“And the letter he wrote his daughter,” Painter said, “whatever he discovered frightened him. A truth…too beautiful to let die and too monstrous to set free. To that end, he hid the secret in this runic code.”
Anna sighed wearily. “And Baldric Waalenberg was confident enough that he could solve the code, gain the lost knowledge for himself, that he destroyed the Granitschloß.”
“I think it was more than just that you were no longer needed,” Painter said. “I think you were right before. Your group was a growing threat with talk of coming out of hiding, going mainstream. And with perfection so close, the culmination of the Aryan dream, he could not risk your continuing presence.”
Anna shifted the paper with Monk’s sketched runes toward her. “If Hugo was right, deciphering his code could prove critical to treating our own condition. The Bell already holds the ability to slow down our disease—but if we could solve this riddle, it may offer a true cure.”
Lisa inserted a bit of reality into the discussion. “But before any of that can happen, we must gain access to the Waalenberg Bell. Then we can worry about cures.”
“And what about Gray?” Monk asked. “And the girl?”
Painter kept his face tight. “There is no telling where he is. Hiding, captured, dead. For the moment, Commander Pierce is on his own.”
Monk’s face soured. “I can sneak back in. Use the map Khamisi has of the grounds.”
“No. Now is not the time to divide forces.” Painter rubbed at a needling headache behind his right ear. Noises echoed. Nausea welled.
Monk stared at him.
He waved away the man’s concern. But something in Monk’s focus suggested that it wasn’t just his boss’s physical failings that worried him. Was Painter making the right choices? How was his mental status? The doubt touched a chord in himself. How clear was his thinking?
Lisa’s hand drifted to his knee, as if sensing his consternation.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled—as much to himself as to her.
Further inquiry was interrupted by the room’s rug door being shoved open. Sunlight and heat wafted inside. Paula Kane ducked into the dark interior. A Zulu elder followed her in full ceremonial regalia: plumes, feathers, leopard skin decorated with colorful beadwork. Though in his midsixties, his face was unlined, seemingly carved of stone, his head shaved. He carried a wooden staff topped with feathers, but he also bore an antique firearm, looking more ceremonial than functional.
Painter recognized the weapon as he stood up. An old smoothbore English “Brown Bess,” a flintlock from the Napoleonic Wars.
Paula Kane introduced the visitor. “Mosi D’Gana. Zulu chief.”
The elder spoke in crisp English. “All is ready.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Painter said formally.
Mosi nodded his head slightly, acknowledging the words. “But it is not for you we lend our spears. We owe the Voortrekkers for Blood River.”
Painter frowned, but Paula Kane filled in the details. “When the English drove the Dutch Boers out of Cape Town, they began a major trek into the interior. Friction escalated between the arriving immigrants and the native tribes. The Xhosa, the Pondo, the Swazi, and the Zulus. In 1838, along a tributary of the Buffalo River, the Zulus were betrayed, thousands killed, their homelands lost. It was a slaughter. The river became known as Blood River. The Voortrekker conspirator of that murderous assault was Piet Waalenberg.”
Mosi lifted his old weapon and held it out to Painter. “We do not forget.”
Painter did not doubt that this very gun had been involved in that infamous battle. He accepted the weapon, knowing a pact had been forged with the passing of the flintlock.
Mosi settled to the ground, dropping smoothly into a cross-legged position. “We have much to plan.”
Paula nodded to Khamisi and held open the rug flap. “Khamisi, your truck is ready. Tau and Njongo are already waiting.” She checked her watch. “You’ll have to hurry.”
The former game warden stood. Each had their own duty to perform before nightfall.
Painter met Monk’s gaze. He again read the worry in the man’s eyes. But not for Painter—for Gray. Sundown was eight hours away. But there was nothing they could do until then.
Gray was on his own.
12:05 P.M.
“Keep your head down,” Gray whispered to Fiona.
They strode toward the guard at the end of the hall. Gray wore one of the camouflage uniforms, from jackboots to black cap, the brim pulled low over his eyes. The guard who had lent Gray the outfit was unconscious, gagged, and hog-tied in a closet of one of the upper bedrooms.
He had also borrowed the guard’s radio, clipped to his belt and trailing an earpiece. The chatter on the line was all in Dutch, making it hard to discern, but it kept them abreast of events.
Walking in Gray’s shadow, Fiona wore a maid’s outfit, borrowed from the same closet. It was a bit large, but it was better to hide her shape and age. Most of the house staff were natives in various shades of dark skin, typical of an Afrikaner household. Fiona’s mocha-brown complexion, her Pakistani heritage, fit well enough. She also hid her straight hair under a bonnet. She could pass as native if no one looked too closely. To complete the act, she walked in tiny submissive steps, shoulders slumped, head down.
So far, their disguises had not even been tested.
Word had spread that Gray and Fiona had been spotted in the jungle. With the manor house shuttered down, only a skeleton patrol kept post inside the mansion. Most of the security forces were searching the forests, outbuildings, and borders.
Unfortunately, security was not so thin here as to leave an outside phone line open. Shortly after using Ischke’s key card to gain entry back inside the mansion, Gray had tested a few house phones. Access required passing through a coded security net. Any attempt to gain an outside line would only expose them.
So their options were few.
They could hide. But to what end? Who knew when or if Monk would make it to civilization? So a more proactive role was needed. The plan was to first gain a schematic of the mansion. That meant penetrating the security nest on the main floor. Their only weapons were a sidearm carried by Gray and a hand Taser in Fiona’s pocket.
Ahead, at the end of the hall, a sentry manned the upper balcony, guarding over the main entryway with an automatic rifle. Gray strode up to the man. He was tall, stocky, and his heavy-lidded eyes made him look piggish and mean. Gray nodded and continued toward the stairs. Fiona followed at his heels.
All went well.
Then the man said something in Dutch. The words were beyond Gray, but they had a lurid ring to them, ending in a guttural low laugh.
Half turning, Gray saw the guard reach to Fiona’s bottom and give it a firm pinch. Another hand went for her elbow.
Wrong thing to do.
Fiona swung to the man. “Piss off, you wanker.”
Her skirt brushed the man’s knee. A blue spark burned through her pocket and zapped the man’s thigh. His body arched back, a strangled noise gargled forth.
Gray caught him as he fell back, still convulsing in his arms. Gray dragged him off the landing and into a side room. He dropped him to the floor, pistol-whipped him unconscious, and began gagging him and tying him up.
“Why did you do that?” Gray asked.
Fiona stepped behind Gray and pinched his butt, hard and sharp.
“Hey!” He stood and swung around.
“How do you like it?” Fiona fumed.
Point taken. Still he cautioned, “I can’t keep tying up these bastards.”
Fiona stood with her arms crossed. Her eyes, though angry, were also scared. He couldn’t blame her for her jumpiness. He wiped some cold sweat from his brow. Maybe they had better just hide and hope for the best.
Gray’s radio crackled. He listened hard. Had their attack by the staircase been noted? He translated through the garble. “…ge’vangene…bringing in the main door…”
&
nbsp; More followed, but Gray barely heard much past the word ge’vangene.
Prisoner.
That could only mean one thing.
“They caught Monk…,” he whispered, going cold.
Fiona uncrossed her arms, face concerned.
“C’mon,” he said and headed toward the door. He had relieved the downed guard of his Taser and shouldered the man’s rifle.
Gray led the way back to the stairs. He whispered his plan to Fiona as they hurried down the stairs to the main entrance hall. The lower floor was empty, as was the foyer ahead.
They crossed the polished floor decorated with woven rugs in African motifs. Their footsteps echoed. To either side, stuffed trophies mounted the walls: the head of an endangered black rhino, a massive lion with a moth-eaten mane, a row of antelopes with various racks of horns.
Gray crossed toward the foyer. Fiona pulled a feather duster from an apron pocket, a part of her disguise. She crossed to one side of the door. Gray took a post, rifle in hand, on the other.
They didn’t have long to wait, barely getting into position in time.
How many guards would be accompanying Monk?
At least he was alive.
The metal shutter over the main entrance began to rise, clattering upward. Gray leaned down to count legs. He held up two fingers toward Fiona. Two guards were accompanying a prisoner in a white jumpsuit.
Gray stepped into view as the gate trundled fully up.
The guards saw nothing but one of their own, a sentry with a rifle manning the door. They entered with the prisoner in tow. Neither noticed Gray palming a Taser or Fiona coming up from the other side.
The attack was over in moments.
Two guards convulsed on the rug, heels drumming. Gray kicked each in the side of the head, probably harder than he should have. But anger fueled through him.
The prisoner was not Monk.
“Who are you?” he asked the startled captive as he quickly dragged the first guard toward a neighboring supply closet.
The gray-haired woman used her free arm to help Fiona with the second man. She was stronger than she appeared. Her left arm was bandaged and secured across her chest in a tight sling. The left side of her face was savaged with jagged scratches, sutured and raw. Something had attacked and mauled her. Despite her recent injuries, her eyes met Gray’s, fiery and determined.
“My name is Dr. Marcia Fairfield.”
12:25 P.M.
The Jeep trundled down the empty lane.
Behind the wheel, Warden Gerald Kellogg mopped his sweating brow. He had a bottle of Birkenhead Premium Lager propped between his legs.
Despite the hectic morning, Kellogg refused to break routine. There was nothing else he could do anyway. Security at the Waalenberg estate had passed on the sketchy details. An escape. Kellogg had already alerted the park rangers and posted men at all the gates. He passed on pictures, faxed over from the Waalenberg estate. Poachers was the cover. Armed and dangerous.
Until word of a sighting reached Kellogg’s office, he had nothing to keep him from his usual two-hour lunch at home. Tuesday meant roasted game hen and sweet potatoes. He drove his Jeep across the cattle guard and into the main drive, lined by short hedges. Ahead, a two-story beadboard Colonial sat on a full acre of manicured property, a perk of his position. It had a staff of ten to maintain the grounds and household, which included only himself. He was in no hurry to marry.
Why buy the cow and all that…
Plus his tastes leaned toward unripened fruit.
He had a new girl in the house, little Aina, eleven years old, from Nigeria, black as pitch, just like he liked them, better to hide the bruising. Not that there was anyone to question him. He had a manservant, Mxali, a Swazi brute, recruited from prison, who ran his household with discipline and terror. Any problems were dealt with swiftly, both at home and when needed elsewhere. And the Waalenbergs were only too happy to help any troublemakers disappear. What became of them once they were dropped off by helicopter at the Waalenberg estate, Gerald would prefer not to know. But he had heard rumors.
Despite the midday heat, he shivered.
Best not to ask too many questions.
He parked his car in the shade under a leafy acacia tree, climbed out, and strode down the gravel path to the side door that led to the kitchen. A pair of gardeners hoed the flower bed. They kept their eyes down as Gerald passed, as they were taught.
The smell of roasting hens and garlic whetted his appetite. His nose and stomach drew him up the three wooden steps to the open screen door. He entered the kitchen, belly growling.
To the left, the stove door was open. The cook knelt on the planks, head in the oven. Kellogg frowned at the odd tableau. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t the cook.
“Mxali…?”
Kellogg finally noted the underlying smell of seared flesh behind the garlic. Something protruded from the man’s arm. A feathered dart. Mxali’s weapon of choice. Usually poisoned.
Something was dreadfully wrong.
Kellogg backed away, turning to the door.
The two gardeners had dropped their hoes and had rifles pointed at his wide belly. It was not uncommon for small marauding bands, filth from the black townships, to raid farms and outlying homes. Kellogg held up his arms, skin going cold with terror.
A creak of a board drew him around, half ducking.
A dark figure stepped out of the shadows of the next room.
Kellogg gasped as he recognized the intruder—and the hatred in his eyes.
Not marauders. Even worse.
A ghost.
“Khamisi…”
12:30 P.M.
“So what exactly is wrong with him?” Monk asked, thumbing where Painter had disappeared into one of the neighboring huts with Dr. Paula Kane’s satellite phone. The director was coordinating with Logan Gregory.
Under the shadowy eaves of another hut, he shared a log with Dr. Lisa Cummings. The medical doctor was quite the looker, even when covered with dust and a bit haunted around the eyes.
She turned her attention to Monk. “His cells are denaturing, dissolving from the inside out. That’s according to Anna Sporrenberg. She’s studied the deleterious effects of the Bell’s radiation extensively in the past. It causes multisystem organ failure. Her brother, Gunther, suffers from a chronic version of it, too. But his rate of decline is slowed by his enhanced healing and immunity. Anna and Painter, exposed as adults to an overdose of the radiation, have no such innate protection.”
She went into more details, knowing Monk shared a background in medicine: low platelet counts, rising bilirubin levels, edema, muscle tenderness with bouts of rigidity around the neck and shoulders, bone infarctions, hepatosplenomegaly, audible murmurs in the heartbeat, and strange calcification of distal extremities and vitreous humor of the eyes.
But ultimately it all came down to one question.
“How long do they have?” Monk asked.
Lisa sighed and stared back toward the hut into which Painter had vanished. “No more than a day. Even if a cure could be found today, I fear there might still be permanent and sustained damage.”
“Did you note his slurring…how he dropped words? Is that all the drugs…or…or…?”
Lisa glanced back to him, her eyes more sharply pained. “It’s more than the drugs.”
Monk sensed this was the first time she admitted this to herself. It was stated with dread and hopelessness. He also saw how much she suffered for it. Her reaction was more than just a concerned doctor or a worried friend. She cared for Painter and plainly struggled to hold her emotions in check, to guard her heart.
Painter appeared in the doorway. He waved Monk over. “I have Kat on the horn.”
Monk rose quickly, checked the sky for choppers, and crossed to Painter. He accepted the satellite phone, covered the mouthpiece, and nodded to Dr. Cummings. “Boss, I think the woman could use some company.”
Painter rolled his eyes. They were b
loodshot, splotchy with hemorrhages in the sclera. He shaded his sore eyes and crossed toward the woman.
Monk watched from the doorway and lifted the phone. “Hey, babe.”
“Don’t babe me. What the hell are you doing in Africa?”
Monk smiled. Kat’s scolding was as welcome as lemonade in the desert. Besides, her question was rhetorical. She had surely been debriefed.
“I thought this was supposed to be a babysitting assignment?” she continued.
Monk merely waited, letting her vent.
“When you get home, I’m locking you…”
She continued for another long, scrambled minute.
Finally, Monk got a word in edgewise. “I miss you, too.”
A blustering sound subsided into a sigh. “I heard Gray is still missing.”
“He’ll be fine,” he assured her, while hoping the same.
“Find him, Monk. Do whatever it takes.”
Monk appreciated her understanding. He intended to do just that. She asked for no promise of caution. She knew him too well. Still, he heard the tears in her next words.
“I love you.”
That was caution enough for any man.
“I love you, too.” He lowered his voice and slightly turned away. “Both of you.”
“Come home.”
“Try to stop me.”
Kat sighed again. “Logan is paging me. I must sign off. We’ve a meeting scheduled for zero seven hundred with an attaché at the South African embassy. We’ll do what we can to put pressure on from here.”
“Give ’em hell, babe.”
“We will. Bye, Monk.”
“Kat, I—” But the line had disconnected. Damn.
Monk lowered the phone and stared at Lisa and Painter. The two leaned together, talking, but Monk sensed it was more the need to be close than any real communication. He stared down at the phone. At least Kat was safe and sound.
12:37 P.M.
“They were taking me to an internment cell down below,” Dr. Marcia Fairfield said. “For further questioning. Something must be worrying them.”
The three of them were back up in the room on the first-floor landing. The guard who had manhandled Fiona still lay unconscious on the floor, blood dribbling from his nostrils.
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