Black Order (23 page)

Lisa spoke up. “These last symptoms…they sound like what happened to the monks at the monastery.”

Anna nodded. “It’s all a matter of degree and age of exposure. Children exposed in utero to a controlled level of the Bell’s quantum radiation showed enhancements, followed by a lifelong chronic degeneration. While adults, like Painter and me, exposed to
moderate
amounts of uncontrolled radiation were struck by a more acute form of the same degeneration, a more rapid decline. But the monks, exposed to a
high
level of the radiation, progressed immediately into the mental degenerative state.”

“And the
Sonnekönige
?” Painter said.

“Like us, there was no cure for their disease. In fact, while the Bell holds promise of helping us, the
Sonnekönige
are immune to the Bell. It seems their exposure so young makes them resistant to any further manipulation by the Bell—for better or worse.”

“So when they went mad…?” Painter pictured rampaging supermen throughout the castle.

“Such a condition threatened our security. The human tests were eventually halted.”

Painter could not hide his surprise. “You abandoned the research?”

“Not exactly. Human testing was already an inefficient means of experimentation. It took too long to judge results. New models were employed. Modified strains of mice, fetal tissue grown in vitro, stem cells. With the human genome mapped, DNA testing became a faster method with which to judge progress. Our pace accelerated. I suspect if we restarted the
Sonnekönige
project, we’d see much better results today.”

“So then why haven’t you tried again?”

Anna shrugged. “We’re still seeing dementia in our mice. That’s worrisome. But mostly, we’ve declined human studies because our interests over the last decade have turned more clinical. We don’t see ourselves as harbingers of a new master race. We are indeed no longer Nazis. We believe our work can benefit mankind as a whole, once perfected.”

“So why not come out now?” Lisa asked.

“And be bound by the laws of nations and the ignorant? Science is not a democratic process. Such arbitrary restraints of morality would only slow our progress tenfold. That is not acceptable.”

Painter forced himself not to snort. It seemed
some
Nazi philosophies still flourished here.

“What became of the
Sonnekönige
?” Lisa asked.

“Most tragic. While many died of degenerative conditions, many more had to be euthanized when their minds deteriorated. Still, a handful have survived. Like Klaus, who you’ve met.”

Painter pictured the giant guardsman from earlier. He remembered the man’s palsied limb and stricken face, signs of degeneration. Painter’s attention drifted over to Gunther. The man met his gaze, face unreadable. One blue eye, one dead white. Another of the
Sonnekönige
.

“Gunther was the last to be born here.”

Anna pointed to her shoulder and signaled to the large man.

Frown lines deepened, but Gunther reached and rolled the loose edge of his sleeve to expose his upper arm. He revealed a black tattoo.

“The symbol of the
Sonnekönige,
” Anna said. “A mark of pride, duty, and accomplishment.”

Gunther pulled down his sleeve, hiding it away.

Painter flashed back to the sled ride last night, to the snide comment directed at Gunther by one of the guards. What was the word again?
Leprakönige
. Leper King. Plainly there remained little respect for the former Knights of the Sun King. Gunther was the last of his kind, slowly degenerating into oblivion. Who would mourn him?

Anna’s eyes lingered on Gunther before focusing back on them.

Maybe there would be one mourner.

Lisa spoke up. She still held Painter’s hand. “One thing you’ve yet to make clear. The Bell. How is it bringing about these changes? You said they were too consistent to be mutations generated by random chance.”

Anna nodded. “Indeed. Our research has not been limited to the
effects
of the Bell. Much of our studies have focused on
how
it works.”

“Have you made much progress?” Painter asked.

“Of course. In fact, we are certain we understand the basic tenets of its functioning.”

Painter blinked his surprise. “Really?”

Anna’s brow crinkled. “I thought it was obvious.” She glanced between Painter and Lisa. “The Bell controls evolution.”

7:35
A.M
.
HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI PRESERVE

“Who’s there?” Khamisi repeated, standing at the threshold to his house. Someone lurked inside, back in the rear bedroom.

Or maybe it was some animal.

Monkeys were always breaking into homes, sometimes larger animals did.

Still, he refused to enter. He strained to see, but all the curtains had been drawn. After the ride here in the blinding sun, the gloom of his home was as dark as any jungle.

Standing on the porch, Khamisi reached through the door for the light switch. His fingers fumbled. He found and flicked the switch. A single lamp ignited, illuminating the sparsely furnished front room and a galley kitchen. But the light did nothing to show who or what waited in the back bedroom.

He heard a scuffle of something back there.

“Who—?”

A sharp sting to the side of his neck cut off his words. Startled, he fell forward into the room. His hand slapped at the bite. His fingers found something feathered imbedded there.

He pulled it out and stared at it, uncomprehending for a breath.

A dart.

He used the same to tranquilize large animals.

But this one was different.

It fell from his fingers.

The moment of incomprehension was all it took for the toxin to reach his brain. The world tipped on its side. Khamisi fought for balance—and failed.

The plank floor rushed toward his face.

He managed to catch himself slightly, but still he struck hard, cracking his head. Pinpoints of light shattered out into a closing darkness. His head lolled. From his angle, he spotted a stretch of rope on the planks. He focused harder.
Not rope
.

Snake. Ten feet long.

He recognized it on sight.

Black mamba.

It was dead, cut in half. A machete lay nearby.
His
machete.

Coldness numbed his limbs as the hard truth struck him.

The poisoned dart.

It hadn’t been like those he employed in the field. This dart had
two
needles. Like fangs.

His eyes glazed upon the dead snake.

Staged.

Death by snakebite.

From the back bedroom, floorboards creaked. He had just enough strength left to turn his head. A dark figure stood in the doorway now, illuminated by the lamplight, studying him, expressionless.

No.

It made no sense.

Why?

He would have no answer.

Darkness folded over him, taking him away.

6:54
A.M
.
PADERBORN, GERMANY

“You’re staying here,” Gray said. He stood in the center of the Challenger’s main cabin, fists on his hips, not budging.

“Bollocks,” Fiona retorted. A step away, she made her stand.

To the side, Monk leaned against the open jet doorway, arms crossed, much too amused.

“I still haven’t told you the address,” Fiona argued. “You can spend the next month searching door to door throughout the city, or I can go with you and take you to the place. Your choice, mate.”

Gray’s face heated. Why hadn’t he teased the address from the girl when she was still weak and vulnerable? He shook his head.
Weak
and
vulnerable
never described Fiona.

“So what’s it going to be?”

“Looks like we have a tagalong,” Monk said.

Gray refused to relent. Maybe if he scared her, reminded her of her close call in Tivoli Gardens. “What about your gunshot wound?”

Fiona’s nose flared. “What about it? Good as new. That liquid bandage. Patched me right up.”

“She can even swim with it,” Monk said. “Waterproof.”

Gray glared at his partner. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” Fiona pressed.

Gray focused back at her. He didn’t want to be responsible for the girl any longer. And he certainly didn’t have time to be babysitting her.

“He’s afraid you’ll get hurt again,” Monk said with a shrug.

Gray sighed. “Fiona, just tell us the address.”

“Once we’re in the car,” she said. “Then I’ll tell you. I’m not staying cooped up in here.”

“Day’s wasting,” Monk said. “And it looks like we might get wet.”

The sky was blue and morning bright, but dark clouds stacked to the north. A storm was rolling in.

“Fine.” Gray waved his partner out the door. He could at least keep an eye on Fiona.

The trio climbed down the jet steps. They had already cleared customs, and a rented BMW waited for them. Monk carried a black backpack over one shoulder, Gray a matching one. He glanced over to Fiona. She had one, too. Where—?

“There was an extra one,” Monk explained. “Don’t worry. There’re no guns or flash grenades in hers. At least, I don’t think so.”

Gray shook his head and continued across the tarmac toward the parking garage. Besides the backpack, they were all similarly dressed: black jeans, sneakers, sweaters. Tourist haute couture. At least Fiona had customized her clothes with a few buttons. One caught his eye. It read:
STRANGERS HAVE THE BEST CANDY
.

As Gray entered the parking garage, he surreptitiously checked his weapons one last time. He patted the 9mm Glock holstered under his sweater and fingered the hilt of a carbonized dagger sheathed at his left wrist. He had additional armaments in the backpack: flash grenades, packets of C4 explosive, extra clips.

He was not going anywhere unprepared this time.

They finally reached their ride. A midnight blue BMW 525i.

Fiona strode toward the driver’s door.

Gray cut her off. “Funny.”

Monk strode around the far side of the car and called, “Shotgun!”

Fiona ducked, searching around.

Gray steadied her and guided her toward the rear door. “He was only claiming the front seat.”

Fiona scowled across the car at Monk. “Wanker.”

“Sorry. Don’t be so jumpy, kid.”

They all climbed into the sedan. Gray started the engine and glanced back to Fiona. “Well? Where to?”

Monk already had a map pulled out.

Fiona leaned forward and reached over Monk’s shoulder. She traced a finger along the map.

“Out of town. Twenty kilometers southwest. We have to go to the village of Büren in Alme Valley.”

“What’s the address there?”

Fiona leaned back. “Funny,” she said, repeating his own word from a moment ago.

He met her gaze in the rearview mirror. She wore a disgusted look at his last lame attempt to coerce the information from her.

Couldn’t blame a guy for trying.

She waved for him to head out.

With no choice, he obeyed.

On the far side of the parking garage, two figures sat in a white Mercedes roadster. The man lowered the binoculars and donned a pair of Italian sunglasses. He nodded to his twin sister beside him. She spoke into the satellite phone, whispering in Dutch.

Her other hand held his. He massaged his thumb across her tattoo.

She squeezed his fingers.

Glancing down, he noted where she had chewed one of her fingernails to a ragged nub. The imperfection was as glaring as a broken nose.

She noted his attention and tried to hide her nail, embarrassed.

There was no reason for shame. He understood the consternation and heartache that resulted in the chewed nail. They had lost Hans, one of their older brothers, last night.

Killed by the driver of the car that had just left.

Fury narrowed his vision as he watched the BMW slide out of the parking garage. The GPS transponder they’d planted would track the vehicle.

“Understood,” his sister said into the phone. “As expected, they’ve followed the book’s trail here. Undoubtedly, they will be headed to the Hirszfeld estate in Büren. We’ll leave the jet under surveillance. All is prepared.”

As she listened, she caught her twin brother’s eye.

“Yes,” she said both to the phone and her brother, “we will not fail. The Darwin Bible will be ours.”

He nodded, agreeing. He slipped his hand from hers, twisted the key, and started the ignition.

“Good-bye, Grandfather,” his sister said.

Lowering the phone, she reached over and shifted a single lock of his blond hair that had fallen out of place. She combed it in place with her fingers, then smoothed it out.

Perfect.

Always perfect.

He kissed the tips of her fingers as she pulled back.

Love and a promise.

They would have their revenge.

Mourning would come later.

He drifted their polar white Mercedes out of its parking place to begin the hunt.

11:08
A.M
.
HIMALAYAS

The soldering gun’s tip flared fiery crimson. Painter steadied the tool. His hand shook, but it was not fear that trembled his fingers. The headache continued to pound behind his right eye. He had taken a fistful of Tylenol, along with two tabs of phenobarbital, an anticonvulsant. None of the drugs would stave off the eventual debilitation and madness, but according to Anna, they would buy him more functional hours.

How long did he have?

Less than three days, maybe even shorter before he was incapacitated.

He fought to block out this concern. Worry and despair could debilitate him just as quickly as the disease. As his grandfather said in that sage Pequot Indian manner of his,
Wringin’ your hands only stops you from rollin’ up your sleeves
.

Taking this to heart, Painter concentrated on soldering the cable connection to an exposed ground wire. The wiring ran throughout the entire subterranean castle and out to its various antennas. Including the satellite uplink dish hidden somewhere near the top of the mountain.

Once done, Painter leaned back and waited for the new solder to cool. He sat at a bench with an array of tools and parts neatly aligned, like a surgeon. His workspace was flanked by two open laptops.

Both supplied by Gunther. The man who had slaughtered the monks. Murdered Ang Gelu. Painter still felt a well of fury whenever near the man.

Like now.

The large guard stood at his shoulder, watching his every move. They were alone in a maintenance room. Painter considered putting the soldering gun through the man’s eye. But what then? They were miles from civilization, and a death sentence hung over his head. Cooperation was their only means of survival. To that end, Lisa remained with Anna in her study, continuing her own line of investigation into a cure.

Painter and Gunther pursued another angle.

Hunting down the saboteur.

According to Gunther, the bomb that had destroyed the Bell had been set by hand. And since no one had left the grounds since the explosion, the saboteur was likely still in the castle.

If they could apprehend the subject, perhaps more could be learned.

So a bit of bait had been distributed through word of mouth.

All that was left was to set the trap to go along with it.

One laptop was plugged into the castle’s networked communications systems. Painter had already piggybacked into the system, using passwords supplied by Gunther. He had sent out a series of compressed code packets intended to monitor the system for all outgoing communication. If the saboteur tried to communicate to the outside world, he would be discovered, his location pinned down.

But Painter did not expect the saboteur to be so ham-fisted. He or she had survived and operated in secret for a long time. That implied cunning—and a means of communication independent of the castle’s main communication network.

So Painter had built something new.

The saboteur must have obtained a private portable satellite phone, one employed in secret to communicate with his superiors. But such a phone needed a clear line-of-sight path between the unit’s antenna and the geosynchronous orbiting satellite. Unfortunately there were too many niches, windows, and service hatches where the saboteur could accomplish this, too many to guard without raising suspicions.

So an alternative was needed.

Painter checked the signal amplifier he had attached to the ground wire. It was a device he had engineered himself back at Sigma. His expertise as a Sigma operative, before assuming the directorship, had been on surveillance and microengineering. This was his arena.

The amplifier linked the ground wire to the second laptop.

“Should be ready,” Painter said, his headache finally waning a bit.

“Turn it on.”

Painter switched on the battery power source, set the amplitude of signal, and adjusted the pulse rate. The laptop would do the rest. It would monitor for any pickups. It was crude at best, not capable of eavesdropping. It could only gain a general signal-location of an illicit transmission, accurate to within a thirty-yard radius. It should be enough.

Painter fine-tuned his equipment. “All set. Now all we have to do is wait for the bastard to call out.”

Gunther nodded.

“That is if the saboteur takes the bait,” Painter added.

A half hour ago, they had spread a rumor that a cache of Xerum 525 had survived the explosion, locked in a lead-lined secret vault. It gave the entire castle’s populace hope. If there was some of the irreplaceable fuel, then maybe a new Bell could be fabricated. Anna even had researchers assembling another Bell out of spare parts. If not a cure for the progressive disease, the Bell offered the chance to buy more time. For all of them.

But hope was not the purpose of the ruse.

Word had to reach the saboteur. He needed to be convinced his plan had failed. That the Bell could be rebuilt after all. To seek guidance from his superiors, he would have to place a call out.

And when that happened, Painter would be ready.

In the meantime, Painter turned to Gunther. “What’s it like to be a superman?” he asked. “A Knight of the Black Sun.”

Gunther shrugged. The extent of his communication seemed to be grunts, frowns, and a few monosyllabic responses.

“I mean, do you feel superior? Stronger, faster, able to leap buildings in a single bound.”

Gunther just stared at him.

Painter sighed, trying a new tack to get the guy talking, strike up some sort of rapport. “What does
Leprakönige
mean? I heard people using that word when you’re around.”

Painter damn well knew what it meant, but it got the response he needed. Gunther glanced away, but Painter noted the fire in his eyes. Silence stretched. He wasn’t sure the man was going to speak.

“Leper King,” Gunther finally growled.

Now it was Painter’s turn to remain silent. He let the weight hang in the small room. Gunther finally folded.

“When perfection is sought, none wish to look upon failure. If the madness does not claim us, the disease is horrible to witness. Better to be shut away. Out of sight.”

“Exiled. Like lepers.”

Painter tried to imagine what it would be like to be raised as the
last
of the
Sonnekönige,
knowing your doomed fate at a young age. Once a revered line of princes, now a shunned and shambling line of lepers.

“Yet you still help here,” Painter said. “Still serve.”

“It was what I was born for. I know my duty.”

Painter wondered if that had been drilled into them or somehow genetically wired. He studied the man. Somehow he knew it went beyond that. But what?

“Why do you even care what happens to us all?” Painter asked.

“I believe in the work here. What I suffer will one day help spare others from the same fate.”

“And the search for the cure now? It doesn’t have anything to do with prolonging your own life.”

Gunther’s eyes flashed.
“Ich bin nicht krank.”

“What do you mean you’re not sick?”

“The
Sonnekönige
were born under the Bell,” Gunther said pointedly.

Understanding struck Painter. He remembered Anna’s description of the castle’s supermen, how they were resistant to any further manipulation by the Bell.
For better or worse
.

“You’re immune,” he said.

Gunther turned away.

Painter let the implication sink in. So it wasn’t self-preservation that drove Gunther to help.

Then what—?

Painter suddenly remembered the way Anna had looked across the table at Gunther earlier. With warm affection. The man had not discouraged it. Plainly he had another reason for continuing to cooperate despite the lack of respect from the others.