The Bone Labyrinth (7 page)

“Croatia?”

“In the mountains out there. A French alpine military team was acting as a security force for some archaeological dig. From the sound of it, the team was ambushed. So far, attempts to reestablish communication have failed.”

Gray didn’t see how this involved Sigma, but if Metcalf had called Painter, then something significant must be up. General Gregory Metcalf was the head of DARPA—the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—and Painter’s immediate superior. Sigma Force operated under the aegis of DARPA and was composed of former Special Forces soldiers who had been retrained in various scientific disciplines, which allowed for covert teams to be tasked against specific threats to U.S. or global security.

“I don’t understand,” Gray said. “This sounds more like a matter for the French military. How does this involve Sigma?”

“Because DARPA has some skin in the game. The team being protected by that French unit was an international group, including an American geneticist, Dr. Lena Crandall. Her current project is partially funded by DARPA. It’s why General Metcalf called us, to get someone from Sigma out there to investigate.”

And as I’m practically in the neighborhood already . . .

“Kat is arranging to have a jet readied for you,” Painter continued. “She can get your boots on the ground in those mountains in under two hours.”

Kat—Captain Kathryn Bryant—was Sigma’s chief intelligence analyst, serving as Painter’s right hand. She and her husband were also Gray’s best friends.

“What about Seichan?” Gray asked.

“Kat assumed she would be coming, too.”

Movement drew Gray’s attention to the bathroom door. Seichan leaned against the doorframe, wrapped only in a wet towel that hid very little.

“Where are we going?” she asked, plainly guessing the general gist of the conversation.

Gray smiled at her powers of perception, a skill surely honed from her years as an assassin for hire. Even now, there remained layers of mystery to her. Still, while several countries maintained a bounty on her for past crimes, there was no one he wanted more by his side.

And not just for her talents with a gun.

He took in the sight of her body, the sultry mocha of her bare skin. Even motionless, her limbs exuded equal parts grace and power.

“Looks like our vacation will have to be cut short,” he warned.

She shrugged, letting the towel fall from her torso. “I was getting tired of Paris anyway.”

She turned, baring the full curve of her backside.

That’s one view I’ll never get tired of.

Painter interrupted. “As a precaution, I’ll also be extending the investigation stateside.”

Gray drew his attention back to the phone. “What do you mean?”

“Dr. Crandall’s project is based out of Emory University. I’m dispatching a team to Atlanta to interview the project’s co-researcher, Dr. Crandall’s sister.”

“Her sister?”

“Her twin, actually. Dr. Maria Crandall. Seems the project is a family affair.”

“What were the two working on?”

“Much of it’s classified. Even Metcalf didn’t know all the specifics at this early stage. All I know is that the project involved the search for the origin of human intelligence.”

The origin of human intelligence?

Intrigued, Gray wanted to know more, but he suspected Painter was holding back until he could get a full accounting of that project. “Who are you sending to Atlanta?”

“That’s the thing . . . I need someone who’s fluent in American Sign Language.”

Gray frowned. He didn’t understand why such a skill was necessary, but surely if this was an investigation into human intelligence, Painter would send Sigma’s best and brightest.

“So who’s going?” Gray asked again.

Painter only sighed.

7:55 a.m. EDT

“
I thought she was pregnant,” Joe Kowalski said, picturing the furious expression on the new security guard who manned the desk upstairs. Sullenly, he exited the elevator into the heart of Sigma command with Monk Kokkalis at his side.

“Still, you never ask a woman when she’s due,” Monk said. “Never. Not even if you’re sure she’s carrying triplets.”

Kowalski scowled. “It’s the damned uniform, that big black belt. I swore she was almost due.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t shoot you.”

Maybe she should have . . .

He stared at the ceiling of the hallway as he strode alongside Monk. Sigma Command was buried beneath the Smithsonian Castle, occupying a warren of World War II–era bomb shelters. Moments ago, returning from a morning jog along the National Mall, he had tried to be a good neighbor, to show some interest in the new addition to the staff above. Of course, it hadn’t hurt that the woman was cute with full lips.

“Talk about burning a bridge,” Monk scolded.

Kowalski growled his irritation. He didn’t need to be reminded about his sorry track record with women of late. “Drop it already.”

Monk shrugged and ran a palm over his bald scalp, possibly sensing he had taken the joke one step too far. He stood a head shorter than Kowalski and would certainly win no beauty contests. Then again, Kowalski knew his own charms were few and far between. More than one woman had compared him to a shaved ape—and they were probably being generous.

Ahead, a slender form, dressed in crisp navy blues, appeared from the doorway that led into Sigma’s communication nest. “There you two are,” Kat said, drawing alongside them. “I was just headed over to the director’s office.”

“So what’s this sudden summons about?” Monk asked, slipping his hand into his wife’s fingers as they continued down the hallway.

Kowalski noted the simple gesture of affection, so effortless and easy. A bitter flare of envy burned through him, along with a flicker of hope.

If this guy could win the heart of such a woman . . .

Then again, Monk made up for his looks in countless ways. He was a former Green Beret, with the scars to prove it, and now served as Sigma’s medical forensic expert. Many enemies misjudged his brutish exterior, underestimating his skills and sharp mind.

Director Crowe had once told Kowalski that Sigma got its name from the Greek letter ∑, the mathematical symbol for
the sum of
, because Sigma Force was the union of the best of man’s abilities—the joining of brain and brawn. That certainly fit the description of Monk Kokkalis.

Kowalski caught his own reflection in the glass of a closed door, staring at his lumbering form, his thick neck, his crooked nose.

So what the hell am I doing here?

During his time in the navy, he had climbed no higher than the rank of seaman. Even at Sigma, his “scientific” training centered on how to blow things up—not that he didn’t enjoy that. But he knew down deep that when it came to balancing brain and brawn, in his case, those scales were tipped far to one side.

Kat spoke ahead of him. “I’ll let Painter explain the reason for calling you both down here. We’re just getting a handle on the details ourselves.”

Kowalski followed the pair down the hall to the director’s office. He and Monk had been ordered to return to Sigma as they rounded the Lincoln Memorial during their morning jog. Both still wore sweat pants and hoodies.

Kat led her husband through the director’s open door first, leaving Kowalski to tag behind. They found Painter Crowe at his usual station in his office, seated behind a desk stacked with files. He held up a palm toward them as he finished up a call. Behind his shoulders, the three remaining walls of his office glowed with large flat-screens, displaying various maps, news feeds, and aerial footage of some mountains. Though Sigma’s headquarters were buried underground, the monitors served as the director’s windows to the world at large.

Painter finished his call and slipped the Bluetooth receiver from his ear. He stood up. “Thank you both for coming. It seems a case has arisen that suits your unique set of talents.”

The director continued, explaining about an ambush of a French military team in the Croatian mountains. He elaborated with topographical maps and live satellite images on his monitors, finally briefing them about a group of scientists who were being guarded by that French unit. The researchers’ faces flashed on the various monitors: a British geologist, a French paleontologist, and some historian from the Vatican. The last photo was of a young woman wearing a white lab smock. She was smiling at the camera, showing perfect teeth, suntanned skin, and a dash of freckles across both cheeks. Her long, dark blond hair was efficiently tied back.

Kowalski sighed out a soft whistle of appreciation.

Painter ignored his reaction. “Dr. Lena Crandall. A geneticist from Emory University. She was overseeing a project funded by DARPA.”

“What was she working on?” Monk asked.

Kowalski didn’t care. He continued to stare at the photo.

“That’s what I want you both to answer for me,” Painter said. “Kat’s arranged to have you two fly down to Atlanta this morning and interview Dr. Crandall’s sister, to find out how their research at Emory connects to an archaeological dig in Croatia. There are pieces of this puzzle that still are missing.”

“What about the research team in Croatia?” Monk asked.

“Gray and Seichan are on their way to investigate that right now.” Painter glanced for confirmation from Kat, who nodded. “I want the particulars about this research project by the time they land.”

Monk cracked the knuckles of one hand as he studied the various screens, taking it all in, clearly readying himself for the mission.

Painter placed a palm on Monk’s shoulder. “With your background in medicine and genetics, I thought you’d be best suited to communicate with Dr. Maria Crandall regarding her research. You’ll also be joined by a liaison from the National Science Foundation, a scientist who has oversight on the funding of the project.”

Painter then faced Kowalski. “And you . . .”

Kowalski frowned, unable to imagine how he could contribute beyond acting as a bodyguard.

“You’re best suited to communicate with Dr. Crandall’s test subject, the cornerstone and culmination of her research.”

“And why’s that?” Kowalski asked.

“Because you’re fluent in sign language.”

Kowalski furrowed his brows, surprised the director knew this detail about his past, but when it came to background searches, Sigma was thorough. So of course Sigma would know about his family background, about how he had been raised in the South Bronx, literally on the wrong side of the tracks. His grandparents had emigrated from Poland during the war. His father eventually started a small deli, but drank away most of the profits on the weekends. Kowalski had one sibling, a kid sister, Anne, who was born with Goldenhar syndrome, a birth defect that left her with a twisted back and severe hearing loss. After their mother was killed by a drunk driver, his father took this tragedy as a reason to drink even more heavily, leaving most of Anne’s care to fall upon Kowalski’s own young shoulders.

He took a deep breath, shying from those hard memories of the agony his sister suffered, both physical and emotional, before dying at only eleven years old. He found his fingers reaching to a pocket, to the cigar stashed there. He fingered the cellophane wrapper, wanting suddenly to smoke.

“I’m pretty rusty at it,” he mumbled.

“That’s not what I heard,” Painter said. “I heard you sometimes volunteer, working with at-risk deaf children at Georgetown Hospital.”

Monk glanced at him, lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

Kowalski silently cursed Sigma’s prying. “So who exactly am I supposed to be interrogating over there?”

Painter crossed his arms. “I think I’ll let you meet him in person before answering that. If we’re going to win over Dr. Crandall’s full cooperation, such fluency with her test subject may prove beneficial.”

Whatever . . .

Kowalski turned away, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“What about the other sister, the one in Croatia?” Monk asked behind him. “You’ve still heard no further word about the fate of that research team?”

Painter’s tone grew graver. “Nothing. The only news from the region is that they’re suffering through a series of small earthquakes. It’s left the whole mountain range rattling with aftershocks.”

Kat added, “And it’s likely only to get worse.”

5

April 29, 2:15
P
.
M
. CEST

Karlovac County, Croatia

Shivering in the dark, Lena crouched on a lip of rock. Her helmet lamp shone across the black surface of the growing lake that filled the bottom of the cavern.

We need to get out of here . . .

In the past twenty minutes, the floodwaters had erased all evidence of the prehistoric encampment that once occupied this subterranean world, swamping over the calcite-crusted bones and the charred sites of old home fires. All that remained were the tops of stalagmites protruding from the lake and the cave paintings along the walls—only now those painted herds of deer and bison looked like they were drowning.

Despite her own terror, she mourned the destruction.

At her side, Father Novak shoved his cell phone back into his pack. He shook his head, having no better luck getting a signal than she had a moment ago. She had tried to reach her sister in the States, but she could get no service this far underground.

“We should wade over to the next cave, to where we climbed down here,” he suggested. “See if there’s any way out. After all of these aftershocks, maybe something knocked loose, reopened what the thieves blasted closed.”

He didn’t sound hopeful, but Lena nodded, wanting to do something—if nothing else, to keep moving. She hiked her pack higher on her shoulder and slipped off the lip of rock into the dark lake. The icy water immediately filled her boots and soaked her pants to midthigh. Gritting her teeth, she took a few steps and continued on.

“Careful,” she warned. “It’s pretty slippery.”