Crucible

by James Rollins

  Gray leaned closer, picturing the long list of names inscribed inside the abandoned copy of the Malleus Maleficarum in San Sebastián. All had the surname of Guerra; the last was written in the crisp cursive of a librarian: Eliza Guerra. Upon learning this, it had not been hard to discover an ancient family estate in the neighboring Pyrenees. If the Crucible stronghold in San Sebastián had emptied out and retreated somewhere, that old castle in the mountains seemed a likely target.

  “Look at these dark pockets in the neighboring valleys,” Bailey said. “I believe they’re caves. The Pyrenees are pocked with such caverns, carved by mountain springs draining out of the highlands.”

  “Okay?”

  “You have to know the history of this region of Basque. It’s always been considered a bastion for witches. It’s said that they held their dark sabbaths in such hidden places. Though, more likely it was simply sites where people sought relief from the strict rules of the church, where they could let their hair down.”

  “And party,” Kowalski said.

  “They were also gathering places for people who opposed the Inquisition, who believed in a more enlightened future. You have to understand that the Basque people of this region have always been fiercely independent. Many chafed under the authority of the church, like many of those factions still do today, only fighting now against the Spanish government, demanding independence.” Bailey nodded his head toward the front of the aircraft. “It’s why Agent Zabala still runs a task force in this region, to keep Basque insurrectionists in check.”

  “And the caves?” Gray asked.

  “Yes.” Bailey nodded and zoomed into an overview of the Guerra estate. “Look. You can see a large shadow just at the northern edge of the main structure.”

  “A big cavern.” Gray pictured the ransacked Holy Office beneath the mansion in San Sebastián, occupying an old abandoned water cistern. “You’re thinking this is where another of the Crucible’s strongholds might be hidden, under the estate.”

  “The Guerra family has lived and prospered in this region for centuries. They gained a lot of their wealth and power during the middle of the Inquisition. Maybe it’s one of the reasons the family remained steadfastly loyal, joining the Inquisition’s most die-hard and conservative sect, the Crucibulum.” He tapped the large shadow on the screen. “I think they chose this site to build their home, to set down their roots, because of this cavern.”

  “Why?”

  “To put their boot heel on the neck of one of the most infamous witch caverns in this region.” He shifted his finger farther to the north, to another shadow. “This is Cuevas de las Brujas. The Cave of Witches. It is sometimes called the Cathedral of the Devil, with legends of a large black he-goat who lived in the fields at its mouth, drinking from a river said to flow out of this cavern from hell itself.”

  Bailey moved his finger between the two shadows. “I wager these systems are connected, physically and historically.”

  Gray slowly nodded. “If the Crucible wanted a place to build its holiest of Holy Offices, they’d want it juxtaposed against the most villainous of witch sanctuaries.”

  “Like a beacon against the darkness.”

  Gray considered this as Zabala came back on the radio. “Target in five.”

  Turning, Gray gazed out the window. With their craft buried in storm clouds, the world was pitch black. The plan was to fly in dark, on instruments alone. The lead helicopter would drop straight out of the clouds toward a courtyard in the center of the estate. Its crew of fifteen would zip down on lines and spread out to secure the surrounding buildings. Once safe, their helicopter would sweep lower and land in the courtyard.

  The goal and target were one and the same.

  Secure the Xénese device.

  With a black-market sale being organized, the strike team had to move fast, before the Crucible could employ its doppelganger as a weapon in a retaliatory action—against them or, worse, another global target.

  Gray pictured Paris burning, knowing the greater ruin that had been narrowly avoided. It was why they also needed Monk and Mara’s program on site ASAP. He checked his watch. His best friend was already en route from Madrid. He should reach the estate only fifteen minutes behind the strike team.

  Gray intended to have things locked down by the time they arrived.

  He lowered his arm, drawing confidence in the fact that Monk had not betrayed the team. Not that Gray had ever fully believed it. Monk would do anything to protect his family, but Sigma was also his family. They had spilled blood together, fought through fire, been at death’s door too many times to count, shoulder to shoulder through it all.

  Both Monk and Kat.

  Gray prayed that what had been gained by all that subterfuge—some piece of encrypted tech—helped rescue Harriet and Seichan. They had no choice but to leave that operation in the hands of Director Crowe.

  “Target in two,” Zabala radioed.

  Gray glanced down to the glowing tablet in Bailey’s hand. “If you’re right about the significance of the estate being built here, then I think you’ve solved a mystery that had been plaguing your contacts with the Key.”

  Bailey frowned, not understanding.

  “The Guerra family—its wealth, its influence, its history—all sitting atop the holiest of Holy Offices.” Gray shook his head. “I think it’s obvious who must be running all of this, who must be the current leader of the Crucible. Eliza Guerra is not just a major player in all of this. She is the—”

  6:40 P.M.

  “Inquisitor Generalis,” Mendoza moaned, dropping to his knees on the floor of the computer lab. The tech bowed his head to the floor, both out of obeisance and to hide his shock that this petite woman in a trim suit was their true leader and master.

  Todor remained standing. He kept one fist clenched, his teeth close to breaking as he kept his fury in check. Inquisitor Guerra came flanked by two taller men. One was her same age, who it was whispered she had taken as a consort; the other was an older man of seventy who acted as her counsel in most matters. The trio composed the Tribunal. But Todor knew the woman, whose family had ruled the Crucible with an iron fist for centuries, was far harder than either of her companions.

  She still cradled her left arm in a sling, her shoulder fractured by the bullet he had fired at her upon her order. This was the first time Todor had seen her since the solstice. A week earlier she had given him his orders at this very estate, down in the High Holy Office.

  You are God’s merciless soldier. Prove this by shooting without hesitation, without any show of remorse.

  As much as it had pained him, under her merciless glare at the library, he had obeyed. In that moment, she proved she was willing to spill her own blood for the cause. Seeing her now, he felt some of his anger draining, confusion rising to fill the void.

  The Inquisitor General had arrived an hour ago after evacuating the Holy Office in San Sebastián. She had clearly abandoned any pretense of keeping her identity a secret from the lower caste of the order. This alone signified the magnitude of this moment. Her eyes swept the lab, her fervor shining bright, both angry and exulted.

  Behind her, more men gathered, trying to peer inside. They represented the highest of the order, all come to witness what lay hidden here.

  Todor kept his back to the sight, to the window overlooking the sealed chamber. He could feel the radiance of those hundred Xénese devices, each housing a demon, glowing with malevolence, a black sun at his back. On the table directly behind him, near Mendoza’s bowed head, rested the infernal device that had brought Paris low.

  Guerra’s gaze shifted from the next room to Todor.

  She smiled warmly upon him. She reached out and brushed his fist with the back of her hand. His fingers instantly relaxed. He could not stop them, feeling the love in that touch.

  “Mi soldado,” she said. “You’ve done well. You should be proud.”

  His legs trembled. He wanted to drop to his knees, but he kept upright.
He waved back to the window. “¿Por qué?” he pleaded. “Has this all been about earthly wealth? To gain riches from selling these accursed devices?”

  Guerra’s smile saddened. “In part, Familiares Yñigo. That I cannot deny. But it is only to swell the coffers of the Crucibulum. Which we will need in the dark times to come.” She stepped past him, forcing him to turn, to face what shone in the next room. “I will cast these seeds far and wide. Once out there, they will pit country against country, governments against terrorists. Mistakes will happen. Ruin will spread. And if not . . .”

  She tapped Mendoza and motioned the tech up, clearly wanting him to explain.

  “We . . . we built a back door into each of these Xénese devices.” He pointed to the unit on the desk. “Controlled by this master program.”

  Blood drained to Todor’s legs, leaving the rest of his body chilled. He stared at the screen, at the fiery angel in her blasted garden.

  The Inquisitor elaborated: “If ruin does not come to the world through its own treachery, I will reach out from here, to my dark army of a hundred, and take control. The Crucible will rule all.”

  Awed by this plan, Todor finally crashed to his knees, bowing his head, ashamed for having ever doubted her.

  “Inquisitor Generalis,” he acknowledged.

  Then sirens suddenly sounded, blaring loudly from above.

  Blasts echoed.

  Gunfire.

  He straightened, staring up.

  We’re under attack.

  Guerra showed no surprise; her eyes never left the next room. She waved to Mendoza and nodded to the window.

  “Free them,” she said. “Unleash this dark army of God.”

  6:54 P.M.

  Gray piled out of the helicopter into the middle of a raging firefight.

  When their tactical chopper had landed in the bricked courtyard, its lights ignited, blazing brightly. Exploding flashbangs lit windows even more brilliantly. Smoke billowed from the shattered panes of others. A sting of tear gas wafted, whipped about the yard by the aircraft’s blades.

  Gunfire chattered sporadically as the leading strike team swept the building.

  Overhead, the other chopper circled a huge stone bell tower. Tracer fire peppered down at it, taking out snipers in windows. The gunfire shattered sills and window frames, raining rocks down to the bricks below. One barrage struck a bell up there, setting it to clanging loudly.

  Gray caught sight of a pair of large white dogs bounding through the gates, heading toward the open mountains.

  “Over here!” a soldier shouted from the shattered main doorway, its timber frame still smoking.

  Zabala led them across the open courtyard. Gray and the others were surrounded by an armed phalanx of their protection detail. Gray had his SIG Sauer in hand. Kowalski braced his bullpup against his shoulder, his cheek fixed to the stock. Father Bailey and Sister Beatrice kept low, running with them to the door.

  They crossed the threshold without incident and entered a cavernous hall. A bonfire burned in a huge hearth, a match to the blaze climbing wooden shelves on the opposite side. Flames ate their way through the library, spreading outward across the paneled walls, devouring old oil paintings. Smoke choked the rafters.

  “This way,” the soldier said. “We found something.”

  He rushed them out of the fiery hall and down cool stone stairs. They reached a lower basement, where another two soldiers stood posted outside a door hanging crookedly in its frame, its lock blown open.

  A fresh spate of gunfire echoed to the left.

  Gray hurried through the blown door with the others and discovered a computer lab, but it was the sight in the next room that caught the breath in his throat.

  “That can’t be good,” Kowalski said.

  It wasn’t.

  Through a window into the next room, scores of Xénese devices glowed in the darkness, a hundred spheres of danger.

  “They made more than one copy,” Bailey said, his voice hushed with horror.

  “And not just of her device,” Gray said.

  He pointed to a set of abandoned cables running to a dark monitor. The last image frozen on the screen was a familiar one, last seen in the catacombs: a dark garden under a black sun, lorded over by a glowing, fiery figure.

  Eve’s doppelganger.

  “They copied her corrupted program,” Gray said.

  He placed a palm on the tabletop, knowing the Xénese device taken from the catacombs had been sitting right here.

  But where is it now?

  He turned and faced the guard who led them here. “Was anyone inside when you blasted your way through the door?”

  The soldier shook his head. “Non.”

  Kowalski shifted closer to the window, raising his weapon higher. “Let’s trash those motherf—” He glanced back to the nun with a tired sigh. “I mean one good grenade and problem solved, right?”

  “Wrong,” Gray answered.

  “Why not?” Bailey asked, looking equally tempted.

  “They wouldn’t have just left this running and abandoned the place.” Gray looked to the door. “Monk will be here in another ten minutes. Let’s secure this place until they get here. Then see what Mara and Eve can figure out about this setup.”

  “What do we do until then?” Kowalski groused, clearly disappointed he hadn’t had a chance to shoot anything.

  “The masters of this house retreated somewhere,” Gray said and glanced significantly at Bailey.

  “The holiest of Holy Offices,” the priest mumbled.

  “They may have a back door out of that stronghold or could hole up down there.” Gray nodded to the hall, remembering the spate of gunfire a moment ago. “The quicker we find them, the better. We don’t want them to get entrenched.”

  Bailey stared at the frozen death angel on the monitor. “Or have the time to use what they took from here.”

  Zabala heard them. “My men are already running the maze down here. We can wait until—”

  A huge blast sounded, echoing, shaking dust from the mortared stones overhead.

  “Stay here,” Zabala ordered and took off with two of his soldiers.

  Gray waited impatiently, but he used the time to survey everything, noting one of the cables ripped from the Xénese device ran to a specific server.

  They were doing something to the damned thing.

  Before he could ponder it further, one of the soldiers returned, his face tight with anger. “Follow me. But the sister may want to stay here. It is not something she should see.”

  Gray nodded, but he stopped Kowalski with a raised arm. “You stick here with Sister Beatrice. Make sure no one touches anything.” Gray began to turn away, then glared back. “Or shoots anything.”

  Kowalski looked like he was ready to say something, but he glanced to the nun and slumped his shoulders. With the big man properly babysat and the mystery here guarded, he headed off with Father Bailey.

  The soldier led them through a series of crisscrossing passageways to a corridor where two men and Zabala were crouched at the opening to a side tunnel. Smoke flowed from there into the corridor.

  “Careful,” the soldier warned as they approached.

  Once close enough, Gray spotted an object in the corridor, bathed in the flow of smoke. It was a charred limbless torso.

  One of Zabala’s men.

  “That next passageway is booby-trapped.” The CNI agent waved them down low and pointed to where one of the soldiers had extended a mirror around the corner to spy down the next passage. “Tripwires are everywhere. Probably pressure-sensitive plates under some of those tiles, too. Likely all electronically controlled. Activated once those bastards holed up in there.”

  Past the blast crater, Gray spotted another body farther along the tunnel. The teammate of the one who had set off the mine.

  A rifle cracked down the corridor; the extended mirror shattered.

  Zabala pushed back. “Snipers. Two of them. Posted in pillboxes behind the
walls to either side. Near the end of the tunnel. We were able to make out small square openings.”

  Before the mirror shattered, Gray had gotten a good look and understood what was being so heavily guarded. Fifty yards down the booby-trapped tunnel, a steel door sealed the way. That had to be the entrance to the Holy Office hidden under the estate.

  “Looks like they’re already entrenched,” Bailey said.

  Gray remembered his larger concern.

  He pictured the corrupted version of Eve on the screen.

  Are we already too late?

  7:03 P.M.

  Todor crossed through the heart of the High Holy Office. Tunneled elsewhere were domiciles, storerooms, generator shacks, dining halls, and kitchens, but the core of the place was this subterranean cathedral.

  As he always did, he gaped at its sheer expanse.

  The original cavern had been sculpted over the centuries into a massive cross. Its four arms—vaulted high and buttressed in stone—extended out in the cardinal directions. Windows had been carved all along those arms, fitted with stained-glass windows—some recovered from old churches, others newly fashioned—all back lit by sodium lights, as if the sun were forever shining its grace upon this hallowed hall.

  But it was the center of the cross that was the most dramatic, rising up into a dome that challenged the basilica of St. Peter. Frescoes adorned the inner surface, showing the exulted suffering of saints throughout the ages, illuminated by gold chandeliers lit with candles.

  Even now hot wax dripped from above, raining down around the altar. The faithful from across the world—only the most esteemed of the Crucible—would abase themselves there, sprawled across the polished stone floor, naked except for a modest breechcloth, baring their skin to that hot, holy rain.

  In fact, there were no pews anywhere in this cathedral. Supplicants to God knelt on the unforgiving stone, for hours on end, to show proper humility through pain, in respect for Christ’s agony on the cross.

  Todor envied their pious suffering, knowing it was forever denied him.