The Doomsday Key and The Last Oracle with Bonus Excerpts Page 15

  “That’s all fine,” Gray pressed, plainly wanting to hurry him along. “But you mentioned that a single entry led to your current excavation. What were you talking about?”

  “Ah, now there’s the rub! You see, the Domesday Book was written in a cryptic form of Latin, compiled by a single scribe. There remains some mystery as to why this level of security was necessary. Some historians have wondered if there might not have been a secondary purpose to this great compilation, some secret accounting. Especially as a few of the places listed in the book are ominously marked with a single word in Latin that meant ‘wasted.’ Most of those locations are concentrated in the northwest region of England, where the borders were constantly changing.”

  “By the northwest,” Rachel asked, “you mean like here, the Lake District?”

  “Exactly. The county of Cumbria was rife with border wars. And many of the spots listed as wasted were sites where the king’s army had destroyed a town or village. They were noted because you couldn’t tax what no longer existed.”

  “Really?” Kowalski asked, scowling at his two glasses of ale. “Then you never heard of the death tax?”

  Wallace glanced from Kowalski to Gray.

  “Just ignore him,” Gray recommended.

  Wallace cleared his throat. “Closer study of the Domesday Book revealed a bit of a mystery. Not all of the wasted sites were the result of conquest. A scattering of references had no explanation. These few were marked in red ink, as though someone had been tracking something significant. I sought some explanation and spent close to ten years on one of those entries, a reference to a small village up in the highland fells that no longer exists. I searched for records to this place, but it was as if they’d been expunged. I almost gave up until I found an odd mention in the diary of a royal coroner named Martin Borr. I found his book up at Saint Michael’s.”

  He waved toward the hilltop church at the edge of town. “The book was discovered in a bricked-off cellar during a renovation. Borr was buried up in the cemetery at Saint Michael’s, his possessions given over to the church. While his journals wouldn’t say exactly what had happened to that village, the man did hint at something horrible, suggesting that doomsday might indeed be a more accurate name for that book. He even marked his diary with a pagan symbol, which is what drew me to the tome to begin with.”

  “A pagan symbol?” Rachel’s hand strayed toward her coat pocket, where she kept the leather satchel with its macabre contents.

  Gray placed his palm over her fingers and squeezed gently, his intent plain. Until he knew more about this man, he didn’t want Rachel showing him what she’d found. Rachel swallowed, too aware of the heat of Gray’s palm on her skin. She slipped her hand away and placed it on top of the table.

  Wallace failed to notice their quiet communication. “The symbol was definitely pagan. Here, let me show you.” He dipped a finger in his glass of ale and drew on the wooden table, with a few deft strokes, a circle and a cross. A familiar symbol.

  “A quartered circle,” Gray said.

  Wallace’s brows rose, and he stared a bit harder at Gray. “Exactly. You’ll find this symbol carved into many ancient sites. But to find a Christian diary marked with it caught my attention.”

  Rachel sensed they were drawing near to the heart of the mystery. “And this diary helped you to find that lost village up in the mountains?”

  “Actually, no.” Wallace smiled. “What I found was even more exciting.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Wallace sat back, folded his arms, and swept his gaze over the lot of them. “Before I answer that, how about you telling me first what’s really going on? Like what you’re all doing here?”

  “I don’t understand,” Gray said, feigning confusion, attempting to maintain their cover story as journalists.

  “Don’t take me for a fool. If you’re reporters, I’m a steamin’ bampot.” Wallace’s gaze settled fully on Rachel. “Besides, right off, I recognized you, my young lassie. You’re Monsignor Verona’s niece.”

  Shocked, Rachel stared over at Gray. He looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. Kowalski merely rolled his eyes, picked up his glass, and downed the remaining contents in one gulp.

  Rachel saw no reason to continue the subterfuge. She faced the professor. She now understood why the man had been staring at her so oddly. “You know my uncle?”

  “Aye. Not well, but I do. And I’m sorry to hear he’s still in a coma. We met at a symposium years ago and began an ongoing correspondence. Your uncle was very proud of you—a carabiniere in charge of antiquities theft. He sent photos, and at my age, I don’t forget a pretty young face like yours.”

  Rachel shared a glance with Gray, looking apologetic. She hadn’t known of this personal connection.

  Wallace continued. “I don’t understand the reason for this bit of subterfuge, but before we go any further, I want some explanation.”

  Before anyone could speak, the professor’s terrier began a low growl at the back of its throat. The dog climbed to its legs beside the fire and stared toward the entryway of the hotel. As the door swung open, the growl deepened.

  A figure stepped into the hotel, knocking snow from her boots.

  It was only Seichan.

  13

  October 12, 1:36 P.M.

  Oslo, Norway

  The luncheon ended with a warning.

  “Mankind can no longer wait to respond to this crisis,” Ivar Karlsen said, standing at a podium at the far end of the dining hall. “A global collapse faces this generation or the next.”

  Painter shared the table at the back of the hall with Monk and John Creed. They had arrived in Oslo only an hour ago and barely made it to the opening luncheon of the World Food Summit.

  The dining room of Akershus Castle was straight out of a medieval storybook. Hand-hewn wooden beams held up the ceiling, while underfoot, an oak floor was laid out in a herringbone pattern. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled down upon long tables draped in linens.

  The meal had included five courses, an irony for a summit that had gathered to discuss world hunger. The lunch had been a study in Norwegian cuisine, including medallions of reindeer in a mushroom sauce and a pungent dish of lutefisk, a Norwegian whitefish specialty. Monk was still dragging his spoon around his dessert bowl, chasing the last cloudberry out of the whipped cream. Creed merely cradled a cup of coffee in his hands and listened to the keynote speaker attentively.

  With the speaker’s podium at the far end of the hall, Painter had a hard time getting much of a read on Ivar Karlsen, but even across the distance, the man’s passion and earnestness were plain.

  “World governments will be too slow to respond,” Ivar continued. “Only the private sector has the fluidity to act with the necessary speed and innovation to turn aside this crisis.”

  Painter had to admit that the scenario presented by Karlsen was frightening. All the models he presented ended the same way. When unchecked population growth hit the point of stagnating food supply, the resulting chaos would kill over 90 percent of the world population. There seemed only one solution, a final solution not unlike Hitler’s.

  “Population control must be started immediately. The time to act is now, or even better, yesterday. The only way to avoid this catastrophe is to slow the rate of population growth, to apply the brakes before we hit the wall. Yet do not be fooled. We will hit the wall. It is inevitable. The only question is do we kill all the passengers or do we walk away with only a few scratches. For the sake of humanity, for the sake of our future, we must act now.”

  With those final words, Karlsen lifted a hand to a smattering of applause. It was far from enthusiastic. For the opening to the summit, it certainly cast a pall of gloom.

  One of the men seated at the front table stood and took the microphone next. Painter recognized the dour-faced South African economist. Dr. Reynard Boutha, copresident of the Club of Rome. Though Boutha nodded to Karlsen as he assumed the podium, Pain
ter read the tension and irritation in the copresident’s expression. He was not happy with the tone of the keynote.

  Painter barely heard Boutha’s words. They were mostly conciliatory, more optimistic, an acknowledgment of the great strides already made in feeding the world’s hungry. Painter kept his focus on Karlsen. The man’s face was passive, but he gripped his water glass tightly, and deliberately kept his eyes away from Boutha, refusing to acknowledge the other’s message of hope.

  Monk came up with the same evaluation. “Guy looks like he’s ready to punch his fist through something.”

  The concluding farewell by Boutha ended the luncheon. Painter immediately shot to his feet. He turned to Monk and Creed. “Head back to the hotel. I’m going to have a few words with Karlsen, then meet you there.”

  John Creed stood. “I thought our appointment wasn’t until tomorrow morning.”

  “It’s not,” Painter said. “But it never hurts to say hello.”

  He pushed against the tide of people leaving the luncheon. A small clutch of admirers surrounded Karlsen, congratulating, questioning, shaking his hand. Painter edged nearer. Off to the side, he overheard Boutha speaking to a hawk-nosed man in a poorly fitting suit.

  “Antonio, I thought you warned Mr. Karlsen against such an inflammatory speech.”

  “I did,” the other answered, his face red and blotchy. “Does he ever listen? But at least he toned down the worst of it. His original keynote called for mandatory birth control in third world countries. Can you imagine how that would’ve been received?”

  Boutha sighed and headed away with the other man. “At least he’ll be away from the conference starting tomorrow.”

  “Small blessing there. He’ll be in Svalbard with some of our biggest donors and sponsors. I can only imagine what he’ll say when he has them alone. Perhaps if I went along, too…”

  “You know the scheduled flights are full, Antonio. Besides, I’ll be along on that trip to put out any fires.”

  They passed Painter without a glance, leaving the way open to Karlsen. Painter stepped forward and took the CEO’s arm in a double-handed shake, one hand on his palm, the other on his wrist.

  “Mr. Karlsen, I thought I should take a moment to introduce myself. I’m Captain Neal Wright from the U.S Office of the Inspector General.”

  The man extracted his hand, but his warm smile never faltered. “Ah, the investigator from the Department of Defense. Let me assure you that you’ll have my full cooperation concerning the tragedy in Mali.”

  “Of course. And I know our interview isn’t scheduled until tomorrow. But I just wanted to say I found your talk fascinating.” Painter played off what he had just heard. “Though I wonder if you were perhaps pulling your punches.”

  “How so?” The casual interest in his face sharpened.

  “It seems drastic methods will be necessary to curb population growth. I had hoped you would have gone into more specific details rather than mere generalities.”

  “You may be right, but it’s a controversial subject, one best handled delicately. Too often, people blur the line between population control and eugenics.”

  “As in who are allowed to breed children and who are not?”

  “Precisely. It’s not a subject for those bound by political expediency or popular opinion. That’s why governments of the world will never solve this problem. It’s a matter of will and timing.” Karlsen checked his watch. “And speaking of the latter, I’m unfortunately running late for another appointment. But I’d be happy to chat more about this when we meet tomorrow at my office.”

  “Very good. And thank you again for the illuminating talk.”

  The man nodded as he stepped away, his mind already shifting to the next task at hand.

  Painter watched him leave. As Karlsen neared the hall entrance, Painter palmed the cell phone in his pocket and pressed the button on its side. A narrow radio frequency burst from the phone and activated the polysynthetic receiver implanted inside his ear.

  A chatter of voices, along with the clink of dishes being cleared from the tables, immediately burst in his ear. The sounds were amplified from the bug he had just planted inside the jacket sleeve of Ivar Karlsen as they shook hands. The electronic surveillance device was no larger than a grain of rice. It had been DARPA engineered, based on one of Painter’s own designs. He might be director of Sigma now, but he’d started as a field operative. His specialty was microengineering and surveillance.

  Painter watched Karlsen come to a sudden stop outside the banquet hall. He clasped hands with a silver-haired man who matched him in height. Painter recognized Senator Gorman. Straining to listen in on their conversation, Painter weeded out the background noise and concentrated on Karlsen’s voice.

  “—you, Senator. Were you able to catch the keynote?”

  “Just the end of it. But I’m well aware of your views. How was it received?”

  Karlsen shrugged. “Fell on deaf ears, I’m afraid.”

  “That will change.”

  “Unfortunately true,” Karlsen said a little sadly. He then clapped Senator Gorman on the shoulder. “By the way, I should let you know I just met that investigator from D.C. He strikes me as a very capable fellow.”

  Painter allowed a slight smile to form. Nothing like making a good first impression…

  The senator’s gaze swept the ballroom. Painter kept his face turned away and slipped smoothly among a clutch of people. The senator’s security clearance was not high enough to know anything about Sigma. As far as the senator knew, Painter was merely a DoD investigator. Still, he preferred anonymity. General Metcalf had warned against ruffling the man’s feathers. The senator had a quick temper and little patience, which he amply demonstrated now.

  “It’s a stupid waste of resources to send someone all the way here,” Gorman complained. “The investigation should be concentrating its resources in Mali.”

  “I’m sure they’re just being thorough. It’s not an inconvenience.”

  “You’re too generous.”

  With those words, the two men left together.

  Painter kept the microreceiver live in his ear and strode toward the exit. He continued to eavesdrop on the conversation.

  It was good to have the upper hand, for once.

  In a room off the banquet hall, Krista Magnussen sat before an open laptop. She studied the image of the man frozen on the screen with mild interest. He was strikingly handsome with his whip-hard body, black hair, and flashing blue eyes. During the luncheon, she had observed everyone who made contact with Ivar Karlsen. A small wireless camera was situated in a corner of the room, focused on the front of the hall. There had been no audio, but the surveillance allowed her to run each image through face-recognition software and cross-reference it against a Guild database.

  As she waited, the man’s face digitized into a hundred reference points and uploaded. Moments later, the screen flashed in red with a single word, along with an operative code beneath it.

  The word made her go cold.

  Sigma.

  The operative code she knew equally well. Terminate upon sight.

  Krista returned the camera feed to live. She leaned close to the monitor. The man was gone.

  Antonio Gravel was having a bad day.

  Standing out in the hallway, he had meant to waylay Ivar Karlsen after the luncheon, to try one last time to convince the bastard to let him join the trip to Svalbard. He was even willing to offer some concession, to ingratiate himself if necessary. Instead, Ivar had run into the U.S. senator. Antonio waited in the wings to be introduced, but as usual, the bastard deliberately ignored him. The two men departed, deep in conversation.

  Antonio could barely breathe after the insult. Anger grew to a blinding white fury. He swung away savagely and smacked squarely into a woman hurrying out a side door. She was dressed in a long fur coat, her hair done up in a scarf. He struck her so hard that a large pair of Versace sunglasses slipped from her face. She deftly caught
them and perched them back on her nose.

  “Entschuldigen Sie bitte,” Antonio apologized. He’d been so startled and mortified that he slipped into his native Swiss German—especially as a confounding flicker of recognition fluttered through him.

  Who…?

  Ignoring him, she shoved past, glanced into the banquet room—then rushed down the hallway with a flare of her ankle-length coat. She was plainly late for some engagement.

  He watched her disappear down the closest stairwell. Irritated, he shook his head and started to leave the other way.

  Then he suddenly remembered.

  He jolted and swung back around.

  Impossible.

  He had to be mistaken. He had only met the geneticist once, at an organizational meeting regarding the Viatus research project in Africa. He didn’t recall her name, but he was certain it was the same woman. He had spent most of that dull meeting staring at her and undressing her with his eyes, imagining what it would be like to force himself on her.

  It had to be her.

  But she was supposed to be dead, a victim of the Mali massacre. There had been no survivors.

  Antonio continued to stare toward the stairwell. What was she doing here, alive and unharmed? And why was she keeping herself hidden, her features under wraps?

  Antonio’s eyes narrowed as a slow realization warmed through him. Something was up, something no one was supposed to know about, something tied to Viatus. For years, he’d been seeking some dirt on Ivar, a way to rein the bastard to his will.

  At long last, here might be his chance.

  But how to best turn it to his advantage?

  Antonio swung away, already plotting his game. He knew which card to play first. A man who’d lost a son during that massacre. Senator Gorman. What would the U.S. senator think if he learned there had been a survivor of the attack, someone Ivar was keeping secret?

  With a grim smile, he headed off.

  The day had suddenly gotten much brighter.

  3:15 P.M.