The Doomsday Key

by James Rollins

  Besides, the details were still sketchy coming out of Rome. Painter was unsure which of Sigma’s operatives were best suited for the mission, which scientific discipline would complement Gray’s expertise in biophysics. Monk Kokkalis’s specialty was forensics, and at the moment, such skills did not seem necessary. Recognizing this, Gray had finally acquiesced, but Painter hadn’t sent him out alone. Until further details were gathered, all Gray needed was some muscle.

  And that he got.

  As Painter pondered taking another aspirin, the intercom chimed on his desk. Brant’s voice followed. “Director, I have General Metcalf holding for you.”

  Painter had been expecting the teleconference call. He’d read the classified e-mail from the head of DARPA. With a heavy sigh, he tapped the connection and swung his chair around to face the wall monitor behind him.

  The dark screen flickered into full color. The general was seated behind a desk. Gregory Metcalf was African American, a graduate of West Point, and though in his midfifties, he remained as sturdy and hard as when he’d been a linebacker for the Point’s football team. The only signs of his age were his salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of reading glasses held in his left hand. After Metcalf was assigned to head DARPA, Painter quickly learned not to underestimate the man’s intelligence.

  But there remained a wariness between the two.

  The general shifted forward, and without any preamble asked, “Have you read the report I sent about the conflict in Africa?”

  So much for simple courtesy.

  Painter motioned to one of the wall monitors. “I have. Along with pulling NATO’s report about the assault on the Red Cross camp. I also did a background check on the corporation running the test farm out there.”

  “Very good. Then I won’t have to get you up to speed on the details.”

  Painter prickled at the condescension. “But I still don’t understand what this has to do with Sigma.”

  “That’s because I haven’t told you yet, Director.”

  The ache between Painter’s eyeballs grew sharper.

  The general tapped at a keyboard in front of him. The wall screen split away to display a still photo next to the general. The picture showed a young white male, stripped to his boxers and strung up on a wooden cross in the middle of a charred and smoky field. The image was less like a crucifixion and more like a ghoulish scarecrow. In the background, Painter noted the dry African savannah.

  “The young man’s name is Jason Gorman,” Metcalf said coldly.

  Painter’s brows pulled tightly together. “Gorman. As in Senator Gorman?

  The senator’s name had come up during Painter’s research into the Viatus Corporation. Sebastian Gorman was head of the Senate Committee on Agriculture, Nutrition, and Forestry. He was a powerful advocate for the advancement of genetically modified foods as a means to feed the starving world and supply new biofuel resources.

  The general cleared his throat, drawing back Painter’s stunned attention. “That is Senator Gorman’s twenty-three-year-old son. The young man had a master’s degree in plant molecular biology and was working toward his doctorate, but he went to Mali mostly to serve as the senator’s eyes and ears on the project over there.”

  Painter began to understand why this crisis had risen to the levels it had in Washington. The powerful senator, surely distraught and wanting answers about the death of his son, must be shaking all of Capitol Hill. But still Painter did not understand Sigma’s role in the matter. From the NATO report, the attack had been perpetrated by Tuareg rebels, a brutal force who were constantly plaguing the West African republic.

  Metcalf continued, “Senator Gorman received an e-mail message from his son on the morning of the attack. It described the assault in a few terse sentences. From the descriptions of helicopters and napalm bombing, the attack was both militarized and large scale in force and scope.”

  Painter sat straighter.

  “Attached to the same e-mail was a set of research files. The senator did not understand why they’d been forwarded, nor could he decipher their scientific content. Not knowing what else to do, he sent them to his son’s thesis professor at Princeton University, Dr. Henry Malloy.”

  “I’d like to see those files myself,” Painter said, beginning to understand why Sigma had been called into the matter. The strange attack, the cryptic research, all fit the scope of Sigma. Painter’s mind already began charting logistics and a plan of action. “I can have someone out in the field in Mali within twenty-four hours.”

  “No. Your role in this matter will be limited.” Metcalf’s voice deepened with an implied threat. “This mess is already escalating into a political shitstorm. Senator Gorman is on a witch-hunt, looking for any and all parties to blame.”

  “General—” Painter began.

  “And Sigma’s already on fragile ground. One misstep, and no one will be able to pick up the pieces.”

  Painter held back a stronger refrain, letting the implied lack of confidence in his group roll off his back. He had to pick and choose which fights to have with this man. This wasn’t one of them.

  “So what role do you see for Sigma?”

  “To gather intelligence on those files, to determine if it warrants further investigation. And the first place to start is with Dr. Malloy. I want him interviewed, and the files reviewed.”

  “I can have a team over there by this afternoon.”

  “Very good. But there is one other thing. Something that I’d like you to undertake personally.” “What’s that?”

  “One piece of information has been kept quiet for now. I want your take on the matter.” The general tapped at his keyboard, and the photo zoomed in to Jason Gorman’s face. “Whoever strung the boy up mutilated his body.”

  Painter stood and moved closer to the wall monitor. A symbol had been burned into the young man’s brow, as if someone had taken a branding iron to him. A circle and a cross.

  “I want to know why they did this,” Metcalf said. “And what it means.”

  Painter slowly nodded.

  So did he.

  9:35 P.M.

  Rome, Italy

  Rachel slid her Mini Cooper into the assigned parking place at her apartment complex. Seated behind the wheel, she took an extra moment to think about what she’d done. On the passenger seat was a small clear plastic bag holding the old leather pouch and its macabre contents.

  She had left Saint Peter’s without telling anyone about what she’d discovered.

  It’s late, she had justified in her head. I can turn it over to the investigators in the morning. Give a full report then.

  But Rachel recognized the deeper truth behind her theft. It had been her uncle’s words that had guided her to the hidden pouch. She had felt a certain possessiveness about that discovery. If she turned the pouch over to the authorities, not only would she be reprimanded for trespassing on a case that was beyond her jurisdiction, but she could be cut totally out of the loop. She might never find out the significance of the pouch. And lastly, she could not ignore a touch of pride about the matter. No one else had found the pouch. She trusted her own gut more than the muddle and chaos that was this international and interdepartmental investigation.

  And her gut told her that she was out of her league. She needed help. She would wait until Gray arrived in the morning, get his take on all of this, and go from there.

  Settled on a plan of action, Rachel grabbed the evidence bag and shoved it into her jacket. She climbed out of her car and headed for the stairs. Her apartment was on the third floor. Though small, she did have a nice view of the Coliseum from her balcony.

  Reaching the third floor landing, she pushed through the stairwell door. As she headed down the hallway, she noted two things. Mrs. Rosselli was cooking with too much garlic again, and a glow shone out from under her own door.

  Rachel stopped. She always turned off her lights before leaving her apartment. But then again, she had been upset this morning. Maybe she had fo
rgotten.

  Not taking any chances, she lifted a bit on her toes and crept silently down the hallway. This city was plagued by thieves and pickpockets, and break-ins were not uncommon in this area. Her eyes remained fixed on the bar of light under her door. As she drew closer, a shadow passed across the glow.

  Rachel’s skin went cold. Someone was in her apartment.

  Swearing under her breath, she backed away. She had no weapon. She considered knocking on Mrs. Rosselli’s door, getting out of the hallway, but the garlic already stung her nose. Inside the old woman’s cramped apartment, the fumes would be blinding. Instead, she reached into a pocket and pulled out her cell phone.

  She retreated to the stairwell door and shoved through it, keeping an eye on her door. As she stepped onto the landing, something cold pressed against the bare nape of her neck.

  She recognized the barrel of a pistol.

  A hard voice confirmed the threat. “Don’t move.”

  4

  October 10, 3:28 P.M.

  Rockville, Maryland

  Monk bounced his baby girl on his knee. Penelope squealed, wearing a goofy smile that plainly came from her father. Luckily that’s all she got from him. Her light auburn curls and delicate features were all from her mother.

  “Monk, if you make her spit up …!”

  Kat crossed out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. She still wore her dress blues. She had come back from Capitol Hill an hour ago, where she’d been canvassing some former intelligence contacts on behalf of Sigma, helping Painter Crowe shore up some political breeches. Her only concession to being home was to unpin her hair and let its full cascade drape below her shoulders.

  Monk remained in his sweatpants and T-shirt. Since dropping Gray off at the airport, he’d come straight back to their new home in the Maryland suburbs. What else was there to do? He knew Gray had gone to bat for him, tried to get him on board for the investigation in Italy. But that had been a wash.

  He shifted the baby onto his lap.

  “I have her bottle warmed up,” Kat said, heading toward him with her arms out to take Penelope. She suddenly tripped, hopped a step, and caught her balance. She stared down at the floor. “Monk, how many times have I told you not to leave your hand just lying around?”

  Monk rubbed the stub of his wrist. “The new prosthetic still chafes.”

  Kat sighed heavily and took Penelope. “Do you know how much one of those costs?”

  Monk shrugged. The DARPA-designed prosthetic was a marvel of bioengineering, incorporating the latest in mechanics and actuators, allowing sensory feedback and surgically precise movements. Additionally, the stumped end of Monk’s wrist was encased in a polysynthetic cuff, surgically attached and wired into nerve bundles and muscle tendons.

  Monk manipulated the titanium contacts on his wrist sheath. On the floor, the disembodied hand lifted onto its fingertips, powered wirelessly from the controls in the sheath. The prosthetic hand might be the brawn, but the wrist cuff was its brain. Monk directed the hand back to the couch, picked it up, and reattached it to his wrist. He flexed his fingers.

  “It still chafes,” he mumbled.

  Kat began to turn toward the kitchen, but Monk patted the seat next to him. Kat sighed again and joined him. Monk pulled her closer, catching a whiff of her hair and the scent of jasmine. She leaned into him. They sat quietly together. Penelope dozed off, a fist curled to her lips. It was nice to hold his entire family in a single embrace.

  Kat finally spoke, softly and gently. “Sorry about Italy.”

  Monk rolled his eyes. He hadn’t said a word about the matter to her. It was a touchy subject between them. But he should’ve known she would find out. With all her contacts in the intelligence communities, it was hard to keep any secrets from her.

  She turned to face him. He recognized the play of mixed emotions in the soft concern of her eyes and the worried line of her lips. She knew how much he wanted to get back out into the field, but her fear for him was plain to read. He glanced down at his prosthetic hand. It wasn’t a baseless fear.

  Still, he loved his job and knew how important it was.

  For the past year, while recuperating from his injuries—both mental and physical—he had grown to recognize this more fully. While he loved his family and acknowledged his responsibilities here, he also knew how vital Sigma was to keeping the world safe. He hated being sidelined.

  “I heard you have another assignment today,” Kat said.

  “Just more paper-pushing,” he groused. “I’m off to New Jersey to interview an egghead about some research files at Princeton. I’ll be back by midnight.”

  Kat glanced down at her watch. “Then shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

  “I have time. Director Crowe is sending another agent to tag along. Someone with a background in genetics. A new recruit.”

  “John Creed.”

  Monk shifted and stared her in the face. “Is there anything you don’t know?”

  She smiled, leaned over, and kissed him. “I know that Penelope’s bottle is getting cold.”

  Monk’s prosthetic hand tightened on her shoulder, keeping her from getting up. “And I know her bottle can be warmed up again.” His voice grew huskier. “And I still have another half hour.”

  “A whole half hour?” She arched an eyebrow. “You are growing ambitious.”

  Monk’s face broke into a cockeyed grin. “Don’t mock me, woman.”

  She kissed him again, lingering now, and whispered between his lips. “Never.”

  4:44 P.M.

  Princeton, New Jersey

  Alone in the basement laboratory, Dr. Henry Malloy ran the computer simulation for the third time. As he waited, he shook his head. It made no sense. He sat back and stretched. He’d been compiling the data sent from Senator Gorman’s office for the past twenty-four hours. Due to the volume of raw data, he needed the lab’s Affymetrix array station to analyze all the DNA studies and assays in the files.

  A knock on the door drew his attention. The lab was kept locked to help protect its ozone-free status. The facility was only accessible with a proximity keycard.

  With a few minutes still to go on the assay, he crossed to the door and opened it with a whispered hush of pressurized air. It was one of his doctoral students, Andrea Solderitch. Henry had hired the woman as his aide. She was attractive, with a shapely figure and auburn hair, but she was no twenty-something coed. She was in her midfifties, changing careers, formerly a registered nurse specializing in dialysis. And with the long hours spent together, he appreciated someone who occupied his same generation. They even liked the same music, which he often caught her humming under her breath.

  At the moment, though, her expression was worried.

  “What is it, Andrea?” he asked.

  She lifted a sheaf of Post-it notes. “Senator Gorman’s office has called three times, wanting to check on your progress.”

  Henry took the notes. He hated to have someone breathing down his neck, but he also understood the senator’s agitation. While Jason Gorman had only been Henry’s student, he still felt a stabbing pang of grief at the boy’s untimely death, especially with the brutality behind it.

  “I also came down here to remind you that you have that appointment with Dr. Kokkalis from Washington in another hour. Did you want me to fetch you something from the cafeteria before then?”

  “I’m fine, but since you’re here, I can use a fresh set of eyes on this data. Especially before I talk to Washington. See what you think.”

  Her expression widened, barely masking her delight.

  “And I appreciate you coming in on your day off,” he added as he led her toward the computer station. “I couldn’t have gotten this all done without your help.”

  “No problem, Dr. Malloy.”

  The computer modeling had finally finished its third run. The screen displayed the chromosomal mapping for the corn sample planted in the test field out in Africa. All of the chromosomes were blac
k, except for a single one highlighted in white.

  Henry tapped it on the screen. “Here you can see the radio-marked foreign DNA engineered into the genetically modified corn.”

  Andrea leaned closer. Curiosity crinkled her brow. “What’s the source of the DNA? Bacterial?”

  “Most likely. But I can’t say for sure.”

  Still, Andrea’s guess was on target. Most genetic modifications were engineered via bacterial recombination and gene splicing, taking beneficial traits of certain bacteria and incorporating them into the plant genome. One of the earliest successes was when genes from Bacillus thuringiensis were inserted into tobacco plants. They made the plants more insect resistant, requiring the use of less insecticide in the fields. The same method was now used in corn. Such biotechnology had grown so prevalent over the past ten years that currently one-third of all corn grown in the United States was genetically modified.

  “If it’s not bacterial DNA,” Andrea asked, “then what?”

  “I don’t know. It’s patented and classified by Viatus. It’s only listed in the file as Dt222. The Dt stands for ‘drought tolerant.’ But that’s not what I wanted to show you.” Henry pointed at the screen. “This assay was sent to me by Jason Gorman two months ago.”

  “Two months ago?”

  “I know. The boy was so excited to be involved in that African field study. He wasn’t supposed to disseminate this information. It was a violation of his confidentiality agreement. I warned him to be more discreet and to keep quiet about it. I can only imagine his desperation on that last morning. Yet he still had the foresight to preserve whatever data he could.”