The Doomsday Key

by James Rollins

Andrea nodded. “What did he send out that last morning?”

  Henry tapped at the keyboard, bringing forth the latest data. “Let me show you. They had just harvested the first generation of corn from the seeds planted. He sent the complete analysis of that harvest, including an entire DNA assay. Here are the results.”

  On the screen appeared a second batch of chromosomes. Again a majority of them were color coded in black, denoting normal corn DNA. But instead of a single chromosome in white, a second chromosome above it was stippled in white and black.

  “I don’t understand,” Andrea said.

  “Look closer.”

  Henry zoomed in on the picture of the transformed chromosome. It now showed a fine mapping of the individual genes, displaying a striping of black and white.

  Henry explained, “The foreign DNA is incorporating itself into another chromosome, invading its neighbor.” “It’s spreading?”

  He sat back and stared over at Andrea. He allowed some excitement to enter his voice. “I can’t say for sure. But I’ve compiled the data three times. Maybe the first sample that Jason sent was from a different hybrid. They could be testing more than one version of the corn out there. But if they’re not, it would suggest that the genetic modification is unstable. It’s changed from one generation to the next. The sample’s become more foreign and less corn.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He shrugged. “I have no idea. But someone needs to know about this. I’ve already passed on an inquiry to the Crop Biogenics division at Viatus. I’m sure they’ll want this data. I may even be able to worm a new grant out of the corporation.”

  Andrea shifted to her feet. “Then maybe I can actually get that raise you keep hinting at.” A shadow of a smile played over her face, catching a bit of his excitement.

  “We’ll see.”

  Andrea checked her watch. “If you don’t need me, I should be getting home. My dogs have been cooped up all day. They’re probably crossing their hind legs and dancing to get out.”

  Henry walked her to the door. “Thanks again for coming in on your day off.”

  Andrea paused at the door. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat before I go?”

  “No, I’m going to finalize the assay and upload it to the server. It shouldn’t take long.”

  She waved as she exited. The door whooshed closed behind her.

  Henry returned to his computer station. It would take him less than an hour to formalize his report. While the file Jason had sent from Africa cast little light on the young man’s death, it did illustrate a brave heart, something his father could be proud of.

  “You did good, Jason,” Henry mumbled as he made a final review of all the files.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, he typed a few notes and observations. He wanted to impress Viatus. Their Crop Biogenics division contracted with laboratories around the world to perform their assays, though mostly in India and Eastern Europe at the moment, where costs were cheaper. But Princeton’s genomics laboratory was one of the best in the world. If he could persuade the corporation to toss a little business their way …

  A slow smile spread as he worked.

  A knock on the door interrupted him again. His smile widened. If he knew Andrea, she had not taken him at his word. She must have gone to the cafeteria to fetch him a bite to eat.

  “Be right there!” he called out. He crossed the lab and swiped his proximity keycard to unlock the door.

  5:30 P.M.

  Monk climbed into the cab outside the train station. His partner was already in the backseat, giving directions to the driver.

  “Carl Icahn Lab on the Princeton campus. It’s on Washington Road.”

  Monk settled into the seat next to him, straightened his suit jacket, and leaned back. He rested a briefcase on his lap. He stared down at the custom-made Tanner Krolle case and ran a hand over its English bridle leather. It had been an anniversary gift from Kat two months ago, when he’d formally returned to duty, as limited as it might be. He understood the unspoken message behind the expensive purchase. Kat was more than happy to have him pushing papers and conducting routine debriefings and interviews. Anything to keep him out of harm’s way.

  He sighed, earning a glance from his new partner.

  John Creed hunched a bit in his seat. Though wiry as a starved terrier, the man stood within a fingerbreadth of seven feet. He was one of Sigma’s newest recruits, clean-shaven, with lanky red hair, freckled over most of his face. Despite his boyish features, his expression remained steadily dour.

  Monk frowned and asked him a question that had been nagging him since they’d first met. “So, kid, how old are you? Fourteen? Fifteen?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  Monk tried to hide his doubt. That seemed impossible. Only seven years separated them? Monk flexed his prosthetic hand, aware that a lot could happen over seven years. Still, he studied his companion more closely for the first time, trying to size him up.

  On the train ride from Washington, Monk had read through the details about Dr. Henry Malloy, but he knew only the briefest bio on his traveling companion. Creed was from Ohio, had quit medical school after one year, and served two tours in Kabul as a grunt. Shrapnel from an IED had left him with a permanent limp. He tried for a third tour but ended up out of the service, though the details on that were less clear. Due to his test scores and background, he was recruited by Sigma and trained in genetics at Cornell.

  Still, the kid looked like he could be in high school.

  “So, Doogie,” Monk continued, “how long have you been active?”

  Creed just stared at Monk, plainly accustomed to ribbing about his baby-faced looks. “Finished Cornell three months ago,” he said stiffly. “Been in D.C. for two months. Mostly getting settled in.”

  “So this is your first assignment?”

  “If you call this an assignment …,” he mumbled, and stared out the passenger window.

  Though Monk felt the same way, he still bristled. “Nothing’s trivial when it comes to fieldwork. Every detail matters. The right piece of information can make or break a case. It’s something you need to learn, Doogie.”

  Creed glanced to him. His dour look turned a bit sheepish. “Okay. Point taken.”

  Monk folded his arms, hardly satisfied.

  Kids. Think they know everything.

  Shaking his head, Monk turned his attention outside as the cab crossed onto the Princeton campus. It was as if a verdant chunk of England had been dropped into the middle of New Jersey. Autumn leaves spread across rolling green lawns, ivy climbed walls of stately gothic stone buildings, even the dormitories looked like something out of Currier and Ives.

  As they glided through this bucolic world, it did not take them long to reach their destination. The cab pulled to the curb, and they climbed out.

  The Carl Icahn Laboratory occupied a corner of a wide green expanse. While many of Princeton’s structures dated to the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the laboratory was only a few years old, a stunning example of modern architecture. Two rectangular buildings stood perpendicular to one another, housing the main labs. Joining them together was a two-story curved atrium, facing the parklands.

  That’s where they were to meet Dr. Henry Malloy.

  “Ready?” Monk asked and checked his watch. They were five minutes late.

  “Ready for what?”

  “The interview.”

  “I thought you’d conduct the debriefing of the professor.”

  “Nope. It’s all you, Doogie.”

  Creed sighed heavily through his nose. “Fine.”

  They entered the building and crossed into the atrium. A curving two-story wall of glass faced the park’s lawn. Forty-foot-tall louvers sectioned the windows and were timed to move with the sun. They cast shadows deep into the atrium, dappling across chairs and tables. Spatters of students sat and chatted, their hands permanently glued to coffee cups.

  Monk searched and spotted where
he was supposed to meet Dr. Malloy. It was hard to miss. “This way,” he said and led his companion across the atrium.

  Off by a set of stairs rose a one-story sculpture. It looked like a half-melted conch shell. Even if not informed about it, Monk would have recognized the architectural design as Frank Gehry. The conch shell sheltered a small meeting place within its folds. A few people were already seated at a square conference table.

  Monk crossed to join them. As he approached, he realized they were all too young. In his briefcase, Monk had a photograph of Dr. Malloy. The man was definitely not here.

  Maybe the professor had come and gone already.

  Monk stepped out of the conch and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed the man’s office number. It rang and rang, then went to voice mail.

  If he’s already left, and I came all this way for nothing…

  Monk dialed a second number. It was for the doctor’s assistant.

  A woman answered. Monk quickly explained about Dr. Malloy’s absence.

  “He’s not there?” his assistant asked.

  “No one here but a lot of kids who look like junior high students.”

  “I know,” the woman said with a laugh. “Students just keep getting younger, don’t they? And I’m sorry, but Dr. Malloy must still be in his lab. That’s where I last saw him, and he never hears his cell phone. He can get so focused on what he’s doing that he’ll work right through a scheduled lecture. I feared as much today, so stuck around. He’s very excited about what he’s discovered.”

  Monk perked up with her last words. Had the professor figured something out, something that might help the case?

  “Listen,” the woman continued, “I’m just across the street in my office, finishing some work with my lab partner. There’s an underground walkway that connects my building to yours. Ask one of the students. I’ll borrow a keycard from the administrator and meet you down there. Dr. Malloy’s lab is on the basement level. I imagine he’ll want to show you the DNA assay himself.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you there.” Monk pocketed his phone and waved his briefcase at Creed. “C’mon. We’re heading directly to the guy’s lab.”

  After getting directions from a coed in a very tight sweater, Monk led the way down to the basement level. The underground passageway was easy enough to find.

  As they approached the tunnel entrance, a middle-aged woman waved to them from the other side. Monk waved back. She hurried over, out of breath, holding out her hand.

  “Andrea Solderitch,” she introduced herself.

  After the introductions, she led them down a neighboring hallway. She talked almost nonstop, plainly nervous.

  “There are only a few labs down here. So it’s easy to get lost. Most everything else is storage rooms, mechanical spaces … oh, and the building’s vivarium, where they house the lab animals. The genomics department keeps its microarray facility down here to keep it ozone free. It’s right over here.”

  She lifted the keycard in her hand and approached a closed door.

  “The department administrator tried calling the lab,” she explained. “No answer. I’ll just pop a look inside. I’m sure he wouldn’t have left the campus.”

  She waved the card and pulled the handle. As the door whooshed open, Monk immediately smelled smoke, electrical from the tang to it—and beneath it, a stench, like burned hair. He grabbed for Andrea, but he was too slow. She saw what was inside. Her face dissolved into confusion, then horror. A hand rose to cover her mouth.

  Monk pulled her to the side and passed her to Creed. “Keep her here.”

  He dropped his briefcase and reached to the shoulder holster inside his suit jacket. He pulled out his service pistol, a Heckler & Koch .45. The woman’s eyes widened. She turned away, pushing her face into Creed’s shoulder.

  “Do you have a weapon?” Monk asked him. “No … I thought this was just an interview.”

  Monk shook his head. “Let me guess, Doogie. You were never a Boy Scout.”

  Not waiting for an answer, Monk entered the lab, sweeping the blind spots. He was sure whoever had been here had come and gone, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Dr. Henry Malloy was tied to a chair in the middle of the room. His head hung to his chest. Blood pooled under the chair.

  A computer station behind him was a charred ruin.

  Monk glanced around. They’d disabled the smoke detectors.

  He crossed to the man and checked for a pulse. Nothing. But the body was still warm. The murderers hadn’t been gone long. Monk noted the doctor’s broken fingers. He’d been tortured. Most likely for information.

  The killing blow had been a knife to the chest, one strike, expertly done. From the swift death, Malloy must have talked.

  Monk sniffed. The burning stench was stronger by the body. He recognized the smell of charred flesh. With a finger, he gently lifted the man’s chin. The head lolled back, revealing the source of the smell. In the center of the man’s forehead, a raw burn, still blistering at the edges, marked his flesh, all the way down to the bone.

  A circle and a cross.

  A ringing chime drew his attention back to the doorway. It came from a cell phone. Not wanting to contaminate the scene any further, Monk retreated to the hall.

  Andrea had her cell phone to her ear. Her eyes were damp, her nose running. She sniffed as she listened. “What?” she asked, less a question than an expression of shock. “No! Why?”

  She fell against the wall and slumped to the floor. The phone tumbled from her fingers. Monk dropped to a knee beside her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Someone …” She pointed at the phone. “That was my neighbor. She heard my dogs barking, saw someone leaving my house. She went over. Door was open. They … they killed my dogs.” She covered her face with her hands. “Why didn’t I go straight home like I told Dr. Malloy?”

  Monk glanced at Creed. His brows were pinched together, not understanding.

  Monk did. He reached over and pulled the woman to her feet. “How long ago did your neighbor see the intruder?”

  She shook her head, struggling for words. “I … I don’t know. She didn’t say. She called the police.”

  Monk glanced back to the body of Dr. Malloy. The professor had talked. Named names. Most likely including his assistant’s. Dr. Malloy had thought Andrea had been headed home. He must have given the torturer her home address. They’d gone off to silence her.

  And not finding her there …

  It would take only a few inquiries, a few calls.

  “We have to get out of here. Right now!”

  Monk pointed back the way they’d come. As a group, they rushed down the hall toward the underground passageway. It crossed beneath the street to the neighboring university building, where Andrea had been working.

  “You said you were at your office with your lab partner,” Monk said as he hurried down the hall. “Did your partner know where you were headed?”

  He got his answer as they reached the mouth of the tunnel. A tall man marched down the passageway toward them, dressed in a dark rain slicker—and it hadn’t rained in days.

  Their eyes met across the space.

  Monk recognized a feral gleam. He pushed Andrea back and raised his pistol. At the same time, the man lifted his arm, parting his slicker to reveal a snub-nosed machine gun. He strafed the end of the passageway. The odd weapon made no more noise than a cake mixer, but rounds chewed into the corner behind which they’d vanished. Plaster and tile exploded and flew.

  “The stairs!” Monk ordered and pointed back toward the atrium. As they reached the bottom of the stairwell, footsteps echoed down from above.

  Monk halted everyone. Looking up, he spotted a man hurrying down in boots and a black slicker, the same as the first. A second assassin. Retreating, he herded everyone back into the maze of hallways.

  They had to find another way out.

  As they fled into the dimly lit halls, a heavy metal do
or slammed somewhere on the opposite side of the basement. Monk turned to Andrea.

  “I think that came from the emergency exit,” she whispered in bald terror.

  Monk could guess what that meant.

  A third assassin.

  5

  October 10, 6:32 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  “The symbol’s not in the database of any known terrorist group,” Painter said. He stood before a conference table with a wall screen behind him. Glowing on the monitor was a blown-up rendering of the cross and circle.

  Painter leaned on the table. The conference room was a new addition to Sigma Command, built after the firebombing. It held a circular table with computer stations before each chair. It could hold as many as a dozen people, but at the moment only three people were seated there.

  Kat sat to Painter’s immediate right, bringing her international intelligence experience to the table. On her right was Adam Proust, an expert in cryptology, and across the table, Georgina Rowe, a new Sigma recruit whose expertise was bioengineering.

  “So we start at square one,” Painter said and began to pace around the conference table. He had designed the room for just this purpose, to be able to move, to be able to observe those gathered around the table. “What does this symbol mean? How does it connect to the destruction of the Red Cross camp and the mutilation of the senator’s son?”

  Adam cleared his throat and half-lifted a hand toward the screen. He was in his midforties, casually dressed in jeans, a thin black sweater, and tweed sportcoat. “This mark has a long symbolic history, going back as far as early man. It’s sometimes referred to as a quartered circle. The meaning is relatively uniform across cultures. The circle represents the earth. The cross, in turn, sections the world into four pieces. In Native American culture, those four pieces represent—”

  “The four winds,” Painter acknowledged. He had been taught something similar by his father.

  “Precisely. And in other cultures, it represents the four elements—earth, wind, air, and fire. Sometimes they’re represented thusly.” He tapped at his computer station and the screen changed.