Black Order

by James Rollins

  “I wanted to surprise you with it…”

  “Monk, I didn’t know you cared that much.”

  “Oh, shut up. I meant I wanted to tell you about it in my own time, not…not because Ms. Copperfield over there pulled it out of a hat.”

  Gray leaned back, facing Monk, arms crossed. “So you’re going to pop the question. I don’t know…Mrs. Kat Kokkalis. She’ll never go for it.”

  “I didn’t think so either. I bought the damn thing two months ago. Haven’t found the moment to ask her.”

  “More like, you hadn’t found the courage.”

  “Well, maybe that, too.”

  Gray reached over and patted Monk on the knee. “She loves you, Monk. Quit worrying.”

  Monk grinned like a schoolboy at him. Not a good look for him. Still, Gray recognized the depth of feeling in his eyes. Along with a shimmer of genuine fear. Monk rubbed at the joint where his prosthetic hand met the stump of his wrist. Despite his bravado, the man had been shaken by last year’s mutilation. Kat’s attention had gone a long way toward healing him, more than any of the doctors. Still, a deep vein of insecurity remained.

  Monk opened the small black velvet box and stared at the three-carat engagement ring. “Maybe I should have gotten a bigger diamond…especially now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Monk glanced over at him. The new expression shone from his face…a trembling hope was the best way to describe it. “Kat’s pregnant.”

  Gray sat up, surprised. “What? How?”

  “I think you know how,” Monk said.

  “Christ…congratulations,” he blurted out, still recovering. The last came out somewhat as a question. “I mean…you are keeping the baby.”

  Monk raised one eyebrow.

  “Of course,” Gray said, shaking his head at his stupidity.

  “It’s still early,” Monk said. “Kat doesn’t want anyone to know…she said it was okay to tell you.”

  Gray nodded, taking time to assimilate the news. He tried to picture Monk as a father and was surprised how easy that was to imagine.

  “My God, that’s just great.”

  Monk snapped the ring box closed. “So what about you?”

  Gray frowned. “What about me?”

  “You and Rachel. What did she say when you called her about your escapades in Tivoli Gardens?”

  Gray’s brow crinkled.

  Monk’s eyes widened. “Gray…”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t call her, did you?”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “She’s with the carabinieri. So you know she heard about any possible terrorist attack in Copenhagen. Especially some nut job yelling ‘Bomb!’ in a crowded park and joyriding in a parade float. She has to know you were involved.”

  Monk was right. He should have called her right away.

  “Grayson Pierce, what am I going to do with you?” Monk shook his head sadly. “When are you going to cut that girl free?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “C’mon. I’m happy you and Rachel have hit it off, but where’s it really going?”

  Gray bristled. “Not that it’s any of your business, but that’s what we were planning on discussing here, before all hell broke loose.”

  “Lucky break for you.”

  “You know, just because you have a two-month-old engagement ring in your pocket does not make you a relationship expert.”

  Monk held up both palms. “All right…backing off…I was just saying…”

  Gray was not letting him off the hook that easily. “What?”

  “You don’t really want a relationship.”

  He blinked at the frontal assault. “What are you talking about? Rachel and I have been bending over backward to make this work. I love Rachel. You know that.”

  “I know you do. I never said otherwise. You just don’t want a real relationship with her.” Monk ticked off three items on his fingers. “That means wife, a mortgage, and kids.”

  Gray just shook his head.

  “All you’re doing with Rachel is enjoying a prolonged first date.”

  Gray sought some retort, but Monk was hitting too close to home. He remembered how it took overcoming a certain awkwardness each time he and Rachel met, a buffer that had to be crossed before a deeper intimacy could be reestablished. Like a first date.

  “How long have I known you?” Monk asked.

  Gray waved the question away.

  “And during that time how many serious girlfriends have you had?” Monk formed his fist into a big zero. “And look who you pick for your first serious relationship.”

  “Rachel’s wonderful.”

  “She is. And I think it’s great that you’re finally opening up more. But man, talk about setting up impossible barriers.”

  “What barriers?”

  “How about the goddamn Atlantic for one. Standing between you and a full relationship.” Monk waggled three fingers at him.

  Wife, mortgage, kids.

  “You’re not ready,” Monk said. “I mean, I mention Kat’s pregnant and you should’ve seen your face. Scared the crap out of you. And it’s my kid.”

  Gray’s heart beat heavily in his throat. He found himself breathing harder. Punched in the gut.

  Monk sighed. “You have issues, my man. Maybe something you need to work through with your pops. I don’t know.”

  Gray was saved from responding by a chime over the jet’s intercom.

  The pilot reported, “We’re approximately thirty minutes out. We’ll be beginning our descent soon.”

  Gray glanced out the window. The sun rose to the east.

  “Maybe I’ll try to catch a little downtime,” Gray muttered to the window. “Until we land.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Gray turned to Monk. He opened his mouth to respond in some way to Monk’s words, but he resorted to the truth instead. “I do love Rachel.”

  Monk reclined his seat and rolled over to his side with a grunt. “I know. That’s what makes it so hard.”

  7:05 A.M.

  HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI PRESERVE

  Khamisi Taylor sipped the tea in the small parlor. Though it was steeped well and sweetened with honey, he tasted none of it.

  “And there’s no chance Marcia could be alive?” Paula Kane asked.

  Khamisi shook his head. He did not shrink from the reality. That was not why he had come here after his dressing-down by the head warden. He had wanted to retreat to his one-bedroom home at the edge of the preserve, where a row of squat houses were leased to the wardens on duty. Khamisi wondered how long he would be able to remain at the house if his suspension turned into a full dismissal.

  Still, he had not returned directly home. Instead he had driven halfway across the park to another settlement of transient housing, a small enclave where park researchers resided for as long as their grant money lasted.

  Khamisi had been to this particular whitewashed two-story Colonial home many times, with its giant shady acacia trees, tiny garden, and small courtyard where a smattering of chickens roamed. The two residents here never seemed to run out of grants. In fact, the last time Khamisi had been here was to celebrate the women’s tenth anniversary here at the park. Among the scientific community, they had become as much of a fixture at Hluhluwe-Umfolozi as the big five trophy animals.

  But now they were one.

  Dr. Paula Kane sat on a tiny divan across the low table from Khamisi. Tears filled her eyes, but her cheeks remained dry.

  “It’s all right,” she said. Her eyes wandered to a wall of photos, a panorama of a happy life. He knew the pair had been together since graduate school at Oxford so many years ago. “I hadn’t held out much hope.”

  She was a small woman, slight of figure, with salt-and-pepper dark hair, cut square to her shoulder. Though he knew she was somewhere in her late fifties, she appeared a decade younger. She had always retained a certain hard beauty, exuding a confidence that surpassed
any camouflaging makeup. But this morning, she appeared faded, a ghost of herself, something vital gone. It looked like she’d slept in her khaki pants and loose white blouse.

  Khamisi had no words to ease the pain etched in every line of her body, only his sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

  Paula’s eyes returned to him. “I know you did everything you could. I’ve heard the rumblings out there. A white woman dies, but a black man lives. It will not sit well with certain types out here.”

  Khamisi knew she was referring to the head warden. Paula and Marcia had butted heads with the man many times. She knew the warden’s ties and memberships as well as any other. While apartheid might have been crushed in the cities and townships, out in the bush, the myth of the Great White Hunter still reigned supreme.

  “Her death was not your fault,” Paula said, reading something in his face.

  He turned away. He appreciated her understanding, but at the same time, the warden’s accusations had stoked his own guilt. Rationally, he knew he had done all he could to protect Dr. Fairfield. But he had come out of the bush. She had not. Those were the facts.

  Khamisi stood. He didn’t want to intrude any longer. He had come to pay his respects and to tell Dr. Kane in person what had transpired. He had done that.

  “I should be going,” he said.

  Paula stood and accompanied him to the screen door. She stopped him with a touch before he left. “What do you think it was?” she asked.

  He turned to her.

  “What killed her?” Paula asked.

  Khamisi stared out at the morning sunlight, too bright to speak of monsters. He had also been forbidden to discuss it. His job was on the line.

  He glanced down to Paula and told her the truth.

  “It was no lion.”

  “Then what—?”

  “I’m going to find out.”

  He pushed through the screen door and climbed down the steps. His small rusted pickup sat baking in the sun. He crossed to it, climbed into its stifling interior, and headed back home.

  For the hundredth time that morning, the prior day’s terror unfolded. He barely heard the rumble of his engine over the echo of the ukufa’s hunting screams. Not a lion. He would never believe that.

  He reached the line of stilted houses, makeshift and without air-conditioning. The homes comprised staff housing here at the park. He braked with a cloud of red dust beside his front yard gate.

  Exhausted, he would rest for a few hours.

  Then he would seek the truth.

  He already knew where he wanted to begin his investigation.

  But that would have to wait.

  As he approached his front yard fence, Khamisi noted that the gate hung ajar. He always made sure he latched it before leaving for the day. Then again, when the disappearances had been reported last night, someone might have come here to check if he was at home.

  Still, the edge to Khamisi’s senses had never dulled…not since the moment he heard that first cry in the jungle. In fact, he doubted his senses would ever relax.

  He slipped through the gate. He noted his front door seemed secure. He spotted mail sprouting from his mailbox, untouched. He mounted the steps, one at a time.

  He climbed, wishing he had at least a sidearm.

  Floorboards creaked. The sound had come not from under his own feet—but from inside his house.

  All of Khamisi’s senses urged him to run.

  Not again. Not this time.

  He reached the porch, stood to the side, and tested the door latch.

  Unlocked.

  He unhitched the latch and pushed the door open. Near the back of the house, another floorboard rubbed.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  8:52 A.M.

  HIMALAYAS

  “Come see this.”

  Painter startled awake, instantly alert. A dagger of a headache stabbed between his eyes. He rolled off the bed, fully clothed. He had not realized he had fallen asleep. He and Lisa had returned to their room a couple of hours ago, under guard. Anna had needed to attend to matters and arrange for some items Painter had requested.

  “How long have I been out?” he asked, the headache slowly fading.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know you were asleep.” Lisa sat cross-legged by the table before the fireplace. She had sheets of paper scattered on the top. “Couldn’t have been more than fifteen…twenty minutes. I wanted you to see this.”

  Painter stood. The room bobbled for a breath, then settled back into place. Not good. He crossed over to Lisa and sank beside her.

  He noted her camera resting on some of the papers. Lisa had requested the Nikon be returned as the first act of cooperation from their captors.

  She slid a sheet of paper over to him. “Look.”

  Lisa had drawn a line of symbols across the paper. Painter recognized them as the runes that Lama Khemsar had scrawled on his wall. She must have copied it from the digital photo. Painter saw that each symbol had a corresponding letter under it.

  “It was a simple replacement code. Each rune representing a letter of the alphabet. Took some trial and error.”

  “Schwarze Sonne,” he read aloud.

  “Black Sun. The name of the project here.”

  “So Lama Khemsar knew about all this.” Painter shook his head. “The old Buddhist did have ties here.”

  “And plainly it traumatized him.” Lisa took the paper from him. “The madness must have awakened old wounds. Brought them back to life.”

  “Or maybe the lama was cooperating all along, maintaining the monastery as some guard post of the castle here.”

  “If so, look what that cooperation gained him,” Lisa said pointedly. “Is that an example of the reward we’ll get for our cooperation?”

  “We have no choice. It’s the only way to stay alive. To stay necessary.”

  “And after that? When we’re no longer necessary?”

  Painter offered no delusions. “They’ll kill us. Our cooperation is only buying us some time.”

  Painter noted she didn’t flinch from the truth but seemed to take strength from it. A resolve stiffened her shoulders.

  “So what do we do first?” she asked.

  “Acknowledge the first step in any conflict.”

  “And that is?”

  “Know thy enemy.”

  “I think I know too much about Anna and her crew as it is.”

  “No. I meant discovering who was behind the bombing here. The saboteur…and whoever employed him. Something larger is going on here. Those first few acts of sabotage—messing with the safety controls of the Bell, the first illnesses—they were meant to draw us. Raise some smoke. Lure us here with the rumors of strange illnesses.”

  “But why would they do that?”

  “To make sure Anna’s group was discovered and shut down. Don’t you find it strange that the Bell, the heart of the technology, was only destroyed after we arrived here? What might that suggest?”

  “While they wanted Anna’s project shut down, they also didn’t want the heart of the technology falling into anyone else’s hands.”

  Painter nodded. “And maybe something even more dire. All this might be misdirection. A bit of sleight of hand. Look over here, while the real trick is pulled off out of sight. But who is the mysterious magician in the wings? What is his purpose, his intent? That’s what we must find out.”

  “And the electronic equipment you requisitioned from Anna?”

  “Perhaps a way to help us sniff out the mole here. If we can trap this saboteur, we might have some of our answers, find out who is really pulling all the strings out here.”

  A knock on the door startled them both.

  Painter stood up as the bar was removed and the door swung open.

  Anna strode in with Gunther at her side. The guard had cleaned up since the last time Painter had seen him. It was a sign of the man’s menace that no other guards followed them inside. He did not even have a gun.

  “I
thought you might like to join us for breakfast,” Anna said. “By the time we’re finished, the equipment you requested should be here.”

  “All of it? How? From where?”

  “Kathmandu. We have a sheltered helipad on the other side of the mountain.”

  “Really? And you’ve never been discovered?”

  Anna shrugged. “It’s simply a matter of folding our flights in with the dozens of daily sightseeing tours and mountaineering teams. The pilot should be back within the hour.”

  Painter nodded. He planned on putting that hour to the best of uses.

  Gathering intel.

  Every problem had its solution. At least he hoped so.

  They set out from their room. The hallways beyond were unusually crowded. Word had spread. Everyone seemed busy or angry or casting hard glances at them…as if Painter and Lisa were somehow to blame for the sabotage here. But no one approached too closely. Gunther’s heavy tread cleared a path. Their captor had become their protector.

  They finally reached Anna’s study.

  A long table had been set up before the fire, heaping platters upon it. Sausages, dark breads, steaming stews, porridges, aged cheeses, an assortment of blackberries, plums, and melons.

  “Is there an army coming to join us?” Painter asked.

  “Constant fuel is most important in cold climates, both for the home and the heart,” Anna said, ever the good German.

  They took their seats. Food was passed. Just one big happy family.

  “If there’s any hope for a cure,” Lisa said, “we’ll have to know more about this Bell of yours. Its history…how it works…”

  Anna, sullen after the walk, brightened. What researcher didn’t enjoy discussing their discoveries?

  “It started out as an experiment as an energy generator,” she began. “A new engine. The Bell got its name from its bell-shaped outer containment jar, a ceramic vessel the size of a hundred-gallon drum, lined by lead. Inside were two metal cylinders, one inside the other, that would be spun in opposite directions.”

  Anna pantomimed with her hands.

  “Lubricating it all and filling the Bell was a mercurylike liquid metal. What was called Xerum 525.”

  Painter recalled the name. “That’s the substance you said you couldn’t duplicate.”

  Anna nodded. “We’ve tried for decades, trying to reverse engineer the liquid metal. Aspects of its composition defy testing. We know it contains thorium and beryllium peroxides, but that’s about it. All we know for sure is that Xerum 525 was a by-product of Nazi research into zero point energy. It was produced at another lab, one destroyed just after the war.”