The Doomsday Key

"The police..." Gray guessed aloud.

"'Bout time," Kowalski said.

Seichan did not share their relief. Her expression soured. She was on several terrorist watch lists, including Interpol's.

Before they could make any decision, a new noise intruded. It came suddenly. The thump-thump of a helicopter. Gray stepped out from under the boardwalk and stared up. Rachel joined him.

A wasp-bodied black helicopter swept over the rim of the coliseum.

"That's not the polizia," Rachel said.

In fact, there were no markings on the craft.

As it banked over the stadium, a side door cranked open in the helicopter.

Gray grabbed Rachel's shoulder. "Run!"

It was clear now why the gunmen had fled. Not from the police, but from a new level of assault. Why shoot fish in a barrel when depth charges worked so much better?

"This way!" Rachel yelled.

She ran, ignoring the protest from her knee, adrenaline burning away pain. She headed along a curving wall lined by stone cells. The others followed.

"What's going on?" Kowalski bellowed.

Rachel took the first right passage, then the next left. She ended up at a dead end. "Back!"

They scrambled around. Rachel kept hold of Gray's shoulder, limping. While she knew where the exit was located, she did not have this rat maze memorized. Backpedaling, she found the correct turn this time. Ahead, a straight passage ended at a narrow archway. That was it! The arch marked a staircase down to a lower level of the hypogeum.

She had started toward it when Gray grabbed her from behind and shouldered her back into one of the side cells. The others piled in, too. Gray covered her as a thunderous whump sounded that shook the walls and stones underfoot. A moment later, a wash of flames billowed past overhead, rolling smoke and reeking of poisonous chemicals.

Gray shoved her back out of the shelter. She stumbled, deaf, eyes watering. Overhead, the helicopter swept past, swirling smoke and flames. A black steel barrel was rolled to the lip of the open hatch.

Oh, no...

Panicked, knowing what was coming, Rachel sprinted down the passageway, gasping in pain as she hurdled rocks and sections of tumbled wall. The arched opening gaped ten yards away. Focused on her goal, her heel landed on a moss-encrusted stone. Her foot slipped, and her leg twisted. She stumbled-but never hit the ground.

Gray scooped her around the waist and carried her the last few steps. They dove together through the archway. Bodies shoved into them from behind. They fell as a group, tripping, tumbling down the flight of stone steps.

They landed in a pile at the bottom as the world exploded above them.

The blast, striking near the opening, immediately deafened them. Pressure slammed Rachel's ears and felt like it cracked her skull. Rocks tumbled and bounced. Flames gusted down the throat of the stairwell, washing across the roof overhead. Her skin burned. Her lungs could draw no air.

Then in a rush, the pressure popped. The flames were sucked away, back out of the tunnel. Cool air drafted up from the lower levels and washed over them.

Hands shoved and dragged. They crawled away from the stairs down into the murky lower passages. After a few yards, they all slowly gained their feet. Rachel used the walls to haul herself up. She panted, felt like vomiting, fought the rising gorge. She took great gulps of cool air.

"Keep going," Gray urged.

Rachel leaned on the wall as they stumbled away. They had to keep moving. The concussions and fires could drop the upper level on top of them. They had to get clear.

"Can you find that exit?"

She coughed. "I think...maybe..."

Gray grabbed her elbow. "Rachel."

She nodded, regaining her balance, both inside and outside. "Yes. This way." She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. The meager glow didn't cast much light, but it was better than nothing.

Holding on to Gray's shoulder, she set off. It wasn't far, but this level was a rabbit warren of cells, passages, and cave-ins. She headed out, lost in the past as much as the present.

She remembered Uncle Vigor taking her down here, tantalizing her with tales of heroes and monsters, of strange beasts and great pageantry. He had also told her about one of the grandest of shows, a rare event held at the Coliseum. A spectacle called a naumachiae.

She spoke aloud as she led the others. "Before these underground levels were built, early in the Roman empire, they used to flood this area, creating a great lake in the middle of the Coliseum. Famous sea battles were reenacted here, along with demonstrations of swimming horses and bulls."

Kowalski trailed behind them, dusty, bloody, and burned. "Right now, a swim sounds pretty damn good to me."

"What did they do with all the water after the show?" Gray asked.

"You'll see," Rachel said.

Another two turns and they ended up at a wall. An iron grate sealed a narrow, low passageway. Even in the meager light, it plainly led down at a steep angle.

"They cleared this just last year, confirming what Uncle Vigor already knew." Rachel unlatched the gate and pulled it open.

Before she could explain more, a loud rumbling crash echoed across the space. Rock dust wafted in a thick cloud and rolled over them.

"The bombs are triggering a cave-in," Rachel said.

Closer at hand, a marble block fell from the roof a yard away and crashed heavily to the floor. More groans and rumbles followed. Like the first tip of a domino, the entire level was beginning to collapse on top of them.

"This way," Rachel said. "Hurry."

She ducked into the steep passage and led the way down. Behind her the others followed single file. They hadn't taken more than a half-dozen steps when the floor shook, accompanied by an ominous rumble of thunder. More dust filled the air, choking and blinding them.

Rachel hurried onward, covering her mouth with her arm. She felt blindly ahead of her. The steep floor grew even steeper. Rachel used one hand to brace herself and held forth her glowing cell phone in the other.

"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."

Chapter 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 international 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 was 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.

"For the moment."

Gray appreciated focusing back on the matter at hand. Kowalski headed into the bathroom with his two bottles of wine. Rachel sat on the bed and listened to his end of the conversation. Over the next fifteen minutes, Gray and Painter compared notes: three murders on three continents, the violence perpetrated to cover up what was going on, the significance of the pagan symbol that seemed to link everything together.

Painter described his plan to travel to Norway to investigate Viatus and its CEO.

"And Monk is going with you?" Gray asked, both surprised and glad for his friend.

"Along with John Creed, our new resident geneticist. He was the one who decrypted the data from Jason Gorman's e-mail." Painter's voice firmed to a more serious tone. "Which brings us to what Lieutenant Verona discovered, what someone apparently wanted destroyed."

"The mummified finger."

Gray glanced at Rachel. They'd had a long discussion on the train ride out of Rome. Father Marco Giovanni had been working at an excavation site in northern England, somewhere in the mountainous and remote region that bordered Scotland. They still had no more details about the excavation. All they knew was that Vigor's former student had been researching the roots of Celtic Christianity, when pagan worship merged with Catholicism.

Gray had already related some details to Painter. But he hadn't expanded on what Rachel had divulged on the train.

"Director, maybe you'd better hear this from Lieutenant Verona herself. I'm not sure of the significance, but it's worth noting if only for thoroughness."

"Very well. Put her on."

Gray crossed back to the bed and passed her the cell phone. "I thought you should tell Painter what you learned."

She nodded. He remained standing near the bedpost. After a few pleasantries, Rachel cut to the strange matter of the priest's obsession.

"Before everything went to hell in Rome," Rachel explained, "I had acquired a list of published papers and treatises written by Father Giovanni, some going back to when he was a student. It was plain he was fixated on a specific mythology of the Catholic faith, an incarnation of the Virgin Mary known as the Black Madonna."

Gray listened with half an ear as she explained. He was familiar with the subject. He had studied comparative religions before joining Sigma and knew the history and mysteries surrounding the cult of the Black Madonna. Over the centuries, going back to the very start of Christianity, statues and paintings had appeared that depicted the Mother of Christ with dark or black skin. These came to be revered and treasured. Over four hundred of the images still existed in Europe, a few dating all the way back to the eleventh century. And a large number of them were still worshiped and venerated: the Black Madonna of Cz__stochowa in Poland, the Madonna of Hermits in Switzerland, the Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico. The list went on and on.

Despite this ongoing veneration, controversy continued to surround these unique Madonnas. While some claimed miraculous properties associated with them, others declared the dark skin was due to nothing more than accumulated candle soot or the natural darkening of wooden statues or old marble. The Catholic Church avoided acknowledging any significance or spiritual powers for these incarnations.

Rachel continued with Father Giovanni's fixation. "Marco was convinced that Celtic Christianity built its foundations upon the Black Madonna, that this image represented the fusion of the old pagan Earth Mother with the new worship of the Virgin Mary. He spent his career searching for this connection, the true source behind the mythology."

Rachel paused, plainly listening to a question from Painter, then answered, "I don't know if he ever found that source. But he found something, something worth dying over."

Rachel stopped again to listen, then said, "Right. I agree. I'll pass you back to Commander Pierce."

Gray accepted the phone, lifted it to his ear, and returned to the window. "Sir?"

"Considering Rachel's story, it seems plain what your next step must be."

Gray had no doubt of the correct answer. "Investigate the excavation site in England."

"Precisely. I don't know how the murders in Africa and Princeton tie to Father Giovanni's research. But there must be some connection. I'll follow up in Oslo concerning the genetic research-you see what that mummified finger points to."

"Yes, sir."

"Do you need any additional personnel for this mission? Or can you manage with Joseph Kowalski and Lieutenant Verona?"

"I think the leaner we move, the better."

Despite his best effort, a strained edge tightened his voice. There remained one detail he had never divulged to Painter Crowe. Gray stared down into the garden, to the crimson glow of a cigarette. He hated to lie to the director, even if it was only a sin of omission, but if Gray told Sigma Command about their new ally here, Painter would have no choice but to send a team to collect her, to cart her off to an interrogation camp.

Gray could not allow that.

Still, he hesitated.

Was he making the right choice? Or was he needlessly putting the entire mission in jeopardy?

Gray turned from the window to discover Rachel staring at him. In her eyes, he recognized that his decision threatened more than just his own life. Still, he also remembered a pained plea two years ago, one full of need and hope.

Trust me, Gray. If only a little.

Facing the dark window again, Gray stared at his reflection. After a long steadying breath, he spoke into the phone.

"We'll be fine on our own."

Chapter 11

October 11, 11:22 P.M.

Oslo, Norway

Ivar Karlsen pulled on the heavy oak door, its planks strapped with hammered iron. Snow swirled through the moonless night and whipped in sudden gusts into the narrow arched entry. Cold pinched his exposed cheeks, while the iron handle was so frozen it burned his fingers as he hauled open the door. The day's storm had indeed turned into the first true snowfall by evening.

The harsh weather stirred Ivar, got his heart pounding, his breath blowing strongly. Perhaps he did indeed have Viking blood running through his veins as his old bestemor claimed.

Ducking through the door, he stamped his boots to dislodge the caked snow. A dark stairway lay ahead, leading down into the depths below Akershus Castle. Ivar threw back the hood of his fleece-lined sherling coat and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. Clicking it on, he headed down the stairs.

The stone steps had been laid when the fortress was first built, dating back to the medieval period. His steps echoed off the low walls. He had to duck to keep from brushing the ceiling. Reaching the lower level, the stairs ended at an old guardroom with the original iron wall hooks and torch brackets still intact. Heavy beams held up the ceiling.

On the far side, a brick archway opened on a hall of tiny cells where downtrodden nobles and all manner of high criminals had been kept in squalid and miserable conditions. It was here that the Nazis had tortured Ivar's countrymen, those who resisted the German occupation. Ivar had even lost a granduncle down here. Honoring that sacrifice, Viatus continued to donate large sums to the preservation and upkeep of Akershus.

Ivar swept his flashlight down the throat of the gloomy dungeon passageway. This section was closed to the usual castle tours. Few even knew of its existence...or its darker history. It was here that those who committed high treason to the crown and country were held. The Nazi collaborator Viktor Quisling had been kept locked down here before he was executed. Many others had met their deaths, going back centuries.

Ivar's fingers closed over an old coin in his coat pocket. He kept it with him at all times. It was a 1725 Frederick IV four-mark, minted by Henrik Christofer Meyer. Meyer had also died down here, whipped and bloodied, for replacing silver with copper in the king's coinage and pocketing the savings.

King Frederick IV-considered at the time to be a benevolent and merciful leader-still held to a strict code of honor. It was rumored that he had Viking blood in his lineage. And following the Viking code, betrayal of any manner had to be dealt with harshly.

Upon the king's order, Meyer was not only ordered whipped at the post and sentenced to life imprisonment, he was also marked permanently as a traitor to the crown. Meyers was branded with a hot iron poker in the center of his forehead. The king used one of the mint master's own substandard coins for the branding, burning the image into the man's flesh.

The coin in Ivar's pocket was one of those very coins. It had been in his family for centuries, the story passed from one generation to the next. It grew to represent the Karlsen family code: to balance mercy and generosity, yet never tolerate treachery in any form.

Ivar heard the door above open and slam closed, cutting off his reverie. Footsteps echoed as someone hurried down the steps.

A slim, long-legged woman entered the guardroom. She carried a bit of the winter chill with her. Snow frosted her fiery hair; her gold eyes reflected his flashlight. She wore a long gray coat over dark clothes.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Ivar," she said. She tossed her hair, scattering snow like some ancient goddess of winter.

Though only in her late twenties, Krista Magnussen had become the chief geneticist for his corporation's Crop Biogenics division. She had risen quickly, demonstrating both brilliance and a seemingly supernatural resourcefulness. It was only last year that Ivar had learned the true basis of her resourcefulness. The revelation had come at a time when things had begun to go awry with his careful plans. The house of cards he'd been meticulously building had begun to lean. It had needed shoring up.

Krista again proved her value; Ivar had been shocked to discover that she was not entirely who she appeared to be. Corporate espionage was commonplace throughout the industry, but he'd never suspected such a young, brilliant woman. And he never suspected the reach of her connections. She worked for a shadowy network that went by many names. They offered their mercenary services in exchange for access and a percentage of future profits. Over the past year, they had proved to be invaluable at shoring up his plans, even accelerating them.

And it had been Krista herself who dealt with the delicate and unfortunate matter of the senator's son.

She moved closer, gave Ivar a firm hug, and brushed his cheek in a chaste kiss. Her lips were still cold from the storm.

"I'm also sorry," she said, "that I had to summon you so suddenly at this hour."

"If it's important..."

"It is." Krista shook her long coat, shivering off snow and melting droplets. "I've just heard that our targets in Rome survived."

"They're alive? I thought you said they were dead."

"We underestimated them," Krista said with a shrug. She made no effort to justify, obfuscate, or avoid responsibility. As always, Ivar respected her candor.

"Do they still possess the artifact?"

"Yes."

"How do you know all this?" he asked with a frown.

Krista smiled, still coldly. "It seems our attack got someone's attention, someone with something to prove. After events in Rome, we were contacted. Offered a deal. We now have someone on the inside."

"Can they be trusted?"

"I don't leave such matters to mere trust, Ivar. Our organization will be staying close to them, keeping a fire lit under them."

"I don't understand. If you have someone on the inside, why not have them secure the artifact or destroy it?"

"That may not be the wisest choice." Her eyes sparkled in the darkness, shining with a brilliance that dazzled.

"What do you mean?"

"Father Giovanni betrayed you. Took your money, allowed you to finance his research. Yet when he found the artifact, he stole it. Fled with it."

Ivar's fingers tightened on the coin. The priest was made to pay for his crime. Shortly after learning of Krista's connections, Ivar had told her the bloody story of Henrik Meyer, as both a lesson and a warning to her. Instead, she took the story to heart and suggested the mutilations, to help disguise the murders, to make them look more like the work of ecoterrorists. Ivar also found a certain satisfaction in the punishment, a return to an older form of justice, where those who betrayed the world were marked for all to see.

Krista continued. "But with the artifact secure again, now is our chance to hunt for what remains missing. To discover what Giovanni sought."

Ivar's attention focused fully back on her. He could not keep the desire out of his voice. "The Doomsday key..."

Such a discovery would not only secure his plan, it could make history. The key had the potential to unlock a mystery stretching back millennia.

Krista explained her plan. "Those who now hold the artifact have proved to be resourceful in the past. With the proper motivation, they might succeed where Father Giovanni failed."

Ivar reined in his raw desire and maintained his practicality. "And you're certain you can handle such an undertaking?"

"Not just me." Krista smiled, this time warm and full of assurance. "As I promised from the beginning, you'll have the full support of the Guild."

She crossed to him. "We will not fail you. I will not fail you."

Moving into his arms, she kissed him again. Not chastely this time, but full on the lips. Her hair brushed his neck, icy and damp, sending chills through him, but her lips, mouth, and tongue burned like liquid fire.

Ivar forgot about the coin in his pocket and reached to the small of her back. He pulled her closer. He recognized that she was seducing him, and he suspected that she knew he wasn't fooled. But neither of them pulled away.

They both knew what was at risk, what waited to be won.

The future of mankind.

And the power to control that fate.

SECOND

FIRE AND ICE

Chapter 12

October 12, 10:12 A.M.

Hawkshead, England

It seemed impossible that murder could be traced back to such an idyllic countryside.

Gray drove down the winding road framed by rolling hills. With each passing mile the lane grew narrower until it was barely wide enough to accommodate the rented Land Rover. A patch of hardwood forest overhung the road, creating a tangled tunnel of woven branches. Once clear of the woods, the vistas opened again and revealed the rounded peaks of the surrounding fells, or what passed for mountains here in England. Snow already covered the crags in a white blanket since an early winter storm had blown across the district the night before.

Closer at hand, meadows and hedge-lined farm tracts cut the landscape into a quilt of brown grasses and fallow fields. Streams and creeks sparkled among mirror-smooth lakes and smaller highland tarns. Ice rimed the edges of all the waterways, and windblown snow frosted the entire landscape.

The natural beauty struck one to silence.

Or almost everyone.

"You're lost, aren't you?" Kowalski accused from the backseat.

"I'm not lost," Gray lied.

Rachel rattled her road map and eyed Gray doubtfully.

Okay, maybe they were a little off course...

They had left Liverpool two hours ago and followed the directions easily enough up into the Lake District of northern England. The highways were well marked, but once Gray exited the major thoroughfares, he ended up in a countryside of meandering lanes, unmarked roads, and a broken landscape of hills, forests, and lakes.

Even GPS proved to be no help. None of the roads matched its software. They might as well have been driving through open country.

Their destination was the town of Hawkshead, one of the many honeypot villages that nestled within the natural wonderland of the English Lake District. They were to meet a colleague of Father Giovanni, a historian from the University of Edinburgh named Dr. Wallace Boyle. Boyle had organized the dig out in a remote section of the central fells and still oversaw the site. He had agreed to meet them at a hotel pub in Hawkshead.

But first Gray had to find the place.

Rachel studied the map and searched out the window for any landmarks. Behind Rachel, Seichan sat next to Kowalski and stared sullenly out at the rolling hills and dales. She had barely spoken a word since leaving Italy and continued to hover at the edge of their group, maintaining a wary distance.

"If we don't get somewhere pretty damn quick," Kowalski continued, "you're going to have to stop at the next tree or bush. My back molars are floating."

Gray sped up the next hill. "If you hadn't downed those four pints of beer back in Liverpool-"

"Not my fault. All those cockamamie names. Blackwater Brewery's Buccaneer. Cains Double Bock. Boddington's Bitters. Tetley's Cask. Guy can't tell what he's getting 'til he tastes it. Took a while to find a good one."

"But you drank them all down."

"Of course I did. It would've been rude not to."

Rachel folded her map and gave up. "It can't be much farther," she said with little conviction. "Maybe we should stop and ask for directions."

Moments later, it proved unnecessary. With a final rattling push, the Land Rover topped the next rise, and a small village appeared, spread across the valley ahead.

Gray looked over at Rachel. The relief on her face answered his question. It had to be Hawkshead. Cobblestone lanes crisscrossed past fenced gardens and squat timbered homes. Snow mantled the village's slate roofs, and thin trails of smoke rose from the chimneys. Across the way, an old stone church crouched atop a hill and overlooked the village, like a grim gray deacon scowling down at the town below.

As they wound down toward the village, stacked-stone walls rose alongside the road. The Land Rover rumbled over an arched granite bridge to enter the outskirts of town. The buildings and homes were of wattle-and-daub construction with exposed timbers, traditional for an English Tudor town. Small front gardens and window boxes hinted at the splendor that must be spring and summer here, but after the storm last night, snow piled atop boxes and across yards, creating a wintry Christmas scene.

Gray slowed the Land Rover to a crawl as his tires crunched over icy cobbles. He headed toward the main square, where their meeting place-the Kings Arms Hotel-was located. They were already twenty minutes late. Reaching the square, Gray slid the SUV into a small parking lot.

As they exited the vehicle, the cold bit into any exposed skin. The dampness of Liverpool and the long heated drive had not prepared them for the icy chill of the Lakeland elevations. Wood smoke scented each cold breath. Bundling tighter into their thick coats, they set off.

The Kings Arms Hotel lay on the far side of the main square. The squat, slate-roofed building had greeted travelers for five hundred years, stretching back to the Elizabethan era. A low stone wall cordoned off a beer garden in front, its tables and chairs currently covered in a thin coat of fresh snow, but the fiery glow from the inn's lower windows promised steaming warmth and hot drinks. They hurried toward it.

Kowalski trailed them. "Hey, lookit all the bears..." His voice had a wistful note to it, a tone as incongruous as a bull suddenly singing an aria.

Gray glanced back at him. Kowalski's gaze was fixed on a shop window. Beyond the frosted glass, amber light revealed a display of teddy bears of every size and shape. The sign above the door read Sixpenny Bears.

"There's one dressed like a boxer!" Kowalski began to detour toward the window.

Gray directed him back. "We're already late."

Kowalski's shoulders slumped. With a final longing glance back at the shop, he continued after them.

Rachel stared at the big man with a bewildered expression.

"What?" Kowalski said grumpily. "It was for Liz, my girlfriend. She...she's the one who collects bears."

Rachel stared a moment longer, her expression doubtful.

Kowalski grumbled under his breath and tromped heavily toward the inn.

Seichan stepped next to Gray and touched his elbow. "You go inside. Meet with that historian. I'll keep watch out here."

Gray stared over at her. That hadn't been the plan. Though her face remained calm and disinterested, her eyes continued to roam the square, most likely analyzing the area for sniper roosts, escape routes, and the best places to duck for cover. Or maybe she just refused to meet his eye. Was she truly seeking to guard them or maintaining a cold distance?

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his legs slowing.

"No." Her eyes flashed toward him, almost angrily. "And I mean to keep it that way."

Gray didn't feel like arguing. After all that had happened in Italy, perhaps it would be best to keep a guard outside. He headed after Kowalski and Rachel as Seichan dropped back.

Joining the others, he crossed through the frozen beer garden and reached the front door. He noted a sign near the entryway that read "Good dogs and children welcome." That probably excluded Kowalski. Gray considered ordering his partner to stay outside with Seichan, but that would only make the woman angrier.

Gray pulled the door open. A heady warmth flowed out, accompanied by the smell of malt and hops. The pub was straight off the hotel lobby. A few voices echoed out to them, along with a booming laugh. Gray followed Kowalski into the pub. His partner aimed straight for the restroom with a quickness to his step.

Gray remained at the entrance and searched the room. The pub of the Kings Arms was small, a scatter of wooden tables and booths built around a stacked-stone fireplace. A roaring fire had been stoked against the cold. Next to the hearth stood a life-sized wooden model of a crowned king, likely the namesake of the hotel.

Another thundering burst of laughter drew Gray's attention to a corner booth near the fire. A pair of locals, dressed in hunting clothes and knee-high boots, stood before the table and its lone occupant.

"Fell right in the bog, you say, Wallace!" One of the hunters chuckled, wiping at an eye with one hand while hoisting a tall glass of dark ale in the other.

"Arse over kettle! Straight in," the man in the booth agreed, a Scottish brogue thickening his tongue.

"Wish'un I could've seen that, right enough."

"Ah, but the stench afterward, lads. That you wouldn'ta want to be near. Not at all." Another hearty laugh followed from the man seated in the booth.

Gray recognized Dr. Wallace Boyle from his picture on the University of Edinburgh website. But the professor in the photo had been clean-shaven and dressed in a formal jacket. The man here had a grizzly dusting of gray beard and was outfitted like his fellow hunters in a frayed herringbone jacket over a quilted waistcoat. On the table rested a moss-green tweed cap, fingerless gloves, and a thick scarf. Next to him, propped upright on the bench seat, was a shotgun zippered into a gunslip.

Dr. Boyle noted Gray's attention and approach. "Tavish, Duff, looks like those reporters I was setting to meet have arrived."

That had been their cover story: a pair of international journalists covering the bombing at the Vatican, following up on the death of Father Giovanni. Kowalski acted as their photographer.

The two hunters glanced Gray's way. Their faces went hard with the usual suspicion of locals for outsiders, but they nodded in wary greeting. With a final heft of their drinks, they left the table.

"Cheers, Wallace," one said as he departed. "We best be going anyway. It's already getting to be brass monkeys out there."

"And it'll get colder," Wallace agreed, then waved Gray and Rachel over toward his table.

Kowalski had returned from the restroom, but he never made it past the bar. His eyes were fixed to the chalkboard over the fireplace that listed the local brews. "Copper Dragon's Golden Pippin? Is that a beer or some sort of fruity drink? I don't want anything that has fruit in it. Unless you call an olive a fruit..."

Gray tuned out his partner as he headed over to Wallace's table. The professor stood, unfolding his six-foot-plus frame. Though in his midsixties, the man remained robust and broad-chested, like a younger Sean Connery. He shook their hands, his gaze lingering a little longer on Rachel. The man's eyes pinched for a moment, then relaxed, hiding whatever had momentarily perplexed him.

Rachel began to slide into the booth first, then suddenly froze. Her side of the bench was occupied. A wiry furred head lifted into view and rested a chin on the wooden table, not far from a half-eaten platter of bangers and mash.

"Rufus, get down from there," Wallace scolded, but without much heat. "Make room for our guests."

The black-and-tan terrier huffed through its nose in exasperation, then ducked away and came strolling out from under the table. He moved closer to the fire, circled twice, then collapsed down with an equally loud sigh.

"My hunting dog," the professor explained. "A mite spoiled, he is. But at his age, he's earned it. Best fox flusher in the isles. And why shouldn't he be? Born and bred right here. A true Lakeland Terrier."

Pride rang in the man's voice. This was not a professor headed toward early retirement, nor even one resting on his laurels, which were many, according to the man's bio. Dr. Wallace Boyle was considered to be a leading expert on the history of the British Isles, specifically the Neolithic age through the Roman occupation.

They all settled into the booth. Gray placed a small digital recorder on the table, maintaining their cover as journalists. After a few pleasantries about the weather and their drive, Wallace quickly turned to the matter at hand.

"So, you've come all this way to see what we discovered up in the fells," Wallace said. His brogue grew less heavy, his speech more formal, tailoring it to his audience. "Since the death of Father Giovanni, I've been fielding questions and inquiries nonstop for the past two days. Yet no one's seen fit to come out here in person. Then again, the good father himself hadn't been out here in months."

"What do you mean?" Rachel asked.

"Father Giovanni left at the end of summer. Headed to the coast, then off to Ireland, last I heard from him." Wallace shook his head sadly and tapped his glass of beer with a fingernail in some semblance of a toast to the dead. "Marco was a brilliant chap. Truly a great loss. His research and fieldwork on the roots of Celtic Christianity could have changed the way we view history."

"Why did he come here to begin with?" Gray asked. "To the Lake District."

"He would've ended up here eventually, I suppose. Even if I hadn't summoned him following my discovery up in the mountains."

"Why's that?"

"Marco's passion-or more like his obsession-had him scouring any and all areas where paganism and Christianity overlapped." Wallace lifted an arm to encompass the region in general. "And the history of this district is a story of that very conflict written in stones and ruins. It was the Norse who first came to this area, sailing over from Ireland to farm here in the ninth century, bringing all their traditions. Even the word fell comes from the Norse word for 'hill.' In fact, the village of Hawkshead was founded by a Norseman named Haukr, whose name still lives on in this place. That should give you some idea of the long history of this region."

Wallace nodded out the window toward the church that overlooked the town. "But times change. During the twelfth century, the entire area came under the ownership of the monks of Furness Abbey, the ruins of which can be found not far from here. The monks cultivated the region, traded in wool and sheep, and ruled the superstitious villagers with an iron fist. Tensions dragged on for centuries between the ancient pagan ways and the new religion. The old rituals continued to be performed in secret, often at the prehistoric sites that litter the countryside."

"What do you mean by prehistoric sites?" Rachel asked.

"Places dating back to the Neolithic period. Five thousand years ago." Wallace ticked them off on his fingers. "Ancient stone circles, henges, barrows, dolmens, hill forts. While Stonehenge might be the most famous, it's only one among several hundred such sites spread across the British Isles."

"But what interested Father Giovanni about your specific excavation?" Gray asked, seeking to draw the professor closer to the core of their investigation.

Wallace cocked one brow. "Ah, well, that you will have to see for yourself. But I can tell you what led me to this region."

"And what was that?"

"A single entry in an old book. An eleventh-century text nicknamed the Doomsday Book."

Kowalski stepped to their table. He carried a tall glass of pilsner in each hand, drinking from both. He paused in midsip upon hearing Wallace's words. "Doomsday," he said. "Great. Like we don't have enough problems already."

11:05 A.M.

Seichan walked the full length of the square. In her mind, a map formed of the local area. Every detail, brick by brick, every street, alley, building, and parked car. All became fixed in her head.

She noted two men dressed in hunting gear as they left the pub. She stalked them as they ambled over to a truck in the parking lot. She made sure they drove away.

Afterward, she found a good vantage point from which to observe the Kings Arms Hotel. It was the doorway of a closed gift shop. The alcove allowed her to shelter against the occasional stiff gust and to keep out of direct sight. On her right, the shop's window displayed a pastel-colored diorama of small ceramic animals dressed in little outfits: pigs, cows, ducks, and, of course, tiny bunnies...lots and lots of bunnies. The Lake District was the home of Beatrix Potter and her creation Peter Rabbit.

Despite her need to watch the hotel, Seichan's attention drifted to the shop window. She remembered very little about her childhood, and what she did remember she wished she could forget. She had never known her parents and was raised in an orphanage outside of Seoul, South Korea. It had been a squalid place with few comforts. But there had been a few books, including Beatrix Potter's, brought years ago by a Catholic missionary. Those books and others were her true childhood, a place to escape the hunger, abuse, and neglect. As a young girl, she had even made a toy bunny out of a scrap of burlap stuffed with dry rice. To keep it from being stolen, she had kept it hidden behind a loose board in the wall, but eventually a rat found it and ate out the stuffing. She had cried for a solid day, until one of the matrons beat her, reminding her that even sorrow was a luxury.

In the doorway, Seichan turned her back to the window display, shutting out those memories. Still, it wasn't just the past that pained her. Through the window, she watched Gray converse with an older man in tweed garb. It had to be Dr. Wallace Boyle. Seichan studied Gray. His black hair was longer, lankier across his forehead. His face had also grown harder, making his cheekbones stand out. Even his ice-blue eyes had a few more crinkles at the edges-not from laughter, but from the passing of a hard couple of years.

Standing in the cold, dusted with snow, Seichan remembered his lips. In a single moment of weakness, she had kissed him. There had been no tenderness behind it, only desperation and need. Still, she had not forgotten the heat, the roughness of his stubble, the hardness of his hold on her. Yet in the end it had been meaningless to both of them.

The hand in her coat pocket touched the scar on her belly.

They had just been dancing a game of betrayal.

Like now.

A vibration in her pocket alerted her to a call.

Finally.

It was the real reason she had stayed out in the cold. She removed the phone and flipped it open.

"Speak," she said.

"Do they still have the package?" The voice on the phone was calm and assured but crisp at the edges, with an American accent. It was her sole point of contact, a woman named Krista Magnussen.

Seichan bridled at having to take orders from anyone, but she had no choice. She had to prove herself. "Yes. The artifact is secure. They're meeting with the contact right now."

"Very good. We'll make our move once they're at the excavation site in the mountains. The team set the charges in place last night. The fresh snowfall should cover up any evidence."

"And the objective?"

"Remains the same. To light a fire under them. In this case, literally. The archaeological site is now more of a liability than an asset. But its destruction must appear natural."

"And you have that covered."

"We do. Leaving you free to focus fully on your objective."

Seichan read the threat behind the words. There would be no excuse for failure. Not if she wanted to live.

As she listened to the mission specifics, she continued to watch the hotel window. Not focusing on Gray any longer, she stared at the Italian woman seated beside him. Rachel smiled at something the professor said, her eyes sparking warmly even across the cold distance.

Seichan held nothing against Rachel Verona-but that would not stop her from poisoning the woman.

11:11 A.M.

Rachel listened as the conversation continued. While the professor's history lesson was intriguing, she sensed something deeper going on here-in regard to the story of Father Giovanni and something else, something yet unspoken. The man's gaze kept lingering on her, not lasciviously, but more like he was sizing her up. She had a hard time maintaining eye contact with him.

What was going on?

"I still don't understand," Gray said beside her. "What does this Doomsday Book have to do with your discovery up in the mountains?"

Wallace held up a hand, asking for patience. "First of all, the book's true name wasn't Doomsday, but rather Domesday. After the old English root dom, which meant 'reckoning' or 'accounting.' The book was commissioned by King William as a means to assess the value of his newly conquered lands, a way to assign tax and tithing. It mapped out all of England, down to every town, village, and manor house, and took a census of the local resources, from the number of animals and plows in the fields to the number of fish in its lakes and streams. To this day, the book remains one of the best glimpses of life during that time."

"That's all fine," Gray pressed, plainly wanting to hurry him along. "But you mentioned that a single entry led to your current excavation. What were you talking about?"

"Ah, now there's the rub! You see, the Domesday Book was written in a cryptic form of Latin, compiled by a single scribe. There remains some mystery as to why this level of security was necessary. Some historians have wondered if there might not have been a secondary purpose to this great compilation, some secret accounting. Especially as a few of the places listed in the book are ominously marked with a single word in Latin that meant 'wasted.' Most of those locations are concentrated in the northwest region of England, where the borders were constantly changing."

"By the northwest," Rachel asked, "you mean like here, the Lake District?"

"Exactly. The county of Cumbria was rife with border wars. And many of the spots listed as wasted were sites where the king's army had destroyed a town or village. They were noted because you couldn't tax what no longer existed."

"Really?" Kowalski asked, scowling at his two glasses of ale. "Then you never heard of the death tax?"

Wallace glanced from Kowalski to Gray.

"Just ignore him," Gray recommended.

Wallace cleared his throat. "Closer study of the Domesday Book revealed a bit of a mystery. Not all of the wasted sites were the result of conquest. A scattering of references had no explanation. These few were marked in red ink, as though someone had been tracking something significant. I sought some explanation and spent close to ten years on one of those entries, a reference to a small village up in the highland fells that no longer exists. I searched for records to this place, but it was as if they'd been expunged. I almost gave up until I found an odd mention in the diary of a royal coroner named Martin Borr. I found his book up at Saint Michael's."

He waved toward the hilltop church at the edge of town. "The book was discovered in a bricked-off cellar during a renovation. Borr was buried up in the cemetery at Saint Michael's, his possessions given over to the church. While his journals wouldn't say exactly what had happened to that village, the man did hint at something horrible, suggesting that doomsday might indeed be a more accurate name for that book. He even marked his diary with a pagan symbol, which is what drew me to the tome to begin with."

"A pagan symbol?" Rachel's hand strayed toward her coat pocket, where she kept the leather satchel with its macabre contents.

Gray placed his palm over her fingers and squeezed gently, his intent plain. Until he knew more about this man, he didn't want Rachel showing him what she'd found. Rachel swallowed, too aware of the heat of Gray's palm on her skin. She slipped her hand away and placed it on top of the table.

Wallace failed to notice their quiet communication. "The symbol was definitely pagan. Here, let me show you." He dipped a finger in his glass of ale and drew on the wooden table, with a few deft strokes, a circle and a cross. A familiar symbol.

"A quartered circle," Gray said.

Wallace's brows rose, and he stared a bit harder at Gray. "Exactly. You'll find this symbol carved into many ancient sites. But to find a Christian diary marked with it caught my attention."

Rachel sensed they were drawing near to the heart of the mystery. "And this diary helped you to find that lost village up in the mountains?"

"Actually, no." Wallace smiled. "What I found was even more exciting."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Wallace sat back, folded his arms, and swept his gaze over the lot of them. "Before I answer that, how about you telling me first what's really going on? Like what you're all doing here?"

"I don't understand," Gray said, feigning confusion, attempting to maintain their cover story as journalists.

"Don't take me for a fool. If you're reporters, I'm a steamin' bampot." Wallace's gaze settled fully on Rachel. "Besides, right off, I recognized you, my young lassie. You're Monsignor Verona's niece."

Shocked, Rachel stared over at Gray. He looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. Kowalski merely rolled his eyes, picked up his glass, and downed the remaining contents in one gulp.

Rachel saw no reason to continue the subterfuge. She faced the professor. She now understood why the man had been staring at her so oddly. "You know my uncle?"

"Aye. Not well, but I do. And I'm sorry to hear he's still in a coma. We met at a symposium years ago and began an ongoing correspondence. Your uncle was very proud of you-a carabiniere in charge of antiquities theft. He sent photos, and at my age, I don't forget a pretty young face like yours."

Rachel shared a glance with Gray, looking apologetic. She hadn't known of this personal connection.

Wallace continued. "I don't understand the reason for this bit of subterfuge, but before we go any further, I want some explanation."

Before anyone could speak, the professor's terrier began a low growl at the back of its throat. The dog climbed to its legs beside the fire and stared toward the entryway of the hotel. As the door swung open, the growl deepened.

A figure stepped into the hotel, knocking snow from her boots.

It was only Seichan.

Chapter 13

October 12, 1:36 P.M.

Oslo, Norway

The luncheon ended with a warning.

"Mankind can no longer wait to respond to this crisis," Ivar Karlsen said, standing at a podium at the far end of the dining hall. "A global collapse faces this generation or the next."

Painter shared the table at the back of the hall with Monk and John Creed. They had arrived in Oslo only an hour ago and barely made it to the opening luncheon of the World Food Summit.

The dining room of Akershus Castle was straight out of a medieval storybook. Hand-hewn wooden beams held up the ceiling, while underfoot, an oak floor was laid out in a herringbone pattern. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled down upon long tables draped in linens.

The meal had included five courses, an irony for a summit that had gathered to discuss world hunger. The lunch had been a study in Norwegian cuisine, including medallions of reindeer in a mushroom sauce and a pungent dish of lutefisk, a Norwegian whitefish specialty. Monk was still dragging his spoon around his dessert bowl, chasing the last cloudberry out of the whipped cream. Creed merely cradled a cup of coffee in his hands and listened to the keynote speaker attentively.

With the speaker's podium at the far end of the hall, Painter had a hard time getting much of a read on Ivar Karlsen, but even across the distance, the man's passion and earnestness were plain.

"World governments will be too slow to respond," Ivar continued. "Only the private sector has the fluidity to act with the necessary speed and innovation to turn aside this crisis."

Painter had to admit that the scenario presented by Karlsen was frightening. All the models he presented ended the same way. When unchecked population growth hit the point of stagnating food supply, the resulting chaos would kill over 90 percent of the world population. There seemed only one solution, a final solution not unlike Hitler's.

"Population control must be started immediately. The time to act is now, or even better, yesterday. The only way to avoid this catastrophe is to slow the rate of population growth, to apply the brakes before we hit the wall. Yet do not be fooled. We will hit the wall. It is inevitable. The only question is do we kill all the passengers or do we walk away with only a few scratches. For the sake of humanity, for the sake of our future, we must act now."

With those final words, Karlsen lifted a hand to a smattering of applause. It was far from enthusiastic. For the opening to the summit, it certainly cast a pall of gloom.

One of the men seated at the front table stood and took the microphone next. Painter recognized the dour-faced South African economist. Dr. Reynard Boutha, copresident of the Club of Rome. Though Boutha nodded to Karlsen as he assumed the podium, Painter read the tension and irritation in the copresident's expression. He was not happy with the tone of the keynote.

Painter barely heard Boutha's words. They were mostly conciliatory, more optimistic, an acknowledgment of the great strides already made in feeding the world's hungry. Painter kept his focus on Karlsen. The man's face was passive, but he gripped his water glass tightly, and deliberately kept his eyes away from Boutha, refusing to acknowledge the other's message of hope.

Monk came up with the same evaluation. "Guy looks like he's ready to punch his fist through something."

The concluding farewell by Boutha ended the luncheon. Painter immediately shot to his feet. He turned to Monk and Creed. "Head back to the hotel. I'm going to have a few words with Karlsen, then meet you there."

John Creed stood. "I thought our appointment wasn't until tomorrow morning."

"It's not," Painter said. "But it never hurts to say hello."

He pushed against the tide of people leaving the luncheon. A small clutch of admirers surrounded Karlsen, congratulating, questioning, shaking his hand. Painter edged nearer. Off to the side, he overheard Boutha speaking to a hawk-nosed man in a poorly fitting suit.

"Antonio, I thought you warned Mr. Karlsen against such an inflammatory speech."

"I did," the other answered, his face red and blotchy. "Does he ever listen? But at least he toned down the worst of it. His original keynote called for mandatory birth control in third world countries. Can you imagine how that would've been received?"

Boutha sighed and headed away with the other man. "At least he'll be away from the conference starting tomorrow."

"Small blessing there. He'll be in Svalbard with some of our biggest donors and sponsors. I can only imagine what he'll say when he has them alone. Perhaps if I went along, too..."

"You know the scheduled flights are full, Antonio. Besides, I'll be along on that trip to put out any fires."

They passed Painter without a glance, leaving the way open to Karlsen. Painter stepped forward and took the CEO's arm in a double-handed shake, one hand on his palm, the other on his wrist.

"Mr. Karlsen, I thought I should take a moment to introduce myself. I'm Captain Neal Wright from the U.S Office of the Inspector General."

The man extracted his hand, but his warm smile never faltered. "Ah, the investigator from the Department of Defense. Let me assure you that you'll have my full cooperation concerning the tragedy in Mali."

"Of course. And I know our interview isn't scheduled until tomorrow. But I just wanted to say I found your talk fascinating." Painter played off what he had just heard. "Though I wonder if you were perhaps pulling your punches."

"How so?" The casual interest in his face sharpened.

"It seems drastic methods will be necessary to curb population growth. I had hoped you would have gone into more specific details rather than mere generalities."

"You may be right, but it's a controversial subject, one best handled delicately. Too often, people blur the line between population control and eugenics."

"As in who are allowed to breed children and who are not?"

"Precisely. It's not a subject for those bound by political expediency or popular opinion. That's why governments of the world will never solve this problem. It's a matter of will and timing." Karlsen checked his watch. "And speaking of the latter, I'm unfortunately running late for another appointment. But I'd be happy to chat more about this when we meet tomorrow at my office."

"Very good. And thank you again for the illuminating talk."

The man nodded as he stepped away, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand.

Painter watched him leave. As Karlsen neared the hall entrance, Painter palmed the cell phone in his pocket and pressed the button on its side. A narrow radio frequency burst from the phone and activated the polysynthetic receiver implanted inside his ear.

A chatter of voices, along with the clink of dishes being cleared from the tables, immediately burst in his ear. The sounds were amplified from the bug he had just planted inside the jacket sleeve of Ivar Karlsen as they shook hands. The electronic surveillance device was no larger than a grain of rice. It had been DARPA engineered, based on one of Painter's own designs. He might be director of Sigma now, but he'd started as a field operative. His specialty was microengineering and surveillance.

Painter watched Karlsen come to a sudden stop outside the banquet hall. He clasped hands with a silver-haired man who matched him in height. Painter recognized Senator Gorman. Straining to listen in on their conversation, Painter weeded out the background noise and concentrated on Karlsen's voice.

"-you, Senator. Were you able to catch the keynote?"

"Just the end of it. But I'm well aware of your views. How was it received?"

Karlsen shrugged. "Fell on deaf ears, I'm afraid."

"That will change."

"Unfortunately true," Karlsen said a little sadly. He then clapped Senator Gorman on the shoulder. "By the way, I should let you know I just met that investigator from D.C. He strikes me as a very capable fellow."

Painter allowed a slight smile to form. Nothing like making a good first impression...

The senator's gaze swept the ballroom. Painter kept his face turned away and slipped smoothly among a clutch of people. The senator's security clearance was not high enough to know anything about Sigma. As far as the senator knew, Painter was merely a DoD investigator. Still, he preferred anonymity. General Metcalf had warned against ruffling the man's feathers. The senator had a quick temper and little patience, which he amply demonstrated now.

"It's a stupid waste of resources to send someone all the way here," Gorman complained. "The investigation should be concentrating its resources in Mali."

"I'm sure they're just being thorough. It's not an inconvenience."

"You're too generous."

With those words, the two men left together.

Painter kept the microreceiver live in his ear and strode toward the exit. He continued to eavesdrop on the conversation.

It was good to have the upper hand, for once.

In a room off the banquet hall, Krista Magnussen sat before an open laptop. She studied the image of the man frozen on the screen with mild interest. He was strikingly handsome with his whip-hard body, black hair, and flashing blue eyes. During the luncheon, she had observed everyone who made contact with Ivar Karlsen. A small wireless camera was situated in a corner of the room, focused on the front of the hall. There had been no audio, but the surveillance allowed her to run each image through face-recognition software and cross-reference it against a Guild database.

As she waited, the man's face digitized into a hundred reference points and uploaded. Moments later, the screen flashed in red with a single word, along with an operative code beneath it.

The word made her go cold.

Sigma.

The operative code she knew equally well.

Terminate upon sight.

Krista returned the camera feed to live. She leaned close to the monitor. The man was gone.

Antonio Gravel was having a bad day.

Standing out in the hallway, he had meant to waylay Ivar Karlsen after the luncheon, to try one last time to convince the bastard to let him join the trip to Svalbard. He was even willing to offer some concession, to ingratiate himself if necessary. Instead, Ivar had run into the U.S. senator. Antonio waited in the wings to be introduced, but as usual, the bastard deliberately ignored him. The two men departed, deep in conversation.

Antonio could barely breathe after the insult. Anger grew to a blinding white fury. He swung away savagely and smacked squarely into a woman hurrying out a side door. She was dressed in a long fur coat, her hair done up in a scarf. He struck her so hard that a large pair of Versace sunglasses slipped from her face. She deftly caught them and perched them back on her nose.

"Entschuldigen Sie bitte," Antonio apologized. He'd been so startled and mortified that he slipped into his native Swiss German-especially as a confounding flicker of recognition fluttered through him.

Who...?

Ignoring him, she shoved past, glanced into the banquet room-then rushed down the hallway with a flare of her ankle-length coat. She was plainly late for some engagement.

He watched her disappear down the closest stairwell. Irritated, he shook his head and started to leave the other way.

Then he suddenly remembered.

He jolted and swung back around.

Impossible.

He had to be mistaken. He had only met the geneticist once, at an organizational meeting regarding the Viatus research project in Africa. He didn't recall her name, but he was certain it was the same woman. He had spent most of that dull meeting staring at her and undressing her with his eyes, imagining what it would be like to force himself on her.

It had to be her.

But she was supposed to be dead, a victim of the Mali massacre. There had been no survivors.

Antonio continued to stare toward the stairwell. What was she doing here, alive and unharmed? And why was she keeping herself hidden, her features under wraps?

Antonio's eyes narrowed as a slow realization warmed through him. Something was up, something no one was supposed to know about, something tied to Viatus. For years, he'd been seeking some dirt on Ivar, a way to rein the bastard to his will.

At long last, here might be his chance.

But how to best turn it to his advantage?

Antonio swung away, already plotting his game. He knew which card to play first. A man who'd lost a son during that massacre. Senator Gorman. What would the U.S. senator think if he learned there had been a survivor of the attack, someone Ivar was keeping secret?

With a grim smile, he headed off.

The day had suddenly gotten much brighter.

3:15 P.M.

Painter headed under the brick archway that passed through the fortress wall of Akershus. Even though it was only a little after three in the afternoon, the sun was already low in the sky at this near-Arctic latitude. Beyond the archway, the fjord's harbor opened. Snow still frosted the verdigris-stained cannons that lined the walkway and pointed out to sea, ready to protect the town against warships. Though at the moment, there was only a Cunard cruise ship parked dockside.

As seagulls swooped and screamed through the diesel-fouled air, Painter continued along the cruise ship's towering bulk and aimed for the city proper. Over the past hour, he'd kept tabs on Ivar Karlsen, eavesdropping on his conversations. With the bug, he'd had a good chance to discover more details about the CEO, insights that might prove invaluable for tomorrow's interview.

The conversations had mostly been of mundane matters, but still, it was clear the man was deeply committed to facing issues of hunger and overpopulation. Karlsen was all about real-world solutions and practicality. It was plainly the man's mission in life.

Painter also caught an intriguing bit of conversation about the drought-resistant corn strains being developed by Viatus, a version of which had been tested at the Mali research farm. As of last week, mass seed shipments were already under way to places around the world, triggering a spike in stock prices for Viatus. And still Ivar was not satisfied. He promised that his company's Crop Biogenics division was continuing to craft new strains with desirable features: insect-resistant wheat, frost-tolerant citrus, weed-killing soybeans. The list went on and on, including a rapeseed strain that could produce oil essential to the manufacture of biodegradable plastic.

But the conversation had ended on a darker note. Karlsen had brought up a quote from Henry Kissinger. It had been in response to a question about his company's shift in focus from petrochemicals to engineered seeds. He had said, paraphrasing Kissinger, "Control oil and you control nations, but control food and you control all the people of the world."

Did Karlsen truly believe that?

A few minutes after that, the man had climbed into a corporate limo and left for his research complex outside of Oslo. The hidden micro-transceiver had a limited range, so Painter had to abandon his spying for now. And just as well. Karlsen's talk about the Crops Biogenics division had lit a fire under Painter. He barely felt the cold as he crossed into the shadow of the towering cruise ship and navigated through the passengers hovering at the gangplank.

He had to prepare for another facet of the investigation, one that would require a bit more stealth this evening.

As he moved through the passengers, a burly figure in a parka bumped against him. Spotting the impact a fraction of a second before, Painter instinctively moved to sidestep him. A fiery lance of pain stabbed into his side.

He spun away from it, catching a flash of silver off a knife held low in the man's grip. If he hadn't dodged at the last moment, the blade would've struck him square in the stomach. He couldn't count twice on such a lucky break. The man came at him again.

So far, no one else had noted the attack.

Painter snatched a camera from around one of the oblivious tourists' necks. Gripping the shoulder strap, he swung the heavy Nikon SLR and struck the attacker square in the ear. As the man fell to the side, Painter leaped in closer, snagged the leather strap around the man's wrist, and used the grip to wrench his struggling form over his hip and hard to the pavement.

The man's face struck the cement. A bone snapped in his trapped arm. The knife tumbled across the ground.

As yells erupted all around, Painter vaulted over the prone body, going after the loose weapon. Before he could reach it, the knife suddenly jolted, emitting a sharp hissing, and skittered like a loose rocket across the icy ground. Painter hesitated, recognizing the lethal weapon.

A WASP injector knife.

The dagger's handle held a bulb of compressed gas, making the blade doubly dangerous. Once stabbed into a victim, the press of a button blasted a basketball-sized volume of cold air through the impaled blade and into the victim's gut, snap-freezing and pulverizing all internal organs. It could kill a brown bear with one jab.

Propelled by the blast of gas, the knife rocketed into the tangle of boots and legs. The waterfront had erupted in chaos. Some people fled from the fight; others crowded closer. Someone shouted, "That guy stole my camera!"

A slew of ship security personnel pounded down the gangway. More forced their way through the crowd.

Painter clutched a hand to his side and dove into the chaos of the churning crowd. The heavy coat and last-minute dodge had saved his life. Still, hot blood welled through his fingers. Fire flamed his side. He could not get caught. Still, it wasn't only security he had to worry about. As he ran, he kept watch on the crowd around him.

Had the attacker come alone?

Not likely.

As Painter stumbled through the passengers and tourists, he searched faces around him and watched hands. How many others were disguised like the first one, planted in the crowd and guarding this exit out of Akershus?

He knew one thing for certain. This had been no random mugging. Not with the attacker wielding a WASP injector. Somehow his cover had been blown. A net had been set up around the fortress grounds.

He had to get clear of the docks, put some distance between himself and the ambush. The crowds grew less tight around him as he hopped into the parklands that bordered the dock. Icy snow covered the ground and crunched under his boots. Bright red drops splattered into the snow. He was leaving an easy trail to follow.

Fifty yards away, another man in a parka hopped the border fence and came tromping toward him. So much for the subtle approach now. Not knowing if the man had a gun, Painter turned and fled for the patch of pine trees that filled the back half of the park. He had to get under cover.

The assassin followed the fresh trail of prints in the snow. He ran in a low crouch, his blade clutched in his left hand. He hit the tree line and kept one eye on the trail and the other on his surroundings. Under the trees the way became shadowy but not so dim that he lost sight of the trail. No one had been through here since the last snowfall. Only one set of prints marred the virgin snow.

Along with a dribbling track of blood.

The path zigzagged through the trees. Clearly the target feared a gun and took up a defensive pattern. It was a waste of effort. The assassin cut a straight path through the forest, paralleling the crooked flight.

Ahead, the glade opened. The trail of prints fled straight across. His prey had abandoned caution and was trying to reach the city streets beyond the park. Tightening his grip on the knife, he raced to close the distance.

As he reached the glade's edge, a low branch of a neighboring pine whipped around. It struck him across the shins with the force of a battering ram. His legs were knocked from under him. He flipped face-forward into the snow. Before he could move, a heavy weight landed on his back and crushed the remaining air out of him.

He realized his mistake. The man had backtracked, hidden behind the pine, and ambushed him, hauling back the branch that had cracked across his shins.

It was his last mistake.

A hand shot down and gripped his chin. The other pinned his neck to the ground. A sharp yank. His neck snapped. Pain flared as if the top of his skull had blown away-then darkness.

5:34 P.M.

"Hold still," Monk scolded. "I only have one more suture."

Painter sat on the edge of the tub in his boxers. He felt the needle pierce his flesh. The spray anesthetic only dulled the sharpest edge of the pain. At least Monk worked swiftly. He'd already debrided and cleaned the wound, shot him full of prophylactic antibiotics, and with a final deft twist of his needle forceps, he closed the four-inch laceration under the left side of Painter's rib cage.

Monk dropped everything into a sterile Surgipack on the bathroom floor, picked up a roll of gauze and adhesive tape, and set about wrapping Painter's chest.

"What now?" Monk asked. "Do we stick to our schedule?"

After the attack, Painter had fled into the city, taking an extra few minutes to make sure he wasn't followed. Then he'd called Monk. As a precaution, he ordered them to change hotels and rebook under another alias. Painter joined them there.

"I see no reason to change," Painter said.

Monk nodded toward the wound. "I see about four inches of reason."

Painter shook his head. "They were sloppy. Whoever set up the attack must have done so hastily. Somehow I was made, but I don't think we're more exposed than that."

"Still, that's pretty damn exposed."

"It just means extra precautions will be necessary from here. I'll have to avoid the summit. Keep out of sight. That means leaning more heavily on you and Creed."

"So we're still going to recon that research facility tonight?"

Painter nodded. "I'll monitor via radio. Nothing fancy. Slip in, tap into the servers, and get the hell out of there."

It was a simple operation. Courtesy of Kat Bryant's sources, they had identification cards, electronic keys, and a full schematic of the Viatus facility. They would go in after midnight when the place was mostly deserted.

John Creed hurried into the bathroom. He wore a lab coat with the Viatus logo on the pocket. He must have been trying on his disguise. "Sir, your phone. It's buzzing."

Painter held out a hand and took the cell. He read the Caller ID and frowned. It was General Metcalf's number. Why was he calling? Painter had avoided briefing Washington on what had happened until he knew more. To have the operation closed down before it even started would not sit well with anyone.

Especially Painter.

He flipped the phone open and answered. "General Metcalf?"

"Director Crowe. I suspect you're still settling in over there, so I'll be brief. I just received a call from Senator Gorman. He was very agitated."

Painter struggled to understand. He'd done nothing to provoke the senator.

"Gorman received a cryptic call half an hour ago. Someone claiming to have information on the attack in Africa. The caller said he knew of a survivor to the attack."

"A survivor?" Painter could not hide his own surprise.

"The caller wants to meet at the bar of the senator's hotel. To give further details. He'll only meet with Gorman alone."

"I don't think that's wise."

"Neither do we. That's why you're going to be at that bar. The senator knows that a DoD investigator is already in Oslo. He personally requested you be there. You're to maintain a low profile, to intervene only if necessary."

"When's the meet?" Painter asked.

"Tonight at midnight."

Of course, it would be.

Painter finished the call and tossed the phone back to Creed.

"What?" Monk asked.

Painter explained, which only deepened Monk's frown.

Creed spoke a fear they all shared. "It might be a trap. Meant to draw you out into the open again."

"We should call off the operation at Viatus," Monk suggested. "Go with you as backup."

Painter considered that option. Monk had been out of the field for some time, and Creed had barely gotten his feet wet. It would be risky to send them over to the research facility by themselves. Painter studied Monk, weighing the variables.

Monk guessed the intent of his attention. "We can still do this, sir, if that's what you're thinking. The kid might be green, but we'll get it done."

Painter heard the certainty in the man's voice. With a sigh, he stopped overanalyzing the situation. He wasn't at his desk in Washington anymore. This was fieldwork. He had to trust his gut. And his gut was telling him that events were rapidly escalating out of control.

Delay was not an option.

"We stick to the schedule," he said forcefully, brooking no argument. "We need access to that server. From today's attack, it's clear someone is getting both bolder and more agitated. A bad combination. We can't let them lock us out. So we'll just have to split up tonight."

Creed looked concerned, but not for himself. "Sir, what if you're attacked again?"

"Don't worry. They had their one free shot at me." Painter reached the sink and picked up the WASP dagger that he'd confiscated from the assassin in the park. "Tonight, I'll be the one doing the hunting."

6:01 P.M.

Bundled in a fox-fur-lined coat and hood, Krista strode down the central path of Frogner Park in the west-end borough of Oslo. She had an apartment that overlooked the snowy park, but she could not stand to wait indoors any longer. She carried her phone with her.

The sun had set, and the temperature had plummeted.

She had the park to herself.

She continued along the path through the sculpture garden. Her warm breath frosted the air. She needed to keep moving, but tension kept her stiff.

Spread around her were more than two hundred sculptures created by Gustav Vigeland, a Norwegian national treasure. Most of the sculptures involved nude stone figures frozen in various combinations and twisted poses. Presently the sculptures were covered with snow, as if wrapped in tattered white cloaks.

Ahead rose the towering central sculpture. It sat on the highest point of the park and was lit up for the night. It was named the Monolith. It always reminded Krista of something out of Dante's Inferno, especially at night. Maybe that's why she was drawn to it now.

The sculpture was a circular tower four stories high carved out of a single block of granite. Its entire surface was a writhing mass of human figures, tangled, twisted, entwined, a dark orgy in stone. It was supposed to represent the eternal cycle of mankind, but to her, it looked like a mass grave.

She stared up at it, knowing what was coming.

What we are about to unleash...

She shuddered inside her coat and clasped her fur-lined hood tighter to her throat. It was not remorse that kept her trembling, but the sheer enormity of what was unfolding. It was already under way, had been for over a decade, but in the next days, there would be no turning back. The world was about to change, and she had played a primary role in it all.

But she had not acted alone.

Her phone, still clutched in her pocket, vibrated. She took a deep breath and exhaled a stream of white mist. She had failed today. What would be her punishment? Her eyes scanned the dark parklands around her. Were they already closing in on her? Death did not frighten her. What terrified her was being taken out of the game now, at this last moment. In her haste and desire, she had acted rashly. She should have contacted her superiors before attempting to take down the Sigma operative on her own.

She lifted the phone and tucked it into her hood.

"Yes?" she answered.

Alone in the park, she did not have to worry about anyone eavesdropping. The satellite phone was also encrypted. She readied herself for whatever would come.

Still, she was not prepared for the voice on the line. All warmth drained out of her. She might as well have been naked in the cold park.

"He lives," the voice said flatly. "You should have known better."

With her breath trapped in her chest, she could not speak. She had only heard this voice once before in her life. It had been after her recruitment, after a brutal initiation, when she'd carried out an assassination, killing an entire family, including a newborn baby. The Venezuelan politician had been supporting an investigation into a French pharmaceutical company, an investigation that needed to be stopped. She had also taken a bullet through her leg from the man's security team, but she still escaped without leaving a trace behind. Not even a drop of her own blood.

During her recovery, she had received a call, congratulating her.

From the man on the phone now.

It was said he was one of the Guild leaders, those who were only referred to as "Echelon."

She finally found her voice. "Sir, I take full responsibility for the failure."

"And I imagine you've learned from this mistake." The tone remained flat. She could not tell if the speaker was angry or not.

"Yes, sir."

"From here, leave the matter to us. Steps are being taken. But a new threat has arisen, more immediate than Sigma sniffing at our door. Something you'd best handle on the ground there."

"Sir?"

"Someone knows there was a survivor of the Mali massacre. They are meeting with Senator Gorman tonight."

Krista's fingers tightened on her phone. How could that be? She'd been so careful. Her mind raced through the last few days. She'd kept herself well hidden. Anger warmed through her terror.

"That meeting must not happen," the speaker warned and told her the details of the midnight rendezvous.

"And the senator?"

"Expendable. If word reaches him before you can shut this down, take him out. No evidence must be left behind."

She knew it wasn't necessary to acknowledge that.

"As to the operation in England," the man continued, "all is in place there?"

"Yes, sir."

"You know how important it is that we find the key to the Doomsday Book."

She did. She stared up at the Monolith's writhing tower of bodies. The key could either save them or damn them.

"Do you trust your contact over there?" he asked.

"Of course not. Trust is never necessary. Only power and control."

For once, a hint of amusement tinged his words. "You were taught well." The phone connection ended. But not before a last few cryptic words. "Echelon has its eyes on you."

Krista remained standing before the Monolith. With the phone still at her ear, she shuddered again-with relief, with terror, but mostly with one certainty.

She must not fail.

Chapter 14

October 12, 4:16 P.M.

Lake District, England

Gray eyed his transportation doubtfully.

His transportation stared back at him, equally unsure, stamping a hoof for emphasis.

"The Fell Pony," Dr. Wallace Boyle said as he worked among the assembled horseflesh. "You'll not find a heartier pony on God's green earth. Perfect for mountain trekking. Sure-footed and strong as an ox."

"You call these guys ponies?" Kowalski asked.

Gray understood his partner's consternation. The dusty-black stallion being saddled for Gray had to stand over fourteen hands, almost five feet tall at the withers. It chuffed into the cold air and scraped a hoof into the half-frozen mud.

"Ack, be still already, Pip," a ranch hand said as he gave the saddle cinch another tug.

The group had left Hawkshead by car an hour ago. Wallace had guided them to this horse farm deep in the mountains. Apparently the only way to reach the excavation site from here was either on foot or by horseback. Wallace had called ahead and arranged for their four-legged transportation.

"The Fell Pony has a long tradition in the region," he continued as their mounts were tacked. "The wild Picts used them against the Romans. Viking farmers used them as plow horses. And the Normans who came later made pack animals out of them to haul lead and coal."

Wallace rubbed the neck of his brown gelding and climbed up into his saddle. His terrier, Rufus, trotted through the assembled horses and lifted his leg on a fence post. The dog's initial distrust of Seichan seemed to have settled into a wary truce. He gave her a wide berth as she slipped a toe through a stirrup and leaped smoothly atop a sturdy-looking bay mare.

"'Fraid you're going to have to excuse ol' Rufus," Wallace had explained back at the pub. "Set in his ways, he is. And I'm embarrassed to say he's a bit of a bigot. Took a bite out of a Pakistani grad student last spring."

Rachel had looked aghast.

Seichan had not reacted at all. She merely stared at the dog until its tail sank, and it retreated into its master's shadow. Afterward she joined them at the table.

Rachel, having been recognized, had come clean about their true intentions with Wallace, though she kept some details sketchy. She didn't mention the mummified finger.

The professor had listened soberly, then shrugged. "No worries, lass. Your secret is safe with me. If I can help you catch the boggins who killed Marco and sent your uncle to the hospital, then all's the better, I say."

So they had set off.

But even now, they still had a long way to go.

Gray mounted his stallion, Pip, and after a bit of a shuffle, they left the farm and headed overland. Dr. Boyle led the way atop his gelding. They followed single file up a winding trail.

Gray had not been on horseback in ages. It took him a good mile to feel comfortable, to fall into an easy rhythm with his mount. Around him, the English fells climbed higher and gathered closer. Off in the distance, the snowy crown of England's highest mountain, Scafell Pike, shone in a last blaze of fire as the sun sank away.

As they trekked, a wintry silence blanketed the highlands. All that was heard was the crunch of snow under their ponies' hooves. Gray had to admit that Wallace's estimation of their mounts was not all bluster. Pip seemed to know where to place each hoof, even through the snow. Going downhill, the stallion never lost his footing and kept a steady balance.

Another two miles, and the way opened enough for Gray to sidle his mount next to Rachel and Seichan. The two had been whispering together.

As Gray joined them, Rachel struggled to free her plastic canteen. Seichan noted her difficulty and dropped her reins. Guiding her horse with her legs, she freed a thermos and unscrewed the top.

"Hot tea," Seichan said and held a cup out to Rachel.

"Thank you." Rachel took a sip, the steam bathing her face. "Ah, that's good. It warms right through you."

"It's a special herbal blend of mine."

Rachel nodded her thanks again as she finished her tea and passed back the cup.

Ahead, Kowalski slouched in his saddle, half-asleep, his head nodding, trusting his pony to follow behind Wallace's.

They rode through a sparse forest of alder and oak, over ferny bracken in a landscape of snow-covered turf and icy trickles of streams. Gray was glad to be on horseback, not trekking on foot. Unlike Rufus, who didn't seem to mind as he trotted alongside them, hopping from hillock to hillock through the damper areas. The air grew colder as the sun sank away.

"How much farther, do you think?" Rachel asked. She kept her voice hushed. The cold silence of the place had that effect.

Gray shook his head. Wallace had refused to give any more detail than "far up in the wilds of the fell." Still, Gray didn't worry about finding their way back. Before he set off, he had activated a handheld GPS unit in his pocket. It monitored their trail, leaving little digital bread crumbs to follow.

Rachel huddled deeper into her heavy jacket. Her breath puffed into the cold air. "Maybe we should have waited until morning."

Seichan spoke hollowly. "No. If there are any answers out here, the quicker we find them and move on, the better."

Gray agreed, but right now a roaring fire sounded pretty damn good. Still, he noted a strained set to Seichan's lips. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead of her.

Dropping back, Gray used the moment to truly observe the two women. They were studies in contrasts. Rachel rode easily, swaying in a relaxed but ready manner, adapting to her new environment. She spent much of the time looking around her, taking it all in. Whereas Seichan rode as if into battle. She was plainly a skilled rider, but he noted how she corrected even the slightest misstep by her pony. As if everything had to bend to her will. Like Rachel, she also took in her surroundings, but her gaze darted about, pinched with calculation.

Yet despite their differences, the two women bore some striking similarities. Each was strong-willed, confident, challenging. And at times, they could take his breath away with a single glance.

Gray forced his attention away as he realized there was one other trait both women shared. He had no future with either one of them. He had closed that chapter with Rachel long ago, and it was a book best never opened with Seichan.

Lost in private thoughts, the group continued silently through the mountains. Over the next hour, the trek became a blur of rocky escarpments, snowy cliffs, and patches of black forest. At last they crested a rise and a deep valley appeared ahead. The way down was staggeringly steep.

Wallace drew them to a halt. "Almost there," he said.

Under a crisp starry sky, they'd had little difficulty riding in the dark, but below lay true night. A dark wood filled the valley.

But that wasn't all.

Against that black canvas, a few ruddy glows dotted the forest, like tiny campfires. They would've been easy to miss during the day.

"What are those glows down there?" Gray asked.

"Peat fires," Wallace said, blowing into his gloved palms to warm the ice from his beard. "A goodly part of the fells is covered in peat. Mostly blanket mires."

"And that would be what in English?" Kowalski asked.

Wallace explained, but Gray was familiar enough with peat. It was an accumulation of decayed vegetable matter: trees, leaves, mosses, fungi. Piles of it formed in damp areas. Deposits were common in places where glaciers had retreated and carved out a mountainous landscape, like here in the Lake District.

Wallace pointed down into the valley. "Below is a forest growing out of one of the deepest peat bogs in the region. It stretches thousands of acres from here. Most of the peat deposits in the region only go down ten feet or so. The valley here has spots that are ten times as deep. It's a very old bog."

"And the fires?" Rachel asked.

"Aye, that's one good thing about peat," Wallace said. "It burns. Peat has been harvested as a fuel source for as long as man has been around. For cooking, for heating. I suspect such natural fires as those below are what gave ancient man the idea to start burning the bloody muck to begin with."

"How long have these valley fires been burning?" Gray asked.

Wallace shrugged. "No saying. They were smoldering when I first came here three years ago. Creeping slowly underground, they're all but impossible to smother. They just burn and burn, fed by a bottomless well of fuel. Some peat fires have been known to burn for centuries."

"Are they dangerous?" Rachel asked.

"Aye, lassie. You have to be careful where you step. Ground may look solid, even covered in snow, but a few feet below could be a fiery hell. Flaming pockets of peat and rivers of fire."

Wallace tapped his mount with his heels and began his descent into the valley. "But no worries. I know the safe paths. Don't go straying off on your own. Stick to my heels."

No one argued. Even Rufus moved closer to his master's side. Gray pulled out his GPS unit, making sure it was still tracking their route. On the small screen was a topographical map. A line of small red dots traced their trail back out of the fells. Satisfied, Gray returned the device to his coat pocket.

He noted Seichan staring at him. She glanced away, a bit quickly, when caught.

Wallace led them down a switchbacking path into the valley. Loose scree and crumbling turf made for a treacherous descent, but Wallace proved true to his word. He got them safely to the valley floor.

"Keep to the trail from here," Wallace warned and set off.

"What trail?" Kowalski mumbled.

Gray understood his partner's confusion. Ahead lay a flat stretch of snowy open ground. The only features were a few mounds of heather and a handful of lichen-covered boulders that looked like huddled stone giants. To the far left, a rosy glow shone from a patch of black turf outlined by green sphagnum moss. Smoke smudged upward against the snowy backdrop. The cold air smelled like a burned ham.

Wallace took a deep breath. "Reminds me of home," he said gustily as he exhaled, his brogue thickening. "Nothing like the scent of burning peat to accompany a nice dram of Scotch whiskey."

"Really?" Kowalski perked up, his nose in the air.

Wallace led them in a winding route among the tall boulders. Despite his warnings, he seemed little concerned. Most of the fires were at the edges of the valley. A few were even up in the higher hills. Gray knew that such hot spots were usually started by wildfires that burned down into the subsurface, then smoldered there for years. The edges of the peat deposits were the most vulnerable to such penetration.

Beyond the open stretch, the wall of dark forest opened. Snow-laden boughs reflected the starlight, but below the bower, the way was pitch-black. Wallace had prepared for that. Leaning down, he clicked on a lantern tied to his saddle. As in a cave, the single lamp had a long reach.

They headed into the forest, still keeping to single file. The air grew less smoky. The forest was a mix of myrtle, birch, and pine, along with massive oaks that looked centuries old. Their trunks were gnarled, their branches still encrusted with dry brown leaves. Acorns littered the snowy ground, which accounted for the number of squirrels that chattered and fled from their path.

Gray saw something larger scurry off, low to the ground.

Rufus made an aborted lunge toward it, but Wallace yelled, "Leave it be! That badger will skin your nose straight off your face."

Kowalski eyed the dark forest with open suspicion. "What about bears? Do you have any in England?"

"Of course," Wallace said.

Kowalski stepped his pony closer to the man with the shotgun.

"We have plenty of bears in our zoos," Wallace continued with a smile. "But none in the wild since the Middle Ages."

Kowalski scowled at the man for scaring him, but he didn't move away.

They continued through the old forest for another half hour. Traveling in the dark, Gray became thoroughly lost. The dense forest hid any landmarks.

Finally, the trees fell away and another field opened. Starlight bathed a wide shallow hollow almost an acre in size. Grasses and bracken poked from the fresh snow that covered the hollow, along with stumps of trees that had been felled to open the area.

It was otherwise unmarked-but it was not empty.

To one side stood two dark tent-cabins. Heavy fabric stretched on steel frames. Beside them, squares of excavated peat were piled into tiny pyramids, ready to burn as heat for the cabins. But no one was here. During the winter months the site was abandoned due to the threat of heavy snow.

Still, it wasn't the dark campsite that drew everyone's attention. Gray stared into the center of the hollow. The excavation site was marked off with yellow survey strings that crisscrossed the area in a large grid. As if trapped in this string web, giant stones rose from the ground in a crude ring. Each one towered twice Gray's height. Atop one pair of stones lay a massive slab, forming a crude doorway into the circle.

Gray remembered Wallace's description of the Neolithic sites that dotted the region. Apparently he had found a new one, one lost for ages in this bog forest.

"Looks like a little Stonehenge," Kowalski said.

Wallace slid from his saddle and took his pony's lead in hand. "Only this site is older than Stonehenge. Much older."

They all dismounted. A rough sheltered paddock stood near the cabins, where they walked their ponies and set about unloading saddles and rubbing down their mounts. Kowalski fetched water from a nearby stream.

Wallace explained about the discovery, how clues found in the Domesday Book had led him here, to a place marked in Latin as "wasted." "I found no trace of the town itself. It must have been razed to the ground. But while hunting, I came upon this stone circle. It was half-buried in peat. An untrained eye could easily have mistaken it for ordinary boulders, especially as they were covered in lichen and moss. But the rocks were a type of bluestone not native to the fells."

His excitement grew as he talked. With the ponies settled, Wallace led them over to the stone ring. He carried his lantern. Gray also removed a flashlight from his saddlebag. As a group, they climbed over the survey strings and crunched through the ankle-deep snow. The stone ring sat in a square of excavated soil. Over the years, teams of archaeologists had been slowly digging the rocks free of the layers of peat.

"The stones were half-buried when I first stumbled here. Their monstrous weight sank them into the muck over the passing millennia."

"Millennia?" Rachel asked. "How old is the place?"

"I've dated it to two thousand years older than Stonehenge. That corresponds to the time of the first settlers to occupy the British Isles. To give you some perspective, that's a thousand years before the Great Pyramids were built."

As they reached the dark ring, Gray flashed his light toward the nearest stone. Cleared of moss and lichen, there was no doubt it was man-made. Crude petroglyphs had been etched into the side facing Gray. The carvings covered the entire exposed surface-but it was all the same motif.

"Spirals," Gray mumbled, drawing Rachel's attention.

She joined him, as did Wallace.

"A very common pagan symbol," the professor said. "Representing the soul's journey. This example is almost an exact replica of stone markings found at Newgrange, a pre-Celtic tomb complex in Ireland. Newgrange was dated to around 3200 B.C., about the same age as this ring, suggesting they were likely built by the same tribe of people."

"The Druids?" Kowalski asked.

Wallace scowled. "Och, where did you learn your history, young man? Druids were Celtic tribal priests. They didn't come onto the stage for another three thousand years." He waved an arm to encompass the Neolithic stone ring. "This is the handiwork of the earliest tribe to settle the British Isles, a people who were here long before the Celts and Druids."

Kowalski merely shrugged, taking no offense at this slight to his knowledge.

Wallace sighed. "But I guess I understand how most people make that mistake. The Celts revered this lost people, believed them to be gods, even incorporated that culture into their own. They worshiped at these old sites, folded them into their mythology, believing the ancient stones to be the home of their gods. In fact, what's considered to be high Celtic art today is based on these old pagan carvings. Ultimately, everything traces back to here." Wallace pointed to the towering henge stones. "But the bigger question remains, who were these ancient ring-builders?"

Gray sensed Wallace's excitement stoking higher. It looked like he had more to say, something that he was still holding back, ever the showman. But before he could continue, Rachel interrupted.

"You better see this."

She had circled to the far side of the stone and stood within the ring. Her arm pointed to the surface of the stone on that side.

Gray and the others stepped over the survey strings to join her. He lifted his flashlight. There was only a single symbol carved into the rock on that side. Turning, he shone his light across to the other standing stones-twelve in total, he noted. Each was marked with the same symbol.

"The quartered circle," Gray said.

Wallace nodded. "Now you know why I was so sure that the diary of that medieval scholar, Martin Borr, pointed straight here. The mark was drawn on his journal."

Gray turned in a slow circle.

What did it all mean?

Facing the first stone again, Gray contemplated its significance. Spirals on one side, a pagan cross on the other. He realized it was the same pattern as the two symbols burned into the leather satchel: a spiral on one side, a cross on the other.

Gray faced Rachel. He read the same understanding in her eyes. He also knew what she was thinking. If they wanted answers, it was high time they came clean with Dr. Wallace Boyle.

8:42 P.M.

Wallace studied the artifact. He sat at a card table in one of the tent-cabins, the lantern at his elbow. Rachel sat next to him. She warmed her hands on a cup of tea. It was the last from Seichan's thermos. She sipped it, appreciating the heat if not the slight bitterness. She would have preferred a dollop of cream with it, but the tea went a long way to chasing the last of the chill from her body.

The team had spent two hours out in the cold, taking pictures and measurements, recording everything here. But to what end?

Rachel stared across the table at Gray. As they had worked, Gray had grown more introspective. She knew him well enough to recognize when he was troubled, when he sensed he was missing something. She could read the calculations going on in his head, knew the primary question plaguing him.

What was so important about this site?

Seichan sat next to Gray. She had contributed little to the day's work, as if she were leaving it up to them to solve this puzzle. Now they all waited for the professor's assessment. A pair of bunkbeds filled the back half of the space. Kowalski lay sprawled on one of the bunks with an arm over his eyes, shielding them against the lamplight. Since his snores weren't rattling the tent fabric, he must still be awake.

"I don't know what to make of it," Wallace finally said with a shake of his head. He held the leather satchel. He'd already examined the mummified finger. "I don't know where Marco found this, nor why anyone would kill for it."

"Then let's go back to the beginning," Gray said. "Why Father Giovanni first came here. What he hoped to gain from visiting this site."

"It was the bodies," Wallace mumbled, still fingering the satchel.

Rachel sat straighter. "Bodies? What bodies?"

Wallace finally placed the satchel down and leaned back in his chair. "What you have to understand is that for ages, peat bogs were revered by the ancient Celts and their Druids. They would bury or sink objects of worship into the bogs. Such places have proved to be archaeological treasure troves. Swords, crowns, jewels, pottery, even entire chariots. But human remains were also found here."

The professor let that sink in as he stood and stepped over to a small camp stove, where he warmed his hands over a burning briquette of peat. He nodded down at the stove. "Peat was the source of life, so it had to be honored. And that honoring often came in the form of human sacrifice. The Celts would kill their victims and toss their bodies into the peat bogs to appease the gods." He turned to face the table again. "And what goes into the peat ends up being preserved for the ages."

"I don't understand," Rachel said.

Gray explained. "The acidic nature and lack of oxygen in the peat keep things from rotting."

"Aye. Pots of butter have been found in bogs, a hundred years old. And the butter is still fresh and edible."

Kowalski groaned in disgust and rolled to his side. "Remind me not to have toast at your house."

Wallace ignored him. "In the same way, those sacrificed bodies were preserved. They're known as 'bog mummies.' The most famous being Tollund Man, found in Denmark. He's so well preserved that he looks as if he fell into the bog yesterday. Intact skin, organs, hair, eyelashes. Even his fingerprints can still be discerned. Examination revealed that he'd been ritually garroted. The knotted rope was still around his neck. And we know it was the Druids who killed him, as the man's stomach was filled with mistletoe, a plant sacred to the Celtic priests."

"And you found a bog mummy here?" Gray asked.

"Two, actually. A woman and a child. We discovered them as we were excavating the stone ring. They were found in the center, curled together in death."

Seichan asked her first question. Her eyes flickered to Rachel, then away again. "Were they sacrificed?"

Wallace perked up at her question. "That's exactly what we wondered. It's now well accepted that stone rings were solar calendars, but they also served as burial sites. And this site here must have been especially holy. A stone ring within a sacred bog. We had to know if this was a natural burial or a murder."

This last was said with a twinge of guilt.

"We were under instructions to leave the bodies intact, to send them to the university whole, but we had to know. There was no rope around the necks of the bodies, but there was another way to discover if this was a ritual sacrifice."

Rachel understood. "Mistletoe in the stomach."

Wallace nodded. "We performed a small examination. Well documented, I might add." He moved to his pack, undid the ties, and removed a file. He shrugged as he returned to the table. "I wasn't supposed to keep a hard copy."

He sifted through the file and pulled out a set of photos. One showed the woman and child curled in black soil. The woman cradled the child in her arms. They were tucked together as if asleep. The bodies were gaunt and emaciated, but the woman's black hair still draped her face. The next photo showed the woman naked on the table. A hand was in view, holding a dissecting scalpel.

"Before we sent the body on to the university, we wanted to see if there was any mistletoe pollen in her stomach. It was a minor violation."

"Did you find any?" Rachel asked, suddenly not feeling so well.

"No. But we found something else rather disturbing. If you have a weak stomach, you might want to turn away."

Rachel forced herself to keep looking.

The next photo showed a Y-shaped incision across the abdomen. The belly was peeled open, revealing the mass of internal organs. But something was clearly wrong. Wallace flipped to another photo, showing a close-up of a yellow liver. Growths protruded from its surface, covering it like a grisly field.

Wallace explained. "We found them growing throughout her abdominal cavity."

Rachel covered her mouth. "Is that what I think it is?"

Wallace nodded. "They're mushrooms."

Shocked and disgusted, Gray sat back. He struggled to understand what was going on, what had been discovered here. He needed someplace to ground his inquiry, so he returned to where he first started.

"Back to Father Giovanni," Gray said. "You said the bodies drew him here."

"Aye." Wallace returned to his seat and straddled his chair. "Marco heard about our discovery. In a place where Christianity and the pagan ways were still in conflict."

"Still, that conflict didn't truly draw him," Gray said and stared down at the first photo of the woman with the child. There was no mistaking that tableau. Like a Madonna and child. And not just any Madonna. The tannins from the peat had dyed the woman's skin a deep brownish-black.

"I sent him a photo of the mummies. He came the next day. He was interested in any manifestation or reference to his Black Madonna. To find such a set of bodies in a sacred pagan burial site, in a land where Christianity and ancient ways still mixed, he had to discover for himself if there was any connection to the mythology of his dark goddess."

"And was there?" Rachel asked.

"That's what Marco spent the past years investigating. It had him shuffling all over the British Isles. In the last month, though, I could tell that something had him especially agitated. He would never say what it was."

"And what's your take on the mummies?" Gray asked.

"Like I said, we didn't find any mistletoe. I think the bodies were dead when they were buried in the bog. But who buried them and why? And why did Martin Borr mark his book with this pagan symbol? That's what I wanted to know."

"And?" Gray pressed the man. He was annoyingly oblique with his answers, teasing them out for greater effect.

"I have my own hypothesis," Wallace admitted. "It goes back to where I started my investigation. The Domesday Book. Something laid waste to the nearby village or town. Something horrible enough to raze the place to the ground, to wipe all records off the maps. All records, that is, except for the cryptic reference in the great book and the mention in Martin Borr's diary. So what happened to warrant such a reaction? I would wager it was some sort of plague or disease. Not wanting it to spread, to keep it secret, the place was destroyed."

"But what about the bodies here?" Rachel nodded down to the photos.

"Just close your eyes and put yourself back in that town. A place isolated and under siege by some great illness. A town mixed between devout Christians and those who practiced the ancient ways in secret, who certainly must have known about this stone ring near their town, who perhaps still worshiped here. Once doom fell upon this valley, each side most likely beseeched their gods for salvation. And some probably hedged their bets, mixing the two faiths. They took a mother and a baby boy, representative of the Madonna and her child, and buried them in this ancient pagan site. I believe these two are the only bodies that escaped the fiery purge, the only two left from that old plague."

Wallace touched the dissection photo with a finger. "Whatever struck that village was strange indeed. I don't know of anything like this that has ever been reported in the annals of medicine or forensics. The bodies are still under investigation, and that's being kept a guarded secret. They won't even tell me what they found."

"But shouldn't you be kept informed?" Gray asked. "Aren't you a tenured professor at the University of Edinburgh?"

Wallace's brow crinkled in confusion, then relaxed. "Oh, no, you misunderstood me. When I said the university took the bodies, I didn't mean Edinburgh. My grant came from abroad. It's not an uncommon practice. For field studies, you take funds wherever you can find them."

"So who took the bodies?"

"They were sent to the University of Oslo for initial examination."

Gray felt kicked in the gut. It took him an extra moment to respond. Oslo. Here was the first solid connection between events here and what Painter Crowe was investigating in Norway.

While Gray grappled with the implications, Wallace continued. "I guess ultimately it all goes back to extremophiles."

The oddity of the non sequitur snapped Gray's focus back. "What are you talking about?"

"My funding," Wallace said in a tone that made it sound as if it should be obvious. "Like I said. In this business, you get money where you can."

"And how do extremophiles fit in with all that?"

Gray was well aware of the term. Extremophiles were organisms that lived under extreme conditions, ones that were considered too harsh to support life. They were mostly bacteria, found living in toxic environments like boiling deep-sea rifts or volcanic craters. Such unique organisms offered potential new compounds to the world.

And the world's industries had certainly taken note, generating a new business called bioprospecting. But instead of prospecting for gold, they were after something just as valuable: new patents. And it turned out to be a booming business. Already extremophiles were being used to patent new industrial-strength detergents, cleansers, medicines, even an enzyme used widely by crime labs for DNA fingerprinting.

But what did all that have to do with bog mummies in England?

Wallace tried to explain. "It goes back to my initial hypothesis, one I pitched to my potential sponsors. A hypothesis about the Doomsday Book."

Gray noted that he called it Doomsday, rather than Domesday, this time. He imagined that the professor, with his usual flair for the dramatic, had sought funding using the book's more colorful name.

"As I mentioned, those few places in the book marked in Latin as 'wasted,' seemed to have been wiped off the map-literally and figuratively. What would make those old census takers do that unless something dangerous had struck these towns?"

"Like a disease or plague," Gray said.

Wallace nodded. "And potentially it was something never seen before. These were isolated places. Who knew what might have risen out of the bogs? Peat bogs are soups of strange organisms. Bacteria, fungi, slime molds."

"So they hired you as both an archaeologist and a bioprospector."

Wallace shrugged. "I'm not the only one. Major industries are turning to field archaeologists. We're delving into ancient places, sites long closed up. Just this past year, a major U.S. chemical company discovered an extremophile in a newly opened Egyptian tomb. It's all the rage, you see."

"And for this dig, the University of Oslo funded you."

"No. Oslo is just as strapped as any university. Nowadays most grants are generated from corporate sponsors."

"And which corporation hired you?"

"A biotech company, one working with genetically modified organisms. Crops and whatnot."

Gray gripped the table's edge. Of course. Biotechnology companies were major players in the hunt for extremophiles. Bioprospecting was their life's blood. They cast feelers out in all directions, across all fields of study. Including, it seemed, archaeology.

Gray had no doubt who sponsored Wallace's research.

He spoke that name aloud. "Viatus."

Wallace's eyes grew larger. "How did you know?"

11:44 P.M.

Seichan stood outside her cabin. She held a cigarette in her hand, unlit and forgotten. The stars were as crisp as cut glass in the night sky. Streams of icy fog crept through the trees. She inhaled a deep breath, smelling the peat smoke, both from their camp stoves and from the smoldering fires underground.

The ring of stones, rimed in ice, looked like chunks of silver.

She pictured the two bodies buried in the center. For some reason, she thought back to the curator she had slain in Venice-or rather, to his wife and child. She pictured the two of them buried here instead. Knowing it was born out of guilt, she shook her head against such foolish sentimentality. She had a mission to complete.

But tonight her guilt had sharpened to an uncomfortable edge.

She stared down at her other hand. She held a steel thermos. It had kept her tea warm. The warmth also kept her biotoxin incubated. The group had talked at length about extremophiles after the revelation about the source of Dr. Boyle's funding. The source of the toxin supplied to her was a bacteria discovered in a volcanic vent in Chile. Frost sensitive, it had to be kept warm.

No one noticed that only Rachel drank the tea.

Seichan only pretended to sip at it.

Pocketing her cigarette, she crossed to a windblown bank of snow and set about filling the thermos with handfuls of snow. The cold would sterilize the thermos, killing any remaining bacteria. Once it was packed full, she screwed the top back on. Her fingers trembled. She wanted to blame it on the cold. She threaded the top on wrong, and it jammed. She fought it for a breath as anger flared hotly through her. Frustrated, she yanked her arm back and hurled the thermos into the forest.

For half a minute, she breathed heavily, steaming the air.

She didn't cry-and for some reason that helped center her.

A door cracked open in the other cabin. She shared her cabin with Rachel; the men shared the other. She stepped into the open to see who else was still up.

The large frame and lumbering gait identified the man readily enough. Kowalski spotted her and lifted an arm. He pointed a thumb toward the paddock.

"Going to see a man about a horse," he said and disappeared around the corner.

It took her a moment to realize he wasn't actually meeting someone by the ponies. She was that out of sorts. She heard him whistling back there as he relieved himself.

She checked her watch. It was a few minutes before midnight. The timetable was set. There was no going back. They'd had sufficient time to examine the site. The Guild would only allow so much latitude for Gray's team to track Father Giovanni's path, to discover the key before anyone else. She had argued for more time but had been slapped down. So be it. They would have to keep moving.

She glanced toward the other cabin. Kowalski had better not be too long. He wasn't. After a minute, he came lumbering back, still whistling under his breath.

"Can't sleep?" he asked as he joined her.

She fingered her cigarette out and lifted it as explanation enough.

"Those things'll kill you." He reached into a pocket, pulled out a stub of a cigar, and matched her gesture. "So you might as well get it over with quickly."

He clenched the chewed end between his molars, pulled out an old-fashioned box of wooden matchsticks, and deftly scratched two sticks across the fabric of the tent. Twin flames lit up. He passed one to her. He'd plainly done this before.

He spoke around the end of his cigar. "Gray just hit the sack. Spent like two hours trying to get more out of that old professor. I had to get the hell out of there, get some fresh air. That dog kept stinking up the place. And no wonder. Did you see what he feeds that damn mutt? Sausages and onions. What sort of dog chow is that?"

Seichan lit her cigarette. She let the guy ramble, grateful for the mindless chatter. Unfortunately, his chatter was apparently leading up to something-and not all that smoothly.

"So," he said, "what's up with you and Gray?"

Seichan choked as she inhaled.

"I mean, he's always eyeballing you. And you just stare right through him as if he were a ghost. Like two schoolkids with the hots for each other."

Seichan balked at the innuendo, ready to deny, uncomfortable with how close the man was to the truth. Luckily she was saved from responding.

As midnight struck, the valley exploded.

Throughout the forest, geysers of flame shot skyward, one after the other. They were accompanied by soft concussions, easy to miss unless you were listening for them. The incendiary charges, coupled with a rubidium thermal catalyst that turned water into an accelerant, had been planted deep into wet peat, timed to blow at midnight. The entire valley was meant to burn.

Closer at hand, three more explosions erupted from the center of the ring of stones. Fiery spirals twisted high into the sky.

Even across the distance, the heat burned her face.

People came running out of the cabins behind them. Kowalski cursed hotly next to her.

She didn't turn, hypnotized by the flames. Her heart pounded. The conflagration began to spread outward-quickly, too quickly-both here and out in the forest. The ignited charges were only supposed to chase Gray's team off-to light a fire under them literally and figuratively-while destroying all evidence in their wake.

She watched the flames grow.

Someone had miscalculated, underestimated the combustibility of the peat. For a moment, an oily flicker of distrust flashed. Had she been betrayed? Were they meant to die here?

Going coldly logical, she mentally snuffed out those doubts. There was no gain in their deaths. At least not at this time. It had to be an error of execution. The old fires, smoldering for years, must have weakened the stability of the peat beds, turning the entire valley into tinder for the right torch.

Still, the end result was the same.

As she stared, the fires closed in a circle around them.

They would never get out of here alive.

Chapter 15

October 12, 11:35 P.M.

Oslo, Norway

Monk strode briskly across the research park. Under his heavy coat, he wore a Viatus security uniform. At his side, John Creed was equally bundled against the cold, but he had a lab jacket folded over one arm.

They had no trouble driving through the main gates of the Viatus campus, flashing their false ID cards. They had parked their car in the employee parking lot and headed on foot across the grounds. Viatus had facilities around the world, but Oslo was home to their main facility. The place was spread over a hundred acres, with various divisions and office buildings dotting a parklike setting. All the structures were sleek and modern, plainly influenced by Scandinavian minimalism.

In the center of the campus rose a meeting hall, made entirely of glass. It shone like a diamond. Through the walls could be seen the sweeping hull of a Viking ship. It was not a model, but an authentic piece of history. The ship had been discovered frozen in ice somewhere up in the Arctic region of Norway. It had cost millions to salvage and preserve it, all financed by Ivar Karlsen.

It must be good to be so rich.

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 riddled 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 snick ed 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 pressed 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.

Monk noted a couple of brown stalks poking out of the blood. He lowered his camera for a closer look. They were not stalks. With a cold chill, he realized they were human fingers.

He reached and pinched one of the fingers with his prosthetic hand. He pulled the finger up, dragging a hand out of the muck. As he raised it higher, he saw it was attached to a forearm. Mushrooms grew out of the flesh.

Gritting his teeth, he slowly lowered the limb back into the tank. He didn't need to see any more. Entire bodies lay buried in the blood, fertilizer for the mushrooms.

He also noted the dark brown skin of the arm, an uncommon sight in snow-white Norway. Monk recalled the farm site in Africa, the one destroyed in a night of bloodshed and fire.

Had more than corn been harvested from there?

Monk found himself breathing harder. He moved quickly to the end of the row. Here the mushrooms had matured into thick stems topped by ribbed pods. They looked fleshy and fibrous.

With his prosthesis, Monk nudged one of the pods. As he touched it, the bulb contracted in a single squeeze. From its top, a dense powdery smoke puffed outward and spread quickly through the air.

Fungal spores.

Monk danced back, thankful for the respirators. He did not want to breathe in those spores.

As if signaled by the first pod, others began to erupt. Monk retreated, chased by swirling clouds of spores.

"We have to get out of here!" Monk yelled across the room, his words muffled by the respirator.

Creed had just collected a sample of the mushroom and tied it into his loose latex glove. He glanced at Monk, not understanding. But his eyes widened as more of the puffballs exploded into the air.

They had to get back out into the hall.

Suddenly, overhead vents opened in the ceiling, perhaps triggered by a biological sensor. Foam jetted out of the ceiling in a massive flush. It spread over the floor and piled up quickly. Monk ran under one of the vents and almost got knocked down by the force of it. He slipped and slid.

By the time he reached Creed, the foam was waist deep.

"Go!" Monk hollered and pointed toward the door.

Together they slammed through the first door and into the anteroom. It was also full of foam, all the way to the ceiling. They had to paw their way through it blind.

Monk hit the hallway door first.

He shoved the handle and shouldered into the door. It refused to budge. He shoved again and again, but he knew the truth.

They were locked inside.

12:08 A.M.

As smoke choked the lobby, Painter vaulted over the low wall. Fires still burned on the floor. Blood made the marble slippery. He had his pistol out and skidded straight into the masked gunman who had barreled through the front door. Focused on the bar, the assailant failed to see Painter in time. Painter fired point-blank into his chest.

The impact spun the attacker away, blood flying.

One down.

People screamed and fled out into the street or hid behind furniture. Painter sprinted straight across the open lobby.

Ahead, at the entrance to the Limelight Bar, the senator's bodyguard appeared in a shooter's stance, arms out, cradling his service weapon. He had taken cover behind a potted plant. It wasn't enough shelter. The other two gunmen already had their sights fixed on the entrance.

Fern leaves shredded under a barrage of machine-gun fire. The man was knocked flat on his back. Painter never slowed. He leaped to a chair outside the bar and flew headlong into the space. He landed on one of the leather sofas and shoulder-rolled to his feet.

He had only seconds.

A cascade of gunfire tore into the room. It arced across the wall behind the bar, shattering bottles and mirrors.

Painter took in the room with one glance.

The senator was not in sight.

The bodyguard would not have left him in the open. There was only one door leading out of this place. The restroom at the back. Painter ran for it and slammed through the door. A bullet burned past his ear. The shot had come from inside the bathroom.

Senator Gorman stood with his back to a row of sinks, a pistol in his hand, pointed at Painter.

Painter raised his arms. "Senator Gorman!" he called out firmly. "I'm General Metcalf's man!"

"The DoD investigator?" Gorman lowered his pistol, his face collapsing with relief.

Painter rushed forward. "We have to get out of here."

"What about Samuels?" The senator glanced back at the door.

Painter guessed that was the bodyguard. "Dead, sir." He motioned the senator toward the stained-glass window at the back of the restroom.

"It's barred shut. I looked."

Painter shoved the window sash open. An ornate set of iron bars did block the way. He punched his palm into them, and the grate popped free and swung open on its hinges. During his earlier canvass of the meeting place, he had removed the bolts.

Never hurt to secure a back door.

"Out!" Painter commanded and offered the senator a knee to climb up.

Gorman took the help and hauled himself into the window.

As Painter pushed the senator, he heard a thunk behind him. A glance revealed a black arrowhead sticking out of the restroom's plank door.

Oh, crap...

Painter sent the senator sailing out the window and followed on the man's heels. Literally-he took an Italian loafer to the left eye. But it was small damage, considering the explosion that followed.

Flames and smoke blasted out the open window.

The heat rolled over them.

Painter shoved off the senator. As the blast of flames died, Painter dashed to the window, tugged the lower sash down, and swung the iron bars back in place.

Let them wonder how they'd escaped a locked room.

The confusion might buy them an extra few minutes as their pursuers continued to search the hotel.

Painter returned to Gorman's side. "I have a car stashed two blocks away."

They hurried off together.

Gorman puffed at his side, cradling a jammed shoulder. After a block, he stared over at Painter and asked an existential question. "Who the hell are you?"

"Just your everyday civil servant," Painter muttered while concentrating on another task. He resecured the throat mike to his neck and activated it. "Monk, how are you doing over there?"

Monk heard a few frazzled words in his ear, but after knocking loose his respirator, he fought a mouthful of foam. He shoved against the door, hoping it would miraculously open. It must have locked down once the foam had been triggered.

Maybe there was another way out.

Before he could move, hot water blasted from above. The foam immediately melted from the top down. The sheer volume of it collapsed in on itself. It took less then thirty seconds.

Monk glanced over at Creed. He stood there like a skinny wet dog waiting to shake. The man's eyes were bright with shock.

"Biohazard foam," Monk explained. "Used as a knockdown agent for airborne pathogens. We should be okay."

Proving that, the lock clicked open at Monk's elbow. It must have been timed to the sterilization cycle. He twisted the handle and exited into the hall.

As he stepped free, voices echoed down the hall. He had a clear view to the elevator lobby. The door stood half open as someone argued in Norwegian out in the lobby. Monk recognized the uniformed arm of a security guard.

The automated safety protocol had summoned security.

Monk froze. He couldn't retreat back into the mushroom lab. That would surely be the first place they'd check. He had only one other option. Stepping into plain view, he hurried across the hall and placed his palm on the reader beside the other door. He held his breath as it scanned, watching the far door, praying that no one turned around.

Finally, the lock freed. With a silent sigh of thanks, he shoved the door open. He and Creed rushed inside.

Monk kept the door cracked open enough to watch the hallway.

A team of security guards, four in total, were led by a technician in a lab coat. The man looked like he had just woken up. Apparently access here required a certain level of clearance.

Monk allowed the door to slip closed, though he remained crouched where he could listen. The other lab door opened and closed. Men remained out in the hall. Monk heard them talking in low voices. He didn't know how many. At least three, he guessed.

Now what?

"Make some room," Creed said behind him.

Monk turned. His partner had shed his parka and donned his lab coat. He'd also dried his hair and finger-combed it roughly in place. Creed stepped into the anteroom. While Monk had been manning the door, his partner had gone into the larger room with the glass-walled apiaries.

"What are you doing?" Monk asked, eyeing him up and down.

Creed moved aside. Beyond the closed inner door, a stir of movement drew Monk's eye. In the outer room, a thin cloud of bees swirled and gathered.

"What did you do?" Monk asked.

Creed lifted an arm. In his hand, he held a meshed drawer. "I stole the queen." Creed pointed to the left. "And I broke the hive seal."

Monk frowned. From one of the apiaries, a thick column of bees boiled out where the drawer used to be.

"But why?" Monk asked.

Beyond the door, the bees gathered into a growing swarm.

"They're definitely Africanized," Creed said as he eyeballed his captured queen. "Very aggressive."

"That's great, but again-why?"

"To get us out of here." Creed pointed to the anteroom's inner door. "Open it when I say now. But keep behind the door."

Monk began to understand. He switched places with Creed and moved to the anteroom's inner door. Creed took his post by the hallway door and watched the gathering swarm of bees.

The cloud now hugged against the anteroom's glass door and walls, drawn by their queen's trail. Buzzing grew so loud it made Monk's skin crawl.

Creed continued to wait. He placed the drawer with the queen on the floor. In the other room the swarm grew so thick that it blocked the light.

"Be ready," Creed said as he straightened back up.

Monk grabbed the handle of his door.

With a final swipe through his hair, Creed faced the door and pulled it open. Monk was blocked from view, but he heard the startled outbursts of the security guards out in the hallway.

Creed put on an air of irritation and snapped at them in Norwegian.

As the guards struggled to decide if the new technician was a threat or not, Creed kicked the drawer across the floor toward the guards.

"Now!" he yelled.

Monk yanked his door open and crowded behind it.

The swarm immediately swept into the anteroom like an angry fist.

Creed dropped back and dragged his door fully open. With the way clear to their queen, the hive shot into the hall in a thick cloud. Panicked, one of the guards fired a wild shot.

A mistake.

Monk knew enough about Africanized bees to know they were sensitive to loud noises.

Screams followed, which only made matters worse.

Creed lunged over and grabbed the sleeve of Monk's jacket. Time to go. Monk followed Creed out the door. There was no need for stealth. Four guards writhed in the center of the swarm, covered thickly in a stinging mass. The bees filled mouths and crawled up noses.

Monk and Creed sprinted down the hall.

A few ambitious bees gave chase. Monk got stung several times, but the swarm remained close to their queen. With his long legs, Creed reached the door to the elevator lobby first. He pounded through. Monk slammed the door closed behind him.

Creed called the elevator, and the doors glided apart immediately. The cage was still on this level. They hurried inside. With no time to reach the servers, Monk abandoned their primary mission and pressed the lobby button. It was time to get out of here. Creed didn't argue.

Monk stared over at him as the elevator climbed.

"You did good, Doogie."

"Really?" He scowled sourly. "I'm still Doogie?"

Monk shrugged as they exited the elevator and hurried across the front foyer. He didn't want the kid's success to go to his head. As they headed back out into the night, a voice suddenly whispered in his ear, angry and urgent.

"Monk, report in." It was Painter.

Monk thumbed his throat mike. "Sir, we're heading out now."

A heavy sigh of relief followed. "And the mission?"

"We ran into a little trouble with bees."

"Bees?"

"I'll explain later. Should we rendezvous back at the hotel?"

"No. I'm headed your way now. I've got company with me."

Company?

"There's been a change in plans," Painter said. "Things have gotten a little too hot here in Oslo. So we're pulling up stakes and moving somewhere a little colder."

Still soaking wet from the foamy shower, Monk felt the ice-cold night cut down to his bones. Colder than this?

As Monk headed across the corporate campus, he pictured Gray nestled in a warm cabin, a fire blazing in a camp stove.

Lucky bastard.

Chapter 16

October 13, 12:22 A.M.

Lake District, England

As the forest burned, Gray clutched the lead rope of his stallion. He and the others had quickly saddled the ponies. They didn't have a moment to spare.

After the initial firestorm, the flames had died down to hellish glows all around them. A pall of thick smoke covered the valley, dimming the stars. A single blaze marked a section of the woods that had caught fire. Likely an old deadfall, dry and ready to burn. The rest of the snowy forest had resisted the flames so far.

But they were far from safe.

"Mount up!" he called to the others.

They had to move now. Every second counted as a more insidious danger closed around them. Peat fires traveled underground, spreading outward in smoldering channels and deeper fiery pits. Though the woods were dark, they hid a raging conflagration below.

Wallace had estimated that the entire valley would be consumed in less than an hour. No rescue could reach them in time. Gray had used his satellite phone to contact Painter, to briefly explain their situation and pass on their GPS coordinates, but even the director had agreed that air support could not be mobilized in time to reach them.

They were on their own.

As Gray climbed into the saddle, one of the massive stones in the ring toppled over as the peat beneath it burned and gave way. As it struck, a spate of flames erupted from the dark soil. Other stones had already fallen, some vanished completely into fiery pits.

This was no natural peat fire.

Someone had torched the place, plainly meaning to destroy the excavation site-and anyone here.

Rachel walked her pony next to Gray, keeping a firm grip on her reins. Her mount's eyes rolled white, on the edge of panic. Rachel looked no less scared.

They all knew the danger.

As the fires had erupted, one of the ponies had broken out of the paddock. Wild and tossing its head, it had fled into the forest. Moments later, they heard a crash, a fresh blaze of flames erupted, and a horrible screaming followed.

Gray glanced over at the toppled stone as it slowly sank into the fiery mire, reminding him of the danger beneath their feet. Any misstep and they'd end up like the panicked pony.

Seichan hurried over to Gray's stallion's side. It was her mount that had fled and died. Gray leaned down, grabbed her forearm, and hauled her up into the saddle behind him.

"Let's go!" He pointed toward the darkest section of the forest, where there were no glows at the moment. They had to break through the ring of fire and get up into the hills.

Gray led the way with Wallace at his side.

Ahead of them trotted the terrier, Rufus.

"He'll find us a safe route," the professor said, his face ashen. "Peat burns most ripe. His nose may pick up what we can't see."

Gray hoped he was right, but the entire valley reeked of burning peat. It was a slim chance the dog could nose out the subtle seep of smoke from the subterranean fires. But what other course did they have?

And maybe the dog did sense something. As they headed out, the terrier's path switchbacked through the woods, with sudden stops and turns.

Gray kept their pace to a slow trot, balancing speed and caution. The dog bounded through the snow and across an icy stream. It seemed impossible that on a night so cold, with the ground mantled in snow and ice, there could be a hellish inferno below.

But they were reminded of just that danger as a red deer leaped past their trail, frightened by the fires. It flew sure-footedly through the trees, then bounded into a snow-filled gully. The ground gave way beneath it. Its hindquarters dropped into a fiery pit, casting up a swirl of flames and burning ash. Its neck stretched in a silent posture of agony, then its body went limp and fell the rest of the way out of sight. Smoke roiled upward. A wash of heat chased back the chill of the night.

It was a sobering lesson.

"Christ on a spit," Kowalski mumbled atop his pony.

Seichan's arms tightened around Gray's waist.

As they continued through the smoky woods, new blazes grew throughout the forest as the spreading inferno lit dead trees into torches. They gave one such tree a wide berth. It was an old oak, brittle and lightning-struck. The flames danced through its white branches, a warning of the danger flowing under its roots.

Even Rufus began to slow. He would stop often, his head swiveling, nose in the air, whining, plainly less sure. But he kept them moving, sometimes having to backtrack, dancing straight through the legs of their skittish mounts.

Finally, though, he came to a complete standstill. It was at an old dry riverbed, a shallow declivity that wound across the way ahead. There didn't appear to be any threat, but the dog sidled back and forth across the nearest bank. He made one tentative move down into the channel, then thought better of it and retreated. Something was spooking him. He returned to the head of their stalled line of ponies. His low whine turned into a fearful whimper.

Shifting in his saddle, Gray stared into the woods. All around them the wildfire below had begun to crest to the surface, showing its true fiery face. Not far off, a large pine toppled into the forest, taking smaller trees with it. It crashed with a spiraling wash of flames. More and more of the woods was suffering the same fate. Whole sections were now collapsing into the burning bog, either knocked to the ground as their roots were burned away or felled by their sheer weight as the ground itself turned to fiery ash.

They had to keep moving. The longer they waited, the worse their circumstances. They needed to reach the hills.

"C'mon, you old cur," Wallace urged his dog in a gentle admonishment. "You can do it, Rufus. C'mon, boy. Find us a way home."

The dog stared up at his master, then down at the gully. With a tremble, he sat down. He continued to shake, but his judgment was firm. There was no safe way forward.

Gray slid out of his saddle and passed his reins to Seichan. "Stay here."

"What are you doing?" Rachel asked.

Gray crossed to a mossy stone beside their trail. He had to know for sure. Bending at the knees, he hauled the rock free and lumbered to the edge of the snowy riverbed. With a swing of his arms, he heaved the stone in a low arc over the bank. It landed in the middle of the gully-and crashed through to the fiery bog below. Flames spat up. Snow melted around the edges and boiled back up with a hiss of steam.

The hole immediately grew larger, sending out blazing tendrils. Other spots erupted along the channel. Tossing the boulder had been like throwing a stone in a pond. Fiery ripples spread outward in a cascading effect as fresh oxygen reached the buried inferno. Flames spat, and more steam rose. It spread outward, following the course of the old riverbed.

"You had to do that," Kowalski said. "Couldn't leave well enough alone."

Gray ignored him and stepped to another stone. He dragged it up, and using his entire body, he swung and tossed the rock to the other bank. It was less than eight yards across. The stone struck the far bank and landed with a dull thud. It sat imbedded in turf and snow.

"It's still solid over there. If we can reach the other side..." Gray turned to Wallace. "How good are these Fell Ponies at jumping?"

The professor eyed the fiery course. "They're good," he said hesitantly. "But that's still a bloody long leap."

Kowalski added his assessment. "Not like we have much choice."

Another tree crashed deeper in the woods behind them.

"Aye, that's true," Wallace said.

"I'll go first." Gray hurried back to his mount. He raised an arm toward Seichan to help her down.

"I'm going with you," she said.

"No. Our weight will only make it harder to-"

"Do you see any free horses running around here?" Seichan snapped back, cutting him off. "I have to ride double with someone. And your stallion's the biggest."

Gray realized she was right.

He pulled up into the saddle. The others cleared to the side as he backed the horse a good distance away from the bank.

"Hold tight," Gray said.

She obeyed, hugging her arms and pressing her cheek against his back. "Go," she whispered.

Tilting forward in the saddle, he kicked back and gave the reins a crack. The stallion, already bunched, as if knowing what its rider wanted, shot forward with a thunder of hooves. It accelerated into a full gallop within only a few strides.

Gray felt the power of the stallion through the saddle. Its heaving breath streamed white behind them. Its neck stretched as it gained even more speed-then hit the bank.

With a surge of muscle, it leaped high. Gray went weightless, lifting from the saddle with Seichan strapped tightly to him. They crested the fires. He felt the wash of heat from below.

Then they struck the far bank.

Gray slammed back into the saddle, catching his weight with both stirrup and skill. The stallion trotted a few paces to wean away momentum. Gray pulled on the reins and quickly turned his mount.

Seichan still clung hard against him.

He returned to the fiery riverbed and heaved out a sigh of relief. He waved an arm for the others to follow, not yet trusting his voice. A shudder passed through him, but Seichan's arms held tightly.

"We made it," she mumbled to his back.

The others quickly followed. Wallace came flying over with Rufus clutched in his lap. Gray had to give the old guy credit. He could definitely ride.

Rachel came next. She backed her horse and made a smooth run for the river. Gray might have the largest pony, but Rachel had the fastest. It hit the bank, but something went wrong.

One hoof slipped as the edge crumpled beneath it.

Gray knew immediately there was trouble. The jump was too low, the pony's body turned to the side.

They would never make the far side.

Rachel fought to keep her seat. As the mare leaped, she immediately felt the center of gravity shift under her. She clenched her legs to keep in her saddle. She pulled the reins close to her chest and leaned hard over the saddle's pommel.

Twisted askew, she stared straight down into the fiery heart of the wildfire. She wasn't going to make it. The pony was already dropping. Searing heat bathed her.

She heard cries of alarm.

Then they hit the ground. The front hooves struck solid turf, reaching the far bank, but the mare's hind end crashed into the smoldering edge of the river of fire.

The impact threw Rachel flat on her stomach atop the pony. With the wind knocked out of her, she lost the reins and her footing and slid backward toward the fire.

Beneath her, the poor mare screamed in agony and fought to kick herself free, which only stirred the flames higher.

As she slid, Rachel caught the edge of the saddle. Fire burned the soles of her boots. The bucking mare, frenzied by agony, threatened to throw her off. Worse, the mare began to roll.

"Hold on!" a voice screamed.

She glanced up. It was Seichan. The woman dove forward and grabbed the mare's lead. Gray came up on the other side and tried to get hold of the halter's crownpiece.

Together, they fought to keep the mare from rolling.

Seichan wrapped the lead in her arms, dropped to her backside, and dug in her heels. Gray lost hold of the halter as the mare thrashed its head and screamed. He made another lunge for it.

"Just get her!" Seichan yelled as she was dragged toward the river herself.

It took all of Rachel's strength to keep her grip. She felt her legs burning, pictured her pants on fire. Then fingers clamped on her wrist. Gray was suddenly there, sprawled across the mare's withers. He yanked her forward with one arm, his other braced on the saddle's pommel. He hauled her up to his chest, his face red and strained.

"Climb over me!" he ordered her, staring straight at her.

The iron resolve of those steel-blue eyes hardened through her.

Gasping, she reached up and clutched a fistful of his coat. She pulled herself atop him, reached to his belt with her other hand, and crawled over him. At last she cleared the river's edge and rolled off him to land on her hands and knees in the snow.

Gray scrambled back, dropped next to her, then scooped her under one arm and half-carried her up the bank. They collapsed together into the snow. She hugged him, suddenly sobbing.

Behind her, a gunshot blasted.

Jerking around, she saw Seichan standing below, her back to them. She held a smoking pistol. The screams of the mare ended as its body collapsed to the ground and slid farther into the fire.

Seichan sank to the snowy bank, cradling her pistol.

Great.

Still on the other side of the fiery river, Kowalski had watched Rachel's mare stumble. Her pony still burned at the river's edge. How was he going to make it across? His mount, a gelding, was not as tall as Gray's stallion and not half as fast as Rachel's mare. Plus his pony had no balls, which already made him edgy.

Kowalski held a hand to his stomach. He really should have gone on that diet Liz was pushing.

Gray called from the other side. "What are you waiting for?"

Kowalski lifted one of his fingers at Gray. He patted his pony's neck. "You can do this...right?"

His pony tossed its head and rolled a scared eyeball at him.

Right there with you, bud.

He backed his pony, going a little farther, giving himself more of a running start. Still, he hesitated. The pony did, too. It refused to set, dancing its hooves nervously. They both had as much to lose.

We just have to calm ourselves, take a moment to collect-

A pine exploded directly behind them. It went off like a Roman candle. Flaming debris blew high, pelted the back of his coat, and struck the pony's rump.

Given a fiery kick, the gelding took off with a surge of adrenaline-driven muscle. Kowalski came close to falling but quickly regained his balance, riding high in the stirrups. The pony thundered under him, hit the bank, and went airborne.

If Kowalski were braver, he would have whoop ed. Or if he had a cowboy hat, he might've waved it. Instead, he leaned down and clung tightly to his gelding with both arms.

Below, as if knowing the last of them were escaping, the entire creekbed collapsed into an inferno of fire. Flames shot upward around them.

Kowalski squeezed his eyes shut, bathed in searing heat.

Then they hit the far side with a crash of hooves on solid ground. The impact threw him over his pony's head. He went flying and landed in a snowbank. He lay on his back for a stunned breath and took inventory.

Still alive...

He pushed up to his elbows and gained his feet. He staggered over to his mount, both their legs still trembling. Once at the gelding's side, he threw his arms around its neck and hugged tightly.

"Freakin' love you, you ball-less wonder."

Twenty minutes later, the exhausted team climbed a rocky path out of the valley. Flames danced their shadows across the slope. Below, the entire valley smoldered and burned.

Seichan, aching and bone-tired, rode behind Kowalski. She stared over at Gray and Rachel. They rode together atop his stallion. Rachel had her arms around Gray's waist, her head on his shoulder. After the near-fatal fall, she had stayed close to Gray, drawing off his solidity and strength.

Seichan tried not to sneer at her vulnerability.

But she could not so easily dismiss another pang.

She took note of how quickly the two melded together, how easily they became one. While riding double with him earlier, she had also held Gray, smelled the musk of his sweat, felt the heat of his body. But she had felt nothing more from him. She might as well have been a saddlebag.

Yet even now, as she watched them, Gray rubbed a palm along Rachel's arm. It was a comforting gesture, done reflexively, as he continued to keep an eye on their rocky trail.

Seichan turned away, anger building. Not at Gray, but at her own foolishness. She remembered Kowalski's words to her before the forest exploded . Two schoolkids with the hots for each other. She had thought she'd kept her feelings hidden better than that. But what about the man's assessment of his partner? Could he be right about Gray?

She allowed herself a moment to believe it to be true. But only a moment. She stared over at him and recognized there could be no future between them. The gulf was too deep and too wide.

And it would only grow deeper and wider.

Especially with what must happen next.

Free of the woods, it was time she moved her plan to the next level.

2:07 A.M.

Gray called for a halt so they could rest and water the horses. They had reached an ice-blue tarn, one of many that dotted the region like droplets of quicksilver.

He also wanted to check on Rachel's burns. He had packed her lower legs with snow immediately after her mishap to draw off any residual heat. Her skin had been bright pink and a couple of spots might shallowly blister, but he wanted to double-check.

The group slipped off their ponies. They were all saddle-sore and burned crisp around the edges. Even after clearing the fiery river, it had been a close call.

If it hadn't been for Rufus leading us the rest of the way out...

Gray watched the professor fish out a piece of dried sausage and feed it to his terrier. Rufus deserved heaping platters of sausages. Still, the terrier was more than happy to get a good scratch for a job well done.

Wallace leaned down and scrubbed his fingers along the dog's side. "Good boy, you mangy mutt."

His tail wagged furiously.

Even Seichan tossed Rufus a crumble of cheese as she stretched her legs. The terrier caught it deftly. He seemed to have gotten over his initial distrust of her. She wandered down to the icy tarn and stood limned by the moonlight reflecting off the water.

Gray studied her.

Back when Rachel had come close to falling into the flames, Seichan had been the first out of the saddle, racing to her aid. Even Gray was a half step behind her. He had never properly thanked her for her help.

But first he had some details to attend to.

Kowalski had started a small fire with some twigs and matches. Despite all that had happened, the night was cold and a fire was still welcome. Everyone headed toward it like weary moths to a flame.

Gray took a moment to warm his hands. Then, with a sigh, he shrugged off his pack and dropped to his haunches. He unzippered a flap and slipped out his satellite phone.

"Calling home?" Kowalski asked.

"Have to update Painter. Let him know we escaped that hellhole."

As Gray lifted the phone, Seichan spoke behind him. "I don't think so."

He turned to find her pointing a gun at his face.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Toss me your phone."

"Seichan..."

"Do it."

Gray realized the futility of resisting. He knew how well this woman could shoot. He flipped the phone over to her. She caught it smoothly, her pistol never wavering, then lobbed the phone underhanded into the lake.

"Time for all of us to drop off the grid," she said.

Gray could guess what she meant. If he never reported in, Painter would think they'd never made it out of the burning forest. It would take searchers weeks to sift through the ashes.

But what Gray still couldn't understand was why.

The question must have been plain to read.

Seichan explained. "Our goal is to find the key Father Giovanni was hunting. In the past, you've proved quite capable, Pierce." She lifted an eyebrow toward Gray. "The Guild has full confidence in you."

Gray shook his head, kicking himself. He had suspected she might use these events to her advantage, to help her return to the good graces of her former masters-whether truly or as a double agent. Either way, he had thought she'd make her move later. He had let his guard down. But in truth, it was more than that. Fury built in him. A part of him had trusted her.

He let some of that anger show. "How are you going to get us to cooperate? You can't hold a gun against us the whole time."

"That's true." She holstered her pistol.

The move made Gray even more worried. Her next words confirmed his fear.

"That's why I poisoned Rachel."

Shock silenced Gray.

Rachel stepped forward. "What?"

"In the tea." Seichan didn't even look at her. She kept her focus on Gray. "A designer biotoxin. Kills in three days. Unfortunately, symptoms will progress. Nausea, headaches, eventually the bleeding will start."

Rachel stammered for a moment, clearly fighting her disbelief. "But you saved my life. Out in the woods."

Gray understood. "She needed you alive."

Seichan shrugged. "There is an antidote. An enzyme specifically designed for this toxin. A lock and key, you might say. There is no other cure. And just to be clear, I don't know what the antidote is, where it might be found, or how to obtain it. You'll be given the antidote only when you hand over the key."

"I don't understand. What key are you even talking about?"

"The item Father Giovanni was truly searching for. The key to the Doomsday Book."

Wallace jolted with her words. "That's just a myth."

"For Rachel's sake, you'd better hope it's not. We have three days to find it."

"And what guarantee do we have that you'll keep your end of the bargain?" Gray asked.

She rolled her eyes at his question. "Do I really have to answer that?"

Gray scowled back at her. She was right. She didn't. There was no guarantee, and no need to offer one. With Rachel's life in the balance, they had no choice.

Kowalski folded his arms and glared over at Gray. "Next time, Pierce, listen to the dog."

Chapter 17

October 13, 3:23 A.M.

Oslo, Norway

Krista had not slept.

It had been a long night, with events seeming to go from bad to worse. But in the final hour, perhaps all ended well. She would know in a few minutes.

She stood before a roaring fire, dressed in an Italian cashmere robe. The hearth was tall enough to walk into without stooping. Her bare toes curled into the sable rug on the floor. A bank of gothic windows, framed in iron, looked out into the snowy courtyard of Akershus Castle. Moonlight cast the world in silver, yet mirrored the fire's flames.

And her reflection stood between them.

Between ice and fire.

A bit of poetry from Robert Frost ran through her head as she waited. She remembered memorizing it at the Catholic girls' school outside of Boston, back when her father used to visit her at night while her mother was drunk.

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

Krista did not care which it was, as long as she was on the winning side. She returned to studying the flames, but pictured another fire. One that had almost ruined everything. She had received an update shortly after midnight from a spotter in the English fells. He had reported on the success of the implanted incendiary charges. But the fire had quickly raged out of control, threatening all. She was forced to wait another two hours before she got the confirmation that the others had escaped the woods. That the operation continued as planned.

If I had failed there...

A chill swept through her.

It would have been a disaster, especially with the way matters fared at the Grand Hotel. It had taken her too long to discover that it had been Antonio Gravel who contacted the senator, and he ended up being a more cunning target than she had anticipated. After contacting the senator, the man had vanished. He wasn't at his hotel or at the summit. Only too late did she learn of his predilection for young hookers, those who didn't mind a bit of rough play. Unable to find him quickly enough, she had been forced to set up an ambush at the hotel. It was more brazen than she would have liked, but she had little time for subtlety. She had also hoped to take out two birds with one shot. She had ordered her men to kill Antonio as soon as he entered the hotel, then to use the chaos and confusion to assassinate the senator.

Senator Gorman's death had not been specifically ordered. He was only supposed to be killed if Antonio spoke to him, but Krista did not like loose ends. Especially loose ends that could recognize her. Jason Gorman, love-struck over his new girlfriend, had sent pictures to his father.

Such exposure worried her.

And she didn't like to worry.

In the end, the senator had escaped, and not through any fault of her own. She had been explicitly instructed not to pursue the dark-haired Sigma operative. It was not her fault he had shown up.

Still, anxiety kept her tense and cold. She stayed close to the fire, the belt of her robe snugged tightly.

At last, her phone vibrated. She immediately brought it to her ear.

"I'm here," she said.

"I understand the operation in England continues as planned."

"It does." She let a little pride shine through.

"And Senator Gorman escaped."

Her vision narrowed, shadowed at the corners. All her earlier confidence evaporated upon hearing the tone of the man's voice.

"Yes," she forced out.

Silence stretched. Krista's heart pounded in her throat.

"Then we can proceed with the second tier of our plan."

Krista hid a long sigh of relief, but she was also confused. "Second tier?"

"To begin cleaning house in preparation for the endgame."

"Sir?"

"Echelon has met and reevaluated the coming scenarios. In the end, there seems little need for a continuing relationship with Viatus. We find Ivar Karlsen growing quickly into more of a liability. Especially after some strange events this past night at his research facility. His best use now is as a scapegoat, someone to draw fire away from us."

Krista let her mind go cold, recalibrating her role.

The man continued. "We have all the pertinent research. What Ivar Karlsen has set in motion cannot be reversed and will serve us in the end, with or without him."

"What am I to do?"

"You'll accompany him to Svalbard as planned and await further orders. I understand he's opted to leave earlier than expected."