Текст книги "The Last Oracle (2008)"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Cyrillic.

He had to be in Russia. Despite his lack of memory, he knew he didn't belong here. His thoughts were in English. Without a British accent. That meant he had to be American, didn't it? If he could recognize all that, why couldn't he

A cascade of images suddenly blinded him, frozen snapshots of another life, popping like camera flashes in his head

a smile a kitchen with someone's back turned to him the steel head of a sharp ax flashing across blue sky lights rising from deep in dark water

Then it was gone.

His head pounded. He tried to catch himself on the stair railing and instinctively grabbed out with his stumped arm. His scarred forearm slid along the railing. He barely caught his balance. He stared down at his stump and recalled one of the flashes of memory.

the steel head of an ax flashing across blue sky.

Was that how it had happened?

Ahead, the children rushed down the stairs. Except for the youngest boy. Pyotr still held his one good hand. He stared up at Monk with eyes so blue they were almost white. Tiny fingers squeezed his own, reassuring. A gentle tug urged him onward.

He stumbled after the others.

They encountered no one on the stairs and exited out a back doorway and into a moonless, overcast night. The air had a chill to it and hung still and damp.

Monk took in deep breaths, slowing his hammering heart.

The massive hum of a generator filled the space. Monk studied the size and breadth of the hospital, sprawling out in low wings and encompassing two five-story towers.

Come. This way, Konstantin said, taking the lead now.

They hurried down a dark cobblestone alleyway between the hospital and a wall that climbed two stories on their left. Monk looked up, trying to get his bearings. A few lamps glowed beyond the wall, highlighting the tile roofs of hidden buildings. They reached a corner and slipped behind the walled enclosure.

The ground became raw rock, slippery with dew. There were no lights here on the back side. All Monk could make out was the wall they followed, built of concrete blocks. His palm ran along it as they ran. From the rough mortaring and uneven lay of the bricks, it must have been hastily constructed.

Monk heard an eerie yowl echoing over the wall. This was followed by muffled barks and stifled sharper cries.

His feet slowed. Animals. Was this some form of zoo?

As if the tall boy ahead had read his thoughts, Konstantin glanced back and mouthed the word menagerie and waved him onward.

Menagerie?

They reached the far corner, and the path sloped steeply downward from there.

From the vantage of their height, Monk stared across a bowled valley and a picturesque village of cobbled lanes and cottages with peaked roofs and flower boxes. Ornate black streetlamps flickered with gas flames. A three-story school filled one corner of the village, surrounded by ball fields and an open amphitheater. The small village clustered around a central square, where a tall fountain's spray danced and glittered.

On the far side of the village rose row after row of industrial-looking apartment buildings, each five stories, squared and laid out in a practical grid. Dark and lightless, it had a dilapidated, deserted feeling to it.

Unlike the village below.

People milled in confusion below. Shouts echoed. He saw children gathered in nightclothes, mingling with adults, some similarly attired, woken from their beds. Others wore gray uniforms and stiff-brimmed hats. Flashlights danced through the narrow streets.

Something had roused the place.

He heard names called, some beckoning, some angry.

Konstantin! Pyotr! Kiska!

The children.

A flaming red flare arced upward from the town center, lighting up the sleepy little village, laying stark the buildings beyond, dancing fire over the concrete walls and hollow-eyed windows.

Monk's gaze tracked the flare as it reached its zenith, popped out a tiny parachute, and floated downward.

Monk's attention remained above.

The sky it wasn't just moonless.

It wasn't there at all.

The ruddy glow of the flare revealed a massive dome of rock, stretching overhead in all directions, swallowing up the entire place. Monk gaped, stumbling around in a stunned circle.

They hadn't made it outside.

They were inside a giant cavern.

Possibly man-made from the blasted look of the roof and walls.

He stared down at the perfect little village, preserved in the cavern like a ship in a bottle. But there was no time for further sightseeing.

Konstantin tugged him down behind a limestone outcropping. A trio of jeeps quietly hummed up a steep road toward them, passed them, and headed toward the hospital complex. The vehicles appeared to be electric-powered and were manned by men in uniforms, bearing guns.

Not good.

Once the jeeps were out of sight, Konstantin pointed away from the village, toward the darkness of the deeper cavern. They traversed the rocky landscape and came upon a thin path, seldom used from the looks of it.

They skirted the subterranean village, sticking to the upper slopes of the cavern. Monk noted a yawning tunnel on the far side, lit by electric lights, sealed by giant metal doors wide enough that two cement trucks could have entered, side by side. It marked a roadway that exited the cavern.

But the children led him in the opposite direction.

Where were they taking him?

Behind, a loud alarm erupted, deafening as an air raid siren in the enclosed space. All four of them turned. A red light flashed and whirled atop the hospital complex.

The villagers had come to realize another truth.

It wasn't just the children who had gone missing.

Monk attempted to herd the kids down the path, but the loud noise had incapacitated them. They covered their ears and squeezed their eyes shut. Kiska looked sick to her stomach. Konstantin was on his knees, rocking. Pyotr hugged tight to Monk.

Hypersensitive.

Still, Monk urged them onward, carrying Pyotr, half dragging Kiska.

Monk glanced back toward the flashing siren. He may have lost his memory or more precisely, had it forcibly extracted but he knew one thing for dead certain.

He would lose much more than his memory if caught again.

And he feared the children would suffer even worse.

They had to keep going but to where?

6

September 6, 5:22 A. M.

Kiev, Ukraine

Nicolas Solokov waited for the cameras to be set up. He had already been prepped and still wore a collar of tissue paper tucked into his white starched shirt to keep the makeup's cake from staining his shirt and midnight blue suit. He had retreated for a private moment of introspection into one of the back hospital wards. The international news crews were still preparing for the morning broadcast out on the steps of the orphanage.

In the back ward of the Kiev Children's Home, sunlight streamed through high windows. A single nurse moved quietly among the beds. Here the worst cases were hidden away: a two-year-old girl with an inoperable thyroid tumor in her throat, a ten-year-old boy with a swollen head from hydrocephalus, another younger boy whose eyes were dulled by severe mental retardation. This last boy was strapped down, all four limbs.

The nurse, a squarish Ukrainian matron in a blue smock, noted his attention.

So he doesn't hurt himself, Senator, she explained, her eyes exhausted from seeing too much suffering.

But there had been worse cases. In 1993, a baby had been born in Moldova with two heads, two hearts, two spinal cords, but only one set of limbs. There was another child whose brain was born outside his skull.

All the legacy of Chernobyl.

In spring of 1986, reactor number four of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant had exploded during the middle of the night. Over the course of ten days, it spewed radiation that was the equivalent of four hundred Hiroshima bombs in a plume that circled the globe. To date, according to the Russian Academy of Medical

Sciences, over one hundred thousand people had died from radiation exposure and another seven million were exposed, most of them children, leaving an ongoing legacy of cancers and genetic abnormalities.

And now the second wave of the tragedy was beginning, where those who had been exposed at a young age were having children themselves. A 30 percent increase in birth defects had been reported.

For that reason, the volatile and charismatic leader of the lower house of the

Russian parliament had come here. Nicolas's own district of Chelyabinsk lay a thousand miles away, but it had similar concerns. In the Ural Mountains of his district, most of the fuel for Chernobyl had been mined, along with the plutonium for the Soviet weapons program. It remained one of the most radioactive places on the planet.

They're ready for you, Senator, his aide said behind him.

He turned to face her.

Elena Ozerov, a trim raven-haired woman in her early twenties with a smoky complexion, wore a black business suit that hid her small breasts and turned her into something androgynously asexual. She was stern, taciturn, and always at his side. The press referred to her as Nicolas's Rasputin, which he did not discourage.

It all went along with his political plan to be seen as the bold reformer, while simultaneously harkening back to the former czarist glory of the old Russian

Empire. Even his namesake, Nicolas II, the last czar of the Romanov dynasty, had been imprisoned and killed in Yekaterinburg, where Nicolas was born. While the czar had been a failed leader during his life, after his death he had been canonized by the Russian Orthodox Church. The bishops built the gold-domed

Cathedral of the Blood over the home where the family had been murdered. The construction marked a symbolic rebirth of the Romanovs.

Some claimed the forty-one-year-old Senator Nicolas Solokov, with his lankish black hair and curled short beard, was the czar himself reborn.

He encouraged such comparisons.

As Russia sought to rise again on shaky legs burdened by debt and poverty, rife with graft and corruption it needed a new leader for this new millennium.

Nicolas intended to be that leader.

And much more.

He allowed Elena to pinch away the ring of tissue paper from around his neck.

She looked him up and down, then nodded her approval.

Nicolas stepped toward the lights waiting for him outside.

He pushed through the doors, followed circumspectly by Elena. The podium sat up at the top of the stairs, framed with the name of the orphanage behind him.

He marched to the bristle of microphones at the podium and held an arm high against the barrage of questions. He heard one reporter shout a question about his former ties to the KGB, another about his family's financial connections to the vast mining operations out in the Ural Mountains. As he rose in power, so did the voices of those who sought to pull him down.

Ignoring the questions, he set his own agenda.

Leaning toward the microphones, he let his voice boom out over the nattering questions. It is time to shut these doors! he shouted, pointing back toward the entrance to the orphanage behind him. The children of the Ukraine, of

Belarus, of all of Mother Russia, have suffered from the sins of our past. Never again!

Nicolas let his anger ring out. He knew how it looked on camera. The hard face of reform and outrage. He continued his impassioned plea for a new vision of

Russia, a call for action, a call to look forward while not forgetting the past.

Two days from now, the number four reactor at Chernobyl will be sealed under a new steel dome. The new Sarcophagus will mark the end of a tragedy and be forever a memorial to all the men and women who gave their lives to protect not only our Motherland, but also the world. Firemen who stood firm with their hoses while radiation burned away their futures. Pilots who risked the toxic plume to haul in concrete and supplies. Miners who came from across the country to help build the first shield to entomb the reactor. These glorious men and women, fierce with nationalistic pride, are the true heart of Russia! Let us never forget them, nor their sacrifice!

The crowd behind the reporters had grown as Nicolas spoke. He was heartened by the cheers and claps as he paused.

This was the first of many speeches he would be giving, leading up to the ceremony at Chernobyl itself, where the new Sarcophagus would be rolled over the toxic core of the dead reactor. The original concrete shield was already crumbling, meant only as a short-term fix, and that was twenty years ago. The new Sarcophagus weighed eighteen thousand tons and stood half as tall as the

Eiffel Tower. It was the largest movable structure on the planet.

Other politicians were already capitalizing on the event with similar events and speeches. But Nicolas had been the loudest and most vocal, a champion for nuclear reform, for cleaning up the radiological hotbeds around the country.

Many sought to stifle his rhetoric due to the extreme cost. Members of his own parliament ridiculed and lambasted him in the press.

But Nicolas knew he was right.

As they all would see one day.

And mark my words! he continued. While we put an end to one chapter of our history, I fear we've only put our finger in a hole in the dike. Our nuclear past is not done with us yet nor the world. When such a time comes, I hope we all prove to have the same stout hearts as those brave men and women who gave up their futures on that tragic day. So let us not squander the gift they've given us. Let us bring about a new Renaissance! From fire, a new world can be born.

He knew his eyes glinted as he spoke these last words. It was the slogan of his reform.

A new Renaissance.

A Russian Renaissance.

All it needed was a little push in the right direction.

Elena leaned toward him, touched his elbow, wanting a word. He tilted toward her as the crack of a rifle blasted from the park across the street. From the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of muzzle fire a fraction of a second before something ripped past his ear.

Sniper.

Assassin.

Elena pulled him down behind the podium as cries and screams erupted from the crowd. Chaos ruled for a breath. Nicolas used the moment to brush his lips across Elena's. His hand combed through her long hair; one finger traced the curve of cold surgical steel that hugged the back of her ear.

He whispered into their kiss.

That went well.

10:25 P. M.

Washington, D. C.

Painter joined Gray near the front entry and stared at the video feed. He studied the guards held at gunpoint.

The shadowy man on the stoop called through the door, as if sensing their presence. We mean no harm, he said, his accent sharp, marking him as Eastern

European.

Painter stared at the stranger on the screen. Then to the girl who stood beside him, holding the stranger's hand. She was staring straight into the hidden camera.

The man called again. We are allies of Archibald Polk! He sounded unsure of himself, as if he didn't know if those in the house would know what that meant.

We don't have much time!

Elizabeth hovered behind Painter. They shared a look. If there were to be any answers about the fate of her father, a risk had to be taken. But not too large of a risk. Painter hit the intercom button and spoke into it.

If you are allies, then you'll free our men and drop your weapons.

The man on the porch shook his head. Not until you prove you can be trusted. We have risked much to bring the girl here. Exposed ourselves.

Painter glanced to Gray. He shrugged.

We'll let you inside, Painter said. But only you and the girl.

And I will keep your men out here to ensure our safety.

Kowalski grumbled next to them. One big happy family.

Painter motioned Gray to take Elizabeth around the corner.

Painter kept his body to the side of the door. Kowalski flanked the other side, standing in his stockings. The large man raised his only weapon: the shoe in his hand.

That would have to do.

Painter undid the bolt and cracked the door open. The stranger lifted his palm to show it was empty. The girl held his other hand. She appeared no older than ten, dark-haired in a checkered gray-and-black dress. The man had an olive complexion with a heavy five-o'clock shadow. Maybe Egyptian or Arabic. His eyes, so brown they appeared black in the porch light, smoldered with wary threat. He wore jeans and a dark crimson Windbreaker.

The stranger turned his head, but his gaze never wavered from the open doorway.

He barked to his men. Painter didn't understand the language, but from the tones it sounded like a command to stay alert.

He's a Gypsy, Kowalski mumbled.

Painter glanced to the large man.

Had a family down the street from mine. Kowalski thumbed at the stranger.

That was Romani he was speaking.

He is right, the stranger said. My name is Luca Hearn.

Painter pulled the doorway wider and motioned the man inside.

The stranger stepped across the threshold cautiously, but he nodded a greeting to Painter and Kowalski. Sastimos.

Nais tuke, Kowalski answered. But just so you know, that's about all the

Romani language I remember.

Painter led Luca and the child back to the main living room. She moved with a slight tremble to her limbs. Her face gleamed with a feverish cast to it.

Luca noted Gray to the side, holding a pistol.

Painter waved for Gray to holster the weapon. He sensed no direct threat from the man. Only an unwavering caution.

Elizabeth stepped forward. You mentioned my father.

Luca crinkled his brow, not understanding.

Painter explained, She is Archibald Polk's daughter.

His eyes widened. He bowed his head in her direction. I am sorry for your loss.

He was a great man.

What do you know about my father? she asked. Who is this girl?

The child pulled free of the man's hand and crossed to the table. She sat down on her knees next to it and rocked back and forth.

The girl? Luca said. I don't know. A mystery. I received a message from your father. A frantic voice mail. It was chaotic, spoken in a rush. He ordered us to buy a dozen Cobra Marine receivers from Radio Shack and to tune them to a certain wavelength. He sounded crazy, babbling off numbers. He wanted us to stake out the national Mall. To watch for a package that set off the receivers.

Package? Painter asked.

Luca glanced down to the child. Her.

The girl? Elizabeth asked, shocked. Why?

Luca shook his head. We owed your father. We did as he asked. We were even on the Mall when he was shot, though we didn't know it was your father until later.

But we did pick up the trail of the child.

Painter studied the girl. There must be a bug, a microtransmitter somewhere on her person.

We followed her to the zoo, where we were able to collect her without anyone knowing.

You kidnapped her? Painter asked.

He shrugged. The last words on the message were to steal the package and bring it to something or someone named Sigma.

His words jolted Painter.

The message cut off abruptly, the Gypsy said, with no further direction or explanation. Once we had the girl, we had to move fast. We feared others would come looking for her. Someone able to track her like we did. Especially with an

Amber Alert raised across the district. But we had no idea what the professor meant by Sigma. As we raced around, trying to figure it out, the girl began to draw furiously.

He pointed to the child, who had gained her feet and walked to a blank wall. She bore a piece of charcoal from the fireplace in her fingers and drew on the wall in a haphazard manner, jerkily, starting in one place, then moving to another.

She wouldn't stop, Luca continued. She drew a silhouette of a park with trees and a picture of Rock Creek bridge. He nodded out the window. Then after that, a house, set in the same woods. We had to circle the entire park, looking for it, believing it was important. By the time we found this place, she had drawn the picture that I slid under the door.

Luca stared at them. A picture of all of you. Friends and family of Dr. Polk.

So I must ask you, do you know this Sigma?

Painter slipped out a glossy black identification card. It had his photograph fixed with the presidential seal. Etched into its surface was a holographic

Greek letter.

Luca examined it, angling it to study the holograph. His eyes widened as he recognized it.

While they had talked, Gray had crossed to the girl. He sat on his haunches, studying the girl's work. He rubbed his chin. Something had drawn his attention.

Gray lifted a finger, half hidden between his knees, like a catcher signaling a pitcher. He pointed toward the girl.

Her face shone brighter. Her head lolled slightly to one side. Her eyes were open, but they were not following the path of her scrabbling piece of charcoal.

As disturbing as her manner was, it was not what Gray had indicated.

Painter had noted it, too. Her hair, damp with fever sweat, had parted slightly behind her ear. A glint of steel shone through. The shape was unmistakably the same as the device attached to the strange skull.

Only here it was on a living subject.

What had Archibald delivered to them?

As Painter's mind spun on possibilities, Elizabeth hung farther back in the room. She pointed toward the wall. Come see this, she said, her voice quavering with an edge of fear.

Painter retreated to her side. She pointed to the artwork forming on the wall.

From this far away, what looked like mindless scribbles had begun to take form.

He watched the transformation unfold over the course of four long silent minutes.

Elizabeth stuttered her amazement. That's that's

the Taj Mahal, Painter finished.

In the silent wonder that followed, a distant sound reached them.

whump, whump

A helicopter, flying low, coming closer.

Gray straightened and reached for the girl. Someone's found us!

6:02 A. M.

Kiev, Ukraine

Nicolas rolled off of Elena and onto his back.

The hotel room fan cooled his sweating body. His lower back ached and his shoulders bore deep scratches that still burned. Elena rolled smoothly to her feet, with an easy swing of her hair, tangled to midback. The curving rise and fall of her buttocks as she strode toward the shower came close to arousing him again. He stirred, but he knew he had another interview in a half hour.

News of the failed assassination had already spread far and wide. He would be on every international newscast. He'd already learned that the sniper, shot by the police, had died before reaching the hospital.

With the death, no one would suspect that it had all been preplanned. Even the sniper a mine worker from Polevskoy whose brother had been killed in an industrial accident last year never knew how artfully he'd been manipulated into the assassination scheme.

It had all unfolded with technical precision. Elena had timed her touch perfectly. A skill of hers. When primed, she could calculate probabilities to the nth degree. Her statistical analyses of business spreadsheets rivaled the world's best economists. And having studied the technical specifications on most pistols and light arms, she had only to see how a weapon was held and pointed to calculate its precise trajectory.

Trusting this, he had put his life in her hands this morning.

And survived.

At that moment, behind the podium, he'd never felt such a total lack of control, his very survival at the mercy of another. After a lifetime of control, to release that grip even for a moment had quickened his pulse. Afterward, he could not return to the hotel fast enough.

Elena stepped wet from her shower and leaned naked in the doorway. The lust in her eyes slowly died trailing the last spark of erotic stimulation from her augment's neural array. The fiery lioness was becoming a sleepy kitten. Still,

Nicolas studied that last ember of fire an arousing blend of need and hatred but even that would fade to a simple cold obedience.

Such stimulation of her implant was necessary not only to make the coupling intense, but also to trigger the proper physiological response to increase the chance of fertilization. Nicolas had read the studies. And his mother wanted children from him, even approved of the union of Nicolas and Elena. It was a perfect match: his will and her cold calculation.

Nicolas had done his best to make his mother happy this morning.

And he had the bruises and scratches to prove it.

However, his mother might not have approved of him allowing Elena to tie him to the bedposts and whip his thighs with a scrub brush. But as his mother always told him when he was growing up:

The ends always justifies the means.

Ever practical, his mother.

The phone rang at his bedside table. Elena strode over, answered it, then held the receiver out for him.

General-Major Savina Martov, Elena said formally, gone cold again. For the senator.

He took the receiver with a sigh. As usual, the woman's timing was impeccable.

She must have heard about the failed assassination attempt. She would want a full debriefing and must have wondered why he hadn't already reported in. The schedule in the next days would tighten to an unbreakable knot at both their ends leading up to the formal sealing of Chernobyl. Nothing could go wrong.

Nicolas shifted his weight off his bruised buttock with a wince.

The caller spoke before he could. We have a problem, Nicolas.

He sighed. What is it, Mother?

10:50 P. M.

Washington, D. C.

Gray cradled the girl in his arms and hurried across the front yard. The crisp

September night contrasted with the feverish heat of the child. He felt the burn of her skin through his shirt. Her fever had spiked while laboring on her artwork. She had collapsed when Gray had pulled the charcoal from her fingers.

She was conscious, but her eyes stared blankly, and her limbs were oddly stiff and wooden, as if he were carrying a life-size doll. Her waxy features heightened the comparison.

Gray touched her face, noting the fine delicacy of her tiny eyelashes.

Who could do this to a child?

They had to get her to safety.

Out in the yard, Gray searched the skies. A single black helicopter military design swept low down the street. Another idled higher at the other end of the block. And a third circled the park behind them.

Triangulating in on their position.

Their sedan still stood in the driveway. Luca and his men had three identical

Ford SUVs parked down the street. The Gypsy clan leader had already gathered his men. He barked orders in Romani and pointed his arms out in various directions, instructing them to split up. Three men took off on foot toward the park, where they would divide again. Another two ran across the street and disappeared between two houses. A dog barked at their passage.

Ahead, Kowalski marched with Elizabeth toward the Lincoln Town Car in the driveway. She had her cell phone to her ear.

Painter headed toward a small car parked at the curb, a Toyota Yaris that belonged to one of the security guards. Gray followed him. The guard was already behind the wheel after being freed by Luca's men.

Painter opened the backseat and turned to Gray and held out his arms. Gray passed him the child.

She's burning up, Gray said.

He nodded. Once safe, we'll get her medical attention. I've already called Kat and Lisa to report to command.

Lisa was Dr. Lisa Cummings, an experienced medical doctor with a PhD in physiology. She was also the director's girlfriend. Captain Kat Bryant was

Sigma's expert in intelligence services and coordination. She would oversee the field operation.

But first, Painter said, his eyes on the skies as he ducked into the backseat with the child, we have to break this cordon.

Off to the side, one of the Ford SUVs shot straight down the street with its headlights off; the other swung sharply around and flew in the opposite direction, zipping past Painter's idling Toyota.

Let's hope this works, Gray said.

Before leaving, Painter had Luca bring in one of the Cobra receivers that they'd used to track the girl at the national Mall. As the director had hoped, the devices were actually transceivers capable of both receiving and transmitting.

Painter had showed Luca how to switch the radios from receiving a specific signal to broadcasting it. Luca had all his men do the same. They were now scattering in all directions, transmitting the girl's signature signal, creating a dozen different trails to follow and most likely broadcasting louder than the girl's small microtransmitter. Under the cover of such confusion, Painter hoped to escape with the girl to the subterranean bunkers of Sigma's central command.

There, he could isolate her signal and protect her.

Gray stepped in the other direction, toward the waiting Town Car. Kowalski already was revving the engine, impatient. They were headed for Reagan

International Airport. Gray pictured the charcoal sketch of the Taj Mahal. The famous mausoleum was located in India, the very country where Dr. Polk had last been seen. Even before the girl's arrival, Gray had decided to extend the investigation to India, to follow Dr. Polk's trail out there. The mysterious drawing only added to his determination.

In India, there remained one person who could cast a better light on Archibald

Polk's research and his whereabouts prior to his disappearance.

Elizabeth stood by the open door, studying the skies nervously. She clicked her cell phone closed as Gray reached her side.

I was able to reach Dr. Masterson, she said. My father's colleague at the university of Mumbai. But he wasn't in Mumbai. He was in Agra.

Agra? Gray asked.

The city in India where the Taj Mahal is located. He was there when I called.

At the site.

Gray stared over at the Toyota as it swung from the curb and glided down the streets. What is going on?

Overhead, the helicopters wavered. The birds began to drift in opposite directions, drawn off by decoys.

Gray tried one last time. Elizabeth, you would be safer staying here.

No, I'm coming with you. As you'll find out, Dr. Masterson is not the most forthcoming. But he knows me. He's expecting me. To get the professor's cooperation, I'll need to be there.

Elizabeth's gaze met Gray's. He read a mix of emotions in her face: determination, fear, and a bone-deep grief.

He was my father, she said. I have to go.