The Last Odyssey: A Thriller

by James Rollins

  The plane reached the coast and dropped lower.

  Acres of ancient walls and foundations came into view below, further solidifying her conviction.

  She knew this place.

  It’s the ruins of Troy.

  She glanced back to the woman, to Bint Mūsā, this Daughter of Moses. Dark eyes studied Elena in turn.

  What the hell is going on?

  10

  June 22, 11:08 A.M. EDT

  Washington, D.C.

  Gray dropped back into the leather chair in front of the director’s desk. “We’d better find his daughter.”

  Senator Kent Cargill had just left, escorted by Kat.

  Painter remained standing, his expression pained. “Agreed. We don’t need to make an enemy of this man, especially if he ends up in the White House.”

  The director had spent the past forty minutes updating the senator on their search efforts and the plans going forward, involving intelligence and policing agencies around the world. Cargill took in these details, asked pertinent questions, and offered his resources as head of the Committee on Foreign Relations in the Senate.

  Gray had simply listened, letting these two men discuss everything. He had expected the panicked father—a senator surely used to getting his way—to throw his weight around, to butt heads with the director, to make demands. And certainly, Cargill’s eyes were haunted, his lips drawn and pale with worry, but the man stayed on task, perhaps knowing that the best chance to recover his daughter would not be served by bluster and threats.

  Gray tried to imagine how he’d act if someone kidnapped Jack. I’d be knocking walls down. Considering the senator’s judicious calm in the face of such a crisis, he would make a great president. There was steel in his spine, and he had a mind as sharp as a bear trap.

  As to Sigma’s culpability in involving his daughter, he readily acknowledged his daughter was headstrong and as passionate about her work as he was. There was even a glimmer of interest when Painter told him about the ancient dhow discovered buried in the ice of Greenland, a discovery that could prove Arab explorers reached the New World centuries before the Vikings.

  Cargill had shaken his head upon hearing all of this and admitted with a sniff of amusement: Once Elena caught wind of this, you couldn’t have kept my daughter away.

  Now that matters had been resolved with mutual respect, Painter rounded his desk and returned to his chair. He sank down and stared pointedly at Gray. “As you can see, we definitely need our best people on this case.”

  Gray understood the implied request and hoped that description still applied to him.

  “But I’m not the only one who would like to enlist your help,” Painter said, reminding Gray about their earlier discussion.

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “I told you before that the photos taken by the geologist were distributed to his employers and likely spread far and wide.”

  “Reaching the wrong eyes. Got it. But what did you mean by these images reaching the right ones? You mentioned another agency getting wind of all of this. Who?”

  Before Painter could answer, Kat knocked on the door frame behind him and entered. “Now that our esteemed guest is gone,” she said, “I’ve reestablished the videoconference call.”

  She crossed around to Painter’s computer and raised a questioning eyebrow at the director, who nodded permission for her to use his desktop. She typed rapidly, and the flat-screen behind him flickered, an image juddered, then firmed into the features of a man. The figure appeared to be leaning on a desk, his face near the webcam on his end.

  His green eyes twinkled with amusement. He wiped a fall of black hair aside, a match to his priestly frock. The white of his Roman collar flashed on the screen.

  It was Finn Bailey—Father Finn Bailey.

  Gray immediately understood who had requested his involvement.

  “I see our prodigal son has returned,” the priest said with a distinct Irish brogue, clearly having a full view of Painter’s office on his screen. “Welcome back, Commander Pierce.”

  Gray ignored Bailey and turned to Painter. “The other entity that heard about the discovery, that saw the geologist’s photos . . . it was the Vatican.”

  “Not in its entirety,” Bailey answered from the screen. “Only those of us in its intelligenza.”

  Gray sensed a much larger story about to unfold. Few were aware that the Vatican had its own intelligence agency, its own spy network. For decades—if not centuries—it secretly sent out operatives to infiltrate hate groups, secret societies, hostile countries, wherever the concerns of the Vatican were threatened. Basically, they were James Bonds in clerical collars—but without the license to kill.

  Gray’s history with this organization went back eleven years, when he’d first met Monsignor Vigor Verona, a former member of the intelligenza, an honorable man who would go on to save Gray’s life and whose niece had once captured his heart. Both were now gone, sacrificing themselves to save the world.

  Just seeing Father Bailey woke that old pain. The priest—who was no older than Gray—had been a former student of Monsignor Verona at the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology in Rome and eventually recruited into the Vatican’s intelligenza. Due to this past connection to his dear friend, Gray was willing to hear this priest out, but a part of him still found the man grating, too full of himself, too assured that he filled out the shoes of his former mentor.

  Never, Gray thought. You’ll never be Vigor.

  Aloud, he asked, “What does any of this have to do with the Vatican?”

  “Ah,” Bailey said, “that’s a long story, one too long to relate at the moment. I think it’s best if we start with the present. A week ago, our organization was alerted to a set of photos circulating about a discovery in Greenland. We recognized the importance of this find, specifically the gold map and silver astrolabe, and how it tied to a mystery going back centuries here at the Vatican.”

  “What mystery?” Gray asked.

  Bailey raised a hand. “Suffice it to say, we wished to have the discovery authenticated and the treasure brought here. That was our priority, but as you can imagine, there are not a lot of Catholic churches in Greenland, let alone a member of our intelligenza.”

  “So they asked for our help,” Painter filled in.

  “We believed this matter needed to be addressed quickly,” Bailey explained, “especially as word was likely to spread.”

  Kat straightened up from the computer. “Which tragically proved to be the case.”

  “Do you know anything about the ones who stole the map?” Gray asked. “Who kidnapped Dr. Elena Cargill?”

  “Unfortunately, we do not. But we do know those thieves were not entirely successful in their pillaging of the site.”

  Gray frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Painter answered, “The climatologist on site, Douglas MacNab, was able to secure the spherical astrolabe after it was accidentally dislodged from the map. The man said the group that attacked them wanted it, called it the Daedalus Key.”

  The Daedalus Key?

  “We don’t know why they call it that,” Bailey admitted. “But one of our members—a colleague at the Pontifical Institute of Christian Archaeology—is familiar with such devices, these spherical astrolabes. They are a rarity. And we can guess why those thieves wanted it so desperately.”

  “Why?” Gray asked.

  “I’ll let the monsignor explain.”

  Bailey reached forward to his keyboard, and the webcam image widened, revealing a figure standing to his left. Gray stiffened in his seat. His reaction was not only because Bailey had failed to mention anyone else was in the room, listening in on the conversation. It again went to this priest’s brash nature.

  Even Painter looked perturbed. Kat simply went cold-eyed.

  Gray leaned forward, doing his best to cover his initial shock. Maybe it was Bailey’s use of the title monsignor. But for the briefest moment, Gray thought it
was Vigor Verona standing there, some ghostly apparition, but as the man stepped closer, Gray recognized it was only a resemblance. The monsignor wore the same formalwear of his station. He was also roughly the same age as Vigor had been—maybe late sixties, early seventies—with a similar fringe of gray hair framing his bald tonsure.

  “This is Monsignor Sebastian Roe, a professor at the university and a longtime member of our intelligenza. You may speak freely in front of him.”

  Like we had any choice prior to this moment.

  The monsignor took Bailey’s place and smiled shyly. “From your expressions, I see Father Bailey had not informed you all of my presence.” He cast a scolding look at the priest. “I think I remember someone once telling me that young men think old men fools, and old men know young men to be.”

  Gray could not help but smile. The guy even talked like Vigor.

  Monsignor Roe turned his attention back to those on his screen. “You’ll also have to forgive if I’m a bit didactic. I’ve been teaching for four decades and I think I can’t help it when I’m speaking to a group.”

  He cleared his throat and began to explain. “To understand the importance of what was secured from that frozen ship, you must first understand its rarity. No one knows who invented the first astrolabe, a device that’s part cosmic map and part analog computer, capable of determining the position of stars and constellations, the rising and setting of the sun, even nautical directions. But most believe the first astrolabe was invented by the Greeks during the second century B.C. Maybe by Apollonius or Hipparchus.”

  Roe waved this last detail aside. “Anyway, it was a crude version. Later, astrolabes were refined to their finest form in the Middle East during the Islamic Golden Age. Still, even then, these astrolabes were flat, planar in nature. Let me show you.”

  He tapped at the keyboard, and a window popped up in one corner of the screen, showing a gilded flat plate covered in hands, dials, and inscriptions.

  Purchased with Enhanced License from Shutterstock

  Royalty-free stock photo ID: 709354966

  By Sergey Melnikov

  https://www.shutterstock.com/image-photo/astrolabe-ancient-astronomical-device-determining-coordinates-709354966?src=w7dOmCYc8q2SFe537erF1Q-1-0

  “This is how all astrolabes looked up until the ninth century. Then the first spherical astrolabe was invented, likely by Al-Nayrizi, a Muslim mathematician. But to this day, only a single example of such a device has ever been found. It sits at the History of Science Museum at Oxford University.”

  He reached and clicked again to bring up the image of a tarnished brass globe engraved with symbols, Arabic numbers, constellations, and all encircled by arched arms and etched bands.

  © History of Science Museum, University of Oxford, inventory #49687

  “This artifact dates back to the fifteenth century, to the Middle Ages, and was likely made in Syria. But it’s what’s written on the bottom that is the most intriguing.” He brought up an image of the lower half of the globe, where faint inscriptions could be seen.

  © History of Science Museum, University of Oxford, inventory #49687

  “What’s written here reads The Work of Mūsã.”

  Gray stood up to get a closer look. “Mūsã? Is that the name of the artist?”

  Roe seemed to stare straight at Gray from the screen. “So it has been believed, but I think if you read deep into the history of—”

  Bailey stepped forward and cut him off. “Like I mentioned, let’s return to what’s going on today before we get too lost in the past.”

  Gray narrowed his eyes, sensing Bailey was keeping something significant up the sleeves of his priestly frock.

  “What was recovered in Greenland,” Bailey continued, “is only the second such astrolabe ever found. That alone makes it valuable, but it is also a significant cog in the mechanical map that was taken from that ship. It is in fact its key. That’s why we requested it be brought to Rome for any chance of knowing what it portends, where it might point to.”

  Painter stood and stepped over to the map of Greenland, where an ongoing search for the missing submarine continued, depicted in real time. He pointed out the single red V that had veered off from the others and headed east across the Atlantic.

  “Kowalski, Maria, and Dr. MacNab are aboard this Poseidon jet. They’re already on their way to bring the artifact to the Vatican.”

  “We’d like you to join us here, Commander Pierce,” Bailey said. “That silver astrolabe is only the first piece of a larger puzzle, but some pieces are still missing. We could use your unique insight to help us pull it all together.”

  Now it’s beginning to make sense.

  Gray knew he had been recruited into Sigma for this very talent, far more than for his military prowess. While growing up, Gray had always been pulled between opposites. His mother had taught at a Catholic high school, but she was also an accomplished biologist. His father was a Welshman living in Texas, a roughneck oilman disabled in midlife and forced to assume the role of a housewife. It was maybe this upbringing that made him look at things differently, to try to balance extremes. Or maybe it was something genetic, ingrained in his DNA, that allowed him to see patterns that no one else could.

  This is why Bailey asked for me.

  “Before I agree to travel to Rome,” Gray said, “you seem to have some general sense of where this map leads. I want to know.”

  Bailey’s eyes sparkled brighter. “Surely you’ve already figured that out, Commander Pierce. Otherwise, maybe it’s best if you stay home.”

  Gray wondered if it was a mortal sin to punch a priest, but Bailey was right. He already had a good idea. “That ship was carrying a cargo beyond comprehension,” he said. “Something horrific, fueled by a volatile radioactive compound—”

  Roe nodded. “We’ve discussed it. We believe it’s a form of Greek fi—”

  Bailey lifted a hand. “Let’s not interrupt Commander Pierce’s assessment.”

  Roe shook his head, clearly growing as irritated with the young upstart as Gray was, but the monsignor simply crossed his arms.

  Gray continued: “The mechanical map must have been engineered to act as some sort of navigational tool. To lead to the source of the ship’s deadly cargo.”

  Bailey’s smile widened. “Precisely. And as a way to lure you away from your parental responsibilities, I will tell you the name of that source.”

  Gray let out an exasperated sigh, growing tired of this game of secrets. “What is it?”

  “The map’s builders named the place Tartarus.”

  Painter frowned. “Tartarus? As in the Greek version of Hell?”

  Gray remembered the director’s description of what had been unleashed from that ship’s hold. The name was certainly apt.

  Bailey nodded. “But keep in mind that Tartarus was not only the Greek’s abyss of torment and suffering. It was also the corner of Hades where the Titans were imprisoned. The monstrous gods who preceded the Olympians. Creatures of immense power, beings of fire and destruction.”

  The priest let this description hang in the air.

  Kat turned to Painter. “Whether metaphorical or not, this unknown site is clearly a cache of some unknown fuel source, not to mention diabolical weapons. If Father Bailey’s colleagues in the intelligenza know of this place, then whoever kidnapped Elena Cargill—who seems to know far more about this than anyone—must also be aware of this legend.”

  Gray nodded. “They intend to find that place and plunder its resources.”

  Painter turned to him. “We can’t let that happen.”

  “Which is why we’d like Commander Pierce to join us in Rome,” Bailey said. “I suspect time is of the essence. Especially, as Captain Bryant has so wisely stated, our unknown enemy is already better informed than we are.”

  Painter stared at Gray.

  “Before I agree to go,” Gray said, “there’s someone I have to consult with first.”

  And she’s not going
to be happy.

  12:33 P.M.

  Takoma Park, Maryland

  Seichan cursed as she fit the shield over her left breast. Should’ve bought a double pump. She shifted in the kitchen chair, her back supported by a pillow. She had fed Jack an hour ago and put him down for a noon nap in his crib, but she knew he could wake at any moment.

  While Jack slept, she stared at a series of digital photos as they slowly faded from one to another to another in an electronic frame: Jack as a newborn with a hospital bonnet on his head, then a month later in a sailor onesie, another with a grin that filled his entire face, then in the arms of Gray, who wore a proud papa expression.

  A warmth spread through her, and she switched sides.

  Another image appeared: Gray in swim trunks, lifting a giggling Jack from a baby pool in the backyard. She stared at his muscular physique, the flash of his ice-blue eyes in the sunlight, the wet mop of his dark hair. She loved Jack dearly, achingly so, but she also recognized that parental responsibilities, not to mention sleep deprivation, had diminished the level of intimacy between her and Gray. But, of course, Jack’s addition had also added a lot to their relationship, too.

  She knew all too well that life was evolution; romantic bonds changed over time. If they didn’t, stagnation could kill a relationship as surely as any infidelity.

  As one image faded to the next, she remembered when she and Gray had first met. It had been in a biological research lab in Fort Detrick. She had shot him. She clearly remembered that moment, but it now felt like a different person had pulled that trigger. It felt like watching a movie versus a real event in her own life.

  Back then, she had been an assassin with a terrorist organization. She had eventually betrayed them and helped bring the group down. Afterward, alone and abandoned, she found a refuge with Sigma, then a home with Gray.

  Still, she could not discount the fact that a hard core existed within herself, one that persisted, one she could not deny. From a young age, she had been brutalized into a killer. A part of her still craved that adrenaline spike in her blood.