The Doomsday Key: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  “How much farther?” Gray gasped out.

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t know.

  After a long silent minute, a trickling echo reached her. She rushed onward. In her haste, she lost her footing on the floor, landed on her backside, and slid, losing her cell phone. It skittered ahead of her—then vanished.

  Unable to stop, she followed it. For a gut-wrenching moment the world dropped under her. She fell through open air. A small scream escaped her, but she landed in a shallow stream of frigid water. The fall had only been a meter or so.

  “Watch out!” Gray called.

  Rachel rolled clear as the others slid, skidded, and dropped into the water with her. Rachel retrieved her cell phone from the edge of the stream. It still glowed. She held it up.

  They were in a long stone tube, clearly man-made from the crudely hewn slabs. A wan stream flowed across its bottom.

  “Where are we?” Gray asked.

  “Old city sewers,” Rachel answered and began to follow the flow. “It was how the ancient Romans drained the flooded stadium.” The others splashed behind her.

  Kowalski sighed heavily. “I should’ve known. A tour of Rome with Pierce had to end up in the damn sewers.”

  10

  October 11, 3:12 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Painter readied for the battle to come. He sat at his desk. He was as prepared as could be expected. After the long night, he’d taken a short nap, showered, and changed into a fresh set of clothes.

  Hours ago he’d learned that Gray and Kowalski were safe and headed out of Rome. Commander Pierce had already given a sketchy report of events in Italy, but he needed to keep moving. A full debriefing would follow once he was settled in a secure location outside the city.

  The office intercom buzzed. Brant spoke crisply. “Sir, I have General Metcalf for you.”

  Painter had already been alerted that the head of DARPA was arriving at Sigma Command. It was a rare visit. And not normally a good sign.

  Painter pressed the intercom button. “Brant, send the general straight in.”

  Seconds later the door swung open. Painter stood as General Gregory Metcalf stalked into his office. He entered with his hat under his arm and his face locked into deep furrows.

  Painter stepped around the desk to shake the man’s hand, but Metcalf headed straight to a chair, tossed his cap on the desk, and waved Painter back to his own chair.

  “Do you have any idea of the political shitstorm blowing out of Italy?” Metcalf said as introduction.

  Crossing back behind his desk, Painter sank into his chair after Metcalf took his seat. “I’m aware of the situation, General. We’re monitoring all the chatter across various intelligence channels.”

  “First, a firefight at a hotel, then a street chase with a trail of carnage left behind it, and to top it all off, one of the world’s Seven Wonders is left firebombed. And you inform me that one of our… your operatives was at the heart of it all?”

  Painter breathed through his nose. He kept the tips of his fingers resting on the edge of his desk. “Yes, sir. One of our best field agents.”

  “Best?” Metcalf said with sharp sarcasm. “I’d hate to see your worst.”

  Painter let some bite enter his own voice. “He was ambushed. He was doing what was necessary to protect an asset. To keep them all alive.”

  “At what cost? As I understand it, he was pursuing a matter that was a domestic Italian concern. That their own intelligence services, along with Interpol, had things well in hand. If your agent’s involvement exposed or damaged—”

  Painter cut him off. “General, the case has implications far beyond Italy. It was why I asked to have this face-to-face meeting. So far no one knows Sigma is involved, and I wish to keep it that way.”

  Metcalf studied Painter, waiting for more details. Painter let him stew. He imagined that lesser men broke under that steely gaze. Painter didn’t blink.

  Metcalf finally huffed out his exasperation and leaned back. “So then tell me what happened.”

  Painter allowed his shoulders to relax. He reached to his desk, opened a file, and slid a photo toward the general. “Here is a forensic photo of the victim killed at the Vatican.”

  Metcalf took the picture and examined it. His eyebrows pinched together, his equivalent of raw shock. “It’s the same mark,” he said. “Branded into the forehead, like Senator Gorman’s son.”

  “And the Princeton professor,” Painter agreed. He knew Metcalf had already read the report on the events at the university.

  “But what does this priest have to do with what happened in Africa? I understand Jason’s connection to the university professor, but this?” He slid the photo back to Painter. “It makes no sense.”

  “The field agent in Italy—Commander Gray Pierce—has recovered and protected a vital piece to that puzzle. A piece that someone was willing to destroy the Roman Coliseum to acquire.”

  “And we have it.”

  Painter nodded.

  “What is it?”

  “We’re still trying to figure that out. It’s an old artifact with possible ties to an excavation site in England. I’d rather keep the details quiet for now. Limited to a need-to-know basis.”

  “And you don’t think I need to know?”

  Painter stared at him. “Do you really want to know?”

  Metcalf’s eyes had at first narrowed angrily, then edged toward some dark amusement. “Good point. After what happened in Rome, maybe not. Plausible deniability might be the best course for now.”

  “I appreciate that,” Painter said. And he meant it. It was the widest degree of latitude he’d ever gotten from the man.

  And yet he needed more.

  “Whatever is going on stretches far beyond the borders of Italy,” Painter continued. “And the best way to root out the truth is to keep our involvement quiet.”

  Metcalf nodded, agreeing.

  “Before events transpired in Italy, I had come to the conclusion that we needed more information about the genetic project being conducted at the Red Cross camp.”

  “The farm run by the Viatus Corporation.”

  “So far the deaths of the two Americans—Jason and his professor—are tied to that project. How and why we don’t know. But that’s where we need to extend the investigation. We need more details. Information that can only be found in one place.”

  “You’re talking about Viatus itself.”

  “There’s a conference starting tomorrow in Oslo. The World Food Summit. The CEO of Viatus, Ivar Karlsen, is speaking at the conference. Someone needs to corner him, get him to talk, to open up about the true nature of the research that was under way in Africa.”

  “I’ve heard about Karlsen’s reputation. He’s no pushover. Strong-arming him will get you nowhere.”

  “I understand.”

  “He also has powerful friends—including here in the U.S.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  Painter had a complete dossier on the man and his company. Viatus had made vast inroads into the United States: financing a biofuel consortium in the Midwest, partnering with a major petrochemical company that produced fertilizers and herbicides, and of course sharing several lucrative patents with Monsanto for genetically modified seed strains.

  Metcalf continued. “In fact, I already know about the summit in Oslo. A mutual friend of ours will be attending. Someone who’s been riding DARPA for answers to his son’s murder.”

  “Senator Gorman?” That surprised Painter.

  “He’s already in Oslo. Despite the circumstances surrounding his son’s death, he remains a close associate of Ivar Karlsen. You don’t want to make either man angry. Any interrogation of Karlsen will have to be done with the greatest discretion.”

  “I understand. Then that further supports the second reason I asked for this meeting.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Due to the delicate nature of the matter and the threat of inte
rnational ramifications, I’d like to conduct Karlsen’s interview myself.”

  Metcalf hadn’t expected that. He took a moment to digest the request. “You want to go out into the field? To Oslo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who will oversee Sigma while you’re gone?”

  “Kathryn Bryant. She’s been acting as my second-in-command. She has a background in Naval Intelligence with ties throughout the international communities. She’ll be perfectly suited to maintain command and coordinate any field op.”

  Metcalf leaned back as he pondered this plan.

  Painter knew the man had a firm code about personal accountability. It was why he had climbed so swiftly up the ranks in the Armed Forces. Painter pressed that very issue now.

  “You’ve already explained how thin the ice is under Sigma,” he said with conviction. “Give us this chance to prove ourselves. And if this blows up, let it be by my own hand. I’ll take full responsibility.”

  Metcalf remained silent. He again fixed Painter with that steely gaze. Painter matched it, as firm and unyielding.

  A slight nod and the man stood up. He held out his hand this time. Painter shook it across his desk.

  Before Metcalf let go, he squeezed a notch harder. “Tread lightly over there, Director Crowe. And speak just as softly.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s what my ancestors are known for. We’re very light-footed.”

  This earned a small crooked smile as Metcalf let go and headed toward the door. “Perhaps. But in this case, I was referring to Teddy Roosevelt.”

  As the general left, Painter remained standing. He had to give the guy credit. He was right about Teddy. The motto was fitting for any agent heading out into the field.

  Speak softly—but carry a big stick.

  4:10 P.M.

  “And those were the words Director Crowe used?” Kat asked.

  Monk stood in front of her. She was seated on the sofa in her office. “His exact words. He needs a big stick.”

  “But do you have to be that big stick?”

  Monk crossed to her and dropped to one knee, getting eye-to-eye with his wife. He knew this was going to be a hard sell. He had spoken to Painter thirty minutes ago. The director had offered Monk a field position, to accompany the big man himself to Oslo, Norway. Still, it had taken until now to get up enough courage to broach the subject with Kat.

  “It’s really nothing more than a glorified interview,” Monk promised. “Like I’ve been doing here in the States these last months. This assignment’s only a little farther away.”

  She wouldn’t meet his eye. She stared down at her hands, which were clenched together in her lap. Her voice was low. “Yeah, and look how easy your last assignment ended up being.”

  Monk scooted closer and pushed between her knees. “We all made it out safely.”

  In fact, he had just checked on Andrea Solderitch. She’d already been moved to a guarded location, protected by Homeland, personally watched over by Scot Harvath, an agent Monk fully trusted to keep her safe.

  “That’s not the point,” Kat said.

  Monk recognized that. He reached forward, slid his hands under the bottom of her blouse, and gently palmed her bare belly. Her skin was hot under his palms. She trembled at his touch.

  “I know the point,” Monk said huskily. “My memory might be a little like Swiss cheese, but I don’t forget what’s truly important, not for one second of any day. And that’s why I’m going to make sure nothing happens.”

  “You can’t control everything.”

  Monk stared up at her. “Neither can you, Kat.”

  Her eyes remained wounded. He knew how hard she had fought to watch over him during his recovery, how she hated being apart. Even now. Her protectiveness was born out of raw fear. For months she had believed Monk was dead. He could only imagine what that must have been like. So, though it wasn’t healthy for either of them, he didn’t press the matter.

  Even now, he refused to force her hand.

  If she didn’t want him to go, he wouldn’t.

  “I hate the idea of you out in the field,” Kat said. She pulled his hands out of her shirt and clutched them tightly between hers. “But I’d hate myself more for telling you not to.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he said quietly, suddenly feeling selfish. “You know that. I get it. There will be other missions. When we’re both ready.”

  Kat stared hard at him. Then she sagged slightly, rolled her eyes, and reached out to grab the back of his head. She pulled him forward. Her lips hovered over his. “Always the martyr, aren’t you, Kokkalis?”

  “What—?”

  She silenced him with her lips, pressing hard, parting her mouth, tasting him. Then she pulled back, leaving him gasping, leaning forward for more.

  “Just make sure you come back with all your parts intact this time,” she said, poking his prosthetic with a finger.

  Always the slower of the two, Monk struggled to catch up with her thoughts. “Are you saying—?”

  “Oh, dear God, Monk. Yes, you can go.”

  Joy, along with a large measure of relief, swept through him. He cracked a huge smile, but it just as suddenly slipped into something more lascivious.

  Kat read his thoughts and pressed a finger over his mouth. “No, not even one joke about you being a big stick.” “Oh, c’mon, babe… would I do that?”

  She removed her finger, leaned down, and kissed him again. He slid his hands under her rear and dragged her onto his lap.

  He whispered as he pulled her fully to him, “Why say it, when I can prove it?”

  10:15 P.M.

  Terni, Italy

  Gray stood guard before the window, staring out at the dark garden behind the old country farmhouse. He also had a view of the parking lot and the nearby Via Tiberina road. They had traveled eighty miles to reach the small town in the Umbria region, noted for its ancient Roman ruins and baths.

  Rachel had suggested the location. The two-story farmhouse had been converted into a hotel, but still retained much of its original charm, with chestnut beams, bricked archways, and iron chandeliers. It was also remote and off the beaten path.

  Still, Gray refused to let his guard down. After events in Rome, he wasn’t taking any chances. And he wasn’t the only one.

  Down in the garden, he noted a flicker of red ash. He hadn’t known Seichan smoked—but then again, he knew almost nothing about her. She was an unknown quantity and a needless risk. He knew the standing orders out of Washington: capture her at any cost.

  Still, she’d guarded their backs today, saved his life in the past.

  As he watched her patrol the grounds, he heard the water shut off in the neighboring bathroom with a heavy thunk of the pipes. Rachel had finished her shower. After an hour in the sewers, they’d all needed some time with soap and very hot water.

  They also needed a moment to regroup, to decide on a course of action. Moments later, Rachel exited the steaming bathroom, barefooted, wrapped only in a towel, her hair still dripping.

  “Shower’s free,” she said, then glanced around the room. “Where’s your partner?”

  “Kowalski’s gone downstairs. Fetching a late dinner from the kitchen.”

  “Oh.” She remained standing in the doorway, her arms around her chest, suddenly awkward. She wouldn’t meet his eyes. They hadn’t been truly alone together since crashing back into each other’s lives. He knew he should turn away, allow her a moment of privacy, but he couldn’t.

  She slowly stepped over to the bed, still favoring her left leg. Tylenol and a brace had helped her wrenched knee, but she needed at least a day of rest. On the bed was a stack of new clothes, still tagged and wrapped in tissue: for her, jeans, a midnight blue blouse, and a calf-length coat.

  As she walked, she clung to her towel like a shield. There was no need. Gray knew intimately what lay under that towel. What his hands hadn’t explored, his lips had. But it wasn’t just the flesh that stirred him now. It wa
s the memory of warmth, of soft words in the night, of promises that were never fulfilled.

  He finally had to turn back to the window—driven away not by shyness, nor even out of politeness, but from an overwhelming sense of loss for what might have been.

  He heard her shuffle by the bed, listened to the rustle of tissue paper. She didn’t return to the bathroom to change. She shed her towel and dressed behind him. He sensed no seduction in her boldness, more an act of defiance, challenging him, knowing it both pained him and shamed him.

  Then again, maybe it was all his imagination.

  Once dressed, she joined him at the window and stood at his shoulder. “Still keeping watch, I see,” she said softly.

  He didn’t answer.

  She stood with him for a quiet moment. Down in the gardens, the sudden flare of a match illuminated Seichan’s form as she lit another cigarette. Gray felt Rachel stiffen beside him. She glanced at him, then turned swiftly away and crossed back toward the bed.

  Before either could speak, a rap on the door drew their attention. Kowalski entered, burdened by a wide wooden tray and two bottles of wine under one arm.

  “Room service,” he said.

  As he stepped inside, he quickly noted the discarded towel in the middle of the floor. His eyes flickered between Rachel and Gray, then rolled slightly. He carried his burden to the room’s table, whistling under his breath.

  He left the tray on the table, but kept hold of both bottles of wine. “If you need me, I’m going to take a long hot bath. And I do mean long. I may be in there for at least an hour.”

  He glanced significantly at Gray in what passed as subtlety for the big man.

  Rachel’s face turned to a pale shade of crimson.

  Gray was saved from further embarrassment by the ringing of his cell phone on the bedside table. He checked his watch. That had to be Painter. He collected the phone and moved back to the window.

  “Pierce here,” he said as the secure connection clicked through.

  “So are you settled?” the director asked.