Elizabeth headed out, with Kowalski at her elbow.
Now that you're back in town, Kowalski mumbled to her, running a palm over his shaved scalp. Would you want Maybe we could ?
Gray winced at the man's efforts and nodded for Painter to move to the side.
This isn't going to be pretty.
What is it, Joe? Elizabeth asked, an eyebrow lifted curiously at the large man.
He stammered, cursed under his breath, then straightened. Do you want to go out on a date?
Smooth, Painter thought, suppressing a grin.
Elizabeth shrugged and led Kowalski out. You mean a second date, right?
Kowalski's brow crinkled like a washboard.
I think being shot at, kidnapped, irradiated, and saving the world classifies at least as a first date.
Kowalski tripped along next to her, his mind catching up at about the same pace.
So you'll go?
Elizabeth nodded. As long as you bring the cigars.
Kowalski grinned. I got a whole box of aw, crap! He stopped and stared down at his shoes. His left foot had landed squarely in a pile of horse manure. These are my brand-new Chukkas!
Elizabeth hooked his arm under hers and headed off. It'll wash off.
But you don't understand! The leather is hand polished by
The pair disappeared into the throng.
Gray shook his head. Kowalski's got a date. I think hell's just gotten a little bit colder.
Painter and Gray headed out toward the Smithsonian Castle. Both of them had a ton of work still to do. Sigma command remained in disarray, both politically and structurally. They'd lost some key people during the initial assault, and one entire level remained cordoned off due to the firestorm. Repairs and inspections of the infrastructure were still under way.
But politically things were far dicier. They had managed to capture the neurologist Dr. James Chen, one of the Jasons involved with Mapplethorpe and
McBride. Under interrogation, he was helping them weed out the corrupt Jasons from the legitimate scientists working for the Defense Department. But
Mapplethorpe was another matter. He had his fingers throughout Washington's intelligence agencies. It was still unclear if he had been operating solely as a rogue agent or if there were members of the Washington establishment who had supported the man's action. As a result, intelligence camps were circling their wagons, protecting themselves but still pointing fingers.
Even toward Sigma.
So vultures circled, but Painter had the backing of a grateful president. It would take work, but they'd get things running smoothly before long. In fact,
Painter was scheduled to meet Sean McKnight's replacement tomorrow, the new interim head of DARPA. The president initially offered Painter the position, but he had declined. Sigma needed some continuity. As the joint brainchild of
Archibald Polk and Sean McKnight, Painter could not abandon Sigma.
Painter glanced at Gray. I assume you'll be spending all day at the hospital tomorrow.
He nodded. Kat will need company.
Monk Kokkalis's surgery was scheduled for six in the morning. An MRI revealed what had been done to Monk in the Russian lab, but it remained unknown if the damage could ever be reversed. The Russians had wired a microchip into Monk's basolateral amygdala. The neurologists believed the chip had induced and maintained a fluid amnesia. It was a technique already being investigated using chemicals, specifically propranolol as a beta-blocker to erase especially strong memories of trauma. The Russians had been experimenting on Monk, using the biotechnological equivalent.
The surgery had been delayed until Monk finished a series of antiradiation treatments. The neurologists used the extra time to study Monk's case, but they still could not say if he'd ever get his memory back especially with the other result found during the MRI. In order to install the chip, a small section of Monk's cerebral cortex had been removed.
Painter recalled the horror on Gray's face upon learning that and his dismayed words: First his hand, now a section of his brain it's like Monk is slowly being whittled away.
Has there been any indication that Monk recognizes Kat? Painter asked.
Gray shook his head. The doctors have mostly kept her away. They believe that, while the chip is still in his head, further stress on his memory, like the emotional connection with Kat, might actually cause more damage than good.
Still, she visited him.
He nodded. She had to. She went into the room with a group of nurses. Monk conversed with them, but he had no reaction upon seeing Kat. Nothing at all. It practically destroyed her. She has Monk back, but he's still lost to her.
Then we'll have to pray for the best.
September 29, 6:21 P. M.
George Washington University Hospital
The man woke into a room too bright. It stung his eyes and pounded deep into the back of his head. Nausea followed, accompanied by a swirl of details. He swallowed hard a few times and forced his vision to steady.
A slim woman in a blue smock patted his hand. There you go, Mr. Kokkalis. Just breathe. She turned away. He's coming around more fully this time.
The spinning settled. The pounding of the drum inside his head slowed to a dull pressure. He found himself in a hospital room, remembering in bits and pieces.
The operation. He lifted an arm and found it strapped to a plastic splint through which intravenous lines dripped both clear saline and a unit of blood.
To the side, monitors beeped and whirred.
Monk tried to move his head, but his neck ached, and a tube ran down from a cap atop his head.
A series of doctors came through, shining lights into his eyes, making him do simple motor tests, judging his ability to swallow with ice chips, and performing other cranial nerve function tests. After about ten minutes, they drifted away, chattering about his case, leaving two people standing at the foot of his bed.
Monk recognized the man. Gray , he said hoarsely, his throat still raw from the endotracheal tube.
The man's eyes brightened.
Monk knew what they all hoped, what he hoped, but he shook his head. He knew the man only from the chaos in Russia. A striking woman in jeans and a loose blouse leaned next to him, her auburn hair down to her shoulders. Her emerald eyes searched Monk for some answer. But he didn't even know the question.
Gray touched her elbow. It may be too soon, Kat. You know that. The doctors said it might take months.
She turned slightly to the side and wiped her eyes. I know, she said, but it sounded like a moan.
With his senses tuned sharp by a trailing edge of nausea, Monk caught a scent in the air, familiar, spiced yet musky. No memory came with it, but his breathing grew heavier. Something something about
We should let him rest, Gray said and guided the woman away. We'll come back in the morning. It's been a long day. You should be getting her home anyway.
Gray nodded to a blue stroller behind them. A small child slept, nestled in blankets, head capped like Monk's, eyes closed, a pursed button of a mouth.
Monk's eyes locked on the baby. Staccato flashes burst into existence out of nothingness.
tiny fingers curled around his finger walking down a long, dark hall, tired, rocking the small figure in his arms little kicking feet as he changed a diaper
Just snippets. No coherency. But unlike before, there was no pain, only a soothing brightness that did not fade this time.
Out of that glow, he found a small sliver of himself.
She's her name The two turned to her. It's Penelope.
The woman stared at the child, back to him. Her entire form shook as teats spilled in shining streaks of joy. Monk
She rushed to his side, falling over him. She leaned and kissed him gently, her hair draped over them like a tent.
He remembered.
The taste of cinnamon, soft lips