The Doomsday Key
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Painter's words trailed off into a place of pain. Dr. Sean McKnight had been the founder of Sigma and the head of DARPA at the time. Last year he'd been killed during an assault on Sigma Command. The new head of DARPA, General Gregory Metcalf, was still fresh to his position, still dealing with the political fallout following the assault. He and Painter had been butting heads ever since. Gray suspected that only the president's support of Painter Crowe kept the director from being fired. But even that support had its limits.
"Metcalf refuses to ruffle any feathers among the various intelligence communities and has sided with the NSA on this matter."
"So they're going to bring her in."
Painter shrugged. "If they can. But they have no idea who they're dealing with."
"I'm between assignments. I could head out there. Offer my help."
"Help to do what? Help find her or help her get away?"
Gray remained silent, his feelings mixed. He finally spoke firmly. "I'll do whatever is asked of me," he said, staring pointedly at Painter.
The director shook his head. "If Seichan sees you or even suspects you're in Venice, then she'll know she's being tracked. We'll lose all advantage."
Gray frowned, knowing the director was right.
The phone rang, and Painter picked up the receiver. Gray was glad for the momentary distraction as he fought to settle his thoughts.
"What is it, Brant?" Painter said. As the director listened to his office assistant's reply, the crease between his eyes deepened. "Patch the call through."
After a moment, Painter held the phone receiver toward Gray. "It's Lieutenant Rachel Verona, calling from Rome."
Gray could not hide his surprise as he accepted the phone and placed it to his ear. He turned slightly away from the other two men.
"Rachel?"
He immediately heard the tears in her voice. There was no sobbing, but her normally crisp fluency was fractured into pieces, catching between words. "Gray...I need your help."
"Anything. What is it?"
He had not spoken to her in months. For over a year, he'd been romantically involved with the raven-haired lieutenant, even talking marriage, but in the end it had not worked out. She was too tied down to her job with the Italian carabinieri. Likewise, Gray had deep roots both professionally and personally here in the States. The distance proved too great.
"It's my uncle Vigor," she said. Her words rushed out as if hurrying ahead of a flood of tears. "Last night. There was an explosion at Saint Peter's. He's in a coma."
"My God, what happened?"
Rachel hurried on. "Another priest was killed, one of his former students. They suspect terrorists. But I don't...they won't let me...I didn't know who else to call."
"It's okay. I can be out there on the next flight." Gray glanced back to Painter. His boss nodded, needing no explanation.
Monsignor Vigor Verona had helped Sigma in two earlier operations. His knowledge of archaeology and ancient history had proved vital, along with his intimate connections within the Catholic Church. They owed the monsignor a huge debt.
"Thank you, Gray." She already sounded calmer. "I'll forward the investigative file. But there are some details kept out of the report. I'll fill you in once you're here."
As she spoke, Gray's attention settled on the computer monitor, specifically on the glowing red tracker in the center of Venice. The photo of Seichan stared back at him from the corner of the screen, her expression cold and angry. The assassin also had a past history with Rachel and her uncle.
And now she was back in Italy.
A sense of foreboding jangled through him.
Something was wrong with this whole situation. He sensed a storm brewing out there, but he didn't know which way the winds were blowing. He knew only one thing for certain.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," he promised Rachel.
Chapter 3
October 10, 7:28 P.M.
Rome, Italy
As Lieutenant Rachel Verona stepped out of the hospital and into the dusky twilight of central Rome, she took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air, her anxiety easing a little. The sting of disinfectant had barely masked the odor of bodies languishing in beds. Hospitals always smelled like dread.
For the first time in years, she wished for a cigarette, anything to smoke out the sense of apprehension that had built inside her with every passing hour as her uncle remained in a coma. He was hooked to IV lines; electrodes led to machines that monitored his vital signs; a respirator moved his chest up and down. He looked a decade older, his eyes blackened and bruised, his head shaved and wrapped. The doctors had explained: subdural hemorrhage along with a small skull fracture. They were closely monitoring his intracranial pressure. MRI showed no brain damage, but he remained unconscious, which worried the doctors. According to the medical and police report, Vigor had arrived at the hospital in a semidelirious state. Before he slipped into a coma, he kept repeating one word in a frantic manner.
Morte.
Death.
But what did that mean? Had Vigor known what had happened to the other priest? Or was it just delirium?
No one could ask him. He remained unresponsive.
Still, it bothered her. She had held his hand most of the day, squeezing it occasionally, praying for some sign of recovery. But his fingers remained lax, his skin cold, as if something vital had escaped his body, leaving only this shell behind.
What especially tortured Rachel was that she couldn't help her uncle. Vigor had practically raised her, and he was the only real family she had left. So she had sat with him all day, only leaving her vigil to make the call to the United States.
Gray would be here by morning.
It was the only bit of good news in the past twenty-four hours. Though she couldn't help Vigor medically, she could use her resources to discover the truth behind the attack.
At the moment, the investigation into the explosion at Saint Peter's had turned into a multiagency quagmire, involving everyone from Italian intelligence services to Interpol and Europol. Everyone seemed to have come to the consensus that it was a terrorist attack. This assessment rose mainly from the postmortem mutilation of the dead priest's body. A strange mark had been burned into his forehead.