The Atlantis Revelation by Thomas Greanias

the car, then talking to the Greek police as he stepped out. They were conducting a plane-to-plane search for Conrad Yeats. They were paying particular attention to her plane, no doubt courtesy of Midas. They needn’t have worried.
    Benito boarded the plane, shut the door, and sat down in the aisle across from her as the engines grew to a dull roar. They were cleared for takeoff. She held her breath while Benito solemnly fastened his seat belt and looked at her with sad, soulful eyes.
    “I’m sorry to tell you, signorina, that once again Dr. Yeats has fooled us all.”
    She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

14
    C onrad looked at himself in the broken mirror of his private compartment as the Czech-built diesel locomotive hauled the train clickety-clack across the Albanian countryside. He had boarded the train as a swarthy Mediterranean workman and would disembark as a Central European businessman in a dark Brooks Brothers suit, with lighter hair, goatee, and spectacles.
    That was assuming the train reached the end of the line. The Mother Teresa international airport in Tirana was only an hour away, but they were going less than thirty-five miles an hour.
    Conrad had escaped Corfu and crossed the Adriatic to the southern coast of Albania in under thirty minutes, all thanks to the hydrofoil Andros had provided, along with fake passports, a bag of disguises, and two untraced smartphones, a BlackBerry and an iPhone, each operating on a separate network carrier. From the beach at Durrës, he had made it to the local train station, where he first saw the news about Mercedes and his picture on all the news websites on his iPhone.
    Goddamn bastards, he thought as he gave himself a final once-over in the small mirror.
    He was thinking of Midas and the Alignment, Packard and the U.S., and even Serena and the Church. Everybody, in the end, was in bed with each other when they weren’t killing each other. Also, it bothered him to no end to see that he had better cell phone reception in Albania than he had back in the States: He had just received his electronic boarding pass from Swissair in his bogus identity’s e-mail inbox.
    He put away his makeup and glared at the only other passenger in the private compartment of this secondhand railroad car: Baron von Berg. Sitting on a torn seat, the skull taunted him with its jagged grin and the secrets it once possessed.
    It’s all in my head.
    Conrad pulled out the Glock he kept tucked inside his back waistband. Aiming the butt of the pistol like a hammer over the skull, he brought it down on the silver plate, smashing the skull to pieces. He looked at the fragments of bone scattered around the silver plate on the table.
    Nothing. The skull was indeed empty.
    Then he picked up the silver plate. He turned it over and held his breath. There was a glint of small engraving in the silver.
    “Von Berg, you crazy bastard,” Conrad said as he took a closer look at the engraving.
    It was a string of eight characters—four numbers followed by four letters: 1740 ARES.
    There it was: 1740 had to be the number of Baron von Berg’s safe deposit box in what was now Midas’s Swiss bank. And ARES had to be the combination.
    This was the four-digit code Midas was looking for.
    He had it and Midas didn’t.
    But with the Alignment, there was always more, he knew. Nothing could be taken for granted.
    Ares was the name of the ancient Greek god of war. The astral projection was the constellation Aries, the first sign of the zodiac. The planet Mars, with the Roman name of the same Greek god, had entered the sign of Aries two weeks ago on March 20, the spring equinox.
    A coincidence?
    Not for these Alignment bastards. Every day and date had some sort of bizarre meaning for them, if for nobody else.
    There was probably an astrological connection that could throw light on the baron’s 1943 plans for the Flammenschwert and Midas’s plans for it in the new millennium.
    Mercedes had said something