The Doomsday Key

Gray waved an arm to keep them moving. He remained on hold with the office of the Comando Carabinieri Tutela del Patrimonio Culturale, where Rachel worked. Before leaving Washington, the plan had been to rendezvous with her outside the international terminal, but she was not anywhere among the throngs of travelers. He had tried calling her apartment and her cell phone, but there was no answer. Thinking she was stuck in traffic, Gray had waited in the terminal for an extra half hour.

During that delay, he had used the time to check in with Sigma. It was a little past midnight back home. The director had filled him in on the details of the operation that had blown up in New Jersey. Monk had been involved in a firefight. It all involved a possible ecoterrorist group, but details were still sketchy.

Hearing that, Gray had an urge to hop on the plane and head back home, but Painter insisted that they had matters locked down for the moment. A key person-of-interest had been secured and was being questioned. Gray was ordered to maintain his current status.

Finally a woman's stern voice spoke in Gray's ear, speaking rapidly in Italian. After dating Rachel for over a year, Gray had acquired some fluency with the language.

"Lieutenant Verona is not in the TCP today. According to the roster, she's on leave. Perhaps another officer might assist you-"

"No, thank you. Grazie."

Gray hung up and pocketed his phone. He knew Rachel had been pla

Kowalski hailed a taxi, and they climbed inside.

His partner glanced at him. "How about that hospital?" he said. "The one where her uncle is being treated?"

"Right." Gray nodded. He should've thought of that. Maybe her uncle had taken a turn for the worse. Such an emergency would've pulled Rachel away. Distraught, she could easily have forgotten about the time.

Gray dialed information and got co

"Monsignor Verona remains in intensive care," the woman informed him. "Any further inquiries must be made through his family or through the polizia."

"I just wanted to know if his niece might be there visiting. Lieutenant Rachel Verona."

The woman's voice warmed up. "Ah, his nipote Rachel. Bellissima ragazza. She spent many hours here. But she left last night and has not come in this morning."

"If she does show up, can you let her know I called?" Gray left his number.

Pocketing his cell phone, he sagged in his seat. He stared at the passing scenery as the taxi sped along the interstate toward downtown Rome. Rachel had arranged a room at a small Italian bed-and-breakfast. Gray had stayed there before. Back when they were dating.

He struggled to think of any other reason why Rachel would not have shown up. Where could she be? Worry edged toward panic. He willed the taxi to go faster.

He would check for any messages at the hotel, then head directly over to her apartment. It was only a handful of blocks from the hotel.

Still, it would take time to get there.

Too much time.

With each passing mile, his heart pounded harder, his left hand tightened on his knee. As they finally passed through one of the ancient city gates and headed into central Rome, the taxi's passage became a crawl. The streets grew narrower and narrower. Pedestrians scooted sideways; a bicycle zigzagged between the cars.

At last the taxi pulled into a side street and came to a stop in front of the small hostelry. Gray hopped out, grabbed his bag, and left Kowalski to pay the driver.

The hotel appeared nondescript from the street. A small brass plaque on a wall, no larger than Gray's palm, read Casa di Cartina. The hotel had been converted out of three adjoining buildings, all dating from the eighteenth century. A half flight of stairs led down to a small lobby.

Gray headed below. The reason for the hotel's name became apparent as soon as the brush of the hanging bell a

A wizened old man in a buttoned vest met Gray behind a small wooden front desk. His face cracked into a warm smile. "It has been a long time, Signor Pierce," the proprietor said warmly in English, recognizing Gray.

"It has, Franco."

Gray exchanged a few pleasantries, long enough for Kowalski to come striding into the space. The larger man's eyes swept the walls. With a background in the navy, he nodded his approval at the choice of decor.

"Franco, I was wondering if you had heard any word from Rachel." Gray forced his voice not to sound strained. "I was hoping she'd left a message."

The man's face crinkled in confusion. "A message?"

Gray felt a sinking in his chest. Clearly there had been no message. Maybe she was back at her-

"Signor Pierce, why would la signorina Verona leave a message? She is already up in your room, waiting for you."

Gray's relief felt like a rush of cold water. "Upstairs?"

Franco reached into a cubby behind his desk, removed a key, and passed it to Gray. "Fourth floor. I gave you a nice balcony room. The view of the Coliseum is very nice from that room."

Gray nodded and took the key. "Grazie."

"Can I have someone bring up your bags?"

Kowalski scooped Gray's duffel from the floor. "I got it." He bumped Gray in the rear with his bag to get him moving.

Gray thanked Franco again and headed to the stairs. It was a narrow, winding way, more ladder than stairwell. They had to go single file. Kowalski eyed it doubtfully.

"Where's the elevator?"

"No elevator." Gray set off up the stairs.

Kowalski followed. "You've got to be goddamn kidding me." He wrestled to get himself and the bags up. After two flights, his face had turned a deep red and a string of curses flowed in a continual stream.

Reaching the fourth floor, Gray followed the wall signs to find their room. The layout was a convoluted maze of sharp corners and sudden dead ends.

He finally reached the correct door. Though it was his room, he still knocked before using the key. He pushed open the door, anxious to see Rachel, surprised at the depth of his desire. It had been a long time...maybe too long.

"Rachel? It's Gray."

She was seated on the bed, framed against the window, bathed in the morning sunlight. She stood up as he quickly entered the room.

"Why didn't you call?" Gray asked.

Before she could speak, another woman answered, "Because I asked her not to."

Only now did Gray notice the handcuff that bound Rachel's right arm to the headboard. Gray turned.

A slim figure, wrapped in a robe, stepped from the bathroom. Her black hair was wet, freshly combed straight past her shoulders. Almond eyes the color of cold jade stared back at him. Her legs, bare to mid-thigh, crossed casually as she leaned on the bathroom door frame.

In her free hand, she leveled a pistol at him.

"Seichan..."

1:15 A.M.

Washington, D.C.

"We're not going to get anything more out of her," Monk told Painter as he sank into the seat across the desk. "She's exhausted and still in a state of shock."

Painter studied Monk. The man looked just as exhausted. "Did Creed finish his assessment of the genetic data?"