The Oracle

by D. J. Niko

  He started to walk toward the motorcycle.

  She didn’t move. “Danny.”

  He turned around. It was the first time she noticed how worn out he looked. His skin had a pallor consistent with suffering a gunshot wound and bleeding heavily. His clothes were filthy, and he sported a full beard. It was obvious he’d been through a lot; she couldn’t ask more of him, but she needed to tell him the truth.

  “I can’t leave now.” She pulled Lydia’s gold pendant out of her pocket and let it dangle from her hand. “I’ve made a promise.”

  Daniel walked back to her. He took the locket in his palm and opened it. He winced and snapped it shut. “Who was she?”

  “Her name was Lydia. She was the lover of the man who imprisoned you and masterminded a new oracle at Delphi. Years ago, she helped him gather disciples for his pagan cult, even bore his child. Then, when he no longer had use for her, he kicked her out.”

  “And the kid?”

  “He took her from her mother when she was six. He enslaved the child and drugged her, raising her to be a latter-day Pythia delivering oracles that would further some sinister political agenda. Apparently, he’s a former military man with a real vendetta for the Americans.”

  “That’s right. He was a colonel back in the time of the Cold War.”

  “You’re a Navy man. Does the name Bellamy mean anything to you?”

  A wrinkle formed between Daniel’s brows. “Yes. There was an Army Colonel Bellamy . . . Stephen Bellamy, I believe. I recall he was captured by the Russians. I’m fuzzy on the details, but I’m pretty sure he was dishonorably discharged. Something about leaking classified information to the enemy.” He looked deep into Sarah’s eyes. “You think he’s that guy?”

  “It’s consistent with what I’ve heard. Bellamy has something up his sleeve that will destroy the Americans; perhaps it’s his way of seeking revenge.”

  “You know he’s after the original omphalos stone.”

  She nodded. “Apparently, it holds a mathematical formula inscribed by Pythagoras, which is vital to his plan.”

  “I almost hate to ask this: do you know where that stone is?”

  “I followed the clues on the map to the Sumela Monastery, where it was taken in the fourth century. It has since been moved, and now it’s underwater near the Baltic Sea. It’s part of a bridge pillar erected by the Romans. I dove down . . . I felt an inscription but couldn’t decipher it. I found out later that it’s the formula to determine the core-mantle boundary at which catastrophic seismicity, such as the quake that tore apart Thera, occurs.”

  Daniel shook his head. “How do you know all this?”

  “The priest, Isidor, is a Pythagorean undercover. The formula is a long-held secret his tribe means to keep hidden.”

  He pushed his hair away from his forehead. “Jesus.”

  “It gets worse. Bellamy plans to use the formula to generate a megathrust earthquake that will have a devastating effect on America. He’s already begun his experiments. This afternoon’s earthquake was manmade. There will be others.”

  He put his hands up. “You’re blowing my mind.”

  “It’s true. He is using the oracle to gather America’s enemies one by one and transfer information about the making of the perfect tectonic weapon. We’re talking about a terrorist act the scale of which the world has never known. And he’s this close”—she held her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart—“to making it happen. All he needs is the stone—or the map that leads to it. That’s why I have to go back to Delphi tonight.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “I’m going to stage my capture. If I’m right about the ceremony he’s about to conduct, there will be a sacrifice tonight.”

  Daniel’s eyes grew wider. “You don’t mean—”

  She raised a palm. “Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

  “My God, Sarah. Don’t do this. You have no idea what this guy is capable of.”

  “I have to. I can’t turn my back on that child.”

  Daniel bent his head and rubbed his eyes, his hands slightly trembling.

  She touched his arm. “Danny, I can’t ask you—”

  The roar of a helicopter diverted her attention. They looked up simultaneously. The flashing red taillight rose like a phoenix from the ashes.

  “Hide,” Daniel commanded. He grabbed her hand and pulled her into a roadside ditch. They rolled down, their bodies landing with a splash on two feet of muddy water. He lay on top of her and whispered in her ear, “Don’t move.”

  As the copter thundered overhead, Sarah held dead still. With her head on Daniel’s chest, she could hear his heart gallop in unison with her own. After an eternal moment, the sound dissipated. She looked up and saw the copter bank toward Delphi.

  Daniel sat up and offered her a hand. “Looks like we have some work to do.”

  She gave him a weak smile. “We?”

  He swept away a mud-soaked tendril that had fallen over her eye. “I’m with you, lady. Always have been.”

  Forty-eight

  By the time Sarah and Daniel arrived in Delphi, the pyre of Apollo had been lit. The flames churning inside the sacred tripod bathed the sanctuary’s ruined columns in amber light and trembling shadows, a silent drumroll heralding the ritual that would ensue that night.

  The self-appointed guardians of Delphi hadn’t yet gathered. Somewhere, Sarah imagined, Bellamy’s spiritual soldiers were slathering themselves with unguents and suppressing their natures with mood-altering concoctions in preparation for the spectacle of spectacles.

  Sarah could not shake a sense of foreboding. In order for her plan to work, she needed the full cooperation of Daniel and Isidor. Each of them would have to execute flawlessly, or the entire operation would crumble. She had yet to get Isidor’s buy-in, and though she was confident he would be onboard, she wondered if he had what it took to carry off something that precise.

  She shook off her doubts and turned to Daniel. “The coast is clear. We can follow that path”—she pointed to a footpath through the forest running parallel to the Sacred Way—“down to the spring.”

  “Lead on,” he said and followed her downhill to the Castalian Spring, where sooner or later the high priest would come to pay respects to the god before beginning the ritual.

  Sarah and Daniel descended into the spring basin through a patch of laurel trees, said to have been planted there by Apollo himself as a tribute to Daphne, the object of his forbidden love, who was turned into a laurel by her father to thwart Apollo’s advances. Heartbroken, Apollo had embraced the branches and vowed to use them from that day forward in his sacraments. According to all historical accounts, supplicants held these branches in tribute to the sun god, and the Pythia sucked upon them before delivering her oracles.

  The spring itself had long since dried up. An empty marble pool now served as a hollow reminder of Delphi’s glory days. Sarah and Daniel stood at the pool’s edge, surveying the surroundings.

  There was a reverential silence to the place. The air was embroidered with the delicate scent of almond blossoms carried downwind from the orchards above Delphi. It reminded Sarah of spring and renewal, and it gave her hope.

  The crackle of branches nearby jolted her. She turned to Daniel. “We ought to make ourselves invisible.” She gestured toward a tombstone-shaped niche cut into the rock. “Over there.”

  They walked across broken pieces of marble and up a short flight of ancient stone steps to the dark niche. They climbed inside and sat at opposite sides of the opening so they could survey either direction.

  Sarah saw the shadow first: the figure of a man approaching a bronze cauldron at the far end of the bath structure. He bent over it and splashed water on his face. As his hair dripped into the vessel, he gazed into its throat and murmured in rhythmic fashion.

  She recognized Isidor’s voice. She glanced at Daniel. His face tensed as he listened.

  The whispered words had the cadence of iambic pentameter verse, the
ancient method of oracle delivery. “The time is right for war on foes of old. The trench is filled with water, lo! But deeper we must go to cause a slide to sea. Old summit crumbles, water swells; the seed removed for good. Minoans mourn the gift they left; canaries sing the song of death. Your fate awaits; go forth and dominate.”

  The night’s revelation, which Isidor had been instructed to deliver to the supplicant. Sarah gave Daniel the signal she was ready to make a move and bounded out of the hole.

  Isidor jumped. “Who’s there?”

  “Sarah Weston.”

  The man went silent. Sarah approached. “We meet again.” She peered over her shoulder and saw Daniel step out of the shadows. “This is my partner, Daniel Madigan.”

  Isidor glanced at Daniel, then at Sarah. “You are not safe here. The colonel has men all over the mountain looking for you.”

  “Let’s just say we’re turning ourselves in,” she said.

  “First things first.” Daniel stepped forward. “That little chanty you were mumbling earlier . . . does it mean what I think it does?”

  Isidor shifted his gaze to the bronze vessel. He ran his hand across the water, causing a ripple that traveled from one side to the other. “It’s my burden, not yours.”

  “I beg to differ. Terrorism is our collective problem.” Daniel raised his voice a notch. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight based on what you said. Old Summit—Cumbre Vieja in Spanish—is a volatile volcano in the Canary Islands. Everybody agrees the big eruption is coming, and some say it might cause a megatsunami that will wipe out the East Coast of the United States.

  “Now, scientists believe, and rightly so, it’s not very likely a single eruption of that magnitude will take place. It will happen in waves. Unless—”

  Sarah cut him off. “There’s a massive earthquake at the exact point of the subduction zone that will trigger an eruption and cause a flank collapse of the volcano. A landslide of that size could indeed cause walls of water as high as a thousand meters, maybe more.”

  “And that wave,” Daniel added, “could travel across the sea and crash down on American shores. A major loss of life and property and a deadly blow to a major world economy. Tell me something, Isidor: who’s coming to hear that oracle tonight?”

  Isidor gazed at Sarah, who nodded to encourage him. “Abdul al-Zafrani, Syrian commander and a high-ranking member of IS. He’s working with the Russians.”

  “The Russians certainly have the technology to pump water into deep wells,” Sarah offered, “and it’s no secret they’ve developed some manner of a tectonic weapon. But I don’t get one thing. Why is the colonel collaborating with the Russians, after what they did to him?”

  Isidor smirked. “You don’t know the entire story, do you?”

  “I’d sure like to,” Daniel said.

  “Colonel Bellamy was held hostage for almost four years. He was tortured pretty badly, almost to the breaking point. But he held fast to his allegiance to his country. He genuinely believed the Pentagon would negotiate his release. There was some attempt at diplomacy, but nothing came of it. He remained in Russian capture and was eventually classified as a POW . . . practically forgotten, a blot on the map of global prisoners.

  “At some point, I don’t know when, something changed in him. Instead of waiting for liberation, he gave up and began to sympathize with the enemy. He became one of them.” Isidor looked down, as if in shame. “An accomplice.”

  Daniel and Sarah exchanged glances. It was obvious they had the same question, but only Sarah asked it. “And how is it you know so much?”

  He hesitated. His dark eyes were heavy with a distant pain. “I watched it happen. I’m his son.”

  Forty-nine

  In the lingering drizzle and gusts, the helicopter landed with a jolt. Bellamy removed his headphones and let the rumble of the rotors fill his ears. Since his military days, that sound had made him feel alive.

  He checked his watch: 3:10. The ceremony would begin in less than an hour. In the years since he’d founded the cult, tonight’s ritual was the first he would personally attend. It was that important.

  He signaled to the pilot to cut the engine and stepped out the door, ducking as he passed beneath the blades. He stood away from the commotion and dialed Tom.

  “Is our guest here?”

  “Zafrani just landed at the airstrip. He should be arriving at the site in twenty minutes.”

  “Good.” Bellamy shoved a stick of gum into his mouth and tasted the bite of spicy cinnamon. “What about Weston?”

  “Our security cameras picked up a motorcycle parked by the road below the house. We think it belonged to that Lydia woman.”

  Even Bellamy shuddered when he heard her name. Before leaving the compound, he had had a visual of the massacre of his once lover. The scene was more gruesome than anything he’d seen on the battlefield. He pushed it out of his mind. “And?”

  “Right after the copter took off, the motorcycle was gone. We told the local authorities we suspected it belonged to an arsonist and asked them to locate it pronto. Ten minutes ago, I got word it was abandoned in a ditch a couple of miles south of Delphi.” Tom grinned. “The cops found blood, mud, and two long blonde hairs.”

  “Good work, Tommy. Spread the word among cult members. I want everyone alerted to the possibility she’s here.”

  “What about Madigan? Do you think he’s with her?”

  Bellamy cackled. “If he is, so much the better. They can die together. Tell Isidor I want them captured. I will deal with them personally.”

  “Sir . . .” Tom hesitated. “About Isidor. I received a call earlier from Evan Rigas.”

  “What did that idiot want?”

  “The police finally traced the texts on the museum guard’s phone. They led to a phone number registered to a Panos Konstantis, who had died years ago. His widow had never disengaged his number, letting her son use it instead. Authorities followed that man for three or four weeks but came up with nothing—until last night, when he went into a basement in Piraeus and took part in some initiation rite for some shady group.” Tom paused. “He was a Pythagorean.”

  “Cut to the chase, Tom. What’s that have to do with Isidor?”

  “The man the cops were following turned out to be an undersecretary for the leftist party. His arrest would have brought much embarrassment, so he chose the lesser of two evils: to expose the associate to whom he had secretly entrusted the phone.”

  “Are you saying—?”

  “I’m sorry, Colonel. I thought you should know.”

  “There must be some mistake. Isidor has been by my side for years. He doesn’t have associates.” The possibility clung to the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. He had more pressing matters to tend to. “I’ll deal with this later. Now let’s get things moving. Time’s wasting.”

  “But Colonel, what if—?”

  “Do as I say, Tom.” Bellamy hung up and raised his face skyward. The cool mist from the remains of the storm tickled his lips. It tasted of anticipation. Of revenge. He had waited a long while for this. Nothing—not even the suspicion of disloyalty—could stop him now.

  The clouds had begun to part, revealing a smattering of stars. The conditions couldn’t have been better for the theater about to unfold on the slopes of Mt. Parnassus.

  He smirked. “Let the games begin.”

  Fifty

  The confession blindsided Sarah. She glanced at Daniel. She’d seen that skeptical look before and knew what he was thinking: this guy can’t be trusted. She allowed for the possibility that he was right.

  She turned to Isidor. “All that talk about the Pythagoreans, about the preservation of the formula . . . Was that all for show?”

  “Would I have let you go if it was for show? Would I have told you the truth about Lydia . . . and about Phoebe?”

  It hadn’t sunk in until that moment. “Phoebe is your half-sister. It’s why you’re protecting her.”

  “Phoebe was concei
ved and bred as the reincarnation of the original Pythia, who was a child virgin devoted to Apollo. At least that’s how he’s presenting it to his seekers.”

  Daniel glared at him. “And what will he do with her when this charade is over?”

  “Send her back to her mother, I suppose.”

  “Her mother is no longer living,” Sarah said. “Aside from you, that girl has no one.”

  “And all because of some sick mission to even the score.” Daniel shook his head. “That man should be behind bars.”

  “My father is not the man he used to be. He’s been blinded by his need to get revenge.”

  “But he’s still your father,” Sarah said. “Do you have the courage to stand against him?”

  “I do. I swear it.” The hard look in Isidor’s eyes suggested he was telling the truth. “Come this way.”

  Like a white handkerchief waving good-bye to a lover, Isidor’s robes billowed behind him as he stepped swiftly through the jumble of old trees. As she and Daniel followed close behind, Sarah’s gaze darted around the forest, scanning for threats. She could see Daniel was doing the same.

  Though wounded and spent, her partner seemed to be his old self: vigilant, strong, principled. She still worried. In the mind of a PTSD sufferer, anything could be a trigger at any time. With so many dangers lurking and so much ruthlessness and deception surrounding them, she wondered if his strength would hold. Just one more complicating factor in a lineup of many.

  Isidor emerged from the trees onto a rocky path. He ascended it to the top of the spring and stopped. When the others caught up, Isidor pointed out to the void. Though barely visible, something was there. Sarah squinted for a better look, but it was hard to tell in the dark.

  “A foil screen,” Daniel said. “So Bellamy is planning a hologram—a large-scale one, by the looks of it.”