The Last Odyssey: A Thriller

by James Rollins

  She stared at him, her eyes wide with terror.

  I got you.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, pulling her with him. He watched the gold map, teetering on the edge of the coffee table—then it toppled over with a spill of crushed lapis lazuli.

  “Hang on!” Gray yelled.

  What d’ya think I’m doing?

  Before Kowalski could catch his breath, the stern fell back into the sea, slamming hard with a great splintering crash into the edge of the dock. They were all tossed the other way. The piano rolled from the broken window and barreled into the onyx bar with a resounding gong of its jolted strings.

  As the ship rocked back again, Gray gained his footing and ran through the balcony doors. He had his satellite phone already out and pressed to his lips.

  “What’s your status?” Gray yelled.

  Kowalski frowned, not understanding. He helped Maria up and hurried after Gray. As Kowalski stepped out onto the balcony, the roar of engines deafened him. A huge plane swept low over the cruise ship. It sailed out over the bay and shot a line of objects from its undercarriage into the sea. A chain of muffled explosions followed, blasting huge fountains of water high into the air.

  Depth charges.

  Kowalski looked to the sky. The jet banked steeply over the bombardment and circled around for another run. He recognized the aircraft now, a Poseidon sub hunter. He could also guess who commanded it, picturing the same plane sitting on the tarmac of an Italian air base.

  Out in the bay, a second volley of depth charges blasted the sea. Amid the roil and spray, a black steel whale lifted its tail high, then rolled and toppled sideways, sinking belly up into the sea.

  Kowalski knew it had to be the same submarine that had carried Elena away from Greenland. Or another like it. Either way . . .

  Kowalski stared upward.

  Looks like Pullman finally caught his damned fish.

  3:03 P.M.

  “Say again!” Gray hollered into his sat-phone, trying to hear over the blasts and roar of the jet’s engines.

  Commander Pullman reported, “Sorry for the late save. Target’s running AIP engines.”

  Gray understood. Submarines equipped with Air Independent Propulsion swam even stealthier than nuclear versions. Some had even slipped through antisubmarine defenses during U.S. Navy war games.

  “Boat kept ghosting on us. Probably Russian Lada-class. Only got a firm lock when it fired off the first torpedo.”

  Gray felt the roll of the Explorer under him as it settled crookedly in the water. Luckily, the ship had only been hit by a single torpedo. The cruise ship continued to list as it took on more water. Prior to the attack, most of the Explorer had quietly been evacuated. With a majority of the cruise ship’s passengers already on tours, it had been easy enough to get the remaining travelers offloaded, along with most of the crew, using a gas leak as an excuse.

  Last night, well before dawn, Commander Pullman’s plane had dropped a ring of sonobuoys around the port, prior to the cruise ship’s arrival. Gray knew their tormentors would attempt another attack, especially after his team had broken radio silence. In addition to the air-and-sea support, a Spanish military team had been covertly stationed at the dock entrance in case of a land assault.

  But Gray knew any attack would likely come from the sea.

  He lifted his phone. “Hold off any more charges.”

  “Understood. You want survivors to question. Dive and rescue teams are en route.”

  Gray hoped there were survivors, but his main ambition had been to send the enemy a message. You will not catch us by surprise again.

  As Gray headed back inside, the ship lurched and tilted even more to starboard.

  “We need to get off this boat,” Kowalski warned.

  Gray doubted the Explorer would sink, but Kowalski was right. He crossed to the toppled gold map, knelt down, and with a grunt, flipped it right-side up. He then grabbed a section of the gold map, and with some tugging and effort, pried it away. He straightened with the piece in his hands.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered the others.

  Father Bailey looked down at the ruin of the Da Vinci treasure. “Shouldn’t we take the rest?”

  “I’ll let the authorities know to secure it and get it returned to Italy. But we don’t need it anymore.”

  Kowalski dogged his footsteps. “Why?”

  Gray headed to the doors, hoping the enemy had gotten his message loud and clear, that it would make the bastards more cautious. He turned to Kowalski and explained why.

  “Because I know where we need to go.”

  27

  June 25, 3:08 P.M. CEST

  Off the coast of Tunisia

  Who’s teaching who a lesson?

  Elena wanted to laugh out loud, but she bottled up her jubilation. She and the two old men had been marched from the library to the superyacht’s communications room. A line of monitors displayed live feeds from multiple cameras set up around Palma’s port.

  She had cringed when an underwater camera from a submerged submarine—likely the same one she had traveled aboard—showed a sleek torpedo sailing out into the water, then vanishing into the distance. Another monitor showed its impact into the stern of a docked cruise ship. The liner jolted hard, its stern bumped high by the blast.

  Her heart clenched in her throat as she thought about Joe aboard that ship.

  All around her, cheers rose from those gathered in the communication room. Fists were pumped in the air. Nehir stood next to Elena, wearing a savage grin.

  Then everything changed.

  The row of monitors showed different views of a jet flying past, then depth charges being dropped, followed by a cascade of blasts. The underwater view bobbled amid flashes of fire and huge explosive bubbles—then canted wildly until finally going dark.

  A dead silence followed.

  On Elena’s other side, her father swore sharply.

  So much for today’s lesson, Dad.

  Her father turned to Firat. “If they apprehend any of the crew, we risk being compromised.”

  The ambassador scowled. “Those aboard don’t know enough to do lasting damage. A nuisance at best. And they are most loyal. They will not allow themselves to be taken alive.”

  These assurances did little to drain the flush from her father’s face. He turned to Elena, his words stiff as if he had trouble unclenching his jaw. “It seems our timetable must be accelerated. You will cooperate fully to make sure that happens.”

  She gave the smallest shake of her head.

  I’m done playing this game.

  Her father must have noted her determination. “Sadly, as this lesson failed, clearly another is needed.”

  He snatched a pistol from the holster of the man next to him—then turned, lifted the weapon, and fired. With the deafening blast, the back of Rabbi Fine’s skull exploded, splattering against the back wall. The man’s body crumpled to a pile on the floor.

  Elena screamed and stumbled back, only to have her shoulders grabbed by Kadir. Monsignor Roe covered his face and turned away. Even Ambassador Firat looked shocked by the cold-blooded murder.

  Her father calmly passed the weapon back to the guard and wiped his palms together, as though he’d just finished drying the last of the dinner dishes. “Do I have your attention, young lady?”

  She shook her head, then nodded, too shaken to make sense.

  “I hope I’ve made my point clear,” he said. “You will cooperate to your fullest.” He glanced to the old priest. “Or the next death will not be so quick and merciful.”

  She collected herself enough to nod in agreement.

  Her father turned to Nehir. “Please return my daughter and Monsignor Roe to the library.” His gaze settled back to Elena. “You have one hour.”

  Numb with shock, Elena took no note of her surroundings as she was led away. Her stomach churned queasily. She found it hard to breathe. Tears blurred her vision. When she finally reached the library, Nehir
pushed her across the threshold.

  “One hour,” the woman repeated before leaving.

  Kadir remained outside.

  Monsignor Roe stepped over and took her in his arms. She felt the thin limbs of the old priest shaking. Still, he did his best to console her. “He’s with our Lord now,” he whispered. “In eternal peace.”

  “How could my father do that?” she moaned into the man’s chest. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed, the trembling in him calming. “Even at my age, I cannot comprehend the depths of some men’s depravity. I was born in the middle of a world war—which followed on the heels of another, what was called ‘the war to end all wars.’ Such naivete. Look what we still do to one another.”

  She nodded against him, taking deep breaths.

  He finally shifted and held her at arm’s length so she could see his sincerity. “You do not have to help them.”

  “But—”

  “No, my child. I’ve lived a long life. If I must die, so be it.”

  “They’ll torture you.”

  “It is just flesh. They cannot touch my soul. All the saints throughout the ages—men and women—have endured suffering for the greater good of all.” He smiled. “Not that I consider myself a candidate for sainthood. Besides, I don’t think a halo would look good on me.”

  She appreciated his gentle humor, his willingness to sacrifice himself, but she saw the glimmer of fear in his eyes, as much as he tried to hide it. In the end, the old priest might be able to bear the brutalities inflicted upon him.

  But I cannot watch it happen.

  She checked a clock on the wall. “I have to get to work.”

  With a final shake to center herself, she headed over to her pile of books. She already had a general sense of where Hunayn went next. She pictured the fiery river flowing west along the coast of Africa, passing through the Strait of Gibraltar.

  “Can I help you?” Monsignor Roe asked, joining her.

  She nodded. “I have a lot to do and little time, and I’d appreciate a sounding board for my reasoning before the others get here.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  4:10 P.M.

  Elena was still buried in texts and notes when voices rose out in the hall. It wasn’t just Nehir this time. The woman led Ambassador Firat and Elena’s father.

  Looks like it’s showtime.

  She straightened from her work.

  For the past hour, she had scoured reference materials, new and old. She had known she would need to produce significant results to satisfy these bastards, more than just picking another stop along Odysseus’s voyage. If she failed to impress, the old priest would suffer the consequences. Still, even with Roe’s able assistance, the hour had flown by too fast.

  The others pushed into the library.

  All eyes were on her.

  “What do you have to tell us?” her father asked without any preamble.

  Elena struggled to organize her thoughts. She stared down at the books and notes stacked around the gold map on the table. Her mind spun with all the bits and pieces of the puzzle in her head, trying to gather them into a coherent, intelligible picture.

  Firat pressed her, “Where did Captain Hunayn go next?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Which was the truth.

  When the map had activated, drawing a flaming river across the northern coast of Africa, she had been focused elsewhere, fascinated as the fiery seam extended past the Strait of Gibraltar. She had failed to note if the tiny silver ship had stopped anywhere else.

  Her father’s face darkened, his gaze flicked to Monsignor Roe.

  Elena lifted a palm. “But,” she stressed, “I do know where he ended up.”

  Nehir stepped forward. “Ended up? Are you saying you know where Tartarus lies, where the gates of Hell are hidden?”

  She swallowed. “I believe so. At least, I have a pretty firm idea of where Hunayn went to look for it. Especially if he had been following the guidance found in ancient books.”

  “Tell us,” Firat said. “And we’ll be the judge.”

  She nodded. “Hunayn placed great value in the words and wisdom of the Greek historian Strabo, specifically his book Geographica. Throughout that text, Strabo makes a case for Odysseus’s journey to Tartarus taking place at a semi-mythical city by the name of Tartessus.”

  “Tartessus?” her father said with a frown. “That sounds a lot like Tartarus.”

  “Exactly Strabo’s reasoning.” She drew up her notes. “Here’s one mention from Geographica. ‘One might reasonably suppose that Homer, because he heard about Tartessus, named the farthermost of the nether-regions Tartarus after Tartessus, with a slight alteration of letters.’”

  “Where is this place?” Firat asked.

  “According to Strabo and other sources, it lies ‘farthermost to the west’ and ‘beyond the Pillars of Hercules,’ which was the ancient name for the Strait of Gibraltar.” She straightened. “To the ancients at that time, anything beyond the Pillars of Hercules was considered to be ominous, where the sun set and night fell, so if you were going to imagine Hades or Tartarus lying anywhere, it would be out there.”

  “But where out there?” her father pressed.

  “Tartessus was said to lie along the Iberian coast of southern Spain, just beyond the Strait of Gibraltar. A city of great wealth and power.” She checked her notes again. “Here’s a description from a fourth-century historian named Ephorus: ‘Tartessus is a very prosperous market, with much tin carried by the river, as well as gold and copper.’”

  She turned to Nehir. “Why do you think tin was so prominently mentioned, even above gold?”

  Nehir shrugged.

  Elena faced the others. “Because tin is essential to the production of bronze. Tartessus was known as a major producer of bronze and the elements to make it.” She pictured the horrors released from Hunayn’s dhow. “And you would need a lot of bronze if you intend to build an infernal army.”

  As the others glanced to each other, clearly getting her point, she turned to Monsignor Roe. It was the priest’s moment to take the stage.

  Roe cleared his throat. “But the city of Tartessus had other stories associated with it. From a very reliable source.”

  “From where?” Firat asked.

  “From the Old Testament.”

  Elena’s father looked to her for confirmation. She simply nodded to the monsignor.

  Roe continued: “Many of the books in the Old Testament mention a mysterious city named Tarshish. For example, in Ezekiel. ‘Tarshish sent merchants to buy your wares in exchange for silver, iron, tin, and lead.’”

  Elena added, “In other words, another mythic city of riches, similar in name to Tartessus.”

  “Many biblical archaeologists also agree,” Roe said. “They believe Tarshish and Tartessus were one and the same.”

  Firat frowned. “But why does that matter?”

  “Because of a swirl of rumors,” Elena explained. “About Tartessus, about Tarshish. Going back millennia—from ancient Greeks to modern scholars.”

  “What rumor?” her father asked.

  “It’s believed this city wasn’t only rich—but that it was home to a society far in advance of its time. Many even compared it to Atlantis.”

  She let that sink in for several breaths. Glances were shared again.

  “Whether true or not,” she finally said, “I have no doubt Captain Hunayn went venturing beyond the Pillars of Hercules, following the guidance of Strabo and others, searching for Tartessus, the gateway to fabled Tartarus, a place rumored to be home to an advanced society.”

  “But where is this place exactly?” Firat demanded.

  “I can point pretty close,” she admitted, drawing a sheet of notes. “Courtesy of a second-century A.D. writer Pausanias, who tells us that Tartessus lies along ‘a river in the land of the Iberians, running down into the sea by two mouths . . . some who think Tartessus was the ancie
nt name of Carpia.’”

  “And that helps us how?” her father asked.

  “Because modern scholars have studied this description and others,” she explained. “They believe Tartessus was somewhere in a river delta between Cádiz and Huelva, along the southern coast of Spain. If you want to find the entrance to Tartarus, that’s where it’ll be. I can’t guide you any more precisely than that.”

  Elena stood straighter and awaited the group’s judgment. They bowed their heads together, murmured excitedly, then turned back to her.

  The proud smile on her father’s face gave her the answer before he even congratulated her. “I knew you could do it, Elena.”

  She returned his smile. Fuck you.

  Her father and the others all left quickly, ready to set sail for the lost city of Tartessus. She dropped and sagged into the leather chair by the table.

  Roe joined her, settling his old bones down more delicately. “You think that’s where Captain Hunayn truly went?”

  She nodded. “I have no doubt.”

  She stared down at the map. She imagined that fiery river coursing from Vulcano, over to Sardinia, across Africa, and out the Strait of Gibraltar.

  “That’s exactly where Hunayn sailed to,” she said honestly.

  But that’s not where he ended up.

  She lifted her eyes to the library door, a cold satisfaction settling into her. She was her father’s daughter all right—a senator’s daughter. While growing up, she had spent many hours on the campaign trail with her father, standing in the spotlight alongside him, where she had learned how to blur truth and lies to their best effect.

  Like now.

  She turned and stared out at the African coast. She had needed to buy Joe and the others extra time, so they could hopefully reach the true site of Tartarus first—which meant she had to lead these bastards astray.

  But one question remained.

  Can Joe and the others figure it out in time?

  28

  June 25, 8:08 P.M. CEST

  Airborne over the Mediterranean Sea