The Oracle Code

47



Museum of the University of Athens

Plaka, Athens

Hellenic Republic (Greece)

February 21, 2013

Across the street from the museum, on a building rooftop two blocks away, Linko watched Lourds escort Anna Cherkshan to a waiting taxi. They talked briefly and Linko hoped they would leave together. Things would be simpler if his two targets stayed with each other.

That wasn’t meant to be though. Lourds put the young woman into the car and stepped back. A moment later, the taxi drove away.

Linko kept his binoculars trained on the American professor. Now that he’d found the man, he was determined not to lose him again. Anna Cherkshan’s death was just waiting to happen. It was only a matter of time.

Linko had wanted to take his chances with capturing Lourds, but Nevsky had forbidden that as well. Whatever the American professor was looking for, Nevsky wanted the man to find it and Linko to take it from him immediately afterward.

He let out a breath and sighed in frustration as Lourds re-entered the museum.

***



“Hello, Thomas. Hello, Adonis.” Professor Ian Westmoore waved at them through the satellite link to Berlin. Westmoore was in his seventies, a rotund man with a long, white beard and hair swept back from his high forehead. His glasses magnified his eyes and made them look too large for his face.

“Hello, Ian.” Lourds smiled at the man. The British professor was a favorite of his, and he had curmudgeonly down pat when it came to dealing with students.

“So, you want to know about death societies in Ancient Greece?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you have come to the right man. I just attended a seminar on the death cults of the Celtic Priests. They sacrificed to the gods, and often their victims were young nobles. It didn’t make them very popular with the ruling class, as you can imagine.”

Marias laughed. “I suppose not.”

“So, what can I help you with?”

Lourds leaned forward to speak into the microphone. “We’re working with a document regarding Alexander the Great.”

Westmoore nodded. “A good subject. Plenty of meat there for a scholar to feed on, but you’re going to have to find a whole new wrinkle to interest the pedagogical crowd.”

“I think we have something. Have you ever heard of a legend or story about Alexander receiving weapons from Hades?”

“The god of the underworld?”

“Yes.”

Westmoore seemed puzzled and interested at the same time. “Never. This is something new. What do you have?”

“A scroll by Callisthenes—”

“The original or one of his replacements, or Callisthenes after his death was faked?” Westmoore smiled. “You realize you have your choice there.”

“We do realize that, but we’re confident that we have one from the original. The scroll says that Aristotle took Alexander to the Oracle of Delphi, then to visit Hades to get the weapons.”

Westmoore scratched his beard thoughtfully. “In those days, you could offer a tribute to Hades anywhere, but there’s only one temple where someone could have gotten anything from Hades. You have discovered there was only one temple, correct? That no one else dared build a temple to Hades?”

Lourds nodded. “We have.”

“There is a scroll I have read, researched, and done papers on that talks about the temple of Hades. Unfortunately, I can’t definitely say whether it was written as truth or fabrication. So many things about the Greek myths have gotten all tangled up as the Greeks told the stories, then the Romans after them. Let me send you a copy when we finish talking.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’ll have to let me know how this quest of yours turns out.”

“Happily.”

Westmoore grimaced. “I don’t think it’ll end all that happily. I think you’re wasting your time, but if someone’s funding your research, you should waste as much of it as possible.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “The death cult of Hades supposedly guarded the opening that led down into Hades itself.”

“I’ve never heard that.”

“Of course you have. Heracles found a way into Hades to capture Cerberus, remember? That was his twelfth and final Labor. Theseus and Pirithous went there as well, to capture Persephone to be the wife of the latter. Heracles journeyed there to save Theseus later. Theseus and Pirithous were both minor gods, though they lived in the mortal world, but Heracles was half mortal. There had to be a non-mystical way for him to travel.”

Lourds turned that over in his mind and swapped looks with Marias. An actual gateway to Hades? The idea boggled the mind. And yet...there was fascination there as well.

“So somewhere in Elis, near the temple of Hades, is the entrance to the underworld?”

“According to this scroll and the accompanying map, yes. The death cult that worshipped Hades at Elis was known as the gatekeepers. They were devoted to keeping out all who did not belong to Hades. Until the proper time, of course. One has to assume they made way for the departed.”

Lourds took notes.

“I’ll tell you something else, Thomas.”

“What’s that?”

“If Alexander did indeed have weapons that were given to him by Hades, then the god of the underworld would have brought them back to his domain.”

“Why do you say that?”

Westmoore pulled one of his long ears. “Remember the story of Demeter and Persephone? How she was stolen away by Hades and taken to his realm?”

“Yes.”

“She ate four or six pomegranate seeds. Seeds. And she had to live a third of her life in Hades as a result.” Westmoore raised an eyebrow. “Hades was a jealous god, no question about it. Alexander’s weapons, if they were given by Hades, would have been worth a lot more than a pomegranate seed.” He thought for a moment. “Makes you think a little more about why Alexander died at such a young age, doesn’t it? And why his great friend Hephaestion died so young too?” The old professor chuckled. “Maybe Hades was just reaping what he had sown as well.”

***



High TV Television Station

Plaka, Athens

Hellenic Republic (Greece)

“Are you going to be all right, Ms. Cherkshan?”

Seated in the chair in the television studio, Anna nodded at the assistant, instantly regretting it as her head spun. “I’m fine.”

The young man gave her a thumbs-up and hurried away, already talking on the headset he wore.

Anna was not fine, though, and she knew it. She had a fever that felt like it was burning her up from the inside. Her shoulder, the one the woman had scratched at the airport, burned and itched at the same time. She wanted to scratch it, but every time she touched it, pain exploded and filled her whole chest, making it hard to breathe. It was, in fact, getting harder to breathe anyway. She just couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs.

Convincing the news producer—and his bosses—at the television station had been easier than she’d thought. Especially after she had shown them the papers Spaso had downloaded. They made a convincing argument, even though they were all she had.

Security around the station had been doubled since the story was going out live.

The fact that she was doing the delivery herself was a blessing and a curse. She liked the thought of being in front of the camera again. She’d loved working in the news station at university, but it was too much of a production. Print journalism afforded her more of a chance to be herself and say the things she wanted to say.

“Are you ready, Ms. Cherkshan?” The director’s voice came to her through the earbud she wore.

Anna was scared. As much as she didn’t want to be, she was absolutely terrified. But she held it in and made herself be on point. And when the news anchor turned to her, she kept the fear in check and made her voice strong.

“Good evening. My name is Anna Cherkshan. I am a Russian citizen, and I am here tonight to expose the truth of what President Nevsky has done to the Ukrainian people and how he plans to incite terrorist attacks in your country.”

A hush fell over the studio. Most of the people working the broadcast didn’t know what she was there to present. There had been some press releases hurriedly done, some promo spots on earlier programs, but no one had wanted to let the cat out of the bag.

Mostly because no one wanted the television station to become an instant target for terrorists—or the Russian police.

She spoke calmly, her head pounding, and revealed all that she had discovered. The station had given her five minutes to elaborate on her story, and she had written it concisely and crisply to make the most of her time.

“President Nevsky has lied to the Russian people. He has undermined the Ukrainian government so his military generals could step in and take over. Now he begins to do that to you. Beginning with terrorist organizations like 17N...” Despite the pain and nausea she felt, she persevered, never missing a beat, never once losing strength in her voice, though it felt like every word she said emptied her lungs.

She saw herself on one of the monitors in front. She had been self-conscious of it in the beginning. Speaking in front of one was more distracting than she remembered.

When the nosebleed started, it was even more distracting. She mopped the blood from her face and continued. The blood became a rush, then a torrent, and her head ached more fiercely, and her senses flew. It was all she could do to keep talking and remain seated.

Some of the support staff rushed toward her. She waved them off, determined to finish. Something was wrong, and in her heart, she knew she was dying. She could feel that nothingness waiting for her, sucking her down with every passing second.

“Now that you have heard my story, you must finish what I have started. President Mikhail Nevsky is a monster. He must be stopped—” She coughed and a bubble of blood burst in the back of her throat, filling her mouth with the salty taste of iron. “And...Father...I love you. Embrace the new Russia. Do not fear it. Do not let it fall.”

Unable to hold herself up, Anna fell. She was no longer there when she hit the ground.