"The Dragon Court."

Rachel shook her head, not recognizing the name.

"They are a medieval alchemical cult created by a schism in the early Church, the same schism that saw the rise of popes and antipopes."

Rachel was familiar with the reign of Vatican antipopes, men who sat as head of the Catholic Church but whose election was later declared uncanonical. They arose for a variety of reasons, the most common being the usurpation and exile of the legitimately elected pope, usually by a militant faction backed by a king or emperor. From the third to fifteenth century, forty antipopes had risen to sit on the papal throne. The most tumultuous era, though, was during the fourteenth century, when the legitimate papacy was driven out of Rome and into France. For seventy years, popes reigned in exile, while Rome was governed by a series of corrupt antipopes.

"What does such an ancient cult have to do with the situation now?" she asked.

"The Dragon Court is still active today. Its sovereignty is even recognized by the EU, similar to the Knights of Malta, who hold observer status at the United Nations. The shadowy Dragon Court has been linked to the European Council of Princes, the Knights Templar, and the Rosicrucians. The Dragon Court also openly admits to having members within the Catholic Church. Even here in the Vatican."

"Here?" Rachel could not keep the shock from her voice. She and her uncle had been targeted. By someone inside the Vatican.

"A few years back, there was quite a scandal," Uncle Vigor continued. "A former Jesuit priest, Father Malachi Martin, wrote of a 'secret church' within the Church. He was a scholar who spoke seventeen languages, auth.o.r.ed many scholarly texts, and was a close a.s.sociate of Pope John XXIII. He worked here in the Vatican for twenty years. His last book, written just before he died, spoke of an alchemical cult within the Vatican itself, performing rites in secret."

Rachel felt a sickening lurch in her stomach that had nothing to do with the helicopter banking in the direction of the international airport in nearby Fiumicino. "A secret church within the Church. This is who may have been involved in the Cologne ma.s.sacre? Why? What's their purpose?"

"For stealing the bones of the Magi? I have no clue."

Rachel allowed this revelation to filter through her mind. To catch a criminal required first knowing them. Ascertaining motive often proved more informative than physical evidence.

"What else do you know about the Court?" she asked.

"Despite their long history, not much. Back in the eighth century, Emperor Charlemagne conquered ancient Europe in the name of the Holy Church, smashing pagan nature-cult religions and replacing their beliefs with Catholicism."

Rachel nodded, well acquainted with the brutal tactics of Charlemagne.

"But tides turn," Uncle Vigor continued. "What was once unfashionable becomes fashionable again. By the twelfth century, a resurgence in Gnostic or mystical belief began to arise, taken up in secret by the same emperors who had once beaten it down. A schism slowly formed as the Church moved toward the Catholicism we know today, while the emperors continued their Gnostic practices. The schism came to a head during the end of the fourteenth century. The exiled papacy in France had just returned. To make peace, Holy Roman Emperor Sigismund of Luxembourg backed the Vatican politically, even outwardly abolishing Gnostic practices among the lower cla.s.ses."

"Only the lower cla.s.ses?"

"The aristocracy was spared. While the emperor beat down mystical beliefs among commoners, he created a secret society among the royal families of Europe, one dedicated to alchemical and mystical pursuits. The Ordinis Draconis. The Imperial Royal Dragon Court. It continues to this day. But there are many sects in different countries; some are benign, merely ceremonial or fraternal, but others have sprouted up that are led by vitriolic leaders. I would wager if the Dragon Court is involved, it is one of these rabid subsects."

Rachel slipped instinctually into interrogation mode. Know your enemy. Know your enemy. "And what's the goal of these nastier sects?" "And what's the goal of these nastier sects?"

"As a cult of aristocracy, these extreme leaders believe they and their members are the rightful and chosen rulers of mankind. That they were born to rule by the purity of their blood."

"Hitler's master-race syndrome."

A nod. "But they seek more. Not just kingship. They seek all forms of ancient knowledge to further their cause of domination and apocalypse."

"To tread where even Hitler feared to go," Rachel mumbled.

"Mostly they've maintained an austere air of superiority while manipulating politics behind a screen of secrecy and ritual, working with such elite groups as Skull and Bones in America and the Bilderburg think tank in Europe. But now someone is showing their hand, brazenly, bloodily."

"What does it mean?"

Uncle Vigor shook his head. "I fear this sect has discovered something of major importance, something that draws them out of hiding and into the open."

"And the deaths?"

"A warning to the Church. Like the attacks upon ourselves. The simultaneous murder attempts today couldn't be coincidence. They had to have been ordered by the Dragon Court, to slow us, to scare us. It couldn't be coincidence. This particular Court is flexing its muscles, growling for the Church to back off, shedding the skin it's worn for centuries."

"But to what end?"

Uncle Vigor leaned back with a sigh. "To achieve the goal of all madmen."

Rachel continued to stare at him.

He answered with one word. "Armageddon."

4:04 P P.M.EST.

AIRBORNE OVER THE ATLANTIC.

GRAY SHOOK his tumbler, clinking the ice. his tumbler, clinking the ice.

Kat Bryant glanced from her seat across the plush cabin of the private jet. She didn't say anything, but her furrowed brow spoke volumes. She had been concentrating on the mission dossier-for the second time. Gray had already read it from cover to cover. He saw no need to peruse it again. Instead, he had been studying the gray-blue slate of the Atlantic Ocean, trying to figure out why he had been pegged as mission leader. At forty-five thousand feet, he still had no answer.

Swiveling his chair, he stood and crossed to the antique mahogany bar at the back of the cabin. He shook his head again at the opulence here: Waterford crystal, burled walnut, leather seating. It looked like an upscale English pub.

But at least he knew the bartender.

"Another c.o.ke?" Monk asked.

Gray placed his gla.s.s on the bar. "I think I've reached my limit."

"Lightweight," his friend mumbled.

Gray turned and faced the cabin. His father had once told him that acting the part was halfway to becoming that part. Of course, he had been referring to Gray's stint as a rig hand at an oil field, one overseen by his engineer father. He had been only sixteen, spending a summer in the hot sun of East Texas. It had been brutal work, when other of his high school friends had been summering on the beaches of South Padre Island. His father's admonishment still rang in his head. To be a man, you first have to act like one. To be a man, you first have to act like one.

Perhaps the same could be said for being a leader.

"Okay, enough with hitting the books," he said, drawing Kat's eyes. He glanced to Monk. "And I think you've explored the depth of this flying liquor cabinet long enough."

Monk shrugged and came around into the main cabin area.

"We have less than four hours of flight time," Gray said. With their jet, a custom Citation X, traveling just under sonic speeds, they would be landing at two A A.M. German time, the dead of night. "I suggest we all try to get some sleep. We'll be hitting the ground running once we're there."

Monk yawned. "You don't have to tell me twice, Commander."

"But first let's compare notes. We've had a lot thrown at us."

Gray pointed to the seats. Monk dropped into one. Gray joined them, facing Kat across a table.

While Gray had known Monk since joining Sigma, Captain Kathryn Bryant remained a relative unknown. She was so steeped in study that few at Sigma knew her well. She was mostly defined by her reputation since being recruited. One operative described her as a walking computer. But her reputation was also clouded by her former role as an intelligence operative. Overseeing black ops, it was rumored. But no one knew for sure. Her past was beyond the cla.s.sification of even her fellow Sigma members. Such secrecy only isolated her further from men and women who had risen through the ranks in units, teams, and platoons.

Gray had his own problems with her past. He had personal reasons for disliking those in the intelligence field. They operated aloof, far from the battlefield, farther than even bomber pilots, but more deadly. Gray bore blood on his hands because of poor intel. Innocent blood. He could not shake a certain level of distrust.

He stared at Kat. Her green eyes were hard. Her whole body seemed starched. He pushed aside her past. She was his teammate now.

He took a deep breath. He was her leader.

Act the part...

He cleared his throat. Time to get to business. He lifted one finger. "Okay, first, what do we know?"

Monk answered, his face dead serious. "Not much."

Kat maintained a fixed expression. "We know the perpetrators are somehow involved with the cult society known as the Royal Dragon Court."

"That's as good as saying they're involved with Hari Krishnas," Monk countered. "The group is as shadowy and weedy as crabgra.s.s. We don't have a clue who is truly behind all this."

Gray nodded. They had been faxed this information while en route. But more disturbingly, news had reached them of an attack upon their counterparts in the Vatican. It had to be the work of the Dragon Court again. But why? What sort of clandestine war zone were they flying into? He needed answers.

"Let's break this down then," Gray said, realizing he sounded like Director Crowe. The other two looked at him expectantly. He cleared his throat. "Back to the basics. Means, motive, and opportunity."

"They had plenty of opportunity," Monk said. "Striking after midnight. When the streets were mostly empty. But why not wait until the cathedral was empty, too?"

"To send a message," Kat answered. "A blow against the Catholic Church."

"We can't make that a.s.sumption," Monk said. "Look at it more broadly. Maybe it was all sleight of hand. Meant to misdirect. To commit a crime so b.l.o.o.d.y that all attention would be pulled from the rather insignificant theft of some dusty bones."

Kat didn't look convinced, but she was difficult to read, playing her cards close to the chest. Like she had been trained.

Gray settled the matter. "Either way, for now, exploring opportunity opportunity offers no inroads into who perpetrated the ma.s.sacre. Let's move on to motive." offers no inroads into who perpetrated the ma.s.sacre. Let's move on to motive."

"Why steal bones?" Monk said with a shake of his head and sat back. "Maybe they mean to ransom them back to the Catholic Church."

Kat shook her head. "If it was only money, they would've stolen the golden reliquary. So it must be something else about the bones. Something we have no clue about. So maybe it's best we leave that thread to our Vatican contacts."

Gray frowned. He was still uncomfortable working jointly with an organization like the Vatican, an establishment built on secrets and religious dogma. He had been raised Roman Catholic, and while he still felt strong stirrings of faith, he had also studied other religions and philosophies: Buddhism, Taoism, Judaism. He had learned much, but he never could answer one question from his studies: What was he seeking?

Gray shook his head. "For now, we'll mark the motivation for this crime with another big question mark. We'll pursue that in more depth when we meet with the others. That leaves only means means to discuss." to discuss."

"Which goes back to the whole financial discussion," Monk said. "This operation was well planned and swiftly executed. From the manpower alone, this was an expensive operation. Money backed this theft."

"Money and a level of technology that we don't understand," Kat said.

Monk nodded. "But what about that weird gold in the Communion bread?"

"Monatomic gold," Kat mumbled, creasing lines around her lips.

Gray pictured the gold-plated electrode. They had been given reams of data in their dossier on this strange gold, culled from labs around the world: British Aeros.p.a.ce, Argonne National Laboratories, Boeing Labs in Seattle, the Niels Bohr Inst.i.tute in Copenhagen.

The powder had not been ordinary gold dust, the flaky form of metallic gold. It had been an entirely new elemental state of gold, cla.s.sified as m-state m-state. Rather than its usual metallic matrix, the white powder was gold broken down into individual atoms. Monatomic, or m-state. Until recently, scientists had no idea that gold could trans.m.u.te, both naturally and artificially, into an inert white powder form.

But what did it all mean?

"Okay," Gray said, "we've all read the files. Let's round-robin that topic. See if it leads anywhere."

Monk spoke up. "First, it's not just gold that does this. We should keep that in mind. It seems any of the transitional metals on the periodic table-platinum, rhodium, iridium, and others-can also dissolve into a powder."

"Not dissolve," Kat said. She glanced down to the dossier with its photocopied articles from Platinum Metals Review, Scientific American, Platinum Metals Review, Scientific American, even even Jane's Defense Weekly, Jane's Defense Weekly, the journal of the UK's Ministry of Defense. It appeared as if she itched to open the folder. the journal of the UK's Ministry of Defense. It appeared as if she itched to open the folder.

"The term is disaggregate disaggregate," she continued. "These m-state metals break down into both individual atoms and microcl.u.s.ters. From a physics standpoint, this state arises when time-forward and time-reverse electrons fuse around the nucleus of the atom, causing each atom to lose its chemical reactivity to its neighbor."

"You mean they stop sticking sticking to each other." Monk's eyes danced a bit with amus.e.m.e.nt. to each other." Monk's eyes danced a bit with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"To put it crudely," Kat said with a sigh. "It's this lack of chemical reactivity that makes the metal lose its metallic metallic appearance and disaggregate into a powder. A powder undetectable to ordinary lab equipment." appearance and disaggregate into a powder. A powder undetectable to ordinary lab equipment."

"Ah..." Monk muttered.

Gray frowned at Monk. He shrugged. Gray knew his friend was playing dumb.

"I think," Kat went on, oblivious of the exchange, "that the perpetrators knew about this lack of chemical reactivity and trusted the gold powder would never be discovered. It was their second mistake."

"Their second?" Monk asked.

"They left alive a witness. The young man. Jason Pendleton." Kat opened her dossier folder. It seemed she couldn't resist the temptation after all. "Back to the matter of the gold. What about this one paper on superconductivity?"

Gray nodded. He had to give Kat credit. She had zeroed in on the most intriguing aspect of these m-state metals. Even Monk sat straighter now.

Kat continued, "While the powder appears inert to a.n.a.lyzing equipment, the atomic state is far from low-energy. It was as if each atom took all the energy it used to react to its neighbor and turned it inward inward on itself. The energy deformed the atom's nucleus, stretching it out to an elongated shape, known as..." She searched the article at her fingertips. Gray noted it had been marked up with a yellow highlighter. on itself. The energy deformed the atom's nucleus, stretching it out to an elongated shape, known as..." She searched the article at her fingertips. Gray noted it had been marked up with a yellow highlighter.

"An asymmetrical high-spin state," she said. "Physicists have known that such high-spin atoms can pa.s.s energy from one atom to the next with no net energy loss."

"Superconductivity," Monk said with no dissembling.

"Energy pa.s.sed into a superconductor would continue to flow through the material with no loss of power. A perfect superconductor would allow this energy to flow infinitely, until the end of time itself."

Silence settled over them as they all pondered the many perplexities here.

Monk finally stretched. "Great. We've ground the mystery down to the level of the atomic nucleus. Let's pull back. What does any of this have to do with the murders at the cathedral? Why poison the wafers with this weird gold powder? How did the powder kill?"

They were all good questions. Kat closed her dossier, conceding that no answers would be found there.

Gray was beginning to understand why the director had given him these two partners. It went beyond their backgrounds as an intelligence specialist and a forensics expert. Kat had a focused ability to concentrate on minutiae, to pick out details others might miss. But Monk, no less sharp, was better at looking at the bigger picture, spotting trends across a broader landscape.

But where did that leave him?

"It seems we still have much to investigate," he finished lamely.

Monk lifted one eyebrow. "As I said from the start, we don't have a lot to go on."

"That's why we've been called in. To solve the impossible." Gray checked his watch, stifling a yawn. "And to do that, we should grab as much downtime as we can until we land in Germany."

The other two nodded. Gray stood and crossed to a seat a short distance away. Monk grabbed pillows and blankets. Kat closed the shades on the windows, dimming the cabin. Gray watched them.