The Bone Labyrinth by James Rollins Page B

alongside them. “I was just headed over to the director’s office.”
    “So what’s this sudden summons about?” Monk asked, slipping his hand into his wife’s fingers as they continued down the hallway.
    Kowalski noted the simple gesture of affection, so effortless and easy. A bitter flare of envy burned through him, along with a flicker of hope.
    If this guy could win the heart of such a woman . . .
    Then again, Monk made up for his looks in countless ways. He was a former Green Beret, with the scars to prove it, and now served as Sigma’s medical forensic expert. Many enemies misjudged his brutish exterior, underestimating his skills and sharp mind.
    Director Crowe had once told Kowalski that Sigma got its name from the Greek letter ∑, the mathematical symbol for the sum of , because Sigma Force was the union of the best of man’s abilities—the joining of brain and brawn. That certainly fit the description of Monk Kokkalis.
    Kowalski caught his own reflection in the glass of a closed door, staring at his lumbering form, his thick neck, his crooked nose.
    So what the hell am I doing here?
    During his time in the navy, he had climbed no higher than the rank of seaman. Even at Sigma, his “scientific” training centered on how to blow things up—not that he didn’t enjoy that. But he knew down deep that when it came to balancing brain and brawn, in his case, those scales were tipped far to one side.
    Kat spoke ahead of him. “I’ll let Painter explain the reason for calling you both down here. We’re just getting a handle on the details ourselves.”
    Kowalski followed the pair down the hall to the director’s office. He and Monk had been ordered to return to Sigma as they rounded the Lincoln Memorial during their morning jog. Both still wore sweat pants and hoodies.
    Kat led her husband through the director’s open door first, leaving Kowalski to tag behind. They found Painter Crowe at his usual station in his office, seated behind a desk stacked with files. He held up a palm toward them as he finished up a call. Behind his shoulders, the three remaining walls of his office glowed with large flat-screens, displaying various maps, news feeds, and aerial footage of some mountains. Though Sigma’s headquarters were buried underground, the monitors served as the director’s windows to the world at large.
    Painter finished his call and slipped the Bluetooth receiver from his ear. He stood up. “Thank you both for coming. It seems a case has arisen that suits your unique set of talents.”
    The director continued, explaining about an ambush of a French military team in the Croatian mountains. He elaborated with topographical maps and live satellite images on his monitors, finally briefing them about a group of scientists who were being guarded by that French unit. The researchers’ faces flashed on the various monitors: a British geologist, a French paleontologist, and some historian from the Vatican. The last photo was of a young woman wearing a white lab smock. She was smiling at the camera, showing perfect teeth, suntanned skin, and a dash of freckles across both cheeks. Her long, dark blond hair was efficiently tied back.
    Kowalski sighed out a soft whistle of appreciation.
    Painter ignored his reaction. “Dr. Lena Crandall. A geneticist from Emory University. She was overseeing a project funded by DARPA.”
    “What was she working on?” Monk asked.
    Kowalski didn’t care. He continued to stare at the photo.
    “That’s what I want you both to answer for me,” Painter said. “Kat’s arranged to have you two fly down to Atlanta this morning and interview Dr. Crandall’s sister, to find out how their research at Emory connects to an archaeological dig in Croatia. There are pieces of this puzzle that still are missing.”
    “What about the research team in Croatia?” Monk asked.
    “Gray and Seichan are on their way to investigate that right now.” Painter glanced for confirmation from Kat,