Crucible

by James Rollins

  A folder popped up on his phone, and he tapped it open. His screen darkened as a video started. The view was into a featureless space, all draped in black. Three figures were present. Two were hidden under hooded, formless cloaks, masking any hint of features or gender. One stood closest to the camera; the second sat on a stool farther back. Balancing on the second one’s knee was a small figure wearing green footie pajamas, her auburn curls a few shades lighter than Kat’s hair.

  “Harriet . . .”

  The closest figure spoke, the voice robotic, mechanically distorted and modulated, eerily changing constantly. “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to secure and deliver Mara Silviera’s Xénese project. Both her neuromorphic sphere and the program inside. A drop-off location in Spain is encrypted within this file. Failure to do as instructed—” The speaker turned to Harriet, the child’s ears mercifully muffled by headphones so the girl couldn’t hear what was said next. “After that deadline, we’ll start with a finger and send it to you. Every six hours thereafter. Ears, nose, lips. We’ll whittle this girl down to nothing.”

  The speaker returned to the camera. “Then we’ll start with the second child.”

  The video ended as abruptly as it started.

  At some point, Monk had stood up, terror stiffening his spine. Cold sweat slickened his palms. His breathing gasped between clenched teeth. He could not even speak.

  Painter, likely anticipating his distress, threw him a lifeline. “Thanks to Kat, we have one advantage. From the way the figures were cloaked in the video, Valya remains unaware we know she is behind this kidnapping.”

  A breath rattled from Monk, allowing him to speak. “Where are we at in tracking her?”

  “We’re working on it,” Painter said. “But we must be cautious. If we blanket the Northeast with her photo, she’ll know her cover is blown. We’ll lose this small advantage. So, I’m working surreptitiously through back channels, enlisting only those we trust the most.”

  Monk understood but chafed against such restraint. He could not stop picturing Harriet’s face on the video, her features pinched with a familiar mix of fear and anger.

  Painter continued: “We’re also using DARPA’s latest software to scour footage from security and traffic cams. Unfortunately, Valya made the process more difficult, somehow blinding cameras at and immediately around Commander Pierce’s home. Still, we’ve set an ever-widening grid across D.C. and beyond to search for her.”

  Monk shook his head, doubtful that such a plan would be successful. “That pale-faced witch is a master of disguise.”

  “True, but our face-recognition software is state of the art. Most algorithms search a dozen key facial features at most to identify a subject. DARPA’s latest targets over a hundred. It’s capable of seeing through makeup, facial prosthetics, even surgical alterations. If Valya shows her face—disguised or not—we’ll spot her.”

  Holding his phone in an iron grip, Monk noted the time. A clock was already ticking down in his head. Less than twenty-four hours. He tried not to think about someone holding Harriet’s thin wrist to a wooden chopping block, the fall of a machete, her screams.

  “Forensics finished its sweep of Gray’s house,” Painter said. “They’re sorting through the blood evidence, most of it from the intruders, quite a bit of it.”

  Monk’s gaze flicked to Kat.

  Good job, honey.

  “We’re already analyzing the DNA in the hopes of identifying others—more of Valya’s team—to help expand the search. Still . . .”

  Painter’s voice trailed off, the implication clear.

  “We’re not likely to find Valya in the next twenty-four hours,” Monk said.

  Make that less than twenty-four hours.

  “No,” Painter admitted. “The only chance would be if Kat knew something more, something that could narrow the search parameters.”

  Monk stared at his wife’s sunken features, the mechanical rise and fall of her chest. His eyes traveled from the hospital bonnet that hid a net of EEG electrodes over her scalp and up along a wire to a monitor. The screen ran with scribbling lines, a seismic Richter scale of her neurological activity. Upon scanning these readings, Dr. Grant had mumbled to a colleague, running a finger along one line on the screen, note the low voltage with burst suppression.

  Translation: Kat’s no longer here.

  “She gave us all she could,” Monk said.

  “Lisa thought maybe with—”

  “What? Enough time? To hell with that. Harriet is running out of time. Same with Penny and Seichan.” Reminded of Gray’s girlfriend and unborn child, Monk took a step away from Kat’s bed, knowing there was nothing more he could do here. “I’m heading out to join Gray, where I can do some good.”

  Or simply do something.

  Monk was done waiting.

  A long silence followed. Monk braced himself to argue with the director, to state his case. If they failed to find Valya, the best hope for the kidnapped trio was to secure the missing tech.

  Finally, Painter spoke. “There’s an F-15 Eagle fueling at Naval Air Engineering Station in Lakehurst. By helicopter, you can be at the station in twenty minutes.”

  Monk shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course, the director—always an astute judge of character—had anticipated his reaction and had already rallied transportation.

  Painter continued: “Gray should be landing in Lisbon within the hour. I’ll coordinate a rendezvous with him once you’re on the ground out there. But, Monk, you know what’s at stake. We can never turn this tech over to Valya.”

  “Understood. But we have no leverage without it.”

  “Then as long as we’re on the same page, you’d better haul ass.”

  Resolute in doing just that, he hung up, crossed to Kat, and kissed her cheek. Despite his need to hurry, he lingered, sensing this was the last time he would get a chance to kiss his wife.

  Still, he knew she would have wanted him to pursue this.

  He shifted his lips to her ear. “I’ll save them. I swear.”

  He straightened and wiped tears from the corner of his eyes—then headed toward the door. Out in the hallway, Lisa spotted him. She broke away from Dr. Grant; the two looked like they’d been in some intense conversation.

  She hurried toward him. “Where are you—?”

  “To Portugal. To help Gray with his search.”

  Lisa glanced into Kat’s room. Monk’s cheeks heated, knowing she must think he was abandoning his wife. “I get it. You should go,” she said, proving to be as good a judge of character as her husband. “Painter just texted me . . . about the video. I couldn’t watch it.”

  “I have to do what I can,” Monk said.

  “Of course.” She reached and squeezed his upper arm in sympathy. She glanced over to the neurologist, then into Kat’s room. “While you’re gone, there’s something we could try. Something highly experimental. It won’t heal her, but it might—”

  Monk broke free of her grip. “Do what you think is best, Lisa. I trust you.”

  “Yes, but—”

  He brushed past her. “Just do it.”

  He headed down the hall. He didn’t need false hope. Instead, he needed to focus on his next step . . . and the one after that. Each stride took him farther away from Kat but hopefully brought him closer to saving his girls—and Seichan.

  He knew Gray must be just as worried and terrified for her and his unborn child.

  Still . . .

  Gray, I need you at your best.

  Monk pictured Harriet’s frightened face.

  We all do.

  Third

  Eve of Destruction

  13

  December 25, 5:05 P.M. WET

  Lisbon, Portugal

  In a remote corner of the Lisbon airport, Gray crouched before the open door of a travel locker. He distributed the arsenal of weapons stashed inside, all arranged by Painter.

  The locker room—a long, narrow alcove off the main concourse—was em
pty. Still, Kowalski’s bulk hid his actions from both the terminal and the space’s lone security camera. Due to customs and heightened airport security, they’d had to abandon their personal sidearms aboard the jet.

  Gray snugged a fresh SIG Sauer P365 into a holster at the small of his back, hidden under the fall of his jacket. The 9mm semiautomatic’s compact size made it a perfect concealed-carry weapon. Jason slipped an identical pistol into the shoulder holster under his cardigan. The guns came equipped with night sights and extended magazines, allowing for a twelve-plus-one capacity.

  Thirteen rounds total.

  Normally such a number would sound unlucky, but when it came to a firefight, those extra shots could mean the difference between life or death.

  So definitely not unlucky.

  Kowalski let out a low whistle of appreciation as Gray handed over the man’s weapon. “Merry Christmas to me. And I didn’t have to sit on Santa’s lap.”

  The black FN-P90 was a NATO bullpup assault rifle with the capability to switch fire from single shots to burst rounds, or flipped into fully automatic mode, firing nine hundred rounds a minute. The 5.7x28mm cartridges could penetrate Kevlar. Still, its compact design—a mere twenty inches long—allowed for relatively easy concealment.

  Kowalski shrugged off one shoulder of his long leather duster to sling the weapon along his side, where he happily patted it. “Here’s a puppy I’m happy to feed.”

  Gray passed him a heavy bag of extra box magazines, each holding fifty rounds, plenty of feed for this hungry bullpup rifle.

  Kowalski pulled his long coat back on and jostled his body to settle everything in place. His ankle-length duster could hide enough weapons to invade a small third-world country.

  “What now?” the big man asked.

  Gray passed a bag to Jason, which contained more equipment, including night-vision gear, then stood. “Painter arranged for us to interview Dr. Carson’s family—her husband and her daughter Laura. To see if they’ve received any further word from the two young women.”

  Mara Silviera and Carla Carson.

  Gray could only imagine the family’s worry. First the ambassador is murdered, then her daughter is attacked at the airport and on the run. Then again, maybe he didn’t need to imagine the family’s terror and fear. He tried his best to compartmentalize his own anxiety for Seichan, his child, Monk’s girls, but it was like trying to crate a feral dog. An ache persisted in his heart, not just figuratively but literally. He felt the tension in his chest with every breath.

  He knew Monk was just as agonized—likely worse—balancing on a razor’s edge. Director Crowe had updated Gray’s team on the situation back in the States, about that pale witch Valya Mikhailov’s involvement and about Kat’s failing condition.

  Unable to do anything else, Monk was already en route to Portugal, flying as a passenger aboard a supersonic F-15, zipping at twice the speed of sound. Even with a midair refueling, he’d be touching down here a mere ninety minutes from now.

  Gray intended to have answers before his friend landed.

  As they set off into the airport, Jason checked his phone. “No further update from Painter. But someone from the Carsons’ protection detail will meet us in Terminal One and escort us to the family.”

  They headed at a brisk pace toward the rendezvous point. Gray led the way, doing his best not to attract undue attention from the bustle of late-afternoon travelers. Still, several heads swiveled as they passed, tracking their group—or rather, eyeballing the giant behind Gray. Kowalski could never blend in. It didn’t help that the man kept trying to unwrap a cigar as they maneuvered through the crowd.

  “You can’t smoke in here,” Jason warned. The young analyst looked like a mouse scolding an elephant.

  “I friggin’ know that.” Kowalski finally got the cellophane off and clamped the stogie between his molars. “Nothing says I can’t taste this sweet beauty.”

  Gray knew better than to come between the big man and his love of dried tobacco leaves. Up ahead, an arm lifted above the crowd. His name was called, the voice full of authority.

  “Commander Pierce.”

  Gray directed the group over there. The speaker wore a crisp dark navy suit, white starched shirt, thin black tie, the no-nonsense uniform of a security officer, down to the earpiece trailing a wire under the jacket.

  “Agent Bailey,” the man said with a slight Irish brogue. “Head of the Carsons’ DSS detail.”

  Gray shook the Diplomatic Security Service agent’s hand. Their contact’s black hair was as polished as his suit, trimmed near to the scalp over the ears, longer on top, but combed with every hair in place. His skin was ruddy, with a tan that looked worn into his skin. His green eyes sparked with intelligence. His lips quirked slightly with amusement, maybe because the man’s gaze ran up and down Kowalski’s tall form.

  After years in the field, Gray was good at sizing up an opponent in a glance. He sensed both the agent’s confidence and competence, already respecting the man who looked to be his same age. Even the amused twinkle felt familiar, comfortable, as if Gray had known the agent for years.

  Still, he kept his guard up, noting everything around him.

  “I don’t know if you were informed,” Bailey said, “but we moved Laura and Derek Carson twenty minutes ago.”

  Gray glanced to Jason, who shook his head. This was new intel.

  “After the attempted attack here, the agency thought it best to change locations, get the family somewhere safer. We have other agents sticking here in case the two girls return.”

  Smart.

  The man knew how to run an operation.

  “I have a car idling curbside. We can be at the safe house in ten.”

  Gray appreciated the brevity and efficiency of their escort. He preferred to hit the ground running, especially now. “Let’s go.”

  Bailey led them out of the terminal and into the dying daylight. The sun sat sullenly on the horizon, as if disappointed by the end of Christmas. A white unmarked Ford Econoline van sat at the curb. Gray pictured the lush appointments of the Citation jet. The DSS plainly did not have the deep pockets of Sigma.

  Bailey tugged the side door open, gave a thumbs-up to the driver, then waved the trio inside. Kowalski took the back bench, struggling both with his size and the hidden rifle. Gray and Jason took the two captain chairs behind the driver.

  Bailey strode around the van to climb in next to the driver. Once settled, he swung around and pointed a large pistol at their group. The amused glint in his eye twinkled brighter.

  “Do not move.”

  5:14 P.M.

  Mara paced their luxurious cell. While she couldn’t escape, the movement helped keep her terror at bay—but just barely.

  Carly sat on the edge of a wide four-poster bed piled with pillows and covered with a silk duvet. Her only sign of agitation was a knee popping up and down. Her friend’s gaze swept the room. “At least they sprang for the penthouse.”

  Mara took in their surroundings, noting the antique chairs, a small French desk, and the expensive paintings on the wall. One oil appeared to be the work of a famous local artist, Pedro Alexandrino de Carvalho. It depicted Saint Thomas testing the wound in Christ’s side, his face agonized with doubt.

  That raw suspicion and distrust spoke to her, to their current predicament.

  Are we going to survive this?

  After being forced at gunpoint off the street and back into the bar, the two of them had been manhandled over to the establishment’s back door. The bartender had ignored their kidnapping, merely wiping a glass. Plainly he had been paid to look the other way. Still, Mara had noted his grimace of guilt—but apparently his remorse was not great enough for him to do anything to stop them from being led away and shoved into a van parked in the alley.

  Cooperate and no harm will come to you, the gunman had warned before slamming the door.

  With no other choice, they obeyed.

  A short ride later, they stopped in
another alley off Praça de São Paulo. Mara caught a glimpse of the fountain of Saint Paul’s Square, heard its tinkling waters, beyond which rose the twin square towers of the church to the same saint. She had cast out a silent plea to Saint Paul for intercession, to save them.

  With her prayer unanswered, she and Carly were taken into a tall house bordering the square. Its architecture was typical Pombaline, named after the Marquês de Pombal, who rebuilt much of Lisbon after the 1755 earthquake. The style’s efficient neoclassical design was born of a cost-cutting necessity. Still, the simple lines with little embellishments spoke to the new era of enlightenment, as Europe grew out of the extravagances of the Rococo period into something more rational and practical. Pombaline architecture was typified by an arcade of shops below and three or four levels of living space above.

  Mara knew all about this period because her local mentor—Eliza Guerra, the head of the Joanina Library in Coimbra—had insisted on a well-rounded education, including history, especially of Portugal and the rest of the Iberian Peninsula, of which the librarian was rightfully proud.

  It was Mara’s memory of Eliza’s bottomless enthusiasm—for knowledge, for life in all its splendor and mystery—that gave her the strength to follow Carly up the flights of stairs to the topmost apartment, where they were sequestered in a back bedroom. A guard had been posted at the door and on the balcony outside a set of French doors.

  That had been more than an hour ago.

  “Mara,” Carly said, “please stop wearing a rut in the rug. It looks expensive. We don’t want to piss off our hosts.”

  Mara crossed her arms, stepped over to the bed, and sat down next to Carly. “What do you think they’re doing?”

  Carly stared at the door. “Probably trying to decide what to do with us. Judging if there’s any worth in keeping us.”

  In other words, keeping us alive.

  Mara unfolded her arms and took Carly’s hand. It wasn’t done out of fear or out of a need for reassurance. It just felt . . . right, the natural thing to do in this moment.

  Carly gently gripped her palm, a thumb absently rubbing Mara’s wrist. “They’re probably examining what’s in your case. All those hard drives. They must’ve hoped we had the Xénese with us. Our best chance of staying alive is to make them think we could re-create it.”