Gray appreciated focusing back on the matter at hand. Kowalski headed into the bathroom with his two bottles of wine. Rachel sat on the bed and listened to his end of the conversation. Over the next fifteen minutes, Gray and Painter compared notes: three murders on three continents, the violence perpetrated to cover up what was going on, the significance of the pagan symbol that seemed to link everything together.
Painter described his plan to travel to Norway to investigate Viatus and its CEO.
“And Monk is going with you?” Gray asked, both surprised and glad for his friend.
“Along with John Creed, our new resident geneticist. He was the one who decrypted the data from Jason Gorman’s e-mail.” Painter’s voice firmed to a more serious tone. “Which brings us to what Lieutenant Verona discovered, what someone apparently wanted destroyed.”
“The mummified finger.”
Gray glanced at Rachel. They’d had a long discussion on the train ride out of Rome. Father Marco Giovanni had been working at an excavation site in northern England, somewhere in the mountainous and remote region that bordered Scotland. They still had no more details about the excavation. All they knew was that Vigor’s former student had been researching the roots of Celtic Christianity, when pagan worship merged with Catholicism.
Gray had already related some details to Painter. But he hadn’t expanded on what Rachel had divulged on the train.
“Director, maybe you’d better hear this from Lieutenant Verona herself. I’m not sure of the significance, but it’s worth noting if only for thoroughness.”
“Very well. Put her on.”
Gray crossed back to the bed and passed her the cell phone. “I thought you should tell Painter what you learned.”
She nodded. He remained standing near the bedpost. After a few pleasantries, Rachel cut to the strange matter of the priest’s obsession.
“Before everything went to hell in Rome,” Rachel explained, “I had acquired a list of published papers and treatises written by Father Giovanni, some going back to when he was a student. It was plain he was fixated on a specific mythology of the Catholic faith, an incarnation of the Virgin Mary known as the Black Madonna.”
Gray listened with half an ear as she explained. He was familiar with the subject. He had studied comparative religions before joining Sigma and knew the history and mysteries surrounding the cult of the Black Madonna. Over the centuries, going back to the very start of Christianity, statues and paintings had appeared that depicted the Mother of Christ with dark or black skin. These came to be revered and treasured. Over four hundred of the images still existed in Europe, a few dating all the way back to the eleventh century. And a large number of them were still worshiped and venerated: the Black Madonna of Czestochowa in Poland, the Madonna of Hermits in Switzerland, the Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico. The list went on and on.
Despite this ongoing veneration, controversy continued to surround these unique Madonnas. While some claimed miraculous properties associated with them, others declared the dark skin was due to nothing more than accumulated candle soot or the natural darkening of wooden statues or old marble. The Catholic Church avoided acknowledging any significance or spiritual powers for these incarnations.
Rachel continued with Father Giovanni’s fixation. “Marco was convinced that Celtic Christianity built its foundations upon the Black Madonna, that this image represented the fusion of the old pagan Earth Mother with the new worship of the Virgin Mary. He spent his career searching for this connection, the true source behind the mythology.”
Rachel paused, plainly listening to a question from Painter, then answered, “I don’t know if he ever found that source. But he found something, something worth dying over.”
Rachel stopped again to listen, then said, “Right. I agree. I’ll pass you back to Commander Pierce.”
Gray accepted the phone, lifted it to his ear, and returned to the window. “Sir?”
“Considering Rachel’s story, it seems plain what your next step must be.”
Gray had no doubt of the correct answer. “Investigate the excavation site in England.”
“Precisely. I don’t know how the murders in Africa and Princeton tie to Father Giovanni’s research. But there must be some connection. I’ll follow up in Oslo concerning the genetic research—you see what that mummified finger points to.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you need any additional personnel for this mission? Or can you manage with Joseph Kowalski and Lieutenant Verona?”
“I think the leaner we move, the better.”
Despite his best effort, a strained edge tightened his voice. There remained one detail he had never divulged to Painter Crowe. Gray stared down into the garden, to the crimson glow of a cigarette. He hated to lie to the director, even if it was only a sin of omission, but if Gray told Sigma Command about their new ally here, Painter would have no choice but to send a team to collect her, to cart her off to an interrogation camp.
Gray could not allow that.
Still, he hesitated.
Was he making the right choice? Or was he needlessly putting the entire mission in jeopardy?
Gray turned from the window to discover Rachel staring at him. In her eyes, he recognized that his decision threatened more than just his own life. Still, he also remembered a pained plea two years ago, one full of need and hope.
Trust me, Gray. If only a little.
Facing the dark window again, Gray stared at his reflection. After a long steadying breath, he spoke into the phone.
“We’ll be fine on our own.”
11
October 11, 11:22 P.M.
Oslo, Norway
Ivar Karlsen pulled on the heavy oak door, its planks strapped with hammered iron. Snow swirled through the moonless night and whipped in sudden gusts into the narrow arched entry. Cold pinched his exposed cheeks, while the iron handle was so frozen it burned his fingers as he hauled open the door. The day’s storm had indeed turned into the first true snowfall by evening.
The harsh weather stirred Ivar, got his heart pounding, his breath blowing strongly. Perhaps he did indeed have Viking blood running through his veins as his old bestemor claimed.
Ducking through the door, he stamped his boots to dislodge the caked snow. A dark stairway lay ahead, leading down into the depths below Akershus Castle. Ivar threw back the hood of his fleece-lined sherling coat and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. Clicking it on, he headed down the stairs.
The stone steps had been laid when the fortress was first built, dating back to the medieval period. His steps echoed off the low walls. He had to duck to keep from brushing the ceiling. Reaching the lower level, the stairs ended at an old guardroom with the original iron wall hooks and torch brackets still intact. Heavy beams held up the ceiling.
On the far side, a brick archway opened on a hall of tiny cells where downtrodden nobles and all manner of high criminals had been kept in squalid and miserable conditions. It was here that the Nazis had tortured Ivar’s countrymen, those who resisted the German occupation. Ivar had even lost a granduncle down here. Honoring that sacrifice, Viatus continued to donate large sums to the preservation and upkeep of Akershus.
Ivar swept his flashlight down the throat of the gloomy dungeon passageway. This section was closed to the usual castle tours. Few even knew of its existence… or its darker history. It was here that those who committed high treason to the crown and country were held. The Nazi collaborator Viktor Quisling had been kept locked down here before he was executed. Many others had met their deaths, going back centuries.
Ivar’s fingers closed over an old coin in his coat pocket. He kept it with him at all times. It was a 1725 Frederick IV four-mark, minted by Henrik Christofer Meyer. Meyer had also died down here, whipped and bloodied, for replacing silver with copper in the king’s coinage and pocketing the savings.
King Frederick IV—considered at the time to be a benevolent and merciful leader—still held to a strict code of honor. It was
rumored that he had Viking blood in his lineage. And following the Viking code, betrayal of any manner had to be dealt with harshly.
Upon the king’s order, Meyer was not only ordered whipped at the post and sentenced to life imprisonment, he was also marked permanently as a traitor to the crown. Meyers was branded with a hot iron poker in the center of his forehead. The king used one of the mint master’s own substandard coins for the branding, burning the image into the man’s flesh.
The coin in Ivar’s pocket was one of those very coins. It had been in his family for centuries, the story passed from one generation to the next. It grew to represent the Karlsen family code: to balance mercy and generosity, yet never tolerate treachery in any form.
Ivar heard the door above open and slam closed, cutting off his reverie. Footsteps echoed as someone hurried down the steps.
A slim, long-legged woman entered the guardroom. She carried a bit of the winter chill with her. Snow frosted her fiery hair; her gold eyes reflected his flashlight. She wore a long gray coat over dark clothes.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Ivar,” she said. She tossed her hair, scattering snow like some ancient goddess of winter.
Though only in her late twenties, Krista Magnussen had become the chief geneticist for his corporation’s Crop Biogenics division. She had risen quickly, demonstrating both brilliance and a seemingly supernatural resourcefulness. It was only last year that Ivar had learned the true basis of her resourcefulness. The revelation had come at a time when things had begun to go awry with his careful plans. The house of cards he’d been meticulously building had begun to lean. It had needed shoring up.
Krista again proved her value; Ivar had been shocked to discover that she was not entirely who she appeared to be. Corporate espionage was commonplace throughout the industry, but he’d never suspected such a young, brilliant woman. And he never suspected the reach of her connections. She worked for a shadowy network that went by many names. They offered their mercenary services in exchange for access and a percentage of future profits. Over the past year, they had proved to be invaluable at shoring up his plans, even accelerating them.
And it had been Krista herself who dealt with the delicate and unfortunate matter of the senator’s son.
She moved closer, gave Ivar a firm hug, and brushed his cheek in a chaste kiss. Her lips were still cold from the storm.
“I’m also sorry,” she said, “that I had to summon you so suddenly at this hour.”
“If it’s important…”
“It is.” Krista shook her long coat, shivering off snow and melting droplets. “I’ve just heard that our targets in Rome survived.”
“They’re alive? I thought you said they were dead.”
“We underestimated them,” Krista said with a shrug. She made no effort to justify, obfuscate, or avoid responsibility. As always, Ivar respected her candor.
“Do they still possess the artifact?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know all this?” he asked with a frown.
Krista smiled, still coldly. “It seems our attack got someone’s attention, someone with something to prove. After events in Rome, we were contacted. Offered a deal. We now have someone on the inside.”
“Can they be trusted?”
“I don’t leave such matters to mere trust, Ivar. Our organization will be staying close to them, keeping a fire lit under them.”
“I don’t understand. If you have someone on the inside, why not have them secure the artifact or destroy it?”
“That may not be the wisest choice.” Her eyes sparkled in the darkness, shining with a brilliance that dazzled.
“What do you mean?”
“Father Giovanni betrayed you. Took your money, allowed you to finance his research. Yet when he found the artifact, he stole it. Fled with it.”
Ivar’s fingers tightened on the coin. The priest was made to pay for his crime. Shortly after learning of Krista’s connections, Ivar had told her the bloody story of Henrik Meyer, as both a lesson and a warning to her. Instead, she took the story to heart and suggested the mutilations, to help disguise the murders, to make them look more like the work of ecoterrorists. Ivar also found a certain satisfaction in the punishment, a return to an older form of justice, where those who betrayed the world were marked for all to see.
Krista continued. “But with the artifact secure again, now is our chance to hunt for what remains missing. To discover what Giovanni sought.”
Ivar’s attention focused fully back on her. He could not keep the desire out of his voice. “The Doomsday key…”
Such a discovery would not only secure his plan, it could make history. The key had the potential to unlock a mystery stretching back millennia.
Krista explained her plan. “Those who now hold the artifact have proved to be resourceful in the past. With the proper motivation, they might succeed where Father Giovanni failed.”
Ivar reined in his raw desire and maintained his practicality. “And you’re certain you can handle such an undertaking?”
“Not just me.” Krista smiled, this time warm and full of assurance. “As I promised from the beginning, you’ll have the full support of the Guild.”
She crossed to him. “We will not fail you. I will not fail you.”
Moving into his arms, she kissed him again. Not chastely this time, but full on the lips. Her hair brushed his neck, icy and damp, sending chills through him, but her lips, mouth, and tongue burned like liquid fire.
Ivar forgot about the coin in his pocket and reached to the small of her back. He pulled her closer. He recognized that she was seducing him, and he suspected that she knew he wasn’t fooled. But neither of them pulled away.
They both knew what was at risk, what waited to be won.
The future of mankind.
And the power to control that fate.
SECOND
FIRE AND ICE
12
October 12, 10:12 A.M.
Hawkshead, England
It seemed impossible that murder could be traced back to such an idyllic countryside.
Gray drove down the winding road framed by rolling hills. With each passing mile the lane grew narrower until it was barely wide enough to accommodate the rented Land Rover. A patch of hardwood forest overhung the road, creating a tangled tunnel of woven branches. Once clear of the woods, the vistas opened again and revealed the rounded peaks of the surrounding fells, or what passed for mountains here in England. Snow already covered the crags in a white blanket since an early winter storm had blown across the district the night before.
Closer at hand, meadows and hedge-lined farm tracts cut the landscape into a quilt of brown grasses and fallow fields. Streams and creeks sparkled among mirror-smooth lakes and smaller highland tarns. Ice rimed the edges of all the waterways, and windblown snow frosted the entire landscape.
The natural beauty struck one to silence.
Or almost everyone.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?” Kowalski accused from the backseat.
“I’m not lost,” Gray lied.
Rachel rattled her road map and eyed Gray doubtfully.
Okay, maybe they were a little off course…
They had left Liverpool two hours ago and followed the directions easily enough up into the Lake District of northern England. The highways were well marked, but once Gray exited the major thoroughfares, he ended up in a countryside of meandering lanes, unmarked roads, and a broken landscape of hills, forests, and lakes.
Even GPS proved to be no help. None of the roads matched its software. They might as well have been driving through open country.
Their destination was the town of Hawkshead, one of the many honeypot villages that nestled within the natural wonderland of the English Lake District. They were to meet a colleague of Father Giovanni, a historian from the University of Edinburgh named Dr. Wallace Boyle. Boyle had organized the dig out in a remote section of the central fells and still oversaw the site. He
had agreed to meet them at a hotel pub in Hawkshead.
But first Gray had to find the place.
Rachel studied the map and searched out the window for any landmarks. Behind Rachel, Seichan sat next to Kowalski and stared sullenly out at the rolling hills and dales. She had barely spoken a word since leaving Italy and continued to hover at the edge of their group, maintaining a wary distance.
“If we don’t get somewhere pretty damn quick,” Kowalski continued, “you’re going to have to stop at the next tree or bush. My back molars are floating.”
Gray sped up the next hill. “If you hadn’t downed those four pints of beer back in Liverpool—”
“Not my fault. All those cockamamie names. Blackwater Brewery’s Buccaneer. Cains Double Bock. Boddington’s Bitters. Tetley’s Cask. Guy can’t tell what he’s getting ‘til he tastes it. Took a while to find a good one.”
“But you drank them all down.”
“Of course I did. It would’ve been rude not to.”
Rachel folded her map and gave up. “It can’t be much farther,” she said with little conviction. “Maybe we should stop and ask for directions.”
Moments later, it proved unnecessary. With a final rattling push, the Land Rover topped the next rise, and a small village appeared, spread across the valley ahead.
Gray looked over at Rachel. The relief on her face answered his question. It had to be Hawkshead. Cobblestone lanes crisscrossed past fenced gardens and squat timbered homes. Snow mantled the village’s slate roofs, and thin trails of smoke rose from the chimneys. Across the way, an old stone church crouched atop a hill and overlooked the village, like a grim gray deacon scowling down at the town below.
As they wound down toward the village, stacked-stone walls rose alongside the road. The Land Rover rumbled over an arched granite bridge to enter the outskirts of town. The buildings and homes were of wattle-and-daub construction with exposed timbers, traditional for an English Tudor town. Small front gardens and window boxes hinted at the splendor that must be spring and summer here, but after the storm last night, snow piled atop boxes and across yards, creating a wintry Christmas scene.
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