The Doomsday Key: A Sigma Force Novel

by James Rollins

  Monk continued across the campus. The Crop Biogenics Research Lab was in a remote corner, a long walk from the parking lot.

  Monk pulled the hood of his parka farther over his head. “So, Doogie,” he said, trying to distract himself from the cold, “what exactly did you do to wash out of the Corps and end up in Sigma, anyway?”

  Creed made a dismissive noise and mumbled, “Don’t ask.” Plainly he didn’t want to talk about it. And he was edgy.

  Plus calling him Doogie probably didn’t help.

  Creed was not exactly the talkative type, but Monk had to admit the man was sharp. He had already acquired a smattering of Norwegian, even honing a decent accent. Monk knew only one person who was that quick. He pictured her smile, the curve of her backside, and the barely perceptible bump of her growing belly. Thinking of Kat helped keep him warm long enough to reach their destination.

  The Crop Biogenics lab looked like a silver egg standing on end. It was all mirrored glass and reflected the grounds, giving the facility a surreal appearance, as if the building were in the process of warping into another dimension.

  The lab building was a relatively new construction, completed only five years ago. It had been engineered with a sophisticated security system that required only a skeletal staff at night.

  Not an obstacle for someone outfitted with DARPA’s latest toys.

  Monk carried a backpack over one shoulder and a Taser XREP pistol tucked under the other. The weapon discharged a small electrified dart that could knock out a target for five minutes. It was a precaution that he hoped they would not have to employ.

  Creed moved to the main entrance.

  Monk touched his throat. He had a microphone taped over his larynx and an earpiece in place. “Sir, we’re heading into the building now.”

  Painter responded immediately in his ear, “Any problems?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Good. Keep me updated.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Creed stepped to the electronic key reader. He slipped a card into its slot. A thin wire ran from the keycard to a device fastened around his wrist. It was a hacking device that used quantum algorithms to pick any lock, basically the equivalent of a digital skeleton key. The lock released, and Creed pulled the door open.

  They headed inside.

  The entry was dimly lit, and the receptionist’s desk was empty. Monk knew that a security guard manned a monitoring station on the floor above. As long as they set off no alarms, they should have no trouble reaching the computer servers on the basement levels. Their mission was to open a back door into the research mainframes. With any luck, they’d be out of there in under ten minutes.

  As Monk crossed the lobby, he kept his face averted from the cameras. As did Creed. They had memorized the cameras’ positions from the schematics provided by Kat.

  Together they headed toward the bank of elevators. Creed walked a bit quickly. Monk touched his arm and forced him to slow down, to not act so panicked.

  They reached the elevator bay, where the push of a button opened a set of doors. They moved inside. Another key reader glowed red. The elevator would not move without the proper code.

  Monk hovered a finger over the B2 button—Basement Level 2—where the servers were housed. Creed waited to swipe his skeleton key. Monk hesitated before he pressed the button.

  “What?” Creed mouthed, fearful of speaking English in case the elevator was monitored.

  Monk pointed to the buttons below his finger. They ran from B2 to B5. According to the schematics provided, there were not supposed to be any levels below B2.

  So what was on those levels?

  Monk knew they had a mission, but there was a subtext to this night’s operation: to find out what was really going on at Viatus. It was a long shot that the corporation kept anything incriminating on its servers. Any real dirt was most likely buried much deeper.

  Like underground.

  Monk shifted his finger down and pressed B5. Creed glared at him, plainly questioning what he was doing.

  Just a little improvisation, he answered silently. Sigma wasn’t about following orders blindly but about thinking on your feet.

  Creed needed to learn that.

  Monk pointed toward the key reader and motioned for Creed to swipe his electronic card. The detour would only take an extra minute. He would simply take a peek below. If it was just a maintenance level or some sort of employee swimming pool, they could quickly hop back up to B2, tag the servers, and get out of there.

  With an exasperated sigh, Creed shoved in his card. After a half second, the light flashed green.

  The elevator began to descend.

  No alarms sounded.

  The levels ticked downward, and the elevator opened into a closed lobby. A sealed door stood directly across from them. Monk paused, suddenly having second thoughts.

  What would Gray do here?

  Monk mentally shook his head. Since when was following Gray’s example a good thing? The man had an uncanny knack for trouble.

  As the elevator began to close, Monk grabbed Creed by the elbow and leaped into the lobby.

  “Are you nuts?” Creed hissed under his breath, shaking loose Monk’s grip.

  Probably.

  Monk moved closer to examine the door. It had no key reader. Only a glowing panel that was plainly meant to read a palm.

  “What now?” Creed whispered.

  Undaunted, Monk placed his prosthetic hand atop the reader. Pressure sensitive, the pad grew brighter. A bar of light scanned up and down. He held his breath—then heard the lock’s tumblers release.

  A name flashed above the reader.

  IVAR KARLSEN

  Creed frowned as he read the name, then glared over at Monk, angry that he’d not been informed about this extra precaution.

  It had been Kat’s idea. She had obtained the CEO’s full records, including a palm print. It had taken only a moment to digitize the data and feed it into the equivalent of a laser printer. The device had then burned a copy of the print across Monk’s synthetic palm, scoring the blank skin into a perfect match.

  If anyone had full access to this facility, it was certainly its CEO.

  Monk moved to the unlocked door.

  Let’s see what Ivar’s hiding down here.

  11:46 P.M.

  Painter kept watch across the street from the Grand Hotel Oslo. He sat on a bench with a wide view of the entrance. It was no wonder Senator Gorman had chosen this place as his residence. Built in an extravagant Louis XVI revival style, the hotel climbed eight stories and took up an entire city block, with a central clock tower looming over its entrance. It was also conveniently located directly across from Norway’s parliament buildings.

  A perfect choice for a visiting U.S. senator.

  And an unlikely spot for an ambush.

  Still, Painter wanted to be thorough. He had been here for an hour, wearing a heavy coat, hat, and scarf. He also moved with a bit of a hunch that was only half faked. His knife wound had begun to ache as the pain relievers wore off. For the past hour, he had canvassed all the public areas of the hotel, including the Limelight Bar, where Gorman was supposed to meet their mysterious contact. As an extra precaution, Painter had the stolen WASP dagger tucked into the back of his belt and a small 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster.

  But so far, everything appeared quiet.

  Painter glanced up at the clock tower. It was a few minutes before midnight. Time for this spy to come in out of the cold.

  Standing up, he headed across the street, as prepared as he could be.

  Monk had already checked in, and earlier in the evening Painter had had a short but intense conversation via satellite phone with Gray. He had learned that the Viatus Corporation had funded the dig in England. They had been bioprospecting for new organisms to exploit for their genetic research. Had they found something? Gray had described the gruesome discovery, at a Neolithic stone ring, of bodies buried and preserved in a bog, bodies r
iddled with some sort of fungus.

  Was that significant?

  Painter recalled that the murdered Princeton geneticist had believed the new genes inserted into the Viatus corn samples were not of bacterial origin. Could they have been fungal, genes extracted from those mushrooms? And if so, why all the secrecy and bloodshed to hide the fact?

  Painter shoved the questions aside for now. He needed to focus on the immediate task at hand. He entered the lobby and circumspectly observed his surroundings. He compared the faces of the hotel employees with those in his earlier canvass and made sure there were no strangers among them.

  Satisfied, he strode over to the hotel bar. The Limelight was dark and richly paneled, illuminated only by the glow of wall lanterns. Red leather club chairs and sofas divided the space. It smelled vaguely of cigars.

  At this hour the establishment was sparsely populated. It wasn’t hard to spot Senator Gorman over by the bar. Especially with the burly man sitting next to him, wearing a suit too small for his bulk. He might as well have bodyguard stenciled across his forehead. The guard sat with his back to the bar and, with no subtlety, scanned the patrons for any threats.

  Painter observed them from the corner of his eye. He passed among the chairs and took a seat at a booth near the entrance. A barmaid took his order.

  Now to see who, if anyone, showed up.

  He didn’t have long to wait.

  A man appeared, wearing a heavy ankle-length overcoat. He searched the bar, then his gaze fixed on the senator. Painter was startled to realize he’d seen this man before, back when the luncheon had broken up. He’d been complaining to the Club of Rome’s copresident.

  Painter struggled to remember his name.

  Something like Anthony.

  He played back the conversation in his head.

  No… Antonio.

  A satisfied smile flickered over the man’s features as he spotted the senator. This had to be their guy. From the earlier conversation, the man clearly had no love for Karlsen. Antonio’s smile faded as he finally noted the bodyguard, too. The instructions had been for the senator to come alone. Antonio hesitated near the entrance.

  Time to move.

  Painter slid smoothly out of his seat and crossed in front of Antonio. He grabbed the man’s elbow in one hand and poked his Beretta in the man’s ribs. He kept a smile on his face.

  “Let’s talk,” Painter said and guided him away from the bar.

  It was his intention to interrogate the man in private. The less Senator Gorman was involved in all this, the better for all.

  Antonio allowed himself to be led away at gunpoint, his face a mask of terror.

  “I work for the U.S. government,” Painter said pointedly. “We’re going to have a short conversation before you meet with the senator.”

  The terror faded from his eyes, but not completely. Painter guided him toward a settee in an empty area of the lobby. It was partially shielded by a low wall and a potted fern.

  They never made it.

  Antonio suddenly tripped and fell to one knee. He gurgled and gagged. His hands fluttered to his neck. Protruding from his throat was the pointed barb of an arrow bolt. Blood splattered the marble tile floor as Antonio dropped to his hands and knees.

  Painter noted a small blinking light at the back of the man’s neck, nestled in the plastic feathers of the bolt. Painter’s body reacted before the thought even formed.

  Bomb.

  He leaped forward and dove over the low wall. He’d landed behind it when the charge exploded. It was as loud as a thunderclap in a cave. Pain squeezed his head. He went momentarily deaf—then sound returned.

  Screams, shouts, cries.

  It all sounded hollow.

  He rolled back up, keeping sheltered behind the nearby wall. Smoke choked the lobby, lit by puddles of fire. The explosion had blackened a large section of the floor. Antonio’s body had been obliterated into bits of flaming ruin. The superheated air burned with a chemical sting.

  Thermite and white phosphorus.

  Painter coughed and searched the lobby. From Antonio’s position, the arrow had to have come from inside the hotel, off to the left. From that direction, two masked figures ran through the smoke from the staircase. Another slammed through the front door.

  They pounded toward the Limelight Bar.

  They were going after the senator.

  12:04 A.M.

  Monk stood at the open door. Beyond the threshold stretched a long hall. Lights turned on, one after the other, illuminating the way ahead.

  “We’ll take a fast look,” Monk whispered. “Then get the hell out of here.”

  Creed waited for Monk to take the lead, then followed. The kid barely breathed, and he definitely didn’t blink.

  Halfway down the passage, double doors opened to the right and left. Monk headed toward them. The place smelled of disinfectant, like a hospital. The smooth linoleum floor and featureless walls added to the sense of sterility.

  He also noted that there were no cameras in this hall. Apparently the company placed its full trust in the extra layer of electronic security down here.

  Monk reached the doors. They were palm-locked like the other. Monk pressed his hand against it. Surely there were no areas off-limits to Karlsen.

  He was right.

  The lock snicked open.

  Monk headed through and found himself in an enclosed entryway facing another set of doors. The antechamber was glass. Beyond the doors opened a huge room. Lights flickered on, but they were muted a soft amber.

  He tried the next set of doors. Unlocked. The doors were clearly not intended to keep anyone out, so much as to keep the room’s occupants in.

  As Monk pushed into the next room, he gaped at the walls to either side. Extending the length of the long room were floor-to-ceiling windows. A low tonal buzzing filled the room, like a radio tuned between stations.

  Creed followed at his heels. “Are those—?”

  Monk nodded. “Beehives.”

  Behind the glass, a solid mass of bees writhed and churned in a hypnotic pattern, wings flickering, bodies dancing. Racks and tiers of honeycombs rose in stacks to the roof. The hives were divided into sections along the length of the room. Each apiary was marked with a cryptic code. Studying them, Monk noted that each number was prefixed with the same three letters: IMD.

  He didn’t understand the significance, but plainly the bees were used in some sort of research.

  Or maybe Ivar just had a real hard-on for fresh honey.

  Monk moved with Creed to the closest bank. The buzzing grew louder, the agitation more frenzied. The lights, though muted, must have stirred them.

  “I think they’re Africanized bees,” Creed said. “Look at how aggressive they are.”

  “I don’t care where they came from. What is Viatus doing with them?”

  And why all this security?

  Creed reached toward a small drawer in the hive window.

  “Careful,” Monk warned.

  Creed pinched his brows and pulled open the drawer. “Don’t worry. I’ve worked with bees before at my family’s farm back in Ohio.”

  The drawer came out to reveal a sealed box with a meshed end. A single large bee rested inside.

  “The queen,” Creed said.

  The bees became even more frenzied within the cage.

  Monk noted that the box was stamped with the same cryptic code as the cage. As Creed returned the drawer to its slot, Monk freed a small pen camera. Pressing a button, he took a short digital video. He recorded the banks of bees and the numbers above each hive.

  It could be important.

  For now, the best they could do was document it all and get the hell out. Once finished recording, Monk checked his watch. He still wanted to check the room across the hall before they headed to the servers and finished their primary mission.

  “C’mon,” Monk said and led his partner back out into the hallway.

  Stepping across the hall, Monk pre
ssed his palm against the other door’s reader. As the door unlocked, he headed inside. It opened into an anteroom similar to the other lab. But here respirator masks hung on wall pegs to one side. Ahead, lights flickered on as before. The room beyond the door was the same size as the other.

  But there were no bees.

  The room held four long raised beds running the length of the room. Even from here, Monk recognized the little fleshy umbrellas growing out of the beds in riotous exuberance.

  “Mushrooms,” Creed said.

  Monk passed into the next room. The door opened with the small pop of an air seal. The room was negatively pressurized to keep the air inside. Monk immediately understood why.

  Creed covered his mouth and nose.

  The stench struck like a slap to the face. The air was muggy, hot, and smelled like a mix of brine, dead fish, and rotted meat. Monk wanted to turn tail and run out, but Painter had related his discussion with Gray.

  About mushrooms.

  It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  Monk freed his camera, ready to document it. Creed joined him. He handed over a respirator from the anteroom. Monk pulled it over his face gratefully.

  At least someone’s thinking…

  The respirator’s filters took the edge off the stink. Able to breathe, he headed to the closest bed. The mushrooms were growing out of watery black mulch that looked oily.

  Creed slipped on a pair of latex gloves and joined him. He shook open another glove. “We should get a sample of the fungus.”

  Monk nodded and set about recording it all.

  Creed reached toward one of the mushrooms. He delicately grabbed it by the base and pulled it up. It lifted freely—but with it came a fleshy chunk of something attached to it. Creed shuddered and dropped it in disgust. It splashed into the wet mulch, shivering the surface like a soup of loose gelatin.

  Only then did Monk recognize the growth medium for the mushrooms.

  Clotted blood.

  “Did you see…?” Creed stammered. “Was that…?”

  Monk had noted what Creed’s mushroom had been attached to. It was a kidney. And from the size of it, possibly human.

  Monk waved Creed back to the gruesome task. “Get a sample.”

  With his camera recording, Monk moved down the long bed of mushrooms. The smallest were closest to the door. They were white as bone. But the mushrooms grew larger along the row, gaining a richer hue of crimson.