The Last Oracle (32 page)

As such, Painter had brought his own experts to the roundtable. On his side of the table sat Lisa and Malcolm. The pair had the medical knowledge and background to weigh the validity of the information offered.

Across the table, the Russian looked ill at ease. He was not the monster Painter had envisioned in his mind when he’d negotiated this roundtable. The man looked like a kindly grandfather in his rumpled dark suit, but there was a haunted quality to his eyes. Painter also read the crinkled concern as he talked about the child. The lines on his face had deepened and spread when he glanced through the medical file Lisa had slid across the table. Painter suspected the only reason the man was cooperating was a true fear for the girl’s life.

“Her deterioration is a result of her augment,” Yuri continued. “We don’t completely understand why. The device’s microelectrodes are composed of carbon-platinum nanotubules. We believe that the more a subject utilizes their talents, the faster they deteriorate. Has Sasha been drawing while you’ve had her in your custody?”

Painter remembered all her feverish sketches: the safe house, the Taj Mahal, a picture of Monk. He slowly nodded. “Exactly what is she doing when she draws?”

Mapplethorpe lifted a hand. There was an oiliness to his voice, well suited to slide around the truth. “You know that is beyond the scope of discussion here. You’re treading on thin ice, Director Crowe.”

Yuri spoke over Mapplethorpe’s objection, which Painter found interesting. “She is a prodigious savant,” he said, ignoring glares from either side. “Her natural talents blend keen spatial dynamics with artistic talent, and when augmented, these abilities cross to—”

“That’s enough,” Mapplethorpe barked. “Or we end matters here and walk away. You can send us the girl’s body after she’s dead.”

Yuri’s face darkened, but he went silent.

Lisa encouraged him back on track. “Why does utilizing her abilities accelerate Sasha’s deterioration?”

Yuri spoke softly, with a trace of guilt. “When stimulated, the interface between the organic and inorganic begins to leak.”

Malcolm stirred. “What do you mean by ‘leak’?”

“Our researchers believe that nanoparticles break away from the ends of the microelectrodes and contaminate the cerebral spinal fluid.”

Lisa stirred. “No wonder our cultures came back negative. The meningitis wasn’t bacterial or viral, but a contamination of foreign particles.”

Yuri nodded.

“And to cure her, we must treat that contamination?” she asked.

“Yes. It has taken us many years to devise a system of preventative medicine. At the core, we employ a modified version of a chemotherapeutic drug used to treat bladder cancer. Cis-platinum. The monoatomic platinum acts as a binder for the stray nanoparticles and helps flush them out. The exact cocktail and dosage of drugs necessary to facilitate such a treatment will require an examination of the girl and immediate access to fresh blood tests.”

Painter noted the corners of McBride’s lips harden. It seemed there was some dissatisfaction with this dependency on Dr. Raev. But if the Russian was telling the truth, he was vital to the girl’s survival.

Under the table, Lisa’s hand rested on Painter’s knee. The long linen tablecloth hid her attention. They were seated in the Fabric Room of the Capital Grille steakhouse, neutral ground, a restaurant known for the number of deals struck across the fine china and linen. They had the private dining hall to themselves. The rest of the restaurant was notably empty. Most likely arranged by Mapplethorpe to assure further privacy.

Lisa’s fingers tightened on his knee, signaling that she believed Dr. Raev. Painter also noted the division between the Russian and the other two men. Was there a way of utilizing that to his advantage?

McBride spoke. “We have Dr. Raev’s pharmacy of medicines. If you’ll bring the girl to a hospital, we can get her treatment started immediately. Perhaps Walter Reed Army Medical Center.”

Painter shook his head.

Nice try, bud.

Lisa supported him. “She’s too fragile to move. We’re barely managing her D.I.C. as it is. Any additional stress could destabilize her beyond recovery.”

“Then I must go to her,” Yuri said.

Painter knew they’d come to the prickly point of these negotiations. The child was a political and scientific hot potato. He had left her in the care of Kat and Sean. Sean, as the director of DARPA, was also wielding his skill behind the scenes. The roundtable here was just the tip of the political iceberg.

Painter had no choice but to bring Yuri to the girl, breaching Sigma security—but unfortunately, Mapplethorpe knew this, too. And from their reactions here and the obvious friction between them, Mapplethorpe would never allow Yuri to go alone.

“I will allow one person to accompany Dr. Raev,” Painter said.

Mapplethorpe misinterpreted his restriction. “We know where Sigma command is located, if that’s what you fear revealing. Beneath the Smithsonian Castle.”

Though Painter shouldn’t have been startled, his gut still clenched. Mapplethorpe had his fingers tangled throughout the intelligence web of Washington. Sean had warned that it would not take the man long to determine who was involved and where they were located. Still, with all his political power, Mapplethorpe could not gain access to Sigma’s inner sanctum. Behind the scenes, the man was surely still attempting to storm their gates. Sean’s goal was to keep those gates barred tightly.

Painter kept his features stoic. “Be that as it may, I’ll allow only one person to accompany Dr. Raev.” He glanced between the two men.

McBride lifted a hand. “I’ll go. I can be of use to Yuri.”

From the Russian’s slight roll of his eyes, it seemed Dr. Raev did not agree.

Mapplethorpe stared hard at Painter, then slowly nodded. “But we’ll want a concession for our cooperation,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You may keep the girl—but from here on out, you’ll grant free access to her once she’s recovered. She is a resource we’ll not let slip away. Our national security is at stake.”

“Don’t wave the flag at me,” Painter said. “What you cooperated in to produce this girl is beyond all conventions of human decency.”

“We only financed and offered scientific counsel at the end. The project was already well established. If we hadn’t
cooperated,
as you say, our country would be at serious risk.”

“What a crock! When you cross such a line, you damage all of us. What nation are we trying to protect, if that nation advocates the brutality necessary to produce this girl?”

“Are you truly that naive, Crowe? It’s a new world out there.”

“No, it’s not. Last I checked, it’s the same planet circling the same sun. The only thing that’s changed is how we’re reacting, what lines we’re willing to cross. We have the ability to stop that.”

Mapplethorpe glowered at him. Painter saw the resolution in the man’s eyes. The man truly believed what he was doing was necessary, saw no fault in it. Here was a level of zealotry that brooked no argument. Painter wondered where such certainty came from—was it just patriotism or did he wrap himself in such dogma to protect himself from the atrocities he committed, crimes he knew in his heart were too horrible to justify any other way?

Either way, they were at an impasse.

“Do we have a deal?” Mapplethorpe asked. “Otherwise, we’ll move on. There are always other children.”

Painter studied his adversary. To cure the child, he had no choice but to get into political bed with him. Painter could not let the girl die. He’d have to deal with the political fallout afterward.

Painter slowly nodded. “When can you be ready?”

McBride spoke up. “I’ll need an hour to collect Dr. Raev’s medicines.”

“We’ll be waiting,” Painter said and stood, ending the summit.

Mapplethorpe followed him up and held out his hand, as if they’d just completed a real estate sale. And maybe they had. Painter was about to sell a part of his soul.

Still, with no choice, he shook the man’s hand.

Mapplethorpe’s palm was cold and dry, his grip firm with certainty.

A part of Painter envied that level of unwavering conviction. But did the man sleep as well at night? As they departed through the wood-paneled restaurant and out under the blue-green awning, Painter was troubled by one statement by Mapplethorpe, a disturbing aside.

There are always other children.

Who was he talking about?

10:42 P.M.
Southern Ural Mountains

He had to get away.

Monk sprinted toward the open water. Behind him, a tiger’s scream sliced through the night, coming from the flaming cabin.

Zakhar.

The cat fought to climb through the window.

Monk increased his pace.

Ahead, he spotted a small raft out in the water. Earlier, Monk had hauled the old punt out of the reeds. He’d scraped away most of the moss and found the raft still floated. Unfortunately, there were no oars, so Monk had fashioned a long pole out of the trunk of a sapling.

Out in the deeper water, Konstantin stood in the stern of the raft and leaned hard on the makeshift pole. The raft drifted farther away. At least they had made it.

As planned, the children had crawled out from under the cabin while Monk had distracted the cats. The raft waited for them a yard offshore. They were to hop on board, shove off, and head for the deepest water.

Monk was supposed to have joined them—but his exit from the cabin had not gone as smoothly as he’d hoped.

The delay gave time for the second tiger—Arkady—to tear around the flaming cabin with a hiss of fury and charge straight at Monk.

The drum of heavy pads trampled behind him. Monk fought for the water’s edge. Without a weapon, escape was his only hope.

Gasping, he stretched his stride.

The landscape jittered.

A low growl closed on him.

Footfalls pounded.

No breath.

Heartbeat in his ears.

A sharper hiss…ready to pounce.

The glint of water.

Too far.

Hopeless, he turned and dropped, skidded on his backside.

The cat hunched to spring with its last stride, but—

—out of the high weeds, a dark shadow leaped and struck the cat in the side. Monk caught a flash of silver. Then the shadow hurdled the tiger, hit the ground, and bounded headlong into a thick patch of willows and vanished.

Marta.

The chimpanzee hadn’t left with the kids.

Arkady, caught off balance in midlunge, had been knocked on his side. The tiger thrashed back to his paws as Monk crabbed backward on hands and feet. Staggering, the tiger yowled a coarse, strangled sound.

Blackness poured down the cat’s throat, erasing stripes into shadow.

Blood.

Impaled under his jaw, the handle of a knife protruded.

The bowie knife from the cabin.

Monk had lost it when he fell.

The chimpanzee had recovered it, used it, saved his life.

Monk remembered—and he couldn’t say how he remembered—that chimps were natural tool users. With twigs, they fished termites out of nests. With sharpened branches, they stabbed African bush babies out of holes in trunks.

And Marta was no ordinary chimp.

Arkady trembled all over, his yowl drowning in blood.

Another took up his cry.

Zakhar screamed with a violence that set Monk’s jaw to aching.

Monk shoved and fled toward the water. Reaching the muddy bank, he dove straight out and landed on his belly in the shallows. He kicked and lunged for the deeper water.

Zakhar’s howl swelled with outrage.

Monk splashed and paddled far enough to dive completely underwater. The cold cleared the panic, but even underwater, he heard the tiger’s scream. Holding his breath, Monk stroked and frog-kicked out into the deeper water.

As his lungs grew to burning, he surfaced quietly.

Treading water, he stared back toward the cabin. Flames cast high into the darkness. Limned in the firelight, Zakhar circled his brother. The other tiger did not move.

Monk heard Marta sweeping through the trees. He craned and saw her swing free and drop heavily to the raft. It lay ten yards away.

Monk swam to it and hauled himself atop it. He sprawled on his back, out of breath, panting.

On his left, Marta lay curled on her side, tucked tight, rocking slightly. A low moan flowed from her. Pyotr sprawled atop her, comforting her, holding her.

Monk lifted to an elbow, glanced to the cabin, then back to Marta.

As Zakhar continued to scream, Monk reached out a hand and rested it on the chimpanzee’s shoulder. Her body trembled, bent in a posture of grief.

It had to be done,
he willed to her.

Arkady had been tortured, abused, driven half mad. The cat had become more a monster than one of God’s creatures.

Death was a blessing.

Still, Marta moaned.

Killing was never easy.

At the stern, Konstantin heaved on the long pole and sent them floating toward the heart of the swamp.

Monk sat up. Something caught his eye. Before they had settled in for the night, he had stored everyone’s packs on the raft. His gaze focused on a badge hanging from a zipper. The radiation monitor.

In the reflected firelight, it was plain to see.

The pink color had grown darker.

And with it, so did their hopes.

4:31 P.M.
Washington, D.C.

Yuri adjusted the flow of the drip line from the I.V. bag. His fingers trembled as he worked. He was too conscious of Sasha in the bed, lost amid the blanket and sheets. She was worse than he’d feared.

He silently cursed the hour he’d lost, waiting on McBride and Mapplethorpe. It was time he could’ve used to initiate Sasha’s treatment. Instead, he’d been locked up at the FBI building while the other two had gone about some private business. McBride finally returned with all of the medications from Yuri’s hotel room.

On foot, they had then crossed the Mall, where they were met outside the Smithsonian Castle and escorted down a private elevator to the secure facility below. They were searched, scanned, and blindfolded. Led by hand, Yuri had quickly lost his bearings in the subterranean maze of the facility. They finally reached a room, a door closed behind them, and the lock clicked.