The Last Oracle (Sigma Force 5)

“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.

He pictured Polk’s strange coin as he read the name of the upcoming exhibit, sensing he was on the right track.

LOST MYSTERIES OF GREEK MYTHOLOGY

6:32 P.M.

In the darkened room, the two men stared through the one-way glass into a child’s playroom. They sat in leather club chairs, while behind them climbed four rows of stadium seating, all empty at the moment.

This was a private meeting.

Beyond the mirrored glass, the neighboring room was brightly lit. The walls were painted white, with just the barest hint of sky blue, a color that from psychological statistics was supposed to encourage a calming, meditative state. It held a daybed with a flowered comforter, an open box of toys, and a child-size desk.

The older of the two men sat straight in his seat. At his side was a scuffed valise that held a disassembled Dragunov sniper rifle.

The other man, at fifty-seven years of age, was twenty years younger than his Russian companion. He slouched in a pressed suit. His eyes were fixed on the girl as she stood in front of a plastic easel and shuffled through a tray of pastel felt markers. She had spent the last half hour meticulously drawing a rectangle in green upon the white sheet of butcher paper attached to the easel. She had run the marker around and around in a hypnotically rhythmic pattern.

“Dr. Raev,” the man said, “I don’t mean to harp, but are you absolutely certain Dr. Polk did not have it on his person?”

Dr. Yuri Raev sighed. “I have spent my life on this project.” And my soul, he added silently. “I will not have it ruined when we are so close.”

“So then where is it? We turned over that cheap motel he stayed in last night. Nothing. It would raise too many questions if it should end up in unfriendly hands.”

Yuri glanced at the man in the neighboring seat. John Mapplethorpe, a division chief for the Defense Intelligence Agency, had a long face with sagging jowls and bags under his eyes, as if he were made of candle wax and been left too long in the sun. Even the dye he used on his hair was too dark, too obvious a vanity for his age. Not that Yuri had any right to fault a man for attempting to stem the tide of age. Beneath the sag of his own skin, Yuri’s body remained toned, his reflexes sharp, and his mind as quick and agile as it ever had been. Between injections of androgens and growth hormone, along with vigorous exercise, he fought as adamantly as anyone to hold back time. But it was not vanity that drove him.

He stared into the room.

No, not vanity.

Mapplethorpe drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “We must recover what Polk stole.”

“He did not have it with him,” Yuri assured Mapplethorpe more forcefully. “It is too large to conceal on his person, even under a jacket. I was fortunate to stop him when I did. Before he spoke to anyone.”

“I hope you’re right. For all our sakes.” Mapplethorpe turned his attention back to the room. “And she was able to track him? All the way from Russia.”

Yuri nodded. Fatherly pride entered his voice. “With her and her twin brother, we may have finally breached the barrier.”

“Too bad she couldn’t have been quicker.” Mapplethorpe made a dismissive sound. “My brother-in-law’s daughter has an autistic boy. Did I ever tell you that? But he’s not an idiot savant. He can hardly tie his shoes.”

Yuri bristled. “The preferable term is autistic savant.”

The other man shrugged.

Yuri’s distaste for the American continued to grow. Like Mapplethorpe, few people really understood autism, even in the medical profession. Yuri knew the disorder intimately. It was in fact a spectrum of disorders, characterized by weaknesses in communication skills and social interaction, along with abnormal responses to sensations. This led tragically to children with delayed and compromised language and speech abilities, repetitive motor mannerisms and tics, preoccupation with objects, and often dysfunctional ways of relating to events or people.

But sometimes such a disorder generated miracles.

In rare instances, an autistic child demonstrated an astonishing brilliance in a narrow specialized field, such as mathematics, music, or art. And while 10 percent of autistic children demonstrated some degree of such savant talent, what interested Yuri were those rarest of individuals, known as prodigious savants, those few who arose with talent that stretched the very definition of genius. Worldwide, there were fewer than forty such individuals. But even among such exceptional individuals, a handful rose who dwarfed the others.

They arose from one genetic line.

An old Gypsy word echoed in his head.

Chovihanis.

Yuri stared through the window at the dark-haired girl.