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?
He would never know.
As the world drowned from sight, Gray fell back into darkness.
5:50 P.M.
HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI PRESERVE
Thousands of miles away, another man woke.
The world returned in a miasma of pain and color. His eyes flickered open to something fluttering over his face, the wings of a bird. His ears filled with a chanting.
“He wakes,” another said in Zulu.
“Khamisi…” This time a woman’s voice.
It took a moment for the waking man to reconnect the name to himself. It fit uneasily. A groan reached his ears. In his own voice.
“Help him sit up,” the woman said. She also spoke Zulu, but her accent was British, familiar.
Khamisi felt himself tugged up into a weak slouch, propped by pillows. His sight stabilized. The room, a mud brick hut, was dark, but painful lances of light pierced around shaded windows and the edges of a rug shielding the hut’s door. The roof was decorated with colorful gourds, twists of hides, and strings of feathers. The odor of the room cloyed with strange scents. Something was snapped under his nose. It reeked of ammonia and shoved his head back.
He flailed out a bit. He saw his right arm trailed an IV line, attached to a hanging bag of yellowish fluid. His arms were caught.
On one side, the bare-chested shaman wearing a crown of feathers held his shoulder steady. He had been the one chanting and waving a desiccated vulture wing over his face, to ward away death’s scavengers.
On the other, Dr. Paula Kane held his arm, placing it back down on the blanket. He was naked beneath it. Sweat had soaked the cloth to his skin.
“Where…what…?” his voice croaked.
“Water,” Paula ordered.
The third person in the room obeyed, a crooked-backed elder of the Zulu. He passed a dented canteen.
“Can you hold it?” Paula asked.
Khamisi nodded, strength feebly returning. He took the canteen and sipped the tepid water, loosening his pasty tongue and his memories. The elder who brought the canteen…he had been in Khamisi’s house.
His heart suddenly beat faster. His other hand, trailing the IV line, rose to his neck. A bandage lay there. He remembered it all. The fanged dart. The black mamba. The staged snake attack.
“What happened?”
The old man filled in the blank spaces. Khamisi recognized him as the elder who had first reported seeing an ukufa in the park five months ago. Back then, his claims had been dismissed, even by Khamisi.
“I heard what happened to Missus Doctor.” He nodded to Paula in sympathy and sorrow. “And I heard what you say you saw. People talk. I come by your home, to speak to you. But you not home. So I wait. Others come, so I hide. They chop a snake. Mamba. Bad magic. I stay hiding.”
Khamisi closed his eyes, remembering. He had then come home, been darted, left for dead. But his attackers hadn’t known about the man hiding in the back.
“I come out,” the elder continued. “I call others. In secret, we take you away.”
Paula Kane finished the story. “We brought you here,” she said. “The poison almost killed you, but medicine—both modern and ancient—saved you. It was a close call.”
Khamisi glanced from the IV bottle to the shaman.
“Thank you.”
“Do you feel strong enough to walk?” Paula asked. “You should get your limbs moving. The poison hits the circulatory system like a load of bricks.”
Assisted by the shaman, Khamisi stood up, modestly keeping his soaked blanket around his waist. He was walked to the door. While taking his first steps he felt as weak as a babe, but a frail strength quickly suffused his limbs.
The rug over the door was pulled back.
Light and the day’s heat flowed inside, blinding and blistering.
Midafternoon, he guessed. The sun sank in the west.
Shielding his eyes, he stepped out.
He recognized the tiny Zulu village. It stood at the edge of the Hluhluwe-Umfolozi reserve. Not far from where they’d found the rhino, where Dr. Fairfield had been attacked.
Khamisi glanced at Paula Kane. She stood with her arms crossed, her face exhausted.
“It was the head warden,” Khamisi said. He had no doubts. “He wanted to silence me.”
“About how Marcia died. What you saw.”
He nodded.
“What did you—?”
Her words were cut off as a twin-engine helicopter sped past overhead, low and loud. Rotor wash thrashed bushes and tree limbs. Rugs flapped from doorways, as if trying to wave away the interloper.
The heavy aircraft raced away, passing low over the savanna.
Khamisi watched it. It was no tourist junket.
Beside him, Paula had raised a pair of Bushnell binoculars, following the aircraft. It drifted farther away, then settled for a landing. Khamisi stepped out farther to watch.
Paula passed him the binoculars. “There’ve been flights in and out of there all day.”
Khamisi lifted the glasses. The world magnified and zoomed. He saw the twin-engine drop behind a barrier of ten-foot-high black fencing. It marked the boundary of the Waalenberg private estate. The helicopter vanished behind it.
“Something has them all stirred up,” Paula said.
The tiny hairs on the back of Khamisi’s neck quivered.
He twisted the focus, fixing more sharply on the fencing. The old main gates, rarely used, stood closed. He recognized the old family crest, done in silver filigree across the gates. The Waalenberg Crown and Cross.
THIRD
11
DEMON IN THE MACHINE
12:33 A.M.
AIRBORNE OVER THE INDIAN OCEAN
“Captain Bryant and I will do our best to investigate the Waalenbergs here in Washington,” Logan Gregory said over the phone.
Painter wore an earpiece that dangled a microphone. He needed his hands free as he sifted through the mountain of paperwork that Logan had faxed to their staging area in Kathmandu. It contained everything about the Waalenbergs: family history, financial reports, international ties, even gossip and innuendo.
On top of the pile rested a grainy photograph: a man and a woman climbing out of a limousine. Gray Pierce had taken the picture from a hotel suite across the street, prior to the start of an auction. The digital surveillance had confirmed Logan’s assessment. The tattoo was tied to the Waalenberg clan. The two in the photo were Isaak and Ischke Waalenberg, twins, the youngest heirs to the family fortune, a fortune that rivaled most countries’ gross national product.
But more importantly, Painter recognized the wan complexions and white hair. The pair were more than heirs. They were Sonnekönige. Like Gunther, like the assassin back at the mountain castle.
Painter glanced to the front of the Gulfstream’s cabin.
Gunther slept, sprawled across a sofa, legs dangling over the end. His sister, Anna, sat in a nearby chair, facing a pile of research as daunting as Painter’s. The two were guarded over by Major Brooks and a pair of armed U.S. Rangers. Roles were n
ow reversed. The captors had become the prisoners. But despite the shift in power, nothing had really changed between them. Anna needed Painter’s connections and logistical support; Painter needed Anna’s knowledge of the Bell and the science behind it. As Anna had stated earlier, “Once this is over, then we’ll settle matters of legality and responsibility.”
Logan cut into his reverie. “Kat and I have an appointment set for the morning with the South African embassy. We’ll see if they can’t help shed some light on this reclusive family.”
And reclusive was putting it mildly. The Waalengbergs were the Kennedys of South Africa: rich, ruthless, with their own estate the size of Rhode Island outside of Johannesburg. Though the family owned vast tracts elsewhere, the Waalenberg family seldom strayed far from their main estate.
Painter picked up the grainy digital photo.
A family of Sonnekönige.
As time ran short, there could be only one place a second Bell could be hidden. Somewhere on that estate.
“A British operative will meet you when you touch down in Johannesburg. MI5 has had their eye on the Waalenbergs for years—tracking unusual transactions—but they’ve been unable to penetrate their wall of privacy and secrecy.”
Not surprising, since the Waalenbergs practically own the country, Painter thought.
“They’ll offer ground support and local expertise,” Logan finished. “I’ll have more details by the time you touch down in three hours.”
“Very good.” Painter stared at the picture. “And what about Gray and Monk?”
“They’ve dropped off the map. We found their car parked at the airport in Frankfurt.”
Frankfurt? That made no sense. The city was a major international airline hub, but Gray already had access to a government jet, faster than any commercial airline. “And no word at all?”
“No, sir. We’re listening on all channels.”
The news was definitely disconcerting.
Rubbing at a needling headache that even codeine couldn’t touch, Painter concentrated on the drone of the plane as it sailed through the dark skies. What had happened to Gray? The options were few: he’d gone into hiding, been captured, or killed. Where was he?
“Turn over every stone, Logan.”
“It’s under way. Hopefully by the time you reach Johannesburg, I’ll have more news on that matter, too.”
“Do you ever sleep, Logan?”
“There’s a Starbucks on the corner, sir. Make that every corner.” A tired amusement flavored his words. “But what about you, sir?”
He had taken a power nap back in Kathmandu while all the preparations had been made and fires put out—literally and politically—in Nepal. They had been delayed too long in Kathmandu.
“I’m holding up fine, Logan. No worries.”
Right.
As Painter signed off, his thumb rubbed absently over the pale pebbly flesh that was the nail bed to his fourth finger. All his other fingers tingled—and now his toes. Logan had attempted to convince him to fly back to Washington, have tests run at Johns Hopkins, but Painter had trusted that Anna’s group was well ahead of the curve on this particular illness. Damaged at the quantum level. No conventional treatment would help. To slow down the disease, they needed another functioning Bell. According to Anna, periodic treatment with the Bell’s radiation under controlled situations could buy them years instead of days. And maybe down the line, even a complete cure, Anna concluded hopefully.
But first they needed another Bell.
And more information.
A voice behind his shoulder startled him. “I think we should talk to Anna,” Lisa said, as if reading his mind.
Painter turned. He thought Lisa had been asleep in back. She had cleaned up, showered, and now leaned against his seat back, dressed in khaki slacks and a cream-colored blouse.
Her eyes searched his face, clinical, judging. “You look like crap,” she said.
“Such a good bedside manner,” he said, standing and stretching.
The plane tilted and darkened. Lisa grabbed his elbow, steadying him. The world brightened and stabilized. It hadn’t been the plane, just his head.
“Promise me you’ll get some more sleep before we land,” she said, squeezing his elbow in a demanding pinch.
“If there’s time—owww!”
She had a grip like iron.
“Okay, I promise,” he relented.
Her grip relaxed. She nodded to Anna. The woman was hunched over a stack of invoices, going over bills of lading for the Waalenberg estate. She was looking for any telltale signs that the Waalenbergs had been bringing in supplies consistent with the operation of a functioning Bell.
“I want to know more about how that Bell works,” Lisa said. “The fundamental theories behind it. If the disease causes quantum damage, we must understand how and why. She and Gunther are the only survivors from Granitschloß. I doubt Gunther has been instructed on the finer points of the Bell’s theories.”
Painter nodded. “More guard dog than scientist.”
As if confirming this, a loud snore rumbled from the man.
“All the remaining knowledge of the Bell is in Anna’s head. If her mind should go…”
They’d lose it all.
“We need to secure the information before that happens,” Painter agreed.
Lisa’s eyes met his. She did not hide her thoughts. They were plain on her face. He remembered her climbing on board the plane in Kathmandu. Exhausted, frayed to a ragged edge, she had not hesitated to come along. She understood. Like now.
It wasn’t just Anna’s mind and memory that were at risk.
Painter was also in danger.
Only one person had been following this trail from the beginning, one person with the medical and scientific mind to follow it all, a mind free of impending dementia. Back at the castle, Lisa and Anna had shared long conversations alone. Also on her own, Lisa had explored the depths of Anna’s research library. Who knew what tiny fact might prove to be the critical one, the difference between success and failure?
Lisa had understood.
It had taken no discussion in Kathmandu.
She had simply climbed on board.
Lisa’s hand slipped from his elbow and slid to his hand. She gave his fingers a squeeze and nodded to Anna. “Let’s go pick her brain.”
“To understand how the Bell works,” Anna explained, “you must first understand quantum theory.”
Lisa studied the German woman. Her pupils were dilated from the codeine. She was taking too much. Anna’s fingers shook with fine tremors. She clutched her reading glasses in both hands, as if they were an anchor. They had retreated to the back of the jet. Gunther still slept under guard in the front.
“I don’t think we have time for the full Ph.D. program,” Painter said.
“Natürlich. Only three principles need to be understood.” Anna let go of her glasses long enough to hold up one finger. “First, we must understand that once matter is broken down to the subatomic level—the world of electrons, protons, and neutrons—then the classical laws of the universe begin to erode. Max Planck discovered that electrons, protons, and neutrons act as both particles and waves. Which seems strange and contradictory. Particles have distinct orbits and paths, while waves are more diffuse, less distinct, lacking any specific coordinates.”
“And these subatomic particles act like both?” Lisa asked.
“They have the potential to be either a wave or a particle,” Anna said. “Which brings us to our next point. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle.”
Lisa was already familiar with it and had read further about it back in Anna’s laboratory. “Heisenberg basically states that nothing is certain until it is observed,” she said. “But I don’t understand what that has to do with electrons, protons, and neutrons.”
“The best example of Heisenberg’s principle is Schrödinger’s cat,” Anna responded. “Put a cat in a sealed box hooked to a device that may or may not
poison the cat at any moment. Purely random odds. Dead or alive. Heisenberg tells us that in that situation, with the box closed, that the cat is potentially both dead and alive. Only once someone opens the box and looks inside does reality choose one state or the other. Dead or alive.”
“Sounds more philosophical than scientific,” Lisa said.
“Perhaps when you’re talking about a cat. But it has been proven true at the subatomic level.”
“Proven? How?” Painter asked. He had sat quietly up until now, letting Lisa direct the questioning. She sensed he knew much of this already but wanted Lisa to get all the information she needed.
“In the classic double-slit test,” Anna said. “Which brings us to point number three.” She picked up two pieces of paper and drew two slits on one and held them up on end, one behind the other.
“What I’m about to tell you is going to seem strange and against common sense…. Suppose this piece of paper were a concrete wall and the slits were two windows. If you took a gun and sprayed bullets at both slits, you’d get a certain pattern on the wall on the far side. Like this.”
She took the second piece of paper and punched dots on it.
“Call this Diffraction Pattern A. The way bullets or particles would pass through these slits.”
Lisa nodded. “Okay.”
“Next, instead of bullets, let’s shine a big spotlight on the wall, with light passing through both slits. Because light travels in waves, we would get a different pattern on the far wall.”
She shaded a pattern of light and dark bands across a new piece of paper.
“This patterning is caused by the light waves passing through the right and left windows interfering with each other. So let’s call this Interference Pattern B…what is caused by waves.”
“Got it,” Lisa said, not sure where this was going.
Anna held up the two patterns. “Now take an electron gun and shoot a single line of electrons at the double slits. What pattern would you get?”
“Since you’re shooting electrons like bullets, I’d guess Diffraction Pattern A.” Lisa pointed to the first picture.
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