The Demon Crown

by James Rollins

  Only one way to find out.

  Painter knocked on the door and pushed it the rest of the way open. He waved Kat in first, then followed.

  The Regents’ Room was dominated by a large circular table with the sunburst seal of the Smithsonian at the center. All around, velvet curtains framed the windows that overlooked the Mall and the rest of D.C. It was here that eighteen members of the Board of Regents met every quarter.

  Currently, though, there were only two people present.

  The curator of the Castle, Simon Wright, circled around to greet them. The man was in his mid-fifties with hair that had gone white at a young age. He wore it to his shoulders, brushed back like an aging rock star.

  “Director Crowe, thank you for coming. And Captain Bryant, it’s always a pleasure to see you again. How are your girls?”

  Kat shook the man’s hand and smiled at his genuine warmth. The three of them knew one another going back well over a decade. “I shipped them off to camp with Monk.”

  “No kids? No husband? Then I must apologize for disturbing what normally must be a rare moment of R&R for you.”

  “Considering the circumstances, I understand.”

  Simon introduced them to the chamber’s other occupant, Elena Delgado, the current Librarian of Congress. His manner grew more formal. She had been appointed to the post only four months ago, the first Hispanic woman to hold this office. So none of them were well acquainted with her.

  Still, Painter respected her curriculum vitae. She was the youngest of four daughters, born to migrant parents in California. Her academic and athletic prowess earned her a dual scholarship to Stanford. There she earned a doctorate in American history, while also winning both a silver and a gold medal at the Munich Olympics for swimming. Afterward, her interest in history kept her ensconced in library stacks, enough that she had earned a second PhD from the nearby University of Maryland in library sciences.

  Painter happily shook her hand. Her grip was firm. It appeared, despite being sixty-four, that she kept her Olympic physique. Her only concession to age was the pair of reading glasses hanging around her neck by a thin silver chain that also bore two small crucifixes.

  “I know your time is valuable,” she said abruptly and drew them to the table. “But I believe this is important.”

  On the table before her rested two books. One was bound in thick leather, but the cover had been cracked and blackened, as if someone had tried to burn it. The other looked newer, with an elastic strap sealed around it, but the binding appeared hand-sewn, suggesting it was at least a few decades old.

  She placed a palm on one of the books, almost possessively. “These volumes are from a special collection sustained by each successive Librarian of Congress. Few know of this private stack. Over the centuries, books have been disappearing from various museum’s racks, so it was decided to conserve a special library of texts important to our nation, books that might not necessarily be priceless—such as our copy of the Gutenberg Bible—but were of significant worth to keep secure nonetheless.”

  Simon nodded. “Elena is right. As curator, I can attest that a good portion of the Smithsonian collection has a tendency to drift away. In total, about ten percent of our artifacts and books have vanished. And not just small objects. We’re talking about almost three dozen Tier Four items, each worth a million dollars or more.”

  Kat looked shocked. “Were they stolen?”

  Simon shrugged. “Some. Others were checked out, never to return. And I’m sure a good portion were simply miscataloged, lost somewhere at our Suitland storage facility.”

  Painter knew about the site he was talking about. The Museum Support Center over in Suitland, Maryland. Its five buildings, each the size of a football field, warehoused 40 percent of the Smithsonian’s collection, more than fifty million items.

  “Still,” Elena continued, “as you can imagine, the need arose to preserve those books that others might overlook, books that on face value might not merit being locked up under tight security, but were still too important to risk losing. Consider it our version of the Vatican Archives.”

  Painter waved at the books on the table. “And these two are from that collection.”

  Elena smiled, which it appeared she did easily. She pulled the newer book toward her. “In fact, the author of this book founded our archive. Archibald MacLeish, the ninth Librarian of Congress, who served during World War II. He had been assigned the task during the war to preserve our national treasures, dividing our most important pieces of history and hiding them around the country. Afterward, when he resigned as librarian and became the assistant secretary of state, he saw the need for some continuance of this project and left behind this legacy for the Smithsonian libraries, a special secret collection.”

  “Starting with his own book?” Painter asked.

  “And many others,” Elena corrected. “Though I think he did this to further bury these two volumes from the public eye.”

  Kat clasped her hands, as if holding them back from grabbing the books to examine them. “What do they have to do with what’s going on now?”

  “Everything . . . or maybe nothing. I don’t know. But when I told Simon about the story of these books, he thought I should share them with you two.” Elena eyed Painter and Kat with no small amount of suspicion. “Two members of DARPA, as I’m supposed to understand.”

  Simon had kept mum about Sigma but he wasn’t a very good liar. The librarian clearly suspected there was more to this introduction.

  Painter sidestepped the issue for now. “So what’s this story?”

  “First, I should explain that I only stumbled upon these books out of personal interest. My doctoral thesis was on the Civil War, concentrating on the role of Lincoln’s cabal of close confidants, which included Joseph Henry, the first secretary of the Smithsonian, back when its collections were housed in this one building.”

  Painter knew of the close relationship between those two men, again imagining the séance that had occurred in this very room.

  Elena settled to her seat. “The story starts with Joseph Henry and a fire that almost burned down the Castle during the Civil War.”

  From there, she told a fantastic tale concerning James Smithson, the man who left his fortune to the young nation, a legacy that would start the institution named after him. Most of her story was recounted in MacLeish’s journal on the table, how Joseph Henry had learned of an artifact buried in Smithson’s tomb in Genoa, something called the Demon Crown. Decades later, Alexander Graham Bell was sent on a secret mission, both to preserve the remains of Smithson and to secure this object, an artifact rumored to be dangerous, maybe even a weapon.

  “What did he find?” Kat asked.

  “According to MacLeish, Bell discovered a boulder of amber with the preserved bones of a reptile inside, maybe a small dinosaur. Like Smithson, the inventor left behind a cryptic note, warning that it was both dangerous and perhaps miraculous.”

  Painter frowned. “Miraculous? How?”

  “Bell claimed the object could hold the secret to life after death. But he never elaborated how he came to such a wild assertion.”

  Painter glanced over to Kat. She had also heard Gray’s account of the threat posed by the ancient wasps plaguing Hawaii and how they could go into a state of suspended animation, what was termed cryptobiosis, and seed dormant cysts into the bones of their victims as a means of resurrecting their swarm centuries later.

  Elena must have noted their silent exchange. “Does this mean something to you two?”

  “Maybe, but go on. What became of the artifact?”

  “Bell thought it best—perhaps following Smithson’s example—to rebury the object. But on American soil.”

  “Where?” Kat asked.

  “In a hidden chamber off the old utility tunnel that connects the Castle to the Museum of Natural History across the mall.”

  Despite the seriousness of the matter, Painter could not help but be amazed.

>   All this started in our own backyard?

  “MacLeish had been investigating the construction of a bomb shelter to protect our national treasures during the Second World War.”

  “And he found Bell’s chamber.”

  “But unfortunately, this discovery did not go unnoticed. MacLeish suspected afterward that one of the engineers involved in surveying the project had let the information slip out. The news reached the ears of our enemy at the time, who could not help but be interested in Bell’s warning about the buried object.”

  Kat leaned closer, clearly fascinated. “What happened?”

  “There was a firefight in the tunnel. The amber object was stolen by Japanese spies.” Elena stared significantly at the two of them, as if she also wondered if this attack on Hawaii could be some echo of Pearl Harbor. “MacLeish also copied down a symbol he found tattooed on one of the attacker’s bodies. He claimed the same symbol was somehow connected to a conspirator involved in the fire at the Castle almost a century earlier, as if the same group tried to erase evidence of this object in the past.”

  “What symbol?” Painter asked.

  “I can show you.” Elena lifted her reading glances, while reaching for the book. “But it looks vaguely Masonic.”

  “Masonic?” Painter swallowed hard, while Kat sat back, her expression worried. “By any chance, did the symbol frame a moon and a star at its center?”

  Elena lowered her glasses and frowned deeply at them. “It did. How did you know?”

  Kat closed her eyes and swore under her breath.

  Painter shared her sentiment.

  No wonder Gray and Seichan were targeted.

  The librarian looked between them. “Maybe it’s time you two started telling your story.”

  6:33 P.M.

  Elena waited for an explanation. A familiar obstinate streak hardened inside her. She had been condescended to most of her life—from a father who insisted on her getting married and having a household of little niños . . . to professors who believed she only earned her place in the academic world through affirmative action.

  At her age, after raising a daughter by herself and surviving breast cancer, she did not suffer fools lightly, and she certainly wasn’t going to be kept in the dark any longer.

  What’s really going on here?

  She was already suspicious when the museum curator, Simon Wright, had insisted she meet with these two representatives from DARPA at the Regents’ Room of the Castle.

  Why here?

  She eyed the young woman—Captain Kat Bryant, who looked like a well-made bed, all crisp lines and military tautness. Elena sensed an ally in her, especially when the woman gave her boss a stern look, as if to say let’s be up front with this lady.

  But Director Crowe appeared as stubborn as Elena, his back stiffening, the muscles of his jaw tightening. Upon first meeting him, she had been momentarily taken aback by his striking looks, his penetrating blue eyes and dark hair—which included a snowy lock tucked behind one ear, which inexplicably intrigued her. She guessed he had some Native American blood in his background.

  Still, he was getting in her way.

  Kat must have sensed the growing impasse and offered a compromise. “Before we tell our side, perhaps you can finish yours.” She waved to the journal on the table. “Clearly Archibald MacLeish’s tale didn’t end with the theft of Smithson’s artifact. That book looks mighty thick.”

  Elena hesitated, then sighed loudly, accepting that this might be the best recourse.

  For now.

  “You’re right about MacLeish’s story,” she said. “Archibald found the chamber in November 1944 . . . and a week later, the man resigned. Right in the middle of the war. The tides were turning against the Germans, but Japan remained a major threat in the Pacific. MacLeish feared what the Japanese might do with what was stolen, so he went searching for the truth about it.”

  “Like where it came from?” Kat guessed. “And why Smithson feared it?”

  “Exactly. MacLeish intended to follow in Smithson’s footsteps, but it proved to be a difficult trail.” She pointed to the charred volume. “The man’s burned journal offered no clue to its origin, and most of Smithson’s personal papers were destroyed by that fire. Still, MacLeish was determined. He went to Europe, a continent still at war, and sought out anyone who knew the man in the past. Friends, fellow colleagues, relatives. He tried his best to backtrack from that grave.”

  “What did he find?” Painter asked.

  “More mysteries. You can read about it in detail, but the trail ended in Estonia, at the city of Tallinn neighboring the Baltic Sea.”

  Kat’s expression sank with defeat. “So MacLeish never discovered the artifact’s origin?”

  “He did not, but he heard a story from a geologist, an old man near his deathbed. Decades earlier, when the geologist was first starting his career, he ended up sharing drinks with Smithson at a tavern in Tallinn. Smithson was tipsy enough to tell a drunken tale, one that the geologist believed was pure fancy.”

  Painter’s brow crinkled. “What story?”

  “A harrowing tale of a group of miners who broke into a rich deposit of amber.” Elena touched Smithson’s charred journal, acknowledging the significance of such a discovery. “As they were digging, something was unleashed in that mine. A horrible disease carried by stinging insects. Giant wasps. They were said—and I quote—born right out of the bones of the rock. The only way to stop them from escaping was to firebomb the mine with the workers still down there and bury it afterward.”

  Kat glanced to her boss, suggesting this story might not be as outlandish as it first sounded.

  Painter leaned back. “You said MacLeish’s search ended there in Tallinn. I’m guessing he must have assumed this story was all an old wives’ tale and gave up his pursuit.”

  “Maybe partly for that reason . . . but mostly because he was told this story on August sixth, 1945.”

  Painter looked momentarily confused.

  Kat explained. “The day the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.”

  Elena nodded. “Following this event, MacLeish grew less worried about some vague threat by the Japanese. He figured it was all a moot point by then.”

  Painter shook his head. “Apparently he was wrong.”

  “Which brings us back to the attack on Hawaii,” Elena said. “If there truly is a connection that trails from Smithson’s discovery to a terrorist attack in Hawaii, then perhaps someone needs to continue MacLeish’s work and find out where that artifact came from.”

  “You’re right.” Kat turned to her boss. “If Professor Matsui was correct about the danger posed by this ancient species, then knowing its origin could be important.”

  “Why?”

  “Because these wasps went extinct in the past.” She must have noted his bewilderment and explained. “Why aren’t these wasps still around? Why don’t they dominate the world today? What stopped them from running amok in the past? Something must’ve driven this aggressive species into a state of cryptobiosis—basically into hiding.”

  Elena didn’t follow all of this, but she knew when to stay quiet.

  Painter looked at the books on the table. “So if we could find out what stopped them before . . .”

  “Then maybe we could use it to stop them again.”

  As the pair seemed to come to a mutual understanding, Elena knew it was time to press her advantage. “If you intend to pursue such an undertaking—to look for clues in Tallinn, in Estonia—you’ll need to know everything about MacLeish’s journey there.” She laid her palm atop the former Librarian of Congress’s book. “And where this goes, I go.”

  Painter shifted to his feet, plainly ready to dismiss her. “There’s no need to risk those historic texts. A simple copy will do.”

  Elena picked both books off the table. “Not if you hope to succeed.” She stared the man down. “You’ll likely need more than what can be found within these pages. You’ll want someone who knows ev
ery detail about these authors, especially Smithson.”

  “In other words, you?” Painter asked skeptically.

  Kat touched his arm. “Remember, we only have three days.”

  Elena knew nothing about such a deadline, but she appreciated Kat’s support in this matter.

  In the end, it was the curator, Simon Wright, who broke the stalemate. He cocked an eyebrow at Painter. “Sounds to me like it’s time you gave our new Librarian of Congress the full tour of the Castle.”

  7:05 P.M.

  Fifteen minutes later, Kat held open the door to the security elevator. She enjoyed the look of surprise and wonder on Elena Delgado’s face as she stepped into the subterranean complex buried beneath the Castle.

  “I never suspected such a place existed . . .” she mumbled, her eyes huge. “I feel like Charlie entering the chocolate factory.”

  Painter smiled, leading the way, plainly warming up to the willful librarian. “Then I guess that makes me Willy Wonka.”

  Elena blushed. “Sorry. I guess I spend too much time with my two granddaughters. I must have that movie memorized by now.”

  Kat knew all too well that particular circle of hell, the nonstop loop of a children’s film playing in the background of one’s life.

  “I’ll take you to my office,” Painter offered, “while Kat settles everything for the trip.”

  “Jason has a jet prepping as we speak,” Kat said. “We should be wheels up within the hour.”

  Elena glanced back, still struggling with all of this. “So soon?”

  Kat nodded.

  Welcome to Sigma.

  She broke away from the pair as they reached the threshold of the communication nest. “I’ll join you in a few moments,” she said. “I want to make sure Jason is up to speed before I leave.”

  As the two headed away, Kat spotted her second-in-command, Jason Carter. The young man, whose straw-blond hair had a perpetual cowlick, was bowed between two technicians.