A sharp click-clicking rose from Mac’s handheld Geiger counter. Once closer, it ticked faster.
Kowalski grabbed Gray’s arm. “Maybe let’s not break these.”
5:24 P.M.
Safecracking is all a matter of delicacy.
Seichan passed the hot tip of her knife along the edge of the pot’s lid. The heat softened and melted through the wax seal. She scraped a bit loose, then held the blade out toward Maria.
The woman thumbed a lighter, raising a flame.
Seichan hovered the knife tip over the fire, heating it back up.
“Men,” Maria commented. “Always going around smashing things. I hope you raise Jack with a little more common sense.”
“I’ll do my best,” Seichan said, hoping that ended up being true. “Though half his DNA is Gray’s, so you never know.”
Seichan returned to her efforts, working more of the wax free.
Behind her, bored by her meticulous efforts or too nervous to stand idly by, the men had joined Father Bailey over by the slab on the floor.
“What do you make of it?” Gray asked, down on a knee.
“I thought it might be some sort of altar or ritual place of sacrifice,” the priest said. “But now I’m wondering . . .”
“About what?” Gray asked.
As Seichan melted through a thicker layer of wax, the top wobbled under her palm. “Got it,” she announced, glancing back at the men.
Gray came over, drawing the others. He waved Mac up front. “What do you think?”
The climatologist tested his Geiger counter. “Readings still holding steady. In the safe range, but we don’t want to hang around here forever.”
Gray nodded to Seichan. “You can do the honors.”
She grabbed the lid with both hands. She rocked it back and forth and turned it enough to break the residual wax—then lifted it straight up.
Gasps rose behind her. The clicking on the Geiger sped up.
They all retreated from the glistening green oil filling the pot. It cast out a wan, sickly glow. Seichan crouched, ready if anything horrid should burst or crawl out of the toxic soup. After several breaths, it was clear nothing was coming out.
“I think it’s just the liquid,” Gray said. “Like the pots on the other side.”
Bailey inched forward. “In Captain Hunayn’s journal, he stated that on his first voyage to Tartarus his crew only went as far as the city’s threshold, due to his lack of supplies. But at that entrance, he collected jars of what he called Medea’s Oil and returned home with them.”
Hmm . . .
Seichan moved away from the others.
“I don’t think it’s wise to leave the contents exposed to air for long,” Bailey warned. “Hunayn named this Medea’s Oil for a reason. According to the mythology of the sorceress Medea, her oil held the secret to an unquenchable fire, a gift given to her by the Titan, Prometheus, who taught her how to store it in airtight golden caskets.”
“Not unlike these pots,” Gray said.
“One of which is no longer airtight,” Mac reminded them.
Bailey continued: “It’s said her oil—like the legend of Greek Fire—was ignited by water and could not be put out by it.” He pointed to the amphorae. “While it’s dry enough in here, I fear if exposed too long . . . with these many pots . . .”
“Kaboom,” Kowalski added.
“He could be right,” Mac said. “Back in Greenland the crabs ignited fairly quickly, but the air was damp and full of ice crystals.”
“Then let’s close the jar for now,” Gray suggested. “At least limit the exposure to any moisture in the air.”
“No,” Seichan warned. “Not yet.”
She reached the back of the cavern and ran her palms over the curve of the dark brown wall. Its surface was coarse, but far too uniform. They’d all missed it, their attentions too caught up by the mysterious jars and altar.
She lifted her steel dagger and pounded its hilt against the wall.
The gong announced her discovery.
She turned to the others. “We’re not in a rock cave, but a bronze chamber, long tarnished and blackened with age.” She pointed her blade at the pots. “If that’s where Hunayn stole his magical oil, then this must be the entrance to Tartarus.”
The others hurried toward her and ran their hands along the tarnished walls, confirming her discovery.
“She’s right,” Gray said, rapping his knuckle to prove it. Others did the same, confirming his suspicion. “It’s not just the back wall. The entire cavern is bronze. One seamless bubble of it.”
Kowalski raised the question that most needed answering. “Enough with all the knocking. How do we get in?”
Father Bailey returned to the altar. “I . . . I think I know.” He turned to them all. “This is a test.”
5:30 P.M.
And apparently a timed one.
Gray stared over at the open clay jar. With the jar’s seal broken, the glowing oil could ignite at any time. He turned to Bailey. “What are you thinking?”
The priest dropped to a knee by the altar and ran his palm over the depression in the center. “This slab is rock, but I think the shallow basin is the same tarnished bronze.”
“But what does any of that have to do with opening a gateway here?” Seichan asked.
“Heron of Alexandria,” Bailey said firmly, as if making a point.
No one got it.
“He was a brilliant engineer from the first century A.D. He designed all manner of devices, including the first vending machine, operated by the drop of a coin. Also a wind-powered pipe organ. He wrote volumes of works on the subject that I wager the Banū Mūsā brothers—collectors of scientific knowledge, with a penchant for mechanical inventions—read centuries later. Even Da Vinci references him.”
“What does any of that have to do with our situation?” Gray pressed, glancing again toward the glowing pot.
And be quick about it.
“One of Heron’s inventions was the means to magically open the doors to a temple using a crude version of a steam engine. A priest would speak to a crowd on the steps of a closed temple, then a fire would be lit in a hearth in front of the place. Once it got blazing hot, the fire would heat a water system buried underneath the hearth. The resulting steam would move pistons, wheels, and ropes, and the temple doors would seem to magically open on their own.”
“In other words, a trick,” Kowalski said.
Bailey pointed to the basin, then to the back wall. “Like this one.”
“How can you be sure?” Maria asked.
“According to Homer, the palace of the Phaeacians was built of solid bronze and the gates into the city, when opened, were said to ‘blaze like fiery gold.’”
Gray began to understand. “If a fire was lit in this altar basin, ablaze with flames from that fuel—” He pointed to the glowing pot containing the secret to an unquenchable golden flame. “Then the bronze here would shine as if made of gold.”
Bailey nodded. “That’s why I think this is a test. The Phaeacians have given us the tools, the fuel. It’s up to us to prove we understand the properties of what’s in these jars before being allowed to pass inside.”
“What do we do?” Kowalski asked. “Just pour some of that Medea Oil in the bowl and add water?”
“I think so,” Bailey said.
Gray shook his head. “No, that’s just one side of the coin.” He pointed to the broken jar on the other side of the room and the black spill around it. “That’s the other. Why else place those out here, too?”
“You may be right,” Bailey admitted. “But what is that substance?”
The answer came from an unexpected source. “Elena had an idea,” Kowalski said. “She called it the pharmacopoeia of Prometheus’s Blood.”
That can’t be right.
It wasn’t.
“Do you mean ‘pharmaka of Promethean Blood’?” Bailey asked.
Kowalski shrugged. “Sure, why not?�
�
The priest turned to the group. “In that same story about Medea—where she learned the formula for her fiery oil from Prometheus—she also learned the pharmaka, the recipe, for a black potion called Promethean Blood. It was derived from the sap of a plant that grew out of the spilled blood of Prometheus. She gave it to Jason to protect him from the fires of the bronze Colchis bulls.”
“Like some fire-resistant lubricant,” Mac said. “Back in Greenland, the black oil did quench the fires driving those creatures. And I think the oil in the storage pots served as some sort of preservative or insulation, keeping the creatures in an inert form until freed and exposed to wet air.”
Seichan frowned. “But what does any of this have to do with unlocking the gate?”
Gray walked back to the altar and looked between the two sets of pots. Medea developed both the fire and the means to douse it. He squinted at Mac. No, not just douse it, but also preserve and insulate the green oil.
Gray turned to Bailey. “I’m guessing that basin in the altar was not an arbitrary size. If there’s some complicated mechanics under it, the bronze bowl likely must be heated to the proper degree.”
“I suppose.”
“I think we’re supposed to add just the right amount of fuel to the basin, likely fill it to the brim.”
“Like a measuring cup,” Kowalski added.
“But how do you transfer the oil from the jars to the bowl?” Gray said. “There are no ladles or pails.”
“By hand,” Bailey said, straightening sharply. “That’s why the jars of Promethean Blood are here. If we coat our hands with it, then it should insulate the moisture in our palms from igniting the green oil. We can fill the basin handful by handful.”
The priest looked around the room, plainly asking for a volunteer to test his theory.
Kowalski groaned. “I’ll do it. I’m Sigma’s demolitions expert. But if my hands get blown off, I’m blaming you, padre.”
Kowalski crossed to the broken pot. A large shard still cradled a pool of the black oil. He dunked his hands to his wrists, coating everything thickly. He then hurried to the glowing pot.
“Be careful,” Maria said.
“There’s nothing careful about this,” Kowalski said. “Let’s just hope this black stuff also protects against radiation.”
“It might,” Bailey whispered. “A draught of Promethean Blood taken before battle was said to protect against all damage, even from arrows and spears. It worked for Jason of the Argonauts.”
“Do I look like some mythic superhero?” Kowalski said with a scowl.
Still, Kowalski took a deep breath, then plunged his hands into the glowing green oil. He turned his face away, as if expecting flames to burst forth. But nothing happened. He let out his breath and scooped up a load between both hands. He lifted his arms and waited for any residual drips to stop falling.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Carefully transfer it to the basin,” Bailey said.
They all held their breaths as Kowalski walked his glowing load over to the bronze bowl. He bent to pour it in.
“Wait!” Gray said. “Stop!”
Still bent over, Kowalski glowered at him. “What?” he growled.
Gray hurried over to the broken pot and shoveled out two handfuls of black oil. He ran back and slathered it across the surface of the basin. “I don’t know if this is still necessary, but if this place was once far wetter, then you probably had to insulate Medea’s Oil from touching any residual dampness in the bronze bowl.”
“Good,” Bailey said. “Better safe than sorry.”
Once Gray stepped back, Kowalski glared at him. “Now can I dump this load?”
Gray waved everyone else back. “Do it.”
With a cringe, Kowalski parted his palms and let the glowing oil flow into the basin. No one moved for a breath.
When nothing happened, Gray waved to Kowalski. “Again.”
It took several trips, and Gray helped him, but eventually the bowl churned with the green oil, filled to its brim. Once done, Gray also transferred some of the black oil to the open green pot and covered the glowing oil with a top slurry of the black, hopefully creating a barrier against any moisture in the air, and put the top back on.
Satisfied, he waved everyone to the far side and took the water bottle from his pack. “Ready?” he asked.
He got nods all around and a shrug from Kowalski.
Gray faced the basin. From a couple of yards away, he squeezed the bottle, sending an arc of water through the air. It splashed into the basin.
The effect was immediate.
The entire pool of oil ignited with a blast of smoke and thunder. A spiral of golden flame shot to the roof, splaying across the surface of the tarnished dome. The fountain of fire blazed for several breaths. They shielded their faces from the blinding light and from the furnace blast of heat.
After what seemed like a minute, but was likely only a few seconds, the flames receded. They no longer reached the roof but continued to dance high above the basin.
Kowalski took a step closer. “Nice fireworks,” he said and waved an arm beyond the flames. “But nothing is—”
A booming gong sounded, loud enough to make them all duck.
Beyond the basin, the back wall cracked down the middle. With a muffled grinding of distant gears, the two halves slowly drew back, sweeping away like a pair of bronze wings, welcoming them into the darkness beyond.
“We did it,” Maria gasped out.
“That’s right,” Kowalski said, sounding far less pleased. “We just opened the gates of Hell.”
34
June 26, 5:53 P.M. WEST
High Atlas Mountains, Morocco
From the cabin of the Eurocopter, Nehir studied the gorge below through a set of binoculars. Her team had reached the Sous River valley five minutes ago. She had not wanted to waste a minute—not after waiting for so long. She had immediately set course along a smaller tributary draining into the larger Sous River, one that Monsignor Roe had highlighted on a chart, the most likely path to the ruby imbedded in the gold map.
As they flew into the mountains, her heart pounded in her chest. She remembered holding little Huri—my little angel—before the child was ripped away. She had just given birth, still in pain, her body covered in sweat, but what joy she had felt when her baby was placed on her chest. Huri had been a hot ember that warmed her all the way down to her heart. She closed her eyes, again hearing her angel wail as she was taken from her arms—until that cry was cut off by the sharp edge of a knife. The same blade that would forever disfigure Nehir. But it was not that scar that pained her the most.
She opened her eyes with a cold promise.
I will hold you again, Huri . . . and my little boy.
The pilot came over the private channel on her helmet’s radio. “There’s a boat ahead. Beached at the side of the river.”
Nehir focused her attention.
Could it be them?
The helicopter swept high. Through her binoculars, Nehir got a good look at a small aluminum cruiser with a tiny cabin. She spotted a woman at the stern, who glanced up, shading her eyes—then returned her attention to an outboard motor. It didn’t appear anyone else was aboard.
“Just a local,” Nehir radioed back. “Keep heading up.”
She continued to search the landscape below. Monsignor Roe did the same on his side. They were searching for any evidence of ancient habitation: a crumble of walls, a broken tower, a bit of foundation. Anything that might hint at the presence of a lost civilization. The plan was to run the length of the gorge by air, then do a more thorough search on foot. The team had access to ground-penetrating radar scans of the region, pointing to possible locations to look, though there were many. She hoped an aerial survey would help narrow the team’s search area.
A commotion drew her attention from the passing scenery.
She lowered her binoculars and looked past her brother to the helicopter’s co
ckpit. The copilot leaned back into the cabin and excitedly waved an arm back the way they’d come. His radioed words reached her, full of excitement.
It set her own heart to pounding harder.
“Find a place to land,” she ordered. She pictured the little cruiser at the side of the river. “Radio the other aircraft to head back. To land south of that aluminum boat.”
She wanted the enemy pinned down between her two forces.
She turned and faced Elena, enjoying the frightened look on the woman’s face.
Now it comes to an end.
5:55 P.M.
From the excited chatter between Nehir and the cockpit crew, Elena knew something had drastically changed. But the low roar of the engines drowned out whatever was exchanged. Still, from the savage gleam in Nehir’s eyes as she faced the cabin, it was not good.
Elena wasn’t the only one to notice this.
Across from her, Monsignor Roe turned from the window and called over to Nehir. “What is it?”
Nehir’s gaze remained fixed on Elena. “We just picked up a signal!” she yelled back. “The Americans are already here.”
A signal?
Roe stiffened. “How? Where are they?”
Nehir pointed back the way they’d come. “It looks like they’ve found something.”
Elena sank back into her seat, her mouth going dry. She stared across the cabin at Roe. It seemed the monsignor wasn’t the only traitor.
Someone else in Joe’s group was also a spy.
35
June 26, 5:58 P.M. WEST
High Atlas Mountains, Morocco
Kowalski zipped up and headed back into the cave. He was followed shortly by Mac and Father Bailey.
Much better . . .
“I’m ready,” he announced to the others.
Maria shook her head as she and Seichan readied their gear, clicking on flashlights. “What is it about men who feel the need to pee off anything higher than a ladder?”
Kowalski resented her words. “Charlie’s little boat didn’t have a bathroom. A guy can hold it for only so long.”
Across the cave, Gray stood at the open gate and shone his beam into the depths of Hell. “Look at this,” he called back.
The Last Odyssey: A Thriller Page 30
