The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,62

by the responsibility. “I will not fail you.”

“Of this, I also have faith.”

She straightened, accepting his praise, feeling even worthy of it. “But where do we go? Where might we pick up this lost trail?”

He motioned her to his side. When she joined him, he pointed to the open journal written by Hunayn ibn Mūsā. His fingertip ran along a scrawled line on one page. “The log of the voyage is interrupted after this, but the traitor named his ship’s last port before continuing to Tartarus. It is there where you will seek his trail.”

She leaned down and read what was written.

صياغة هيفايستوس

Her blood chilled with the implication as she translated it.

The Forge of Hephaestus.

“It is no easy task I’ve set for you.” Mūsā stared hard at her, as if sensing her trepidation. “For you must travel to where even angels fear to tread.”

Third

The Forge of Hephaestus

Sing, clear-voiced Muse, of Hephaestus famed for inventions. With bright-eyed Athena he taught men glorious crafts throughout the world—men who before used to dwell in caves in the mountains like wild beasts.

—HOMERIC HYMN 20 (TRANSLATION BY HUGH G. EVELYN-WHITE. HESIOD, THE HOMERIC HYMNS AND HOMERICA. CAMBRIDGE, MASS., HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS; LONDON, WILLIAM HEINEMANN, 1914)

18

June 23, 8:49 P.M. CEST

Tyrrhenian Sea

These bastards do know how to travel in style.

From the view out of the window, Kowalski took in the breadth of the superyacht stretching out around of him. He and Elena had landed aboard the yacht five hours ago. They’d been flown from the coast of Turkey to a small island, where a helicopter had ferried them to the middle of the Tyrrhenian Sea for a rendezvous with this sleek ship.

And what a beaut it is.

The silver yacht was more than three hundred feet long and rose from a deep draft to a superstructure of four levels. He was currently imprisoned on its top floor, in a wide lounge with panoramic views toward the bow and both sides. Behind him, Elena sat at a desk buried in books and scratched notes on a yellow legal pad. She had already filled one and was onto her second. He didn’t interrupt her or begrudge her focus.

In fact, he was counting on it.

He used the time to study his floating prison, judging it with the critical eyes of a former seaman. As they shackled him into leg irons, he had listened to the engines belowdecks. Sounded like twin diesels, maybe hybrids, definitely powering a water-jet propulsion drive. Once he and Elena had been taken aboard, the ship had ramped its engines and swept northwest over the sea, running close to thirty knots, an impressive speed for a yacht this size.

And that was not all that impressed.

The yacht didn’t have just one helipad, but two: one at the bow, and another directly over his head. In addition, he had been marched through a garage space that housed a line of black jet-skis with their noses pointed toward the closed door to the sea—along with what appeared to be a four-man submersible equipped with dual launchers for mini-torpedoes.

The latter was a firm reminder. Though the ship’s sleek profile might look like a party boat on the outside, inside it was all business. The crew—easily several dozen—all carried weapons, which they concealed when on deck, but showed more brazenly when inside.

He tapped a knuckle against the window. Even this glass looked extra thick, likely bulletproof, probably able to withstand a blast.

With a sigh, he stared out at the view beyond the bow. The sun sat on the horizon, perched just above the dark volcanic cones of an island, setting their cinder edges on fire. The lower slopes were dark, ominous, falling away to shadowy forests and small lighted hamlets along the coast.

“Whoever named this place had no imagination,” Kowalski mumbled. “You got an island covered in volcanos, so you name it Volcano.”

“Vulcano,” Elena corrected, stretching back from the desk. She removed a set of petite reading glasses, tossed them on a legal pad, and rubbed red-rimmed eyes. “The place was not named for the volcanos, but for the Roman god of fire, Vulcan. The same god who the Greeks called Hephaestus.”

Kowalski turned from the window with a jangle of his leg irons. “Then I guess calling it Vulcano is better than naming it Hephaestos or something.”

“Actually, it was once called that, too.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but she took him seriously.

Women just don’t get me.

“The ancient Greeks named this island Thérmessa, which means ‘land of heat.’” She nudged a thick book