Read The Atlantis Stone for Free Online

Yeltsin scanned the list, looking for something to tell him where Sokolov's letter had ended up. He'd expected to find a residence, not an office building.
    "Can I help you?" the guard called across the lobby.
    "No thank you." Yeltsin's English was perfect. "I think I have the wrong building."
    Yeltsin had an eidetic memory. One glance at the list was enough to imprint it firmly in his mind. He went back outside and got into the car.
    "Well?" Vasily asked.
    "Quiet. Let me think for a moment."
    What stood out on the list? There had been several lawyers. If the letter had gone to one of them, it was going to be difficult to discover which was the correct target. A business consulting firm was listed but that didn't seem to fit. The top floor of the building was given over to an entertainment and booking agency.
    "Go back to the hotel," Yeltsin said.
    Back in his room, Yeltsin got out a laptop computer and began researching the names and firms on the list. It didn't take long to find what he was looking for.
    "Clever old bastard."
    "Major?" Viktor was confused.
    "Sokolov sent the letter to a booking agency that handles entertainers and speakers. The woman probably uses the agency as a cut out to keep her address private."
    "Why would she use a booking agency?"
    "Because she is a well-known lecturer," Yeltsin said.
    He turned the computer toward Viktor. Selena's picture and academic resumé showed on the screen.
    "Her specialty is extinct languages. It explains why Sokolov would send the picture to her. He would want to know about the parts of the inscription he couldn't understand. He thought she'd be able to translate it"
    "What do you want to do?" Vasily asked.
    "Tonight we come back. The woman's address will be in a file in that office. Once we have that, the rest is simple."
    Late in the evening of the same day, Michael Daly was still at his desk. Daly owned the booking agency that handled Selena's professional correspondence. At the moment, he was thinking that being the boss of a successful company wasn't always what it was cracked up to be. Today he'd had to soothe the egos of a B-list male film actor, cancel the next tour stop for a troupe of Mexican acrobats and placate an annoying Harvard professor. He was checking the final details for the acrobats' new itinerary when he heard the elevator stop at his floor.
    Who the hell is that at this time of night? he thought. How did they get past the security desk?
    He picked up his phone and called downstairs. Security didn't answer, which was odd. Daly was a veteran of Afghanistan. All at once he felt the odd sensation at the base of his skull that warned of danger. He hadn't had that feeling for a long time, not since Helmland Province. It made him wish he had a gun.
    The District of Columbia had rigid gun laws that made it impossible to get a carry permit. Inside the Beltway nobody had guns except the bad guys and the cops. Daly had a pistol at home in his Alexandria apartment, but it wasn't much good to him at the moment.
    This is foolish. Nobody's coming in that door with an AK or a grenade. Get hold of yourself.
    That was when Yeltsin came through the door, a Makarov 10 mm pistol in his hand. Daly's mind went into overdrive.
    shit what can I use I need a weapon he's got a suppressor on that piece three is too many
    "Who the hell are you?"
    "Be quiet," Yeltsin said. "Put your hands on top of the desk where I can see them. Cooperate, and you won't be hurt."
    "What do you want? There's no cash here."
    Viktor and Vasily moved to stand on each side of Daly's chair.
    "I don't want cash," Yeltsin said. "Only information. Put your hands on the desk."
    Yeltsin gestured with the pistol. Daly put his hands out on the desk.
    "Okay. What information?"
    "You received a package from Amsterdam recently. Don't lie. I can see you did in your eyes."
    "No. I never received such a package."
    "Viktor," Yeltsin said.
    For a big man, Viktor moved with the swiftness of a striking snake. He grabbed