Crucible

by James Rollins

  Since waking, Penny had been a bottomless well of questions and statements: Where’s Mom? Where are we? How come there’s no door to the bathroom? It stinks in here. I like anteaters. The last was probably generated by the row of ants marching across the concrete floor and vanishing down the floor drain. Still, Seichan knew this was Penny’s way of letting out stress, of coping with her fear in this strange situation.

  “When’re we getting out of here?” the girl asked. “I have to pee.”

  “You can use the toilet over there.”

  Penny looked aghast and shook her head, shaking her strawberry-blond pigtails in distaste. “Harriet threw up in there.”

  “I cleaned it all up.”

  Penny still squirmed, not meeting her eye.

  Seichan sensed the real reason for her refusal. “If I go first, will you go? There’s nothing to be bashful about.”

  Penny shrugged, making no promises.

  Seichan sighed and stood. She cradled her belly with one hand as the room spun slightly, an aftereffect of the tranquilizer. The baby shifted inside her, putting more pressure on her bladder. Not that she minded. She had been relieved to find the child still kicking inside her, apparently unharmed from the assault.

  Still, she hurried to the toilet. She had planned to use the bathroom anyway, not that she had much choice. She loosened her maternity pants, all too appreciative of its thick band of elastic stretch. Using her long blouse as a privacy screen, she sat and relieved herself.

  Once finished, she stood and twisted around to flush, only then noting the blood in the bowl. Not a lot, but enough to set her heart pounding. Still, she kept her features calm as she turned to Penny.

  “See. Nothing to worry about.”

  Seichan knew that wasn’t true. Not for herself, certainly not for the child. She moved woodenly back to the bed.

  Seemingly satisfied with everything, Penny hurried to take her place on the toilet. She talked the entire time. Do turtles poop in their shells? How come cats don’t bark? I think Bobby from school is a stupid fart head.

  Seichan barely heard her.

  Unlike Harriet, who cast her sister a withering look.

  Penny got the message and lowered her voice as she finished and pulled up her pajamas. “Mom doesn’t let us say fart. But Dad does it all the time. Says the word fart and does it a lot, too.”

  She giggled at this and hurriedly joined Seichan and her sister on the bed.

  Harriet was not amused, her expression darkening. She suddenly pulled from Seichan and looked back at her. “Were we bad?” she finally asked, speaking for the first time. “Did Santa take us . . . instead of giving us presents?”

  The young girl’s guilt and fear drew Seichan’s full attention back to the pair. Clearly the kid had been searching for some explanation for their circumstance, and Penny’s illicit use of a forbidden word had offered a possible reason.

  “Harriet . . . no, of course not.” She scooped up her tiny body and drew her closer, then did the same with Penny. “None of this is your fault.”

  Voices sounded from the door. The tiny window slid open as someone checked inside, then the door was unlocked and opened.

  The person who was at fault entered.

  Valya Mikhailov wore a fur-trimmed silver coat, shaking a dusting of snow from its fringes as she stepped forward. Her white hair, gelled flat to her skull, was far shorter than how the woman had last worn it. Her hairline came to a sharp V between icy brows. Her skin—as white as polished Carrera marble—had been dusted with a matching powder. Still, in the bright light of the doorway, a shadow marred the right side of her face.

  Seichan pictured the black tattoo hidden under the powder: a half sun, with kinked rays extending across her cheek and shooting above her eye. Her dead twin brother had carried the other half of that black sun, only on his left cheek.

  Seichan knew whom Valya blamed for the death of her sibling.

  The woman’s pale hand rested on the black hilt of a dagger sheathed at her waist. Seichan knew the story behind that old blade. It had been passed down from the woman’s grandmother, a village babka—or healer—back in Siberia. The knife was called an athamé, a dagger used in magical ceremonies.

  Valya glared as she entered. Her spite went beyond her brother’s death. Seichan and Valya had both been assassins with the Guild, sisters in the same deadly profession. After Seichan had helped Sigma destroy the organization, Valya had survived, bitter and vengeful. In the power vacuum left behind, Valya had gathered new forces, slowly rebuilding the organization under her own merciless leadership.

  Penny leaned toward Seichan. “Is she the Snow Queen?”

  Seichan could easily guess the source of this question. Last night, Kat had finished the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale of the same name, the story of a frost-hearted queen who steals a young boy. And certainly Valya’s snow-white countenance matched the villain in that tale. The woman suffered from albinism. Yet, defying the assumption that all those afflicted had red eyes, her irises were an ice blue.

  Valya definitely fit the part of the Snow Queen.

  Still, Seichan reassured Penny with a pat on the hand. “No, she’s not.”

  She refrained from telling the girl the truth.

  This woman’s worse . . . far worse.

  Valya stalked inside, flanked behind by two burly guards, one carrying a cattle prod, the other a tranquilizer gun. She ordered the guards in Russian. “Davayte sdelayem eto bystro,” she said. Let’s make this quick.

  She switched to English with Seichan, her accent remaining distinct. “We’re running behind schedule this morning.”

  Seichan stood to face the witch, waving the girls behind her. “What do you want?” She glanced over to the unmade bed. “And where’s Kat . . . Captain Bryant?”

  “Last time I checked, the woman was alive.”

  Seichan inwardly sagged with relief.

  “If she had not been so obstinate,” Valya explained with a scowl, “she would be here. No one was supposed to be harmed. It’s why I left her alive. We certainly don’t have the ability to care for the comatowe.”

  Seichan translated the Russian, her fear returning.

  Comatose . . .

  “I did go to the hospital,” Valya said. “To make sure she wasn’t going to talk anytime soon. I even brought ice chips for her husband.”

  Monk . . .

  “He was most grateful.”

  Seichan balled a fist, imagining Monk at Kat’s bedside while the woman who put his wife there stood at his elbow. Beyond her skill as an assassin, Valya’s most vaunted talent was at disguise and mimicry. Long ago, the woman had learned to use her pale countenance like a blank slate, a palette upon which she could paint any face.

  Still, this information told Seichan that they were still in the States, likely somewhere in the Northeast. But it didn’t answer her most important question.

  “Again, what the hell do you want?” she asked.

  Valya shrugged. “I need Sigma’s help.”

  “Then this is a strange way of asking for it.”

  “Nyet. It’s all a matter of inspiring cooperation.”

  Seichan glanced back to the girls.

  “There was an attack four days ago in Portugal,” Valya explained. “Involving an unusual AI project. Someone went to extreme measures to secure it. Even murdering a U.S. ambassador. It drew our attention. No one goes through such effort unless there was something of true value.”

  Seichan knew the former Guild had often scoured the world for cutting-edge tech—then sold it to the highest bidder to fund their terrorist activities or twisted it to their own ends, which was often far worse.

  Clearly Valya intended to follow the same playbook.

  “That technology is now up in the air,” Valya said.

  “And you want it.”

  “Da, but not just me. Komandir Pierce is already headed to Portugal.” She glanced to a wristwatch. “He should be touching down in another
dva chasov.”

  Two hours?

  Seichan failed to hide her surprise. She had assumed Gray and Director Crowe were turning over every rock to find her and the girls.

  Why is Gray off on this mission?

  Valya answered, “Sigma believes the murders in Portugal are tied to our attack. And they’re right, but for the wrong reason.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Something strange happened during the assault in Portugal.” Valya went on to explain about the discovery of footage after the attack, of a Sigma symbol appearing on a computer monitor. “By the time the recording was found, I already had operatives in the field, investigating what happened. They were one of the first to see that footage, before it even reached Sigma. I knew such an oddity would draw Direktor Crowe’s attention. So, before he could act—”

  “You grabbed us.”

  “I’m glad I had such foresight. Seven hours ago, my operatives in Portugal suddenly went silent.” Valya frowned, clearly unhappy with this change in circumstance. “They had a lead on the group who might have orchestrated the attack at the university. Some fire-and-brimstone sect who dress up in robes. But before they could pursue this angle, they crossed paths with another shadowy group. A new and unknown player in all of this. My operatives had been looking into them—then went silent. My guess. Someone else is after that tech.”

  “Which means you need more boots on the ground.”

  Valya shrugged. “Our organization is still growing and has only a fraction of Sigma’s resources.” Her gaze shifted to the two girls. “But the right motivation might persuade Sigma to work for us.”

  Seichan understood. Valya intended to co-opt Sigma to her own end.

  “They’ll never agree,” she said.

  Valya shrugged. “We’ll see. We merely want the device, along with a copy of the AI program. They bring me those items, you all go back to your happy lives.”

  “And if not, you’ll kill us.”

  “That’ll be my bluff.”

  “Bluff?”

  “If they fail to perform, I’ll raise the two girls myself. Train them like you and I were trained, turning them into weapons.”

  Seichan felt the blood drain into her legs. The Guild had employed brutal techniques and extreme deprivation to hone their operatives. And if those methods weren’t torture enough, the end result—if the girls survived—would be the loss of their souls.

  “As to your child,” Valya continued. “I can wait the month out.”

  Seichan placed a palm on her belly.

  “Don’t worry, boy or girl, I’ll raise the child like my own. Considering the genetic stock of the parents, the outcome could only be spectacular. And after the delivery, I’ll make sure your body is sent to Komandir Pierce, in a box wrapped up with a bow, a late Christmas present from me.”

  “Still, they’ll never go along with it.”

  “Not yet. First, they’ll need a little convincing.” She turned to the taller of the two men behind her. “Take the youngest.”

  Seichan crouched, intending to keep that from happening.

  The other guard stepped toward her, leading with his cattle prod, its end sparking and snapping. Seichan judged the seven ways she could disarm him and commandeer the weapon. Then the baby inside kicked her in the kidney.

  Gasping, she dropped to a knee.

  She pictured the blood in the toilet.

  Valya took the tranquilizer pistol from the other man and pointed it at Seichan. “I’m not sure how much sedative your child can survive. But I’m willing to find out. Are you?”

  On the floor, Seichan simply glared at her. She recognized in her present state that she could not stop what was going to happen. She could only watch as Harriet was hauled into the arms of the burly guard. Penny sobbed, grabbing for her little sister, only to be roughly shoved back to the bed.

  As the guard carried Harriet off, the five-year-old remained her stoic self, accepting the inevitable as surely as Seichan had. Still, the girl stared back at Seichan, as if silently asking again, What did I do wrong?

  Seichan’s heart broke as Valya followed her men out. She called harshly after the woman. “Harm the girl and I’ll—”

  Before she could finish, Valya slammed the door behind her, cutting off this feeble threat. Seichan scooted and shifted to the bed to comfort Penny. The girl buried her damp face in her bosom and sobbed.

  “She’ll be fine,” Seichan assured her. “Harriet will be fine.”

  She prayed that was true.

  The baby kicked again. Wincing, she cursed the man who put this demon inside her. Still, she worried for the child’s father, for the shitstorm he was flying into. It seemed everyone was going after that tech. But why was it so important?

  She stared at the locked door, leaving that mystery to Gray.

  She had her own problems to tackle and was all too aware of how physically compromised she was in her condition. Knowing she would not be able to fight her way out, especially with the girls in tow, she needed a new strategy.

  One that raised a difficult question.

  She squeezed Penny tighter.

  How do I outwit the Snow Queen?

  11

  December 25, 2:48 P.M. WET

  Lisbon, Portugal

  “What’s Eve doing?” Carly asked.

  Mara shifted her attention from the diagnostic information scrolling down one side of the laptop screen. She had been studying the analytics from her music subroutine. With the module almost complete, she wanted to scan for bugs or glitches. From past iterations, she knew this was a critical juncture in Eve’s development. By now, Mara’s careful grooming should have made the program’s consciousness fertile enough for true growth. But it also made it vulnerable. The program balanced on a wire’s edge, teetering between a miracle capable of developing a true depth of soul and some egocentric engine of incalculable malignancy.

  “Why’s she just crouched there?” Carly pressed.

  Mara cocked her head to the side, matching Eve’s odd posture. Rather than absorbing the last of the subroutine’s data—represented visually by a swirl of musical notes—Eve seemed shut down. She was crouched on one knee, her head tilted to the side, her long dark hair parted over her left ear.

  She looked frozen in this position.

  “Did she lock up?” Carly asked. “Like a glitched character in a video game?”

  “I don’t know.” Admitting such a thing made Mara’s blood go cold. “I don’t know what she’s doing.”

  “It almost looks like she’s straining to hear something.” Carly turned to her. “Maybe there’s some song in there she really likes, and she keeps playing it over and over again.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Can’t you ask her? If she knows language, can’t you talk to her?”

  “Not yet. It’s too dangerous. It could shatter her fragile digital psyche. To Eve, that virtual Eden is her world. She’s not ready to know about us.”

  “About the gods looking down upon her.”

  Mara slowly nodded. “But I think you’re right. I think she’s listening to something.”

  But what?

  Mara had an idea.

  “Let me run a test.”

  She typed quickly on the keyboard, pulling up another diagnostic program. It measured for any interference patterns, any strong RF signals or localized transmissions that could penetrate Xénese’s insulated systems and damage them.

  A chart appeared on one corner of the screen.

  She scanned what the diagnostics had registered. “Background EM. Radio waves. Cell tower transmissions. A wireless router nearby.” She tapped the largest spike on the chart. “This one’s really strong. In the microwave band.”

  “Microwave?” Carly stepped toward the open window. “There’s a restaurant on the corner. If they’re heating something up—”

  “Not that sort of microwave.”

  Mara noted a slight drop in the spik
e and sighed.

  Maybe it’s nothing.

  Carly stood at the window, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon breeze. The wind tussled her blond curls, dancing the bright sunlight about her cheeks. The edges of her black suit jacket fluttered, offering glimpses of her body’s silhouette.

  Mara had to force her gaze away and back to the screen. Eve had finally moved, regaining her feet, standing straight. But the avatar’s head remained tilted, the curve of her ear exposed. Only now, Eve’s expression looked strained, with a pinched brow and narrowed eyes.

  Almost scared.

  Mystified and concerned, Mara called to Carly. “Come see this.”

  Her friend turned from the window and crossed over. As she did so, Mara noted the microwave spike in the diagnostic window shift higher. On the screen, Eve’s head swiveled, as if following Carly’s path.

  Mara straightened, suddenly fearing the worst.

  Carly must have noted her alarm. “What is it?”

  “You turned off your phone, right?”

  “Yeah. And pulled the battery. Like you told me.”

  Mara knew cell phones used microwave transmissions to communicate with GPS satellites, allowing a phone’s position to be tracked. “Check your pockets. All of them.”

  While Carly followed her urgent instructions, Mara patted her own clothes.

  Nothing.

  Suddenly Carly’s eyes got huge. From a jacket pocket, she removed a shiny metallic coin. “I don’t know what this is. Don’t know how it got there.”

  Mara knew the answer to both. She pictured the man who had grabbed Carly at the airport. “It’s a GPS tracker. It was planted on you.”

  She turned to the door, knowing the truth.

  “I led them right here.”

  2:53 P.M.

  Todor broke another of the hotel clerk’s fingers.

  With his other hand, Todor muffled the man’s scream. Two of his teammates held the clerk pinned to a chair in the establishment’s back office, allowing Todor to stare into the young man’s glassy, dark eyes. He tried to fathom the man’s agony, to wonder what it felt like.