The Doomsday Key

by James Rollins

  Calmed again and resolute, he headed across the courtyard toward the bulk of Akershus Church with its large rosette window. He was already late for the meeting. Within the Club of Rome, Ivar had gathered like-minded men and women, those willing to make hard choices, to stand by their convictions. While Antonio and the two copresidents might be the figureheads of the Club of Rome, Ivar Karlsen and his inner cabal kept their own pact, a club within the club—a heart of iron, beating with the hope of the planet.

  Crossing into the church, Ivar saw that the others had already gathered within the small brick-walled nave. Chairs had been pushed to one side, and a choral stage had been set up to the left of the altar. Arched windows let in murky light, while a brightly lit gilt chandelier sought to add a meager bit of cheer.

  Faces turned as Ivar entered. Twelve in all.

  They were the true powers behind the club: leaders of industry, Nobel Prize—winning scientists, government representatives from major nations, even a Hollywood celebrity whose high-profile advocacy had drawn both attention and money to their group’s causes.

  Each served a specific purpose.

  Even the man who approached Ivar now. He was dressed in a black suit and wore a haunted expression.

  “Good morning, Ivar,” the man said and offered his hand.

  “Senator Gorman, please accept my condolences for your loss. What has happened in Mali … I should have spent more to secure the camp.”

  “Do not blame yourself.” The senator gripped Ivar’s shoulder. “Jason knew the dangers. And he was proud to be involved in such an important project.”

  Despite the reassurance, the senator was plainly uncomfortable with the topic, still raw from the death of his son. From a distance, the two men could almost be brothers. Sebastian Gorman stood as tall and weathered as Ivar, but he kept his white hair neatly trimmed, his suit pressed to a razor edge.

  Ivar was surprised to find the senator here, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been. In the past, Gorman had proven to be unwavering in his determination. The U.S. senator had been instrumental in expanding biofuel research and development throughout the Western world. The summit here was important to his issue. And with an election coming up, the senator would find time to mourn for his son later.

  Still, Ivar understood the man’s pain. He’d lost a wife and son in childbirth when he was in his early thirties. The tragedy had come close to destroying him back then. He had never remarried.

  “Are we ready to get started?” the senator asked, stepping away.

  “Yes. We should begin. We have much ground to cover.”

  “Good.”

  As the senator gathered everyone toward the bank of waiting chairs, Ivar stared at his back. He felt no twinge of guilt. Viatus meant the path of life. And sometimes that path was hard, requiring sacrifices to be made.

  Like the death of Jason Gorman.

  Upon Ivar’s orders, the young man had been murdered.

  A tragic loss, but he could afford no regrets.

  8

  October 11, 8:14 A.M.

  Rome, Italy

  They had less than a minute. The unexpected guests that the innkeeper had warned about were headed up. Gray didn’t want to be there when they arrived.

  He led everyone in a rush down the hall toward the hotel’s fire escape. It was just around the corner from his room. Reaching the window, he tugged it open and stepped aside for Rachel.

  “Head down,” he ordered. “Get out of sight.”

  Rachel clambered through the window and onto the iron ladder.

  Gray pointed to Kowalski, poking him in the chest. “Stay with her.”

  “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he answered and followed.

  Seichan stood two steps away in the hallway, her legs wide, her arms out, her hands cradling a black Sig Sauer pistol. She kept it pointed down the hall.

  “Do you have another weapon?” he asked.

  “I’ve got it covered. Get moving.”

  Muffled voices arose down the hall, along with the creak of wooden floorboards. The assassins had reached their floor and were headed toward their room. The hotel’s convoluted layout had probably saved their lives, bought them just enough time to slip the ambush.

  But not much more than that.

  Gray backed to the window and ducked through. Seichan came next. Without even turning, she back-stepped cleanly through the open window, never dropping her guard of the hallway.

  Rachel and Kowalski were already headed down. They were a floor below when shots suddenly fired up at them. Gray didn’t hear the blasts, but he did recognize the pings of ricochets and the puffs of brick dust from the wall.

  Kowalski cursed, pulled Rachel behind him, and began a fast retreat back up the fire escape.

  Gray spotted the shooter, half-hidden by a Dumpster. The bastards already had the alley exit covered. Seichan fired back. The gunman ducked away, but her pistol had no silencer. The blasts stung Gray’s ears and were surely loud enough to be heard by the assassins inside.

  “Make for the roof!” he ordered.

  The shooter below took potshots as they fled, but Seichan kept him pinned down, and the iron cage of the fire escape helped shelter them. Luckily, they didn’t have far to go. The hotel was only five stories high.

  Reaching the top, Gray herded everyone away from the roof’s edge. He stared across the expanse of pigeon droppings, vent pipes, and graffiti-sprayed heating and cooling equipment. They needed another way down. Even now he heard boots landing hard on the fire escape’s iron railings. The others were headed up after them.

  Gray pointed to the far side of the hotel. Another building abutted it. It was one story shorter. They had to get out of sight, or at least out of the direct line of fire.

  They sprinted for the low wall that separated the two buildings. Gray reached it first and leaned over. A whitewashed metal ladder was bolted to the side of the hotel and led down to the lower building’s roof.

  “Go!”

  Rachel rolled over the edge and scrambled down the rungs. Kowalski didn’t bother to wait his turn. He grabbed the edge of the wall, hung by his fingers, and merely dropped. He landed on his backside on the tarpapered roof below.

  A gunshot drew Gray’s attention around.

  A black-masked head ducked below the fire escape on the far side.

  “Now or never, Pierce!” Seichan warned.

  She fired twice more, discouraging anyone else from showing themselves. Taking advantage of the cover, Gray flipped over the edge of the roof, grabbed the ladder, and ignored the rungs. Like a fireman on a pole, he slid down its length.

  More shots echoed above.

  As his heels hit the tar paper, he stared up. Seichan flew over the wall and snatched one-armed for the ladder. Her other hand still clenched her smoking pistol. In her haste, she missed her grip on the topmost rung and began a headlong tumble. She tried for a second hold, dropping her gun and reaching out. Fingertips caught for half a breath. Her pistol tumbled and struck near Gray’s toes. Her momentary grip ripped away.

  She fell.

  Gray lunged out and got under her. She landed heavily in his arms. The impact took him down to one knee, but he caught her. Momentarily stunned, she breathed hard, a hand clutched on Gray’s wrist.

  Kowalski retrieved her gun, then helped them back to their feet.

  Seichan shoved roughly out of Gray’s arms, took an unsteady step, then gained her balance. Turning, she cleanly plucked her pistol out of Kowalski’s fingers before he could react.

  “Hey …” Kowalski stared at his empty hand as if the appendage had betrayed him.

  “There’s another fire escape over here,” Rachel called to them. Her eyes momentarily flickered between Gray and Seichan.

  They all hurried over. The top of the fire escape was sheltered behind a bulky ventilation unit. They began a rapid descent, leaping from landing to landing. This fire escape dumped into a different alley. It would buy them an extra half breath, b
ut Gray knew that whatever net had been cast around the hotel was surely being extended. They had to escape before it fully closed around them.

  At the end of the alleyway, a street opened. They headed toward it. With no way to identify the assassins, they were still in grave danger. They could stumble right into one of them and not even know it. They had to get well away from the area, out of the city.

  Gray’s questioning glance slid from Rachel to Seichan. “Anyone have a car?”

  “I do,” Rachel answered. “But it’s parked around the corner from the hotel.”

  He shook his head. It was too dangerous to go back. And considering that the streets had already turned into a parking lot due to the morning gridlock, a car might not even serve them.

  A growl on his left warned him of the danger. Gray leaped back as a motorcyclist sped through the stalled traffic, riding almost up on the narrow sidewalk. Kowalski was a second slower. The cyclist nearly clipped him, which only pissed the big man off.

  “Screw you, Knievel!”

  Kowalski shoved with both arms as the man passed.

  The rider flew out of his seat. The cycle struck a parked car and toppled on its side. A second motorcyclist who hadn’t seen the altercation and was following the same winding path could not get out of the way in time. He was forced to drop his bike and skid along the street gutter.

  Seichan stared at Gray and lifted an eyebrow.

  Good enough, he answered her silently.

  Seichan went for the first bike; Gray headed to the second.

  They needed transportation.

  Seichan’s pistol discouraged any complaints from the first rider. Catching on quickly, Rachel followed Gray. She flipped out her carabinieri ID and held it high, yelling in Italian, full of command. The second rider backed away from his fallen motorcycle.

  Gray righted the bike and hitched his leg over it. Rachel climbed on behind him, hugging one arm around his waist.

  Seichan had already mounted the other. Kowalski stood in place, not sure what to do. Seichan patted the leather seat behind her.

  “You gotta be kidding me,” he said. “I don’t ride bitch behind anyone.”

  Seichan still had her Sig Sauer in hand. She flipped it around and offered the butt end toward Kowalski. She couldn’t maneuver and fire at the same time.

  It was like offering a bone to a dog.

  Kowalski could not resist. He took the gun and climbed on behind her. “That’s more like it.”

  They set off as police sirens sounded in the distance. Gray took the lead. Swerving back and forth through traffic, he skirted the creeping cars and dodged bicycles. Rachel shouted directions in his ear, guiding them toward the wider thoroughfares where the congestion wasn’t so tight. They slowly gained speed.

  But they didn’t get far.

  A squeal of brakes drew Gray’s attention around.

  Behind them, a black Lamborghini peeled out of a side street, tires smoking, and aimed straight for Seichan and Kowalski. A black-jacketed figure leaned out the passenger window of the sports car and lifted a thick-barreled weapon to his shoulder. He aimed at the trailing motorcycle.

  Gray recognized an M32 grenade launcher.

  So did Seichan.

  She tucked lower in her seat and gunned her engine, but in the tight traffic, there was nowhere to run.

  With his target trapped, the gunman fired.

  2:22 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Monk waited with Kat in her office within Sigma Command. They shared her leather sofa, sprawled together. Monk cradled Kat, appreciating the warmth of her body, the softness of her touch. While Sigma Command had a series of bunk rooms, neither of them would be able to sleep until they finally got word about Gray.

  “I should be there with him,” Monk mumbled.

  “He has Kowalski.”

  Monk stared down at her.

  “Okay,” she agreed. “That might make matters worse. But we don’t know for sure anything is even wrong.”

  “He’s not answering his phone.”

  Kat curled tighter to him. “He was meeting Rachel,” she said and cocked an eyebrow, leaving the implication hanging.

  Monk wasn’t buying that explanation.

  A long stretch of silence followed, with each lost in their own thoughts. Painter was continuing to pull strings to find out what was happening in Rome. Kat had also made further inquiries into the bombing at the Vatican. She was waiting for a comprehensive report from Interpol to come through. This moment of quiet was just the eye of the storm. Still, Monk took what he could.

  He reached and placed a palm over her belly. Her hand rose to cover his. Their fingers entwined.

  “Is it wrong to hope for a boy?” he asked.

  She used her other hand to punch him halfheartedly in the leg. “Yes …”

  Monk tightened his arms around her and teased. “But a boy … someone I can play catch with, shoot hoops with, go fishing …”

  Kat wriggled, then sighed and leaned into him. “You can do all those things with a daughter, you sexist pig.”

  “Did you call me a sexy pig?”

  “Sexist… oh, never mind.”

  He leaned down and kissed her lips. “I like sexy better.”

  She mumbled between their lips. Monk could not make out her words, but after a moment more, a contented silence followed. A knock on the door interrupted them. They broke their embrace and sat up. Kat stood and crossed to the door, running a hand down her suit. She glared back at Monk, as if it were all his fault.

  Kat opened the door to find Painter standing outside.

  “Director—”

  Painter cut her off and pointed down the hall. “I was on my way down to satellite com. We’ve got trouble in Rome.”

  Monk gained his feet. “Gray?”

  “Who else?” Painter set off down the hall.

  8:21 A.M.

  Rome, Italy

  The Lamborghini drove straight at the trailing motorcycle. There was nothing Gray could do.

  At the same moment the gunman fired his weapon, Kowalski blasted wildly with his pistol back at the car. The windshield spider-webbed. The car shimmied slightly—enough to throw off the aim of the gunman as he pulled the trigger.

  From the grenade launcher, a spiraling trail of smoke rocketed out, passed over Kowalski’s head, and shot down the street. It struck the corner of a building at the next intersection.

  Smoke, fire, and bricks blasted outward.

  Panicked pedestrians fled in all directions. Cars rammed one another in the intersection. In the lead, Gray reached the crossroads first. He fought through the mess, jerking and swerving through the chaos and smoke, seeking every crack to make his escape.

  Seichan and Kowalski closed the distance.

  Behind them, the Lamborghini, blocked by the traffic, swerved onto the sidewalk. It accelerated, heedless of the pedestrians in the way.

  Once past the intersection, the road cleared. Gray opened the throttle and shot down the street. Seichan kept to his right flank.

  “Gray!” Rachel yelled in his ear. She unwrapped one arm from around his waist to point ahead.

  Down the street, a second black Lamborghini fishtailed around a corner and sped straight at them. The first car closed from behind.

  Rachel pointed to the left. “Stairs!”

  Gray spotted an arched pedestrian walkway between two buildings. He turned sharply, braking and skidding on both tires for a full yard, then righted the bike. With a twist of the throttle, he shot toward the stone stairway. Seichan followed, skirting wider but keeping pace.

  Gray heard a string of curses flowing from Kowalski, punctuated by pops from his pistol as he fired at the two sports cars.

  Reaching the stairs, Gray downshifted and gunned the engine. Lifting up on his back tire, he hit the stairs and used momentum, balance, and a low gear to ratchet up the steps. Thankfully there was only one flight and the walkway flattened out. Still, the path was narrow and crook
ed.

  Gray shot down the walkway. He didn’t slow. He trusted the guttural growl of the two motorcycles to clear the path of any pedestrians. Still, he risked a glance back. He had no view of the street, but he was sure a gunman or two had been dropped off to give chase. The cars were probably circling around to meet them at the other end.

  But where did this walkway end?

  Gray had his answer as the path suddenly emptied into a wide plaza. A roadway circled its outer edge. As he shot into the open, Gray gaped at the massive ancient structure that filled the center of the space ahead of him. It climbed high into the sky.

  The Coliseum.

  But he had no time to sightsee.

  “Got company!” Kowalski bellowed and pointed to the right. Gray turned. The two Lamborghinis swung into the circling street. “Gray!” Rachel said and pointed to the left.

  A third Lamborghini, as sleek and black as the others, shot into view. Somebody had plenty of money to spare.

  With no choice, Gray shot straight across the street, cutting through all lanes of traffic and out onto the pedestrian plaza that circled the Coliseum. It was a park of cement walkways, grassy lawns, and stretches of blacktop. Nimbleness was their only hope of escape. And speed.

  Unfortunately, the same described a Lamborghini.

  All three sports cars left the roadway, angled into the plaza, and closed toward them from both sides.

  Gray had no choice.

  If it was a race they wanted …

  2:23 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Ensconced before the bank of monitors, Painter stared at the satellite feed from the National Reconnaissance Office. It showed a view of an open plaza in the center of Rome. An ancient amphitheater filled the center. The Coliseum looked like a giant stone eye staring back at him.

  “Zoom in closer,” Painter ordered the technician.

  “Are you sure that’s Gray?” Monk asked. He and Kat flanked Painter on either side of the monitor.

  “The explosion was a block from his hotel. Reports from the police describe a chase under way outside the Coliseum.”

  The image on the screen swelled and swept down upon the plaza. Details grew less distinct. But two black cars clearly raced around the periphery of the stone amphitheater. Ahead, a pair of motorcycles sped down walkways and across grassy lawns. One of the bikes shot off the top of a stairway, landed on its back tire, and sped away.