Black Order (32 page)

Gunther grunted behind them.
“Pass auf!”

A warning.

Cries arose around them. Attention shifted in a spreading tide. Arms pointed.

Lisa freed herself from her brother.

A pair of attack helicopters hovered at the top of the col, stirring the smoke from the missile impact. They hung in place, predatory, lethal.

Go away,
Lisa prayed, willing it with all her strength.
Just go away
.

“Who are they?” a new voice grated.

Lisa didn’t need to turn to recognize Boston Bob, a mistake from her past. His accent and perpetual whining undercurrent identified him plainly enough. Always intrusive, he must have followed Josh. She ignored him.

But Josh must have felt her tense when the helicopters appeared. “Lisa…?”

She shook her head, eyes fixed to the skies. She needed her full concentration to will them away.

But to no avail.

In unison, both helicopters tipped out of their hovers and dove down the slope toward them. Spats of fire lit their noses. Snow and ice blasted up in parallel lines of death, chewing down the slope, aiming straight for Base Camp.

“No…,” Lisa moaned.

Boston Bob yelled, backing away, “What the hell did you do?”

The crowd, stunned and frozen for a breath, suddenly erupted in screams and shouts, breaking apart and fleeing in all directions.

Painter grabbed Lisa’s other arm. He tugged her away, hauling Josh, too. They retreated, but there was nowhere to hide.

“A radio!” Painter yelled at Josh. “Where’s a radio?”

Her brother stared mutely at the sky.

Lisa shook her brother’s arm, drawing his eyes down. “Josh, we need to find a radio.” She understood Painter’s focus. If nothing else, word of what had happened must reach the outside world.

Her brother coughed, collected himself, and pointed. “This way…they set up an emergency communication net after the rebel attack at the monastery.” He hurried out toward a large red tent.

Lisa noted Boston Bob kept up with them, checking over his shoulder, sensing the authority radiating from Painter and Gunther. Or maybe it was the assault rifle Gunther carried. The German had slammed another grenade into the weapon’s launcher. He was ready to make a last stand, guard them while they attempted to radio out.

But before they could reach the tent, Painter yelled, “Get down!”

He yanked Lisa to the ground. Everyone followed his example, though Josh had to pull Boston Bob off his legs.

A strange new scream suddenly echoed off the mountains.

Painter’s gaze searched the skies.

“What—?” Lisa asked.

“Wait,” Painter said with a confused frown.

Then over the shoulder of Mount Lhotse, a pair of military jets shot into view, streaking on twin contrails. Fire flared from under their wings.

Missiles.

Oh, no!

But the base wasn’t the target. The jets shot overhead, streaking away, booming as they passed and sailing straight up into the ether.

The pair of attack helicopters, already three-quarters of the way down the slope, exploded as the jets’ heat-seeking missiles crashed into them. Fiery ruins slammed into the slope, blasting snow and flames. Debris rained, but none of it reached the camp.

Painter gained his feet, then helped Lisa up.

The others followed.

Boston Bob shoved forward, bullying up to Lisa. “What the hell was all that? What shit did you bring down on our heads?”

Lisa turned away. Whatever had possessed her back in Seattle to sleep with him? It was as if that had been a different woman.

“Don’t turn your back on me, you bitch!”

Lisa swung around, fingers clenched—but there was no need. Painter was already there. His arm pistoned and smashed into the man’s face. Lisa had heard the term “coldcocked” but never had witnessed it. Boston Bob fell back, stiff as a board, and crashed to the ground. He did not get up, splayed out, nose broken, out cold.

Painter shook his hand, wincing.

Josh gaped, then grinned. “Oh, man, I’ve been wanting to do that for a solid week.”

Before more could be said, a sandy-haired man stepped out of the red communication tent. He wore a military uniform. A
United States
military uniform. He stepped to their group, his eyes settling on Painter.

“Director Crowe?” the man asked in a Georgian drawl, his arm out.

Painter accepted the handshake, grimacing at the pressure on his bruised knuckles.

“Logan Gregory sends his best wishes, sir.” The man nodded to the blasted ruins smoking on the slope.

“Better late than never,” Painter said.

“We have him on the horn for you. If you’ll follow me.”

Painter accompanied the Air Force officer, Major Brooks, into the communication tent. Lisa tried to follow with Anna and Gunther. Major Brooks held up an arm, blocking them.

“I’ll be right back,” Painter assured them. “Hold fast.”

Ducking, he entered the tent. Inside stood an array of equipment. A communication officer stepped back from a satellite telecommunication station. Painter took his place, picking up the receiver.

“Logan?”

The voice came through clear. “Director Crowe, it’s wonderful to hear you’re okay.”

“I think I have you to thank for that.”

“We got your SOS.”

Painter nodded. So his message had gotten out, sent by burst transmission from his jury-rigged amplifier back at the castle. Luckily the GPS signal had broadcast before the overloaded amplifier had exploded. Apparently it had been enough to track.

“It took some fast footwork to get surveillance up and coordinate with the Royal Nepalese military,” Logan explained. “Still, it was close, too close.”

Logan must have been monitoring the entire situation via satellite, possibly from the time they’d fled the castle. But details could wait. Painter had more important concerns.

“Logan, before I fully debrief, I need you to get started on a search. I’m going to fax you a symbol, a tattoo.” Painter mimed writing on a pad to Major Brooks. Supplies were brought to him. He quickly drew the symbol he had seen on the assassin’s hand. It was all they had to go on.

“Get started immediately,” Painter continued. “See if you can find out if any terrorist organization, political party, drug cartel, even Boy Scout troop, might be associated with this symbol.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Finishing a rough approximation of the cloverleaf tattoo, Painter passed it to the communication officer, who stepped to a fax machine and fed the sheet into it.

While the transmission was sent, Painter gave a thumbnail version of what happened. He was grateful Logan didn’t interrupt with too many questions.

“Did the fax arrive there yet?” Painter asked after a few minutes.

“Just in my hands now.”

“Perfect. The search…give it top priority.”

A long pause followed. Dead air. Painter thought maybe they’d lost their signal, then Logan spoke, tentative, confused. “Sir…”

“What is it?”

“I know this symbol. Grayson Pierce sent it to me eight hours ago.”

“What?”

Logan explained about the events in Copenhagen. Painter struggled to wrap his mind around it. With the adrenaline from the chase dissipating, the pounding in his head confounded his attention and focus. He fought against it, putting pieces together. The same assassins were after Gray,
Sonnekönige
born under a foreign Bell. But what were they doing in Europe? What was so important about a bunch of books? Gray was currently off in Germany investigating the trail further, seeing what he might uncover.

Painter closed his eyes. It only made his headache worse. The attacks in Europe only further confirmed his fear that something global was afoot. Something major was stirring, about to come to fruition.

But what?

There was only one place to start, a single clue. “The symbol has to be significant. We must find out who it belongs to.”

Logan spoke crisply. “I may have that answer.”

“What? Already?”

“I’ve had eight hours, sir.”

Right. Of course.
Painter shook his head. He glanced down to the pen in his hand, then noted something odd. He turned his hand. The nail on his fourth finger was gone, ripped away, possibly when he’d punched the asshole a moment ago. There was no blood, just pale, dry flesh, numb and cold.

Painter understood the significance.

Time was running out.

Logan explained what he had learned. Painter interrupted him. “Have you passed this intel to Gray?”

“Not yet, sir. We’re having trouble reaching him at the moment.”

Painter frowned, dismissing his own health concerns. “Get word to him,” he said firmly. “However you can. Gray has no idea what he’s up against.”

9:50
A.M
.
WEWELSBURG, GERMANY

Light flared in the crypt as Monk clicked on a flashlight.

Gray found his own flashlight and pulled it free of his pack. He turned it on, pointing it up. Tiny vents ran along the edges of the dome. A greenish gas poured forth, heavier than air, spilling in smoky waterfalls from all the vents.

They were too high and too many to plug.

Fiona drifted closer to him. Ryan stood on the other side of the well, arms clutched around himself, disbelieving his eyes.

Movement drew Gray’s attention back to Monk.

He had pulled out his 9mm Glock and aimed it at the glass door.

“No!” Gray called out.

Too late. Monk fired.

The pistol blast echoed, accompanied by a sharp
ping
as the bullet ricocheted off the glass and struck one of the steel vents with a fiery spark. At least the gas didn’t appear to be flammable. The spark could have killed them all.

Monk seemed to realize the same. “Bulletproof,” he said sourly.

The curator affirmed this. “We had to install extra security. Too many neo-Nazis trying to break in.” The reflection of their lights off the glass hid his position.

“Bastard,” Monk mumbled.

The gas began to fill the lower spaces. It smelled sweetly musty but tasted acrid. Not cyanide, at least. That had a bitter almond scent.

“Keep standing,” Gray said. “Heads high. Get in the center of the room, away from the vents.”

They gathered around the ceremonial pit. Fiona’s hand found his. She clasped it tightly. She lifted her other hand. “I nicked his wallet, if that makes any difference.”

Monk saw what she held. “Great. You couldn’t steal his keys?”

Ryan called out in German. “My…my father knows we’re up here! He’ll call the
Politzei
!”

Gray had to give the young man credit. He was trying his best.

A new voice responded, faceless behind the reflective glass. “I’m afraid your father will not be calling anyone…ever again.” The words were not spoken in threat, merely a statement.

Ryan fell back a step, as if physically struck. His eyes flicked to Gray, then back to the door.

Gray recognized the voice. As did Fiona. Her fingers had clenched hard in his grip. It was the tattooed buyer from the auction house.

“There will be none of your tricks this time,” the man said. “No escape.”

Gray’s head began to feel woozy. His body grew lighter, growing weightless. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. The man was correct. There would be no escape. But that didn’t mean they were defenseless.

Knowledge was power.

Gray turned to Monk. “Get your lighter out of your pack,” he ordered.

As Monk obeyed, Gray dropped his own backpack and yanked out his notebook. He threw it into the pit.

“Monk, toss in Ryan’s copies.” Gray held out his hand. “Fiona, the Bible, please.”

They both obeyed.

“Light the pit,” Gray said.

Monk flicked his lighter and ignited one of Ryan’s recently copied sheets. He dropped it into the pit. In seconds, a smattering of flame and smoke rose, consuming all. The rising smoke even seemed to drive back the poison momentarily…or so Gray hoped. His head swam drunkenly.

Beyond the doors, voices murmured, too low to make out.

Gray held up the Darwin Bible. “Only we know what secret is hidden in this Bible!” he called out.

The white-blond assassin, still faceless behind the glass, answered, vaguely amused. “Dr. Ulmstrom discerned all we needed to know. The
Mensch
rune. The Bible is worthless to us now.”

“Is it?” Gray held the book up, shining his light on it. “We only showed Ulmstrom what Hugo Hirszfeld wrote on the
back
pasteboard of the Bible. But not what was scrawled on the
front
!”

A moment of silence, then voices again drew back into furtive murmurs. Gray thought he heard a woman’s voice, perhaps the blond man’s pale twin.

A clear
nein
arose in Ulmstrom’s voice, defensive.

Fiona stumbled next to him, her knees giving way. Monk caught her, holding her head above the rising pool of poisonous gas. But even he wobbled on his feet.

Gray could wait no longer.

He clicked off his flashlight for dramatic effect and dropped the Bible into the fire pit. He was still Roman Catholic enough to feel a twinge of misgiving, burning a Bible. The old pages took to flame immediately, flaring up to their knees. A fresh curl of smoke plumed upward.

Gray took a deep breath, putting as much conviction as possible in his voice, needing to sell it. “If we die, so does the secret of the Darwin Bible!”

He waited, praying his ruse would work.

One second…two…

The gas rose under them. Each breath gagged now.

Ryan suddenly collapsed, as if someone had cut the strings holding him up. Monk reached for his arm but went down on a knee, burdened by Fiona. He never rose again. He slumped, cradling Fiona with him.

Gray stared toward the black door. Monk’s flashlight rolled from his limp fingers, spinning. Was anyone even out there? Had anyone believed him?