The Oracle

by D. J. Niko

  She squinted as something caught her eye. Someone who hadn’t spent as much time as she had on cliffs and in caves would never have seen it: a fissure behind a massive boulder, just big enough for one slender-bodied person to enter.

  Sarah held her breath as she considered her options. She had no idea what—or who—she would find inside. She could easily be walking into a trap.

  She thought of the message and of Daniel. Time was running out for him. She had only four days to save his life. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. It calmed her racing heart long enough for her to access the courage she needed.

  She found a handhold in the boulder, which was at least a foot taller than she was, and used it to hoist herself to the top. She slid down the other side and landed in front of the fissure. She slipped her hand inside. The rock’s surface was smoother than she’d expected—an indication, she thought, that the passage was carved out rather than natural.

  She wedged her body into the opening and shimmied inside. It was as she had thought: the entrance was narrow as to not invite suspicion, but the passage itself was wide enough to accommodate a single person.

  She walked gingerly over the loose gravel of the tunnel floor and steadied herself against the cold, hard rock. The feeling was akin to holding the hand of a cadaver. The pitch-black, tubular passage closed in around her, and she had a flashback to the cave of Trophonius. She willed it out of her mind so she could focus on the task at hand. At that moment, any distraction could be deadly.

  The narrow corridor opened up. A vaguely sweet scent laced the stuffy air. As she approached the antechamber at the mouth of the tunnel, the odor became more pervasive. It had the sweetness of overripe fruit with the tang of musk.

  Sarah’s eyes widened as she realized she smelled pure ethylene. She knew the gas in small doses could cause trance and hallucination followed by amnesia; in large doses, it could cause brain damage and even death. So it was with the priestesses of antiquity. Some had mild reactions, whereas others had flailed violently as they spoke in tongues. In every case, the latter died.

  Through her night-vision binoculars, the antechamber resembled a gray tomb. She entered anyway. At the far end there was an opening. She followed it, certain of what she would find there.

  She was spot-on. The chamber on the other side, a space no bigger than six feet square, was the Pythia’s lair. Nothing was there except five spent torches surrounding a tripod.

  Sarah looked down. Laurel leaves—some intact, some crushed—littered the ground. And there it was: a crack, probably a foot wide, directly beneath the priestess’ seat. The smell of ethylene was thick, and it made her lightheaded. She walked toward the crack and confirmed the gas was emanating from the earth.

  Impossible, she thought. Some of the world’s most highly regarded archaeologists and geologists had searched for years for evidence of ethylene, and none had found any. It had long been accepted that the chasm in the earth that had allowed the delivery of the vapors had closed, perhaps due to an earthquake or other natural event.

  Even ancient historians corroborated the theory. According to recorded fact, the oracle of Delphi had been crippled because the vapors had ceased. Without the trance, the Pythia could dispense no oracle. And without an oracle, there was no reason for anyone to make the pilgrimage to the cliffs of Mt. Parnassus. The coffers of the Delphians had dried up and the city’s power had waned, leaving the way free for the Byzantines to annihilate the operation.

  How could ethylene possibly flow forth again? She searched her mind for an answer but came up with nothing. The inhalation of the gas distorted her thoughts and impaired her ability to make sound decisions. She removed her binoculars and rubbed her stinging eyes. A choking sensation seized her throat, and she let out a violent cough. She needed to get out of there.

  She turned around, only vaguely aware she could see nothing in the utter blackness. Driven by instinct, she reached for a wall—anything that could steady her long enough to put the binoculars back on. Her hands landed on something firm but warm. It twitched and contracted at her touch.

  Sarah froze.

  Strong hands grasped her upper arms, and her knees weakened. An accented baritone voice boomed across the stone womb: “What is it you seek?”

  Thirty-four

  A gray fog shrouded Daniel’s eyes as he woke. He grimaced. It felt as if an ice pick had been driven through his brain.

  Still queasy from whatever drug had been injected into him, he summoned all his strength to roll onto his side and sit up. He looked around. He was in a windowless room, lying on a futon sprawled out on the floor. A small table with a tall glass of water was next to him. He salivated with desire for the liquid and licked his parched lips. He did not dare touch it. He smelled the cedar of the plank siding that lined the walls. It reminded him of mountains and gave him comfort.

  He rubbed the back of his neck in a futile attempt to calm the pain. He absently regarded his own appearance: a crumpled, untucked khaki button-down, coarse with dried sweat, hung loosely over ripped jeans streaked with dirt. It looked like he had either been in a struggle or been dragged through the woods. He had no recollection of any of it.

  The last thing he remembered was his hotel room in Cairo. He recalled texting Sarah moments before the “engineering” worker knocked and his world went black. He felt in his pockets for his phone and looked around for any sign of his belongings. Of course it had all been taken.

  He wondered if Langham had caught wind of his absence, and if it would even matter. To Langham’s kind, people like Daniel were expendable, good only while they were offering something. The moment they were caught, all bets were off.

  No, Langham, or even his buddy Richard Weston, was not coming to his rescue. Wherever he was, and whoever his captor was, he’d have to rely on his own wits to escape. For the first time in his life, he wondered if he had it in him.

  A suspicion crossed his mind, and he looked around the room. There it was, in a corner of the ceiling: a small glossy black eye registering his every move. He observed the heavy metal door with the combination entry. His opponent had a singular advantage. All Daniel could do was sit and wait. Since they knew he had come to, the wait probably wouldn’t be long.

  His hunch was right. About ten minutes later, the pneumatic door sighed open and a barrel-chested man with curly black hair and a thick moustache entered the room.

  The man looked Daniel up and down. “You come with me,” he said in a raspy voice and an accent Daniel couldn’t place.

  Daniel leaned on one arm and hoisted himself off the floor with some effort. His body felt creaky and compressed; at that moment, his physical reality was that of a man twice his age. He gritted his teeth and showed no pain.

  The emissary held the door open, and the two men locked gazes for a fleeting moment. Daniel saw ruthlessness in his foe’s expression and shot him a hard glare in return.

  “To the end of the corridor and up the stairs.”

  Daniel didn’t turn to acknowledge the command. He walked with a stiff gait down the dark hallway, also paneled in cedar. Up the stairs. They must have held him in some sort of basement.

  Or sub-basement. The twelve or so steps up led to another windowless space. He squinted as his eyes were assaulted by the fluorescent lighting overhead. He furtively surveyed his surroundings, searching for any opportunity to flee. The place was tight as a vault.

  “Stop.” The raspy voice ricocheted off the narrow halls.

  Daniel did as told. He heard a click and looked over his shoulder. The burly guy pushed open a door hidden within the paneling. Daniel hadn’t noticed it as he walked by. The disguise was remarkable. He wondered how many other surprises the facility concealed.

  He walked into the dark room. A series of lights came on, illuminating in bursts the four corners of the room. Daniel felt a chill ripple down his spine as he realized all four walls were lined with display cases: glass shelves with glass fronts and mirrored backs, each
holding a collection of guns. There must have been two hundred specimens, from pistols to Uzis. An eerie blue light illuminated the weapons, as if they were objects to be admired, like art rendered in cold, hard steel.

  He turned to his escort. “What the hell is this?”

  The man was expressionless. Without taking his eyes off Daniel, he tipped his head in the direction of the ceiling. “It’s showtime.”

  Daniel looked up to see a small projector. In front of him, an image began to materialize. The pixels, at first loosely arranged, came together in a tight configuration to reveal a man’s form. It was a hologram.

  “Hello, Daniel Madigan.” He was American. “Welcome.”

  Daniel tensed. “Am I, now?”

  He chuckled. Both the image and the sound were so realistic, it was hard to believe it was an illusion. “Course you are, son. Anyone who has something of value to me is welcome in my home.”

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “And where is home? Hard to tell when you’re kept in a dungeon.”

  He let out a loud belly laugh. “You sure got a sense of humor, boy. Let’s just say some things are best left to unfold.”

  Daniel studied the man’s rotund face, the ruddy skin cut by the channels of time. That and his gray, wiry, and windblown hair suggested an advanced age—he was in his seventies, Daniel figured—but his robust demeanor and razor-sharp glare suggested he was a foe to be reckoned with.

  Something about him looked familiar, and Daniel searched his memory for a recollection. He couldn’t place him. “Whatever you say, pal.”

  “I detect an accent. Where are you from, Daniel?”

  He wanted to say, None of your business. But another glance at the walls of weapons convinced him to keep his mouth shut. “Tennessee.”

  “Beautiful country, Tennessee. Let me guess: you’re from the mountains. Little town called Briceville, near the coal mines.”

  “That’s right.” Daniel clenched his teeth and exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’d like to know who I’m talking to.”

  He smirked. “Just call me sir.”

  Was he kidding? “What do you want with me, sir?”

  “For now, I just want you to shut up. I’m asking the questions.” He rubbed a fleshy cheek. “Tell me something, son. Was Johnny Madigan your daddy?”

  The guy obviously had done his homework. “What’s that to you?”

  Sir ignored the question. “Johnny and I were in basic training together, back in the day. Only he didn’t have what it takes to stay in the Army. Too lazy, and a wicked booze habit to boot. But I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, am I?”

  Daniel spoke behind clenched teeth. “Just get to the point.”

  “I saw old Johnny again not that long ago. We met up at a bar in some small town up in hillbilly country, had a few drinks.” He reached back and pulled out a folded newspaper from his jeans’ back pocket. He unfolded it and read aloud. “On February 21, about one in the morning, a man drove off the road, plunging his car down a barren cliffside.” He tossed the paper onto a table. “Let me summarize: all that was left of the victim was a pile of bone and mangled flesh and a bloodied ID card that read: John Patrick Madigan, born April 11, 1948.”

  The lingering nausea stirred his gut, and Daniel fought back the urge to retch. Was it true or an elaborate ruse to weaken him?

  “Poor Johnny Madigan. Just couldn’t help himself. He was wasted on the local moonshine.” He sneered. “Like father, like son, I guess.”

  Daniel clenched his fists. If the real man were standing before him, he would have struck him senseless, consequences be damned. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, so hot was his anger. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I’m the maker of your fate, boy.” Sir’s voice thundered. “On your knees.”

  Daniel felt the burly guy’s hand clamp his shoulder and bear down, pushing him to the floor. Even after forcing Daniel to kneel, he did not release his steel grip. Daniel’s left side buckled, but he was determined not to let the pain show in his face.

  “That’s better,” the American said. “Now let me tell you the reason you’re here. My friend Ishaq Shammas tells me you are the keeper of an age-old secret I’ve been trying to get my hands on for a mighty long time. Know what I’m referring to?”

  “I might.”

  The holographic likeness paced in front of Daniel. After a long pause, he stopped and faced his visitor again, his deep-set blue eyes glinting with anticipation. “For more than ten years, I’ve followed leads that have taken me to dead ends. And now I’m so close. So let me cut to the chase. The map you told Shammas about . . . where is it?”

  Daniel’s lips curled into a snarl. “I believe I owe you nothing.”

  “That right? Well, I beg to differ.” A glance at his henchman yielded a blow to the back of Daniel’s head.

  Daniel landed headfirst on the polished wood floor. His vision faltered like a lightbulb shorting out, and he thought he might lose consciousness. Thick hands grabbed the back of his shirt and hoisted him upright. The room spun.

  “Has Ayberk changed your mind, or do you need more convincing?”

  Daniel put the name and the accent together to figure out the strongman was Turkish. Not that it mattered. “Do your worst, pal. I’m prepared to take the information six feet under.”

  A hint of static crackled across the hologram. Sir’s expression turned steely. He picked up an iPad and swiped. “Does this person look familiar?” He turned the tablet toward his captive.

  It was a snap of Sarah sitting against a rock wall, knees curled to her chest, tousled hair spilling around her bent head. The camera flash bounced off her black climbing suit. The photo was taken at night—or inside a cavern.

  Daniel felt her distress more than his own. But he knew any association between the two of them would put Sarah in grave danger.

  Sir narrowed his eyes and smirked, and Daniel knew what was coming. “Sarah Weston, PhD, thirty-seven years old, field archaeologist, educated at Cambridge University, daughter of British aristocrat Richard Weston and American actress Alexis Sinclair, now deceased. Last assignment: Saudi Arabia, working in an expedition headed by none other than yourself. So I would say you do know her, and judging by the look on your pathetic face”—he leaned forward and smiled—“you’re in love with her.”

  Daniel felt an inner tremble and his hands shook with rage. If the opportunity to kill this psychopath presented itself, he wasn’t sure he’d pass it up. The emotion unsettled him, made him direct his anger inward.

  “What’s the matter, Danny boy?” It was what Johnny Madigan called his son when he was a boy. “Worried about your girlfriend? Well, you should be. My intelligence tells me one of you has the information I seek. So I have decided to extend the same hospitality to both of you.” His face collapsed into the expressionless stare of an assassin. “Let’s see which one of you cracks first.”

  The hologram dissolved, but the brutal presence lingered. Daniel knew he was being watched—and manipulated.

  “Let’s go,” Ayberk barked.

  Daniel cast a final glance around the munitions room before following the Turk out the door. He took mental inventory: an M2 Browning machine gun, a variety of AK assault rifles, a grenade launcher, likely Chinese. Some of the firearms were Army issue and not easy for a private collector to get a hold of. He harbored no illusions about his captor’s sinister intent.

  Ayberk wrapped a fleshy paw around Daniel’s arm. “I said, let’s go.”

  As he turned to leave, Daniel noticed a gap in the otherwise perfectly arranged case. Two of the guns were missing.

  Thirty-five

  The caverns beneath Delphi’s springs radiated a wet chill. Shivering, Sarah vaguely recalled the high priest hoisting her over his shoulder and carrying her down a dark passage to the depths of the cave. Impaired by the ethylene, she was too weak to fight him and, though conscious, too disoriented to imprint the route.

  Despite a h
eroic attempt to stay awake, she’d ended up sleeping off the effects of the drug—for how long, she didn’t know. In the dark, she felt around the tomb-like space and touched the ceiling from a seated position. She ran her hand across the stone and pulled back when the sharp edges tore her palm. She sucked the open wound, tasting warm blood laced with the salt of perspiration.

  Unable to stand, she crawled on all fours, occasionally extending a hand to assess her surroundings. She surmised she was in a chamber that measured no more than five feet deep, three feet across, and at most four feet high. She sat back, leaning on the rough stone. She could hear her breath rise and fall, and the sound made her keenly aware of the passage of time. Time she could ill afford to lose.

  A pale light flickered like a bolt of lightning. She froze and stared at the spot, letting her eyes adjust. The light illuminated a tubelike passage no wider than a drain pipe. The fire of adrenaline was lit in her gut.

  The light grew brighter. She smelled the familiar charred-earth scent of a hemp wick burning in a pool of oil.

  Someone was approaching.

  Her breaths grew more rapid, and she instinctively shrank into a corner. There was nowhere to hide.

  In the dead stillness, her ears amplified every sound—the rustling of fabric, the shuffling of feet, her own agitated heartbeat.

  The white light of a lantern flooded the cell. She raised a hand to guard her eyes from the shock of sudden radiance. When her eyes adjusted, she lowered her hand and saw the kneeling white-gowned figure framed in a pale halo.

  Sarah squinted for a better look. Before her was a girl, likely prepubescent and so thin her bones showed in startling detail. A wreath of twigs encircled uncombed light brown hair that reached to the middle of her back.

  “What is your name?” Her voice was high-pitched, fragile.