By Clive Cussler
An Antarctic whaler stumbles throughout an elderly wreck—her frozen group guarding a invaluable treasure.A staff of anthropologists is buried below a mountain via a planned explosion.A send that are meant to have died fifty-six years in the past reappears, and virtually sinks a countrywide Underwater and Marine enterprise ship.Dirk Pitt understands that by some means those occasions are hooked up. His investigations result in an historic secret with devastating smooth outcomes, and a diabolical enemy in contrast to any he has ever recognized. Now, he's racing to avoid wasting not just his life—but the area. The catch is determined. The clock is ticking. And just one guy stands among the earth and Armageddon...A major number of the Book-of-the-Month membership
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Additional info for Atlantis Found (Dirk Pitt, Book 15)
I shall leave you the name of my bank in Switzerland. When they tell me the first two hundred and fifty thousand dollars has been deposited, or when I am fully ready, whichever is the later, I shall move. I will not be hurried beyond my own judgement, nor will I be subject to interference. » «D'accord. But our undercover men in France are in a position to offer you considerable assistance in the way of information. » The Englishman considered this for a moment. «All right, when you are ready send me by mail a single telephone number, preferably in Paris so that I can ring that number direct from anywhere in France.
At the top he paused and glanced down the only corridor available. At the far end was room 68. He counted back down the corridor to what must be AA although the figures were out of sight. Between himself and the door of 64 was twenty feet of corridor, the walls being studded on the right by two other doors before 64, and on the left a small alcove partially curtained with red velours hanging from a cheap brass rod. He studied the alcove carefully. From beneath the curtain, which cleared the floor by four inches, the toe of a single black shoe urged slightly.
Whatever thoughts did go on behind the smoke-screen, nothing came through, and Rodin felt a worm of unease. Like all men created by systems and procedures, he did not like the unpredictable and therefore the uncontrollable. «We know who you are,» he began abruptly. «I had better introduce myself. » «I know,» said the Englishman, «you are chief of operations of the OAS. » He stared at each of the men in turn as he spoke, and reached for a cigarette. «You seem to know a lot already,» interjected Casson as the three watched the visitor light up.