The Last Oracle: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  Gray led the way into the heart of the museum’s most treasured exhibits. It was the main reason for the entire renovation. They entered a long darkened hall. Seats lined one side opposite a wall of paneled glass on the other. Even the chaos behind them seemed to muffle under the weight of the historical treasure preserved behind the glass, one of the nation’s most important icons. It lay unfurled on a sloped display, a tatter of cotton and wool a quarter the size of a football field. Its dyes had faded, but it remained a dramatic piece of American history, the flag that inspired the national anthem.

  “Pierce…?” Kowalski moaned, beginning to comprehend. “That’s the Star-Spangled Banner.”

  Gray placed the can of paint on the floor and began to twist open the cap on the gallon of highly flammable paint thinner.

  “Pierce…you can’t mean to…not even as a distraction.”

  Ignoring him, Gray turned to Elizabeth. “Do you still have your lighter?”

  8:32 P.M.

  Sitting in the security office of the National Zoo, Yuri felt the weight of his seventy-seven years. All the androgens, stimulants, and surgeries could not mask the heaviness of his heart. A numbing fear had turned his limbs to aching lead; worry etched deeper lines in his face.

  “We’ll find your granddaughter,” the head of security had promised him. “We have the park closed down. Everyone is looking for her.”

  Yuri had been left in the office with a blond young woman who could be no older than twenty-five. She wore the khaki safari uniform of a zoo employee. Her name tag read TABITHA. She seemed nervous in his presence, unsure how to cope with his despair. She stood, coming out from behind the desk.

  “Is there anyone you’d like to call? Another relative?”

  Yuri lifted his head. He studied her for a breath. Her apple-cheeked youth…the years ahead of her. He realized he’d been little older than the girl when he’d stumbled out of the rattling truck into the highlands of the Carpathian mountains. He wished he had never found that Gypsy camp.

  “Would you like to use the phone?” she asked.

  He slowly nodded. “Da.” He could not put it off any longer. He’d already alerted Mapplethorpe, not so much to report to him, as to gain the cooperation of the D.C. policing authorities. But the man had been distracted, busy hunting down what had been stolen. Mapplethorpe had mentioned something about Dr. Polk’s daughter. But Yuri no longer cared. Still, Mapplethorpe had promised to raise an Amber Alert for the missing child. All D.C. resources and outlying counties would be alerted. She had to be found.

  Sasha…

  Her round face and bright blue eyes filled his vision. He should never have left her side. He prayed she had just wandered off. But among a park full of wild animals, even that best scenario was not without its dangers. Worse yet, had someone taken her, abducted her? In her current state, she would be pliable, easily suggestible. Yuri was well familiar with the number of pedophiles out there. They’d even had trouble at the Warren with some of their early employees. There had been so many children, too many. Mistakes had happened.

  But not all of the abuses had been mistakes.

  He shied from this last thought.

  Tabitha carried over a portable telephone.

  Yuri shook his head and took out his own cell phone. “Thank you, but it is a long-distance call,” he explained. “To Russia. To her grandmother. I’ll use my own phone.”

  Tabitha nodded and backed away. “I’ll give you your privacy.” She stepped into a neighboring office.

  Alone, Yuri dialed the number into his international cell phone. A small chip developed by Russian intelligence would bounce the signal off several cell towers, making it untraceable, along with scrambling the communication.

  He had dreaded making this call, but he could wait no longer. The Warren had to be alerted, but it was very early in the morning back there. Not even four o’clock. Still, the phone was answered promptly, the voice curt and sharp.

  “What is it?”

  Yuri pictured the woman at the other end of the line, his immediate superior, Dr. Savina Martov. The two had discovered the children together, begun the Warren as a team, but Martov’s ties to the former KGB had pulled her above Yuri in command. There was a saying in Russia: No one left the KGB. And despite what Western leaders might think, that did not exclude the current Russian president. The man still surrounded himself with ex-members of Soviet intelligence. Major contracts were still placed in the hands of former operatives.

  And Dr. Savina Martov was no exception.

  “Savina, we have a major problem here,” he said in Russian.

  He imagined her face frosting over. Like Yuri, she had also undergone hormonal, surgical, and cosmetic treatments, but she had fared even better than Yuri. Her hair was still dark, her features hardly blemished. She could pass for forty years old. Yuri suspected why. She did not battle that same knot of guilt that soured his gut. The sureness of her vision and purpose shone out of her face. Only when one looked in her eyes was the deception ruined. No amount of treatments would mask the cold calculation found there.

  “You’ve still not found what was stolen from us?” she asked in harsh tones. “I’ve already heard that Polk has been eliminated. So then why—?”

  “It’s Sasha. She’s gone missing.”

  A long silence stretched.

  “Savina, did you hear me?”

  “Yes. I just had a report in from one of the dormitory workers. It’s why I’m up so early. They discovered three empty beds.”

  “Who? Which children?”

  “Konstantin, his sister Kiska, and Pyotr.”

  Savina continued her report, how a search was under way across the Warren, but her voice grew hollow, echoing as if out of a deep well as Yuri had fixated on the last name.

  Pyotr. Peter.

  He was Sasha’s twin brother.

  “When?” he blurted out. “When did the three rebyonka go missing?”

  Savina sighed harshly. “They were there at the last bed check according to the matron on duty. So sometime in the last hour.”

  Yuri glanced to his wristwatch.

  Around the time Sasha vanished.

  Was it just a coincidence, or had Pyotr somehow sensed his twin sister’s danger? Had it set the boy into a panic? But Pyotr had never shown such talent before. His empathic scores were high—especially with animals—but he’d never shown any of his sister’s abilities. Still, as twins, they were closer than any brother and sister. In fact, they still shared their own special language, an incomprehensible twin speak.

  As Yuri clutched the phone to his ear, he suspected something more sinister was happening, that unknown forces—possibly an unknown hand—were manipulating events.

  But whose?

  Savina barked at him, drawing back his attention. “Find that girl,” she ordered. “Before it’s too late. You know what happens in two days.”

  Yuri knew that only too well. It was what they had worked decades to accomplish, why they had performed so many acts of cruelty. All in order to—

  A door slammed to the side. Yuri twisted around. The head of zoo security had returned. His tanned face was dour, lined with concern and worry.

  Yuri spoke into the phone. “I’ll find her,” he said firmly, but the promise was more to himself than to his icy superior. He clicked off the line and faced the tall man, switching to English. “Has there been any sign of my granddaughter?”

  “I’m afraid not. We’ve swept the park. So far no sign of her.”

  Yuri felt a sinking in his gut.

  A hesitation entered the security chief’s voice. “But I must tell you. There was a report of a girl matching your granddaughter’s description being carried into a van near the south exit.”

  Yuri stood up, his eyes widening.

  A hand raised, urging patience. “The D.C. police are following up on that. It might be a false lead. There’s not much more we can do.”

  “There must be more.”


  “I’m sorry, sir. Also on the way back here, I was informed that someone at the FBI has arranged an escort. They should be here any moment. They’ll take you back to your hotel.”

  Yuri sensed the hand of Mapplethorpe involved with this last arrangement. “Thank you. For all your help.” Yuri crossed to the door and reached for the handle. “I…I need some fresh air.”

  “Certainly. There’s a bench just outside.”

  Yuri exited the security office. He spotted the park bench, crossed toward it, but once out of view of the office window, he continued past the bench and strode toward the park exit.

  Yuri could not put himself into Mapplethorpe’s control. Not even now. The fool knew only a fraction of what was going on, just enough to keep the interest of United States intelligence organizations whetted. They had no suspicion how the world would change in the next few days.

  He had to find Sasha before Mapplethorpe did.

  And there was only one way to do that.

  As he exited the park through a cordon of police, he dialed his cell phone, again engaging the encryption. As before, it was answered promptly, this time by an answering machine.

  “You’ve reached the national switchboard for Argo, Inc. Please leave a message…”

  Argo, Inc. was the cover for the Jasons. The pseudonym—Argo—was selected because it was the name of Jason’s ship out of Greek mythology.

  Yuri shook his head at such foolishness as he waited for the beep. He had murdered one of their own just hours ago. Now he needed the help of the secretive cabal of American scientists. And he knew how to get it. Going back to the Cold War, the two sides had been waging a clandestine battle for technological supremacy, each side supported by their respective military establishments and intelligence communities. The tools of war were not just intellectual, but also involved more nefarious means: sabotage, coercion, blackmail. But likewise, being men and women of science, each side operated independently of the military. Over the decades, they had come to recognize two things: there was occasionally common ground between them, but more important, there was a firm line neither side would cross.

  When such a scenario arose, a means of communication had been established, a panic button. Speaking into the phone, Yuri gave his encrypted cell number, followed by a code word that traced back to the Cold War.

  “Pandora.”

  8:38 P.M.

  Smoke billowed out the hall of the Star-Spangled Banner gallery.

  Gray kept his group clustered in the vestibule just off the central atrium of the museum. They had pulled painters coveralls over their street clothes and covered their faces with respirators. Gray had also splashed paint on their clothes.

  He leaned and stared back into the flag gallery. Smoke burned his eyes, but he spotted the flames dancing and racing across the pools of paint thinner he’d spilled across the gallery’s wood floor. A moment later, emergency sprinklers engaged. Water jetted in a flood from ceiling spigots. An alarm klaxon rang out sharply.

  Gray took an additional moment to make sure that the glass-enclosed display for the banner remained dry. He knew the display was an environmentally controlled chamber meant to preserve the icon for generations to come. For now, the case should protect the flag from the smoke and water.

  Satisfied the treasure was safe, Gray turned his attention to the central atrium. Fresh shouts and cries echoed as smoke panicked the workers. The contractors were already on edge with the spreading word of a bomb scare.

  And now the fire alarm and smoke.

  Gray peeked around the vestibule’s exit and into the atrium.

  Already summoned by the bullhorn to proceed to this single exit, men and women milled and pushed. Many hauled tools and backpacks. Panic surged the crowd toward the doors, where the armed men had been conducting a systematic search of each exiting worker, including being scented by a pair of German shepherds.

  “Let’s go,” Gray said.

  Under the cover of smoke and terror, the three joined the pressing throng. They split up to make it less likely they’d be recognized through their disguises. As they joined the panicked mass, it was like jumping into a storm-swept sea along a rocky coast. Pushed, shoved, jabbed, and jostled, Gray still kept a watch on the others.

  The evacuating workers surged toward the doors. Despite the press, the armed men kept some semblance of order outside. Searches continued, but more cursory and swift. The dogs barked and tugged at their leads, aroused by the noise and confusion.

  Gray gripped his shoulder bag tighter, hugging its weight to his chest. If need be, he could bull through the armed line, like a linebacker making a rush for the goal.

  To the side, Gray spotted Elizabeth being shoved through a door and into the arms of one of the guards. She was brusquely searched and urged to move on. She passed one of the dogs, who barked and tugged at its lead. But it had not recognized her scent. The dog was merely agitated and confused by the press of people. Fresh paint and smoke also helped mask Elizabeth’s scent. She stumbled away from the cordon of men and out into the national Mall’s twilight.

  Off on the other side, Kowalski hit the line next. To aid in his disguise, he carried a gallon of paint in each hand, which he was mostly using to knock people out of his way. He also was searched. Even the cans of paint were opened.

  Gray held his breath. Not good. The panic was not disrupting the search as much as he would have liked.

  Passing inspection, Kowalski was waved out into the Mall.

  Gray pushed out the door and met the palm of one of the guards.

  “Arms up!” he was ordered. The command was bolstered as another guard leveled a weapon at his chest.

  Hands searched him swiftly. From head to toe. Luckily, he had stashed his ankle holster and weapon back in the gallery’s trash can.

  Still…

  “Open your bag!”

  Gray knew there was no way he could resist. He dropped the bag and unzipped it. He pulled out the only thing it held: a small electric sander. The rest of the bag was shaken to make sure it was empty—then Gray was waved out of the way.

  As he passed the barking dog, Gray noted a man standing to the side, dressed in a suit. No body armor. He had a Bluetooth headset fixed to his ear. He was barking orders, plainly in charge. Gray also remembered seeing him at the dock of the natural history museum.

  Passing him, Gray spotted the credentials affixed to his jacket pocket.

  DIA.

  Defense Intelligence Agency.

  Gray noted the name in bold type: MAPPLETHORPE.

  Before his attention was noticed, Gray continued out into the Mall. He circumspectly joined the others well away from the museum and the confusion, just a trio of workers reuniting. Gray retaped his radio’s throat mike under his jaw. He attempted to raise Sigma Command.

  Finally, a familiar voice responded.

  “Gray! Where are you?”

  It was Painter Crowe.

  “No time to explain,” Gray said. “I need an unmarked car at the corner of Fourteenth and Constitution.”

  “It’ll be there.”

  As he headed toward the extraction point, Gray held out a hand toward Kowalski.

  The large man passed over one of the gallons of paint. “Just carrying the thing creeps me out.”

  Gray accepted the paint can with relief. Submerged at the bottom lay hidden the strange skull. Gray had chanced that no one would explore too closely the depths of the thick latex paint, especially carried by a worker whose coveralls were splashed with the same paint. Once the skull was cleaned, maybe they’d finally have some answers.

  “We made it,” Elizabeth said with a ring of relief.

  Gray did not comment.

  He knew this was far from over.

  Halfway around the world, a man awoke in a dark, windowless room. A few small lights shone from a neighboring bank of equipment. He recognized the blink and beat of an EKG monitor. His nose caught a whiff of disinfectant and iodine. Dazed, he sat up too quic
kly. The few lights swam, like darting fish in a midnight sea.

  The sight stirred something buried. A memory.

  …lights in dark water…

  He struggled to sit up, but his elbows were secured to the railings of the bed. A hospital bed. He could not even pull his arms free of the bedsheet. Weak, he lay back down.

  Have I been in an accident?

  As he took a breath, he sensed someone watching him, a prickling warning. Turning his head, he vaguely made out the outline of a doorway. A dark shape stirred at the threshold. A shoe scraped on tile. Then a furtive whisper. In a foreign language. Russian, from the sound of it.

  “Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely. His throat burned, as if he had swallowed acid.

  Silence. The darkness went deathly still.

  He waited, holding his breath.

  Then a flash of light bloomed near the doorway. It blinded, stung. He instinctively tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes, forgetting his arms were still secured to the bed.

  He blinked away the glare. The flash came from a tiny penlight. The shine revealed three small figures slinking into his room. They were all children. A boy—twelve or thirteen—held the light and shielded a girl maybe a year or two younger. They were followed by a smaller boy who could be no more than eight years old. They approached his bed as if nearing a lion’s den.

  The taller boy, plainly the leader, swung to the younger one. He whispered in Russian, unintelligible but plainly a concerned inquiry. He called the younger boy a name. It sounded like Peter. The child nodded, pointed to the bed, and mumbled in Russian with a ring of certainty to his words.

  Stirring in the bed, he finally rasped out, “Who are you? What do you want?”

  The taller boy shushed him with a glare and glanced toward the open doorway. The children then split up and crossed around the bed. The leader and the girl began freeing the straps that bound his limbs. The smaller boy held back, eyes wide. Like his companions, the child was dressed in loose pants and a dark gray turtleneck sweater with a vest over it, along with a matching cable-knit hat. The boy stared straight at him, unnervingly so, as if reading something on his forehead.

  With his arms freed, he sat up. The room swam again, but not as much as before. He ran his hand over his head, trying to steady himself. Under his palm, he found his scalp smooth and a prickly line of sutures behind his left ear, confirming this supposition. Had he been shaved for surgery? Still, as his palm ran across the smooth top of his head, the sensation felt somehow familiar, natural.