The dark screen flickered into full color. The general was seated behind a desk. Gregory Metcalf was African American, a graduate of West Point, and though in his midfifties, he remained as sturdy and hard as when he'd been a linebacker for the Point's football team. The only signs of his age were his salt-and-pepper hair and a pair of reading glasses held in his left hand. After Metcalf was assigned to head DARPA, Painter quickly learned not to underestimate the man's intelligence.
But there remained a wariness between the two.
The general shifted forward, and without any preamble asked, "Have you read the report I sent about the conflict in Africa?"
So much for simple courtesy.
Painter motioned to one of the wall monitors. "I have. Along with pulling NATO's report about the assault on the Red Cross camp. I also did a background check on the corporation running the test farm out there."
"Very good. Then I won't have to get you up to speed on the details."
Painter prickled at the condescension. "But I still don't understand what this has to do with Sigma."
"That's because I haven't told you yet, Director."
The ache between Painter's eyeballs grew sharper.
The general tapped at a keyboard in front of him. The wall screen split away to display a still photo next to the general. The picture showed a young white male, stripped to his boxers and strung up on a wooden cross in the middle of a charred and smoky field. The image was less like a crucifixion and more like a ghoulish scarecrow. In the background, Painter noted the dry African savannah.
"The young man's name is Jason Gorman," Metcalf said coldly.
Painter's brows pulled tightly together. "Gorman. As in Senator Gorman?"
The senator's name had come up during Painter's research into the Viatus Corporation. Sebastian Gorman was head of the Senate Committee on Agriculture, Nutrition, and Forestry. He was a powerful advocate for the advancement of genetically modified foods as a means to feed the starving world and supply new biofuel resources.
The general cleared his throat, drawing back Painter's stunned attention. "That is Senator Gorman's twenty-three-year-old son. The young man had a master's degree in plant molecular biology and was working toward his doctorate, but he went to Mali mostly to serve as the senator's eyes and ears on the project over there."
Painter began to understand why this crisis had risen to the levels it had in Washington. The powerful senator, surely distraught and wanting answers about the death of his son, must be shaking all of Capitol Hill. But still Painter did not understand Sigma's role in the matter. From the NATO report, the attack had been perpetrated by Tuareg rebels, a brutal force who were constantly plaguing the West African republic.
Metcalf continued, "Senator Gorman received an e-mail message from his son on the morning of the attack. It described the assault in a few terse sentences. From the descriptions of helicopters and napalm bombing, the attack was both militarized and large scale in force and scope."
Painter sat straighter.
"Attached to the same e-mail was a set of research files. The senator did not understand why they'd been forwarded, nor could he decipher their scientific content. Not knowing what else to do, he sent them to his son's thesis professor at Princeton University, Dr. Henry Malloy."
"I'd like to see those files myself," Painter said, beginning to understand why Sigma had been called into the matter. The strange attack, the cryptic research, all fit the scope of Sigma. Painter's mind already began charting logistics and a plan of action. "I can have someone out in the field in Mali within twenty-four hours."
"No. Your role in this matter will be limited." Metcalf's voice deepened with an implied threat. "This mess is already escalating into a political shitstorm. Senator Gorman is on a witch-hunt, looking for any and all parties to blame."
"General-" Painter began.
"And Sigma's already on fragile ground. One misstep, and no one will be able to pick up the pieces."
Painter held back a stronger refrain, letting the implied lack of confidence in his group roll off his back. He had to pick and choose which fights to have with this man. This wasn't one of them.
"So what role do you see for Sigma?"
"To gather intelligence on those files, to determine if it warrants further investigation. And the first place to start is with Dr. Malloy. I want him interviewed, and the files reviewed."
"I can have a team over there by this afternoon."
"Very good. But there is one other thing. Something that I'd like you to undertake personally."
"What's that?"
"One piece of information has been kept quiet for now. I want your take on the matter." The general tapped at his keyboard, and the photo zoomed in to Jason Gorman's face. "Whoever strung the boy up mutilated his body."
Painter stood and moved closer to the wall monitor. A symbol had been burned into the young man's brow, as if someone had taken a branding iron to him. A circle and a cross.
"I want to know why they did this," Metcalf said. "And what it means."
Painter slowly nodded.
So did he.
9:35 P.M.
Rome, Italy
Rachel slid her Mini Cooper into the assigned parking place at her apartment complex. Seated behind the wheel, she took an extra moment to think about what she'd done. On the passenger seat was a small clear plastic bag holding the old leather pouch and its macabre contents.
She had left Saint Peter's without telling anyone about what she'd discovered.
It's late, she had justified in her head. I can turn it over to the investigators in the morning. Give a full report then.
But Rachel recognized the deeper truth behind her theft. It had been her uncle's words that had guided her to the hidden pouch. She had felt a certain possessiveness about that discovery. If she turned the pouch over to the authorities, not only would she be reprimanded for trespassing on a case that was beyond her jurisdiction, but she could be cut totally out of the loop. She might never find out the significance of the pouch. And lastly, she could not ignore a touch of pride about the matter. No one else had found the pouch. She trusted her own gut more than the muddle and chaos that was this international and interdepartmental investigation.
And her gut told her that she was out of her league. She needed help. She would wait until Gray arrived in the morning, get his take on all of this, and go from there.
Settled on a plan of action, Rachel grabbed the evidence bag and shoved it into her jacket. She climbed out of her car and headed for the stairs. Her apartment was on the third floor. Though small, she did have a nice view of the Coliseum from her balcony.
Reaching the third floor landing, she pushed through the stairwell door. As she headed down the hallway, she noted two things. Mrs. Rosselli was cooking with too much garlic again, and a glow shone out from under her own door.
Rachel stopped. She always turned off her lights before leaving her apartment. But then again, she had been upset this morning. Maybe she had forgotten.
Not taking any chances, she lifted a bit on her toes and crept silently down the hallway. This city was plagued by thieves and pickpockets, and break-ins were not uncommon in this area. Her eyes remained fixed on the bar of light under her door. As she drew closer, a shadow passed across the glow.
Rachel's skin went cold.
Someone was in her apartment.
Swearing under her breath, she backed away. She had no weapon. She considered knocking on Mrs. Rosselli's door, getting out of the hallway, but the garlic already stung her nose. Inside the old woman's cramped apartment, the fumes would be blinding. Instead, she reached into a pocket and pulled out her cell phone.