She rolled him over and lifted his eyelids, which hung at half-mast. The boy's pupils were dilated wide and nonresponsive to light.
She climbed back to her feet and stared around the room.
What was happening?
20
September 7, 2:17 A. M.
Washington, D. C.
Painter hurried down the hall. He didn't need any more trouble, but he got it.
The entire command bunker was in lockdown mode after the attack. As he had suspected, after the fiery death of Mapplethorpe, the few remaining combatants ghosted away into the night. Painter was determined to find each and every one of them, along with every root and branch that supplied Mapplethorpe with the resources and intelligence to pull off this attack.
In the meantime, Painter had to regain order here.
He had a skeleton team pulled back inside. The injured had been transported to local hospitals. The dead remained where they were. He didn't want anything disturbed until he could bring in his own forensic team. It was a grim tour of duty here this evening. Though Painter had employed the air scrubbers and ventilation to clear the accelerant, it did nothing to erase the odor of charred flesh.
And on top of resecuring the facility here, he was fielding nonstop calls from every branch of the intelligence agency: both about what had happened here and about the aborted terrorist act at Chernobyl. Painter stonewalled about most of it. He didn't have time for debriefings or to play the political game of who had the bigger dick. The only brief call he took was from a grateful president.
Painter used that gratitude to buy him the latitude to put off everyone else.
Another attack threatened.
That was the top priority.
And as the latest problem was tied to that matter, he gave it his full and immediate attention. Reaching the medical level, he crossed to one of the private rooms. He entered and found Kat and Lisa flanking a bed.
Sasha lay atop it as Lisa repositioned an EEG lead to the child's temple.
She's sick again? Painter asked.
Something new, Lisa answered. She's not febrile like before.
Kat stood with her arms crossed. Lines of worry etched her forehead. I was reading to her, trying to get her to sleep after everything that had happened.
She was listening. Then suddenly she sat up, turned to an empty corner of the room, called out the name Pyotr, then went limp and collapsed.
Pyotr? Are you sure?
She nodded. Yuri mentioned Sasha had a twin brother named Pyotr. It must have been a hallucination.
While they talked, Lisa had retreated to a bank of equipment and began powering them up. Sasha was wired to both an EKG and EEG, monitoring cardiac and neurological activity.
Is her device active? Painter asked, nodding to Sasha's TMS unit.
No, Lisa answered. Malcolm checked. He's already come and gone. Off to make some calls. But something's sure active. Her EEG readings are showing massive spiking over the lateral convexity of the temporal lobe. Specifically on the right side, where her implant is located. It's almost as if she's having a temporal lobe seizure. Contrarily her heart rate is low and her blood pressure dropped to her extremities. It's as if all her body's resources are servicing the one organ.
Her brain, Painter said.
Exactly. Everything else is in shutdown mode.
But to what end?
Lisa shook her head. I have no idea. I'm going to run some more tests, but if she doesn't respond, I can think of only one possible solution.
What's that? Kat asked.
Though the TMS implant is not active, the spiking EEGs are centered around it.
I can't help but believe those neuro-electrodes are contributing to what's happening to her. Her electrical activity is frighteningly high in that region as if those wires in her brain are acting like lightning rods. If I can't calm her neural activity, she may burn herself out.
Kat paled at her assessment. You mentioned a solution.
Lisa sighed, not looking happy. We may need to remove her implant. That's where
Malcolm went, to make some calls to a neurosurgeon at George Washington.
Painter crossed and put an arm around Kat's shoulders. He knew how attached she had become to the child. They had lost many lives protecting her. To lose her now
We'll do everything we can, Painter promised her.
Kat nodded.
Painter's beeper buzzed on his belt. He slipped his arm free and checked the number. The Russian embassy. That was one call he had to take. Gray should be landing at Chelyabinsk in another few minutes.
As he glanced back up, Lisa waved him away with a small tired smile. I'll call you if there's any change.
He headed for the door then a sudden thought intruded, something he had set aside and not yet addressed. He frowned questioningly over to Kat.
Earlier, he said, I don't know if I heard you correctly.
Kat looked at him.
What did you mean when you said Monk was still alive?
12:20 P. M.
Southern Ural Mountains
Monk sidled along the train in the pitch dark. He ran his stumped forearm along the cabs as he moved down the tracks. He stretched and waved his other hand in front of him. Stumbling over railroad ties and larger stones in the gravel, he worked his way from the front of the train toward the back.
A moment before, as Monk had stepped out of the train, Pyotr had stopped screaming. It had cut off abruptly. The silence was even worse, creating a stillness as complete as the darkness. Monk's heart pounded.
Reaching the next ore car, he hiked up over the edge and waved his arm into the open space. Pyotr?
His voice sounded exceptionally loud, echoing down the tunnel. But he didn't know where the boy was or even if he was still on the train. The only option was to work methodically backward.
Monk hopped back down and moved toward the next car. He stretched his right arm out again, sweeping ahead of him
then something grabbed his hand.
Monk yelped in surprise. Warm leathery fingers wrapped around his. He reflexively yanked his arm back, but the fingers held firm. A soft hoot accompanied the grip.
Marta! Monk dropped and gave her a fumbling hug in the dark.
She returned it, nudging her cheek against his, and gave a soft chuff of relief.
Her entire body trembled. He felt the pounding of her heart against his chest.
She broke the embrace but kept hold of his hand. She urged him to follow with a gentle tug.
Monk gained his feet and allowed her to guide him. He knew where she was taking him. To Pyotr. Moving more swiftly, Monk reached the last cab. Unlike the open ore cars in the middle, the last cab was enclosed.
Marta hopped through an open door.
Monk climbed in after her. The old chimpanzee shuffled and herded him to a back corner. He found Pyotr on the floor, flat out on his back.
Monk's hand patted over him, defining his shape out of the darkness. Pyotr?
There was no response.
He felt the boy's chest rise and fall. Fingers checked his small face. Was he injured? Had he taken a fall? His skin was feverish to the touch. Then a tiny hand wandered like a lost bird and discovered Monk's fingers and gripped hard.
