Still, there was no escaping the frigid cold as the temperature plummeted. Even in her storm parka and gloves, she shivered. Though they had traveled less than a full hour, the heat of the burning monastery was a distant memory. The inches of exposed skin on her face felt windburned and abraded.
Painter had to be faring worse. He had donned a pair of thick pants and woolen mittens, stripped off one of the dead monks. But he had no insulating hood, only a scarf tied over the lower half of his face. His breath puffed white into the frigid air.
They had to find shelter.
And soon.
Painter offered her a hand as she slid on her butt down a particularly steep patch and gained his side. They had reached the bottom of the notch. It angled away, framed by steep walls.
The fresh snow had already accumulated to a foot’s depth down here.
It would be hard trekking without snowshoes.
As if reading her worry, Painter pointed off to one side of the narrow cut. An overhang lipped out, offering protection from the weather. They set out for it, trudging through the drifts.
Once they reached the overhang, it became easier.
She glanced behind her. Already their steps were filling up with new snow. In minutes, they would be gone. While this certainly helped hide their path from any trackers, it still unnerved her. It was as if their very existence were being erased.
She turned around. “Do you have any idea where we’re going?” she asked. She found herself whispering—not so much in fear of giving away their position but as the blanketing hush of the storm intimidated.
“Barely,” Painter said. “These borderlands are uncharted territory. Much of it never trod by man.” He waved an arm. “When I first arrived here, I did study some satellite survey shots. But they’re not much practical use. The land’s too broken. Makes surveys difficult.”
They continued in silence for a few more steps.
Then Painter glanced back to her. “Did you know that back in 1999 they discovered Shangri-La up here?”
Lisa studied him. She couldn’t tell if he was smiling behind his scarf, trying to ease her fear. “Shangri-La…as in Lost Horizon?” She remembered the movie and the book. A lost utopian paradise frozen in time in the Himalayas.
Turning back around, he trudged on and explained. “Two National Geographic explorers discovered a monstrously deep gorge in the Himalayas a few hundred miles south of here, tucked under a mountain spur, a place that failed to show up on satellite maps. At the bottom lay a subtropical paradise. Waterfalls, fir and pine trees, meadows full of rhododendrons, streams lined by hemlock and spruce trees. A wild garden landscape, teeming with life, surrounded on all sides by ice and snow.”
“Shangri-La?”
He shrugged. “Just shows you that science and satellites don’t always reveal what the world wants to hide.”
By now his teeth were chattering. Even the act of talking wasted breath and heat. They needed to find their own Shangri-La.
They continued in silence. The snow fell thicker.
After another ten minutes, the notch cut to one side in a tight switchback. Reaching the corner, the protective overhang disappeared.
They stopped and stared, despairing.
The notch cut steeply down from here, widening and opening. A veil of snow fell ahead of them, filling the world. Through occasional gusts, fluttering glimpses of a deep valley appeared.
It was no Shangri-La.
Ahead stretched an icy, snow-swept series of jagged cliffs, too steep to traverse without ropes. A stream tumbled down through the precipitous landscape in a series of towering waterfalls—the course frozen to pure ice, locked in time.
Beyond, misted by snow and ice fog, lay a deep gorge, appearing bottomless from here. The end of the world.
“We’ll find a way down,” Painter chattered.
He headed into the teeth of the storm again. The snow quickly climbed above their ankles, then midcalf. Painter plowed a path for her.
“Wait,” she said. She knew he couldn’t last much longer. He had gotten her this far, but they were not equipped to go any farther. “Over here.”
She led him toward the cliff wall. The leeward side was somewhat sheltered.
“Where—?” he tried to ask, but his teeth rattled away his words.
She just pointed to where the frozen stream tumbled past the cliff overhead. Taski Sherpa had taught them survival skills up here. One of his strictest lessons. Finding shelter.
She knew by heart the five best places to look.
Lisa crossed to where the waterfall of ice reached their level. As instructed, she searched where the black rock met the blue-white ice. According to their guide, summer snowmelt turned the Himalayan waterfalls into churning torrents, capable of carving a deep pocket out of the rock. And by summer’s end, the water flow receded and froze, often leaving an empty space behind it.
With relief, she saw this waterfall was no exception.
She sent a prayer of thanks to Taski and all his ancestors.
Using her elbow, she shattered a crust of rime and widened a black gap between ice and wall. A small cave opened beyond.
Painter joined her. “Let me make sure it’s safe.”
Turning on his side, he squeezed through—and disappeared. A moment later, a small light bloomed, illuminating the waterfall.
Lisa peered through the crack.
Painter stood a couple of steps away, penlight in hand. He swept his beam around the small niche. “Looks safe. We should be able to weather out the storm in here for some time.”
Lisa pushed through to join him. Out of the wind and snow, it already felt warmer.
Painter flicked off his penlight. A light source wasn’t really necessary. The ice wall seemed to collect whatever daylight the storm let through and amplified it. The frozen waterfall scintillated and glowed.
Painter turned to her, his eyes exceptionally blue, a match to the glowing ice. She searched his face for signs of frostbite. The wind’s abrasion had turned his skin a deep ruddy hue. She recognized his Native American heritage in the planes of his face. Striking with his blue eyes.
“Thanks,” Painter said. “You may have just saved our lives.”
She shrugged, glancing away. “I owed you the favor.”
Still, despite her dismissive words, a part of her warmed at his appreciation—more than she would have expected.
“How did you know how to find—?” Painter’s last words were lost to a hard sneeze. “Ow.”
Lisa shrugged out of her pack. “Enough questions. We both need to warm up.”
She opened her medical pack and tugged out an MPI insulating blanket. Despite its deceptive thinness, the Astrolar fabric would retain ninety percent of radiated body heat. And she wasn’t counting on just body heat.
She pulled out a compact catalytic heater, vital gear in mountaineering.
“Sit,” she ordered Painter, spreading the blanket over the cold rock.
Exhausted, he didn’t offer any argument.
She joined him and swept it over them both, forming a cocoon. Nestling inside, she pressed the electronic ignition for her Coleman Sport-Cat heater. The flameless device operated on a small butane cylinder that lasted fourteen hours. Using it sparingly and intermittently, along with the space blanket, they should be able to last two or three days.
Painter shivered next to her as the heater warmed.
“Take off your gloves and boots,” she said, doing the same. “Warm your hands over the heater and massage fingers, toes, nose, ears.”
“Against f…frostbite…”
She nodded. “Pile as much clothing between you and the rock to limit heat loss from conduction.”
They stripped and feathered their nest with goose down and wool.
Soon the space felt almost balmy.
“I have a few PowerBars,” she said. “We can melt snow for water.”
“A regular backwoods survivalist,” Painter said a bit more
steadily, optimism returning as they warmed.
“But none of this will stop a bullet,” she said. She stared over at him, almost nose to nose under the blanket.
Painter sighed and nodded. They were out of the cold, but not out of danger. The storm, a threat before, offered some protection. But what then? They had no means of communication. No weapons.
“We’ll stay hidden,” Painter said. “Whoever firebombed the monastery won’t be able to track us. Searchers will come looking when the storm clears. Hopefully with rescue helicopters. We can signal them with that road flare I saw in your emergency pack.”
“And just hope the rescuers reach us before the others.”
He reached and squeezed her knee. She appreciated the fact that he didn’t offer any false words of encouragement. No candy-coating their situation. Her hand found his and held tight. It was encouragement enough.
They remained silent, lost in their own thoughts.
“Who do you think they are?” she finally asked softly.
“Don’t know. But I heard the man swear when I knocked into him. In German. Felt like hitting a tank.”
“German? Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure of anything. Probably a hired mercenary. He obviously had some military training.”
“Wait,” Lisa said. She wiggled around to her pack. “My camera.”
Painter sat straighter, shaking loose a corner of the blanket. He tucked it under to close the gap. “You think you might have a picture of him?”
“To operate the strobe flash, I set the camera to continuous shooting. In that mode, the digital SLR takes five frames per second. I have no idea what got captured.” She twisted around, thumbing on the camera.
Shoulder to shoulder, they stared at the tiny LCD screen on the back of the camera body. She brought up the last shots. Most were blurry, but as she flipped through the series, it was like watching a slow-motion replay of their escape: the startled response of the assassin, his raised arm as he instinctively tried to shield his eyes, his gunfire as she ducked behind her barrel, Painter’s crash into him.
A few shots had captured slices of the man’s face. Piecing the jigsaw together, they had a rough composite: blond-white hair, brutish brow, prominent jaw. The last shot in the series must have been taken as she leaped over Painter and the assassin. She captured a great close-up of his eyes, his night-vision scopes knocked over one ear. Anger blazed, a wildness accentuated by the red-eyed pupils in the camera flash.
Lisa flashed back to Relu Na, the distant relation of Ang Gelu who had attacked them with a sickle. The maddened monk’s eyes had glowed similarly. A chill that had nothing to do with the weather washed over her bare skin.
She also noted one other thing about the eyes.
They were mismatched.
One eye shone a brilliant Arctic blue.
The other was a dead white.
Maybe it was just flash washout…
Lisa hit the back arrow and recycled through the photos to the beginning. She overshot and brought up the last picture stored in the camera before the series in the root cellar. It was a picture of a wall, scrawled and scratched in blood. She had forgotten she had taken it.
“What’s that?” Painter asked.
She had already related the sad story of the head of the monastery, Lama Khemsar. “That’s what the old monk had been writing on the wall. It looks like the same series of marks. Over and over again.”
Painter leaned closer. “Can you zoom in?”
She did, though some crispness and clarity pixilated away.
Painter’s brow knit together. “It’s not Tibetan or Nepalese. Look at how angular the script is. Looks more like Nordic runes or something.”
“Do you think so?”
“Maybe.” Painter leaned back with a tired groan. “Either way, it makes you wonder if Lama Khemsar knew more than he let on.”
Lisa remembered something she had failed to tell Painter. “After the old monk cut his throat, we found a symbol carved into his chest. I dismissed it as just raving and coincidence. But now I’m not so sure.”
“What did it look like? Can you draw it?”
“No need to. It was a swastika.”
Painter’s brows rose. “A swastika?”
“I think so. Could he have been flashing back to the past, acting out something that frightened him?”
Lisa related the story of Ang Gelu’s relative. How Relu Na had fled the Maoist rebels, traumatized by their growing brutality as they took sickles to the limbs of innocent farmers. Then Relu Na did the same when the illness sapped the man’s sanity, acting out some deep-seated trauma.
Painter frowned as she finished. “Lama Khemsar was somewhere in his mid-seventies. That would place him in his early to midteens during World War II. So it’s possible. The Nazis had sent research expeditions into the Himalayas.”
“Here? Why?”
Painter shrugged. “The story goes that Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS, was fixated on the occult. He studied ancient Vedic texts of India, dating back thousands of years. The bastard came to believe that these mountains were once the birthplace of the original Aryan race. He sent expeditions looking for proof. Of course, the man was a few fries short of a Happy Meal.”
Lisa smiled at him. “Still, maybe the old lama had some run-in with one of those early expeditions. Hired as a guide or something.”
“Maybe. But we’ll never know. Whatever secrets there were died with him.”
“Maybe not. Maybe that was what he was trying to do up in his room. Letting go of something horrible. His subconscious trying to absolve itself by revealing what he knew.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.” Painter rubbed his forehead, wincing. “And I have one more. Maybe it was just gibberish.”
Lisa had no argument against that. She sighed, tiring rapidly as the adrenaline of their flight wore off. “Are you warm enough?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She switched off the heater. “Need to conserve the butane.”
He nodded, then failed to stop a jaw-popping yawn.
“We should try to get some sleep,” she said. “Take shifts.”
Hours later, Painter woke, startled awake by someone shaking his shoulder. He sat up from where he had been leaning against the wall. It was dark out. The wall of ice before him was as pitch-black as the rock.
At least the storm seemed to have died down.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Lisa had dropped a section of their blanket.
She pointed an arm and whispered, “Wait.”
He shifted closer, shedding any sleepiness. He waited half a minute. Still nothing. The storm definitely seemed to have subsided. The wind’s howl was gone. Beyond their cave, a winter’s crystalline quiet had settled over the valley and cliffs. He strained to hear anything suspicious.
Something had definitely spooked Lisa.
He sensed her raw fear. It practically vibrated out of her tense body.
“Lisa, what’s—?”
Suddenly the wall of ice flickered brilliantly, as if fireworks had ignited in the sky outside. There was no noise. The scintillating radiance cascaded up along the falls and away. Then the ice went dark again.
“The ghost lights…,” Lisa whispered and turned to him.
Painter flashed to three nights ago. When this had all started. The illness in the village, the madness in the monastery. He remembered Lisa’s earlier assessment. Proximity to the strange lights was directly related to the severity of the symptoms.
And now they were in the heart of the badlands.
Closer than ever.
As Painter watched, the frozen waterfall flared again with a shining and deadly brilliance. The ghost lights had returned.
5
SOMETHING ROTTEN
6:12 P.M.
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK
Does nothing ever start on time in Europe?
Gray checked his wristwatch.
The a
uction had been slated to start at five o’clock.
Trains and buses might be efficient enough to set your clock by here, but when it came to scheduled events, it was anyone’s guess. It was already after six. The latest consensus was that the auction’s start would be closer to six-thirty, due to some late arrivals, as a storm off the North Sea was delaying air traffic into Copenhagen.
Bidders were still arriving below.
As the sun sank away, Gray had positioned himself on a second-story balcony of the Scandic Hotel Webers. It sat across the street from the home of Ergenschein Auction House, a modern four-story building that seemed more art gallery than auction establishment, with its modern Danish minimalist style, all glass and bleached woods. The auction was to take place in the house’s basement.
And hopefully soon.
Gray yawned and stretched.
Earlier, he had stopped at his original hotel near Nyhavn, quickly collected his surveillance gear, and checked out. Under a new name with a new MasterCard, he had booked into this hotel. It offered a panoramic view of Copenhagen’s City Square, and from the private balcony, he could hear the distant titter and music of one of the world’s oldest amusement parks, Tivoli Gardens.
He had a laptop open with a half-eaten hot dog from a street vendor resting beside it. His only meal of the day. Despite rumors, the life of an operative was not all Monte Carlo casinos and gourmet restaurants. Still, it was a great hot dog, even if it cost almost five dollars American.
The image on the laptop screen shivered as the motion-sensitive camera snapped a rapid series of pictures. He had already captured two dozen participants: stiff bankers, dismissive Eurotrash, a trio of bull-necked gentlemen in shiny suits with mafioso stamped on their foreheads, a pudgy woman in professorial attire, and a foursome of white-suited nouveau riche wearing identical matching sailor caps. Of course, these last spoke American. Loudly.
He shook his head.
There couldn’t possibly be too many more arrivals.
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