The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts

by James Rollins

  Monk let the creature roam, serving as a tusked sentinel. But eventually it moved on.

  The rhythms of the swamp lulled him. Before long, his own chin sank toward his chest. He’d only close his eyes for a few minutes.

  —You’re late again, Monk! Get moving!

  His head snapped back up, cracking against the underside of the upended table. Pain lanced through his skull—not from his knock against wood, but from deeper down. For a moment, he tasted…tasted cinnamon, spiced and warm, along with a whispery brush against his lips. A scent filled him, stirred him.

  It faded quickly.

  Just a dream…

  But Monk knew better. He sat straighter as the icy spike of pain melted away. He fingered the sutures behind his ear.

  Who am I?

  Konstantin had described a sinking cruise liner, a weighted net, and his rescue at sea. Had he worked on the ship? Had he been a passenger? There was no answer inside him, only darkness.

  Monk gazed across the room and found a pair of eyes staring back at him. Pyotr hadn’t moved. He just looked at Monk. The knock of his head against the table must have woken the boy.

  Or maybe it was something else.

  Monk met the boy’s gaze. He read a well of sorrow in the child’s eyes, too deep for one so young. It scared Monk a little. It was no simple grief or fear. Hopelessness shone in his tiny face, a despair that had no place in any child’s eyes. The boy shivered, stirring Marta.

  She hooted softly and looked over her shoulder at Monk.

  He stood and crossed to them. The boy’s face gleamed brightly in the firelight. Too brightly. Monk checked his forehead.

  Hot. Feverish.

  That’s all he needed was a sick child.

  Couldn’t he catch even a small break?

  His silent question was answered by a feral scream. Close. It started as a throaty growl, and then pitched into a full scream. It reminded Monk of someone yanking on the cord of a chain saw.

  A second cry answered from the opposite side of the domicile.

  The feral screams jerked both Konstantin and Kiska to their feet.

  There had been no warning.

  Monk had heard no sign of the cats’ approach. Even the boy had remained unaware. Maybe it was the fever or simple exhaustion. Monk had hoped for some notice.

  The cabin was not secure. From what he saw on the riverbank earlier, each tiger weighed around seven hundred pounds, most of it toughened muscle. The cats could tear through the door or claw through the roof in seconds. But for now, they circled, growling, sizing up the place.

  Konstantin had expressed another concern. Even if the tigers didn’t storm the cabin, they were surely being followed by hunters on two legs. They could not let the cats trap them here.

  So with no choice, they moved quickly.

  Monk slipped the spear-point bowie knife they’d found in the cabin from his belt and clenched the wooden handle between his teeth—then he crossed to the stone hearth and pulled a flaming brand out of the fire. Earlier, using the knife, he had chopped a three-foot-long branch from a scraggly pine outside. The resin was highly combustible and had fueled the stick into a fiery torch.

  Monk hurried around the room. He tapped the torch to the underside of the thatch roof. Long neglected, it was as dry as tinder. He had also emptied the kerosene from the rusty lantern into some rags and stuffed them in the roof.

  Flames spread quickly.

  The cats yowled into higher octaves, splitting the night.

  Behind Monk, Konstantin lifted two pine boards from the floor. Monk had already pried out the old nails with the same knife and loosened the boards. Raised on short stilts, the cabin had a low crawl space beneath it, open on all sides. It was too low-roofed for Monk, but not for the children or Marta. He prayed the cats could not shimmy under there also.

  Opposite the door, Kiska unlatched the shutter from the cabin’s window and dropped it open.

  At the same time, Monk kicked the table aside from the door.

  Ready and running out of time, he waved the kids below as smoke filled the upper half of the cabin and heat blazed down.

  Marta helped Pyotr under the floorboards. Kiska went next. Konstantin followed. The older boy nodded to Monk, no longer a boy, but a dour young man again. “Be careful,” Konstantin warned.

  With the dagger between his teeth, Monk returned his nod.

  Konstantin dropped away and vanished.

  Monk had to keep the cats distracted. The roof fire and smoke should confuse them. He had to add to it. With the torch in his hand, he counted to ten—then kicked the warped door with all his strength. Boards cracked, and the door smashed wide.

  A tiger crouched three yards away. Startled, it curled into a long menacing hiss. One claw swiped at the empty air in his direction.

  The feline equivalent of fuck you.

  Monk gaped a half second at its sheer size. Thirteen feet long. Eyes glowed with reflected firelight as the cabin’s roof burned. Lips rippled back, pink tongue arched deep inside a cage of long fangs.

  Monk swung the torch in a fiery arc. His heart pounded a primal drumbeat that traced back to mankind’s prehistoric roots huddled in dark caves.

  Still, as he’d hoped, the loud bang of the door drew the second cat. It came ripping around the corner on the left, low to the ground, a blur of striped fur and massive paws. Monk shoved his torch in the cat’s face as it lunged at him.

  Fur burned, and the cat screeched and rolled away.

  Monk caught a glimpse of the tiger’s gnarled left ear, marking this one as Zakhar.

  His brother Arkady howled and charged, defending his littermate.

  Monk knew the cat intended to bowl into him, torch or not.

  So Monk hiked his arm back and hurled the fiery brand like a javelin. It speared through the air and struck the tiger square in its open mouth. The cat shot straight up, spitting and writhing in midair.

  Monk grabbed the knife from his teeth, pivoted on his toe, and lunged back into the cabin. As he turned, from the corner of his eye, he spotted Zakhar pounding straight at him.

  Gasping in terror, Monk sprinted across the smoky interior of the cabin. Like tear gas, the heat and sting of soot blinded him. He ran on instinct. The open window lay directly opposite the door. Blinking tears, he made out a darker square set against the blurry wall.

  He dove straight at it, stretching his arms ahead of him.

  His aim was sure—until a claw snagged his pant leg. Cloth ripped free, but his body jerked. His shoulder hit the window’s edge with an arm-numbing blow. His momentum enabled him to tumble out the window. He landed hard with the wind knocked out of him. The knife flew from his fingertips into high weeds.

  Behind him, Zakhar slammed into the wall, unprepared for the mouse hole through which Monk had escaped. The impact shook the entire cabin; flames danced higher. A howl of raw fury chased Monk back to his feet.

  He stumbled a step, caught himself, then sprinted away from the cabin toward the water. It was that stumble that doomed him.

  2:20 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  “Her condition is a form of meningitis,” Dr. Yuri Raev admitted.

  Painter sat across the dining table from the older Russian scientist. Dr. Raev was flanked by John Mapplethorpe, who Painter recognized from a dossier Sean McKnight had prepared—and a surprising guest, Dr. Trent McBride, the supposedly missing colleague of Archibald Polk.

  It seemed he had been found.

  Painter had a thousand questions for the man, but the meeting here at the Capital Grille on Pennsylvania Avenue had been tightly negotiated across intelligence channels. The limit and scope of their discussions had been ironed out. Any discussion of Dr. Polk was off the table. At least for now. The only matter open for dialogue was the health of the girl.

  As such, Painter had brought his own experts to the roundtable. On his side of the table sat Lisa and Malcolm. The pair had the medical knowledge and background to weigh th
e validity of the information offered.

  Across the table, the Russian looked ill at ease. He was not the monster Painter had envisioned in his mind when he’d negotiated this roundtable. The man looked like a kindly grandfather in his rumpled dark suit, but there was a haunted quality to his eyes. Painter also read the crinkled concern as he talked about the child. The lines on his face had deepened and spread when he glanced through the medical file Lisa had slid across the table. Painter suspected the only reason the man was cooperating was a true fear for the girl’s life.

  “Her deterioration is a result of her augment,” Yuri continued. “We don’t completely understand why. The device’s microelectrodes are composed of carbon-platinum nanotubules. We believe that the more a subject utilizes their talents, the faster they deteriorate. Has Sasha been drawing while you’ve had her in your custody?”

  Painter remembered all her feverish sketches: the safe house, the Taj Mahal, a picture of Monk. He slowly nodded. “Exactly what is she doing when she draws?”

  Mapplethorpe lifted a hand. There was an oiliness to his voice, well suited to slide around the truth. “You know that is beyond the scope of discussion here. You’re treading on thin ice, Director Crowe.”

  Yuri spoke over Mapplethorpe’s objection, which Painter found interesting. “She is a prodigious savant,” he said, ignoring glares from either side. “Her natural talents blend keen spatial dynamics with artistic talent, and when augmented, these abilities cross to—”

  “That’s enough,” Mapplethorpe barked. “Or we end matters here and walk away. You can send us the girl’s body after she’s dead.”

  Yuri’s face darkened, but he went silent.

  Lisa encouraged him back on track. “Why does utilizing her abilities accelerate Sasha’s deterioration?”

  Yuri spoke softly, with a trace of guilt. “When stimulated, the interface between the organic and inorganic begins to leak.”

  Malcolm stirred. “What do you mean by ‘leak’?”

  “Our researchers believe that nanoparticles break away from the ends of the microelectrodes and contaminate the cerebral spinal fluid.”

  Lisa stirred. “No wonder our cultures came back negative. The meningitis wasn’t bacterial or viral, but a contamination of foreign particles.”

  Yuri nodded.

  “And to cure her, we must treat that contamination?” she asked.

  “Yes. It has taken us many years to devise a system of preventative medicine. At the core, we employ a modified version of a chemotherapeutic drug used to treat bladder cancer. Cis-platinum. The monoatomic platinum acts as a binder for the stray nanoparticles and helps flush them out. The exact cocktail and dosage of drugs necessary to facilitate such a treatment will require an examination of the girl and immediate access to fresh blood tests.”

  Painter noted the corners of McBride’s lips harden. It seemed there was some dissatisfaction with this dependency on Dr. Raev. But if the Russian was telling the truth, he was vital to the girl’s survival.

  Under the table, Lisa’s hand rested on Painter’s knee. The long linen tablecloth hid her attention. They were seated in the Fabric Room of the Capital Grille steakhouse, neutral ground, a restaurant known for the number of deals struck across the fine china and linen. They had the private dining hall to themselves. The rest of the restaurant was notably empty. Most likely arranged by Mapplethorpe to assure further privacy.

  Lisa’s fingers tightened on his knee, signaling that she believed Dr. Raev. Painter also noted the division between the Russian and the other two men. Was there a way of utilizing that to his advantage?

  McBride spoke. “We have Dr. Raev’s pharmacy of medicines. If you’ll bring the girl to a hospital, we can get her treatment started immediately. Perhaps Walter Reed Army Medical Center.”

  Painter shook his head.

  Nice try, bud.

  Lisa supported him. “She’s too fragile to move. We’re barely managing her D.I.C. as it is. Any additional stress could destabilize her beyond recovery.”

  “Then I must go to her,” Yuri said.

  Painter knew they’d come to the prickly point of these negotiations. The child was a political and scientific hot potato. He had left her in the care of Kat and Sean. Sean, as the director of DARPA, was also wielding his skill behind the scenes. The roundtable here was just the tip of the political iceberg.

  Painter had no choice but to bring Yuri to the girl, breaching Sigma security—but unfortunately, Mapplethorpe knew this, too. And from their reactions here and the obvious friction between them, Mapplethorpe would never allow Yuri to go alone.

  “I will allow one person to accompany Dr. Raev,” Painter said.

  Mapplethorpe misinterpreted his restriction. “We know where Sigma command is located, if that’s what you fear revealing. Beneath the Smithsonian Castle.”

  Though Painter shouldn’t have been startled, his gut still clenched. Mapplethorpe had his fingers tangled throughout the intelligence web of Washington. Sean had warned that it would not take the man long to determine who was involved and where they were located. Still, with all his political power, Mapplethorpe could not gain access to Sigma’s inner sanctum. Behind the scenes, the man was surely still attempting to storm their gates. Sean’s goal was to keep those gates barred tightly.

  Painter kept his features stoic. “Be that as it may, I’ll allow only one person to accompany Dr. Raev.” He glanced between the two men.

  McBride lifted a hand. “I’ll go. I can be of use to Yuri.”

  From the Russian’s slight roll of his eyes, it seemed Dr. Raev did not agree.

  Mapplethorpe stared hard at Painter, then slowly nodded. “But we’ll want a concession for our cooperation,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You may keep the girl—but from here on out, you’ll grant free access to her once she’s recovered. She is a resource we’ll not let slip away. Our national security is at stake.”

  “Don’t wave the flag at me,” Painter said. “What you cooperated in to produce this girl is beyond all conventions of human decency.”

  “We only financed and offered scientific counsel at the end. The project was already well established. If we hadn’t cooperated, as you say, our country would be at serious risk.”

  “What a crock! When you cross such a line, you damage all of us. What nation are we trying to protect, if that nation advocates the brutality necessary to produce this girl?”

  “Are you truly that naive, Crowe? It’s a new world out there.”

  “No, it’s not. Last I checked, it’s the same planet circling the same sun. The only thing that’s changed is how we’re reacting, what lines we’re willing to cross. We have the ability to stop that.”

  Mapplethorpe glowered at him. Painter saw the resolution in the man’s eyes. The man truly believed what he was doing was necessary, saw no fault in it. Here was a level of zealotry that brooked no argument. Painter wondered where such certainty came from—was it just patriotism or did he wrap himself in such dogma to protect himself from the atrocities he committed, crimes he knew in his heart were too horrible to justify any other way?

  Either way, they were at an impasse.

  “Do we have a deal?” Mapplethorpe asked. “Otherwise, we’ll move on. There are always other children.”

  Painter studied his adversary. To cure the child, he had no choice but to get into political bed with him. Painter could not let the girl die. He’d have to deal with the political fallout afterward.

  Painter slowly nodded. “When can you be ready?”

  McBride spoke up. “I’ll need an hour to collect Dr. Raev’s medicines.”

  “We’ll be waiting,” Painter said and stood, ending the summit.

  Mapplethorpe followed him up and held out his hand, as if they’d just completed a real estate sale. And maybe they had. Painter was about to sell a part of his soul.

  Still, with no choice, he shook the man’s hand.

  Mapplethor
pe’s palm was cold and dry, his grip firm with certainty.

  A part of Painter envied that level of unwavering conviction. But did the man sleep as well at night? As they departed through the wood-paneled restaurant and out under the blue-green awning, Painter was troubled by one statement by Mapplethorpe, a disturbing aside.

  There are always other children.

  Who was he talking about?

  10:42 P.M.

  Southern Ural Mountains

  He had to get away.

  Monk sprinted toward the open water. Behind him, a tiger’s scream sliced through the night, coming from the flaming cabin.

  Zakhar.

  The cat fought to climb through the window.

  Monk increased his pace.

  Ahead, he spotted a small raft out in the water. Earlier, Monk had hauled the old punt out of the reeds. He’d scraped away most of the moss and found the raft still floated. Unfortunately, there were no oars, so Monk had fashioned a long pole out of the trunk of a sapling.

  Out in the deeper water, Konstantin stood in the stern of the raft and leaned hard on the makeshift pole. The raft drifted farther away. At least they had made it.

  As planned, the children had crawled out from under the cabin while Monk had distracted the cats. The raft waited for them a yard offshore. They were to hop on board, shove off, and head for the deepest water.

  Monk was supposed to have joined them—but his exit from the cabin had not gone as smoothly as he’d hoped.

  The delay gave time for the second tiger—Arkady—to tear around the flaming cabin with a hiss of fury and charge straight at Monk.

  The drum of heavy pads trampled behind him. Monk fought for the water’s edge. Without a weapon, escape was his only hope.

  Gasping, he stretched his stride.

  The landscape jittered.

  A low growl closed on him.

  Footfalls pounded.

  No breath.

  Heartbeat in his ears.

  A sharper hiss…ready to pounce.

  The glint of water.

  Too far.

  Hopeless, he turned and dropped, skidded on his backside.

  The cat hunched to spring with its last stride, but—

  —out of the high weeds, a dark shadow leaped and struck the cat in the side. Monk caught a flash of silver. Then the shadow hurdled the tiger, hit the ground, and bounded headlong into a thick patch of willows and vanished.