Rachel paused, plainly listening to a question from Painter, then answered, 'I don't know if he ever found that source. But he found something, something worth dying over.'
Rachel stopped again to listen, then said, 'Right. I agree. I'll pass you back to Commander Pierce.'
Gray accepted the phone, lifted it to his ear, and returned to the window. 'Sir?'
'Considering Rachel's story, it seems plain what your next step must be.'
Gray had no doubt of the correct answer. 'Investigate the excavation site in England.'
'Precisely. I don't know how the murders in Africa and Princeton tie to Father Giovanni's research. But there must be some connection. I'll follow up in Oslo concerning the genetic research-you see what that mummified finger points to.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do you need any additional personnel for this mission? Or can you manage with Joseph Kowalski and Lieutenant Verona?'
'I think the leaner we move, the better.'
Despite his best effort, a strained edge tightened his voice. There remained one detail he had never divulged to Painter Crowe. Gray stared down into the garden, to the crimson glow of a cigarette. He hated to lie to the director, even if it was only a sin of omission, but if Gray told Sigma Command about their new ally here, Painter would have no choice but to send a team to collect her, to cart her off to an interrogation camp.
Gray could not allow that.
Still, he hesitated.
Was he making the right choice? Or was he needlessly putting the entire mission in jeopardy?
Gray turned from the window to discover Rachel staring at him. In her eyes, he recognized that his decision threatened more than just his own life. Still, he also remembered a pained plea two years ago, one full of need and hope.
Trust me, Gray. If only a little.
Facing the dark window again, Gray stared at his reflection. After a long steadying breath, he spoke into the phone.
'We'll be fine on our own.'
Chapter 11
October 11, 11:22 P.M.
Oslo, Norway
Ivar Karlsen pulled on the heavy oak door, its planks strapped with hammered iron. Snow swirled through the moonless night and whipped in sudden gusts into the narrow arched entry. Cold pinched his exposed cheeks, while the iron handle was so frozen it burned his fingers as he hauled open the door. The day's storm had indeed turned into the first true snowfall by evening.
The harsh weather stirred Ivar, got his heart pounding, his breath blowing strongly. Perhaps he did indeed have Viking blood running through his veins as his old bestemor claimed.
Ducking through the door, he stamped his boots to dislodge the caked snow. A dark stairway lay ahead, leading down into the depths below Akershus Castle. Ivar threw back the hood of his fleece-lined sherling coat and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. Clicking it on, he headed down the stairs.
The stone steps had been laid when the fortress was first built, dating back to the medieval period. His steps echoed off the low walls. He had to duck to keep from brushing the ceiling. Reaching the lower level, the stairs ended at an old guardroom with the original iron wall hooks and torch brackets still intact. Heavy beams held up the ceiling.
On the far side, a brick archway opened on a hall of tiny cells where downtrodden nobles and all manner of high criminals had been kept in squalid and miserable conditions. It was here that the Nazis had tortured Ivar's countrymen, those who resisted the German occupation. Ivar had even lost a granduncle down here. Honoring that sacrifice, Viatus continued to donate large sums to the preservation and upkeep of Akershus.
Ivar swept his flashlight down the throat of the gloomy dungeon passageway. This section was closed to the usual castle tours. Few even knew of its existence...or its darker history. It was here that those who committed high treason to the crown and country were held. The Nazi collaborator Viktor Quisling had been kept locked down here before he was executed. Many others had met their deaths, going back centuries.
Ivar's fingers closed over an old coin in his coat pocket. He kept it with him at all times. It was a 1725 Frederick IV four-mark, minted by Henrik Christofer Meyer. Meyer had also died down here, whipped and bloodied, for replacing silver with copper in the king's coinage and pocketing the savings.
King Frederick IV-considered at the time to be a benevolent and merciful leader-still held to a strict code of honor. It was rumored that he had Viking blood in his lineage. And following the Viking code, betrayal of any manner had to be dealt with harshly.
Upon the king's order, Meyer was not only ordered whipped at the post and sentenced to life imprisonment, he was also marked permanently as a traitor to the crown. Meyers was branded with a hot iron poker in the center of his forehead. The king used one of the mint master's own substandard coins for the branding, burning the image into the man's flesh.
The coin in Ivar's pocket was one of those very coins. It had been in his family for centuries, the story passed from one generation to the next. It grew to represent the Karlsen family code: to balance mercy and generosity, yet never tolerate treachery in any form.
Ivar heard the door above open and slam closed, cutting off his reverie. Footsteps echoed as someone hurried down the steps.
A slim, long-legged woman entered the guardroom. She carried a bit of the winter chill with her. Snow frosted her fiery hair; her gold eyes reflected his flashlight. She wore a long gray coat over dark clothes.
'I'm sorry I'm late, Ivar,' she said. She tossed her hair, scattering snow like some ancient goddess of winter.
Though only in her late twenties, Krista Magnussen had become the chief geneticist for his corporation's Crop Biogenics division. She had risen quickly, demonstrating both brilliance and a seemingly supernatural resourcefulness. It was only last year that Ivar had learned the true basis of her resourcefulness. The revelation had come at a time when things had begun to go awry with his careful plans. The house of cards he'd been meticulously building had begun to lean. It had needed shoring up.
Krista again proved her value; Ivar had been shocked to discover that she was not entirely who she appeared to be. Corporate espionage was commonplace throughout the industry, but he'd never suspected such a young, brilliant woman. And he never suspected the reach of her connections. She worked for a shadowy network that went by many names. They offered their mercenary services in exchange for access and a percentage of future profits. Over the past year, they had proved to be invaluable at shoring up his plans, even accelerating them.
And it had been Krista herself who dealt with the delicate and unfortunate matter of the senator's son.
She moved closer, gave Ivar a firm hug, and brushed his cheek in a chaste kiss. Her lips were still cold from the storm.
'I'm also sorry,' she said, 'that I had to summon you so suddenly at this hour.'
'If it's important...'
'It is.' Krista shook her long coat, shivering off snow and melting droplets. 'I've just heard that our targets in Rome survived.'
'They're alive? I thought you said they were dead.'
'We underestimated them,' Krista said with a shrug. She made no effort to justify, obfuscate, or avoid responsibility. As always, Ivar respected her candor.
'Do they still possess the artifact?'
'Yes.'
'How do you know all this?' he asked with a frown.
Krista smiled, still coldly. 'It seems our attack got someone's attention, someone with something to prove. After events in Rome, we were contacted. Offered a deal. We now have someone on the inside.'
'Can they be trusted?'
'I don't leave such matters to mere trust, Ivar. Our organization will be staying close to them, keeping a fire lit under them.'
