The Doomsday Key (Sigma Force 6)

“And you have that covered.”

“We do. Leaving you free to focus fully on your objective.”

Seichan read the threat behind the words. There would be no excuse for failure. Not if she wanted to live.

As she listened to the mission specifics, she continued to watch the hotel window. Not focusing on Gray any longer, she stared at the Italian woman seated beside him. Rachel smiled at something the professor said, her eyes sparking warmly even across the cold distance.

Seichan held nothing against Rachel Verona—but that would not stop her from poisoning the woman.

11:11 A.M.

Rachel listened as the conversation continued. While the professor’s history lesson was intriguing, she sensed something deeper going on here—in regard to the story of Father Giovanni and something else, something yet unspoken. The man’s gaze kept lingering on her, not lasciviously, but more like he was sizing her up. She had a hard time maintaining eye contact with him.

What was going on?

“I still don’t understand,” Gray said beside her. “What does this Doomsday Book have to do with your discovery up in the mountains?”

Wallace held up a hand, asking for patience. “First of all, the book’s true name wasn’t Doomsday, but rather Domesday. After the old English root dom, which meant ‘reckoning’ or ‘accounting.’ The book was commissioned by King William as a means to assess the value of his newly conquered lands, a way to assign tax and tithing. It mapped out all of England, down to every town, village, and manor house, and took a census of the local resources, from the number of animals and plows in the fields to the number of fish in its lakes and streams. To this day, the book remains one of the best glimpses of life during that time.”

“That’s all fine,” Gray pressed, plainly wanting to hurry him along. “But you mentioned that a single entry led to your current excavation. What were you talking about?”

“Ah, now there’s the rub! You see, the Domesday Book was written in a cryptic form of Latin, compiled by a single scribe. There remains some mystery as to why this level of security was necessary. Some historians have wondered if there might not have been a secondary purpose to this great compilation, some secret accounting. Especially as a few of the places listed in the book are ominously marked with a single word in Latin that meant ‘wasted.’ Most of those locations are concentrated in the northwest region of England, where the borders were constantly changing.”

“By the northwest,” Rachel asked, “you mean like here, the Lake District?”

“Exactly. The county of Cumbria was rife with border wars. And many of the spots listed as wasted were sites where the king’s army had destroyed a town or village. They were noted because you couldn’t tax what no longer existed.”

“Really?” Kowalski asked, scowling at his two glasses of ale. “Then you never heard of the death tax?”

Wallace glanced from Kowalski to Gray.

“Just ignore him,” Gray recommended.

Wallace cleared his throat. “Closer study of the Domesday Book revealed a bit of a mystery. Not all of the wasted sites were the result of conquest. A scattering of references had no explanation. These few were marked in red ink, as though someone had been tracking something significant. I sought some explanation and spent close to ten years on one of those entries, a reference to a small village up in the highland fells that no longer exists. I searched for records to this place, but it was as if they’d been expunged. I almost gave up until I found an odd mention in the diary of a royal coroner named Martin Borr. I found his book up at Saint Michael’s.”

He waved toward the hilltop church at the edge of town. “The book was discovered in a bricked-off cellar during a renovation. Borr was buried up in the cemetery at Saint Michael’s, his possessions given over to the church. While his journals wouldn’t say exactly what had happened to that village, the man did hint at something horrible, suggesting that doomsday might indeed be a more accurate name for that book. He even marked his diary with a pagan symbol, which is what drew me to the tome to begin with.”

“A pagan symbol?” Rachel’s hand strayed toward her coat pocket, where she kept the leather satchel with its macabre contents.

Gray placed his palm over her fingers and squeezed gently, his intent plain. Until he knew more about this man, he didn’t want Rachel showing him what she’d found. Rachel swallowed, too aware of the heat of Gray’s palm on her skin. She slipped her hand away and placed it on top of the table.

Wallace failed to notice their quiet communication. “The symbol was definitely pagan. Here, let me show you.” He dipped a finger in his glass of ale and drew on the wooden table, with a few deft strokes, a circle and a cross. A familiar symbol.

“A quartered circle,” Gray said.

Wallace’s brows rose, and he stared a bit harder at Gray. “Exactly. You’ll find this symbol carved into many ancient sites. But to find a Christian diary marked with it caught my attention.”

Rachel sensed they were drawing near to the heart of the mystery. “And this diary helped you to find that lost village up in the mountains?”

“Actually, no.” Wallace smiled. “What I found was even more exciting.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Wallace sat back, folded his arms, and swept his gaze over the lot of them. “Before I answer that, how about you telling me first what’s really going on? Like what you’re all doing here?”

“I don’t understand,” Gray said, feigning confusion, attempting to maintain their cover story as journalists.

“Don’t take me for a fool. If you’re reporters, I’m a steamin’ bampot.” Wallace’s gaze settled fully on Rachel. “Besides, right off, I recognized you, my young lassie. You’re Monsignor Verona’s niece.”

Shocked, Rachel stared over at Gray. He looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. Kowalski merely rolled his eyes, picked up his glass, and downed the remaining contents in one gulp.

Rachel saw no reason to continue the subterfuge. She faced the professor. She now understood why the man had been staring at her so oddly. “You know my uncle?”

“Aye. Not well, but I do. And I’m sorry to hear he’s still in a coma. We met at a symposium years ago and began an ongoing correspondence. Your uncle was very proud of you—a carabiniere in charge of antiquities theft. He sent photos, and at my age, I don’t forget a pretty young face like yours.”