Black Order

by James Rollins

  A long black limousine pulled up to the auction house. Two figures stepped out. They were tall and lean, dressed in matching black Armani suits. His and hers. He wore a robin’s egg blue tie. She wore a silk blouse of a matching hue. Both were young, midtwenties at best. But they carried themselves as if much older. Maybe it was the bleached white hair, coiffed almost identically, short, pasted to the scalp, looking like a pair of silent-movie stars from the Roaring Twenties. Their manner gave them an ageless grace. No smiles, but not cold. Even in the snapshots, there was a friendly amusement in their eyes.

  The doorman held the door open for them.

  They each nodded their thanks—again not overly warm, but acknowledging the man’s gesture. They vanished inside. The doorman stepped after them, turning a sign. Plainly this couple was the last, and perhaps in fact the very reason the auction had been delayed until now.

  Who were they?

  He stowed his curiosity. He had his orders from Logan Gregory.

  He reviewed his pictures to ensure he had clean images of each participant. Satisfied, he backed the file onto a flash-disk and pocketed it. Now all he had to do was wait for the auction to end. Logan had arranged to obtain a list of sale items and names of successful bidders. Surely a few would be aliases, but the information would be shared with the U.S. task force on terrorism and eventually Europol and Interpol. Whatever was really afoot here might never be known to Gray.

  Like why was he attacked? Why had Grette Neal been killed?

  Gray forced his fist to relax. It had taken all afternoon, but in a calmer frame of mind, Gray had learned to accept the restraints Logan had placed on him. He had no idea what was really going on here, and to operate blindly, rashly, might only get more people killed.

  Still, a large measure of guilt ached at the base of his spine, making it difficult to sit still. He had spent most of the afternoon pacing his hotel room. The past days had replayed in his mind over and over again.

  If he had been more careful to start…taken more precautions…

  Gray’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Taking it out, he checked the incoming number. Thank God. He snapped open the phone, stood, and stepped to the balcony railing.

  “Rachel…I’m glad you called back.”

  “I got your message. Are you all right?”

  He heard both the personal concern and the professional interest in a more thorough debriefing. He had left her only a short note on her cell phone, warning that their rendezvous would have to be cut short. He hadn’t gone into the details. Despite their relationship, there were security clearances involved.

  “I’m fine. But Monk is flying in. He’ll be here a little after midnight.”

  “I’ve just arrived in Frankfurt myself,” Rachel said. “Laying over for my last leg to Copenhagen. I checked my messages after we landed here.”

  “Again. I’m sorry…”

  “So I should head back?”

  He feared involving her in any way. “It would be best. We’ll have to reschedule. Perhaps if things calm down here, I can make a short side trip to Rome and visit you there before returning to the States.”

  “I would like that.”

  He heard the disappointment in her voice.

  “I’ll make it up to you,” he said, hoping it was a promise he could keep.

  She sighed—not in irritation, but in understanding. They were not naïve about their long-distance relationship. Two continents, two careers. But they were willing to work on it…to see where it would lead.

  “I’d hoped we would have a chance to talk,” Rachel said.

  He knew what she meant, reading the deeper meaning behind her words. They had been through much together, witnessed both the good and the bad in each other, and still, despite the difficulty in a long-distance romance, neither had been willing to throw in the towel. In fact, both of them knew that it was time to discuss the next step.

  Shortening that distance.

  It was probably one of the reasons that they’d been so long apart since the last rendezvous. Some unspoken acknowledgment that they both needed time to think. Now it was time to lay the cards on the table.

  Move forward or not.

  But did he even have an answer? He loved Rachel. He was ready to make a life with her. They had even talked about kids. Still…something unsettled him. Made him almost relieved their tryst here had been delayed. It wasn’t something as mundane as cold feet. So then what was it?

  Maybe they had better talk.

  “I’ll get to Rome,” he said. “I promise.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that. I’ll even keep some of Uncle Vigor’s vermicelli alla panna warming on the stove.” He heard the tension easing from her voice. “I miss you, Gray. We—”

  Her next words were cut off by the strident beep of a car horn.

  Gray glanced down to the street. Below, a figure ran across two lanes, heedless of traffic. A woman in a cashmere jacket and ankle-length dress, hair bundled up in a bun. Gray almost didn’t recognize her. Not until she flipped off the driver who had honked.

  Fiona.

  What the hell was the girl doing here?

  “Gray—?” Rachel said in his ear.

  He spoke in a rush. “I’m sorry, Rachel…I have to run.”

  He hung up, pocketing his cell phone.

  Below, Fiona rushed to the auction house door and pushed inside. Gray darted back to his laptop. His camera captured the girl’s image through the glass entrance. She was arguing with the doorman. Finally, the uniformed man checked a paper she shoved into his hands, scowled, and waved her farther inside.

  Fiona bulled past him and disappeared. The camera went dark.

  Gray glanced between laptop and street.

  Damn it…

  Logan would not be happy. No rash actions.

  Still, what would Painter Crowe do?

  Gray swung back inside and stripped out of his street clothes. His suit jacket lay on the bed. Ready in case of emergency.

  Painter certainly would not sit calmly and do nothing.

  10:22 P.M.

  HIMALAYAS

  “We have to remain calm,” Painter said. “Sit tight.”

  Before them, the ghost lights continued to flare and subside, wintry and silent, igniting the icy waterfall into a shattering brilliance, then dying away. In the resulting darkness, the cave seemed colder and blacker.

  Lisa shifted closer to him. Her hand found his, squeezing all the blood from his palm.

  “No wonder they hadn’t bothered tracking us,” she whispered, breathless with fear. “Why hunt through this storm, when all they have to do is turn those damn lights back on and irradiate us? We can’t hide from that.”

  Painter realized she was right. Maddened, they would be without defenses. In such a senseless state, the treacherous landscape and frigid cold would kill them as surely as any sniper’s bullet.

  But he refused to give up hope.

  The madness took hours to take hold. He would not waste those hours. If they could reach help in time, perhaps there was a way to reverse the effect.

  “We’ll get through this,” he said lamely.

  This only irritated her.

  “How?”

  She turned to him as the lights flared again, sparkling the cavern with a diamondlike sheen. Lisa’s eyes shone with less terror than he had imagined. She was fearful—and rightfully so—but there remained a hard glint, also diamondlike.

  “Don’t talk down to me,” Lisa said, slipping her hand from his. “That’s all I ask.”

  Painter nodded. “If they’re trusting the radiation or whatever to kill us, they may not be watching the mountains that well. With the storm over, we can—”

  A spatter of gunfire erupted, splintering the winter’s quiet.

  Painter met Lisa’s gaze.

  It sounded close.

  Proving that, a spate of bullets cracked into the wall of ice. Painter and Lisa scrambled back, shedding their space blanket. Th
ey retreated to the rear of the small cave. There was no escape.

  By now, Painter noted something else.

  The ghost light had not faded as it had before. The frozen waterfall remained aglow with its deadly brilliance. The light held steady, pinning them down.

  A bullhorn boomed. “Painter Crowe! We know you and the woman are hiding there!”

  The commanding voice had a feminine lilt. Also accented.

  “Come out! Hands high!”

  Painter gripped Lisa’s shoulder, squeezing as much reassurance into her as he could. “Stay here.”

  He pointed to their discarded outerwear, motioning Lisa to suit up. He shoved into his own boots, then edged to the break in the ice. He poked his head out.

  As was common in the highlands, the storm had broken apart as quickly as it had struck. Stars shone across the black sky. The Milky Way arched over the wintry valley, etched in snow and ice, patched with mists of ice fog.

  Closer at hand, a spotlight pierced the night, its beam centered on the frozen waterfall. Fifty yards away on a lower cliff, a shadowy figure straddled a snowmobile, operating the searchlight. It was only an ordinary lamp, possibly xenon from its intensity and bluish tint.

  It was no mysterious ghost light.

  Painter felt a surge of relief. Had that been the light all the time, marking the approach of the vehicles? Painter counted five of them. He also counted the score of figures in white parkas, spread across the lower tier and to either side. They all bore rifles.

  With no other choice—and damn curious to boot—Painter held up his arms and stepped free of the cave. The nearest gunman, a hulk of a man, sidled closer, rifle leveled. A tiny beam of light traced Painter’s chest. A laser sight.

  Weaponless, Painter could only stand his ground. He weighed the odds of manhandling the rifle from the gunman.

  Not good.

  Painter met the eyes of the gunman.

  One an icy blue, the other a frosted white.

  The assassin from the monastery.

  He remembered the man’s ungodly strength. No, the odds were not good. And besides, with the number of men here, what would he do if he succeeded?

  From behind the man’s shoulder, a figure stepped into view. A woman. Perhaps the same who had used the bullhorn a moment ago. She reached and used a single finger to push the assassin’s rifle down. Painter doubted any man would have the strength to do that.

  As she stepped forward, Painter studied her in the spotlight’s glare. She had to be in her late thirties. Bobbed black hair, green eyes. She wore a heavy white parka with a fur-lined hood. Her form was shapeless beneath her outerwear, but she appeared svelte and moved with a toned grace.

  “Dr. Anna Sporrenberg,” she said and held out a hand.

  Painter stared at her glove. If he pulled her to him, got an arm around her throat, tried to use her as a hostage…

  Meeting the assassin’s eyes over her shoulder, Painter thought better. He reached out and shook the woman’s hand. Since they hadn’t shot him yet, he could at least be polite. He would play this game as long as it kept him alive. He had Lisa to consider, too.

  “Director Crowe,” she said. “It seems there has been much chatter over the past few hours across the international intelligence channels regarding your whereabouts.”

  Painter kept his face fixed. He saw no reason to deny his identity. Perhaps he could even use it to his advantage. “Then you know the extent to which those same resources will go to find me.”

  “Natürlich,” she nodded, slipping into German. “But I would not count on their success. In the meantime, I must ask you and the young woman to accompany me.”

  Painter took a warding step back. “Dr. Cummings has nothing to do with any of this. She was only a health care worker coming to the aid of the sick. She knows nothing.”

  “We’ll know the truth of that soon enough.”

  So there it was, plainly stated. They were alive for the moment only because of their suspected knowledge. And that knowledge would be extracted through blood and pain. Painter considered making a move now. Getting it over with. A fast death over a slow agonizing one. He had too much sensitive intel in his head to risk torture.

  But he was not alone out here. He pictured Lisa, warming her hands with his. As long as they lived, there was hope.

  Other guards joined them. Lisa was forced out of the cave at gunpoint. They were led to the snowmobiles.

  Lisa met his eyes, fear shining bright.

  He was determined to protect her to the best of his ability.

  Anna Sporrenberg joined them as they were being bound. “Before we head out, let me speak plainly. We can’t let you go. I think you understand that. I won’t give you that false hope. But I can promise you a painless and peaceful end.”

  “Like with the monks,” Lisa said harshly. “We witnessed your mercy there.”

  Painter tried to catch Lisa’s eye. Now was not the time to antagonize their captors. The bastards obviously had no compunction against killing out of hand. They both needed to play the cooperative prisoner.

  Too late.

  Anna seemed to truly see Lisa for the first time, turning to her. A bit of heat entered the woman’s voice. “It was mercy, Dr. Cummings.” Her eyes flicked to the assassin who still kept guard. “You know nothing of the illness that struck the monastery. Of what horrors awaited the monks. We do. Their deaths were not murder, but euthanasia.”

  “And who gave you that right?” Lisa asked.

  Painter shifted closer. “Lisa, maybe—”

  “No, Mr. Crowe.” Anna stepped closer to Lisa. “What right, you ask? Experience, Dr. Cummings. Experience. Trust me when I tell you…the deaths up there were a kindness, not a cruelty.”

  “And what about the men I came up here with in the helicopter? Was that a kindness, too?”

  Anna sighed, tiring of their words. “Hard choices had to be made. Our work here is too important.”

  “And what about us?” Lisa called as the woman turned away. “It’s a painless needle if we cooperate. But what if we don’t feel like cooperating?”

  Anna headed toward the lead snowmobile. “There will be no thumbscrews, if that’s what you mean. Drugs only. We are not barbarians, Dr. Cummings.”

  “No, you’re only Nazis!” Lisa spat at her. “We saw the swastika!”

  “Don’t be foolish. We’re not Nazis.” Anna glanced calmly back to them as she hiked her leg over the seat to the snowmobile. “Not anymore.”

  6:38 P.M.

  COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

  Gray hurried across the street toward the auction house.

  What was Fiona thinking, barging in here after what happened?

  Concern for her safety weighed heavily. But Gray also had to admit that her intrusion offered him the excuse he needed. To attend the auction in person. Whoever had firebombed the shop, murdered Grette Neal, and tried to kill him…their trail led here.

  Gray reached the sidewalk and slowed. The slanting rays of the setting sun turned the door to the auction house into a silvery mirror. He checked his clothes, having dressed in a frenzy of fine tailoring. The suit, a navy Armani pinstripe, fit well, but the starched white shirt was tight at the collar. He straightened the pale yellow tie.

  Not exactly inconspicuous. But he had to play the role of the buyer for an affluent American financier.

  He pushed through the door to the auction house. The lobby was pure Scandinavian design, meaning a total lack thereof: bleached wood, glass partitions, and little else. The only furniture was a bony sculptural chair positioned next to a side table the size of a postage stamp. It held up a single potted orchid. Its reedlike stem supported an anemic brown and pink blossom.

  The doorman tapped his cigarette into the plant’s pot and stepped toward Gray with a sour expression.

  Gray reached to a pocket and pulled out his invitation. It had required wiring a quarter-million-dollar deposit into the house’s fund, a guarantee that the buyer had the wher
ewithal to attend such an exclusive event.

  The doorman checked his invitation, nodded, and strode over to a velvet rope that closed off a wide set of stairs that led to the lower level. He unhitched the rope and waved Gray through.

  At the bottom of the stairs, a set of swinging doors opened into the main bidding floor. A pair of guards flanked the entrance. One held a metal-detecting wand. Gray allowed himself to be searched, arms out. He noted the video cameras posted to either side of the threshold. Security was snug. Once he was cleared, the other guard buzzed a button and pulled open the door.

  The murmur of voices flowed out to him. He recognized Italian, Dutch, French, Arabic, and English. It seemed all the world had shown up for the auction.

  Gray entered. A few glances were made in his direction, but most attention remained focused on the glass cases that lined the walls. Employees of the auction house, dressed in identical black attire, stood behind the counter, like at a jewelry store. They wore white gloves and helped patrons view the objects up for bid.

  A string quartet played softly in one corner. A few servers circulated, offering tall glasses of champagne to the guests.

  Gray checked in at a neighboring desk and was given a numbered paddle. He moved farther inside. A handful of patrons had already taken their seats. Gray spotted the pair of latecomers who had held up the auction, the pale young man and woman, the silent-movie stars. They sat in the front row. A paddle rested on the woman’s lap. The man leaned over and whispered in his partner’s ear. It was a strangely intimate gesture, perhaps enhanced by the woman’s arched neck, long and lithe, tilted as if awaiting a kiss.

  Her eyes flicked to Gray as he moved down the center aisle. Her gaze flowed over him and away.

  No recognition.

  Gray continued his own search, reaching the front of the room with its raised stage and podium. He turned in a slow circle. He saw no outward threat to his presence.

  He also saw no sign of Fiona.

  Where was she?

  He edged to one of the glass cases and wandered down the far side. His ears were half tuned to the conversations around him. He walked past an attendant lifting and gently resting a bulky leather-bound book atop the display case for a portly gentleman. The interested party leaned close, a pair of spectacles resting at the tip of his nose.