Atlantis Found by Clive Cussler Read Free Book Online

inscriptions is Dr. Jerry Kidd at Stanford. He wasn’t available, but recommended you highly to take his place.”
    Ambrose turned, as the outside doors to the luggage drop were opened and the terminal ticket ladies who doubled as luggage handlers began throwing suitcases onto a sloping metal tray. “The big green one is mine,” said Pat, thankful a man was there to tote her fifty-pound bag, which was packed with reference books.
    Ambrose grunted but said nothing as he manhandled the heavy bag out to a Jeep Cherokee that he’d parked in the lot outside the terminal. Pat hesitated, before entering the car, to absorb the magnificent view of the pine and aspen forests ascending the slopes of Mount Wilson and Sunshine Peak across the valley. As she stood enthralled with the panoramic scene, Ambrose took a moment to study her. Pat’s hair was a radiant red and cascaded to her waist. Her eyes were a sage green. She stood as if sculptured by an artist, her weight on her right leg with her left knee turned slightly inward. Her shoulders and arms suggested a build more muscular than most women’s, no doubt fashioned by long hours of exercise in a gym. Ambrose guessed her height at five feet eight inches, her weight at a solid 135 pounds. She was a pretty woman, not cute or strikingly beautiful, but he imagined she’d look very desirable when dressed in something more alluring than jeans and a mannish leather jacket.
    Dr. Kidd claimed there was no better person than Patricia O’Connell to decipher ancient writings. He had faxed her history, and Ambrose was impressed. Thirty-five years old, with a doctorate in ancient languages from St. Andrews College in Scotland, she taught early linguistics at the University of Pennsylvania. Pat had written three well-received books on inscriptions she had deciphered on stones found in different parts of the world. Married and divorced from an attorney, she supported a young daughter of fourteen. A confirmed diffusionist, one who embraced the theory that cultures spread from one to another without being independently created, she firmly believed ancient seafarers had visited American shores many hundreds of years before Columbus.
    “I’ve put you up at a nice bed-and-breakfast in town,” said Ambrose. “If you wish, I can drop you off for an hour or so to freshen up.”
    “No, thank you,” Pat said, smiling. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go straight to the site.”
    Ambrose nodded, took a cellular phone from a coat pocket, and dialed a number. “I’ll let Luis Marquez, the owner of the mine, who made the discovery, know that we’re coming.”
    They drove in silence through the heart of Telluride. Pat stared up at the ski slopes of Mountain Village to the south and saw skiers assaulting the steep moguls on the run that dropped to the edge of town. They passed old buildings that had been preserved over the past century, restored and now housing retail stores instead of a sea of saloons. Ambrose pointed to a building on his left. “That’s the spot where Butch Cassidy robbed his first bank.”
    “Telluride must have a rich history.”
    “It does,” replied Ambrose. “Right there in front of the Sheridan Hotel is where William Jennings Bryan gave his famous ‘cross of gold’ speech. And farther up the South Fork Valley was the world’s first generating plant, which produced alternating-current electricity for the mines. The plant’s equipment was designed by Nikola Tesla.”
    Ambrose continued through the town of Telluride, busy with the invasion of skiers, and drove into the box canyon to where the paved road ended at Pandora. Pat stared in wonder at the steep cliffs surrounding the old mining town, taking in the beauty of Bridal Veil Falls, which was beginning to cascade with the runoff from the melting snow brought on by the prelude of a warm spring.
    They came to a side road that led to the ruins of several old buildings. A van and a Jeep painted a bright turquoise