The Doomsday Key

  He was saved from responding by the creak of a door. Monk pushed out into the hall, followed by the hospital’s internist. Monk’s gaze swept between Gray and Seichan. The residual tension must have felt like a cold front.

  Monk waved to the internist as he departed, then pointed to the door. “She’s tired, but you can visit for a few minutes … but only a few minutes. And I don’t know if you’ve heard, but her uncle is out of his coma. Vigor woke up this morning. And won’t shut up, I hear. Anyway, I think the good news went a long way toward perking her up.”

  Gray stood.

  Seichan rose, too, but she turned toward her hospital room.

  Gray stopped her with a touch on her arm. She visibly flinched. “Why don’t you come inside, too?”

  She just continued to stare down the hall.

  Gray’s fingers tightened on her arm. “You owe her. You put her through hell. Just speak to her.”

  She sighed, responding to the necessity and taking the offer as a punishment. She allowed herself to be led to the door. Gray hadn’t meant the invitation as a chastisement, but at least it got her moving.

  Seichan had been standing outside long enough.

  Inside the room, Rachel was sitting up in bed. She smiled when she recognized Gray, but a flash of anger lit her eyes when she saw who followed him inside. Her smile faded.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m not poisoned.”

  Seichan knew the barb was directed at her. But she took it without comment. She walked past Gray and took the seat next to the bed.

  Rachel leaned away.

  Seichan sat quietly, her fingertips resting on the bed rail. She didn’t say a word. She just sat there, letting Rachel’s silent anger wash over her. Slowly Rachel sank back into the bed.

  Only then did Seichan whisper, not tearfully, not coldly, just plainly, “I’m sorry.”

  Gray hung back. He suspected that Seichan needed to speak those words as much as Rachel needed to hear them. They spoke haltingly, quietly after that. Gray drifted back toward the door. He knew it was a conversation he had no part in.

  He returned to the corridor and found Monk still seated on the bench. Gray joined him and noted that Monk clutched his cell phone between his two palms.

  “Did you speak to Kat?”

  Monk slowly nodded his head.

  “Is she still angry with you for putting yourself in harm’s way?”

  Monk just kept nodding, not stopping.

  They remained quiet for a few breaths.

  Gray finally asked because he knew his friend well. “How are you doing?”

  Monk sighed. A longer stretch of silence followed before he spoke. His words were calm but masked a well of pain. “He was a good kid. I should’ve been watching over him better.”

  “But you couldn’t—”

  Monk cut him off, not angry, just tired. “You know, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it yet.”

  Gray respected that. Instead, they just sat quietly in each other’s company. And that was enough for both of them.

  After a time, a familiar whistling arose down the hall. Kowalski appeared. Somehow his partner had come through everything without a scratch, but for security reasons he was still restricted to the hospital.

  As he sauntered toward them, Gray saw that he held something in one of his large mitts. Once Kowalski spotted them on the bench, he hurriedly shoved his arm behind his back. Gray remembered a certain fixation Kowalski had back in Hawkshead.

  As he drew abreast of them, Gray called over. “So is that a gift for Rachel?”

  Kowalski stopped, suddenly sheepish. Caught, he pulled the teddy bear into view. It was white, plushy, and dressed in a nurse’s uniform. He stared down at it, over to Rachel’s room, then finally glared at Gray and shoved the bear at him.

  “Of course it is,” he growled.

  Gray took the bear.

  Kowalski stomped off heavily, no longer whistling.

  “What was that all about?” Monk asked.

  Gray leaned back. “You know, I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about it yet.”

  33

  October 23, 10:14 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  They all met at Senator Gorman’s office on Capitol Hill.

  Painter was seated next to General Metcalf. On his other side, Dr. Lisa Cummings sat with her legs crossed.

  One toe of her shoe lightly brushed Painter’s pant leg. It was not done casually. He and Lisa had been apart for too long. And since she had returned from vacation, she had been busy, often red-eyeing out to the Midwest to oversee the medical crisis out there. The two of them captured whatever spare moments they could together.

  Metcalf continued reporting on the manufacture of the antifungal compound. Painter had already reviewed the report.

  Instead of listening, he watched his girlfriend’s reflection in the window behind the senator. Lisa had her hair up in a French twist and wore a conservative suit to match the mood of the meeting. He daydreamed about undoing that twist, unbuttoning that shirt.

  “We’re spraying all the production fields,” Metcalf continued, “covering a safety zone of fifteen miles around each site. The EPA has mobilized with the National Guard to monitor and continue testing samples of surrounding vegetation for another thirty miles out.”

  Gorman nodded. “On the international front, all the planted fields have been scraped and sprayed. We can only hope we’ve stamped this out in time.”

  Lisa spoke up. “If not, we’ll be ready. The initial human trials have been successful. Minimal adverse reactions. The early cases have responded well. It will be a boon to medicine across the board. While we have a slew of powerful antibiotics, our arsenal of antifungals, especially for systemic infections, has been limited and is burdened by high toxicity levels. With such a new compound readily available—”

  “And free,” Painter added.

  She nodded. “We’ll keep this disaster in check.”

  “Speaking of free,” Gorman said. “I dropped in on Ivar Karlsen after visiting the Viatus production plant for the drug.”

  Painter drew his attention back. Karlsen was in a Norwegian penal facility, still awaiting trial. He continued to oversee business from his cell. As partial restitution, the man had voluntarily turned over the full resources of his corporation’s biotechnology infrastructure to manufacture the compound. It was shocking how quickly they were able to start mass-producing it.

  Lisa had tried explaining to Painter that the antifungal compound was derived from a genus of lichen found only in sub-Saharan Africa, that its chemical structure attacked a unique sterol found only in fungal cell membranes, making it both effective and safe for treating both mammals and plants.

  Painter glazed out after further details. All he needed to know was that it worked.

  “You should have seen his prison cell,” Gorman said. “It’s practically a suite at the Ritz.”

  “But it’s a suite he won’t be checking out of any time soon,” Painter added. If at all, considering the man’s age.

  Metcalf stood. “If we’re all done here, I still have matters to address back at DARPA headquarters.”

  Gorman stood and shook his hand. “Whatever I can do to help, I’m in your debt.” The words were spoken to Metcalf, but Painter noted Gorman’s glance in his direction.

  After events in Norway, they’d been forced to reveal Sigma’s existence. The senator would have kept digging anyway and only made matters worse. The knowledge also gave them a powerful ally on Capitol Hill. Already Painter had noted a change in sentiment regarding Sigma among the various U.S. intelligence agencies. For once, the wolves at their door had been dragged back. Maybe not leashed completely, but it allowed Painter more freedom to fully secure Sigma.

  And he knew they would need it.

  The Guild would come gunning for them.

  After saying their good-byes, Painter and Lisa walked with General Metcalf through the hal
ls of power. Painter was still waiting for confirmation from the general on one extremely sensitive matter.

  “Sir …,” Painter began, meaning only to remind Metcalf.

  “She’s your problem,” the general said instead. “I can’t countermand the order to have her apprehended. Her crimes are too tangled internationally. She’ll have to stay low, and by low, I mean crawling through the sewers.” Metcalf stared over at him. “But if you think she’ll be an asset?”

  “I do.”

  “So be it. But it’s on your head.”

  Painter always appreciated such enthusiastic support. With a final few words, Metcalf headed off toward another meeting on the Hill. That left Painter alone with Lisa as they crossed into the morning sunshine.

  He checked his watch. The funeral service started in another hour. He had just enough time to shower and change. Despite the bright day, a somberness settled through him. John Creed had died saving his life. Since Painter had sent men and women into harm’s way all too often, he had honed a level of detachment. It was the only way to stay sane, to make the hard choices.

  He couldn’t do it here.

  Not with Creed.

  A hand slipped into his. Lisa tugged and leaned into his arm.

  “It’ll get better,” she promised him.

  He knew she was right, but somehow that only made it worse. To move past meant forgetting. Not all of it, but some of it.

  And he never wanted to forget John’s sacrifice.

  Not any of it.

  3:33 P.M.

  Monk wandered through the rolling hills of Arlington Cemetery with Kat at his side, hand in hand, bundled in long coats. It was a crisp fall day with the massive oaks fiery in their splendor. The funeral service had ended an hour ago. But Monk hadn’t been ready to leave.

  Kat had never said a word.

  She understood.

  Everyone had shown up. Even Rachel had flown in from Rome for the day. She headed back tomorrow morning. She didn’t like leaving her uncle alone for long. Vigor had just gotten out of the hospital two days ago, but he was recuperating well.

  During their slow walk, Monk and Kat had wandered in a full circle and ended up back where they had started. John Creed’s grave sat atop a small knoll under the limbs of a dogwood. The branches were already bare, skeletal against the blue sky, but come spring they’d be full of white blossoms.

  It was a good spot.

  Monk had wanted everyone gone for a moment of privacy at the gravesite, but he saw that someone still knelt there, both hands gripping the headstone. The posture was a sigil of raw grief.

  Monk stopped.

  It was a young man wearing army dress blues. Monk vaguely recognized him from the funeral. The man had sat as stiffly as everyone else. Apparently he’d also wanted an extra moment to say good-bye.

  Kat tightened her fingers on Monk’s hand. He turned to her. She shook her head and drew him away. Monk gave her a questioning look, sensing that she knew more than he did.

  “That’s John’s partner.”

  Monk glanced back and knew she wasn’t referring to a business partner. He hadn’t known. He suddenly remembered a conversation he’d had with Creed. Monk had teasingly asked him what had gotten him drummed out of the service after two tours in Iraq. Creed’s answer had been two words.

  Don’t ask.

  Monk had thought he was just telling him to mind his own business. Instead, he was answering Monk’s question.

  Don’t ask, don’t tell.

  Kat urged Monk away, allowing the man to grieve in private. “He’s still in the service,” she explained.

  Monk followed. He now understood why the man had sat so stiffly earlier. Even now, the depth of his grief had to be kept a private matter. Only alone could the man truly say good-bye.

  Kat leaned into him. He put his arm around her. They both knew what the other was thinking. They never wanted to say that particular good-bye.

  9:55 P.M.

  Gray stood under the spray of the shower. He had his eyes closed and heard the telltale clank from his apartment’s plumbing. He was about to run out of hot water.

  Still, he didn’t move, enjoying every last bit of steam and blistering heat. He stretched kinks and rubbed knots. He’d had an intense workout and now paid the price. After being bruised and battered, he should have used more restraint. He’d just had the stitches out of his hand two days ago.

  With a final rattle, the water quickly turned cool. Gray turned the faucet off, reached for a towel, and dried himself in the steamy warmth.

  The brief cold spray took him back to the storm on Bardsey Island. Earlier today he had talked to Father Rye on the phone, to make sure Rufus was settling in as a church dog. Gray had also called to make certain Owen Bryce got the wired money to cover any repairs to the ferry they’d stolen.

  Life was settling back to normal on Bardsey after a hard series of storms.

  On the phone, Gray also questioned Father Rye about dark queens and Black Madonnas. The good father was certainly a font of knowledge. Gray suspected this month’s phone bill would be sky-high. Still, he had learned something interesting, that some historians believed the Black Madonna might have its roots in the worship of the goddess Isis, the queen mother of Egypt.

  So there again was that Egyptian connection.

  But after the explosion beneath the cloister, all further evidence had been destroyed: the glass caskets, the bodies, even Malachy’s lost book of prophecies.

  All gone.

  And probably just as well. The future was best left unknown.

  But Malachy’s prophecies of the popes ended with a bit of a foggy mystery. According to Rachel’s uncle, Malachy had numbered all the popes on his list, with the exception of the very last one, Petrus Romanus, the one who would see the end of the world. This last apocalyptic pope had been assigned no number.

  “This suggests to some scholars,” Vigor had explained from his hospital bed, “that perhaps an unknown number of popes remain unnamed between the current pope and the last. And that the world might go on for a little bit longer.”

  Gray certainly hoped so.

  Finally buffed dry, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into the bedroom. He discovered he wasn’t alone.

  “I thought you were leaving,” Gray said.

  She lay tangled in the sheets, one long leg bared to the hip. She stretched like a lithe lioness waking, one arm over her head, exposing a hint of breast. As she lowered her arm, she lifted the bedsheet. Her body still lay hidden in folds and shadows—but the invitation was plain.

  “Again?” he asked.

  An eyebrow tipped higher, followed by a shadow of a smile.

  Gray sighed, undid his towel, and tossed it aside.

  A man’s work was never done.

  Epilogue

  October 23, 11:55 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Painter headed down the last flight of stairs to the nethermost region of Sigma Command. It was only a few minutes before midnight, an inauspicious moment to be visiting a morgue.

  But the package had arrived only an hour ago. The work had to be done swiftly. Afterward, all evidence would be destroyed, cremated on site. He reached the morgue.

  Sigma’s head pathologist, Dr. Malcolm Reynolds, was waiting and led him inside. “I have the body ready.”

  Painter followed the pathologist to the neighboring room. The smell struck him first: overcooked meat gone bad. A figure lay under a sheet on the table. Wheeled next to it was a coffin. The casket’s diplomatic seal had been sliced open by Dr. Reynolds.

  It had taken Painter a huge effort to get the body released in secret from France and delivered here with false papers.

  “It’s not pretty,” Malcolm warned. “The body sat in that makeshift oven for several hours before someone thought to move it.”

  Painter was not squeamish—at least not much. He pulled back the sheet and exposed Dr. Wallace Boyle’s corpse. The man’s face was bloated,
blackened on one side, a purplish red on the other. Painter imagined the charbroiled side had been facedown on the brick floor of the subterranean chamber. He remembered Gray’s description of the incendiary charge and how it had baked the stones.

  “Help me roll him on his stomach,” Painter said. Together, they got Wallace over on his belly. “I’ll need something to shave him.” Malcolm disappeared.

  As Painter waited, he stared down at the gaunt corpse. Wallace had claimed to be a member of Echelon, and according to Seichan, that name was rumored to denote the Guild’s true leaders. She had no other information, except for a darker rumor, a story she’d only heard once.

  Malcolm returned with an electric clipper and a disposable razor. Working quickly, Painter used the clipper to remove the hair from the back of Wallace’s head, then shaved it smooth.

  As he dragged the razor, he proved the rumor was true.

  A small tattoo, about the size of Painter’s thumbnail, had been inked at the back of the skull. It depicted the tools of a mason: drafting compasses straddling an L-square.

  The symbol represented Freemasonry, a worldwide fraternal organization. But the image in the center of the symbol was wrong. The square and the compass usually framed the letter G, standing for God or Geometry.

  But sometimes it stood for Guild.

  Painter knew Seichan’s terrorist organization had no real name, at least not spoken below the level of its leaders. Was this symbol and its connection to the Freemasons the source of the more commonly used name?

  Painter studied the tattoo. In the middle of the symbol were inked a sickle moon and a star. He had never seen anything like it. Whoever these people were, they weren’t Freemasons.

  With the symbol exposed, Painter grew more edgy. He had found what he needed.

  “Burn the body,” he ordered Malcolm. “Down to ash.”

  Painter didn’t want anyone to know what he’d learned. Much remained unknown about Seichan’s former masters. But he had two pieces to the larger puzzle.

  The name Echelon … and the strange symbol.