Текст книги "The Doomsday Key"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Wallace perked up at her question. "That's exactly what we wondered. It's now well accepted that stone rings were solar calendars, but they also served as burial sites. And this site here must have been especially holy. A stone ring within a sacred bog. We had to know if this was a natural burial or a murder."

This last was said with a twinge of guilt.

"We were under instructions to leave the bodies intact, to send them to the university whole, but we had to know. There was no rope around the necks of the bodies, but there was another way to discover if this was a ritual sacrifice."

Rachel understood. "Mistletoe in the stomach."

Wallace nodded. "We performed a small examination. Well documented, I might add." He moved to his pack, undid the ties, and removed a file. He shrugged as he returned to the table. "I wasn't supposed to keep a hard copy."

He sifted through the file and pulled out a set of photos. One showed the woman and child curled in black soil. The woman cradled the child in her arms. They were tucked together as if asleep. The bodies were gaunt and emaciated, but the woman's black hair still draped her face. The next photo showed the woman naked on the table. A hand was in view, holding a dissecting scalpel.

"Before we sent the body on to the university, we wanted to see if there was any mistletoe pollen in her stomach. It was a minor violation."

"Did you find any?" Rachel asked, suddenly not feeling so well.

"No. But we found something else rather disturbing. If you have a weak stomach, you might want to turn away."

Rachel forced herself to keep looking.

The next photo showed a Y-shaped incision across the abdomen. The belly was peeled open, revealing the mass of internal organs. But something was clearly wrong. Wallace flipped to another photo, showing a close-up of a yellow liver. Growths protruded from its surface, covering it like a grisly field.

Wallace explained. "We found them growing throughout her abdominal cavity."

Rachel covered her mouth. "Is that what I think it is?"

Wallace nodded. "They're mushrooms."

Shocked and disgusted, Gray sat back. He struggled to understand what was going on, what had been discovered here. He needed someplace to ground his inquiry, so he returned to where he first started.

"Back to Father Giovanni," Gray said. "You said the bodies drew him here."

"Aye." Wallace returned to his seat and straddled his chair. "Marco heard about our discovery. In a place where Christianity and the pagan ways were still in conflict."

"Still, that conflict didn't truly draw him," Gray said and stared down at the first photo of the woman with the child. There was no mistaking that tableau. Like a Madonna and child. And not just any Madonna. The tannins from the peat had dyed the woman's skin a deep brownish-black.

"I sent him a photo of the mummies. He came the next day. He was interested in any manifestation or reference to his Black Madonna. To find such a set of bodies in a sacred pagan burial site, in a land where Christianity and ancient ways still mixed, he had to discover for himself if there was any connection to the mythology of his dark goddess."

"And was there?" Rachel asked.

"That's what Marco spent the past years investigating. It had him shuffling all over the British Isles. In the last month, though, I could tell that something had him especially agitated. He would never say what it was."

"And what's your take on the mummies?" Gray asked.

"Like I said, we didn't find any mistletoe. I think the bodies were dead when they were buried in the bog. But who buried them and why? And why did Martin Borr mark his book with this pagan symbol? That's what I wanted to know."

"And?" Gray pressed the man. He was annoyingly oblique with his answers, teasing them out for greater effect.

"I have my own hypothesis," Wallace admitted. "It goes back to where I started my investigation. The Domesday Book. Something laid waste to the nearby village or town. Something horrible enough to raze the place to the ground, to wipe all records off the maps. All records, that is, except for the cryptic reference in the great book and the mention in Martin Borr's diary. So what happened to warrant such a reaction? I would wager it was some sort of plague or disease. Not wanting it to spread, to keep it secret, the place was destroyed."

"But what about the bodies here?" Rachel nodded down to the photos.

"Just close your eyes and put yourself back in that town. A place isolated and under siege by some great illness. A town mixed between devout Christians and those who practiced the ancient ways in secret, who certainly must have known about this stone ring near their town, who perhaps still worshiped here. Once doom fell upon this valley, each side most likely beseeched their gods for salvation. And some probably hedged their bets, mixing the two faiths. They took a mother and a baby boy, representative of the Madonna and her child, and buried them in this ancient pagan site. I believe these two are the only bodies that escaped the fiery purge, the only two left from that old plague."

Wallace touched the dissection photo with a finger. "Whatever struck that village was strange indeed. I don't know of anything like this that has ever been reported in the annals of medicine or forensics. The bodies are still under investigation, and that's being kept a guarded secret. They won't even tell me what they found."

"But shouldn't you be kept informed?" Gray asked. "Aren't you a tenured professor at the University of Edinburgh?"

Wallace's brow crinkled in confusion, then relaxed. "Oh, no, you misunderstood me. When I said the university took the bodies, I didn't mean Edinburgh. My grant came from abroad. It's not an uncommon practice. For field studies, you take funds wherever you can find them."

"So who took the bodies?"

"They were sent to the University of Oslo for initial examination."

Gray felt kicked in the gut. It took him an extra moment to respond. Oslo. Here was the first solid connection between events here and what Painter Crowe was investigating in Norway.

While Gray grappled with the implications, Wallace continued. "I guess ultimately it all goes back to extremophiles."

The oddity of the non sequitur snapped Gray's focus back. "What are you talking about?"

"My funding," Wallace said in a tone that made it sound as if it should be obvious. "Like I said. In this business, you get money where you can."

"And how do extremophiles fit in with all that?"

Gray was well aware of the term. Extremophiles were organisms that lived under extreme conditions, ones that were considered too harsh to support life. They were mostly bacteria, found living in toxic environments like boiling deep-sea rifts or volcanic craters. Such unique organisms offered potential new compounds to the world.

And the world's industries had certainly taken note, generating a new business called bioprospecting. But instead of prospecting for gold, they were after something just as valuable: new patents. And it turned out to be a booming business. Already extremophiles were being used to patent new industrial-strength detergents, cleansers, medicines, even an enzyme used widely by crime labs for DNA fingerprinting.

But what did all that have to do with bog mummies in England?

Wallace tried to explain. "It goes back to my initial hypothesis, one I pitched to my potential sponsors. A hypothesis about the Doomsday Book."

Gray noted that he called it Doomsday, rather than Domesday, this time. He imagined that the professor, with his usual flair for the dramatic, had sought funding using the book's more colorful name.

"As I mentioned, those few places in the book marked in Latin as 'wasted,' seemed to have been wiped off the map-literally and figuratively. What would make those old census takers do that unless something dangerous had struck these towns?"

"Like a disease or plague," Gray said.

Wallace nodded. "And potentially it was something never seen before. These were isolated places. Who knew what might have risen out of the bogs? Peat bogs are soups of strange organisms. Bacteria, fungi, slime molds."

"So they hired you as both an archaeologist and a bioprospector."

Wallace shrugged. "I'm not the only one. Major industries are turning to field archaeologists. We're delving into ancient places, sites long closed up. Just this past year, a major U.S. chemical company discovered an extremophile in a newly opened Egyptian tomb. It's all the rage, you see."

"And for this dig, the University of Oslo funded you."

"No. Oslo is just as strapped as any university. Nowadays most grants are generated from corporate sponsors."

"And which corporation hired you?"

"A biotech company, one working with genetically modified organisms. Crops and whatnot."

Gray gripped the table's edge. Of course. Biotechnology companies were major players in the hunt for extremophiles. Bioprospecting was their life's blood. They cast feelers out in all directions, across all fields of study. Including, it seemed, archaeology.

Gray had no doubt who sponsored Wallace's research.

He spoke that name aloud. "Viatus."

Wallace's eyes grew larger. "How did you know?"

11:44 P.M.

Seichan stood outside her cabin. She held a cigarette in her hand, unlit and forgotten. The stars were as crisp as cut glass in the night sky. Streams of icy fog crept through the trees. She inhaled a deep breath, smelling the peat smoke, both from their camp stoves and from the smoldering fires underground.

The ring of stones, rimed in ice, looked like chunks of silver.

She pictured the two bodies buried in the center. For some reason, she thought back to the curator she had slain in Venice-or rather, to his wife and child. She pictured the two of them buried here instead. Knowing it was born out of guilt, she shook her head against such foolish sentimentality. She had a mission to complete.

But tonight her guilt had sharpened to an uncomfortable edge.

She stared down at her other hand. She held a steel thermos. It had kept her tea warm. The warmth also kept her biotoxin incubated. The group had talked at length about extremophiles after the revelation about the source of Dr. Boyle's funding. The source of the toxin supplied to her was a bacteria discovered in a volcanic vent in Chile. Frost sensitive, it had to be kept warm.

No one noticed that only Rachel drank the tea.

Seichan only pretended to sip at it.

Pocketing her cigarette, she crossed to a windblown bank of snow and set about filling the thermos with handfuls of snow. The cold would sterilize the thermos, killing any remaining bacteria. Once it was packed full, she screwed the top back on. Her fingers trembled. She wanted to blame it on the cold. She threaded the top on wrong, and it jammed. She fought it for a breath as anger flared hotly through her. Frustrated, she yanked her arm back and hurled the thermos into the forest.

For half a minute, she breathed heavily, steaming the air.

She didn't cry-and for some reason that helped center her.

A door cracked open in the other cabin. She shared her cabin with Rachel; the men shared the other. She stepped into the open to see who else was still up.

The large frame and lumbering gait identified the man readily enough. Kowalski spotted her and lifted an arm. He pointed a thumb toward the paddock.

"Going to see a man about a horse," he said and disappeared around the corner.

It took her a moment to realize he wasn't actually meeting someone by the ponies. She was that out of sorts. She heard him whistling back there as he relieved himself.

She checked her watch. It was a few minutes before midnight. The timetable was set. There was no going back. They'd had sufficient time to examine the site. The Guild would only allow so much latitude for Gray's team to track Father Giovanni's path, to discover the key before anyone else. She had argued for more time but had been slapped down. So be it. They would have to keep moving.

She glanced toward the other cabin. Kowalski had better not be too long. He wasn't. After a minute, he came lumbering back, still whistling under his breath.

"Can't sleep?" he asked as he joined her.

She fingered her cigarette out and lifted it as explanation enough.

"Those things'll kill you." He reached into a pocket, pulled out a stub of a cigar, and matched her gesture. "So you might as well get it over with quickly."

He clenched the chewed end between his molars, pulled out an old-fashioned box of wooden matchsticks, and deftly scratched two sticks across the fabric of the tent. Twin flames lit up. He passed one to her. He'd plainly done this before.

He spoke around the end of his cigar. "Gray just hit the sack. Spent like two hours trying to get more out of that old professor. I had to get the hell out of there, get some fresh air. That dog kept stinking up the place. And no wonder. Did you see what he feeds that damn mutt? Sausages and onions. What sort of dog chow is that?"

Seichan lit her cigarette. She let the guy ramble, grateful for the mindless chatter. Unfortunately, his chatter was apparently leading up to something-and not all that smoothly.

"So," he said, "what's up with you and Gray?"

Seichan choked as she inhaled.

"I mean, he's always eyeballing you. And you just stare right through him as if he were a ghost. Like two schoolkids with the hots for each other."

Seichan balked at the innuendo, ready to deny, uncomfortable with how close the man was to the truth. Luckily she was saved from responding.

As midnight struck, the valley exploded.

Throughout the forest, geysers of flame shot skyward, one after the other. They were accompanied by soft concussions, easy to miss unless you were listening for them. The incendiary charges, coupled with a rubidium thermal catalyst that turned water into an accelerant, had been planted deep into wet peat, timed to blow at midnight. The entire valley was meant to burn.

Closer at hand, three more explosions erupted from the center of the ring of stones. Fiery spirals twisted high into the sky.

Even across the distance, the heat burned her face.

People came running out of the cabins behind them. Kowalski cursed hotly next to her.

She didn't turn, hypnotized by the flames. Her heart pounded. The conflagration began to spread outward-quickly, too quickly-both here and out in the forest. The ignited charges were only supposed to chase Gray's team off-to light a fire under them literally and figuratively-while destroying all evidence in their wake.

She watched the flames grow.

Someone had miscalculated, underestimated the combustibility of the peat. For a moment, an oily flicker of distrust flashed. Had she been betrayed? Were they meant to die here?

Going coldly logical, she mentally snuffed out those doubts. There was no gain in their deaths. At least not at this time. It had to be an error of execution. The old fires, smoldering for years, must have weakened the stability of the peat beds, turning the entire valley into tinder for the right torch.

Still, the end result was the same.

As she stared, the fires closed in a circle around them.

They would never get out of here alive.

Chapter 15

October 12, 11:35 P.M.

Oslo, Norway

Monk strode briskly across the research park. Under his heavy coat, he wore a Viatus security uniform. At his side, John Creed was equally bundled against the cold, but he had a lab jacket folded over one arm.

They had no trouble driving through the main gates of the Viatus campus, flashing their false ID cards. They had parked their car in the employee parking lot and headed on foot across the grounds. Viatus had facilities around the world, but Oslo was home to their main facility. The place was spread over a hundred acres, with various divisions and office buildings dotting a parklike setting. All the structures were sleek and modern, plainly influenced by Scandinavian minimalism.

In the center of the campus rose a meeting hall, made entirely of glass. It shone like a diamond. Through the walls could be seen the sweeping hull of a Viking ship. It was not a model, but an authentic piece of history. The ship had been discovered frozen in ice somewhere up in the Arctic region of Norway. It had cost millions to salvage and preserve it, all financed by Ivar Karlsen.

It must be good to be so rich.

Monk continued across the campus. The Crop Biogenics Research Lab was in a remote corner, a long walk from the parking lot.

Monk pulled the hood of his parka farther over his head. "So, Doogie," he said, trying to distract himself from the cold, "what exactly did you do to wash out of the Corps and end up in Sigma, anyway?"

Creed made a dismissive noise and mumbled, "Don't ask." Plainly he didn't want to talk about it. And he was edgy.

Plus calling him Doogie probably didn't help.

Creed was not exactly the talkative type, but Monk had to admit the man was sharp. He had already acquired a smattering of Norwegian, even honing a decent accent. Monk knew only one person who was that quick. He pictured her smile, the curve of her backside, and the barely perceptible bump of her growing belly. Thinking of Kat helped keep him warm long enough to reach their destination.

The Crop Biogenics lab looked like a silver egg standing on end. It was all mirrored glass and reflected the grounds, giving the facility a surreal appearance, as if the building were in the process of warping into another dimension.

The lab building was a relatively new construction, completed only five years ago. It had been engineered with a sophisticated security system that required only a skeletal staff at night.

Not an obstacle for someone outfitted with DARPA's latest toys.

Monk carried a backpack over one shoulder and a Taser XREP pistol tucked under the other. The weapon discharged a small electrified dart that could knock out a target for five minutes. It was a precaution that he hoped they would not have to employ.

Creed moved to the main entrance.

Monk touched his throat. He had a microphone taped over his larynx and an earpiece in place. "Sir, we're heading into the building now."

Painter responded immediately in his ear, "Any problems?"

"Not so far."

"Good. Keep me updated."

"Yes, sir."

Creed stepped to the electronic key reader. He slipped a card into its slot. A thin wire ran from the keycard to a device fastened around his wrist. It was a hacking device that used quantum algorithms to pick any lock, basically the equivalent of a digital skeleton key. The lock released, and Creed pulled the door open.

They headed inside.

The entry was dimly lit, and the receptionist's desk was empty. Monk knew that a security guard manned a monitoring station on the floor above. As long as they set off no alarms, they should have no trouble reaching the computer servers on the basement levels. Their mission was to open a back door into the research mainframes. With any luck, they'd be out of there in under ten minutes.

As Monk crossed the lobby, he kept his face averted from the cameras. As did Creed. They had memorized the cameras' positions from the schematics provided by Kat.

Together they headed toward the bank of elevators. Creed walked a bit quickly. Monk touched his arm and forced him to slow down, to not act so panicked.

They reached the elevator bay, where the push of a button opened a set of doors. They moved inside. Another key reader glowed red. The elevator would not move without the proper code.

Monk hovered a finger over the B2 button-Basement Level 2-where the servers were housed. Creed waited to swipe his skeleton key. Monk hesitated before he pressed the button.

"What?" Creed mouthed, fearful of speaking English in case the elevator was monitored.

Monk pointed to the buttons below his finger. They ran from B2 to B5. According to the schematics provided, there were not supposed to be any levels below B2.

So what was on those levels?

Monk knew they had a mission, but there was a subtext to this night's operation: to find out what was really going on at Viatus. It was a long shot that the corporation kept anything incriminating on its servers. Any real dirt was most likely buried much deeper.

Like underground.

Monk shifted his finger down and pressed B5. Creed glared at him, plainly questioning what he was doing.

Just a little improvisation, he answered silently. Sigma wasn't about following orders blindly but about thinking on your feet.

Creed needed to learn that.

Monk pointed toward the key reader and motioned for Creed to swipe his electronic card. The detour would only take an extra minute. He would simply take a peek below. If it was just a maintenance level or some sort of employee swimming pool, they could quickly hop back up to B2, tag the servers, and get out of there.

With an exasperated sigh, Creed shoved in his card. After a half second, the light flashed green.

The elevator began to descend.

No alarms sounded.

The levels ticked downward, and the elevator opened into a closed lobby. A sealed door stood directly across from them. Monk paused, suddenly having second thoughts.

What would Gray do here?

Monk mentally shook his head. Since when was following Gray's example a good thing? The man had an uncanny knack for trouble.

As the elevator began to close, Monk grabbed Creed by the elbow and leaped into the lobby.

"Are you nuts?" Creed hissed under his breath, shaking loose Monk's grip.

Probably.

Monk moved closer to examine the door. It had no key reader. Only a glowing panel that was plainly meant to read a palm.

"What now?" Creed whispered.

Undaunted, Monk placed his prosthetic hand atop the reader. Pressure sensitive, the pad grew brighter. A bar of light scanned up and down. He held his breath-then heard the lock's tumblers release.

A name flashed above the reader.

IVAR KARLSEN

Creed frowned as he read the name, then glared over at Monk, angry that he'd not been informed about this extra precaution.

It had been Kat's idea. She had obtained the CEO's full records, including a palm print. It had taken only a moment to digitize the data and feed it into the equivalent of a laser printer. The device had then burned a copy of the print across Monk's synthetic palm, scoring the blank skin into a perfect match.

If anyone had full access to this facility, it was certainly its CEO.

Monk moved to the unlocked door.

Let's see what Ivar's hiding down here.

11:46 P.M.

Painter kept watch across the street from the Grand Hotel Oslo. He sat on a bench with a wide view of the entrance. It was no wonder Senator Gorman had chosen this place as his residence. Built in an extravagant Louis XVI revival style, the hotel climbed eight stories and took up an entire city block, with a central clock tower looming over its entrance. It was also conveniently located directly across from Norway's parliament buildings.

A perfect choice for a visiting U.S. senator.

And an unlikely spot for an ambush.

Still, Painter wanted to be thorough. He had been here for an hour, wearing a heavy coat, hat, and scarf. He also moved with a bit of a hunch that was only half faked. His knife wound had begun to ache as the pain relievers wore off. For the past hour, he had canvassed all the public areas of the hotel, including the Limelight Bar, where Gorman was supposed to meet their mysterious contact. As an extra precaution, Painter had the stolen WASP dagger tucked into the back of his belt and a small 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster.

But so far, everything appeared quiet.

Painter glanced up at the clock tower. It was a few minutes before midnight. Time for this spy to come in out of the cold.

Standing up, he headed across the street, as prepared as he could be.

Monk had already checked in, and earlier in the evening Painter had had a short but intense conversation via satellite phone with Gray. He had learned that the Viatus Corporation had funded the dig in England. They had been bioprospecting for new organisms to exploit for their genetic research. Had they found something? Gray had described the gruesome discovery, at a Neolithic stone ring, of bodies buried and preserved in a bog, bodies riddled with some sort of fungus.

Was that significant?

Painter recalled that the murdered Princeton geneticist had believed the new genes inserted into the Viatus corn samples were not of bacterial origin. Could they have been fungal, genes extracted from those mushrooms? And if so, why all the secrecy and bloodshed to hide the fact?

Painter shoved the questions aside for now. He needed to focus on the immediate task at hand. He entered the lobby and circumspectly observed his surroundings. He compared the faces of the hotel employees with those in his earlier canvass and made sure there were no strangers among them.

Satisfied, he strode over to the hotel bar. The Limelight was dark and richly paneled, illuminated only by the glow of wall lanterns. Red leather club chairs and sofas divided the space. It smelled vaguely of cigars.

At this hour the establishment was sparsely populated. It wasn't hard to spot Senator Gorman over by the bar. Especially with the burly man sitting next to him, wearing a suit too small for his bulk. He might as well have bodyguard stenciled across his forehead. The guard sat with his back to the bar and, with no subtlety, scanned the patrons for any threats.

Painter observed them from the corner of his eye. He passed among the chairs and took a seat at a booth near the entrance. A barmaid took his order.

Now to see who, if anyone, showed up.

He didn't have long to wait.

A man appeared, wearing a heavy ankle-length overcoat. He searched the bar, then his gaze fixed on the senator. Painter was startled to realize he'd seen this man before, back when the luncheon had broken up. He'd been complaining to the Club of Rome's copresident.

Painter struggled to remember his name.

Something like Anthony.

He played back the conversation in his head.

No...Antonio.

A satisfied smile flickered over the man's features as he spotted the senator. This had to be their guy. From the earlier conversation, the man clearly had no love for Karlsen. Antonio's smile faded as he finally noted the bodyguard, too. The instructions had been for the senator to come alone. Antonio hesitated near the entrance.

Time to move.

Painter slid smoothly out of his seat and crossed in front of Antonio. He grabbed the man's elbow in one hand and poked his Beretta in the man's ribs. He kept a smile on his face.

"Let's talk," Painter said and guided him away from the bar.

It was his intention to interrogate the man in private. The less Senator Gorman was involved in all this, the better for all.

Antonio allowed himself to be led away at gunpoint, his face a mask of terror.

"I work for the U.S. government," Painter said pointedly. "We're going to have a short conversation before you meet with the senator."

The terror faded from his eyes, but not completely. Painter guided him toward a settee in an empty area of the lobby. It was partially shielded by a low wall and a potted fern.

They never made it.

Antonio suddenly tripped and fell to one knee. He gurgled and gagged. His hands fluttered to his neck. Protruding from his throat was the pointed barb of an arrow bolt. Blood splattered the marble tile floor as Antonio dropped to his hands and knees.

Painter noted a small blinking light at the back of the man's neck, nestled in the plastic feathers of the bolt. Painter's body reacted before the thought even formed.

Bomb.

He leaped forward and dove over the low wall. He'd landed behind it when the charge exploded. It was as loud as a thunderclap in a cave. Pain squeezed his head. He went momentarily deaf-then sound returned.

Screams, shouts, cries.

It all sounded hollow.

He rolled back up, keeping sheltered behind the nearby wall. Smoke choked the lobby, lit by puddles of fire. The explosion had blackened a large section of the floor. Antonio's body had been obliterated into bits of flaming ruin. The superheated air burned with a chemical sting.

Thermite and white phosphorus.

Painter coughed and searched the lobby. From Antonio's position, the arrow had to have come from inside the hotel, off to the left. From that direction, two masked figures ran through the smoke from the staircase. Another slammed through the front door.

They pounded toward the Limelight Bar.

They were going after the senator.

12:04 A.M.

Monk stood at the open door. Beyond the threshold stretched a long hall. Lights turned on, one after the other, illuminating the way ahead.

"We'll take a fast look," Monk whispered. "Then get the hell out of here."

Creed waited for Monk to take the lead, then followed. The kid barely breathed, and he definitely didn't blink.

Halfway down the passage, double doors opened to the right and left. Monk headed toward them. The place smelled of disinfectant, like a hospital. The smooth linoleum floor and featureless walls added to the sense of sterility.

He also noted that there were no cameras in this hall. Apparently the company placed its full trust in the extra layer of electronic security down here.

Monk reached the doors. They were palm-locked like the other. Monk pressed his hand against it. Surely there were no areas off-limits to Karlsen.

He was right.

The lock snick ed open.

Monk headed through and found himself in an enclosed entryway facing another set of doors. The antechamber was glass. Beyond the doors opened a huge room. Lights flickered on, but they were muted a soft amber.

He tried the next set of doors. Unlocked. The doors were clearly not intended to keep anyone out, so much as to keep the room's occupants in.

As Monk pushed into the next room, he gaped at the walls to either side. Extending the length of the long room were floor-to-ceiling windows. A low tonal buzzing filled the room, like a radio tuned between stations.

Creed followed at his heels. "Are those-?"

Monk nodded. "Beehives."

Behind the glass, a solid mass of bees writhed and churned in a hypnotic pattern, wings flickering, bodies dancing. Racks and tiers of honeycombs rose in stacks to the roof. The hives were divided into sections along the length of the room. Each apiary was marked with a cryptic code. Studying them, Monk noted that each number was prefixed with the same three letters: IMD.