Black Order

by James Rollins

  The rising sun turned the waters below into a fiery mirror.

  As they waited, tea and scones were brought into the room and spread out on the table. Painter had already settled into a seat. Lisa joined him. Major Brooks remained standing, not far from the door.

  Though she didn’t ask, Painter read something in her expression. “I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” she countered softly. The empty room intimidated her for some reason.

  He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling. Despite his outward degeneration, the man himself remained sharp. She had noted a very slight slurring to his speech, but it could just be the drugs. Would his mind be the last to go?

  Beneath the table, her hand reached for his, a reflexive gesture.

  He took it.

  She didn’t want him to go. The strength of her emotion overwhelmed her, surprising her. She had barely gotten to know him. She wanted to know more. His favorite food, what made him belly laugh, how he danced, what he would whisper when he said good night. She didn’t want it all to go away.

  Her fingers squeezed, as if her will alone could hold him here.

  At that moment, the door to the room opened again. The UK operative had finally arrived.

  Lisa turned, surprised at who walked in. She had been picturing some James Bond clone, some clean-cut and Armani-suited spy. Instead, a middle-aged woman, dressed in a wrinkled khaki safari suit, entered the room. She carried a hat crumpled in one hand. Her face was mildly pancaked in red dust, except around her eyes, where sunglasses must have sat. It gave her a startled appearance, despite the weary set to her shoulders and a certain sadness in her eyes.

  “I’m Dr. Paula Kane,” she said, nodding to Major Brooks as she entered, then stepping over to join them. “We don’t have much time to coordinate.”

  Painter stood over the table. An array of satellite photos was spread out over the table. “How old are these shots?” he asked.

  “Taken at dusk last night,” Paula Kane said.

  The woman had already explained her role here. After graduating with a Ph.D. in biology, she had been recruited by British intelligence and posted in South Africa. She and a partner ran a series of research projects while secretly monitoring and watching the Waalenberg estate. They had been spying upon the family for close to a decade, until a tragedy less than two days ago. Her partner had been killed under strange circumstances. Lion attack was the official explanation. But the woman had looked little convinced as she offered this explanation.

  “We did an infrared pass after midnight,” Paula continued, “but there was a glitch. We lost the image.”

  Painter stared at the layout of the massive estate, over a hundred thousand acres. A small landing strip was visible, cut through a swath of jungle. Outbuildings dotted a landscape of forested highlands, vast grassy savannas, and dense jungle. In the center of the densest section of forest squatted a castle of stone and wood. The Waalenberg main residence.

  “And we can’t get a better view of the lay of the land around the mansion?”

  Paula Kane shook her head. “The jungle in the area is Afromontane forest, ancient woodlands. Only a few such forests remain in South Africa. The Waalenbergs picked this location for their estate both because of its remoteness and to capture this gigantic forest for themselves. The bones of this forest are trees forty meters high, layered into distinct strata and canopies. The biodiversity within its bower is denser than any rain forest or Congo jungle.”

  “And it offers a perfect insulating cover,” Painter said.

  “What goes on beneath that canopy is known only to the Waalenbergs. But we do know the engineering of the manor house is only the tip of an iceberg. A vast underground complex lies beneath the estate.”

  “How deep?” Painter asked, eyeing Lisa. If they were experimenting with the Bell here, they would want it buried away.

  “We don’t know. Not for sure. But the Waalenbergs made their fortune in gold mining.”

  “At the Witwatersrand Reef.”

  Paula glanced up at him. “Correct. I see you’ve been doing your homework.” She turned her attention back to the satellite photos. “The same expertise at mine engineering was used to construct a subterranean complex beneath their mansion. We know the mining engineer, Bertrand Culbert, was consulted in the construction of the manor’s foundations, but he died shortly thereafter.”

  “Let me guess. Under mysterious circumstances.”

  “Trampled by a water buffalo. But his death was not the first, nor the last associated with the Waalenbergs.” Her eyes flared with pain, plainly reminded of her partner. “Rumors abound of people vanishing in the area.”

  “Yet no one has served a search warrant on the estate.”

  “You have to understand the volatility of South African politics. Regimes may change, but gold has always ruled here. The Waalenbergs are untouchable. Gold protects them better than any moat or personal army.”

  “And what about you?” Painter asked. “What’s MI5’s interest here?”

  “Our interest goes back a considerable way, I’m afraid. British intelligence has had their eye on the Waalenbergs since the end of World War II.”

  Painter settled back down into his chair, tiring. One of his eyes was having trouble focusing. He rubbed at it. Too conscious of Lisa studying him, he turned his attention to Paula. He had not voiced his discovery of the Nazi symbol buried within the center of the Waalenberg crest, but apparently MI5 was already aware of the connection.

  “We knew the Waalenbergs were major financial backers of the Ahnenerbe Forschungs und Lehrgemeinshaft, the Nazis’ Ancestral Heritage and Teaching Society. Are you familiar with the group?”

  He shook his head, triggering a spasm. His headaches of late had spread to his neck and shot pain down his spine. He rode the agony, teeth clenched.

  “The Ancestral Heritage Society was a research group, under Heinrich Himmler. They were conducting projects seeking out the roots of the Aryan race. They were also responsible for some of the most heinous atrocities committed in concentration camps and other secret facilities. Basically they were mad scientists with guns.”

  Painter held back a wince—but this time it was more psychic than physical. He had heard Sigma described in similar terms. Scientists with guns. Was that their true enemy here? A Nazi version of Sigma?

  Lisa stirred. “What was the Waalenbergs’ interest in this line of research?”

  “We’re not entirely sure. But there were many Nazi sympathizers in South Africa during the war. We know the current patriarch, Sir Baldric Waalenberg, also had interests in eugenics, and he participated in scientific conferences in Germany and Austria before hostilities broke out. But after the war, he disappeared into seclusion, taking his entire family with him.”

  “Licking his wounds?” Painter asked.

  “We don’t believe so. After the war, Allied forces scoured the German countryside, searching for secret Nazi technology.” Paula shrugged. “Including our own British forces.”

  Painter nodded. He had already heard about that pillaging and looting from Anna.

  “But the Nazis were good at spiriting away much of their technology, employing a scorched-earth policy. Executing scientists, bombing facilities. Our forces came upon one such site in Bavaria minutes late. We discovered a scientist, shot in the head in a ditch, yet still alive. Before he died, he revealed some clues as to what had been going on. Research into a new energy source, one discovered through quantum experimentation. They’d had some breakthrough. A fuel source of extraordinary power.”

  Painter shared a glance with Lisa, remembering Anna’s discussion about zero point energy.

  “Whatever was discovered, the secret was smuggled out, escaped through rat runs set up by the Nazis. Little is known except the name of the substance and where the trail ended.”

  “At the Waalenberg estate?” Lisa guessed.

  Paula nodded.

  “And the name of the substance?” Painte
r asked, though he already knew the answer, putting it together in his head. “Was it called Xerum 525?”

  Paula glanced to him sharply, straightening with a frown. “How did you know?”

  “The Bell’s fuel source,” Lisa mumbled to him.

  But to Painter, it only made sense. It was time to come clean with Dr. Paula Kane. Painter stood.

  “There’s someone you need to meet.”

  Anna’s reaction was no less intense. “So the secret to manufacturing Xerum 525 wasn’t destroyed? Unglaublich!”

  They were all gathered back at the Richards Bay airport, huddled in a hangar while a pair of dusty Isuzu Trooper trucks were being loaded with weapons and equipment.

  Lisa ran an inventory check through a medical kit while overseeing the discussion between Painter, Anna, and Paula. Gunther stood at Lisa’s side. His brow was deeply furrowed with worry as he watched his sister. Anna seemed steadier after the medicine Lisa had given her.

  But for how long?

  “While the Bell had been evacuated to the north with your grandfather,” Painter explained to Anna, “the secrets of Xerum 525 must have been shipped south. Dividing two parts of one experiment. At some point, word must have reached the Waalenbergs of the Bell’s survival. Baldric Waalenberg—as a financial backer for the Ancestral Heritage Society—must have known about Granitschloß.”

  Paula agreed. “The society was the group that backed Himmler’s expeditions into the Himalayas.”

  “And once discovered, it would have been easy for Baldric to infiltrate spies into Granitschloß.”

  Anna’s face had grown paler—and not from illness. “The bastard has been using us! All along!”

  Painter nodded. He had already explained the gist of it to Lisa and Paula on the ride back to the hangar. Baldric Waalenberg had been orchestrating everything, pulling strings from afar. Not one to waste talent or reinvent the wheel, he had allowed the Granitschloß scientists, experts in the Bell, to continue their research, while all the time, his spies siphoned the information back out to Africa.

  “Afterward, Baldric must have built his own Bell,” Painter said, “experimenting in secret, producing his own Sonnekönige, refining them through the advanced techniques discovered by your scientists. It was the perfect setup. Without another source of Xerum 525, Granitschloß was vulnerable, unwittingly under the thumb of Baldric Waalenberg. At any moment, he could pull the rug out from under them.”

  “Which he did,” Anna spat out.

  “But why?” Paula asked. “If this secret orchestration was working so well?”

  Painter shrugged. “Maybe it was because Anna’s group was drifting further and further away from the Nazi ideal of Aryan supremacy.”

  Anna pressed a palm against her forehead, as if that would ward against what she was learning. “And there were rumblings…among some of the scientists…of going mainstream, of joining the scientific community and sharing our research.”

  “But I don’t think it was just that,” Painter said. “Something more is afoot. Something larger. Something that suddenly made Granitschloß obsolete.”

  “I believe you might be correct,” Paula said. “For the past four months, there has been a sudden increase in activity at the estate. Something stirred them up.”

  “They must have come to some breakthrough on their own,” Anna said with a worried expression.

  Gunther finally spoke up, gruff, a grinding of boulders. “Genug!” He’d had enough and struggled with English in his frustration. “The bastard has Bell…has Xerum…we find it. We use it.” He waved an arm to his sister. “Enough talk!”

  Lisa found herself heartily agreeing, siding with the giant. “We must find a way inside.” And soon, she added to herself.

  “It would take an army to storm the place.” Painter turned to Paula. “Can we expect any help from the South African government?”

  She shook her head. “Not a chance. The Waalenbergs have greased too many palms. We’re going to have to find a more covert infiltration.”

  “The satellite photos didn’t help much,” Painter said.

  “So we go low tech,” Paula said and led them toward the waiting Isuzu Troopers. “I have a man already on the ground out there.”

  6:28 A.M.

  Khamisi lay flat on his belly. Though dawn had come, the first rays of the sun only cast deeper shadows along the floor of the jungle. He wore camouflage fatigues and had his large double-bore rifle, his .465 Nitro Holland & Holland Royal, strapped to his back. In his hand, he carried a traditional Zulu short spear, an assegai.

  Behind him lay two other Zulu scouts: Tau, the grandson of the elder who had rescued Khamisi from the attack, and his best friend, Njongo. They also carried firearms, along with short and long spears. They were more traditionally attired in pelts, skin daubed with paint, and otter-skin headbands.

  The trio had spent the night mapping the forest around the mansion, discerning an approach that avoided the elevated walkways and the guards that patrolled them. They had used game trails that burrowed through the underbrush and skirted along with a small herd of impala, keeping hidden in the shadows. Khamisi had stopped at several points to rig ropes, linking walkway to ground, camouflaged as vines, along with a few other surprises.

  With his duty done, he and the scouts had been heading out to where a stream flowed under the wildlife fencing that circled the estate.

  Then a moment ago, he had heard the feral scream.

  Hoo eeee OOOO.

  It ended with a screeched yowl.

  Khamisi froze. His very bones remembered the call.

  Ukufa.

  Paula Kane had been right. She had believed the creatures came from the Waalenberg estate. Whether escaped or purposefully planted to ambush Khamisi and Marcia, she didn’t know. Either way, they were loose now, hunting.

  But who?

  The call had come a distance to the left.

  It wasn’t hunting them. The creatures were too skilled hunters. They would not give away their presence so soon. Something else had drawn them, stirred up their bloodlust.

  Then he heard a voice shout out in German, a sobbed cry for help.

  It was closer.

  His bones still vibrating from the call, Khamisi wanted to run, to flee far and fast. It was a primal reaction.

  Tau mumbled in Zulu behind him, urging the same.

  Khamisi instead turned in the direction of the pleading cry. He had lost Marcia to the creatures. He remembered his own terror, neck deep in the water hole, waiting for dawn. He could not ignore this other.

  Rolling to Tau, Khamisi passed on the maps he had drawn. “Get back to camp. Get these to Dr. Kane.”

  “Khamisi…brother…no, come away.” Tau’s eyes were huge with his own fear. His grandfather must have told him stories of the ukufa, the myths come to life. Khamisi had to give the man and his friend credit. No one else had volunteered to enter the estate. Superstitions ran high.

  But now faced with the reality, Tau had no intention of remaining.

  And Khamisi couldn’t blame him. He remembered his own terror when he’d been with Marcia. Instead of holding his ground, he had fled, run, allowed the doctor to be killed.

  “Go,” Khamisi ordered. He nodded toward the distant fence line. The maps had to get out.

  Tau and Njongo hesitated for a breath. Then Tau nodded, and the pair rose up in a low crouch and vanished into the jungle. Khamisi couldn’t even hear their footfalls.

  The jungle had fallen into a dread silence, heavy and as dense as the forest itself. Khamisi set out in the direction of the cries—both man and creature.

  After another full minute, another yowl burst out of the jungle like a flight of startled birds. It ended in a series of yipping cackles. Khamisi paused, struck by something familiar in this last eerie bit.

  Before he could consider it further, a soft sobbing drew his attention.

  It came from directly ahead.

  Khamisi used the muzzle of his doubl
e-bore rifle to part some leaves. A small glade opened in the jungle ahead, where a tree had fallen recently and cleared a part of the forest. The hole in the canopy allowed a shaft of morning sunlight to pierce to the floor. It made the surrounding jungle even darker with shadows.

  Across the glade, movement drew his eye. A young man—no more than a boy—low in a tree, struggled to reach another branch, to climb higher. He couldn’t reach. He couldn’t get a grip with his right hand. Even from here, Khamisi saw the trail of blood soaked down the boy’s sleeve as he vainly struggled.

  Then the boy suddenly sank to his knees, hugging the bole, attempting to hide.

  And the reason for the boy’s sudden terror stepped into view.

  Khamisi froze as the creature stalked into the glade, under the tree. It was massive, belying its silent tread out of the forest. It was larger than a full-grown male lion, but it was no lion. Its shaggy fur was albino white, its eyes a hyperreflective red. Its back sloped from thickset high shoulders to a lower rear end. Its muscled neck supported a large, muzzled head topped by a pair of wide batlike belled ears. These swiveled, focused on the tree.

  Lifting its head, it sniffed upward, drawn by the blood.

  Lips rippled back from a maw of ripping teeth.

  It howled again, ending again in a hair-raising series of cackling whoops.

  Then it began to climb.

  Khamisi knew what he faced.

  Ukufa.

  Death.

  But as monstrous as it appeared, Khamisi knew its true name.

  6:30 A.M.

  “Species Crocuta crocuta,” Baldric Waalenberg said, stepping to the LCD monitor. He had noted Gray’s continued focus upon the creature on the screen, overlaying the video feed of Fiona in the cage.

  Gray studied the massive bearlike creature, frozen, facing the camera, growling, mouth wide, baring white gums and yellowed fangs. It had to weigh three hundred pounds. It guarded the macerated remains of some antelope.