The Last Oracle: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  Painter waved Gray to a seat.

  As he sat, the man’s attention noted the coin on his desk. A flicker of curiosity flared.

  Good.

  Painter shifted the coin toward Gray. “Commander, I know you asked for an indeterminate leave of absence, but I’d like you to take the lead on this case.”

  Gray made no move to take the coin. “May I ask a question first, sir?”

  Painter nodded.

  “The dead man. The professor.”

  “Archibald Polk.”

  “You mentioned that he must have been on his way here. To see you.”

  Painter nodded. He suspected where the line of questioning was leading.

  “So Professor Polk was familiar with Sigma? Despite the top secret clearance for such knowledge, he knew about our organization?”

  “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”

  Gray’s brow crinkled. “What manner is that?”

  “Archibald Polk invented Sigma.”

  Painter took a small measure of satisfaction in the man’s surprise. Gray needed a little shaking up. The man sat up straighter in his chair.

  Painter held up a hand. “I’ve answered your question, Gray. So now you answer mine. Will you take the lead on this case?”

  “After the professor was shot in front of me, I want answers as much as anyone.”

  “And what about your…extracurricular activities?”

  A wince of pain narrowed Gray’s eyes. The planes of his face seemed to grow harder as a part of him clenched internally. “I assume you’ve heard, sir.”

  “Yes. The navy has discontinued its search.”

  Gray took a deep breath. “I’ve pursued all angles. There’s nothing more I can do. I admit that.”

  “And do you think Monk is still alive?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “And you can live with that?”

  Gray met his gaze, unflinching. “I’ll have to.”

  Painter nodded, satisfied. “Then let’s talk about this coin.”

  Gray reached out and took the coin from the desktop. Turning it in his fingers, he examined its freshly cleaned surfaces. “Were you able to determine much about it?”

  “Quite a bit. It’s a Roman coin minted during the second century. Take a look at the woman’s portrait on the back. That’s Faustina the Elder, wife of the Roman emperor Antoninus Pius. She was a patron of orphaned girls and sponsored many women’s charities. She also had a fascination with a sisterhood of sibyls, prophetic women from a temple in Greece.”

  Painter waved for Gray to turn the coin over. “That’s the temple on the other side. The temple of Delphi.”

  “As in the Oracle of Delphi? The female prophets?”

  “The same.”

  The coin’s report on Painter’s desk included a historical sheet about the Oracle, detailing how these women would inhale hallucinogenic fumes and answer questions of the future from supplicants. But their prophecies were more than just fortune-telling, for these women had a great impact on the ancient world. Over the course of a millennium, the Oracle’s prophecies played a role in freeing thousands of slaves, setting the seeds of Western democracy, and elevating the sanctity of human life. Some claimed their words were pivotal at lifting Greece out from barbarism and toward modern civilization.

  “But what about the big E in the center of the temple?” Gray asked. “I assume the letter is Greek, too. Epsilon.”

  “Yes. That’s also from the Oracle’s temple. There were a couple cryptic inscriptions in the temple: Gnothi seauton, which translates—”

  “Know thyself,” Gray answered.

  Painter nodded. He had to remind himself that Gray was well versed in ancient philosophies. When Painter had first recruited him out of Leavenworth prison, Gray had been studying both advanced chemistry and Taoism. It was this very uniqueness of his mind that had intrigued Painter from the start. But such distinctiveness came with a price. Gray did not always play well with others, as he had demonstrated amply these past weeks. It was good to see him focusing on the here and now again.

  “Then there was that mysterious E,” Painter continued, nodding to the coin. “It lay carved in the temple’s inner sanctum.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  Painter shrugged. “No one knows. Not even the Greeks. Historians going all the way back to the ancient Greek scholar Plutarch have speculated at its significance. The current thought among modern historians is that there used to be two letters. A G and an E, representing the Earth goddess, Gaia. The earliest temple at Delphi was built to worship Gaia.”

  “Still, if the meaning is so mysterious, why depict it on the coin?”

  Painter slid the report across his desk toward Gray. “You can read more about it in here. Over time, the Oracle’s E became a symbol for a cult of prophecy. It’s depicted in paintings throughout the ages, including Nicolas Poussin’s Ordination, where it’s inscribed above Christ’s head as he hands the keys of heaven to Peter. The symbol is supposed to mark a time of great and fundamental change in the world, usually brought about by a single individual, whether that be the Oracle of Delphi or Jesus of Nazareth.”

  Gray left the papers on the desk and shook his head. “But what does all this have to do with the dead man?” Gray lifted the silver coin. “Was this valuable? Worth killing over?”

  Painter shook his head. “Not especially. It’s of moderate value, but nothing spectacular.”

  “Then what—?”

  The intercom’s buzz cut him off. “Director Crowe, I’m sorry to interrupt,” his assistant said over the speaker.

  “What is it, Brant?”

  “I have an urgent call from Dr. Jennings down in the pathology lab. He’s asking for an immediate teleconference.”

  “Fine. Queue it up on monitor one.”

  Gray stood, ready to leave, but Painter waved him down, then swung his chair around. His office, buried in the subterranean bunker, had no windows, but it did have three large wall-mounted plasma screens. His private windows on the world. They were presently dark, but the monitor on the left flickered to life.

  Painter found himself staring into one of the pathology labs. In the foreground stood Dr. Malcolm Jennings. The sixty-year-old chief of R&D for Sigma was dressed in surgical scrubs and had a clear plastic face-shield tilted atop his head. Behind him spread one of the pathology suites: sealed concrete floor, rows of digital scales, and in the center a body rested on the table, respectfully covered with a sheet.

  Professor Archibald Polk.

  It had taken a few calls to get his body released to Sigma versus the city’s morgue, but Malcolm Jennings was a well-regarded forensic pathologist.

  But from the grim set to the man’s lips, something was wrong.

  “What is it, Malcolm?”

  “I had to quarantine the laboratory.”

  Painter didn’t like the sound of that. “A contagious concern?”

  “No, but there is definitely a concern. Let me show you.” He stepped out of view of the camera, but his voice carried to them. “From the preliminary physical exam, I was already suspicious. I discovered patches of hair loss, eroded teeth enamel, and burns on his skin. If the man hadn’t been shot, I wager he would’ve been dead in a matter of days.”

  “What are you saying, Malcolm?” Painter asked.

  He must not have heard. The pathologist stepped back into view, but now he wore a heavier, weighted apron. He carried a device that trailed a black wand.

  Gray stood and shifted closer to the monitor.

  Dr. Jennings waved the black wand over the dead man. The device in his other hand erupted with a furious clicking. The pathologist turned to face the camera.

  “This body is radioactive.”

  2

  September 5, 5:25 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Out in the steaming swelter again, Gray strode down the sidewalk in front of the Smithsonian Castle. The national Mall spread to the left, mostly desert
ed due to the heat.

  Behind Gray, crime tape still marked off the site of the afternoon’s murder. The forensics unit had finished its sweep, but the area was still locked down, under the eye of a posted D.C. policeman.

  Gray walked east along Jefferson Drive. He was shadowed by a large bodyguard, whom he was doing his best to ignore. He had not asked for any protection, especially this man. He touched the mike at his throat and subvocalized into it. “I’ve found a trail.”

  The fizzle of a reply rasped out of his wireless earpiece. Cocking his head, Gray seated it better. “Say again,” he whispered.

  “Can you follow the trail?” Painter Crowe asked.

  “Yes…but I don’t know for how long. The readings are weak.” Gray had suggested his current plan of action. He studied the device in his hand, a Gamma-Scout portable radiation detector. Its halogen-filled Geiger-Müller tube was sensitive enough to pick up trace radiation, especially when attuned to the specific strontium 90 isotope detected in Polk’s body. Gray had hoped that a residual trace signature might have been left behind, the radiological equivalent of a scent trail. And it seemed to be working.

  “Do your best, Gray. Any information on the professor’s whereabouts these past days could be crucial. I already have a call in to his daughter, but I’ve been unable to reach her.”

  “I’ll follow this as far as I can.” Gray continued down the sidewalk, monitoring the detector. “I’ll report in if I discover anything.”

  Gray signed off and continued alongside the national Mall. After another half block, the signal suddenly died on his device. Swearing, he stopped, retreated, and bumped into the bodyguard shadowing him.

  “Damn it, Pierce,” the man grumbled. “I just polished these shoes.”

  Gray glanced over a shoulder to the muscled mountain behind him. Joe Kowalski, a former seaman with the navy, was dressed in a sportcoat and slacks. Both fit him poorly. With hair razored to a black stubble and a nose knotted by an old break, he looked more like a shaved gorilla forced into a wrinkled suit.

  Kowalski bent down and used the cuff of his sportcoat to polish up his shoe. “I paid three hundred bucks for these. They’re chain stitch Chukkas imported from England. I had to special order them in my size.”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Gray glanced up from his Gamma-Scout reader.

  Kowalski seemed to realize he might have said too much. His expression turned sheepish. “Okay. I like shoes. So what? I had a date, but…well…she canceled.”

  Smart lady.

  “Sorry about that,” Gray offered aloud.

  “Well…at least they’re not scratched,” Kowalski said.

  “I meant sorry about being stood up.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He shrugged. “Her loss.”

  Gray didn’t bother arguing. He returned his attention to his handheld reader and turned in a slow circle. A step to the right, he caught the radioactive scent again. It angled away from the sidewalk and trailed across the grassy Mall. “This way.”

  The professor’s route took them through the Mall’s Sculpture Garden across from the Hirshhorn Museum. Gray followed Polk’s steps into the shady, sunken oasis, and out again. Beyond the garden, Polk’s path continued across the Mall, edging alongside the tents of a Labor Day media event that was still being dismantled.

  Gray glanced back to the sunken garden, studying the professor’s path. “He was trying to keep out of sight.”

  “Or maybe the guy was just hot,” Kowalski countered, wiping his sweaty brow.

  Gray searched around. To the west, the Washington Monument pointed toward the blistering sun; to the east rose the dome of the U.S. Capitol Building.

  Needing answers, Gray continued. The digital readout on the Gamma-Scout slowly faded as he crossed the Mall. With each step, he watched the millirems of radiation ticking downward.

  Reaching the far side of the Mall, Gray hurried across Madison Drive. He picked up the trail again as it entered another park. The signal grew stronger as Gray neared a shadowy copse of red-twig dogwood and Natchez crape myrtles. A bench stood next to a knee-high bed of hydrangeas.

  Gray stepped to the bench.

  In the secluded spot, the millirems ticked up higher again.

  Had Polk waited here? Was that why the residual radiation trace was stronger?

  Gray shifted a flowering branch of a crape myrtle and found a wide view of the Mall stretching ahead, including a straight-on view of the Smithsonian Castle. Had the professor waited here until he thought it was safe? Gray squinted against the glare of the sun. He remembered Malcolm’s diagnosis, the debilitation, the wasting. Polk had been on his last legs. Desperation must have finally drawn him out.

  Why?

  Gray began to step away when Kowalski cleared his throat. He was on one knee, dusting a shoe, but his other arm reached under the bench. “Look at this,” he said and stood. Turning, he held a tiny pair of binoculars.

  Gray shifted the detector closer to the scopes. The readings spiked higher. “They’re hot.”

  Kowalski grimaced and thrust out the binoculars by their neck strap. “Take ’em, take ’em.”

  Gray retrieved the binoculars. His partner’s fears were baseless. While there was radiation, it was only moderately worse than the usual background radiation.

  Turning, Gray lifted the binoculars and peered through them toward the Castle. The view of the building swelled. He watched a figure pass along the front. Through the scopes, he made out the pedestrian’s features. Gray recalled Polk’s urgency when they’d neared each other. He’d dismissed it as a panhandler’s desperation for a bit of charity. He now suspected Polk had recognized him. Maybe it wasn’t solely desperation that had drawn him out. Had he spotted Gray crossing the Mall and come out of hiding to intercept him?

  Gray dropped the binoculars into the lead-lined bag hung at his waist.

  “Let’s go.”

  Out of the copse of trees, Gray followed the trail west along Madison Drive to a set of steps.

  The trail turned up them.

  Gray lifted his head and found himself facing the Mall entrance to one of the Smithsonian’s most famous museums: the National Museum of Natural History. It housed a massive collection of artifacts from around the world—ecological, geological, and archaeological—ranging from tiny fossils to a full-scale T-rex.

  Gray craned his neck. The museum’s dome loomed above a triangular portico supported by six giant Corinthian pillars. Staring upward, he was suddenly struck by how much the museum’s facade looked like the Greek temple on the professor’s coin.

  Could there be a connection?

  Before he followed the trail inside, he knew he’d better report in with central command. Stepping off to the side, he leaned on the stone balustrade and switched on his encrypted radio. He reached Director Crowe immediately.

  “Have you found something?” Painter asked.

  Gray kept his voice to a faint whisper. “Looks like the professor’s trail leads inside the Smithsonian’s natural history museum.”

  “The museum…?”

  “I’ll continue the search inside. But was there any connection between him and this place?”

  “Not that I’m aware. But I’ll check into past associates.”

  Gray remembered an earlier snippet of conversation about Dr. Polk’s past. “Director Crowe, one other thing. You never did explain something.”

  “What’s that, Commander?”

  “You said the professor invented Sigma Force. What did you mean by that?”

  Silence stretched for a bit, then Painter continued. “Gray, what do you know about an organization called the Jasons?”

  Taken aback by the odd question, Gray could not even fathom the context. “Sir?”

  “The Jasons are a scientific think tank formed back during the Cold War. They included leaders in their respective fields, many Nobel Prize winners. They banded together to offer advice to the military elite about technological projects.”

  “And
Professor Polk was a member?”

  “He was. Over the years, the Jasons proved to be of great value to the military. They met each summer and brainstormed on new innovations. And to answer your question, it was during one such meeting that Archibald Polk suggested the formation of a militarized team of investigators to serve DARPA, to act as field operatives for the agency.”

  “And so Sigma was born.”

  “Exactly. But I’m not sure any of this is significant in regard to his murder. From what I’ve heard so far, Polk’s not been active with the Jasons for years.”

  Gray stared up at the towering Greek facade. “Maybe one of his fellow Jasons worked here at the museum? Maybe that’s why he came?”

  “That’s a good point of investigation. I’ll look into it, but it might take some time to root out. Over these past few years, their organization has become more and more secretive. Divided among various top secret projects, Jasons don’t even know what other Jasons are doing nowadays. But I’ll keep making calls.”

  “And I’ll keep following this trail.” He signed off and waved to Kowalski. “C’mon. We’re going inside.”

  “About time we got out of the goddamn sun.”

  Gray didn’t argue. Stepping through the doors, he appreciated the shadowy, air-conditioned interior. The museum was free to the public, but Gray flashed his glossy black I.D. card to the guard who manned the metal detector.

  He was waved through.

  Pushing into the main rotunda, Gray was struck by the sheer size of the space. The rotunda was octagonal in shape and rose three stories, each level lined by more pillars, leading to the massive Guastavino-tiled dome. Sunlight streamed through clerestory windows and a central oculus.

  Closer at hand, in the center of the rotunda, stood one of the museum’s mascots, an eight-ton African bull elephant. It posed with raised trunk and curved tusks amid a field of dry grass. Polk’s path led around the elephant and toward a public staircase.

  As Gray followed, he noted a banner hung high on the wall to the left. It advertised an exhibit opening next month. It depicted the head of Medusa, her hair wild with twisting snakes, reflected on a circular shield. Staring upward, Gray’s feet slowed.