The Last Oracle (2008) sf-5

by James Rollins

  But the children led him in the opposite direction.

  Where were they taking him?

  Behind, a loud alarm erupted, deafening as an air raid siren in the enclosed space. All four of them turned. A red light flashed and whirled atop the hospital complex.

  The villagers had come to realize another truth.

  It wasn't just the children who had gone missing.

  Monk attempted to herd the kids down the path, but the loud noise had incapacitated them. They covered their ears and squeezed their eyes shut. Kiska looked sick to her stomach. Konstantin was on his knees, rocking. Pyotr hugged tight to Monk.

  Hypersensitive.

  Still, Monk urged them onward, carrying Pyotr, half dragging Kiska.

  Monk glanced back toward the flashing siren. He may have lost his memory or more precisely, had it forcibly extracted but he knew one thing for dead certain.

  He would lose much more than his memory if caught again.

  And he feared the children would suffer even worse.

  They had to keep going but to where?

  6

  September 6, 5:22 A. M.

  Kiev, Ukraine

  Nicolas Solokov waited for the cameras to be set up. He had already been prepped and still wore a collar of tissue paper tucked into his white starched shirt to keep the makeup's cake from staining his shirt and midnight blue suit. He had retreated for a private moment of introspection into one of the back hospital wards. The international news crews were still preparing for the morning broadcast out on the steps of the orphanage.

  In the back ward of the Kiev Children's Home, sunlight streamed through high windows. A single nurse moved quietly among the beds. Here the worst cases were hidden away: a two-year-old girl with an inoperable thyroid tumor in her throat, a ten-year-old boy with a swollen head from hydrocephalus, another younger boy whose eyes were dulled by severe mental retardation. This last boy was strapped down, all four limbs.

  The nurse, a squarish Ukrainian matron in a blue smock, noted his attention.

  So he doesn't hurt himself, Senator, she explained, her eyes exhausted from seeing too much suffering.

  But there had been worse cases. In 1993, a baby had been born in Moldova with two heads, two hearts, two spinal cords, but only one set of limbs. There was another child whose brain was born outside his skull.

  All the legacy of Chernobyl.

  In spring of 1986, reactor number four of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant had exploded during the middle of the night. Over the course of ten days, it spewed radiation that was the equivalent of four hundred Hiroshima bombs in a plume that circled the globe. To date, according to the Russian Academy of Medical

  Sciences, over one hundred thousand people had died from radiation exposure and another seven million were exposed, most of them children, leaving an ongoing legacy of cancers and genetic abnormalities.

  And now the second wave of the tragedy was beginning, where those who had been exposed at a young age were having children themselves. A 30 percent increase in birth defects had been reported.

  For that reason, the volatile and charismatic leader of the lower house of the

  Russian parliament had come here. Nicolas's own district of Chelyabinsk lay a thousand miles away, but it had similar concerns. In the Ural Mountains of his district, most of the fuel for Chernobyl had been mined, along with the plutonium for the Soviet weapons program. It remained one of the most radioactive places on the planet.

  They're ready for you, Senator, his aide said behind him.

  He turned to face her.

  Elena Ozerov, a trim raven-haired woman in her early twenties with a smoky complexion, wore a black business suit that hid her small breasts and turned her into something androgynously asexual. She was stern, taciturn, and always at his side. The press referred to her as Nicolas's Rasputin, which he did not discourage.

  It all went along with his political plan to be seen as the bold reformer, while simultaneously harkening back to the former czarist glory of the old Russian

  Empire. Even his namesake, Nicolas II, the last czar of the Romanov dynasty, had been imprisoned and killed in Yekaterinburg, where Nicolas was born. While the czar had been a failed leader during his life, after his death he had been canonized by the Russian Orthodox Church. The bishops built the gold-domed

  Cathedral of the Blood over the home where the family had been murdered. The construction marked a symbolic rebirth of the Romanovs.

  Some claimed the forty-one-year-old Senator Nicolas Solokov, with his lankish black hair and curled short beard, was the czar himself reborn.

  He encouraged such comparisons.

  As Russia sought to rise again on shaky legs burdened by debt and poverty, rife with graft and corruption it needed a new leader for this new millennium.

  Nicolas intended to be that leader.

  And much more.

  He allowed Elena to pinch away the ring of tissue paper from around his neck.

  She looked him up and down, then nodded her approval.

  Nicolas stepped toward the lights waiting for him outside.

  He pushed through the doors, followed circumspectly by Elena. The podium sat up at the top of the stairs, framed with the name of the orphanage behind him.

  He marched to the bristle of microphones at the podium and held an arm high against the barrage of questions. He heard one reporter shout a question about his former ties to the KGB, another about his family's financial connections to the vast mining operations out in the Ural Mountains. As he rose in power, so did the voices of those who sought to pull him down.

  Ignoring the questions, he set his own agenda.

  Leaning toward the microphones, he let his voice boom out over the nattering questions. It is time to shut these doors! he shouted, pointing back toward the entrance to the orphanage behind him. The children of the Ukraine, of

  Belarus, of all of Mother Russia, have suffered from the sins of our past. Never again!

  Nicolas let his anger ring out. He knew how it looked on camera. The hard face of reform and outrage. He continued his impassioned plea for a new vision of

  Russia, a call for action, a call to look forward while not forgetting the past.

  Two days from now, the number four reactor at Chernobyl will be sealed under a new steel dome. The new Sarcophagus will mark the end of a tragedy and be forever a memorial to all the men and women who gave their lives to protect not only our Motherland, but also the world. Firemen who stood firm with their hoses while radiation burned away their futures. Pilots who risked the toxic plume to haul in concrete and supplies. Miners who came from across the country to help build the first shield to entomb the reactor. These glorious men and women, fierce with nationalistic pride, are the true heart of Russia! Let us never forget them, nor their sacrifice!

  The crowd behind the reporters had grown as Nicolas spoke. He was heartened by the cheers and claps as he paused.

  This was the first of many speeches he would be giving, leading up to the ceremony at Chernobyl itself, where the new Sarcophagus would be rolled over the toxic core of the dead reactor. The original concrete shield was already crumbling, meant only as a short-term fix, and that was twenty years ago. The new Sarcophagus weighed eighteen thousand tons and stood half as tall as the

  Eiffel Tower. It was the largest movable structure on the planet.

  Other politicians were already capitalizing on the event with similar events and speeches. But Nicolas had been the loudest and most vocal, a champion for nuclear reform, for cleaning up the radiological hotbeds around the country.

  Many sought to stifle his rhetoric due to the extreme cost. Members of his own parliament ridiculed and lambasted him in the press.

  But Nicolas knew he was right.

  As they all would see one day.

  And mark my words! he continued. While we put an end to one chapter of our history, I fear we've only put our finger in a hole in the dike. Our nuclear past is not done with us ye
t nor the world. When such a time comes, I hope we all prove to have the same stout hearts as those brave men and women who gave up their futures on that tragic day. So let us not squander the gift they've given us. Let us bring about a new Renaissance! From fire, a new world can be born.

  He knew his eyes glinted as he spoke these last words. It was the slogan of his reform.

  A new Renaissance.

  A Russian Renaissance.

  All it needed was a little push in the right direction.

  Elena leaned toward him, touched his elbow, wanting a word. He tilted toward her as the crack of a rifle blasted from the park across the street. From the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of muzzle fire a fraction of a second before something ripped past his ear.

  Sniper.

  Assassin.

  Elena pulled him down behind the podium as cries and screams erupted from the crowd. Chaos ruled for a breath. Nicolas used the moment to brush his lips across Elena's. His hand combed through her long hair; one finger traced the curve of cold surgical steel that hugged the back of her ear.

  He whispered into their kiss.

  That went well.

  10:25 P. M.

  Washington, D. C.

  Painter joined Gray near the front entry and stared at the video feed. He studied the guards held at gunpoint.

  The shadowy man on the stoop called through the door, as if sensing their presence. We mean no harm, he said, his accent sharp, marking him as Eastern

  European.

  Painter stared at the stranger on the screen. Then to the girl who stood beside him, holding the stranger's hand. She was staring straight into the hidden camera.

  The man called again. We are allies of Archibald Polk! He sounded unsure of himself, as if he didn't know if those in the house would know what that meant.

  We don't have much time!

  Elizabeth hovered behind Painter. They shared a look. If there were to be any answers about the fate of her father, a risk had to be taken. But not too large of a risk. Painter hit the intercom button and spoke into it.

  If you are allies, then you'll free our men and drop your weapons.

  The man on the porch shook his head. Not until you prove you can be trusted. We have risked much to bring the girl here. Exposed ourselves.

  Painter glanced to Gray. He shrugged.

  We'll let you inside, Painter said. But only you and the girl.

  And I will keep your men out here to ensure our safety.

  Kowalski grumbled next to them. One big happy family.

  Painter motioned Gray to take Elizabeth around the corner.

  Painter kept his body to the side of the door. Kowalski flanked the other side, standing in his stockings. The large man raised his only weapon: the shoe in his hand.

  That would have to do.

  Painter undid the bolt and cracked the door open. The stranger lifted his palm to show it was empty. The girl held his other hand. She appeared no older than ten, dark-haired in a checkered gray-and-black dress. The man had an olive complexion with a heavy five-o'clock shadow. Maybe Egyptian or Arabic. His eyes, so brown they appeared black in the porch light, smoldered with wary threat. He wore jeans and a dark crimson Windbreaker.

  The stranger turned his head, but his gaze never wavered from the open doorway.

  He barked to his men. Painter didn't understand the language, but from the tones it sounded like a command to stay alert.

  He's a Gypsy, Kowalski mumbled.

  Painter glanced to the large man.

  Had a family down the street from mine. Kowalski thumbed at the stranger.

  That was Romani he was speaking.

  He is right, the stranger said. My name is Luca Hearn.

  Painter pulled the doorway wider and motioned the man inside.

  The stranger stepped across the threshold cautiously, but he nodded a greeting to Painter and Kowalski. Sastimos.

  Nais tuke, Kowalski answered. But just so you know, that's about all the

  Romani language I remember.

  Painter led Luca and the child back to the main living room. She moved with a slight tremble to her limbs. Her face gleamed with a feverish cast to it.

  Luca noted Gray to the side, holding a pistol.

  Painter waved for Gray to holster the weapon. He sensed no direct threat from the man. Only an unwavering caution.

  Elizabeth stepped forward. You mentioned my father.

  Luca crinkled his brow, not understanding.

  Painter explained, She is Archibald Polk's daughter.

  His eyes widened. He bowed his head in her direction. I am sorry for your loss.

  He was a great man.

  What do you know about my father? she asked. Who is this girl?

  The child pulled free of the man's hand and crossed to the table. She sat down on her knees next to it and rocked back and forth.

  The girl? Luca said. I don't know. A mystery. I received a message from your father. A frantic voice mail. It was chaotic, spoken in a rush. He ordered us to buy a dozen Cobra Marine receivers from Radio Shack and to tune them to a certain wavelength. He sounded crazy, babbling off numbers. He wanted us to stake out the national Mall. To watch for a package that set off the receivers.

  Package? Painter asked.

  Luca glanced down to the child. Her.

  The girl? Elizabeth asked, shocked. Why?

  Luca shook his head. We owed your father. We did as he asked. We were even on the Mall when he was shot, though we didn't know it was your father until later.

  But we did pick up the trail of the child.

  Painter studied the girl. There must be a bug, a microtransmitter somewhere on her person.

  We followed her to the zoo, where we were able to collect her without anyone knowing.

  You kidnapped her? Painter asked.

  He shrugged. The last words on the message were to steal the package and bring it to something or someone named Sigma.

  His words jolted Painter.

  The message cut off abruptly, the Gypsy said, with no further direction or explanation. Once we had the girl, we had to move fast. We feared others would come looking for her. Someone able to track her like we did. Especially with an

  Amber Alert raised across the district. But we had no idea what the professor meant by Sigma. As we raced around, trying to figure it out, the girl began to draw furiously.

  He pointed to the child, who had gained her feet and walked to a blank wall. She bore a piece of charcoal from the fireplace in her fingers and drew on the wall in a haphazard manner, jerkily, starting in one place, then moving to another.

  She wouldn't stop, Luca continued. She drew a silhouette of a park with trees and a picture of Rock Creek bridge. He nodded out the window. Then after that, a house, set in the same woods. We had to circle the entire park, looking for it, believing it was important. By the time we found this place, she had drawn the picture that I slid under the door.

  Luca stared at them. A picture of all of you. Friends and family of Dr. Polk.

  So I must ask you, do you know this Sigma?

  Painter slipped out a glossy black identification card. It had his photograph fixed with the presidential seal. Etched into its surface was a holographic

  Greek letter.

  Luca examined it, angling it to study the holograph. His eyes widened as he recognized it.

  While they had talked, Gray had crossed to the girl. He sat on his haunches, studying the girl's work. He rubbed his chin. Something had drawn his attention.

  Gray lifted a finger, half hidden between his knees, like a catcher signaling a pitcher. He pointed toward the girl.

  Her face shone brighter. Her head lolled slightly to one side. Her eyes were open, but they were not following the path of her scrabbling piece of charcoal.

  As disturbing as her manner was, it was not what Gray had indicated.

  Painter had noted it, too. Her hair, damp with fever sweat, had parted slightly behind her ear. A glint of stee
l shone through. The shape was unmistakably the same as the device attached to the strange skull.

  Only here it was on a living subject.

  What had Archibald delivered to them?

  As Painter's mind spun on possibilities, Elizabeth hung farther back in the room. She pointed toward the wall. Come see this, she said, her voice quavering with an edge of fear.

  Painter retreated to her side. She pointed to the artwork forming on the wall.

  From this far away, what looked like mindless scribbles had begun to take form.

  He watched the transformation unfold over the course of four long silent minutes.

  Elizabeth stuttered her amazement. That's that's

  the Taj Mahal, Painter finished.

  In the silent wonder that followed, a distant sound reached them.

  whump, whump

  A helicopter, flying low, coming closer.

  Gray straightened and reached for the girl. Someone's found us!

  6:02 A. M.

  Kiev, Ukraine

  Nicolas rolled off of Elena and onto his back.

  The hotel room fan cooled his sweating body. His lower back ached and his shoulders bore deep scratches that still burned. Elena rolled smoothly to her feet, with an easy swing of her hair, tangled to midback. The curving rise and fall of her buttocks as she strode toward the shower came close to arousing him again. He stirred, but he knew he had another interview in a half hour.

  News of the failed assassination had already spread far and wide. He would be on every international newscast. He'd already learned that the sniper, shot by the police, had died before reaching the hospital.

  With the death, no one would suspect that it had all been preplanned. Even the sniper a mine worker from Polevskoy whose brother had been killed in an industrial accident last year never knew how artfully he'd been manipulated into the assassination scheme.

  It had all unfolded with technical precision. Elena had timed her touch perfectly. A skill of hers. When primed, she could calculate probabilities to the nth degree. Her statistical analyses of business spreadsheets rivaled the world's best economists. And having studied the technical specifications on most pistols and light arms, she had only to see how a weapon was held and pointed to calculate its precise trajectory.