The Last Oracle

48,000 feet over the Caspian Sea

Two hours until touchdown.

Gray stared out the windows of the Bombardier Global Express XRS. The day wore rapidly onward as the private jet streaked across the sky. During the course of their journey, the sun had risen on a new day, climbed over their heads, and had begun to fall again behind them. They would be landing on fumes, traveling at a squeak over supersonic speeds. The modified corporate jet had been gifted to

Sigma by the billionaire aeronautics financier Ryder Blunt for past services rendered. Two U. S. Air Force pilots pushed the engines to get them to India by midafternoon local time.

Gray turned his attention back to the group assembled around a teak table. He had allowed everyone to sleep for six hours, but most looked exhausted. Kowalski still had his chair reclined flat, snoring in time with the engines. Gray saw no reason to disturb him. They all could use more sleep.

Focused on the dossier in front of her, the only person who showed no weariness was the newcomer to their small group. With expertise in neurology and neurochemistry, the same disciplines as Archibald Polk, it was no wonder Painter had assigned this member of Sigma to join their band.

Dr. Shay Rosauro was a little over average height, her complexion a cinnamon mocha, and her dark amber eyes sparked with flecks of gold and a fierce intelligence. Her shoulder-length black hair was bound back from her face with a black bandanna. She had served in the air force, and from her records, she could have piloted the Bombardier herself. She even wore a uniform blouse top with a wide black belt over khakis and boots.

And while Gray had never worked with her before, it seemed she had met Kowalski.

She had done a double take when the large man had stepped into view. Kowalski had grinned, given her a bear hug of a greeting, then passed to climb into the plane. As she followed, she had stared back at Gray with an expression that read you've got to be kidding.

With everyone rested, Gray wanted to get his team on the same page by the time they were wheels down in India, especially in regard to whom they were meeting.

Elizabeth, what can you tell us about Dr. Hayden Masterson? In what capacity was your father working with this professor from Mumbai?

She nodded, stifled a yawn with a fist, then more firmly balanced her glasses on her nose. He's originally from Oxford, actually. Trained as a psychologist and physiologist, specializing in meditative techniques and brain function. He's been in India for the past thirty years, studying the country's yogis and mystics.

A line of research parallel to your father's.

Elizabeth nodded.

I know of Masterson's work, Rosauro said with mild surprise. He's brilliant, but eccentric, and some of his theories are contentious. He was one of the first researchers to advocate for the plasticity of the human brain, controversial at the time but now readily accepted.

What do you mean by plasticity? Gray asked.

Well, until the past few years, neurology stuck by an old tenet that the human brain was hardwired, that each section of the brain served one purpose only. One location, one function. For the last two decades, neurology's goal has been to map out what each part of the brain does. Where speech rises from, which section of the brain handles hearing, which neurons make you feel your left hand, or control balance.

Gray nodded.

But now we understand that the brain is not hardwired, that these brain maps are changeable, alterable. Or in other words, plastic. It is such fluidity of function that explains how many stroke victims are able to regain function of paralyzed limbs after a portion of their brains are destroyed. The brain rewires itself around the damage.

Elizabeth nodded. Dr. Masterson was extending his research to studies with yogis. Through such mystics' abilities to control their own metabolism and blood flow, he sought to show how the brain is not only changeable but trainable. That the brain's plasticity is moldable.

Rosauro leaned back. With the possibilities of harnessing this plasticity, it's a Brave New World out there for neurologists. Increasing intelligence, helping the blind to see, the deaf to hear.

Gray pictured the device found on the skull. The deaf to hear. The device had looked like some form of cochlear implant.

Gray asked Elizabeth, Did Dr. Masterson say when he last saw your father?

The professor said he'd tell me more, but he first wanted to talk to the people who had hired my father. He sounded scared. I couldn't get anything else out of him.

Hired him?

Luca Hearn, the final member of their group, spoke, his Romani accent thicker from his exhaustion. That would be our clan. We hired Dr. Polk.

Gray turned to the man. Before landing, Gray had intended to discuss the role of the Gypsies in Dr. Polk's story. Much had been left unanswered after their flight from the safe house. Such as, why Polk had chosen to contact Luca rather than anyone else? Had it been paranoia? Had the professor believed he could trust no one else? Considering his murder was followed by the suspicious sweep by agents of his own government, maybe Dr. Polk had been right.

How did you get involved with the professor? Gray asked.

He approached us two years ago. He wanted to collect DNA samples from certain members of our clans. Those who practiced pen dukkerin.

Pen what?

Kowalski answered from his sprawl on his bed. He had stopped snoring, but his eyes were still closed as he spoke. Dukkerin. Fortune-telling. You know, palm reading, gazing in a crystal ball.

Luca nodded. It is a tradition among our people, going back centuries, but Dr.

Polk didn't want anyone who was performing hokkani boro the great trick.

Fakers, Kowalski added. Tricksters.

Dr. Polk knew there were those among our clans who we ourselves respected for their skill in this art. The rare ones. True chovihanis. Those with the gift.

Those were who he sought.

Elizabeth shifted straighter. My father was doing the same with yogis of India.

Taking DNA samples, looking for some commonality.

Gray remembered how her father sought out those rare cases of documented yogis and mystics, those who demonstrated heightened abilities of intuition or instinct. The fortune-telling and tarot-card reading of the Gypsies would fit that mold. But the genetic angle was new.

It raised another question in Gray's mind. Why the sudden switch from studying yogis to Gypsies? What's the connection?

Luca stared at him as if he were dense. Where do you think the Romani clans come from?

Now it was Gray's turn to be baffled. He actually didn't know much about the nomadic Gypsy clans, certainly not their origins.

Luca noted his confusion. Not many know our story. When our clans first moved into Europe, we were thought to have come from Egypt. He rubbed the back of his hand across his burnished face. Because of our dark skin, dark eyes. We were called aigyptoi or Gyptians, which later became the word Gypsies. Until only recently, even our clans were unsure of our origins. But linguists recently discovered that the Romani tongue has its roots in Sanskrit.

The language of ancient India, Gray said, surprised, but he was beginning to understand the connection now.

We arose from India. That is amaro baro them, our ancestral homeland. Northern

India, to be precise, the Punjab region.

But why did you migrate away? Elizabeth asked. From what I understand of your history, you had a hard time in Europe.

Hard time? We were persecuted, hunted, killed. Fire entered his voice. We died by the hundreds of thousands at the hands of the Nazis, forced to wear the

Black Triangle. Bengesko niamso! This last was plainly a curse at the Nazis.

Elizabeth glanced away from his vehemence.

Luca shook his head, calming himself. Not much is known about our early past.

Even historians can't say for certain why the clans left India. From old records, we know the Romani clans fled India sometime in the tenth century, passing through Persia to the empire of Byzantium and beyond. War plagued northwest India during that time. Also India had come to adopt a strict caste system. Those left at the bottom, classified as casteless, were deemed untouchable. These included thieves, musicians, dishonored warriors, but also magicians, those whose abilities were considered heretical by the local religions.

Your chovihanis, Gray said.

Luca nodded. Life became unbearable, unsafe. So the casteless banded together into clans and left India, headed west, for more welcoming lands. He snorted bitterly. We are still searching.

Let's get back to Dr. Polk, Gray said, redirecting the conversation. Did you cooperate with the professor's request? Did you supply him with those samples?

We did. A payment in blood. In exchange for his help.

Gray studied the man. Help in doing what?

His voice fired up again. To find something stolen most brutally from us. The very heart of our people. We

The plane bumped violently. Glasses rose in the air, as did Kowalski. He scrabbled from his blanket with a shout of surprise. Gray, belted in his seat, felt his stomach climb into his throat. They lost elevation fast.

The pilot came on over the intercom. Sorry about that, folks. Hard air ahead.

The whole plane shook.

Buckle in tight, the pilot continued. We'll have you on the ground in another hour. And, Commander Pierce, we have a land-to-air call for you coming from

Director Crowe. I'll patch it back to you.

Gray motioned everyone into their seats. Kowalski had raised his seat back and was already snugging his belt tight.

Swiveling his own chair away from the others, Gray removed the phone from his armrest and lifted it to his ear.

Commander Pierce here.

Gray, I thought I'd brief you on what Lisa and Malcolm learned about the device attached to the skull.

As Gray listened to the director explain about microelectrodes and autistic savants, he stared out the window. He watched the sun settle to the west as the jet screamed to the east. He pictured the girl's small face, her fragility, her innocence.

At least she was safe.

But a question nagged at Gray.

Are there others like her out there?

12:22 P. M.

Southern Ural Mountains

Monk ran with Pyotr in his arms alongside the streambed. The boy clung to him.

His eyes were still glassy, his face damp with both sweat and tears. Kiska raced ahead, following the long lope of Marta, who knuckled with both arms. Konstantin kept to Monk's side.

How do we know what Pyotr saw was real? Monk gasped out to Konstantin.

Tigers? Maybe it was just a daydream, a waking nightmare.

The older boy turned slightly and pulled his wool cap up. He combed back his hair to reveal a shiny curve of steel behind his ear. You were not the only one operated on. He pulled down his cap and nodded to Pyotr. What he saw was no dream.

Monk struggled to comprehend. Konstantin had already explained how Monk had ended up here, rescued from a sinking cruise ship, based on a drawing done by

Pyotr's sister. It made no sense.

Maybe he was the one dreaming.

Konstantin continued, There are two Siberian tigers kept at the Menagerie.

Arkady and Zakhar. The soldiers sometimes hunt with them in the deep forest.

Wild boar and elk. They are very smart. Not easy to fool.

How far away? Monk asked.

Konstantin spoke in Russian to the boy.

Pyotr answered in the same tongue. As he spoke, his voice grew firmer, coming more fully out of his trance.

Konstantin finally nodded. He does not know. Only that they are coming. He can taste their hunger.

Monk hurried them down the stream to where it emptied into a wider river. He heard the rush of water before seeing the course. It dug a deep channel. If they could get across

Something screamed into the air. High overhead and farther back up the narrow valley. It kept on wailing, piercing like a siren. It made his teeth ache and vibrated his bones. The children dropped flat to the ground, covering their heads and rolling in agony. Marta hooted and trotted a protective ring around them.

Cringing against the noise, Monk peered up between spruce branches. Something wafted down into the back half of the valley. It drifted on a red parachute, like a flare, but it carried a round metal object the size of a baseball. The piercing wail came from it. Some sort of sonic flare. Climbing on a boulder,

Monk spotted other red pinpricks in the distance. More flares.

He hopped down.

They must be blindly strafing in all directions.

A frantic crashing erupted on the far side of the stream.

Monk caught a flash of tawny fur. His heart thudded in panic.

Tiger.

Instead, two roe deer smashed into view, and with a flash of dancing hooves, they darted away. Monk forced his heart out of his throat and crossed to the children. The sonic blast had flattened them. The hunters knew of the kids' hypersensitivity and were trying to immobilize them.

Monk scooped Pyotr up with his stumped arm and tossed him across his shoulder.

He dragged Kiska to her feet and supported her around the waist, hiking her up.

Burdened, Monk crossed to Konstantin, intending to kick the boy into action.

They dared not stop.

Marta intervened. She nosed under Konstantin's chest and pulled one of his arms over her back. Supporting him with her shoulders, she sidled down toward the river below. The boy's legs dragged behind her.

Monk followed with the other two children. While deafened by the sonic flare,

Monk still felt the boy's trembling moans of agony. He hobbled faster and reached the river's course.

The water flowed through a steep-banked channel, a full four meters wide. It churned and gurgled, loud enough to dull the sharper ranges of the sonic flare.

Monk waved to Marta. He pointed downriver. She swung in that direction. They continued, following the twisting course. After a few turns, the steep ridges blocked more and more of the wailing.

Kiska stirred first. She knocked free of Monk's arm and gained her own feet. She still covered her ears with her hands. Konstantin soon followed, freeing Marta, who panted and gasped, knuckling on both arms.

As they fled from the screams, Monk kept a watch behind him.

Expecting at any moment to see a pair of tigers loping after them.

Distracted, he ran into Kiska, who had stopped. Tangled, he toppled to his knees, dropping the boy to the ground.

Konstantin had also halted at his sister's side, frozen in place with Marta. It seemed they had more to fear than just the hunters behind them.

Beyond the pair, a massive brown bear rose up from the riverbank. It had to weigh six hundred pounds, damp from the river and plainly tense from the caterwauling of the flares. Black eyes stared back at their party. It rose up on its hind limbs, stretching eight feet tall, bristling, growling, baring yellow teeth.

The Russian grizzly.

The symbol of Mother Russia.

With a roar, it fell and charged straight at them.

6:03 A. M.

Washington, D. C.

The old man woke into brightness. It stung his eyes and pounded into his skull.

He groaned and turned his head away. Nausea spilled burning gorge up into his throat. He choked it back down with a gasp.

He blinked away the glare and found himself strapped to a bed. Though a sheet covered him, he knew he was naked. The room was stark white, clinical, sterile.

No windows. A single door with a small barred window. Closed.

A figure sat in a chair beside the bed, in a suit, the jacket hung on the seat back, sleeves rolled up. His legs were crossed, his hands folded primly on his lap.

He leaned forward. Good morning, Yuri.

Trent McBride smiled down at him without a trace of warmth.

Yuri glanced down to his chest, remembering being shot by a tranquilizer dart.

He searched around, still confused, dazed.

You've been given a counterstimulant, McBride said. Must have you alert, since we have much to discuss.

Kak ya , he choked out, his tongue pasty and thick.

McBride sighed, reached to a bedside table where a glass with a straw rested, and offered Yuri a sip.

He did not refuse. The lukewarm liquid burned like the finest vodka. It pushed back the shadows at the edges of his thoughts and washed the paste from his tongue.

Trent, what are you doing? Yuri tugged at the straps that bound down his arms.

Filling in the blanks. McBride pressed an intercom button at the head of the bed. As I mentioned, you've not been forthcoming with all the details of your research at Chelyabinsk 88. We must correct that oversight.

How do you mean? Yuri tried to sound innocent, but he failed miserably as his voice shook. He wished he were a stronger man.

Hmm, Trent said. He leaned forward and stripped the sheet covering Yuri. I suppose we might as well get the ugly part over with so we can speak like true colleagues.

Yuri stared down at his naked body. His pale skin was dotted by tiny suction cups, each the size of a dime, topped by a pea-size knot of electronics sprouting a thread-thin antenna. They lined his legs from toe to groin, his arms from fingertip to shoulder. His chest was a chessboard grid of the sticky cups.

Before he could question what they were, the door to the room opened and a slender figure entered. Yuri had to struggle a moment to remember his name, though he had just met the man. Dr. James Chen. They had used the researcher's office for the meeting at Walter Reed.

The door clamped shut, soundproofed.

Chen crossed to them. He carried a laptop open in his arms. We're all calibrated.

As the man settled into a seat and rested his laptop on the bedside table, Yuri caught a glimpse of the computer screen before it was swung away. It had a stylized figure of an outstretched man dotted with small glowing circles.

Electroacupuncture, McBride said and waved a hand over the array of suction cups. Microelectrodes inserted into acupuncture points along the prime meridians. I don't purport to understand it fully. This is Dr. Chen's line of expertise. He's made remarkable progress using this technique to alleviate pain, allowing battlefield surgery without general anesthesia. Brilliant work and why he became a Jason. I then recruited him to our joint investigation because of his innovative use of microelectrodes. Microelectrodes like you used with your own test subjects.

McBride tweaked one of the antennas with a finger. Yuri felt a stinging stab.

We've learned that what can be used to deaden pain in the right circumstances, can also be used to amplify it.

Trent don't , Yuri begged.

McBride ignored him, turned to Chen, and pointed to one of the cups near his knee, then to a second one near his groin.

The researcher lifted a stylus and drew a line on the computer screen.

Yuri's leg blistered with fiery pain. A scream burst from his throat. It was as if someone had dug a scalpel from knee to groin, cutting down to the bone. Then it ended just as quickly.

Gasping, Yuri searched down. He expected to see blood flowing, flesh smoking.

But there was only pale skin.

McBride waved again across the field of tiny cups. We can do the same across any of these points. In any pattern. We can flay you alive without harming a hair. A virtual operation with all the pain.

Wh-why?

McBride stared down at him again. While his face was mild, his eyes were fierce.

I will have answers, yes? Let's start with what you've been keeping secret about the children.

I don't

McBride turned to Chen.

No! Yuri shouted out.

McBride leaned back to him. Then let's not play games. We've been able to replicate your augments without any difficulty. The schematics that your team provided were very thorough and precise. But in the end, not all that innovative. Merely a sophisticated TMS device. We attempted to duplicate your results, using a pair of autistic savant children in Canada. Our experiments were well, let's just say disappointing.

Yuri inwardly cringed. So the Americans were closer than even Savina had suspected. They'd already come to recognize how unique the situation was at

Chelyabinsk 88.

So, McBride asked again, what have you been keeping secret from us?

Yuri hesitated too long. A fiery slash cut across his chest. His muscles spasmed, his back arched from the bed. He screamed so loudly that no sound came out.

As the pain cut off, Yuri trembled and quaked with aftershocks. He tasted blood on his tongue. Still he dared not wait. What did it matter if the Americans found out? It was already too late.

DNA, he gasped out. It's their DNA.

McBride hovered closer. How do you mean?

Yuri swallowed, gulping for air. The secret lies in the subjects' genetics. We only discovered this ourselves twelve years ago.

Yuri explained in fits and starts, questioned repeatedly by McBride. He related the discovery in 1959 of a cluster of exceptional savant talent, a group of

Gypsy children. A genetic line that ran through the history of the Gypsies. The chovihanis. The clans kept this line secret and attempted to preserve it through inbreeding, resulting in genetic aberrations. He told how the Russians had stolen this genetic heritage for study, for incorporation into their own research into parapsychology.

But it was nothing mystical, Yuri explained. The children were merely savants though savants of a prodigious level. We tried to heighten their ability first through breeding, then through bioengineering. But over the years, as genetic testing grew more refined, we were able to pinpoint what made the children unique.

McBride leaned closer.

Autism is triggered by a mix of environmental factors coupled with a variable number of ten genes. What we discovered was that the strongest of the savants our Omega-class subjects carried a specific three genes. Three genetic markers. When they appeared in just the right sequence, coupled with mild to moderate autism, an amazing savant talent would arise.

Which you in turn augmented further, McBride said. Creating a perfect storm of genetics and bioengineering.

Yuri nodded.

Brilliant. Truly brilliant. Then it was just as well we used Archibald to lure one of your Omega subjects out into the open. And all the more reason for us to get hold of that girl.

Yuri startled. Concern rang through him. You don't have Sasha?

McBride frowned and tilted back to his chair. No, but in the past hour, we've determined where she is likely being kept. And it seems the same group has sent a team to follow in Archibald's footsteps. Luckily we have taken measures to erase those footsteps completely.

Who who has Sasha?

You want to know? McBride glowered down at Yuri. It was plainly a sore spot for the man. I'll show you.

He motioned to Chen.

No!

Yuri's chest lit with fire, streaking in jagged lines across his chest, linking point to point, forming a crooked symbol on his chest, a letter, a fiery Greek letter.

McBride growled through Yuri's agony. They won't be a problem for long.

2:04 P. M.

Agra, India

Despite her father's fascination, Elizabeth had never been to India. She stared out the taxi van as it swept away from the airport. The windows were down but offered little relief from the heat, well over a hundred degrees.

Traffic moved at a snail's pace, snarled amid rickshaws pulled by both bicycles and even one camel. She was close enough to a neighboring taxi, whose windows were also open, that she could smell the driver's thin cigar as he chewed on its end. The smoke cut like a knife through the density of the city's mTlange of curry, filth, and cooking grease. The neighboring driver huffed at the traffic and pounded the heel of his hand on his horn.

The blare was barely heard above the chaos, made worse by a festival under way ahead, bright with the sounds of cymbals. All around, pedestrians packed the sidewalks and walked through the creeping cars, fighting for space with bicycles and motorcycles.

Elizabeth found her breathing growing heavier, her chest constricting not from the humidity and heat but from the press of humanity. She wasn't normally claustrophobic, but the noise, the unending vibrancy, the hawk and holler of so many people, blanketed her, squeezed her. Her hands formed fists on her knees.

Finally, through judicious use of his own horn, the taxi driver broke through a gap and pushed for the next intersection. He turned the corner, and the way opened to a wider thoroughfare that aimed straight for the heart of the city.

Elizabeth sighed in relief.

Finally, Kowalski said next to her, echoing her sentiment. We should've rented a van. I could've gotten us there faster.

The large man was crammed against her side, but he seemed to sense her distress and tried to keep back, which didn't help the other passenger sharing their row.

Beyond Kowalski, Shay Rosauro elbowed the large man for more room. Her face shone with a sheen of sweat. She had used the time stuck in traffic to undo the black bandanna that bound her hair and refold it into an efficient head scarf that tucked behind her ears.

Gray, who sat in the front passenger's seat of the van, leaned toward the driver and pointed. The driver nodded. Gray settled back into place.

The final member of their company sat in the back row of the van. Luca Hearn wore an inscrutable expression, but his dark eyes seemed to watch everything. He had strapped two daggers to wrist sheaths before leaving the plane, prepared for an unwelcome homecoming to the land of his people.

Gray twisted in his seat. We'll be at the hotel in another ten minutes, he called back to them.

The taxi sped to where the road ended at the Yamuna River. Its waters glinted like blue steel in the bright sunlight, lined by palms. To the left rose a massive fort built of red sandstone, with high parapets and thick walls.

Reaching the river, they turned away from the fort and followed the curve of the waterway.

Traffic slowed again, but in only a few minutes, the view opened to the left, revealing an expansive parkland of meadows, gardens, reflecting pools, and patches of forest. The greenbelt hugged the banks of the river, but the true wonder seemed to float above it all, a cloud of white marble set against the shimmering blue sky.

The Taj Mahal.

The mausoleum was an engineering wonder and an architectural marvel. But at the moment, it appeared more like a dream, aglow and drifting in the heavens. Built over three centuries ago by the Mughal emperor Shāh Jāhan, to mark the final resting place of his beloved wife, it was to many a testament to the eternity of love.

But it was not their destination.

The taxi van skirted to the side and pulled up to a five-story white building, lined at each level by large arched windows, the Deedar-e-Taj Hotel. It was here they were to meet Dr. Hayden Masterson.

The restaurant is on the top, Elizabeth said as they piled out. She checked her watch. They were half an hour late.

Gray paid the driver, and they all crossed past a dancing fountain into the hotel lobby, gloriously air-conditioned.

Kowalski, Gray said and pointed to the front desk, you and Luca secure our rooms. We'll head up. He nodded to Elizabeth and Rosauro.

Kowalski sighed heavily, but he mumbled something about a cold shower. He hovered a moment near Elizabeth as Gray turned toward the elevator. Are you okay? he mumbled to her.

Me?

Back in the taxi. I thought maybe you looked sort of He shrugged.

Just the heat maybe nerves, she mumbled.

I have just the ticket. He leaned conspiratorially over to her and parted his suit jacket enough to reveal two cigars in an inner pocket. Cubans. From the duty-free shop at the airport.

She smiled at him. She could almost kiss him right now.

Before she could say anything, the elevator chimed behind her. Gray called for her to hurry.

Kowalski straightened and patted his jacket. He winked at her as he turned away.

Actually winked. Who still winked? Still, her smile did linger on her lips as she turned to join Gray and Rosauro.

Gray ushered her inside and punched the button for the top floor. Is there anything else we should know about Dr. Masterson? he asked her.

Just don't mention Manchester United, she mumbled.

The soccer team?

Trust me, or you'll never hear a word about my father or his research. Also, don't push him. Let him get to the point in his own time.

The elevator doors whisked open upon a strange sight. A large restaurant filled the roof level, sparsely occupied at this hour. Tables were set with linen and fine china. The smell of curry and garlic lingered tantalizingly in the air.

But what was unusual was that the entire restaurant slowly rotated. It spun through a panoramic view of the city, including the Taj Mahal.

At a table by one of the windows, a tall man unfolded from his seat. He lifted an arm, then lowered it, and tapped at his wristwatch.

Elizabeth smiled and crossed toward him, stepping onto the turning platform. It was a bit disconcerting at first, but she led the others forward through the nests of empty tables. A few servers in gold vests nodded a greeting to them.

It had been several years since she had last seen Dr. Masterson. He still wore his characteristic white suit, formal, colonial, with a wide-brimmed Panama hat that rested on a neighboring table. A cane leaned there, too, with a hooked ivory handle carved in the shape of a white crane. His hair, worn long to the shoulder, had also gone white to match, which she was sure did not entirely displease him. His face was craggy, leathery, tanned to a deep bronze that by now probably never faded.

Elizabeth made formal introductions. Dr. Shay Rosauro expressed what an honor it was to meet him, which went a long way to turning his irritated frown into something that bordered on welcoming. Women were a weakness of Hayden's, especially the attention of someone as long-limbed and lithe as Dr. Rosauro.

Elizabeth's father had once hinted at why the professor had remained at the

University of Mumbai, versus Oxford or Cambridge. It seemed to involve a sticky matter concerning an undergraduate student.

Hayden waved them all to their seats, making sure Dr. Rosauro was positioned next to him. By the time they were situated, the restaurant had rotated to a stunning view of the Taj Mahal.

Hayden noted their attention. The mausoleum to Mumtaz Mahal, wife of the Shh

Jhan! he said with a bluster. That dear wife of the emperor extracted four promises from the bloke. He ticked them off with his fingers. To build a great tomb to her, of course. Second, that he would marry again. Now that's a wife!

Third, that he'd be forever kind to their children. And lastly, that Jahan would visit her tomb each year on the anniversary of her death. Which he did honor, until the day he was buried in the Taj with his dear wife.

True love, Rosauro said, staring out at the beauty of the mausoleum.

And what's a love story without a little spilled blood? Hayden said and patted

Rosauro's hand. He left his palm resting there. It is alleged that Jahan had the hands of all his artisans chopped off upon completion of the tomb, to ensure that they could never again build a monument with such grace as the Taj Mahal.

At Hayden's other side, Gray stirred, plainly anxious to bring the discussion to bear on the reason they'd all traveled halfway around the globe. Elizabeth brushed her toe against Gray's, warning him.

His eyes met hers.

Don't push him, she silently communicated.

As she faced around, Hayden's right ear blew away with a spray of blood at the exact time a sharp chime rang out like struck crystal.

Gray and Rosauro both moved while Elizabeth was still frozen in place. Rosauro yanked Hayden down to the floor; Gray tackled into Elizabeth. She caught a glimpse of a perfect hole in the pane of glass behind Hayden, radiating cracks.

As she fell, more holes appeared with ringing cracks then she hit the floor,

Gray on top of her.

Stay down!

She cringed flat as a barrage of gunfire ripped through the restaurant, coming from some sniper on a neighboring rooftop. Crystal glassware shattered. One of the servers twisted around, as if kicked, and fell flat. Blood poured out onto the tile floor.

Gray urged her to crawl. But Elizabeth was too afraid to move. The sniper couldn't shoot her if she remained where she was. Gray corrected her of this misconception.

He's pinning us down! he hollered to both Elizabeth and Hayden, who also seemed unwilling to move. Trying to hold us here!

Elizabeth understood what that implied. She gained her hands and knees. They had to move. Now.

More gunmen were on their way here.