Текст книги "The Doomsday Key"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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"I do."

"So be it. But it's on your head."

Painter always appreciated such enthusiastic support. With a final few words, Metcalf headed off toward another meeting on the Hill. That left Painter alone with Lisa as they crossed into the morning sunshine.

He checked his watch. The funeral service started in another hour. He had just enough time to shower and change. Despite the bright day, a somberness settled through him. John Creed had died saving his life. Since Painter had sent men and women into harm's way all too often, he had honed a level of detachment. It was the only way to stay sane, to make the hard choices.

He couldn't do it here.

Not with Creed.

A hand slipped into his. Lisa tugged and leaned into his arm.

"It'll get better," she promised him.

He knew she was right, but somehow that only made it worse. To move past meant forgetting. Not all of it, but some of it.

And he never wanted to forget John's sacrifice.

Not any of it.

3:33 P.M.

Monk wandered through the rolling hills of Arlington Cemetery with Kat at his side, hand in hand, bundled in long coats. It was a crisp fall day with the massive oaks fiery in their splendor. The funeral service had ended an hour ago. But Monk hadn't been ready to leave.

Kat had never said a word.

She understood.

Everyone had shown up. Even Rachel had flown in from Rome for the day. She headed back tomorrow morning. She didn't like leaving her uncle alone for long. Vigor had just gotten out of the hospital two days ago, but he was recuperating well.

During their slow walk, Monk and Kat had wandered in a full circle and ended up back where they had started. John Creed's grave sat atop a small knoll under the limbs of a dogwood. The branches were already bare, skeletal against the blue sky, but come spring they'd be full of white blossoms.

It was a good spot.

Monk had wanted everyone gone for a moment of privacy at the gravesite, but he saw that someone still knelt there, both hands gripping the headstone. The posture was a sigil of raw grief.

Monk stopped.

It was a young man wearing army dress blues. Monk vaguely recognized him from the funeral. The man had sat as stiffly as everyone else. Apparently he'd also wanted an extra moment to say good-bye.

Kat tightened her fingers on Monk's hand. He turned to her. She shook her head and drew him away. Monk gave her a questioning look, sensing that she knew more than he did.

"That's John's partner."

Monk glanced back and knew she wasn't referring to a business partner. He hadn't known. He suddenly remembered a conversation he'd had with Creed. Monk had teasingly asked him what had gotten him drummed out of the service after two tours in Iraq. Creed's answer had been two words.

Don't ask.

Monk had thought he was just telling him to mind his own business. Instead, he was answering Monk's question.

Don't ask, don't tell.

Kat urged Monk away, allowing the man to grieve in private. "He's still in the service," she explained.

Monk followed. He now understood why the man had sat so stiffly earlier. Even now, the depth of his grief had to be kept a private matter. Only alone could the man truly say good-bye.

Kat leaned into him. He put his arm around her. They both knew what the other was thinking. They never wanted to say that particular good-bye.

9:55 P.M.

Gray stood under the spray of the shower. He had his eyes closed and heard the telltale clank from his apartment's plumbing. He was about to run out of hot water.

Still, he didn't move, enjoying every last bit of steam and blistering heat. He stretched kinks and rubbed knots. He'd had an intense workout and now paid the price. After being bruised and battered, he should have used more restraint. He'd just had the stitches out of his hand two days ago.

With a final rattle, the water quickly turned cool. Gray turned the faucet off, reached for a towel, and dried himself in the steamy warmth.

The brief cold spray took him back to the storm on Bardsey Island. Earlier today he had talked to Father Rye on the phone, to make sure Rufus was settling in as a church dog. Gray had also called to make certain Owen Bryce got the wired money to cover any repairs to the ferry they'd stolen.

Life was settling back to normal on Bardsey after a hard series of storms.

On the phone, Gray also questioned Father Rye about dark queens and Black Madonnas. The good father was certainly a font of knowledge. Gray suspected this month's phone bill would be sky-high. Still, he had learned something interesting, that some historians believed the Black Madonna might have its roots in the worship of the goddess Isis, the queen mother of Egypt.

So there again was that Egyptian connection.

But after the explosion beneath the cloister, all further evidence had been destroyed: the glass caskets, the bodies, even Malachy's lost book of prophecies.

All gone.

And probably just as well. The future was best left unknown.

But Malachy's prophecies of the popes ended with a bit of a foggy mystery. According to Rachel's uncle, Malachy had numbered all the popes on his list, with the exception of the very last one, Petrus Romanus, the one who would see the end of the world. This last apocalyptic pope had been assigned no number.

"This suggests to some scholars," Vigor had explained from his hospital bed, "that perhaps an unknown number of popes remain unnamed between the current pope and the last. And that the world might go on for a little bit longer."

Gray certainly hoped so.

Finally buffed dry, he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed into the bedroom. He discovered he wasn't alone.

"I thought you were leaving," Gray said.

She lay tangled in the sheets, one long leg bared to the hip. She stretched like a lithe lioness waking, one arm over her head, exposing a hint of breast. As she lowered her arm, she lifted the bedsheet. Her body still lay hidden in folds and shadows-but the invitation was plain.

"Again?" he asked.

An eyebrow tipped higher, followed by a shadow of a smile.

Gray sighed, undid his towel, and tossed it aside.

A man's work was never done.

Epilogue

October 23, 11:55 P.M.

Washington, D.C.

Painter headed down the last flight of stairs to the nethermost region of Sigma Command. It was only a few minutes before midnight, an inauspicious moment to be visiting a morgue.

But the package had arrived only an hour ago. The work had to be done swiftly. Afterward, all evidence would be destroyed, cremated on site. He reached the morgue.

Sigma's head pathologist, Dr. Malcolm Reynolds, was waiting and led him inside. "I have the body ready."

Painter followed the pathologist to the neighboring room. The smell struck him first: overcooked meat gone bad. A figure lay under a sheet on the table. Wheeled next to it was a coffin. The casket's diplomatic seal had been sliced open by Dr. Reynolds.

It had taken Painter a huge effort to get the body released in secret from France and delivered here with false papers.

"It's not pretty," Malcolm warned. "The body sat in that makeshift oven for several hours before someone thought to move it."

Painter was not squeamish-at least not much. He pulled back the sheet and exposed Dr. Wallace Boyle's corpse. The man's face was bloated, blackened on one side, a purplish red on the other. Painter imagined the charbroiled side had been facedown on the brick floor of the subterranean chamber. He remembered Gray's description of the incendiary charge and how it had baked the stones.

"Help me roll him on his stomach," Painter said.

Together, they got Wallace over on his belly.

"I'll need something to shave him."

Malcolm disappeared.

As Painter waited, he stared down at the gaunt corpse. Wallace had claimed to be a member of Echelon, and according to Seichan, that name was rumored to denote the Guild's true leaders. She had no other information, except for a darker rumor, a story she'd only heard once.

Malcolm returned with an electric clipper and a disposable razor. Working quickly, Painter used the clipper to remove the hair from the back of Wallace's head, then shaved it smooth.

As he dragged the razor, he proved the rumor was true.

A small tattoo, about the size of Painter's thumbnail, had been inked at the back of the skull. It depicted the tools of a mason: drafting compasses straddling an L-square.

The symbol represented Freemasonry, a worldwide fraternal organization. But the image in the center of the symbol was wrong. The square and the compass usually framed the letter G, standing for God or Geometry.

But sometimes it stood for Guild.

Painter knew Seichan's terrorist organization had no real name, at least not spoken below the level of its leaders. Was this symbol and its connection to the Freemasons the source of the more commonly used name?

Painter studied the tattoo. In the middle of the symbol were inked a sickle moon and a star. He had never seen anything like it. Whoever these people were, they weren't Freemasons.

With the symbol exposed, Painter grew more edgy. He had found what he needed.

"Burn the body," he ordered Malcolm. "Down to ash."

Painter didn't want anyone to know what he'd learned. Much remained unknown about Seichan's former masters. But he had two pieces to the larger puzzle.

The name Echelon...and the strange symbol.

For now, that would do.

But it wasn't over-not for either side.

Malcolm asked him a question as he left. "What does it mean?"

Painter answered, knowing it to be true, "A war is coming."

AUTHOR'S NOTE TO READERS: TRUTH OR FICTION

Everything in this book is true, except for what's not. I thought I'd end this adventure by splitting those hairs. First, two elements gave birth to this story. I came upon each independently, but I knew there had to be a connection and that Sigma would need to investigate.

The History of the Celtic Cross. There is an intriguing and startling analysis of the history of the cross and the possibility that it was used as a navigational tool in ancient times. For a slew of details, diagrams, and analyses, I refer you to the fascinating book The Golden Thread of Time by Crichton Miller.

The History of Neolithic England. The details in this book about the possibility of Egyptians setting up colonies in England are true. For a more thorough study, I suggest reading Kingdom of the Ark by Lorraine Evans. Also, in regard to the Fomorian tribes found living in Ireland by the invading Celts, some historians have theorized that their descriptions (dark-skinned and skilled at agriculture) might refer to a lost tribe of Egyptians.

Ancient Symbols. The novel describes a number of symbols and the way these images were often transformed and reimagined across the centuries. Such theories have a basis in fact, including the story of the consecration crosses found carved in medieval churches.

Saints. As mentioned at the opening of the book, Malachy was an Irish saint who lived during the twelfth century and is said to have performed many miraculous healings, along with recording his famous prophecies of the popes. He was indeed buried in a tomb at Clairvaux Abbey, and the ruins of that abbey do oddly enough lie within the grounds of a maximum-security prison (a prison started by Napoleon). There are weekly tours of the ruins for two euros a head. The stories concerning the life of Saint Bernard (the Lactation Miracle, his association with the Knights Templar, and his support for the cult of the Black Madonna) are historical. For more about the Celtic saints and culture in general, I recommend How the Irish Saved Civilization by Thomas Cahill and The Quest for the Celtic Key by Karen Ralls-MacLeod and Ian Robertson.

As for the prophecies, here are Malachy's descriptions of the last few popes in history:

·

a. Pope Paul VI (1963-1978) is described with the words Flos Florum, or "flower of flowers." His heraldic coat of arms bore three lilies.

·

b. Pope John Paul I (1978) is named by Malachy as De Medietate Lunae, or "of the half moon." His papacy lasted one month, crossing from one half moon to the next.

·

c. Pope John Paul II (1978-2005) is designated as De Labore Solis, or "from the labor of the sun," which was a common metaphor for a solar eclipse. The pope was born on the day of a solar eclipse.

·

d. Pope Benedict XVI (2005-) is described as De Gloria Olivae, or the "glory of the olive." The Benedictine order, from which the pope took his name, has the olive branch as its symbol.

·

e. Then there is the last pope, the one who would oversee the world's end: Petrus Romanus. His description is the longest of them all.

In Latin:

In persecutione extrema S.R.E. sedebit Petrus Romanus, qui pascet oves in multis tribulationibus: quibus transactis civitas septicollis diruetur, et Iudex tremendus iudicabit populum. Finis.

Translated:

In extreme persecution, the seat of the Holy Roman Church will be occupied by Peter the Roman, who will feed the sheep through many tribulations, at the term of which the city of seven hills will be destroyed, and the formidable Judge will judge His people. The End.

But as Vigor mentioned to Gray, this last pope is not numbered as the others were before him. Some have interpreted this to mean that there could be more popes between Pope Benedict XVI and the last pope. I guess only time will reveal the truth.

And Sinners.

·

a. Biofuels: The amount of corn needed to fill an SUV tank full of ethanol would indeed feed a starving person for a year. And it is believed that the shift from farming food to farming fuel has resulted in a spike in food prices.

·

b. Genetically Modified Foods: Volumes of material, both pro and con, have been written about GM foods. For some disturbing reading on this topic, I can recommend two books. In regard to the lax regulation of the industry, Seeds of Deception by Jeffrey M. Smith should be required reading. As to some more sinister aspects, I found Seeds of Destruction by F. William Engdahl to be frightening (specifically regarding the contraceptive seeds mentioned in the novel).

·

c. Bees: Do we know what is killing all the bees? According to the well-documented book A Spring without Bees by Michael Schacker, it seems there is an answer, one that has been both suppressed and ignored. And France's bees are coming back.

·

d. Weapons of Destruction: In this novel, I use WASP daggers, thermobaric warheads, and kinetic fireballs to cause much mayhem. The weapons are all real.

Overpopulation. The Club of Rome is a real organization that does a lot of great work. And in their report titled The Limits to Growth, they do lay out the doomsday scenario described by Ivar Karlsen, in which, if left unchecked, the world is headed toward a tipping point where 90 percent of the population could be wiped out.

The Doomsday Book. As mentioned in the introduction, it is a real historical tome. And some entries are indeed cryptically listed as "wasted." It was compiled during a time when friction continued between Christians and pagans, especially in the borderlands.

Location, Location, Location. Most of the places in this story are real, as are the stories associated with them.

·

a. Akershus Fortress does lie at the edge of Oslo's harbor, and cruise ships do dock near there. As to its history of executions, those are also true, including the story of the mint master Henrik Christofer Meyer, who died for his crimes and whose forehead was branded by King Frederick IV.

·

b. Svalbard Global Seed Vault is a real depository that has gained the nickname "The Doomsday Vault." All the details of the facility are accurate, including one of its main means of defense: polar bears.

·

c. Bardsey Island truly is Avalon. All the stories and mythologies of the island are accurate, including Merlin's Tomb, Lord Newborough's Crypt, and the twenty thousand buried saints. Also, the Bardsey apple continues to grow, and cuttings can now be purchased of this ancient tree. As to those nasty currents around the island, those are also real. So make that ferry crossing only in the best of weather!

·

d. The Lake District of England is indeed a land of enchantment, dotted by rings of standing stones, and, of course, is the home of the industrious Fell Ponies. There are also many, many peat bogs in the region, though nothing as forested or as fiery as in this book. But subterranean peat fires have been known to burn for centuries, even through snowy winters. And such fires are still used to make the finest Scotch (but that's a whole other story). As to the bog mummies, they are also real-as is the retail shop in the hamlet of Hawkshead that exclusively sells teddy bears (Sixpenny Bears).

So go buy Kowalski a bear...I guess he deserves one.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

All authors need a bedrock of support. Without a firm footing, there would be no foundation to build on. And I'm no exception. I wanted to take this moment to acknowledge those folks who've been my bedrock over these past years. I'd first like to acknowledge my critique group who still keep me both honest and productive: Penny Hill, Judy Prey, Dave Murray, Caroline Williams, Chris Crowe, Lee Garrett, Jane O'Riva, Sally Barnes, Denny Grayson, Leonard Little, Kathy L'Ecluse, and Scott Smith. And an extra big thanks to Steve Prey for all his great help with the introductory maps and schematics. Beyond the group, Carolyn McCray and David Sylvian keep me moving forward through the best of times and the worst. And for all the many years of help with stories and articles and things that explode, a special thanks to Cherei McCarter. And because I must (because he is forcing me to write this), I wanted to thank Steve Berry for some key plot advice, but I'll freely acknowledge that he's a great writer and an even greater friend. Lastly, a special acknowledgment to the four people instrumental to all levels of production: my editor Lyssa Keusch and her colleague Wendy Lee, and my agents Russ Galen and Danny Baror. They've truly been the foundation under this author. And as always, I must stress that any and all errors of fact or detail in this book fall squarely on my own shoulders.

About the Author

New York Times bestselling author JAMES ROLLINS holds a doctorate in veterinary medicine and resides in the Sierra Nevada mountains. An avid spelunker and certified scuba enthusiast, he can often be found underground or underwater.

www.jamesrollins.com

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