Gray nodded. He had studied many of such yogis’ teachings. It all came down to a matter of mental control, of tapping into bodily functions that were considered to be involuntary.
“My father immersed himself in Indian history, language, even with the ancient Vedic texts of prophecy. He sought out skilled yogis and began to test them: blood tests, electroencephalograms, brain mapping, even taking DNA tests to track the lineage of the individuals with the most talent. Ultimately he sought to scientifically prove that there was an organic basis in the brain for what the Russians had demonstrated with the mother cat.”
Painter sank back into the sofa. “It’s no wonder he was tapped for the Stanford project. His research certainly dovetailed with their objective.”
“But why would my father be murdered over this? It’s been years.” Her eyes met Gray’s. “And what does that strange skull have to do with any of this?”
“We don’t know yet,” Painter answered, “but by morning, we should know more about the skull.”
Gray hoped he was right. A team of experts had been called into Sigma to examine the strange object. It was with some reluctance that Gray allowed the skull to be couriered over to central command. Sensing it was the key to the mystery, he hated to have it out of his sight.
A knock at the door ended further discussion.
Painter craned around; Kowalski stood up, one of his shoes in hand.
Gray climbed to his feet, too.
Two plainclothed guards had been posted outside the house. If there was any problem, they would have radioed. Still, Gray unsnapped his holster and slipped out his semiautomatic pistol. Outfitted with radios, why would one of the guards be knocking?
He waved the others back and approached the front entry. He kept to the side and crossed to a small video monitor split into four views, each a live feed from exterior cameras. The upper left featured a view of the porch.
Two figures stood there, a few steps from the door.
A wiry man in a red Windbreaker held the hand of a small child. A girl. She fidgeted with a ribbon in her hair. Gray read no overt threat in the man’s manner. In his other hand was a thick sheet of paper. Maybe an envelope. The figure bent down to the bottom of the door.
Gray tensed, but it was just a sheet of yellow paper. The man slid it under the door. The sheet skittered across the waxed wooden floor of the entrance hall. It sailed to Gray’s toes.
He stared down at a child’s scrawl in black crayon. In crude but deliberate strokes, it depicted the main room of the safe house. Fireplace, chairs, sofa. Exactly as the room was laid out. Four shapes were drawn there, too. Two sat on the sofa, one on a chair. A larger figure leaned by the hearth with a shoe in his hand and had to be Kowalski.
It was a child’s picture of their room.
Gray stared back at the video monitor.
Movement drew his attention to the other feeds from the three exterior cameras. Men stepped into view, also in Windbreakers. Gray watched one guard, then the other appear, held at gunpoint.
Kowalski stepped to Gray’s side, having crossed silently on his stocking feet. He also studied the screen, then sighed.
“Great,” Kowalski commented. “What do you all do? Post the addresses for your hideaways on the Internet?”
Outside, the guards were forced to their knees.
The house was surrounded.
They were trapped.
On the other side of the world, the man named Monk sought his own path to freedom.
As the three children stood guard at his hospital room door, Monk struggled into a pair of thick denim coveralls, dark blue to match the long-sleeved shirt he wore. It was difficult with only one hand. All that remained on the chair were a black cable-knit wool cap and a pair of thick socks. He tugged the cap over his shaved head and pushed into the heavy socks, then into boots that were a bit snug, but the leather was worn and broken in.
The privacy allowed Monk to gather his wits about him, though it had done little to fill in the blanks of his life. He still couldn’t remember anything beyond waking up here. But at least the exertion of dressing helped steady his feet.
He joined the oldest of the boys, Konstantin, at the door, which was steel and had a locking bar on the outside. The stoutness of the door confirmed he’d been a prisoner and that this was an escape.
The youngest of the trio, Pyotr, took Monk’s hand and tugged him down the hall, away from the glow of a nurse’s station. He remembered the boy’s earlier plea.
Save us.
Monk didn’t understand. From what? The girl, who he had learned was named Kiska, led the way to a back stairwell, lit by a red neon sign. Passing under it to the stairs, Monk stared up at the sign’s lettering.
Cyrillic.
He had to be in Russia. Despite his lack of memory, he knew he didn’t belong here. His thoughts were in English. Without a British accent. That meant he had to be American, didn’t it? If he could recognize all that, why couldn’t he—
A cascade of images suddenly blinded him, frozen snapshots of another life, popping like camera flashes in his head—
…a smile…a kitchen with someone’s back turned to him…the steel head of a sharp ax flashing across blue sky…lights rising from deep in dark water…
Then it was gone.
His head pounded. He tried to catch himself on the stair railing and instinctively grabbed out with his stumped arm. His scarred forearm slid along the railing. He barely caught his balance. He stared down at his stump and recalled one of the flashes of memory.
…the steel head of an ax flashing across blue sky.
Was that how it had happened?
Ahead, the children rushed down the stairs. Except for the youngest boy. Pyotr still held his one good hand. He stared up at Monk with eyes so blue they were almost white. Tiny fingers squeezed his own, reassuring. A gentle tug urged him onward.
He stumbled after the others.
They encountered no one on the stairs and exited out a back doorway and into a moonless, overcast night. The air had a chill to it and hung still and damp. Monk took in deep breaths, slowing his hammering heart.
The massive hum of a generator filled the space. Monk studied the size and breadth of the hospital, sprawling out in low wings and encompassing two five-story towers.
“Come. This way,” Konstantin said, taking the lead now.
They hurried down a dark cobblestone alleyway between the hospital and a wall that climbed two stories on their left. Monk looked up, trying to get his bearings. A few lamps glowed beyond the wall, highlighting the tile roofs of hidden buildings. They reached a corner and slipped behind the walled enclosure. The ground became raw rock, slippery with dew. There were no lights here on the back side. All Monk could make out was the wall they followed, built of concrete blocks. His palm ran along it as they ran. From the rough mortaring and uneven lay of the bricks, it must have been hastily constructed.
Monk heard an eerie yowl echoing over the wall. This was followed by muffled barks and stifled sharper cries.
His feet slowed. Animals. Was this some form of zoo?
As if the tall boy ahead had read his thoughts, Konstantin glanced back and mouthed the word menagerie and waved him onward.
Menagerie?
They reached the far corner, and the path sloped steeply downward from there. From the vantage of their height, Monk stared across a bowled valley and a picturesque village of cobbled lanes and cottages with peaked roofs and flower boxes. Ornate black streetlamps flickered with gas flames. A three-story school filled one corner of the village, surrounded by ball fields and an open amphitheater. The small village clustered around a central square, where a tall fountain’s spray danced and glittered.
On the far side of the village rose row after row of industrial-looking apartment buildings, each five stories, squared and laid out in a practical grid. Dark and lightless, it had a dilapidated, deserted feeling to it.
Unlike the village below.
&
nbsp; People milled in confusion below. Shouts echoed. He saw children gathered in nightclothes, mingling with adults, some similarly attired, woken from their beds. Others wore gray uniforms and stiff-brimmed hats. Flashlights danced through the narrow streets.
Something had roused the place.
He heard names called, some beckoning, some angry.
“Konstantin! Pyotr! Kiska!”
The children.
A flaming red flare arced upward from the town center, lighting up the sleepy little village, laying stark the buildings beyond, dancing fire over the concrete walls and hollow-eyed windows.
Monk’s gaze tracked the flare as it reached its zenith, popped out a tiny parachute, and floated downward.
Monk’s attention remained above.
The sky…it wasn’t just moonless.
It wasn’t there at all.
The ruddy glow of the flare revealed a massive dome of rock, stretching overhead in all directions, swallowing up the entire place. Monk gaped, stumbling around in a stunned circle.
They hadn’t made it outside.
They were inside a giant cavern.
Possibly man-made from the blasted look of the roof and walls.
He stared down at the perfect little village, preserved in the cavern like a ship in a bottle. But there was no time for further sightseeing.
Konstantin tugged him down behind a limestone outcropping. A trio of jeeps quietly hummed up a steep road toward them, passed them, and headed toward the hospital complex. The vehicles appeared to be electric-powered and were manned by men in uniforms, bearing guns.
Not good.
Once the jeeps were out of sight, Konstantin pointed away from the village, toward the darkness of the deeper cavern. They traversed the rocky landscape and came upon a thin path, seldom used from the looks of it.
They skirted the subterranean village, sticking to the upper slopes of the cavern. Monk noted a yawning tunnel on the far side, lit by electric lights, sealed by giant metal doors wide enough that two cement trucks could have entered, side by side. It marked a roadway that exited the cavern.
But the children led him in the opposite direction.
Where were they taking him?
Behind, a loud alarm erupted, deafening as an air raid siren in the enclosed space. All four of them turned. A red light flashed and whirled atop the hospital complex.
The villagers had come to realize another truth.
It wasn’t just the children who had gone missing.
Monk attempted to herd the kids down the path, but the loud noise had incapacitated them. They covered their ears and squeezed their eyes shut. Kiska looked sick to her stomach. Konstantin was on his knees, rocking. Pyotr hugged tight to Monk.
Hypersensitive.
Still, Monk urged them onward, carrying Pyotr, half dragging Kiska.
Monk glanced back toward the flashing siren. He may have lost his memory—or more precisely, had it forcibly extracted—but he knew one thing for dead certain.
He would lose much more than his memory if caught again.
And he feared the children would suffer even worse.
They had to keep going—but to where?
Chapter 6
September 6, 5:22 A.M.
Kiev, Ukraine
Nicolas Solokov waited for the cameras to be set up. He had already been prepped and still wore a collar of tissue paper tucked into his white starched shirt to keep the makeup’s cake from staining his shirt and midnight blue suit. He had retreated for a private moment of introspection into one of the back hospital wards. The international news crews were still preparing for the morning broadcast out on the steps of the orphanage.
In the back ward of the Kiev Children’s Home, sunlight streamed through high windows. A single nurse moved quietly among the beds. Here the worst cases were hidden away: a two-year-old girl with an inoperable thyroid tumor in her throat, a ten-year-old boy with a swollen head from hydrocephalus, another younger boy whose eyes were dulled by severe mental retardation. This last boy was strapped down, all four limbs.
The nurse, a squarish Ukrainian matron in a blue smock, noted his attention.
“So he doesn’t hurt himself, Senator,” she explained, her eyes exhausted from seeing too much suffering.
But there had been worse cases. In 1993, a baby had been born in Moldova with two heads, two hearts, two spinal cords, but only one set of limbs. There was another child whose brain was born outside his skull.
All the legacy of Chernobyl.
In spring of 1986, reactor number four of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant had exploded during the middle of the night. Over the course of ten days, it spewed radiation that was the equivalent of four hundred Hiroshima bombs in a plume that circled the globe. To date, according to the Russian Academy of Medical Sciences, over one hundred thousand people had died from radiation exposure and another seven million were exposed, most of them children, leaving an ongoing legacy of cancers and genetic abnormalities.
And now the second wave of the tragedy was beginning, where those who had been exposed at a young age were having children themselves. A 30 percent increase in birth defects had been reported.
For that reason, the volatile and charismatic leader of the lower house of the Russian parliament had come here. Nicolas’s own district of Chelyabinsk lay a thousand miles away, but it had similar concerns. In the Ural Mountains of his district, most of the fuel for Chernobyl had been mined, along with the plutonium for the Soviet weapons program. It remained one of the most radioactive places on the planet.
“They’re ready for you, Senator,” his aide said behind him.
He turned to face her.
Elena Ozerov, a trim raven-haired woman in her early twenties with a smoky complexion, wore a black business suit that hid her small breasts and turned her into something androgynously asexual. She was stern, taciturn, and always at his side. The press referred to her as Nicolas’s Rasputin, which he did not discourage.
It all went along with his political plan to be seen as the bold reformer, while simultaneously harkening back to the former czarist glory of the old Russian Empire. Even his namesake, Nicolas II, the last czar of the Romanov dynasty, had been imprisoned and killed in Yekaterinburg, where Nicolas was born. While the czar had been a failed leader during his life, after his death he had been canonized by the Russian Orthodox Church. The bishops built the gold-domed Cathedral of the Blood over the home where the family had been murdered. The construction marked a symbolic rebirth of the Romanovs.
Some claimed the forty-one-year-old Senator Nicolas Solokov, with his lankish black hair and curled short beard, was the czar himself reborn.
He encouraged such comparisons.
As Russia sought to rise again on shaky legs—burdened by debt and poverty, rife with graft and corruption—it needed a new leader for this new millennium.
Nicolas intended to be that leader.
And much more.
He allowed Elena to pinch away the ring of tissue paper from around his neck. She looked him up and down, then nodded her approval.
Nicolas stepped toward the lights waiting for him outside.
He pushed through the doors, followed circumspectly by Elena. The podium sat up at the top of the stairs, framed with the name of the orphanage behind him.
He marched to the bristle of microphones at the podium and held an arm high against the barrage of questions. He heard one reporter shout a question about his former ties to the KGB, another about his family’s financial connections to the vast mining operations out in the Ural Mountains. As he rose in power, so did the voices of those who sought to pull him down.
Ignoring the questions, he set his own agenda.
Leaning toward the microphones, he let his voice boom out over the nattering questions. “It is time to shut these doors!” he shouted, pointing back toward the entrance to the orphanage behind him. “The children of the Ukraine, of Belarus, of all of Mother Russia, have suffered from th
e sins of our past. Never again!”
Nicolas let his anger ring out. He knew how it looked on camera. The hard face of reform and outrage. He continued his impassioned plea for a new vision of Russia, a call for action, a call to look forward while not forgetting the past.
“Two days from now, the number four reactor at Chernobyl will be sealed under a new steel dome. The new Sarcophagus will mark the end of a tragedy and be forever a memorial to all the men and women who gave their lives to protect not only our Motherland, but also the world. Firemen who stood firm with their hoses while radiation burned away their futures. Pilots who risked the toxic plume to haul in concrete and supplies. Miners who came from across the country to help build the first shield to entomb the reactor. These glorious men and women, fierce with nationalistic pride, are the true heart of Russia! Let us never forget them, nor their sacrifice!”
The crowd behind the reporters had grown as Nicolas spoke. He was heartened by the cheers and claps as he paused.
This was the first of many speeches he would be giving, leading up to the ceremony at Chernobyl itself, where the new Sarcophagus would be rolled over the toxic core of the dead reactor. The original concrete shield was already crumbling, meant only as a short-term fix, and that was twenty years ago. The new Sarcophagus weighed eighteen thousand tons and stood half as tall as the Eiffel Tower. It was the largest movable structure on the planet.
Other politicians were already capitalizing on the event with similar events and speeches. But Nicolas had been the loudest and most vocal, a champion for nuclear reform, for cleaning up the radiological hotbeds around the country. Many sought to stifle his rhetoric due to the extreme cost. Members of his own parliament ridiculed and lambasted him in the press.
But Nicolas knew he was right.
As they all would see one day.
The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts Page 51
