The Judas Strain sf-4 Read online

  His brows furrowed, more in irritation than understanding. He shifted the car into gear and shot down the driveway. He took the turn onto the street rather sharply.

  “Careful!” his father barked. “Those are new Kelsey wire wheels! If you goddamn scratch them up…”

  Gray sped down the street. He made several fast turns, minding the wheels. It felt good to be moving. The 390 V8 growled like a beast. An ember of grudging respect for his father’s handiwork burned through his exasperation.

  His mother glanced down the street as he turned in the opposite direction from the nearest hospital, but she remained silent and settled deeper in her seat. He would find some way of dealing with his folks at the safe house.

  As Gray sped through the midnight city, he still heard occasional firecrackers popping. The holiday was ending, but Gray feared the true fireworks had yet to begin.

  12:55 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  So much for holidays off…

  Director Painter Crowe stalked down the hall toward his office. Central Command’s skeletal night staff was rapidly swelling in numbers. A general alert had been dispatched. He’d already fielded two calls from Homeland Security. It wasn’t every day you had an international terrorist fall into your lap. And not just any terrorist, but a member of the shadowy network known as the Guild.

  Often competing with Sigma, the Guild hunted and stole emerging technologies: military, biological, chemical, nuclear. In the current world order, knowledge was the true power — more than oil, more than any weapon. Only in the Guild’s case, they sold their discoveries to the highest bidder, including Al Qaeda and Hezbollah in the Middle East, Aum Shinrikyo in Japan, and the Shining Path in Peru. The Guild operated through a series of isolated cells around the world, with moles in world governments, intelligence agencies, major think tanks, even international research facilities.

  And once, even at DARPA.

  Painter still felt the sting of that betrayal.

  But now they had a key Guild operative in custody.

  As Painter entered the anteroom to his offices, his secretary and aide, Brant Millford, shifted back from his desk. The man used a wheelchair, his spine severed by a piece of shrapnel following a car bombing at a security post in Bosnia.

  “Sir, I have a satellite call coming in from Dr. Cummings.”

  Painter stopped, surprised. Lisa was not scheduled to report in so soon. A thread of worry cut through the tangle of responsibilities this night.

  “I’ll take it in my office. Thank you, Brant.”

  Painter crossed through the door. Three plasma monitors hung on the walls around his desk. The screens were dark for now, but as the night wore on, they would soon be flowing with data, all pouring into Central Command. For now, that could all wait. He reached across his deck to the phone and tapped the blinking button.

  Lisa had been scheduled to report in just around dawn, when it was nightfall among the Indonesian islands. Painter had requested the full day’s debriefing at that time, just before she went to bed. Such scheduling also offered him the perfect chance to wish her a good night.

  “Lisa?”

  The connection proved spotty with occasional drops.

  “God, Painter, it’s great to hear — voice. I know you’re busy. Brant mentioned a crisis — little else.”

  “Don’t worry. Not so much a crisis, as an opportunity.” He rested his hip to the edge of the desk. “Why are you calling in early?”

  “Something’s come up here. I’ve transmitted a large batch of technical data to research. I wanted someone over there to start double-checking the results from the toxicologist here, Dr. Barnhardt.”

  “I’ll make sure it gets done. But what’s the urgency?” He sensed the tension in her voice.

  “The situation here may be more dire than originally projected.”

  “I know. I’ve heard about the aftermath of the toxic cloud that blew over the island.”

  “No — yes, that was horrible, certainly — but things may be growing even worse. We’ve isolated some strange genetic abnormalities showing up in secondary infections. Disturbing findings. I thought it best to coordinate with Sigma researchers and labs as soon as possible, to get the ball rolling while Dr. Barnhardt completes his preliminary tests.”

  “Is Monk helping the toxicologist?”

  “He’s still out in the field, collecting samples. We’ll need everything he can bring us.”

  “I’ll alert Jennings here in R and D. Get him to roust his team. I’ll have him call and coordinate at our end.”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  Despite the resolution, Painter could not escape his own worry. Since assigning this mission, he was doing his best to balance his responsibilities as director, to maintain that necessary professional distance, but he could not achieve it, not with Lisa. He cleared his throat. “How are you holding up?”

  A small amused snort escaped her, tired but familiar. “I’m doing okay. But after this, I may never take another cruise in my life.”

  “I tried to warn you. It never pays to volunteer. I wanted to contribute. To make a difference,” he said, mimicking her with a ghost of a smile. “See what it gets you. A passport to the Love Boat from Hell.”

  She offered him a halfhearted laugh, but her voice quickly lowered into a more serious tone, halting and unsure. “Painter, maybe it was a mistake…me coming here. I know I’m not an official member of Sigma. I may be in over my head.”

  “If I thought it was a mistake, I wouldn’t have assigned you. In fact, I would have grabbed any excuse to keep you from going. But as director, I had a duty to send the best people suited to oversee a medical crisis on behalf of Sigma. With your medical degree, your doctorate in physiology, your field research experience…I sent the right person.”

  A long stretch of silence followed. For a moment, Painter thought the call had dropped.

  “Thank you,” she finally whispered.

  “So don’t let me down. I have a reputation to maintain.”

  She snorted again, her amusement ringing more true. “You really have to work on concluding your pep talks.”

  “Then how’s this: Stay safe, watch your back, and get back here as soon as possible.”

  “Better.”

  “Then I’ll simply have to go for the gold.” He spoke firmly. “I miss you. I love you. I want you in my arms.”

  He truly did miss her, with a physical ache in his chest.

  “See,” she said. “With a little practice, you can actually be a pretty good motivational speaker.”

  “I know,” he said. “The same line worked with Monk earlier.”

  A true laugh followed. It helped shatter his worry from a moment ago. She would do fine. He had faith in her. And in addition, in Painter’s stead, Monk would keep her safe. That is, if Monk ever wanted to show his face again…

  Before Painter could respond further, his aide appeared at his door, knocking softly. Painter waved for him to speak.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Director. But I’ve another call holding. On your private line. From Rome. Monsignor Verona. He seemed quite urgent.”

  Painter’s brow furrowed. He spoke into the phone. “Lisa—”

  “I heard. You’re busy. Once I coordinate with Monk, we’ll conference with Jennings on the situation here. Get back to work.”

  “Stay safe.”

  “I will,” she said. “And I love you, too.”

  The line blinked off.

  Painter took a breath to collect himself, then twisted around to hit the button on his private line. Why was Monsignor Verona calling? Painter knew Commander Pierce had been romantically involved with the monsignor’s niece, but that had ended almost a year ago.

  “Monsignor Verona, this is Painter Crowe.”

  “Director Crowe, thank you for taking my call. I’ve been trying to reach Gray for the past two hours, but there’s been no answer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is the
re a message you’d like me to forward?”

  Painter didn’t bother to explain about the current situation. Though Monsignor Verona had helped Sigma in the past, the matter here was on a need-to-know basis, already coded in black.

  “There’s been an incident here at the Vatican…in the Secret Archives precisely. I’m not entirely sure of its import, but it strikes me as a message or warning. One left for both myself and perhaps Commander Pierce.”

  Painter stood up and circled around his desk to his chair. “What sort of message?”

  “Someone broke into a vault here last week and painted the symbol for the Royal Dragon Court on the floor.”

  Painter sank into his seat, disturbed by the coincidence. Two years ago, Gray and Monsignor Verona had teamed up to root out and destroy a brutal sect of the Dragon Court. They had succeeded — but not without help, requiring an alliance with an enemy, an operative from the Guild.

  Seichan.

  And now the assassin was here.

  Painter was not one to swallow coincidences easily. Not in the past, and certainly not now. If nothing else, his stint as director of Sigma had honed his edge of paranoia to a razor’s sharpness.

  “Did anyone get a look at this trespasser?” he asked.

  “Briefly. Whoever it was, they came alone. Slipped past all of Vatican security. We captured only a shadowy image on one security camera. This was no casual thief. Only one person I know could have crossed into the inner sanctum and out again with no more than a shadow captured. The same someone connected to our joint involvement with the Dragon Court in the past.”

  So it seemed the monsignor was no less suspicious than Painter.

  “And the dragon painting on the floor,” Vigor continued. “It was plainly a message, perhaps even a reminder of a debt owed.”

  “You believe it was the Guild operative, Seichan,” he said. “The one who helped you defeat the Dragon Court?”

  “Exactly. If we could find her, ask her—”

  Painter knew that any further secrets would only hamper discovering the true threat. It seemed the need-to-know status of the situation had just extended to Rome.

  “Seichan is here,” he said, cutting the monsignor off. “We have her in custody.”

  “What?”

  He quickly related the night’s return of the assassin, dropping out of nowhere, bloodied and on the run.

  Vigor was stunned for a moment — then spoke in a rush. “She must be interrogated. If for no other reason than to ask her why she painted the message on the floor.”

  “We’ll do that. Once she’s treated, we’ll conduct a thorough interview. Behind very stout bars.”

  “You don’t understand. There’s something larger going on. Possibly larger than the Guild itself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The dragon symbol was painted around an ancient inscription carved into the floor of the archive vault. Carved possibly back when the Vatican was first being built, back to the time of Galileo. The symbols are the characters from what some conjecture might be the most ancient of all written languages. Older than proto-Hebrew. A writing that may even predate mankind.”

  Painter heard the anxiety in the other’s voice. “What do you mean predate mankind? How could that be?”

  Vigor answered him.

  Painter kept the shock out of his reaction, along with his disbelief. He ended the call with a deep frown. The monsignor’s assertion was plainly impossible, but true or not, he immediately understood the monsignor’s distress. They needed to question Seichan as soon as possible — before anything else happened to her.

  Painter hurriedly confirmed ETA on the medical team, then had his aide patch him through to the guard stationed at the safe house.

  Who was on duty out there?

  He called for Brant to contact security and have them forward video feed from the safe house to his office plasma screens.

  As Painter waited, Vigor’s final words echoed through him.

  Those symbols…carved into the stone…

  Painter shook his head.

  Impossible.

  …they are the language of the angels.

  1:04 A.M.

  Gray sped down Greenwich Parkway into the exclusive Foxhall Village subdivision. He reached the end and made a left turn onto a tree-lined street. He slowed. He let the Thunderbird’s idling engine carry him forward. The safe house appeared ahead, a two-story red-brick Tudor with forest-green shutters, a match to the woods of Glover-Archibold Park upon which the home backed.

  With the top down, he could smell the damp forest.

  Nearing the house, he noted the front porch light was on, as was a lamp in the upper corner window.

  The all-clear sign.

  He turned and bumped into the driveway, earning a groan from their injured passenger.

  “Where are we?” his mother asked.

  Gray braked under an overhanging porte cochere on the left side of the house. A side door to the house lay steps away. He had attempted repeatedly to get his parents to vacate the car, but with every hospital and medical center they passed, they only became more stubborn. Or at least his mother did. His father remained at the same level of muleheadedness.

  “This is a safe house,” he said, seeing little reason to dissemble now. “Medical help should be on its way. Stay put for now.”

  Gray cut the engine and climbed out.

  On the far side of the car, the side door to the house opened. A large shadowy figure filled the doorway. A hand rested on a holstered weapon at his hip. “You Pierce?” the man asked, gruff and short, eyeing the additional passengers with suspicion.

  “Yes.”

  The figure stepped out into the light. He was an ape of a man, thick-limbed, stubble-cut brown hair. He was dressed in military fatigues. Not exactly keeping a low profile.

  “Name’s Kowalski. I have Crowe on the horn for you.” He raised his other hand and held out a cell phone.

  Gray headed around the back of the car. He had not been looking forward to this conversation with the director, to explain his blown cover. It was not exactly covert to have your parents tagging along.

  Even the guard stationed here seemed baffled by the elderly pair sharing the open convertible. He studied the new arrivals with his brows bunched into a knot over his forehead. He scratched his chin.

  “Three fifty-two?” he asked as Gray came around.

  Gray could not fathom what he meant.

  His father answered from the backseat. “No, it’s a three-ninety block. Rebuilt V8 from a Ford Galaxie.”

  “Sweet ride.”

  Plainly the guard hadn’t been studying his parents, only the car.

  Seichan stirred in the backseat, perhaps somehow noting the lack of wind and motion. She struggled weakly to sit up.

  “Can you help get her inside?” Gray asked the guard. He noted the lower half of a U.S. Navy anchor on the man’s right biceps as he accepted the phone. Ex-military. No surprise there. If there had been a picture under jarhead in the dictionary, it would’ve been this man’s mug shot.

  His mother opened the passenger door. “Where’s that medical help?” She seemed to find little hope in the large form of the guard, even clutching her purse a bit tighter to her side.

  Gray held up a palm, asking for patience.

  “Ma’am,” Kowalski said, and pointed to the kitchen. “There’s a medkit on the kitchen table. Morphine stabs and smelling salts. I’ve laid out a suture pack.”

  His mother eyed the man with a more studied appraisal. “Thank you, young man.”

  With a more withering glance in Gray’s direction, his mother headed inside.

  Stepping out of the way, Gray spoke into the phone. “Director Crowe, Commander Pierce here.”

  “Is that your mother who just got out of the car?”

  How the hell…?

  Gray searched up and spotted the video camera hidden under the porte cochere. It must be sending a live feed to Central Co
mmand. He could feel heat rise at his collar.

  “Sir—”

  “Never mind. Explain later. Gray, we’ve intel out of Rome, related to our new arrival. How is the prisoner holding up?”

  Gray eyed the back of the convertible. The guard and his father were discussing the best way to move Seichan’s limp form. He noted the fresh bloom of blood in the center of her belly wrap.

  “She’s going to need immediate attention.”

  “Help should be there any minute.”

  The trundle of a heavy vehicle sounded. Gray swung around. A large black van turned and headed down the street.

  “I think they’re here,” he said with a relieved sigh.

  The van reached the house, shifted to the curb, and braked at the foot of the driveway. Gray felt a twinge of unease, hating to be blocked in, but he recognized the van. It was Sigma’s medical response team. The camouflaged ambulance was based on the same design as the vehicle that accompanied the president, capable of handling emergency surgery if necessary.

  “Give me an update as soon as their evaluation is over,” Painter said. The director must have spotted the van also.

  The side doors of the van shoved open. Three men and a woman, all in surgical scrubs and matching loose black bomber jackets, exited the van with coordinated skill. Two men yanked a stretcher, legs unfolding beneath it. They followed the third man and the woman, who strode forward to meet Gray. The man held his hand out.

  “Dr. Amen Nasser,” he said.

  Gray shook his hand, appreciating the cool, dry grip. Calm and in control. The doctor could be no older than thirty, yet he carried himself with firm authority. His complexion was the hue of polished mahogany, unlike the woman, whose skin was more the color of warm honey.

  Gray studied her.

  Though of Asian heritage, the woman plainly sought to downplay it. She had shaved her head to a crew cut and bleached her remaining hair an ice blond. Entwining tattoos also circled her wrists in a Celtic pattern. While such severity had never appealed to Gray before, there remained something strangely seductive about her. Perhaps it was the emerald of her eyes, a feature that needed no other embellishment. Then again, it may have been the way she moved, leonine, muscular, balanced. Like much of Sigma, she must have had some military training.