The Last Odyssey: A Thriller

by James Rollins

  If that was even possible.

  Those zealots would not go down without a fight. She had heard how the underground complex in Turkey—a stone’s throw from the ruins of Troy—had been firebombed before authorities could secure it. She remembered her glimpse into that vast subterranean library, wondering what historical treasures, some surely dating back to the founding of the House of Wisdom, had been lost forever.

  Still, she pushed aside such regrets.

  Knowledge is never truly lost.

  It moved, shifted, grew, evolved, but ultimately, endured. Even when buried and forgotten, the deepest truths found a way of shaking off the dust of time and revealing themselves again. She certainly knew that now, especially after all she and the others had gone through, following the trail of a long-dead Arab captain to the very gates of Hell.

  Singing rose ahead of her, an Inuit song of mourning. She did not understand the words, but the solemnity, the beauty, touched her soul.

  Mac drew her closer to the others, allowing her to be part of it.

  She came with him. As Mac added his deep baritone, she gazed out across the fjord to the breadth of the Helheim, noting the vast pools of meltwater reflecting the sun. As the Inuit sang, she wondered if they were mourning more than the dead, but an inevitable change to their home, a greater ending to come.

  Elena tightened her fingers on Mac’s hand, refusing to bow to such defeatism.

  She remembered her father’s grim warning, about the Apocalypti, about who ultimately supported them: If you simply believe the world will come to an end and do nothing to stop it, you are one of us.

  Instead, she took strength from Mac, from his passion and dedication, for fighting for these people, for this place, in the face of impossible odds.

  The tears she had been holding back finally ran down her cheeks.

  But they were not sad, only joyful.

  Full of hope for the future.

  For all of us who share this beautiful world—this gift from God.

  9:09 P.M. EDT

  Takoma Park, Maryland

  Gray pedaled his road bike hard, then sped around the dark corner onto his street. He panted, sweat dripping down his brow. He had raced the setting sun from the metro station, but he lost this race.

  Next time.

  Enjoying the last of his ride, he straightened, released the handlebars, and let his bike glide down the street on its own. He balanced the bike’s frame by instinct and muscle memory alone. For the past month, he had pedaled home every night, doing his best to get back into fighting shape. He had also returned to the gym and often joined Monk on the basketball court.

  But Gray knew he still had a ways to go, especially trying to find that right balance between home life and his responsibilities at Sigma.

  The bike wobbled under him, but he corrected it with a shift in his core.

  If only it were this easy . . .

  Maybe it would be eventually. Maybe he just hadn’t developed the proper muscle memory as a new father, and once he did, things would get easier. Though, right now, he had a hard time believing that.

  And I’m not the only one struggling to find that balance.

  He reached his house, a little craftsman cottage. He returned his grip to the handlebars, bounced up the curb, and pedaled to the front porch. The house was oddly dark. Crickets chirped in the bushes. A few fireflies flickered.

  He hopped off the bike and carried it one-handed up to the porch. Now that he had stopped, the humidity of a D.C. summer swamped over him, like a wet, hot blanket. He pictured the cold beer in the fridge, believing he’d earned it, even if he lost this race with the sun.

  Still, that loss wasn’t entirely his fault. Back at Sigma command, Painter had a laundry list of details he needed Gray to address, mostly tied to all that had happened last month.

  Over in Italy, Father Bailey was coordinating an international effort to rebuild Castel Gandolfo, but that work took some delicacy, especially with what was hidden below those ruins. Bailey had wanted some guidance on how best to proceed, both to maintain the secrecy of the Holy Scrinium and to safeguard any treasures that might be recovered. Such hesitancy was likely born of a feeling of insecurity. After learning of Monsignor Roe’s many betrayals, Bailey seemed to be second-guessing himself.

  Gray understood that. He had never suspected Roe was capable of such treachery. He remembered how, upon their first meeting, he had considered the monsignor to be some incarnation of Vigor Verona, one of Gray’s most trusted friends in the past. So, he had to cut Bailey some slack for being shaken up. In fact, Gray realized he might have misjudged the young priest from the start. While Bailey certainly did not fill the shoes of Vigor, he might very well grow into them one day.

  Maybe.

  Gray locked his bike on the porch, waving a cloud of mosquitoes from his sweating face. His work was made all the harder because the porch light was off. He straightened, hearing distant music from a backyard barbecue and the drone of a television across the street.

  Whereas his house was silent as a grave.

  He turned to the door, his heart suddenly pounding. He quickly entered and found the living room dark. He headed across the dining room. Ahead, there was no sound of clattering cookware coming from the kitchen. He hurried through the swinging doors to check it out.

  Nothing.

  He clenched a fist. He knew Seichan had been struggling of late. Could she have finally left and—

  “Over here!” Seichan called from outside, shouting through the back door from the yard. “You’re late!”

  Despite the scolding, he sagged with relief and hurried outside.

  A picnic blanket had been stretched across the lawn, adorned with large pillows. On top of one, Jack rocked on his back. He was dressed in a blue onesie with a yellow monkey on it. When Seichan had come home with it a week ago, Gray hadn’t said a word. Back in Morocco, Seichan had returned Aggie to Charlie with clear reluctance.

  On the pillow, Jack tried to grab his toes with a red-faced earnestness.

  That’s my boy. Never willing to give up the good fight.

  To the side, a low table glowed with a camp lantern. Seichan stood, bent at the waist, her back to him. He enjoyed the view. She straightened and turned around, holding aloft two halves of a cupcake, each with a candle flickering there.

  He smiled, getting it. “For Jack’s half birthday.”

  She shrugged and drew closer, offering him one.

  “I thought you decided not to celebrate it,” Gray said as he took the cake.

  Earlier, when she had informed him about her decision, he attributed it to some fundamental change in her mind-set about child-rearing and motherly responsibilities, a reflection of her letting go of the need to be a tiger mom all the time.

  “It’s red velvet,” she said. “With cream cheese frosting.”

  “You made it?”

  “Bought it.” She frowned. “You think I have time to bake a single cupcake? And if I made a dozen, there goes your diet.”

  True.

  She drew him to the picnic blanket, and they settled onto pillows with Jack between them. They made wishes and blew out each other’s candles. They leaned against one another, listening to crickets, watching fireflies flit.

  “This is nice,” Seichan murmured.

  “Yes, it is.”

  She glanced over to him. “For now.”

  He nodded, recognizing she would never be a mother who only baked cupcakes and planned elaborate half-birthday parties. It was clear she had come to some balance, likely better than him.

  “Oh,” she said and scooted over to Jack. “Watch this.”

  She picked up their son, interrupting his ongoing battle to reach his toes, and carried him a few steps away. She then turned, set Jack on his pudding legs, and held him up by his armpits. She waited for him to get his sea legs—then let go.

  Jack wobbled like a drunken sailor.

  Gray sat up, amazed.

  No, s
he didn’t . . .

  Jack took one step, waving his arms, swinging a happy rope of drool. Then another step.

  Gray opened his arms. “Here, Jack.”

  His son took another wildly uncontrolled step. Gray caught him before he face-planted into the blanket. He rolled the boy into his arms. Seichan joined them, a very self-satisfied smirk on her face.

  “Screw those maternity books,” she said.

  He grinned at her, placed Jack back on his pillow, and scooped Seichan closer. “Still a tiger mom, I see.”

  She leaned closer. “Oh, I can be a tiger in other ways, too.”

  He grinned wider and met her lips.

  Now that’s what I call balance.

  Epilogue

  Six Months Later

  January 25, 5:32 P.M. WAT

  Virunga National Park, Republic of Congo

  Back here again . . .

  Kowalski swatted a large fly that tried to take a chunk out of his arm. He stared across the grassland meadow toward the dark fringe of forest in a remote corner of Virunga National Park, a gorilla sanctuary in the heart of the Congo. He sat in a camp chair with a sweating bottle of beer on a small table.

  The sun had nearly set on this winter day.

  He had spent most of his time here or back at a row of tent cabins behind him. As the hot afternoon wore on, he had watched the shadows stretch steadily across the grass. This was their third day here.

  Near the edge of the forest, Maria consulted with Dr. Joseph Kyenge, the sanctuary’s chief zoologist. Kowalski watched the Congolese man shake his head and point toward the forest. The guy was plainly giving up for the day. There was still no sign of Baako, the western lowland gorilla whom Maria had released into this jungle two years ago.

  Maria’s shoulders sagged.

  Kowalski frowned and shook his head. It seemed like young gorillas were like teenagers. Always disappointing their parents. Wanting to spend more time running around with their friends than at home.

  Maria started back toward Kowalski.

  He stood up with a groan, ready to console her as he had the prior two nights. Since events half a year ago, they had grown even closer. He couldn’t say why, only that something seemed to have broken between them, a barrier he hadn’t even known was there.

  Before Maria could cross the meadow, Kyenge called to her. “Dr. Crandall, wait!” The zoologist pointed back at the forest. “Come see!”

  She looked at Kowalski, hope brightening her face. As she turned toward the jungle, Kowalski hurried across. If this was a false alarm, she’d be crushed. He intended to be there for her.

  He reached her side, and they returned to Kyenge together. The zoologist stepped back, a huge smile on his face, and waved an arm as if introducing a debutante.

  From the leafy fringe of the forest, a frond was pushed aside by a leathery palm. A muscular shape bulled into view, leaning on the knuckles of one arm. Dark eyes stared at them. Almost shyly, the large gorilla left the forest and stepped into the sunlight. He sank to his haunches, his bullet of a head down, as if ashamed, a teenager who had missed his curfew.

  “Baako,” Maria said, “you’re here.”

  The young gorilla lifted his face enough to show his eyes. He raised his hands and signed to her.

  [Mama]

  Baako’s furry black brows remained pinched with worry. His lips were stretched taut, almost a wince, showing a hint of his white teeth.

  “Oh, Baako, it’s okay.”

  Maria rushed over and hugged him. She did her best to console him, but she had difficulty getting her arms around him. Baako had nearly doubled in size. She tickled him, teased him, scratched him where she knew he liked it best.

  Kowalski frowned.

  Wait, she does that to me, too.

  Baako relaxed, his shoulders dropping, letting out a series of short wheezes, the gorilla version of laughter. Finally, Maria leaned back and held out an arm toward Kowalski.

  “Hey, kiddo,” Kowalski said, lifting a hand.

  Baako’s greeting was more exuberant.

  The only warning was a quick sign.

  [Papa]

  Then Baako bolted forward and tackled him. Kowalski felt like he’d been hit by an NFL lineman. Still, he took it happily. They rolled across the grass until both were wheezing. Baako from laughter. Kowalski because he was out of breath.

  Kowalski ended up on his butt and smiled at Maria. “Our boy’s sure gotten big.”

  Over the next half hour, their greeting went from energetic cheerfulness to a quieter time of reflection and reunion. They signed silently to one another, huddled close together. Baako shared stories of the jungle, of other gorillas. Eventually they settled to simple touches and murmurs of affection.

  To the west, the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving only a rosy glow. Campfires were lit near the tents behind them. A swash of starlight crowned the skies overhead.

  Kowalski knew there was no better time. He had his whole family gathered here. He reached into his pocket and removed a ring box. It wasn’t the same one he had first carried here half a year ago. He had lost that one and spent a good chunk of his savings to replace it.

  Just as well.

  He knew he wasn’t that same man from six months ago. He stared over at Maria, who hadn’t noticed what was in his hand. She remained focused on Baako, her smile wistful and happy. She was also not the same woman. Their relationship felt brand-new, forged stronger in those hellish fires.

  He swallowed and lifted the box.

  She finally turned; so did Baako.

  He used a thumb to flip open the box. “Maria Crandall, would you do me the ho—?”

  She tackled him, hitting him harder than Baako. The gorilla joined them, likely thinking it was another game. Luckily, he snapped the ring box closed before getting knocked on his backside. Maria ended up sprawled on top of him.

  “I take it that means yes?” he asked with a wince.

  “You are such an ass.” She leaned down. “But my ass forever.”

  Holding his face in her hands, she kissed him.

  After a time of whispered plans, of smiles and laughter, and quiet moments of shared tenderness, all three of them lay on their backs in the grass. With the daylight waning, they stared as the stars peeked out and listened as the jungle settled into evening birdsong and the distant cries of nocturnal hunters.

  Maria finally rolled on her side, kissed his cheek, and pointed to their tent cabin. “I’m going to grab us a couple of beers.”

  He leaned his head back with a happy sigh. “I knew you’d make a good wife.”

  She punched him and left.

  Baako took advantage of some private father-son time. He sat closer, looming over Kowalski. Baako sniffed at him, picked at his clothes as if searching for something. He had done this periodically during their reunion.

  Still on his back, Kowalski signed to him.

  [What are you doing?]

  Baako sat back, then tapped the middle finger of his left hand on Kowalski’s belly, the right middle finger on his own hairy brow.

  [You sick]

  Kowalski sat up and pulled the gorilla’s hand down. He glanced back to the cabin, but Maria was still inside. He had only gotten the final medical report last week. Painter knew but respected his privacy, allowing Kowalski time to fully digest it.

  It seemed he had not entirely escaped Tartarus unscathed. While the Promethean Blood had protected him from the worst of the radiation, it couldn’t stop everything. The medical report had a lot of jargon and numbers, but it all boiled down to three lines.

  MULTIPLE MYELOMA.

  STAGE 3.

  LIFE EXPECTANCY: TWO YEARS.

  But one oncologist had cautioned about that prognosis.

  If you’re lucky.

  Kowalski noted the concerned crinkle around Baako’s eyes. That worried look was why he hadn’t told Maria yet. He would, but not now. Not when she was so happy, when everything was going so well between them. M
aybe such silence was foolish, even selfish, but he needed time to process everything first.

  Kowalski signed to Baako, knowing the gorilla would believe him, knowing it was easier to lie in sign language.

  [Papa is fine]

  Baako stared at him, then hugged him hard. Kowalski patted him and rubbed his back in reassurance. When the gorilla finally let Kowalski go, Baako looked relieved, much happier again.

  Good.

  Kowalski turned to the cabin and saw Maria pop out, carrying two bottles of beer. He waved an arm.

  Baako trotted to greet her, as if she had been gone for days.

  Or maybe it was something else.

  Maria struggled to keep a bottle of beer from Baako.

  “You’re too young,” she scolded. “Maybe when you’re twenty-one.”

  Kowalski smiled.

  She joined him with an exasperated happy huff. Framed in starlight, she stared down at him. “What’s that grin all about?’

  He smiled wider. “Because I’m the luckiest man alive.”

  And I intend to stay that way.

  Author’s Note to Readers: Truth or Fiction

  We come to the end of another odyssey. Maybe not one sung by ancient Greek choruses, but hopefully one that entertained well enough. In the past, Homer had mixed facts and fiction. He told the tale of the historical fall of the Troy, but he layered in myth and magic. Unlike that great bard of yore, I will attempt in these last pages to separate the truth from fiction found in my story, while perhaps letting a little light into my own writing process.

  Let’s start with the two bibles that I found immensely valuable in crafting this tale. Of course, countless other volumes were consumed, picked apart, and studied, but these two books I found not only informative and inspiring but also damned good reads. So, I encourage everyone to check them out.

  The first delves deep—and I do mean deep—into the mythos of what lies underground, why we look there, and why it continues to fascinate us. I read it not intending to use it as a research text, but simply from my love of caving. But in the end, it moved me enough to write this novel and challenged me enough to write it better. What more could anyone ask? Please check it out: