The Doomsday Key by James Rollins Read Free Book Online Page A

biophysics. Monk Kokkalis’s specialty was forensics, and at the moment, such skills did not seem necessary. Recognizing this, Gray had finally acquiesced, but Painter hadn’t sent him out alone. Until further details were gathered, all Gray needed was some muscle.
    And that he got.
    As Painter pondered taking another aspirin, the intercom chimed on his desk. Brant’s voice followed. “Director, I have General Metcalf holding for you.”
    Painter had been expecting the teleconference call. He’d read the classified e-mail from the head of DARPA. With a heavy sigh, he tapped the connection and swung his chair around to face the wall monitor behind him.
    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 alsodid 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 fromhis 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.