Read Online The Last Oracle by James Rollins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Rollins
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anything else here. Like a note explaining everything. One could always hope. He pointed his flashlight into the hollow cavity of the upended omphalos.
Nothing.
As he swung the beam away, the light glanced over the inner surface. Something caught his eye there. It looked like a spiraling groove carved into its surface, starting at the lip and corkscrewing up toward the hole. He reached a finger to it and realized it was a single long line of cursive script. Leaning over, he narrowed the flashlight’s beam upon the writing.
Elizabeth noted his attention. “Ancient Sanskrit.”
Gray straightened back. “What’s Sanskrit doing on the inside—?”
Kowalski cut him off. “Does it friggin’ matter already?” He pointed a thumb toward the door. “Remember that bomb scare. Shouldn’t we be haulin’ ass out of here?”
Gray straightened. The man had a point. They’d wasted enough time. The sweep of the building was probably already—
A muffled shout echoed from the hallway.
Kowalski rolled his eyes in a plain expression of I told you so .
“What do we do?” Elizabeth asked.
7:37 P.M.
Painter knocked on the half-open door to the pathologist’s office.
“Come in,” Malcom called out. “Jones, do you have the data from—?”
Painter pushed the door wider just as Malcolm swung around in his desk chair. The pathologist still wore a set of blue scrubs. His glasses rested atop his head. He was rubbing at the bridge of his nose when he noted who stood in his doorway.
His eyes widened. “Director…” He made a motion to stand, but Painter waved him to remain seated as he entered.
“Brant alerted me that you had called. I was just heading back to my office from video surveillance.”
“Any footage of the shooter?”
“Not so far. We’re still combing records. But it’s a mountain of videos to sift. And some sources are slow to respond.”
Since 9/11, surveillance of the capital had been heightened. For a full ten miles in all directions around the White House, multiview cameras monitored every square foot of streets, parks, and public spaces. And over 60 percent of interior spaces, too. Several cameras had picked up pieces of Dr. Archibald Polk’s path across the Mall. They confirmed what Gray had assessed with his radiological tracker. But nagging gaps persisted. Though they had footage of Polk collapsing in Gray’s arms, no camera caught even a glimpse of rifle flash or any sign of the shooter.
It was worrisome.
Painter was beginning to suspect that the sniper had known about the cameras and had found a hole in the surveillance net in which to hide. Or worse yet, someone could have tampered with the Mall’s footage and purposefully deleted any evidence of the assassin.
Either way, such collusion suggested that Professor Polk’s murderer might have powerful ties here in Washington. But who and where? If Polk’s history as a Jason had anything to do with the murder, then it opened a Pandora’s box of possibilities. The Jasons had their fingers in top secret projects of every shade from gray to deep black.
Painter knew he would be getting no sleep tonight.
None of them would.
“Any word from Gray?” Malcolm asked, shifting a pile of papers from a chair and offering a seat to Painter.
“He’s searching the natural history museum. Polk’s trail led there.”
“Hopefully he’ll find something, but that was also why I patched a call to you. I may have discovered more bread crumbs to follow.”
Curious, Painter sank into the chair. Malcolm rotated his computer’s flat-screen monitor to a better angle for Painter to view.
“What did you find?” Painter asked.
“Something curious. I don’t know really what to make of it, but itmight give us someplace to continue the investigation. Knowing the victim was suffering from radiation poisoning, I sought some clue to the source. Initial examination of Polk’s gastrointestinal tract and liver showed he didn’t ingest anything
Nothing.
As he swung the beam away, the light glanced over the inner surface. Something caught his eye there. It looked like a spiraling groove carved into its surface, starting at the lip and corkscrewing up toward the hole. He reached a finger to it and realized it was a single long line of cursive script. Leaning over, he narrowed the flashlight’s beam upon the writing.
Elizabeth noted his attention. “Ancient Sanskrit.”
Gray straightened back. “What’s Sanskrit doing on the inside—?”
Kowalski cut him off. “Does it friggin’ matter already?” He pointed a thumb toward the door. “Remember that bomb scare. Shouldn’t we be haulin’ ass out of here?”
Gray straightened. The man had a point. They’d wasted enough time. The sweep of the building was probably already—
A muffled shout echoed from the hallway.
Kowalski rolled his eyes in a plain expression of I told you so .
“What do we do?” Elizabeth asked.
7:37 P.M.
Painter knocked on the half-open door to the pathologist’s office.
“Come in,” Malcom called out. “Jones, do you have the data from—?”
Painter pushed the door wider just as Malcolm swung around in his desk chair. The pathologist still wore a set of blue scrubs. His glasses rested atop his head. He was rubbing at the bridge of his nose when he noted who stood in his doorway.
His eyes widened. “Director…” He made a motion to stand, but Painter waved him to remain seated as he entered.
“Brant alerted me that you had called. I was just heading back to my office from video surveillance.”
“Any footage of the shooter?”
“Not so far. We’re still combing records. But it’s a mountain of videos to sift. And some sources are slow to respond.”
Since 9/11, surveillance of the capital had been heightened. For a full ten miles in all directions around the White House, multiview cameras monitored every square foot of streets, parks, and public spaces. And over 60 percent of interior spaces, too. Several cameras had picked up pieces of Dr. Archibald Polk’s path across the Mall. They confirmed what Gray had assessed with his radiological tracker. But nagging gaps persisted. Though they had footage of Polk collapsing in Gray’s arms, no camera caught even a glimpse of rifle flash or any sign of the shooter.
It was worrisome.
Painter was beginning to suspect that the sniper had known about the cameras and had found a hole in the surveillance net in which to hide. Or worse yet, someone could have tampered with the Mall’s footage and purposefully deleted any evidence of the assassin.
Either way, such collusion suggested that Professor Polk’s murderer might have powerful ties here in Washington. But who and where? If Polk’s history as a Jason had anything to do with the murder, then it opened a Pandora’s box of possibilities. The Jasons had their fingers in top secret projects of every shade from gray to deep black.
Painter knew he would be getting no sleep tonight.
None of them would.
“Any word from Gray?” Malcolm asked, shifting a pile of papers from a chair and offering a seat to Painter.
“He’s searching the natural history museum. Polk’s trail led there.”
“Hopefully he’ll find something, but that was also why I patched a call to you. I may have discovered more bread crumbs to follow.”
Curious, Painter sank into the chair. Malcolm rotated his computer’s flat-screen monitor to a better angle for Painter to view.
“What did you find?” Painter asked.
“Something curious. I don’t know really what to make of it, but itmight give us someplace to continue the investigation. Knowing the victim was suffering from radiation poisoning, I sought some clue to the source. Initial examination of Polk’s gastrointestinal tract and liver showed he didn’t ingest anything
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