The Doomsday Key (12 page)

“I found it useful. It allowed me to hide in plain sight. I could park the tracker somewhere for a while, then move off on my own.”

“Like you did in Venice.”

She shrugged.

“The city where the curator you murdered lived. Where his family still lives.”

Gray let the accusation hang. Seichan shook her head very slightly and glanced away. He had a difficult time reading the play of emotions that flickered past.

“The girl had a cat,” she said more quietly. “An orange tabby with a studded collar.”

Gray knew the
girl
must be the curator’s daughter. So Seichan had indeed gone to check on the family, moved in close enough to observe the simple routine of their lives, a family shattered by the death of a husband and a father. She must have planted her tracker on the cat’s collar. It was a smart move. The cat’s wandering through the neighborhood streets and rooftops would make the tracker seem active. It was no wonder the agents on the ground could find no trace of her in the Venetian neighborhood. With the hounds following the false trail, the real cat had escaped.

Gray wanted more answers from this woman. One question was foremost in his mind, a conversation they’d never completed. “What about your claim that you’re a double—”

Seichan glanced sharply back at him. Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes turned rock hard, warning him to back off. He had been about to question her assertion that she was a mole planted in the Guild, a double agent put there by Western forces, but plainly this was a conversation she didn’t want in public. Or maybe he misread her expression. Maybe the bitterness in those eyes merely scoffed at his gullibility. He remembered her last words in Bangkok.

Trust me, Gray. If only a little.

Staring at her now, he let the question drop.

For now.

“Then why are you here in Rome? Why meet like this?” Gray gestured toward Rachel.

“Because I need a bargaining chip.”

“Something to leverage against me?” Gray glanced at Rachel.

“No. Something to offer the Guild. After events in Cambodia, suspicions have run high concerning my loyalty. AS well as I can tell, the Guild has been sniffing around the recent bombing at Saint Peter’s. Something has piqued their interest. Then I heard that Monsignor Verona was involved in this incident—”

“Incident?” Rachel burst out. “He’s in a coma.”

Seichan ignored her. “So I came here. I believed I could benefit from this situation. If I could acquire some key piece of information about this bombing, I could buy my way back into the full trust of the Guild echelon.”

Gray studied Seichan. Despite the callous nature of her words, the reasoning matched her claim two years ago. She had supposedly been sent into the Guild to root out its leaders. The only way to keep rising in the shadowy hierarchy—up the bloody food chain—was to produce results.

“I’d hoped to interrogate Rachel,” she explained. “But when I got here, I found someone ransacking her apartment.”

Gray turned to Rachel, who nodded confirmation, but there remained an angry glint in her eyes.

“The Guild determined that the assassins were after something the murdered priest had in his possession, something they wanted desperately. The assassins probably searched the man’s body, but the explosion left them time for little else. Like searching the monsignor.”

“So someone assumed Vigor must have had it,” Gray realized and turned to Rachel. “And that his niece might have ended up with it after acquiring his possessions from the hospital.”

Seichan nodded. “They went to look for it.”

A wince of dread tightened in his gut. If they’d found Rachel, they would have carried out a brutal interrogation, then killed her. And after failing to find anything at her apartment, they were probably hunting for her right now, setting up surveillance at likely locations: apartment, place of work, even the hospital.

There was only one way to protect Rachel.

“We have to find out what they’re looking for,” Gray concluded aloud.

Rachel and Seichan shared a glance.

“I have it,” Rachel said.

Gray could not hide his shock.

“But we have no idea of its significance,” Seichan said. “Show him.”

Rachel reached into a pocket of her jacket and pulled out a tiny leather satchel, no larger than a coin purse. She briefly described her discovery, how she found the object hanging from a bronze skeleton’s finger in Saint Peter’s Basilica.

“Uncle Vigor led me to it,” she finished and handed over the satchel. “But Seichan and I haven’t been able to determine anything else. Especially about what’s inside.”

Seichan and I…?

From the casualness of her statement, it almost sounded like the two were partners, not kidnapper and victim. Gray glanced toward the bathroom. While Rachel had talked, Seichan had stepped out of view, leaving her towel on the floor. He heard her shuffling in there, and he was equally sure she was listening to them. Any attempt to make for the door and she’d be on them.

“Are you truly all right?” Gray whispered to Rachel, catching her eye.

She nodded. “She only handcuffed me when she took a shower. Not exactly the trusting type.”

At the moment, Gray appreciated Seichan’s caution. Rachel was headstrong like him. Given the chance, she’d have bolted for her freedom. That might have ended badly. If the other hunters had caught her, they would not have been so gentle.

Kowalski stepped closer now that Seichan was out of sight. He pointed at the satchel. “What’s in that thing?”

Gray had already teased open the leather strings. Now he emptied the contents into his palm. He sensed the weight of Rachel’s gaze on him, waiting for his assessment.

“Is that—?” Kowalski had leaned over Gray’s shoulder. He pulled away. “Oh, man, that’s sick.”

Gray didn’t disagree, scowling his distaste. “It’s a human finger.”

“A mummified finger,” Rachel added.

Kowalski’s expression soured. “And knowing us, it’s probably cursed.”

“Where did it come from?” Gray asked.

“I don’t know, but Father Giovanni was working in the mountains of northern England. At an excavation there. There were no more details in the police report.”

Gray rolled the leathery digit back into the purse. As he did so, he noted the crude spiral burned into the leather. Curious, he turned the satchel over and spotted another mark on the other side.
A circle and a cross.
He immediately recognized it from Painter’s description of events back in D.C. There had been two other murders on two continents, both bodies bearing this same mark.

Gray faced Rachel. “This symbol. You said you knew the satchel had to be connected to the bombing. Why were you so certain?”

He got the answer he was expecting.

“The attackers branded Father Giovanni”—she touched her forehead—”with the same mark. It was a detail left out of the press. Interpol was investigating its significance.”

Gray stared down at the pouch in his palm.

Make that
three
murders on
three
continents.

But how were all these deaths connected?

Rachel must have read something in his face. “What is it, Gray?”

Before he could answer, the hotel phone on the nightstand rang. Everyone froze for a moment. Seichan stepped back into the room, dressed in black slacks and a burgundy blouse. She pulled on a battered black leather jacket.

“Is anyone going to get that?” Kowalski asked as the phone rang again.

Gray stepped to the table and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

It was Franco, the hotel owner. “Ah, Signor Pierce, I just wanted to let you know your three visitors are headed up to your room.”

Gray struggled for a moment to understand. It was a common custom
in Europe to announce visitors, in case their guests might be indisposed. And Franco knew Rachel and Gray were ex-lovers. He wouldn’t want them caught with their pants down, so to speak.

But Gray wasn’t expecting anyone. He knew what that meant. He mumbled out a hurried
“Grazie,”
then faced the others. “We’ve got company on the way up.”

“Company?” Kowalski asked.

Seichan immediately understood. “Were you followed?”

Gray thought back. He’d been so concerned about Rachel’s absence he’d failed to pay strict attention to the surrounding traffic. He also remembered his earlier concern about the hunters, how they might be setting up surveillance on anyone and everyone connected to Rachel. Gray had placed several calls.

His concern must have reached the wrong ears.

Seichan read the growing certainty in his face and swung for the door. She pulled out her pistol from the small of her back.

“Time for an early checkout, boys.”

7
October 11, 8:04 A.M.
Oslo, Norway

Ivar Karlsen watched the storm building across the fjord. He loved hard weather and welcomed autumn’s rough descent into winter. Icy rain and snow flurries were already sweeping the colder nights. Frost greeted most mornings. Even now, he felt the chill on his cheeks as he leaned his knuckles on the ancient stones and stared out the arched window.

He kept guard at the top of Munk Tower. It was the highest point of Akershus Fortress, one of Oslo’s most prominent landmarks. The imposing stone structure was first built on the eastern harborside by King Haakon V during the thirteenth century to defend the city. Over time it had been reinforced with additional moats, ramparts, and battlements. Munk Tower, where he stood now, had been constructed in the middle of the sixteenth century, when cannons had been added to the defense of the fortress and castle.

Ivar straightened and rested a hand on one of the ancient cannons. The cold iron reminded him of his duty, of his responsibility to defend not only this country, but the world. It was why he had picked the ancient fortress to host this year’s UNESCO World Food Summit. It was a fitting bastion against the troubling times that were upon them all. One billion people were facing food shortages worldwide, and he knew that was only the beginning. The summit was critical for the world and for his company, Viatus International.

He would not let anything thwart his goals—not what had happened
in Africa, not even what was going on in Washington, D.C. His objectives were vital to world security, not to mention his own family legacy.

Back in 1802, when Oslo was still called Christiania, the brothers Knut and Artur Karlsen combined a logging company with a gunpowder mill to found an empire. Their wealth became legendary, elevating them to true barons of industry. But even back then, the pair tempered their good fortune with good deeds. They founded schools, built hospitals, improved the national infrastructure, and, most important, sponsored innovation in the rapidly growing country. It was why they had named their company
Viatus,
from the Latin
via,
which meant “path,” and
vita,
which meant “life.” To the Karlsen brothers, Viatus was the
Path of Life.
It epitomized their belief that the ultimate goal of industry was to improve the world, that wealth should be tempered by responsibility.

And Ivar intended to carry on that legacy, one that stretched to the founding of Norway itself. Stories circulated that the Karlsen family tree had its beginnings as far back as the first Viking settlers, that its roots were even tangled with those of Yggdrasil, the world tree of Norse mythology. But Ivar knew such claims were just colorful tales told by his old
bestefar
and
bestemor,
stories passed from one generation to another.

Either way, Ivar remained proud of his family’s history and of Norway’s rich Viking lore. He welcomed the comparison. It had been the Vikings who truly forged the northern world, sweeping in their dragon-prowed longships across Europe and Russia, even to America.

So why shouldn’t Ivar Karlsen be proud?

From his vantage high atop Munk Tower, he watched the storm clouds stack across the skies. It would be pouring rain by midmorning, freezing sleet by the afternoon, possibly the first true snowfall by evening. Snow had come early this year, another sign of the shifting weather patterns as nature roiled against the damage done by man, lashing back against the choking toxins and rising carbon levels. Let others question mankind’s hand in this global meltdown. Ivar lived in a land of glaciers. He knew the truth. Snowpack and permafrost were melting at record paces. In 2006 Norwegian glaciers had retreated faster than ever recorded.

The world was changing, melting before his eyes. Someone had to take a stand to protect mankind.

Even if it had to be a bloody Viking,
he thought with a grim smile.

He shook his head at such foolishness. Especially at his age. It was strange how history weighed more heavily upon one’s heart as one grew older. Ivar was fast approaching his sixty-fifth birthday. And though his red hair had long since gone snowy, he wore it shaggy to his shoulders. He also kept fit with a vigorous exercise routine, laboring both in steam lodges and out in freezing temperatures, as in his long cold climb this morning to reach this high perch. Over the years, the routine had left his body hard, his face weathered to a ruddy leather.

He checked his watch. Though the UNESCO summit was not due to start until tomorrow officially, he had several organizational meetings still to attend.

As the storm rolled up the fjord, Ivar headed back down the tower. He caught glimpses of the preparations below in the courtyard. Despite the threat of rain, booths and tables were being set up. Luckily, most of the talks and lectures would occur in the grand upper rooms and banquet halls of Akershus Castle. Even the medieval fortress church would host a series of evening concerts, encompassing choral groups from around the world. In addition, the military museums associated with the fortress—the Norwegian Resistance Museum and the Armed Forces Museum—were being readied for the visiting groups, as were the lower sections of the castle itself, where guides would lead tours into the ancient dungeons and dark passages, sharing the stories of ghosts and witches that had always haunted the gloomy fortress.