Gray began to understand. It wasn’t just monetary gain that was the deciding factor in unloading the Bible, but also to relieve themselves of the burden. Someone wanted the Bible, and eventually the pursuit might escalate into more violent means to gain possession of it. And that threat might pass on to the new buyer.
From the corner of his eye, Gray studied Fiona. All her actions were done to protect her grandmother, to protect their financial security. He noted the fire in her eyes even now. The girl plainly wished her grandmother had remained more reticent.
“The Bible might be safer in a private collection in America,” Grette said. “Such troubles might not pass over the proverbial Pond.”
Gray nodded, reading the sales pitch behind the words.
“Did you ever find out what so possessed the stranger to pursue the Bible?” he asked.
Now it was Grette’s turn to search off into the distance.
“Such information can only make the Bible more valuable to my client,” Gray pressed.
Grette’s eyes flicked to him. Somehow she knew the lie behind his words. She studied him again, weighing something more than just the truth of his words, looking deeper.
At that moment, Bertal shambled into the office, nosed longingly at a set of tea cakes beside the kettle on the desk, then crossed to Gray’s side and slumped to the floorboards with a sigh. His muzzle came to rest atop Gray’s boot, plainly comfortable with this stranger to their shop.
As if this were enough, Grette sighed and closed her eyes, and whatever hard edge softened. “I don’t know for sure. I only have some suppositions.”
“I’ll take what you can give.”
“The stranger came here looking for information regarding a library that was sold piecemeal after the war. In fact, four such items are up for auction this afternoon. The de Vries diary, a copy of Mendel’s papers, and two texts by the physicist Max Planck.”
Gray was well aware of the same list on his notepad. They were the very items that had sparked special attention among the questionable entities. Who was buying them up and why?
“Can you tell me anything else about this old library collection? Is there any provenance of significance?”
Grette stood and stepped toward her files. “I have the original receipt from my father’s purchase back in 1949. It names a village and a small estate. Let me see if I can find it.”
She moved into a shaft of sunlight below the back window and pulled open a middle drawer. “I can’t give you the original, but I’d be happy to have Fiona photocopy it for you.”
As the old woman rustled through her files, Bertal raised his nose from Gray’s right shoe, trailing a rope of drool. A low growl burbled from the dog.
But it was not directed at Gray.
“Here it is.” Grette turned and held out a sheet of yellowed paper in a plastic protective sleeve.
Gray ignored her extended arm and concentrated on her toes. A thin shadow shifted across the patch of sunlight where Grette stood.
“Get down!”
Gray leaped toward the sofa, reaching for the old woman.
Behind him, Bertal barked sharply, almost masking the crack of glass.
Gray, still reaching, was too late. All he could do was catch Grette Neal’s body as the front of her face dissolved in a shower of blood and bone, shot from behind by a sniper outside the window.
Gray caught her body and pitched down to the sofa.
Fiona screamed.
Through the shattered rear window, two distinct pops sounded along with the shatter of glass. Two black canisters jetted into the office, struck the far wall, and clattered down, bouncing.
Gray leaped off the sofa, shouldering into Fiona. He shoved her bodily out of the office and around the corner.
The dog scrambled after them.
Gray half carried Fiona behind a sheltering bookcase as twin detonations ripped through the office, blasting apart the wall in a fiery explosion of plaster and splintered wood.
The bookcase toppled over, crashing into its neighbor and leaning precariously. Gray sheltered Fiona under him.
Overhead, texts burst into flame and fiery ash rained down.
Gray spotted the old dog. He had moved too slowly, hobbled by the bad paw. The concussion had slammed the poor dog into the far wall. He did not move. His fur smoldered.
Gray shielded Fiona from the sight. “We have to get clear.”
He pulled her shocked form from under the leaning bookcase. Flames and smoke already filled the back half of the shop. Overhead sprinklers burst with tepid sprays. Too little, too late. Not with this much tinder on hand.
“Out the front!” he urged.
He stumbled forward with her.
Too slowly.
Before them, the outer security gate crashed down, sealing the front door and window. Gray noted shadows fading to either side of the barred gate. More gunmen.
Gray glanced behind him. A churning wall of flame and smoke filled the back of the shop.
They were trapped.
11:57 P.M.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Monk drowsed in that happy place between bliss and sleep. He and Kat had moved from the bathroom floor to the bed as passion dissolved to soft whispers and even softer touches. The sheets and comforters were still knotted around their naked forms; neither was ready to untie themselves, not physically, not in any way.
Monk’s finger traced the curve of Kat’s breast, lazily, more in reassurance than arousal. The smooth arch of her foot gently caressed his calf.
Perfection.
Nothing could ruin this—
A piercing warble erupted in the room, tensing them both.
It rose from the side of the bed, where Monk had dropped his sweatpants…or rather had them yanked off him. The pager was still clipped to the elastic waist. He knew he had switched the device to vibration when he returned from his evening jog. Only one manner of call broke through that mode.
Emergency.
On the other side of the bed, from the nightstand, a second pager burst with a matching clarion call.
Kat’s.
They both pushed up, eyes meeting with worry.
“Central command,” Kat said.
Monk reached down and grabbed his pager, dragging his sweatpants up with it. He confirmed her assessment.
He rolled his feet to the floor and reached for the phone. Kat sat up next to him, pulling the sheets to cover her bare breasts, as if some manner of decency was necessary to call into central command. He dialed the number for Sigma Force’s direct line. It was picked up immediately.
“Captain Bryant?” Logan Gregory answered.
“No, sir. It’s Monk Kokkalis. But Kat…Captain Bryant is here with me.”
“I need you both back at command immediately.”
Logan filled him in tersely.
Monk listened, nodding. “We’re leaving now,” he finished and hung up.
Kat met his gaze, brows pinched together. “What’s wrong?”
“Trouble.”
“With Gray?”
“No. I’m sure he’s fine.” Monk climbed into his sweats. “Probably having a great time with Rachel.”
“Then—?”
“It’s Director Crowe. Something’s happened in Nepal. Details are sketchy. Something about a plague.”
“Has Director Crowe reported in?”
“That’s just it. His last report was three days ago, but a storm had closed off communication. So there was not too much concern. Then the storm broke today, and still no communication. And now there’re rumors of plague, death, and some uprising out there. Possibly a rebel attack.”
Kat’s eyes widened.
“Logan is calling everyone into command.”
Kat slid out of bed and reached for her own clothes. “What could be going on out there?”
“Nothing good, that’s for damn sure.”
9:22 A.M.
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
“Is there
a way upstairs?” Gray asked.
Fiona stared at the closed gate, rooted in place, eyes wide and unblinking. Gray read the signs of shock in the girl.
“Fiona…” Gray stepped around and leaned close, nose to nose, filling her vision. “Fiona, we must get away from the fire.”
Behind her, the firestorm spread rapidly, fueled by the stacks of dry books and broken pine shelving. Flames had climbed and lapped to the ceiling. Smoke churned and rolled along the roof. Sprinklers continued to leak tepidly into the conflagration, adding steam to the toxic pall.
The heat intensified with each breath. Still, as Gray took Fiona’s hands in his, she shivered, her whole body trembling. But at least his touch finally focused her eyes on him.
“Is there a way upstairs? To another level?”
Fiona glanced up. A pall of smoke obscured the tin ceiling tiles. “Some old rooms. An attic…”
“Yes. Perfect. Can we get up there?”
She shook her head at first slowly, then more firmly, reviving to the danger. “No. The only stairs are…” She waved feebly toward the fire. “At the back of the building.”
“On the outside.”
She nodded. Ash swirled in fiery eddies around them as the wall of fire advanced.
Gray cursed silently. There must’ve once been an interior staircase, before the building was split into a shop and upper rooms. But no longer. He’d have to improvise.
“Do you have an ax?” he asked.
Fiona shook her head.
“How about a crowbar? Something to open crates or boxes?”
Fiona stiffened and nodded. “By the cash register.”
“Stay here.” Gray edged along the left-hand wall. It offered the clearest path back toward the central desk. The fire had not quite reached it.
Fiona followed.
“I told you to stay back.”
“I know where the soddin’ crowbar is,” she snapped at him.
Gray recognized the terror behind her anger, but it was an improvement over the limp-limbed shock from a moment ago. Plus it matched his own fury. At himself. It was bad enough the girl had tailed him earlier, but now he’d allowed himself to be trapped by unknown assassins. He’d been too distracted by thoughts of Rachel, too dismissive of this mission and its parameters, and now it wasn’t only his life in jeopardy.
Fiona pushed ahead of him, red-eyed and coughing from the smoke. “It’s over here.” She leaned across the desk, reached behind it, and tugged free a long green steel bar.
“Let’s go.” He led the way back toward the advancing flames. He pulled out of his wool sweater and traded it for the crowbar.
“Wet the sweater down. Soak it good in that sprinkler.” He pointed with the crowbar. “And yourself, for that matter.”
“What are you going to—?”
“Try to make our own staircase.”
Gray mounted one of the bookshelf ladders and scrambled up. The smoke churned above his upraised face. The very air burned. Gray poked the crowbar at one of the tin ceiling tiles. It was easily dislodged and nudged aside. As he had hoped, the shop roof was a cantilevered drop ceiling. It hid the rafter-and-plank floor of the story above.
Gray climbed to the top of the ladder and scaled the last few shelves of the bookcase. He perched atop it. Using this vantage, he jammed his crow-bar between two of the planks. It sank deep. He shouldered and levered the crowbar. The steel bar ripped through the old wood. Still, he barely managed to gouge out a mouse hole.
Eyes watering and burning, Gray leaned down. A racking cough shook through him. Not good. It would be a race between his crowbar and the smoke. Gray glanced back to the fire. It grew fiercer. The smoke belched thicker.
He’d never make it at this rate.
Movement drew his gaze back down. Fiona had scrambled up the ladder. She had found a kerchief, soaked it, and had it wrapped around the lower half of her face like a bandit, a fitting disguise in her case.
She held up his soggy wool sweater. She had soaked herself, too, seeming to shrink in size like a wet puppy. Gray realized she was younger than the seventeen he had guessed earlier. She could be no more than fifteen. Her eyes were red-rimmed with panic—but also shone with hope, placing some blind faith in him.
Gray hated when people did that…because it always worked.
Gray tied the arms of his sweater around his neck and let the rest drape over his back. He tugged up a flap of sodden wool to cover his mouth and nose, offering some insulation from the ash-thickened air.
With water soaking through the back of his shirt, Gray knelt up again, ready to attack the stubborn planks. He sensed the presence of Fiona below. And the responsibility.
Gray searched the space between the drop ceiling and the rafters for any other means of escape. All around, piping and wiring crisscrossed in a haphazard pattern, plainly added piecemeal after the two-story home had been sectioned into a lower shop and upper apartment. The newer renovations appeared shoddy, the difference between Old World craftsmanship and modern slipshod construction.
As he searched, Gray spotted a break in the uniform run of planks and rafters. A boxed-off section, three feet square, framed by thicker bracing. Gray recognized it immediately. He’d been right earlier. The bracing marked the opening where a long-demolished interior staircase had once passed through to the floor above.
But how securely had it been sealed up?
Only one way to find out.
Gray rose up on his heels, stood atop the bookcase, and followed it like a balance beam in the direction of the framed opening. It was only a few yards—but it led deeper into the shop, toward the fire.
“Where are you going?” Fiona demanded from atop the ladder.
Gray didn’t have the breath to explain. The smoke choked thicker with every step. The heat grew to an open-furnace intensity. He finally reached the section of bookshelf below the sealed stairwell.
Glancing down, Gray saw that the bookcase’s lower shelves already smoldered. He’d reached the firestorm’s leading edge.
No time to waste.
Bracing himself, he slammed his crowbar up.
The tip plunged easily through the thinner wood planking. It was no more than pressed fiberboard and vinyl tiles. Shoddy, as he’d hoped. Thank God for the lack of modern work ethic.
Gray hauled on his crowbar, cranking like a machine as the air burned and the heat blistered. Soon he had created an opening wide enough to climb through.
Gray tossed the crowbar through the opening. It clattered above.
He turned to Fiona and waved her to him.
“Can you get on top of the bookshelves and—?”
“I saw how you got over there.” She scrambled up onto the bookcase.
A pop drew Gray’s attention below. The bookcase shuddered under him.
Uh-oh…
His weight and the burning lower tiers were rapidly weakening his perch. He reached to the hole and half pulled himself up, shifting his weight off the shelf.
“Hurry,” he urged the girl.
With her arms held out for balance, Fiona edged along the top of the bookcase. About a yard away.
“Hurry,” he repeated.
“I heard you the first—”
With a resounding crack, the section of bookcase under Gray collapsed. He gripped the edges of the hole tighter as the case toppled away, crashing into the fire. A fresh wash of heat, ash, and flames swept high.
Fiona screamed as her section shook, but held.
Hanging by his arms, Gray called to her. “Leap over to me. Grab around my shoulders.”
Fiona needed no further encouragement as her case wobbled. She jumped and struck him hard, arms latching around his neck, legs clinging around his waist. He was almost knocked from his perch. He swung in place.
“Can you use my body to climb up through the hole?” he asked with a strain.
“I…I think so.”
She hung a moment longer, not moving.
The rough
edges of the hole tore at his fingers. “Fiona…”
She trembled against him, then worked her way around to his back. Once moving, she climbed quickly, planting a toe into his belt, then pushing off his shoulder. She was through the hole with all the agility of a spider monkey.
Below, a bonfire of books and shelving raged.
Gray gladly hauled himself up after her, worming through the hole and beaching himself on the floor. He was in the center of a hallway. Rooms spread out in either direction.
“Fire’s up here, too,” Fiona whispered, as if afraid to attract the flames’ attention.
Rolling to his feet, Gray saw the flickering glow from the back half of the apartment. Smoke choked these halls, even thicker than below.
“C’mon,” he said. It was still a race.
Gray hurried down the hall away from the fire. He ended at one of the boarded upper windows. He peeked between two slats. Sirens could be heard in the distance. People gathered in the street below: onlookers and gawkers. And surely hidden among them was a gunman or two.
Gray and the girl would be exposed if they tried climbing out the window.
Fiona studied the crowd, too. “They won’t let us leave, will they?”
“Then we’ll get out on our own.”
Gray backed away and searched up. He pictured the attic dormer window he’d spotted earlier from the street. They needed to reach the roof.
Fiona understood his intention. “There’s a pull-down ladder in the next room.” She led the way. “I would come up here to read sometimes when Mutti…” Fiona’s voice cracked, and her words died.
Gray knew the girl would be haunted by the death of her grandmother for a long time. He put his arm around her shoulder, but she shrugged out of it angrily and stepped away.
“Over here,” she said and entered what once must have been a sitting room. Now it held only a few crates and a faded, ripped sofa.
Fiona pointed to a frayed rope hanging from the ceiling, attached to a trapdoor in the roof.
Gray tugged it down, and a collapsible wooden ladder slid to the floor. He climbed first, followed by Fiona.
The attic was unfinished: just insulation, rafters, and rat droppings. The only light came from a pair of dormer windows. One faced the front street, the other toward the back. Thin smoke filled the space, but so far no flames.
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