He waved toward the hilltop church at the edge of town. "The book was discovered in a bricked-off cellar during a renovation. Borr was buried up in the cemetery at Saint Michael's, his possessions given over to the church. While his journals wouldn't say exactly what had happened to that village, the man did hint at something horrible, suggesting that doomsday might indeed be a more accurate name for that book. He even marked his diary with a pagan symbol, which is what drew me to the tome to begin with."

"A pagan symbol?" Rachel's hand strayed toward her coat pocket, where she kept the leather satchel with its macabre contents.

Gray placed his palm over her fingers and squeezed gently, his intent plain. Until he knew more about this man, he didn't want Rachel showing him what she'd found. Rachel swallowed, too aware of the heat of Gray's palm on her skin. She slipped her hand away and placed it on top of the table.

Wallace failed to notice their quiet communication. "The symbol was definitely pagan. Here, let me show you." He dipped a finger in his glass of ale and drew on the wooden table, with a few deft strokes, a circle and a cross. A familiar symbol.

"A quartered circle," Gray said.

Wallace's brows rose, and he stared a bit harder at Gray. "Exactly. You'll find this symbol carved into many ancient sites. But to find a Christian diary marked with it caught my attention."

Rachel sensed they were drawing near to the heart of the mystery. "And this diary helped you to find that lost village up in the mountains?"

"Actually, no." Wallace smiled. "What I found was even more exciting."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Wallace sat back, folded his arms, and swept his gaze over the lot of them. "Before I answer that, how about you telling me first what's really going on? Like what you're all doing here?"

"I don't understand," Gray said, feigning confusion, attempting to maintain their cover story as journalists.

"Don't take me for a fool. If you're reporters, I'm a steamin' bampot." Wallace's gaze settled fully on Rachel. "Besides, right off, I recognized you, my young lassie. You're Monsignor Verona's niece."

Shocked, Rachel stared over at Gray. He looked like he'd been punched in the stomach. Kowalski merely rolled his eyes, picked up his glass, and downed the remaining contents in one gulp.

Rachel saw no reason to continue the subterfuge. She faced the professor. She now understood why the man had been staring at her so oddly. "You know my uncle?"

"Aye. Not well, but I do. And I'm sorry to hear he's still in a coma. We met at a symposium years ago and began an ongoing correspondence. Your uncle was very proud of you-a carabiniere in charge of antiquities theft. He sent photos, and at my age, I don't forget a pretty young face like yours."

Rachel shared a glance with Gray, looking apologetic. She hadn't known of this personal connection.

Wallace continued. "I don't understand the reason for this bit of subterfuge, but before we go any further, I want some explanation."

Before anyone could speak, the professor's terrier began a low growl at the back of its throat. The dog climbed to its legs beside the fire and stared toward the entryway of the hotel. As the door swung open, the growl deepened.

A figure stepped into the hotel, knocking snow from her boots.

It was only Seichan.

Chapter 13

October 12, 1:36 P.M.

Oslo, Norway

The luncheon ended with a warning.

"Mankind can no longer wait to respond to this crisis," Ivar Karlsen said, standing at a podium at the far end of the dining hall. "A global collapse faces this generation or the next."

Painter shared the table at the back of the hall with Monk and John Creed. They had arrived in Oslo only an hour ago and barely made it to the opening luncheon of the World Food Summit.

The dining room of Akershus Castle was straight out of a medieval storybook. Hand-hewn wooden beams held up the ceiling, while underfoot, an oak floor was laid out in a herringbone pattern. Overhead, chandeliers sparkled down upon long tables draped in linens.

The meal had included five courses, an irony for a summit that had gathered to discuss world hunger. The lunch had been a study in Norwegian cuisine, including medallions of reindeer in a mushroom sauce and a pungent dish of lutefisk, a Norwegian whitefish specialty. Monk was still dragging his spoon around his dessert bowl, chasing the last cloudberry out of the whipped cream. Creed merely cradled a cup of coffee in his hands and listened to the keynote speaker attentively.