The Judas Strain - James Rollins [42]
If they could reach it in secret…
But was the destination too obvious?
There were a thousand exits out of the park system, but Nasser knew his quarry bore a seriously injured woman and that she needed immediate medical attention.
It was a huge risk, but Gray saw no way of avoiding it.
He remembered Nasser’s eyes as the bastard asked about the obelisk. Hungry, ruthless. The Egyptian had believed Gray’s assertion that the obelisk had been left behind—mostly because Gray had believed it. But which was more important to the man: obtaining the obelisk or seeking revenge?
He stared around at their small group.
All their lives balanced on that answer.
2:21 A.M.
A HALF HOUR later Painter stalked the length of his office, a hands-free headset fixed to his ear. “They’re all dead?”
Behind him, the plasma screen displayed live feed of the fiery blaze of three homes, along with a section of the neighboring parkland. It had been a dry summer, turning forest into kindling. Fire engines and emergency personnel swarmed the cordoned-off area. Television vans were already raising satellite antennas. A police helicopter circled above, floodlight spearing down, searching.
But it was too little, too late.
Neither the convertible Gray had driven to the safe house nor the hijacked medical van was among the wreckage. The raging fires hampered further investigation.
The only solid news was bad. The original med-van team had been discovered in an abandoned field, each shot in the head. He had four folders on his desk. He sank to his seat. On top of everything else, he had four hard calls to make before dawn. To their families.
Painter’s aide, Brant, wheeled into his doorway. “Sorry, sir.”
Painter nodded to him.
“I have Dr. McKnight holding on your third line. He’s available for phone or video conferencing.”
Painter pointed a thumb at the fiery screen. “I’ve seen enough of this for the moment. Patch Sean through.”
Painter peeled the headset out of his ear. He swore he might as well have one surgically implanted. He swung around to face the screen as the emergency scene dissolved away, replaced by the face of his boss.
Sean McKnight had founded Sigma but had since been promoted to the head of DARPA. Painter had placed a call to him as soon as Seichan had crashed into Gray’s life. Both for his advice and expertise. But also for one more pressing reason.
“So the Guild is back on our doorstep,” Sean said. He combed his fingers through his graying red hair. It was mussed, and it looked like he had been summoned directly from his bed. But his white shirt was creased and pressed. A navy pinstripe jacket lay over an arm of his chair. Ready for a long day.
“The Guild may be more than on our doorstep,” Painter said. “Current intel suggests they may be through the door already.” Painter tapped a folder behind him. “You’ve already read the sit-op.”
A nod answered him. “Plainly the Guild knew about the safe house. Knew Gray was headed there with their AWOL operative. We have a leak somewhere.”
“I’m afraid we have to assume that.”
He shook his head. If true, it was disastrous. The Guild had infiltrated Sigma once before, but Painter would swear his organization was clean now. After the last mole had been exposed, Painter had burned Sigma to its roots and rebuilt it from the ground up, with hundreds of safeguards and countermeasures.
All for nothing.
If there was still a leak, the very foundation of Sigma might be suspect. It could mean the dissolution of the organization. An internal audit was already under way, a cost-benefit analysis of Sigma’s basic command structure, under the guise of unifying U.S. intelligence-gathering services within Homeland Security.
But worst of all, there was a more intimate cost.
Painter had the four folders waiting on his desk to remind him.
Sean continued. “It is not just our division that is plagued by this terrorist-for-hire network. Two months ago, MI6 cleared