The Last Odyssey: A Thriller

by James Rollins

  Running out of time . . .

  He fought the waves, doing his best to keep the stern low and the nose high. Balanced in the back, he reached a long arm to the ignition button. He prayed there was a little gas left in the tank. By weighting down the back of the ski, he hoped to shift the remaining gas to the fuel line at the rear of the gas tank.

  Is that asking too much?

  He grimaced and pushed the ignition.

  The engine sputtered—then caught with a growl.

  He heaved out a breath and squeezed the throttle. The jet-ski bolted forward again. As it cut through the waves, he struggled to keep the bow high. If he let it fall, the last dregs of gas would slosh away from the fuel line, and he’d be dead in the water again.

  Unfortunately, that meant going slow, judging the best course through the chop.

  He tried to ignore the scream of the engines behind him. He clenched his jaws, focusing on his goal. Ahead, the lights of the buoy field grew. But it now sounded like the hunters were at his heels. The spread of their whines had narrowed to an arrow pointed at him.

  Or maybe it was just his paranoia.

  Still, he reached the edge of the buoys and entered the field of boats. He angled into them, trying his best to keep out of sight. He shied away from any vessels with mooring lights and kept to the darkest path.

  Just need to get through here.

  The beach and its line of bonfires was only fifty yards past the last row of buoys.

  But halfway across the field, the ski’s engine coughed and died.

  He swore.

  So close.

  The momentum of the ski drifted him against the side of a dark schooner, its sails all tied down for the night.

  He stared up and reached for the boat’s rail.

  Maybe.

  10:34 P.M.

  Elena maintained her post on the deck, not that she had any choice. Kadir loomed next to her, but at least the giant had shifted his grip to her arm. He had finally let go of her ponytail, but only because Nehir had ordered it. Still, his fingers squeezed hard, bruising down to the bone.

  Nehir stood at the rail with a radio gripped in one hand. With her other, she held binoculars up to her eyes.

  A tiny voice, speaking Arabic, rose from her radio. “Found the watercraft floating among the boats. Abandoned. The flotation vest’s still hanging by its lanyard.”

  Without lowering her binoculars, Nehir lifted the radio to her lips. “Search the nearest boats, sweep wider if you have to. Also watch the waters in case he tries to swim for shore.”

  Elena knew Joe could never swim all the way to the beach, not weighted down with those chains.

  Even Nehir must have realized it. “Be thorough. Turn over everything. Break into cabins, if you have to. Don’t leave anything to chance.”

  Elena stared at the scatter of lights on the water. She hoped Joe was smart enough to find a good hiding place and stay out of sight. The hunters couldn’t search forever. Eventually they’d have to give up.

  She sent a silent message to Joe.

  Don’t do anything stupid.

  10:35 P.M.

  Kowalski had no confidence in his plan, relying on his usual bullheaded stubbornness to keep moving. He knew Gray would’ve come up with something clever. Find some way to ambush the hunters or hot-wire a speedboat.

  Instead, Kowalski paddled one-armed through the dark water. His other limb remained hooked through the ring of a life preserver. He had stolen it from the dark sailboat he had bumped against. As he paddled, his legs hung straight down, the chains now anchors.

  He strained his ears, listening for any threat. So far, it sounded like the hunters were over by where he’d abandoned the jet-ski. He assumed they were searching nearby boats.

  Keep looking, assholes.

  He moved as silently as he could, trying not to splash, keeping low in the water. He edged row by row toward shore. A jet-ski suddenly revved louder. He heard it speed away—then come back round again.

  Back and forth.

  In a search pattern.

  Uh-oh.

  Knowing he didn’t have long, Kowalski paddled harder, even tried to dolphin kick. He rounded the second-to-last row of boats and struggled across the gap toward the rocking hull of a large Cobalt cruiser tied to the final line of buoys.

  As he reached its shadow, the hunter came into view with a screaming whine.

  Kowalski took a deep breath and let go of the life preserver. The anchor around his ankles dragged him into the depths. He plummeted meter after meter. Overhead, the wake of the jet-ski swept past without slowing. At least, he hadn’t been spotted.

  Finally, his feet hit sand.

  Standing there, he fought to get his bearings. The dark bulk of the Cobalt hung overhead, faintly illuminated by a fiery glow.

  Kowalski turned toward the source of that fire.

  Looks like I’m walking from here.

  He set out, holding his breath, the salt stinging his eyes. He dragged one weighted foot, then another. Step by step. He waved his arms to help him along, not that it did much good.

  Slowly the diffuse glow ahead separated into distinct pools.

  But too slowly.

  His chest burned with the effort to hold his breath. Still, he plodded on, doggedly determined. Eventually, waves began to jostle his upper body. A few more steps and he got his nose above the water. He blew out a lungful of stale air and drew in a fresh batch, taking in some seawater with it as a wave crashed over him. Choking, he fought forward again, until he could get his head fully above water.

  Gasping, he turned to check the buoy field.

  The whining continued to echo from there.

  Good enough.

  To play it safe, he ducked down and crossed the final distance underwater. He reached a bevy of swimmers, their legs kicking, arms splashing. He heard the thump-thump of loud music, muffled by the water.

  At last, he crawled on his hands and knees out of the sea and onto shore, dragging his chains through the sand. He headed toward the nearest bonfire, just as a young man leaped over it. The partier landed in front of him.

  Kowalski looked up.

  The youth babbled in Italian at him.

  Whatever, dude.

  Waving a weak arm, Kowalski rolled onto his back, sure he looked like some long-dead sailor rising from the accursed depths.

  He lifted a hand.

  “Who has a goddamned cell phone?”

  23

  June 24, 11:58 P.M. CEST

  Mediterranean Sea

  From the stern of a large hydrofoil, Elena gripped a rail as the craft accelerated over the water. It slowly rose on twin wings and sped even faster. Behind the ship, a tiny fireball burst in the darkness and rolled into the night sky. The brightness briefly illuminated the blasted, smoking remains of the other yacht.

  She felt a surge of hope at the sight.

  If she had any doubts that Joe had escaped, the destruction of the yacht helped dispel them. An hour ago, the search had been suddenly called off. The yacht had raised anchor and sped away from Sardinia. It rendezvoused with the sleek hydrofoil, which flew like a silver bird up to them, then lowered alongside the ship. The transfer of gear and personnel had been swift, including the research library, which suggested Elena’s work here was not done.

  The chains that now bound her ankles seemed to confirm this. She had expected worse punishment, but apparently Nehir still needed her.

  Unfortunately, Elena had also gained a new shadow.

  Kadir stood grimly behind her.

  She ignored him and stared out to sea. It had fallen dark again, but her hope remained. Clearly her captors considered the yacht compromised, which would only happen if they believed Joe had survived.

  Footsteps sounded behind her.

  She turned as Nehir strode up to her.

  “Kadir, take her below and keep her there until we reach the Morning Star.”

  He nodded with a grunt and grabbed Elena’s ar
m. As he hauled her away, Nehir grabbed her other arm and stopped them. The woman’s eyes shone with a fury that scorched. Elena felt the waves of loathing emanating from her. It burned away Elena’s momentary glimmer of hope.

  “You are lucky,” Nehir spat darkly. “But even luck runs out.”

  Nehir let her go, waving Elena out of her sight.

  Kadir dragged her off the deck and down to a small kitchen. He pushed her into a chair. She didn’t fight him, not that she could. She felt drained, despair sinking in. From Nehir’s words, they must be ferrying her to another ship, the Morning Star.

  If true, how would anyone ever find her?

  Despite the terror and anxiety, she soon found her head resting on the table, cradled in her arms, as hour after hour passed. She fell asleep at one point, only to be awoken by the blast of a ship’s horn.

  She sat up abruptly, momentarily lost as to where she was. But a glance revealed Kadir’s solid presence, grounding her back to the danger. It looked like he hadn’t even moved.

  Nehir clambered down and barked to her brother.

  Elena stood on her own, knowing what was expected. Still, Kadir grabbed her arm and marched her out onto the deck. The seas had quieted to an eerie calmness, as if the world were holding its breath. The full span of the Milky Way arched overhead, reflected again in the black waters.

  A large ship hung between, as if floating in space.

  It was silvery white, ghostly in countenance, easily dwarfing the hydrofoil. It was twice the length of the previous yacht, stretching more than five hundred feet, a veritable floating city, with its superstructure climbing five stories above the main deck. But there was no bulkiness to its shape; it was sleek, with a palpable air of danger, like a dagger waiting to be used.

  Elena swallowed, overwhelmed by the sheer size of it.

  “The Morning Star,” Nehir whispered with awe.

  The hydrofoil closed the last of the distance. Gangplanks were extended from the hydrofoil’s deck to hatches halfway up the hull of the superyacht.

  “Come,” Nehir ordered.

  The woman led her to the forward gangway. As Elena jangled across it, a thumping rose overhead. She stared up. The bright lights of a helicopter swept across the sea toward the ship.

  Who’s coming?

  Kadir shoved her from behind.

  Elena stumbled forward, grabbing for the handrails to keep upright. She hurried after Nehir and ducked through the hatch into the other ship. Once inside, Nehir spoke to someone, who guided them to a stairwell. Elena climbed around and around, struggling under the weight of her chains, breathless by the time she reached the top.

  A strong wind gusted through a nearby hatch, which led to the open bow. The source of the gale landed on a helipad out there. As the helicopter touched down, Elena was forced out onto the deck. She lifted an arm against the blast of rotor wash.

  A two-man team ran forward, ducked under the blades, and set about fastening tie-downs to the helicopter’s skids. As they worked, a side door opened in the aircraft.

  Nehir marched Elena closer, then made her halt. The woman leaned to her ear. “With your friend gone, we found two to replace him. To keep you motivated. A pair that I believe will be far more helpful than the other.”

  From the aircraft’s cabin, two older men were led out in shackles. One looked like a frail monk with a fringe of gray hair. The other had a bandage binding a thick cotton wad to one ear. Even from yards away, Elena saw it was soaked in blood.

  The pair were marched past her.

  She twisted with a frown.

  Who are—?

  Nehir suddenly dropped to one knee next to Elena, drawing back her attention. Kadir did the same on the other side.

  A tall, hard-faced man in a trim tan suit climbed down from the helicopter. His hair was light gray, his eyes as dark as coal pits, his complexion a dark honey.

  Nehir bowed her head. “Mūsā, we welcome you.”

  The man showed no reaction, only a barest nod of acknowledgment. From the title and obeisance shown him, Elena realized he must be their group’s leader.

  But there was one last passenger aboard. A dark-suited figure hopped deftly to the deck, ducking under the spin of the rotors. Once clear, he straightened, combing fingers through the slight curl of his dark blond hair. He wore a smile of greeting as he stepped forward.

  Then he stopped, studied Elena up and down with a frown, and turned to Mūsā. “Ambassador Firat, are the chains really necessary?”

  Struck dumb, Elena struggled to make sense—of his presence, of her world upended. She finally eked out one word.

  “Daddy?”

  Fourth

  The Pillars of Hercules

  Tardy with age were I and my companions, when we came to the strait pass, that Hercules ordain’d were boundaries not to be overstepped by man.

  —THE WARNING BY ULYSSES/ODYSSEUS TO VIRGIL IN DANTE’S INFERNO

  24

  June 25, 10:54 A.M. CEST

  Palma, Spain

  Gray stood naked on the suite’s private balcony overlooking the bow of the Seven Seas Explorer. The bright morning sun blazed down upon the Mediterranean, polishing it to an unreal sapphire blue. Warm salty breezes washed over him, drying his skin after soaking in the outdoor spa. Down below, flags at the tip of the bow snapped and flapped.

  Ahead, the coastline of Majorca grew larger before him as the cruise liner neared its next destination.

  From one island to another . . .

  Gray felt like Odysseus, tossed about by the gods with little control over his fate. Of course, Homer’s hero had not sailed the seas in such style as this. Gray stood outside the master bedroom of the Explorer’s Regent Suite, which stretched the beam of the ship’s forward deck on the fourteenth floor. On the opposite side, a second bedroom connected to a common space, which consisted of a dining room and lounge, centered around an onyx bar.

  The suite had been a small perk for breaking radio silence.

  After stowing away aboard the ship last night, Gray had returned the battery to his encrypted satellite phone and called Sigma command. He saw little reason not to. Going dark for the prior two days had done his team little good. They’d still been hunted down and ambushed.

  His grip tightened on the balcony rail.

  Ahead, the Majorcan city of Palma—the capital of the Balearic Islands, an archipelago belonging to Spain—stretched across the bay. Even from this distance, the city’s most prominent landmark stood out. The Gothic façade and spires of the Cathedral of Santa Maria towered over the tumble of the sunbaked city.

  Its massive presence reminded him of all he’d lost. The whereabouts and fate of Monsignor Roe and Rabbi Fine remained unknown. The body of Major Bossard, who had served two popes, lay in a morgue.

  Gray had updated Painter on all that had happened, trusting the director to shut down Cagliari and scour the city for the two missing clerics. But Painter had pulled other strings, too. At midnight, shortly after Gray’s call, the ship’s purser had approached their group at a poolside bar, carrying a set of keys on a tray. He took their party to deck fourteen—and opened double doors to the luxury two-bedroom suite.

  Apparently, the steep price for this grand accommodation had kept it vacant.

  No one in their group complained.

  Exhausted, they had all collapsed, spreading out across the cabin.

  The suite came equipped with cameras that kept watch on the hall. In addition, two of the ship’s security guards were posted outside the doors. Still, Gray rotated with Seichan to keep watch during the night.

  During his shifts, Gray received ongoing updates from Painter.

  At least there was some good news.

  Impossibly, Kowalski had washed up on a beach near Cagliari, arriving there only an hour after Gray’s group had departed. He came with his own harrowing tale, but also word that Dr. Elena Cargill was still alive, held aboard a yacht by those who had kidnapped her in Greenland. Unfortunately, by t
he time authorities could be roused, the yacht had vanished.

  A search continued for it.

  Sounds of splashing water drew Gray’s attention. Seichan climbed from the spa behind him. His breath caught as she stepped out and arched her back. She shook loose a drape of black hair. Rivulets of steaming water traced her curves and ran down her flat stomach. With little else to do while the Explorer headed to port, the two had enjoyed what the suite had to offer, including the gold-plated master bath with its two heated stone lounges and its own sauna.

  Still, it all paled to the stunning beauty standing before him.

  He crossed over and drew her close. His hands slid down her backside. She smelled of jasmine blossoms from the bath salts and a spicy musk that was all her. After Jack had been born, they’d little time for intimacy that wasn’t furtive and quick.

  “We have an hour before we reach port,” he said huskily in her ear.

  “Then I should pump again.”

  “Hmm . . .” He glided one palm farther down, gripped the back of her thigh, and lifted her leg to his waist. “I think that could wait.”

  “Do you?” With a grace that defied gravity, she raised her other leg and wrapped it fully around him. “Are you sure?”

  He rolled her against the wall and let her feel how firm he was on the matter.

  She knotted her fingers in his hair and pulled him to her lips.

  The next hour went by too fast. A ship’s announcement finally roused them from the tangle of sheets on the bed. They quickly showered, dressed, and reluctantly abandoned the temporary refuge.

  Before opening the door, Seichan stepped in front of him, blocking the way. “We should do this again.”

  He stayed close to her, cocking an eyebrow. “I don’t think we have time, but I’m willing to try.”

  She placed both palms on his chest, something she only did when she was serious. “I mean this. Us together. We need more of this.”

  He stared into her eyes. “I miss this, too. But Jack—”

  “I can’t just be a mother,” she blurted out.

  In that moment, he saw what she had been trying to hide for weeks, maybe months. The guilt, the sadness, the confusion inside her. He leaned his forehead against hers. “I never want you to be just a mother. I love Jack with all my heart, but you are my heart. And if we’re not our truest selves—with him, with each other—then we’re no good to our son.”