The Last Oracle (2008) sf-5

by James Rollins

  Monk spotted other red pinpricks in the distance. More flares.

  He hopped down.

  They must be blindly strafing in all directions.

  A frantic crashing erupted on the far side of the stream.

  Monk caught a flash of tawny fur. His heart thudded in panic.

  Tiger.

  Instead, two roe deer smashed into view, and with a flash of dancing hooves, they darted away. Monk forced his heart out of his throat and crossed to the children. The sonic blast had flattened them. The hunters knew of the kids' hypersensitivity and were trying to immobilize them.

  Monk scooped Pyotr up with his stumped arm and tossed him across his shoulder.

  He dragged Kiska to her feet and supported her around the waist, hiking her up.

  Burdened, Monk crossed to Konstantin, intending to kick the boy into action.

  They dared not stop.

  Marta intervened. She nosed under Konstantin's chest and pulled one of his arms over her back. Supporting him with her shoulders, she sidled down toward the river below. The boy's legs dragged behind her.

  Monk followed with the other two children. While deafened by the sonic flare,

  Monk still felt the boy's trembling moans of agony. He hobbled faster and reached the river's course.

  The water flowed through a steep-banked channel, a full four meters wide. It churned and gurgled, loud enough to dull the sharper ranges of the sonic flare.

  Monk waved to Marta. He pointed downriver. She swung in that direction. They continued, following the twisting course. After a few turns, the steep ridges blocked more and more of the wailing.

  Kiska stirred first. She knocked free of Monk's arm and gained her own feet. She still covered her ears with her hands. Konstantin soon followed, freeing Marta, who panted and gasped, knuckling on both arms.

  As they fled from the screams, Monk kept a watch behind him.

  Expecting at any moment to see a pair of tigers loping after them.

  Distracted, he ran into Kiska, who had stopped. Tangled, he toppled to his knees, dropping the boy to the ground.

  Konstantin had also halted at his sister's side, frozen in place with Marta. It seemed they had more to fear than just the hunters behind them.

  Beyond the pair, a massive brown bear rose up from the riverbank. It had to weigh six hundred pounds, damp from the river and plainly tense from the caterwauling of the flares. Black eyes stared back at their party. It rose up on its hind limbs, stretching eight feet tall, bristling, growling, baring yellow teeth.

  The Russian grizzly.

  The symbol of Mother Russia.

  With a roar, it fell and charged straight at them.

  6:03 A. M.

  Washington, D. C.

  The old man woke into brightness. It stung his eyes and pounded into his skull.

  He groaned and turned his head away. Nausea spilled burning gorge up into his throat. He choked it back down with a gasp.

  He blinked away the glare and found himself strapped to a bed. Though a sheet covered him, he knew he was naked. The room was stark white, clinical, sterile.

  No windows. A single door with a small barred window. Closed.

  A figure sat in a chair beside the bed, in a suit, the jacket hung on the seat back, sleeves rolled up. His legs were crossed, his hands folded primly on his lap.

  He leaned forward. Good morning, Yuri.

  Trent McBride smiled down at him without a trace of warmth.

  Yuri glanced down to his chest, remembering being shot by a tranquilizer dart.

  He searched around, still confused, dazed.

  You've been given a counterstimulant, McBride said. Must have you alert, since we have much to discuss.

  Kak ya , he choked out, his tongue pasty and thick.

  McBride sighed, reached to a bedside table where a glass with a straw rested, and offered Yuri a sip.

  He did not refuse. The lukewarm liquid burned like the finest vodka. It pushed back the shadows at the edges of his thoughts and washed the paste from his tongue.

  Trent, what are you doing? Yuri tugged at the straps that bound down his arms.

  Filling in the blanks. McBride pressed an intercom button at the head of the bed. As I mentioned, you've not been forthcoming with all the details of your research at Chelyabinsk 88. We must correct that oversight.

  How do you mean? Yuri tried to sound innocent, but he failed miserably as his voice shook. He wished he were a stronger man.

  Hmm, Trent said. He leaned forward and stripped the sheet covering Yuri. I suppose we might as well get the ugly part over with so we can speak like true colleagues.

  Yuri stared down at his naked body. His pale skin was dotted by tiny suction cups, each the size of a dime, topped by a pea-size knot of electronics sprouting a thread-thin antenna. They lined his legs from toe to groin, his arms from fingertip to shoulder. His chest was a chessboard grid of the sticky cups.

  Before he could question what they were, the door to the room opened and a slender figure entered. Yuri had to struggle a moment to remember his name, though he had just met the man. Dr. James Chen. They had used the researcher's office for the meeting at Walter Reed.

  The door clamped shut, soundproofed.

  Chen crossed to them. He carried a laptop open in his arms. We're all calibrated.

  As the man settled into a seat and rested his laptop on the bedside table, Yuri caught a glimpse of the computer screen before it was swung away. It had a stylized figure of an outstretched man dotted with small glowing circles.

  Electroacupuncture, McBride said and waved a hand over the array of suction cups. Microelectrodes inserted into acupuncture points along the prime meridians. I don't purport to understand it fully. This is Dr. Chen's line of expertise. He's made remarkable progress using this technique to alleviate pain, allowing battlefield surgery without general anesthesia. Brilliant work and why he became a Jason. I then recruited him to our joint investigation because of his innovative use of microelectrodes. Microelectrodes like you used with your own test subjects.

  McBride tweaked one of the antennas with a finger. Yuri felt a stinging stab.

  We've learned that what can be used to deaden pain in the right circumstances, can also be used to amplify it.

  Trent don't , Yuri begged.

  McBride ignored him, turned to Chen, and pointed to one of the cups near his knee, then to a second one near his groin.

  The researcher lifted a stylus and drew a line on the computer screen.

  Yuri's leg blistered with fiery pain. A scream burst from his throat. It was as if someone had dug a scalpel from knee to groin, cutting down to the bone. Then it ended just as quickly.

  Gasping, Yuri searched down. He expected to see blood flowing, flesh smoking.

  But there was only pale skin.

  McBride waved again across the field of tiny cups. We can do the same across any of these points. In any pattern. We can flay you alive without harming a hair. A virtual operation with all the pain.

  Wh-why?

  McBride stared down at him again. While his face was mild, his eyes were fierce.

  I will have answers, yes? Let's start with what you've been keeping secret about the children.

  I don't

  McBride turned to Chen.

  No! Yuri shouted out.

  McBride leaned back to him. Then let's not play games. We've been able to replicate your augments without any difficulty. The schematics that your team provided were very thorough and precise. But in the end, not all that innovative. Merely a sophisticated TMS device. We attempted to duplicate your results, using a pair of autistic savant children in Canada. Our experiments were well, let's just say disappointing.

  Yuri inwardly cringed. So the Americans were closer than even Savina had suspected. They'd already come to recognize how unique the situation was at

  Chelyabinsk 88.

  So, McBride asked again, what have you been keeping secret from us?

  Yuri hesi
tated too long. A fiery slash cut across his chest. His muscles spasmed, his back arched from the bed. He screamed so loudly that no sound came out.

  As the pain cut off, Yuri trembled and quaked with aftershocks. He tasted blood on his tongue. Still he dared not wait. What did it matter if the Americans found out? It was already too late.

  DNA, he gasped out. It's their DNA.

  McBride hovered closer. How do you mean?

  Yuri swallowed, gulping for air. The secret lies in the subjects' genetics. We only discovered this ourselves twelve years ago.

  Yuri explained in fits and starts, questioned repeatedly by McBride. He related the discovery in 1959 of a cluster of exceptional savant talent, a group of

  Gypsy children. A genetic line that ran through the history of the Gypsies. The chovihanis. The clans kept this line secret and attempted to preserve it through inbreeding, resulting in genetic aberrations. He told how the Russians had stolen this genetic heritage for study, for incorporation into their own research into parapsychology.

  But it was nothing mystical, Yuri explained. The children were merely savants though savants of a prodigious level. We tried to heighten their ability first through breeding, then through bioengineering. But over the years, as genetic testing grew more refined, we were able to pinpoint what made the children unique.

  McBride leaned closer.

  Autism is triggered by a mix of environmental factors coupled with a variable number of ten genes. What we discovered was that the strongest of the savants our Omega-class subjects carried a specific three genes. Three genetic markers. When they appeared in just the right sequence, coupled with mild to moderate autism, an amazing savant talent would arise.

  Which you in turn augmented further, McBride said. Creating a perfect storm of genetics and bioengineering.

  Yuri nodded.

  Brilliant. Truly brilliant. Then it was just as well we used Archibald to lure one of your Omega subjects out into the open. And all the more reason for us to get hold of that girl.

  Yuri startled. Concern rang through him. You don't have Sasha?

  McBride frowned and tilted back to his chair. No, but in the past hour, we've determined where she is likely being kept. And it seems the same group has sent a team to follow in Archibald's footsteps. Luckily we have taken measures to erase those footsteps completely.

  Who who has Sasha?

  You want to know? McBride glowered down at Yuri. It was plainly a sore spot for the man. I'll show you.

  He motioned to Chen.

  No!

  Yuri's chest lit with fire, streaking in jagged lines across his chest, linking point to point, forming a crooked symbol on his chest, a letter, a fiery Greek letter.

  McBride growled through Yuri's agony. They won't be a problem for long.

  2:04 P. M.

  Agra, India

  Despite her father's fascination, Elizabeth had never been to India. She stared out the taxi van as it swept away from the airport. The windows were down but offered little relief from the heat, well over a hundred degrees.

  Traffic moved at a snail's pace, snarled amid rickshaws pulled by both bicycles and even one camel. She was close enough to a neighboring taxi, whose windows were also open, that she could smell the driver's thin cigar as he chewed on its end. The smoke cut like a knife through the density of the city's mTlange of curry, filth, and cooking grease. The neighboring driver huffed at the traffic and pounded the heel of his hand on his horn.

  The blare was barely heard above the chaos, made worse by a festival under way ahead, bright with the sounds of cymbals. All around, pedestrians packed the sidewalks and walked through the creeping cars, fighting for space with bicycles and motorcycles.

  Elizabeth found her breathing growing heavier, her chest constricting not from the humidity and heat but from the press of humanity. She wasn't normally claustrophobic, but the noise, the unending vibrancy, the hawk and holler of so many people, blanketed her, squeezed her. Her hands formed fists on her knees.

  Finally, through judicious use of his own horn, the taxi driver broke through a gap and pushed for the next intersection. He turned the corner, and the way opened to a wider thoroughfare that aimed straight for the heart of the city.

  Elizabeth sighed in relief.

  Finally, Kowalski said next to her, echoing her sentiment. We should've rented a van. I could've gotten us there faster.

  The large man was crammed against her side, but he seemed to sense her distress and tried to keep back, which didn't help the other passenger sharing their row.

  Beyond Kowalski, Shay Rosauro elbowed the large man for more room. Her face shone with a sheen of sweat. She had used the time stuck in traffic to undo the black bandanna that bound her hair and refold it into an efficient head scarf that tucked behind her ears.

  Gray, who sat in the front passenger's seat of the van, leaned toward the driver and pointed. The driver nodded. Gray settled back into place.

  The final member of their company sat in the back row of the van. Luca Hearn wore an inscrutable expression, but his dark eyes seemed to watch everything. He had strapped two daggers to wrist sheaths before leaving the plane, prepared for an unwelcome homecoming to the land of his people.

  Gray twisted in his seat. We'll be at the hotel in another ten minutes, he called back to them.

  The taxi sped to where the road ended at the Yamuna River. Its waters glinted like blue steel in the bright sunlight, lined by palms. To the left rose a massive fort built of red sandstone, with high parapets and thick walls.

  Reaching the river, they turned away from the fort and followed the curve of the waterway.

  Traffic slowed again, but in only a few minutes, the view opened to the left, revealing an expansive parkland of meadows, gardens, reflecting pools, and patches of forest. The greenbelt hugged the banks of the river, but the true wonder seemed to float above it all, a cloud of white marble set against the shimmering blue sky.

  The Taj Mahal.

  The mausoleum was an engineering wonder and an architectural marvel. But at the moment, it appeared more like a dream, aglow and drifting in the heavens. Built over three centuries ago by the Mughal emperor Shāh Jāhan, to mark the final resting place of his beloved wife, it was to many a testament to the eternity of love.

  But it was not their destination.

  The taxi van skirted to the side and pulled up to a five-story white building, lined at each level by large arched windows, the Deedar-e-Taj Hotel. It was here they were to meet Dr. Hayden Masterson.

  The restaurant is on the top, Elizabeth said as they piled out. She checked her watch. They were half an hour late.

  Gray paid the driver, and they all crossed past a dancing fountain into the hotel lobby, gloriously air-conditioned.

  Kowalski, Gray said and pointed to the front desk, you and Luca secure our rooms. We'll head up. He nodded to Elizabeth and Rosauro.

  Kowalski sighed heavily, but he mumbled something about a cold shower. He hovered a moment near Elizabeth as Gray turned toward the elevator. Are you okay? he mumbled to her.

  Me?

  Back in the taxi. I thought maybe you looked sort of He shrugged.

  Just the heat maybe nerves, she mumbled.

  I have just the ticket. He leaned conspiratorially over to her and parted his suit jacket enough to reveal two cigars in an inner pocket. Cubans. From the duty-free shop at the airport.

  She smiled at him. She could almost kiss him right now.

  Before she could say anything, the elevator chimed behind her. Gray called for her to hurry.

  Kowalski straightened and patted his jacket. He winked at her as he turned away.

  Actually winked. Who still winked? Still, her smile did linger on her lips as she turned to join Gray and Rosauro.

  Gray ushered her inside and punched the button for the top floor. Is there anything else we should know about Dr. Masterson? he asked her.

  Just don't mention Manchester United, she mumbled.

/>   The soccer team?

  Trust me, or you'll never hear a word about my father or his research. Also, don't push him. Let him get to the point in his own time.

  The elevator doors whisked open upon a strange sight. A large restaurant filled the roof level, sparsely occupied at this hour. Tables were set with linen and fine china. The smell of curry and garlic lingered tantalizingly in the air.

  But what was unusual was that the entire restaurant slowly rotated. It spun through a panoramic view of the city, including the Taj Mahal.

  At a table by one of the windows, a tall man unfolded from his seat. He lifted an arm, then lowered it, and tapped at his wristwatch.

  Elizabeth smiled and crossed toward him, stepping onto the turning platform. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but she led the others forward through the nests of empty tables. A few servers in gold vests nodded a greeting to them.

  It had been several years since she had last seen Dr. Masterson. He still wore his characteristic white suit, formal, colonial, with a wide-brimmed Panama hat that rested on a neighboring table. A cane leaned there, too, with a hooked ivory handle carved in the shape of a white crane. His hair, worn long to the shoulder, had also gone white to match, which she was sure did not entirely displease him. His face was craggy, leathery, tanned to a deep bronze that by now probably never faded.

  Elizabeth made formal introductions. Dr. Shay Rosauro expressed what an honor it was to meet him, which went a long way to turning his irritated frown into something that bordered on welcoming. Women were a weakness of Hayden's, especially the attention of someone as long-limbed and lithe as Dr. Rosauro.

  Elizabeth's father had once hinted at why the professor had remained at the

  University of Mumbai, versus Oxford or Cambridge. It seemed to involve a sticky matter concerning an undergraduate student.

  Hayden waved them all to their seats, making sure Dr. Rosauro was positioned next to him. By the time they were situated, the restaurant had rotated to a stunning view of the Taj Mahal.

  Hayden noted their attention. The mausoleum to Mumtaz Mahal, wife of the Shh

  Jhan! he said with a bluster. That dear wife of the emperor extracted four promises from the bloke. He ticked them off with his fingers. To build a great tomb to her, of course. Second, that he would marry again. Now that's a wife!