The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts

by James Rollins

  “Elena!” Gray called out from behind the jeep. “You must help us!”

  There was no answer.

  At least not from Elena.

  “Pierce, I don’t think you’re going to talk your way out of this,” Kowalski said. His partner crouched a few steps away. His shoulder wept blood through his jacket, but it was only a graze. “She’s one crazy bitch. Why is it always the crazy ones who are such good shots?”

  “I don’t think she’s crazy,” Gray mumbled.

  At least he hoped not.

  He had seen how she had reacted to the revelation that Sasha was Nicolas’s biological daughter. A mix of shocked dismay and protectiveness. There was some connection between Elena and the girl, something more than just an augmented sisterhood.

  He had to trust he was correct.

  “Sasha came to me!” Gray called out. “Sought me out. She guided us here for a reason.”

  Silence stretched. Then a soft voice finally spoke. “How? How did Sasha guide you here?”

  Elena was testing him.

  Gray took a deep breath. He lifted his rifle in the air and tossed it aside.

  “Pierce…,” Kowalski growled. “If you think I’m throwing my gun away, you’re as nutty as she is.”

  Gray stood up.

  Across the gap, the Russian soldier’s rifle shifted toward him. Elena also rose and barked at the soldier, keeping him from shooting outright. Elena wanted to know more about Sasha. Across the way, the Russian pair shared a fortress of concrete pylons. Elena kept her pistol pointed at him.

  Gray answered her question. “How did Sasha guide us? She drew pictures. First she guided the Gypsies to my door. Then she drew a picture of the Taj Mahal, which guided us to India, where we discovered your true heritage and history. You have to ask yourself why. Sasha is special, is she not?”

  Elena just stared at him with her hard, dark eyes.

  Gray took that as agreement and continued, letting her see and hear the truth in his words. “Why were we sent to India? Why even engage us at all? Why now? There has to be a reason. I think Sasha—consciously or unconsciously—is trying to stop what you’re planning on doing.”

  Elena showed no flicker of acknowledgment, but Gray was still alive.

  “She sent us on a path to discover your roots: from the Oracle of Delphi, through the Gypsies, to now. I think there was some reason your lineage was begun. Perhaps the fulfillment of a great prophecy that is yet to come.”

  “What prophecy?” Elena asked.

  Gray noted a flicker of both recognition and fear. Was there some nightmare etched into their psyches? Gray pictured the mosaics found at the Greek stronghold in India, including the last mosaic on the wall, a fiery shape rising out of smoke from the omphalos. Gray took a chance and quickly described what they had found, finishing with, “The figure looked like a boy with eyes of fire.”

  The pistol in Elena’s arm began to tremble—though it still didn’t waver from its aim at his chest. Gray heard Elena mumble a name that sounded like Peter.

  “Who is Peter?” Gray asked.

  “Pyotr,” Elena corrected. “Sasha’s brother. He has nightmares sometimes. Wakes screaming, saying his eyes are on fire. But…but…”

  “What?” Gray pressed, intrigued despite the time pressure.

  “When he wakes, we all do. For just a moment, we see Pyotr burning.” She shook her head. “But his talent is empathy. He’s very strong. We attributed the nightmares to some quake of his talent that radiated outward. An empathic echo.”

  “It’s not just an echo from Pyotr,” Gray realized aloud. “It’s an echo going back to the beginning.”

  But where does it end?

  Gray stared over to Elena. “You cannot truly want what is to come. Sasha plainly did not. She brought me here. If she wanted Nicolas’s plan to work, all she had to do was remain silent. But she didn’t. She brought me to you, Elena. To you. To this moment. You have the chance to either help Sasha or destroy what she started. It’s your choice.”

  Her decision was instantaneous, perhaps born out of the fire in her brain. She pivoted on a toe and fired. The Russian soldier dropped, killed instantly.

  Gray hurried over to her. “How do we stop Operation Uranus?”

  “You cannot,” she answered, her voice slightly dazed, perhaps dizzy from the sudden reversal of roles, or perhaps merely waking from a long dream.

  Elena handed Gray her pistol, as if knowing where he must go. He was already sidling past her and heading off between the rails. If she didn’t know how to stop Operation Uranus, perhaps Nicolas did.

  “You must hurry,” she said. “But I…I may know a way to help.”

  She turned and glanced toward the back side of the complex, where Nicolas been headed originally.

  Gray pointed to the motorcycle. Though the front tire was flat, it would still be faster than on foot. “Kowalski, help her.”

  “But she shot me.”

  Gray didn’t have time to argue. He turned and sprinted through the forest of concrete pylons. The way opened ahead, lined by the tracks to either side. At the other end of the concourse, he spotted Nicolas limping through a wide door in the massive steel wall and vanishing into the darkness.

  Gray pounded down the way.

  Down to six minutes.

  As he flew, he saw the black gap in the steel wall begin to narrow. The door was closing.

  They’d escaped the jail, but now what?

  Elizabeth ran behind Rosauro, while Luca trailed and guarded their backs with a pistol. Using his cane, Masterson limped as best he could next to Elizabeth. She helped the old man by holding on to his elbow.

  Their first priority was to find a phone and to raise an alarm. But the entire city appeared haunted and desolate. Birches grew out of broken streets, weeds grew everywhere, buildings were scribed with lichen and moss. How were they going to find a working phone here?

  “The next intersection!” Masterson gasped and waved his cane while taking a hop on his good leg. “To the left. The Polissia Hotel should be at the end of that next block.”

  Masterson had suggested the destination. Apparently the hotel had been renovated for a gala the prior night and was being used this morning as a shuttle station for guests invited to the ceremony.

  But what about uninvited guests?

  Elizabeth had caught a glimpse of Gray and Kowalski flying away on a motorcycle as they’d made their own escape. She hoped they were okay and could do something to stop that bastard. As she fled with the others, her head ached and her eyes strained. Tension and fear wore her down.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Masterson wheezed.

  She glanced at him. She knew he was apologizing for more than just involving her and the others in this escapade.

  “I truly didn’t think your father was in any bloody danger,” he explained. “I thought the Russians’ interest in Archibald’s work was just a matter of industrial espionage, stealing data. I never thought it would result in his death.”

  Even though she understood the professor’s position in the past and recognized the international threat now, she could not find her way to forgiving him. Not for her father, and not for involving them in all this without their consent. She was tired of secrets—both her father’s and this man’s.

  As they neared the intersection, two Russian soldiers stepped from a doorway. One dropped a cigarette and ground it underfoot. The other lifted his rifle and barked at them in Russian.

  “Kak tebya zavut?”

  “Let me handle this,” Masterson said and waved for Rosauro and Luca to lower their weapons.

  The professor straightened his white hat and leaned more heavily on his cane. He doddered to the front and called out in Russian, “Dobraye utro!”

  Masterson spoke fluently. All Elizabeth understood were the words London Times. Masterson must be attempting to pass them off as visiting press.

  The soldier lowered his weapon. “You are Englishers.”


  Masterson nodded with a broad, embarrassed smile. “You speak English. Brilliant. We’ve gotten ourselves lost and could not find our way back to the Polissia Hotel. If you’d be so kind, perhaps you could escort us back there.”

  From the crinkling of the soldiers’ brows, they must not have understood him that well. Masterson was using their own lack of fluency to unbalance them, to deflect them from questioning the cover story. But the soldier with the rifle did understand their goal.

  “Polissia Gostineetsa?” he asked.

  “Da! Now there’s a good chap. Could you take us there?”

  The pair spoke in rapid snatches of Russian. Finally one shrugged and the other turned with a nod.

  Behind them, a scream of a motorcycle erupted, shattering the quiet town. Far down the street, in the direction of the jail, a motorcycle with a flashing blue light and sidecar swung into the road, bearing two soldiers with furred caps. They were spotted. Shouts called out in Russian toward them.

  Suddenly the pair of soldiers in front of them stiffened.

  “Trouble,” Masterson said and pushed Elizabeth down the street. “Run!”

  Rosauro spun on a heel and snap-kicked the closest soldier in the face. Bone cracked, and he fell stiffly backward. The other guard lifted his weapon, but Luca was quicker on the draw with his pistol. Blood exploded from the soldier’s shoulder, twisting him around as if mule-kicked, but his weapon chattered with automatic fire, sweeping toward them.

  Masterson rolled and shielded Elizabeth, while both Luca and Rosauro dropped flat to the street. The professor fell against her and knocked her to her knees. Luca’s pistol cracked again, and the gunfire ended.

  Masterson slid off her and slumped to the road. Elizabeth had felt the shuddering impacts into his body. He rolled to his back while blood pooled under him.

  “Hayden!”

  He waved her off, still holding his cane. “Go!”

  The motorcycle screamed down the road toward them all.

  Rosauro yanked her up.

  Luca fired at the motorcycle, but it swerved behind cars and debris for cover. Return fire from the soldier in the sidecar sparked the pavement around them.

  “I’m sorry, Elizabeth,” Masterson said again, blood bubbling at his lips.

  “Hayden…” She covered her mouth, unable to find the words to thank him, to forgive him.

  Still, he saw it in her eyes and gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment with a shadow of a smile, content. “Go…,” he said hoarsely, eyelids closing.

  Rosauro pushed her down the street toward the next intersection. Luca kept firing one-handed behind him as he ran—then the slide on his pistol popped open, out of ammunition. Strafing fire chased them.

  Rosauro guided them alongside the edge of the road, putting a rusted truck between them and the cycle. “Around the corner!”

  But they’d never make it.

  No longer under fire, the cycle roared straight for them.

  Elizabeth looked over her shoulder. As the motorcycle swerved through the bodies in the street, Masterson suddenly rolled with the last of his strength and jammed his cane into the front wheel of the bike. The stout rod snapped and sent the cycle flipping up on its front tire and over. It crashed upside down and slid across the rough pavement, casting sparks and leaving a bloody smear.

  Rosauro urged them all onward. “Hurry!”

  Hopefully the cycle’s roar had covered most of the gunplay, but they had to be away from here as quickly as possible. Reaching the intersection, they headed along the next street. A quarter mile down the road stood a bright hotel, freshly painted, lights glowing. A few polished black limousines waited at the curb.

  They hurried toward it. Luca tossed aside his empty pistol, and they did their best to straighten and dust off their clothes into some semblance of normalcy. They slowed when they reached the hotel and strode toward it, as if they belonged. No one accosted them. The hotel was mostly deserted, just a pair of drivers lounging in the lobby. A few staff members also worked behind a desk. Everyone else appeared to be at the ceremony.

  Rosauro crossed to the front counter. “Is there a phone we could use? We…we’re with the New York Times.”

  “Press room…over there,” a tired-eyed young man said in halting English. He pointed toward a door off the lobby.

  “Spazeebo,” Rosauro thanked him.

  She led them through the door. The room was square with a low counter that ran along the full perimeter of the space. A central table held mounds of office supplies: reams of paper, stacks of pads, pens, staplers. But what drew Elizabeth’s attention were the two-dozen black telephones that rested along the wall counter.

  Rosauro headed to one side, picked up the receiver, and listened for a dial tone. She nodded her satisfaction. As she dialed, she said, “I’ll alert central command. They’ll spread the word and get an evacuation started.”

  Elizabeth sank into a neighboring chair. In the momentary calm, she began to tremble all over. She could not stop. Masterson’s death…it broke something inside her. Tears started flowing—grieving for the professor, but also for her father.

  Rosauro finished dialing and waited. A frown slowly formed, and her eyebrows pinched together.

  “What’s wrong?” Luca asked.

  She shook her head, worried. “There’s no answer.”

  12:50 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Painter knocked lightly on the locker room door and pushed it cautiously open. He was met by a pistol pointed at his face. Kat lowered the weapon, her eyes relieved.

  “How’s everyone?” he asked and followed her inside.

  “So far, so good.”

  A Sigma corpsman took up her position at the door. Kat led Painter into the main room, lined by banks of metal lockers and benches. At the back was an archway that led to the showers and sauna.

  Kat led him to a neighboring aisle. He found Malcolm on a bench, and Lisa seated on the floor, her arm around Sasha. The girl stared up at him with large blue eyes and rocked slightly. Her gaze found Kat’s, and her entire body relaxed.

  Lisa stood. She had changed into a fresh pair of scrubs, no longer covered in blood. Kat bent down, picked up Sasha, and sat on the bench with her. She whispered in the girl’s ear, which drew a small smile from the child.

  Lisa slipped into Painter’s arms, then stared up at him for a breath. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, concerned.

  Painter thought he’d been hiding it well, but how did one completely mask the fury and grief that filled him now?

  “It’s Sean,” he said.

  Kat and Malcolm glanced over to him.

  Painter took a deep breath. “The bastard killed him.” He could still hear the gunshot, the snap of feedback, and see his friend’s body fall.

  “Oh, God…,” Lisa mumbled and pulled tighter to him.

  “Mapplethorpe’s heading down here, searching for the girl.” Painter checked his watch.

  Kat noted his attention. “The fail-safe?”

  “Set for four minutes.” Painter prayed he had everything prepared correctly. The air was now heavy with the sweet-smelling accelerant.

  “If we have to defend the room,” Kat asked, “do we have to worry about the gunfire igniting the air?”

  He shook his head. “The compound functions like aerosolized C4. It takes a strong electrical spark to set it off, not a flash of fire.”

  Lisa kept to his side. “Then what do we do from here?”

  Painter waved them to their feet. He wanted to protect them as best he could. He would lose no others. But he didn’t have much to offer.

  “We’d better hide.”

  Mapplethorpe followed his commando team down the hall.

  He had employed this same group of men many times in the past, a mercenary team that included former British S.A.S. and the South Africa’s Recces. They were his muscle across the world political map. They shied at nothing that was asked of them: assassinations, kidnappings, torture, rape. Wha
tever clandestine operation he needed run, these men would get it done. Best of all, afterward they would simply disappear, leaving no trace, just shadows and ghosts.

  It was hard men such as these who kept the country secure. Where others feared to tread, these soldiers did not balk.

  The point man reached a door at the end of the hall. Its sign read LOCKER ROOM. The soldier held up a fist. In his other hand, he clutched an electronic tracker.

  Earlier, Trent McBride had reported that the child’s microchip transmitter was still functioning. There was no place she could hide. They’d picked up her signal on this level.

  The commando waited upon his order to proceed.

  Mapplethorpe waved him through the door. He checked his watch. The fail-safe was set for another three minutes. In case Painter Crowe decided not to abort the firestorm, he wanted the girl nabbed and evacuated. If they were quick enough, it should not be a problem. An emergency exit lay at the other end of the hallway and led off to an underground garage.

  Ahead, the soldiers burst through the door and ran low and fast into the next room. Mapplethorpe followed in their wake, closing the door behind him. He heard quiet orders flow among the group as they spread through the rows of lockers.

  Mapplethorpe followed the commando with the tracker, flanked by two more soldiers. The lead man ran along the lockers, his arm held high. He finally reached the source of the signal, dropped his arm, and pointed.

  In the silence, Mapplethorpe heard a faint whimper coming from inside the locker.

  At last.

  A padlock secured the door, but another soldier whipped out a small set of bolt cutters and snapped the lock off.

  Mapplethorpe waved. They were running out of time. “Hurry!”

  The head commando tugged the locker’s handle and yanked the door open. Mapplethorpe caught a glimpse of a digital tape recorder, a radio transmitter—and a Taser pistol wired to the door.

  A trap.

  Mapplethorpe turned and ran.

  Behind him, the pistol fired with a pop and a crackle of electricity.

  Mapplethorpe screamed as he heard a loud whuff of ignition, sounding like the firing of a gas grill. A flash of heat, and a fireball blew outward. It picked him off his feet and carried him down the row. His clothes roasted to his back. He breathed flames, his scalp burned to bone. He struck the wall, no longer human, just a flaming torch of agony.