Black Order (5 page)

9:57
A.M
.

“It was the helicopter,” Ang Gelu said. “It’s been destroyed.”

Lisa stood to one side of the high window. Moments before, as the explosive blast echoed away, they had freed the window latches and shoved the shutters wide. The soldier had thought he’d seen movement in the courtyard below and strafed wildly.

There was no return fire.

“Could it have been the pilot?” Lisa asked. “Maybe there was a problem with the engine and he evacuated in a panic.”

The soldier kept his post by the window, resting his stock on the sill, one eye to the scope, scanning and sweeping.

Ang Gelu pointed to the roil of oily smoke rising from the potato fields. Exactly where the helicopter had been parked. “I don’t believe that was a mechanical accident.”

“What do we do now?” Lisa asked. Had another of the crazed monks blown up the chopper? If so, how many other maniacs were loose in the monastery? She pictured the sickle-wielding wild man, the self-mutilation of the monk…what the hell was happening here?

“We must leave,” Ang Gelu said.

“And go where?”

“There are tiny villages and occasional homesteads within a day’s walk. Whatever has transpired here will require more than three people to discern.”

“What of the others here? Some may not be as far gone as your brother-in-law’s cousin. Should we not try to help them?”

“My first concern must be for your safety, Dr. Cummings. Additionally word must reach someone in authority.”

“But what if whatever agent struck here is contagious? We could spread it by traveling.”

The monk fingered his wounded cheek. “With the helicopter destroyed, we have no means of communication. If we stay here, we die, too…and no word reaches the outside world.”

He made a good point.

“We can minimize our exposure to others until we know more,” he continued. “Call out for help, but maintain a safe distance.”

“No physical contact,” she mumbled.

He nodded. “The information we bear is worth the risk.”

Lisa slowly nodded. She stared at the column of black smoke against the blue sky. Possibly one of their party was already dead. There was no telling the true number of afflicted here. The explosion would surely have roused others. If they were to make their escape, it would have to be quickly.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Ang Gelu spoke sharply to the soldier. He straightened with a nod and retreated from his post at the window, his gun at the ready.

Lisa gave the room and the monk one last worried glance, considering the possibility of contagion. Were they already infected? She found herself internally judging her status as she followed the others out of the room and down the ladder. Her mouth was dry, her jaw muscles ached, and her pulse beat heavily in her throat. But that was just the fear, wasn’t it? A typical flight-or-fight response to the situation, normal autonomic responses. She touched her forehead. Damp, but not feverish. She took a deep breath to steady herself, to recognize the foolishness. Even if the agent was infectious, the incubation period would be longer than an hour.

They crossed through the main temple with its teak Buddha and attendant gods. Daylight glared exceptionally bright through the doorway.

Their armed escort checked the courtyard for a full minute, then waved an all clear. Lisa and Ang Gelu followed.

As Lisa stepped into the courtyard, she searched the dark corners for sudden movement. All seemed quiet again.

But not for long…

With her back turned, a second detonation tore through the building across the courtyard. The force blew her to her hands and knees. She ducked, rolling on one shoulder to stare behind her.

Roof tiles sailed skyward amid flames. A pair of fireballs blasted out of shattered windows, while the door to the lodge exploded into a splintery ruin, belching out more smoke and fire. Heat washed over her like the exhalation from a blast furnace.

The soldier, a few steps ahead, had been knocked onto his backside by the blast. He’d kept his gun only by locking his fingers on its leather strap. He scrambled up as a rain of broken tiles fell from the sky.

Ang Gelu gained his own feet and offered a hand to Lisa.

It was his undoing.

A sharper blast punctuated the clatter of tiles and roar of flames. A gunshot. The upper half of the monk’s face blew away in a mist of blood.

But this time it was not the handiwork of her armed escort.

The soldier’s rifle still hung from its strap as the man fled the rain of stone tiles. He seemed deaf to the shot, but his eyes widened as Ang Gelu toppled over. Reacting on pure reflex, he dodged to the right, throwing himself into the shadow of the neighboring lodge. He yelled at Lisa, unintelligible in his panic.

Lisa crab-crawled back toward the temple doorway. Another shot sparked off the rocky courtyard. At her toes. She flung herself across the threshold and into the dark interior.

Ducking around a corner, she watched the soldier sidle along the wall, careful to keep clear of where he estimated the sniper might be perched.

Lisa forgot how to breathe, eyes fixed wide. She searched the rooflines, the windows. Who had shot Ang Gelu?

Then she saw him.

A shadow sprinted through the smoke billowing out of the far building. She caught a reflection of flames off gunmetal as the man ran. A weapon. The sniper had fled his original position and was tacking for a new vantage.

Lisa moved back into the open, praying the shadows hid her well. She called and waved to the soldier. He had his back to the wall, sliding toward her location, toward the main temple. His gaze and weapon focused on the roofline overhead. He had not seen the flight of the sniper.

She yelled again. “Get out!” She didn’t speak the language, but her panic must’ve been plain. His eyes met hers. She urged him over to her hiding place. She pointed, trying to illustrate the path the sniper had fled. But where had he gone? Was he already in position?

“Run!” she screamed.

The soldier took a step toward her. A flash over the man’s shoulder revealed Lisa’s mistaken assumption. The sniper hadn’t been sprinting to gain a new vantage. Flames danced behind a window in the neighboring building. Another bomb.

Oh, God…

The detonation caught the soldier in midstep. The doorway behind him exploded outward with a thousand fiery shards, piercing through the soldier at the same time the blast lifted him off his feet and tossed him across the yard. He landed hard on his face and slid.

Once stopped, he did not move, even as flames ignited his clothing.

Lisa dodged into the depths of the main temple, eyes searching the doorway. She retreated toward the rear exit, back toward the narrow hall. She didn’t have a plan. In fact, she barely had control of her own thoughts.

She was certain of only one thing. Whoever had murdered Ang Gelu and their escort had been no maddened monk. The actions had been too calculated, the execution too planned.

And now she was alone.

She checked the narrow hallway, spotted the bloody body of Relu Na. The rest of the hallway appeared clear. If she could get the dead man’s abandoned sickle…at least have some weapon in hand…

She stepped into the hall.

Before she could take a second step, a form materialized behind her. A bare arm clamped tight around her neck. Hoarse words barked at her ear. “Don’t move.”

Never one to obey, Lisa drove her elbow into the gut of her attacker.

A satisfying
oof
and the arm fell away. The attacker fell back through the embroidered brocade drapery across the doorway, tearing it down with his weight. He landed on his backside.

Lisa spun, crouched and ready to run.

The man wore only a loincloth. His skin was deeply tanned but roped here and there with old scars. Lank black hair, disheveled, half-obscured his face. From his size, musculature, and broad shoulders, he appeared more Native American than Tibetan monk.

Then again, it could just be the loincloth.

With a groan, he looked up at her. Ice blue eyes reflected the lamplight.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Painter,” he said with a groan. “Painter Crowe.”

MAY 16
6:05
A.M
.
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

What was it with bookstores and cats?

Commander Grayson Pierce crunched another chewable Claritin tablet as he left Hotel Nyhavn. Yesterday’s research among Copenhagen’s bibliophile community had led him through a half dozen of the city’s literary establishments. In every bookstore, colonies of dander-rich felines seemed to have taken up residence, lounging on counters, prowling the top of teetering bookshelves filled with dust and moldering leather.

He suffered for it now, stifling a sneeze. Or maybe it was simply the beginning of a cold. Spring in Copenhagen was as damp and cold as any New England winter. He had not packed warmly enough.

He wore a sweater he had purchased from an overpriced boutique neighboring his hotel. The turtleneck was corded merino wool, undyed and plain. And it itched. Still, it warded off the early morning chill. Though dawn was an hour past, the cold sun in a slate-gray sky offered no hope of a warmer day. Scratching at his collar, he headed toward the central train station.

His hotel was located beside one of the city’s canals. Gaily painted row houses—a mix of shops, hostelries, and private homes—lined both sides of the waterway, reminding Gray of Amsterdam. Along the banks, a motley assortment of watercraft were moored tightly together: faded low-slung sloops, bright excursion boats, stately wooden schooners, gleaming white yachts. Gray passed one with a shake of his head. It looked like a floating wedding cake. Already at this early hour, a few camera-laden visitors wandered about or took up posts along the bridge rails, snapping away.

Gray crossed the stone span and followed the canal’s bank for a half block, then stopped and leaned against the brick parapet that overlooked the waterway. His reflection in the still water appeared below, startling him a moment. Half-shadowed, his father’s face stared back up at him; coal black hair hung lankily over blue eyes, a crooked cleft divided the chin, the planes of his face were all sharp angles defining a stony Welsh heritage. He was definitely his father’s son. A fact Gray had been dwelling on a bit too much lately, and it was keeping him up at night.

What else had he inherited from his father?

A pair of black swans glided past his position, disturbing the waters, trembling apart the reflection. The swans headed for the bridge, their long necks sashaying, eyes searching with a nonchalant air.

Gray followed their example. Straightening, he feigned interest in taking a photo of the line of boats while actually studying the bridge he had just crossed. He watched for any stragglers, any familiar faces, anyone suspicious. It was one advantage of residing near the canal. The bridges were perfect squeeze points to observe anyone trailing him. By crisscrossing the stone spans, he would force any tail into the open. He watched for a full minute until satisfied, memorizing faces and gaits, then continued on.

On such a minor assignment as this one, the habit was more paranoid than necessary, but he carried a reminder around his neck of the importance of diligence: a chain from which hung a small silver dragon charm. It had been a gift from an operative playing on the other side of the fence. He carried it as a reminder. To be wary.

As he set off again, a familiar vibration stirred in his pocket. He retrieved his cell phone and flipped it open. Who was calling him at this early hour?

“Pierce here,” he answered.

“Gray. Good, I reached you.”

The familiar silkiness of the voice warmed through his morning chill. A smile softened his hard features. “Rachel…?” His steps faltered with concern. “Is something wrong?”

Rachel Verona was the primary reason Gray had asked for this assignment, winging across the Atlantic to Denmark. While the current investigation could have been handled by any low-level research assistant at Sigma, the mission offered a perfect opportunity to reconnect with the beautiful dark-haired lieutenant of the Italian carabinieri. The two had met while working a case last year in Rome. Since then they had fabricated whatever excuse to meet. Still, it had proven difficult. Her position kept her landlocked in Europe, while his position with Sigma Force limited his time away from Washington. It had been almost eight weeks since they’d last been together.

Much too long.

Gray pictured their last rendezvous, at a villa in Venice, Rachel’s form silhouetted against the open balcony door, her skin aglow in the light of the setting sun. They’d spent that entire evening in bed. Memories washed through him: the cinnamon-and-chocolate taste of her lips, the rich perfume of her damp hair, the heat of her breath on his neck, the soft moans, the rhythm of their entwined bodies, the caress of silk…

He prayed she remembered to pack that black teddy.

“My flight’s been delayed,” Rachel said, interrupting his reverie with reality.

“What?” He straightened beside the canal, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

“I’ve been rerouted on a KLM flight. I now land at twenty-two hundred.”

Ten o’clock.
He frowned. That meant canceling their sunset dinner reservations at St. Gertruds Kloster, a candlelit restaurant nestled inside the medieval monastery vault. He’d had to book it a full week in advance.

“I’m sorry,” Rachel said, filling his silence.

“No…no worries. As long as you get here. That’s all that matters.”

“I know. I miss you so much.”

“Me, too.”

Gray shook his head at his lame response. He had so much more in his heart, but the words refused to come. Why was it always like this? The first day of every rendezvous required overcoming a certain formality between them, an awkward shyness. While it was easy to romanticize that they would simply fall easily and immediately into each other’s arms, the reality was different. For the first hours, they were merely strangers with a shared past. They would certainly hug, kiss, say the right things, but the deeper intimacy required a span of time, hours necessary to catch up on each other’s lives on either side of the Atlantic. But more importantly, they sought to find their rhythm again, that warm cadence that would smolder into the more passionate.

And each time Gray feared they would not find it.

“How is your father doing?” Rachel asked, beginning the first steps of the dance.

He welcomed the diversion, while not necessarily the subject matter. But at least he had good news. “He’s actually doing very well. His symptoms have pretty much stabilized as of late. Only a few bouts of confusion. My mother is convinced the improvement is due to curry.”

“Curry? As in the spice?”

“Exactly. She read an article that curcumin, the yellow pigment in curry, acts as an antioxidant and anti-inflammatory. Possibly it even helps break down the amyloid plaques attributable to Alzheimer’s.”

“That does sound promising.”

“So now my mother puts curry into everything. Even my father’s scrambled eggs in the morning. The whole house smells like an Indian restaurant.”

Rachel’s soft laughter brightened the dreary morning. “At least she’s cooking.”

Gray’s smile broadened on its own. His mother, a tenured biology professor at George Washington University, had never been known for her homemaking skills. She’d been too busy building her career, a necessity after an industrial accident had disabled Gray’s father almost two decades ago. Now the family was struggling with a new issue: the early stages of his father’s Alzheimer’s. Recently, Gray’s mother had taken a short leave of absence from the university to help care for her husband, but now there was talk of her returning to the classroom. With everything going so well, it had proven a good time for Gray to escape D.C. for this short trip.

Before he could respond, his phone chimed with another call. He checked the caller ID.
Damn…

“Rachel, I’ve got a call coming in from central command. I’ll need to take this. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, then I’ll let you go.”

“Wait, Rachel. Your new flight number.”

“It’s KLM flight four zero three.”

“Got it. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Tonight,” she echoed back and clicked off.

Gray pressed his flash button to activate the other call. “Pierce here.”

“Commander Pierce.” The speaker’s clipped New England accent identified the man immediately as Logan Gregory, second in command of Sigma Force, serving directly under Director Painter Crowe. In his usual perfunctory manner, Logan did not waste words.

“We’ve new chatter to report that may relate to your search in Copenhagen. Interpol reports a sudden increase in interest in today’s auction.”

Gray had crossed another bridge. He stopped again. Ten days ago, a database at the National Security Agency had flagged a series of black market trades, all pertaining to historical documents that once belonged to Victorian-era scientists. Someone was collecting manuscripts, transcripts, legal documents, letters, and diaries from that era, many with shady trails of ownership. And while normally this would be of little interest to Sigma Force, which concentrated on global security issues, the NSA database tied several of the sales to factions within terrorist organizations. And such organizations’ money trails were always scrutinized.

Still it made no sense. While certainly such historical documents had proven to be a growing market for speculative investment, it was not the bailiwick of most terrorist organizations. Then again, times were changing.

Either way, Sigma Force had been tapped to investigate the principals involved. Gray’s assignment was to get as much background on the by-invitation-only sale that was to occur later this afternoon, which included researching items of particular interest, several being put up by local collectors and shops in the area. Hence he had spent the past two days visiting the dusty bookstores and antiquary establishments in the narrow backstreets of Copenhagen. He discovered the most help at a shop on Højbro Plads, owned by an ex-lawyer from Georgia. With the ex-pat’s help, Gray felt prepared. His plan this morning had been to canvass the auction site and secure a few buttonhole cameras near all entrances and exits. At the auction, Gray was merely to observe the principals and get head shots when possible. A minor assignment, but if it extended the database of peripheral players in the war on terror, all the better.

“What’s stirred up the pot?” Gray asked.

“A new line item. It’s attracted the attention of several of the principals we’re investigating. An old Bible. Just put up by a private party.”

“And what’s so exciting about that?”

“According to the line item description, the Bible originally belonged to Darwin.”

“As in
Charles
Darwin, the father of evolution?”

“Exactly.”

Gray tapped a knuckle on the brick parapet. Another Victorian-era scientist. As he contemplated this, he studied the neighboring bridge.

He found himself fixated on a teenage girl in a dark blue zippered sweater-jacket with the hood pulled up. Seventeen…eighteen. Smooth-faced, her skin was the color of burnt caramel. Indian? Pakistani? What he could see of her black hair was long, spilling out one side of the hood in a single thick braid. She carried a green, battered pack over her left shoulder, like many of the backpacking college students.

Except Gray had seen the young woman before…crossing the first bridge. Her eyes met his for a moment across the fifty yards. She turned away too quickly. Sloppy.

She was following him.

Logan continued, “I’ve uploaded the seller’s address into your phone’s database. You should have enough time to interview the owner before the auction.”

Gray glanced to the address that appeared on the screen, pinpointed on a city map. Eight blocks away, just off the Strøget, the main pedestrian plaza that ran through the heart of Copenhagen. Not far.

But first…

From the corner of his eye, Gray continued to monitor the reflection of the bridge in the canal’s still waters below. In the wavering mirror, he watched the girl hunch her shoulders, pulling her backpack higher in a weak attempt to hide her features.

Did she know her cover had been blown?

“Commander Pierce?” Logan said.

The girl reached the end of the bridge, strode away, and vanished down a side street. He waited to see if she doubled back.

“Commander Pierce, did you get that address?”

“Yes. I’ll check into it.”

“Very good.” Logan signed off.

From the canal railing, Gray canvassed his surroundings, watching for the girl’s return or the appearance of any accomplices. He regretted leaving his 9mm Glock in the hotel safe. But the instructions from the auction house warned that all invited participants would be searched upon entering, including passing through a metal detector. Gray’s only weapon was a carbonized plastic knife in a boot sheath. That was it.

Gray waited.

Foot traffic flowed around him as the city woke. Behind him, a cadaverous shop owner was icing down a stack of street-side crates and slapping out a selection of fresh fish: Dover sole, cod, sand eel, and the ubiquitous herring.

The smell finally drove him from his post by the canal. He headed out, extra attentive to his back trail.

Perhaps he was being too paranoid, but in his profession, such a neurosis was healthy. He fingered the dragon pendant around his neck and continued into the city.

After several blocks, he felt secure enough to pull out a notepad. Written on the first page were items of particular interest, set for auction that afternoon.

1. A copy of Gregor Mendel’s 1865 paper on genetics.


2. Max Planck’s books on physics:
Thermodynamik
from 1897 and
Theorie der Wärmestrahlung
from 1906, both signed by the author.


3. Botanist Hugo de Vries’s 1901 diary on plant mutations.

Gray had annotated as much information as he could about these items, from his research yesterday. He jotted down the latest item of interest.