Black Order

by James Rollins

  Painter turned his attention to the lever in front of him.

  “Just about there!” Lisa called from her side.

  “Now!” Anna responded a second later.

  Painter yanked on the lever. It controlled the winch assembly on the undercarriage of the chopper. The rope and harness had lowered Painter earlier when he’d been pursuing the assassin. But he wasn’t lowering the harness now. The emergency lever he gripped was used to jettison the assembly if it should be jammed. He cranked it fully back and felt the pop of the release.

  Painter pressed his face to the window.

  Gunther banked them around, pitching for a better view.

  The winch assembly tumbled end over end, unreeling its harness in a wide tangled mess.

  It struck the Tiger below, smashing into its rotors. The effect was as destructive as any depth charge. The blades tore apart, flying in all directions. The chopper itself twisted like a spun top, flipping sideways and falling away.

  With no time to spare, Painter pointed toward their only neighbor at this elevation. The white summit of Everest rose ahead, shrouded in clouds.

  They had to reach Base Camp on its lower slopes—but below, the skies were not safe.

  Two more helicopters, angry as hornets, raced toward them.

  And Painter was out of winches.

  Lisa watched the other helicopters swoop toward them, growing from gnats to hawks. It was now a race.

  Pitching the chopper steeply, Gunther dove out of the rarefied ether. He aimed for the gap between Mount Everest and its sister peak, Mount Lhotse. A shouldered ridgeline—the famous south col—connected Lhotse to Everest. They needed to get over its edge and put the mountain between them and the others. On the far side, Base Camp lay at the foot of the col.

  If they could reach it…

  She pictured her brother, his goofy smile, the cowlick at the back of his head that he was perpetually trying to smooth down. What were they thinking, bringing this war to Base Camp, to her brother?

  In front of her, Painter was bent with Gunther. The engine’s roar ate their words. She had to place her trust in Painter. He would not jeopardize anyone’s life needlessly.

  The col rose toward them. The world expanded outward as they dove toward the mountain pass. Everest filled the starboard side, a plume of snow blowing from its tip. Lhotse, the fourth highest peak in the world, was a wall to the left.

  Gunther steepened their angle. Lisa clutched her seat harness. She felt like she might tumble out the front windshield. The world ahead became a sheet of ice and snow.

  A whistling scream cut through the roar.

  “Missile!” Anna screamed.

  Gunther yanked on the stick. The nose of the chopper shot up and yawed to the right. The missile sailed under their skids and streaked into the eastern ridge of the col. Fire blasted upward. Gunther banked them clear of the eruption, dipping the nose down again.

  Pressing her cheek against the side window, Lisa glanced to the rear. The two choppers had closed the distance, angling toward them. Then a wall of ice cut off the view.

  “We’re over the ridge!” Painter yelled. “Hang tight!”

  Lisa swung back around. The helicopter plunged down the vertiginous slope of the south col. Snow and ice raced under them. Ahead, a darker scar appeared. Base Camp.

  They aimed for it, as if intending to crash headlong into the tent city.

  The camp swelled below them, growing with each second, prayer flags flapping, individual tents discernable now.

  “We’re going to land hard!” Painter yelled.

  Gunther didn’t slow.

  Lisa found a prayer rising to her lips or maybe a mantra. “Oh God…oh God…oh God…”

  At the last moment, Gunther pulled up, fighting the controls. Winds fought him. The helicopter continued falling, rotors now shrieking.

  The world beyond was a Tilt-A-Whirl.

  Thrown about, Lisa clenched the armrests.

  Then the skids slammed hard to the ground, slightly nose down, throwing Lisa forward. The seat harness held her. Rotor wash churned up snow in a flurried burst, but the chopper rocked back onto its skids, level and even.

  “Everybody out!” Painter yelled as Gunther throttled down.

  Hatches popped, and they tumbled out.

  Painter appeared at Lisa’s side, taking her arm in his. Anna and Gunther followed. A mass of people converged toward them. Lisa glanced up to the ridge. Smoke rose behind the col from the missile attack. Everyone at camp must have heard it, emptying tents.

  Voices in a slur of languages assaulted them.

  Lisa, half-deafened by the helicopter, felt distant from it all.

  Then one voice reached her.

  “Lisa!”

  She turned. A familiar shape in black snowpants and a gray thermal shirt shoved through the crowd, elbowing and pushing.

  “Josh!”

  Painter allowed her to divert the group in his direction. Then Lisa was in her brother’s arms, hugging tight. He smelled vaguely of yaks. She had never smelled anything better.

  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 b
est.

  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.