Malcolm beneath his face. Earlier, he had ordered Kat to take a nap in one of the medical center's spare beds. Up all night himself, he should've taken that same advice.
He pressed the lock release under his desk, and the door swung open. He'd been expecting Lisa or Malcolm. Painter sat straighter in surprise and gained his feet.
A tall, wide-shouldered man entered, dressed in a blue suit. His red hair had gone mostly a whitish gray, combed neatly back.
Sean?
Sean McKnight was the director of DARPA and Painter's immediate superior. He'd also been the man to recruit Painter into Sigma over a decade ago, when Sean had sat in Painter's chair. McKnight had been the visionary first director of Sigma, taking Archibald Polk's concept and turning it into reality. But more important,
Sean was a good friend.
The man waved Painter back into his seat.
Don't get up for me, son, he said. I'm not about to take that chair again.
Painter smiled. On his first day as director, Sean had sent Painter a crate of antacids. He had thought it was a good gag gift but a couple of years later,
Painter had gone through half the crate.
Something tells me, Sean, your job isn't any lighter.
Not today it's not. Sean sank into a chair across the desk from him. I've been checking into that man Commander Pierce saw outside the museum.
Mapplethorpe. John Mapplethorpe.
So it wasn't a false I. D. he'd spotted?
On the contrary. Mapplethorpe is a division chief for the Defense Intelligence
Agency. His oversight is the Russian Federation and its splinter states.
Painter recalled Malcolm's initial assessment about where Polk had been fatally exposed to radiation. Chernobyl. What was Mapplethorpe's role in all of this?
The man has powerful allies among intelligence agencies, Sean continued.
Known for his ruthlessness and manipulation. But he's also known as someone who can get results. A valuable commodity in Washington.
So how is he involved in all of this?
I've read your update. You know all about the declassified Project Stargate.
How it was discontinued in the middle 1990s.
But it wasn't, Painter said. In its final years, it vanished into the Defense
Intelligence Agency.
That's correct. It became Mapplethorpe's project. He was approached in 1996 by a pair of Russian scientists who were running the Soviet Union's version of
Stargate. They were strapped for funds and sought our aid. We agreed to help for our mutual benefit in this new world of borderless enemies. So a small cabal of
Jasons was assigned to work jointly with the Russians. That's when the whole project went deeply classified. Vanished. Only a handful of people were even aware of its continuing existence.
Until Archibald came stumbling to our doorstep, Painter said.
We believe he sought to expose them. To bring out evidence.
Of the atrocities being committed in the name of science.
In the name of national security, Sean corrected. Keep that in mind. That's the oil that greases the wheels in Washington. Do not underestimate
Mapplethorpe. He knows how to play this game. And he believes himself a true patriot. He's also gone a long way to establish himself as such in the intelligence communities. Here and abroad.
Painter shook his head.
Sean continued, Mapplethorpe has got every intelligence agency in the country looking for that skull you acquired. Every combination of initials imaginable.
CIA, FBI, NSA, NRO, ONI I wager he's even employed the network of retired spies with the AARP.
Sean tried to smile at his own joke, but it came out tired. I can't keep a lid on this much longer. Archibald was shot right on your doorstep. His ties to the
Jasons, to Sigma, will not go unnoticed for long. And after last year's government oversight on our operations, there are many classified trails that lead here.
So what are you saying? Painter asked.
I think it's time that the skull made a reappearance. The wolves are circling closer. I can broker the skull through another intelligence agency, so it doesn't leave a trail back to Sigma. He met and held Painter's gaze.
But that'll buy you only a half a day grace period with the girl. If Gray and his team don't have answers before then, we may be forced to give her up.
I won't do that, Sean.
You may have no choice.
Painter stood. Then you meet her first. You look at her, what was done to her.
And you tell me how I can hand that girl over to Mapplethorpe.
Painter saw his mentor balk. It was easier to condemn the faceless. Still, Sean nodded and stood. He never shied from the difficult. It was why Painter respected the man so much.
Let's go say hello, Sean said.
They exited together and descended the two levels to where the child was being kept.
As they reached the lower floor, Painter spotted Kat and Lisa at the end of the hall near the door to the girl's room. Kat seemed frantic. Painter knew the woman had been upset after seeing the child draw a picture of her husband, Monk, but Kat had eventually calmed down. She had admitted opening her wallet to show the girl pictures of her own daughter, Penelope, as a baby, hoping to establish a bond with the child. She'd had a picture of Monk among the photos.
But I'm sure she didn't see it, Kat had said. At least I'm fairly certain.
The only other explanation, as wild as it might be, was that the girl had somehow plucked Monk's image out of Kat's head, someone close to the woman's heart.
Either way, Kat had calmed down and agreed that it was best she take a nap.
Exhaustion had put her on edge.
Spotting the men now, Kat came down the hall to meet them, plainly too anxious to wait.
Director, she said in a rush, we were about to call you. The girl's fever is spiking again. We have to do something. Lisa thinks thinks she's dying.
2:35 P. M.
Agra, India
Gray hurried down the street. The closer he got to the major intersection ahead, the worse the traffic snarled. Pedestrians were now packed shoulder to shoulder, slowly flowing through the creeping vehicles. The festival closed off the major thoroughfare. Traffic was diverted to secondary roads.
Horns blared, bicycle bells rang, people yelled and cursed.
Behind them, the scream of the motorcycles had wound down to a deep-throated growl. Even the hunters had become mired in this bog of humanity. Still, Gray made sure to stay low.
Kowalski shoved closer to him, ducking under the nose of a horse-drawn wagon.
Some of 'em are on foot now.
Gray glanced back. The three black motorcycles had been slowly losing ground.
The cycle's passengers had abandoned the bikes and now followed through the crowd behind them. Two flanked the road, and one came down the center of the street.
Three threats had become six.
Don't like those odds, Gray mumbled. He came up with a fast plan and told
Kowalski what to do and where to meet. I'll take the high road. You take the low.
The large man crouched in front of a truck. He stared at the muck of droppings from horse, donkey, and camel underfoot. How come I have to take the low road?
Because I'm wearing white.
