The Midas Legacy (Wilde/Chase 12) Read Free Page A

annoyance, her husband was aboard the submersible . . . despite not especially wanting to go.
    ‘Wish you’d kept up your dive certification,’ said Eddie Chase over the comm system, his deep voice with its broad Yorkshire accent reverberating inside his spherical acrylic helmet. ‘Then you could be freezing your bum off down here while I sit around drinking coffee in a nice comfy chair.’
    ‘You remember what the IHA’s office chairs are like, right?’ Nina replied, a little tersely. ‘And, y’know, having a baby kind of affected our priorities. You missed those new Star Wars movies; I didn’t qualify to use a new version of a deep submergence suit. Not that I needed some certificate when I was running the IHA,’ she added, with a glance at the man beside her. ‘I just learned how to use the thing, then used it.’
    Dr Lester Blumberg peered over his horn-rimmed glasses with a patronising smile. ‘Yes, but we’re a lot less – how shall I put it? – improvisational now than when you were in charge, Nina. Everyone needs proper training and certification for any IHA operation. Health and safety, you know.’
    ‘Yeah, I know.’ Nina’s own smile was decidedly lacking in both humour and warmth. After her resignation almost four years previously, the post of director of the IHA had eventually been filled by the Minnesotan. Blumberg would not have even made it on to her shortlist, as she considered him merely competent at best – safe and unimaginative, a plodder – but she’d had no say in his appointment.
    She turned her attention back to the screens. The main display showed a pilot’s-eye view of the submersible’s voyage, but one of the smaller monitors flanking it had an angle on one of its passengers, standing on a landing skid: Eddie. ‘How much further?’ he asked.
    An Australian voice came over the comm. ‘Be there in about three minutes,’ said the couple’s friend Matt Trulli from inside the sub. It could accommodate three, but today he was the only person in the cabin, making it far less cramped than normal.
    The two men holding on to its hull had no such luxuries. On the other skid was a second diver, Nerio Cellini. The Italian was only young, in his mid-twenties, but already had years of experience of underwater exploration. His enthusiasm made Nina nostalgic for when she had been filled with the same youthful vigour, and also a little jealous of it.
    ‘I see the site,’ Cellini reported.
    Nina looked back at the main monitor. The blue-green lasers used to pierce the water’s murky cloak had the side effect of leaching away all colour except an eerie turquoise, but a small patch of white faded into sight at the screen’s centre. ‘That’s it?’ she asked Blumberg.
    ‘That’s it,’ he replied. ‘The Temple of Poseidon.’
    The glow came from powerful spotlights standing on the roof of a massive structure rising from the sea floor. Even in ruins, the centrepiece of the lost city was still awe-inspiring. When Nina had first discovered it, the great temple had been largely buried by silt. Most of the surrounding sediment had since been cleared, but the building itself had suffered massive damage when her survey ship was deliberately scuttled and smashed down on top of it. Some of the RV Evenor ’s remains were still in place, the wreck too big and costly to remove entirely. But parts had been cut away to give access to what remained of the temple.
    The submersible approached the northern end of the huge vaulted ruin. The lights encircled an area where the damaged roof had been carefully opened up. Beneath it was the altar room, not merely a place of religious importance, but also an archive: the entire history of the Atlantean civilisation was recorded within, scribed into the sheets of gold alloy covering the walls. Some had been lost when the ceiling collapsed, but others were still intact, including an account of the doomed civilisation’s last hours.
    It was a different