The Last Odyssey: A Thriller

by James Rollins

  He might have made it, except that another lumber truck came barreling out of the storm at them. It purposely jackknifed across the road, blocking their escape. But not before a black SUV sped around it and raced to close the distance.

  Goddamned bastards had backup upon backup.

  “We’re not getting out of this,” Maria called from the back.

  Like hell.

  He swerved off the road and bounced headlong into an open field. Unfortunately, the heavy downpour had turned the fallow field into a muddy bog. Kowalski fought the Rover as best he could on its three good tires, but halfway across the field, it became mired in the mud, wheels spinning uselessly.

  Kowalski swore and checked the rearview mirror. The other SUV had fared no better, even worse in fact. It had made the mistake of attempting to follow the Rover’s tracks. The freshly churned-up mud proved more treacherous, quickly burying the vehicle up to its axles.

  Men were already emptying out.

  More came from the road.

  “It’s a footrace from here,” Kowalski warned. “Everybody out.”

  As they all bailed from the Rover, Maria gasped. Kowalski turned. Mac clambered out next to her, his face a mask of pain. He had a hand clamped on his left shoulder. Blood seeped out faster than the rain could wash away. He had been struck sometime during the barrage, but the man hadn’t made a sound.

  Maria went to help him.

  Instead, Mac nodded to the open door. “The case.”

  She understood and retrieved the lead-lined box. A fresh barrage of gunfire ripped the grassy field and pinged off the back of the Rover.

  Kowalski pointed to a dark line of trees ahead. He prayed it marked the edge of a forest they could get lost in. “Go!”

  They set off across the boggy field, the mud sucking at their boots. They kept the bulk of the Rover between them and their pursuers, but that meager protection would not last long. Still, they reached the trees safely and stumbled into cover. Unfortunately, they could not catch a break. The trees were thick pines, densely packed, but it was only a small copse.

  Beyond the tiny patch, the ground fell away toward a black lake a mile off, framed by volcanic cliffs. Closer at hand, lights glowed in the storm, marking a town.

  “That’s Castel Gandolfo,” Maria said. “Sitting above Lake Albano.”

  So close, yet so far.

  “Almost made it,” Mac said with a groan. Clearly the man had spent the last of his energy—and a good amount of his blood—getting here. He was going no farther.

  Maria grimaced as she stared at the man, recognizing his plight, then turned to Kowalski. “You could still do it,” she said.

  “Do what?” he asked, though he already knew.

  She held out the case. “You need to get this over to that village. You’re the only one who could make that run.”

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “I’ll only slow you down. Besides—” She glanced to Mac. “I’m not leaving him, alone and bleeding.”

  He knew she was right and knew she would never leave the injured man.

  Still, he balked.

  She pointed down the slope to a steaming vent where a thin stream ran down toward the distant lake. “There’s a small cave there. Probably a hot spring. We’ll hole up inside there. You haul ass for that village.”

  Shouts rose behind them. The enemy was closing in.

  He stared at Maria, his heart hammering in his ears. He did the only thing he could—and took the case.

  10:48 P.M.

  Maria and Mac huddled deeper into the steamy warmth of the shallow cave. She cringed as footfalls and voices sounded to the left, but none of the pursuers spotted their hiding place.

  All eyes seemed to be on Joe. She spotted his shadowy form bounding down the slope, using bushes and boulders as cover. A thin stream bubbled out of the back of the cave and flowed between her and Mac. The injured man sat with his knees at his chin in order to cram his big body into the small space. He shivered despite the heat, probably close to shock from blood loss and pain.

  Sirens echoed over the hills as local police responded to the gunfire. She prayed the enemy heard it, too. That it made them call off the chase. Maria wanted to raise more of an alarm. She cradled her phone in her hand, ready to call for help, both to alert Castel Gandolfo of Joe’s desperate run and to summon medical help for Mac.

  But not yet.

  She had to make sure no one heard her or saw the shine of her phone’s screen. So, she waited breathlessly until all of the pursuers had chased their prey down the slope of the volcanic caldera. Once she could no longer spot Joe or his hunters, she lifted her phone.

  Mac whispered to her. “Do you think he’ll make it?”

  “If anyone can, he can. And if not—”

  She refused to even think about that, too guilt-ridden, too fraught with fear. She stared out through the steam to the cold rainy night, trying to spot Joe.

  What have I done?

  10:49 P.M.

  His breath heaving, Kowalski stumbled down the grassy, rock-strewn slope to a gravel path. The case thumped against his thigh as he gulped a big lungful of wet air and prepared for another sprint. Across the footpath, maybe fifty yards away, he spotted the reflection of black water, its surface pebbled by heavy raindrops.

  Lake Albano.

  To his left, the path—likely part of a hiking trail around the lake—led toward the lights of Castel Gandolfo.

  Gotta go for it.

  He set off again, getting a second wind from knowing that his flight had drawn the enemy after him, away from Maria and Mac, everyone chasing this damned football. But he knew he was more of a defensive guard than a running back. He was built to hit hard, to bring an opponent down, not to sprint for the goalposts.

  Still, sometimes a linebacker did make a touchdown.

  Determined to prove this, he pounded harder along the path. Ahead, he could already make out windows and the dark outlines of stone walls and tiled roofs.

  I can do this.

  Then the world exploded with light. Startled and blinded, he skidded to a halt. Winds whipped more savagely, as if a tornado had caught him.

  But it wasn’t a tornado.

  Gunfire chattered from above. Gravel erupted across his path as he blinked away the glare and shielded his eyes against the bright light.

  He craned his neck up at the helicopter hovering overhead. It seemed the enemy had called in even more backup, this time air support. He stared again at those lights, knowing this particular linebacker had been tackled a few yards short of the goal.

  He sank to his knees, put the case on the path, and lifted his arms.

  Seconds later, above the beat of the helicopter’s rotors, he heard the heavy tread of boots on gravel. He turned only to have the butt of a rifle slam into the bridge of his nose. Bone crunched, and his vision flared with a crimson flash of pain. As he fell on his side, a deeper darkness fell over him.

  He fought to stay conscious—but even here, he was failing.

  He felt the gust from the rotors as the helicopter lowered to collect its prize. He heard sirens but knew help would not arrive in time. Still, the enemy seemed to hear them, too. Shadows swirled around him; voices barked Arabic.

  Closer at hand, someone grabbed the case.

  He tried to reach for it, but his arm was kicked away.

  No longer able to hold his head up, it fell to the gravel. He tasted blood, smelled it. Even his fading vision ran red, but he saw enough.

  The case was unlatched and opened.

  Kowalski stared at the empty box and coughed out a laugh.

  Smart, girl . . . clearly too smart for me.

  11:04 P.M.

  Maria lowered her phone as the helicopter lifted and sped away. She suddenly could not breathe. Her chest heaved, but she could not catch any air. It had taken the last of her will, all of her energy to call Painter, to do her best to relate what had happened. He was already rousing forces in the a
rea, but it would be too little, too late for one of them.

  Joe . . .

  She had heard the gunfire and feared the worst.

  What have I done?

  It had been her mantra after sending Joe on his futile run. She hadn’t told him of her subterfuge, needing him to believe he carried the astrolabe with him. She wanted him to run with all his strength, both to draw the hunters away and for his own survival. If he had made it to Castel Gandolfo, then he and the artifact would be safe.

  But if he didn’t make it—

  She parted her jacket and revealed the silver astrolabe in her lap. She had taken it from the case while running for the tree line and hidden it in her coat. Her specialty was behavioral science, mostly dealing with primates, but it applied here, too. She knew in the heat of the hunt that the enemy would pursue Joe. It was instinctual behavior of a predator spiked on adrenaline to chase running prey.

  So, she had turned that to her advantage.

  Still, the knowledge did nothing to assuage her guilt.

  She took deep, gulping breaths.

  I’m sorry, Joe.

  13

  June 23, 5:30 A.M. CEST

  Castel Gandolfo, Italy

  Gray crossed the barricaded square. Ahead rose a four-story yellow building with shuttered windows and a set of massive wooden doors. The portico marked the entrance to the Pontifical Palace, the pope’s private summer home. When the pontiff was not in residence, it also served as a museum.

  Though that was not true today.

  After last night’s attack, the palace had been converted into a fortified bunker. The entire picturesque village of Castel Gandolfo—with its cobblestone streets, souvenir shops, and tiny cafés—was locked down. Military vehicles were parked along the quaint streets. The barricaded square was patrolled by gunmen in body armor and helmets. They were part of the Gendarmeria Corpo della Città del Vaticano, the Vatican’s police force, assigned not only to investigate crime but also trained in counterterrorism. Like Vatican City proper in Rome, the hundred acres of the summer palace were not Italian territory but belonged to the pope.

  Gray and Seichan had their identifications examined at two checkpoints. They had been patted down and electronically wanded at the barricade.

  When they reached the tall portico doors, a man in a dark blue blazer waved them closer and asked for their papers again. From his cold countenance and the firm muscles bulging against the tailored Italian fabric, he was military, too. He was flanked by a matching pair of men, all of them wearing radio earpieces. Gray also noted the Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine guns half-hidden under their jackets and the holstered SIG P320 pistols, along with radio earpieces.

  Despite the lack of their usual uniforms of Medici blue, red, and yellow, Gray knew who these loyal soldiers were. Swiss Guards. But not the regular patrols. Only the most elite of these Swiss soldiers were allowed to serve incognito, the equivalent of the pope’s Secret Service.

  As Gray waited with his arms crossed, he stared across the square. Dawn already glowed rosy to the east, though the sun was not yet up. Even with the small army gathered here, his eyes searched for any threat. He drew in deep breaths, anxious to keep moving. These constant roadblocks grated on him. It had been an interminable flight here, followed by the long drive from the air base.

  Seichan touched his arm. “He’ll be okay,” she said, zeroing in on the source of his agitation.

  While en route, Gray had been getting regular updates on the search for Kowalski. No body had been found where his teammate had been ambushed. Only blood and machine gun shells. Even now, scuba crews scoured the dark green waters of the nearby volcanic lake, looking for a body.

  Finally, the guard passed back their identifications. “I am Major Bossard,” he said with a stiff Swiss accent. “I will be your escort. You will not leave my sight while on Vatican land. Follow me.”

  He led them through the doors into the heart of the Pontifical Palace. They were brusquely marched along marble-lined halls, past the busts of popes, and through a luxurious greeting parlor with plush antique furniture. Gray noted velvet ropes marked off several areas, evidence that tourists were herded through these same spaces.

  But he wasn’t here for a tour.

  Bossard finally led them through a set of doors to a wide balcony that overlooked a meticulously manicured hedge maze. The grounds here were larger than Vatican City, covering not only the palace and its gardens but also a small forest that hid an ancient Roman amphitheater, and a seventy-five-acre dairy farm.

  A table had been set to take advantage of the garden view.

  Three people pushed back and stood from the remains of a breakfast and greeted them.

  Maria Crandall rushed forward and hugged Seichan. “Thank god you’re both here,” she said breathlessly.

  Father Bailey came and shook Gray’s hand. His eyes showed no twinkle of amusement now, only a grim determination. “I certainly agree with Dr. Crandall’s statement.”

  Monsignor Roe stayed at the table and nodded to them. The older priest had shed his formal finery and simply wore jeans, a black buttoned shirt, and a light jacket against the morning’s chill.

  Gray noted one person was missing. “How is Dr. MacNab doing?”

  Maria answered, “He’s recovering. He’s being cared for at a medical ward in one of the pontifical villas. He lost a fair amount of blood, but luckily the wound was only a deep graze.”

  “Any more word on Kowalski?” Seichan asked. Her well-intentioned words clearly tore open a wound in Maria.

  She crossed her arms and turned slightly away. “Nothing,” she mumbled.

  “Then he must be alive,” Gray concluded.

  Maria glanced back to him. “Why do you think that?”

  “As quickly as the attackers were chased off, if they had killed Kowalski, they would’ve left him where he fell. There would be no advantage in taking his body or hiding it. In fact, your bit of subterfuge likely saved Kowalski’s life.”

  She straightened, plainly needing this reassurance. “What do you mean?”

  “If those bastards had grabbed the astrolabe during the ambush—either at the highway or along that lakeside trail—they would have no need to keep any of you alive. They certainly would have shot Kowalski on the spot. Instead, once they found the case empty, they would have grabbed him. They would want to interrogate him, to find out what he knows.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Gray shrugged. “Because it’s what I would’ve done.”

  Maria slowly uncrossed her arms. Some of the fear faded from her face, but not the guilt. “How did those bastards even know we were coming up here?”

  How indeed?

  Gray turned to Father Bailey. “Why are we up here? Why did we need to bring the astrolabe to the pope’s summer palace?”

  Bailey waved them to the table. “You should eat.”

  Gray grabbed the priest’s arm before he could turn away. “Why?” he pressed.

  Major Bossard stepped forward, a palm resting on his holstered pistol.

  Bailey waved the guard down and answered, “We’re here because Monsignor Roe requested it.” He shook his arm free. “If you’ll kindly join us, maybe he’ll explain his reasoning.”

  Gray exhaled his frustration and followed the priest.

  As they settled to a table laden with platters of scrambled eggs, hearty breads, and delicate pastries, Monsignor Roe cast an apologetic look all around. “Perdonami. Perhaps in hindsight I should not have chosen this location.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Gray said. “But why did you want us at the summer palace?”

  Roe sighed, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. He finally said, “What do you know of the Holy Scrinium?”

  Gray frowned at the strangeness of this question and shook his head. He had never heard the term.

  Roe explained: “The first Vatican Library was officially established in 1475. Then in the seventeenth century, Pope Leo XIII se
parated out its most vital volumes and records into a separate archive, the Archivio Segreto Vaticano.”

  “The Vatican’s Secret Archives,” Gray said.

  The monsignor sighed. “Si, but before there was a Vatican Library, long before the Secret Archives, there was the Holy Scrinium. It was the pope’s personal library. Founded by Pope Julius in the fourth century. It traveled with the popes that succeeded him, never leaving their sides. The archive contained books and theological writings dating back to the founding of Christendom.”

  Gray guessed where this was going. “The Holy Scrinium still exists.”

  Roe gave a bow of his head. “It is the true secret library of the Church.”

  Bailey leaned forward. “Monsignor Roe is the prefect of the Scrinium. Its official caretaker.”

  Roe explained his position. “The Holy Scrinium contains treasures too rare and important to be shared, too heretical to be shown, even too dangerous. It’s why the astrolabe had to be brought here.”

  Gray looked back at the bulk of the summer palace as the newly risen sun turned its yellow walls to rose gold. “Are you saying the Holy Scrinium is hidden here?”

  “No,” Roe said. “Not exactly.”

  6:04 A.M.

  Where are we going?

  Seichan followed the others across the rooftop of the Pontifical Palace.

  From this height, a panoramic view opened up on the full breadth of Lake Albano and the surrounding wooded hillsides and volcanic slopes. A cold breeze blew off the lake. She smelled a scent of orange and lavender in the wind.

  No wonder the popes picked this place to escape Rome’s stifling heat.

  On the rooftop, sections of the view were blocked by a pair of huge silver domes, two astronomical observatories.

  Monsignor Roe explained to Gray. “These observatories are mostly showpieces today. Two new ones were installed a mile to the south, in a converted nunnery. We’re just finishing up a summer school program over there, in astronomy and astrophysics. Proof that science continues and will always be part of our religious life here.”