered its prey.

Phoebe clutched desperately at the blanket wrapped tightly around her body.

“Monsieur Cloutard,” purred the Mantis, her voice dripping with mockery.

Cloutard jumped out of bed, unsure what to do. Outwardly he appeared calm, but his mental gears were spinning wildly as he tried to devise an escape plan.

“Such bravery from a man wearing nothing but a mustache,” taunted the Mantis, lowering her gaze to Cloutard’s exposed lower half. Only now did Cloutard realize he was standing stark naked before her. “Perhaps you should put on some pants,” she remarked, a grin playing across her full lips. “Though I must say, I’m rather impressed.”

Phoebe, still overwhelmed by the situation, glared at her.

Cloutard snatched up his boxer shorts from the floor and quickly put them on. The Mantis’s weapon remained pointed at Phoebe’s head, but she looked away for a moment to watch Cloutard step into his underwear. He knew he had to use this moment. His body reacted before his mind could object. He lunged at the Mantis, grabbing her hand with the pistol, desperately trying to disarm her.

The struggle was brief. The Mantis’s skill and agility far exceeded his own, and she effortlessly repelled his attack.

“Pathetic,” she sneered, shoving him to the ground. Cloutard knew that even Tom had failed against this woman. She was a formidable opponent and exceptionally well-trained, but still, he felt embarrassed in front of Phoebe for having failed so quickly.

“What do you want from us?” said Cloutard, sitting on the floor and staring into the barrel of the pistol.

“I’m here for the same reason as you. Nikola Tesla’s little secret.”

“Listen,” said Phoebe, her voice wavering slightly despite her effort to sound confident. “We have no idea what you’re talking about. Why we’re here is pretty obvious. We don’t want any trouble. Just let us go.”

The Mantis laughed, the cold, cruel sound sending shivers down her captives’ spines. “And you just happen to be in Nikola Tesla’s former room? Do you really think it’s that simple, Dr. Cross? How stupid do you think I am?” she asked, narrowing her eyes dangerously.

“How do you know who I am?” said Phoebe, stunned.

Cloutard glanced over at Phoebe and saw the grim determination in her eyes.

“I do think it’s that simple. We’re only here for one thing.” Phoebe paused briefly. “And in case you don’t understand what that is, we’re here to have sex.” Phoebe’s tone had become almost defiant. Cloutard was amazed. The woman obviously had many faces. “And if you hadn’t so rudely interrupted us, we’d be onto our third round right now …”

“Quatrième, ma chère, our fourth round,” Cloutard interjected.

The Mantis grinned broadly and looked at Cloutard, “Not bad for an old man. Quite the wildcat you’ve snagged yourself, Monsieur.”

The Mantis was distracted by Cloutard’s small interjection to defend his masculinity, and Phoebe suddenly let go of her blanket, jumped up and lunged forward to knock the weapon from the Mantis’s hand.

“Merde,” Cloutard hissed, startled by Phoebe’s sudden assault. But he had no time to dwell on it. They were in this together, and he had to do everything to back her up.

The Mantis, caught off guard by Phoebe’s sudden act of defiance, tried to regain control of the situation. Her reflexes were lightning-fast, but for once, in her surprise, she seemed almost human.

The Mantis stumbled backward, and the gun fell from her hand.

CHAPTER 34

BOHEMIAN GROVE, MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

With a brief nod, Tom and Hellen took off running.

“We’ll be in touch,” Hellen called hastily back to van Rensburg, who could only watch helplessly as security forces sprang into action behind Tom and Hellen.

As they ran, the landscape seemed to blur into shades of green and brown. But the trees and shrubs offered little protection from their relentless pursuers.

“We need to get to the entrance,” Tom gasped as they ran past one of the tents. One of the senior catering staff stepped outside and was horrified when he saw Hellen run past. “Hey, you can’t go outside,” he called after her, but quickly realized something bigger was happening when armed security personnel sprinted past a moment later.

“Left!” Tom shouted, veering off their path and pulling Hellen with him. The ground beneath their feet changed to an uneven network of roots and stones that threatened to trip them at every corner. They could hear their pursuers’ footsteps growing louder, the cracking of branches and rustling of leaves signaling that they were nearing.

“Up ahead,” Hellen panted. Her voice was barely audible as the first shots fell. They had left the crowd far behind and were now easy targets.

“Shit, they’re really serious,” Tom hissed. “Opening fire without warning isn’t nice at all.”

“Why don’t you stop and complain?” Hellen replied cynically. When they reached the tent city at the outer boundary of Bohemian Grove, they stopped for a moment. The various supply tents set up by the catering company had momentarily taken them out of the line of fire. “What now?”

“This way,” Tom said.

They stormed out through the main entrance of the camp, and the heavy metal gate slammed shut behind them. For a brief moment, they felt a glimmer of hope as the bright sun shone down on the jumble of parked cars.

“Damn it!” Tom cursed, and Hellen immediately understood what he meant. The catering company’s vehicles were parked in a disorderly jumble of colors and shapes that resembled modern art more than a useful escape route.

“Over here,” Tom called, nodding toward a small gap between two delivery vans. He saw Hellen’s doubt, but there was no time for discussion. The footsteps of their pursuers were growing closer, like an menacing drumbeat.

As they squeezed through the narrow gap, shots rang out again. Their pursuers had spotted them. Several ricochets howled between the parked vehicles and whistled past their ears. Panic clawed at Hellen’s chest. Breathless, she tried to concentrate on their path.

“Go, go, go!” Tom urged, grabbing her hand and urging her into a sprint.

“By the time we find a car that’s not completely blocked in, we’ll be Swiss cheese,” Hellen protested.

They ran toward the edge of the forest outside the restricted area. Adrenaline fueled their desperate race for survival. Bullets whizzed past them, only to bury themselves in the mighty tree trunks. Tom’s mind raced as he hunted for a way out of this deadly game of cat and mouse.

“Zigzag! Make it harder for them to find a target!” he called to Hellen, darting to the right only to immediately change direction again. Despite her growing fear, she followed Tom without thinking about it. She trusted him blindly. Inevitably, memories of the chase at Charlton Cemetery flashed through her mind. Back then she had been shot several times and almost lost her life.

“We can’t keep running forever,” Hellen panted, her lungs burning. They pushed deeper and deeper into the forest. Even Tom had to admit that the dense woods hindered them more than it offered protection.

“We’re almost there,” Tom muttered, not entirely sure where they were running to, but unwilling to give in to despair. He looked back and could make out the silhouettes of their pursuers through the trees.

“Where are we actually running to?” Hellen gasped.

“Trust me,” Tom said, and he changed direction again.

Gasping for air, Tom and Hellen stumbled onto the small road the bus had taken to reach the Bohemian Grove grounds. After just a few steps, they disappeared into the forest again on the other side. With each step, their legs grew heavier. After two more exhausting minutes, their pursuers still close behind, the forest opened up to reveal a wide river.

“Looks like we might have a chance after all,” said Tom, his voice hoarse with exhaustion. The current seemed strong but manageable.

“Tom, look!” Hellen called, pointing to a landing jutting out from the riverbank. Several inflatable kayaks lay on the grass. A new hope.

“Better than nothing,” Tom muttered, scanning the area for other options. They were cornered, he knew, and it was only a matter of time before the gunmen caught up.

“Let’s go! We don’t have much time!” Hellen urged, already grasping the end of one of the kayaks. Tom nodded.

He grabbed the other end of the kayak, and together they pushed it into the water. Tom quickly grabbed two paddles and jumped into the rocking vessel. Both were aware of the deadly danger behind them. They pushed off and began paddling with all their might, their muscles battling the strong current to keep the small boat on course.

Hellen cast a horrified glance back at the shore and saw the gunmen emerge from the underbrush. The man with the shaved head, who’d first spotted them with van Rensburg, disappeared back into the forest at a run. “Faster, Tom!” Hellen urged.

“I’m doing my best,” he grunted. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the water splashing around them. Faster and faster, he pulled the paddle through the foaming water. “We can do this,” he called.

Hellen nodded, her trust in Tom battling against her rising panic. She doubted their chances, but she knew if anyone could get them through, it was Tom.

“Tom, look!” Hellen gasped. The shaven-headed man reappeared on the riverbank, closer now, his face stony. He raised his weapon.

“I should have finished that guy off back there,” Tom muttered.

Shots whistled past. The choppy current, however, helped to make them difficult targets.

“Keep paddling, Hellen. Whatever happens, don’t stop.” Tom’s voice was firm and his determination unshakable despite the threat. He kept looking for any opportunity or possible cover that could help their escape.

“That guy doesn’t look like he’s giving up!” Hellen shouted over the rushing water.

“If Noah trained him, he never will. But we’re not giving up either,” Tom replied grimly. “Maybe that bend can buy us some time.” Tom nodded his chin forward.

As they rounded the river bend, they indeed disappeared from their pursuers’ line of sight. The tension in their bodies eased momentarily, but they knew the feeling would be short-lived. Their pursuers certainly wouldn’t be shaken off so easily.

“We need to take advantage of this,” Tom called, his voice strained from the effort of navigating the tricky current. His muscles burned like fire.

Hellen’s arms ached too. Fear and hope were locked in a duel. Their lives were at stake, once again.

“Shit,” Tom called out. He had turned to look behind them, at first only searching for enemies on the shore. But then he saw that the shaven-headed man had grabbed a kayak as well.

Paddling alone, he was naturally lighter and gaining on them quickly. His face was a mask of cold fury, his determination to hunt them down unmistakable in his eyes.

“Damn, he’s persistent,” Tom muttered through clenched teeth. He paddled through the current even harder, trying to put more distance between them and their pursuer. But he could feel his arms were close to their limit.

“Look!” Hellen shouted, pointing ahead. “There are people over there!”

“Yeah. The Russian River is a popular destination.”

A family with two children and several groups of teenagers were paddling around in small colorful inflatables. Laughter and carefree chatter filled the air. But panic flashed in their eyes as shots suddenly rang out. Tom and Hellen ducked, and the laughter gave way to panicked screams.

“Watch out!” Tom shouted as he barely managed to steer the kayak around a family on a large raft.

Hellen gritted her teeth, focused on avoiding collisions with the day-trippers who suddenly found themselves in the middle of a life-or-death chase. They needed to save themselves, but they couldn’t allow innocents to get hurt in the process.

“Heads down!” Tom called to a group of terrified teenagers who quickly capsized their boats and dove under the shots. The chaos around them was both an obstacle and an opportunity. It slowed their progress but provided some cover from the relentless pursuer, who had to deal with the same obstacles. The difference was that he wasn’t concerned about potential collateral damage.

Bullets flew through the air once more. The gunshots cut through the terrified screams. The shaven-headed man was merciless, his cold eyes fixed on Tom and Hellen. Again and again, he stopped paddling momentarily to shoot and forcing Tom and Hellen to zigzag among the panicked people.

“Be careful!” Hellen shouted to a child in a kayak as a bullet narrowly missed them.

A father tried to get his sobbing children to safety, desperately urging them toward the riverbank.

Tom’s chest tightened at the sight, and his anger flared like a wildfire within him. He couldn’t let this monster continue his rampage.

As if fate had finally decided to throw them a lifeline, a woman appeared on the shore, holding a rifle in her trembling hands. She was tall and athletic, with the determination of someone who was no stranger to adversity. Her jaw was grim, and her eyes searched for the shaven-headed man.

“Shoot him,” Tom muttered. If she could hit the man, or even just slow him down, they would have a real chance of escaping with their lives.

The woman took a deep breath and aimed her rifle at the man. Her trembling hands steadied as she lined up her shot.

“I never thought I’d be glad that just about anyone in the US can buy a gun,” Hellen called back.

“Come on, shoot!” Tom urged the woman on the shore.

CHAPTER 35

MARKSTEIN MONASTERY, SWITZERLAND

High in the Swiss Alps, the silent retreats at Markstein Monastery offered sanctuary for those seeking comfort in a chaotic world. The meditation room, a remarkable architectural marvel, featured floor-to-ceiling windows that offered panoramic views of the snow-capped peaks. Here, the air was thin and fresh, an invigorating reminder of the purity that still existed in nature.

Akira sat cross-legged among the group of meditators, eyes closed and focused on her breathing. Her social phobia had significantly diminished through resilience training and the long meditation sessions over the past few weeks, but was still occasionally evident in the slight trembling of her fingers and tension in her shoulders.

She now worked full-time for Eon van Rensburg and occasionally helped Tom and Hellen on the side, though her boss could never find out about that.

The silence in the meditation room was like a tangible presence, each participant living in their own cocoon of mindfulness. It was one of those rare moments when Akira achieved one of her greatest desires: mental silence. In the past weeks here, she had learned to view everything more calmly. And she knew she would spend a few more weeks here before having to complete another job for van Rensburg. Until then, she would find her best self and bring more serenity into her life. Nevertheless, she struggled to commit to silence around the clock. When alone, she couldn’t help herself. Again and again, she secretly searched the depths of the dark web from her room to help Tom with information or organize assistance. Secret phone calls were naturally part of that too. Despite her introversion, she found silence difficult. She felt like an addict who kept relapsing.

Suddenly, the tranquility was broken by the shrill beeping of a cell phone. Every head in the room turned, and the eyes of the meditators widened in shock—such disturbances were taboo in this sacred space.

Akira’s heart skipped a beat when she realized it was her phone that had disrupted the silence. She felt the flush of embarrassment creeping from her neck to her cheeks. Hands trembling, she quickly retrieved the device from the folds of her clothing and stood up.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered in a barely audible voice, lowering her head apologetically. The other meditators stared at her, their expressions ranging from surprise to anger. Some shook their heads, while others closed their eyes trying to return to their previous state of tranquility. Akira quickly left the meditation room.

Eon van Rensburg’s name glowed accusingly on the display. She hesitated for a moment, her thumb hovering over the answer button.

“Hello,” she answered cautiously, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Akira, I need your help. Quickly,” she heard his hurried response.

No “hello”? No “how are you”?

Akira knew her boss wasn’t particularly warm-hearted, but this was downright rude. He himself had sent her to this silent retreat in Switzerland to recover, and now he wasn’t even asking how she was doing?

“Uh, Mr. van Rensburg … what can I do for you?” She stuttered and cleared her throat several times between the handful of words.

“When was the last time you had contact with Mr. Wagner?”

The directness of the question overwhelmed Akira. She was the worst liar in the world. She was about to respond, but apparently it was taking too long for him. Van Rensburg cut her off before she could speak.

“Don’t mess around, we don’t have time for it. I know you’re in regular contact with the team, and your good relationship with them might help us now.”

“Uh, Tom contacted me recently. I was supposed to find out something about a woman named Dr. Phoebe Cross.”

“That’s excellent!” van Rensburg exclaimed so loudly that Akira pulled the phone away from her ear.

“O—okaaay. What’s so excellent about that?” she said cautiously.

“What did you find out?”

Fine, no pleasantries. Just stick to the point.

“She’s a respected scientist and Tesla researcher. Clean record, except for one thing. A few days ago, she received a considerable sum of money transferred to one of her accounts.”

“And?”

“Follow the money, as they say. I was able to trace it. The money came from one of the accounts that Interpol, the FBI & Co. froze during the AF investigations.”

The line went quiet for a moment. Then van Rensburg said, “But how can money be released from a frozen account?”.

“Are you kidding me? That’s like elementary school for hackers. It’s easier than getting a blue checkmark on Instagram.”

Van Rensburg had no idea what she was talking about and ignored her last comment. A group of monks passed by Akira and looked at her reproachfully. She raised her hands apologetically. “Yes, damn it. You caught me. I’m not being silent, I’m talking,” she said defiantly.

She immediately realized she had said ‘damn,’ which earned her even more disapproving glares.

“Who are you talking to?” asked van Rensburg, confused.

“Nothing. I’m guessing you didn’t just call me about Tom, sir, did you?”

“Correct. You need to fetch Monsieur Cloutard’s Fabergé egg from Luxembourg. We need it. Without the Nécessaire egg … well, you just need to know that it’s of vital importance.”

Akira took a deep breath. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It wasn’t particularly nice that she was being demoted to a delivery service, but picking up an egg was something she could manage.

“However, you’ll need to break into his Luxembourg private bank to do it,” said van Rensburg as casually as if he were ordering coffee.

“I need to what? Break in? Never! I can hardly even go out in the street! You can’t ask this of me.”

Akira had become so loud that several doors in the hallway opened and she was again showered with silent reproaches. Akira walked down the corridor and out into the courtyard, where she could speak a little more freely.

“Akira. I have to tell you a secret,” said van Rensburg, his voice took on an air of the mythical. “The Luxembourg private bank has never been broken into. They have one of the most modern and burglar-proof security systems in the world. You would go down in history. No hacker has ever accomplished this.”

Akira raised an eyebrow and began chewing on one of her fingernails.

“Hmm … I suppose I could take a look at it.”

“Akira, this is important. We need this egg. Whatever it takes. And one more thing. Tom needs to know something …”

The color drained from Akira’s face as she listened. “But Mr. van Rensburg … I can’t do that …” she said.

“No discussion. We don’t have time. And you must tell Wagner this in person. No calls. For now, it’s radio silence. He should only find out when it’s absolutely necessary.”

“O-Okay,” stammered Akira.

“I repeat: not a word to Wagner … hey … Excuse me, let go of me!”

Akira was confused. Van Rensburg seemed to be talking to someone else.

“Mr. van Rensburg, is everything all right?”

“Damn it, you can’t do this. Do you know who I am? I’ll sue you.”

Akira heard more curses from van Rensburg, then it seemed as if his phone had fallen from his hand, and the line went dead. She immediately tried to reach him again but only got his voicemail.

She sighed and considered what to do next. Should she call Tom? Van Rensburg had explicitly forbidden it, and she didn’t even know why. She didn’t want to lose her job, so she dismissed the thought. For a few minutes, she paced indecisively in the monastery courtyard. She was probably losing valuable time with her hesitation. Van Rensburg might be in trouble, but he had given her an assignment. She made a serious decision and went to her room.

Working at DARPA was so chill, Akira thought as she packed her things. “I had an asshole for a boss, but otherwise everything ran smoothly. After a few more attempts to reach van Rensburg failed, she called an Uber and booked a flight to Luxembourg.

CHAPTER 36

AT THE FOOT OF THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA

Father Matthew was quite out of breath as he ran the length of the nearly mile-long Washington Mall, his feet striking the pavement rhythmically. He was definitely not in peak condition. To his left rose the National Museum of American History, its imposing façade a testament to the nation’s past. In the distance, the Smithsonian Castle appeared, its red sandstone walls glowing like embers in the fading light.

His breathing was rapid as he passed the stoic figure of General Grant on his horse, a bronze statue that reminded him of battles lost and won. The Capitol Building, an icon of American democracy, stood in the distance, but he had no time to dwell on its beauty or significance.

As Father Matthew approached the towering obelisk, he slowed his pace, taking a moment to admire the sheer magnitude of the monument. Like a colossal needle piercing the sky, its marble and granite façade shimmered in the waning sunlight. A symbol of America’s first president and the spirit of unity that shaped the young nation, the monument now served as the backdrop for what would hopefully be the final stage of his mission.

Father Matthew glanced at his watch. It had gotten late. He strode toward the ticket counter, his chest still rising and falling from his sprint along the Washington Mall. The attendant looked up from her phone, raising her eyebrows at the sight of the disheveled priest.

“Father, the Washington Monument will still be here tomorrow,” she said with a hint of surprise in her voice. “It’s not going anywhere. We’re closing soon.”

“Just a few minutes,” he replied, catching his breath. “One adult ticket, please.”

“Last admission was five minutes ago. But I suppose I can make an exception and let you in.” She tapped on the register, and the machine spat out a ticket. “That’ll be 15 dollars.”

Matthew handed over the money and gratefully took the ticket. “Thank you, God bless you,” he said, smiling briefly before hurrying to the entrance.

As he entered the elevator, the confined space seemed to tighten around him. He felt tension building inside him as the doors closed, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

He hated elevators. He had handled everything he’d experienced in his previous deployments well, but one experience refused to leave his mind. He had studied the phenomenon extensively since. Being buried alive was among the most traumatic experiences possible. The claustrophobic fear that developed from it was deeply embedded in his subconscious. His mentor, whom he had met after returning to civilian life and who had given him a new purpose, had taught him how to cope. But still, almost any confined space doubled his pulse rate. Father Matthew closed his eyes and breathed as he had been taught. It would soon be over. The elevator wouldn’t ascend forever, and the doors would definitely open again. Of that he could be certain.

A small digital display above the door showed each floor. Matthew sought comfort in prayer.

As the elevator came to a stop, he rushed out. He observed the few visitors crowding around the windows, admiring the extensive view across Washington, D.C. Time was not on his side. He looked around. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the slightest idea what he was looking for.

Every second that passed intensified the pressure weighing on him. Lord, give me strength, he prayed silently, as his fingers touched the metal of the crucifix hanging around his neck.

“Father, we’re closing soon,” announced the security guard in a firm but polite tone. “You should make your way back to the elevator.”

“Of course,” Matthew responded, making sure his voice remained calm and his demeanor casual. “I just wanted one last look at this beautiful view. It’s awe-inspiring.”

“That it is,” the guard conceded, casting a brief glance around the room. “But we’re still closing soon.”

“Understood,” said Matthew, nodding respectfully.

The guard turned away briefly and began shepherding the remaining tourists downstairs. Father Matthew didn’t have much time left. To his relief, not all of the tourists could take the elevator down at once. Still, the clock was ticking.

As the guard moved a few steps away, Father Matthew’s heart beat faster. His gaze darted around the interior of the monument. Then, like a divine answer to his prayer, he spotted it—carved into the wall, partially obscured by shadow—a small sun symbol, barely a silhouette, only a slight shade darker than the gray of the wall.

This had to be a sign that he was on the right track. He approached the wall and examined it more closely. He hadn’t been mistaken. Barely visible, gray on gray, was the same sun symbol he had already seen in the chapel in Switzerland and in the Temple of Noah’s Ark. Father Matthew knew that the sun was among the first symbols to be worshipped as godlike, and the Catholic faith had used this symbol multiple times, especially during the emergence of Catholicism. The halo was just one example.

It was clear that the sun symbol was the key to the secret he was seeking.

“Father!” called the guard in a stern voice. “We’re closing. You need to leave now.”

“Please, just one more moment,” pleaded Matthew, buying time. Internally, he wrestled with his next move. This might be his last chance to find the artifact.

“Father, with all due respect, I won’t ask you again,” said the guard, his patience exhausted. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll have to escort you out.”

The platform had emptied. All of the other visitors had already gone down. Father Matthew and the guard were alone.

Matthew hesitated, but as the guard reached for his radio, he knew he had no other choice. He prayed for forgiveness, spun around, and delivered a quick, precise blow to the guard’s neck. Then he clasped the man’s throat, a common hold that—properly executed—soon led to unconsciousness. The man slumped limply but uninjured to the ground.

“Forgive me, Lord,” whispered Matthew. Though he was fighting for a just cause, the violence he had just committed weighed heavily on him. He shook off the feelings of guilt. There was no time to dwell on it.

He turned back to the wall and ran his fingers along the edges of the sun symbol. When he pressed on a hidden recess, a panel slid open, revealing a small compartment. Inside, carefully wrapped in cloth, was a leather case of the same craftsmanship as the two he already carried.

“Thank you, Lord,” murmured Matthew, stowing the case in his bag. One last time, he glanced at the unconscious guard. He moved toward the elevator, adrenaline helping to push his claustrophobia into the background for a few moments.

As he stepped out of the elevator below, his phone beeped. The message was from His Holiness himself and was brief. Father Matthew smiled bitterly. It was time to return to his former home.

CHAPTER 37

ROOM 3327, THE NIKOLA TESLA ROOM, NEW YORKER HOTEL, MANHATTAN

Cloutard’s hand stretched out desperately, his fingertips brushing the gun. The hotel room lay in ruins, with broken glass and furniture scattered across the floor.

The Mantis struggled to her feet and saw what Cloutard was attempting. Just as he was about to grab the gun, her foot shot forward and kicked it hard under the hotel bed. A second later, she delivered another swift kick, this one to Cloutard’s chest, sending him crashing to the floor again.

“You bitch!” screamed Phoebe, her rage boiling over. She lunged like a fury at the Mantis and tackled her to the ground. With an unexpected burst of strength, she wrapped her arms around the killer’s neck, twisted her around, and squeezed. As Phoebe wrapped her legs around the Mantis’s body from behind, Cloutard’s eyes widened in astonishment at this unsuspected side of her.

“François, are you okay?” she called out without loosening her grip on the Mantis. She didn’t dare turn to look at him—the risk of losing her hold was too great. Instead, she concentrated all her energy and determination on maintaining her position. In that moment, she was no longer a scientist but a warrior. But the Mantis was stronger and better trained. A blow with her elbow to Phoebe’s side gave her the opportunity to break free. With all her strength, she pried Phoebe’s hands from her neck and pushed her away. Both women jumped to their feet. The Mantis kicked Phoebe in the stomach, sending her crashing against a wall and making her cry out in pain.

“Merde!” Cloutard cursed softly, his body aching from the brutal kick and rough landing. He forced himself to overcome the pain and staggered to his feet.

Bravely, he leaped at the Mantis from behind. The whole scene was not without a certain comedy. Like Phoebe before him, Cloutard now clung to the Mantis’s neck, hanging onto her like a giant backpack. The Mantis stumbled forward but quickly regained her balance. She reached behind and tried to shake Cloutard off, but without success. Meanwhile, Phoebe frantically searched the floor for the gun.

“Under the bed,” gasped Cloutard, who was clinging to the Mantis like a burr, doing everything he could to dodge her blows. She managed to pin his head but had little room to punch, so she decided to scratch his face instead. Cloutard cried out but didn’t let go. Phoebe, meanwhile, was trying to retrieve the pistol.

“Damn it,” she shouted. The gun was right in the middle under the bed, out of reach. The gap between the bed and the floor was too small to crawl under.

With a loud scream, the Mantis reared up, ran a few steps backward, and with Cloutard still on her back crashed into the wall with full force. Cloutard screamed in pain once more, and this time his grip loosened. He dropped to the ground like a wet sack.

Adrenaline shot through Phoebe’s veins as she weighed her options. With Cloutard momentarily down, she knew she had to do something to turn the tide in their favor. Her gaze rapidly swept the room, finally landing on the Louis XIII bottle sitting on the nightstand. Without hesitating for a second, she grabbed the bottle, rushed forward, and swung the bulbous glass container with its rough ridges with all her might. Time seemed to slow down as the space between the bottle and the Mantis’s head decreased inch by inch.

“Dieu!” Cloutard cried out, his voice anxious and expectant as he watched the scene unfold before him.

The Mantis fixed her eyes on the bottle, knowing that if Phoebe’s swing connected, she would be finished. In that split second, as the bottle arced toward the Mantis’s head, her body seemed to activate with a sudden surge of energy, her remarkable reflexes instinctively kicking in. With the fluidity and speed of a cat, she ducked just enough, raising her arms defensively so that the potentially lethal blow merely grazed her, leaving no more than a small gash on her forehead. She staggered briefly to the side but wasn’t seriously hurt.

“Holy shit!” Phoebe gasped in shock as she realized her blow had missed its target. The bottle fell to the floor.

“Nice try,” purred the Mantis, cruel amusement in her voice. “But you’ll have to be faster than that.”

Cloutard realized that even the two of them together were no match for this assassin. Glancing out through the still-open door, he saw a small red glass case on the wall across the hallway.

“The fire alarm,” he whispered to himself. He jumped up and stumbled toward it.

The Mantis recognized his plan, but this time she was too slow. With one last, wobbly step, Cloutard reached the fire alarm, smashed the glass, and triggered the alarm.

A deafening siren howled to life. Moments later, the first doors in the hallway opened and frightened guests appeared. The Mantis realized that the battle was lost. She straightened up, ran out of the room, and fled down the corridor.

For a few seconds, Cloutard and Phoebe just stood there, catching their breath. Around them, chaos began to unfold. The alarm rang almost painfully in their ears. Hotel guests in all kinds of attire, some dressed only in towels, streamed toward the fire exits and nervously pushed their way downstairs. Panic hadn’t quite broken out, but fear was clearly written on everyone’s faces. Cloutard could still make out the Mantis disappearing with the crowd before he ran back into their room.

Meanwhile, Phoebe, using a clothes hanger from the closet, had retrieved the gun from under the bed. Cloutard took it from her with two fingers, holding it up with disgust. “I hate firearms,” he said, mostly to himself. “So uncivilized.” Nevertheless, a satisfied smile flitted across his face. “But we can use it,” he muttered as he examined it more closely.

“Good idea,” said Phoebe confidently as she slipped into her clothes. In the past, she had often gone to shooting ranges with friends, and although she was far from an experienced shooter, she knew enough to be able to handle a pistol when necessary. “Let me take care of it,” she offered.

“Are you sure?” Cloutard asked hesitantly, torn between wanting to protect her and trusting in her abilities.

“Absolutely.” Her answer left no room for discussion, and Cloutard handed her the weapon. He watched as she checked the chamber and safety with practiced ease. Seeing how well she could handle the gun—and despite his aversion to them—he felt strangely relieved.

“We’re rid of her for now,” said Phoebe, tucking the gun into the back of her waistband.

“Good work, Madame,” said Cloutard, and the two embraced and kissed. Amid the chaos, Cloutard and Phoebe stood closely entwined, like a rock in the surf. A few moments passed before they separated. The hallway had emptied, with only the fire alarm reminding them of their precarious situation. “We should get out of here too,” he said.

“What do we do then?” asked Phoebe.

“We shall decide that when we are safe, ma chérie,” he said, looking around the room for his things. “Merde, where are my damn shoes?” he muttered. He felt fatigue settling in, but there was no time to rest. They needed to get away from there quickly.

“Here,” Phoebe tossed him his pair of brown leather loafers as she slipped into her jacket. “And don’t forget this gem.” She handed him his Panama hat, a little dented but still intact.

“Merci,” he said, shoving his feet into his shoes and adjusting the hat on his head. A small piece of normalcy amid the chaos. Then he took one of their cognac glasses, still half full, and carefully poured it into his flask.

Phoebe smiled. “One for the road,” she said with a giggle.

Cloutard nodded, smiling.

Just as they were about to leave the room, a conspicuous hole, created when the Mantis had slammed him against the wall, caught Cloutard’s eye. He paused and stretched out his hand to touch the damaged drywall. “What do we have here?” he said, looking at Phoebe. She turned around, tilted her head, and examined the hole. Then she grinned, and the same thought shot through both their minds.

CHAPTER 38

RUSSIAN RIVER, MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

The shot echoed across the water, but the bald man had thrown himself to the side, briefly ducking underwater, and the shot had missed.

“Shit!” Tom muttered.

“Again!” Hellen shouted, struggling to make herself heard over the tumult.

The woman aimed the carbine again. A second shot rang out and this time hit the kayak. Like Tom and Hellen, the bald man was sitting in an inflatable high-pressure kayak. It could withstand rocks and other obstacles in the water, but certainly not a bullet.

The man immediately realized that his boat would be of no further use. He dropped his weapon to the floor of the kayak and raised his hands.

Suddenly everything became eerily quiet. Even the rushing of the river seemed far away.

“Keep going,” Tom hissed to Hellen, who had also recognized the lifeline they’d been given. The shaven-headed man wouldn’t be following them any farther. They paddled hard toward the next bend in the river, where Hellen glanced back and saw the man’s angry face disappearing behind them.

They continued paddling vigorously for a while, wanting to leave the chaos behind them as quickly as possible, feeling a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. Sweat and dirt mingled on their skin. The sound of the shots still rang in their ears, but for the moment, they seemed to have escaped.

“Do you think we’ve lost them?” Hellen asked, exhausted. She kept glancing over her shoulder, scanning the riverbank for signs of further pursuers.

“Looks that way,” answered Tom. His wet, dark blond hair clung to his forehead. A grin played at the corners of his mouth. “We’re pretty damn good,” he said.

Hellen’s smile was bittersweet. “Who knows how many more times we’ll be this lucky. We’ve cheated death so often that I’m afraid we’ll eventually run out of luck,” she said thoughtfully.

Tom wanted to respond, but as their kayak rounded another bend in the river, he fell silent. Only now did he notice the signs on the bank warning against continuing downriver.

Ahead of them lay white-foaming rapids that churned brutally around jagged rocks. The roar of the river drowned out all other sounds.

“Shit,” muttered Tom, gripping his paddle tighter. Hellen stared in alarm at the approaching danger. They immediately began paddling against the current but quickly realized they were caught.

“All right,” said Tom, trying to appear confident. “We just need to avoid the rocks.” Even he heard how stupid that sentence sounded.

“Genius,” Hellen snorted. “I never would have figured that out alone. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re not professional whitewater rafters.”

“Details, details,” Tom waved her off with a smile. “I’m sure we still have plenty in our luck account.”

“Let’s hope so,” Hellen called back, steeling herself for the challenge ahead.

When they hit the first rapids, the kayak bucked beneath them, and the force of the water threatened to flip them over at any moment. Their knuckles turned white as they clutched their paddles with an iron grip, trying to maintain control in the chaos. The roar of the river thundered in their ears as they fought to stay afloat in the churning waters.

The kayak was violently shaken when it crashed into a submerged rock, nearly throwing Tom and Hellen overboard. “Hold on!” Tom shouted. His voice was barely audible.

“Another one!” Hellen called out, pointing to a large boulder rapidly approaching them.

“Keep paddling. We can do this!” Tom bellowed back, digging his paddle with all his strength into the turbulent water. His muscles strained against the force of nature. He would not give up. Not now, when they had finally shaken off their pursuers.

The rapids grew stronger. The water lashed against the kayak and pelted their faces. A collision with a rock jerked the kayak sideways. “Tom, we can’t make it!” Hellen screamed, desperately trying to keep the kayak on course. The river had become a deadly obstacle course. “We’re going to capsize!”

Suddenly the kayak scraped against a rock, and as if in the clutches of an invisible force, they were spun around and found themselves helplessly facing upstream.

“Damn it!” Tom called out. He felt the icy fingers of panic creeping up his spine. “We have to turn this thing around again!”

“I’m trying!” Hellen shouted back, her voice barely carrying over the deafening roar of the rapid. Despite their combined attempts to control the canoe, it bucked and spun beneath them like a wild stallion.

“Lean left, I’ll push right!” Tom yelled. Once again, he plunged his paddle into the foaming water. Their bodies trembled with exertion and from the masses of water crashing over them.

Summoning all their strength, they managed to turn the kayak around again. But the next obstacle, another massive boulder, was already waiting for them.

With a desperate burst of strength, Tom thrust his paddle into the water to avoid it. But the paddle caught on something and, off balance, he was dragged bodily out of the kayak.

Hellen’s scream died as Tom was swallowed by the raging rapids. She watched in horror as he disappeared beneath the water’s surface and his body was tossed back and forth by the relentless current. For a brief moment, everything else faded away—the water soaking her to the bone, the taste of fear in her mouth, even the danger of the rapids themselves.

“Tom!” she called out, her voice breaking. Then, with no more hesitation, she jumped in after him.

As she fought the relentless current, Hellen caught sight of Tom’s dark blond hair just above the water’s surface. A shot of adrenaline rushed through her body. Clenching her teeth, she battled her way toward him, ignoring the cold and the waves. She forced her muscles to keep moving despite her growing exhaustion. With each stroke, she drew closer to Tom. Her love for this man gave her superhuman strength.

Just as Tom was about to collide with a jagged rock, Hellen managed to grab his jacket and pull him toward her with all her might. She clutched his body as they slipped narrowly past the rock.

“I’ve got you!” she gasped, momentarily relieved before becoming aware again of the reality of their situation. Tom hung limply in her arms, unconscious and at the mercy of the raging river.

With Tom in her arms, Hellen fought her way across the current, every muscle in her body working against the merciless pull of the water. The shore seemed infinitely far away, but she refused to surrender to fate. The water dragged them along relentlessly.

“Almost, almost, almost,” she repeated like a mantra.

And then, finally, she managed to grab a wedged branch. With her last ounce of strength, she pulled Tom’s limp form to the rocky shore and collapsed beside him. She gasped for breath and shivered violently. Her body ached, but she had no time to rest. Tom needed her now more than ever.

“Tom! Stay with me,” she urged with a trembling voice. She pressed her hands against Tom’s cold, lifeless body. Her breaths came quick and heavy as she tried to revive him. Again and again, she compressed his chest, trying to push the water from his lungs.

“Come on, Tom,” she whispered desperately, turning him onto his side. Her eyes occasionally darted across the rocky shore, searching for signs of danger. “Come on, you can’t do this to me now. Stay with me,” she pleaded. Tears mingled with the river water running down her face from her wet hair.

As if in answer to her pleas, Tom suddenly coughed violently and spat out copious amounts of water. His body arched as he gasped hungrily for air. Relief and indescribable gratitude washed over Hellen like a wave from the river. She pulled Tom into a tight embrace as their wet bodies trembled.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Hellen said in a barely audible voice.

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” Tom coughed, forcing a weak smile. “That would take an act of the gods. We’re a team, remember?”

Hellen’s thoughts suddenly returned to Malta, where their roles had been reversed and Tom had been the one who saved her from drowning. “Do you remember Malta?” Hellen breathed, her voice calmer now as she brushed the wet hair from Tom’s face.

He nodded weakly.

“Now we’re even,” Hellen said with an exuberant laugh that brought tears of joy to her eyes. She cupped Tom’s cheeks and kissed him passionately.

Their moment of joy was interrupted by a sudden rustling in the nearby bushes. Both looked around, startled. But it was only a deer peering curiously from the thicket, eyeing them with large eyes.

CHAPTER 39

BOHEMIAN GROVE, MONTE RIO, CALIFORNIA

Bohemian Grove was in an uproar. Never before had outsiders so severely disrupted the club’s meeting that security personnel not only had to intervene but also use firearms.

Nevertheless, the speech about the prospect of “Eternal Energy” remained the highlight of this year’s event.

“Mr. Hubbard, do you really see a chance that we’ll achieve this breakthrough soon and that the USA will then dominate the global energy market?”

Noah Pollock, known to everyone here only by his code name Oswald Hubbard, was immediately surrounded after his speech. He barely had time to address all their questions, let alone fend off the numerous offers of financial participation in the “Eternal Energy” project. He was surrounded by America’s money aristocracy, and everyone wanted to throw absurd sums at him for a piece of the pie.

“It’s time we give the Saudis a good kick in the ass. Let them drown in their oil,” said a towering man in the dress uniform of the United States Marine Corps. Thunderous applause erupted. The man had clearly touched a nerve.

“Mr. Hubbard, I’m in for fifty million,” shouted a man standing next to the Marine. The shouter was a Texan in his sixties. If his Texan drawl wasn’t enough, one could have guessed his origin from the Stetson hat on his head.

With stoic patience and the tongue of an angel, Noah alias Hubbard answered every interested party’s questions. One of his assistants noted all of the interested sponsors and their promised financial contributions. Noah’s plan had worked. He didn’t need a single one of the donations, of course, but they didn’t hurt either. Once his plan, already known to the president in rough outlines, was presented in full detail, the US government would provide him with all the funds he needed. Everything he collected here was a bonus in his pocket and help him rebuild the old Absolute Freedom infrastructure.

It had taken some time to recover from the defeat by Tom. Originally, Noah and Edward de Mey, the then-commander of AF, had planned to pin the whole thing on the Welshman and had staged everything perfectly for the showdown on the yacht, intending to disappear afterward. Unfortunately, as he so often did, Wagner had interfered, and they suffered a bitter defeat. Edward was eliminated shortly afterward by a sniper from one of the intelligence agencies, and Noah himself landed in a US prison. Fortunately, the current US president had just been elevated to office by AF, so Noah was at least able to secure a comfortable solitary confinement in a cozy, low-security prison with cable TV and internet access. He had retreated to lick his wounds and come up with a new plan, one that had given him back his freedom and was about to reach a glorious conclusion. Not least, he wanted—and needed—to take revenge on Tom Wagner.

“Where’s Joshua?” Noah asked one of his bodyguards, who merely shrugged.

“Then go find out. What the hell am I paying you for?” Noah snarled at the man in a low voice, inaudible to everyone else. Instinctively, the man ducked his head and went off to search for Joshua, Noah’s main henchman.

The crowdfunding operation was complete. Noah had collected enough play money for his upcoming plans. He could confidently leave the “Eternal Energy” matter to DARPA and the US president. He himself would have already secured his nest egg by then and could turn his attention back to the open items in the old Pálffy files.

It was in these files that he had stumbled across the story of Tesla, eternal energy, and the connections to Atlantis. At first, the whole thing seemed so ridiculous that he merely laughed and set it aside. But he quickly realized that, in fact, everything in the Pálffy files was real: the Sword of Saint Peter, the Ark of the Covenant, the Holy Grail, all of it. But in all these cases, Tom, together with Hellen and that Frenchman, had interfered and beaten him and AF to the punch.

But they knew nothing about the Atlantis affair and the three magical stones. Unfortunately, he had been unable to prevent Wagner and his team from interfering again with the Medusa business. Unfortunately, Damjam Mandalov, the expert on all the Greek stuff, had been impossible to control and had ensured that Noah had only this one chance left.

However, Noah had found a perfect ally in Mandalov’s henchwoman, the Mantis. The first stone could be recreated through Medusa’s gaze, and the Mantis had found the second one with the friendly help of Hellen de Mey while they were following Nostradamus’s trail.

Now two of the three stones were in his possession. The fear and horror scenarios he had stirred up with the help of the hastily cobbled-together conspiracy blog about Nostradamus were a pleasant side effect. Noah had learned from Edward de Mey, the mastermind of AF, how to stage grand diversionary tactics: the doomsday scenarios, the plague bacteria, the many disasters, above all the tsunami off Cuba. It almost felt to Noah as if he were playing Monopoly in real life.

To get the third stone, he had to involve Wagner whether he liked it or not, a necessary evil that really rankled. With a little pressure, he had learned from Theresia de Mey that Cloutard possessed the crucial Fabergé egg. Physically robbing the bank in Luxembourg would have attracted too much attention, so he had to rely on the help of Phoebe Cross.

“Wagner escaped.”

The brief sentence tore Noah from his thoughts as he gazed at the small pond in Bohemian Grove.

Noah turned to Joshua, who stood beside him like a drowned rat, soaking wet from head to toe. Noah glared at him through narrowed eyes. “I detest having to repeat myself. You had one job: eliminate Wagner. The Mantis has secured two of the three stones, and what have you done?”

Joshua’s jaw tensed. He bit his lip and remained silent.

Noah and Tom had a long, shared history. Tom, as a member of the Austrian anti-terror unit Cobra, had been assigned to a joint operation with Mossad, where he first met Noah. The two men hit it off immediately. Unfortunately, during the subsequent mission, Tom wasn’t at his post. As a result, Noah had been severely injured and from that point on was confined to a wheelchair. He didn’t want to blame Tom for it at first, but step by step, feelings of hatred overcame him. Tom had been sloppy and condemned him to a life in a wheelchair. So when AF offered him an experimental new treatment that would allow him to walk again, it didn’t take much to convince him to switch sides. His decision was made. And becoming the right hand of AF commander Edward de Mey was the icing on the cake. But Noah’s revenge wouldn’t be complete as long as Tom Wagner still lived.

“Tom Wagner is as good as dead,” said Joshua with a military nod.

“Perhaps it would be better if you took care of Wagner’s wife, Hellen de Mey. I’d like to see Wagner suffer for a while. And the loss of his wife is a good start.”

“As good as done,” said Joshua and he turned and marched away.

“Famous last words,” muttered Noah and waved his aide-de-camp over. “Any news from the Mantis?”

The man nodded diligently and held out a cell phone to Noah. Noah skimmed the message and smiled.

“Finally, some good news,” he said. “We need to go. Now we can brief the president on the entire plan.”

CHAPTER 40

NEW YORK CITY

“Move your damn ass,” the taxi driver snarled, slamming his hand on the horn multiple times.

Tom and Hellen had just left the Queens-Midtown Tunnel and had been stuck in traffic on East 34th Street at Madison Avenue for several minutes.

“Come on, move it!” the driver yelled out the window, now more than irritated.

Hellen just rolled her eyes, and Tom had to cover his left ear against the concert of honking to hear the dial tone on his phone.

“I’m only getting François’s voicemail,” Tom said, ending the call. “But the signal is still coming from the hotel.” Tom pointed to the map on the “Find My” app.

“What about van Rensburg? It wouldn’t hurt to get a few more details. He definitely knows more about this whole thing.”

“The ‘Butler of the Ancients’ also has his voicemail on. Seems like nobody wants to talk to us right now,” Tom answered.

“It was a good idea from Akira to unlock our phones for this,” Hellen said. “And fortunately you reminded François to activate it,” she added, sticking her head out the window.

“But what good is it if we can’t reach him? He doesn’t even know what we’ve found out. And if it’s all true, I don’t even want to think about what this could mean for humanity.”

Hellen sat back down and shrugged her shoulders.

“We need to focus,” Tom continued. “If we’re constantly thinking about the world possibly ending soon, we won’t manage to stop Noah.”

“You’re right.” She pointed outside at the traffic jam. “But this looks like it’s going to take a while. Let’s walk the last few blocks, it’ll definitely be faster.”

Tom nodded, put away his phone, and dug out some bills. With the words “Keep the change,” he handed the money to the driver and got out with Hellen.

“I told you we should have taken the subway,” Hellen said. “It would have been faster and especially cheaper.”

Tom grimaced. His wife was right.

With foresight, they had stored their minimal luggage in a locker at the airport to avoid carrying it around the entire time. They set off at a brisk pace, walking west along 34th Street. As they passed the Empire State Building and shortly after that Macy’s department store, they heard sirens—nothing unusual in New York. But before they turned onto 8th Avenue, where the main entrance of the New Yorker Hotel was located, they saw the reason for the traffic jam and sirens.

“What the hell is going on here?” Hellen asked.

Fire trucks, police cars, and countless police officers and firefighters were gathered in front of the hotel entrance. Evacuated guests and countless onlookers crowded across the street, their faces a mixture of frustration and fear. An entire block around the hotel had been cordoned off by the police, and traffic had been diverted. The hotel’s iconic Art Deco facade appeared undamaged. Whether and where a fire was burning wasn’t yet clear.

Tom pulled out his phone and once again opened the “Find My” app. “The signal’s still coming from the hotel,” he said.

“Where is that Frenchman? I hope nothing’s happened to him,” said Hellen.

“No way. François can take care of himself. He’s probably busy using some of his ‘French charm’ on Phoebe.”

Tom spoke the last words in an intentionally poor French accent while pressing Cloutard’s contact again and lifting the phone to his ear. He shook his head as the voicemail answered again.

“We need to get in there somehow,” Hellen urged, looking around among the onlookers and evacuated guests, hoping to find their friend in the crowd.

For a moment, they both stood uncertainly in front of the stepped building, observing the chaos around them. Onlookers, drawn by the spectacle, and obvious hotel guests, some still in bathrobes, feverishly exchanged the wildest speculations, their eyes and phones directed upward. Was it a fire, a terrorist attack, a suicide?

“We can forget about the main entrance, probably the side entrance too,” Hellen said, scanning the surroundings for an alternative.

Tom opened Google Maps on his phone and activated the 3D view. “Look at this. The Manhattan Center directly borders the back of the hotel,” he murmured, rotating the view with his fingers. “If we can get to the roof from here, maybe we can get in that way.”

Hellen nodded, and her gaze followed his pointing finger to a parking garage right next to the Manhattan Center on West 34th Street. “This will work,” Tom said, and they started walking.

First, they made their way through the onlookers, then took a small detour around the hotel to approach it from behind along 34th Street. Here too, firefighters and police were blocking the hotel. But the officers were more occupied with the hotel and the crowd and paid no attention to the garage entrance farther down the street.

Tom and Hellen slipped in unnoticed. Their footsteps echoed in the dimly lit garage complex as they ran up the ramps. Their breathing quickened, not just from exertion but also from the thrill.

Once at the top, they went through a door that led to the garage roof. But that was only half the challenge. The Manhattan Center was still several floors higher than the garage building.

“You want to climb up there?” Hellen asked, as Tom pointed to two huge ventilation ducts that led up almost to the roof of the Manhattan Center in a niche.

“Come on, it wouldn’t be the first time. Just don’t look down.”

“What if someone sees us?”

“No way, they’re all busy with the hotel. Nobody’s worried about us.”

Tom formed a step with his hands and hoisted Hellen up high enough that she could reach the upper edge of the horizontal sheet-metal duct and pull herself up. Tom himself wedged his legs between the wall and the vertical pipe and climbed up between them. On all fours, they then crawled up the square ductwork that led diagonally upward. From an outside perspective, their route somewhat resembled the video game ‘Donkey Kong,’ but without any barrels rolling toward them.

When they reached the end of the ventilation ducts, they only had to overcome the last wall section to the roof. A boost, a push, a jump, and they were standing on top of the Manhattan Center.

“Over there,” Tom said and ran crouched to the northeast corner, where three tall, ventilation outlets rose, gleaming in the sunlight and offering them perfect cover to enter the hotel.

“We can’t just break the windows of some random room,” Hellen said as they squeezed behind the ventilation shaft. The New York street noise gave way to the monotone hum of the ventilation system.

“Who said anything about a room?” Tom said, speaking loudly to be heard over the humming of the fans. He crouched in front of a window and peered in through the raised, open window of an office. On the windowsill stood an overflowing ashtray, with smoke still rising from it.

“Looks like someone was interrupted during their break,” Hellen said.

“And we don’t even have to break anything. Ladies first,” Tom said with the broad grin that Hellen could never resist. She gave him a quick kiss and climbed through the window.

Tom hurried over to the office door and opened it cautiously, only to close it again right away. He raised his hand and put a finger to his lips.

“We’re not alone.”

CHAPTER 41

NEW YORKER HOTEL, MANHATTAN

“I’m tellin’ ya, it’s just some lunatic who set off the fire alarm. I hate these pointless calls,” Tom heard a firefighter say to his colleague as they checked the floor. The second man grabbed his radio and pressed the talk button.

“All clear on the tenth floor. We’re headin’ down to the ninth.”

“Come on, let’s get this over with as quickly as possible. There’s a cold beer waitin’ for us back at the station,” said the other, and the two men disappeared into the stairwell.

“The coast is clear.” Tom watched the two men through the crack in the door with relief. He opened it a bit wider, looking around once more to be safe. As they entered the hallway, they moved quietly across the deep-pile carpet toward the elevators.

“Is taking the elevator a good idea?” Hellen asked in a hushed voice. “Isn’t there too much risk of being discovered?”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take. After our climbing adventure, I have no desire to walk up twenty-three floors. Besides, the stairwell is probably crawling with firefighters. The elevator seems safer to me.”

But to Hellen’s surprise, Tom walked past the elevators and headed straight for a door marked ‘Staff Only.’

“What are you doing? I thought we were taking the elevator.”

“We are, but not a passenger elevator. That would definitely be too risky. The fire department has set up a command post in the lobby, and they’d immediately notice if we used one of those. We’ll have a better chance of not being discovered if we use the elevator that room service uses,” Tom explained.

During his time as a Cobra officer, he’d been part of many operations that involved firefighters. He knew how they worked. But there was still some risk, of course—operational protocols weren’t the same in all countries.

Cautiously, he opened the door and slipped through. Moments later they were riding the service elevator upward.

“Who actually lives in a hotel for ten years?” Tom wondered.

“Well, Nikola Tesla did, as we know. But in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, it was quite common for hotels to accommodate long-term guests. Over time, this evolved into the residential buildings as we know them today. Eventually, some former hotels were converted into apartment buildings.”

“How do you know that again?”

“The Internet. What else?” Hellen said, looking at Tom with slight bewilderment. “Do you really think I know everything about human history? Even I have to look things up sometimes.”

“I’m a little disappointed, I must admit. You should have told me that before we got married. What else have you been keeping from me?” Tom tried to sound as serious as possible, but Hellen knew him too well.

“Idiot,” she said, smiling and giving him a gentle elbow to the ribs. Tom leaned forward and kissed her.

For a moment, they both held their breath as the elevator slowed. It seemed to take an eternity for the old machinery to come to a stop. They had no idea what awaited them outside.

The doors rumbled open, and for a moment, they didn’t dare move. Slowly, Tom poked his head around the corner and looked out. No one in sight. They hurried to the door that led to the hallway. Tom carefully opened it a crack.

“All clear.”

They entered the hallway, and Hellen pointed to a sign on the wall indicating which rooms were in which direction.

“This way. It’s just down there,” she said, grabbing Tom’s arm.

The sudden crackle of a radio, accompanied by voices, froze them both. Tom spotted a shadow around a corner. “Shit.” He pushed Hellen toward the area with the passenger elevators. They disappeared around the corner just in time and pressed themselves against the wall. Tom risked a glance and saw two firefighters turning a corner.

“Sir, we’ve found the cause,” they heard one of the firefighters say into his radio. “Someone triggered the alarm on the thirty-third floor. No fire anywhere. But we’ve discovered something else. You should send up someone from NYPD. Rooms 3327 and 28.”

Tom inhaled sharply. Hellen turned pale. Fear inscribed itself on their faces.

“The Tesla rooms? Okay, pull back, get outta there. We’ll let the boys in blue handle the rest,” came the response from the incident commander.

Tom frantically gestured for Hellen to run to the next corner—the firefighters were heading for the elevators.

Tom and Hellen breathed a sigh of relief when the two men disappeared into the elevator and they were alone again. But the fact that the men had found something that called for the police immediately caused them to feel uneasy again.

“Come on, we need to hurry,” said Tom. “The cops could be here any minute.”

They ran around the corner, down the hallway, and slowed their pace just before the corner to the rooms. They were in a dead end. Tom and Hellen looked at each other, fearful of what might await them in the rooms. Tom’s eyes fell on the brass plaque that read “The Nikola Tesla Room” and on by the other door was emblazoned “The Nikola Tesla Study.” Slowly, Tom pushed open the half-open door.

They were greeted by a scene of devastation, but to their relief, their worst fears had not materialized. After searching through 3327, they went over to the other room. Chaos reigned there too, but Cloutard’s and Phoebe’s suitcases stood untouched in the corner. The bed had been ransacked and chairs overturned, while cognac snifters, a half-empty bottle of Cloutard’s favorite cognac, Rémy Martin Louis XIII, and the shards of a water bottle were scattered across the floor. But there was no sign of either Cloutard or Phoebe.

“These are just normal hotel rooms,” Tom said, somewhat surprised.

“What did you expect? A museum with a poorly made dummy of Tesla at a desk?”

“Pretty much. We’re in America, after all,” said Tom.

“You’ve got a point there,” Hellen said as she continued looking around.

“Oh God, something terrible must have happened. Cloutard would never …” Tom said in shock, pointing at the cognac bottle. Hellen looked at him in alarm, but when she saw that he was pointing to the bottle on the floor, she merely screwed up her face in annoyance.

“How can you make stupid jokes at a time like this?” she said reproachfully.

“Because I don’t want to and can’t believe that something has happened to him,” Tom defended himself as he crawled across the floor to look under the bed.

“Ha! This explains why François isn’t answering his phone.” Tom scrambled to his feet. He had found Cloutard’s phone under the bed and was holding it up.

“And what do you make of this?” said Hellen, pointing to a gaping hole in the wall.

CHAPTER 42

ROOM 3327, THE NIKOLA TESLA ROOM, NEW YORKER HOTEL, MANHATTAN, USA

Tom approached the hole. His fingers traced over the frayed edges of the broken and torn drywall. He turned around and surveyed the small room as if assembling a puzzle in his head. His gaze wandered from the bed across the chaos in the room, the overturned chair, the glasses and cognac bottle on the floor, and through the open door into the hallway.

“They fought back,” Tom began, gesturing around the room. “Eventually, one of them probably set off the fire alarm, scaring away the attacker. And during the struggle, someone slammed into this wall and caused the hole.”

Hellen followed Tom’s gaze and movements as he tried to understand what had happened based on the condition of the room.

“And then François enlarged the hole and climbed down?”

“Sure, why not? The attacker or attackers were perhaps just regrouping and could have ambushed them inside the hotel or out the front. Finding an alternative, concealed way out was in their best interests. Maybe they also hoped the shaft would lead to Tesla’s secret laboratory. Apparently, there was nothing else to find up here.”

Hellen realized Tom was probably right and turned to the hole, peering inside.

The room light barely illuminated the cavity, so Hellen turned on her phone’s flashlight and shone it into the hole. What appeared was the narrow vertical shaft of an old, very small elevator. She smelled mildew.

“I can’t see the bottom. I wonder how far down it goes?”

Tom, beside her, examined the narrow shaft.

“At most to the basement,” Tom joked and picked up a piece of the broken wall. “We’ll see in a moment.” He dropped the piece of drywall and listened. It seemed to take forever until it finally reached the bottom.

“That’s pretty deep,” Tom said.

“What was it for? A dumbwaiter?” Hellen speculated.

“Or a secret elevator for a brilliant inventor?” Tom offered.

“And you want to …?”

“Of course. Have you forgotten that the NYPD is on their way up? This is our only chance. In a few minutes, this place will be crawling with police, and we’ll never find out what happened to Cloutard.”

“Fine, but you go first. If we fall, I at least want a soft landing.”

Tom playfully grimaced but then smiled at Hellen. One last time, he shone his light into the shaft to see how and where he could best hold on. Then he put his phone away and disappeared into the hole. Skillfully, he began his descent. His fingertips and toes searched out the thin rails and old brackets where the elevator car had once traveled along a pulley system. Hellen followed Tom’s lead and entered the shaft, which was barely three feet across.

Neither Tom nor Hellen suffered from claustrophobia, but in the darkness, the shaft seemed to get narrower the deeper they climbed. Before Cloutard rediscovered the shaft, probably no one had been there for decades.

“Stop,” Tom whispered. “I think I heard something. The police are probably in the room.”

Hellen gasped.

“Shouldn’t we hurry then?” she said quietly. Her tension and fear were clearly audible, and she needed all her strength to hold her position.

For a moment, the hole darkened, and immediately afterward, someone shone a flashlight into the shaft. But Tom and Hellen were already deep enough not to be caught in the beam.

Nevertheless, neither of them dared to move. The shadow disappeared again.

Tom coughed lightly as musty dust loosened beneath Hellen’s shoe and trickled down on him. When he looked up, he could make out Hellen’s silhouette just above him, barely visible against the pale light once falling from above.

“Okay. Let’s keep climbing, but quietly,” Tom whispered.

A sudden crack and a stifled scream made Tom pause again. A rusty bracket had broken, and Hellen had lost her grip.

Quick-witted, Tom rapidly spread his legs between the walls, jamming himself. He clawed one hand onto a rail and stretched out the other to catch Hellen. Unlike Hellen, who could only see the black abyss beneath her, Tom could at least make out her shadowy figure. Panic threatened to take a hold, but he kept his nerve and caught her at the last second.

“Spread your legs and press them against the wall,” Tom said through his teeth as Hellen hung from him by one arm. Hellen did as he said, and the weight on Tom’s arm instantly lightened. “And try to grab something with your other hand.”

Once Hellen had found a grip again, they held their breath, not daring to move, and stared up at the hole far above. But the shadow did not return.

“It’s okay. They didn’t hear anything. Keep climbing,” Hellen whispered. Tom sensed her agitation. He couldn’t blame her for wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“Okay, just press your back against the wall, stretch out your legs, and kind of slowly walk down,” he advised.

Slowly, laboriously, they overcame the last few floors, finally reaching the bottom of the shaft. Tom turned on his phone light and looked around, finding only a small, closed door with two elements, one upper and one lower. “Are you all right?” he asked, shining the light on Hellen’s hands, which were scraped from the fall and bleeding a little.

“I’ve had worse. We should focus on getting out of here,” said Hellen.

Tom handed her his phone and started working on the sliding mechanism of the small door. He dug his fingers into the gap between the door elements and pushed the lower half downward. Simultaneously, the upper half slid upward.

“You first,” said Tom, and Hellen slid through the opening feet first. Then she braced herself against the upper half so that Tom could get through. Together they pulled the door closed to stop it from slamming and causing noise.

Before they even turned around, Tom took his wife in his arms and hugged her tightly. “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me? I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”

“It’s okay, I’m fine. It’s just a few scratches, and you caught me, so let’s move on,” said Hellen with resolve. He was proud of her. In recent years, she had become an even stronger woman than she already was.

Hellen broke their embrace, kissed him, and began looking around the room.

“This could have been a small kitchen where food was prepared before being taken up to the rooms by elevator,” Hellen said.

“Or the entrance to Tesla’s secret lab,” Tom joked.

They were in a windowless room that no one had been inside for ages. Decrepit sideboards and cabinets lined the walls, buried under a layer of gray decades-old dust. Broken tiles were scattered around, old fabric-wrapped cables hung from the ceiling. The former entrance was only recognizable by the different bricks with which it had been walled up. They were trapped in a dead end.

“Are you still sure François and Phoebe took this route?” Hellen asked bluntly as she, like Tom, searched every corner of the room.

“Yes, and I also know how they got out.”

CHAPTER 43

BASEMENT OF THE NEW YORKER HOTEL

“Over here,” said Tom, shining his light on the floor. A semicircular scratch mark revealed that one of the cabinets on the wall had been moved recently.

They joined forces to rotate the cabinet forward and breathed a sigh of relief. Behind it was a passageway.

“You know what I don’t quite understand?” Hellen began as they walked down the corridor. “The bed upstairs didn’t look like it had been messed up in a fight. It looked more like⁠—”

“Oh, there certainly was a struggle in that bed,” Tom interrupted, amused, “but not the same kind of struggle as the one that happened afterward.”

“You mean …”

“Yes!” was all Tom said.

“Hmm,” Hellen muttered. She had never given much thought to Cloutard’s love life. “I’m happy for him,” she finally said. “About time, too. The poor guy has been single the whole time we’ve known him.”

“Well, except for⁠—”

“Don’t remind me,” Hellen cut him off, trying to shake the thought away with a vigorous shake of her head.

“Imagine if things had worked out between Cloutard and your mother—he’d be your stepfather now.”

Hellen stopped and shone her phone flashlight directly into Tom’s face. For a moment, there was silence. She stared at him intently while he raised his hands and tried to escape the beam of light.

“That wouldn’t be so bad. Cloutard is a good man,” said Hellen as she continued walking. “As long as you don’t think about what the two of them …” Hellen shuddered as if she’d eaten something sour. “By the way, Mom still hasn’t called. Should I be worried?”

“On a billionaire’s South Sea island?” asked Tom.

“Good point,” said Hellen.

They continued on cautiously, past old storage and utility rooms that hadn’t been used in years. The smell of dampness and mildew grew stronger, but the farther they went, the more it was overlaid with another odor—the earthy smell of old ceramics.

“This must be part of the hotel from Tesla’s time that they simply walled up and forgot about,” said Hellen.

As they turned the corner, they came upon a corridor lined with brown tiles that shimmered dully in the light of their flashlights, silent witnesses to a long-gone era. The corridor resembled a railway car in shape and size. Plaster was crumbling from the slightly arched, pink ceiling.

Hellen drew a sharp breath. “Look at that,” she said, directing her light to the far end . Three old doors the color of tarnished brass gleamed faintly in the cold light of their flashlights—once-glamorous Art Deco design, now dull and forgotten. “I read that this hotel once had direct access to the old Penn Station. But the station and the tunnel were shut down in 1963.”

Tom’s hands glided over the old doors, which had probably once been fitted with magnificent stained glass. Now they were boarded up with particle board. He tried the slightly loose brass handle and , to his surprise, the door opened without any problem.

“Lady Esterházy, I hope you had a pleasant stay at our fine establishment,” said Tom with a smile. Like a hotel bellhop, he held the door open for her and gave a slight bow.

“Thank you, sir,” said Hellen, stepping through the door like a noble lady.

In the distance, they could faintly hear traffic above their heads. But even down here, it was anything but quiet. Crawling, scratching, and occasional squeaking told them they weren’t alone.

After a few steps through the tunnel, Tom turned to Hellen, his face illuminated by the cold blue light.

“Did you know that in 2014, a statistician from Columbia University calculated that in New York, alongside the eight million people, there are probably two million rats? People used to think there were as many rats as people here, or even more.”

Hellen looked at Tom in surprise. He noticed her curious expression and immediately added, “Yeah, when I couldn’t sleep in the past, I’d watch documentaries at night. Some things stuck with me.”

“I’ve got something too. Tesla lived a secluded life in this hotel, almost in isolation. And there were quite a few rumors about him.” She paused, her voice growing quieter. “As Phoebe already mentioned, he was working on a revolutionary energy source, but on the Internet I discovered that he was working on a death ray—a weapon of unprecedented destructive power. That and his research on perpetual energy were also why the FBI seized all his documents from his hotel after his death, before any relatives had a chance to collect his personal belongings. Can you imagine what secrets these walls might still hide?”

“And both could have their origin with these stones,” said Tom.

“If Noah works for the US president, he might have had access to the documents once confiscated by the FBI. And ‘Perpetual Energy’ might just be a respectable cover he communicates to the outside world, while in truth, he’s after the death ray,” Hellen suggested.

“I wouldn’t put anything past the bastard,” Tom spat, “but do you really think we’ll find a lab down here?”

“No idea. Everything I know about Tesla I found out online during the flight. Phoebe’s the expert. We should be about halfway through the tunnel now. Right under 34th Street. I’m just afraid this tunnel will lead us to another dead end, especially since the old Penn Station doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Then let’s just try this door,” said Tom, shining his phone light at the wall. Amid shabby tiles was a half-open metal door with the inscription ‘No Entry.’

Cautiously, the two squeezed through the stiff half-open door. Behind it, a steel spiral staircase led downward. “These must be the service tunnels of the old subway line,” said Tom.

The air grew cooler and damper. The sounds of the city above them faded, replaced by the soft hum of machines. The smell of damp earth, oil, and old wood filled their nostrils. They couldn’t say exactly how far down they had descended, but they were several floors below the streets of Manhattan. At the bottom, they entered another, much narrower tunnel with countless pipes running along its walls.

Tom turned off his light and asked Hellen to do the same.

“Do you see that too?”

Hellen nodded. About fifty yards away, at the end of the tunnel, a blue-green light shimmered through a large hole in the wall.

When they reached the hole, Hellen crawled through first. “Wow,” she exclaimed. At first, they weren’t exactly sure what they were seeing. They had entered another tunnel that ran in two directions and presented them with a sight they had never seen before. In disbelief, as if they had entered another world, they gazed along the corridor, noticeably wider than the one they’d come from.

The walls were covered with a carpet of bioluminescent fungi, like a starry sky made of thousands upon thousands of LEDs. The slightly pulsing light had an almost alien quality.

Wordlessly, they turned in a circle, taking in the natural spectacle.

A cracking sound jolted them from their trance. Tom looked down. He’d stepped on something. He lifted his foot to find a smartphone underneath, its display cracked under his weight.

Both of them crouched, and Tom picked up the phone.

“Could this be Phoebe’s phone?” Hellen asked.

Tom shrugged, pocketing the phone as he stood back up.

Hellen froze as she looked past him down the corridor.

CHAPTER 44

OVAL OFFICE, WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, USA

“Mr. President, Oswald Hubbard is here now.”

President James J. Pitcock looked up, irritated. Pitcock was a great diplomat and an even better actor, but at the sight of Oswald Hubbard, alias Noah Pollock, his poker face completely failed him.

Noah closed the concealed door to the Oval Office and extended his hand to the President in a friendly manner. The President returned the greeting, albeit with obvious distaste.

“We agreed that we would avoid any kind of personal contact,” said President Pitcock.

“What? I’m not even offered a seat?”

Noah didn’t wait for the president’s answer but took a seat on the sofa and looked at Pitcock challengingly. Noah knew perfectly well that he had sat in the President’s favorite spot. Pitcock sighed and sat down across from him.

He was all too aware of what Noah knew about him. AF operatives had killed his predecessor to elevate Pitcock to office.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Pollock?”

The president was more than annoyed, especially because Noah looked so remarkably self-satisfied. But it didn’t take long for the president’s expression to change. He listened attentively and sat up straighter and straighter as Noah spoke about the concept of “eternal energy.” His interest was more than piqued.

“How far along is the project?” he asked.

Noah smiled winningly. The ball was in the net. The president had taken the bait. He had POTUS in the palm of his hand.

“Very far, Mr. President. I don’t want to tell you more about my plan. You know—plausible deniability!”

The president nodded.

“Nevertheless, Noah”—the president had switched from “Mr. Pollock” to “Noah,” a good sign—“we need to be absolutely certain. I need achievements to show for the upcoming election. I have to show something that will convince the American people to support me.”

“Eternal energy and independence from all foreign energy sources will more than fulfill that requirement,” said Noah.

“Of course.” He hesitated briefly, as if weighing his next words. He was making a momentous decision. “Okay, then we’re going all-in on this. Deliver this ‘eternal energy’ thing for me, Noah. Whatever it takes.”

President Pitcock stood up. He filled two crystal glasses with scotch, and held one out to Noah, who accepted it gratefully. They clinked glasses.

“I just need one small thing, Mr. President. For you, it’s nothing more than a phone call.”

Pitcock nodded and looked expectantly at Noah. “I’m listening.”

“I need DARPA and all its resources. In particular, I need General Jasper Tiberius Horne on board.”

Pitcock sighed audibly. “That old know-it-all. He thinks DARPA belongs to him. I’ve been wanting to get rid of him anyway. Insubordination is his middle name. If he refuses to cooperate, I can at least fire him.”

“DARPA has grabbed all the Tesla documents from the FBI. With the old Tesla blueprints, they’ve already done all the groundwork. But they’ve hit a dead end because they’re missing something crucial to implement Tesla’s plans,” Noah said smugly.

“And you have this crucial component,” said Pitcock.

“Naturally,” replied Noah and emptied his glass.

Pitcock stood up and circled the Resolute Desk, the famous desk constructed in 1879 by William Evenden from the wood of the British polar exploration ship HMS Resolute after it was scrapped, and which Queen Victoria presented as a gift to President Rutherford B. Hayes on November 23, 1880.

Pitcock pressed a button on his phone. “Maddie, get me General Horne from DARPA.” He paused briefly. “And make him wait a few minutes on the line. He deserves it, the bastard.”

A chuckle sounded on the other end. “Of course, Mr. President.”

Noah was also on his feet. “Thank you, Mr. President. You won’t regret it.”

“We’ll see,” muttered Pitcock as he escorted Noah to the door.

“One more thing. I wasn’t completely honest. I’ll need you to make one more call. To the Mayor of New York.”

Pitcock hesitated and furrowed his brow. “Bob Pennington? What do we need from him?”

Noah cleared his throat and suddenly seemed a bit embarrassed. “What we’re planning might cause a bit of a stir in New York,” he said, and suddenly a diabolical grin appeared on Noah’s face.

“To what extent?”

“On a 9/11 scale,” said Noah. Pitcock tried to respond, but Noah immediately continued. “It would just be important that the NYPD, the New York FBI, and the Coast Guard don’t interfere for a few hours …” Noah looked the US president directly in the eyes. “And that the Governor doesn’t call in the National Guard.”

Pitcock closed his eyes and visibly paled as Noah described the rest of his plan.

CHAPTER 45

UNDERGROUND MANHATTAN

Was she dreaming? Hellen blinked, not trusting her first impression. Could it be? In the bioluminescent glow, she thought she saw something at the end of the tunnel.

Tom’s attempts to get her attention sounded far away. “Hellen! Hellen!” he repeated.

Ignoring Tom’s voice, she pushed him aside and ran a few steps down the corridor.

“What’s wrong? What is it?” he called after her.

“I saw …” Hellen replied.

A moment later, a knocking sound echoed through the corridor.

“What did you see?”

“I could have sworn …” said Hellen, still unsure whether she had just imagined it.

“What?”

“A boy. I could swear I saw a little boy,” Hellen said, looking around. “He was just standing there, looking at me, and then he ran to the left.”

“A little boy? Are you sure?”

“Yes. He had very pale skin and was wearing old, shabby clothes. He couldn’t have been older than eight. Come on,” said Hellen. She started running again. For a moment, Tom just watched his wife rush ahead.

“Okay, let’s follow the white rabbit, why not? What could possibly go wrong?” he muttered to himself and ran after her.

They heard the knocking again, as if someone were striking pipes with an iron rod. But because of the seemingly endless number of pipes running along the walls and ceilings, and due to the echo, it was impossible to locate the source. Sometimes it sounded very close, sometimes far away.

When Tom finally caught up with Hellen, she was standing in the middle of what appeared to be a large room. It was dark. Only a faint shimmer of the bioluminescent light from the tunnel illuminated the front part of the room. The light from Hellen’s phone flashlight penetrated a little farther. Only when Tom joined her and added his light could they get a better picture. The room rose across two floors. Rusty grated walkways ran around the room a few feet overhead, like a gallery. In the center of the hall stood four enormous boilers that must have once generated steam for something, and pipes extended from them, crossing the room in all directions like lines on a subway map.

“Hello?” Hellen called hesitantly. “Where are you? You don’t need to be afraid.”

Suddenly the knocking stopped. At first, there seemed to be absolute silence, but gradually all sorts of other sounds came through. The rumbling of the subway in the distance, hissing and puffing, and even the rush of water could be heard.

“Hello?” Hellen repeated.

“Come on, the light was playing tricks on you, there’s nobody here,” said Tom. But he was immediately proven wrong.

As if from nowhere, countless figures emerged from the shadows. They came from the left, from the right, from the front, and even from above as two of them slid down pipes behind them. In no time, Tom and Hellen were surrounded.

“Tom!” Hellen cried out, startled and waving her light back and forth.

Instinctively, he positioned himself in front of Hellen, standing between his wife and their unknown assailants. They could make out four men and two women, wrapped in dark, colorfully mismatched, partly homemade old clothes. In their hands, they held short iron rods, chains, old baseball bats. One young man had a gun. He pointed it at Tom, slowly approached him, and looked him up and down.

Tom backed away, his hands protectively wrapped around Hellen behind him. His gaze quickly moved from person to person as they tightened the circle and came closer.

It was a surreal image. Even Tom, who had undergone years of close combat training and had found himself in many seemingly hopeless situations, wasn’t quite sure how to act. But one thing he knew: there didn’t have to be a fight.

“Stay completely calm and do what they say,” Tom whispered.

The strangers still remained silent. Their gazes pierced Tom and Hellen, expressing caution but also determination. But Tom also saw fear in their faces.

“If they say anything,” he added in a whisper.

Suddenly, Tom realized that the knocking, which had stopped so abruptly, must have been a form of communication.

Without saying a word, with no more than a nod to his comrades, the man with the weapon turned, switched on a flashlight, and walked off.

The two men behind Tom and Hellen gave them an encouraging shove and pointed in the direction of their leader.

“Who are you? Where are you taking us?” asked Tom with as much strength in his voice as he could muster. But his questions were answered with another shove.

“They’re mole people. People who live in the underground of New York,” Hellen whispered. “We apparently unintentionally entered their territory.” After they had left the boiler room and were led through another corridor, the little boy suddenly ran past them.

Hellen nudged Tom in the side and nodded toward the boy.

Tom responded with a silent “Okay.” Aloud, he added, “He successfully lured us into a trap.”

After a few minutes passing through a labyrinth of tunnels, they reached an ancient elevator. It looked like the wire cages used to take miners into the depths. They were ordered into the cage. The man with the gun and two others followed them. The others stayed behind and disappeared into various corridors.

Our chances of escaping just improved by fifty percent, thought Tom, looking at Hellen. Her eyes and the barely perceptible shake of her head told him not to try anything. Yes, it was still dangerous, but certainly doable. But knowing Hellen, she wanted to see where this would lead. For an archaeologist, a new culture was simply too exciting. Especially one that still existed and didn’t just tell its story through broken pots and incomplete texts.

“Mole people, huh,” whispered Tom, and Hellen rolled her eyes.

“Yes. The press gave them the name,” Hellen explained as quietly as possible. “They had become a problem in New York in the 1990s. Homeless people had formed small groups in abandoned tunnels and created their own little communities. Some had been living underground for more than twenty years. Incredible. They’re in Las Vegas too. They had converted niches, old service rooms, whatever they could find, into dwellings. They illegally tapped electricity, owned discarded refrigerators they repaired, electric stoves, TVs with DVD players, and some even had old computers. But a city initiative drove them out of their homes. Today they say there are only a few people who deliberately live this way. But apparently that’s not entirely accurate.”

The leader, of course, had overheard what Hellen was saying, but he merely smiled as suddenly the elevator was no longer in a shaft but descending freely like a panoramic lift on the side of a building, revealing something incredible.

The mole people were one thing, but what they saw here exceeded all Tom’s and Hellen’s expectations. They instantly understood how Alice must have felt in Wonderland or what Neo experienced when he first saw the city of Zion.

As if on the wall of a canyon, paths were laid out in tiers on several levels, and caves were dug into the earth. They served as dwellings, workspaces, greenhouses, and everything else needed. The canyon echoed like in a gigantic cathedral. On the damp walls grew the bioluminescent mushrooms they had admired earlier, like ivy on the walls of an old castle. Cables with light bulbs were stretched crisscross, like clotheslines in the narrow alleys of Mediterranean towns. Together with the fluorescent mushrooms, they bathed this world in an almost mystical light.

But the view didn’t last long. The elevator car disappeared into a shaft again and stopped shortly afterward. Gradually they became aware of the seriousness of their situation.

“We don’t mean any harm,” Hellen began pleadingly. “We didn’t even know this place existed. We’re just looking for our friends.”

The men didn’t react, just kept driving them forward.

“We just wanted to find Nikola Tesla’s lost laboratory,” Hellen murmured resignedly.

Suddenly they stopped. That was the first statement that had provoked a reaction from the mole people. The armed leader whispered something to one of the other men. The man nodded obediently, grabbed Hellen by the arm, and dragged her back in the direction they had just come from.

“Hellen! Take your hands off her. What are you doing with her?” shouted Tom. He tried to break free, but a blow with the baseball bat to a kidney ended his attempts and brought him to his knees.

“It’s fine, they won’t hurt me,” said Hellen calmly. The leader raised his gun and pointed it at Tom’s head. Resigned, Tom raised his hands and struggled to his feet.

They pulled him onward until they came to a steel door that distantly resembled a ship’s bulkhead. The leader flipped the two seals to the side, opened it, and his colleague pushed Tom inside. A metallic crash echoed through the corridors as the heavy steel door slammed shut behind him.

CHAPTER 46

AT AN UNKNOWN LOCATION

Slowly and noisily, a massive roller door slid upward. In the harsh afternoon sunlight that suddenly flooded the large warehouse, the silhouette of a woman appeared. She ducked under the door before it was fully open. Purposefully and confidently, she approached a shaven-headed man in the middle of the hall who was handling a Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifle with a folding stock. A handful of men in dark civilian clothes were working quickly, preparing for an operation. Makeshift tables held communication devices, cases with weapons, and monitors displaying live feeds from surveillance cameras alongside other information. The generators powering the equipment hummed softly and ceaselessly. The men moved with disciplined precision, checking their weapons, glancing at the screens, and communicating in hushed, urgent tones.

“What the hell happened to you?” asked Joshua, noticing the small gash on the Mantis’s forehead. She had stopped in front of him and was glaring at him angrily.

“I had a run-in with a fucking cognac bottle. Nothing serious,” said the Mantis, gently touching her wound.

Joshua snapped his fingers. A man who had been loading one of two black SUVs a few steps away grabbed a medical kit and hurried over to them.

“Sit down,” Joshua said firmly.

“It’s fine, just a scratch,” said the Mantis.

“No arguments. You can’t walk around like that.”

She sat down on one of the flight cases scattered throughout the hall and let Joshua’s man tend to the small wound.

“That bitch,” she hissed, then snarled at the man who was cleaning her wound with antiseptic.

“Sorry,” he said and continued more carefully.

“If I hadn’t reacted so quickly, she would have smashed my skull with that Louis XIII bottle. Then the Frenchman triggered the fire alarm, and I got out as fast as I could.”

“Bitch? You mean that Tesla woman, Phoebe Cross?” Joshua grinned knowingly. “You let yourself get blindsided by a forty-five-year-old bookworm?” Joshua shook his head, laughing.

“At least I didn’t let Tom Wagner and his wife slip through my fingers,” countered the Mantis. “The Regent must be furious.”

Joshua’s eyes widened as she loudly mentioned the Regent’s name in front of all the men.

“Relax,” she said, seeing his admonishing glare. “The cat’s out of the bag, and besides, Noah isn’t Lord Voldemort.”

“Who?”

“Lord Voldemort. Harry Potter?” she said with disbelief in her voice, looking questioningly at Joshua.

“I’m more of a Star Wars guy,” said Joshua, and the Mantis just shook her head. “I told you from the start that we should do this together. The Regent didn’t assemble such a large team for nothing.”

Even in Noah’s absence, he was omnipresent. Every step they took, every plan they executed, was subject to his directives, his master plan. She hated how dependent she was on him. It wasn’t in her nature to let men boss her around like this. Her nickname didn’t come from nowhere.

A sudden pain yanked her from her thoughts. She breathed in sharply and shot the medic an evil look as he pressed her wound together with his fingers to seal it with adhesive.

“Yes, I admit I underestimated them,” she said. “And it won’t happen a second time. But whatever. Looking back, I was there too early. They hadn’t even started searching for the lab. Is everything ready?”

“We can leave anytime,” said Joshua.

“What are we waiting for then? We need to find the lab and the third stone as quickly as possible.” She jumped up, pushing the medic aside, and went to a table where countless weapons were lined up. She took a new pistol, checked if it was loaded, and slipped it into her empty holster. She also slipped two magazines into her side pouch.

“Let’s go!” shouted Joshua, making a circular motion above his head with his right hand. He grabbed his rifle and stomped over to one of the SUVs. The Mantis went to the table with the communications equipment, picked up a tablet, followed Joshua to the car, and got in on the passenger side. The other men divided themselves between the two vehicles. The engines roared to life and the roller door opened again.

Before it was fully raised, Joshua in the lead vehicle hit the gas, and the two SUVs left the warehouse with squealing tires.

The Mantis activated the tablet, simultaneously took her phone in hand, and pressed a contact.

“We’re on our way. The signal is strong,” she said.

“Report when you’ve found Tesla’s secret lab,” Noah’s voice sounded at the other end of the line.

“Yes, sir, it won’t be much longer,” the Mantis ended the call.

She turned back to the tablet, which displayed a map of midtown Manhattan. A small dot was blinking near the New Yorker Hotel. Next to the exact coordinates was another indication: “-150 meters.”

“We’ve got them.”

CHAPTER 47

UNDERGROUND MANHATTAN

Tom’s eyes needed time to adjust to the light. The room was a mixture of man-made walls and natural earth and rock, like an ancient cellar built directly into a hillside. Two walls were constructed from old bricks and stones, while the others were rougher, craggy rock that felt damp and cold. The gentle, pulsating glow of the few bioluminescent mushrooms on the ceiling above cast eerie shadows and provided just enough light to make out the outline of the heavy airlock door, a door that could only be opened from one side—the outside.

“Tom?” Despite the familiar voice, he spun around, startled.

“François, is that you?”

“Oui,” said the Frenchman as he rose from a dark corner. “I am so glad to see you.”

The two men embraced and patted each other on the back.

“Where’s Hellen?”

“We were separated—I don’t know where they took her,” said Tom. A hint of desperation crept into his voice. “I shouldn’t have listened to her,” he muttered, running his fingers through his sweaty hair. The hot, humid climate was slowly taking a toll on him.

“Mr. Wagner!” a female voice suddenly said, and Phoebe stepped out from the same corner as Cloutard had before. “I’m so pleased to see you again. How did you find us?”

Tom explained how they had found the hotel room and the hole in the wall, and how they had encountered the mole people.

“Exactement comme nous, exactly like what happened to us,” said Cloutard.

“I need to bring you up to speed,” Tom began, and in a few words, he explained what they had seen in California and what van Rensburg had told them.

Cloutard and Phoebe stared at him with their mouths wide open. This flood of information was too much for them. Cloutard regained his composure a little faster than Phoebe.

“Bien, that means we need to stop Noah. We have done that before, un jeu d’enfant.”

“Except that now more human lives are at stake. Actually, the entire world,” said Tom. “You’re not surprised that Noah is back?”

“We already knew it,” said Cloutard.

Tom’s eyes widened.

“What? How?”

“He was the one who tipped Phoebe off to contact you. He’s working under an alias, Hubbard, for the US president.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Tom. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. What was Noah planning? Why did he want Tom and his team involved in this at all? “POTUS must have gotten him out of prison and given him a new identity,” he said. “Pitcock came to power when AF assassinated his predecessor. Noah certainly had a hand in that. I’m not surprised they’re all regrouping after the dismantling of AF. And that includes the Pope.”

“But what are they planning?” said Cloutard.

Phoebe stood beside them, completely lost.

“Someone murdered the old US president? And what the hell is AF and what does all this have to do with the Pope?”

“Chérie, that would take too long to explain now. When this is all over, I’ll tell you everything. Trust me,” said Cloutard in a reassuring voice. Phoebe looked deeply into Cloutard’s eyes, as if she could find the answers there, and finally nodded.

“That stuff about magical stones from Atlantis sounds crazy at first, but it would explain quite a few things,” murmured Phoebe.

“How so?” asked Tom. Cloutard looked at Phoebe.

“Tesla’s vision and his inventions were far ahead of their time. It’s entirely possible that he had access to sources we know nothing about.”

“The knowledge of the Atlanteans?” asked Cloutard.

Phoebe shrugged. “With Tesla, I wouldn’t be particularly surprised.”

“The fact is, we need to get out of here fast and stop Noah, or he’ll destroy the world with his ignorance,” said Tom.

“How do we do that?” Phoebe asked.

“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Tom said as he examined the heavy door. He pushed, pressed, and rattled it, even throwing himself against it with all his strength. It didn’t move at all. A mixture of a pain-filled cry and an angry growl escaped Tom.

“Calme-toi, mon ami,” said Cloutard, placing a reassuring hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Who are these guys anyway. And how is it possible that so many people live down here and nobody knows about it?”

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” said Phoebe with bright eyes, earning only irate looks from Tom and Cloutard.

“What’s wrong with you scientists? If I hadn’t listened to Hellen, I wouldn’t be stuck in this hole now, and Hellen wouldn’t be God knows where.”

“I just mean,” Phoebe continued carefully, “that it’s fascinating how even in our time, it’s still possible for such an isolated society to develop, separate from our own. You might expect to find something like this in the jungles of South America, but not in the middle of New York. This society must have existed for several decades to reach this level. I’m guessing they’re more afraid of us than we are of them. They don’t even have modern weapons.”

“Oh really? Tell that to the guy out there who was waving a 9mm in my face,” said Tom. The fact that Noah was involved and Hellen had been abducted by these people was wearing on his nerves.

“Oops, that was my fault,” said Cloutard. “During our little skirmish with the Mantis, she dropped her weapon, and you know how I feel about guns. We took it with us to prevent it from falling into someone else’s hands.”

“Great plan. Ever heard of the ‘Prime Directive’?”

Cloutard looked at him in bewilderment.

“Star Trek!” Phoebe blurted out excitedly, puzzling Cloutard even more.

“And what about Nikola Tesla’s laboratory, do you at least have a lead on that?” asked Tom.

Cloutard and Phoebe just shook their heads.

“I only ask because when Hellen mentioned Tesla, these guys got kinda weird. Before that, they completely ignored us and didn’t respond to any of our questions.”

Phoebe perked up. “ do you mean?”

“She What Tesla’s name, then they took her away and threw me in here. By the way, I believe this belongs to you,” said Tom, handing Phoebe her phone. “Sorry about the display.”

A sudden creaking at the door caught their attention and prevented Phoebe from responding. The door was pulled open, and to everyone’s surprise, a man in a black suit stood before them.

Tom was already poised to overpower the man but stopped at the last moment when he recognized the clerical collar around the man’s neck. He was a priest.

“Dr. Cross, Mr. Wagner, Monsieur Cloutard, my name is Father Matthew. Please, come with me,” he said in a gentle voice, extending his hand invitingly.

Somewhat perplexed by this new development, they looked at each other. An almost simultaneous shrug and nod from all three sealed their decision. Slowly, yet warily, they exited the cell one after another.

“Follow me,” said the priest and led the way.

Tom was still furious, but he decided to give the conciliatory gesture a chance, at least for the moment.

Father Matthew led them back to the elevator, which this time stopped halfway up. They got out and followed the priest across the middle level of the terraced structure.

Fearful but also curious glances met them from all sides. Children stopped playing, and parents protectively pulled them back.

“This way,” said the priest, pointing the way through a large gate.

“Okay, this is cool,” said Tom as he entered the room. It resembled a small church. Circular steel beams supported the high ceiling. Here too, like everywhere else, the fluorescent fungus grew and was supplemented with electric light.

Tom’s heart leaped when he saw Hellen sitting unharmed at the round table positioned in the center. Nevertheless, he was overcome by a strange feeling as he looked around the room, as if he had been there before. Or at least in a similar place. And as he joyfully embraced Hellen, it dawned on him. Though much smaller and with a vaguely steampunk charm, conceptually it looked like the headquarters of the Knights of the Round Table at the Matterhorn.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. It’s like I said, they didn’t harm me.”

“What did you tell them?” Tom whispered, so none of the others could hear him.

“Just the essentials. I showed them the note and explained that we’re trying to figure out if Tesla’s inventions might have something to do with the tsunami off Cuba.”

“And what is all this?” Tom asked quietly.

“You’ll find out soon. Just sit down and listen.”

Tom, Cloutard, and Phoebe followed Hellen’s example and took seats at the massive round table. Across from them sat two women. A man joined Father Matthew, and between them sat an elderly man who looked at least a hundred years old.

“Welcome,” said Father Matthew. “We would like to apologize for the misunderstanding. As I’m sure you can imagine, we must be very careful about who learns of our secret.”

“What is this place? Zion?” asked Tom, perhaps a bit too flippantly.

“Mr. Wagner, I can assure you that you have not been disconnected from the Matrix,” said Father Matthew with a disarming smile. “This is merely a refuge for people who have been cast out by society up there.” He pointed upward. “I myself spent several years here after my military service. This is where I found my faith.”

“You’re a veteran?” asked Tom with interest.

“Army Ranger. I suffered from PTSD for years and lost everything. My so-called country wanted nothing more to do with me, and when I was about to give up, I met a priest who showed me this place. He offered me a second chance. He was the one who led me to faith.”

“But that does not explain your expensive outfit,” said Cloutard, naturally suspicious.

Father Matthew smiled and nodded. “You have a good eye, Monsieur Cloutard. A man like you notices such details.”

Tom became alert. Slowly, he was starting to feel as if the priest knew exactly who they were. Did he also know why they were really there? And if so, how? That the priest was an ex-Army Ranger didn’t make things any better.

“After I got back on my feet, I attended the seminary and took my vows. I no longer live down here, but like my mentor before me, I am a kind of link between this world and the one above. I live and work in the Vatican.”

Tom, Hellen, and Cloutard exchanged a glance. Whoever this priest was, they couldn’t trust him, not since the death of the old Pope had put an AF puppet at the head of the Catholic Church.

“But enough about me. I believe you all want to know who we are and what all this has to do with Nikola Tesla.”

CHAPTER 48

DARPA HEADQUARTERS, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

Dr. Hector Amill, a wiry Puerto Rican and one of the leading experts on energy efficiency and energy storage in the United States, angrily shook his head. “With all due respect, General, we need to look at the big picture.”

General Jasper Horne was the highest-ranking military officer serving DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—a department of the US Department of Defense focused on research and development of groundbreaking technologies for military applications. Now he was sitting at the head of the conference table, his face turning beet red.

“Dr. Amill, I value your expertise,” he said. “You know that. But you’re a scientist, and an internationally respected one at that, so I’m surprised at your stance.” Dr. Amill wanted to respond, but General Horne cut him off. “Perhaps we should take a short break.”

Everyone could feel the tension in the room. Quiet conversations between military personnel and scientists filled the air. Pros and cons were being discussed, even though they were supposed to be taking a break. No one seemed able to let go of the topic at hand.

Suddenly, the conference room door opened, and Noah Pollock entered, three men close behind him. He looked around the room intently. “I see I’ve come at just the right time. I’m glad I’m not interrupting any important discussions.”

Noah’s words had been directed at the General. He knew he wasn’t particularly welcome. Now all eyes turned to him, with expressions ranging from shock to curiosity.

“General Horne,” Noah said calmly. “I believe we have something to discuss.”

“Mr. Pollock,” the General replied, working to maintain his composure. “The president warned me you’d be coming. What brings you here?”

Noah’s eyes narrowed and glanced briefly at his followers before turning back to the General. “I believe POTUS told you everything you need to know,” Noah said in a matter-of-fact tone. “He’s given me a free hand on the Tesla matter. I have access to the current state of your research and all technical facilities that DARPA has built based on the Tesla documents.”

“Absolutely not,” General Horne said firmly. “All of that is highly classified and under lock and key for good reason. It’s extremely dangerous.” He paused and gave Noah a dismissive look. “And you, Mr. Pollock, don’t remotely have the security clearance for any of it.”

“Don’t forget who you’re speaking to, General,” Noah interrupted, his voice becoming a shade more threatening.

General Horne straightened up slightly, his gaze shifting between Noah and his followers. The other participants stood and sat with eyes wide and ears pricked, watching the scene with interest. Noah’s self-assured demeanor was unsettling. It made General Horne suspicious. Noah was acting as if he were the boss, which greatly irritated General Horne.

“Regarding security clearance, I appear to have a wild card directly from POTUS. Apparently, his call to you didn’t have the desired effect, so I have his orders in writing as well.”

Noah reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. The room held its breath; it was so quiet that the hum of the air conditioning sounded like an F-18 taking off. General Horne hesitated before accepting the envelope.

“Read it,” Noah commanded with icy authority in his voice.

The General tore open the envelope. In disbelief, he skimmed the contents, and his face grew paler by the second. He swallowed hard and nodded. His thoughts seemed to be racing, but finally a look of resignation appeared on his face. Grimly, he crumpled the letter, motioned for Noah to follow him, and left the room. He led him through a series of dimly lit corridors.

The security measures intensified as they approached their destination. Retinal scanners and biometric locks were passed. The air grew colder. Finally, they reached the entrance—a large, reinforced steel door. General Horne entered his security codes. The door unlocked. He hesitated for a moment and stared into the darkness beyond.

“General, if you please,” Noah urged, his impatience palpable as he prodded the General forward.

The room dedicated to Project Tesla was dimly lit. A large metal table on the side was stacked with old files that obviously originated from Tesla himself. Formulas, blueprints, and circuit diagrams hung on the bulletin boards and whiteboards. In the back third of the room stood a black metal box the size of a photocopier, with various wires extending from it.

“Mr. Pollock, I don’t know what you want here. Our best people have been working on this for quite some time. Tesla’s research is groundbreaking and promising. He definitely found a way to generate eternal energy—a self-sustaining source that could change the world forever.”

Noah circled the apparatus, not taking his eyes off the maze of wires.

“It’s remarkable,” he murmured, running his fingers over the cool metal surface. “The power it possesses … it exceeds anything I could have imagined.”

“And yet,” General Horne interjected, his tone tinged with regret, “it remains a mystery.”

Noah looked up.

“We’re missing a few puzzle pieces that our scientists simply don’t understand. As it is, this thing is completely useless to us.”

General Horne moved back toward the door, as if signaling they were finished here.

“What if I had those components,” Noah said, almost inaudibly. Not only Horne, but also Amill and the other two scientists who had come along looked at Noah in surprise.

Horne quickly regained his composure. “Even if that were the case, there’s another catch. There’s a certain configuration that’s required for all this to work. But that’s a line we here at DARPA would never cross.”

“And that would be?” Noah, of course, already knew what the General was getting at.

CHAPTER 49

UNDERGROUND MANHATTAN

“It was in 1931,” the old man began in a soft but compelling voice. His skin was pale yet remarkably unwrinkled for his age. Long, thin, but well-groomed white hair rested on his shoulders. His milky eyes were kind and radiated an unspeakable wisdom. “I was born in Central Park, in the shadow of what were then New York’s tallest buildings. It was during the Great Depression. My parents, God rest their souls, had lost everything, but they found comfort in a Hooverville in Central Park.”

“Hooverville?” Tom whispered to Hellen. She responded only with a finger to her lips.

“Little shanty towns like ours were called Hoovervilles, and they existed all over the country,” the old man explained, painting a vivid picture of the past. “Makeshift shelters built from scraps of wood, tar, tin, even cardboard. They were a testament to human resilience, each hut a beacon of hope and survival in a time of overwhelming despair. In the alleys between the shacks, you’d often hear stories of better days, dreams of a brighter future. We kept our homes and the village as orderly as possible. I still remember how my mother once said: ‘Our circumstances may have changed, but not our dignity.’ And despite the hardships we faced, the community lived on camaraderie and shared dreams.”

Tom noticed Hellen’s eyes growing moist. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. Phoebe was also touched by the moving story and leaned against Cloutard’s shoulder. Hellen nudged Tom and nodded toward Phoebe and Cloutard. A small smile played on her lips as she wiped away her tears.

“Our life wasn’t easy.” The old man’s face reflected the burden of decades past. “But as I said, our community was strong. We worked hard, and though we owned almost nothing, we had each other. From my cot, I would often see the bright lights of the El Dorado, the Art Deco apartment building, when it was still new. It was so bright compared to the dim glow of our lanterns, and I dreamed of a better future.”

Father Matthew handed him a glass of water. Dredging up these memories demanded all the old man’s strength. When he had composed himself, he continued in a trembling voice: “When they demolished our Hooverville in 1933 to make room for the Great Lawn, we were devastated. We were already at rock bottom, and now they took away the little we had left. But misfortune has a way of fostering ideas. Displaced and desperate, many of us decided to go underground. At first, they were crude places. Dark, damp caverns in abandoned subway shafts. But desperate times called for desperate measures. We ventured deeper and deeper underground.”

His voice threatened to fail, but he went on: “Doctors, builders, architects, and even botanists. Accomplished people, all hit by the Depression … it was a joint effort. The botanists knew which plants could be grown without sunlight. Architects and builders created our shelters. And the electricians brought us energy by reviving discarded machines from the world we’d left behind or simply tapping electricity from somewhere.”

The old man paused, his eyes wide open. “Back then, as a little boy, I met him. The great Nikola Tesla. Our community had given him shelter for a time, and in return, he helped us with our energy supply. He spent almost every day here during the last years of his life. The people up there thought he was a hermit who wanted nothing more to do with the world. But here with us, he blossomed once more and found the support that had been denied him throughout his life.”

Tom leaned forward. Like everyone else there, his curiosity had been piqued: “You knew Nikola Tesla personally? You spoke with him?”

The old man smiled. “I met him many times. I was just a small boy and often sneaked into his laboratory. I watched him wide-eyed. He would pore over his inventions every day, but occasionally he’d notice me and explain his machines in simple terms. He said they were ‘magic boxes from another world’ that would change ours. And indeed, what he did for us changed everything.”

Almost reverently, Hellen whispered: “So you’ve preserved Tesla’s legacy down here?”

The old man smiled and nodded. “After his death, we felt it was our duty to protect and preserve his workshop and his work. We wanted it to be a testament to humanity’s potential when we work together and innovate. And we wanted to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Tom and Hellen exchanged glances. This underworld with its deeply rooted history, its connection to Tesla, and its sheer will to survive and thrive was impressive. They found themselves in the midst of a living history. By now, more people had gathered in the hall to listen to the old man’s stories.

“Over the years,” the old man continued, “our numbers grew. We helped as many as we could, and we expanded. And now we are a thriving community of about three thousand souls.” With a sweeping gesture, he welcomed the newcomers. Then he leaned back exhausted, and handed over to Father Matthew by gently placing a hand on his forearm.

“Our capacities are exhausted,” Father Matthew explained. “Imagine if we were discovered down here. Thousands of lives are at stake. Ninety percent of the people living here have never seen the Overworld.”

Hellen looked around and understood the gravity of Father Matthew’s words. “And the children?” she asked, looking into the faces of countless families gathered around the large round table.

The old man sat up and smiled, and a bittersweet expression flitted across his face. “A few are chosen to live in the world up there. Those who went up before help them to find their place. They’re like Matthew here,” he patted the priest’s shoulder fraternally, “one of our few contacts with the outside world. A bridge, if you will. They find legal ways to provide us with things we can’t find or produce for ourselves down here. And they protect us by ensuring we aren’t discovered.”

A long pause followed, during which the weight of history seemed to settle over the room.

“You see,” the old man concluded, his voice compassionate, “from necessity, we drew hope. From desperation, we created a future. And in the shadows, we built our own world. We want to help you, but we must be certain that you will keep our secret.”

Tom, Hellen, Cloutard, and Phoebe nodded silently. They let the old man’s story sink in, knowing they had witnessed something far greater than they could ever have imagined. The story of the old man and the world beneath the city was evidence of the indomitable human spirit, of the will to survive, of helpfulness and the power of community.

“Can we see it?” Hellen and Phoebe asked almost simultaneously.

The gazes of all present moved from the guests to the old man, whom they seemed to revere as a kind of king. An almost ghostly silence fell over the room. Only the sounds of the underground city hummed softly in the background.

Father Matthew leaned down to the old man and whispered something in his ear. To Tom’s relief, he nodded in agreement.

“I’ll take you there,” said Father Matthew, rising.

Shortly afterward, they were on their way up in the elevator. Two others accompanied them. Tom and his friends were still deeply moved by what they had experienced and heard in the last few hours.

Their path led them back to the upper levels. “The laboratory isn’t down here, of course,” explained Father Matthew. “Much of it was only created in the decades after Tesla’s death.”

After a maze of corridors and many secret doors, unrecognizable as such, they found themselves standing before an inconspicuous wall.

Father Matthew reached behind an old, rusted switchbox and activated a mechanism. With a scraping and scratching, part of the brick wall opened inward, revealing a passageway.

Tom and Hellen’s eyes widened. Cloutard and especially Phoebe also felt their anticipation rising. They were about to enter Nikola Tesla’s secret laboratory, a place that practically no one from the world above them had ever seen. No one even knew of its existence.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” Hellen murmured.

CHAPTER 50

THE TESLA ROOM AT DARPA HEADQUARTERS, ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

“The Tesla formula and the process for producing eternal energy requires living material from which—as Tesla himself writes—it can draw the divine energy of life.”

“Living material?” one of Noah’s henchmen asked suspiciously.

“Indeed. Without this factor, the machine cannot reach its true potential. But acquiring this material comes at a price—human lives. To put it plainly: we must sacrifice people to gain access to an eternal energy source.” Horne gave Noah a sharp look. “And that is something we won’t do.”

Silence fell over the room as each man confronted the weight of this revelation. Noah’s jaw clenched. “General,” he finally said in a cold, steady voice. “If that’s what it takes to harness the power of eternal energy, then so be it. We will pay the price. The result is too important for all of us to view that as an obstacle.”

“Even if it means sacrificing innocent lives?” General Horne asked, his voice wavering.

Noah’s eyes locked onto the General’s, his resolve unwavering. “Whatever it takes.”

Noah stared at the machine before him, its intricate network of wires and metal gleaming in the dim light. He recognized the power within it—a potential so vast it could forever alter the course of human history.

“Never!” General Horne’s voice thundered through the room.

“Collateral damage,” Noah said casually as he looked the General in the eye. “A necessary evil for the greater good.”

His words lingered heavily in the air. Two of the scientists exchanged uneasy glances, their faces flushed with indignation. They had dedicated their lives to the advancement of humanity, but not like this. “Absolutely not!” one of them exclaimed, stepping forward. “This is madness. We cannot justify sacrificing human lives for a theoretical breakthrough.”

“Agreed,” the other scientist spoke up, clenching his fists. “Our work is meant to protect and support people, not destroy them.”

General Horne nodded in agreement. “I stand with my colleagues. This is not the right approach, Mr. Pollock. We will not be part of this monstrous act.”

Noah’s gaze narrowed. He stared at the General with pure contempt.

“Consider the possibilities,” he said in a measured but icy tone. “With this technology, we could eradicate global poverty and power entire cities with zero emissions. We have the chance to change the world.”

“Is that worth the blood we would have on our hands?” General Horne shot back, his eyes unwavering.

Noah’s gaze swept the room, weighing the determination of the three men standing against him. “Whatever it takes,” he repeated, his voice a cool whisper. With a swift movement, he reached under his left armpit and drew a weapon. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger once, twice. The two shots echoed loudly through the room, silencing all further protests. General Horne’s eyes widened for a moment before he collapsed, two holes in his chest.

Noah knew he was treading on thin ice. The president had said “whatever it takes,” but this certainly wouldn’t meet with his approval. But Noah had no time to waste. Wagner was in play, which meant the plan had to move quickly or there would definitely be problems. Occasionally, one had to improvise.

Chaos erupted in the room as the scientists tried to take cover, their faces a mix of horror and disbelief. Noah didn’t hesitate, ruthlessly shooting the two scientists who had stood up to him.

“Stop!” cried Dr. Amill, at whom Noah was now pointing his weapon. Amill had remained notably quiet during the discussion, and Noah suspected he might be more flexible than his colleagues. Dr. Amill raised his hands in surrender and stared at the pistol in Noah’s hand. “I’ll do it. I’ll help you. I also believe these sacrifices are worth it.”

“Good.” Noah’s voice was emotionless, his resolve unshakable. “You’ll do whatever is necessary?” he repeated, pressing the barrel of the gun against the scientist’s temple.

“Whatever needs to be done,” stammered Amill.

Noah lowered the weapon, his face expressionless. He cast a contemptuous glance at the lifeless bodies on the floor. They were mere obstacles on the path to greatness, and he wouldn’t allow sentimentality to cloud his judgment.

“We need some of your people to help us move all this to my helicopters,” said Noah. “Can you take care of that?” Dr. Amill nodded. “Good,” Noah said. “Then get on it!” he suddenly barked at the frightened scientist.

With trembling hands, the scientist picked up the secure phone and dialed a number. Noah’s henchmen began preparing the complex device for transport. Cables and components were wrapped in protective material, each movement precise and efficient.

As Noah supervised the dismantling of the Tesla machine, his thoughts circled around what was to come—the power that would soon be in his hands. He didn’t care about any consequences, intended or unintended. This was about absolute control and achieving the unimaginable.

After everything had been transported upstairs, Noah allowed himself a small, sinister smile. The rotor blades of the two helicopters began to move, and he knew there was no turning back. The die had been cast, and the game had begun.

CHAPTER 51

NIKOLA TESLA’S SECRET LABORATORY

Dust trickled from the ceiling as the mechanical scrape of the brick wall fell silent and the door came to a halt, halfway open. Although he had seen such mechanisms in action several times before, Tom was impressed. A steel door disguised with bricks was the real trick behind it, protecting the laboratory from prying eyes. It blended seamlessly into the wall.

Father Matthew flipped a large switch, and a few lamps inside sprang to life. With the curiosity of an archaeologist, Hellen took the first step into the laboratory, closely followed by Tom.

“It’s surreal,” she whispered, letting her gaze wander. “It’s as if time has stood still in this room.”

Behind them, Phoebe and Cloutard entered the room.

“Like stepping through a portal into the past. It’s remarkable,” Phoebe marveled. There have been so many rumors about this place, stories only told in hushed tones, but to actually see it …”

Father Matthew entered the room last, almost reverently, and remarked, “This is where Mr. Tesla worked on his vision during the final years of his life. Hidden from the world, shielded by us, he was able to venture into uncharted scientific territory. Some say he was on the verge of completing his greatest invention.”

In the corridor outside, their two companions disappeared around a corner to ensure they wouldn’t have any unwelcome guests. They were now very close to civilization, and it wasn’t uncommon for junkies or curious teenagers who called themselves urban explorers to be wandering around down there.

The room was dimly lit, and the ceiling was supported by thick, rusty steel beams. The remains of old electrical cabinets, pipes, and gauges revealed its original function. Mildew mingled with the smell of chalk, old paper, and rust. The room had been fitted out to accommodate a brilliant mind. A series of antique desk lamps, distributed across the wooden tables, provided warm light with dust particles dancing in their glow. On a workbench, covered with old dust, lay spools of wire, glass tubes, metal instruments, and devices that had been trapped in time, waiting to be touched by their master.

Papers were scattered across the desk, some yellowed with curled edges. They contained sketches—designs of machines and circuits, notes on electromagnetic radiation and energy transmission. Some even depicted a connection between man and machine.

Tom, Hellen, and Cloutard immediately set about finding the stone. They opened every drawer and also checked if anything was hidden on their undersides. Every box and cabinet door was opened, and everything was tapped for hollow spaces.

“What exactly are you hoping to find here?” asked Father Matthew.

“We’ll know it when we find it,” Tom said as vaguely as possible. He didn’t trust the priest. Especially since there was a possibility that he worked for the AF Pope and could therefore be connected to Noah. The fact that they were searching for a stone from Atlantis was something they had kept to themselves from the beginning.

“I’m only asking because I might be able to help you.”

“History,” Hellen said. “We’re looking for history. Tesla was a genius, and this room alone is a historical sensation.” She was searching through papers on the desk and found a photo. “Things like this,” said Hellen, holding up the photo. It showed a young Nikola Tesla and two other men in front of the Statue of Liberty, still under construction.

“Wow,” exclaimed Phoebe when she saw the photo. “I’ve been studying Nikola Tesla for as long as I can remember. I’m an expert, but I didn’t know he’d ever Gustave Eiffel and Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi.”

Father Matthew nodded, apparently satisfied with the explanation, and began to look around the room himself.

The walls were entirely lined with blackboards on which calculations, drawings, and symbols had survived the decades. Some sections were smudged, evidence that the mind behind this work constantly rethought, recalculated, and corrected. But the core of all the scientific scribbling seemed to be a formula that extended around the room across the blackboards and some additional easels. A work of art made of chalk and intellect.

“Psst,” Tom hissed and waved Hellen and Cloutard over to him. “Look at this.”

Without saying anything, Tom pointed to a sketch of a machine that was schematically connected to five other points. Hellen and Cloutard looked at each other in astonishment.

“Are those the three …?” whispered Hellen, pointing to three of the five points.

“Oui, it certainly looks that way.”

“But what are these?” Tom asked quietly, pointing to the other two points, one of which showed a sketched human.

Hellen and Cloutard just shrugged. “So he really did experiment with it,” Cloutard whispered.

“At least in theory. I don’t see a machine anywhere here,” said Hellen, and Tom and Cloutard turned away again and continued their search.

“He probably simulated everything in his head. He did that a lot,” Phoebe said absently. Her interest was solely focused on the formula on the boards. She mused quietly: “This formula …” she muttered, while meticulously photographing each part of it with her phone. Despite Tom’s small mishap, when he literally stepped on her phone, it worked perfectly. The flash illuminated the room at short intervals, and each snapshot captured a piece of brilliance.

Meanwhile, Cloutard was busy tapping the walls for hollow spaces. His hand paused at one brick that sounded different from the one before it. He checked the difference a second time. With his index finger, he traced the joint around the brick. Old plaster trickled out under the pressure of his hand. He went to one of the tables and picked up an old metal ruler. Returning to the wall, he used it to scrape the loose plaster from the joints. Then he grabbed the brick with both hands, jiggled it a little, and finally pulled it out of the wall.

“Oh, mon Dieu,” whispered Cloutard, pulling an old leather-bound notebook, secured with a cord, from the hollow space. Countless slips of paper and various inserts peeked out from between the pages. He removed the cord, opened the notebook, and leafed through it. He paused at the last pages and read.

“Do you know what this formula represents?” asked Father Matthew, standing a few yards away.

Phoebe, who was standing as if hypnotized in front of the board, contemplating the formula, did not react at first. Her fingers hovered at a safe distance over every syllable on the boards, as if she didn’t dare to touch them. “It has something to do with fusion,” she finally murmured. “With the merging of matter. But that requires enormous amounts of energy.”

At the word “fusion,” Tom and Hellen looked up and walked over to Phoebe and the priest. “Over here is a completely different part that has to do with the biochemical energy of humans,” Hellen said.

“Could it be talking about the fusion of the stones?” Tom whispered.

“Shhhh,” said Hellen.

“It would require a gigantic conductor that can safely transport all the needed energy to …” said Phoebe.

“To what?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. To direct it into some machine, I assume, which could then initiate the fusion. Or something like that.” Phoebe pointed to the corresponding part on the board. “It will take time to decipher all of this.”

“Conductors? Like the famous Tesla coils?” said Hellen, positioning herself next to Phoebe.

Phoebe laughed. “Yes and no. The Tesla coils were only used to demonstrate high-frequency alternating electric voltages. This is on a completely different level. The main conductor would have to be as big as a power pole.”

“What about the Tesla Tower?” Father Matthew asked with interest.

“You mean the Wardenclyffe Tower? It no longer exists. Besides, that was built as a telecommunications tower. Tesla wanted to transmit messages across the Atlantic with it. But Marconi beat him to it with his spark-gap transmitter. Tesla’s facility was complicated, too large, and too expensive. J.P. Morgan was backing Tesla financially at the time, but eventually he’d had enough. He even had Tesla thrown out of his office once. The Wardenclyffe facility was never completed, and in 1917 the tower was finally torn down. Even at his lab in Colorado Springs, where he had previously built the largest Tesla coil with a diameter of over fifty feet, and where that famous photo of him surrounded by lightning was taken, nothing remains today. For financial reasons, he had to close it down at the turn of the century. It had already been demolished by 1904. Whether J.P. Morgan or anyone else funded Tesla after that is unknown, but it’s not out of the question.”

“So what was he really working on down here?” asked Father Matthew.

“I assume it had to do with his ultimate goal, free energy. That would be the most obvious thing. It will take a lot of time to figure out what Tesla was really doing here and what this formula does. And because none of his other laboratories have survived and the FBI emptied his hotel office after his death, this find is all the more remarkable. Who knows what else might be down here that the world has never heard of?”

Hellen stepped forward and examined the formula. She recognized a few physical and chemical elements, but she couldn’t comprehend their totality. But she did notice something. “It’s fragmented. Something’s missing,” she said.

“You’re right,” said Phoebe excitedly. “But …”

“Attentionné!” Cloutard called out excitedly, interrupting the thoughts of the two women.

CHAPTER 52

NIKOLA TESLA’S SECRET LABORATORY

“Attentionné,” Cloutard repeated a little louder, visibly excited.

“What’s going on?” Tom replied, looking over at his friend. Cloutard had his nose buried in the notebook and was slowly walking over to the others.

“Incroyable, fantastique, sensationnel,” he muttered, not looking up..

“Please use a language we all understand,” Tom said, a bit annoyed.

“This is his diary.”

“Tesla’s diary?” Hellen and Phoebe said almost simultaneously. The two women exchanged glances and smiled.

“Évidemment,” Cloutard blurted, shaking his head. “Listen to this.” He read aloud: “It’s fantastic, I’ve never seen anything like it. The potential is nearly limitless. That such a small thing can contain so much energy. I wonder what would happen if all three were united.”

Tom and Hellen exchanged a look, while Phoebe and Father Matthew appeared puzzled. Phoebe was about to say something, but Matthew gently placed his hand on her shoulder, indicating that she should just listen.

“Summer 1889,” Cloutard continued. “I finally had a breakthrough. But the one-time energy requirement is astronomical. And the old method must be modified to work safely. If I really succeed, however, we can supply the whole world with free, clean energy. The structure of an old acquaintance finally gave me an idea.”

“This must have been when Tesla was at the World Exhibition in Paris. That’s where he got the idea for his coils,” said Phoebe.

Cloutard continued. “And here, here he writes …” He quickly flipped through a few pages.

“August 1916. I have found a way to fuse them and have constructed a machine for this purpose and also laid the foundation to connect them with the conductor. After the bombing, they finally granted me access and provided the necessary means to build the foundation for the fusion machine.”

Uncertainty all around. Cloutard excitedly flipped through the book. Hellen had stepped beside him and was looking over his shoulder.

“Here he just writes about his experiments and how wonderful it is to be able to work in peace down here,” Hellen read aloud. “And here: Benjamin visited me again today. He is truly a clever little fellow. He is very interested in my work.” More frantic page-turning.

“Ah, here is something else,” Cloutard said. “1939, construction is complete. The plans are ready, but two components are still missing. Nevertheless, I am certain the world is not ready for this. Especially not now, in the midst of all this horror. I understand why the ‘Servants of the Ancients’ want to prevent it.”

“He knew about that?” Hellen interjected.

“Apparently,” Cloutard conceded. “He goes on: Humans would only use it as a weapon or worse. It should only be used when humanity has matured, when they are capable of mastering this power. At present, this is not possible. The price is simply too high.”

“What does he mean by ‘the price is too high’?” asked Hellen, but Cloutard only shrugged.

“Presumably, it’s what van Rensburg talked about. The potential end of the world,” Tom murmured.

“Here he says something about the formula: I cannot bring myself to destroy the formula, but I have found a way to render it unusable. The key is in a safe place, far away from all this, until the time is right and a true genius, compared to whom I am but a poor ignoramus, can perfect the process.”

“The Fabergé egg,” said Tom.

“He believed there was a way, but he had not yet figured it out,” said Cloutard excitedly.

“Tesla’s note,” both women said simultaneously and looked at each other with joy.

“A part over here seems to have been deliberately erased. See?” Phoebe pointed to a smudged area in the middle of the complicated scribblings on one of the blackboards.

Carefully, Hellen retrieved the note that they had found in Cloutard’s Fabergé egg in Luxembourg and held it out at arm’s length over the erased area of the formula. Her eyes focused alternately on the board and on the note. “I don’t understand it, but it could fit,” she said almost breathlessly.

All at once, everyone directed their attention to the two women, the note, and the formula on the board.

“Yes, this actually belongs in this part of the formula. If this is really the formula for limitless energy, then …” said Phoebe with a naivety in her voice that surprised everyone.

“It’s not,” said Hellen earnestly. “This formula will probably destroy the world. And Tesla knew that.” Phoebe took a photo of the note and the board behind it.

“Only Noah doesn’t believe it,” said Tom.

Tom and Hellen exchanged glances—they were thinking the same thing. It appeared Tesla had indeed developed a formula to fuse the power of all three stones to revive the Atlanteans’ ultimate energy source.

“Does it say anywhere what happened to the stone?” asked Tom.

“I found this book precisely five minutes ago, so I have no idea,” said Cloutard somewhat snippily as he wildly flipped through it.

“It doesn’t seem to be here in the lab, and as we know, it wasn’t in the egg either,” said Hellen, frustrated.

“What are you talking about? What stone …” asked Father Matthew. But his question was interrupted by loud, intense hammering. He and everyone present spun around. They all looked questioningly at the clergyman.

“What was that?” asked Cloutard, closing the book and absently placing it on the table beside him.

Tom sensed trouble.

“Wait here,” said Father Matthew, and was already on his way out when one of his men, the man who had initially threatened Tom and Hellen with a gun, stumbled into the room out of breath.

“Intruders in Level 2!” the man in his mid-twenties stated, his expression desperate.

“She’s here,” muttered Tom. “I can practically smell her.”

“But how did she find us?” Hellen asked, justifiably.

“Who found us?” asked Father Matthew.

“The Mantis,” said Tom. “She’s a killer, a cockroach that simply refuses to die, and she’s very dangerous. We can explain everything else later. She’s here because she’s looking for the same thing we are. With the difference that she’s not planning anything good with it.”

“There are a dozen men. They look like soldiers and are heavily armed,” said the young man.

“Ezra, we cannot allow them to find the others,” said Father Matthew anxiously. “Call the guardians together and get ready.”

The man nodded and disappeared. Shortly after, the knocking began again.

“That’s how you communicate down here, isn’t it? But it’s not Morse code,” said Tom.

“No, but it’s something like that. We’ve developed our own language. It’s a bit more efficient.”

“That’s all well and good, but we can’t let the Mantis get her hands on this laboratory or the formula,” Hellen pointed out. “I know, the secret existence of three thousand people here is at risk, but if this woman gets her hands on the formula, the lives of everyone on this planet are at stake. Do you understand that?”

“No, not yet, but I’m choosing to trust you. We’ll seal the laboratory and lure her away from here. We have countless secret passages and can lead her into a trap,” said Father Matthew.

“Like the little boy led us into a trap?” said Hellen somewhat snippily, and Father Matthew nodded with a smile.

“Exactly.”

“Then we should get a move on,” said Tom, clapping his hands encouragingly.

Quickly, they all exited the lab. Father Matthew busied himself with the locking mechanism behind the box.

“Wait! The diary!” Phoebe suddenly blurted out. She ran back into the room, grabbed the book, and put it into her bag. “All right,” she said, placing her hand protectively over her bag.

The large door swung closed, and the bricks merged seamlessly into the wall. If you didn’t know there was a door here, you wouldn’t notice anything.

“Come on, follow me,” said Father Matthew and led the way.

Minutes later, they came to the room where Tom and Hellen—and before them, Cloutard and Phoebe—had been lured into a trap by the little boy.

Matthew activated a hidden switch, and the lights in the room flickered to life.

Almost simultaneously, they drew a collective gasp. They were facing a dozen men, staring down the barrels of Heckler & Koch G36K assault rifles.

CHAPTER 53

UNDERGROUND MANHATTAN

“You bastard,” Tom hissed, grabbing Father Matthew by the collar. A moment before, all five had been staring in disbelief at their armed adversaries. Surprise, but mostly fear, had quickly etched itself onto their faces. Then Tom’s face darkened, and despite the danger, he turned on Father Matthew.

“I knew it! You’re in cahoots with your holy boss and Noah,” Tom hissed.

But Father Matthew seemed perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

Tom paused. He looked around. Some of the men were standing on the floor of the cavern, others on the gallery that ran around the room about twelve feet overhead. Numerous heavy, rusted, riveted steel beams supported the gallery and the ceiling. Although the men wore dark civilian clothing, they were armed like special ops. Determined, they trained their assault rifles on Tom and his friends.

“Mr. Wagner,” the Mantis’s voice suddenly filled the space. As always, her entrance had a pronounced sense of theatrics. With a tablet computer in her hand, she stepped out of the shadows behind a boiler and slowly sauntered toward the group. Close behind her appeared the shaven-headed man Tom and Hellen had barely escaped from in California. “Surely you wouldn’t attack a man of the cloth,” the woman said in a condescending, slightly playful tone.

She handed her tablet to the shaven-headed man. Tom let go of Father Matthew but still glared at him. He was sure the priest was the one who had lured them into a trap. Tom stepped back and positioned himself in front of Hellen while the Mantis prowled around the group.

“And believe me, Mr. Wagner, your priest here,” she positioned herself in front of Matthew and straightened his outfit where Tom’s roughness had left the priest disheveled, “had nothing to do with it.”

She danced further through the group and headed next toward Phoebe. Cloutard went to step between them, but the Mantis just glared at him and shook her head imperceptibly. Cloutard stopped and looked at Phoebe.

The Mantis stood closely in front of her and looked deep into her eyes. Then her gaze wandered downward, and she saw that Phoebe was clutching her handbag tightly. With a jerk, she snatched it from her.

Panic overcame Tom, Hellen, and Cloutard, and they exchanged quick glances.

The Mantis opened the bag, then took out Phoebe’s phone and held it in front of Phoebe’s face to unlock it.

She tapped on it and smiled. “You scientists are so predictable. Exactly as Noah wanted,” the Mantis said with a broad grin when she saw the photos of the formula on Phoebe’s phone. “Thank you, Ms. Cross. You’ve been very helpful.”

Tom and Hellen exchanged a questioning look. But Hellen could see something else in Tom’s eyes. Anger and the need to do something. Only this time, she didn’t have to persuade him to stay calm. While he might have managed to overpower the mole people who had captured them earlier, they now faced a far stronger force with automatic weapons. A fight could only end in a bloodbath.

“And what do we have here?” said the Mantis, taking the diary from Phoebe’s bag and leafing through it. She paused at one page, read silently, and closed it again. Then she looked over at the shaven-headed man. “Jackpot. The Regent will be very pleased.”

She waved the two items in her hand and one of her men hurried over and took them from her.

Tom couldn’t suppress a quiet, coughing laugh.

“Regent? Noah calls himself ‘The Regent’? Now he’s completely lost his mind,” he muttered, earning a glare from Hellen.

“Oh, that’s right, you two used to be a thing.” The Mantis walked over to Tom. “I bet you’d like nothing more than to finish off your old friend,” she said, patting Tom’s cheek provocatively. “But just between us, I always thought ‘Regent’ was a bit over the top myself.”

She laughed, turned around, and walked toward the shaven-headed man. “Joshua, take Ms. Cross and the two items and bring them to Noah. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“But the Regent, I mean Noah, told me—” he hissed, barely audibly, to her.

“Do as I say. I’ll handle it. This is more important.”

He nodded somewhat reluctantly, approached the group, and was about to grab Phoebe by the arm.

“Ne mets pas tes doigts sales,” Cloutard hissed and stepped between them. From the side, one of the mercenaries took two quick steps toward Cloutard and slammed the butt of his rifle into the back of Cloutard’s head.

Cloutard groaned in pain and fell to his knees. Blood ran down the back of his head. “François!” Phoebe cried out as Joshua dragged her away and disappeared through a door, followed by two men. “François!” echoed down the tunnel.

Hellen cried out in shock, and Tom was beside himself. He had to summon all his strength not to run at the Mantis and break her neck. Together, Tom and Hellen helped Cloutard back to his feet.

“I am fine,” Cloutard muttered, prodding the bleeding gash carefully. Then he looked up and addressed the Mantis directly. “What do you plan to do with Phoebe?”

“Why would we want to do anything with her?” said the Mantis with incomprehension in her voice. “She was the one who led us here.”

Cloutard’s eyes widened.

“Impossible. That is a lie,” Cloutard snapped. Tom and Hellen had to hold him back.

The Mantis subtly raised her hand as some of her people moved toward Cloutard.

“Ohhh. Has the great François Cloutard, art thief and smuggler extraordinaire, fallen in love?” she goaded. “Monsieur Cloutard, you disappoint me. That a man of your caliber would let a woman wrap him around her finger in such a short time.”

“She would never⁠—”

“Believe me. You know that Noah sent her to Mr. Wagner here, don’t you? And how do you think I found you both in your hotel? I was a little premature, I admit, but without Ms. Cross’s cooperation, that would have been impossible.”

Cloutard looked over at Tom and Hellen, searching for support. Hellen could see in his eyes that his heart was breaking. All color had drained from his face, and his expression had turned to stone.

“Now, let’s get down to business, gentlemen and lady.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Where is the third stone of Atlantis? Have you found it?”

No one answered. Only Father Matthew’s eyes widened.

The Mantis waited for a few seconds, walking from one to the other. Tom’s, Hellen’s, and Cloutard’s gazes were fixed straight ahead, as if they could look right through her.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Matthew when she reached him. “I only met these people today.”

The Mantis turned around again.

“I really dislike repeating myself. Where is the⁠—”

A sudden distant knocking interrupted her. Tom immediately understood what it meant.

“Why don’t you ask your friend, Ms. Cross?” Tom hissed, trying to draw the Mantis’s attention back to himself.

“Oh, I will, don’t worry. Or rather, Noah will. Probably while he’s giving her the pleasure of his … company,” she said with a provocative undertone, looking at Cloutard.

Cloutard’s gaze remained icy.

“So, last chance.” She raised her hand.

In perfect synchronization, the remaining men raised their rifles and aimed them at the group.

“Where. Is. The. Stone?”

Hellen took Tom’s hand and looked at him. Had their luck finally run out? Was this the end?

“Wait,” Father Matthew suddenly said.

The Mantis looked at the priest and examined him. Slowly, she lowered her hand. The rifles lowered with it. “Answer me one question,” she said. “Didn’t you say you didn’t know these people? So what do you know about the stone, and where is it?”

“That was actually three questions,” Father Matthew pointed out impudently. A barely noticeable smile flitted across Tom’s lips. “That’s correct, I don’t know these people. And I know nothing about a stone; I only heard about it a few minutes ago. And since I don’t know who these people are or which stone you’re talking about, naturally I also don’t know where it is. But I can tell you where you can stick it when you find it.”

Tom burst out laughing. He liked this priest.

That last sentence, however, earned Father Matthew a resounding slap.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to hit men of the cloth,” said Tom.

“Enough of this,” the Mantis snarled angrily. “You’ve wasted enough of my time.” She raised her hand again.

“But that was the whole point of the exercise,” said Father Matthew with a broad grin. “I just wanted to stall for time.” Then he looked at Tom and winked.

Suddenly, the room went pitch-black.

CHAPTER 54

UNDERGROUND MANHATTAN

Tom reacted instantly. He grabbed Hellen by the arm and pulled her to the ground. Thanks to his training, it had become second nature for him to take in the layout of any room that might contain potential dangers, allowing him to keep his bearings even in the dark, like now.

Only a weak, pulsating light from the fluorescent mushrooms in the next room was visible through the entrance behind the attackers. But it wasn’t enough to see what was really happening. A cacophony of voices and metallic sounds filled the room—mechanical scraping, banging, blows, and screams.

“Shoot! Take them out,” the Mantis shouted, filled with anger and confusion. But no firestorm ensued. Accompanied by screams, only a few isolated shots rang out, illuminating parts of the large room only for a split second.

The chaos was complete. And bizarre. Like photographs, individual still images were burned into memory in muffle flashes. Bodies with distorted, fear-filled grimaces suddenly disappearing into the floor. Others were already on the ground with club-wielding silhouettes standing over them.

In a flash, Tom had dragged Hellen behind a boiler that stood three steps away. They ducked their heads to avoid stray bullets.

“François?” Hellen called out.

“Oui,” Cloutard answered.

The panicked voice of the Mantis could also be heard amid the tumult. “Get out of here,” she commanded, and the handful of men who had managed to hold their own against their attackers stumbled after her toward the faintly visible exit, which closed behind them as if pushed by ghostly hands.

Silence.

Then the lights came back on. Tom stood up and looked around.

“What the hell just happened here?” he said.

Hellen struggled to her feet. She spotted Cloutard, also crouching behind a boiler on the opposite side. Father Matthew had apparently pulled him out of the line of fire. She stood up and ran over to him.

“François! Are you okay?”

“Oui, tout va bien,” said Cloutard. Hellen squatted down beside him and examined his head wound.

Tom, speechless, walked around. Countless mole people were scattered throughout the large room. He couldn’t tell exactly where they had come from. But one thing was certain—these people had saved them.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Wagner, we had to act quickly,” said Father Matthew, approaching him. “There was no time to tell you what I was planning.”

“It’s fine. Thank you. You definitely saved our asses. But we can’t let the Mantis get away,” said Tom.

“Tom, the book and the formula are more important,” Hellen called out.

“She’s right. Can you help us find that bald guy? Maybe they haven’t reached the surface yet.”

“Ezra,” Father Matthew called one of his men over. It was the same young man who had earlier brought news of the intruders to Tesla’s laboratory. “Go with him.”

Ezra nodded.

“Thanks.” He turned to Hellen. “You take care of the guys here,” said Tom, pointing to the five unconscious bodies, each with one or two mole people standing over them with baseball bats or short iron rods.

“No way, I’m coming with you,” said Hellen, standing up.

Knowing that in such situations it was absolutely pointless to argue with her, Tom just nodded and looked over at Cloutard.

“Please take care of François and his wound,” Tom said to the priest.

“Don’t worry,” said Father Matthew. “He’s in good hands with us.”

“Je suis désolé, but …” said Cloutard, struggling to his feet with one hand pressed against his head.

“It’s okay, we’ll handle this.”

Tom nodded gratefully to the priest and started running.

Just before they reached the exit through which Joshua had disappeared with Phoebe and the two men, he stopped and knelt beside a mercenary. The man lay motionless on the ground in front of him, unconscious and wrapped in a tangle of old wires and cables. Tom took the man’s pistol, which had a laser sight attached to the bottom of the barrel, as well as a spare magazine. Then he stood up and went to another mercenary, who was just being hoisted up through a grate in the floor by two men. Apparently, they had pulled the man down through a trapdoor and knocked him out as well.

“Excuse me, just a moment,” said Tom, and he took a second pistol. With an approving nod and a thumbs up, he congratulated the men who had put them out of action, then with Hellen and Ezra he disappeared through the door that Joshua had taken.

“How do we find the four of them now?” Tom asked, turning to Ezra.

“Just a moment,” said Ezra, stopping to briefly examine the countless pipes running along the ceiling. He pulled out a knife and began tapping on one of the pipes with the handle in a specific, indecipherable rhythm.

It took only moments before they heard a distant-sounding response.

“They’re not far yet. I know how we can catch up to them. Follow me,” said Ezra.

They swiftly followed the fit young man. His skin was pale, almost white, making him look almost albino. But his steel-blue eyes contradicted that. His simple clothing was blended into the color tones as the walls and pipes, making him nearly invisible when necessary. Whether it was coincidence or whether these people had deliberately made camouflage clothing for their guards, Tom couldn’t say.

“How long have you been living down here?” Hellen asked with interest.

“All my life. I was born here. But my father took me up to the surface once.”

“And don’t you feel the need to leave this place?”

“Sometimes. But my life is here, with my family and my people. They need me.”

They climbed ladders that led them up and then down again, walked hunched through low tunnels, and passed through several doors that, like the entrance to Tesla’s laboratory, would go unnoticed if you didn’t know exactly what you were looking for.

It wasn’t until Ezra turned on a small flashlight that Hellen noticed that the glowing mushrooms were covering the walls ever more sparsely, and that her eyes had actually adjusted to the low light.

The roaring, rhythmic sound of passing subway trains grew louder. A sign that they were very close to civilization again.

“Where are we?” asked Tom.

“Close to Penn Station,” said Ezra. He stopped and conducted another ‘knock conversation’ with his people. As before, an answer came immediately.

“Over there,” said Ezra, pointing to the end of the corridor. “From there you can see the subway tracks.”

When they reached the end, they peered over the balustrade down onto the rails below.

“See that door over there? Behind it is a connecting passage to another track.”

Tom nodded, following Ezra’s outstretched hand with his gaze.

“They should come through that door any moment.”

“How do you know—” but Hellen couldn’t finish her question. A violent gust of air and the deafening rattle and screech of a passing subway train made them step back.

Ten seconds later it became quieter again.

“Where does this tunnel lead?” Tom asked.

“We’re between two stations. Penn Station is about a quarter mile south.” Ezra pointed to the right.

“Okay, you two wait here,” Tom began. “And this time no objections,” he said to Hellen. She nodded.

“How do I get down there?”

“Over here,” said Ezra, pointing to a steel ladder that led down through a narrow shaft into an emergency bay at track level.

“Here,” said Tom to Hellen, holding out a pistol. “Just in case. Tapping the trigger activates the laser,” he explained. Then he removed the laser sight from his pistol and handed it to Ezra, who looked at him in surprise.

“You two are my backup.” Tom drew quotation marks in the air. “Just point the lasers at the guys and they’ll think we have them in our sights. Just in case they get cocky.”

Hellen and Ezra nodded.

Tom gave Hellen a kiss. He said, “I’ll be right back,” and climbed down.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door was pushed open and Joshua stepped out together with Phoebe and the other two men. Tom backed into the shadow of the bay. The sparse emergency lighting in the tunnel provided good cover.

From his hiding place, Tom observed them. They were moving south, and Phoebe was walking alongside the three mercenaries with no sign of coercion. Either she was really on their side, or she was innocent and had simply resigned herself to her fate.

Tom considered the situation. He was facing three well-trained, well-armed men and a woman who might be friend or foe. But to Tom’s surprise, the men had folded up their rifles and stowed them in black shoulder bags. From the looks of it, they were on their way to Penn Station and planned to blend in with the crowd.

Now or never, he thought, when he suddenly heard a voice. “Hey, what are you doing here? Who are you?”

CHAPTER 55

UNDERGROUND MANHATTAN

“Hold it right there. You can’t be walkin’ around down here,” said another voice.

“These damned bums,” said the first.

Two track workers with yellow hard hats and orange safety vests had suddenly emerged from the darkness and were approaching the group of four.

Tom acted lightning-fast when he realized Joshua was about to draw his gun and shoot the two men. Pistol at the ready, Tom leaped from cover and positioned himself in the middle of the track, directly between Joshua and the track workers.

He fired a warning shot. Joshua paused. Everyone ducked their heads, and Joshua’s men reached for their weapons.

“Not so fast,” Tom shouted, aiming at Joshua’s head.

To Tom’s relief, the other two men also froze when they saw the red dots that Hellen and Ezra projected onto their chests from their elevated hiding spot.

“It was very decent of you to leave us a few weapons,” Tom said.

“What the hell is going on here?” one of the track workers shouted. The other was already mumbling something into his radio.

“NYPD, get outta here if you don’t wanna get shot,” Tom called out in a flawless New York accent. “Move it!” he yelled even louder. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw the two men disappear into the darkness in the opposite direction.

“Give me the phone and the book, and I’ll let you go.”

Joshua laughed.

“Mr. Wagner, help me!” Phoebe cried.

“And what about Ms. Cross here?” asked Joshua, grabbing Phoebe and pressing his pistol to her temple. A scream caught in the woman’s throat.

“That doesn’t work on me, not anymore. She betrayed us,” Tom bluffed. He couldn’t be sure whether she really worked for Noah or was an unwitting pawn, so he certainly didn’t want her to lose her life down there. But he had no other choice at the moment. Better her than him.

“Mr. Wagner, please!”

A gentle draft of air played around Tom’s face, and he immediately knew what it meant.

“Shut up. Come on, hand it over or …”

“Or what? You’ve already made a mistake, Mr. Wagner. You hesitated,” said Joshua, wrapping his arm around Phoebe’s neck, covering her mouth with his hand, and dragging her away from Tom. The draft grew stronger.

Suddenly everything happened very quickly. Joshua’s other hand emerged from behind Phoebe’s body. Tom saw a gun. A shot flew. Tom dove to the side and landed just short of the electrified third rail.

Joshua was about to fire again, but he didn’t get the chance. Several shots slammed into the concrete wall around Joshua and his men. Sparks flew, and the men ducked and started running. Hellen had fired from her hiding place to buy Tom some time.

At the same moment, it grew brighter and brighter, and an ear-splitting screeching and rattling echoed through the tunnel. Tom saw Joshua and his men push Phoebe through a door before disappearing. But for him, it was too late. He wouldn’t make it to the door. The train was approaching too quickly.

“Tom!” he heard Hellen’s voice scream. He looked up and realized he was on the wrong side of the tracks. The emergency bay was across from him, but even that was too far away. He had only one chance. He jumped to his feet, leaped over the third rail, and pressed himself against the wall at the last second. With his head turned to the side and his eyes tightly shut, he could do nothing but wait and hope. Despite his closed eyes, he could still see the light of the train cars, flickering like a strobe through his eyelids, and the rush of air whipped against his face. It was the longest fifteen seconds of his life.

It took him five more seconds to realize it was over and he was still alive. He opened his eyes and saw Hellen standing in the emergency bay on the opposite side. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes for a moment. Hellen laughed with relief, then nodded resolutely toward the door.

“Go get them,” she called, and Tom took off running.

Reaching the door, he paused briefly, took a deep breath, and yanked it open. He had expected anything but what actually happened. All the air was forced from his lungs as a kick struck him squarely in the chest and catapulted him backward. He hit the ground hard. His head narrowly missed the steel rail. His pistol slipped from his hand and disappeared under the track. He twisted in pain and looked up.

Joshua stepped through the door with an evil grimace. He stepped slowly over the third rail and stood menacingly over Tom. There was no trace of the others.

“I won’t let you get away again, Mr. Wagner,” said Joshua, raising his pistol. Tom looked into the vengeful eyes of the man and the barrel of his gun. “I was actually supposed to kill your little wife to make you suffer for the rest of your life, but you’ll do just fine.”

A shot echoed through the tunnel, then another, and another. But Tom felt nothing.

Joshua screamed. Hellen stood in the middle of the tracks about twenty yards away. She had fired the last three bullets in the magazine but had only hit Joshua in the shoulder.

“I’m right here,” she called out angrily.

Tom seized the opportunity his wife had just given him. He hooked his feet around Joshua’s and brought him down. Then he jumped up and searched for his weapon for a few seconds, but he couldn’t see it anywhere. Joshua got back to his feet; he too had lost his gun when the bullet hit him in the arm. He pulled out a tactical knife from a sheath on his belt and lashed out at Tom.

“Hellen, run, get out of here,” Tom shouted, dodging and backing away. As if wielding a sword, Joshua slashed at Tom again and again. The two men danced around each other. Joshua kept swinging the knife, and Tom kept dodging. His evasiveness was making Joshua angry.

Suddenly, as if from nowhere, Hellen jumped on the man’s back, wrapped one arm around his neck, and pressed her other hand uncomfortably over Joshua’s nose, digging her fingers into his eyes.

Tom reacted quickly. He kicked Joshua in the groin and grabbed the hand with the knife, twisting it unnaturally and knocking the knife out of Joshua’s hand.

Unexpectedly—considering how hard Tom had kicked him—Joshua reared up with a scream. He stumbled back a few steps and slammed hard against the tunnel wall with Hellen on his back.

She cried out and let go. Joshua turned to grab her, but Tom was faster. He rushed at Joshua, seized him by the throat, and rammed his head against the wall, then punched him repeatedly with his other hand.

Joshua managed to land a blow to Tom’s side, but Tom didn’t let up. He responded with a well-aimed headbutt. Blood gushed from Joshua’s nose and poured over his mouth and chin. But another blow to Tom’s side finally had the desired effect. Tom buckled slightly, and Joshua was able to break free.

Snorting heavily, he stood before Tom, spat blood, and wiped his mouth. Tom glanced over at Hellen. She seemed to be all right.

“I’m going to rip your damn guts out, and then I’ll take care of your little bitch,” Joshua hissed. He began to dance like a boxer in front of Tom, loosening his neck and raising his clenched fists.

“You should have got away with your buddies while you could. It’s dangerous down here,” Tom replied.

Just then, the door behind Joshua flew open, and Ezra stood in the light of the corridor with an iron rod in his hand, raised to strike.

Joshua made a critical mistake. He glanced over his shoulder, giving Tom a split second to act. A powerful front kick sent Joshua stumbling backward. It was the same kick that Joshua had used to bring Tom down earlier.

Gasping for air, he fell backward. Everything happened in slow motion. His outstretched hands sought purchase, but Tom could already see the certainty in Joshua’s eyes that his life was about to come to an abrupt end. With his mouth wide open as if to scream, he landed on the deadly steel of the third rail. But except for an explosion of sparks and a gruesome sizzling, no sound escaped him. No scream. Tom and Ezra turned away as Joshua’s convulsing body collapsed. Smoke rose, and the acrid, unpleasant smell of burned flesh and textiles filled their nostrils.

Hellen came running and threw her arms around Tom’s neck.

“See? We still have some credit in our luck account,” Tom said and held Hellen tightly.

“We should get out of here. The police are already on their way,” said Ezra. Tom could only guess how he knew that.

“But the formula,” Tom said, still out of breath and frantically searching the tracks for a gun.

“Forget the formula,” Hellen said. “I just had an idea.”

CHAPTER 56

NEW YORKER HOTEL, MANHATTAN

The taxi stopped, but Akira didn’t move at all. She just stared out the window, through which the muffled, oppressive din of New York’s streets filtered in. Crowds of people were waiting on the sidewalk for her.

How am I going to do all this, thought Akira. The tragic story van Rensburg had told her, and the small artifact she had collected in Luxembourg with relatively little effort, were too important. By comparison, they made her fear seem small. Unfortunately, knowing that didn’t change how paralyzing this fear was for her most of the time.

“Miss,” said the taxi driver for the umpteenth time, but louder this time.

As if struck by lightning, she jumped at the sound of the man’s voice.

“What? Yes … oh right, paying,” she stammered and rummaged through her backpack, which she had clutched tightly throughout the entire ride. She held her credit card to the scanner, then took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Instantly, the roar threatened to overwhelm her. Honking, sirens, pedestrians on phones, construction noise, cars, and bicycle bells. The collective energy of thousands of impressions was about to swallow her alive. Her heart raced and her breath caught as the symptoms of her severe social phobia flooded her. The seminar hadn’t been quite as effective as she’d thought.

“Focus,” she whispered to herself, remembering the technique she’d been taught. She breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, feeling her rapid heartbeat begin to slow.

“Okay, you have to get through this,” she muttered, looking at the hotel’s grand entrance. “Friends first, fear second,” she told herself, and with newfound determination, she pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby. But instead of finding an oasis of calm, she was met with no less chaotic a scene.

The reception was besieged by a throng of agitated guests. People coming and going on all sides. Staff were running frantically back and forth, trying to help waiting guests and calm them with snacks and drinks.

Akira just stood for a moment. What’s going on here? she thought. “Doesn’t matter, you can do this,” she muttered. You managed to escape a team of killers once before, so you can handle this, too, thought Akira, giving herself an internal push. Her friends needed her, and van Rensburg was apparently in trouble too, so it was up to her. She had to do everything she could to find Tom and his team.

Since the crowd at reception was too large, Akira stopped one of the employees rushing about.

“Excuse me,” she said to the harried hotel worker. “What’s happening here?”

“There was a fire alarm a few hours ago, and to top it off, we’ve now had a computer failure.”

“Was there a fire?”

“No, no,” the young woman reassured her. “The fire department spent hours checking everything. It turned out to be a false alarm on the 33rd floor. Two rooms were found ransacked, and the police are investigating,” the woman explained. “They’ve cordoned off the rooms. They’re now a crime scene or something.”

Akira couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Tesla’s rooms were on the 33rd floor. She’d arranged them for Cloutard herself.

The woman could see that Akira was nervous.

“Was anyone injured or killed?” Akira said, her fear growing.

“Oh, good Lord, no. It was probably just a bachelor party that got out of hand. Everything’s fine,” the woman assured her. “Everything will be under control shortly. Find a seat, this will all take a while, but we’ll attend to you as quickly as possible.” The woman moved away, only to be approached by the next waiting guest.

“Thank you,” Akira said absently, barely audible. The fact that no one had been killed or injured reassured her a little. But at the mention of the authorities, countless unpleasant thoughts and scenarios had raced through her mind.

She decided not to ask any more specific questions and turned to leave the hotel. She couldn’t risk being questioned by the police if she started asking specifically about the ransacked rooms, which she was certain could only be Cloutard’s.

Back on the street, she failed, as usual, to instantly merge into the flow of pedestrians and was immediately jostled around. She felt like a ball in a pinball machine. Not only did she struggle in public, but she wasn’t particularly tall and was often overlooked by normal-sized people.

She spotted a Starbucks across the street, headed toward it, and was delighted when the door closed behind her with a jingle.

Akira took a moment to breathe. Here she felt comfortable. Here was caffeine in abundance and free Wi-Fi. She ordered a latte with soy milk and retreated to a secluded corner, shielded from the chaos of the streets. She took her beast of a laptop out of her backpack, put on noise-canceling headphones, flipped up the screen, and started a program.

Still nothing, she thought. Damn. Where could they be? On the screen was a map of the greater city area. It was a program she’d written herself that could triangulate phones, even when they were turned off. But she saw nothing. The message “No signal found” was like a taunt. She started a global search, picked up her coffee, and took a big sip. While her small, mobile supercomputer did its job, she looked out the window, where one of the countless surveillance cameras mounted throughout the city caught her eye.

She had an idea. If she could access the camera system, maybe she could figure out where her friends had gone. But hacking the city’s traffic cameras was a risky and time-consuming undertaking, even for her. It had taken days to track down the Mantis after her escape from London, but she had failed with Singapore’s traffic camera system. She certainly would have cracked it sooner or later, that wasn’t in question, but Tom didn’t want to wait that long and had come up with a typical Wagner plan. On the other hand, the hack in Luxembourg had shown her again how good she was, although admittedly, due to time constraints, she had also enlisted the help of some hacker colleagues to speed things up, and the security system of the private bank could definitely use an update. She decided to suggest to Cloutard that he store his treasures elsewhere. When this was all over, she would explain to him how easy it had been to plunder his vault.

And then, in the midst of her thoughts about whether she should hack into the New York traffic network, the realization hit her like lightning. She was somewhat annoyed with herself for not immediately thinking of such an obvious solution.

Could this really work?

She set her pumpkin spice latte aside, broke off the global search, changed a few parameters, and started a new one.

CHAPTER 57

NIKOLA TESLA’S SECRET LABORATORY

With Ezra’s help, it had taken only a few minutes to get back to Tesla’s laboratory. The young man pulled the lever behind the old switchbox, and the secret door to the lab swung open with its usual scraping sound. As soon as the gap was wide enough for her to fit through, Hellen slipped inside.

“Hellen, please tell me what’s going on,” Tom urged, following her inside.

Ezra switched on the light, and Hellen began rummaging through the papers on the desks.

“As disgusting as it was when Joshua got fried, the lightning and sparks reminded me of something. A light bulb went off in my head.”

“What did it remind you of?” Tom asked with a smile.

“You must know that famous picture of Tesla sitting amidst lightning bolts in one of his laboratories with one of his coils next to him, with the lightning coming from it.”

Tom nodded. “Who doesn’t? But what exactly is a Tesla coil?”

“An electrical resonant transformer circuit. Ah, here it is,” she said, which did not enlighten Tom at all. She held up the photo of a young Tesla with two other men, the same one she had found during their first visit to the lab, although she couldn’t derive any meaning from it at the time.

“What does that remind you of?”

“What exactly?”

“The unfinished statue in the background,” Hellen said excitedly, tapping on the photo.

Tom took it and examined it closely. Behind the three men in the foreground, he could see the half-finished Statue of Liberty. Her lower body was already completely covered with formed copper plates. A large steel framework rose from her torso, dividing at the height of the future shoulders to form the head and arm of the statue.

“I don’t know, what do you mean?”

“The framework, what does it remind you of?”

Tom thought briefly.

“No idea … a high-voltage transmission tower?”

“Bingo,” Hellen said triumphantly. “And look at this.”

She rummaged again through the plans and sketches on the desk.

“I bet you anything that Tesla wanted to use the statue as a giant conductor to harness the energy from lightning to use with this machine and the formula …”—she pointed to the blackboards—“… to fuse the stones. Until he realized it wasn’t a good idea and ended the project.”

Tom’s eyes grew wider.

“And I’ll also bet he hid the third stone on the island,” Hellen added.

“That seems a bit far-fetched to me.”

“Why? If Tesla could convince the government or even just the right people that they could control the energy supply for the entire world, why wouldn’t they help him? He more or less confirmed it in his diary. Noah probably fed the president the same story to get out of prison.”

Tom thought about it.

“So we need to go to Liberty Island. Then let’s get Cloutard and go.”

Ezra cleared his throat, but Tom and Hellen ignored him.

“We should maybe think about exactly how we want to do this,” Hellen began, holding Tom back. Walking around him thoughtfully, she continued. “Noah is bound to show up there with a small army. I know you’re not big on plans and prefer to just charge ahead, but in this case, we should make an exception,” she said, giving the surprised Tom a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the behind. “After all, we’re talking about the survival of all humanity.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. He considered the situation briefly, then he began to walk around Hellen. “Hagen and Vittoria are on the other side of the world; they can’t help us. What about Van Rensburg? If we could reach him …”

“Then we need to go upstairs and call him, but what can he do? He could make some phone calls, but can he really accomplish much? Nobody would believe him,” Hellen pointed out, and Tom nodded in agreement.

“Still, we have to try to reach him. But if I were Noah, I’d already be on my way there. So we’ll have to handle this ourselves anyway. And we definitely can’t just motor over there on a boat. They’d see us coming a mile away.”

“Excuse me,” Ezra interjected. He had been trying unsuccessfully to get their attention the whole time.

Tom and Hellen jumped a little and looked at the young man.

“I think we can help you with that.”

CHAPTER 58

OVER NEW YORK CITY

A satisfied smile flashed across Noah Pollock’s face as he gazed through the window in the cargo hold of the Sea King helicopter. Flying close by was another helicopter, barely distinguishable from the dark clouds brewing over the ocean.

“It begins,” Noah said, raising his voice to compete with the loud thrum of the rotors while calmly tapping his fingers on a small metal case in his lap.

“What exactly do you hope to accomplish?” asked Phoebe Cross, who sat alongside Dr. Hector Amill and the Mantis, across from more than twenty mercenaries. The cabin conveyed a sense of functional robustness. Loose cargo nets flapped against the walls behind the passengers’ heads. The muffled roar of the engines reverberated and vibrated through the steel cocoon like a rhythmic heartbeat. Simple fabric seats in somber colors lined the cabin, anchored to the walls with sturdy straps to secure the passengers. Between the two rows left and right, a wooden crate was strapped firmly to the floor.

“My dear, that would take too long to explain right now and would likely exceed your intellectual capacity. But to put it simply: I’m going to change the world,” said Noah.

“But we don’t even know what Tesla’s formula does,” said Phoebe.

“Why these sudden doubts, Dr. Cross? Isn’t Nikola Tesla your great, infallible hero? During our little chat in Washington, you spoke at length about how you were ready to do anything to uncover Tesla’s secrets.”

“I can barely remember that evening. What the hell did you do to me?”

“Drugged you and bugged you,” said the Mantis with a broad smile, pointing to the tablet lying on an empty seat beside her.

Phoebe stared at her, and her hand moved to the scratch on her neck.

“You bastard,” hissed Phoebe, grabbing the tablet and hurling it in Noah’s direction. Noah dodged deftly, and the tablet smashed against the steel wall beside him. The Mantis drew her pistol with lightning speed and held it to Phoebe’s nose.

“Ladies, please, settle down,” said Noah in a surprisingly gentle voice. “We’re about to make history and change the world forever.”

“If you don’t blow us all up first,” muttered Phoebe. The Mantis glared at her and put her gun away.

“That’s why we have our clever Hector here. You two should actually get along well. He built our machine according to the plans the FBI secured after Tesla’s death,” said Noah, nodding to the man next to Phoebe. Dr. Amill was busy extracting the formula from the photos on Phoebe’s phone and entering it into his laptop.

The helicopter banked, and everyone held on tight.

“We’ll soon see if the mayor followed President Pitcock’s orders and closed the island,” said Noah, looking down at Liberty Island as the helicopters prepared to land. “We should only have to deal with a handful of staff. There shouldn’t be any tourists left.”

“This is it!” Hector suddenly exclaimed. “This was the missing piece of the formula. Now we just need to configure the machine on-site based on this newly calculated data.” He closed the laptop and looked expectantly at Noah, but waited in vain for acknowledgment.

Noah reached for his radio. “Eagle Two, we’re landing shortly. You take care of the machine. As soon as we have the stone, the doctor and I will join you.”

“Yes, sir. Out,” came the brief response, crackling through the radio’s speaker.

With a rumble, the helicopter touched down, and the mercenaries almost simultaneously released their straps and jumped up. One of them pulled open the helicopter’s sliding door. Thunderous noise filled the cabin. Phoebe and the doctor grimaced and raised their hands defensively as the rotor-caused storm blew inside.

“Secure the island,” shouted Noah, his hair whipping wildly in the wind. The mercenaries nodded and jumped out of the aircraft one after another, spreading out across the island.

Noah held one of the men back.

“Keep an eye on them,” he nodded toward Phoebe and Hector, “so they don’t run off. But remember, we still need them.”

The man nodded. He sat down opposite Phoebe and Hector, demonstratively positioned his rifle on his lap, and stared at them. Phoebe lowered her head, and the crate secured at her feet caught her eye. A sign attached to it said “Oscillator.”

I knew it, thought Phoebe. These people triggered the tsunami off Cuba.

Noah, carrying his case, and the Mantis jumped out of the helicopter and approached a man in a park ranger uniform who was crouching in the middle of the Flagpole Plaza.

“If I’ve deciphered the scribbles in Tesla’s diary correctly, then the third stone is in the torch of the Statue of Liberty,” the Mantis called to Noah. Without ducking under the rotors, the two strode toward the waiting man.

“Welcome to Liberty Island,” the man said, extending his hand to the arrivals. But neither Noah nor the woman made any move to return the greeting. “You must have powerful friends,” the man continued, somewhat piqued as he lowered his hand, “for the island to be closed so spontaneously for you. May I ask what exactly you’re doing here?”

“You may ask, but I’m afraid I’ll have to withhold an answer,” said Noah, looking sternly into the ranger’s bewildered eyes. “May I request your keycard and master key,” Noah added with artificial politeness, extending his free hand demandingly.

“But …” the man stammered. Whatever else he might have said caught in his throat as two mercenaries stepped behind him. With a trembling hand, the man handed Noah his keycard and key ring. “Who the hell are you?” he finally said.

Noah ignored him.

“Round them all up and park them in one of the buildings. Ms. Cross, the woman from the helicopter, goes with them. With extra guards!” Noah instructed one of the men, who dragged away the park ranger, still protesting. “And take Dr. Amill to the machine. He has to prepare everything,” he called after him.

His gaze fell on the second helicopter, which was hovering over the head of the Statue of Liberty, from which several men were rappelling down and setting to work on Lady Liberty’s head with cutting torches.

“You come with us,” Noah said to the other mercenary. “Do you have the tools?”

The man nodded and followed Noah.

“Aren’t we going to the torch to get the stone?” the Mantis asked, a little taken aback.

“Yes, we are,” said Noah, walking toward the low building in front of them. “The torch that sat atop the Statue of Liberty in Tesla’s time is no longer up there. In 1916, during World War I, German saboteurs blew up an ammunition depot with more than a thousand tons of munitions intended for the British on the Black Tom peninsula in Jersey City. The torch was damaged in the explosion and was then closed to the public. In the mid-eighties, the torch was replaced, and the old one displayed in the foyer in the pedestal. Since 2019, it has been here in the new museum.”

They climbed the steps to the entrance and headed straight for the room where the old torch had been put on display. Noah and the Mantis ignored the mercenaries who, like berserkers plundering a village, rounded up all the staff and dragged them out violently amid loud screaming.

Large, strategically placed windows framed the iconic silhouette of the approximately thirteen-foot-tall torch. The panoramic view of Lady Liberty at the other end of Liberty Island and against the backdrop of New York Harbor was breathtaking.

“Open it,” Noah commanded, and the mercenary got to work.

CHAPTER 59

CITY HALL OF THE MOLE PEOPLE, NEW YORK UNDERGROUND

“La Liberté éclairant le monde,” the old man reminisced, a smile playing across his lips. Cloutard, whose wound had been treated with remarkable expertise, looked at the old man, impressed. Beside him sat Tom, Hellen, Father Matthew, and Ezra, all gathered again at the large round table, listening intently to the story of the ‘king’ of the mole people.

“Liberty Enlightening the World,” Cloutard translated.

“Exactly. That was her true name,” the old man continued. “Only much later was she given the name Lady Liberty. The Roman goddess Libertas was her inspiration. Goddess of Freedom.” He paused briefly and drew a deep breath. “I saw her in all her glory only once.”

Everyone gathered there watched the old man with fascination. One didn’t meet such a witness to history every day. No one dared interrupt him, although thousands of questions burned on their tongues, especially Hellen’s.

“I was seven years old when I realized Mr. Tesla was planning something. He had been very mysterious in the days before. So I followed him one day. He was already old—over eighty, I believe—and not the fastest anymore,” the old man chuckled and smiled, “so I had no trouble staying on his heels. I think it must have been in 1938. The island had been closed for renovations. I followed him through a passage all the way to Bedloe’s Island.”

Tom looked up in surprise but held back his question.

“I apologize. Perhaps you didn’t know. Back then, the island was still called Bedloe’s Island. It wasn’t officially renamed ‘Liberty Island’ until 1956. But I’m digressing. When I arrived on the island, it was the most exciting thing I had ever seen. I followed Mr. Tesla all the way up into the statue. Although the island had been under the National Park Service since 1933, rather than the War Department, nobody stopped him. He could go wherever he wanted to there. When we were just below the head, he noticed me. But to my surprise, he wasn’t even angry. Quite the contrary. He even asked me to help him.”

Tom, Hellen, Cloutard, and even Father Matthew sat up straight and stared expectantly at the storyteller. No one seemed to breathe. Even the humming of the underground world seemed far away.

“He gave me a small bundle and asked me to climb into the torch—he himself was too old for that—and to hide it so that nobody could find it.”

“The third stone,” Hellen whispered.

“It was fantastic.” The old man nodded and continued. “Mr. Tesla told me I shouldn’t look inside the bundle, but telling a little boy something like that—I think you can imagine what happened. I climbed up into the torch, which was already off-limits except for maintenance work even back then. Once I was up there, I unwrapped the bundle to see what was inside. It was incredible. Even today, when I remember it …”—he paused briefly and sighed—“… it felt like you could see the entire universe in that red crystal. It radiated warmth and seemed almost to glow. Even the amazing view from the torch was nothing compared to the sight of that stone. Anyway, I did what Mr. Tesla asked me to do. We went back and never spoke of that day again. Only years later, shortly before his death, when I was just twelve or thirteen, did he mention it to me again. He told me a fantastic story about three stones, his formula, and a machine, and how he had devised a plan to prevent something like the great flood twelve thousand years ago from ever happening again. Humanity would not survive it.”

“Plan? What plan?” This time Tom couldn’t hold back.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know that. They were the words of an old, weak, confused man.”

“And what was that passage you followed?” Hellen asked now.

“I thought that might catch your attention. Yes, there is an underground passage to Liberty Island. It’s been there for over two hundred years. In 1795, the first of four forts was built on Ellis Island. It was called Fort Gibson. Fort Wood, the star-shaped structure beneath the Statue of Liberty, as well as Castle Williams on Governors Island, were both built in the early 1800s. Castle Clinton in Battery Park, too. These four forts are connected by underground passages that hardly anyone knows about today.”

Tom could no longer contain his excitement. He jumped to his feet.

“That’s it,” he exclaimed, looking around at everyone. “That’s how we get to the island without Noah finding out.”

“Can someone show us how to get there?” asked Hellen, pulling Tom back onto his chair.

“I know the tunnels,” said Father Matthew. “I will go with you.”

“Thanks, we can manage on our own,” Tom said somewhat dismissively, who despite everything the priest had done, still didn’t quite trust him. Cloutard’s new girlfriend, a woman they also didn’t know, might have switched sides, and Tom didn’t want to take any chances with the priest. “Just show us where the entrance is. This isn’t your problem.”

The priest rose. “Not my problem?” he said with more anger in his voice than he seemed to intend. “If these stones are really as dangerous as you describe, and can literally bring about the apocalypse, it is my duty to join you for that reason alone. If the whole world is at stake, that affects my family down here just as much. I owe it to these people.”

Hellen looked at Tom.

“Weren’t you once in the military?” she asked. The priest nodded. “Then we can definitely use you. Welcome aboard,” said Hellen, making the decision for Tom. “You’re not afraid of competition, are you?”

“I am coming too,” said Cloutard.

“You’re injured, you can’t possibly …”

“Porca miseria,” said Cloutard, slamming his hand on the table. The fact that the Frenchman was cursing in Italian, his foster mother’s native language, didn’t bode well. He reserved cursing in her native language only for special occasions. “I am coming along, period. I will prove to you that I was not mistaken about Phoebe. I refuse to believe she betrayed us.”

“François …” Tom began, but Hellen nudged him. One look into Hellen’s eyes told him everything he needed to know. “Okay,” he conceded quietly.

“I’m coming too,” said Ezra. The young man had left the room briefly and returned with all the weapons they had taken from Noah’s men, laying them on the table.

Half an hour later, they stood before the entrance to the passage. While Ezra and two men who had come with them this far were busy breaking down an old brick wall, Tom and Father Matthew checked the assault rifles and pistols.

“Tesla asked our people to wall it up back then,” Matthew explained. He was not looking very comfortable.

“Are you all right?” asked Hellen, who, unlike Tom, trusted the priest more.

“I’m not particularly fond of confined spaces,” he said, but offered no further explanation.

Then he removed his clerical collar, kissed it, and tucked it away in his small backpack.

“What was that about?” asked Tom.

“If I’m going to help you, I can only do so as a soldier, not as a priest,” said Matthew. Then he shouldered his rifle and went ahead through the hole in the wall.

Tom followed suit. Hellen went next, then Cloutard, and Ezra brought up the rear.

The passage was old, very old, barely three feet wide and so low that not even Hellen, the smallest in the group, could walk upright. It smelled musty, of seawater and dead fish. Plus, water reached up to their ankles.

“I’d rather crawl through ventilation shafts,” said Tom, wrinkling his nose.

“Oh merde,” groaned Cloutard. “Wet feet again.” Since the heavy storm in Innsbruck, he had developed a pronounced aversion to flooding. He had lost one of his best suits on that adventure.

After about twenty minutes, they came to a turn and stopped. The light from their flashlights illuminated the remains of a rusted old spiral staircase.

“We’ll be under Ellis Island now,” said Matthew. “Fort Gibson once stood above us. Another click and we’ll be directly under Liberty Island.”

Tom nodded, but the others looked at the priest questioningly.

“Sorry. Military jargon. One kilometer,” Matthew explained, shining his light down the passage to their left.

Ten minutes later, they stood by a similar spiral staircase. Tom shone his light upward and sighed.

A rust-brown, iron trapdoor blocked their way up.

CHAPTER 60

STATUE OF LIBERTY MUSEUM, LIBERTY ISLAND

“What a shame,” said the Mantis as she watched the mercenary working on the torch with an angle grinder. He had climbed up through the pedestal, stepped out onto the round balcony surrounding the flame, and begun cutting through the oxidized metal struts that held the individual amber glass elements in the form of a flame. An enormous shower of sparks cascaded over the ornately decorated balcony of the torch.

“Did you know the statue was once copper-colored?” Noah asked loudly to be heard over the screech of the cutting wheel. The destruction of a one-hundred-and-thirty-seven-year-old national treasure didn’t seem to bother him at all. “The iconic green we see today only came about through the oxidation of the copper,” he continued.

The Mantis nodded with narrowed eyes. It was obvious how difficult it was for her to watch this.

With pliers and hammer, the mercenary bent the struts open and carelessly tossed the glass elements over the railing of the torch as he removed them. They shattered into thousands of tiny pieces beside Noah on the dark floor. When the opening was finally large enough, he climbed back down.

“Finished, sir,” said the man.

Noah handed his small briefcase to the Mantis and climbed up the same way the man had before him. He approached the hole, looked inside, and finally extended his arm into it. He felt around carefully until he suddenly paused.

His face contorted into a maniacal grimace as he withdrew his hand, holding a small bundle. “At last,” he murmured and quickly climbed back down. “The case,” he said impatiently to the Mantis, motioning her to come over.

She placed the briefcase on the round metal railing that surrounded the torch, designed to prevent tourists from touching it. The locks snapped open, and she lifted the lid. Two stones, one amber and one green, lay inside, nestled in foam. The pulsating light emanating from the stones cast mystical colors across their faces.

Noah felt the heft of the small bundle in his hand. Then he unwrapped it, revealing a stone about the size of a mango. The fiery red crystal glittered on the old, brown rag in which it had been wrapped, and which now hung down from the sides of Noah’s hand. Instantly, the light in the room changed. All color seemed to vanish from the world. It was both light and dark simultaneously. The sky darkened, thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed across the firmament in the distance.

Noah and the Mantis looked at each other breathlessly.

“This is it, we’ve done it,” said Noah, carefully placing the stone next to the others in the briefcase and closing the lid.

A few minutes later, after all the hostages had been locked away, Noah, the Mantis, and the mercenary stepped out onto the roof of Fort Wood, the base of the statue. They walked around the massive pedestal to the front of Lady Liberty. The star-shaped fort, with its eleven points, formed the unmistakable base of the world’s most famous statue. The foremost bastion was notably larger than the other ten, and it was here that Noah stopped and examined the ground. A decorative line of darker stones, running in a square around the pedestal, was the focus of his attention. Once, this square area had been covered with lush grass. But when two additional steps were built onto the fort in the 1950s, only the cold flagstones remained.

Noah knelt down and studied the stones.

“It’s here,” he said, pointing to one with a small marking, so small that if you didn’t know what you were looking for, you could easily overlook it.

Noah stood up to make room for one of his men, who immediately got to work. Using a hammer and chisel, he loosened the grout between the stones, then inserted the chisel into the scraped-out gap and pried the stone out.

Underneath appeared an old toggle switch, the kind typically found only on high-voltage switchboards. Noah knelt again, held the switch with both hands, flipped it 180 degrees, and pushed it down. Sparks flew as the circuit closed.

Instantly, the ground began to shake. Startled, all three stepped back from the hole and looked around.

“What the hell?” blurted the Mantis. They could feel the vibrations down to the bone. Sand and pebbles danced across the ground. Suddenly, loud cracks formed in the flagstones as they were pushed upward as if by ghostly hands. In front of them, scraping and scratching, a steel cylinder perhaps six feet tall grew out of the ground not unlike a nuclear missile . With a final jolt it locked in place, and all was quiet again.

Speechless, all three just stood there. Noah was about to approach the cylinder when its outer shell suddenly split into four parts and swung open with a squeal.

“Fascinating,” said Noah, staring at the sizeable construction that had risen from the ground before their eyes.

“It looks like …” began the Mantis, struggling for the right word.

“Exactly, like a Tesla Coil,” Noah completed her sentence and approached the column, which had a large metal sphere on top. He examined it from all sides and found a small switch at the upper end, which he flipped. The sphere opened like a blossoming bud, revealing a metal claw inside.

Noah took a yellowed sheet of paper from his inside pocket and carefully unfolded it. He had difficulty studying it as the wind grew increasingly fierce. He looked out at the raging waters. Enormous waves were already lashing the shore, and spray shot high in the air.

He turned against the wind and studied the sketch. It was a rough drawing of the fort and statue, with markings at all four sides of the pedestal. The flow of energy connecting the torch and the four points was also illustrated.

He put it away again, opened the briefcase, and took out the stone that the Mantis had created some time ago with the help of Medusa. Carefully, he lifted it up, placed it on the metal claw, and pressed it down. Small sparks played around the stone and danced over the unfolded parts of the sphere, which immediately began to close.

With another jolt, the column extended upward another few feet.

“This is the energy stone,” said Noah. “If everything works, eternal energy will gather in this stone.”

The Mantis and the mercenary still stood perplexed, staring at the column. Suddenly, three men came around the corner, unrolling heavy-duty cables around the statue.

“Two to go,” said Noah, grabbing his briefcase and following the cable to the next side of the statue.

61

CHAPTER 61

ON LIBERTY ISLAND

The hinges creaked. Tom paused and drew a sharp breath.

“Quietly!” Hellen said in an urgent whisper.

Tom pushed against the rusty trapdoor again, this time a little harder. It opened just a crack, far enough to peek through. Tom couldn’t see anything and pushed harder. A second later there was an ear-splitting crash.

“Shit!” Tom hissed.

“Mr. Inconspicuous,” Cloutard muttered from below.

Tom stuck his head through the open hatchway and immediately saw what had caused the noise. When the hatch opened, a shelf that had been partially standing on it had become unstable and fallen over. Buckets, brooms, assorted cleaning supplies, and other items were scattered across the floor.

The chemical smell of cleaning products mixed with the musty air from the tunnel that was flowing upward through the hatch. Nobody moved. Tom’s eyes darted around the room, expecting someone to appear in response to the noise. The silence seemed to last an eternity, but nothing stirred.

“We got lucky,” Tom whispered and wiped the sweat from his forehead. One by one they climbed up. First Tom, then Hellen, Cloutard and Matthew. Ezra hesitated.

“Father, I’d rather stay here,” he said, taking a few steps back into the tunnel.

All four, but especially Father Matthew, could understand his reluctance. The world up there wasn’t his.

“Okay. But wait here, we might need you yet,” said Matthew in a tone that allowed no argument. Ezra nodded hurriedly.

“Ah, a storage room,” murmured Cloutard, who had been looking around.

“Nice work, Inspector Maigret,” Tom said with a grin.

Matthew frowned, baffled.

“You’ll have to get used to that,” said Hellen, patting the priest on the shoulder. “These dumb remarks and film references are par for the course.”

“All right, let’s go,” Tom whispered, heading for the door. “I’ll check if it’s safe,” he added as he reached for the doorknob.

“Perhaps I should do that,” said Cloutard, pushing Tom aside. Cloutard slowly opened the door with no sound at all and peered outside.

“The master knows his craft,” said Hellen, jabbing Tom in the side, who only rolled his eyes.

“We are in the information center,” said Cloutard, extending his head a little farther out. “And the coast seems to be clear,” he announced, holding the door open.

Weapons at the ready, Tom and Matthew went out first. Professionally and quickly, as they had been trained, they searched the premises. Hellen and Cloutard heard the occasional “Clear” before they also entered the information center with its adjoining museum shop.

“Down,” Tom suddenly hissed. “Armed guard, ten o’clock. We’re not alone.”

They took cover behind a shelf filled with books about the history of the Statue of Liberty and peered over the top edge. Leaves and small branches whipped against the window, blown by the wind.

A man in black tactical gear was patrolling in front of the shop, his assault rifle across his chest. He also carried a handgun in a holster on his thigh.

Tom looked at Matthew.

“We need to take that guy out,” Matthew said in a military command tone. “Then we’ll split up. You and I will look for Noah. He’s probably at the statue. Hellen, you and Cloutard take care of Phoebe and search the buildings here.

Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“Somebody has a plan, mon ami,” said Cloutard, winking at Hellen.

Tom snorted but said nothing. His mind was racing. Was this the right approach? Splitting up was risky, but they had no time to lose. They needed to act quickly if they wanted to stay one step ahead of their enemies.

“Let’s share the weapons. We don’t have much to choose from,” he said brusquely and opened the shoulder bag containing the weapons that the mole people had taken from Noah’s men. “We have three pistols, two silenced rifles, and a knife.” He tossed one pistol to Hellen, one to Matthew, and kept the third for himself. His fingers closed around its familiar weight. “Cloutard, take the knife. It’s more your style.”

“You know me. I have always been a fan of the classics,” replied Cloutard with a crooked smile. He took the small tactical knife, pulled it partially from its plastic sheath and briefly tested the blade, then tucked it into his belt.

“He brings a knife to a gunfight …” Tom said.

“Sean Connery, ‘The Untouchables,’” Matthew murmured.

Tom, Hellen, and Cloutard looked at Matthew in surprise.

“Respect, Padre,” Tom said with a grin, raising his hand for a high five. Father Matthew didn’t leave him hanging.

“I think we’ve had enough of that,” said Hellen.

Tom continued to rummage in the bag.

“Tactical vests for everyone.” Tom handed one to Matthew, and put on his own, feeling its protective embrace immediately. Cloutard and Hellen slipped into theirs as well. They all knew that a vest was no guarantee of safety, but it offered a small degree of comfort in an otherwise unforgiving situation.

“This rifle goes to you, Hellen. The second stays with us,” Tom said and handed her the weapon. She held it capably, her eyes narrowing as she assessed its potential.

“Remember: stay low and move fast,” Tom instructed, his voice both authoritative and reassuring. “We can only guess what Noah’s planning. We need to be careful and do whatever needs to be done.”

Matthew grunted his agreement. He checked his pistol’s chamber with a stoic expression. The brief silence that followed was oppressive.

Tom took a deep breath to calm himself. “Let’s go.”

Cloutard crept to the door to open it with one of his ever-present lock picks, and seconds later there was a “click.”

Tom hastily kissed Hellen on the forehead. Then they nodded to each other one last time, and Tom and Matthew slipped quickly through the door into the open.

CHAPTER 62

A STARBUCKS ACROSS FROM THE NEW YORKER HOTEL, MANHATTAN

Akira stared expectantly at her laptop screen. Step by step, the map section grew smaller as her software narrowed the search further and further until it could finally display a precise location.

The welcome ping didn’t take long, and a pop-up appeared beneath a blinking red dot. It named the location and showed the exact coordinates of the phone she was searching for.

“Liberty Island?” Akira murmured. “What is Ms. Cross doing on Liberty Island?”

Minutes earlier, it occurred to her to track Phoebe Cross’s phone. Tom had told her to keep a close eye on Phoebe, so it made sense to try to locate her position as well. Better late than never, thought Akira, still annoyed that she hadn’t thought of it sooner. She had been too focused on Tom’s, Hellen’s, and Cloutard’s phones.

Just to be safe, she repeated the search for her friends’ phones as well, but still got no results. She opened her homemade app on her phone, transferred all her search parameters, including those for Tom, Hellen, and Cloutard to it, and packed away her laptop. Her phone would notify her if the search found anything. She finished her coffee and looked out the window for a moment.

Through the safety of the store windows, she observed the busy hustle of people and cars on New York’s streets. The weather had changed in the last few minutes. Dark clouds hung over the metropolis. She decided to call an Uber. Hailing a taxi in this chaos with rain threatening seemed too exhausting an endeavor.

Five minutes later, she was sitting in the Uber that had stopped right in front of the Starbucks. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“I see you’re heading to Castle Clinton in Battery Park. You’re here to see Lady Liberty, I guess?” the Uber driver asked.

“No,” Akira said curtly, letting the driver know she wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Talking to him was the last thing she needed right now. Her social interaction account was already at its limit.

She demonstratively took out her phone and looked at the blinking dot on Liberty Island. Her adventure was far from over. Since Phoebe’s phone was currently her only lead, she had decided to follow her. Cloutard might be with her. Perhaps they were all together, even, and their phones had simply died. And if not, maybe Phoebe knew where she could find her friends.

She pulled up the Liberty Island website to see how and when ferries traveled to the island.

“I’m only asking,” the driver spoke up again, to Akira’s displeasure, “because they closed the island today.”

Now he had Akira’s undivided attention.

“The island is closed? Why’s that?”

“No idea. The announcement came through our dispatch a few hours ago. All the tourists were evacuated, but nobody knows why,” the driver explained.

But then how did Phoebe get onto the island? Akira wondered. What had happened? The driver couldn’t tell her anything else, and Akira retreated into silence once again.

“We’re here,” said the driver half an hour later, jolting Akira from her thoughts.

“What? Oh, thanks,” she said and got out.

“Don’t forget to rate me,” Akira heard the driver call after her, but she really had no time for that now.

She walked through Battery Park toward the round, once-mighty fortification of Castle Clinton, which today served as the ticket counter for the Liberty and Ellis Island tour. There was also a small museum, or at least what Americans called a museum, inside the former fortress.

Angry crowds of people were standing at the counters. No doubt they had booked tickets weeks in advance to get inside the statue itself and were now confronted with the fact that the island was closed.

The driver was right, Akira thought irritably as she walked around the building to the shore. Shivering, she closed her jacket and looked across to Liberty Island. The sky seemed even darker over there. Something was definitely going on. Then she saw something. Was she mistaken, or was a large military helicopter hovering directly above Lady Liberty’s torch?

A sudden beep, then another, and a third startled her. She pulled out her phone and opened her app. Tom’s, Hellen’s, and Cloutard’s phones had come back online almost simultaneously. And to Akira’s surprise, all of them were on Liberty Island.

Things were getting serious, and the question was no longer whether she needed to get to the island. The real question was how to get there.

She looked around and walked along the shore. There had to be boats somewhere that could take her over. Just past Castle Clinton, she found what she was looking for. At Battery Park Slip 6, a small pier away from the large ferries, a boat similar to one of the big water taxis, but smaller, was tied up. It could maybe hold twenty people. She ran to the pier.

A heavyset man smoking a cigar was sitting in a camping chair next to his boat.

“Excuse me,” Akira began hesitantly. “I need to get to Liberty Island urgently.”

The man looked up at her and frowned. “You and thousands of others, but that’s not happening today, lady,” said the man. Akira noticed that his clothes were grimy. “Besides, I’m not responsible for tourists. I only transport island staff, and not for a few hours yet.”

“Well, that’s perfect then. You can take me across now.”

“Lady, I don’t know what you’ve been smoking or if you have trouble hearing. The island’s closed to tourists today,” he said dismissively.

Akira’s confidence sank. Standing up to bullies had never been her strong suit, even in school. She turned around and walked away wordlessly.

But after a few steps, she stopped. “No,” she said to herself. Not today, not here. Determined, she turned around and planted herself squarely in front of the man. “Five thousand dollars. Will that get me a place on your boat?” she said firmly.

The man nearly dropped his cigar. He grabbed the butt and leaned forward in his small camping chair.

His reaction seemed promising, Akira thought. He looked left and right, as if to make sure no one was listening, then motioned for Akira to come closer.

“Ten thousand and we have a deal,” he whispered. He looked at Akira seriously, then finally leaned back with a roaring laugh.

But his laughter nearly caught in his throat when Akira said, “Okay, give me your account number.” She pulled up the banking app for the expense account van Rensburg had provided her. “My only condition is that we leave immediately.”

CHAPTER 63

FORT WOOD, LIBERTY ISLAND

The electrical charge was already noticeably stronger here. Palpable even. As Noah lifted the third stone from the case, sparks began to jump the moment he brought the stone close to the sphere.

“Wow,” he said, laughing enthusiastically as the electric flashes seemed to envelop his entire body. “It’s like feeling the power of the universe.”

The Mantis and the mercenary exchanged skeptical glances and slowly backed away as Noah pressed the final stone into place. The sphere closed just as the previous two had, and the column rose higher.

At that exact moment, a deafening thunderclap rolled across the sky. Simultaneously, as if God himself had flipped a switch, a violent rainstorm lashed down upon them.

Noah burst into booming laughter and raised his arms upward.

“Isn’t it fantastic,” he shouted up to the sky as rain streamed down his face.

The Mantis looked at him doubtfully. The man seemed possessed by something.

“Now only one thing is missing,” said Noah, joyfully wiping the water from his face. “Something that neither Tesla nor DARPA was prepared to do.”

He walked to the rear section of the statue, closely followed by the Mantis and the mercenary. When they turned the corner, they were met with a completely different sight. Like the three other locations, a column had risen from the ground here as well, but this one was significantly larger.

“This is the crucial part,” Noah said. He approached the structure, which vaguely resembled a medieval torture device. The steel column had the outline of a person visible inside it, as if someone had pressed a human body into the metal. In the head area and at the limbs, leather straps were attached, similar to the straps of an electric chair. Finally, there was a two-part grated door, so that whoever had the misfortune of ending up inside could be properly confined.

“Sir,” Noah’s radio crackled. He detached it from his belt and held it to his ear.

Having quickly agreed on the financial terms, Akira and her new friend were soon halfway to the island.

Amazing what money can accomplish, Akira thought as she clutched the armrest of her seat. The water was choppy, and a stormy wind blew across the bay. Heavy rain had taken them by surprise halfway across, and the sea was growing increasingly turbulent.

“What the hell?” snapped the captain. “I’ve never seen the weather shift this sudden.”

Akira clung to the seat. Her stomach seemed to change position inside her body every second, and nausea rose within her. The small vessel bounced like a cork over the increasingly powerful waves.

“Docking in this storm won’t be easy,” the man shouted, struggling to keep the pitching boat on course.

As they approached the island and Akira peered through the wet windows at the island drawing ever closer, she thought she saw a man on the shore. She jumped up, held on tight, and brought her face closer to the window. She hadn’t been mistaken.

In the pouring rain, a man who looked like a special forces soldier was patrolling the shoreline. He carried a suppressed assault rifle across his chest.

Akira turned pale when she realized that their boat had caught the man’s attention. She watched as he raised a megaphone.

“This is a restricted military area. Turn back immediately,” she heard an electronically distorted voice say, barely audible over the storm.

“We need to hurry. Try the Jersey dock,” Akira called to the captain.

“Hurry? Lady, we’re getting out of here. I’m not messing with the military, and in this weather, I can’t dock there anyway. My boat would be smashed to pieces.”

“What is it?” Noah barked into his radio.

“We might have intruders. A water taxi approached the island. The skipper’s dead, but I can’t spot anyone else.”

“Okay, keep your eyes peeled,” said Noah.

“Wagner?” asked the Mantis.

“Probably. But we’re almost done. He can’t stop us anymore.” He turned to the mercenary. “Send some of your men up here. They should guard the four columns with their lives. And find Wagner and kill him.”

The man nodded and disappeared.

“And you, my dear,” now he turned to the Mantis. “I want you to find me a human sacrifice.” Noah tapped the cage.

She nodded and was about to leave, but Noah stopped her. “No, wait, I have a better idea. Bring me Ms. Cross. I’m sure she’d like to experience the power of Tesla’s ultimate invention firsthand.” He let out a raucous laugh. “I’ll go upstairs to make the final preparations. When Ms. Cross is in position, let me know on the radio. And make sure no one enters the statue.”

The Mantis nodded and hurried away.

Noah looked up and saw his men lowering a crate from the helicopter through a large hole in the statue’s head.

“By the end of today, the world will be at my feet,” whispered Noah and disappeared inside the pedestal.

Akira stared at the captain in disbelief. “I don’t care, I need to get there somehow. And believe me, that’s not the military,” shouted Akira as she maneuvered her way forward to the man. “I paid you ten thousand dollars, you’re taking me there now,” she screamed with a determination that surprised even herself.

“Forget it, lady. What if they decide to start sh⁠—”

Ironically, the answer to his incomplete question came in the form of a hail of bullets. The windows shattered, and shards flew through the cabin like razor-sharp projectiles. Akira threw herself to the floor. More and more glass rained down on her.

The boat suddenly jerked and there was a cry. Akira slid to the side. She clutched at whatever she could grab and looked up.

To her horror, the skipper had been hit by several bullets. He had collapsed, jerking the wheel as he fell. The abrupt change in course made the boat tilt dangerously to one side and head straight for the rocky shore.

Akira cautiously raised her head and peered over the window ledge. The boat was about to run into the rocky shore at full speed. Her eyes widened and she felt panic rising inside her. She ducked back down and fought her way to the stern of the rocking boat. She took off her backpack, fished out the small, vitally important package, and stored it carefully in her jacket pocket. Then she shoved her backpack under a bench, hoping she could salvage her supercomputer when this was all over. Hastily, she opened the door to the narrow surrounding deck, stumbled through, and without thinking twice, slipped overboard.

CHAPTER 64

IN FRONT OF THE INFO CENTER, LIBERTY ISLAND

Tom crept ahead and Matthew followed him out of the museum shop. The door closed quietly behind them. Cool air enveloped them. The wind had grown stronger, threatening clouds filled the sky, and a sudden downpour soaked through their clothes. Thunder crashed and lightning flashed across the sky.

They immediately took cover behind a hedge. Matthew scanned their surroundings.

“Hey, Tom,” Matthew whispered, tapping him on the shoulder and pointing toward the ferry dock. “There’s our man.”

The armed soldier, outfitted in black tactical gear, was heading toward the Jersey dock. The gravel crunched menacingly under his boots.

“The first one on our list,” said Tom.

“Unfortunately, we don’t know how long that list is going to be,” Matthew replied grimly. “Let’s get this over with quickly and quietly.”

Together, they began to reduce the distance between themselves and the armed man while staying in the cover of the hedge. Just before reaching the dock, the man turned around and headed back toward Flagpole Plaza.

“Ready?” whispered Tom, his voice barely audible even to himself.

“Ready,” confirmed Matthew, not taking his eyes off the target.

Tom and Matthew sprinted at the man from behind. Their movements were quick and silent. In one fluid motion, Tom wrapped an arm around the guard’s throat from behind, while Matthew secured the man’s weapon hand.

The guard’s eyes widened in panic, but he couldn’t make a sound. Tom’s grip was tight enough to cut off the man’s air supply, but not strong enough to crush his larynx. The pressure was concentrated on the sides and carotid artery.

“Take it easy,” muttered Matthew as he yanked the assault rifle from the man’s hand. “You don’t want to make this any harder than it needs to be.”

Tom tightened his grip even more, and the man suddenly became heavy as he lost consciousness. They needed to hurry—there could be others nearby who might be attracted by the scuffle.

“Take his legs,” Tom whispered, grabbing the man under his armpits. Matthew shouldered the rifle and grabbed the legs. They carried the man toward the ferry dock at a jog.

They moved in harmony, as if they had worked as a team hundreds of times before. Tom was beginning to appreciate the priest more and more.

“Matt,” Tom whispered. “Over there.” He pointed to a small shed right by the terminal. “No one will look for him there anytime soon.”

A blow with the rifle butt knocked the small padlock off the door.

“In you go!” Tom grunted as they heaved the man inside.

“How convenient, they bring their own restraints,” said Matthew, tossing Tom some zip ties that the soldier had in the thigh pocket of his black cargo pants. Together they secured the man, binding his wrists and ankles. Then Matthew tore a piece of fabric from the man’s shirt, stuffed it into his mouth, and secured it with another of the long zip ties around the man’s head.

“I see this isn’t your first time,” Tom said, inspecting their work.

“That will hold,” Matthew said quietly. “But no need to stick around to find out.”

They exchanged a relieved glance. “Let’s keep moving,” Tom said. “We need to figure out where Noah is. Whatever he’s planning, we have to stop it.”

Matthew nodded. He too knew what was at stake. Because he also had something important to complete here.

CHAPTER 65

GOVERNORS ISLAND, UPPER NEW YORK BAY

“Something’s coming,” whispered an old man, staring out at the churning water. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

A little boy and his slightly older sister looked questioningly at their grandfather.

“What do you mean, Grandpa?” said the boy, William.

The old man gave no answer. He just stood and stared in horror over the upper bay. Since his retirement from the New York Department of Public Service, he came out here every day. His pension didn’t afford him much, certainly not travel, so this was his favorite vacation spot: Governors Island.

Every morning, Grandpa Eliott, as everyone knew him, made his way to the ferry that took him to Governors Island, a green oasis amid Manhattan’s steel chaos. For Eliott, the island was a patchwork of memories, a silent witness to his turbulent past. It was his stubborn resistance to change that drew him there each day.

“I think we need to leave,” he said, instructing his two grandchildren to pack their things.

“But we just got here, Grandpa. You wanted to show us the fort,” William complained.

In the heart of Governors Island, Fort Jay stood proud like a pillar of the past. The stone fortress with its weathered, silent authority was a monument to history. It was a place where countless visitors settled down for picnics day after day, found peace and relaxation, or just took a stroll. But not today. Today, heavy waves were crashing toward Picnic Point.

“We need to get off the island!” shouted a woman who was picnicking next to Eliott and his grandchildren, lifting her child to her chest. “Hurry!”

Suddenly, a loudspeaker announcement could be heard from the distance, barely audible through the violent wind that was now sweeping across the island.

“Grandpa, did you hear that?” said the girl, Eleonor. “They’re evacuating the island!” Her words were barely audible in the general panic.

“Please, everyone stay calm!” pleaded one of the park rangers, but his attempt to maintain order was drowning in the tidal wave of fear washing over the crowd.

CHAPTER 66

IN FRONT OF THE INFO CENTER, LIBERTY ISLAND, NEW YORK BAY

Hellen and Cloutard crouched in the shadows by the entrance to the museum store and watched as Tom and Matthew followed the man. A tremendous thunderclap boomed. Lightning flashed beside the Statue of Liberty, illuminating the scene with an eerie glow. Rain lashed at their faces from all directions.

“I hate this weather,” Cloutard grumbled.

Hellen looked toward the iconic Lady Liberty, just two hundred yards away.

“We are not here for sightseeing,” Cloutard whispered, desperately holding onto the brim of his Panama hat. Hellen looked at him and couldn’t help but smile. Not only was Cloutard’s suit soaked through, but his hat was also completely drenched and drooping sadly.

“When will you finally learn to dress appropriately for our job? How many suits have fallen victim to our adventures now?” Hellen replied, turning up the collar of her outdoor jacket and lifting her rifle to her chest.

“Laisse-moi tranquille. Come on, we need to find Phoebe now,” Cloutard insisted, grimacing. Even though he couldn’t be certain which side Phoebe was really on, the thought that the fiery redhead might be in danger pained him.

“Let’s go,” Hellen said with resolve. With a bold look and a single, silent nod, they reinforced their decision. One last time they looked for Tom and Matthew, but the two had disappeared.

“Alors. Let’s check the buildings at the back first,” Cloutard added, slinking toward the front corner of the Info Center.

“Get down,” Cloutard whispered through the wind whistling around their ears and what felt like gallons of water lashing their faces. He had just spotted another guard near the Flagpole Plaza.

When the man turned his back, they darted along the long building beside the Info Center and rounded the corner. Beyond it, they saw two more buildings. They ran between them and the western side of the museum farther back and found a small shed with peeling paint and a roof that sagged slightly under the weight of years beneath a large tree. The wooden door, barely hanging on its hinges, suggested nothing important could be stored inside. Nevertheless, Cloutard had the door open in seconds and peered inside. As if orchestrated by the weather god, another lightning bolt flashed across the sky at that very moment, illuminating the interior of the shed.

“Nothing,” Hellen muttered. Cloutard nodded.

The second building, immediately adjacent and significantly larger appeared to be a warehouse for the museum or shop, its once-pristine white walls now covered with a smattering of moss. It was in much better condition. Here too, the door couldn’t withstand Cloutard’s skills for long. Pale light fell inside through the windows. They saw rows of shelves stacked with boxes and equipment. Quickly they moved up and down the aisles. Still no trace of Phoebe.

It took only a few minutes to search the second warehouse. Again, nothing.

“The museum next,” Cloutard said. He ran to the shore of the island, from where they could see a glass cube on the roof of the museum.

“That’s the elevator to get to the roof. There should be stairs behind it,” Cloutard said, barely audible through the whistling wind and the violent waters of the bay. They ran along the shore, checked at a corner for a guard, and headed toward the stairs on the side of the museum.

Cloutard pointed to a staircase that zigzagged to the roof. “That is our best chance to get in unnoticed.”

Reaching the roof, Cloutard bypassed the elevator controls and opened the service doors to the shaft. “Voilà,” Cloutard breathed. The elevator shaft lay open before them. The cabin was at the very bottom. They exchanged a glance, both aware of the risks a descent entailed.

“We both survived the shaft in the hotel, we can handle this one too,” Hellen said.

Although this elevator shaft was only three stories deep, they had no desire to break any bones in their current situation.

“Ready?” asked Cloutard with a mixture of determination and concern.

“Sure,” replied Hellen. She slipped her arm through the rifle strap, stretched out, grabbed the steel cable in the center of the shaft and began sliding down. Cloutard followed her. His years of experience breaking into museums and galleries made it easy for him. They came to a stop on the roof of the cabin.

“Just like riding a bike,” he grinned, seeing Hellen’s astonished look.

Once they had something solid under their feet again, Hellen exhaled with relief. Cloutard opened the service hatch of the cabin, and they climbed down. He was already jimmying the door when Hellen followed him.

“Phoebe could be anywhere,” he whispered. His concern for her was clear in his voice.

“Let’s check the main exhibition hall first,” Hellen suggested. She walked ahead cautiously, rifle at the ready, through the eerily silent museum. A bright flash of lightning, followed a moment later by a rumbling thunderclap, made them both jump.

Hellen’s heart raced with every step, her senses on high alert for any signs of danger or Phoebe’s whereabouts.

As they entered the main hall, they were confronted with a disturbing sight: A large hole gaped in the iconic torch of the Statue of Liberty. Braces had been violently bent and twisted and hundreds of shards of amber-colored glass were scattered across the dark floor. Hellen felt her stomach clench and a cold realization swept over her. It confirmed her worst fear—Noah had apparently found the third stone.

“Merde,” Cloutard mumbled. “We are too late.”

“If Noah has everything he needs, Phoebe might be in even greater danger,” Hellen said, her thoughts racing.

“Oui, if he doesn’t need her anymore—I don’t even want to imagine.” Cloutard’s expression hardened, his eyes determined.

They continued searching the gloomy museum. Only the emergency lights were on. Their footsteps echoed through the dim halls as they continued their search.

“Anything?” called Hellen, by now less and less concerned with caution.

“Rien,” Cloutard answered tensely. “Keep searching.”

A clap of thunder crashed overhead. The storm was now directly above them. Fine hailstones mixed with the thick raindrops and clattered against the windows.

“She’s not here. If she’s not directly with Noah, who’s probably at the statue, she might still be in the Crown Café,” Hellen said, heading toward the main entrance.

“Then we need to go there,” replied Cloutard impatiently.

“If the guard out there doesn’t take us out on the way,” Hellen said, pointing to the man patrolling Flagpole Plaza.

CHAPTER 67

IN FRONT OF THE MUSEUM, LIBERTY ISLAND

“Now what?” asked Cloutard.

“We could go back the same way we came. Then he won’t see us.”

“That will take too long.”

“Then we can only wait until he turns around and goes back to the helicopter.” Hellen nodded toward the path, where one of the two helicopters was parked halfway to the statue. “We can stay out of sight behind this wheelchair ramp over here to the right.” Hellen pointed through the windows at a ramp that zigzagged down to a lower level.

“Go,” said Hellen as the man turned away. She pulled open the entrance door, slipped through, hurried to the corner of the museum, and jumped over the edge of the ramp. Cloutard was right behind her. The howling wind pulled at Hellen’s hair as she peered over the edge to see if anyone had spotted them.

“The Crown Café is over there, is it not?” Cloutard asked.

Hellen nodded. “Let’s keep moving quickly. I don’t like how exposed we are out here,” she said, looking for the ideal path to avoid being seen by the guard.

“One moment,” said Cloutard, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Liquid courage.” He took a hearty swig from his flask and offered Hellen the expensive cognac. Hellen nodded and took an equally large gulp.

Under cover of the bushes, with rifle at the ready, they continued onward. Just before the Gift Shop Parkway, Hellen suddenly grabbed Cloutard by the collar and pulled him behind the small building where tourists could borrow audio guides.

“It won’t help Phoebe if you get yourself shot,” she hissed. They peered around the corner and saw a shadowy figure, one of Noah’s men, also fighting the elements. His dark silhouette barely stood out from the downpour. He was pacing back and forth on the café terrace about thirty yards away.

“Merde, thank you. That was close,” muttered Cloutard, wiping the rain from his face with the back of his hand.

Hellen raised her rifle and took aim.

“What are you planning to do?” blurted Cloutard.

“Do you have a better idea? How else are we going to search the café in peace?”

Cloutard squinted his eyes, and Hellen prepared to shoot. The thought of killing a human being turned her stomach, though she had already had no choice once before. But the world and all of humanity were at stake. She couldn’t think about it. She pushed the safety lever forward and exhaled, ready to shoot. Just as Tom had taught her.

But it didn’t come to that.

She heard a soft pop, and the man collapsed. Astonished, she looked around and saw Tom wave to her from the shore. She waved back and exhaled with relief.

“Is it over?” asked Cloutard.

“Yes. Tom took care of him, you can open your eyes now,” said Hellen. “Come on.”

Seconds later, they were standing on the open terrace of the Crown Café, peering through the windows. Tom and Matthew continued on, past the café.

Cloutard’s heart skipped a beat when he spotted Phoebe. She was tied to a chair in the dimly lit room. Her bright red hair was disheveled, and her normally strong features were marked by fear. A stocky guard was standing nearby, his back to the terrace.

“My God, she is here,” whispered Cloutard, relief washing over him.

“Okay, we need a plan,” said Hellen.

“It is simple. I will sneak in and take care of the man. You keep watch out here!” Cloutard insisted, never taking his eyes off Phoebe. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”

“Are you sure? We could try to find another way,” Hellen suggested, concerned.

“We do not have time. I need to do this. You make sure none of Noah’s people surprise us. You have the rifle and apparently no hesitation about using it. I will handle that man inside myself,” said Cloutard with a determined look.

“All right, but be careful,” Hellen reluctantly agreed. She went to the man Tom had dispatched from a distance and dragged him behind a bush. Then she positioned herself strategically in front of the café to keep an eye on the surroundings, ready to warn Cloutard if danger approached. She watched as Cloutard disappeared into the café through a back door, with all the finesse of an experienced burglar.

He moved deliberately, each calculated step bringing him closer to the guard. Additionally, the storm outside was so loud that no one would hear his footsteps.

He allowed himself ample time, weighing his options for how best to take the man down, and got into position. He felt his pulse pounding in his ears, but his determination remained unbroken. Then he lunged forward and threw himself at the man from behind.

CHAPTER 68

IN THE CROWN CAFÉ

Cloutard and the guard crashed against the bar and tumbled to the floor. The Frenchman clung to the man’s back like a burr, his arms wrapped around the guard’s neck and his legs entwined around his arms and torso. Cloutard landed on his back but didn’t let go. Caught off guard and completely powerless, the man tried to free himself from the Frenchman’s chokehold, while Cloutard fought to maintain his grip. But Cloutard’s hold remained iron-tight.

“Non, espèce d’enfoiré!” Cloutard groaned. “You won’t hurt her anymore.”

Phoebe’s eyes were wide with shock. She had nearly toppled over in her chair when Cloutard had seemingly appeared from nowhere and jumped on the man from behind. Helplessly struggling against her restraints, muffled pleas for help came through the tape sealing her mouth.

The guard’s face reddened under Cloutard’s pressure, his eyes bulging. But he didn’t give up. Repeatedly he tried to free his hands from Cloutard’s scissored legs, but in vain. Cloutard’s determination was only strengthened by the memories and feelings that Phoebe stirred in him.

“For love,” Cloutard cried out. Finally, he pulled the knife from his belt with one hand and stabbing the man repeatedly in the side of his chest. With a gurgle, the body went limp on top of him, and Cloutard slowly loosened his grip. With a sigh of relief, Cloutard pushed the lifeless body away, jumped up, and rushed to Phoebe.

“Are you all right, darling?” Cloutard asked, carefully removing the tape from Phoebe’s mouth and cutting through her restraints with the bloody knife. She only nodded. With tears in her eyes, she looked into Cloutard’s eyes. He had just risked everything for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse but full of gratitude. She fell into his arms. Clinging to him and trembling with fear, she sighed with relief.

“Phoebe, what happened?” Cloutard asked urgently, trying to calm her. He brushed her fiery red hair from her face.

“François, you have to believe me, I have nothing to do with these people.”

“It is all right, I believe you. I never doubted you.”

Her eyes welled up with tears as she struggled to compose herself. “I overheard them say that Noah found the third stone and is about to activate the machine.”

“Yes, I know, but one thing at a time,” said Cloutard, suddenly very composed. The professional had resurfaced. He looked at the dead guard and frowned thoughtfully. “We need to make sure no one finds him.”

Phoebe nodded silently. Cloutard looked around. “The kitchen must have a cold storage room,” he said confidently. They lifted the man’s body and dragged him behind the bar and into the kitchen. Cloutard nodded toward a corner where a large, silver refrigerator door was visible on the wall. He let go of one of the man’s legs, opened the door, picked up the leg again, and together they dragged the body inside. Cloutard went outside while Phoebe retrieved the pistol and rifle, along with spare ammunition, from the dead man. They closed the door, and both leaned against it with a sigh.

“François, you’re against violence. You’ve done this for me …” Phoebe whispered.

“He hurt you, my dear. Nobody is allowed to hurt you,” he said with a bitter expression. She hugged him tightly. “Hellen is waiting outside,” he said. “Then we need to help Tom and Matthew.” He took Phoebe by the hand and together they made their way back outside.

When they both stepped out into the storm, there was no sign of Hellen. Cloutard looked around nervously.

“Damn,” he muttered, scanning the terrace. “Maybe I should not have left her alone.”

“Maybe she hid. If something had happened to her, they would have found us too.”

From the corner of his eye, Cloutard suddenly saw a figure on the shore of the island. The light of a lightning bolt had drawn a silhouette in the fog. He was about to drag Phoebe back into the café but then hesitated. He opened his eyes in astonishment.

It wasn’t one of Noah’s men, nor was it Hellen. It was Akira, soaked from head to toe, her dark hair clinging to her face in the relentless rain, climbing over the railing that lined the shore.

“A-Akira? What are you doing here?” Cloutard called and ran across the terrace toward her. His heart rate went up a few extra beats a minute from confusion and fear.

“Van … van Rensburg sent me,” she stammered. “I need to find Tom urgently,” Akira shouted over the wind as she waded through ankle-deep water up the terrace steps, exhausted. Cloutard was still confused and looked around.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated.

“I really need to find Tom! Quickly!” Akira pressed. Cloutard heard the desperation in her voice.

“Tom and Matthew are trying to stop Noah right now,” said Cloutard. “They are on their way to the statue.”

“Noah wants to apply the Tesla formula,” added Phoebe.

“That’s exactly why I need to find Tom. I have something for him. And he needs to know something very important.”

Cloutard could see the sheen of fear in her eyes.

A violent gust of wind nearly knocked the three of them off their feet. The wind howled around the group like a pack of wolves. Raindrops pelted their faces, and the small hailstones stung like tiny icy daggers.

“François,” said Phoebe, aghast, pointing down the steps. “Look at that, the island is underwater.”

For the first time, Cloutard too noticed that the water level had risen rapidly. Parts of the island were already under ankle-deep water.

“Shelter!” he called over the roar of the storm. “Back to the café! We can’t risk being discovered out here.”

He turned around and they ran back to the café. Only when they were inside did he notice that Akira wasn’t with them. He looked outside and saw her running alone toward the Statue of Liberty.

CHAPTER 69

CAPE LIBERTY CRUISE PORT, NEW YORK’S CRUISE TERMINAL

The sun had disappeared behind storm clouds some time ago, and an eerie darkness had settled over Cape Liberty Cruise Port. “The Ocean Odyssey,” a magnificent floating oasis of luxury and entertainment, was peacefully anchored at the pier. While most passengers were enjoying their shore excursion in New York, the few who remained on board were oblivious to the looming chaos brewing beyond the horizon.

Captain Gideon Morris stood on the bridge, observing the scene before him through the thick glass windows. His initial composure did little to hide the growing concern spreading in his gut. As experienced as he was, he knew storms were unpredictable, and this one seemed different—darker and more menacing than any he had encountered in his long career.

“Captain!” First Officer Abner Jarret rushed onto the bridge, clutching a weather report in his trembling hands. “You need to see this.”

Morris snatched the report from him and scanned it urgently. As he grasped the severity of the situation, his face flushed and his voice became grave. “Announcement to the entire crew,” he barked at Davis. “We need to secure the ship. Drop all anchors. Check all moorings and secure any loose objects on deck. The full program.”

“Should I inform the passengers?” asked Jarret, hesitating for a moment.

“Of course! But don’t cause panic. Just let the passengers know we’re taking precautionary measures. Tell everyone that no one is to leave the ship.”

Jarret nodded. “They’re probably safer here than on land.”

As the first officer relayed the captain’s orders, crew members sprang into action. Fear was evident on some of their faces, especially those who had already weathered a storm or two.

This was different. They ran throughout the ship, securing any unsecured items, closing hatches, and guiding concerned passengers below deck.

“Is this really necessary?” one passenger asked a young crew member. “We’re in the harbor. What could possibly happen here?”

“Ma’am, we’re just taking precautions,” the crew member replied with forced reassurance. “Please go to your cabin and stay there until further notice.”

“Next time I’m booking Celebrity Cruises,” the woman muttered as she reluctantly allowed herself to be led to safety.

CHAPTER 70

ON LIBERTY ISLAND

“Your wife can consider herself lucky that you’re such a good shot,” Matthew said to Tom. “You’ve spared her the burden of killing that we carry with us every day.”

They were crouched behind a bush, observing two men patrolling the southern shore near the statue.

“Unfortunately not,” Tom replied. “But if I can prevent her from going through it a second time, I’ll gladly do so.”

“We shouldn’t waste time on these guys,” said Matthew. “We have more important things to do.”

“True, but the only good henchman is a dead henchman. And that’s two fewer who might stab us in the back. Plus, we don’t have time to put each one to sleep,” Tom said as he raised his rifle and aimed.

Matthew crossed himself. He raised the rifle he had taken from the man they’d left in the shed.

“On three,” said Tom.

“You mean actually on three? Or three and then shoot?” said Matthew, trying to distract himself from the fact that he was about to take someone’s life.

“Nice,” said Tom with a half-hearted smile, appreciating the reference.

“One, two …”

Two shots popped and both targets collapsed.

“And moving on,” said Tom, standing up. The two men ran further through the grove of trees, which would provide enough cover until they reached Fort Wood. Step by step, the ground beneath their feet was becoming increasingly muddy, and when they reached the edge of the grove and stepped over the small wall that lined the walkways and onto the path, the water was suddenly up to their ankles.

“This storm is slowly getting nasty,” said Tom. He darted across the path and took cover behind a tree on the other side. When Matthew joined him, he added, “If this keeps up, we’ll find out firsthand how the Atlanteans felt when the water was up to their necks.”

They looked around. Only a few yards of open lawn separated them from the protective walls of the fort.

“Up there,” said Matthew, pointing to one of the bastions on Lady Liberty’s right side.

A man had just stepped to the edge of the bastion and was scanning the surroundings. When he spotted his two dead colleagues at the shore, he reached for his radio, but Tom was faster.

He took aim and fired. The man’s head jerked briefly, and his body fell from the edge of the bastion.

After a quick check, Tom and Matthew ran hunched over, keeping their heads low. They crossed the lawn and pressed themselves against the southern wall of the fort. On the ground beside them lay the body of the man Tom had just eliminated.

“Perfect timing,” said Tom. He bent down and pulled two spare magazines from the man’s vest. “You can never have enough of these,” he said, and handed a magazine to Matthew.

“Is that your way of dealing with killing? Always a quick quip?”

Tom’s expression turned more serious, and he shrugged. “We don’t have time for that kind of analysis right now,” he said as he prepared to move on.

Only two bastions of the star-shaped fort separated them from the main entrance.

Like the professionals they were, they constantly kept their surroundings in view, covering each other’s backs and moving closer to their target inch by inch. Now Matthew took the lead.

“The entrance is around the next corner,” said Matthew, who had stopped just before the end of the wall.

He peeked around the corner and just caught a glimpse of two men, apparently dragging an unconscious body, as they disappeared behind the next bastion, presumably heading toward the entrance. But there were still two more guards standing in the forecourt.

Matthew raised his hand with two fingers extended to signal the number of enemies to Tom. Then he gestured for Tom to go ahead and followed close behind him. Slightly crouched, with their rifles ready, they crept along the wall. Tom kept the two men in his sights. Just before they reached the black iron fence surrounding the entrance area, he pulled the trigger.

With barely a blink between them, the two men slumped to the ground, the storm swallowing any noise they made as they fell.

Tom and Matthew quickly shouldered their rifles and climbed over the fence. They each grabbed one of the two men and dragged them aside, depositing the bodies to the left and right of the entrance, behind the bastions. Then they raised their rifles again and crept toward the entrance from two sides.

CHAPTER 71

VERRAZZANO-NARROWS BRIDGE, ENTRANCE TO THE UPPER BAY

“Looks like trouble’s brewing,” remarked Frank, one of the toll collectors on the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge, as he gazed out from his booth at the dark clouds.

“You’re telling me,” answered his colleague, Dana, from the neighboring booth. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

The Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge connected the New York City boroughs of Staten Island and Brooklyn. It was named after the Italian explorer Giovanni da Verrazzano, the first known European explorer to navigate New York Harbor and the Hudson River. The suspension bridge spans the Narrows, a stretch of water that connects the relatively protected Upper Bay with the larger, more open Lower Bay. It was the longest suspension bridge in the world when it was completed in 1964.

As the two exchanged uneasy glances, a crackling voice came through on the radio: “Attention all personnel: Stand by for an emergency announcement.” The shift away from the usual tone made them both a little concerned.

“Attention!” the voice continued, now with a sense of urgency. “We have received orders to close the bridge due to an approaching storm. This is not a drill. I repeat, not a drill. Initiate all emergency procedures and begin shutting down the bridge immediately.”

Frank stared at Dana with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Did you hear that?”

Dana nodded fearfully. “Let’s get to work.”

“Damn,” muttered Frank. He looked out the window and watched as the sky grew darker, the boiling clouds swallowing every remnant of sunlight. An eerie feeling crept up his spine as he turned his eyes to the threatening ocean below, its waves churning, restless, furious.

Their hands trembled as they put on their high-visibility vests, grabbed their traffic batons and flare guns, and stepped out into the growing chaos. Cars honked impatiently and confused drivers shouted questions at them. They tried their best to stay calm, but they knew the situation could escalate quickly.

“The bridge is closing. A dangerous storm is approaching!” Frank announced through his megaphone, waving his baton urgently.

“What the hell? For a storm?” a driver snapped. “How dangerous can it be? I need to get to work.”

“Sir, we have our orders,” Dana shot back.

“Hopefully we’ll get everyone off the bridge in time,” Frank whispered to himself. He looked at the house-high waves that had already formed in the bay, imagining the scenes of destruction this terrible storm could cause.

God help us, he thought.

CHAPTER 72

IN THE CROWN CAFÉ

“Damn, what is Akira doing? This is not like her at all,” said Cloutard, shaking his head as he watched Akira run through the storm. “Okay, what is our next move?” he asked, looking around inquisitively. Phoebe bent down and picked up her guard’s rifle. She checked its ammunition status.

“Maybe they took Hellen to the other hostages?” Phoebe said.

“There are other hostages?” Cloutard said loudly, to be heard over another violent clap of thunder.

“Yes, they took them down to the basement. And if I remember correctly, there should be a guard down there too.”

Cloutard continued scanning the area. “But how could they have taken Hellen downstairs while we were in here?”

“Maybe they took her through the entrance at the back, like the other hostages. The delivery entrance,” Phoebe suggested, marching away.

“All the women on this island just run off,” Cloutard muttered grumpily and followed her.

A minute later, she had found the delivery entrance. Cautiously, Cloutard opened the door a crack. His eyes narrowed as he saw a shadowy figure pacing at the foot of the stairs. To his relief, the man apparently hadn’t heard any of the commotion in the café. Phoebe also saw him through the gap. She carefully pushed the rifle through and, without thinking for long, pulled the trigger twice. The man collapsed, dead.

They heard terrified screams from below. Cloutard ran down and looked around. No other guards were in sight.

“Mon Dieu,” Cloutard muttered, examining Phoebe’s handiwork. “Remind me never to mess with you.”

Phoebe followed him down and gasped. “I’ve never …” she said in a trembling voice but quickly composed herself. Cloutard saw confusion but also satisfaction in her face.

“In there,” she said.

Cloutard knelt before the lock of the door the man had been pacing in front of and produced his lock picks from his sodden suit. “Hellen, are you in there?” he called impatiently.

“Yes,” came the reply.

With a barely audible click, the lock gave way, and Cloutard yanked the door open.

“Hello?” called Phoebe.

“Hellen?”

“Over here!” came a muffled reply.

A female figure stepped into the light, and Cloutard’s joy faded. “Merde,” he muttered, disappointment and new concern washing over him. “She’s not here.”

“Your name is Hellen?” Phoebe asked.

The woman nodded. “Helen Walters,” she answered hesitantly.

“We’re here to free you,” said Cloutard as he discovered the huddled hostages in a dark corner. Their faces were pale and frightened.

Hesitantly, the group of about twenty people rose to their feet.

“But where is Hellen if she’s not here?” asked Phoebe with large, concerned eyes as she helped some of the hostages to their feet.

“Je ne sais pas,” he admitted. “I’m afraid there’s only one possibility left. Noah!”

A scream made everyone flinch.

“What’s wrong?” Phoebe spun around.

One of the women pointed to the staircase, down which vast amounts of water were suddenly cascading.

“Okay, we need to get out of here as quickly as possible,” said Phoebe, her voice determined. “Let’s get these people out, and then we’ll search for Hellen.”

“Vite, vite, we’ll get you to safety. First, up to the café,” said Cloutard, pointing to the staircase that presumably led directly to the café.

Confused but happy to be free, the group left their prison and followed Cloutard upstairs. More and more water was washing down the other basement staircase. Phoebe brought up the rear.

Upon reaching the café, they were confronted with a scene of devastation. The floodwaters had risen considerably. Panic grew among the hostages.

“Mon Dieu,” Cloutard muttered, scanning the chaos in front of the café.

“I fear Noah has already activated the machine,” said Phoebe.

“Probablement. Let us hope Tom is not too late,” said Cloutard.

“The whole damn island is sinking,” a panicked woman suddenly cried out.

A man stepped up beside her. “In twenty-five years working on this island, I’ve never seen anything like this. We need to get out of here or we’ll all die.”

Instinctively, the people wanted to rush outside, but Cloutard raised his voice and shouted over the roar of the storm: “Please, everyone stay calm! There are still some of those soldiers out there. We need to work together to survive this!”

“How?” cried a woman.

“Do you have a plan?” called a park ranger.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them shook violently, throwing everyone off balance. A guttural rumble ran through the island, giving everyone a terrible fright. Glasses fell from shelves, pictures swung on their hooks and dropped to the floor, chairs toppled over.

“Earthquake!” someone in the crowd screamed, triggering a new wave of hysteria. Cloutard looked into Phoebe’s eyes. Both knew what was really happening. As quickly as the tremor had come, it was gone.

“Look at that,” called one of the hostages, pointing through a window at the back of the café.

They went over, and their gaze was fixed on the Statue of Liberty. Cloutard was horrified as he realized that the seismic activity seemed to be moving the iconic statue.

Phoebe and the others stared outside as well.

“L-look at the Lady!” called a man, his voice trembling with fear.

“She’s going to fall,” a woman screamed.

And indeed, the statue actually appeared to be swaying violently.

CHAPTER 73

AT FLAGPOLE PLAZA

Hellen de Mey fought with all her strength, but she didn’t stand a chance. The two men who had seized her were simply stronger. They dragged her across Flagpole Plaza toward the Statue of Liberty. The storm raged violently, lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and hailstones mixed with the torrential rain. Hellen looked around, but in all the chaos, she could only tell that she was being dragged past the helicopter to Fort Wood, the main entrance at the base of the statue. Through the large gate, across the lobby, and up the stairs to the fort’s roof. When they emerged outside again, she recognized the men’s destination. She stared in disbelief at an antiquated column with grated doors on the front. Its shape reminded her of an Egyptian sarcophagus or an iron maiden. Then Hellen also saw the Mantis step out from behind the column and open the grated doors. Thick cables ran around the statue and down through the entrance to the interior of the fort.

“Welcome, Dr. de Mey.”

“You’re making a mistake,” Hellen shouted. Her voice was hoarse. “Whatever you think you’re accomplishing here, you don’t have it under control. There are powers at work that you know nothing about.”

The Mantis remained silent, looking at her with a malicious grin. She signaled to the two men to strap Hellen into the contraption. Only now did Hellen fully understand what was happening. She remembered the plans in Tesla’s laboratory, where she had seen sketches connecting humans and machines, and according to Phoebe, the formula also had biochemical elements.

So the diabolical experiment needed living energy, and she was supposed to provide it. She began to struggle even more, trying to break free from the vise-like grips of the men. In vain. Powerless, she was pushed into the cage and pressed into the form. Her arms, legs, and forehead were strapped to the back wall with leather restraints.

With an evil smile, the Mantis closed the iron grate in front of Hellen’s face.

“I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time. Your husband will be next. You’ve interfered with us for long enough.”

At that moment, blue lightning, like in Tesla’s experiments with his coils, began to dance inside the cage. It seemed to play around Hellen’s entire body. Small bolts shot back and forth between the bars.

The Mantis laughed. “Now it’s our turn to interfere with you.”

Hellen gritted her teeth. She refused to give this woman the satisfaction of showing fear. Instead, she concentrated on the cage. She could barely move her head, but her eyes desperately searched for weak points. She twisted and struggled against the restraints. She realized that the leather strap around her right hand wasn’t as tight as the left one and managed to free her hand.

But when she touched one of the bars, she felt a powerful electrical discharge. Lightning flashed between her hand and the iron as she reflexively pulled back her painful hand.

The energized cage crackled and hissed as more blue lightning danced between the bars. The hair on Hellen’s arms stood on end, and she felt the electricity beginning to prick her skin like thousands of tiny needles. Everything inside her screamed to get out of there. But she had no choice. She had to try not to touch anything.

“Should we tie her up again?” asked one of the men.

The Mantis shook her head. “She’s not getting out of there. One free hand won’t help her.” She looked up at the head of the Statue of Liberty. “Soon enough, it will all be over for her.”

CHAPTER 74

ENTRANCE HALL TO FORT WOOD, LIBERTY ISLAND

The enormous double doors, known as the Centennial Doors, stood completely open. The green-oxidized door panels, which extended across two floors, were adorned with various graphic representations of the structure executed in relief. Behind them, after a small vestibule, was the actual entrance: three wood-and-glass double doors, and a few steps farther, several glass doors with brass handles.

Tom and Matthew stopped, crouched in front of the double doors, peering through the windows in the upper half.

Beyond them waited a futuristic lobby of cold concrete and granite. Brass railings attempted to soften the dreary bunker-like atmosphere. On the sides, supported by angular concrete columns, were two galleries of the next floor. Two more tall columns supported the ceiling. It was in this lobby where the old torch had once been displayed before finding its new home in the “Statue of Liberty Museum,” opened in 2019. Opposite the entrance, stairs led to a door above which the words “To Pedestal & Crown” were emblazoned on an orange-brown plaque.

“Just one guy,” Tom whispered, somewhat surprised.

“Don’t worry, there are sure to be more waiting for us up there,” said Matthew, pointing toward the stairs.

“We absolutely cannot let anyone sound the alarm,” said Tom.

They ducked their heads again as the man patrolling the hall suddenly changed direction.

“He’ll see us the moment we open the door,” Matthew pointed out.

“We don’t have a choice. Get in as quickly as possible and hope he’s slower than we are,” said Tom.

“So this is the famous Tom Wagner ‘Hail Mary recklessness’ I’ve heard about,” said Matthew with a grin.

“Got a better idea?”

“To my shame, no. The back entrance would take too long.”

“I’ll open the first door, you get the glass door, and I’ll take care of him,” Tom suggested.

At that moment, the earth shook violently. The large double doors broke free of the stops that held them open and slammed shut with a loud bang. Though Tom and Matthew struggled to keep their footing, they were still able to catch a quick glimpse inside. The guard was now truly distracted. Moments later, the tremor was over.

Matthew nodded and raised his rifle to his shoulder.

Tom yanked the door open, and the priest slipped through. Tom followed and in one smooth motion managed to slip through the glass door that Matthew held open. Startled, the man in the hall spun around when he saw the two men. It was the last thing he would see in this life.

Running, Tom fired twice. The popping of the silenced rifle echoed dully through the hall, and the man c10ollapsed. Unfortunately, he fell forward onto the rifle he’d slung across his chest, causing a loud crash.

“That was an earthquake. We should get out of here,” a voice suddenly called out, and the door at the top of the stairs flew open.

Matthew reacted with lightning speed. Two more pops echoed. The man tumbled down the stairs and lay motionless at Matthew’s feet. Tom spun around to see Matthew standing over the body, staring down.

A man with a hole in his head and empty, wide-open eyes stared reproachfully back at the priest. Water dripping from Matthew’s head and clothes mingled with the pool of blood forming on the cold stone. Matthew looked at his trembling hands and clenched them into fists.

Tom knew the look on the priest’s face all too well. Though he himself had never experienced the true horror of war, he could imagine what trauma was tormenting this brave man.

“Are you okay?” Tom said, placing a hand on Matthew’s shoulder. The priest startled as if waking from a nightmare. He seemed to need a few seconds to recognize where he was and what had just happened.

“He was one of the bad guys,” said Tom. “If you hadn’t taken him out, you’d be lying here now.”

Matthew just nodded. Then he knelt down to the fallen enemy, crossed himself, and closed the man’s eyes.

“Let’s keep moving,” said Matthew, stepping over the body.

“That’s more like it,” said Tom, giving him a friendly pat on the back as they climbed the stairs with their rifles at the ready. Tom’s trust in the priest had become quite solid by now. It no longer seemed, as he had initially feared, that the man was pursuing his own agenda in opposition to Tom’s.

They came to an elevator that went up to the pedestal. No one was in sight.

“We should take the stairs,” said Tom. “We could get trapped in the elevator.”

Matthew nodded, and they crept into the next room. No one was there either. The stairs were on their right, and to their left a long corridor led to where the old museum had been before it was relocated to the new building.

Tom glanced briefly at the sign announcing that they had 215 steps ahead of them. Then he went first, pivoting sideways around the bends, his rifle always pointed upward. Matthew did the same, but he secured the lower section to ensure no one came at them from behind.

Mercilessly, the black steel staircase with its brass-colored railing wound its way up through the concrete shaft. Separated by a wire mesh barrier, a second staircase led downward. They had to be careful that no one on the other staircase surprised them during their climb to the sixth floor.

At Level 3, they paused briefly. Two doors there led to an observation deck.

In a corner lay the body of a park ranger who had apparently resisted. A quick check of the area and they were certain that no danger still lurked there. Swiftly, they continued their ascent.

A minute later they were about to reach the final level. They slowed their pace. For some time, they had been hearing strange noises that had grown louder during their climb, a metallic groaning and creaking. Now, they seemed very close.

“What is that?” Matthew whispered.

“That’s our Iron Lady here,” said Tom. “The storm and the earthquake seem to be taking a toll on her.” Added to the creaking was the patter of hail striking the statue’s copper skin.

Tom signaled Matthew to wait. He crawled on all fours to the end of the penultimate staircase and looked around the corner. From here, the final stretch led to the observation deck on the sixth floor. There was no more cover. Carefully, Tom rose and climbed the last steps upward, peering to his left over the edge of the floor. Steel beams, railings, pipes, and electrical boxes on the walls gave an industrial look. The elevator was to his right. Next to it on the wall was an exit to the observation deck, and in the opposite corner, a very narrow staircase led to the seventh floor, from where the so-called double helix—the spiral staircase inside the statue—ascended to the head. Part of the original staircase was still visible there too.

The coast seemed clear, and he signaled Matthew to follow. With deliberate steps, Tom climbed the last stairs upward and quickly swung the rifle through the room, checking every corner.

No one. Tom looked up.

From there, one could literally look up Lady Liberty’s skirt through a glass ceiling.

“Matt, watch out!” Tom shouted. Above them, a man was standing on the glass. He had Matthew in his sights. Tom dropped his rifle, jumped, and pulled Matthew out of the line of fire as shots rang out and glass shattered. The man dropped skillfully through the breaking ceiling and landed deftly in front of Tom and Matthew on the sixth floor. He immediately raised his rifle to fire again, but Tom, lying full length over Matthew, turned lightning-fast, drew his pistol as he turned, and took the man down with two shots.

“You can get off me now,” Matthew groaned. “If you stay there longer than five seconds, it violates celibacy.”

Tom stood up, extended his hand to Matthew, and pulled him to his feet.

“Funny,” said Tom.

Matthew slipped off his backpack, on which he had landed, and stretched. The fall had painfully rammed its contents into his back.

“What’s in that thing, anyway?” asked Tom.

At that moment, a ping sounded from the elevator and the doors slid open. Tom and Matthew spun around. Inside it stood the Mantis and another man.

Gunfire flashed as another tremor shook the earth.

CHAPTER 75

LOWER EAST SIDE, NEW YORK CITY

The wind howled through the streets of New York City, bending lamp posts and sending trash cans crashing across the sidewalk. The sky above the city was a deep, angry gray, unleashing torrential downpours that transformed gutters into rivers. Traffic came to a standstill as people tried to navigate the flooded streets, horns blaring and cars stalling in the waterlogged roads.

A group of construction workers desperately attempted to build flood barriers to protect the waterfront areas from the approaching surge. Their faces were slick with sweat and rain as they hauled sandbags and positioned concrete barriers. Onlookers huddled at their windows, casting worried glances at the steadily rising water levels.

“Doesn’t look good, does it?” muttered a middle-aged man to his neighbor who stood beside him at the window.

“I’ve never seen nothing like it,” the other replied, shaking his head.

Suddenly, it seemed as if every cell phone in New York City was ringing. Through the Emergency Alert System, the ominous message was broadcast to every cell phone: “National Weather Service Emergency Alert: A FLOOD WARNING is in effect for this area. Seek higher ground immediately. Do not delay. This is a dangerous and life-threatening situation.”

Panic spread like wildfire through the crowd. People abandoned their shelter and ran for the nearest building with stairs or elevators. Screams filled the air, mixing with the relentless sound of pouring rain and gusting wind. The chaos only intensified the growing tension that had gripped the city since the first signs of the storm.

“Move faster!” a woman shouted, pushing through the crowd of people desperately seeking shelter.

“Grab the children!” called a father, scooping his toddlers into his arms and running toward a nearby high-rise.

The construction workers, realizing their efforts were futile, exchanged grim looks before abandoning their posts and joining the panicked masses.

“God help us all,” one muttered as he fled, a sentiment shared by many as the storm continued to bear down on the city.

CHAPTER 76

AT THE FOOT OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

The tremor had only lasted briefly.

But Tom and Matthew tumbled back down the stairs they had just climbed and landed painfully on the landing below. Only seconds earlier, when the elevator doors had slid open, Tom had managed to fire off a few shots. The man beside the Mantis had fallen to the ground, fatally hit. Almost simultaneously, Matthew had positioned himself in front of Tom, pulling him out of the Mantis’s line of fire, and had tumbled down the stairs with him.

Tom quickly got back up, and when he spotted the Mantis at the top of the stairs, he fired several shots at her. He saw her duck and dive aside.

Silence. Nothing moved. Only the creaking of the statue could be heard.

A radio crackled, and Tom heard Noah’s voice. “What’s going on down there? Who’s shooting?”

Seconds later, a response followed. It was the Mantis’s voice. “Wagner has taken over the pedestal. I’m on my way up.”

Tom, still lying on the stairs with his arm outstretched and aiming upward, saw that his pistol was empty. The slide hadn’t returned forward. He exhaled in relief.

A sudden groan made him take notice, and he turned around.

“My backpack,” Matthew groaned. He seemed almost in panic.

Tom looked at the priest in bewilderment. He was lying on the landing in front of Tom, trying to get back on his feet with one hand. The other hand was pressed against his side. Only now did Tom see blood seeping from between Matthew’s fingers. Despite the bulletproof vest, he had been hit in the side, where the vest only had Velcro fasteners.

Tom helped him to his feet.

“It’s not so bad, just a scratch,” said Matthew when he saw Tom’s speechless face. He spat some blood.

“Let me see,” said Tom, but Matthew stopped him.

“No, just get me my backpack.”

“But—”

“No buts, come on, we don’t have time,” Matthew said.

The creaking above them grew louder. Though the tremor had stopped, they could still feel slight vibrations caused by the statue’s swaying.

Tom did as Matthew instructed. He led him up the stairs and leaned him against a wall. Immediately, the priest slid down until he was sitting on the floor, leaving a long trail of blood on the wall.

“My pack, quickly,” Matthew groaned and pointed with his free hand to the backpack he had taken off earlier. Tom reached over, pulled it toward him, and handed it to Matthew. “The contents of this backpack are important. Very important …” he began coughing and contorted his face in pain. “I’m not here by chance. I have a mission that you must now complete for me,” said Matthew, pressing the pack into Tom’s hand. “Pay close attention to what I’m about to tell you …”

One hundred and thirty feet higher up, the Mantis jumped out of the small service elevator. The ride upward, perhaps because she feared another tremor, seemed to have terrified her.

“What the hell is going on down there? How can Wagner still be alive?” Noah shouted down to the Mantis, who had just stumbled out of the elevator at the level of the shoulder. It was the last platform before the final spiral of the double helix staircase led into the head of the statue. From here, a tiny ladder led into the outstretched arm that held the legendary torch to the sky. Cables ran up this narrow shaft.

She followed the voice and saw Noah standing high up in the crown. Like a pirate captain, he was clinging to the railing that led from the helix staircase, past the windows of the crown, to the other side, bracing himself against the swaying of the statue.

“He has help. That priest is not your day-to-day clergyman. He’s had military training,” she called upward.

“Priest? What priest?”

“I saw him for the first time underground with those cellar rats. But I think I got him; he shouldn’t give us any more problems.”

“Is at least everything ready down there? Is Dr. Cross in position?”

“Not Dr. Cross directly, but I think I’ve found an adequate replacement. Hellen de Mey,” said the Mantis with a trace of pride in her voice.

“Excellent,” replied Noah and looked down at the two men who had previously cut the hole in the statue’s head from the helicopter and had lowered the machine through. The helicopter had since returned to base. “You two go with her. And kill Wagner once and for all.”

The men and the Mantis nodded. The woman inserted a fresh magazine into her pistol and led the way down the narrow staircase.

“And you,” Noah turned to the deeply frightened Dr. Amill, who stood on the platform leading to the arm, next to a machine with numerous displays and dials. Heavy cables extended from it. Some led to the torch, which was used to capture lightning, while others ran down inside the statue, and even more up to the head and outside through the hole. The tremor and the noticeable swaying of the statue seemed to terrify him.

“Everything’s ready below. Get started,” Noah said to Dr. Amill, who had just finished configuring the Tesla machine with the formula.

CHAPTER 77

SOMEWHERE IN THE NEW YORK SUBWAY

In eerie silence, a solitary subway train stood motionless on its tracks. The platform, which had been full of life just moments before, lay deserted, and the dim overhead lights cast long, menacing shadows across the empty space. A page from a discarded newspaper rustled in the wind, scurrying like a frightened animal through the dark tunnel.

“Why isn’t the train moving?” whispered a teenage girl, her eyes wide with fear as she clutched her backpack tightly to her chest. Her friend shrugged, too scared to answer. Her distress was visible in her trembling hands.

“Maybe a power failure,” muttered an elderly man.

“Maybe some extremists have pulled off another attack. Since 9/11, anything’s possible.”

“At least we’re safe down here. No skyscrapers falling on our heads,” another passenger chimed in, trying to put on a brave face.

Suddenly, several phones beeped.

“Hey!” the teenager gasped, holding up her phone. “I just got an emergency alert from the NYPD. It says the flooding is getting worse and we need to get to high ground immediately. We can’t stay here!”

“What the fuck?”

“Oh my God!”

“You gotta be kidding me!” cried a horrified woman in a business suit. “We’re sitting ducks! We’re going to drown down here. I want out, damn it.”

She jumped up and yanked at the door handles.

“Enough!” shouted a middle-aged father, who was trying to comfort his crying daughter with quaking hands. “Panic won’t help us. We need to stick together and make a plan.”

“Screw your plan. We need to get out of here, now!” the woman yelled. Panic was spreading throughout the subway car.

“Everyone come with me!” the man with his daughter called out, leading a small group to the nearest door and working on it. “We’ll find a way out. We need to hurry, but we need to stay calm!”

Another passenger ripped the emergency hammer from its holder and used it to smash one of the windows. Other passengers followed his example. It was at that moment that they heard it. A deafening rumble and rush. Torrents of water shot down the stairs and across the platform. Seconds later, it was pouring in through the broken windows.

CHAPTER 78

INSIDE THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

One hundred and sixty-two steps, according to the sign posted in front of the narrow staircase on the sixth floor of the pedestal. Tom looked one last time at Matthew, who sat injured across from the staircase, holding a rifle and the last two spare magazines. He could only help Tom in one way now: keeping his back clear as best he could. In his condition, it was a suicide mission.

The two men exchanged one final glance without words. Tom knew what he had to do and recognized the helplessness in Matthew’s eyes. The priest’s mission had failed, and now it was in his hands to finish it. A mission greater than anything he had ever undertaken in his life. And one that would mean his death. They nodded to each other.

With Matthew’s backpack on his back and pistol in hand—the stairway was too narrow for a rifle—Tom began climbing the stairs to the seventh floor and disappeared from the priest’s view.

We’ll never see each other again, Tom thought as he stood on the seventh floor at the foot of the double helix stairway and looked up. Like two intertwined serpents, the spiral staircase wound upward within the steel framework built by Gustave Eiffel.

Tom placed his hand on the railing and began his ascent. Everything seemed to vibrate. The metal creaked. Even the statue’s shell, only a few millimeters thick, rattled in the wind. Like thousands of woodpeckers hammering on the shell, the fine hailstones and rain crashed against the outer casing. With his pistol at the ready, Tom ran up the stairs.

I should have taken the elevator, he thought, noticing narrow rails running upward next to the staircase, part of an emergency lift. The Mantis had apparently used it to go up, as Tom hadn’t seen the cabin below.

Step by step, turn after turn, he climbed the narrow staircase. Countless bolted and riveted steel beams crisscrossed around him, forming the supporting skeleton of the statue. Thick beams traversed the space vertically, horizontally, and diagonally, vaguely resembling the construction of the Eiffel Tower. Thinner beams stretched outward, supporting the various elements of the shaped outer skin, offering a unique view of every fold and form of the statue.

Tom reached a platform designed to give exhausted tourists a chance to rest without blocking others.

He looked up and grimaced.

Could it be?

In the dim light of the emergency illumination, he spotted two men far above, swinging from one beam to another.

He raised his gun to shoot but never got the chance. Another tremor shook the statue and threw him to the floor, but he grabbed hold of a beam and held on. One of the men above wasn’t so lucky. He fell and slammed against several girders before crashing onto the floor of the statue. The second man had managed to hold on and clambered back onto the helix. “All men to the statue,” the Mantis’s voice echoed through the hollow space. “Kill Wagner! He’s already on his way up.”

“Come on, Wagner, let’s end this,” he heard her call from above. “I want to reunite you with your wife. I personally made sure she’ll die a horrible death. She has the honor of being our human sacrifice,” she screeched. “And I’ll get that snail-eater too, once I’m done with you.”

Tom froze. Hellen! Could it be? Had the Mantis really captured her? For a fraction of a second, he considered turning back. But there was too much at stake. Hellen wouldn’t want him to put her welfare above that of all humanity.

Stop Noah and you save Hellen, he told himself.

At that moment, machine gun fire erupted from far below. The reinforcements the Mantis had called for on the radio had apparently arrived, and from the sound of it, Matthew was fulfilling his final duty.

Tom’s gaze turned hard, stoic, ice-cold. He pulled himself to his feet, gripped his pistol, and raced upward.

He took the steps two and three at a time. When he saw the next man coming, struggling with his rifle in the tight space, Tom simply gunned him down and jumped over the body as it rolled toward him down the stairs.

Higher and higher he climbed, but there was no sign of the Mantis.

He stopped at the next rest platform and looked around. He was just turning around when the Mantis dropped down on him from a steel beam and knocked him to the ground. His pistol slipped from his hand and clattered downward.

Blow after blow, she dug into his side and neck. Like a fury, she sat astride his back, pummeling him. She grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head back, wrapped an arm around his neck, and squeezed.

Images of Hellen flashed before Tom’s inner eye as he threatened to lose consciousness. With one last burst of strength and an animalistic cry, he reared up. With the Mantis on his back, he threw himself backward.

She slammed against a crossbeam with her back and screamed. Her grip loosened, allowing Tom to break free and deliver a few blows of his own. She staggered back to the other side of the small platform. Tom hadn’t noticed that, in the meantime, the machine gun fire had stopped. But a sudden noise above made him glance up. The elevator was on its way down.

He needed to hurry. That could mean even more trouble. He didn’t know how many people Noah had with him. At the same time, he saw an opportunity.

“Is that all you’ve got, Waaagner?” the woman said, wiping blood from her lip, deliberately mispronouncing his name.

Tom remained silent, just shaking his head and staring at the woman with an icy gaze.

“What? No cool one-liner ready?” she sneered.

Suddenly, the Mantis’s hand darted to her side and she drew her weapon. Tom lunged forward, grabbed the hand with the gun and forced it upward with all his might. A shot went off, and the ricochet hissed through the space. With his other hand, Tom slammed a sharp punch to the woman’s throat, instantly causing her to gasp for air, but in vain. It was as if she was paralyzed.

With eyes wide open, she stared at Tom, who slowly, deliberately, grabbed her by the throat, pushing her backward, and bent her upper body over the platform railing.

She couldn’t scream, but her eyes revealed everything as she saw the approaching elevator cabin above her. She tried to free herself from Tom’s grip, but he yielded nothing. Cold and wordless, Tom stared into her fear-distorted face.

“This is for Hellen,” Tom hissed. Then he released the Mantis. Unimpressed by the obstacle, the elevator cabin made only a slight jerk. There was a sound like a watermelon being crushed.

“Now that’s poetic justice. This death does your name proud, you man-eating bitch,” Tom snarled, as the headless body of the Mantis collapsed before him.

For a second, he just stood there, staring at her remains. She still had the pistol in her hand. He bent down and had to loosen her fingers one by one to free the weapon from her death grip.

“Now for Noah,” Tom said with an icy voice, looking upward, and he continued climbing the stairs.

CHAPTER 79

IN THE CROWN CAFÉ

“François, what should we do?” said Phoebe. She and Cloutard were standing a little apart from the group so they could talk privately.

The earthquake had stopped, but the storm continued to rage unabated. The Statue of Liberty looked as if it had actually tilted slightly to one side, but it appeared stable for the moment. Nevertheless, panic still prevailed among the staff who had been held hostage just moments ago.

Phoebe, usually such a self-assured scientist, seemed a bit shaken by all the events, her eyes darting back and forth as she tried to process the chaos. Cloutard also thought that the fact that she had killed someone just minutes before was affecting her more than she was willing to admit.

“I think we should get these people out of here as quickly as we can,” Cloutard said. “No offense to them, but they are just getting in the way and slowing us down. We need to find Hellen and help Tom. We cannot forget why we are here.” Phoebe nodded. “The best thing would be to get these people off the island through the secret passage.”

“Secret passage?” Phoebe said.

“It is how we came to the island,” Cloutard explained. “The mole people showed it to us. It is a long story, but the access point is in a storage room at the information center. It leads directly to the mainland.”

“You want to send these people through a tunnel? Look at them.” She gestured toward the clutch of frightened people who were looking around with fearful, hopeful eyes.

“Ezra is waiting for us in the tunnel. We do not know if we might need to go back that way too. We will send these people to the information center. Ezra can take over from there and guide them off the island.” Cloutard glanced over at the group. They were wide-eyed, their gazes darting around the room as if expecting new danger at any moment. He knew they needed to act now, before the situation got even worse. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, drawing the attention of the weary group to himself. “Please, listen carefully. We have a plan to get you all safely off the island.”

Phoebe stepped forward. “There’s an underground passage that leads to the mainland. It’s our best chance to escape undetected.” She looked at Cloutard, who nodded in agreement.

The hostages exchanged incredulous glances. Their fear made them skeptical.

“A passage? We’ve all worked here a long time,” said one of the park rangers. “I’ve never heard anything about a passage. Who are you people anyway?”

“Maybe you’re with the terrorists too?” muttered another.

Cloutard rolled his eyes. “Mon Dieu, do I look like a terrorist?”

“It would take too long to explain everything right now,” Phoebe interjected.

“The tunnel is beneath the information center. One of our people is waiting there for you,” Cloutard continued.

“What’s with all these excuses? What do you mean it would take too long? Who are you? What are you even doing here?”

The park ranger had fronted up to Cloutard and was looking at him intently.

“Look out the window. Can you not see that we have bigger problems?” Cloutard said sternly. The park ranger wasn’t about to stand down. He didn’t move an inch.

“There’s a storm raging out there and the island is about to be flooded. We’ll drown in a tunnel, if it even exists,” said a young woman.

Cloutard and Phoebe exchanged an uncertain glance, both knowing that this was a distinct possibility. The storm showed no signs of letting up anytime soon, and the situation was becoming more threatening by the minute.

“Listen,” Cloutard said, “the risk is high, but what other choice do we have? If we stay here, we are sitting ducks. For both the storm and the terrorists. If we try to escape through the tunnel, there is a chance we will get out of here alive.”

Phoebe spoke up with a firm voice. “We’ll do everything we can to make sure you’re safe. But we need to act now, while we still have time.”

The hostages hesitated, their eyes shifting between the raging storm outside and the unfamiliar faces in front of them.

“All right,” said a man, his voice shaky but determined. “I’ll try your tunnel.”

“No,” shouted the park ranger fearfully. “We don’t know these people. We have no idea what they plan to do with us.”

“You wanna stay here and risk certain death?” another man spoke up.

In no time, a massive argument broke out among them. Cloutard and Phoebe exchanged a worried look before stepping in to end the rising chaos.

“Shut up! Quiet!” barked Cloutard. The crowd fell silent and turned their eyes to him. “We do not have time for this! We need to leave now.”

Phoebe nodded. “We understand you’re afraid, but we need to make a decision: either venture into the unknown or stay here and risk the consequences.”

An oppressive silence descended over the room as the hostages weighed their options. Finally, a young woman spoke up, her voice tentative but determined. “I’ll go. We have to trust them.”

“Me too,” said another woman.

A violent tremor struck just then, shattering the café windows. Storm-driven rain whipped through the café. Some of the hostages cried out.

“Another earthquake,” gasped Phoebe, clinging to Cloutard’s arm.

The rest of the group quickly made up their minds. They were ready to try the tunnel.

“In the information center, you said? Where exactly?”

“In a storage room. Behind some bookshelves,” said Cloutard.

“Okay, I know which one,” said the ranger. “Looks like we have no choice.”

Cloutard nodded.

“You’re still looking for someone named Hellen?” the ranger said. Cloutard and Phoebe nodded. “24th Infantry Division, Desert Storm. I can help you,” he went on crisply, automatically coming to attention.

“Thank you, but this is our business. Take care of your colleagues. As a soldier, you know how to handle a gun,” said Cloutard.

“Here, you might need this.” Phoebe pressed the rifle into the man’s hand.

The ranger nodded and gathered the others around him. Moments later, Cloutard and Phoebe watched as they ran through the storm toward the information center.

CHAPTER 80

INSIDE THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Taking the stairs higher didn’t seem like the right move to Tom. The stairs were the obvious way up, and Noah would surely be waiting for him at the top, so he had to choose an alternative. Though he couldn’t predict if or when the next tremor would shake the statue, he had to risk it. He looked down and grimaced at the broken body of the man who had fallen during the last one. I can’t end up like that.

He looked up and spotted the last bigger platform—in the statue’s armpit, just below the head. It looked like it would offer sufficient cover. Noah wouldn’t see him coming. Tom continued to sneak forward. Two spiral turns before the platform, he stopped and listened. He could already hear voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. The storm and hail were too loud.

His brain was too preoccupied with what he needed to do next to process what Father Matthew had revealed to him just minutes earlier. He knew that if he did think about it, it would probably paralyze him completely, and he couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t jeopardize this mission.

Tom looked around. To his left, a beam led horizontally out to the outer skin. From there, a narrower beam extended diagonally upward to the platform. That was his route.

He made sure Matthew’s backpack was securely fastened, tucked the pistol into his belt, and climbed over the steel railing. He had no problem with heights—he used to go cliff diving regularly in Acapulco—but still, he avoided looking down. He climbed onto the traverse, briefly holding onto a vertical girder. He had to take a few steps without support before he would reach the next diagonal beam.

He wasn’t a religious man, but in memory of his comrade Matt, who had likely sacrificed his life to save him, Tom crossed himself, stretched out his arms, and started moving.

Five steps later, his hands gripped the lifesaving girder, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Half the journey was complete.

“Where are you hiding?” Tom suddenly heard Noah bellow. “Aren’t you man enough to face me?”

Due to the echoes, Tom couldn’t pinpoint exactly where the voice was coming from. “I’m right here. And I’m coming to take you down,” Tom called back.

Gunshots and ricochets echoed through the space. Noah had no idea where Tom was. Amidst the creaking of the statue and the hail, it was a miracle that either of them could understand anything.

“Noah, why are you doing this? You’ll kill us all. You’ll destroy the entire world,” Tom shouted.

A diabolical laugh echoed through the air, followed by more shots. Noah seemed to be firing in whatever direction he thought Tom might be.

“You and all those small minded morons out there lack vision, my friend. I’m not destroying the world—I’m saving it.”

Meanwhile, Tom had scrambled up the last beam. He risked a peek over the edge of the platform.

He saw a man standing at a machine, fiddling with a laptop and checking displays. Cables ran from the machine up to the torch and the head, as well as down to the foot of the statue. A short distance away, between the final staircase to the crown and the emergency lift, stood Noah, holding onto a vertical beam. In his other hand, he held a pistol.

With another rumble, the earth shook again, and the creaking and squeaking of the statue sounded like the distant lament of the goddess Libertas, pleading for mercy from the depths of the universe.

The man at the machine, Dr. Amill, held the laptop with one hand to prevent it from falling to the floor and clung to a beam with the other. Noah stood unmoved, like a rock in the surf.

Tom slipped a little but quickly caught himself and climbed back up.

“Sir, it’s too dangerous. The tremors are getting worse, we should—” Dr. Amill pleaded.

“No way, Hector,” Noah hissed, cutting him off and swinging his gun toward the doctor. “We’re not leaving until the energy fusion is complete.”

“But Sir, your team. They’re probably all dead already.”

“Do you want to be next?” Noah hissed, aiming his weapon carefully at the scientist.

Dr. Amill shied away and raised his hands defensively.

“How much longer?”

“The full charge hasn’t been reached yet,” Dr. Amill said nervously, pointing to a charge indicator where two lights had not yet switched from red to green. “We still need just over two gigajoules.”

“Doctor!” Noah growled sternly through clenched teeth.

“Uh, yes. I’ve recognized a pattern in the lightning,” the man stuttered, anxiously manipulating the laptop. “They come in a specific cycle, every five minutes. The … the lightning needs to strike the torch two more times,” Amill said quickly as Noah continued to glare at him. Then he closed the laptop, disconnected the cable connecting it to the machine, and placed it on top of the device.

“Did you hear that, Tom? In just a few minutes, I’ll hold the ultimate power on this earth in my hands,” Noah shouted.

“And how many more people have to die for your sick vision?” Tom called from his hiding place. More shots rang out.

Noah, unable to determine where Tom was hiding, was now genuinely angry. He looked around almost manically.

“You were never willing to make sacrifices, and now Hellen will take on that role,” Noah called out with an almost broken voice. But there was no response, which made him even angrier. “W-A-G-N-E-R!” Noah bellowed at the top of his lungs down into the belly of the statue.

A sharp scream from Dr. Amill made Noah spin around.

Tom had quickly climbed up, grabbed the doctor, and pulled him in front as a shield, with his weapon aimed at Noah. “And that’s exactly why you’ll die,” Tom hissed, cocking his pistol. “Go on, stop the machine,” Tom said, moving with Dr. Amill in small steps toward the device, careful not to give Noah a target.

“Tom, Tom, Tom. It’s as I just said,” Noah suddenly said completely calmly. “You’re incapable of sacrificing things or people for the greater good. And once again, you’ve hesitated. Just like you did in Syria.” With that, he fired several shots at Dr. Amill.

Tom was so taken by surprise that he didn’t immediately fire back. But as the doctor slumped in his arms, Tom realized that Noah’s gun was empty. Its slide was locked open.

“See how quickly things can change, my friend,” Tom said, aiming his weapon at Noah again. “Good will always triumph.”

At that moment, the small emergency elevator stopped and the door opened. To Tom’s surprise, Akira Seki was inside and immediately stepped out. Before Tom could react and before Akira understood the situation, Noah had taken a step to the side and grabbed the small woman. He wrapped one arm around her throat.

“Drop the weapon or I’ll break her neck,” Noah hissed. “We both know you can’t let her die.”

Akira looked at Tom with terrified eyes while Tom wrestled with himself. He couldn’t simply pull the trigger and risk killing Akira … but he dismissed the thought instantly. He could not let Noah win. Too much was at stake. And considering what still lay ahead, he was sorry, but Akira was collateral damage.

Determined, his finger slowly curled around the trigger, and a shot rang out.

But the bullet missed. Another tremor had shaken the statue at the same moment, as if Libertas herself had wanted to save Akira. It was the strongest one yet. The platform tilted. Noah, who hadn’t been holding on this time, was thrown to the floor of the platform along with Akira. The laptop slid off the machine and crashed onto the floor. Tom was also knocked off his feet and slid across the platform. Noah released Akira to grab hold of something, and the young woman slid toward the edge of the platform.

At the last second, however, Tom caught Akira. To do so, he had to let go of his pistol, which immediately disappeared with a clatter into the darkness below. Tom had one hand wrapped around a beam, and Akira dangled screaming from the other.

Noah got to his feet and burst into raucous laughter.

“Didn’t I tell you? You’re just so predictable. While you save your little friend, I can calmly realign the lightning rod.”

“Do you trust me?” Tom gasped, feeling the strain on his arm. Akira nodded hesitantly. He swung her back and forth and finally let go, and Akira landed safely on the narrow spiral staircase.

Tom quickly jumped up and turned around, but Noah had vanished.

CHAPTER 81

IN THE NEW YORK UNDERGROUND

“Stay calm, we’re almost there,” Ezra said to the park ranger, who half an hour earlier had surprised him with a group of frightened people at the entrance to the tunnel on Liberty Island. They were lucky to find him—when the information center flooded and water had started flowing into the tunnel, Ezra had been close to abandoning the post Father Matthew had assigned to him.

“Where are you taking us?” a voice asked from farther back.

The group was frightened and understandably deeply agitated as Ezra slowly led them through the passage, wading through the steadily rising water in the low tunnel, not knowing what awaited them at the other end.

Ezra swallowed. He was well aware that he was violating the highest directive of his people by bringing strangers into their realm. But the circumstances had made his decision easy. He was saving these people from certain death.

“To my home,” he said quietly.

“Home? You live down here?” asked the ranger as they passed through the hole in the wall and into the realm of the mole people.

“Yes, and I need to save my people too,” said Ezra, directing them to follow him.

Even in their labyrinthine tunnels, the mole people could feel the storm raging on the surface. They were running around frantically, like the crew of a submarine that was threatening to sink.

“Can you feel that?” asked a woman, nervously scanning the tiered hall. The light from a chain of bulbs flickered threateningly.

“What on earth is happening up there?” replied another, the lines on his face deepening as he listened to the distant rumbling above. Massive amounts of water were already pouring in from every possible entry point.

“We need to leave,” Ezra’s voice suddenly rang out. “We can’t stay down here. It’s too dangerous.”

They stared incredulously at their compatriot, behind whom a speechless group of outsiders had gathered with wide-open eyes.

The murmuring grew louder, marked by fear and uncertainty.

“Has it ever rained so heavily above that we would notice it down here?” asked a young man with a slightly trembling voice.

“Not in my memory,” answered an elderly woman, rubbing her hands.

“Ezra, what’s the meaning of this? Why are you bringing outsiders to us?” called out another.

“Forget all that,” Ezra replied. “We need to leave. Drop everything and follow me. There’s a storm of biblical proportions raging up there. If we don’t go, we’ll all die down here.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Instinctively, they all knew that their home, their refuge from the merciless world above, was in danger. The feeling of fear in their community intensified as more cracks opened in the walls and more water advanced into their realm like a relentless predator hunting its prey.

“Some passages are already underwater,” said a scout who had just returned, exhausted.

“What choice do we have?” whispered a young man, voicing the decision that was swirling in everyone’s mind. He clenched his fists, torn between the familiar darkness of their underground sanctuary and the unknown dangers lurking above.

“Only one. Ezra is right,” the park ranger suddenly spoke up, tentatively stepping forward. “I’ve never experienced anything like this. If you want to survive, you must leave your home.”

It was evident that the ranger hadn’t fully processed what he was seeing, but his instinct told him he had to help these people.

“We’re going,” the voice of the old leader suddenly spoke. He slowly made his way through his people. A murmur and whisper went through the group behind Ezra and the park ranger as this elderly man began to speak with commanding authority. “Ezra and this man are right. We can’t just sit here and wait to drown,” said the old man. Despite his stooped figure, his tired eyes shone with determination. “We have no choice but to go up.”

“He’s right,” agreed another, standing behind him. “If we want to survive this, we have to go out into the world on the surface.”

“But we can’t leave all our possessions behind,” called another voice.

“We’re out of time. It would take too long,” Ezra shouted, rallying the people. “Let’s go.”

Slowly and full of doubt, they followed Ezra and the old man. Their whispered goodbyes to their home were inaudible above the rushing water. Their path upward grew increasingly dangerous as the tunnels flooded faster than they had expected.

“Hurry!” Ezra urged them, his voice already hoarse from the effort. “We don’t have much time!”

Some of the rescued people, especially the park ranger and his colleagues, helped with the evacuation, assisting the elderly, the young, even entire families with small children through the winding passages. Like Moses of old, Ezra led the long line of people through the dark corridors of the underground.

The hurried footsteps of three thousand people echoed through the tunnels, accompanied by the exhausted panting and crying of those struggling to keep up. They found support from their friends and the newcomers helping them.

“Stay together!”

“We can do this!”

Words of encouragement came both from those who’d escaped the island and from those who feared the unknown ahead of them.

“Everything we’ve built will be submerged,” muttered an elderly woman with tears in her eyes, clutching a tattered quilt to her chest, supported by one of the park rangers.

Beside her, a young man who had never set foot on the surface stared at the water invading from all sides, his face a mask of fear and disbelief. “Is it really that bad up there?” he asked hesitantly, seeking reassurance from those around him.

“Who knows?” replied another, a middle-aged man who hadn’t seen the sun in decades. “I’ve heard stories about the sky and its vastness, but I can’t remember what it’s like.”

They knew there would be no going back once they left the familiar tunnels, no matter how much they longed for the comforting darkness that had been their refuge for so long.

“Stay close to me,” a father instructed his daughter. His voice broke as he imagined the unknown dangers awaiting them on the surface. “Promise me you won’t let go.”

The girl nodded solemnly with large, fearful eyes. “I promise, Daddy.”

“Maybe this is our chance to start anew,” the old man said to Ezra with hopeful eyes as he watched a woman clutching her child tightly to her chest.

In the midst of this grueling exodus, the old man, accompanied by Ezra, emerged from the shadows. As the leader of their community, he had guided them through countless hardships, and now, in this traumatic time, they looked to him once again.

“Have faith!” he said, silencing their fearful words. “We have no choice but to move forward. Going back is impossible.”

“Will the people up there be nice to us, Daddy?” the girl asked her father as they moved farther from the familiar darkness.

“Only time will tell, my child,” he answered, uncertainty in his voice. “But we must have faith in our leader and in ourselves.”

With each step bringing them closer to the surface, the tension among them grew. They felt the air changing, becoming colder and more unfamiliar. As they approached the exit, the mole people braced themselves for what lay ahead, knowing they might never return to their old lives. The old man cast one last glance at the dark passage behind them before stepping into the unknown, closely followed by his people.

As the first of them emerged from the darkness, they were greeted by icy gusts of wind and a wide, dark sky. It seemed endless. Half-blinded by the unfamiliar brightness, they gazed at the gloomy sky that had opened its floodgates without restraint. Around them, the storm raged, and the many impressions bombarding them were completely overwhelming.

A new kind of fear spread among them, but the old man refused to let it overwhelm him or his people.

“Keep moving, don’t be afraid!” he said. He struggled to make himself heard over the howling storm. “We’ll find shelter somewhere nearby.”

“What is that up there?” stammered a young woman, looking up in horror.

“Clouds,” replied the old man in a gentle but firm voice. “Those are clouds.”

CHAPTER 82

IN THE CROWN OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

“He must have run to the head,” Akira shouted as she ran back up the stairway to Tom.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Tom called out.

“Later,” said Akira. “You need to stop Noah. I’ll check the machine.”

“Okay,” Tom called, taking off his backpack and tossing it to Akira. “Take care of this.”

Then he ran up the last few spirals to the crown. Wind and rain greeted him, whipping through the gaping hole in the statue’s head. He noticed several cables leading outside through the hole.

Could it be? Had Noah really climbed outside? He had to make sure. He had to stop him. The task Father Matthew had given him could still be completed after he had stopped the machine and Noah. To reach the hole, he clambered across the beams in the head that curved like a star from under the top of the head. Then he grabbed the upper edge of the hole and pulled himself up to the crown. There was Noah, only ten feet away. With one hand he clung to a spike of the crown and with the other he was adjusting a cable.

“Noah! Stop,” Tom called, and Noah looked up startled. “It’s over, you’ve lost.”

“Never,” Noah laughed. “You can’t stop it anymore.”

“You’ve messed with powers that even you don’t understand,” Tom shouted. “Help me save the world from destruction. We were friends once, weren’t we?” he appealed.

Noah burst out laughing. Lightning flashed across the roiling sky, etching a diabolical grimace on Noah’s face. “Friends? We were never friends. We didn’t even fight for the same cause. And it was you who made me what I am today. Your mistakes made me strong. Every self-proclaimed hero needs an equally worthy opponent, right?”

Rain lashed Tom’s face and he struggled to keep his grip on the spike he was holding onto. One foot kept slipping and he was in danger of falling.

“I recognized early on the lies our governments have drilled into us,” Noah raged. “The lies they feed us and everyone else. Israel, the EU, America, all of them. They’re all the same. All liars. Corruption, power, and money are the only things they care about. Renewable energy is just the next lie industry is feeding us. Truly renewable energy doesn’t exist. Everything in this world has its price. Solar energy, wind energy. All nonsense. All just lies so industry can sell new machines and cars. Tesla was on the right track. He was a genius, but he wasn’t willing to do what was necessary. Not even the Atlanteans were willing to make the necessary sacrifices, and you see where it led them. But I, I have the courage. You’ll see.”

“Tesla knew the stones would destroy the world,” Tom called. “He knew he couldn’t control them. No one can. And since he couldn’t destroy the stone, he hid it.”

“No, the world would have been at his feet. But he was weak. You’re all weak!” Noah was beside himself. “Edward de Mey was the only one … he was a visionary. He saw what needed to be done and showed me the only true way. And I will change the world according to his vision.”

Tom realized that he could no longer reach his former friend. He was lost forever. Fighting against the wind and rain, Tom took a risky step forward to grasp the next spike on the crown.

“It’s over, Tom. The world changes today. You can’t stop it anymore.”

Noah wrapped the cable around his body and arm, apparently to rappel down, just as a massive lightning bolt struck the statue’s torch. Startled by the sudden bright light and loud peal of thunder just above them, both Noah and Tom lost their grip and slid downward.

Twenty feet below them, Akira stared at the machine, trying frantically to figure out what she could do to deactivate it.

She spotted the laptop on the floor and hope welled up inside her. She picked it up, opened the display and waited. Nothing happened. The screen, which must have been broken in the fall, remained dark. Panicking, she tapped on the keys. All at once her confidence was gone.

A loud boom above her made her jump, and she noticed that an indicator light had switched from red to green. She looked at the label next to the display. ‘GJ’, she read on the label.

“GJ, GJ, GJ,” Akira muttered to herself. “A lightning rod? GJ. Gigajoule, of course. A lightning bolt has about one GJ.”

That could only mean one thing. Despite the cold, her head grew noticeably hot and panic rose within her. The machine was being charged by the lightning bolts. Only one unit was missing.

Tom crashed onto the hair of the Statue of Liberty and slid down along the crown. Noah’s cable hummed as it slid over the ridges that represented the statue’s hair. It caught on the sharp edge of the hole, stopping Noah’s fall. He hung three feet away from Tom, dangling over the abyss.

Tom struggled to hold on. He had one hand wedged in a narrow gap, and a small protruding lock of the statue’s hair had stopped his fall. He looked over at Noah, who was kicking, searching for a foothold. In vain he tugged at the cable, but it wouldn’t come loose. Dangerously, it chafed against the sharp-edged metal of the torn hole.

Their eyes met.

“Help me,” Noah called to him, desperately extending his hand to Tom. “We were friends once,” he said unconvincingly.

Tom looked at him uncertainly. For a moment, he even toyed with the idea of actually reaching out a helping hand to his old friend, but at the same moment he thought better of it.

“You were ready to sacrifice Hellen for your sick experiment,” Tom shouted.

“It wasn’t me. It was the Mantis. She chose Hellen to be sacrificed,” Noah screamed in a desperate attempt to justify himself. For the first time, Tom saw fear on his face.

“And what about all those you and AF killed? Uncle Scott, the former Pope, the former US president, Sienna Wilson, all the others?” Tom shouted at the top of his lungs. “They …” Tom faltered, his voice almost breaking and tears forming in his eyes. “AF killed my parents! And for what? Power, wealth, control?”

“AF didn’t kill your parents. But you’ll never solve that puzzle without me.”

Tom hesitated for a moment but then dismissed Noah’s statement as a desperate attempt to save his own skin.

“We only wanted to save humanity from itself,” Noah tried to justify himself. “People need guidance. AF and Edward showed me that. People are too stupid to live self-determined lives.” His gaze followed the cable to where it kept scraping over the sharp edge of the hole.

Suddenly, Tom was clear about what he had to do. His friend no longer existed. In front of him was someone else. A person who was ready to destroy the world for power. A person who could not be brought to reason. A person who would never rest and would always pose a threat.

Tom gathered all his strength and pulled himself up until he could again grab one of the crown’s spikes.

“Where are you going? You can’t just leave me hanging here. Tom, you have to help me!” Noah screamed.

“I thought if you were in prison, the world would be safe from you.” Tom jumped to the next spike. “I won’t make that mistake a second time,” he said with a trembling voice. He was standing directly above the hole and Noah.

Carefully, he lowered himself until he got hold of the edge of the hole and his feet found support again.

Noah seemed visibly relieved. “Thank you. You won’t regret it,” he called up to Tom and stretched his hand upward.

Tom stared expressionlessly down at him, who was now hanging directly below him. Any qualms that had prevented him in the past from simply killing a helpless person vanished in that moment. He felt that he was doing the right thing and closed his eyes. Memories of the victims of recent years went through his mind. A bitter smile distorted his mouth. It wasn’t triumph; it was the sad realization that he had to make this choice. Tom opened his eyes again, wiped a tear from his face, and his gaze became emotionless again.

“It might be difficult for me, but I have to protect humanity from you,” he said coldly, and he kicked his foot against the cable where it had caught on the sharp edge.

When Noah realized that Tom hadn’t climbed back to the head to help him, he became very quiet.

“So you’ve learned from your mistakes after all,” Noah said with a resigned laugh, but also with noticeable fear. “At least I’ve successfully wasted your time,” he spat as Tom stomped his foot on the wedged cable again. “Now there’s nothing that can stop the energy fusion.”

Again and again, Tom pressed his foot against the sharp edge until the cable finally broke.

Despite the raging storm, Noah’s piercing scream rang through the darkness.

Tom wanted to call something after him but thought better of it. Just to be sure, he watched Noah Pollock’s body hit the ground.

CHAPTER 83

IN THE CROWN CAFÉ

“Now we need to find Hellen,” Cloutard said grimly, after the Liberty Island staff had set off toward the information center and their escape route.

Phoebe nodded resolutely and handed him one of the two pistols she had taken from Noah’s henchmen.

“Alors, sometimes one must make an exception,” he said, reluctantly accepting the weapon, checking the safety, and tucking it into his waistband.

Phoebe did the same and also shouldered the rifle. “What options do we have?” Phoebe asked.

“From what I know of the island, there is only the statue itself left. But Fort Wood and the old museum cover quite a large area. I fear the worst.”

“What? That she’s dead?” Phoebe asked, horrified.

“No. Since Noah and the Mantis are here, I have to assume that they have grabbed Hellen. Both of them hate Tom like the plague. So what could be more obvious than to …”

“ … make Hellen the human sacrifice they need for the fusion.” Phoebe shook her head in horror. “Nikola Tesla would turn in his grave if he knew what they’re doing with his formula. If the Statue of Liberty is the center point, the conductor for the experiment, then the stones and Hellen must have been placed somehow in or around the statue.”

Cloutard nodded. “I know nothing about that. That is your area of expertise. Where should we start looking?”

“The avenue from Flagpole Plaza to the statue will give us a few good opportunities to take cover and assess the situation,” she said.

“Are you sure you are a physicist and not a war strategist?” Cloutard said, taking a sip of the last of the Louis XIII and holding the flask out to Phoebe, as had become customary by now.

“I played ‘Commandos’ on a PC for years. Something must have stuck,” she said and took a solid swig.

“Alors vite,” said Cloutard.

They left the café and were immediately greeted by violent gusts of wind. Cursing, Cloutard took off his beloved but severely battered hat, rolled it up, and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

“No hat on my head, a pistol in my waistband … What has become of this world?” he grumbled, following Phoebe. Under the shelter of the hedges, they crept along the avenue, past the large helicopter and straight toward the main entrance.

“Damn,” said Phoebe, pointing upward.

CHAPTER 84

INSIDE THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Akira, who in her desperation to deactivate the machine was on the verge of simply bashing it with the defective laptop, was startled by Tom as he stumbled down the stairs, exhausted.

“Tom,” she exclaimed, rushing toward him.

“The backpack! Where’s Matthew’s backpack?” He looked frantically around the platform. When he spotted it, he stormed across to it, knelt on the floor, and opened it. “What are you even doing here, anyway?” Tom asked as he pulled out three identical leather cases.

“It’s a long story. Van Rensburg sent me,” Akira began, frantically digging something out of her jacket. “He told me I had to give you this urgently,” she said, holding a walnut-sized metal lump in front of Tom’s face.

Tom’s gaze moved from Akira to the metal in her hand and back again.

“What is it?” He looked at her questioningly.

“It was also hidden in Cloutard’s Fabergé egg. According to van Rensburg, this is the last remaining orichalcum in the world, the magical metal from Atlantis.”

“In the egg? But how did you … never mind. What am I supposed to do with it?”

“I don’t know. Van Rensburg said you would need it at the end. He said something about a ‘missing piece’ or something like that.”

Tom stared at the lump and for some reason, he immediately understood.

“You need to go now,” said Tom.

“Go? No, I want to help you!” said Akira. With everything she had experienced, she had discovered a side of herself that had remained hidden until now.

“You can’t help me with what I have to do. You need to get out of here. Quickly,” Tom said with a stoic calm that surprised even himself. Everything seemed distant, as if it had already begun to detach from his reality. He had only one goal left. “Go, get yourself to safety. Take care of the others. Take care of Hellen.”

“Tom, you’re scaring me,” said Akira. Although she hadn’t known Tom for very long and wasn’t particularly good at reading people, she knew exactly that something wasn’t right. Deep inside, she sensed that she might never see Tom again.

Tom grabbed her arm and looked deep into her eyes. “Go, get out of here—quickly—get everyone to safety.” He let her go again.

Bewildered, without saying a word, she backed away from Tom and stepped back into the elevator. She pressed the button.

They looked at each other one last time. Akira silently raised her hand in farewell as the elevator disappeared from Tom’s view.

Now he was alone with his thoughts and his task, which according to Matthew would be his last. Hellen flashed through his mind. He would never see her again. But he knew he was doing the right thing. And she was strong. She would cope with his sacrifice. The only important thing was that humanity survived this madness.

He turned back to the leather cases and opened the first one. “The Scepter of the Gods,” he murmured reverently, weighing the rod inside it devoutly in his hand.

CHAPTER 85

NEAR FLAGPOLE PLAZA, FACING THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

At the foot of the statue’s pedestal, directly on the roof of Fort Wood, Cloutard and Phoebe spotted a strange structure. They couldn’t make it out clearly, but it appeared to be some kind of antique cage or something similar, with a person apparently trapped inside.

“Is that what I fear it is?” said Cloutard, who was crouching behind a hedge next to Phoebe, looking upward. The structure stood completely unguarded, as if everyone had forgotten about it. Blue lightning flashed continuously around the cage.

“I can’t see it clearly, but I think they’ve got Hellen imprisoned in that thing.”

Phoebe stretched a little and tried to make out something on the sides of the statue, but the angle from their position wouldn’t allow it. “The three stones are probably attached to the other sides of the statue,” she said, “and the cage completes the square. In the middle stands the Statue of Liberty—the conductor.” She pointed up to the top of the statue.

Just then, lightning struck the torch.

“Of course,” she said softly. “The energy from the lightning is stored by the machine and then released all at once. With this enormous energy, the three stones unite with the living energy, creating the ultimate energy source.”

“And Hellen dies in the process?” asked Cloutard, though he already knew the answer.

“As grim as it sounds: first Hellen, and then, if we believe Tesla or your former boss van Rensburg, shortly afterward the rest of the world too.”

“So the fusion can be stopped if there’s no more living energy?” Cloutard asked.

“Since I don’t do experiments like this every day, I can’t say with certainty.”

“It does not matter. If we get Hellen out of there, it disrupts the experiment. Energy can no longer flow, correct?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“Then we will have to do something about those lightning bolts around the cage and get Hellen out of there!” Cloutard exclaimed.

CHAPTER 86

INSIDE THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

TWENTY MINUTES EARLIER

“Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you,” Matthew began, pointing at the backpack he had just pressed into Tom’s hand. “In there is the Scepter of the Gods. According to an Atlantean legend, it was created by Zeus himself,” Matthew groaned. “It contains all the power of the universe and was created as the only force capable of destroying the Medusa Stone.”

Tom stared at Matthew with wide eyes, as if the priest had lost his mind.

“Zeus? The Greek god Zeus?” he asked, shaking his head.

“Not exactly. The world of the Atlanteans was a different time, even an entirely different world. The legend says that a man named Zeus was the king of Atlantis and later became the model for the god in Greek mythology. When the Atlanteans experimented with the energy of the stones about twelve thousand years ago, they believed they could control it. But in their arrogance and hubris, they summoned unprecedented catastrophes and nearly destroyed the world.”

“You’re talking about the great flood,” Tom said.

Matthew gasped. His face was twisted in pain. Every word seemed difficult for him. “Yes. With an enormous ship …”

“Noah’s Ark, I know,” Tom interrupted. “But how did the scepter come into the hands of the Catholic Church?”

“The scepter was divided into three parts and kept in three different locations. Over the millennia, knowledge about it and the danger of the stones was passed down by the Servants of the Ancients until, by chance, a descendant of the Servants became Pope. From that point on, the Popes and thus the Church shared this knowledge with the Servants of the Ancients. It was recorded in a secret book passed from one Pope to the next. Together with the Servants, they vowed that should the day ever come when the three stones threatened to come together again, they would do all they could to prevent a second apocalypse.”

Tom shook his head in confusion. Even for him, this was a bit too much.

“And you’re one of these Servants, here to destroy the stone with the staff or scepter or whatever it is?”

“No, I’m not a Servant. But yes, I’m here on the Pope’s orders to destroy the Medusa Stone.” Matthew grimaced and looked at his blood-covered hand before pressing it back on his wound.

“Why on earth didn’t you say so from the beginning? We could have done everything differently.”

“Probably for the same reason you didn’t want me along. Trust.”

Both men smiled.

“So what do I need to do?” Tom asked, ready to complete the priest’s mission. Matthew’s smile disappeared instantly, and his expression almost frightened Tom. And rightly so. In a few words, he explained how Tom had to assemble the three parts of the staff and what he needed to do with it.

“I’m so sorry, Tom, but if you do exactly what I’ve just told you, then …” Father Matthew coughed. He spat out a little blood and looked at Tom with sad eyes. “It was actually my duty, and I was ready to give my life for humanity, but to ask such a sacrifice from you …”

Tom placed his hand on Matthew’s shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. The two men gazed at each other in silence. Without speaking, they understood each other.

Suddenly Matthew pushed Tom away and pointed toward the stairs.

“Go, finish it. Save our world.”

CHAPTER 87

IN THE TORCH OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

PRESENT

Tom thought about Matthew’s words as he quickly unwrapped the second bundle. He held the two rods, each about sixteen inches long, in his hands. Symbols that he had never seen before were inscribed along the length of the rods. In the broadest sense, they reminded him of Egyptian hieroglyphics. As if telling a story, they wound around one rod, continuing their narrative on the next. He rotated them until the patterns seemed to match. But before he could bring them together, one rod jumped from his hand and found the end of the other, as if drawn by a magnet. A clear, metallic sound rang out.

Tom was taken by surprise. Fine blue lightning flickered between his hands and the metal, dancing around his entire body.

A spark leaped to the third pouch, which suddenly began to vibrate. Quickly, Tom untied the loop that closed the last case. As if guided by an invisible hand, the third element shot out and connected with the already formed piece.

“Wow,” Tom breathed as the rod lay in all its glory in his hands. The connection points showed no traces, no gaps, no seams, nothing. It was as if they had fused together or had always been one.

He picked up the small metallic lump that Akira had given him, stood up, and checked where it might fit.

As he approached the tip of the rod with the lump of metal, the end seemed to liquefy. Like a bud, it unfolded to receive the lump. Tom guided his hand to the opened spot. When the lump made contact with the rod and the rod closed again, the dull metal transformed into a brilliantly glowing crystal.

The metal of the rod spiraled around the crystal, hardening instantly.

CHAPTER 88

AT THE FOOT OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Violent gusts of wind made things difficult for Cloutard and Phoebe. Additionally, larger hailstones had now mixed with the raindrops, occasionally causing Cloutard and Phoebe to cry out in pain as they ran.

As they approached the main doors, they slowed their pace. They stopped before it and looked around. There was no one in sight. Cautiously, they pushed open one of the massive doors and entered the entrance hall.

Phoebe inhaled sharply when she saw two bodies lying on the floor.

Cloutard smiled bitterly. “Tom definitely came through here.”

They crept farther and quickly found the path that led them to the platform atop the fort.

The closer they got to their destination, the more certain they became that Hellen must indeed be trapped in the cage they had seen. They found the exit and stepped out onto the platform.

“Hellen!” Cloutard shouted. His voice struggled to be heard over the raging storm.

“François!” Hellen called back, hope welling inside her. “Am I glad to see you.”

Cloutard and Phoebe ran toward the cage.

“Careful, don’t touch it,” Hellen shouted.

They saw that Hellen was strapped to the cage with leather restraints and couldn’t move a millimeter. One hand was free, but she kept it still. Lightning discharges between the bars threatened to jump to Hellen as well. Her face was filled with fear. Each time she wasn’t struck, she exhaled with relief.

Cloutard and Phoebe cautiously approached the cage. Suddenly, lightning bolts began to discharge from the cage in their direction, and they quickly retreated.

“The entire cage is electrified,” Hellen called out.

“It can’t be ordinary electricity, or we’d all be dead by now. Water is a good conductor,” Phoebe replied. “What kind of energy it is, I can’t say. As a scientist, I don’t often say this—actually never—but this seems almost magical to me.”

All at once there was a hissing sound and a particularly violent lightning bolt illuminated the entire cage. Hellen screamed. Cloutard and Phoebe jumped back.

“I am assuming we cannot touch the cage,” said Cloutard.

“I want to get out of here,” said Hellen, “but even I wouldn’t try that.”

Once again, lightning flickered between the bars and lashed out toward Cloutard and Phoebe.

“Oh my God,” Phoebe exclaimed. “I think I have an idea.” She took out her phone and opened the stopwatch.

“What are you planning to do?” said Cloutard.

CHAPTER 89

IN THE TORCH OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Tom was examining the magical artifact in his hand when suddenly the earth shook, and the Statue of Liberty began to sway. Stronger than ever before. The scaffold of the statue around Tom creaked and groaned, and a tremendous thunder rolled across the sky.

The time had come.

Tom raised his gaze and stared at the ladder to the torch, which led upward just a few yards away from him. Like on a swaying suspension bridge, he tried not to lose his balance on the way to it. Matthew’s backpack slipped free and caught on the arm of Dr. Amill’s corpse, but Tom finally made it to the ladder and climbed up the narrow shaft in Lady Liberty’s arm.

After overcoming the second ladder in the wrist of the Statue of Liberty, he pushed open the copper door in the stem of the torch and squeezed through to the outside.

He no longer even noticed the lashing of the rain or the cold he had felt for hours. One hand clung to the round railing to avoid being swept away by the storm before he could fulfill his mission. With the other hand, he held the staff firmly.

His gaze fell on Manhattan, which from here looked quite peaceful. Nevertheless, countless horrific images of floods, drowning people, panic, and suffering flashed through his mind. Over the roar of the storm, he thought he heard a police siren. Millions of people didn’t know it and probably would never learn of it, but their fate was in his hands. It was his destiny to save them.

Tom smiled, glad that he could accomplish something meaningful with his death instead of throwing it away for a thrill in some senseless extreme sport. He would literally give his life to save the world.

A good death, he thought.

CHAPTER 90

AT THE FOOT OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

“I’m measuring the time interval between the lightning flares. I think they have a cyclical phase, much shorter than the bolts striking the Statue. But they’re connected,” said Phoebe.

Another lightning bolt discharged, and Phoebe activated the timer.

“Don’t stress yourselves out. I’m quite comfortable in here,” Hellen said sarcastically.

“You think we could touch the cage between phases and try to get it open?” asked Cloutard, his gaze shifting from Phoebe to the cage and back to Phoebe again.

More lightning bolts discharged.

“No, not touch it. But I’m looking for the time window when we can at least get close.” More lightning bolts hissed between the bars. Phoebe activated the timer once again. “In the meantime, you could start by taking off your belt, François.”

The Frenchman looked at her, perturbed. “I appreciate your passion, mon trésor, but do you think this is the right moment?”

Another lightning bolt.

“Okay, I’ve got it. François, how sturdy is this cage?”

Cloutard briefly examined the lock and the door. “Not very. It is old. If there were no lightning, you could probably tear it open with a strong pull.”

“Perfect,” said Phoebe, beaming optimistically.

“Uh, at the risk of sounding annoying, this isn’t exactly working for me in here,” said Hellen. The lightning bolts were coming dangerously close.

“Leather is an insulator. You have a four-second window to secure the belt to the door and use it to pull the door open. But under no circumstances should you touch the metal of the cage.”

Another lightning discharge hissed.

“Bien. Wait for the next one.”

The lightning discharged and Cloutard threaded his belt around the bars. A moment before another lightning bolt discharged, he pulled his hands away. Then he immediately went back to work, threading the end of the belt through the buckle. Again, he let go.

Another discharge.

He grabbed the belt and pulled with all his might. The door gave way a little but didn’t open. The metal creaked and groaned under the force. It was like a rhythmic dance. Cloutard pulled on the belt, let go, lightning flashed. And the cycle began anew.

On the fourth attempt, he succeeded, and the door sprang open. Immediately, Hellen began to loosen the leather straps with her free hand. A split second before the next lightning bolt discharged, she jumped out of the cage.

“My saviors. Thank you!” Hellen exclaimed, hugging them both.

CHAPTER 91

IN THE TORCH OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Tom hoisted himself onto the railing and braced one foot against the torch and the other on the railing itself.

With his legs spread wide, he stood above New York Bay and stretched the scepter toward the sky with both hands. Small lightning bolts flickered back and forth between him, the staff, and the torch. Tom was surprised that it merely tingled. Suddenly, he felt the metal of the scepter growing warmer in his hand as the symbols began to glow. He could have sworn that the staff had grown even longer.

He stretched the scepter high above his head, extending it beyond the golden torch. He closed his eyes and thought of Hellen as lightning struck the staff.

A fraction of a second later, a blinding light pierced his body and a beam of energy shot into the torch. From there, it zigzagged through the cables Noah had installed and into the machine, it’s displays now going haywire.

One hundred and fifty feet below, on the roof of Fort Wood, lightning leaped from one of the four columns that had risen from the ground to the next, and the next, completing the loop. The earth trembled. Blinding yellow, green, and red light radiated from the stones. They vibrated and danced in their mounts before shattering into dust with a tremendous bang.

CHAPTER 92

AT THE FOOT OF THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

A blinding flash of indescribably powerful energy, emanating from the torch, shot across the sky above New York City and illuminated the entire metropolis.

The arm of the statue had been struck with a force beyond anything that could come from human hands or from nature—as if it had originated from the gods themselves. It seemed as though the entire world trembled.

A colossal boom made the roaring storm sound like a limp whisper. The ear-splitting retribution, a force that should never have been awakened. In a fireless explosion, Lady Liberty’s torch shattered and light rippled across the sky in all directions like ocean waves. The sound literally split the air. Shards of the torch and melted fragments of Liberty’s iconic head flew through the air.

The explosion was so violent that debris from the statue was hurled far away, much of it landing in the sea. Hardly anything landed on Liberty Island itself.

A few moments later, an eerie silence settled like a shroud over the island. The air was filled with charged particles. For a moment, there was stunned silence. It seemed as if there wasn’t a single sound in all of New York, like a collective intake of breath shared by millions of people. It took a moment before the shock waves could be felt beyond the immediate scene of devastation—and with them, the crushing reality of what had unfolded on the island.

Almost everyone had taken cover. Only Hellen stared upward in horror. Slowly, the others straightened up and gazed, frozen, at the statue. Half of the arm and part of the head had been blown away.

“Mon Dieu,” Cloutard muttered quietly. Cold sweat had formed on his forehead. With a trembling hand, he reached for his flask.

Phoebe whispered a few words to herself. Akira, too, stared with wide eyes at the destroyed statue. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She was on the verge of hyperventilating.

Hellen stood rooted to the spot. Her rational mind tried to process what she had just witnessed. She knew Tom had been up there, right at the moment when the massive lightning bolt had struck the Statue of Liberty. She felt her entire life crumbling around her, her world shattering into ruins.

All at once, it had become completely silent. As if someone had pressed an off switch. Not just the rain and hail—the entire tempest had stopped raging from one second to the next. The waves subsided, the clouds dispersed, and rays of sunlight emerged.

“Tom …” Hellen gasped, her voice trembling, near panic. With sudden determination, driven by confusion and desperation, she rushed toward the statue.

“Attends donc! It could all collapse!” Cloutard called after her, concern written on his face. But Hellen could not be stopped.

CHAPTER 93

SOMEWHERE IN NEW YORK CITY

The streets, usually so full of life, lay eerily quiet and empty—a poignant reminder of the devastation the city had just experienced.

The storm had stopped, the clouds were clearing, and the sun was emerging.

As if stepping out from eternal shadow, the group of disheveled figures cautiously moved into the light, shielding their eyes from the sun.

Water rushed in torrents through the avenues of the colossal metropolis. Garbage and other debris were swept through the streets. Cafés, bus stops, and benches stood submerged. Relentless streams pouring into the city’s overwhelmed sewer system had transformed the subway system into raging underground rivers.

In some places, the storm surge had risen to unprecedented levels. Trees and power poles had been uprooted. The floods had transformed the city into an unrecognizable landscape of destruction. Cars stood half-submerged. Windows were smashed and storefronts devastated. Merchandise floated in the streets.

The old man gazed up at the skyscrapers around them. “Even without the flood, everything has changed so much since I was last here,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “The city I once knew is gone.”

“What should we do now?” asked another.

“First, we’ll get you somewhere dry,” said the park ranger. The joy of finally being safe was evident on his people’s faces, even if it would take some time before life would return to normal.

The old man paused and considered their options. “We will start over,” he said firmly, wiping tears from his eyes. “I just have no idea how.”

“I don’t know how we’re going to manage in this …” said a young woman, her eyes scanning the desolate landscape before them. “This isn’t our world.”

“But we can adapt. We can make it ours,” replied the old man, his voice full of conviction. “We’re survivors. We always have been.”

“We’ll help you,” said one of those rescued from Liberty Island, and the rest of the group chimed in, pledging their support.

They continued through the city, marveling at the devastation done to the Overworld, as they had once called it. The storm had left its mark on every corner of New York.

In the distance, they could see the partially damaged Statue of Liberty. The old man sighed. “Tesla was right. There are powers that not even the greatest human minds can control.”

“Help!”

A choked cry reached their ears. The old man pointed in the direction from which the call had come.

Ezra and several others quickly waded through the high water toward a small bodega on the corner. The store had been badly damaged. Windows were broken, and the doors hung off their hinges.

Ezra and those with him lifted the doors aside. The old man approached the entrance and peered inside, searching for signs of life amid the chaos. He saw a woman on the floor in one corner, holding a small child in her arms. The woman looked up and met the old man’s gaze, tears streaming down her face.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please help us.” Ezra and two men from the ranks of the mole people didn’t hesitate and climbed inside. A large shelf had fallen and trapped the woman’s legs. With their combined strength, they quickly freed her.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” said the woman, clutching her child to her chest. She seemed only slightly hurt.

Together they went outside. Immediately, some of the rescued group came and took over care of the woman from her rescuers. The woman was amazed to see that, just as quickly as the storm had rolled in, the effects of the flooding were disappearing. The water had rapidly receded and now barely reached their ankles. “A miracle,” she said.

The old man nodded. “Yes, they still happen sometimes.”

Suddenly sirens sounded, and a police car pulled up beside them. The officer inside got out slowly and cautiously. His expression was a mixture of surprise and concern as he observed the crowd of people before him.

“Hey,” called the officer, hands on his belt near his weapon. In disbelief, he looked over the gigantic group of people who didn’t look like they belonged there at all. “Everything all right with you folks?” Actually, they seemed to him as if they’d be out of place anywhere. “Who are you?”

“The storm forced us to the surface. We lived in New York’s underground,” said the old man.

“Underground?” asked the officer, raising an eyebrow. His gaze swept over the mass of people—around three thousand of them.

The park ranger made his way to the front of the group. “These people are heroes. They saved our lives,” he said to the officer.

“I’ll call for backup and medical assistance,” said the officer, his face softening with compassion.

As the officer spoke into his radio and relayed the situation to his captain, the mole people exchanged nervous glances.

“Don’t be afraid. We’ll be here to help you,” said the park ranger.

“Help is on the way,” the officer reassured them, retrieving a few dry blankets from the trunk of his patrol car and distributing them among the eldest.

“Thank you,” said the old man, nodding. As the mole people watched the flashing lights of approaching emergency vehicles, they knew their journey had only just begun. Even if the world up here was strange and frightening, together they could make a fresh start.

CHAPTER 94

INSIDE THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Hellen de Mey’s pulse pounded as she ran up the stairs inside the pedestal. Fear, but also determination, gave her the strength to overcome the hundreds of steps in record time.

Gasping for breath, she reached the sixth floor and froze. Several of Noah’s men lay dead on the last steps of the staircase. Slowly, she climbed over their bodies. She looked upward, through the shattered glass of the intermediate ceiling, into the interior of the statue above her. She was startled. A horribly contorted and blood-soaked body lay on the steel beams above her. Had he fallen?

She turned away and went to the staircase that continued upward. Quickly she began to climb. On the seventh floor, she looked up the spiral staircase and could see, high above, sunlight streaming through the blasted hole.

Driven by sheer hope, she kept going.

The higher she climbed, the more signs of chaos she discovered. The headless body of the Mantis took her by surprise, but so far there was no trace of Tom. She suppressed the urge to cry and instead concentrated on finding her husband. The farther up she went, the more unrealistic it seemed that anyone could have survived the explosion.

When she reached the platform from which the statue’s arm extended, Hellen’s heart nearly stopped. Carefully, she stepped over the debris and looked around nervously. The uppermost part of the spiral staircase that led into the head was completely missing. Half of the head and most of the arm had also been blown away, and Hellen was more or less standing in the open air. A molten lump that once seemed to have been some kind of machine had fused with its surroundings.

Hellen’s eyes scanned the destroyed interior of Lady Liberty, desperately searching for any sign that Tom was alive. Her pulse raced as her thoughts jumped from one horror scenario to the next. “He can’t just have vanished. He must be here … somewhere,” she sobbed quietly. She could no longer hold back the tears.

“Tom …” Her voice wavered and thick tears ran down her cheeks as the crushing weight of hopelessness and sad reality caught up with her. Slowly but surely, as she pushed debris aside, it became clear to her that Tom was not there.

Suddenly, her eyes fell on a charred hand beneath a collapsed beam, fused with the remains of a backpack. Startled, she raised her own hand to her mouth and gasped. This was Matthew’s backpack, she thought, crouching close to it.

As she stood up again, she saw on an ornate rod, smeared with blood, impaled in the floor of the platform like a spear. She wondered what it was and where the artifact had come from. Her thoughts raced and she concluded that only Matthew could have brought it. And suddenly it hit her. She sank to her knees and gazed up to where the mighty torch once rose into the sky.

Had Tom and Matthew used the rod to stop the fusion and destroy the stones? Had Tom sacrificed himself so that humanity could continue to exist?

Hellen clasped her hands in front of her face and began to sob uncontrollably. For minutes, she sat in the rubble, huddled, a picture of misery, trapped in her pain of loss.

Suddenly she heard a noise and whirled around. But the brief glimmer of hope that had risen within her immediately vanished when she saw Cloutard, who stood gasping at the stairs.

Hellen rose and threw her arms around Cloutard’s neck. He held her tightly. When he realized the full extent of the destruction around them, tears welled up in his eyes too. Their friend, husband, and companion, Tom Wagner, was dead.

For several minutes they stood in silence in their embrace amidst the rubble.

“Chérie,” whispered Cloutard, gently stroking Hellen’s hair. “We have to go.”

Hellen looked up into Cloutard’s eyes. Finally, she nodded, and they began their descent.

She kept turning around, hoping that Tom would suddenly rise from the rubble or emerge from a niche with a silly quip on his lips. But the statue remained quiet.

When they arrived back at the sixth floor after the long descent, something caught her eye. In Hellen’s chest, hope briefly blossomed again.

Amidst all of Noah’s fallen men, something stirred and groaned.

CHAPTER 95

INSIDE THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Hellen saw an arm move beneath the pile of dead soldiers.

“Tom?”

With renewed excitement, Hellen ran over, only to see that it was Matthew.

Immediately she felt guilty for being disappointed that they hadn’t found Tom alive. Together with Cloutard, they heaved one of Noah’s dead henchmen off Matthew’s body. He had been buried underneath the man.

“Matthew!” she called out and leaned over the injured priest. His face was battered and scratched, and he was gravely injured. But he was alive.

“Wha … Hellen?” Matthew wheezed and struggled to focus on her as she knelt beside him.

“Thank God you’re alive,” Hellen whispered, relief mixing with the fear still visible in her eyes. “Where’s Tom? Have you seen him?” Hellen asked, though she was well aware that her question was pointless.

Matthew weakly shook his head and winced in pain. He looked around. “Is it over? Did Tom succeed?”

Hellen sobbed loudly. “Yes, we think so,” she whispered.

Matthew closed his eyes and laboriously made the sign of the cross. “It should have been my mission. It was my duty. I was ready to give my life. From the moment the Holy Father assigned me, I knew I would die. I was supposed to die,” he cried out angrily, filled with grief. “It should not have been Tom.” His face contorted with pain. “He was the bravest of us all.”

Hellen didn’t know whether to weep uncontrollably in her pain or be filled with pride for her beloved husband’s final heroic deed. She quickly composed herself. She could see that Matthew urgently needed help.

“Can you stand?” asked Cloutard.

“I’ll try,” Matthew answered and gritted his teeth as they helped him to his feet. Despite his injuries, the strength and willpower of the former Army Ranger showed through.

As they made their way downstairs, Hellen’s thoughts circled around Tom and the admirable act that had cost him his life.

Matthew sighed. He could see her internal struggle but felt powerless to do anything about her pain. Every step he took was agonizing. With his arms wrapped around Hellen’s and Cloutard’s necks, they finally reached the bottom of the stairs after a difficult descent.

Now Hellen’s legs were threatening to give out. She was breathing hard and trying to gather her strength, but her composure was slipping away more and more. They dragged Matthew through the hall and out into the open.

Akira and Phoebe cried out almost simultaneously when they saw Hellen, Cloutard, and Matthew emerge through the Centennial Doors into the open air.

“What happened? Where’s Tom?” asked Phoebe, although she already suspected the sad truth. She and Akira took over supporting the injured priest.

As soon as Matthew’s weight was off her shoulders, Hellen slumped to the ground. She was completely spent. Cloutard immediately took her in his arms and held her as she wept uncontrollably.

“That damn fool,” she sobbed. “He sacrificed his life for all of us.” Her voice carried grief, disappointment, and even a little anger.

“At last,” Akira called out. She pointed toward Flagpole Plaza. When the cell network had finally started working again, Akira had immediately called for help.

At least twenty people—NYPD, Coast Guard, FBI, and the New York Fire Department, which also managed emergency services—were making their way toward them.

Phoebe and Akira handed Matthew over to the paramedics. They treated him immediately and carried him away on a stretcher. The FBI promptly cordoned off everything, and NYPD officers began combing the entire island.

A towering man in his mid-forties with a crew cut and the familiar blue FBI jacket with yellow letters on the back approached them, together with a female agent.

“Alexander Reid, Deputy Director of the New York Office,” he introduced himself and looked around with a skeptical gaze.

“We can explain everything,” Cloutard began as he stood up. But the man immediately placated him.

“The president has already informed us about Noah Pollock’s terrorist attack and his people. We know he stole DARPA equipment and killed high-ranking DARPA employees in the process. We also know who you are, and before we discuss all the details, I’d like to extend the president’s thanks and the gratitude of the American people.”

Hellen looked up for the first time and gave Reid an icy glare. Slowly she rose and stood up to the giant.

“The president’s ‘thanks’? If he had left Noah where he belonged, in prison, none of this would have happened, and Tom would still be alive,” she snapped at the man, who was a good head taller than her.

Reid looked at her grimly. “Tom Wagner is dead?”

Hellen nodded, sobbing, and turned away. “He tried to prevent the catastrophe single-handedly. And as always, when he sets his mind to something, he does it. Unfortunately, this time he paid the price for it, the pigheaded fool.”

Phoebe put her arm around her, and Reid turned back to Cloutard.

“I must ask all of you to come with me to FBI headquarters. As difficult as this may be for you right now, we need to take your statements. But first, we should get you away from here and have the paramedics check you over.”

Cloutard nodded.

“I’m not leaving here,” said Hellen. “I can’t leave here.”

“Ma’am, we need to evacuate the island, cordon it off, and thoroughly investigate everything,” said the female agent who had been standing next to Reid. She gently put an arm around Hellen’s shoulder. “You need to come with us.”

“Fuck you, I’m not leaving without Tom!” Hellen cried out and tore herself away from the woman. Cloutard apologized to the agent and went to Hellen.

“Mon chère, we must accept what has happened,” Cloutard said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “I know you do not want to leave here, that you do not want to leave Tom. We all want to say goodbye to him, but life does not always give us what we deserve.”

“Tom certainly didn’t deserve this,” Hellen said angrily.

“You are right. But as much as it hurts, Tom did something that only he could do. And he did it because he chose to. Because he loved you and wanted to protect all of us.”

“And because it was the right thing to do,” said Hellen, raising her head and wiping the tears from her eyes. Grief-stricken, she looked up at the Statue of Liberty, and incredible pride warmed her heart—pride for the man who had very likely single-handedly secured the continued existence of all humanity.

Together, she and Cloutard walked arm in arm down the avenue and across Flagpole Plaza to the FBI boat waiting for them at the dock.

Just before Hellen boarded, she looked back one more time. If she stepped onto this boat, she would literally be leaving Tom behind. Her legs were heavy, and it took almost superhuman strength to take the final step aboard.

The engines roared, and Hellen looked up at the statue.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you that cliff diving in Acapulco is a stupid hobby.”

Hellen spun around and saw Tom, with his last ounces of strength, waving and swimming along the pier toward the boat.

“When you get thrown off the Statue of Liberty by a magical lightning bolt, that training really comes in handy!” he gasped.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Hellen jumped up, threw off the blanket that had been placed around her shoulders, and was in the water in one leap.

Seconds later, with tears of joy in her eyes, she held her Tom in her arms again.

CHAPTER 96

A HOUSE IN THE VIENNA VINEYARDS, TWO WEEKS LATER

Tom and Hellen stood on the terrace of their new house, gazing out over Vienna.

“It’s about to begin,” said Hellen, resting her head on Tom’s shoulder.

“The end of our peaceful, cozy togetherness. Time for a housewarming party,” said Tom as he wrapped his arms around Hellen’s waist, lifted her up, spun around a few times, and kissed her passionately.

The events in New York seemed like an eternity ago, yet what they had been through still ran deep in their bones. It had taken some time for them all to realize that they had probably saved the world. The unification of the three stones had already gone wrong once before, many thousands of years ago, and only the most advanced scientists of the legendary Atlantis had been able to avert the apocalypse. Thwarting Noah’s plans and preventing the apocalypse a second time had taken real teamwork and had also meant making sacrifices.

The FBI and the White House had immediately imposed a news blackout. The storm and all the other incidents had been dismissed as just another absurd weather phenomenon, something which didn’t stand out particularly in these times of climate change. The media quickly returned to business as usual, and only a handful of people actually knew that the existence of humanity had literally hung in the balance.

The US president himself had personally thanked Tom, Hellen, Cloutard, and Phoebe, and also assured them that with Noah’s death, the last remnants of the terrorist organization Absolute Freedom had truly been eradicated. President Pitcock had established a foundation with generous US government funds to compensate all those harmed by AF. Cloutard and Phoebe immediately declined any financial compensation of this kind. They felt that finding each other was reward enough. Tom and Hellen also wanted to decline, but when Hellen brought up the less-than-ideal housing situation aboard Tom’s houseboat, the president spontaneously decided to give them a house. The staff at the US Embassy in Vienna quickly found what they were looking for, allowing the move to proceed swiftly. There wasn’t much to move from Tom’s houseboat anyway.

They couldn’t believe their luck, had quickly settled in, and invited everyone to a housewarming party. The guest list included all the people who meant something to them and with whom they had shared adventures over the past few years.

“Our luck account seems to be refilled,” said Tom.

“Don’t push it, Mr. Waaaaagner,” said Hellen, deliberately mispronouncing his last name, which he answered with a laugh and a playful slap on her bottom.

The doorbell rang. Tom and Hellen hurried downstairs and were delighted that Cloutard and Phoebe were the first to arrive. The two lovebirds were truly adorable.

“Alors, mon ami. Since I know you have no idea about wine, I took the liberty of bringing a basic supply of absolute essentials for your wine cellar. When we come to visit, you must at least have the most important things in the house.” He held up a box containing four bottles. Tom looked at him in surprise. “The remaining two hundred bottles will be delivered tomorrow,” Cloutard said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

While Hellen put the white wine bottles in the refrigerator, more guests arrived. Tom greeted Akira, Hellen’s mother Theresia, Tom’s grandfather Arthur Prey, and Eon van Rensburg, leading them into the garden where a catering company, also commissioned by the US Embassy, had set up an opulent buffet. A bar and various high tables were ready. The garden had been stylishly decorated, with strings of lights hanging in the trees and bushes, and soft music playing from the speakers. Tom himself had insisted on compiling the playlist, a homage to his time with Cobra, when he had worked as a pianist in a Viennese bar for balance. He still loved the American Songbook with its Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, George Gershwin, and Henry Mancini classics.

Cloutard suspiciously examined the offerings at the buffet as Tom escorted him, Phoebe, and the others into the garden. “I hope we are not just having burgers and spareribs. When Americans arrange the catering, that is entirely possible,” he sneered.

“Mon chérie, perhaps we should get a drink first,” said Phoebe, pulling Cloutard along and ordering two double Remy Martin Louis XIII.

The woman already has Cloutard perfectly under control, thought Tom as the doorbell rang again and he welcomed Isaac Hagen, Vittoria Arcano, and the four nuns: Lucrezia, Alfonsina, Renata, and Bartolomea.

“Signore Tom, what a magnificent house, congratulations,” said Sister Lucrezia, hugging Tom effusively. The other three nuns—who, as usual, were arranged by height, like organ pipes—followed their mother superior’s example.

Tom ducked into the kitchen and found Hellen and her mother engaged in an animated conversation.

“Coming out? Van Rensburg wants to say a few words,” said Tom.

Hellen and her mother nodded.

“Mom was just telling me what happened to her after the kidnapping in Fiji. We really should be glad that nightmare is over now.”

Theresia raised her glass of prosecco and clinked it with her daughter’s. “It could have turned out far worse,” she said. “For some reason, Noah didn’t have me killed but locked me in a storage room on the yacht. I guess he thought he might still need me to blackmail you.”

Hellen shook her head in disbelief.

“But he didn’t count on a billionaire’s persistence,” her mother continued. “After just a few hours, a SWAT team stormed the yacht on Aaron Hamblin’s orders and freed me again.”

Hellen hugged her mother. “I’m so glad nothing happened to you!”

Meanwhile, in the garden, the party was in full swing. Akira, who no longer felt quite so uncomfortable when surrounded by many people, had taken Cloutard aside.

“Honestly, François. What are you paying those Luxembourg banking guys for that vault? I hope not much, because the whole thing is a joke.”

Cloutard began to cough violently, and Phoebe was immediately at his side to pat him on the back.

“Are you all right, darling?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

“Oui, everything is fine. Akira has just mentioned that my treasures are not particularly safe in the Luxembourg private bank.”

Phoebe raised her eyebrows in surprise. “But it all seemed quite secure to me.”

“At first glance it all looks cool,” Akira explained. “But it’s completely old-school. All the data runs into a single database that I could hack with an old C64 program written in Basic. I just needed to rewrite the data, enter myself instead of François as the beneficiary, and check when you were last there so I wouldn’t run into the same employees. Child’s play!” she said proudly as she slurped her bubble tea.

Cloutard shook his head in disgust. “Crooks everywhere you look. Where is a decent thief supposed to secure his loot if not in Luxembourg? I have robbed a Swiss bank safe or two myself. They are also no challenge.” He took a large sip of Louis XIII. “But do you not also need a key and magnetic cards?” he said, hoping that at least this had posed a problem for Akira.

“Ever heard of 3D printers? I built a prototype for DARPA that can also create magnetic strips. Exactly for this kind of gig.” The pride in Akira’s voice was unmistakable.

“Merde … and what do we do now with all that stuff? It’s worth millions, you know.”

“I suggest we set up a proper vault room in your house in Tabarka. I’ll help you set it up and we’ll make it really, really, really secure. Not those kiddy safes they use in the private bank.”

“Oh, I’m already so excited about Tabarka,” said Phoebe, kissing Cloutard on the cheek.

“Signore Tom, might I have a word with you in private?” Sister Lucrezia had approached Tom and was looking at him expectantly.

“Of course,” said Tom. “Let’s go inside.”

They went up the stairs from the garden and sat down in the living room.

“I am to convey the Holy Father’s best wishes to you. He hopes for your forgiveness and also that you can leave behind the somewhat bumpy history you share.”

Tom narrowed his eyes for a moment. He knew that the current Pope had actually come to his position with the help of AF. At the same time, he was well aware that the Pope had since made several decisions that demonstrated his righteousness.

“I think we can look to the future,” said Tom. “By the way, how is Father Matthew? I hope he’s on the road to recovery.”

Sister Lucrezia’s face darkened. “Madonna mia, I thought someone had already told you,” she murmured awkwardly.

“Told me? What should someone have told me?”

“There were unforeseen complications.” She crossed herself twice. “Our dear Father Matthew passed away a few days ago. The Lord has called him home.”

Tom’s jaw dropped. “Matt is dead?”

Lucrezia nodded silently.

“But I thought everything was fine,” said Tom, dismayed. “It looked like he was going to recover.”

“The doctors thought so too. I’m afraid I don’t know any more details. I’m sorry, Signore Tom.”

Tom stared into space for a few seconds. He had gotten along well with the man, had even perceived in him a kind of kindred spirit. They hadn’t known each other very long, but Tom was saddened to hear that Father Matthew was no longer among them.

Tom sighed. “Thank you, Sister Lucrezia. As harsh as it sounds now, he gave his life for something great. I was ready to do the same.”

The sister nodded. “He is with his Creator,” she said comfortingly. Then she suddenly stood up and smoothed her habit. “Perhaps we should rejoin the others.”

“You’re right, Sister,” said Tom and followed the Mother Superior back to the garden.

Hellen came up to him and immediately saw that something was wrong. “What is it?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you later,” was all Tom said. “Let’s take care of our guests.”

CHAPTER 97

A HOSPITAL ROOM

The sterile white walls of the ultra-modern hospital ward reflected the bright light from the ceiling fixtures. The air smelled of antiseptics. It was frighteningly quiet. The only sounds came from the machines surrounding the hospital bed. Monitors beeped softly and an IV dripped fluid continuously into the patient’s veins, while other devices hummed quietly, monitoring his condition.

The man lay motionless on the cool hospital bed, his eyes fluttering open as he fought against the fog that had settled over his mind. Confusion reigned within him as disconnected memories played out like puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fit together. He tried to remember what had happened, but the recent past eluded him, hidden behind a veil that wouldn’t lift.

As his vision cleared, he noticed a figure beside his bed—a familiar face, a man in white who seemed out of place despite the clinical surroundings. He was astonished when he recognized who it was: the Pope himself. But why would the Pope be here, at his bedside?

“What …?” Matthew croaked, his voice raspy and strained.

“Hush, my son,” the Pope said gently. “You’re safe now. You’ve been through a great ordeal.”

Matthew’s thoughts searched for context as he grappled with the sight of the Pope and the fragmented memories swirling in his head.

“Your Holiness,” Matthew mumbled, his voice barely audible. “The fight for Lady Liberty … did we succeed? I was shot, but everything after that is … gone.”

In the Pope’s eyes lay a mixture of compassion and reassurance. “You fought bravely, my son. Wagner and his team succeeded, and the world is safe, thanks in part to your efforts.”

Matthew’s heart swelled with relief as he processed the Pope’s words. They had survived. They were safe. The catastrophe had been averted. And yet there was an underlying unease tingling in the back of his mind. “Thank you, Your Holiness,” he whispered, his throat constricting with emotion. “I’m glad I could help.”

A warm smile played on the Pope’s lips. “My son, you’ve done more than you realize. Your courage and faith have saved countless lives. I am deeply grateful for your sacrifice.”

As the Pope spoke, Matthew couldn’t help but feel a new sense of purpose. His fragmented memories might have left him feeling lost, but knowing that he had made a difference—that he had fought for something greater than himself—gave him the strength to battle through the persistent fog.

“There is something I must tell you, my son,” said the Pope, his tone becoming authoritative. “Brother Matthew,” he continued, his voice suddenly heavy with the weight of his words, “you were declared dead after the battle.”

For a moment, Matthew felt as if all the air had been sucked from the room. Dead? How could that be? He was there, breathing, alive. Wasn’t he?

“Declared dead?” he blurted, his pulse pounding in his ears. “But I’m here. I don’t understand.”

“Your survival borders on miraculous,” the Pope explained gently, his eyes searching Matthew’s face for understanding. “It is a sign from God. The tasks that have been determined for you by the Almighty Himself make it necessary for the world to believe that you are dead.”

Matthew felt adrenaline rushing through his body. The fog in his mind had lifted. He could well imagine what all of this might mean.

“Your Holiness,” Matthew ventured cautiously, “what tasks do you speak of?” He searched the Pope’s eyes for answers he already knew.

“Once you have recovered, you will receive a new identity. You will have taken the sacraments only in your inner being and outwardly will no longer be a priest, but able to assume any conceivable role.”

Matthew exhaled audibly and inhaled again. His entire body ached, but the adrenaline coursing through his system overshadowed everything.

“Ah, my son,” said the Pope, leaning forward with a conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes. “You are now a member of an elite organization within the Vatican that operates in secrecy to protect and defend the Church at all costs.”

The Pope paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Il sacro servizio segreto—the Holy Secret Service. A centuries-old institution, its agents are the guardians of sacred knowledge and relics but also the defenders of our faith against both worldly and spiritual threats.”

Matthew’s eyes widened, and he felt a shiver run down his spine. Being part of such a mysterious and powerful organization was both exciting and extraordinary.

“Your skills as a former Army Ranger will serve you well,” the Pope continued with conviction.

Matthew nodded, aware that his life had irrevocably changed. As a member of the servizio segreto, tasks awaited him that he couldn’t begin to imagine. Whatever lay ahead, he was ready to face it, trusting in his faith and the Pope’s guidance.

“May God be with you. Your name from now on is Gabriel. You are now one of the Lord’s new archangels. Your first mission awaits you as soon as you have recovered,” whispered the Pope. He crossed himself and left the hospital room.

CHAPTER 98

TOM AND HELLEN’S HOUSE IN THE VIENNA VINEYARDS

“Ms. Cross,” said Eon van Rensburg. “I have one more question for you.” The billionaire had carefully deflected Akira’s attempts to make conversation about Cloutard’s stolen goods.

“First, I have a question for you,” said Cloutard. “If I understood correctly, part of the Tesla formula as well as the last remnants of orichalcum were inside the Nécessaire Egg, n’est pas? It seems to make no sense at all to hide these two important things in the same place.”

Phoebe and Akira nodded.

“You’re right, Monsieur. Not only did coincidence have a hand in that, but there was also a misunderstanding. The third stone was never hidden in the egg. That information in the Pálffy files was an error. They weren’t referring to the stone, but to the orichalcum. I was searching for the eggs specifically for that reason. One of the Servants of the Ancients was Fabergé’s assistant and hid the rare metal in the egg. He assumed no one would look for it there and that it would be safe in the Tsar’s palace. No one could have predicted that the Tsars would be overthrown and the eggs scattered across the world.”

“So you knew the third stone wasn’t in it?” Phoebe asked, surprised.

Van Rensburg nodded and sipped his wine.

“But how did the formula end up in the egg?” Cloutard was confused, which in turn made him reach for his Louis XIII.

“That was the coincidence I mentioned. Tesla and Fabergé met at the 1889 Paris Exposition,” said van Rensburg.

“In his diary,” said Phoebe, “he mentioned finding a secure place for the key. I assume he sent the formula fragment to Fabergé before his death and asked him to hide it in one of his artworks.”

“He also seems to have believed that the Fabergé eggs were a perfect hiding place,” said van Rensburg.

“How do you know all this?” asked Cloutard.

“I discovered it after they released me from Bohemian Grove, all from Damjam Mandalov’s old documents, which Akira thankfully digitized. When you know what you’re looking for, everything becomes easier.”

Everyone nodded.

“But how did Mr. Wagner manage to survive this insanity?” Van Rensburg shook his head, troubled. “According to Mandalov’s records and the ritual accounts from the chronicles of the Servants of the Ancients, he shouldn’t have. And if we believe the Atlanteans, only demigods were capable of enduring something like that.”

Cloutard laughed heartily. “And we should hope that Tom is not a demigod. Please never tell him that, or he will become even more self-centered than he already is.”

“People in glass houses should get changed in the dark, François. In our little crew, when it comes to self-centeredness, I’m just an apprentice compared to you,” said Tom, who had just joined them with Hellen and Theresia.

Cloutard was about to say something, but Phoebe managed to speak first. “I’m trying to find an explanation for why you were able to survive,” she said to Tom.

Hellen snuggled a little closer to Tom, so obviously relieved that everything had worked out in the end.

“Apparently, our genius Tesla was responsible,” Phoebe went on. “The modifications to the ritual in Tesla’s formula seem to have contributed to the energy not flowing entirely through Tom’s body but finding other pathways to destroy the stones. Tom was simply the catalyst that assisted in the process. It seems Tesla deliberately designed the formula as he did. He probably wanted to increase the chances that the ritual couldn’t destroy the world again.”

“People have called me many things, but catalyst is a new one,” said Tom.

“You have learned another new word, haven’t you, mon ami?” Cloutard needled. Phoebe elbowed him in the side. Hellen couldn’t help herself and laughed. She knew this kind of situation all too well.

“I’m going to continue studying the formula. I need to know how Tesla managed it,” Phoebe assured them.

“If you need financial support,” said van Rensburg, “don’t hesitate to contact me.” Then he took a fork and tapped his champagne glass a few times. “If I could have your attention for a moment,” he said. Everyone quickly fell silent, and curious eyes turned toward the billionaire. “First of all, I’d like to thank our team for … well, how should I put it? Saving the world.”

Immediate applause erupted.

“Any further words about this would be inadequate. What the team has accomplished is indescribable.”

“Hear, hear,” said Isaac Hagen, raising his glass toward Tom, who acknowledged the gesture with a friendly nod.

“Since my collection of Fabergé eggs has now served its purpose, I’ve decided to donate it to the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, and it would be wonderful …”—Van Rensburg paused and turned toward Cloutard. The Frenchman immediately sensed where this was going and turned pale—“… if Monsieur Cloutard were to complete the collection with his specimen.”

All eyes turned expectantly to Cloutard, whose face contorted as if he had just bitten into the sourest lemon in the world. He mumbled a few incomprehensible words in French, mixing in some Italian curses. Then he audibly inhaled. “Bien sur, Monsieur van Rensburg. I would be happy to make my Fabergé egg available to the Kunsthistorisches Museum. As a permanent loan.”

He smiled broadly, but anyone who knew Cloutard could see that he was just putting on a brave face.

“But they are never getting the Cellini Salt Cellar back,” he muttered. Hellen, who heard this, shook her head reproachfully.

Applause erupted once more, and everyone raised their glasses to Cloutard. “To François,” the guests called. Cloutard half-heartedly raised his cognac glass and downed the remains of his drink in one gulp.

“Let me guess,” said Phoebe. “You want another one.”

Cloutard nodded silently while Tom patted him on the shoulder.

“Forget the stupid egg. You have her now.” He pointed to Phoebe, who had just gone back to the bar. “By the way, I received official word from the New York FBI office today that Noah is dead.”

Cloutard nodded and patted Tom on the shoulder. “As terrible as it sounds, it’s good to be rid of him, mon ami.”

“There’s more good news,” said Tom, addressing the entire party now. “The mayor of New York personally assured me that he’ll take care of the mole people. They’ll all get a chance for a fresh start: apartments, jobs, seed money. Because without them, none of us would be standing here today. To the moles,” he called.

“To the moles,” everyone joined in, and glasses clinked once again.

Afterward, Cloutard took Tom and Hellen aside. “In case you have not noticed, this thing with Phoebe and me is serious,” said Cloutard.

“Really?” said Hellen, pretending to be surprised. “I wouldn’t have noticed at all,” she joked.

Cloutard smiled awkwardly. “We want to take some time to get to know each other better. Travel the world together and see where this leads.”

Tom looked at his friend and placed his hand on his shoulder in a friendly gesture. “I’m really happy for you, my friend.”

“But it also means,” Cloutard added, “that we will not be available for any adventuring for the foreseeable future. I have already told van Rensburg he will have to do without me.”

Tom and Hellen nodded in unison. “We completely understand,” said Hellen. “We’re a bit tired too. We’re going to use the new house to catch our breath and think about what comes next.” She hugged Cloutard and kissed him on both cheeks. “I wish you all the happiness in the world,” she said and held the Frenchman tight.

“Thank you, Hellen,” Cloutard whispered, struggling not to shed a tear.

“Enough sentimentality,” said Tom. “We have other guests too.”

He took Hellen by the hand and pulled her away from Cloutard, who gratefully watched them for a few seconds.

Friends for life, Cloutard thought.

“I leave you alone for a few seconds, and already you’re being kissed by other women,” said Phoebe, pinching Cloutard’s right buttock.

“Excusez-moi, Madame,” he said playfully. “Do we know each other from somewhere?”

“Not well enough yet, but we’ll change that,” said Phoebe, linking arms with him. “I want to learn everything about you, François. Your past seems to have been quite tumultuous.”

“Cependant! It certainly was,” said Cloutard, visibly proud. The two found a spot in an arbor that stood somewhat hidden in a far corner of the large garden. Phoebe had brought two glasses, and they made themselves comfortable a bit away from the party crowd. “But I cannot tell you everything in one day. My life has been too eventful for that.”

“Ohhh, that sounds exciting. The memoirs of a gentleman thief.”

“That would make a good title for a novel series,” said Cloutard, thoughtfully swirling the cognac in front of him. “Unfortunately, writing is not really my talent.”

“Nowadays, there are solutions for everything. Many popular scientists I know have written their memoirs with a ghostwriter who took on most of the work.”

“Cela semble pourtant intéressant,” said Cloutard.

Their glasses clinked, they enjoyed the Louis XIII, and they sat for a few minutes wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, cuddling in the arbor.

“If you’d like, I can do some research and use my contacts,” Phoebe said. “Perhaps we’ll find an author who’s interested in putting your adventures on paper.”

Cloutard hummed with pleasure at the idea. “They’ would certainly become worldwide bestsellers.”

They laughed heartily and kissed. After a few minutes, they stood up and rejoined their friends, both deeply grateful that they could share these moments together.

CHAPTER 99

TOM AND HELLEN’S HOUSE IN THE VIENNA VINEYARDS

THE NEXT MORNING

Tom blinked in the bright sunlight streaming into the new bedroom. A numb feeling lingered between his ears, as if his head were stuffed with cotton. He sat up and immediately had to support his head in his hands.

Too much. Too much of everything.

Slowly, he moved his head and looked at Hellen beside him, still fast asleep. Carefully, trying not to make any noise, he got up and left the bedroom on tiptoe.

Once in the living room, he surveyed the aftermath of the previous day’s celebration. Empty wine bottles and glasses, gift wrapping and countless housewarming presents, plates with half-eaten food, and the smell of alcohol. His senses were completely overwhelmed on all levels. Nevertheless, a small smile played on his lips, and his eyes reflected the satisfaction of having spent a fun evening with friends and family. By now, he no longer found it strange how much he enjoyed the prospect of a normal life with Hellen.

As he was about to step onto the terrace for some fresh air, his gaze fell on Hellen’s smartphone vibrating on the coffee table. Curious, Tom reached for the device, wondering who might be calling so early in the morning. Almost everyone who mattered to them had been at the party the day before, and they were probably all still asleep. He glanced at the display and furrowed his brow when he read the words:

BLUE SHIELD (UNESCO)

Tom weighed whether he should answer and wake Hellen or let the call go unanswered. Hellen and her mother had turned their backs on Blue Shield, a UNESCO organization responsible for protecting cultural property worldwide, some time ago. So what could be the reason for the call?

He grabbed the phone and made his way back to their bedroom door.

“Tom? What’s going on?” asked Hellen, who had just woken up. Tom’s world suddenly lit up. This woman was his life. She was so beautiful, even after a night of partying, that sometimes he couldn’t believe she had chosen him forever.

“Uh, it’s your phone,” he said hesitantly, waiting for her permission to come in. “Blue Shield is calling.”

“Blue Shield?” Her curiosity mirrored his own.

With a nod, Tom handed her the phone and sat down beside her on the bed.

“Hello?” she said uncertainly, her heart beginning to beat a little faster.

“Ah, Dr. de Mey,” replied a severe-sounding voice on the other end of the line—a voice she didn’t recognize. “This is Dr. Archibald Graydon. I was recently appointed as the new head of Blue Shield. Forgive me for disturbing you so early.”

Hellen frowned. As the conversation continued, her expression changed. She tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Why now? What could have changed so drastically at Blue Shield that they needed to contact her?

“Doctor de Mey, are you still there?” asked Graydon, his voice breaking through her thoughts.

“Yes, I’m here,” she stammered, trying to regain her composure. A moment later, she ended the call, her face a mixture of determination and concern. Tom immediately sensed that something had happened.

“Everything okay, darling?” he asked carefully, watching as she gently placed her phone on the nightstand.

She looked up at him, her eyes searching for the right words. “It’s about my time at Blue Shield,” she began hesitantly.

Tom placed a comforting arm across her shoulders. He knew this brought up many memories for Hellen, not least about her mentor, Nikolaus Count Pálffy III.

“What about it exactly?”

Hellen bit her lip and let out a deep sigh. “It’s about some artifacts I found during my time there.”

“Artifacts?” Tom raised an eyebrow in surprise. He crossed his arms, trying to suppress his growing curiosity. “That you found while you were at Blue Shield. So, shortly after the incident with the Florentine at Schönbrunn happened and we …”

Hellen sighed again. “Yes, that was when we were apart.” She hesitated and carefully weighed her words. “I don’t know all the details yet, but …” She paused and took a deep breath to calm herself. “The new boss, this Dr. Graydon, has some questions for me.”

“You know,” Tom began, trying to lighten the mood, “you never really told me much about your time at Blue Shield. I guess we were always too busy with our own adventures.”

“Or wanted a break from them,” she added, and they both laughed.

“It was a different life, Tom. It feels like forever ago.”

“Still,” he said, genuine concern reflected in his eyes, “I want to know more about what happened back then. Maybe we’ll better understand what this Graydon might want.”

“Maybe,” Hellen agreed.

“Come on,” Tom suggested, distracting her from the stressful conversation. “Let’s have breakfast and you can tell me everything. I’m starving.”

They went to the kitchen. Tom cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them with practiced ease, while Hellen sliced bread, retrieved leftover spreads from the party from the refrigerator, and then began making pancakes. Despite the lingering tension in the air, there was something comforting in the simplicity of this shared task.

“Hey,” Tom said softly, noticing her discomfort. He reached for her and held her hand firmly. “We’re a team, remember? We just saved the world. What big thing could Blue Shield possibly want?”

Hellen squeezed his hand, her lips curving into a grateful smile.

Tom opened the terrace door, and the morning sun caressed their faces as Tom and Hellen stepped outside. The air was cool and fresh, the scent of dewy grass mingling with the aroma of their breakfast. The view over Vienna was impressive. Tom carried a tray with pancakes, scrambled eggs, bread, and spreads, while Hellen followed close behind with steaming cups of coffee and a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice.

As they made themselves comfortable, a flock of birds flew overhead, their melodious chirping underscoring the peaceful scene.

“Oh my God, this is all so cheesy,” said Hellen, and they both burst out laughing. It took a while for them to calm down. The fact that this would be their shared home still needed to sink in.

“Tom,” she began hesitantly, putting down her knife and looking into his eyes. “So back then, when I worked at Blue Shield …” She broke off, as if mentally preparing herself for the stories that would follow.

Tom leaned in closer and listened attentively as she began to tell her story.

The End of

“The Tesla Formula”

Tom, Hellen and Cloutard return in

“The Tibetan Shrine”

THE TOM WAGNER SERIES

BY ROBERTS & MACLAY

The Stone of Destiny

The Sacred Weapon

The Library of the Kings

The Invisible City

The Golden Path

The Chronicle of the Round Table

The Chalice of Eternity

The Sword of Revelation

The Lost Treasure

The Medusa Secret

The Gifts of the Three Kings

The Shadow of Nostradamus

The Tesla Formula

Coming soon

The Tibetan Shrine

The Pope's Ring

The Treasure of the Templars

THRILLED READER REVIEWS

"Suspense and entertainment! I’ve read a lot of books like this one; some better, some worse. This is one of the best books in this genre I’ve ever read. I’m really looking forward to a good sequel. "

"I just couldn’t put this book down. Full of surprising plot twists, humor, and action! "

"An explosive combination of Robert Langdon, James Bond & Indiana Jones"

"Good build-up of tension; I was always wondering what happens next. Toward the end, where the story gets more and more complex and constantly changes scenes, I was on the edge of my seat"

"Great! I read all three books in one sitting. Dan Brown better watch his back."

"The best thing about it is the basic premise, a story with historical background knowledge scattered throughout the book–never too much at one time and always supporting the plot"

"Entertaining and action-packed! The carefully thought-out story has a clear plotline, but there are a couple of unexpected twists as well. I really enjoyed it. The sections of the book are tailored to maximize the suspense, they don’t waste any time with unimportant details. The chapters are short and compact–perfect for a half-hour commute or at night before turning out the lights. Recommended to all lovers of the genre and anyone interested in getting to know it better. I’ll definitely read the sequel."

"Anyone who likes reading Dan Brown, James Rollins and Preston & Child needs to get this book."

"An exciting build-up, interesting and historically significant settings, surprising plot twists in the right places.”

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

ROBERTS & MACLAY

Roberts & Maclay have known each other for over 25 years, are good friends and have worked together on various projects.

The fact that they are now also writing thrillers together is less coincidence than fate. Talking shop about films, TV series and suspense novels has always been one of their favorite pastimes.

M.C. Roberts is the pen name of an successful entrepreneur and blogger. Adventure stories have always been his passion: after recording a number of superhero audiobooks on his father’s old tape recorder as a six-year-old, he postponed his dream of writing novels for almost 40 years, and worked as a marketing director, editor-in-chief, DJ, opera critic, communication coach, blogger, online marketer and author of trade books…but in the end, the call of adventure was too strong to ignore.

R.F. Maclay is the pen name of an outstanding graphic designer and advertising filmmaker. His international career began as an electrician’s apprentice, but he quickly realized that he was destined to work creatively. His family and friends were skeptical at first…but now, 20 years later, the passionate, self-taught graphic designer and filmmaker has delighted record labels, brand-name products and tech companies with his work, as well as making a name for himself as a commercial filmmaker and illustrator. He’s also a walking encyclopedia of film and television series.

www.RobertsMaclay.com