Black Order

by James Rollins

  “She can even swim with it,” Monk said. “Waterproof.”

  Gray glared at his partner. “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is the point?” Fiona pressed.

  Gray focused back at her. He didn’t want to be responsible for the girl any longer. And he certainly didn’t have time to be babysitting her.

  “He’s afraid you’ll get hurt again,” Monk said with a shrug.

  Gray sighed. “Fiona, just tell us the address.”

  “Once we’re in the car,” she said. “Then I’ll tell you. I’m not staying cooped up in here.”

  “Day’s wasting,” Monk said. “And it looks like we might get wet.”

  The sky was blue and morning bright, but dark clouds stacked to the north. A storm was rolling in.

  “Fine.” Gray waved his partner out the door. He could at least keep an eye on Fiona.

  The trio climbed down the jet steps. They had already cleared customs, and a rented BMW waited for them. Monk carried a black backpack over one shoulder, Gray a matching one. He glanced over to Fiona. She had one, too. Where—?

  “There was an extra one,” Monk explained. “Don’t worry. There’re no guns or flash grenades in hers. At least, I don’t think so.”

  Gray shook his head and continued across the tarmac toward the parking garage. Besides the backpack, they were all similarly dressed: black jeans, sneakers, sweaters. Tourist haute couture. At least Fiona had customized her clothes with a few buttons. One caught his eye. It read: STRANGERS HAVE THE BEST CANDY.

  As Gray entered the parking garage, he surreptitiously checked his weapons one last time. He patted the 9mm Glock holstered under his sweater and fingered the hilt of a carbonized dagger sheathed at his left wrist. He had additional armaments in the backpack: flash grenades, packets of C4 explosive, extra clips.

  He was not going anywhere unprepared this time.

  They finally reached their ride. A midnight blue BMW 525i.

  Fiona strode toward the driver’s door.

  Gray cut her off. “Funny.”

  Monk strode around the far side of the car and called, “Shotgun!”

  Fiona ducked, searching around.

  Gray steadied her and guided her toward the rear door. “He was only claiming the front seat.”

  Fiona scowled across the car at Monk. “Wanker.”

  “Sorry. Don’t be so jumpy, kid.”

  They all climbed into the sedan. Gray started the engine and glanced back to Fiona. “Well? Where to?”

  Monk already had a map pulled out.

  Fiona leaned forward and reached over Monk’s shoulder. She traced a finger along the map.

  “Out of town. Twenty kilometers southwest. We have to go to the village of Büren in Alme Valley.”

  “What’s the address there?”

  Fiona leaned back. “Funny,” she said, repeating his own word from a moment ago.

  He met her gaze in the rearview mirror. She wore a disgusted look at his last lame attempt to coerce the information from her.

  Couldn’t blame a guy for trying.

  She waved for him to head out.

  With no choice, he obeyed.

  On the far side of the parking garage, two figures sat in a white Mercedes roadster. The man lowered the binoculars and donned a pair of Italian sunglasses. He nodded to his twin sister beside him. She spoke into the satellite phone, whispering in Dutch.

  Her other hand held his. He massaged his thumb across her tattoo.

  She squeezed his fingers.

  Glancing down, he noted where she had chewed one of her fingernails to a ragged nub. The imperfection was as glaring as a broken nose.

  She noted his attention and tried to hide her nail, embarrassed.

  There was no reason for shame. He understood the consternation and heartache that resulted in the chewed nail. They had lost Hans, one of their older brothers, last night.

  Killed by the driver of the car that had just left.

  Fury narrowed his vision as he watched the BMW slide out of the parking garage. The GPS transponder they’d planted would track the vehicle.

  “Understood,” his sister said into the phone. “As expected, they’ve followed the book’s trail here. Undoubtedly, they will be headed to the Hirszfeld estate in Büren. We’ll leave the jet under surveillance. All is prepared.”

  As she listened, she caught her twin brother’s eye.

  “Yes,” she said both to the phone and her brother, “we will not fail. The Darwin Bible will be ours.”

  He nodded, agreeing. He slipped his hand from hers, twisted the key, and started the ignition.

  “Good-bye, Grandfather,” his sister said.

  Lowering the phone, she reached over and shifted a single lock of his blond hair that had fallen out of place. She combed it in place with her fingers, then smoothed it out.

  Perfect.

  Always perfect.

  He kissed the tips of her fingers as she pulled back.

  Love and a promise.

  They would have their revenge.

  Mourning would come later.

  He drifted their polar white Mercedes out of its parking place to begin the hunt.

  11:08 A.M.

  HIMALAYAS

  The soldering gun’s tip flared fiery crimson. Painter steadied the tool. His hand shook, but it was not fear that trembled his fingers. The headache continued to pound behind his right eye. He had taken a fistful of Tylenol, along with two tabs of phenobarbital, an anticonvulsant. None of the drugs would stave off the eventual debilitation and madness, but according to Anna, they would buy him more functional hours.

  How long did he have?

  Less than three days, maybe even shorter before he was incapacitated.

  He fought to block out this concern. Worry and despair could debilitate him just as quickly as the disease. As his grandfather said in that sage Pequot Indian manner of his, Wringin’ your hands only stops you from rollin’ up your sleeves.

  Taking this to heart, Painter concentrated on soldering the cable connection to an exposed ground wire. The wiring ran throughout the entire subterranean castle and out to its various antennas. Including the satellite uplink dish hidden somewhere near the top of the mountain.

  Once done, Painter leaned back and waited for the new solder to cool. He sat at a bench with an array of tools and parts neatly aligned, like a surgeon. His workspace was flanked by two open laptops.

  Both supplied by Gunther. The man who had slaughtered the monks. Murdered Ang Gelu. Painter still felt a well of fury whenever near the man.

  Like now.

  The large guard stood at his shoulder, watching his every move. They were alone in a maintenance room. Painter considered putting the soldering gun through the man’s eye. But what then? They were miles from civilization, and a death sentence hung over his head. Cooperation was their only means of survival. To that end, Lisa remained with Anna in her study, continuing her own line of investigation into a cure.

  Painter and Gunther pursued another angle.

  Hunting down the saboteur.

  According to Gunther, the bomb that had destroyed the Bell had been set by hand. And since no one had left the grounds since the explosion, the saboteur was likely still in the castle.

  If they could apprehend the subject, perhaps more could be learned.

  So a bit of bait had been distributed through word of mouth.

  All that was left was to set the trap to go along with it.

  One laptop was plugged into the castle’s networked communications systems. Painter had already piggybacked into the system, using passwords supplied by Gunther. He had sent out a series of compressed code packets intended to monitor the system for all outgoing communication. If the saboteur tried to communicate to the outside world, he would be discovered, his location pinned down.

  But Painter did not expect the saboteur to be so ham-fisted. He or she had survived and operated in secret for a long time. That implied cunning—
and a means of communication independent of the castle’s main communication network.

  So Painter had built something new.

  The saboteur must have obtained a private portable satellite phone, one employed in secret to communicate with his superiors. But such a phone needed a clear line-of-sight path between the unit’s antenna and the geosynchronous orbiting satellite. Unfortunately there were too many niches, windows, and service hatches where the saboteur could accomplish this, too many to guard without raising suspicions.

  So an alternative was needed.

  Painter checked the signal amplifier he had attached to the ground wire. It was a device he had engineered himself back at Sigma. His expertise as a Sigma operative, before assuming the directorship, had been on surveillance and microengineering. This was his arena.

  The amplifier linked the ground wire to the second laptop.

  “Should be ready,” Painter said, his headache finally waning a bit.

  “Turn it on.”

  Painter switched on the battery power source, set the amplitude of signal, and adjusted the pulse rate. The laptop would do the rest. It would monitor for any pickups. It was crude at best, not capable of eavesdropping. It could only gain a general signal-location of an illicit transmission, accurate to within a thirty-yard radius. It should be enough.

  Painter fine-tuned his equipment. “All set. Now all we have to do is wait for the bastard to call out.”

  Gunther nodded.

  “That is if the saboteur takes the bait,” Painter added.

  A half hour ago, they had spread a rumor that a cache of Xerum 525 had survived the explosion, locked in a lead-lined secret vault. It gave the entire castle’s populace hope. If there was some of the irreplaceable fuel, then maybe a new Bell could be fabricated. Anna even had researchers assembling another Bell out of spare parts. If not a cure for the progressive disease, the Bell offered the chance to buy more time. For all of them.

  But hope was not the purpose of the ruse.

  Word had to reach the saboteur. He needed to be convinced his plan had failed. That the Bell could be rebuilt after all. To seek guidance from his superiors, he would have to place a call out.

  And when that happened, Painter would be ready.

  In the meantime, Painter turned to Gunther. “What’s it like to be a superman?” he asked. “A Knight of the Black Sun.”

  Gunther shrugged. The extent of his communication seemed to be grunts, frowns, and a few monosyllabic responses.

  “I mean, do you feel superior? Stronger, faster, able to leap buildings in a single bound.”

  Gunther just stared at him.

  Painter sighed, trying a new tack to get the guy talking, strike up some sort of rapport. “What does Leprakönige mean? I heard people using that word when you’re around.”

  Painter damn well knew what it meant, but it got the response he needed. Gunther glanced away, but Painter noted the fire in his eyes. Silence stretched. He wasn’t sure the man was going to speak.

  “Leper King,” Gunther finally growled.

  Now it was Painter’s turn to remain silent. He let the weight hang in the small room. Gunther finally folded.

  “When perfection is sought, none wish to look upon failure. If the madness does not claim us, the disease is horrible to witness. Better to be shut away. Out of sight.”

  “Exiled. Like lepers.”

  Painter tried to imagine what it would be like to be raised as the last of the Sonnekönige, knowing your doomed fate at a young age. Once a revered line of princes, now a shunned and shambling line of lepers.

  “Yet you still help here,” Painter said. “Still serve.”

  “It was what I was born for. I know my duty.”

  Painter wondered if that had been drilled into them or somehow genetically wired. He studied the man. Somehow he knew it went beyond that. But what?

  “Why do you even care what happens to us all?” Painter asked.

  “I believe in the work here. What I suffer will one day help spare others from the same fate.”

  “And the search for the cure now? It doesn’t have anything to do with prolonging your own life.”

  Gunther’s eyes flashed. “Ich bin nicht krank.”

  “What do you mean you’re not sick?”

  “The Sonnekönige were born under the Bell,” Gunther said pointedly.

  Understanding struck Painter. He remembered Anna’s description of the castle’s supermen, how they were resistant to any further manipulation by the Bell. For better or worse.

  “You’re immune,” he said.

  Gunther turned away.

  Painter let the implication sink in. So it wasn’t self-preservation that drove Gunther to help.

  Then what—?

  Painter suddenly remembered the way Anna had looked across the table at Gunther earlier. With warm affection. The man had not discouraged it. Plainly he had another reason for continuing to cooperate despite the lack of respect from the others.

  “You love Anna,” Painter mumbled aloud.

  “Of course I do,” Gunther snapped back. “She’s my sister.”

  Holed up in Anna’s study, Lisa stood by the wall where a light box hung. Normally such boxes illuminated a patient’s X-ray films, but presently Lisa had snugged two acetate sheets in place, striped with black lines. They were archived chromosome maps from research into the Bell’s mutational effects, before shots and after shots of fetal DNA, collected by amniocentesis. The after shots had circles where the Bell had transformed certain chromosomes. Notations in German were written beside them.

  Anna had translated them and had gone off to fetch more books.

  At the light box, Lisa ran a finger down the mutational changes, searching for any pattern. She had reviewed several of the case studies. There seemed no rhyme or reason to the mutations.

  With no answers, Lisa returned to the dining table, now piled high with books and bound reams of scientific data, a trail of human experimentation going back decades.

  The hearth fire crackled behind her. She had to restrain an urge to chuck the research into the flames. Still, even if Anna hadn’t been present, Lisa probably wouldn’t have. She had come to Nepal to study physiologic effects at high altitudes. Though a medical doctor, she was a researcher at heart.

  Like Anna.

  No…not exactly like Anna.

  Lisa nudged aside a research monograph resting on the table. Teratogenesis in the Embryonic Blastoderm. The document related to aborted monstrosities that resulted from exposure to the Bell’s irradiation. What the black stripes on acetate had delineated with clinical detachment, the photographs in the book revealed with horrifying detail: limbless embryos, Cyclopean fetuses, hydrocephalic stillborn children.

  No, she was definitely not Anna.

  Anger built again in Lisa’s chest.

  Anna clattered down the iron ladder that led to the second tier of her research library, another load of books tucked under one arm. The Germans certainly were not holding back. And why would they? It was in all their best interest to discover a cure to the quantum disease. Anna believed it to be a futile effort, confident that all possibilities had been explored over the past decades, but it hadn’t taken much persuasion to get her to cooperate.

  Lisa had noted how the woman’s hands shook with a barely detectable palsy. Anna kept rubbing her palms, trying to hide it. The remainder of the castle suffered more openly. The tension in the air all morning had been palpable. Lisa had witnessed a few yelling matches and one fistfight. She had also heard of two suicides in the castle over the past several hours. With the Bell gone and little hope of a cure, the place was coming apart at the seams. What if the madness set in before she and Painter could figure out a solution?

  She pushed that thought aside. She would not give up. Whatever the reason for the current cooperation, Lisa intended to use it to her best advantage.

  Lisa nodded to Anna as she approached. “Okay, I think I have a layman’s grasp on
the larger picture here. But you raised something earlier that’s been nagging at me.”

  Dropping the books to the table, Anna settled into a seat. “What is that?”

  “You mentioned that you believed the Bell controlled evolution.” Lisa waved her hand across the breadth of books and manuscripts on the table. “But what I see here is just some mutagenic radiation that you’ve tied to a eugenics program. Building a better human being through genetic manipulation. Were you just being grandiose when you used the word evolution?”

  Anna shook her head, taking no offense. “How do you define evolution, Dr. Cummings?”

  “The usual Darwinian way, I suppose.”

  “And that is?”

  Lisa frowned. “A gradual process of biological change…where a single-celled organism spread and diversified into the present-day range of living organisms.”

  “And God has no hand in this at all?”

  Lisa was taken aback by her question. “Like in creationism?”

  Anna shrugged, eyes fixed on her. “Or intelligent design.”

  “You can’t be serious? Next you’ll be telling me how evolution is just a theory.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not a layman who associates theory with a ‘hunch’ or ‘guess.’ Nothing in science reaches the level of theory without a vast pool of facts and tested hypotheses behind it.”

  “So then you accept Darwin’s theory of evolution?”

  “Certainly. Without a doubt. It’s supported across all disciplines of science.”

  “Then why were you talking about—”

  “One does not necessarily rule the other out.”

  Lisa cocked up one eyebrow. “Intelligent design and evolution?”

  Anna nodded. “But let’s back up so I’m not misunderstood. Let’s first dismiss the ravings of the Flat Earth Creationists who doubt the world is even a globe, or even the strict biblical literalists who believe the planet is at best ten thousand years old. Let’s jump ahead to the main arguments of those who advocate intelligent design.”

  Lisa shook her head. An ex-Nazi stumping for pseudoscience. What was going on?

  Anna cleared her throat. “Admittedly, I will contend that most arguments for intelligent design are fallacious. Misinterpreting the Second Law of Thermodynamics, building statistical models that don’t withstand review, misrepresenting radiometric dating of rocks. The list goes on and on. None of it valid, but it does throw up lots of misleading smoke.”