The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts

by James Rollins

  They had to find another way out.

  As they fled into the dimly lit halls, a heavy metal door slammed somewhere on the opposite side of the basement. Monk turned to Andrea.

  “I think that came from the emergency exit,” she whispered in bald terror.

  Monk could guess what that meant.

  A third assassin.

  5

  October 10, 6:32 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  “The symbol’s not in the database of any known terrorist group,” Painter said. He stood before a conference table with a wall screen behind him. Glowing on the monitor was a blown-up rendering of the cross and circle.

  Painter leaned on the table. The conference room was a new addition to Sigma Command, built after the firebombing. It held a circular table with computer stations before each chair. It could hold as many as a dozen people, but at the moment only three people were seated there.

  Kat sat to Painter’s immediate right, bringing her international intelligence experience to the table. On her right was Adam Proust, an expert in cryptology, and across the table, Georgina Rowe, a new Sigma recruit whose expertise was bioengineering.

  “So we start at square one,” Painter said and began to pace around the conference table. He had designed the room for just this purpose, to be able to move, to be able to observe those gathered around the table. “What does this symbol mean? How does it connect to the destruction of the Red Cross camp and the mutilation of the senator’s son?”

  Adam cleared his throat and half-lifted a hand toward the screen. He was in his midforties, casually dressed in jeans, a thin black sweater, and tweed sportcoat. “This mark has a long symbolic history, going back as far as early man. It’s sometimes referred to as a quartered circle. The meaning is relatively uniform across cultures. The circle represents the earth. The cross, in turn, sections the world into four pieces. In Native American culture, those four pieces represent—”

  “The four winds,” Painter acknowledged. He had been taught something similar by his father.

  “Precisely. And in other cultures, it represents the four elements—earth, wind, air, and fire. Sometimes they’re represented thusly.” He tapped at his computer station and the screen changed.

  “As you can see, the quartered circle becomes the symbol for the earth itself, encompassing all four elements. This mark can be found around the globe. The historical etymology of the symbol is quite fascinating and goes back to pagan times. In several Nordic countries the mark can be found carved into slabs and standing stones. It’s often accompanied by another petroglyph: the pagan spiral. The two are intimately related to one another.”

  “Related?” Painter asked. “How so?”

  Adam lifted a hand, asking for a moment, and typed at his station. A new image appeared on the screen. “Here’s a stylized pagan spiral. You can find variations of this around northern Europe.”

  Another tap at the screen placed the spiral over the quartered circle.

  “See how the spiral starts at the center of the cross and expands outward to fill the circle. While the quartered circle represents the earth, the spiral is meant to symbolize life, specifically the journey of the soul, rising from life to death to rebirth.”

  Kat sighed. “This is all well and good, but I don’t see how this relates to the atrocities committed in Africa. Aren’t we getting off topic?”

  “Maybe not,” Georgina Rowe argued and shifted straighter in her seat. She was a stocky woman, her hair cut into a masculine bob. “I’ve reviewed the NATO report, and while details are still preliminary and far from definitive, I can’t help but believe the attack had more to do with destroying the Viatus Corporation’s farm there than with some rivalry between rebels and the Mali government.”

  “And I agree,” Kat said. “The Tuareg rebels have never demonstrated this level of violence. Theirs have mostly been hit-and-run types of attacks. Not this wholesale slaughter.”

  “And trussing up that poor boy in the middle of a burned-out cornfield and branding him with that mark.” Georgina shook her head sadly. “It had to be a warning against what that corporation was doing out there, its research into genetically modified foods. With my background in bioengineering, I’m well aware of the controversy surrounding GM foods. There’s a growing movement against such manipulation of nature. And while it mostly stems from fear and misinformation, it’s also compounded by the lax government supervision of this exploding industry. I can go into more detail …”

  Painter stopped across from her. “For now, let’s concentrate specifically on how it might relate to this case.”

  “That’s easy enough. The anti-GM movement is especially strong in Africa. The countries of Zambia and Zimbabwe recently banned all food aid that contained GM foods, even though millions in both countries faced starvation. Basically it was a foolish policy of better dead than fed. Such lunacy is rampant and growing. I believe that the destruction of the Red Cross camp was meant as an attack on Viatus.” She pointed to the symbol on the screen. “And I think Adam’s description of the etymology of that symbol supports that.”

  Painter began to understand. “A symbol that represents the earth.”

  Georgina firmed her voice to match her conviction. “Whoever did this believes they’re protecting the earth. I think we’re dealing with a new and militant ecoterrorist group.”

  Kat’s brows pinched together. “It does make a certain amount of sense. I’ll have my sources concentrate on that angle. See if we can’t figure out who these terrorists are and where they’re based.”

  Painter turned back to Adam Proust, whose insight had offered a place to start. “We cut you off. Is there anything you wanted to add?”

  “Just one more thing. About the quartered circle and the spiral. The two symbols were powerfully important and significant to the pagans of northern Europe. Especially the Druids. In fact, when the Nordic regions were converted to Christianity, the symbols became incorporated into the new faith. The Druid cross grew to become the Celtic cross used today.”

  Adam tapped a new image onto the screen, extending the vertical line of the pagan symbol to form a Christian cross.

  “Likewise,” Adam continued, “the spiral came to represent Christ, symbolizing his passage from life to death and finally his rebirth.”

  “And the significance of this?” Kat asked, impatient, plainly anxious to follow the bread crumbs left by Georgina’s words.

  But Painter recognized where Adam might be heading with this last assessment. He asked the cryptologist, “So you don’t think this ecoterrorist group is based in Africa?”

  He shook his head. “The quartered circle, while it can be found in some African cultures, mostly represents a sun symbol rather than the earth. I think we should be directing any inquiries toward northern Europe. Especially since the Viatus Corporation’s headquarters are in Oslo, Norway.”

  Georgina smiled. “So in other words, we’re looking for a bunch of pissed-off Druids.”

  Adam didn’t return her smile, only shrugged. “There is a strong neo-pagan revival throughout Europe. And in fact, many of these groups are quite old. The Druid Circle of the Universal Bond. The Ancient Order of Druids. Both trace their organization back to the 1700s, while other groups claim an even longer heritage. Either way, the movement has been growing steadily of late, and a few sects are definitely militant in their beliefs and very anticorporation. I think that’s where any investigation should concentrate. In northern Europe.”

  Kat nodded, if a bit stiffly, already planning in her head.

  Painter circled back to the front of the conference room. “I think that gives us a good jumping-off point. If you’ll all—”

  His cell phone rang in his pocket, cutting him off. Painter lifted a hand, asking for a moment, took out his BlackBerry, and checked the ID. It was his assistant. Painter felt a twinge of misgiving. He had asked not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.

  “What is it, Brant?�
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  “Sir, operations just phoned in. There’s been a flurry of 911 emergency calls coming out of Princeton. It seems a firefight has broken out at the Carl Icahn Laboratory.”

  Painter kept his face passive. The lab was where Monk Kokkalis and John Creed had been headed. The pair should’ve reached Princeton an hour or so ago. Painter deliberately kept his gaze away from Kat, Monk’s wife.

  “Get local authorities on the line and satellite feed up,” Painter said, feigning more irritation than alarm. “I’ll be right up there.”

  He lowered the phone and faced the room. “Okay, you all know your duties. Let’s get to it.”

  Painter turned on his heel and headed toward the exit.

  He sensed Kat’s gaze fixed on his back. She was suspicious, but until he knew more about the situation, there was no need to alarm her.

  Especially since she was pregnant again.

  6:45 P.M.

  Monk led the others through the basement, keeping his pistol pointed forward. He only had ten rounds … and at least three assailants. Not good odds, especially with the others carrying snub-nosed machine guns. He dared not waste a single shot. He’d left a second magazine back in his briefcase, but he’d dropped the case outside Malloy’s lab.

  “Is there another way out of here?” he asked Andrea.

  “No … but …” She searched up and down the hall. John Creed kept a hold on her elbow to keep her moving.

  “But what?” Monk pressed.

  “The lab building was constructed to be modular. To make it easier to change room configurations,” she said in a rush, then pointed up. “There’s a large maintenance level between floors. With catwalks for work crews.”

  Monk glanced at the ceiling. That might work. “Where’s the closest access point?”

  She shook her head, still struggling with shock. “I don’t know …”

  Monk stopped and grabbed her shoulder with his prosthetic hand. “Andrea, take a breath, steady your—”

  Machine-gun fire blasted. A figure rounded the far end of the hallway, his gun blazing. Rounds tore into the floor and walls. Monk shouldered into Andrea and fired blindly down the hall, wasting precious ammunition. The gunman ducked momentarily away. Monk shoved the woman through the closest door. Creed bowled through after them.

  The door led to a small anteroom. A second set of double doors stood directly in front of them.

  “Go!” Monk yelled.

  They piled through into the next room. Lights flickered on automatically and revealed a large space divided by rows of stainless-steel cages. The smell of animal urine and musky bodies struck Monk immediately. He remembered Andrea’s description of the basement level’s layout. This must be the lab’s vivarium, where its research animals were housed. A dog barked from one of the back rows. Closer at hand, smaller bodies stirred—and some not-so-small bodies.

  Along the bottom row of larger cages, potbellied pigs snorted and nosed the air. Some squealed and spun in circles. They were young, each about the size of a football, bringing new meaning to the term pigskin.

  Monk pushed the others down the row. They had no way to barricade the door, and the gunman would be on them any moment.

  “Is there another exit from here?” Monk asked Andrea.

  She nodded and pointed across the room.

  “Hurry.”

  Monk heard clanking behind him. He turned to see Creed flipping open the lower cages as he chased after them. In his wake, small black-and-pink bodies tumbled out of their cages. They scurried and danced, squealed and screamed. More and more pigs joined the fray.

  “What are you—?” Monk began.

  “Obstacles,” Creed said, yanking more cages open.

  Monk nodded, understanding. Nothing like littering their trail with scores of squealing footballs. It should slow the gunman down.

  They had almost reached the far end of the vivarium when Monk heard the double doors bang open behind them. A short spatter of gunfire followed, but it quickly ended with a startled bark, followed by the clattering fall of a body to the floor.

  Chalk one up for the pigskins.

  Monk pushed Andrea to the end of the hall and through another set of double doors. Moments later they were back in a basement hallway.

  “Those access points into the maintenance spaces,” Monk pressed. “Is there one nearby?”

  “The only one I know about for sure is back at Dr. Malloy’s lab.”

  Monk studied the crisscrossing hallways and maze of rooms. He was lost. “Can you get us back there?”

  “Yes. It’s this way.”

  Andrea headed off, less shocked, more determined. Monk kept to her side. Creed followed. Monk noted him clutching his upper thigh. His pant leg was damp.

  Creed met his gaze and waved him on. “Took a ricochet. Just grazed. Keep going.”

  They had no choice. After another turn, Monk suddenly recognized the hallway. They’d come full circle back to Dr. Malloy’s lab. Confirming this, Monk spotted his briefcase resting in the hall outside the open door.

  They headed toward it at a full run.

  Down the opposite end of the hall, another gunman appeared with a swirl of his black rain slicker. The open lab door still lay another ten yards away.

  Monk kept his arm level and fired at the assailant. “Keep going!” he yelled as Andrea and Creed slowed. “Make for the lab!”

  While it might be crazy to run toward a man wielding a machine gun, the room offered the only hope of escape.

  Monk fired another two rounds. He was almost out, but the shots kept the assailant off balance. Unfortunately, the brief firefight had not gone unnoticed. Behind them, a new barrage erupted. Another gunman. The attackers were trying to trap them in a crossfire.

  But by now, they’d reached the lab.

  Andrea and Creed dashed inside. Monk bent down as the whine of a round ripped past the crown of his head. He snatched his abandoned briefcase and rolled sideways into the laboratory.

  As soon as he was through, Creed slammed the door behind him.

  “Locks automatically,” Andrea said, hugging her arms around her chest. She kept well clear of the chair where Dr. Malloy’s body was still tied.

  Monk gained his feet, holding his pistol in one hand and his Tanner Krolle briefcase in the other. “That maintenance access?”

  Andrea turned and pointed toward the ceiling above a lab table. A square panel was marked by an electrical hazard symbol.

  Monk turned to Creed. “Get her up there. Keep moving.”

  “What about you?”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right behind you. Now move it!”

  As Creed lifted Andrea onto the table, Monk dropped to one knee. He needed to buy the others as much time as possible to get away. Monk knew it was vital to get the woman to safety. Dr. Malloy must have told her something, something worth killing her over. Whatever that was, Monk wanted to know.

  Creed already had the maintenance hatch open and used both arms to shove Andrea through it.

  Sheltering behind the dead body in the chair, Monk snapped his briefcase and let it drop open on the floor. All the while, he kept an eye on the door. Locked or not, he knew the door would offer no more protection than a piece of tissue paper. Especially with the firepower behind these bastards.

  And Monk was down to the last two rounds in his pistol. He needed the fresh magazine in his briefcase.

  AS he reached for the spare, the doorknob exploded into the room, along with a good section of the jamb. The door swung open from the impact.

  Monk caught a fluttering glimpse of a black slicker and fired at it. Twice. His pistol slide locked open as he ran out of ammunition.

  The gunman spun out of view.

  Monk snatched for the new magazine while ejecting the spent one.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted an arm wave beyond the doorway.

  A black metal object the size of a baseball flew into the room.

  Oh, crap …
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  Grenade.

  Monk dropped both pistol and spare cartridge. Still on one knee, he lifted his open briefcase, caught the grenade inside, and snapped the case shut between his palms. Standing and swinging his arm around, he underhanded the briefcase back through the open doorway.

  Even before it passed the threshold, Monk was moving. He turned, leaped to the tabletop, then bounded straight for the open ceiling hatch. Creed’s boots had just vanished ahead of him.

  “Go!”

  Too late.

  The explosion deafened and flashed brilliantly. The blast wave shoved Monk up into the crawl space between floors. He struck some HVAC ductwork with his head and collapsed on top of Creed. They struggled for a bit to untangle themselves. Monk took an elbow to an eye.

  Cursing and dazed, Monk waved the others onward. He doubted the gunmen would follow them, but until they were somewhere safe and sound, somewhere with lots of guns, he wasn’t going to let his guard down.

  They stumbled onward, half deaf, half blind.

  As Andrea had said, the maintenance space was equipped with catwalks to assist the work crews. Using the walkways, it didn’t take long to climb out of the bowels of the building and into the chaos above. Police had already converged on the place. Squad cars, SWAT vans, and a gathering media circus greeted them in the fields outside the building.

  As they stumbled into the open, police surrounded them immediately. Even before Monk could begin to explain, a hand grabbed him, pulled him aside, and showed him a badge.

  “Homeland Security,” the mountain of a man declared. “Dr. Kokkalis, we have orders from Washington to get you all to safety.”

  Monk didn’t protest. He liked those orders just fine. But as they were led off, he glanced forlornly back at the building.

  Kat was going to kill him.

  That briefcase was damn expensive.

  6

  October 11, 6:28 A.M.

  Fiumicino, Italy

  Where was she?

  Gray crossed out of the terminal of Rome’s main airport and headed toward the taxi queue. Horns blared and tour buses rumbled. Even this early in the morning, the airport was snarled with traffic and congested with travelers coming and going.