Black Order

by James Rollins

  Dr. Fairfield had quickly related her story, how she was ambushed in the field, attacked by the Waalenbergs’ pets, dragged away. The Waalenbergs had learned through channels about a possible role she had with UK intelligence. So they staged her kidnapping as a fatal lion attack. Her wounds certainly still looked swollen and raw. “I was able to convince them that my companion, a game warden, had been killed. It was all I could do. Hope he made it back to civilization.”

  “But what are the Waalenbergs hiding?” Gray asked. “What are they doing?”

  The woman shook her head. “Some macabre version of a genetic Manhattan Project. That’s as much as I can tell. But I think there is some other scheme in the works. A sideline project. Maybe even an attack. I overheard one of my guards talking. Something about a serum of some sort. Serum 525, I heard them say. I also heard Washington, D.C., mentioned in the same context.”

  Gray frowned. “Did you hear of any timetable?”

  “Not exactly. But from their laughter I got the impression whatever was going to happen would be soon. Very soon.”

  Gray paced a few steps, knuckling his chin. This serum…maybe it’s a biowarfare agent…a pathogen, a virus… He shook his head. He needed more information—and quickly.

  “We have to get into those basement labs,” he mumbled. “Find out what’s going on.”

  “They were taking me to that internment area,” Dr. Fairfield said.

  He nodded, understanding. “If I pose as one of your guards, that might be our ticket down there.”

  “We’d have to hurry,” Marcia said. “As it is, they must be wondering what’s keeping me.”

  Gray turned to Fiona, ready for an argument. It would be safest if she stayed hidden in the room, out of sight. It would be hard to justify her presence alongside a prisoner and a guard. It would only arouse suspicion and attention.

  “I know! No place for a maid,” Fiona said, surprising him yet again. She nudged the guard on the floor with her toe. “I’ll keep Casanova here company until you get back.”

  Despite her brave words, her eyes shone with fear.

  “We won’t be gone long,” he promised.

  “You’d better not be.”

  With the matter settled, Gray grabbed his rifle, waved Dr. Fairfield toward the door, and said, “Let’s go.”

  In short order, Gray marched Marcia at gunpoint into the central elevator. No one accosted them. A card reader restricted access to the subterranean levels. He swiped Ischke’s second key card. The lighted buttons for the sublevels changed from red to green.

  “Any idea where to start?” Gray asked.

  Marcia reached out. “The greater the treasure, the deeper it’s buried.” She pressed the bottommost number. Seven levels down. The elevator began to descend.

  As Gray watched the floors count down, Marcia’s words nagged.

  An attack. Possibly in Washington.

  But what type of attack?

  6:41 A.M. EST

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Embassy Row was only two miles from the National Mall. Their driver turned onto Massachusetts Avenue and headed toward the South African embassy. Kat rode with Logan in the backseat, comparing final notes. The sun had just risen, and the embassy appeared ahead.

  Its four stories of Indiana limestone shone brilliantly in the morning sunlight, highlighting its gables and dormers typical of the Cape Dutch style. The driver pulled up to the residence wing of the embassy. The ambassador had agreed to meet them in his private study at this early hour. It seemed any issues concerning the Waalenbergs were best dealt with out of the public’s eye.

  Which was fine with Kat.

  She had a pistol in an ankle holster.

  Kat climbed out and waited for Logan. Four fluted pilasters supported a carved parapet with the South African coat of arms. Beneath it, a doorman noted their arrival and opened the glazed front door.

  As second in command, Logan led the way. Kat kept a step or two behind, watching the street, wary. With as much money as the Waalenbergs wielded, she did not trust who might be in their private employ…and that included the ambassador, John Hourigan.

  The entrance hall opened wide around them. A secretary in a neat navy business suit ushered them across the hall. “Ambassador Hourigan will be down momentarily. I’m to take you to his study. Can I bring you any tea or coffee?”

  Logan and Kat declined.

  They were soon ensconced in a richly paneled room. The furniture—desks, bookcases, occasional tables—was constructed of the same wood. Stinkwood, native to South Africa, so rare it was no longer available for commercial export.

  Logan took a seat by the desk. Kat remained standing.

  They didn’t have long to wait.

  The doors opened again, and a tall, thin man with sandy-blond hair entered. He wore a navy suit but carried his jacket over one arm. Kat suspected the casual approach was pure artifice, meant to make his manner appear more amiable and cooperative. Like meeting here in his private residence.

  She wasn’t buying it.

  As Logan made introductions, Kat surveyed the room. With a background in the intelligence services, she imagined the conversation here would be taped. She studied the room, guessing where the surveillance equipment was hidden.

  Ambassador Hourigan finally settled to his seat. “You’ve come to inquire about the Waalenberg estate…or so I was informed. How may I be of service?”

  “We believe someone in their employ may have been involved in a kidnapping in Germany.”

  His eyes widened too perfectly. “I’m shocked to hear such allegations. But I’ve heard nothing about this from the German BKA, Interpol, or Europol.”

  “Our sources are concrete,” Logan insisted. “All we ask is cooperation with your Scorpions to follow up locally.”

  Kat watched the man feign an intensely pensive expression. The Scorpions were the South African equivalent of the FBI. Cooperation seemed unlikely. The best Logan sought here was to keep such organizations out of Sigma’s way. While they could not negotiate cooperation against such a political powerhouse as the Waalenbergs, they might place enough pressure to keep any policing authorities from helping them. A small concession, but a meaningful one.

  Kat continued standing, watching the slow dance these two men performed, each trying to gain the best advantage.

  “I assure you that the Waalenbergs hold the international community and governing bodies in the utmost respect. The family has supported relief efforts, multinational charity organizations, and nonprofit trusts throughout the world. In fact in their latest act of generosity, they’ve endowed all South African embassies and chanceries around the globe with a golden centennial bell, marking the hundred-year anniversary of the first gold coin minted in South Africa.”

  “That is all well and good, but it doesn’t—”

  Kat cut Logan off, speaking for the first time. “Did you say gold bell?”

  Hourigan’s eyes met hers. “Yes, gifts from Sir Baldric Waalenberg himself. One hundred gold-plated centennial bells bearing the South African coat of arms. Ours is being installed in the residence hall on the fourth floor.”

  Logan met Kat’s eyes.

  Kat spoke. “Would it be possible to see it?”

  The strange tack of the conversation unsettled the ambassador, but he failed to come up with a good reason to deny it, and Kat imagined he hoped it would be a way to even gain an upper hand in the quiet war of diplomacy going on here.

  “I would be delighted to show you.” He stood up and checked his watch. “I’m afraid we’ll have to move smartly. I do have a breakfast meeting I must not be late to.”

  As Kat had imagined, Hourigan was using the tour as an excuse to end the conversation early, to wheedle out of any firm commitment. Logan stared hard at her. She hoped she was right.

  They were led to an elevator and taken to the top floor of the building. They passed hallways decorated in artwork and South African native crafts. Then, a large hall ope
ned; it appeared more museum than living space. There were display cabinets, long tables, and massive chests with hand-beaten brass fixtures. A wall of windows overlooked the rear yard and gardens. But in a corner hung a giant gold bell. It looked as if it had recently been uncrated, as bits of the straw stuffing were still scattered on the floor. The bell itself stood a full meter tall and half again as wide at the mouth. The coat of arms had been stamped on it.

  Kat stepped closer. A thick power cable ran from its top and coiled to the floor.

  The ambassador noted her attention. “It’s automated to ring at set times of the day. Quite a marvel of engineering. If you look up inside the bell, it’s a marvel of gears, like a fine Rolex.”

  Kat turned to Logan. He had paled. Like Kat, he had studied the sketches Anna Sporrenberg had made of the original Bell. This was an exact duplicate done in gold. Both had also read of the detrimental effects that could be radiated from the device. Madness and death. Kat stared out the upper-story window. From this height, she could just make out the white dome of the Capitol.

  The ambassador’s earlier words now horrified.

  A hundred golden bells…endowed around the globe.

  “It took a special technician to install it,” the ambassador continued, though now a slightly bored lilt entered his voice, winding the meeting toward its end. “I believe he’s around here somewhere.”

  The room’s door closed behind them, slamming slightly.

  All three turned.

  “Ah, here he is,” Hourigan said upon turning. His voice died when he spotted the submachine gun held by the newcomer. His hair was white-blond. Even from across the room, Kat spotted a dark tattoo on the hand supporting the gun.

  Kat dove for her ankle holster.

  Without a word, the assassin opened fire, spraying bullets.

  Glass shattered, and wood splintered.

  Behind her, beaten by ricocheting rounds, the golden bell rang and rang.

  12:44 P.M.

  SOUTH AFRICA

  The elevator doors opened on the seventh sublevel. Gray stepped out, rifle in hand. He searched both directions along a gray hallway. Unlike the rich woods and fine craftsmanship used in the main manor house, this sublevel was lit by fluorescents and maintained a rigid sterility in its decor: bleached linoleum floors, gray walls, low roof. Smooth steel doors with glowing electronic locks lined one side of the hall. The other doors appeared more ordinary.

  Gray placed his palm against one.

  The panel vibrated. He heard a rhythmic hum.

  Power plant? Must be massive.

  Marcia stepped to his side. “I think we’ve come down too far,” she whispered. “This feels more storage and utility.”

  Gray agreed. Still…

  He crossed to one of the locked steel doors. “Begs the question, what’re they storing?”

  The sign on the door read: EMBRYONAAL.

  “Embryonic lab,” Marcia translated.

  She crossed to join him, eyes guarded, wincing slightly as she moved her bandaged and splinted arm.

  Gray raised Ischke’s card again and swiped it. The indicator glowed green and a magnetic lock released. Gray pushed the door. He had shouldered his rifle and now had his pistol out.

  The overhead fluorescents flickered then came on steady.

  The room was a long hall, a good forty meters. Gray noted how chilly the air was in here, crisper, filtered. A flush line of floor-to-ceiling stainless-steel freezers covered one side. Compressors hummed. On the other side were steel carts, tanks of liquid nitrogen, and a large microscope table wired to a micro-dissection table.

  It appeared to be some form of a cryonics lab.

  At a central workstation, a Hewlett-Packard computer idled. The screensaver spun on the LCD monitor. A silver symbol rotated against a black background. A familiar symbol. Gray had seen it depicted on the floor of Wewelsburg castle.

  “The Black Sun,” Gray mumbled.

  Marcia glanced at him.

  Gray pointed to the spinning sun. “The symbol represents Himmler’s Black Order, a cabal of Thule Society occultists and scientists obsessed with the superman philosophy. Baldric must’ve been a member, too.”

  Gray sensed they had come full circle. From Ryan’s great-grandfather to here. He nodded to the computer. “Look for a main directory. See what you can find out.”

  While Marcia aimed for the workstation, Gray crossed to one of the freezers. He pulled it open. Frigid air welled out. Inside were drawers, indexed and numbered. Behind him, he heard Marcia tapping at the computer. Gray edged one drawer open. Neatly arranged in clips were a score of tiny glass straws filled with a yellow liquid.

  “Frozen embryos,” Marcia said behind him.

  He closed the drawer and looked down the length of the hall at the number of giant freezers. If Marcia was correct, there had to be thousands of embryos stored here.

  She spoke, drawing him over. “The computer is a database, logging genomes and genealogy.” She glanced over to him. “Both human and animal. Mammalian species. Look at this.”

  Strange notations filled the screen.

  NUCLEOTIDE VERANDERING (DNA)

  [CROCUTA CROCUTA]

  Thu Nov 6 14:56:25 GMT

  Schema V.1.16

  VERANDERING

  CODE RANGSCHIKKEN

  Loci A.0. Transversie

  A.0.2. Dipyrimidine to Dithymidine (c[CT]>TT)

  ATGGTTACGCGCTCATG

  GAATTCTCGCTCATGGA

  ATTCTCGCTCGTCAACT

  Loci A.3. Gedeeltelijk

  A.3.3.4. Dinucleotide (transcriptie)

  CTAGAAATTACGCTCTTA

  CGCTTCTCGCTTGTTAC

  GCGCTCA

  Loci B.5.

  B.5.1.3. Cryptische plaatsactivering

  GTTACGCGCTCGCGCTCA

  TGGAATTCTCGC TCATG

  Loci B.7.

  B.7.5.1. Pentanucleotide (g[TACAGATTC] verminderde stabiliteit)

  ATGGTTACGCGCTCCGC

  TGGAATTCTCGCTC ATG

  GAATTCTCGCTC

  “They appear to be a list of mutational changes,” Marcia said. “Defined down to the level of polynucleotides.”

  Gray tapped the name near the top. “Crocuta crocuta,” he read. “The spotted hyena. I’ve seen the end result of that research. Baldric Waalenberg mentioned how he was perfecting the species, even incorporating human stem cells in their brains.”

  Marcia brightened and tapped back to a main directory. “That explains the name of the entire database. Hersenschim. Which translates to ‘chimera.’ A biologic term for an organism with genetic material from more than one species, whether from grafting like in plants or insertion of foreign cells into an embryo.” She tapped one-handed at the computer, focused. “But to what end?”

  Straightening, Gray glanced down the length of the embryonic lab. Was all this any different from Baldric’s manipulation of orchids and bonsai trees? Just another way to control nature, to manipulate and design it according to his own definition of perfection.

  “Hmm…,” Marcia mumbled. “Strange.”

  Gray turned back to her. “What?”

  “As I said, there are human embryos here.” She glanced over a shoulder to Gray. “According to the cross-referenced genealogy, all of these embryos are genetically tied to the Waalenbergs.”

  No surprise there. Gray had noted the similarities in the Waalenberg offspring. Their patriarch had been tweaking the family lineage for generations.

  But apparently that wasn’t the strange part.

  Marcia continued, “Each of the Waalenberg embryos in turn is referenced to stem cell lines that are then tracked to Crocuta crocuta.”

  “The hyenas?”

  Marcia nodded.

  Understanding and horror grew. “Are you saying he’s been planting his own children’s stem cells into those monsters?” Gray could not hide his shock. Did the man’s atrocities, his conceit, never end?

  “That’s not all,” Marcia said.

  Gray felt a
sickening jolt in his gut, knowing what she was going to say next.

  Marcia pointed to a complicated chart on the screen. “According to this, stem cells from the hyenas are cross-referenced back to the next generation of human embryos.”

  “Dear God…”

  Gray pictured Ischke holding out her hand and stopping the charging hyena. It was more than just master and dog. It was family. Baldric had been implanting cells from his mutated hyenas back into his children, cross-pollinating like his orchids.

  “But even that’s not the worst…,” Marcia began, pale and disturbed to her core. “The Waalenbergs have been—”

  Gray cut her off. He had heard enough. They had more to search. “We should keep moving.”

  Marcia glanced to the computer with reluctance, but she nodded and stood. They left the monster lab and continued down the hall. The next door was marked FOETUSSEN. A fetal lab. Gray continued down the hall without stopping. He had no desire to see what horrors lay inside there.

  “How are they achieving these results?” Marcia asked. “The mutations, the successful chimeras…? They must have some way of controlling their genetic manipulations.”

  “Possibly,” he mumbled. “But it’s not perfected—not yet.”

  Gray remembered Hugo Hirszfeld’s work, the code he hid in runes. He now understood Baldric’s obsession with it. A promise of perfection. Too beautiful to let die and too monstrous to set free.

  And certainly the concerns of the monstrous didn’t scare Baldric. In fact, he bred the monstrous into his own family. And now that he had Hugo’s code, what was Baldric’s next step? Especially with Sigma breathing down his neck. No wonder Baldric wanted so desperately to know about Painter Crowe.

  They reached another door. The room beyond must be huge, as it was spaced a distance from the fetal lab. Gray noted the name on the door.