Many days were taken up with the investigation of Lightning Communications. It was incorporated in Greece, with a registered address in Athens. Georg and I took swift action, hiring legal firms and private investigators. What they were able to discover was infuriatingly minimal. The company itself was inactive (and has been for the last decade). Accounts are nonetheless filed each year, showing no income or expenditure.

As for Kreeg himself, the teams have established that Eszu now resides in a large, gated compound at the edge of the city. I have been sent blurry photos on the rare occasions he is seen leaving, and there is no doubt in my mind that it is the man who has tried to end my life on several occasions. During the past ten years, since I last wrote in this diary, Kreeg has made no attempt to contact me, or, as far as we are able to ascertain, attempted to seek me out. He merely stays in his enormous estate, keeping himself very much to himself.

As the years have passed, and my team have observed Kreeg’s movements, my initial panic turned to unease, which turned to confusion, and a decade later, I have found solace in knowing exactly where he is on the globe. We discovered that he had married an incredibly wealthy Greek woman named Ira, who inherited her money from an ex-husband, an oil tycoon. Ira Eszu died last year, in 1973, during the birth of the couple’s only child. Records state that Ira was born in 1927, making her forty-five years old. It was no surprise, therefore, that there were complications during the birth.

Nonetheless, the baby boy lived. His name has been registered as Zed Eszu. We continue to monitor the situation closely.

Perhaps it will please you to know that Evelyn’s granddaughter, Marina, did eventually reach out to me. Nearly two years after I had left Paris, Georg patched her call through to Atlantis. I listened with concern as she explained a run-in she had suffered with an aggressive ‘client’ at Le Lézard which had caused her to flee the Rue Saint-Denis. I assured her that I would have money wired to her immediately, but she would not accept it. Rather, she asked if I was able to provide her with some work, so that she might both leave Paris and pay her way without assistance. I invited her to Atlantis and offered her the position of housekeeper. It was inevitably a dull affair, with just me rattling around the place. Marina dutifully vacuumed and ironed for a time, but I could tell she was unfulfilled.

‘I miss the children, Atlas,’ she confided in me over a glass of Provençal rosé one evening.

I asked Georg if he could help Marina to secure some part-time work in his old school, and that he should offer a donation from me as an incentive. I have found that young Monsieur Hoffman trips over himself when it comes to doing anything for Marina. He looks at her like a puppy looks at its master: dedicatedly, obediently, adoringly. Needless to say, Georg ensured that he was successful in his venture. For the last few years, Marina has run after-school clubs for children in Geneva whose parents work late. She is loved dearly by all who attend.

Marina resides in the Pavilion here at Atlantis, and continues to run the main house as a means of thanks. She cooks for me, cleans, and generally keeps my domestic life ticking over. Her company has come to mean a great deal to me over the years. There is nothing which she does not now know about my life, and vice versa. I have told her about my origins, my search for Elle, and the reason I fear Kreeg Eszu. Along with Georg, the three of us have become a bizarre little family unit, which I treasure.

Speaking of family units, the dedicated reader of this diary will recall that I was entrusted with looking in on the Aires-Cabrals of Rio de Janeiro. Laurent Brouilly sadly died only a few weeks after I visited in Montparnasse. I was determined not to let him down.

As the years passed, Laurent’s granddaughter – Cristina – became ever more troubled. Our Brazilian team informed us that she put her parents through hell. As a teenager, she began to frequent some of the seedier bars in Rio, and fell in with a bad crowd. I was faxed police reports filed against her, which ended in Cristina being returned to her parents drunk and dishevelled. She was eventually expelled from school, and started spending vast amounts of time in the city’s favelas. The law firm guessed that she had become addicted to some sort of drug.

Eventually, the team in Rio informed us that Cristina had stopped coming back to the family home in any capacity, electing to live her life up in Rio’s hills. It was soon established that there was a young man in a favela whom she had fallen in love with. That, I thought, might have been that. Both Beatriz and Cristina were free of one another, and could live out their lives without the burden of causing the other pain. That was until we received a photograph of Cristina, taken on a long lens. She was sat on a dirty street, stroking a dog. The most notable thing about the image was the size of Cristina’s belly. She was clearly pregnant.

Yesterday morning, I received a frantic call from Georg.

‘Atlas, there is something you should know.’

‘Go on, Georg.’

‘Cristina has given birth early. As far as we can tell, she didn’t even attend a hospital. The child was born on the streets of the favela.’

‘Goodness. We must help her out of the favela immediately. It’s no environment for a newborn. Could you have the Brazilian team find a suitable property we can rent for them?’

Georg sighed. ‘There’s more. I’m told that Cristina has taken the baby to an orphanage. Apparently, she simply left her and ran.’

My head whirled as I contemplated my next move. This fresh new life had just been handed the cruellest possible start to existence. ‘I think we should contact Beatriz. Let her know that she has a granddaughter. I’m sure she would be overjoyed.’

‘I do not doubt it, Atlas, but it is my job to remain practical and remind you of the consequences of such a course of action.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Firstly, Cristina is deeply unstable. You know that she had a falling out with her parents. Apparently, she stole her mother’s jewellery to fund her narcotics habit – which itself has only deepened her neurological problems. I worry that if she were to one day discover that her mother had taken her child, she might . . .’

‘I understand what you’re saying. It might not be safe for the baby. Imagine if one day Cristina turned up and tried to reclaim her child because it suited her.’ I began to pace frantically around my office. ‘Plus, if I contact Beatriz, it will raise questions about her lineage which I swore never to reveal.’

Georg spoke solemnly. ‘It is difficult to know how to advise you. I can attempt to locate a suitable family in Brazil that might take her in. But it won’t be easy. The orphanages in Rio are full of newborns from the favelas. Most struggle to find permanent families.’

I shuddered as I thought of Elle in the Apprentis d’Auteuil, unable to find a family. My heart broke into pieces all over again. Inaction was unacceptable. ‘No, Georg, I need to take personal responsibility for the baby. I will find her someone.’ I looked out onto the lake, which shimmered in the morning sun. ‘We’ll bring her back here to Geneva, and I will find her a suitable family. Just as I did for you. I want to fly tonight.’

‘I will arrange the ticket,’ Georg confirmed.

‘Tickets, plural. Marina should accompany me. I don’t know the first thing about babies. And do whatever is necessary to ensure we can collect the child as soon as possible.’

Within two hours, Marina and I were on my personal jet to Paris’s new Charles de Gaulle airport, where we boarded the jumbo to Rio. My travelling companion’s jaw positively dropped as we approached the Boeing 747 on the tarmac. ‘Are you sure this thing will fly, chéri?! It is bigger than the Arc de Triomphe!’

‘I assure you, I have flown in the belly of this bird many times, and she has never failed to get me to my destination in one piece. Plus, we’re going to be travelling in the first-class cabin. You’ll hardly even notice that you are in the air.’

During the flight, I told Marina stories of my childhood, and the kindness both her grandmother Evelyn and Laurent Brouilly had shown me.

‘How long do you think the little bébé will be with us?’ Marina asked. In the years she had been in my employ, I had never seen her so excited.

‘Until I can find her a suitable home. It could take a few weeks. Perhaps a month.’ She struggled to suppress a smile.

Upon landing, we were met by a representative of the legal team I had hired in Rio de Janeiro, who escorted us to the Copacabana Palace Hotel. It cut an impressive figure on the Avenida Atlântica, towering over Rio’s most famous beach. The exterior reminded me a little of the Presidential White House in the United States. I did not doubt that the elegant, air-conditioned lobby would prove quite a contrast to the favela we were due to visit tomorrow.

‘I am very glad to say that all has been arranged, sir,’ said Fernando, the lawyer. ‘We are a highly respected firm here in the city, and as such, your documentation, alongside our recommendation, have been sufficient for the director of the orphanage to quickly accept your application to foster. To be frank, it is a struggle for many children to find homes, and they will be grateful for the space.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, the orphanage is expecting you tomorrow, and you will be free to leave with the child.’

‘Thank you for your assistance, Fernando. And please extend my appreciation to the entire team for the stalwart job you have done for me during the last decade.’

‘I shall, Mr Tanit.’ He bowed and walked out of the lobby.

That afternoon, Marina led me around the sticky streets of Rio, as she tracked down babygros, bottles, formula, muslin cloths, and all that we would need to return the child to Europe. I followed her around cluelessly, providing the funds for whatever she decreed was required. The mission was so exhausting that despite the significant jet lag I was experiencing, I slept like a baby that night, the sound of the ocean waves from the open window lulling me into a deep slumber.

The next morning, Marina and I took a cab to the Rocinha favela. The driver was reticent about taking tourists into the enormous urbanised slum, but I assured him I knew the risks.

‘Look,’ he remarked a few minutes into the journey. The driver pointed upwards to Corcovado mountain – on which a familiar white statue stood, arms open wide, embracing the city. ‘There is our Cristo Redentor. Perhaps you have seen him in photographs before now.’

I gave a smile and replied, ‘Yes.’ I gazed up at Landowski’s pale, elegantly sculpted figure, who seemed to be hovering amidst the clouds like an angelic apparition. Even though I had seen him up close in the Parisian atelier, the reality was breathtaking. Laying eyes on my old friend in his permanent home, I found myself overwhelmed by surges of pride and awe.

As we drove higher up into the hills, concrete and brick were replaced by wood and corrugated metal. Unsettling-looking liquid flowed in the cramped streets, with most of the settlement seeming to lack even basic sanitation. After a fifteen-minute drive – for that is all it took for opulence to become poverty – we were greeted outside the orphanage by an exhausted-looking woman. She had dark rings under her eyes, and her shirt was covered in stains of various colours and sizes.

‘Baby? Europa?’ She asked as we approached.

‘Yes . . . sí,’ I replied.

She nodded, taking a moment to look us up and down. Seemingly satisfied, she invited us in. ‘Okay. Come.’

We were led inside a rudimentary building. The floors and walls were concrete, and the atmosphere was dark and dingy. In truth, the place reminded me a little of a prison. We followed the woman through a second door, and I was shocked by the sight that greeted us. Thirty or more children of different ages were crammed into a single room. Overwhelmed staff were struggling to remain calm in the heat of the day, berated by a cacophony of screaming and crying. To my eye, the main issue appeared to be that there were simply not enough toys to go around.

‘Mon dieu,’ Marina breathed. ‘Poor, poor children.’

As we walked through the room, dozens of wide eyes followed us. I am ashamed to say that I tried not to meet their gaze, for fear that my heart would simply break in two. It had been over forty years since I had set foot in an orphanage. I had, naively, assumed that conditions would be better after all this time. More money, more resources, more knowledge . . . more love. But here, in the middle of Rio, it saddened me immeasurably to see that things were even worse than they had been in the Apprentis D’Auteuil forty years ago.

Marina and I were taken into a separate room which housed approximately ten babies. It was staffed by one woman, who was attempting to make sure each child was adequately swaddled. We were led to a crib at the end of the room.

‘You baby,’ said the lady we had been following.

Marina and I peered down into the cot. I was taken aback by the shock of dark hair on top of the child’s head, alongside the pair of huge, startled eyes which blinked at the two new faces they were observing for the first time.

‘Oh, bonjour, little girl, bonjour!’ said Marina. ‘Or should I say olá? Look at her eyes, Atlas. They are enormous! And so open for one so young.’

‘She looks like her great-grandmother,’ I said, honestly.

‘Really? How beautiful.’ The lady gestured to the baby, and Marina gently took her in her arms.

We walked back through the overcrowded room. Just as we were about to leave, the lady clapped her hands, as if remembering something. ‘Um momento, por favor!’ She ran back through the door.

The baby began to cry, and what started as an uncomfortable gurgle soon turned into full-on bawling. ‘Oh, shhh, chérie, all will be well, I promise.’

‘Do you need a bottle, Marina?’ I hurriedly dived into the leather satchel that was slung over my shoulder.

‘I actually feel a little faint,’ Marina said. ‘It’s the heat and the sight of all those darling children. Would you mind taking her a moment?’

‘Oh, I haven’t held a baby for many years. I’m not sure . . .’

‘It’s very easy, everyone can do it. Here . . .’ Marina gently passed the child to me. ‘Be careful of her head. Rest it still on your elbow. There we are.’ She quickly made her way to the sole, rusty chair in the corner of the room.

I looked down at the baby, who stared up into my eyes. Out of some sort of primal paternal instinct, I naturally began to rock her back and forth. To my surprise, the little girl stopped crying, and her face wrinkled itself into a gaze of bizarre contentment.

‘There you are, Atlas. You’re a natural,’ Marina said with a wink whilst fanning herself vigorously.

‘She is very beautiful,’ I replied.

The lady returned, clutching something in her hand which looked like a pendant. She tried to give it to me, but as a novice baby holder, I simply shuffled awkwardly. Marina valiantly stood up and walked over to claim it.

‘What is this?’ she asked me. I looked vacantly back at the woman.

‘For baby. From mama,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ I replied, understanding. ‘Thank you. Obrigado.’ Marina slid the pendant into my back pocket. ‘We’ll leave now. Goodbye.’

The woman nodded at us again. ‘Take good care. Please.’ She put her hands together in a pleading gesture.

‘I promise, we will.’

Our time in Rio was all too short, and before the day was over, the three of us were back in the first-class cabin of the jumbo jet. Marina cradled the baby, who had slept contentedly in her arms for the majority of the afternoon. As we climbed into the Brazilian sky, I had a thought.

‘Marina . . . is it our responsibility to name her?’

She sighed, and gave me a weary smile. ‘I am not sure. This whole thing has been such a whirlwind that I have not even considered it.’

About an hour into the flight, just as the cabin lights had been dimmed for passengers to get some sleep, the baby began to become unsettled, no doubt because of the discomfort of cabin pressurisation. As I shifted in my seat, I felt the pendant in my pocket. I reached inside and pulled it out.

It really was the most amazing piece. I examined the central gem’s opalescent hue, admiring its blueish, billowy glow. I was almost certain it was a moonstone. The gems have acquired a certain amount of romantic lore about them, much like their namesake, becoming associated with love and protection. Without warning, a lump arrived in my throat at the thought of Cristina leaving the necklace with her child as a link to her past.

Despite Marina’s best attempts to feed, rock and coo, the baby’s screams were becoming louder and louder. Even with all her experience, Ma was looking somewhat frazzled.

‘Shall I have a go?’ I offered.

‘Please,’ she replied.

I stood up, and Ma passed her to me. ‘Come on, little one. It’s all right. I was nervous the first time I flew on an aeroplane, too.’ I left first class, and walked her to the back of the aircraft. Gladly, she responded positively to the motion and the change of scenery. When we reached the rear of the 747, some of the stewardesses were preparing coffees in a dimly lit crew area. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ a young blonde girl replied. ‘Aw, look at her! She’s adorable.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, returning her smile.

‘It’s so nice to see a father helping with the newborns. Most just turn their noses up and wait until they can move themselves about.’ The stewardess leant over to gaze at the baby’s face. ‘Look at the way she stares at you. She loves her daddy so much.’

When she had finished fussing over my ward, I returned to the front of the aircraft with a quiet, if very awake, baby. I noticed that Marina had curled herself up and was snoozing happily in her seat. I certainly didn’t blame her. The last two days had been positively draining, physically and mentally. I gingerly stepped over her and shuffled back into my own seat, before looking down at the child.

‘Now then, we’re both going to be very quiet, so that Marina can have a sleep. Is that agreeable to you?’ I whispered. The baby blinked pointedly, and I chuckled. ‘Good girl.’ I had become aware of the sense of peace that holding the baby was giving me. The little bundle represented new beginnings, hope, opportunity . . . I wished for her an existence filled with love and joy. She gurgled at me. ‘Shh, shh, little one,’ I whispered.

Facing a long ten hours ahead, I looked around me for inspiration, and my gaze landed on the window to my left. The moon was shining brightly onto the clouds below, filling the sky with a brilliant luminescence. ‘Shall I tell you the story of the stars, little girl?’ I gently shifted her head from my left elbow to my right, so that she was angled towards the window. ‘There are more stars in the sky than grains of sand on all the world’s beaches. I have always found that impossible to believe, but it is the truth. Since I was a boy, I have been fascinated with the infinite constellations, each one a symbol of possibility. You see, little one, stars are the givers of life. They provide light and warmth in the lonely dark sky.’ The baby began to blink more slowly, my voice having the desired soothing effect. ‘But there is one constellation out there which I find to be more magical than all the others combined, called the Pleiades. The story goes that there were seven sisters. Their father Atlas – with whom I share a name – was a Titan commanded by Zeus to hold up the earth. The sisters, though very different, lived happily together on the fresh new earth in its earliest days. But, after a chance meeting with the brutal hunter Orion, the girls became the objects of his relentless pursuit. So the sisters fled to the sky itself. You can see them tonight, look!’ I bent my head to peer up at the heavens from the bottom of the small plane window and managed to sneak a view of my eternal companions. ‘For my entire life, I have looked up at them for comfort and guidance. They are my protectors and my guiding lights. It is interesting that Maia appears brightest tonight. They say she used to outshine her sisters every night, but then, one day, Alcyone grew brighter. Actually, “Maia” means “Great One” in some translations. She was even seen by the Romans as their spring goddess, which is why our fifth month is known as “May”.’ I looked down at the baby, who had fallen asleep in my arms. ‘Oh, did I bore you, little one?’ I chuckled.

‘Perhaps, chéri, but you did not bore me.’ I turned around to see Marina gazing at me from the next-door seat.

‘I do apologise, Marina. I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘I was just dozing.’ She glanced down at the baby. ‘My goodness. You really do have the magic touch. She loves you.’

A smile crossed my lips. ‘Do you think?’

‘I know, chéri. You have saved her from a difficult and sorry existence.’

‘We both have.’

Marina smiled. ‘You took on the duty of observing her family for years, and then sprang into action when someone faced danger. I do not know of anyone who would do what you have done. You are incredible, Atlas.’

‘Thank you, Marina. That is generous of you to say.’

She looked past me and out of the window. ‘Earlier, you asked me if it was our responsibility to name her. I think you already know what she is called.’ She pointed out of the window to the moonlit landscape.

‘Maia . . .’ I replied.