Monk swung the torch in a fiery arc. His heart pounded a primal drumbeat that traced back to mankind’s prehistoric roots huddled in dark caves.
Still, as he’d hoped, the loud bang of the door drew the second cat. It came ripping around the corner on the left, low to the ground, a blur of striped fur and massive paws. Monk shoved his torch in the cat’s face as it lunged at him.
Fur burned, and the cat screeched and rolled away.
Monk caught a glimpse of the tiger’s gnarled left ear, marking this one as Zakhar.
His brother Arkady howled and charged, defending his littermate.
Monk knew the cat intended to bowl into him, torch or not.
So Monk hiked his arm back and hurled the fiery brand like a javelin. It speared through the air and struck the tiger square in its open mouth. The cat shot straight up, spitting and writhing in midair.
Monk grabbed the knife from his teeth, pivoted on his toe, and lunged back into the cabin. As he turned, from the corner of his eye, he spotted Zakhar pounding straight at him.
Gasping in terror, Monk sprinted across the smoky interior of the cabin. Like tear gas, the heat and sting of soot blinded him. He ran on instinct. The open window lay directly opposite the door. Blinking tears, he made out a darker square set against the blurry wall.
He dove straight at it, stretching his arms ahead of him.
His aim was sure—until a claw snagged his pant leg. Cloth ripped free, but his body jerked. His shoulder hit the window’s edge with an arm-numbing blow. His momentum enabled him to tumble out the window. He landed hard with the wind knocked out of him. The knife flew from his fingertips into high weeds.
Behind him, Zakhar slammed into the wall, unprepared for the mouse hole through which Monk had escaped. The impact shook the entire cabin; flames danced higher. A howl of raw fury chased Monk back to his feet.
He stumbled a step, caught himself, then sprinted away from the cabin toward the water. It was that stumble that doomed him.
2:20 P.M.
Washington, D.C.
“Her condition is a form of meningitis,” Dr. Yuri Raev admitted.
Painter sat across the dining table from the older Russian scientist. Dr. Raev was flanked by John Mapplethorpe, who Painter recognized from a dossier Sean McKnight had prepared—and a surprising guest, Dr. Trent McBride, the supposedly missing colleague of Archibald Polk.
It seemed he had been found.
Painter had a thousand questions for the man, but the meeting here at the Capital Grille on
Pennsylvania Avenue
had been tightly negotiated across intelligence channels. The limit and scope of their discussions had been ironed out. Any discussion of Dr. Polk was off the table. At least for now. The only matter open for dialogue was the health of the girl.
As such, Painter had brought his own experts to the roundtable. On his side of the table sat Lisa and Malcolm. The pair had the medical knowledge and background to weigh the validity of the information offered.
Across the table, the Russian looked ill at ease. He was not the monster Painter had envisioned in his mind when he’d negotiated this roundtable. The man looked like a kindly grandfather in his rumpled dark suit, but there was a haunted quality to his eyes. Painter also read the crinkled concern as he talked about the child. The lines on his face had deepened and spread when he glanced through the medical file Lisa had slid across the table. Painter suspected the only reason the man was cooperating was a true fear for the girl’s life.
“Her deterioration is a result of her augment,” Yuri continued. “We don’t completely understand why. The device’s microelectrodes are composed of carbon-platinum nanotubules. We believe that the more a subject utilizes their talents, the faster they deteriorate. Has Sasha been drawing while you’ve had her in your custody?”
Painter remembered all her feverish sketches: the safe house, the Taj Mahal, a picture of Monk. He slowly nodded. “Exactly what is she doing when she draws?”
Mapplethorpe lifted a hand. There was an oiliness to his voice, well suited to slide around the truth. “You know that is beyond the scope of discussion here. You’re treading on thin ice, Director Crowe.”
Yuri spoke over Mapplethorpe’s objection, which Painter found interesting. “She is a prodigious savant,” he said, ignoring glares from either side. “Her natural talents blend keen spatial dynamics with artistic talent, and when augmented, these abilities cross to—”
“That’s enough,” Mapplethorpe barked. “Or we end matters here and walk away. You can send us the girl’s body after she’s dead.”
Yuri’s face darkened, but he went silent.
Lisa encouraged him back on track. “Why does utilizing her abilities accelerate Sasha’s deterioration?”
Yuri spoke softly, with a trace of guilt. “When stimulated, the interface between the organic and inorganic begins to leak.”
Malcolm stirred. “What do you mean by ‘leak’?”
“Our researchers believe that nanoparticles break away from the ends of the microelectrodes and contaminate the cerebral spinal fluid.”
Lisa stirred. “No wonder our cultures came back negative. The meningitis wasn’t bacterial or viral, but a contamination of foreign particles.”
Yuri nodded.
“And to cure her, we must treat that contamination?” she asked.
“Yes. It has taken us many years to devise a system of preventative medicine. At the core, we employ a modified version of a chemotherapeutic drug used to treat bladder cancer. Cis-platinum. The monoatomic platinum acts as a binder for the stray nanoparticles and helps flush them out. The exact cocktail and dosage of drugs necessary to facilitate such a treatment will require an examination of the girl and immediate access to fresh blood tests.”
Painter noted the corners of McBride’s lips harden. It seemed there was some dissatisfaction with this dependency on Dr. Raev. But if the Russian was telling the truth, he was vital to the girl’s survival.
Under the table, Lisa’s hand rested on Painter’s knee. The long linen tablecloth hid her attention. They were seated in the Fabric Room of the Capital Grille steakhouse, neutral ground, a restaurant known for the number of deals struck across the fine china and linen. They had the private dining hall to themselves. The rest of the restaurant was notably empty. Most likely arranged by Mapplethorpe to assure further privacy.
Lisa’s fingers tightened on his knee, signaling that she believed Dr. Raev. Painter also noted the division between the Russian and the other two men. Was there a way of utilizing that to his advantage?
McBride spoke. “We have Dr. Raev’s pharmacy of medicines. If you’ll bring the girl to a hospital, we can get her treatment started immediately. Perhaps Walter Reed Army Medical Center.”
Painter shook his head.
Nice try, bud.
Lisa supported him. “She’s too fragile to move. We’re barely managing her D.I.C. as it is. Any additional stress could destabilize her beyond recovery.”
“Then I must go to her,” Yuri said.
Painter knew they’d come to the prickly point of these negotiations. The child was a political and scientific hot potato. He had left her in the care of Kat and Sean. Sean, as the director of DARPA, was also wielding his skill behind the scenes. The roundtable here was just the tip of the political iceberg.
Painter had no choice but to bring Yuri to the girl, breaching Sigma security—but unfortunately, Mapplethorpe knew this, too. And from their reactions here and the obvious friction between them, Mapplethorpe would never allow Yuri to go alone.
“I will allow one person to accompany Dr. Raev,” Painter said.
Mapplethorpe misinterpreted his restriction. “We know where Sigma command is located, if that’s what you fear revealing. Beneath the Smithsonian Castle.”
Though Painter shouldn’t have been startled, his gut still clenched. Mapplethorpe had his fingers tangled throughout the intelligence web of Washington. Sean had warned that it would not take the man long to determine who was involved and where they were located. Still, with all his political power, Mapplethorpe could not gain access to Sigma’s inner sanctum. Behind the scenes, the man was surely still attempting to storm their gates. Sean’s goal was to keep those gates barred tightly.
Painter kept his features stoic. “Be that as it may, I’ll allow only one person to accompany Dr. Raev.” He glanced between the two men.
McBride lifted a hand. “I’ll go. I can be of use to Yuri.”
From the Russian’s slight roll of his eyes, it seemed Dr. Raev did not agree.
Mapplethorpe stared hard at Painter, then slowly nodded. “But we’ll want a concession for our cooperation,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You may keep the girl—but from here on out, you’ll grant free access to her once she’s recovered. She is a resource we’ll not let slip away. Our national security is at stake.”
“Don’t wave the flag at me,” Painter said. “What you cooperated in to produce this girl is beyond all conventions of human decency.”
“We only financed and offered scientific counsel at the end. The project was already well established. If we hadn’t cooperated, as you say, our country would be at serious risk.”
“What a crock! When you cross such a line, you damage all of us. What nation are we trying to protect, if that nation advocates the brutality necessary to produce this girl?”
“Are you truly that naive, Crowe? It’s a new world out there.”
“No, it’s not. Last I checked, it’s the same planet circling the same sun. The only thing that’s changed is how we’re reacting, what lines we’re willing to cross. We have the ability to stop that.”
Mapplethorpe glowered at him. Painter saw the resolution in the man’s eyes. The man truly believed what he was doing was necessary, saw no fault in it. Here was a level of zealotry that brooked no argument. Painter wondered where such certainty came from—was it just patriotism or did he wrap himself in such dogma to protect himself from the atrocities he committed, crimes he knew in his heart were too horrible to justify any other way?