The Last Oracle by James Rollins Read Free Book Online Page B

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.

    Mapplethorpe mumbled beside him. “We must not let anyone catch a hint of what we’re doing. Or the Nuremberg Nazi trials will look like traffic court.”
    Yuri didn’t respond. Mapplethorpe barely comprehended the full scope of his research. But after the Berlin Wall fell, Yuri had needed new resources to continue his work. It took a full decade to slowly test the waters in America. It seemed hopeless; then the political climate suddenly changed. The global war on terror had forged new alliances and allegiances. Enemies became allies. But more important, the boundaries of propriety were breached. It was a new era, with a new morality. An old catchphrase was now law: the ends justified the means .
    Any means.
    As long as it was for the common good.
    Yuri’s government had known this all along. It was only the Americans who were late in facing this harsh reality.
    “What’s that girl doing?” Mapplethorpe asked.
    Yuri snapped out of his own reverie. He stood up. Sasha was at the easel, a black felt marker in her hand. Her arm flew up and down the stretch of butcher paper. She stabbed and stroked, very angular. There seemed no pattern. She worked one corner, then another.
    Mapplethorpe snorted at the mess. “I thought you said she was talented in art.”
    “She is.”
    Sasha continued to work. The rectangle she originally drew in green began to fill with black swirls and swipes. She held her other arm straight out from her body, stiff as a plank, as if she sought to balance herself against some force beyond this world.
    Finally both arms fell to her sides.
    She turned away from the easel, dropped into a cross-legged crouch, and rocked slightly. Her brow was sweaty. She reached to a discarded toy wooden block and began rhythmically turning it in her fingers, as if she were trying to solve some puzzle known only to her.
    Yuri turned his attention to her artwork.

    Mapplethorpe joined him. “What was that all about? It’s just gibberish.”
    “Nyet.” Yuri accidentally slipped into Russian, but he was worried…very worried.
    He hurried to the door that led into the next room. Mapplethorpe followed. As he entered the child’s room, Sasha just rocked and twiddled the block in her fingers. From past experience, Yuri knew she would be shut down for a while.
    He also had learned a thing or two about Sasha’s talent.
    Reaching the easel, he ripped the butcher sheet down.
    “What are you doing?” Mapplethorpe asked.
    Yuri turned the drawing upside down and clipped it back onto the easel. Sasha sometimes drew in reverse. It was not uncommon among autistic savants. They often experienced the world through very different senses. Numbers had sounds. Words had smells.
    Yuri glanced over to Sasha.
    Her