The Doomsday Key

  A few minutes after that, the man had climbed into a corporate limo and left for his research complex outside of Oslo. The hidden microtransceiver had a limited range, so Painter had to abandon his spying for now. And just as well. Karlsen’s talk about the Crops Biogenics division had lit a fire under Painter. He barely felt the cold as he crossed into the shadow of the towering cruise ship and navigated through the passengers hovering at the gangplank.

  He had to prepare for another facet of the investigation, one that would require a bit more stealth this evening.

  As he moved through the passengers, a burly figure in a parka bumped against him. Spotting the impact a fraction of a second before, Painter instinctively moved to sidestep him. A fiery lance of pain stabbed into his side.

  He spun away from it, catching a flash of silver off a knife held low in the man’s grip. If he hadn’t dodged at the last moment, the blade would’ve struck him square in the stomach. He couldn’t count twice on such a lucky break. The man came at him again.

  So far, no one else had noted the attack.

  Painter snatched a camera from around one of the oblivious tourists’ necks. Gripping the shoulder strap, he swung the heavy Nikon SLR and struck the attacker square in the ear. As the man fell to the side, Painter leaped in closer, snagged the leather strap around the man’s wrist, and used the grip to wrench his struggling form over his hip and hard to the pavement.

  The man’s face struck the cement. A bone snapped in his trapped arm. The knife tumbled across the ground.

  As yells erupted all around, Painter vaulted over the prone body, going after the loose weapon. Before he could reach it, the knife suddenly jolted, emitting a sharp hissing, and skittered like a loose rocket across the icy ground. Painter hesitated, recognizing the lethal weapon.

  A WASP injector knife.

  The dagger’s handle held a bulb of compressed gas, making the blade doubly dangerous. Once stabbed into a victim, the press of a button blasted a basketball-sized volume of cold air through the impaled blade and into the victim’s gut, snap-freezing and pulverizing all internal organs. It could kill a brown bear with one jab.

  Propelled by the blast of gas, the knife rocketed into the tangle of boots and legs. The waterfront had erupted in chaos. Some people fled from the fight; others crowded closer. Someone shouted, “That guy stole my camera!”

  A slew of ship security personnel pounded down the gangway. More forced their way through the crowd.

  Painter clutched a hand to his side and dove into the chaos of the churning crowd. The heavy coat and last-minute dodge had saved his life. Still, hot blood welled through his fingers. Fire flamed his side. He could not get caught. Still, it wasn’t only security he had to worry about. As he ran, he kept watch on the crowd around him.

  Had the attacker come alone?

  Not likely.

  As Painter stumbled through the passengers and tourists, he searched faces around him and watched hands. How many others were disguised like the first one, planted in the crowd and guarding this exit out of Akershus?

  He knew one thing for certain. This had been no random mugging. Not with the attacker wielding a WASP injector. Somehow his cover had been blown. A net had been set up around the fortress grounds.

  He had to get clear of the docks, put some distance between himself and the ambush. The crowds grew less tight around him as he hopped into the parklands that bordered the dock. Icy snow covered the ground and crunched under his boots. Bright red drops splattered into the snow. He was leaving an easy trail to follow.

  Fifty yards away, another man in a parka hopped the border fence and came tromping toward him. So much for the subtle approach now. Not knowing if the man had a gun, Painter turned and fled for the patch of pine trees that filled the back half of the park. He had to get under cover.

  The assassin followed the fresh trail of prints in the snow. He ran in a low crouch, his blade clutched in his left hand. He hit the tree line and kept one eye on the trail and the other on his surroundings. Under the trees the way became shadowy but not so dim that he lost sight of the trail. No one had been through here since the last snowfall. Only one set of prints marred the virgin snow.

  Along with a dribbling track of blood.

  The path zigzagged through the trees. Clearly the target feared a gun and took up a defensive pattern. It was a waste of effort. The assassin cut a straight path through the forest, paralleling the crooked flight.

  Ahead, the glade opened. The trail of prints fled straight across. His prey had abandoned caution and was trying to reach the city streets beyond the park. Tightening his grip on the knife, he raced to close the distance.

  As he reached the glade’s edge, a low branch of a neighboring pine whipped around. It struck him across the shins with the force of a battering ram. His legs were knocked from under him. He flipped face-forward into the snow. Before he could move, a heavy weight landed on his back and crushed the remaining air out of him.

  He realized his mistake. The man had backtracked, hidden behind the pine, and ambushed him, hauling back the branch that had cracked across his shins.

  It was his last mistake.

  A hand shot down and gripped his chin. The other pinned his neck to the ground. A sharp yank. His neck snapped. Pain flared as if the top of his skull had blown away—then darkness.

  5:34 P.M.

  “Hold still,” Monk scolded. “I only have one more suture.”

  Painter sat on the edge of the tub in his boxers. He felt the needle pierce his flesh. The spray anesthetic only dulled the sharpest edge of the pain. At least Monk worked swiftly. He’d already debrided and cleaned the wound, shot him full of prophylactic antibiotics, and with a final deft twist of his needle forceps, he closed the four-inch laceration under the left side of Painter’s rib cage.

  Monk dropped everything into a sterile Surgipack on the bathroom floor, picked up a roll of gauze and adhesive tape, and set about wrapping Painter’s chest.

  “What now?” Monk asked. “Do we stick to our schedule?”

  After the attack, Painter had fled into the city, taking an extra few minutes to make sure he wasn’t followed. Then he’d called Monk. As a precaution, he ordered them to change hotels and rebook under another alias. Painter joined them there.

  “I see no reason to change,” Painter said.

  Monk nodded toward the wound. “I see about four inches of reason.”

  Painter shook his head. “They were sloppy. Whoever set up the attack must have done so hastily. Somehow I was made, but I don’t think we’re more exposed than that.”

  “Still, that’s pretty damn exposed.”

  “It just means extra precautions will be necessary from here. I’ll have to avoid the summit. Keep out of sight. That means leaning more heavily on you and Creed.”

  “So we’re still going to recon that research facility tonight?”

  Painter nodded. “I’ll monitor via radio. Nothing fancy. Slip in, tap into the servers, and get the hell out of there.”

  It was a simple operation. Courtesy of Kat Bryant’s sources, they had identification cards, electronic keys, and a full schematic of the Viatus facility. They would go in after midnight when the place was mostly deserted.

  John Creed hurried into the bathroom. He wore a lab coat with the Viatus logo on the pocket. He must have been trying on his disguise. “Sir, your phone. It’s buzzing.”

  Painter held out a hand and took the cell. He read the Caller ID and frowned. It was General Metcalf’s number. Why was he calling? Painter had avoided briefing Washington on what had happened until he knew more. To have the operation closed down before it even started would not sit well with anyone.

  Especially Painter.

  He flipped the phone open and answered. “General Metcalf?”

  “Director Crowe. I suspect you’re still settling in over there, so I’ll be brief. I just received a call from Senator Gorman. He was very agitated.”

  Painter struggled t
o understand. He’d done nothing to provoke the senator.

  “Gorman received a cryptic call half an hour ago. Someone claiming to have information on the attack in Africa. The caller said he knew of a survivor to the attack.”

  “A survivor?” Painter could not hide his own surprise.

  “The caller wants to meet at the bar of the senator’s hotel. To give further details. He’ll only meet with Gorman alone.”

  “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Neither do we. That’s why you’re going to be at that bar. The senator knows that a DoD investigator is already in Oslo. He personally requested you be there. You’re to maintain a low profile, to intervene only if necessary.”

  “When’s the meet?” Painter asked.

  “Tonight at midnight.”

  Of course, it would be.

  Painter finished the call and tossed the phone back to Creed.

  “What?” Monk asked.

  Painter explained, which only deepened Monk’s frown.

  Creed spoke a fear they all shared. “It might be a trap. Meant to draw you out into the open again.”

  “We should call off the operation at Viatus,” Monk suggested. “Go with you as backup.”

  Painter considered that option. Monk had been out of the field for some time, and Creed had barely gotten his feet wet. It would be risky to send them over to the research facility by themselves. Painter studied Monk, weighing the variables.

  Monk guessed the intent of his attention. “We can still do this, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking. The kid might be green, but we’ll get it done.”

  Painter heard the certainty in the man’s voice. With a sigh, he stopped overanalyzing the situation. He wasn’t at his desk in Washington anymore. This was fieldwork. He had to trust his gut. And his gut was telling him that events were rapidly escalating out of control.

  Delay was not an option.

  “We stick to the schedule,” he said forcefully, brooking no argument. “We need access to that server. From today’s attack, it’s clear someone is getting both bolder and more agitated. A bad combination. We can’t let them lock us out. So we’ll just have to split up tonight.”

  Creed looked concerned, but not for himself. “Sir, what if you’re attacked again?”

  “Don’t worry. They had their one free shot at me.” Painter reached the sink and picked up the WASP dagger that he’d confiscated from the assassin in the park. “Tonight, I’ll be the one doing the hunting.”

  6:01 P.M.

  Bundled in a fox-fur—lined coat and hood, Krista strode down the central path of Frogner Park in the west-end borough of Oslo. She had an apartment that overlooked the snowy park, but she could not stand to wait indoors any longer. She carried her phone with her.

  The sun had set, and the temperature had plummeted.

  She had the park to herself.

  She continued along the path through the sculpture garden. Her warm breath frosted the air. She needed to keep moving, but tension kept her stiff.

  Spread around her were more than two hundred sculptures created by Gustav Vigeland, a Norwegian national treasure. Most of the sculptures involved nude stone figures frozen in various combinations and twisted poses. Presently the sculptures were covered with snow, as if wrapped in tattered white cloaks.

  Ahead rose the towering central sculpture. It sat on the highest point of the park and was lit up for the night. It was named the Monolith. It always reminded Krista of something out of Dante’s Inferno, especially at night. Maybe that’s why she was drawn to it now.

  The sculpture was a circular tower four stories high carved out of a single block of granite. Its entire surface was a writhing mass of human figures, tangled, twisted, entwined, a dark orgy in stone. It was supposed to represent the eternal cycle of mankind, but to her, it looked like a mass grave.

  She stared up at it, knowing what was coming.

  What we are about to unleash…

  She shuddered inside her coat and clasped her fur-lined hood tighter to her throat. It was not remorse that kept her trembling, but the sheer enormity of what was unfolding. It was already under way, had been for over a decade, but in the next days, there would be no turning back. The world was about to change, and she had played a primary role in it all.

  But she had not acted alone.

  Her phone, still clutched in her pocket, vibrated. She took a deep breath and exhaled a stream of white mist. She had failed today. What would be her punishment? Her eyes scanned the dark parklands around her. Were they already closing in on her? Death did not frighten her. What terrified her was being taken out of the game now, at this last moment. In her haste and desire, she had acted rashly. She should have contacted her superiors before attempting to take down the Sigma operative on her own.

  She lifted the phone and tucked it into her hood.

  “Yes?” she answered.

  Alone in the park, she did not have to worry about anyone eavesdropping. The satellite phone was also encrypted. She readied herself for whatever would come.

  Still, she was not prepared for the voice on the line. All warmth drained out of her. She might as well have been naked in the cold park.

  “He lives,” the voice said flatly. “You should have known better.”

  With her breath trapped in her chest, she could not speak. She had only heard this voice once before in her life. It had been after her recruitment, after a brutal initiation, when she’d carried out an assassination, killing an entire family, including a newborn baby. The Venezuelan politician had been supporting an investigation into a French pharmaceutical company, an investigation that needed to be stopped. She had also taken a bullet through her leg from the man’s security team, but she still escaped without leaving a trace behind. Not even a drop of her own blood.

  During her recovery, she had received a call, congratulating her.

  From the man on the phone now.

  It was said he was one of the Guild leaders, those who were only referred to as “Echelon.”

  She finally found her voice. “Sir, I take full responsibility for the failure.”

  “And I imagine you’ve learned from this mistake.” The tone remained flat. She could not tell if the speaker was angry or not.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “From here, leave the matter to us. Steps are being taken. But a new threat has arisen, more immediate than Sigma sniffing at our door. Something you’d best handle on the ground there.”

  “Sir?”

  “Someone knows there was a survivor of the Mali massacre. They are meeting with Senator Gorman tonight.”

  Krista’s fingers tightened on her phone. How could that be? She’d been so careful. Her mind raced through the last few days. She’d kept herself well hidden. Anger warmed through her terror.

  “That meeting must not happen,” the speaker warned and told her the details of the midnight rendezvous.

  “And the senator?”

  “Expendable. If word reaches him before you can shut this down, take him out. No evidence must be left behind.”

  She knew it wasn’t necessary to acknowledge that.

  “As to the operation in England,” the man continued, “all is in place there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know how important it is that we find the key to the Doomsday Book.”

  She did. She stared up at the Monolith’s writhing tower of bodies. The key could either save them or damn them.

  “Do you trust your contact over there?” he asked.

  “Of course not. Trust is never necessary. Only power and control.”

  For once, a hint of amusement tinged his words. “You were taught well.” The phone connection ended. But not before a last few cryptic words. “Echelon has its eyes on you.”

  Krista remained standing before the Monolith. With the phone still at her ear, she shuddered again—with relief, with terror, but mostly with one certainty.

  She must not fail.

 
14

  October 12, 4:16 P.M.

  Lake District, England

  Gray eyed his transportation doubtfully.

  His transportation stared back at him, equally unsure, stamping a hoof for emphasis.

  “The Fell Pony,” Dr. Wallace Boyle said as he worked among the assembled horseflesh. “You’ll not find a heartier pony on God’s green earth. Perfect for mountain trekking. Sure-footed and strong as an ox.”

  “You call these guys ponies?” Kowalski asked.

  Gray understood his partner’s consternation. The dusty-black stallion being saddled for Gray had to stand over fourteen hands, almost five feet tall at the withers. It chuffed into the cold air and scraped a hoof into the half-frozen mud.

  “Ack, be still already, Pip,” a ranch hand said as he gave the saddle cinch another tug.

  The group had left Hawkshead by car an hour ago. Wallace had guided them to this horse farm deep in the mountains. Apparently the only way to reach the excavation site from here was either on foot or by horseback. Wallace had called ahead and arranged for their four-legged transportation.

  “The Fell Pony has a long tradition in the region,” he continued as their mounts were tacked. “The wild Picts used them against the Romans. Viking farmers used them as plow horses. And the Normans who came later made pack animals out of them to haul lead and coal.”

  Wallace rubbed the neck of his brown gelding and climbed up into his saddle. His terrier, Rufus, trotted through the assembled horses and lifted his leg on a fence post. The dog’s initial distrust of Seichan seemed to have settled into a wary truce. He gave her a wide berth as she slipped a toe through a stirrup and leaped smoothly atop a sturdy-looking bay mare.

  “‘Fraid you’re going to have to excuse ol’ Rufus,” Wallace had explained back at the pub. “Set in his ways, he is. And I’m embarrassed to say he’s a bit of a bigot. Took a bite out of a Pakistani grad student last spring.”

  Rachel had looked aghast.

  Seichan had not reacted at all. She merely stared at the dog until its tail sank, and it retreated into its master’s shadow. Afterward she joined them at the table.