Black Order

by James Rollins

  Anna lay on a grass mat, half on her side, body arched, muscles contracted. Lisa hurried to her. She had already established an intravenous catheter in her forearm. Painter had the same. It was easier to administer drugs and fluids.

  Lisa quickly dropped to a knee and grabbed up a syringe premeasured with diazepam. She gave the entire dose in one bolus IV. In seconds, Anna relaxed, dropping back to the floor. Her eyes fluttered open and consciousness returned, groggy but attentive.

  Painter arrived. Monk appeared in tow with him.

  “How is she?” Painter asked.

  “How do you think?” Lisa asked, exasperated.

  Gunther helped his sister sit up. Her face was ashen, covered in a sheen of sweat. Painter was destined for the same in the next hour. Though both were exposed, Painter’s larger bulk seemed to be sustaining him a bit more heartily. But their survival was down to hours.

  Lisa stared up at the shaft of sunlight spearing into the room from a slit window. Twilight was too far off.

  Monk spoke into the worried silence. “I spoke to Khamisi. He reports that every light in the damn mansion just went out.” He wore a tentative grin, as if unsure any good news was welcome. “I’m guessing it’s Gray’s handiwork.”

  Painter frowned. It was his only expression lately. “We don’t know that.”

  “And we don’t know it isn’t.” Monk wiped a hand across the top of his shaved head. “Sir, I think we need to consider moving up the timetable. Khamisi says—”

  “Khamisi is not running this op,” Painter said, coughing harshly.

  Monk met Lisa’s eyes. The two of them had held a private discussion twenty minutes ago. It was one of the reasons Monk had made the call to Khamisi. Certain expediencies had to be verified. Monk nodded to her.

  She slipped a second syringe from her pocket, stepped to Painter’s side.

  “Let me flush your catheter,” Lisa said. “There’s blood in it.”

  Painter held up his arm. It trembled.

  Lisa supported his wrist and injected her dose. Monk stepped beside Painter and caught him as his legs went out from under him.

  “What—?” Painter’s head lolled back.

  Monk shouldered him under one arm. “It’s for your own good, sir.”

  Painter frowned at Lisa. His other arm swung at her—whether to hit her or express some shock at her betrayal, Lisa doubted he even knew. The sedative swooned him away.

  Major Brooks watched, his mouth hanging open.

  Monk shrugged at the Air Force man. “Never seen a mutiny before?”

  Brooks collected himself. “All I can say, sir…about bloody time.”

  Monk nodded. “Khamisi is on his way in with the package. ETA three minutes. He and Dr. Kane will take over ground support here.”

  Lisa turned to Gunther. “Can you carry your sister?”

  As proof, he scooped her up and stood.

  “What are you all doing?” Anna asked weakly.

  “You two are not going to last until nightfall,” Lisa said. “We’re going to make a run for the Bell.”

  “How…?”

  “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours,” Monk said and hobbled out with Painter, supported by Major Brooks. “We’ve got it covered.”

  Monk again met Lisa’s eyes. She read his expression.

  It may be too late already.

  2:41 P.M.

  Gray led the way up the stairs, pistol in hand. He and Marcia moved as silently as possible. She kept a palm over her flashlight’s lamp, keeping any illumination to a minimum. Just enough to see where they were going. With the elevators incapacitated, he feared running into a stray guard on the stairs.

  Though he was disguised as a guard, one leading a researcher out of the darkened basement, he’d still rather avoid any unnecessary encounters.

  They crossed past the sixth sublevel, dark like the one below.

  Gray continued, increasing his pace, balancing caution against the fear secondary generators would kick in at some point. Climbing around the next landing, a glow appeared ahead.

  Holding up a hand, he stopped Marcia behind him.

  The light didn’t move. It remained stationary.

  Not a wandering guard. Probably an emergency lamp.

  Still…

  “Stay here,” he whispered to Marcia.

  She nodded.

  Gray continued ahead, pistol raised and ready. He climbed the steps. At the next landing, light seeped through a half-open doorway. As Gray approached, he heard voices. Farther up the stairs, it remained dark. So why was there light and power here? This level must be on a separate circuit.

  Voices echoed down the corridor.

  Familiar voices. Isaak and Baldric.

  They were out of direct sight, hidden deeper in the room. He glanced below and saw Marcia’s face limned in the light washing down the stairs. He waved her up to his landing.

  She had heard the voices, too.

  Isaak and Baldric seemed unconcerned about the loss of electricity. With power here, did they even know the rest of the manor was blacked out? Gray held his curiosity in check. He had to warn Washington.

  Words reached him. “The Bell will kill all of them,” Baldric said.

  Gray paused. Were they talking about Washington? If so, what were their plans? If he knew more…

  Gray held up two fingers to Marcia. Two minutes. If he wasn’t back, she was to head up on her own. He had left her his second pistol. If he could see this Bell, it might be the difference between saving lives and losing them.

  He held up the two fingers again.

  Marcia nodded. It would be up to her if Gray was caught.

  He squeezed into the opening, not budging the door, afraid a squeak of hinges would alert the two inside. The same gray fluorescent-lit hall stretched ahead. But it ended a short distance away at a double set of steel doors, opposite where the darkened elevator opened on this floor.

  One of the double doors stood open.

  Gray moved quickly, staying on the balls of his feet. He reached the doors and hugged the wall. He dropped to a knee and peered past the edge of the door.

  The chamber beyond was low-roofed but cavernous, encompassing this entire sublevel. Here was the heart of the laboratory. Banks of computers lined one wall. Monitors glowed with scrolling numbers and code. The computers probably warranted the separate circuit, their own power supply.

  The room’s occupants, so focused on the task at hand, hadn’t noted the loss of power elsewhere. But surely they would be alerted any minute.

  Baldric and Isaak, grandfather and grandson, were bent over a station. A thirty-inch flat-screen monitor on the wall flashed rapidly through a series of runes, one after the other. It was the five from Hugo’s books.

  “The code remains unbroken,” Isaak said. “Is it wise to move the Bell program global while we still have this riddle unsolved?”

  “It will be solved!” Baldric slammed a fist on the table. “It is only a matter of time. Besides, we are close enough to perfection. Like with you and your sister. You will live long. Fifty years. The deterioration will not weaken you until your last decade. It is time for us to move forward.”

  Isaak looked little convinced.

  Baldric straightened. He lifted an arm and waved it toward the ceiling. “See what delays have wrought. Our attempt to distract international attention to the Himalayas has backfired.”

  “Because we underestimated Anna Sporrenberg.”

  “And Sigma,” Baldric added. “But no matter. Governments now breathe down our necks. Gold will buy us only so much protection. We must act now. First Washington, then the world. And in that chaos, there will be plenty of time to break the code. Perfection will be ours.”

  “And out of Africa, a new world will arise,” Isaak said in rote, as if it were a prayer drilled into him at a young age, cemented in his genetic code.

  “Pure and cleansed of corruption,” Baldric added, ending the litany. But his words were
equally dispassionate. It was as if all this were no more than another step in his breeding program, a scientific exercise.

  Baldric teetered straighter on his cane. Gray noted how enfeebled the man really appeared, with no audience but his grandson. Gray wondered if the accelerated timetable wasn’t fueled more by Baldric’s own impending mortality than by any true necessity. Were they all unwitting pawns in Baldric’s desire to move forward in his plan? Had Baldric orchestrated this scenario on purpose—consciously or unconsciously—to justify acting now, during his lifetime?

  Isaak spoke again. He had shifted over to another workstation. “We’ve green lights across the board. The Bell is powered up and ready for activation. We’ll now be able to cleanse the estate of the escaped prisoners.”

  Gray stiffened. What was this all about?

  Baldric turned his back on the flashing runic code and focused toward the room’s center. “Prepare for activation.”

  Gray shifted to see farther into the room.

  In its center rested a massive shell, composed of some type of ceramic or metallic compound. It was shaped like an upended bell and stood as tall as Gray. He doubted he could hug his arms halfway around its circumference.

  Motors sounded, chugging and echoing, and an inner metal sleeve lowered from the ceiling, encased in a clockwork of gears. It dropped into the larger outer shell. At the same time, a neighboring yellow tank opened a gasket and a stream of purplish metallic liquid flowed into the heart of the Bell.

  Lubricant? Fuel source?

  Gray had no idea, but he noted the numbers stamped on the side of the tank: 525. It was the mysterious Xerum.

  “Raise the blast shield,” Baldric ordered. He had to yell to be heard above the clanking gears of the motor assembly. He motioned to the floor with his cane.

  The level here was covered by the same gray tile, except for a dull black circular section, thirty yards across, surrounding the Bell. A raised border edged it, a foot thick, like the ring in a circus. The ceiling above was a mirror of the floor, except the roof had an indented border.

  It was all lead.

  Gray realized the outer floor ring must rise on pistons and insert into the ceiling, forming an entire cylinder locked around the Bell.

  “What’s wrong?” Baldric yelled again, turning to Isaak at his station.

  Isaak toggled a switch back and forth. “We’re getting no power to the blast shield motors!”

  Gray glanced to his toes. The motors must be on the level below. The darkened level. A phone rang inside the room, chiming stridently, competing with the motors. Gray could guess who was calling. Security had finally discovered where the masters of the house were hidden.

  Time to go.

  Gray straightened and turned.

  A pipe swung down and struck his wrist, knocking the pistol from his hand. The wielder swung at his head. Gray barely ducked in time.

  Ischke stalked toward him. Behind her, the doors to the darkened elevator stood open, pried apart. The woman must have been trapped in the elevator when the power went out, then climbed down here. Masked by the noise from the Bell’s motors, Gray had not heard the doors being pried open behind him.

  Ischke raised her pipe, plainly skilled in the art of staff fighting.

  Gray fixed his eyes on her and retreated into the Bell’s chamber. He refused to glance toward the fire stairs. He prayed Marcia had already left, was en route to reach the shortwave radio and raise the alarm in Washington.

  Ischke, her clothes stained with oil, her face smudged, followed Gray inside the Bell chamber.

  Baldric spoke behind Gray. “Wat is dit? It seems little Ischke has trapped the mouse who has chewed through the wiring.”

  Gray turned.

  Unarmed. Out of options.

  “Generators are coming back online,” Isaak said, his manner bored, unimpressed by the intrusion.

  A grind of motors rumbled under Gray’s feet. The blast shield began to rise from the floor.

  “Now to exterminate the other rats,” Baldric said.

  2:45 P.M.

  Monk yelled to be heard over the helicopter’s rotors. Sand and dust swirled around them in the rotor wash’s whirlwind. “You know how to fly this bird?”

  Gunther nodded, grabbing the chopper’s stick.

  Monk clapped the large man on the shoulder. He would have to trust the Nazi. Monk could not fly the bird himself, not one-handed. Still, with the giant’s allegiance now centered on his sister’s survival, Monk thought it was a safe bet.

  Anna sat in the back with Lisa. Painter slumped between them, head hanging. He had only been lightly sedated. Painter mumbled occasionally, nonsensically, warning about some impending sandstorm, lost in past fears.

  Ducking his head under the blades, Monk circled around the helicopter. On the far side, Khamisi stood beside Mosi D’Gana, the Zulu chieftain. They clasped each other’s forearms.

  Mosi had shed his ceremonial gear and now wore khaki fatigues, cap, and an automatic rifle over one shoulder. A holstered pistol hung from a black belt. But he had not totally abandoned his heritage. A short spear with a wicked blade was strapped to his back.

  “You have the command,” Mosi said formally to Khamisi as Monk approached.

  “My honor, sir.”

  Mosi nodded and let go of Khamisi’s arm. “I’ve heard good things about you, Fat Boy.”

  Monk joined them. Fat Boy?

  Khamisi’s eyes widened, a mix of shame and honor shining in them. He nodded back and stepped away. Mosi climbed into the helicopter. He would be joining the first-wave assault. Monk had no choice. He owed the chieftain.

  Khamisi crossed to Paula Kane. The pair would be coordinating the ground assault.

  Monk searched beyond the swirling plume of sand and dust. The forces had gathered quickly, coming in on foot, on horseback, on rusted motorcycles and beat-up trucks. Mosi had spread the word. And like his great ancestor Shaka Zulu, he gathered an army. Men and women. In traditional pelts, in worn fatigues, in Levi’s. And more were still coming.

  It would be up to them to keep the Waalenberg army occupied, to secure the estate if possible. How would the Zulus fare against the superiorly armed and experienced security forces of the estate? Would it be Bloody River all over again?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Monk pulled himself into the crowded rear compartment. Mosi settled into a seat next to Major Brooks. They sat on the bench facing Anna, Lisa, and Painter. One other newcomer, a half-naked Zulu warrior named Tau, was also strapped in the back. He half twisted to keep a short spear thrust at the throat of the chopper’s copilot.

  Head Warden Gerald Kellogg sat next to Gunther, bound and gagged. One eye was swollen and purpling.

  Monk tapped Gunther on the shoulder, and waved a finger to get the bird in the air. With a nod of acknowledgment, Gunther pulled on the collective, and the chopper leaped into the air with a roar of the engines.

  The ground dropped away. The estate stretched out ahead of them. Monk had been informed that the estate was equipped with surface-to-air missiles. Weaponless, the slow-moving commercial chopper would be a flying bull’s-eye.

  That would not be good.

  Monk leaned forward.

  “Time to earn your keep, warden.”

  Monk grinned wickedly. He knew it was not a pretty sight, but it came in handy now.

  Kellogg blanched.

  Satisfied, Monk reached forward and lifted the radio’s mouthpiece to the warden’s lips. “Connect us to the security band.”

  Khamisi had already obtained the codes. Hence Kellogg’s black eye.

  “Stick to the script,” Monk warned, still grinning.

  Kellogg leaned a bit farther away.

  Was his smile really that awful?

  To reinforce the threat, Tau pressed the point of his spear into the soft flesh of the man’s neck.

  Static squelched from the radio, and Kellogg passed on the message as instructed. “We’ve recap
tured one of your prisoners,” the warden told base security. “Monk Kokkalis. We’re flying him over to the rooftop helipad.”

  Gunther monitored security’s response over his headphones.

  “Roger that. Over and out,” Kellogg said.

  Gunther yelled a bit. “We’ve been given the all clear. Here we go.”

  He nosed the helicopter forward and sped toward the estate. Ahead, the mansion came into view. It looked even more massive from the air.

  Swinging around and settling into his seat, Monk faced Lisa. Beside her, Anna leaned against the window, eyes squeezed closed in pain. Painter hung in his straps and groaned. The sedative was wearing thin.

  Lisa helped settle him back.

  Monk noted that she held Painter’s hand—and had all along.

  Her face found Monk’s.

  Fear shone bright in her eyes.

  But not for herself.

  2:56 P.M.

  “Is the broadcast rod raised?” Baldric asked.

  Isaak nodded at his console.

  “Ready the Bell for activation.”

  Baldric turned to Gray. “We’ve fed your companions’ DNA codes into the Bell. It will modify its output to denature and selectively destroy any matching DNA while remaining harmless to all others. Our version of a final solution.”

  Gray pictured Fiona hidden up in her room. And Monk was being flown in right now.

  “There’s no need to kill them,” Gray said. “You’ve recaptured my partner. Leave the others alone.”

  “If I’ve learned nothing in these past days, I’ve learned it’s best to leave no loose strings.” Baldric nodded to Isaak. “Activate the Bell.”

  “Wait!” Gray yelled, stepping forward.

  Ischke had retrieved his pistol and warned him away with it.

  Baldric glanced back, bored and impatient.

  Gray had only one card to play. “I know how to break Hugo’s code.”

  Surprise softened Baldric’s stern demeanor. He lifted a delaying hand toward Isaak. “You do? You can succeed where a series of Cray computers has so far failed?”

  Doubt rang in the man’s voice.