The Atlantis Plague (The Origin Mystery, #2)(104)

Kate nodded, but didn’t elaborate. “David, something is happening to me. It’s hard to concentrate. There’s something else. Dorian was there—”

“Here—”

“No. He was there in the past. I think he has the memories of another Atlantean, a soldier named Ares who came to Earth after the science expedition.”

David stood there, stunned for a moment.

“How?”

“He was on the expedition, in Gibraltar. The tubes were reprogrammed to his radiation signature. When Dorian was put in there after the Spanish flu outbreak, he must have awakened with the memories, the same way I got the scientist’s memories.”

“Incredible,” David whispered. A new kind of fear slowly surrounded him, setting in slowly. Dorian had knowledge of the past, possibly even more than Kate. That gave him a tactical advantage.

“What’s your plan, David?”

David snapped back to the moment, to the dimly lit stone tunnel. “We find whatever is down here, see if we can use it to find a cure, then get the hell out of here.”

“The others?”

“One of them is a killer and a traitor. We leave them down here. We have to put some distance between us. It’s the only way to secure you.”





Kate followed David through the tunnel.

The catacombs reminded her of the stone passages Martin had led her through below Marbella. In fact, the small town of Rabat itself reminded her a great deal of Marbella: both of them had Muslim and Christian influences and deserted Mediterranean stone streets.

Kate felt as though a memory were just out of reach—the conclusion of her old life, the balance of the truth of what had happened at Gibraltar. Yet she felt like if she allowed it to come in, the last of her would flow out. And she would lose David. To her, the memory uncovered was the greatest enemy down here, but she knew David was right: a killer lurked in one of the other tunnels.





CHAPTER 85


CDC

Atlanta, Georgia


Dr. Paul Brenner slowly opened the door to his nephew’s private hospital room.

The boy lay still. Panic ran through Paul.

A second passed, and Matthew’s chest rose slightly.

A breath.

Paul gently pulled the door closed.

“Uncle Paul!” Matthew called as he rolled over and coughed.

“Hey, Matt. I was just checking on you.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“Your mother’s… still helping me with something.”

“When can I see her?”

Paul froze, not sure what to say. “Soon,” he mumbled absently.

Matthew sat up and broke into another fit of coughing, spraying tiny specks of blood onto his hand.

Paul stared at the droplets of blood that slowly began to flow across the boy’s hand, coalescing into small ravines of red.

Matthew eyed it, then wiped his hand on his shirt.

Paul grabbed his arm. “Don’t wipe it—just… wait, I’m going to get a nurse.” He rose and fled the room. He heard Matthew call to him, but Paul was already out of the room, walking quickly. He couldn’t watch, couldn’t stay in the room another second. I’m finally breaking, losing it, he thought.

He wanted to go to his office, lock the door, and wait until the whole thing, the whole world was over.

His assistant rose at the sight of him. “Dr. Brenner, you have a message—”

He waved his hand at her as he quickly paced past. “No messages, Clara.”

“It’s from the World Health Organization,” she said. She held up two pieces of paper. “And another from British intelligence.”

Paul snatched the pages out of her hand and read them quickly. Then he read them again. He turned and stumbled into his office, his eyes still on the pages. What does it mean?

He closed the door and quickly dialed Kate Warner. The sat phone didn’t ring. Straight to voicemail. Was it off? Out of reception?

“Kate, it’s Paul. Uh, Brenner.” Of course she knew which “Paul.” Somehow even leaving a message for Kate Warner made him nervous. “Look, I heard from my contact at WHO. It seems there’s no record of a Dr. Arthur Janus. And I also heard from British intelligence. They have no agents named Adam Shaw. They even checked the classified records.” He paused, not sure what to add. “I hope you’re okay, Kate.”





Dorian slammed the helicopter door and watched the hordes of swarming people grow smaller as he and his special ops team rose above Valletta.

“What’s our destination, sir?” the pilot called back to him.

Dorian pulled out his phone. No messages.

“They went west,” he shouted. “We’ll have to look for their helicopter. Try the cities first.”





In the catacombs of St. Paul, below the city of Rabat, Kamau walked in front of Janus. The tall African led the way with an assault rifle. The beam from the flashlight he’d strapped to the gun barely illuminated the wide tunnel. The glow from the lantern Janus carried behind him didn’t help much.

“Where are you from, Mr. Kamau?” Janus asked quietly.

Kamau hesitated, then said, “Africa.”

“What part?”

Another pause, as if Kamau didn’t want to answer. “Kenya, outside Nairobi. Now we should—”