Crucible

by James Rollins

  Only then did she look away.

  Wow.

  Bailey finally broke the silent tension. “Speak freely. Sister Beatrice also serves the Thomas Church.”

  Mara frowned. “What is this Thomas Church you keep mentioning?”

  “Right, you should know.” Gray nodded to the cards. “Those twin symbols represent individuals in the Catholic Church who secretly follow the teachings found in the Gospel of Thomas.”

  He glanced over to Father Bailey and Sister Beatrice.

  Carly shook her head. “What’s the Gospel of Thomas?”

  “One of the gnostic texts of the early church,” Bailey explained. “Back in Roman times, when Christianity was outlawed, secrecy remained paramount, requiring groups to meet in caves, crypts, in the shadows. With such isolation, individual practices began to diverge, along with differing philosophies. Gospels were popping up everywhere. The ones we know from the Bible, of course. But also scores of others. The Secret Gospel of James, of Mary Magdalene, of Philip. Different sects began to develop around each one, threatening to splinter the young church. To stop this from happening, four books were chosen as canon—the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”

  “The New Testament,” Mara said.

  Bailey nodded. “The rest were thrown out, declared heretical. Including the Gospel of Thomas.”

  Mara examined the two cards. “But why was Thomas’s gospel outlawed?”

  Gray answered, “Because of the basic tenet at its core. Seek and you shall find.”

  He remembered Vigor sharing this same knowledge, when they’d first met, during one of Gray’s first missions for Sigma, dealing with the theft of the bones of the Biblical Maji.

  Bailey nodded. “Thomas believed the core of Christ’s teachings was never to stop looking for the God in the world around you—and in yourself. The early church did not appreciate this philosophy, preferring you stick with their teachings and interpretations versus seeking God on your own terms.”

  Kowalski grunted. “Gotta fill those pews somehow.”

  Sister Beatrice frowned heavily at his sarcastic viewpoint, silencing him.

  “It’s more nuanced than that,” Bailey said. “But ultimately the Gospel of Thomas was declared heretical. Still, there are those among the church who respect and adhere to the basic tenet found in that gospel. As you know, the church is not beyond science. We have Catholic universities and hospitals, including research facilities that advocate forward thinking, new thoughts, and ideas. And yes, a certain part of the church is steadfast and slow to respond, but it also contains members who challenge and keep the church malleable.” He waved toward the silent nun. “That is a role we still serve. Those of the Thomas Church.”

  A church hiding within the bigger Church.

  Gray studied the cards, picturing Vigor’s warm smile, the secretive amused glint that had always been in his eyes. As he stared around the table, he also sensed the forces drawing him full circle, from his first adventure with Sigma to now. He could almost feel that tide, spanning centuries into the past and extending into the future.

  Bailey drew him back to the present. “But the Thomas Church is not the only secretive order within the larger Apostolic Church. I was drawn here at the request of another.”

  Surprised, Gray looked harder at him. “Who are you talking about?”

  Bailey turned his back to the table and gazed out the window toward the church in the square, watching it sink into darkness as Christmas Day came to an end.

  “An ancient order,” he finally said, “going back to the earliest centuries of Christendom. A group founded in this region and whose members have been fighting in secret against the dark tides of ignorance ever since.”

  “Who?” Carly asked.

  Bailey returned his attention to the table. “What do you know of La Clave? In English, the group’s name means The Key.”

  Looks were shared, but no one recognized this group.

  “How about the Cult of Columba?”

  Gray shook his head, but Mara suddenly gasped, the name clearly ringing a bell with her.

  “You’re talking about Saint Columba,” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  Gray turned to her for explanation. “Who are you talking about?”

  Mara stared at the cards. “Columba is revered across this region.”

  “But who is she?” Carly asked

  Mara turned to her friend. “The patron saint of witches.”

  6:08 P.M.

  Mara again felt that twinge of guilt, for surviving when her mentors—women who took on the mantle of witches—were slaughtered. As acid etched her gut, she remembered the philosophy represented by the twin cards on the dining table.

  Seek and you shall find.

  This tenet could be further boiled down to one word, to one fundamental drive of humanity.

  Curiosity.

  For millennia, autocratic and dictatorial powers had sought to squash this trait, to silence those who asked questions, to ban books that challenged the status quo, to burn women who dared to look for answers. Children had this warning drilled into them while growing up, a caution against inquiry.

  Remember, boys and girls, curiosity killed the cat.

  Commander Pierce’s gaze had never left her face. “A patron saint of witches? There is such a thing?”

  Father Bailey answered, but Mara barely listened. Having grown up in this region, she knew the story well enough. The priest explained the history of Saint Columba, a saint who worshipped Christ enough to be martyred, but who never stopped questioning the world, who never stopped being a witch.

  “Ever since her martyrdom,” Bailey finished, “people continue to pray to her. Both to ward against black magic and to protect those witches who do good work. A cult of followers developed around her.”

  “And this group, La Clave?” Gray asked.

  “An inner cabal of Columba’s followers. The Key came into existence during the great witch trials that swept Europe. Back in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. They did their best to protect witches and shine a light into the darkness of that time. And ultimately they prevailed. The purges finally ended.”

  “Then why did the group continue?”

  “Because darkness never truly goes away. It only waxes and wanes. In this region, the witch trials were run by the Spanish Inquisition. But as a more enlightened era rose, the darkest sect of the Inquisition persisted. They dubbed themselves the Crucibulum.”

  Gray’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning Crucible.”

  “A vessel that purifies through fire,” the priest said.

  Mara looked up, knowing one certain truth.

  That flame still burned today.

  “As this new light of reason grew brighter,” Bailey continued, “the Crucible’s power waned, forcing the group into hiding, becoming shadows to this new light.”

  “And what of the Key?” Gray asked.

  “They never forgot who their true enemy was in this region and kept tabs on the Crucible. The two groups have been forever waging a secret war, light against darkness, knowledge against ignorance.”

  “Even to now?”

  “Especially now. In these times when truth is under assault, the Crucible has only grown stronger, growing bolder. Their intent is to usher in a new Dark Age, to quash knowledge.”

  “You’re wrong,” Mara said, interrupting and drawing attention. Under the combined gazes of the others, her voice faltered.

  Then Carly took her hand, giving her the strength to make her case.

  “They don’t want to just quash knowledge—they want to smother the very drive that creates knowledge. They want to strangle curiosity, to punish those who even dare question the world around them.”

  Bailey’s eyes widened. “I believe she’s right.”

  Attention thankfully shifted to the priest.

  “Curiosity is a gift from God,” he continued, “a tool for us to explore and study the natural world. To do
otherwise is an insult to Him and His creation.”

  “And the Crucible is set against this,” Gray said.

  Bailey nodded. “They’re all about power and control. They’re the tyrannical thumb pressing a head down to the ground, demanding blind obeisance. They want you to only listen to the word of their leader, instead of the loving word of God.”

  Jason spoke, drawing focus to what truly mattered. “But who are these leaders?”

  Bailey sighed with disappointment, sagging a bit. “The Key has ferreted out and eliminated many of the Crucible’s foot soldiers, but their true leaders remain unknown, especially its Inquisitor General.”

  The title—Inquisitor General—chilled Mara. It harkened back to this region’s blood-soaked history. Every child who grew up in Spain or Portugal was terrorized by stories of the cruelties and depravities of the Inquisition. She prayed that that tyrannical darkness never rose again.

  Father Bailey continued: “The Key recognized the handiwork of the Crucible in the attack at the university. They also recognized they were in over their heads, so they reached out to the Vatican, enlisting our aid. As a devotee of Thomas—of knowledge and enlightenment—how could I refuse?”

  Mara glanced to Carly. “That’s why you tracked us down. But how did you find us?”

  “Like I said, the Key was aware of several of the Crucible’s foot soldiers. We’ve been surveilling them, questioning those we were able to capture. We were lucky to be following a lead when we found you. I’m sorry we didn’t arrive in time to secure your project.”

  Mara leaned back, worried.

  “Unfortunately, we’ve had our hands full. The Crucible has proven to be slippery, well connected, and deeply funded. To complicate matters, we even crossed paths with other nefarious characters sniffing the same trail.”

  Jason tilted his head toward Gray and whispered, “Could they have been sent by Valya Mikhailov?”

  Gray waved this question away, his eyes narrowing. “From what you’ve learned, do you know what the Crucible’s intent is with Mara’s program, why they targeted her and her AI research?”

  “Possibly. It’s why we needed you. All of you. If we are to stop them, we need to be on the same page. I’m still deep in the weeds, but from interrogating the enemy we were able to capture, we know at least where they intended to head with Ms. Silviera’s stolen project.”

  Mara gulped, her heart in her throat. “Where?”

  Bailey glanced over to Sister Beatrice, indicating this information had freshly arrived. “To France.”

  She frowned. France?

  “We don’t know how or why . . .” Bailey faced the group again. “But they intend to destroy Paris.”

  15

  December 25, 6:10 P.M. WET

  Airborne over the Atlantic

  Monk couldn’t outrun his demons—even at twice the speed of sound.

  It didn’t help that he was crammed into the weapons system officer’s seat behind the pilot of an F-15 Eagle. The restraint harness locked him into the cramped compartment. He could hardly move his legs, and the noise-attenuating headphones built into his helmet barely muffled the agonized scream of the jet’s twin Pratt & Whitney engines. Furthermore, the oxygen mask strapped to his face only heightened his sense of isolation, piquing his claustrophobia.

  He glanced to the clock glowing on the console in front of him.

  Still another forty minutes to go.

  Traveling at supersonic speeds, he was due to land in Lisbon only two hours after leaving the naval air station in Lakehurst, New Jersey.

  Still, the journey felt interminable.

  He could not stop worrying about Kat or picturing Harriet’s scared face on the video. His eyes kept flicking to that damned clock, watching the minutes tick down while he was strapped in this isolation chamber hurtling over the dark Atlantic. He was less concerned with his arrival time in Portugal than he was with the deadline set by Valya Mikhailov.

  Only twenty-two hours . . .

  Before that pale bitch started carving up his little girl.

  A squelch cut through the engine roar filling his head. “Patching a call from D.C. to you,” the pilot radioed back.

  Had to be Director Crowe.

  Monk was not disappointed. Painter—likely sensing his need for distraction—had been regularly updating him. Still, with each call, his heart clenched ever tighter in his chest, as he feared the worst, especially about Kat.

  “Monk, you should be landing soon,” Painter began. “I wanted to—”

  “How’s Kat?” Monk asked.

  “Sorry, of course. She’s stable, but no change. In fact, I’ve got Lisa on the other line. She wanted to talk to you. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to connect with you before your boots hit the ground.”

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “I already told you that we decrypted the video file to pinpoint the drop-off coordinates in Spain.”

  According to the information buried in the message, Valya wanted the stolen tech to be taken to a location in central Madrid. If they failed to meet her deadline—

  Monk couldn’t think about that. “Go on.”

  “The data embedded in the file also had a text address, a way to communicate with the kidnappers—with Valya. It’s intended as a means to coordinate with her when we secure Mara Silviera’s project. Taking advantage of this, I texted her early. Demanding proof of life. I told her we wanted evidence that both the girls and Seichan were still alive, still in good health.”

  “Have you heard back?”

  “Not yet, but when I do, I’ll forward everything.”

  Monk blew out a breath, desperately wanting that proof.

  Painter continued: “I’m also hoping that by further opening lines of communication—exchanging messages back and forth—Valya might slip up, enough for us to trace those lines back to her.”

  Smart.

  Still, Monk held out little hope. The Russian witch was too clever to let her guard down, especially around Director Crowe.

  “It could also possibly buy us more time,” Painter added. “I’ll do my best to use this gambit to delay matters. My plan is to insist next that she show proof that Gray’s child is unharmed. Hopefully coordinating an ultrasound or some other proof will put off this deadline a bit longer.”

  But would it be long enough?

  None of this mattered if they failed to secure that tech.

  “Any word from Gray?” Monk asked.

  “Not yet. He was set to interview the U.S. ambassador’s family.”

  “Is he still at the airport?”

  “No. From the team’s GPS on their sat phones, it looks like they’ve settled at an off-site location. Possibly the family’s been moved or maybe he’s following a lead. Once I get an update, I’ll let you know.”

  Good.

  Monk was anxious to join Gray and the others.

  “But like I mentioned,” Painter said, “the more important reason for this call was to patch you in with Lisa. She wants to update you on Kat.”

  Monk sucked deeper from his oxygen mask, bracing himself.

  After a few hiccups with the connection, Lisa came on the line. “Hi, Monk, how are you holding up out there?”

  He checked the altimeter reading. “I’m currently holding up at forty thousand feet.” His attempt at humor was meant to break the tension, but instead came off too acerbic, revealing his exasperation with this question, but he saw no reason to take it out on Lisa.

  “Sorry, we’ll be landing shortly,” he said lamely. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “You headed out so quickly I never had a chance to explain something that Julian—Dr. Grant—suggested we could try with Kat.”

  He remembered Lisa standing in the hospital corridor, deep in conversation with the neurologist. “Well, you got me cornered now. Stuck in this flying toaster. What did you want to go over?”

  “Actually, I wanted your permission.”

 
; “For what?”

  She told him.

  Even with the insulation of his flight suit, Monk’s body went cold.

  “I know how this sounds,” Lisa said. “You better than anyone understand what I’m asking.”

  As he pictured the described procedure, his arm rose. He intended to run his palm across his shaved scalp, a nervous gesture. Instead, his prosthesis thumped against his helmet.

  “And I need to stress that Julian believes attempting this is burning a bridge. If we attempt it, we will never get Kat back. This isn’t a cure but a death sentence. Still, it’s also our best and only chance to learn if Kat knows anything else.”

  Monk swallowed. “In other words, you’re asking permission to kill Kat.”

  “For a chance to save your girls.”

  But only a chance . . .

  Still, it was enough.

  “Do it.”

  1:28 P.M. EST

  I’m sorry, Kat.

  Lisa prayed she wasn’t needlessly torturing her friend.

  She sat in the observation room of a surgical suite. A pair of neurosurgeons had finished dissecting down to the vagus nerve in Kat’s neck, where they had wrapped it with electrodes, and were now closing her up. Simultaneously, Julian worked with a surgeon to drill and seat another electrode into the thalamus of her brain.

  Knowing her critical condition, the group operated swiftly. They were not even risking anesthesia, seeing little need, as the EEG of Kat’s brain activity still tracked no wakeful response.

  For once, Lisa prayed Kat was not there, not feeling any of this.

  Lisa’s only sibling was a brother in California. And though she had only known Kat for some handful of years, the two had grown to be as close as sisters. The sister I always wanted. Kat had even served as Lisa’s maid of honor at her wedding, when she married Painter. And in some ways, they even shared Lisa’s husband. As Sigma’s chief analyst, Kat spent more time with Painter—both in the past and now—than she did. Kat was Painter’s right hand, his confidante, his sounding board.

  Lisa never felt resentful or jealous of that bond. In fact, she appreciated it more than she ever shared. Kat filled holes in Painter’s life that Lisa could never fill. It made Painter more complete, a better husband, even a better man.