The Doomsday Key

10:52:45 GMT OCT 9

LAT 41°52'56.97"N

LONG 12°29'5.19"E

"How long has she been in Venice?" Gray asked.

"Over a month."

Painter ran a tired hand through his hair and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. He looked exhausted. It had been a difficult year for the director. Pale from spending much of the day in offices and meetings, Painter's mixed Native American heritage was only evident in the granite planes of his face and the streak of white through his black hair, like a tucked snowy feather.

Gray studied the map. "Do we know where she's staying?"

Painter shook his head. "Somewhere in the Santa Croce area. It's one of the oldest neighborhoods of Venice, not very touristy. A maze of bridges, alleys, and canals. An easy place to keep hidden."

Monk sat back from the other two, adjusting the co

Gray glanced to the corner of the monitor. It displayed a photo of the assassin, a woman in her late twenties. Her features were a mix of Vietnamese and European descent, possibly French, with her bronzed skin, slender features, and full lips. When Gray had first met her three years ago, she'd almost killed him, shooting him point-blank in the chest. Even now he pictured her in that same turtlenecked black bodysuit, recalling how it had hugged her lithe form, hinting at both the hardness and softness that lay beneath.

Gray also pictured their last association. She'd been captured and held prisoner by the U.S. military, badly bloodied and recovering from abdominal surgery. At the time, Gray had helped her escape custody, paying back a debt owed after she had saved his own life-but her freedom had not come without a price.

During the surgery, Gray's boss had a passive polymer tracker secretly planted in her belly. It was a condition for her release, extra insurance that they'd be able to monitor her location and movements. She was too important to let go, too intimately tied to a shadowy terrorist network known as the Guild. No one knew anything about the true puppetmasters of that organization-only that it was well entrenched and had tendrils and roots globally.

Seichan claimed to be a double agent assigned to infiltrate the Guild and discover who truly ran its operations. Yet she offered no proof except her word. Gray had pretended to allow her to escape, while at the same time he kept silent about the implanted tracker. The device offered U.S. intelligence services a chance to discover more about the Guild.

But Gray suspected her decision to go to ground in Venice had nothing to do with the Guild. He felt Painter Crowe's gaze on him, as if waiting for him to come up with an answer. His boss's face was impassive, stoic, but a flicker in those ice-blue eyes suggested that this was a test.

"She's returning to the scene of the crime," Gray said and sat straighter.

"What?" Monk asked.

Gray nodded to the map overlay. "The Santa Croce area also houses some of the oldest sections of the University of Venice. Two years ago, she murdered a museum curator in that city, one co

Painter confirmed the same. "The child and mother do live in that area. We've got people on the ground trying to pinpoint her location. But the tracker is passive. We can't narrow her location to less than two square miles. In case she shows up, we do have the curator's family under surveillance. With so many eyes looking for her, she must be maintaining a low profile, possibly using a disguise."

Gray remembered the strain in Seichan's face when she had tried to justify the cold-blooded murder of the museum curator. Possibly guilt, rather than the Guild, had drawn her back to Venice. But to what end? And what if he was wrong? What if this was all an artful bit of trickery? Seichan was nothing if not brilliant, an excellent strategist.

He studied the screen.

Something felt wrong about all this.

"Why are you showing me this now?" Gray asked. Sigma had been tracking Seichan for over a year, so why the sudden urgency to call him back to central command?

"Word has filtered down from the NSA, passing through the new head of DARPA and down to us. With no real intelligence gained from Seichan's freedom this past year, the powers-that-be have lost patience with the operation and have ordered her immediate capture. She's to be brought in to a black ops interrogation center in Bosnia."

"But that's insane. She'll never talk. Our best chance of discovering anything concrete about the Guild is through this operation."

"I agree. Unfortunately, we're the only ones who hold that position. Now if Sean was still heading DARPA..."

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."