The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts

by James Rollins

  KOKKALIS.

  Though Monk was surely dead, no one wanted to remove the tape. It was a silent hope. If only sustained by Gray.

  He owed his friend.

  Monk had climbed through the ranks of Sigma alongside Gray. His friend had been recruited from the Green Berets at the same time as Gray had been pulled from Leavenworth prison, where he’d been incarcerated after striking a superior officer during his stint with the Army Rangers. They had become quick friends, if not a bit of an odd couple at Sigma. Monk stood only a few inches over five feet, a shaven-headed pit bull compared to Gray’s taller, leaner physique. But the true difference lay deeper than mere appearance. Monk’s easygoing manner had slowly tempered the uncompromising steel of Gray’s heart. If not for Monk’s friendship, Gray would have certainly washed out of Sigma, as he had the Army Rangers.

  As he waited, Gray pictured his former partner. They’d been through countless scrapes together over the years. Monk bore the puckered bullet wounds and scars to prove it. He had even lost his left hand during one mission, replaced with a prosthetic one. As he sat, Gray could still hear the barking bellow of Monk’s laugh…or the quiet intensity of his voice, revealing the man’s genius-level I.Q., disciplined in forensic medicine and science.

  How could someone so large and vital be gone? Without a trace?

  The phone finally clicked in his ear. “Captain Ron Trypol,” a stern voice answered.

  “Captain, it’s Gray Pierce.”

  “Ah, Commander. Good. I had hoped to reach you this afternoon. I don’t have much time before my next meeting.”

  Gray already heard the dire overtones. “Captain?”

  “I’ll get to the point. I’ve been ordered to call off the search.”

  “What?”

  “We were able to recover twenty-two bodies. Dental records show none of them to be your man.”

  “Only twenty-two?” Even by conservative estimates, that was only a small fraction of the dead.

  “I know, Commander. But recovery efforts were already hampered by the extreme depths and pressures. The entire bottom of the lagoon is riddled with caverns and lava tubes, many extending miles in tangled mazes.”

  “Still, with—”

  “Commander.” The man’s tone was firm. “We lost a diver two days ago. A good man with a family and two children.”

  Gray closed his eyes, knowing the ache of that loss.

  “To search the caves only risks more men. And for what?”

  Gray remained silent.

  “Commander Pierce, I assume you haven’t heard any more word. No further cryptic messages?”

  Gray sighed.

  To gain the captain’s cooperation, he had related the one message he had received…or possibly received. It had occurred weeks after Monk had vanished. Following the events that occurred at the island, the only piece of his friend to be salvaged had been his prosthetic hand, a state-of-the-art piece of biotechnology built by DARPA engineers, which included a built-in wireless radio interface. While transporting the disembodied hand to Monk’s funeral, the prosthetic fingers had begun to tap out a weak S.O.S. It had lasted only a few seconds—and only Gray had heard it. Then it had gone silent. Technicians had examined the hand and concluded it was most likely a mere glitch. The hand’s digital log showed no incoming signal. It was just a malfunction. Nothing more. An electrical ghost-in-the-machine.

  Still, Gray had refused to give up—even as week after week passed.

  “Commander?” Trypol said.

  “No,” Gray admitted sullenly. “There’s been no further word.”

  Trypol paused, then spoke more slowly. “Then perhaps it’s time to lay this to rest, Commander. For everyone’s sake.” His voice softened at the edges. “And what about Kat? Your man’s wife. What does she have to say about all this?”

  It was a sore point. Gray wished he’d never mentioned it to her. But how could he not? Monk was her husband; they had a little girl together, Penelope. Still, maybe it had been the wrong thing to do. Kat had listened to Gray’s story with a stoic expression. She stood in her black funeral dress, ramrod straight, her eyes sunken with grief. She knew it was a thin lifeline, only a frail hope. She had glanced to Penelope in the car seat of the black limousine, then back to Gray. She didn’t say a word, only shook her head once. She could not grasp that lifeline. She could not survive losing Monk a second time. It would destroy her when she was already this fragile. And she had Penelope to consider, her own piece of Monk. True flesh and blood. Not some phantom hope.

  He had understood. So he had continued his investigation on his own. He had not spoken to Kat since that day. It was a silent, mutual pact between them. She did not want to hear from him until the matter was resolved one way or the other. Gray’s mother, though, spent several afternoons with Kat and the baby. His mother knew nothing about the S.O.S., but she had sensed that something was wrong with Kat.

  Haunted, that was how his mother had described Kat.

  And Gray knew what haunted her.

  Despite what Kat had decided that day, she had grasped that lifeline. What the mind attempted to set aside, the heart could not. And it was torturing her.

  For her sake, for Monk’s family, Gray needed to face a harsh reality.

  “Thank you for your efforts, Captain,” Gray finally mumbled.

  “You did right by him, Commander. Know that. But eventually we have to move on.”

  Gray cleared his throat. “My condolences for the loss of your man, sir.”

  “And the same to you.”

  Gray ended the connection. He stood for a long breath. Finally, he stepped over to the opposite locker, placed a palm on its cold metal surface, as cold as a grave.

  I’m sorry.

  He reached up, peeled a corner of the duct tape, and ripped it away.

  Gray was done chasing ghosts.

  Good-bye, Monk.

  4:02 P.M.

  Painter spun the ancient coin atop his desk. He watched the silver flash as he concentrated on the mystery it represented. It had been returned from the lab half an hour ago. He had read the detailed report that had accompanied it. The coin had been laser-mapped for fingerprints, both its metallic content and surface soot had been analyzed with a mass spectrometer, and a multitude of photographs had been taken, including some taken with a stereo-microscope. The coin’s spinning slowed, and it toppled to the mahogany desktop. Carefully cleaned, the ancient image on the surface shone brightly.

  A Greek temple supported by six Doric pillars.

  In the center of the temple rested a large letter.

  E

  The Greek letter epsilon.

  On the opposite side was the bust of a woman with the words DIVA FAUSTINA written below it. From the report, at least the origin of the coin was no longer a mystery.

  But what did—?

  His intercom chimed. “Director Crowe, Commander Pierce has arrived.”

  “Very good. Send him in, Brant.”

  Painter pulled the research report closer to him as the door swung open. Gray stepped through, his black hair wet and combed. He had changed out of his bloody clothes and wore a green T-shirt with ARMY emblazoned on the front, along with black jeans and boots. As he entered, Painter noted a shadow over the man’s features, but also a certain weary resolve in his gray-blue eyes. Painter could guess the reason. He had already heard from the Office of Naval Intelligence through his own channels.

  Painter waved Gray to a seat.

  As he sat, the man’s attention noted the coin on his desk. A flicker of curiosity flared.

  Good.

  Painter shifted the coin toward Gray. “Commander, I know you asked for an indeterminate leave of absence, but I’d like you to take the lead on this case.”

  Gray made no move to take the coin. “May I ask a question first, sir?”

  Painter nodded.

  “The dead man. The professor.”

  “Archibald Polk.”

  “You mentione
d that he must have been on his way here. To see you.”

  Painter nodded. He suspected where the line of questioning was leading.

  “So Professor Polk was familiar with Sigma? Despite the top secret clearance for such knowledge, he knew about our organization?”

  “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”

  Gray’s brow crinkled. “What manner is that?”

  “Archibald Polk invented Sigma.”

  Painter took a small measure of satisfaction in the man’s surprise. Gray needed a little shaking up. The man sat up straighter in his chair.

  Painter held up a hand. “I’ve answered your question, Gray. So now you answer mine. Will you take the lead on this case?”

  “After the professor was shot in front of me, I want answers as much as anyone.”

  “And what about your…extracurricular activities?”

  A wince of pain narrowed Gray’s eyes. The planes of his face seemed to grow harder as a part of him clenched internally. “I assume you’ve heard, sir.”

  “Yes. The navy has discontinued its search.”

  Gray took a deep breath. “I’ve pursued all angles. There’s nothing more I can do. I admit that.”

  “And do you think Monk is still alive?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “And you can live with that?”

  Gray met his gaze, unflinching. “I’ll have to.”

  Painter nodded, satisfied. “Then let’s talk about this coin.”

  Gray reached out and took the coin from the desktop. Turning it in his fingers, he examined its freshly cleaned surfaces. “Were you able to determine much about it?”

  “Quite a bit. It’s a Roman coin minted during the second century. Take a look at the woman’s portrait on the back. That’s Faustina the Elder, wife of the Roman emperor Antoninus Pius. She was a patron of orphaned girls and sponsored many women’s charities. She also had a fascination with a sisterhood of sibyls, prophetic women from a temple in Greece.”

  Painter waved for Gray to turn the coin over. “That’s the temple on the other side. The temple of Delphi.”

  “As in the Oracle of Delphi? The female prophets?”

  “The same.”

  The coin’s report on Painter’s desk included a historical sheet about the Oracle, detailing how these women would inhale hallucinogenic fumes and answer questions of the future from supplicants. But their prophecies were more than just fortune-telling, for these women had a great impact on the ancient world. Over the course of a millennium, the Oracle’s prophecies played a role in freeing thousands of slaves, setting the seeds of Western democracy, and elevating the sanctity of human life. Some claimed their words were pivotal at lifting Greece out from barbarism and toward modern civilization.

  “But what about the big E in the center of the temple?” Gray asked. “I assume the letter is Greek, too. Epsilon.”

  “Yes. That’s also from the Oracle’s temple. There were a couple cryptic inscriptions in the temple: Gnothi seauton, which translates—”

  “Know thyself,” Gray answered.

  Painter nodded. He had to remind himself that Gray was well versed in ancient philosophies. When Painter had first recruited him out of Leavenworth prison, Gray had been studying both advanced chemistry and Taoism. It was this very uniqueness of his mind that had intrigued Painter from the start. But such distinctiveness came with a price. Gray did not always play well with others, as he had demonstrated amply these past weeks. It was good to see him focusing on the here and now again.

  “Then there was that mysterious E,” Painter continued, nodding to the coin. “It lay carved in the temple’s inner sanctum.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  Painter shrugged. “No one knows. Not even the Greeks. Historians going all the way back to the ancient Greek scholar Plutarch have speculated at its significance. The current thought among modern historians is that there used to be two letters. A G and an E, representing the Earth goddess, Gaia. The earliest temple at Delphi was built to worship Gaia.”

  “Still, if the meaning is so mysterious, why depict it on the coin?”

  Painter slid the report across his desk toward Gray. “You can read more about it in here. Over time, the Oracle’s E became a symbol for a cult of prophecy. It’s depicted in paintings throughout the ages, including Nicolas Poussin’s Ordination, where it’s inscribed above Christ’s head as he hands the keys of heaven to Peter. The symbol is supposed to mark a time of great and fundamental change in the world, usually brought about by a single individual, whether that be the Oracle of Delphi or Jesus of Nazareth.”

  Gray left the papers on the desk and shook his head. “But what does all this have to do with the dead man?” Gray lifted the silver coin. “Was this valuable? Worth killing over?”

  Painter shook his head. “Not especially. It’s of moderate value, but nothing spectacular.”

  “Then what—?”

  The intercom’s buzz cut him off. “Director Crowe, I’m sorry to interrupt,” his assistant said over the speaker.

  “What is it, Brant?”

  “I have an urgent call from Dr. Jennings down in the pathology lab. He’s asking for an immediate teleconference.”

  “Fine. Queue it up on monitor one.”

  Gray stood, ready to leave, but Painter waved him down, then swung his chair around. His office, buried in the subterranean bunker, had no windows, but it did have three large wall-mounted plasma screens. His private windows on the world. They were presently dark, but the monitor on the left flickered to life.

  Painter found himself staring into one of the pathology labs. In the foreground stood Dr. Malcolm Jennings. The sixty-year-old chief of R&D for Sigma was dressed in surgical scrubs and had a clear plastic face-shield tilted atop his head. Behind him spread one of the pathology suites: sealed concrete floor, rows of digital scales, and in the center a body rested on the table, respectfully covered with a sheet.

  Professor Archibald Polk.

  It had taken a few calls to get his body released to Sigma versus the city’s morgue, but Malcolm Jennings was a well-regarded forensic pathologist.

  But from the grim set to the man’s lips, something was wrong.

  “What is it, Malcolm?”

  “I had to quarantine the laboratory.”

  Painter didn’t like the sound of that. “A contagious concern?”

  “No, but there is definitely a concern. Let me show you.” He stepped out of view of the camera, but his voice carried to them. “From the preliminary physical exam, I was already suspicious. I discovered patches of hair loss, eroded teeth enamel, and burns on his skin. If the man hadn’t been shot, I wager he would’ve been dead in a matter of days.”

  “What are you saying, Malcolm?” Painter asked.

  He must not have heard. The pathologist stepped back into view, but now he wore a heavier, weighted apron. He carried a device that trailed a black wand.

  Gray stood and shifted closer to the monitor.

  Dr. Jennings waved the black wand over the dead man. The device in his other hand erupted with a furious clicking. The pathologist turned to face the camera.

  “This body is radioactive.”

  Chapter 2

  September 5, 5:25 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Out in the steaming swelter again, Gray strode down the sidewalk in front of the Smithsonian Castle. The national Mall spread to the left, mostly deserted due to the heat.

  Behind Gray, crime tape still marked off the site of the afternoon’s murder. The forensics unit had finished its sweep, but the area was still locked down, under the eye of a posted D.C. policeman.

  Gray walked east along Jefferson Drive. He was shadowed by a large bodyguard, whom he was doing his best to ignore. He had not asked for any protection, especially this man. He touched the mike at his throat and subvocalized into it. “I’ve found a trail.”

  The fizzle of a reply rasped out of his wireless earpiece. Cocking his head,
Gray seated it better. “Say again,” he whispered.

  “Can you follow the trail?” Painter Crowe asked.

  “Yes…but I don’t know for how long. The readings are weak.” Gray had suggested his current plan of action. He studied the device in his hand, a Gamma-Scout portable radiation detector. Its halogen-filled Geiger-Müller tube was sensitive enough to pick up trace radiation, especially when attuned to the specific strontium 90 isotope detected in Polk’s body. Gray had hoped that a residual trace signature might have been left behind, the radiological equivalent of a scent trail. And it seemed to be working.

  “Do your best, Gray. Any information on the professor’s whereabouts these past days could be crucial. I already have a call in to his daughter, but I’ve been unable to reach her.”

  “I’ll follow this as far as I can.” Gray continued down the sidewalk, monitoring the detector. “I’ll report in if I discover anything.”

  Gray signed off and continued alongside the national Mall. After another half block, the signal suddenly died on his device. Swearing, he stopped, retreated, and bumped into the bodyguard shadowing him.

  “Damn it, Pierce,” the man grumbled. “I just polished these shoes.”

  Gray glanced over a shoulder to the muscled mountain behind him. Joe Kowalski, a former seaman with the navy, was dressed in a sportcoat and slacks. Both fit him poorly. With hair razored to a black stubble and a nose knotted by an old break, he looked more like a shaved gorilla forced into a wrinkled suit.

  Kowalski bent down and used the cuff of his sportcoat to polish up his shoe. “I paid three hundred bucks for these. They’re chain stitch Chukkas imported from England. I had to special order them in my size.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Gray glanced up from his Gamma-Scout reader.

  Kowalski seemed to realize he might have said too much. His expression turned sheepish. “Okay. I like shoes. So what? I had a date, but…well…she canceled.”

  Smart lady.