Monk and Bailey led the way, flanking the chief medical examiner, a skeletally framed man named Dr. Lev Grishin. The examiner’s face was etched with a perpetual scowl, as if disappointed in the world and his place in it. As such, he showed little patience or interest in these ambassadorial investigators from the Vatican.
“The causes of death are obvious,” Grishin said, in fluent English. “For both men.”
Jason reluctantly followed the group into the morgue. It was lined with five stainless-steel tables, two of which were occupied by draped bodies: Monsignor Alex Borrelli and the Russian archivist, Dr. Igor Koskov.
Grishin turned to Bailey. “Father, your team is welcome to examineyour colleague’s body, but you’ll need permission from the family to do the same with the other.”
Monk stepped forward. “That won’t be necessary. Confirmation of the cause of death is a mere formality in this investigation.”
Grishin’s stiff demeanor softened. He was likely worried that his judgment would be contested.
According to Monk’s forged credentials, he was a pathologist, which was not far from his true field of study. The man had been a medic with the Green Berets, but he had undertaken a doctoral program in forensic medicine after being recruited by Sigma. He eventually expanded his studies into biomedical engineering—though the latter was more of a personal interest. Monk had lost his left hand during a Sigma op and now wore a DARPA-designed prosthetic that was nearly indistinguishable from the real thing.
Bailey lifted an arm toward the doorway. “Dr. Grishin, if we could indulge your patience to allow us some privacy to perform our exam and to pay respects to the deceased.”
“Of course.” He appeared more than happy to oblige. He pointed to an intercom on the wall as he headed out. “You can call me when you’re finished. In the meantime, I’ll ready the paperwork to have the monsignor’s body prepared for transport back to Italy.”
Jason watched him hurriedly exit the room.
Clearly, he wants us out of here as soon as possible.
Once the examiner was gone, Bailey turned to Monk and Jason. “I asked Bishop Yelagin to join us here.” He checked a wristwatch. “He should be arriving momentarily.”
“At the morgue?” Jason asked. “I thought we were meeting the bishop at your embassy, to help solidify our ambassadorial role with the Holy See.”
Jason was uncomfortable with this sudden change in plans. After working for five years under Kat Bryant, he had grown inflexible, preferring every detail of an operation to be prescribed and followed.
He had not always been that way. When he was nineteen, he had been trained as a systems analyst for the navy, but he had chafed atthe military’s endless rules and regulations. Especially considering the incompetence of those dictating those orders. His defiant attitude eventually got him discharged—that and the fact that, upon a dare, he had hacked into DoD servers with nothing more than a BlackBerry and a jury-rigged iPad.
Afterward, he had been offered a deal: join Sigma or serve time.
It was an easy choice, but one he had rankled against for months. It was Kat who eventually instilled in him a regimented work ethic—mostly because he had learned to respect her ethos and intelligence. Still, he couldn’t fully shake his rebellious streak. He blamed his parents. Throughout his youth, Jason had been raised at the adrenaline edge of life. His mother was a paleoanthropologist, who often took Jason out into the field. His father—an Australian caver and diver—was known for his high-value rescue operations.
So, when this opportunity arose to head out with a Sigma team, he took it. With all that was happening—with the possibility of Sigma being disbanded—he didn’t know if he’d get another crack at a field op.
Now, standing in a morgue, he began to question his life choices. He caught a reflection of himself in the polished bank of refrigerated storage cabinets. With his rail-thin physique and light blond hair, many mistook him for a teenager. Still, from the very beginning, Kat had never questioned his value or worth, respecting his analytic mind and his oily way of thinking through problems. She had also never doubted his physical prowess. They often worked out together in the gym or sweated through a marathon.
Before departing D.C., she had laid an extra assignment upon his shoulders. “Keep Monk out of trouble,” she had warned. “That’ll be the hardest part of this mission.”
Her husband certainly looked perturbed now. Monk’s brow crinkled as he pressed Father Bailey further. “Whydidyou change the venue of our meeting with Bishop Yelagin?”
Bailey winced. “Of late, friction between the Russian Orthodox Church and the Holy See has escalated. Especially considering the patriarchate’s growing ambitions toward building a new—”
Monk cut him off. “In other words, you don’t trust Bishop Yelagin.”
“Let’s say I’m beingjudicious. At least, until I get a better handle on him. By having Yelagin come here—to be face-to-face with the deceased, men he sent to their doom—perhaps he’ll be more forthright with us.”
Jason noted how Bailey’s gaze lingered on Monsignor Borrelli’s pale face. The priest clearly struggled with his own guilt.
“Plus,” Bailey mumbled, “I do have a way to judge how willing Yelagin is to cooperate with us.”
“What do you mean?” Monk asked.
Bailey shook his head. “All in due time.”
Jason scowled, discomfited by the priest’s obtuseness.
Monk simply shrugged and crossed to the table. He folded back the drape covering each body. Without touching either of them, he eyed their wounds. The monsignor’s throat had been cut deep, exposing the white of his larynx. The Russian archivist had an exit wound mid-chest. The round had likely pierced the man’s heart, killing him almost instantly.
