The Last Odyssey: A Thriller

by James Rollins

  Maria’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. She stared through the window toward the pile of bones. “Then we know how that poor fellow over there died. Radiation poisoning.”

  Mac nodded. “It looks like the only way to close that shutoff valve is to swim across that pool and turn it manually. It’s a fatal swim, though. That’s if you can even make it across before succumbing.”

  “Charon’s price,” Gray said, quoting Hunayn.

  Mac looked grim. “You have to give up your life to save everyone else.”

  The group debated various options—a makeshift boat, stringing a rope—but they all knew they were just marking time until the inevitable.

  Joe lifted an arm. “Enough already. I’ll do it.”

  Maria tried to pull his arm down. “Don’t be stupid.”

  “I think that’s what I’m best known for.” Joe faced the group. “We all know someone’s got to do it. Gray and Seichan have a kid. Mac has a bad wing. Maria, you’re so tiny, you’ll burn up before you put your toe in.”

  “I can do it,” Bailey said. He stood beside the large vat of black oil. “I think you’re supposed to dunk your whole body in here, as some sort of barrier to help you make the swim across.”

  Joe joined him. “Padre, I appreciate the offer, but you aren’t much bigger than Maria. And I’m not about to send a priest in to do a man’s job.”

  Bailey looked offended, but Joe guided him away from the door.

  “Besides,” Joe said, “you know all about this mythology business. It’s all Greek to me.”

  Gray stepped forward, looking ready to make his case.

  Joe shut him down with a glare. “You know I’m right.”

  Maria ran up and hugged him. “We could take our chances out there.”

  “And go where?” he asked. “Even searching would probably get us all killed. Someone’s got to go in there and shut this place down.”

  He freed himself from her and turned to the large vat of black oil, untucking his shirt, preparing to strip down for his dunking.

  “Leave everything on,” Bailey warned. “The more Promethean Blood between you and the Medea’s Oil, all the better. I’d suggest you even soak a scarf and wrap your head entirely.”

  “How’m I supposed to see?”

  “You don’t,” Bailey said. “You swim blind. It’s a straight shot. If you don’t think you can do it—”

  “I can do it,” Joe said.

  Gray pulled a set of climbing gloves from his pack and passed them to Joe. “Cover your hands, too.”

  Joe suited fully up and climbed into the big black vat, spilling oil across the floor. He ducked fully under and stayed there, jostling about, rubbing oil everywhere. The plan was to force the Promethean Blood into every pore, to soak his clothes, to fill his boots.

  Maria held her breath while he was under. She wondered if fate was cursing her for her doubts about Joe, about all her second-guessing of their relationship.

  Is God punishing me?

  Bailey drew next to her. “He may be okay. While Hunayn’s sailor probably covered his body with oil, he may not have coated himself as thoroughly as Joe.”

  Maria grasped at this hope.

  “And know I’ll pray for him,” Bailey said.

  I will, too.

  Joe finally surfaced and climbed out, a silhouette in black. Bailey soaked a scarf and prepared to wrap his head like a mummy.

  “Wait,” Gray said. He turned from his study of the washbasin of oil on the other side and pointed back at it. “Why’s this here? It’s too small to bathe more than a dog in it.”

  Bailey frowned, unable to answer.

  Gray eyed the priest. “One of your stories earlier. You said Medea protected the hero Jason before battle by making him drink her potion. That when imbibed, it granted him further protections, from even spears and arrows.”

  Bailey’s eyes widened, and he turned to Joe. “That’s right! I doubt even Hunayn thought of that precaution.”

  Joe looked confused. “What’re you getting at?”

  Maria answered, hope growing brighter inside her. She pointed to the washbasin. “That’s a water fountain. You’re supposed to drink from it.”

  “Shielding both your insides and out,” Bailey said.

  Gray studied the oil. “Maybe it’s got some iodine-like properties that protect organs against radiation damage.”

  Maria didn’t care how it worked—only that it did.

  Joe looked less than thrilled as he stared down into the washbasin. “I’m having second thoughts about all of this.”

  44

  June 26, 7:58 P.M. WEST

  High Atlas Mountains, Morocco

  Where’s that Charon guy when you need him?

  As Kowalski stumbled blindly ahead, he heard the door slam behind him, clanging with a note of finality. He reached forward, probing with one leg, then the other, as he crossed the bronze landing. The toe of his boot finally found the lip of the pool.

  He breathed hard, sucking the soaked cloth into and out of his mouth, suddenly claustrophobic. He wanted to rip away the wraps, but he knew better. Even blindfolded like this, he kept his eyelids squeezed tight, trying to protect every tender part of him.

  He drew closer to the pool’s edge. He swore he could feel the radiation emanating from that toxic sea, like waves of heat pressing against him.

  His stomach churned, both from fear and from the long draughts of oil the others had forced him to drink. It had tasted like charcoal but weirdly sickly sweet. He had come close to losing his cookies right then and there. Still, he manned up and held it all down.

  He sat at the pool’s edge and lowered his feet into the toxic soup. It was hot, uncomfortably so, worrisomely so.

  If the radiation doesn’t get me, I may be parboiled before I get to the other side.

  Still, he lowered himself in, careful to keep his head above water. He knew the longer he was in here, the greater his danger. He took another deep breath and kicked off the wall. He glided across the glowing sea, sweeping out with his arms in a breaststroke, frog-kicking his legs. It was harder than he had anticipated. His clothes weighed him down; his boots were anchors on his legs. But at least the oil seemed more buoyant than regular water.

  I’m just a big fat water droplet floating on a lethal oil slick.

  He continued across. After a minute, he had no sense of how far he’d traveled or how far he had to go. Fear made him suddenly feel sicker. A headache that had been there from the beginning pounded harder. As he continued, nausea rose up, bad enough to burn bile through his chest.

  Don’t lose it here.

  He swept his arms and kicked harder. A wave of dizziness swept through him, making his stomach flip, along with the world. He felt as if he were swimming upside down. He paddled, panicked, afraid of going under. The room spun inside his head. He quickly grew disoriented, unsure if he was even still headed in the right direction. He pictured himself swimming in circles until exhaustion dragged him down.

  Already he felt his strength sapping.

  Get hold of yourself, he demanded.

  Still, he knew what was happening. Mac had explained it all to him. Kowalski again pictured waves of radiation sweeping through him. It can kill you in minutes, Mac had warned and ticked off the warning signs. Nausea, disorientation, headaches.

  Check, check, and check.

  Kowalski swam faster, hoping it was all in his head, some psychosomatic bullshit. But he couldn’t convince himself of that. Instead he pictured Maria, smiling at some joke, frowning at something stupid he did, which was all too often. He remembered her touch in the night, the smell of her skin, the brush of her hair. He recalled their last night together in Agadir, sinking into her warmth, her breath on his neck.

  She was his lamp in the darkness now.

  He kicked and paddled, his breath heaving in and out. He would do anything to keep her safe, even cross a toxic sea.

  I can do this—for you.

  T
hen something grabbed his ankle and dragged him under.

  8:03 P.M.

  Maria pounded on the bronze door. With her forehead pressed to the hot glass, she searched the roiling surface of the glowing pool. Halfway across, Joe’s body had jerked and vanished into the oil.

  Gray had seen it, too. He was at the small fountain, drinking from its black font. He and Bailey had already dunked themselves earlier in the larger tank, to protect themselves as they opened the door for Kowalski and slammed it behind him. Now it looked like Gray intended a rescue operation.

  As Gray stepped toward the door, Maria stopped him, blocking him with her body. “No,” she said. “That wasn’t the plan.”

  Gray’s eyes shone with a fierce determination.

  Maria faced that heat.

  Bailey grabbed Gray’s shoulder. Even Seichan shifted next to Maria, backing her up. They had all agreed they would only try this once, risking only one of them.

  “Joe has this,” Maria told Gray. “He has this.”

  Gray clenched a fist.

  Maria turned her back on him, leaving the others to deal with Gray.

  She stared across the glowing green pool.

  Don’t make a liar out of me, Joe.

  8:04 P.M.

  Kowalski thrashed in the oil, struggling to hold his breath, to keep his lips pressed tightly. As he was dragged deeper, he twisted down and grabbed the end of a segmented metal tendril wrapped around his boot. He fought to rip it off, but it only clamped harder.

  Fuck this.

  He let go of the constricting vine and tugged his laces loose. Then he pried at the trapped boot with his other heel, with both hands. He wiggled and fought. Luckily the foot inside the boot was well greased. The boot finally popped off. He felt it wrench away, towed into the depths.

  He kicked the other way, pawing for the surface.

  He finally broke through to open air. He clawed the wraps from his face and head. Most of it had already been dislodged. Whatever protection it had offered, it was too late now. The damage was done.

  As he swam for the far landing, he opened his eyes, knowing he needed to see. The glow of the pool glared after the minutes of darkness—or maybe it was the radiation causing his eyes to ache. He didn’t know, and right now he didn’t care.

  Maybe the oil over his head was enough. Maybe what he had washed into his eyes when he had bathed in the black oil would protect him. Maybe what he drank . . .

  He heard splashing behind him.

  A glance back revealed a nest of tendrils shredding the water. His stolen boot was thrown high, bouncing off the ceiling and back into the water. The mass of bronze vines snaked toward him.

  He swam faster, choking down bile, ignoring the spin of the room, his heart hammering. He no longer bothered with a cautious breaststroke. He ducked his head and swam freestyle, speeding across the buoyant oil.

  Legs kicking, arms digging.

  He held his breath, keeping his face down.

  He sensed the approach of the wall and peeked up.

  Another two yards.

  Something brushed the toes on his bootless foot.

  He strangled a scream and gave one last burst of speed. He hit the far side, lunged up, grabbed the edge, and pitched over. Like a seal beaching on an ice floe, he slid and rolled across the bronze landing.

  He crashed through old bones and struck the wall.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .

  Out in the lake, a wave surged toward him, led by a churning mass of snaking vines. He cringed, expecting to be snagged and dragged back in. Instead, the tendrils snapped taut, their tips waving at the pool’s edge, apparently the extent of their reach. With their prey escaped, they sank back into the depths.

  Kowalski grabbed the large bronze wheel and hauled himself up on shaking legs. He paused long enough to flip off the swamp creature and set about turning the stubborn wheel, cranking the valve with all his remaining strength. His arms trembled with the effort. His vision narrowed. Finally, he felt something clank and vibrate the wheel. It would not turn anymore.

  Hopefully that’s enough.

  Because he had nothing left.

  Still hanging by his arm, he twisted around and slumped with his back to the wall. He sat atop the bones and didn’t care. He dropped his arm, his hand coming to rest on a skull. He patted it.

  Yeah, you and me both.

  As he gasped, the wall vibrated behind him. He glanced up to the gold device welded to the wall. It had pipes running down from it and through the bronze apron, likely into the pool below. A large gold disk above it started to turn, tick by tick.

  That can’t be good.

  Motion drew his gaze forward. Thick plates of bronze, hinged at the bottom, tilted out from both sides of the room. Chains lowered them until the edges met in the middle with a loud clang, sealing the toxic pool below under this new floor.

  Kowalski stared across from one landing to the other. He leaned his head back with an exasperated sigh.

  You couldn’t have done that earlier?

  8:07 P.M.

  “What’s the number?” Gray asked Mac.

  The climatologist retreated from the crack in the door and stared down at the Geiger counter. “With the pool sealed, the levels are down ninety percent in there. Which is still hot, but it should be safe if you’re quick.” Mac waved at Gray’s soaked clothes and body. “Of course, a little extra protection never hurt.”

  Gray nodded. “Everyone else stay back around the corner.”

  Bailey stepped forward. “I’ll go with you. You may need help with Joe.” He lowered his voice so Maria couldn’t hear. “He looks in bad shape.”

  Gray didn’t argue. The priest was already anointed in the black oil. “C’mon.”

  He hauled the door wide enough for them to slip through, then closed it behind them. Across the way, Kowalski noticed their arrival and lifted a trembling arm—then promptly dropped it.

  Gray ran forward, his boots ringing off the bronze floor. Bailey kept at his heels. When they reached Kowalski, the priest dropped next to him, looking ready to perform Last Rites. But the big man had some fight left in him.

  Kowalski rolled his head toward the device on the wall. “That’s your problem.”

  Gray understood and faced the ticking gold clock of Hunayn’s fail-safe. He noted a circle of Arabic inscribed on it. “Can you read this?” Gray asked.

  Bailey helped Kowalski up and squinted over at the writing. He tilted his head in order to read it as the clock face slowly turned a tick at a time. “It says I grant you enough time for your final prayers. So Allah will accept you with merciful grace.”

  Gray had already roughly estimated how much time that entailed. From the circumference of the clock, from the pace of its rotation, he calculated how long it would take to reach the silver mark on the gold dial.

  Less than fifteen minutes.

  Gray shifted his attention down to a wide gold box that likely housed the fail-safe mechanism. For any hope of disarming it, he had to get it open. He searched its sides but found no means to unlatch or remove the cover. He grabbed the edges and tried lifting it off. He managed to shift it—but that was a mistake.

  Even Kowalski noted it as he leaned on Bailey and groaned.

  The clockwork dial snapped forward a full third, trimming their time by the same amount. Cursing Hunayn’s cleverness, Gray backed away. The device had been booby-trapped against tampering.

  “How long?” Bailey asked.

  Gray pointed to the far door.

  “Less than ten minutes.”

  45

  June 26, 8:08 P.M. WEST

  High Atlas Mountains, Morocco

  Elena fled through the burning forest.

  Behind her, cedars exploded into torches. Hot smoke shrouded everything. Fires roared all around. She stumbled onward, seeking some refuge, some escape. Her eyes watered, her breath gasped.

  Charlie kept next to her, clutching her hand. The woman’s face was sheened wi
th sweat, smeared with ash. Tears trailed through them, likely only partly due to the sting of the smoke.

  “This way,” Charlie urged, tugging her toward where the smoke looked thinner, where the forest was darker.

  Elena tripped and staggered alongside her.

  Not going to make it.

  Then suddenly the trees fell away to both sides. The sun, still cloaked by a layer of smoke overhead, shone brightly.

  Elena searched around and immediately knew where she was.

  Oh no.

  She stared up at the stratified cliff face, at the blasted mouth of a cave a short distance up. It was where everyone had gone, vanished to who knew where.

  Elena’s feet slowed.

  She did not want to follow.

  But Charlie left her no choice and clutched Elena’s hand even harder. “We need to get out of sight.”

  Tugged along, Elena realized Charlie was right. With the forest behind them on fire and the river surely watched, they needed to hide, to regroup, to think of some way out of this mess.

  Charlie let go of her hand when they reached the cliff face and began to crawl up—then the rock exploded over her, blasted by a line of gunfire strafing above her head.

  Charlie ducked and leaped back down, joining Elena on the ground. They both put their backs to the rock. From around the corner of the burning forest, coming up the tiny stream where Charlie’s cruiser was beached, Kadir stepped into view, a black armored figure with his rifle raised.

  After forcing them here, he had come for the kill.

  Charlie tried to step toward the flames and smoke, but Kadir fired at her toes, driving her back to the wall. He marched toward them, closing the distance, making escape even more impossible.

  Behind him, another figure appeared.

  Monsignor Roe hobbled after Kadir, having followed him from the boat. A white bandage wrapped his upper thigh, stanching where Charlie had shot him during their escape attempt. The priest’s countenance was dark, his eyes burning with both pain and fury.

  Kadir stopped in front of them with his back to the flaming forest.

  Roe called over. “Just kill them both!”

  Kadir showed no emotion. As dead-eyed as ever, he simply centered his rifle at Charlie and fired.