The Last Odyssey: A Thriller

by James Rollins

  The group gathered their packs, picked up flashlights, and joined him.

  Behind them, the altar still danced high with golden flames, but their combined beams revealed a sight flanking both sides of the open gateway. They moved past the threshold to get a closer look. Two hulking bronze shapes, twice Kowalski’s height, sat on massive haunches, their fronts balanced atop turkey-platter-sized paws armed with silver scythes for claws. Far above, snouted heads hung low, their muzzles resting on their chests, as if asleep. But black diamond eyes remained forever open, staring down at those gathered below.

  Bailey mumbled softly, as if fearing to wake the beasts. “‘On either side there stood gold and silver mastiffs . . . ’”

  Kowalski recognized the line. Elena had recited it from the Odyssey. “The dogs that guarded the Phaeacians’ gates.”

  “This must be them,” Bailey said, his eyes shining with awe, reflecting the flames still dancing on the altar. “The story of these dogs must have eventually reached Greece, passed from one generation to another, until ultimately becoming part of Homer’s story.”

  “Which makes you wonder what else might be true,” Gray said, sounding both excited and worried.

  “Only one way to find out.” Kowalski pointed his flashlight ahead, where the tunnel into the mountain curved away. The passage was large enough to drive an Abrams battle tank down its throat.

  Before heading out, Gray glanced back to the tarnished bronze cave. “Someone should remain here. If that fire goes out, those doors may close on their own.”

  Trapping us in hell? Yeah, let’s not do that.

  “I’ll stay,” Seichan volunteered.

  Gray looked like he wanted to argue. He even scanned the group. But he knew the truth as well as Kowalski. They needed someone to have their back, someone they trusted, especially if all hell broke loose—which, in this case, might actually happen.

  Gray finally nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They set off down the dark tunnel.

  Maria sidled next to Kowalski and slipped her hand into his. “You do take me interesting places.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nodded ahead. “This time to hell and back.”

  “Glad you’re thrilled.” He squeezed her fingers. “But I’m looking forward to the and back part.”

  6:04 P.M.

  From the stern of her cruiser, Charlie watched a helicopter roar past overhead and head down the channel. It was a summer weekend, and tour companies were clearly busy ferrying people from the swelter of Agadir to the cool pools and freshwater springs of nearby Paradise Valley to the north.

  Still, she felt something was off. The helicopter looked like one of the two that had passed by a minute ago.

  If so, why is it heading back so soon?

  Could there have been an emergency aboard? As she watched it pass, she heard a change in the timbre of its engines. It circled wider, then lowered, as if trying to land in one of the meadows downstream.

  If they’re in distress, maybe I should go see if they need help?

  She checked her watch. The others had been gone a long time. She had no idea when they were planning to return. She had caught a brief glimpse of them climbing the cliff and vanishing into a cave. Who knew how deep that one went?

  She probably had time to motor over to the helicopter, but she feared she might not be able to navigate back to this spot to retrieve her passengers.

  And, more important, she still felt something was not right. If there was an emergency, why hadn’t the other helicopter come back with this one?

  No, something is wrong.

  She headed to the cruiser’s cabin to retrieve her binoculars, intending to get a better view of that aircraft when it landed.

  Aggie chirped at her from his little bed, littered with olive pits.

  “It’s okay, mon chéri.”

  She grabbed the binoculars hanging from a hook. Before she could turn and head back to the stern, motion in the woods beyond her bow drew her eye.

  She instinctively ducked lower and lifted her binoculars.

  In the distance, dark shapes swept furtively through the cedar forest, heading her way. They came with raised rifles. At least nine or ten.

  Merde, she swore.

  Were they thieves? Cutthroats? Slavers?

  As terror iced through her, she thought quickly. She needed to alert the others. But how? She reached to the pistol holstered at her waist. A warning shot into the air might signal her passengers, but it would also alert the enemy that she was armed.

  Better not.

  As it was, she was already outgunned and outnumbered.

  Instead, she unstrapped her holster, searched around, and tucked her pistol under Aggie’s bed. The monkey already sensed something was wrong and hopped to her shoulder. Charlie feared for his safety, knowing he’d likely be shot on sight. She carried Aggie to the open side window of the cabin, opposite from the approach of the armed men.

  She lifted Aggie and pushed him out. He scrabbled to get back in with her, clinging to the sill.

  “No,” she scolded and pointed. “Hide. In the forest.”

  His little face knotted up with fear.

  What am I going to do?

  Then she had an idea. She had raised Aggie from an infant, nursing him with a bottle. He knew the word milk all too well. She had even taught him to fetch his own bottle when it had been time to feed him.

  She pictured the woman named Seichan and Aggie’s extreme interest in her earlier. She stepped back, cupped one breast, and pointed to the cliffs. “Find momma,” she said. “She has a milk bottle for you.”

  The word had the desired effect. Fear became hope in his face.

  “That’s right.” She gently freed him and pushed him toward the beach. “Go get your milk bottle.”

  He looked between her and the cliff, hesitating, balanced between fear of leaving her and the hope of a warm meal that always meant safety and love.

  “Go on now.”

  He let out a tiny eek and leaped away. He immediately vanished into the fringe of the forest. She knew macaques had a sharp sense of smell. Hopefully Aggie could use it to follow the trail to the others.

  She stared out into the forest, hearing the tread of footfalls on the other side of the boat.

  Run, my little lion, run.

  6:09 P.M.

  Seichan paced in a slow circle around the flaming pyre. She had watched the others vanish down the large tunnel, each of their lights blinking out around the bend in the passage.

  How long would they be?

  Each time she drew abreast of the tunnel, her ears strained for any hint of a problem. For gunfire, shouts, explosions. But all she heard was the low roar of the fire behind her. It echoed in the confined space, like some trapped beast. At least it was growing less intense. The flames had dropped to the height of her shoulders as the oil in the bronze basin was slowly consumed.

  She made another circle.

  As she reached the boulder pile, a noise drew her attention to the cave opening. A frantic scrabbling of claws on stone rose from outside. She remembered Mac’s description of the bronze crabs.

  She crouched, lifting her SIG P320.

  From around the edge of the rocks, a small shape bounded into view. It came around fast, bouncing off the wall and hurling toward her. She lowered her pistol as the little brown macaque ran and leaped at her. She caught Aggie in her arms.

  The monkey panted, his eyes huge and round, his gaze flicking toward the sunlight.

  “What’re you doing here?” she whispered.

  One furry arm wrapped hard around her throat. He climbed higher, hugging tight to her shoulder, plainly needing reassurance. She carried him to the sunlit crack and cautiously peered out. She knew Aggie hadn’t come here of his own volition.

  From this height, she could see the beached cabin cruiser—only Charlie had company now. A group outfitted in black combat gear swarmed the boat. More were coming through the woods to th
e south.

  Twenty to thirty.

  She knew these were no local thieves or a raiding party.

  They found us.

  She didn’t have time to wonder how. She had a more important task, especially as she spotted someone in the stern of the boat point toward her hiding spot. Those aboard the cruiser started into the woods, heading her way.

  She backed into the bronze cave. There was no way she could hold off that number of combatants with a single SIG and a few throwing knives, even with the advantage of height. The others had come with assault rifles and likely grenades. She’d be quickly blown out of this nest. Knowing this and to protect the others, she had only one option.

  She stared over at the open gateway.

  I need to get that closed.

  She hoped Gray was right about the fire keeping the doors open. She holstered her pistol. Balancing Aggie on her shoulder, she crossed to the broken pieces of pottery. She picked up the largest shard that still had a pool of black oil in it. It was heavy, damned heavy, but adrenaline spiked her blood and pounded her heart.

  She hauled the piece in both arms over to the altar and dumped the coal-black oil into the basin. It sloshed into the base of the fire, swirled around it, and quickly choked the flames. With the death of the fire, darkness fell over the cavern.

  “C’mon, little one.”

  Seichan ran for the bronze doors and darted through them. She skidded to a stop between the two huge bronze guard dogs and turned. She waited for the doors to close, but they remained stubbornly open.

  Was Gray wrong?

  She clenched her teeth, trying to judge whether to run after the others or hold her ground and guard the gate. She came to a fast decision.

  Better to stay.

  She knew a firefight here would alert Gray of danger. So there was no need for her to run down there. But that wasn’t the real reason she stayed. She decided to place her confidence where it best belonged.

  Gray is not wrong.

  She stared into the dark cave, lit by sunlight streaming through the boulder pile. But that wasn’t the only light source. The bronze basin in the stone slab glowed a ruddy orange, still red-hot—perhaps hot enough to be keeping these gates open.

  Seichan knew the truth.

  I have to hold my ground until that cools.

  Only then would the doors close.

  She shifted to the side and slipped out her SIG.

  Can I last that long?

  Aggie eeked in her ear, correcting her, reminding her.

  Right.

  Can we last that long?

  36

  June 26, 6:10 P.M. WEST

  High Atlas Mountains, Morocco

  Gray stood at the dark threshold to Hell.

  The large tunnel ended at a wide terrace overlooking a colossal cavern. The space looked roughly oval, a quarter mile wide, maybe twice that long. It was hard to get the full breadth of its dimensions. Even the reach of the team’s flashlights only offered a shadowy glimpse of the distant wall.

  “It’s amazing,” Maria whispered.

  Kowalski grunted his agreement.

  The group cast their lights all around.

  The cavern appeared to be natural, but long ago its limestone surfaces had been polished to a perfect smoothness. Upon that blank canvas had been carved a continuous bas-relief. A forest of cedars climbed the walls, with monkeys scampering in the branches and larger beasts hiding deeper in the woods, visible mostly by the bronze disks of their eyes. Higher up, inscribed clouds billowed across the roof, swept by falcons and seabirds taking wing. There was even the starburst of a dark sun above, its face an imbedded plate of bronze.

  But such artistry was only a fraction of the wonders below.

  Standing at the stone rail, the group had a grand view of the city stretched beneath them. It descended in tiers down from the terrace. Many hundreds of homes crowded those steps. Most were single story, both square and round. Others climbed upward in high crooked stacks, like children’s toy blocks. But many more rose up into taller sculpted towers with flared tops.

  Gray recognized the shape of those last structures. He had seen them before. He focused on one nearby, sweeping his bright beam across its dark surface. “They’re near matches to the nuraghe constructions on Sardinia. What the Greeks called daidaleia.”

  Gray wondered, Does this support the idea that Daedalus had originally come from here, shared his knowledge with the greater ancient world?

  “But these structures aren’t made of stacked stones,” Mac said. “Look at how smooth the walls are. And those dark surfaces aren’t plaster. Even the roof tiles look made of the same material. Tarnished metal.”

  Gray nodded. He had already noted the uniform hue to the city, a dark brown, nearly black, making the place look like a hellish firestorm had swept through it, burning every surface, leaving it covered in ash.

  But he doubted there was any wood used in the construction here.

  “It’s all bronze,” Gray said.

  Kowalski waved to the tunnel. “Like back there.”

  Mac turned to Gray, his eyes wide and bright, reflecting the light. His words were breathless. “An entire city made of bronze.”

  “At least plated in it,” Gray said, tempering and centering the group. “And only as much of the city as we can see.”

  The black mouths of tunnels dotted the walls of the tiers, indicating that this space was likely only the town center of a larger subterranean maze, likely a labyrinth worthy of Daedalus. Five of the largest openings were locked behind bronze gates at the top, equidistant from one another. Broad staircases led down from those gates, the steps descending through the city to a dark stone basin in the center. Framing both sides of the stairways were hundreds of bronze statues, standing guard over the place.

  It was clear what they were protecting.

  Gray shone his light across to the far side, to the city’s largest structure. High bronze walls bulged out in a half circle from the other wall, flanked by spiraling, graceful towers that reached halfway to the roof. The gates in the center shone brighter, showing little tarnish.

  Gold.

  Mac noted the direction of Gray’s beam. “I’m guessing that’s the palace.”

  “Where do we even begin to search this place?” Maria said.

  “I say we just leave,” Kowalski suggested. “We opened the gates to Hell. Found this place. Let’s hightail it out of here and let Painter know what we found.”

  Gray seriously considered this. He knew they had barely scratched the surface regarding the true mysteries hidden here, but perhaps it was best to leave any further exploration to the experts.

  This plan was supported by Father Bailey. “Maybe we should heed Mr. Kowalski,” the priest warned.

  Bailey had wandered off to where a wide ramp led down from the terrace to the topmost tier of the city. But the priest had his back to the dark metropolis, his flashlight pointed at the wall at the top of the ramp. The beam swept over lines crudely carved into the limestone, like some ancient graffiti.

  “It’s Arabic,” Bailey said and turned. “A message left behind by those who fled from here.”

  “Hunayn and his men.” Gray joined the priest at the wall. “Can you read it?”

  “Mostly. I studied Arabic, but this script is over a thousand years old.”

  Maria drew closer. “What does it say?”

  Bailey ran his beam like a finger across the lines of Arabic. “‘Here Tartarus slumbers. Walk softly, tread with caution. Do not wake what should forever sleep. Do not tarry, dear traveler. Pestilence is in the very air, curses left behind by Pandora. It drove those who once lived here mad, from peaceful benefactors to maddened conquerors.’”

  Gray wondered if Hunayn was referring to some sort of radiation sickness. Was that why the benevolent Phaeacians of Daedalus and Medea—who seemed willing to share their knowledge, who helped Odysseus on his journey home—became the destroyers of civilizations, a Sea People leav
ing a path of ruin behind them, then vanishing?

  Bailey continued, “‘For daring to dabble with the gifts of Prometheus, their people of Tartarus became warped, their children born monstrous. They eventually fled, locking their evil and their dread curses behind gates of bronze and never speaking of this place again, letting foul Tartarus fall into myths and legends.’”

  Gray glanced back to the city. To learn all of this, Hunayn and his men must have spent considerable time scouring the place, reading ancient texts of the city’s history.

  Bailey revealed as much as he continued. “‘Heed the lesson of my reckless trespass. We dared to wake Tartarus, to stir its fiery defenders, and suffered greatly because of it. I only saved the last of us by forcing the city back to its dark slumber. If you should follow in my tragic footsteps, seek the same beyond the palace, where the fires of Hades burn and Titans loom. But Charon will demand his price.’”

  Bailey stopped and explained. “Charon was the old man who ferried souls across the River Styx into Hades.”

  “But what’s that price you mentioned?” Kowalski asked.

  “More than Charon’s usual coin, it seems.” Bailey returned to the wall and continued his recitation. “‘The bravest of all must ford the poisonous lake, one who would forsake his life for his brother. It is how we put Tartarus into slumber. May Allah forever grace Abd Al-Qadir for his sacrifice. In his esteemed memory, I used the knowledge of my brothers—we who call ourselves the Banū Mūsā—to fabricate a final end. So, dear traveler, if you wake Tartarus, know it will be for the last and final time. You have been so warned.’”

  “Then it’s signed Hunayn ibn Mūsā ibn Shākir.” Bailey sighed and stepped back. “The captain must have left here with his last ship, full of cargo as proof of his discovery and perhaps to warn the world.”

  “Then the storm blew his ship off course,” Gray said. “Gave him time to reconsider whether it was worth the risk to bring that deadly cargo into the wider world.”

  “He may have also believed the storm was a sign from Allah,” Bailey said. “Hunayn had to wonder if the hand of god was punishing him, casting him astray—not unlike his friend Odysseus—all to keep the world safe.”