The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts

by James Rollins

  7:37 P.M.

  Painter knocked on the half-open door to the pathologist’s office.

  “Come in,” Malcom called out. “Jones, do you have the data from—?”

  Painter pushed the door wider just as Malcolm swung around in his desk chair. The pathologist still wore a set of blue scrubs. His glasses rested atop his head. He was rubbing at the bridge of his nose when he noted who stood in his doorway.

  His eyes widened. “Director…” He made a motion to stand, but Painter waved him to remain seated as he entered.

  “Brant alerted me that you had called. I was just heading back to my office from video surveillance.”

  “Any footage of the shooter?”

  “Not so far. We’re still combing records. But it’s a mountain of videos to sift. And some sources are slow to respond.”

  Since 9/11, surveillance of the capital had been heightened. For a full ten miles in all directions around the White House, multiview cameras monitored every square foot of streets, parks, and public spaces. And over 60 percent of interior spaces, too. Several cameras had picked up pieces of Dr. Archibald Polk’s path across the Mall. They confirmed what Gray had assessed with his radiological tracker. But nagging gaps persisted. Though they had footage of Polk collapsing in Gray’s arms, no camera caught even a glimpse of rifle flash or any sign of the shooter.

  It was worrisome.

  Painter was beginning to suspect that the sniper had known about the cameras and had found a hole in the surveillance net in which to hide. Or worse yet, someone could have tampered with the Mall’s footage and purposefully deleted any evidence of the assassin.

  Either way, such collusion suggested that Professor Polk’s murderer might have powerful ties here in Washington. But who and where? If Polk’s history as a Jason had anything to do with the murder, then it opened a Pandora’s box of possibilities. The Jasons had their fingers in top secret projects of every shade from gray to deep black.

  Painter knew he would be getting no sleep tonight.

  None of them would.

  “Any word from Gray?” Malcolm asked, shifting a pile of papers from a chair and offering a seat to Painter.

  “He’s searching the natural history museum. Polk’s trail led there.”

  “Hopefully he’ll find something, but that was also why I patched a call to you. I may have discovered more bread crumbs to follow.”

  Curious, Painter sank into the chair. Malcolm rotated his computer’s flat-screen monitor to a better angle for Painter to view.

  “What did you find?” Painter asked.

  “Something curious. I don’t know really what to make of it, but it might give us someplace to continue the investigation. Knowing the victim was suffering from radiation poisoning, I sought some clue to the source. Initial examination of Polk’s gastrointestinal tract and liver showed he didn’t ingest anything radiological in nature.”

  “So no dinner poisoned with polonium-210 or the like?”

  Malcolm nodded. “From the degree of radiodermatitis burns to his skin, I was fairly certain the radiation came from an environmental source. He must have been in some type of hot zone. Microanalysis of his hair showed the exposure was acute in nature. He’d been poisoned less than a week ago.”

  “But where—?”

  Malcolm held up a hand for patience and used his other to tap at his keyboard and bring up a map of the world on the monitor. “Trace amounts of radioactive debris were caught in the deep alveolar pockets in his lungs. Like coal dust in a miner’s lung. I ran the sample through a mass spectrograph and was able to determine a rough breakdown of the isotope content.”

  He pointed to his screen. The left side of the computer monitor began to scroll with data. “Such information is often as unique as a fingerprint. It just took tapping into IAEA database in Vienna.”

  Painter noted that the open search window had the organization’s name stenciled at the top: INTERNATIONAL ATOMIC ENERGY AGENCY.

  “The agency monitors hot spots around the world: mines, reactors, industrial sources. Despite what some might think, not all radiation is the same. We’re talking about material that is constantly decaying, whose isotope content varies, depending on where it might have been mined and how it was processed. The end result is radiation signatures unique to each use-site.”

  “And the debris in the professor’s lungs?”

  “I ran a search through the IAEA database and got a hit.”

  “You know where Polk was exposed?”

  He nodded to the screen as the scrolling stopped and the world map blew up, zooming into one location in central Russia. A name appeared in a highlighted box, a name synonymous with radiological disaster.

  CHERNOBYL

  What was Archibald Polk doing at Chernobyl? How had he been exposed to such a lethal level of radiation from the dead reactor site? The reactor was due this week to be sealed with a new Sarcophagus, a massive articulated steel dome. Amid all the new construction, had Polk somehow been exposed to a lethal dose of radiation there?

  Before Painter could question Malcolm in more depth, his cell phone vibrated on his belt. He unhooked it and checked who was calling. It was his assistant. Frowning, he flipped it open.

  “What is it, Brant?”

  “Director, I received an alert from Homeland. There’s just been a bomb threat called in to the natural history museum.”

  Painter’s fingers tightened on his cell phone.

  The natural history museum…where Gray had been headed.

  That couldn’t be good.

  “Patch me through to Gray’s radio.”

  He waited, cell phone at his ear. Malcolm stared over at him.

  Had Gray called in the threat? Had someone else?

  Either way, something was wrong.

  He had confirmation a second later.

  Brant came back on the line. “Sir, he’s not responding.”

  7:56 P.M.

  Elizabeth Polk appraised Gray Pierce as they neared the museum’s loading docks. Studying him askance, she noted the faded bruising on one side of his face. His sunburned complexion hid most of the contusions. The beating must have taken place a month or so ago. It gave the planes of his face a look of hammered copper and brought out the blue of his eyes. It was those same eyes that chilled her when he spotted the half dozen men clearing the museum’s loading dock and turned them back.

  “Something’s not right here,” he said.

  She caught a glimpse of the warehouse space past his shoulder. Lit by flickering fluorescents, the cavernous space was crowded with tall shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and dry goods for the various museum concession stores. A single forklift rested beside a series of pulleys and counterbalances for bringing in larger pieces of an exhibit. A steel roll-up door stood open to the right. Outlined against the waning daylight, a cadre of men in black riot gear had set up a cordon near the exit. Under the klaxon of the evacuation alarm, they were searching each worker and staff member who sought to exit in that direction.

  A narrow-shouldered man in a blue suit oversaw it from a few steps away. He was plainly someone high up the food chain.

  Gray forced her back down the hallway. He hefted his shoulder bag higher. It bore the museum logo and carried the strange skull her father had hidden in the museum’s storage room. At the thought of her father, a dull ache in her chest threatened to melt into sobbing tears. She held it back. She would address her loss at a quieter moment.

  Down the hall, in the opposite direction of the docks, a shout echoed out the stairwell ahead, a call to search every room. Boots pounded down the stairs.

  Gray stopped and turned to her. “Is there another way out of here?”

  She nodded. “The service tunnels. Over this way.”

  As she led them back again, Gray fixed her with those stormy eyes, questioning her knowledge.

  “Some of the staff take their smoking breaks down there.” She glanced to him guiltily. She really needed to quit.
Still, the habit had allowed her to bond with a few of the other researchers. A secret smokers’ club. And all it cost was the risk of emphysema and lung cancer. “We’re not supposed to smoke within the museum, of course. Fire danger, but it’s all stone and steam pipes down there.”

  She led them to an unmarked door and keyed open the electronic lock with her card. The stairs on the far side were stained cement with a steel railing along one side. It led down in sharp turns.

  Before they could enter, a low growl drew all their eyes back to the docks. A low shape slunk into view of the hallway. Thirty yards away. A German shepherd. It was outfitted with a black vest and was tethered to a man still out of view.

  Elizabeth froze.

  The dog spotted them and lunged forward, straining against his leash.

  “Go,” Gray urged and pushed her through the open stairwell door and followed. His beefy partner crowded in behind them. It was hot and close. The museum’s air-conditioning did not extend here. The only light was a caged emergency bulb.

  Gray closed the door with the barest click of the lock engaging. The alarm klaxon muffled. He waved them down the tight stairs and squeezed up to join her. “Do you know where the tunnels lead?”

  She shook her head. “Not sure. I never went any farther than I had to. It’s a maze down there, branching in every direction. Rumors say even under the White House. But surely there must be a street exit somewhere.”

  Behind them, something heavy hit the door above, followed by deep barks. Shouts echoed, chasing them down the stairs.

  “Could it be a bomb-sniffing dog?” Elizabeth asked. “Maybe the threat is real.”

  Gray’s partner, Kowalski, snorted. “Only around Pierce is a real bomb threat considered a good thing.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, they hit a barred gate. Gray cranked the locking bar aside and creaked the gate open. The tunnels stretched in both directions, pitch-black, sweltering, smelling of wet cement and whispering with trickles of water.

  “I hope someone brought the flashlight,” Kowalski commented.

  Gray swore softly under his breath. He’d left the light back in the storeroom.

  Elizabeth fished in her pocket and produced her cigarette lighter. It was an antique silver Dunhill. She flipped it open and rasped a small flame into existence. With practiced skill, she adjusted the flame.

  “Nice,” Kowalski said. “I wish I’d brought one of my cigars.”

  “Me, too,” Elizabeth mumbled back.

  Kowalski did a double take in her direction.

  Before he could say anything, light flooded down the stairs behind them. The alarm klaxon rang louder. Their pursuers had gotten through the upper door.

  “Hurry.” Gray headed to the right. “Stay close.”

  Elizabeth kept to Gray’s shoulder with Kowalski behind her. She held her lighter high. The flickering glow extended only a few yards ahead. Gray trotted down the tunnel. He kept one arm up, his fingertips trailing along the run of pipes overhead. He took the first branch to get them out of direct view of the stairwell exit.

  A single low bark echoed to them.

  Gray urged their flight into a run.

  Elizabeth’s lab coat flapped behind her. Her flame burned through a nest of cobwebs as they raced around another turn.

  “Where are we going?” Kowalski asked.

  “Away,” Gray answered.

  “That’s your big plan? Away?”

  A burst of furious barking erupted. Shouts rang out. Their trail had been found.

  “Forget what I said,” Kowalski corrected. “Away sounds just fine by me.”

  In a tight group, they fled into the maze of tunnels.

  Halfway across the city, Yuri sat on a bench under the spread of a cherry tree. It felt good to sit down. His knees ached, and his lower back threatened to spasm. He had dry-swallowed four tablets of Aleve. He had stronger medications back home, but nothing he dared bring into the States. It would be good to return to the Warren.

  He stretched a leg and rubbed a knee.

  As he rested, the sun was near to setting and cast long shadows across the parkland walkway. Steps away, a low cement wall bordered the path’s far side. Children and parents lined the edge and pointed down into the outdoor habitat beyond the wall. A small piece of China’s forestland had been re-created: a rocky outcropping sectioned into grottoes, ponds, and misty streams. Shrubs decorated its steep slopes, along with weeping willows, cork trees, and several species of bamboo. The habitat’s two occupants, two Giant pandas on loan from China—Mei Xiang and Tian Tian—had captured the delighted attention of the zoo’s last few visitors.

  Including Sasha.

  The girl stood with her arms folded atop the lip of the stone wall. One shoe swung rhythmically to strike the cement. But it was slowing down.

  As he had hoped.

  Yuri had brought the girl to the National Zoological Park after her performance with Mapplethorpe. From long experience, he knew the calming effect animals had on his charges. Especially Sasha. Yuri had no need to test the BDNF levels in the girl’s spinal fluid. After such an intense episode, the hormone levels of “brain-derived neurotrophic factors” had surely spiked to dangerous levels. He had not been prepared. Caught off guard by her performance, he knew he had to calm her down quickly. Away from her home environment, she would be especially agitated, vulnerable. There was a risk of lasting neural damage. He had seen it before. It had taken them decades to discover the innate relationship between autistic children’s mental health and the palliative effect of their interaction with animals.

  So while Mapplethorpe executed a search of the natural history museum, Yuri had transported Sasha to the city’s famous zoological park. It was as close a facsimile to the Menagerie as he would find here in the foreign city.

  Sasha’s kicking slowed even further. She was ramping down. Still, the toe of her patent leather shoes had become badly scuffed. But better her shoes than her mind.

  Yuri felt a knot between his shoulder blades ease. He would get her on the next flight back to Russia. Once returned to the Warren, he would schedule her for a complete physical exam: blood chemistries, urinalysis, a full cranial CT scan. He had to be sure there was no damage.

  But more important, he needed an answer as to how she had induced an episode on her own. That shouldn’t have happened. The cortical implant maintained a steady-state level of stimulation, tailored to each child’s ability. Sasha’s display back at Mapplethorpe’s office should not have happened unless her implant was remotely triggered to provoke such a response.

  So what had happened? Had there been a malfunction in her implant? Had someone else triggered it? Or even more disturbing, was Sasha growing beyond the yoke of their control?

  Despite the day’s heat and his relief, he still felt cold.

  Something was wrong.

  A flurry of noise erupted ahead of him. It came from the crowd lining the panda exhibit. Excited murmurs swelled. A flurry of camera flashes sparkled among the crowd. More people were drawn by the commotion. Yuri heard a named called out and repeated.

  “Tai Shan…Tai Shan…”

  He sat up straighter with a wince of protest from his back. He recognized the name from the zoo’s brochure. Tai Shan was the panda cub born to Mei Xiang a few summers back. The youngster must have wandered into sight.

  The crowd jostled for a better view. More people gathered. Children were lifted to parents’ shoulders. Cameras flashed furiously. Frowning at the tourists’ manic response, Yuri stood up. He had lost sight of Sasha in the crush of the crowd. He knew she didn’t like to be touched.

  He stepped across the walkway and pushed into the pack of people. The park would be closing in the next few minutes. It was time to go.

  He reached the wall where Sasha had been standing.

  She wasn’t there.

  With his heart thudding, he searched the stretch of walls to either side. No sign of her ebony hair and red ribbons. He stumbled outwar
d again, shouldering and pawing his way through the crowd. Grunted protests met his rude passage. A camera tumbled from someone’s hands and cracked against the pavement.

  Someone grabbed his shoulder. He was yanked around.

  “Mister, you’d better have a goddamn good reason—”

  Yuri shook free. His eyes, bright with true panic, met the larger man. “My…my granddaughter. I’ve lost my granddaughter.”

  Anger melted to concern.

  With mostly parents in attendance, word spread quickly. It was every mother and father’s worst fear. Questions peppered him. What does she look like? What was she wearing? Others offered words of support, promising that she’d be found.

  Yuri barely heard them, deafened by his own pounding heart. He should have never left her side, never sat down.

  The crowd thinned around him, opening views in all directions.

  Yuri turned a full circle. He searched, but he knew the truth.

  Sasha was gone.

  Chapter 4

  September 5, 8:12 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  “Door!” Kowalski yelled from the rear.

  Gray skidded to a stop and glanced behind him. Elizabeth Polk held out her lighter and revealed a small doorway, hidden two steps off the dark tunnel. Gray had rushed past it, too focused on the roof, searching for a street exit from the service tunnels.

  Behind them, calls echoed from the searchers. A single harsh bark rang out as the trackers found their trail again. Gray had crisscrossed among tunnels, trying to lose them, but it proved fruitless, and they were losing ground.

  Kowalski reached to the door and fought the handle. “Locked.” He punched the metal surface in frustration.

  Coming up to his side, Gray noted an electronic key-lock below the handle. The lighter’s flame flickered across a small steel sign stenciled in Art Deco letters:

  NATIONAL MUSEUM OF AMERICAN HISTORY

  The door was a subterranean entrance to another of the Smithsonian Institution’s museums. Closest to the door, Elizabeth swiped her museum security card, but the lock remained dark. To make sure, Kowalski tugged the handle and shook his head.