The Doomsday Key (Sigma Force 6)

They reached the elevator bay, where the push of a button opened a set of doors. They moved inside. Another key reader glowed red. The elevator would not move without the proper code.

Monk hovered a finger over the B2 button—Basement Level 2—where the servers were housed. Creed waited to swipe his skeleton key. Monk hesitated before he pressed the button.

“What?” Creed mouthed, fearful of speaking English in case the elevator was monitored.

Monk pointed to the buttons below his finger. They ran from B2 to B5. According to the schematics provided, there were not supposed to be any levels below B2.

So what was on those levels?

Monk knew they had a mission, but there was a subtext to this night’s operation: to find out what was really going on at Viatus. It was a long shot that the corporation kept anything incriminating on its servers. Any real dirt was most likely buried much deeper.

Like underground.

Monk shifted his finger down and pressed B5. Creed glared at him, plainly questioning what he was doing.

Just a little improvisation, he answered silently. Sigma wasn’t about following orders blindly but about thinking on your feet.

Creed needed to learn that.

Monk pointed toward the key reader and motioned for Creed to swipe his electronic card. The detour would only take an extra minute. He would simply take a peek below. If it was just a maintenance level or some sort of employee swimming pool, they could quickly hop back up to B2, tag the servers, and get out of there.

With an exasperated sigh, Creed shoved in his card. After a half second, the light flashed green.

The elevator began to descend.

No alarms sounded.

The levels ticked downward, and the elevator opened into a closed lobby. A sealed door stood directly across from them. Monk paused, suddenly having second thoughts.

What would Gray do here?

Monk mentally shook his head. Since when was following Gray’s example a good thing? The man had an uncanny knack for trouble.

As the elevator began to close, Monk grabbed Creed by the elbow and leaped into the lobby.

“Are you nuts?” Creed hissed under his breath, shaking loose Monk’s grip.

Probably.

Monk moved closer to examine the door. It had no key reader. Only a glowing panel that was plainly meant to read a palm.

“What now?” Creed whispered.

Undaunted, Monk placed his prosthetic hand atop the reader. Pressure sensitive, the pad grew brighter. A bar of light scanned up and down. He held his breath—then heard the lock’s tumblers release.

A name flashed above the reader.

IVAR KARLSEN

Creed frowned as he read the name, then glared over at Monk, angry that he’d not been informed about this extra precaution.

It had been Kat’s idea. She had obtained the CEO’s full records, including a palm print. It had taken only a moment to digitize the data and feed it into the equivalent of a laser printer. The device had then burned a copy of the print across Monk’s synthetic palm, scoring the blank skin into a perfect match.

If anyone had full access to this facility, it was certainly its CEO.

Monk moved to the unlocked door.

Let’s see what Ivar’s hiding down here.

11:46 P.M.

Painter kept watch across the street from the Grand Hotel Oslo. He sat on a bench with a wide view of the entrance. It was no wonder Senator Gorman had chosen this place as his residence. Built in an extravagant Louis XVI revival style, the hotel climbed eight stories and took up an entire city block, with a central clock tower looming over its entrance. It was also conveniently located directly across from Norway’s parliament buildings.

A perfect choice for a visiting U.S. senator.

And an unlikely spot for an ambush.

Still, Painter wanted to be thorough. He had been here for an hour, wearing a heavy coat, hat, and scarf. He also moved with a bit of a hunch that was only half faked. His knife wound had begun to ache as the pain relievers wore off. For the past hour, he had canvassed all the public areas of the hotel, including the Limelight Bar, where Gorman was supposed to meet their mysterious contact. As an extra precaution, Painter had the stolen WASP dagger tucked into the back of his belt and a small 9mm Beretta in a shoulder holster.

But so far, everything appeared quiet.

Painter glanced up at the clock tower. It was a few minutes before midnight. Time for this spy to come in out of the cold.

Standing up, he headed across the street, as prepared as he could be.

Monk had already checked in, and earlier in the evening Painter had had a short but intense conversation via satellite phone with Gray. He had learned that the Viatus Corporation had funded the dig in England. They had been bioprospecting for new organisms to exploit for their genetic research. Had they found something? Gray had described the gruesome discovery, at a Neolithic stone ring, of bodies buried and preserved in a bog, bodies riddled with some sort of fungus.

Was that significant?

Painter recalled that the murdered Princeton geneticist had believed the new genes inserted into the Viatus corn samples were not of bacterial origin. Could they have been fungal, genes extracted from those mushrooms? And if so, why all the secrecy and bloodshed to hide the fact?

Painter shoved the questions aside for now. He needed to focus on the immediate task at hand. He entered the lobby and circumspectly observed his surroundings. He compared the faces of the hotel employees with those in his earlier canvass and made sure there were no strangers among them.

Satisfied, he strode over to the hotel bar. The Limelight was dark and richly paneled, illuminated only by the glow of wall lanterns. Red leather club chairs and sofas divided the space. It smelled vaguely of cigars.

At this hour the establishment was sparsely populated. It wasn’t hard to spot Senator Gorman over by the bar. Especially with the burly man sitting next to him, wearing a suit too small for his bulk. He might as well have bodyguard stenciled across his forehead. The guard sat with his back to the bar and, with no subtlety, scanned the patrons for any threats.

Painter observed them from the corner of his eye. He passed among the chairs and took a seat at a booth near the entrance. A barmaid took his order.

Now to see who, if anyone, showed up.

He didn’t have long to wait.

A man appeared, wearing a heavy ankle-length overcoat. He searched the bar, then his gaze fixed on the senator. Painter was startled to realize he’d seen this man before, back when the luncheon had broken up. He’d been complaining to the Club of Rome’s copresident.

Painter struggled to remember his name.

Something like Anthony.

He played back the conversation in his head.