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  Still, Archibald had hated the piecemeal approach to these important efforts. Indeed, back in 1940, he had advocated for building a bomb-proof shelter beneath the National Mall as a more permanent solution. Unfortunately, Congress had shot down his idea due to the expense.

  Despite this setback, Archibald had never given up on his idea—which was why he found himself in the basement levels of the Smithsonian Castle, where temporary bomb shelters had been secured for museum personnel. Three weeks ago, Archibald had hired a pair of engineers to conduct a feasibility study, to explore if such a vault could be constructed in secret, branching off this very tunnel. Then two days ago, during their surveys, the pair had discovered a side door in the tunnel, halfway across the Mall. It was hidden behind some pipes and bricked over.

  Archibald had immediately informed James Reardon, the current undersecretary of the Smithsonian. As a longtime friend, James had supported Archibald’s efforts for the construction of a bombproof vault. The pair hoped that this discovery might stoke a renewed interest in the shelter, especially considering who had apparently hidden this room. His name was found inscribed on a plaque affixed to the steel door after its layer of bricks had been removed.

  Alexander Graham Bell.

  The notice came with a warning.

  What lies beyond this door is both a wonder and a danger like no other. It could alter the course of mankind forever, or in the wrong hands,

  it could equally doom us all. We the undersigned deem this artifact too treacherous to come to light, but we dare not destroy it—for at its heart lies the possible key to life beyond death.

  It was a remarkable claim, but the message was supported by the signatures of five regents of the Smithsonian board. James had verified the names. They were all deceased now, and no other record could be found concerning the circumstances that led Bell and these five to secure something beneath the National Mall, not to mention keeping such an effort from the other regents at the time.

  Respecting that level of secrecy, Archibald had limited the knowledge of the door’s discovery to only his friend James. The two engineers had been sworn to secrecy and now waited below, ready to break the lock and see for themselves what required such subterfuge almost four decades ago.

  “We should hurry,” James said, checking his pocket watch.

  Archibald understood. They were already running an hour behind schedule due to his tardiness in getting here. “Lead the way.”

  James ducked through the door and down the steps. He moved spryly, while it took Archibald more time to maneuver the steep, narrow stairway. Then again, James was fifteen years younger and spent more time on his feet doing fieldwork as a geologist. Archibald was a fifty-four-year-old poet who had been coerced by FDR into taking a desk job—or as Archibald had described this assignment at the time, the president decided I wanted to be Librarian of Congress.

  He entered the dank tunnel. The way ahead was lit by a string of caged electrical bulbs running along the low roof. Several were broken or missing, leaving long gaps of darkness.

  James clicked on a thick flashlight and set off down the tunnel.

  Archibald followed. Though the passageway was tall enough for him to walk upright, he kept his back hunched and his head low, well away from the run of dark pipes along the ceiling. Especially upon hearing the occasional sound of nails scratching and bodies scurrying up there.

  After a few minutes, James suddenly stopped.

  Archibald almost bumped into him. “What’s wr—?”

  A series of sharp cracks echoed from the passageway ahead.

  James glanced back, his eyebrows bunched together with concern. “Gunfire.” He doused his flashlight and freed a Smith & Wesson pistol from a holster under his work jacket. Archibald hadn’t known the man was armed, but considering the size of the vermin down here, the presence of the weapon made sense.

  “Go back.” James passed him his flashlight, then cupped both hands around the grip of his weapon. “Get help.”

  “From where? The Castle’s deserted at this hour. By the time I raise an alarm, it’ll be too late.” Archibald lofted the long-handled flashlight like a club. “We go together.”

  A muffled explosion decided the matter.

  James grimaced and headed forward, keeping close to one wall and staying in the shadows as much as possible. Archibald followed his example.

  Within a few steps, a cloud of dust rolled over them, blown forth by the blast. Archibald fought against coughing, but the air quickly cleared. The same couldn’t be said for the passageway. A smattering of dark forms sped across the floor and along the pipes.

  Rats . . . hundreds of them.

  Archibald had to stifle back a scream as he flattened along one wall. Something dropped from overhead, landed on his shoulder, and bounded away with a sharp squeak. Other bodies pattered over his shoes. A few scrabbled up his pant legs as if he were a tree in a flood-swept river.

  Ahead, James seemed unfazed and continued on, oblivious to the squirming bodies underfoot.

  Gritting his teeth, Archibald waited until the worst of the horde fled past him, then hurried to catch up.

  As the two reached a dark stretch of broken bulbs, a glow appeared ahead, marking a pair of lanterns resting on the floor. The pool of light revealed a body.

  One of the engineers.

  Other shadowy shapes stepped into view, appearing from the left.

  Three masked men.

  James dropped to a knee and immediately fired. The loud blast made Archibald jump, deafening him in turn.

  One of the intruders spun and struck the wall.

  James gained his feet and fired again, running forward. Archibald froze a breath, then gave chase, too. In the tumult that followed, lit by the camera-bulb flashes of gunfire, he watched one of the masked men try to haul his wounded companion to his feet, but James refused to relent, squeezing his trigger over and over again as he ran. Rounds sparked off the nearby pipes and concrete walls.

  The third intruder fled down the tunnel with a heavy satchel in one hand, blindly returning fire over his shoulder. The shots went wild as the man was plainly more intent on escaping. His companion finally followed, forced by James’s barrage to abandon the slumped form on the ground.

  As James and Archibald closed the distance, another explosion knocked them both back. Flames blasted out an open doorway to the left and washed into the tunnel.

  Archibald shielded his face with an arm.

  As the fire guttered out, James led the way again.

  Archibald quickly took in the damage as they reached the doorway. The engineer who lay crumpled at the threshold had been shot in the back of the head. The other was dead in the neighboring room, his clothes on fire from the blast. More flames raged at the rear of the small concrete chamber, turning it into a furnace, fueled by a burning bookshelf and the tomes that once rested there. Fiery pages still floated in the air, drifting through the smoke-choked air.

  Nearby, James checked the assailant slumped on the ground. He swatted at the man’s burning clothes, then set about searching his body.

  Archibald kept his full attention on the neighboring room. A waist-high marble plinth stood in the center. A small metal chest lay toppled and open at its foot, likely blown off its pedestal by the blast. The box appeared to be empty, except for a pile of sand that had spilled out as it struck the floor.

  He pictured the heavy satchel in the hands of the fleeing thief. With a sinking heart, he knew that whatever Bell and his cohorts had hidden here was gone. Still, he lifted his arm over his mouth and nose and ducked into that wall of heat, drawn by something he spotted poking out of the sand.

  He stepped around the dead engineer to reach the chest. Dropping to a crouch, he grabbed what was exposed and pulled it free. It appeared to be the remains of an old field notebook or journal. Its leather cover had been blackened by a fire far older than what raged here now. A quick flip revealed most of the pages were charred or missing—but not
all.

  He imagined the thieves must have failed to spot the remains of this old journal hidden in the sand at the bottom of the chest. Sensing some significance to this discovery, he retreated with his prize.

  “Look at this,” James said as he returned to the tunnel.

  James sat back on his heels. He had peeled away the thief’s woolen face mask.

  Archibald took in the sight, shocked by what was revealed. “My god . . . it’s a woman.”

  But that wasn’t the only surprise. The thief had black hair and wide cheekbones, and from the pinched squint to her dead eyes, there was little doubt to the figure’s heritage.

  “She’s Japanese,” Archibald mumbled.

  James nodded. “Likely a Jap spy. But this is what I wanted you to see.” He lifted her lifeless arm to reveal something tattooed on the thief ‘s inner wrist. “What do you make of this?”

  Archibald leaned closer, frowning as he studied the mark.

  “Any idea what this might mean?” James asked.

  Archibald glanced back to the burning room. Its door lay crookedly to one side, blown off its hinges. The inscribed metal plaque glowed in the firelight, as if emphasizing the warning about what was once hidden here.

  . . . a danger like no other.

  “No,” Archibald said, “but for the sake of our nation—and maybe the

  world—we need to find out.”

  About the Author

  JAMES ROLLINS is the #1 New York Times best-selling author of international thrillers, which have been translated into more than forty languages. His Sigma series has been lauded as one of the “top crowd pleasers” (New York Times) and one of the “hottest summer reads” (People Magazine). He lives in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

  www.jamesrollins.com

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  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpt from The Demon Crown copyright © 2017 by James Czajkowski

  ghost ship. Copyright © 2017 by James Czajkowski. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.

  Digital Edition October ISBN: 978–0-06-284771-3

  Cover design by Amy Halperin

  Cover photographs ©Linda Bucklin/Shutterstock (ship); ©EpochCatcher/Shutterstock (water); ©Jonas Staub/Shutterstock (reflection)

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