Black Order (13 page)

Painter’s brow knit together. “It’s not Tibetan or Nepalese. Look at how angular the script is. Looks more like Nordic runes or something.”

“Do you think so?”

“Maybe.” Painter leaned back with a tired groan. “Either way, it makes you wonder if Lama Khemsar knew more than he let on.”

Lisa remembered something she had failed to tell Painter. “After the old monk cut his throat, we found a symbol carved into his chest. I dismissed it as just raving and coincidence. But now I’m not so sure.”

“What did it look like? Can you draw it?”

“No need to. It was a swastika.”

Painter’s brows rose. “A swastika?”

“I think so. Could he have been flashing back to the past, acting out something that frightened him?”

Lisa related the story of Ang Gelu’s relative. How Relu Na had fled the Maoist rebels, traumatized by their growing brutality as they took sickles to the limbs of innocent farmers. Then Relu Na did the same when the illness sapped the man’s sanity, acting out some deep-seated trauma.

Painter frowned as she finished. “Lama Khemsar was somewhere in his mid-seventies. That would place him in his early to midteens during World War II. So it’s possible. The Nazis had sent research expeditions into the Himalayas.”

“Here? Why?”

Painter shrugged. “The story goes that Heinrich Himmler, the head of the SS, was fixated on the occult. He studied ancient Vedic texts of India, dating back thousands of years. The bastard came to believe that these mountains were once the birthplace of the original Aryan race. He sent expeditions looking for proof. Of course, the man was a few fries short of a Happy Meal.”

Lisa smiled at him. “Still, maybe the old lama had some run-in with one of those early expeditions. Hired as a guide or something.”

“Maybe. But we’ll never know. Whatever secrets there were died with him.”

“Maybe not. Maybe that was what he was trying to do up in his room. Letting go of something horrible. His subconscious trying to absolve itself by revealing what he knew.”

“That’s a lot of maybes.” Painter rubbed his forehead, wincing. “And I have one more.
Maybe
it was just gibberish.”

Lisa had no argument against that. She sighed, tiring rapidly as the adrenaline of their flight wore off. “Are you warm enough?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

She switched off the heater. “Need to conserve the butane.”

He nodded, then failed to stop a jaw-popping yawn.

“We should try to get some sleep,” she said. “Take shifts.”

Hours later, Painter woke, startled awake by someone shaking his shoulder. He sat up from where he had been leaning against the wall. It was dark out. The wall of ice before him was as pitch-black as the rock.

At least the storm seemed to have died down.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Lisa had dropped a section of their blanket.

She pointed an arm and whispered, “Wait.”

He shifted closer, shedding any sleepiness. He waited half a minute. Still nothing. The storm definitely seemed to have subsided. The wind’s howl was gone. Beyond their cave, a winter’s crystalline quiet had settled over the valley and cliffs. He strained to hear anything suspicious.

Something had definitely spooked Lisa.

He sensed her raw fear. It practically vibrated out of her tense body.

“Lisa, what’s—?”

Suddenly the wall of ice flickered brilliantly, as if fireworks had ignited in the sky outside. There was no noise. The scintillating radiance cascaded up along the falls and away. Then the ice went dark again.

“The ghost lights…,” Lisa whispered and turned to him.

Painter flashed to three nights ago. When this had all started.
The illness in the village, the madness in the monastery
. He remembered Lisa’s earlier assessment. Proximity to the strange lights was directly related to the severity of the symptoms.

And now they were in the heart of the badlands.

Closer than ever.

As Painter watched, the frozen waterfall flared again with a shining and deadly brilliance. The ghost lights had returned.

6:12
P.M
.
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

Does nothing ever start on time in Europe?

Gray checked his wristwatch.

The auction had been slated to start at five o’clock.

Trains and buses might be efficient enough to set your clock by here, but when it came to scheduled events, it was anyone’s guess. It was already after six. The latest consensus was that the auction’s start would be closer to six-thirty, due to some late arrivals, as a storm off the North Sea was delaying air traffic into Copenhagen.

Bidders were still arriving below.

As the sun sank away, Gray had positioned himself on a second-story balcony of the Scandic Hotel Webers. It sat across the street from the home of Ergenschein Auction House, a modern four-story building that seemed more art gallery than auction establishment, with its modern Danish minimalist style, all glass and bleached woods. The auction was to take place in the house’s basement.

And hopefully soon.

Gray yawned and stretched.

Earlier, he had stopped at his original hotel near Nyhavn, quickly collected his surveillance gear, and checked out. Under a new name with a new MasterCard, he had booked into this hotel. It offered a panoramic view of Copenhagen’s City Square, and from the private balcony, he could hear the distant titter and music of one of the world’s oldest amusement parks, Tivoli Gardens.

He had a laptop open with a half-eaten hot dog from a street vendor resting beside it. His only meal of the day. Despite rumors, the life of an operative was not all Monte Carlo casinos and gourmet restaurants. Still, it was a great hot dog, even if it cost almost five dollars American.

The image on the laptop screen shivered as the motion-sensitive camera snapped a rapid series of pictures. He had already captured two dozen participants: stiff bankers, dismissive Eurotrash, a trio of bull-necked gentlemen in shiny suits with mafioso stamped on their foreheads, a pudgy woman in professorial attire, and a foursome of white-suited nouveau riche wearing identical matching sailor caps. Of course, these last spoke American. Loudly.

He shook his head.

There couldn’t possibly be too many more arrivals.

A long black limousine pulled up to the auction house. Two figures stepped out. They were tall and lean, dressed in matching black Armani suits. His and hers. He wore a robin’s egg blue tie. She wore a silk blouse of a matching hue. Both were young, midtwenties at best. But they carried themselves as if much older. Maybe it was the bleached white hair, coiffed almost identically, short, pasted to the scalp, looking like a pair of silent-movie stars from the Roaring Twenties. Their manner gave them an ageless grace. No smiles, but not cold. Even in the snapshots, there was a friendly amusement in their eyes.

The doorman held the door open for them.

They each nodded their thanks—again not overly warm, but acknowledging the man’s gesture. They vanished inside. The doorman stepped after them, turning a sign. Plainly this couple was the last, and perhaps in fact the very reason the auction had been delayed until now.

Who were they?

He stowed his curiosity. He had his orders from Logan Gregory.

He reviewed his pictures to ensure he had clean images of each participant. Satisfied, he backed the file onto a flash-disk and pocketed it. Now all he had to do was wait for the auction to end. Logan had arranged to obtain a list of sale items and names of successful bidders. Surely a few would be aliases, but the information would be shared with the U.S. task force on terrorism and eventually Europol and Interpol. Whatever was really afoot here might never be known to Gray.

Like why was he attacked? Why had Grette Neal been killed?

Gray forced his fist to relax. It had taken all afternoon, but in a calmer frame of mind, Gray had learned to accept the restraints Logan had placed on him. He had no idea what was really going on here, and to operate blindly, rashly, might only get more people killed.

Still, a large measure of guilt ached at the base of his spine, making it difficult to sit still. He had spent most of the afternoon pacing his hotel room. The past days had replayed in his mind over and over again.

If he had been more careful to start…taken more precautions…

Gray’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Taking it out, he checked the incoming number.
Thank God.
He snapped open the phone, stood, and stepped to the balcony railing.

“Rachel…I’m glad you called back.”

“I got your message. Are you all right?”

He heard both the personal concern and the professional interest in a more thorough debriefing. He had left her only a short note on her cell phone, warning that their rendezvous would have to be cut short. He hadn’t gone into the details. Despite their relationship, there were security clearances involved.

“I’m fine. But Monk is flying in. He’ll be here a little after midnight.”

“I’ve just arrived in Frankfurt myself,” Rachel said. “Laying over for my last leg to Copenhagen. I checked my messages after we landed here.”

“Again. I’m sorry…”

“So I should head back?”

He feared involving her in any way. “It would be best. We’ll have to reschedule. Perhaps if things calm down here, I can make a short side trip to Rome and visit you there before returning to the States.”

“I would like that.”

He heard the disappointment in her voice.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, hoping it was a promise he could keep.

She sighed—not in irritation, but in understanding. They were not naïve about their long-distance relationship. Two continents, two careers. But they were willing to work on it…to see where it would lead.

“I’d hoped we would have a chance to talk,” Rachel said.

He knew what she meant, reading the deeper meaning behind her words. They had been through much together, witnessed both the good and the bad in each other, and still, despite the difficulty in a long-distance romance, neither had been willing to throw in the towel. In fact, both of them knew that it was time to discuss the next step.

Shortening that distance.

It was probably one of the reasons that they’d been so long apart since the last rendezvous. Some unspoken acknowledgment that they both needed time to think. Now it was time to lay the cards on the table.

Move forward or not.

But did he even have an answer? He loved Rachel. He was ready to make a life with her. They had even talked about kids. Still…something unsettled him. Made him almost relieved their tryst here had been delayed. It wasn’t something as mundane as cold feet. So then what was it?

Maybe they
had
better talk.

“I’ll get to Rome,” he said. “I promise.”

“I’m going to hold you to that. I’ll even keep some of Uncle Vigor’s
vermicelli alla panna
warming on the stove.” He heard the tension easing from her voice. “I miss you, Gray. We—”

Her next words were cut off by the strident beep of a car horn.

Gray glanced down to the street. Below, a figure ran across two lanes, heedless of traffic. A woman in a cashmere jacket and ankle-length dress, hair bundled up in a bun. Gray almost didn’t recognize her. Not until she flipped off the driver who had honked.

Fiona.

What the hell was the girl doing here?

“Gray—?” Rachel said in his ear.

He spoke in a rush. “I’m sorry, Rachel…I have to run.”

He hung up, pocketing his cell phone.

Below, Fiona rushed to the auction house door and pushed inside. Gray darted back to his laptop. His camera captured the girl’s image through the glass entrance. She was arguing with the doorman. Finally, the uniformed man checked a paper she shoved into his hands, scowled, and waved her farther inside.

Fiona bulled past him and disappeared. The camera went dark.

Gray glanced between laptop and street.

Damn it…

Logan would not be happy. No rash actions.

Still, what would Painter Crowe do?

Gray swung back inside and stripped out of his street clothes. His suit jacket lay on the bed. Ready in case of emergency.

Painter certainly would not sit calmly and do nothing.

10:22
P.M
.
HIMALAYAS

“We have to remain calm,” Painter said. “Sit tight.”

Before them, the ghost lights continued to flare and subside, wintry and silent, igniting the icy waterfall into a shattering brilliance, then dying away. In the resulting darkness, the cave seemed colder and blacker.

Lisa shifted closer to him. Her hand found his, squeezing all the blood from his palm.

“No wonder they hadn’t bothered tracking us,” she whispered, breathless with fear. “Why hunt through this storm, when all they have to do is turn those damn lights back on and irradiate us? We can’t hide from that.”

Painter realized she was right. Maddened, they would be without defenses. In such a senseless state, the treacherous landscape and frigid cold would kill them as surely as any sniper’s bullet.

But he refused to give up hope.

The madness took hours to take hold. He would not waste those hours. If they could reach help in time, perhaps there was a way to reverse the effect.

“We’ll get through this,” he said lamely.

This only irritated her.

“How?”

She turned to him as the lights flared again, sparkling the cavern with a diamondlike sheen. Lisa’s eyes shone with less terror than he had imagined. She was fearful—and rightfully so—but there remained a hard glint, also diamondlike.

“Don’t talk down to me,” Lisa said, slipping her hand from his. “That’s all I ask.”

Painter nodded. “If they’re trusting the radiation or whatever to kill us, they may not be watching the mountains that well. With the storm over, we can—”

A spatter of gunfire erupted, splintering the winter’s quiet.

Painter met Lisa’s gaze.

It sounded close.

Proving that, a spate of bullets cracked into the wall of ice. Painter and Lisa scrambled back, shedding their space blanket. They retreated to the rear of the small cave. There was no escape.

By now, Painter noted something else.

The ghost light had not faded as it had before. The frozen waterfall remained aglow with its deadly brilliance. The light held steady, pinning them down.

A bullhorn boomed. “Painter Crowe! We know you and the woman are hiding there!”

The commanding voice had a feminine lilt. Also accented.

“Come out! Hands high!”

Painter gripped Lisa’s shoulder, squeezing as much reassurance into her as he could. “Stay here.”

He pointed to their discarded outerwear, motioning Lisa to suit up. He shoved into his own boots, then edged to the break in the ice. He poked his head out.

As was common in the highlands, the storm had broken apart as quickly as it had struck. Stars shone across the black sky. The Milky Way arched over the wintry valley, etched in snow and ice, patched with mists of ice fog.

Closer at hand, a spotlight pierced the night, its beam centered on the frozen waterfall. Fifty yards away on a lower cliff, a shadowy figure straddled a snowmobile, operating the searchlight. It was only an ordinary lamp, possibly xenon from its intensity and bluish tint.

It was no mysterious ghost light.

Painter felt a surge of relief. Had that been the light all the time, marking the approach of the vehicles? Painter counted five of them. He also counted the score of figures in white parkas, spread across the lower tier and to either side. They all bore rifles.

With no other choice—and damn curious to boot—Painter held up his arms and stepped free of the cave. The nearest gunman, a hulk of a man, sidled closer, rifle leveled. A tiny beam of light traced Painter’s chest. A laser sight.

Weaponless, Painter could only stand his ground. He weighed the odds of manhandling the rifle from the gunman.

Not good.

Painter met the eyes of the gunman.

One an icy blue, the other a frosted white.

The assassin from the monastery.

He remembered the man’s ungodly strength. No, the odds were not good. And besides, with the number of men here, what would he do if he succeeded?

From behind the man’s shoulder, a figure stepped into view. A woman. Perhaps the same who had used the bullhorn a moment ago. She reached and used a single finger to push the assassin’s rifle down. Painter doubted any man would have the strength to do that.

As she stepped forward, Painter studied her in the spotlight’s glare. She had to be in her late thirties. Bobbed black hair, green eyes. She wore a heavy white parka with a fur-lined hood. Her form was shapeless beneath her outerwear, but she appeared svelte and moved with a toned grace.

“Dr. Anna Sporrenberg,” she said and held out a hand.

Painter stared at her glove. If he pulled her to him, got an arm around her throat, tried to use her as a hostage…

Meeting the assassin’s eyes over her shoulder, Painter thought better. He reached out and shook the woman’s hand. Since they hadn’t shot him yet, he could at least be polite. He would play this game as long as it kept him alive. He had Lisa to consider, too.

“Director Crowe,” she said. “It seems there has been much chatter over the past few hours across the international intelligence channels regarding your whereabouts.”

Painter kept his face fixed. He saw no reason to deny his identity. Perhaps he could even use it to his advantage. “Then you know the extent to which those same resources will go to find me.”

“Natürlich,”
she nodded, slipping into German. “But I would not count on their success. In the meantime, I must ask you and the young woman to accompany me.”

Painter took a warding step back. “Dr. Cummings has nothing to do with any of this. She was only a health care worker coming to the aid of the sick. She knows nothing.”

“We’ll know the truth of that soon enough.”