“Take that next left track,” Masterson ordered.
Rosauro hauled on the wheel, and the SUV splashed through a watery ditch, almost a creek. Small downpours had dumped on them throughout the trip up here. Punjab was Persian for “land of five rivers,” which was one of the reasons it was India’s major agricultural state.
Gray checked the twilight skies as night approached. Clouds rolled low. They’d have more rain before the night was over.
“Up ahead,” Masterson said. “Over that next hill.”
The vehicle slogged up the slope, churning mud. At the top of the rise, a small bowl-shaped valley opened, ringed by hills. A dark village lay at the bottom, a densely packed mix of stone homes and mud huts with palm-thatch roofs. A couple of fires glowed at the edge of the town, stirred by a few men standing around with long poles. Burning garbage. A bullock cart stood beside one fire, stacked high with refuse. The single horned bull stirred at the approach of their vehicle down the hill.
“The other side of India,” Masterson said. “Over three-quarters of India’s population still live in rural areas. But here we have those who live at the bottom of the caste system. The Harijan, as Gandhi renamed them, which means ‘people of God,’ but they are mostly still derided as dalit or achuta, which roughly translates as untouchable.”
Gray noted Luca had sheathed his daggers and turned a more attentive ear. Untouchables. These could be the same roots as his clans.
Lit by flames, the village men gathered with scythes and poles, wary of the approaching strangers.
“Who are these people?” Gray asked, wanting to know more about whom they faced.
“To answer that,” Masterson said, “you have to understand India’s caste system. Legends have that all the major varnas—or classes of people—arose from one godlike being. The Branmans, which include priests and teachers, arose out of the mouth of this being. Rulers and soldiers from its arms. Merchants and traders from its thighs. The feet gave rise to laborers. Each has its own pecking order, much of it laid out in a two-thousand-year-old collection known as the Laws of Manu, which details what you can and can’t do.”
“And these untouchables?” Gray asked, keeping an eye on the gathering men and boys.
“The fifth varna is said not to have risen from this great being at all. They were outcasts, considered too polluted and impure to mix with regular people. People who handled animal skins, blood, excrement, even the bodies of the dead. They were shunned from higher-caste homes and temples, not allowed to eat with the same utensils. Not even their shadows were allowed to touch a higher caste’s body. And if you should break any of these rules, you could be beaten, raped, murdered.”
Elizabeth leaned forward. “And no one stops this from happening?”
Masterson snorted. “The Indian constitution outlaws such discrimination, but it still continues, especially in rural areas. Fifteen percent of the population still falls into the classification of untouchable. There is no escape. A child born from an achuta is forever an achuta. They remain victims of millennia-old religious laws, laws that permanently cast them as subhuman. And let’s be honest. Like I said before, someone has to work all these fields.”
Gray pictured the vast rolling farmlands and orchards.
Masterson continued, “The untouchables are a built-in slave class. So while there is some progress made on their behalf, mostly in the cities, the rural areas still need workers—and the caste system serves them well. Villages such as this one have been burned or destroyed because they dared to ask for better wages or working conditions. Hence the suspicion here now.”
He nodded to the welcoming party carrying farm instruments.
“Dear God,” Elizabeth said.
“God has nothing to do with this,” Masterson said sourly. “It’s all about economy. Your father was a strong advocate for these people. Lately he was having more and more trouble gaining the cooperation of yogis and Brahman mystics.”
“Because of his association with untouchables?” she asked.
“That…and the fact that he was looking for the source of the genetic marker among the untouchable peoples. When word spread of that, many doors were slammed in his face. So much for higher enlightenment. In fact, after he disappeared, I was convinced he’d been murdered for that very reason.”
Gray waved Rosauro to stop at the edge of the glow from the burning garbage fires. “And this village? This is where Dr. Polk was last seen?”
Masterson nodded. “The last I heard from Archibald was an excited phone call. He’d made some discovery and was anxious to share it—then I never heard from him again. But he sometimes did that—would vanish for months at a time into the remote rural areas, going from village to village. Places that still have no name and are shunned by those of higher castes. But after a while, I began to fear the worst.”
“And what of these people?” Gray asked. “Do we have anything to fear from them?”
“On the contrary.” Masterson opened his car door and used his cane to push to his feet.
Gray followed him. Other doors opened, and everyone exited. “Stay near the truck,” he warned them.
Masterson traipsed toward the fire with Gray in tow. The professor called out in Hindi. Gray understood a few phrases and words from his own studies of Indian religion and philosophy, but not enough to follow what the man was saying. He seemed to be asking for someone, searching faces.
The men remained a solid wall, bristling with weapons.
The ox lowed its own complaint beside the wagon, as if sensing the tension.
Finally Masterson stood between the two smoking pyres. The air reeked, smelling of fried liver and burning tires. Gray forced himself not to cover his mouth. Masterson waved back to the truck and continued to speak. Gray heard Archibald Polk’s name followed by the Hindi word betee.
Daughter.
All the men turned their gazes toward Elizabeth. Weapons were lowered. Chatter spread among them. Arms pointed at her. The wall of men parted in welcome. A pair of the boys, their voices raised in a happy shout, ran back down a narrow alleyway between two stone houses.
Masterson turned to Gray. “The achuta in this area hold Archibald in high esteem. I had no doubt the presence of the respected man’s daughter would be met with hospitality. We have nothing to fear from these people.”
“Except for dysentery,” Kowalski said as he reached them with the others.
Elizabeth elbowed him in the ribs.
Gray led them into the village, sensing they had more to worry about than just upset bowels.
8:02 P.M.
Elizabeth crossed between the two fires. Beyond their glow, the village roused. Someone started to clank loudly on a makeshift drum. A woman appeared, her face half covered in a sari. She motioned them toward the village center.
As she turned, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of scarred, sagging flesh, hidden under the thin veil. Masterson noted Elizabeth’s attention.
She leaned toward him. “What happened to her?”
The professor answered softly and nodded to the woman. “Your father mentioned her. Her son was caught fishing in a pond of a higher-caste village. She went to scold him off, but they were caught. The villagers beat the child and poured acid on the woman’s face. She lost an eye and half her face.”
Elizabeth’s body went cold. “How awful.”
“And she considers herself lucky. Because they didn’t rape her, too.”
Shocked, Elizabeth followed the woman, galled by such an atrocity, but at the same time, awed by her strength to survive and persevere.
The woman led them along a maze of crooked alleys to the village center. Another fire blazed there. People gathered at a few wooden tables around a well pump. Women swept the tables free of leaves or carried out food. Young children ran all around, barefoot, mostly shirtless.
As Elizabeth passed, several men bowed their heads, sometimes even at the waist as she walked. Plainly in respect for her father. She had nev
er known much about what he’d been doing out here.
Masterson motioned with his cane toward the men. “Archibald did much good for the local villages. He exposed and disbanded a militia that terrorized these parts, even got better wages for the villagers, better medical care and education. But more important, he respected them.”
“I didn’t know,” she mumbled.
“He won their trust. And it was in these hills that he concentrated his genetic testing.”
“Why here?” Gray asked on the professor’s other side.
“Because just as Archibald devised that map I showed you, he also did a more detailed schematic of the Punjab region. A trail of genetic evidence pointed to these hills, but I think it was something more.”
Elizabeth frowned. “Like what?”
“I’m not sure. His interest in the region spiked about two years ago. He stopped testing broadly across India and began concentrating here.” The professor glanced back to Luca. “And with the Gypsies.”
Elizabeth thought back two years. She had been finishing her PhD program at Georgetown. She’d had little contact with her father during that time. Nor patience. Their occasional phone conversations were usually short and terse. If she had known what he was doing beyond his own field of study, maybe things could have been different.
Reaching the heart of the village, they were greeted with smiles and urged to come to the table. Food was already piling high—roti flatbread, rice dishes, steamed vegetables, small plums and fat dates, bowls of buttermilk—simple but heartfelt fare. A woman on her knees stirred a lentil stew on a horseshoe-shaped oven. Her daughter carried a bucket of cow dung to feed the flames beneath.
Kowalski joined Elizabeth, stepping close. “Not exactly Burger King.”
“Maybe because they worship cows.”
“Hey, I worship them, too. Especially grilled rare with a nice baked potato.”
She smiled. How did that infernal man always get her to smile? She was suddenly too conscious of how close he stood and stepped away.
Off to the side, one of the villagers began plucking the strings of a sitar, accompanied by a man with a harmonica and another with a tabla drum.
A tall newcomer stepped up to them all. He appeared to be in his midthirties, his hair cropped short, olive skinned. He was dressed in a traditional dhoti kurta, a spotless wrap of rectangular cloth that hung from waist to ankle, along with a tunic buttoned over a long-sleeved shirt. Atop his head, he wore an embroidered knitted cap called a kufi. He bowed deeply and spoke in English with a crisp British accent.
“I am Abhi Bhanjee, but I would be honored if you would call me Abe. We Indians have a saying: At ithi devo bhava. It means ‘Our guests are like gods.’ And none more so than the daughter of Professor Archibald Polk, a dear friend of mine.” He waved them to the table. “Please join us.”
They obeyed, but it did not take long for his smile to dim as the man learned about her father.
“I had not heard,” he said softly, his face a mask of pain. “It is a loss most tragic and sad. My condolences, Miss Polk.”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment.
“He was last seen here at your village,” Gray added and nodded to Masterson. “He called the professor, said he was coming here.”
Masterson cleared his throat. “We hoped you might be able to cast a light on where Archibald went.”
“I knew he should not have gone alone,” the man said with a shake of his head. “But he would not wait.”
“Go where?” Gray asked.
“It was wrong to take him there to begin with. It is a cursed place.”
Elizabeth reached and touched the man’s hand with her fingertips. “If you know something…anything…”
He swallowed visibly and reached to a pocket inside his tunic. He slipped out a tiny cloth bag that clinked. “It all started when I showed your father these.” He fingered the bag open and upended the contents onto the table. “We find them occasionally when we till the fields of these lands.”
Old tarnished coins, nearly black with age, rattled and danced. One rolled to Elizabeth. She stopped it with her palm, then picked it up. She examined the surface, rubbing some of the grime with her thumb—until she realized what she was holding.
Upon the surface, abraded but still distinct, was the face of a woman, her cheeks framed by a tangle of small snakes. It was the Gorgon named Medusa. Elizabeth knew what she was holding.
“An ancient Greek coin,” she said with surprise. “You found these in your fields?”
Abe nodded.
“Amazing.” Elizabeth turned the coin toward the firelight. “Greeks did rule the Punjab for a while. Along with Persians, Arabs, Mughals, Afghans. Alexander the Great even fought a great battle in this region.”
Gray picked up another coin. His expression darkened. He held out the coin toward her. “You’d better look at this, Elizabeth.”
She took it and studied it. Her fingers began to tremble. Upon its surface, a Greek temple had been minted. And not just any temple. She stared at the three pillars that framed a dark doorway. Prominent in that threshold stood a large letter E.
“It’s the Temple of Delphi,” she gasped out.
“It looks like the same coin your father stole from the museum.”
She struggled to understand, but she could not think. It was as if someone had short-circuited her brain. “When…when did you first show my father these coins?”
Abe frowned. “I’m not certain. About two years ago. He told me to keep them safe and hidden, but since he is dead and you are his daughter…”
She barely heard him. Two years ago. The same time her father had arranged for her to work at the Delphi museum. She sensed she was holding the coin that had bought her the museum position. Too busy here himself, her father must have wanted her to follow up on this mystery. A spark of anger fired through her, but she was also too aware of the villagers around her and how they’d been treated. Maybe her father couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon them.
Still, he could have told her something.
Unless…maybe he was protecting her?
She shook her head, filled with questions. What was going on here? She sought answers on the other side of the coin. The surface was black with a large worn symbol that did not appear to be Greek.
Abe noted her confused expression. He pointed to the coin, having studied it before. “That is a chakra wheel. An ancient Hindu symbol.”
But what’s it doing on a Greek coin? she wondered.
“May I see?” Luca asked. He crossed around the table to stare over her shoulder. His body stiffened, and his fingers tightened on the table’s edge. “That…that symbol. It’s also on the Romani flag.”
“What?” Elizabeth asked.
He straightened, his brow crinkled with confusion. “The symbol was chosen because the Sanskrit word chakra means ‘wheel.’ It is said to represent a Gypsy’s wagon wheel, symbolic of our nomadic heritage, while still honoring our Indian roots. But there were always rumors that the symbol had deeper, more ancient roots among the clans.”
As the others discussed the significance, Elizabeth studied the coin in silence, beginning to sense at least one truth.
Gray leaned toward her, reading something on her face. “What is it?”
She met his steely gaze. She held up the coin and pointed to the temple side. “My father pulled strings to get me that position at the Delphi museum shortly after finding this.” She flipped the coin to the chakra side. “At the same time, he started to investigate the Gypsies and their connection to India. Two sides of a coin, two lines of inquiry.”
Elizabeth turned the coin on edge. “But what lies between the two? What connects them?”
She turned to Abhi Bhanjee. He had not told them everything.
“Where did my father go?” she asked with a bite to her voice.
A shout from one of the villagers answered her. A man came running from the outer fires. The music died away
—but a distant drumming continued, a heavy beat that thumped to the chest.
Gray jerked up.
Elizabeth stood, confused, and stared out toward the hills, trying to discern the direction of the noise, but it seemed to come from everywhere—then three lights speared out of the overcast sky.
Helicopters.
“Everyone back to the SUV!” Gray shouted.
Abe yelled in Hindi, barking hard orders. Men and women fled in all directions. In the tumult, Elizabeth got separated, spun by passing bodies. Disoriented, she fought to follow their group.
Like diving hawks, the helicopters swept toward the village, then split wide to circle. With her eyes on the skies, she stumbled, but a thick arm caught her. Kowalski scooped her around the waist and lifted her to her toes, urging her faster.
“C’mon, babe.”
He forded through the chaos, a rolling rock.
At the edges of the village, the helicopters settled to a hover. Ropes slithered out from open side doors. Even before their ends reached the ground, dark forms slid down the lines, heavy with helmets and gear.
They would never make it to the SUV.
8:38 P.M.
Pripyat, Ukraine
Nicolas snapped his cell phone closed. So that was one less problem to worry about. He crossed down the hallway toward the gala. Music wafted, a traditional Russian composition from the nineteenth century, “Snegúrochka,” “The Snow Maiden.”
He drew his palm down the lines of his tuxedo. While others dressed in modern couture, Nicolas had handpicked his outfit in Milan, a single-button Brioni cashmere jacket with a peaked lapel and shawl collar. It was classic and elegant, chosen because the Duke of Windsor had worn such suits in the 1930s and 1940s. It had a vintage look that melded with Nicolas’s rhetoric, but he had updated his appearance by replacing the traditional bow tie—which never looked good with his trimmed beard—with a silk pleated tie, accented by a diamond tack set in Russian silver.
Knowing how well he looked, he entered the ballroom.
New marble floors shone under the light of a dozen Baccarat crystal chandeliers, a charitable donation by the company for this event. Tables circled an empty dance floor. But the true dancing had already commenced. The crowd mingled and swirled in eddies of political power, vying for the right nod, a moment alone with the right potentate, a whispered deal.
The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts Page 62