The Doomsday Key

But who?

Painter shook his head and glanced at the clock. Such questions would have to wait. In a few minutes, he would be heading into another firestorm. He wasn't ready to butt heads again, but he had no choice in the matter. He'd already had a heated discussion two hours ago with Gray Pierce. Gray had wanted to bring Monk Kokkalis with him to Italy, but Painter wasn't convinced Monk was ready for a full operation. Medical and psych had not yet given Gray's partner a clean bill of health.

Besides, the details were still sketchy coming out of Rome. Painter was unsure which of Sigma's operatives were best suited for the mission, which scientific discipline would complement Gray's expertise in biophysics. Monk Kokkalis's specialty was forensics, and at the moment, such skills did not seem necessary. Recognizing this, Gray had finally acquiesced, but Painter hadn't sent him out alone. Until further details were gathered, all Gray needed was some muscle.

And that he got.

As Painter pondered taking another aspirin, the intercom chimed on his desk. Brant's voice followed. "Director, I have General Metcalf holding for you."

Painter had been expecting the teleconference call. He'd read the classified e-mail from the head of DARPA. With a heavy sigh, he tapped the co

The dark screen flickered into full color. The general was seated behind a desk. Gregory Metcalf was African American, a graduate of West Point, and though in his midfifties, he remained as sturdy and hard as when he'd been a linebacker for the Point's football team. The only signs of his age were his salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of reading glasses held in his left hand. After Metcalf was assigned to head DARPA, Painter quickly learned not to underestimate the man's intelligence.

But there remained a wariness between the two.

The general shifted forward, and without any preamble asked, "Have you read the report I sent about the conflict in Africa?"

So much for simple courtesy.

Painter motioned to one of the wall monitors. "I have. Along with pulling NATO's report about the assault on the Red Cross camp. I also did a background check on the corporation ru

"Very good. Then I won't have to get you up to speed on the details."

Painter prickled at the condescension. "But I still don't understand what this has to do with Sigma."

"That's because I haven't told you yet, Director."

The ache between Painter's eyeballs grew sharper.

The general tapped at a keyboard in front of him. The wall screen split away to display a still photo next to the general. The picture showed a young white male, stripped to his boxers and strung up on a wooden cross in the middle of a charred and smoky field. The image was less like a crucifixion and more like a ghoulish scarecrow. In the background, Painter noted the dry African sava

"The young man's name is Jason Gorman," Metcalf said coldly.

Painter's brows pulled tightly together. "Gorman. As in Senator Gorman?"

The senator's name had come up during Painter's research into the Viatus Corporation. Sebastian Gorman was head of the Senate Committee on Agriculture, Nutrition, and Forestry. He was a powerful advocate for the advancement of genetically modified foods as a means to feed the starving world and supply new biofuel resources.

The general cleared his throat, drawing back Painter's stu

Painter began to understand why this crisis had risen to the levels it had in Washington. The powerful senator, surely distraught and wanting answers about the death of his son, must be shaking all of Capitol Hill. But still Painter did not understand Sigma's role in the matter. From the NATO report, the attack had been perpetrated by Tuareg rebels, a brutal force who were constantly plaguing the West African republic.

Metcalf continued, "Senator Gorman received an e-mail message from his son on the morning of the attack. It described the assault in a few terse sentences. From the descriptions of helicopters and napalm bombing, the attack was both militarized and large scale in force and scope."

Painter sat straighter.

"Attached to the same e-mail was a set of research files. The senator did not understand why they'd been forwarded, nor could he decipher their scientific content. Not knowing what else to do, he sent them to his son's thesis professor at Princeton University, Dr. Henry Malloy."

"I'd like to see those files myself," Painter said, begi

"No. Your role in this matter will be limited." Metcalf's voice deepened with an implied threat. "This mess is already escalating into a political shitstorm. Senator Gorman is on a witch-hunt, looking for any and all parties to blame."

"General-" Painter began.

"And Sigma's already on fragile ground. One misstep, and no one will be able to pick up the pieces."

Painter held back a stronger refrain, letting the implied lack of confidence in his group roll off his back. He had to pick and choose which fights to have with this man. This wasn't one of them.

"So what role do you see for Sigma?"

"To gather intelligence on those files, to determine if it warrants further investigation. And the first place to start is with Dr. Malloy. I want him interviewed, and the files reviewed."

"I can have a team over there by this afternoon."

"Very good. But there is one other thing. Something that I'd like you to undertake personally."

"What's that?"

"One piece of information has been kept quiet for now. I want your take on the matter." The general tapped at his keyboard, and the photo zoomed in to Jason Gorman's face. "Whoever strung the boy up mutilated his body."

Painter stood and moved closer to the wall monitor. A symbol had been burned into the young man's brow, as if someone had taken a branding iron to him. A circle and a cross.

"I want to know why they did this," Metcalf said. "And what it means."

Painter slowly nodded.

So did he.

9:35 P.M.

Rome, Italy

Rachel slid her Mini Cooper into the assigned parking place at her apartment complex. Seated behind the wheel, she took an extra moment to think about what she'd done. On the passenger seat was a small clear plastic bag holding the old leather pouch and its macabre contents.

She had left Saint Peter's without telling anyone about what she'd discovered.

It's late, she had justified in her head. I can turn it over to the investigators in the morning. Give a full report then.

But Rachel recognized the deeper truth behind her theft. It had been her uncle's words that had guided her to the hidden pouch. She had felt a certain possessiveness about that discovery. If she turned the pouch over to the authorities, not only would she be reprimanded for trespassing on a case that was beyond her jurisdiction, but she could be cut totally out of the loop. She might never find out the significance of the pouch. And lastly, she could not ignore a touch of pride about the matter. No one else had found the pouch. She trusted her own gut more than the muddle and chaos that was this international and interdepartmental investigation.