Black Order

by James Rollins

  He opened his eyes as the caravan edged up to a crest of rock and slowed to a stop. Painter searched around. Nothing was here. An icy cliff cracked the crest on the right. Snow began to fall again.

  Why had they stopped?

  Ahead, the assassin climbed from his seat.

  Anna joined him. Turning a shoulder, the hulking man spoke to the woman in German.

  Painter strained to hear and caught the assassin’s last words.

  “—should just kill them.”

  It was not said with any vehemence, only dread practicality.

  Anna frowned. “We need to find out more, Gunther.” The woman glanced in Painter’s direction. “You know the problems we’ve been having lately. If he was sent here…if he knows something that can stop it.”

  Painter was clueless as to what they were talking about, but he allowed them this misconception. Especially if it kept him alive.

  The assassin just shook his head. “He’s trouble. I can smell it on him.” He began to turn away, dismissive, done with the matter.

  Anna stopped him with a touch to the man’s cheek, tender, grateful…and maybe something more. “Danke, Gunther.”

  He turned away, but not before Painter noted the flash of pain in the man’s eyes. The assassin trudged to the broken cliff face and disappeared through a crack in the wall. A moment later, a cloud of steam puffed out along with a bit of fiery light—then cut off.

  A door opening and closing.

  Behind him, one of the guards made a derisive noise, grumbling one word under his breath, an insult, heard by only those closest to him.

  Leprakönige.

  Leper King.

  Painter noted the guard had waited until the hulking man named Gunther was out of earshot. He had not dared say it to the man’s face. But from the hunch of the assassin’s shoulders and gruff manner, Painter suspected he’d heard it before.

  Anna mounted the snowmobile. A new armed guard took the assassin’s seat, weapon pointing. They headed out again.

  The path switchbacked around a spur of rock and down into an even steeper notch in the mountain. The way ahead was a sea of ice fog, obscuring what lay below. A heavy crest of the mountain overhung the misty sea, cupped low like a pair of warming hands.

  They descended into the vast fog bank, lights spearing ahead.

  In moments, visibility lowered to feet. Stars vanished.

  Then suddenly the darkness deepened as they trundled under the shadow of the overhang. But rather than growing colder, the air grew notably warmer. As they descended farther, rocky outcroppings appeared out of the snow. Meltwater trickled around the boulders.

  Painter realized there must be a localized pocket of geothermal activity here. Hot springs, while rare and known mostly to the indigenous people, dotted the Himalayas. Created by the intense pressures of the Indian continental plate grinding into Asia, such geothermal hot spots were believed to be the source of the Shangri-La mythology.

  As the snow thinned, the caravan was forced to abandon the snowmobiles. Once parked, Painter and Lisa were cut free from their sled, hauled to their feet, and bound at the wrists. He kept close to Lisa. She met his eyes, mirroring his worry.

  Where the hell were they?

  Encircled by white parkas and rifles, they were led down the rest of the way. Snow turned to wet rock under their boots. Stairs appeared underfoot, cut into the rock, trickling with snowmelt. Ahead, the perpetual fog thinned and shredded.

  Within a few steps, a cliff face appeared out of the gloom, sheltered by the shoulder of the mountain. A natural deep grotto. But it was no paradise—only craggy black granite, dripping and sweating.

  More hell than Shangri-La.

  Lisa stumbled beside him. Painter caught her as best he could with his wrists bound. But he understood her faltering step.

  Ahead, out of the mists, appeared a castle.

  Or rather half a castle.

  As they neared, Painter recognized the shape as a façade, cut crudely into the back of the grotto. Two giant crenellated towers flanked a massive central keep. Lights burned behind thick, glazed windows.

  “Granitschloß,” Anna announced and led them toward an arched entrance, twice his height, flanked by giant granite knights.

  A heavy oak door, studded and strapped in black iron, sealed the entryway. But as the group approached, the door winched up, rising like a portcullis.

  Anna strode forward. “Come. It has been a long night, ja?”

  Painter and Lisa were led at gunpoint toward the entrance. He studied the façade of battlements, parapets, and arched windows. Across the entire surface, the black granite sweated and trickled, wept and dripped. The water appeared like a run of black oil, as if the castle were dissolving before their eyes, melting back into the rock face.

  The fiery illumination from a few of the windows made the castle’s surface shine with a hellish glow, reminding him of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. The fifteenth-century artist had specialized in twisted depictions of hell. If ever Bosch had sculpted the gates to the Underworld, this castle would be it.

  With no choice, Painter followed Anna and passed under the arched entrance of the castle. He looked up, searching for the words Dante had said were supposedly carved upon the gates to the Underworld.

  All hope abandon, ye who enter here.

  The words weren’t here—but they might as well have been.

  All hope abandon…

  That about summed it up.

  8:15 P.M.

  COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

  As the hotel explosion echoed away, Gray grabbed Fiona by the arm and rushed her out a side door of the French bakery. He aimed for a neighboring alley, pushing through the patrons gathered on the sidewalk patio.

  Sirens erupted in the distance.

  It seemed Copenhagen’s firefighters were putting in a long day today.

  Gray reached the corner of the alley, away from the smoke and chaos, Fiona in tow. A brick cracked near his ear, followed by a ricocheted ping. A gunshot. Spinning, he whipped Fiona into the alleyway and ducked low. He searched the street for the shooter.

  And found her.

  Close.

  A half block back, across the street.

  It was the white-blond woman from the auction. Only now she wore a black, tight-fitting running suit. She had also gained a new fashion accessory. A pistol with a silencer. She held it low by her knee, striding quickly toward his location. She touched her ear, lips moving.

  Radio.

  As the woman stepped under a streetlamp, Gray realized his mistake. It wasn’t the same woman from the auction. Her hair was longer. Her face more gaunt.

  An older sibling to the pair.

  Gray swung away.

  He expected Fiona to be halfway down the alley. She was only five yards back, straddling a rust-scarred lime green Vespa scooter.

  “What are you—?”

  “Getting us a ride.” She had her purse open and dropped a screwdriver back into it.

  Gray hurried to her side. “There’s no time to hot-wire it.”

  Fiona glanced over a shoulder at him, while her fingers blindly fiddled with a nest of ignition wires. She twisted two, and the engine coughed, whined, and caught.

  Damn…

  She was good—but there were limits to trust.

  Gray waved her back. “I’ll drive.”

  Fiona shrugged and slid onto the backseat. Gray mounted the bike, rolled it off its kickstand, and gunned the engine. Keeping the headlamp off, he took off down the dark alley. Or rather puttered.

  “C’mon,” he urged.

  “Pop it into second,” Fiona said. “Skip past third. You have to goose the crap out of these old ones.”

  “I don’t need a backseat driver.”

  Still, Gray obeyed, popping the clutch and shifting. The scooter jumped like a startled filly. They sped faster down the alley, zigzagging around stacks of trashcans.

  Sirens screamed behind them. Gray glanced back. A fire
engine roared past the entrance to the alley, lights blazing, responding to the explosion. Before Gray turned back around, a dark figure strode into view, limned against the brighter streetlights.

  The shooter.

  He eked out a bit more power, swerving around a tall construction bin, putting it between him and the woman. If he stuck to the wall, he had a straight shot out of the alley from here.

  At the other end, the far street glowed like a beacon.

  It was their only chance.

  Focused forward, he watched a second dark figure step into view and stop. A passing car’s headlights turned his blond hair silver. Yet another sibling. The man wore a long black duster. He parted the trench coat and raised a shotgun.

  The woman must have radioed him, setting up this ambush.

  “Hold tight!” Gray called.

  As the man lifted the gun one-armed, Gray noted the sling around his other arm, bandaged from wrist to elbow. Though his face was in shadows, Gray knew who blocked their escape.

  It was the man who had murdered Grette Neal.

  He still bore Bertal’s bite wounds, bandaged now.

  The shotgun pointed at Gray.

  No time.

  Gray twisted the scooter’s handles and sent the bike into a smoking skid, tilted sideways, aiming for the man.

  The shotgun exploded with a muffled blast, accompanied by a splintering crash as a fist of pellets struck a neighboring doorway.

  Fiona yelped in fright.

  But that was the man’s only shot. He dove out of the way of the sliding bike. Once clear of the dark alley, Gray swung the bike out of its skid with a kick of the throttle and a scream of rubber on cement. He manhandled the scooter up and into traffic, earning a savage blast of a horn from a disgruntled Audi driver.

  Gray headed away.

  Fiona loosened her grip.

  Gray maneuvered around the slower cars, gaining speed as the road sloped steeply downward. At the bottom, the avenue dead-ended into a tree-lined cross street. Gray braked for the sharp turn. The bike refused to obey. He glanced down. A cable bounced alongside the scooter’s back tire.

  The brake cable.

  His skid-out must have dislodged it.

  “Slow down!” Fiona yelled in his ear.

  “Brake’s out!” he called back. “Hang on!”

  Gray choked out the engine, then fought to lose the bike’s momentum by swerving and skidding, like a downhill skier. He dragged the rear tire alongside one curb, rubber smoking.

  They reached the corner, going too fast.

  Gray slewed the scooter on its side, metal scraping up fiery sparks. The bike slid across the intersection, passing in front of a flat-paneled truck. Horns blared. Brakes squealed.

  Then they hit the far curb.

  The bike flipped. Gray and Fiona flew.

  A hedgerow broke the worst of their collision, but they still ended up rolling across the sidewalk and landing at the foot of a brick wall. Gaining his feet, Gray moved to Fiona’s side.

  “Are you all right?”

  She stood up, more angry than hurt. “I paid two hundred euros for this skirt.” Her dress had a long rip up one side. She clutched it closed with one hand and bent down to retrieve her purse.

  Gray’s Armani suit fared even worse. One knee was ripped out, and the right side of his jacket looked like it had been scoured with a wire brush. But besides a few scrapes and abrasions, they were unharmed.

  Traffic flowed past the site of their accident.

  Fiona headed away. “Vespas crash around here all the time. And they’re stolen just as often. Ownership of a scooter in Copenhagen is a general term. Need one? Grab one. Leave it behind for the next guy. No one really cares.”

  But somebody did.

  A fresh squeal of tires drew their attention. A black sedan swung into the street two blocks back. It sped in their direction. It was too dark to identify the driver or passengers. Headlights speared toward them.

  Gray hurried Fiona along the tree-lined sidewalk, seeking the deeper shadows. A tall brick wall framed this side of the street. No buildings, no alleys. Just a stretch of high wall. From beyond rose a merry twinkle of flutes and strings.

  Behind them, the sedan slowed beside the crashed Vespa, searching.

  No question their escape by scooter had been reported.

  “Over here,” Fiona said.

  Hooking her purse over a shoulder, she led him to a shadowy park bench and climbed on it—then using the seat back as a boost, she leaped up and grabbed one of the tree limbs overhead. She kicked up, hooking her legs over the branch.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Street kids do this all the time. Free admission.”

  “What?”

  “C’mon.”

  Hand over hand, she followed the thick branch as it angled over the brick wall. She dropped on the far side and vanished.

  Damn it.

  The sedan began to drift up the street again.

  With no choice, Gray followed Fiona’s example. He mounted the bench and jumped up. Music wafted over the wall, scintillating and magical in the dark night. Once hanging upside down, he craned over the wall.

  Beyond lay a wonderland of glowing lanterns, miniature palaces, and twirling amusements.

  Tivoli Gardens.

  The turn-of-the-century amusement park lay nestled in the heart of Copenhagen. From this height, Gray spotted the park’s central lake. Its mirrored surface reflected thousands of lanterns and lights. Spreading outward, flower-lined paths led to lamplit pavilions, wooden roller coasters, carousels, and Ferris wheels. The old park was less a technocratic Disney and more an intimate neighborhood park.

  Gray scuttled along the limb toward the park, passing over the wall.

  On the far side, Fiona waited below and waved to him. She stood at the back of a utility or gardening shed.

  Gray dropped his legs and dangled by his arms.

  A chunk of bark exploded by his right hand. Shocked, he let go and fell, his arms cartwheeling for balance. He landed hard in a flower bed, jamming a knee, but the soft loam cushioned his fall. Beyond the wall, an engine growled, and a door slammed.

  They’d been spotted.

  Grimacing, Gray joined Fiona. Her eyes were wide. She had heard the shot. Without a word, they fled together toward the heart of Tivoli Gardens.

  6

  UGLY DUCKLING

  1:22 A.M.

  HIMALAYAS

  Well past midnight, Lisa soaked in a steaming bath of naturally heated mineral waters. She could close her eyes and imagine herself in some expensive European spa. The room’s accoutrements were certainly plush enough: thick Egyptian cotton towels and robes, a massive four-poster bed piled high with a nest of blankets on a foot-thick goose-down featherbed. Medieval tapestries hung on the walls, and underfoot, Turkish rugs covered the stone floors.

  Painter was in the outer room, stoking their tiny fireplace.

  They shared this pleasant little prison cell.

  Painter had told Anna Sporrenberg that they were companions back in the States. A ruse intended to keep them from being separated.

  Lisa hadn’t argued against it.

  She had not wanted to be alone here.

  Though the water’s temperature was only a few degrees lower than parboil, Lisa shivered. As a doctor, she recognized her own signs of shock as the adrenaline that had been sustaining her up to this point wore off. She remembered how earlier she had lashed out against the German woman, almost attacked her. What had she been thinking? She could’ve gotten them both shot.

  And all that time, Painter had been so calm. Even now, she drew strength hearing Painter roll another log onto the fire, simple bits of caretaking and comfort. He must be exhausted. The man had already soaked in the massive tub, not so much for hygiene as a prescription against frostbite. Lisa had noted the white patches on the tips of his ears and insisted he go first.

  More warmly dressed, she had fared better.

 
Still, she immersed herself fully into the tub, dunking her head under, her hair willowing out. The heat suffused through her, warming all her tissues. Her senses stretched. All she had to do was inhale, allow herself to drown. A moment of panic, and it would be over. All the fear, all the tension. She would be in control of her own fate—taking back what her captors held hostage.

  Just a breath…

  “Are you almost finished with your bath?” The muffled words reached her through the water, sounding far away. “They’ve brought us a late-night snack.”

  Lisa shifted, surfacing out of the steam, water sluicing from her hair and face. “I…I’ll be out in another minute.”

  “Take your time,” Painter called from the main room.

  She heard him roll another log onto the fire.

  How could he still be moving? Bedridden for three days, the fight in the root cellar, the frozen trek here…yet he still kept forging on. It gave her hope. Maybe it was just desperation, but she sensed a well of strength in him that went beyond the physical.

  As she thought about him, her trembling finally slowed.

  She climbed out of the bath, skin steaming, and toweled off. A thick robe hung from a hook. She left it hanging for a moment more. A floor-length mirror stood beside an antique washbasin. Its surface was misty, but her naked form was visible. She turned her leg, not in some narcissistic admiration, but to study the map of bruises down her limb. The deep ache in her calves reminded her of something essential.

  She was still alive.

  She glanced to the tub.

  She would not give them the satisfaction. She would see it through.

  She climbed into her robe. After snugging it tight around her waist, she lifted the heavy iron latch to the bathroom and opened the door. It was warmer in the next room. A steam register had kept the chamber livable, but the new fire in the hearth had stoked the room to a welcoming warmth. The tiny blaze snapped and crackled merrily, casting the room in a rich, flickering glow. A grouping of candles beside the bed added to the homey ambience, the only other illumination.

  There was no electricity in the room.

  While imprisoning them here, Anna Sporrenberg had explained proudly how most of their power was geothermally generated, based on a hundred-year-old design of Rudolf Diesel, the French-born German engineer who would go on to invent the diesel engine. Even still, electricity was not to be wasted and had been limited to select areas of the castle.