Black Order

Black Order

A Sigma Force NovelJames Rollins

Contents

NOTE FROM THE HISTORICAL RECORD

NOTE FROM THE SCIENTIFIC RECORD

1 ROOF OF THE WORLD

2 DARWIN'S BIBLE

3 UKUFA

4 GHOST LIGHTS

5 SOMETHING ROTTEN

6 UGLY DUCKLING

7 BLACK MAMBA

8 MIXED BLOOD

9 SABOTEUR

10 BLACK CAME LOT

11 DEMON IN THE MACHINE

12 UKUFA

13 XERUM 525

14 MENAGERIE

15 HORNS OF THE BULL

16 RIPPLE OF THE RUNES

EPILOGUE

TO DAVID, for all the adventures

NOTE FROM THE HISTORICAL RECORD

In the last months of World War II, as Germany fell, a new war began among the Allies: to plunder the technology of Nazi scientists. A race between the Brits, Americans, French, and Russians was every country for itself. Patents were stolen: for new vacuum tubes, for exotic chemicals and plastics, even for pasteurizing milk with UV light. But many of the most sensitive patents disappeared into the well of deep black projects, like Operation Paper Clip, where hundreds of Nazi V-2 rocket scientists were recruited in secret and brought into the United States.

But the Germans did not give up their technology easily. They also fought to secure their secrets in the hopes of a rebirth of the Reich. Scientists were murdered, research labs destroyed, and blueprints hidden in caves, sunk to the bottom of lakes, and buried in crypts. All to keep them from the Allies.

The search became daunting. Nazi research and weapons labs numbered in the hundreds, many underground, spread across Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Poland. One of the most mysterious was a converted mine outside the small mountain town of Breslau. The research at this facility was code-named die Giocke or "the Bell." People in the surrounding countryside reported strange lights and mysterious illnesses and deaths.

The Russian forces were the first to reach the mine. It was deserted. All sixty-two scientists involved in the project had been shot. As for the device itself…it had vanished to God knows where.

All that is known for sure: the Bell was real.

NOTE FROM THE SCIENTIFIC RECORD

Life is stranger than any fiction. All the discussions raised in this novel about quantum mechanics, intelligent design, and evolution are based on facts.

The fact that evolution is the backbone of biology, and biology is thus in the peculiar position of being a science founded on an improved theory—is it then a science or faith?

—CHARLES DARWIN

Science without religion is lame, religion without science is blind.

—ALBERT EINSTEIN

Who says I am not under the special protection of God?

—ADOLF HITLER

1945

MAY 4

6:22 A.M.

FORTRESS CITY OF BRESLAU, POLAND

The body floated in the sludge that sluiced through the dank sewers. The corpse of a boy, bloated and rat gnawed, had been stripped of boots, pants, and shirt. Nothing went to waste in the besieged city.

SS Obergruppenfuhrer Jakob Sporrenberg nudged past the corpse, stirring the filth. Offal and excrement. Blood and bile. The wet scarf tied around his nose and mouth did little to ward off the stench. This was what the great war had come to. The mighty reduced to crawling through sewers to escape. But he had his orders.

Overhead the double crump-wump of Russian artillery pummeled the city. Each explosion bruised his gut with its concussive shock. The Russians had broken down the gates, bombed the airport, and even now, tanks ground down the cobbled streets while transport carriers landed on Kaiserstrasse. The main thoroughfare had been converted into a landing strip by parallelrows of flaming oil barrels, adding their smoke to the already choked early morning skies, keeping dawn at bay. Fighting waged in every street, in every home, from attic to basement.

Every house a fortress.

That had been Gaufefter Hanke's final command to the populace. The city had to hold out as long as possible. The future of the Third Reich depended on it.

And on Jakob Sporrenberg.

"Mach schneff,'he urged the others behind him.

His unit of the Sicherheitsdienst—designation Special Evacuation Kommando—trailed him, knee-deep in filthy water. Fourteen men. All armed. All dressed in black. All burdened with heavy packs. In the middle, four of the largest men, former Nordsee dockmen, bore poles on their shoulders, bearing aloft massive crates.

There was a reason the Russians were striking this lone city deep in the Sudeten Mountains between Germany and Poland. The fortifications ofBreslau guarded the gateway to the highlands beyond. For the past two years, forced labor from the concentration camp of Gross-Rosen had hollowed out a neighboring mountain peak. A hundred kilometers of tunnels clawed and blasted, all to service one secret project, one kept buried away from prying Allied eyes.

Die Riese…the Giant.

But word had still spread. Perhaps one of the villagers outside the Wenceslas Mine had whispered of the illness, the sudden malaise that had afflicted even those well outside the complex.

If only they'd had more time to complete the research…

Still, a part of Jakob Sporrenberg balked. He didn't know all that was involved with the secret project, mostly just the code name: Chronos. Still, he knew enough. He had seen the bodies used in the experiments. He had heard the screams.

Abomination.

That was the one word that had come to mind and iced his blood.

He'd had no trouble executing the scientists. The sixty-two men and women had been taken outside and shot twice in the head. No one must know what had transpired in the depths of the Wenceslas Mine…or what was found. Only one researcher was allowed to live.

DoktorTola Hirszfeld.

Jakob heard her sloshing behind him, half dragged by one of his men, wrists secured behind her back. She was tall for a woman, late twenties, small breasted but of ample waist and shapely legs. Her hair flowed smooth and black, her skin as pale as milk from the months spent underground. She was to have been killed with the others, but her father, Oberarbeitsleiter Hugo Hirszfeld, overseer of the project, had finally shown his corrupted blood, his half-Jewish heritage. He had attempted to destroy his research files, but he had been shot by one of the guards and killed before he could firebomb his subterranean office. Fortunately for his daughter, someone with full knowledge of die Giocke had to survive, to carry on the work. She, a genius like her father, knew his research better than any of the other scientists.But she would need coaxing from here.

Fire burned in her eyes whenever Jakob glanced her way. He could feel her hatred like the heat of an open furnace. But she would cooperate…like her father had before her. Jakob knew how to deal with Juden, especially those of mixed blood. Mischlinge. They were the worst. Partial Jews. There were some hundred thousand Mischlinge in military service to the Reich. Jewish soldiers. Rare exemptions to Nazi law had allowed such mixed blood to still serve, sparing their lives. It required special dispensation. Such Mischlinge usually proved to be the fiercest soldiers, needing to show their loyalty to Reich over race.

Still, Jakob had never trusted them. Tola's father proved the validity of his suspicions. The doctor's attempted sabotage had not surprised Jakob. Juden were never to be trusted, only exterminated.

But Hugo Hirszfeld's exemption papers had been signed by the fuhrer himself, sparing not only the father and daughter, but also a pair of elderly parents somewhere in the middle of Germany. So while Jakob had no trust of the Mischlinge, he placed his full faith in his fuhrer. His orders had been letter specific: evacuate the mine of the necessary resources to continue the workand destroy the rest.

That meant sparing the daughter.

And the baby.

The newborn boy was swaddled and bundled into a pack, a Jewish infant, no more than a month old. The child had been given a light sedative to keep him silent as they made their escape.

Within the child burned the heart of the abomination, the true source of Jakob's revulsion. All of the hopes for the Third Reich lay in his tiny hands—the hands of a Jewish infant. Bile rose at such a thought. Better to impale the child on a bayonet. But he had his orders.

He also saw how Tola watched the boy. Her eyes glowed with a mix of fire and grief. Besides aiding in her father's research, Tola had served as the boy's foster mother, rocking him asleep, feeding him. The child was the only reason the woman was cooperating at all. It had been a threat on the boy's life that had finally made Tola acquiesce to Jakob's demands.A mortar blast exploded overhead, dropping all to their knees and deafening the world to a sonorous ring. Cement cracked, and dust trickled into the foul water.

Jakob gained his feet, swearing under his breath.

His second in command, Oskar Henricks, drew abreast of him and pointed forward to a side branch of the sewer.

"We take that tunnel, Obergruppenfuhrer. An old storm drain. According to the municipal map, the main trunk empties into the river, not far from CathedralIsland."

Jakob nodded. Hidden near the island, a pair of camouflaged gunboats should be waiting, manned by another Kommando unit. It was not much farther.

He led the way at a more hurried pace as the Russian bombardment intensified overhead. The renewed assault plainly heralded their final push into the city. The surrender of its citizenry was inevitable.

As Jakob reached the side tunnel, he climbed out of the sluicing filth andonto the cement apron of the branching passageway. His boots squelched with each step. The gangrenous reek of bowel and slime swelled momentarily worse, as if the sewer sought to chase him from its depths.

The rest of his unit followed.

Jakob shone his hand-torch down the cement drain. Did the air smell a touch fresher? He followed the beam with renewed vigor. With escape so near, the mission was almost over. His unit would be halfway across Silesia before the Russians ever reached the subterranean warren of rat runs that constituted Wenceslas Mine. As a warm welcome, Jakob had planted booby traps throughout the laboratory passages. The Russians and their allies would find nothing but death among the highlands.

With this satisfying thought, Jakob fled toward the promise of fresh air. The cement tunnel descended in a gradual slope. The team's pace increased, hastened by the sudden silence between artillery bursts. The Russians were coming in full force.

It would be close. The river would only remain open for so long.As if sensing the urgency, the infant began a soft cry, a thready whine as the sedative wore off. Jakob had warned the team's medic to keep the drugs light. They dared not risk the child's life. Perhaps that had been a mistake…

The timbre of the cries grew more strident.

A single mortar shell blasted somewhere to the north.

Cries became wails. The noise echoed down the tunnel's stone throat.

"Quiet the child!" he ordered the soldier who bore the baby.

The man, reed thin and ashen, bobbled the pack from his shoulder, losing his black cap in the process. He struggled to free the boy but only earned more distressed screeches.

"L-let me," Tola pleaded. She fought the man holding her elbow. "He needs me."

The child bearer glanced to Jakob. Silence had fallen over the world above. The screaming continued below. Grimacing, Jakob nodded his head.

Tola's bonds were cut from her wrists. Rubbing circulation into her fingers, she reached for the child. The soldier gladly relinquished his burden. She cradled the baby in the crook of her arm, supporting his head and rocking him gently. She leaned over him, drawing him close. Soothing sounds, wordless and full of comfort, whispered through his wails. Her whole being melted around the child.

Slowly the screeching ebbed to quieter cries.

Satisfied, Jakob nodded to her guard. The man raised his Luger and kept it pressed to Tola's back. In silence now, they continued their trek through the subterranean warren beneath Breslau.

In short order, the smell of smoke overtook the reek of the sewers. His hand-torch illuminated a smoky pall that marked the exit of the storm drain. The artillery guns remained quiet, but an almost continuous pop and rattle of gunfire continued—mostly to the east. Closer at hand, the distinct lap of water could be heard.Jakob gestured to his men to hold their position back in the tunnel and waved his radioman to the exit. "Signal the boats."

The soldier nodded crisply and hurried forward, disappearing into the smoky gloom. In moments, a few flashes of light passed a coded message to the neighboring island. It would only take a minute for the boats to cross the channel to their location.

Jakob turned to Tola. She still carried the child. The boy had quieted again, his eyes closed.

Tola met Jakob's gaze, unflinching. "You know my father was right," she said with quiet certainty. Her gaze flicked to the sealed crates, then back to him. "I can see it in your face. What we did…we went too far."

"Such decisions are not for either of us to decide," Jakob answered.

"Then who?"

Jakob shook his head and began to turn away. Heinrich Himmler had personally given him his orders. It was not his place to question. Still, he felt the woman's attention on him.

"It defies God and nature," she whispered.

A call saved him from responding. "The boats come," the radioman announced, returning from the mouth of the storm drain.

Jakob barked final orders and got his men into position. He led them to the end of the tunnel, which opened onto the steep bank of the River Oder. They were losing the cover of darkness. Sunrise glowed to the east, but here a continuous cloud of black smoke hung low over the water, drawn thick by the river draft. The pall would help shelter them.

But for how long?

Gunfire continued its oddly merry chatter, firecrackers to celebrate the destruction of Breslau.

Free of the sewer's stink, Jakob pulled away his wet mask and took a deep clean breath. He searched the lead gray waters. A pair of twenty-foot low boats knifed across the river, engines burbling a steady drone. At each bow,barely concealed under green tarps, a pair of MG-42 machine guns had been mounted.

Beyond the boats, a dark mass of island was just visible. CathedralIsland was not truly an island, as it had accumulated enough silt back in the nineteenth century to fuse to the far bank. A cast-iron emerald green bridge dating back to the same century crossed to this side. Beneath the bridge, the two gunboats skirted its stone piers and approached.

Jakob's eyes were drawn upward as a piercing ray of sunlight struck the tips of the two towering spires of the cathedral that gave the former island its name. It was one of a half-dozen churches crowded on the island.

Jakob's ears still rang with Tola Hirszfeld's words.

It defies God and nature.

The morning chill penetrated his sodden clothes, leaving his skin prickling and cold. He would be glad when he was well away from here, able to shut out all memory of these past days.

The first of the boats reached the shoreline. Glad for the distraction, even happier to be moving, he hurried his men to load the two boats.

Tola stood off to the side, babe in her arms, flanked by the one guard. Her eyes had also discovered the glowing spires in the smoky skies. Gunfire continued, moving closer now. Tanks could be heard grinding in low gears. Cries and screams punctuated it all.

Where was this God she feared defying?

Certainly not here.

With the boats loaded, Jakob moved to Tola's side. "Get on the boat." He had meant to be stern, but something in her face softened his words.

She obeyed, her attention still on the cathedral, her thoughts even further skyward.

In that moment, Jakob saw the beauty she could be…even though she was a Mischlinge. But then the toe of her boot stubbed, she stumbled and caught herself, careful of the babe. Her eyes returned to the gray waters and smokypall. Her face hardened again, gone stony. Even her eyes turned flinty as she cast about for a seat for her and the baby.

She settled on a starboard bench, her guard moving in step with her.

Jakob sat across from them and waved to the boat's pilot to set out. "We must not be late." He searched down the river. They were headed west, away from the eastern front, away from the rising sun.

He checked his watch. By now, a German Junker Ju 52 transport plane should be waiting for them in an abandoned airfield ten kilometers away. It had been painted with a German Red Cross, camouflaging it as a medical transport, an added bit of insurance against assault.

The boats circled out into the deeper channel, engines trebling up. The Russians could not stop them now. It was over.

Motion drew his attention back to the far side of the boat.

Tola leaned over the baby and delivered a soft kiss atop the boy's wispy-haired pate. She lifted her face, meeting Jakob's gaze. He saw no defiance oranger. Only determination.

Jakob knew what she was about to do. "Don't—"

Too late.

Shifting up, Tola leaned back over the low rail behind her and kicked off with her feet. With the baby clutched to her bosom, she flipped backward into the cold water.

Her guard, startled by the sudden action, twisted and fired blindly into the water.

Jakob lunged to his side and knocked his arm up. "You could hit the child."

Jakob leaned over the boat's edge and searched the waters. The other men were on their feet. The boat rocked. All Jakob saw in the leaden waters was his own reflection. He motioned for the pilot to circle.

Nothing.He watched for any telltale bubbles, but the laden boat's wake churned the waters to obscurity. He pounded a fist on the rail.

Like father…like daughter…

Only a Mischlinge would take such a drastic action. He had seen it before: Judische mothers smothering their own children to spare them greater suffering. He had thought Tola was stronger than that. But in the end, perhaps she had no choice.

He circled long enough to make sure. His men searched the banks on each side. She was gone. The whistling passage of a mortar overhead discouraged tarrying any longer.

Jakob waved his men back into their seats. He pointed west, toward the waiting plane. They still had the crates and all the files. It was a setback, but one that could be overcome. Where there was one child, there could be another.

"Go," he ordered.

The pair of boats set out again, engines winding up to a full throttle. Within moments, they had vanished into the smoky pall as Breslau burned.

Tola heard the boats fade into the distance.

She treaded water behind one of the thick stone pylons that supported the ancient cast-iron Cathedral Bridge. She kept one hand clenched over the baby's mouth, suffocating him to silence, praying he gained enough air through his nose. But the child was weak.

As was she.

The bullet had pierced the side of her neck. Blood flowed thickly, staining the water crimson. Her vision narrowed. Still she fought to hold the baby above the water.

Moments before, as she tumbled into the river, she had intended to drown herself and the baby. But as the cold struck her and her neck burned with fire, something tore through her resolve. She remembered the light glowing on the steeples. It was not her religion, not her heritage. But it was a reminder that there was light beyond the current darkness. Somewhere men did not savage their brothers. Mothers did not drown their babies.

She had kicked deeper into the channel, allowing the current to push her toward the bridge. Underwater, she used her own air to keep the child alive, pinching his nose and exhaling her breath through his lips. Though she had planned for death, once the fight for life had ignited, it grew more fierce, a fire in her chest.

The boy never had a name.

No one should die without a name.

She breathed into the child, shallow breaths, in and out as she kicked with the current, blind in the water. Only dumb luck brought her up against one of the stone pilings and offered a place to shelter.

But now with the boats leaving, she could wait no longer. Blood pumped from her. She sensed it was only the cold keeping her alive. But the same cold was chilling the life from the frail child.

She kicked for shore, a frantic thrashing, uncoordinated by weakness and numbness. She sank under the water, dragging the infant down with her.

No.

She struggled up, but the water was suddenly heavier, harder to fight.

She refused to succumb.

Then under her toes, slick rocks bumped against her boots. She cried out, forgetting she was still underwater, and gagged on the mouthful of river. She sank a bit more, then kicked one last time off the muddy rocks. Her head breeched, and her body flung itself toward shore.

The bank rose steeply underfoot.

On hand and knee, she scrabbled out of the water, clutching the baby to her throat. She reached the shoreline and fell facedown onto the rocky bank. Shehad no strength to move another limb. Her own blood bathed over the child. It took her last effort to focus on the baby.

He was not moving. Not breathing.

She closed her eyes and prayed as an eternal blackness swallowed her.

Cry, damn you, cry…

Father Varick was the first to hear the mewling.

He and his brothers were sheltered in the wine cellar beneath Saints Peter and Paul Church. They had fled when the bombing of Breslau began last night. On their knees, they had prayed for their island to be spared. The church, built in the fifteenth century, had survived the ever-changing masters of the border city. They sought heavenly protection to survive once more.

It was in such silent piety that the plaintive cries echoed to the monks.

Father Varick stood, which took much effort for his old legs.

"Where are you going?" Franz asked.

"I hear my flock calling for me," the father said. For the past two decades, he had fed scraps to the river cats and the occasional cur that frequented the riverside church.

"Now is not the time," another brother warned, fear ripe in his voice.

Father Varick had lived too long to fear death with such youthful fervor. He crossed the cellar and bent to enter the short passage that ended at the river door. Coal used to be carted up the same passage and stored where now fine green bottles nestled in dust and oak.

He reached the old coal door, lifted the bar, and undid the latch.

Using a shoulder, he creaked it open.

The sting of smoke struck him first—then the mewling drew his eyes down. "Mein Gott im Himmel…"A woman had collapsed steps from the door in the buttress wall that supported the channel church. She was not moving. He hurried to her side, dropping again to his knees, a new prayer on his lips.

He reached to her neck and checked for a sign of life, but found only blood and ruin. She was soaked head to foot and as cold as the stones.

Dead.

Then the cry again…coming from her far side.

He shifted to find a babe, half-buried under the woman, also bloody.

Though blue from the cold and just as wet, the child still lived. He freed the infant from the body. His wet swaddling shed from him with their waterlogged weight.

A boy.

He quickly ran his hands over the tiny body and saw the blood was not the child's.Only his mother's.

He glanced sadly down at the woman. So much death. He searched the far side of the river. The city burned, roiling smoke into the dawning sky. Gunfire continued. Had she swum across the channel? All to save her child?

"Rest," he whispered to the woman. "You have earned it."

Father Varick retreated to the coal door. He wiped the blood and water from the baby. The child's hair was soft and thin, but plainly snowy white. He could be no more than a month old.

With Varick's ministrations, the boy's cries grew stronger, his face pinched with the effort, but he remained weak, limp limbed, and cold.

"You cry, little one."

Responding to his voice, the boy opened his swollen eyes. Blue eyes greeted Varick. Brilliant and pure. Then again, most newborns had blue eyes. Still, Varick sensed that these eyes would keep their sky blue richness.He drew the boy closer for warmth. A bit of color caught his eye. Was ist das? He turned the boy's foot. Upon the heel, someone had drawn a symbol.

No, not drawn. He rubbed to be sure.

Tattooed in crimson ink.

He studied it. It looked like a crow's foot.

But Father Varick had spent a good portion of his youth in Finland. He recognized the symbol for what it truly was: one of the Norse runes. He hadno idea which rune or what it meant. He shook his head. Who had done such foolishness?

He glanced at the mother with a frown.

No matter. The sins of the father were not the son's to bear.

He wiped away the last of the blood from the crown of the boy's head and snugged the boy into his warm robe.

"Poor Junge…such a hard welcome to this world."

FIRST

1 ROOF OF THE WORLD

PRESENT DAY

MAY 16, 6:34 a.m.

HIMALAYAS

EVEREST BASE CAMP, 17,600 FEET

Death rode the winds.

Taski, the lead Sherpa, pronounced this verdict with all the solemnity and certainty of his profession. The squat man barely reached five feet, even with his battered cowboy hat. But he carried himself as if he were taller than anyone on the mountain. His eyes, buried within squinted lids, studied the flapping line of prayer flags.

Dr. Lisa Cummings centered the man in the frame of her Nikon D-100 and snapped a picture. While Taski served as the group's guide, he was also Lisa's psychometric test subject. A perfect candidate for her research.

She had come to Nepal under a grant to study the physiologic effects of anoxygen-free ascent of Everest. Until 1978, no one had summited Everest without the aid of supplemental oxygen. The air was too thin. Even veteran mountaineers, aided by bottled oxygen, experienced extreme fatigue, impaired coordination, double vision, hallucinations. It was considered impossible to reach the summit of an eight-thousand-meter peak without a source of canned air.

Then in 1978, two Tyrolean mountaineers achieved the impossible and reached the summit, relying solely on their own gasping lungs. In subsequent years, some sixty men and women followed in their footsteps, heralding a new goal of the climbing elite.

She couldn't ask for a better stress test for low-pressure atmospheres.

Prior to coming here, Dr. Lisa Cummings had just completed a five-year grant on the effect of /r/gr/r-pressure systems on human physiological processes. To accomplish this, she had studied deep-sea divers while aboard a research ship, the Deep Fathom. Afterward, circumstances required her to move on…both with her professional life and personal. So she had accepted an NSF grant to perform antithetical research: to study the physiologic effects of /oiv-pressure systems.Hence, this trip to the Roof of the World.

Lisa repositioned for another shot of Taski Sherpa. Like many of his people, Taski had taken his ethnic group as his surname.

The man stepped away from the flapping line of prayer flags, firmly nodded his head, and pointed a cigarette pinched between two fingers at the towering peak. "Bad day. Death ride deese winds," he repeated, then replaced his cigarette and turned away. The matter settled.

But not for the others in their group.

Sounds of disappointment flowed through the climbing party. Faces stared at the cloudless blue skies overhead. The ten-man climbing team had been waiting nine days for a weather window to open. Before now, no one had argued against the good sense of not climbing during the past week's storm. The weather had been stirred up by a cyclone spinning off the Bay of Bengal. Savage winds had pummeled the camp, reaching over a hundred miles per hour, kiting away one of the cook tents, knocking people over bodily, and been followed by spats of snowfall that abraded any exposed skin like coarse sandpaper.Then the morning had dawned as bright as their hopes. Sunlight glinted off the Khumbu glacier and icefall. Snowcapped Everest floated above them, surrounded by its serene sister peaks, a wedding party in white.

Lisa had snapped a hundred shots, catching the changing light in all its shifting beauty. She now understood the local names for Everest: Chomolungma, or Goddess Mother of the World, in Chinese, and Sagarmatha, the Goddess of the Sky, in Nepalese.

Floating among the clouds, the mountain was indeed a goddess of ice and cliff. And they had all come to worship her, to prove themselves worthy to kiss the sky. And it hadn't come cheap. Sixty-five thousand dollars a head. At least that included camping equipment, porters, Sherpas, and of course all the yaks you could want. The lowing of a female yak echoed over the valley, one of the two dozen servicing their climbing team. The blisters of their red and yellow tents decorated the camp. Five other camps shared this rocky escarpment, all waiting for the storm gods to turn their back.

But according to their lead Sherpa, that would not be today.

"This is so much bull," declared the manager of a Boston sporting goods company. Dressed in the latest down-duvet one-piece, he stood with his arms crossed beside his loaded pack. "Over six hundred dollars a day to sit on our asses. They're bilking us. There's not a cloud in the damn sky!"

He spoke under his breath, as though trying to incite an uprising that he had no intention of leading himself.

Lisa had seen the type before. Type A personality…j4 as in asshole. Upon hindsight, perhaps she shouldn't have slept with him. She cringed at the memory. The rendezvous had been back in the States, after an organizational meeting at the Hyatt in Seattle, after one too many whiskey sours. Boston Bob had been just another port in a storm…not the first, probably not the last. But one thing was certain: this was one port she would not be dropping anchor in again.

She suspected this reason more than any other for his continued belligerence.

She turned away, willing her younger brother the strength to quell the unrest. Josh was a mountaineer with a decade of experience and had coordinated her inclusion in one of his escorted Everest ascents. He led mountaineering trips around the world at least twice a year.

Josh Cummings held up a hand. Blond and lean like herself, he wore black jeans, tucked into the gaiters of his Millet One Sport boots, and a gray expedition-weight thermal shirt.

He cleared his throat. "Taski has scaled Everest twelve times. He knows the mountain and its moods. If he says the weather is too unpredictable to move forward, then we spend another day acclimating and practicing skills. If anyone would like, I can also have a pair of guides lead a day trip to the rhododendron forest in the lower Khumbu valley."

A hand rose from the group. "What about a day trip to the Everest View Hotel? We've been camping in these damn tents for the past six days. I wouldn't mind a hot bath."

Murmurs of agreement met this request.

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," Josh warned. "The hotel is a full day's trek away, and the rooms at the hotel have oxygen pumped into them, to stave off altitude sickness. It could weaken your current acclimation and delay any ascent."

"Like we're not delayed enough already!" Boston Bob pressed.

Josh ignored him. Lisa knew her younger brother would not be pressured to do something as stupid as risk an ascent against inclement weather. Though the skies were blue, she knew that could change in a matter of minutes. She had grown up on the sea, off the Catalina coast. As had Josh. One learned to read signs beyond the lack of clouds. Josh might not have developed a Sherpa's eye to read the weather up at these heights, but he certainly knew to respect those who did.

Lisa stared up at the plume of snow blowing off the tip of Everest's peak. It marked the jet stream, known to gust over two hundred miles an hour across the summit. The plume stretched impossibly long. Though the storm had blown itself out, the pressure pattern still wreaked havoc above eight thousand meters. The jet stream could blow a storm back over them at any moment.

"We could at least make for Camp One," Boston Bob persisted. "Bivouac there and see what the weather brings."An irritating whine had entered the sports-store manager's voice, trying to wheedle some concession. His face had reddened with frustration.

Lisa could not fathom her prior attraction to the man.

Before her brother could respond to the lout, a new noise intruded. A thump-thump like drums. All eyes swung to the east. Out of the glare of the rising sun, a black helicopter appeared. A hornet-shaped B-2 Squirrel A-Star Ecuriel. The rescue chopper had been designed to climb to these heights.

A silence settled over the group.

A week ago, just before the recent storm broke, an expedition had gone up on the Nepal side. Radio communication had put them up at Camp Two. Over twenty-one thousand feet in elevation.

Lisa shaded her eyes. Had something gone wrong?

She had visited the Himalayan Rescue Association's health clinic down in Pheriche. It was the point of triage for all manner of illnesses that rolled down the mountainside to their doorstep: broken bones, pulmonary and cerebral edema, frostbite, heart conditions, dysentery, snow blindness, and all sorts of infections, including STDs. It seemed even chlamydia and gonorrhea were determined to summit Everest.

But what had gone wrong now? There had been no Mayday on the radio's emergency band. A helicopter could only reach a little above Base Camp due to the thin air up here. That meant rescues from air often required trekking down from the most severe heights. Above twenty-five thousand feet, the dead were simply left where they fell, turning the upper slopes of Everest into an icy graveyard of abandoned gear, empty oxygen containers, and frost-mummified corpses.

The beat of the rotors changed pitch.

"They're coming this way," Josh said and waved everyone back to the nests of four-season storm tents, clearing the flat expanse that served as the camp's helipad.

The black helicopter dropped over them. Rotor wash swirled sand and bits of rock. A Snickers wrapper blew past Lisa's nose. Prayer flags danced and twisted, and yaks scattered. After so many days of quiet in the mountains, the noise was deafening.

The B-2 settled to its skids with a grace that belied its size. Doors swung open. Two men stepped out. One wore a green camouflage uniform and shouldered an automatic weapon, a soldier of the Royal Nepalese Army. The other stood taller, in a red robe and cloak sashed at the waist, head shaved bald. A Buddhist monk.

The pair approached and spoke rapidly in a Nepalese dialect to a pair of Sherpas. There was a short bout of gesturing, then an arm pointed.

At Lisa.

The monk led the way to her, flanked by the soldier. From the suncrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the monk appeared to be in his midforties, skin the color of latte, eyes caramel brown.

The soldier's skin was darker, his eyes pinched closer together. His gaze was fixed below her neckline. She had left her jacket unzipped, and the sports bra she was wearing beneath her fleece vest seemed to have captured his attention. The Buddhist monk, on the other hand, kept his eyes respectful, even bowing his head slightly. He spoke precise English touched by a British accent. "Dr. Cummings, I apologize for the intrusion, but there has been an emergency. I was informed by the HRA clinic that you are a medical doctor."

Lisa frowned, her brow furrowing. "Yes."

"A nearby monastery has been struck by a mysterious ailment, affecting almost all the inhabitants. A sole messenger, a man from a neighboring village, had been dispatched on foot, traveling three days to reach the hospital in Khunde. Once alerted, we'd hoped to ferry one of the HRA doctors up to the monastery, but an avalanche has the clinic already shorthanded. Dr. Sorenson told us of your presence here at Base Camp."

Lisa pictured the short Canadian doctor, another woman. They had shared a six-pack of Carlsberg lager along with sweet milk tea one evening. "How can I be of service?" she asked.

"Would you be willing to accompany us up there? Though isolated, the monastery is serviceable by helicopter."

"How long…?" she asked and glanced in Josh's direction. He had moved over to join them.

The monk shook his head, his eyes concerned and slightly abashed at imposing upon her. "It is about a three-hour ride. I don't know what we'll find." Another worried shake of his head.

Josh spoke up. "We're held up here for the day anyway." He touched her elbow and leaned closer. "But I should go with you."

Lisa balked at this suggestion. She knew how to take care of herself. But she had also been instructed on the tense political climate in Nepal since 1996. Maoist rebels had been waging a guerrilla war in the highlands, seeking to overthrow the constitutional monarchy and replace it with a socialist republic. They were known to hack off victims' limbs—one by one—with farm sickles. Though there was currently a cease-fire, occasional atrocities were still committed.

She eyed the well-oiled automatic rifle in the soldier's hands. When even a holy man needed an armed escort, perhaps she had better reconsider her brother's offer."I…I have little more than a first aid kit and some monitoring equipment," she said haltingly to the monk. "I'm hardly suited for a major medical situation involving multiple patients."

The monk nodded and waved to the idling helicopter. Its rotors still spun. "Dr. Sorenson has stocked us with everything we should need for the short term. We don't expect to impose upon your services for more than a day. The pilot has a satellite phone to relay your findings. Perhaps the matter has already been resolved, and we could return here as soon as midday."

A shadow passed over his features with this last statement. He didn't believe it. Worry threaded his words…that and perhaps a trace of fear.

She took a deep breath of the thin air. It barely filled her lungs. She had taken an oath. Besides, she had snapped enough photographs. She wanted to get back to real work.

The monk must have noted something in her face. "So you'll come."

"Yes."

"Lisa…" Josh warned.

"I'll be fine." She squeezed his arm. "You have a team to keep from mutinying on you."

Josh glanced back to Boston Bob and sighed.

"So hold the fort here until I get back."

He faced her again, not swayed, but he did not argue. His face remained tight. "Be careful out there."

"I have the very best of the Royal Nepalese Army to watch my back."

Josh stared at the lone soldier's oiled weapon. "That's what I'm worried about." He tried to lighten it with a snort, but it came out more bitter.

Lisa knew that was the best she'd manage out of him. She quickly gave him a hug* gathered her medical backpack from her tent, and in moments, she was ducking under the razored threat of the spinning rotors and climbing into the backseat of the rescue helicopter. The pilot did not even acknowledge her. The soldier took the copilot seat. The monk, who introduced himself as Ang Gelu, joined her in the backseat.

She donned a set of sound-dampening headphones. Still, the engines roared as the blades spun faster. The craft bobbled on its treads as the rotors tried to grip the thin air. A whine ratcheted up into subsonic ranges. The craft finally lifted free of the rocky helipad and rose rapidly.

Lisa felt her stomach sink below her navel as the craft circled out over a neighboring gorge. She stared through the side window and down to the clutter of tents and yaks below. She spotted her brother. He had an arm lifted in farewell, or was it just raised against the sun's glare? Next to him stood Taski Sherpa, easily identifiable by his cowboy hat.

The Sherpa's earlier assessment followed her into the sky, icing through her thoughts and worries.

Death rides these winds.

Not a pleasant thought at the moment. Beside her, the monk's lips moved in silent prayer. He remained tense…whether from their mode of transport or in fear of what they might discover at the monastery.

Lisa leaned back, the Sherpa's words still echoing in her head.

A bad day indeed.

9:13 a.m.

ELEVATION: 22,230 FEET

He moved along the chasm floor with easy strides, steel crampons gouging deep into snow and ice. To either side rose cliffs of bare stone, pictographed in brown lichen. The gorge angled upward.

Toward his goal.

He wore a one-piece goose-down suit, camouflaged in shades of white and black. His head was covered by a polar-fleece balaclava, his face hidden behind snow goggles. His climbing pack weighed twenty-one kilos, including the ice ax strapped to one side and a coil of poly rope on the other.He also carried a Heckler & Koch assault rifle, an extra twenty-round magazine, and a satchel holding nine incendiary grenades.

He had no need for additional oxygen, not even at this elevation. The mountains had been his home for the past forty-four years. He was as well habituated to these highlands as any Sherpa, but he didn't speak their language and a different heritage shone from his eyes: one eye a glacial blue, the other a pure white. The disparity marked him as surely as the tattoo on his shoulder. Even among the Sonnekonige, the Knights of the Sun.

The radio in his ear buzzed.

"Have you reached the monastery?"

He touched his throat. "Fourteen minutes."

"No word must escape of the accident."

"It will be handled." He kept his tone even, breathing through his nose. He heard as much fear as command in the other's voice. Such weakness. It was one of the reasons he seldom visited the Granitschloft, the Granite Castle, preferring to live on the fringes, as was his right.

No one asked him to move any closer.

They only asked for his expertise when it was most needed.

His earpiece crackled. "They will reach the monastery soon."

He didn't bother to answer. He heard a distant thump of rotors. He calculated in his head. No need to hurry. The mountains taught patience.

He steadied his breathing and continued down toward the cluster of stone buildings with red-tile roofs. Temp Och Monastery sat perched at the edge of a cliff, approachable only by a single path from below. The monks and students seldom had to worry about the rest of the world.

Until three days ago.

The accident.

It was his job to clean it up.The bell-beat of the approaching helicopter grew louder, rising from below. He kept his pace steady. Plenty of time. It was important that those who approached enter the monastery.

It would be much easier to kill them all.

9:35 a.m.

From the helicopter, the world below had frozen into a stark photographic negative. A study in contrasts. Blacks and whites. Snow and rock. Mist-shrouded peaks and shadowed gorges. The morning light reflected achingly off ice ridges and glacial cliffs, threatening snow blindness from the aerial glare.

Lisa blinked away the brightness. Who would live so far from everything? In such an unforgiving environment? Why did mankind always find such inhospitable places to claim when much easier lives were available to them?

Then again, her mother often posed the same riddle to Lisa. Why such extremes? Five years at sea on a research vessel, then another year training and conditioning for the rigors of mountain climbing, and now here in Nepal, preparing to assault Everest. Why such risks when an easier life was readily available?

Lisa's answer had always been a simple one: for the challenge of it. Hadn't George Ma I lory, mountaineering legend, answered similarly when asked why he climbed Everest? Because it was there. Of course, the true story behind that famous line was that Mallory had issued it in exasperation to a badgering journalist. Had Lisa's response to her mother's inquiries been any less a knee-jerk reaction? What was she doing up here? Everyday life offered enough challenges: making a living, saving for retirement, finding someone to love, surviving loss, raising children.

Lisa balked at these thoughts, recognizing a twinge of anxiety and realizing what it might imply. Could I be living a life on the edge to avoid living a real one? Is that perhaps why so many men have passed through my life without stopping?

And here she was. Thirty-three, alone, no prospects, only her research for company, and a one-person sleeping bag for a bed. Maybe she should just shave her head and move into one of these mountaintop monasteries. The helicopter jittered, angling up.

Her attention focused back to the moment.

Oh, crap…

Lisa held her breath as the helicopter skimmed a sharp ridge. Its skids barely cleared the windswept lip of ice and dove into the neighboring gorge.

She forced her fingers to unlock from the seat's armrest. Suddenly a three-bedroom cottage with two-point-five kids didn't sound so bad.

Beside her, Ang Gelu leaned forward and pointed between pilot and soldier, motioning below. The roar of the rotors swallowed his words.

Lisa leaned her cheek against the door's window to peer outside. The curve of cold Plexiglas kissed her cheek. Below, she spotted the first bit of color. A tumble of red-tile roofs. A small collection of eight stone lodges perched on a plateau, framed by twenty-thousand-foot peaks on three sides and a vertical cliff on the fourth. Temp Och Monastery.

The helicopter dropped precipitously toward the buildings. Lisa noted a terraced potato field to one side. Some corrals and barns sprawled on the other. No movement. No one came out to greet the noisy newcomers.

More ominously, Lisa noted a collection of goats and blue bharal sheep gathered in the penned corrals. They weren't moving either. Rather than driven into a panic by the descending helicopter, they were all sprawled on the ground, legs twisted, necks bent, unnatural.

Ang Gelu noted the same and sank into the seat. His eyes found hers. What had happened? Some argument was under way between pilot and soldier in the front seat. Plainly the pilot didn't want to land. The soldier won the argument by placing a palm on the butt of his rifle. The pilot scowled and snugged his oxygen mask tighter over his nose and mouth. Not because he needed the additional air, but in fear of contagion.

Still, the pilot obeyed the soldier's orders. He strangled the controls and lowered the craft earthward. He aimed as far from the corrals as possible, dropping toward the edge of the monastery's potato fields. The fields rose in an amphitheater of tiers, lined by rows of tiny green sprouts. High-altitude potato farming had been introduced by the British in the early nineteenth century and potatoes had become one of the subsistence crops of the area. With a jarring bump, the helicopter's skids struck the rocky soil, crushing a row of plants. Neighboring sprouts whipped and waved in the rotor wash.

Still no one acknowledged their arrival. She pictured the dead livestock. Was there even anyone to rescue? What had happened here? Various etiologies ran through her head, along with routes of exposure: ingestion, inhalation, contact. Or was it contagious? She needed more information.

"Perhaps you should stay here," Ang Gelu said to Lisa while unbuckling his seat straps. "Let us check out the monastery."

Lisa grabbed her medical pack from the floor. She shook her head. "I have no fear of the sick. And there may be questions only I can answer."

Ang Gelu nodded, spoke hurriedly to the soldier, and cracked open the rear hatch. He climbed out, turning to offer a hand to Lisa. Cold winds swept into the heated interior, aided by the rush of the rotors. Pulling up her parka's hood, Lisa found the frigid draft drained whatever oxygen was still in the air at this altitude. Or maybe it was her fear. Her earlier words were braver than she felt.

She took the monk's hand. Even through her woolen mittens, she felt his strength and warmth. He did not bother covering his shaved head, seemingly oblivious to the icy cold.

She clambered out but stayed ducked under the sweep of the helicopter blades. The soldier left last. The pilot remained inside the cabin. Though he might land the helicopter as ordered, he was taking no chances in leaving its canopy.

Ang Gelu slammed the hatch closed and the trio hurried across the potato field toward the jumble of stone buildings.

From the ground, the red-shingled lodges were taller than they seemed from the air. The centermost structure looked to be three stories tall, topped with a pagoda-style roof. All the buildings were elaborately decorated. Rainbow-hued murals framed doors and windows. Gold leaf brightened lintels, while carved stone dragons and mythic birds sneered and leered from roof corners. Covered porticos linked the various buildings, creating little courtyards and private spaces. Wooden prayer wheels, carved with ancient lettering, were mounted on poles throughout the structures. Multicolored prayer flags draped from rooflines, snapping in the intermittent gusts.

While it had a fairy-tale appearance to it, a mountaintop Shangri-La, Lisa still found her steps slowing. Nothing moved. Most of the windows were shuttered. Silence weighed heavily.

Then there was the distinct taint to the air. Though mostly a researcher, Lisa had experienced her share of death while a medical resident. The fetid miasma of rot could not be so easily blown away. She prayed it was coming only from the livestock on the far side of the pavilion. But from the lack of response to their presence, she didn't hold out much hope.

Ang Gelu led the way, flanked by the soldier. Lisa was forced to hurry to keep up with them. They passed between two buildings and headed toward the central towering structure.

In the main courtyard, farm implements lay strewn haphazardly, as if abandoned in a hurry. A cart tethered to a yak stood overturned on its side. The animal was dead, too, sprawled on its flank, belly distended with bloat. Milky eyes stared at them. A distended tongue protruded from black swollen lips.

Lisa noted the lack of flies or other tiny opportunists. Were there flies at this altitude? She wasn't sure. She searched the skies. No birds. No noise except the hushed wind.

"This way," Ang Gelu said.

The monk headed for a set of tall doors that led into the central dwelling, clearly the main temple. He tested the latch, found it unlocked, and pulled it open with a moan of hinges.

Beyond the threshold, the first sign of life flickered. To either side of the doorway, barrel-size lamps glowed with a dozen flaming wicks. Butter lamps, fueled by yak butter. The fetid odor was worse inside. It did not bode well.

Even the soldier now held back from crossing the threshold, shifting the automatic weapon from one shoulder to the other, as if to reassure himself. The monk simply strode inside. He called out a greeting. It echoed.

Lisa entered behind Ang Gelu. The soldier kept a station at the doorstep.

A few more barrel lamps illuminated the temple's interior. To either side, towering prayer wheels lined the walls, while juniper-scented candles and incense sticks burned near an eight-foot-tall teak statue of Buddha. Other gods of the pantheon were lined behind his shoulders.

As Lisa's eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, she noted the numerous wall paintings and intricately carved wooden mandalas, depicting scenes that in the flickering light seemed demonic. She glanced upward. Raftered tiers climbed two stories, supporting a nest of hanging lamps, all dark and cold.

Ang Gelu called again.

Somewhere above their heads, something creaked.

The sudden noise froze them all. The soldier flicked on a flashlight and waved it above. Shadows jittered and jumped, but nothing was there. Again the creak of planks sounded. Someone was moving on the top floor. Despite the positive sign of life, Lisa's skin pebbled with goose bumps.

Ang Gelu spoke. "A private meditation room overlooks the temple. There are stairs in back. I will check. You stay here."

Lisa wanted to obey, but she felt the weight of both her medical backpack and her responsibility. It wasn't the hand of man that had slain the livestock. That she was certain. If there was a survivor, anyone to tell what happened here, she was best suited for this task.

She hefted her pack higher on the shoulder. "I'm coming."

Despite her steady voice, she let Ang Gelu go first.

He crossed around behind the Buddha statue to an arched doorway near the back. He pushed through a drape of gold-embroidered brocade. A small hallway led deeper into the structure. Shuttered windows allowed a few slivers of light into the dusty gloom. They illuminated a whitewashed wall. The splash of crimson and smear along one wall did not require closer inspection. Blood.

A pair of slack naked legs stuck out of a doorway halfway down the hall…resting in a black pool. Ang Gelu motioned her back into the temple. She shook her head and moved past him. She didn't expect to save whoever lay there. It was plain he must already be dead. But instinct drew her forward. In five strides, she was at the body.

In a heartbeat, she took in the scene and fell back.

Legs. That's all there was left of the man. Only a pair of chopped limbs, cleaved midthigh. She stared deeper into the room—into the slaughterhouse. Arms and legs lay stacked like cords of firewood in the center of the room.

And then there were the severed heads, neatly aligned along one wall, staring inward, eyes wide with the horror of it all.

Ang Gelu was at her side. He stiffened at the sight and mumbled something that sounded like half prayer, half curse.

As if hearing him, something stirred in the room. It rose from the far side ofthe pile of limbs. A naked figure, shaven-headed, drenched in blood like a newborn. It was one of the temple's monks.

A guttural hiss rose from the figure. Madness shone damply. Eyes caught the meager light and reflected back, like a wolf at night.

It lumbered toward them, dragging a three-foot-long sickle across the planks. Lisa fled several steps down the hall. Ang Gelu spoke softly, palms raised in supplication, plainly trying to placate the ravening creature.

"Relu Na," he said. "Relu Na."

Lisa realized Ang Gelu recognized the madman, someone he knew from an earlier visit to the monastery. The simple act of giving the man a name both humanized him and made the awfulness all that more horrific.

With a grating cry, the monk leaped at his fellow brother. Ang Gelu easily ducked the sickle. The figure's coordination had deteriorated along with his mind. Ang Gelu bear-hugged the other, grappling him, pinning him to one side of the doorframe. Lisa acted quickly. She dropped her pack, tugged down a zipper, and removed a metal case. She popped it open with her thumb.

Inside lay a row of plastic syringes, secured and preloaded with various emergency drugs: morphine for pain, epinephrine for anaphylaxis, Lasix for pulmonary edema. Though each syringe was labeled, she had their positions memorized. In an emergency, every second counted. She plucked out the last syringe.

Midazolam. Injectable sedative. Mania and hallucinations were not uncommon at severe altitudes, requiring chemical restraint at times.

Using her teeth, she uncapped the needle and hurried forward.

Ang Gelu had the man still trapped, but the monk thrashed and bucked in his grip. Ang Gelu's lip was split. He had gouges along one side of his neck.

"Hold him still!" Lisa yelled.

Ang Gelu tried his best—but at that moment, perhaps sensing the doctor's intent, the madman lashed forward and bit deep into Ang Gelu's cheek. The monk screamed as his flesh was torn to bone.

But he still held tight.

Lisa rushed to his aid and jammed the needle into the madman's neck. She slammed the plunger home. "Let him go!"

Ang Gelu shoved the man hard against the frame, cracking the monk's skull against the wood. They backed away.

"The sedative will hit him in less than a minute." She would have preferred an intravenous stick, but there was no way to manage that with the man's wild thrashings. The deep intramuscular injection would have to suffice. Once quieted, she would be able to finesse her care, perhaps glean some answers.

The naked monk groaned, pawing at his neck. The sedative stung. He lurched again in their direction, reaching down again for his abandoned sickle. He straightened.

Lisa tugged Ang Gelu back. "Just wait—"—crack—

The rifle blast deafened in the narrow hall. The monk's head exploded in a shower of blood and bone. His body fell back with the impact, crumpling under him.

Lisa and Ang Gelu stared aghast at the shooter.

The Nepalese soldier held his weapon on his shoulder. He slowly lowered it. Ang Gelu began berating him in his native tongue, all but taking the weapon from the soldier.

Lisa crossed to the body and checked for a pulse. None. She stared at his body, trying to determine some answer. It would take a morgue with modern forensic facilities to ascertain the cause for the madness. From the messenger's story, whatever had occurred here hadn't affected just the one man. Others must have been afflicted to varying degrees.

But by what? Had they been exposed to some heavy metal in the water, a subterranean leak of poisonous gas, or some toxic mold in old grain? Could it be something viral, like Ebola? Or even a new form of mad cow disease? Shetried to remember if yaks were susceptible. She pictured the bloated carcass in the courtyard. She didn't know.

Ang Gelu returned to her side. His cheek was a bloody ruin, but he seemed oblivious to his injury. All his pain was focused on the body beside her.

"His name was Relu Na Havarshi."

"You knew him."

A nod. "He was my sister's husband's cousin. From a small rural village in Raise. He had fallen under the sway of the Maoist rebels, but their escalating savagery was not in his nature. He fled. For the rebels, it was a death sentence to do so. To hide him, I secured him a position at the monastery…where his former comrades would never find him. Here, he found a serene place to heal…or so I had prayed. Now he will have to find his own path to that peace."

"I'm sorry."

Lisa stood. She pictured the pile of limbs in the neighboring room. Had the madness triggered some post-traumatic shock, causing him to act out what horrified him the most?

Overhead another popping creak sounded.

All eyes turned upward.

She had forgotten what had drawn them all back here. Ang Gelu pointed to a steep narrow stair beside the draped doorway to the temple. She had missed it. It was more a ladder than a stair.

"I will go," he said.

"We all stick together," she argued. She crossed to her bag and preloaded another syringe of sedative. She kept it in her hand. "Just make sure Quick Draw McGraw over there keeps his finger off the trigger."

The soldier went up the ladder first. He scouted the immediate vicinity and waved them up. Lisa climbed and discovered an empty room. Stacks of thin pillows were piled in one corner. The room smelled of resin and the waft of incense from the temple room below.The soldier had his weapon trained on a wooden door on the far side. Flickering light leaked under the jam. Before anyone could move closer, a shadow passed across the bar of light.

Someone was in there.

Ang Gelu stepped forward and knocked.

The creaking halted.

He called through the door. Lisa didn't understand his words, but someone else did. A scrape of wood sounded. A latch was lifted. The door teetered slightly open—but no farther.

Ang Gelu put his palm on the door.

"Be careful," Lisa whispered, tightening her grip on her syringe, her only weapon.

Beside her, the soldier did the same with his rifle. Ang Gelu pushed the door the rest of the way open. The room beyond was no larger than a walk-in closet. A soiled bed stood in the corner. A small side table supported an oil lamp. The air was ripe with the fetid tang of urine and feces from an open chamber pot at the foot of the bed. Whoever had holed up here had not ventured out in days.

In a corner, an old man stood with his back to them. He wore the same red robe as Ang Gelu, but his clothes were ragged and stained. The owner had tied the lower folds around his upper thighs, exposing his bare legs. He worked on a project, writing on the wall. Fingerpainting, in fact.

With his own blood.

More madness.

He carried a short dagger in his other hand. His bared legs were striped with deep cuts, the source of his ink. He continued to work, even as Ang Gelu entered.

"Lama Khemsar," Ang Gelu said, concern and wariness in his voice. Lisa entered behind him, syringe ready in her fingers. She nodded to Ang Gelu when he looked back at her. She also waved the soldier back. She didn't want a repeat of what had happened below.

Lama Khemsar turned. His face was slack, and his eyes appeared glassy and slightly milky, but the candlelight reflected brightly, too brightly, fever-bright.

"Ang Gelu," the old monk muttered, staring in a daze at the hundreds of lines of script painted across all four walls. A bloody finger raised, ready to continue the work.

Ang Gelu stepped toward him, plainly relieved. The man, master of the monastery, was not too far gone yet. Perhaps answers could be obtained. Ang Gelu spoke in their native tongue.

Lama Khemsar nodded, though he refused to be drawn from his opus in blood. Lisa studied the wall as Ang Gelu coaxed the old monk. Though she was not familiar with the script, she saw the work was merely the same grouping of symbols repeated over and over again. Sensing there must be some meaning here, Lisa reached to her bag and freed her camera with one hand. She aimed it at the wall from her hip and snapped a picture. She forgot about the flash.

The room burst with brilliance.

The old man cried out. He swung around, dagger in hand. He swiped through the air. Ang Gelu, startled, fell back. But Ang Gelu had not been the target. Lama Khemsar cried out a smattering of words in abject fear and drew the blade's edge across his own throat. A line of crimson became a pulsing downpour. The cut sliced deep into the trachea. Blood bubbled with the old monk's last breaths.

Ang Gelu lunged and knocked aside the blade. He caught Lama Khemsar and lowered him to the floor, cradling him. Blood soaked the robe and across Ang Gelu's arms and lap. Lisa dropped her camera and bag and hurried forward. Ang Gelu tried to put pressure on the wound, but it was futile.

"Help me get him to the floor," Lisa said. "I have to secure an airway…"

Ang Gelu shook his head. He knew it was hopeless. He simply rocked the old lama. The man's breathing, marked by the bubbling from the slash, had already stopped. Age, blood loss, and dehydration had already debilitated Lama Khemsar.

"I'm sorry," Lisa said. "I thought…" She waved an arm at the walls. "I thought it might be important."

Ang Gelu shook his head. "It's gibberish. A madman's scribblings."

Not knowing what else to do, Lisa freed her stethoscope and slipped it under the edge of the man's robe. She sought to mask her guilt with busywork. She listened in vain. No heartbeat. But she discovered odd scabbing across the man's ribs. Gently she peeled back the soaked front of his robe and bared the monk's chest. Ang Gelu stared down and exhaled sharply.

It seemed the walls were not the only medium upon which Lama Khemsar chose to work. A final symbol had been carved into the monk's chest, sliced by the same dagger, by the same hand most likely. Unlike the strange symbols on the walls, the twisted cross could not be mistaken.

A swastika.

Before they could react, the first explosion rocked the building.

9:55 a.m.He woke in a panic.

The rumble of thunder shook him out of a feverish darkness. Not thunder. An explosion. Plaster dusted down from the low ceiling. He sat up, disoriented, struggling to fix himself in time and place. The room spun a bit around him. He searched down, throwing back a soiled woolen blanket. He lay in a strange cot, wearing nothing but a linen breechclout. He lifted an arm. It trembled. His mouth tasted of warm paste, and though the room was shuttered against the light, his eyes ached. A paroxysmal bout of shivering shook through him.

He had no idea where or even when he was.

Shifting his legs off the cot, he attempted to stand. Bad idea. The world went black again. He slumped and would have slipped into oblivion, but a spat of gunfire centered him. Automatic fire. Close. The short burst died away.

He tried again, more determined. Memory returned as he lurched toward the only door, struck it, held himself up by his arms, and tried the knob.

Locked.9:57 a.m.

"It was the helicopter," Ang Gelu said. "It's been destroyed."

Lisa stood to one side of the high window. Moments before, as the explosive blast echoed away, they had freed the window latches and shoved the shutters wide. The soldier had thought he'd seen movement in the courtyard below and strafed wildly.

There was no return fire.

"Could it have been the pilot?" Lisa asked. "Maybe there was a problem with the engine and he evacuated in a panic."

The soldier kept his post by the window, resting his stock on the sill, one eye to the scope, scanning and sweeping.

Ang Gelu pointed to the roil of oily smoke rising from the potato fields. Exactly where the helicopter had been parked. "I don't believe that was a mechanical accident."

"What do we do now?" Lisa asked. Had another of the crazed monks blown up the chopper? If so, how many other maniacs were loose in the monastery? She pictured the sickle-wielding wild man, the self-mutilation of the monk…what the hell was happening here?

"We must leave," Ang Gelu said.

"And go where?"

"There are tiny villages and occasional homesteads within a day's walk. Whatever has transpired here will require more than three people to discern."

"What of the others here? Some may not be as far gone as your brother-in-law's cousin. Should we not try to help them?"

"My first concern must be for your safety, Dr. Cummings. Additionally word must reach someone in authority."

"But what if whatever agent struck here is contagious? We could spread it by traveling." The monk fingered his wounded cheek. "With the helicopter destroyed, we have no means of communication. If we stay here, we die, too…and no word reaches the outside world."

He made a good point.

"We can minimize our exposure to others until we know more," he continued. "Call out for help, but maintain a safe distance."

"No physical contact," she mumbled.

He nodded. "The information we bear is worth the risk."

Lisa slowly nodded. She stared at the column of black smoke against the blue sky. Possibly one of their party was already dead. There was no telling the true number of afflicted here. The explosion would surely have roused others. If they were to make their escape, it would have to be quickly.

"Let's go," she said.

Ang Gelu spoke sharply to the soldier. He straightened with a nod and retreated from his post at the window, his gun at the ready.

Lisa gave the room and the monk one last worried glance, considering the possibility of contagion. Were they already infected? She found herself internally judging her status as she followed the others out of the room and down the ladder. Her mouth was dry, her jaw muscles ached, and her pulse beat heavily in her throat. But that was just the fear, wasn't it? A typical flight-or-fight response to the situation, normal autonomic responses. She touched her forehead. Damp, but not feverish. She took a deep breath to steady herself, to recognize the foolishness. Even if the agent was infectious, the incubation period would be longer than an hour.

They crossed through the main temple with its teak Buddha and attendant gods. Daylight glared exceptionally bright through the doorway.

Their armed escort checked the courtyard for a full minute, then waved an all clear. Lisa and Ang Gelu followed.

As Lisa stepped into the courtyard, she searched the dark corners for sudden movement. All seemed quiet again. But not for long…

With her back turned, a second detonation tore through the building across the courtyard. The force blew her to her hands and knees. She ducked, rolling on one shoulder to stare behind her.

Roof tiles sailed skyward amid flames. A pair of fireballs blasted out of shattered windows, while the door to the lodge exploded into a splintery ruin, belching out more smoke and fire. Heat washed over her like the exhalation from a blast furnace.

The soldier, a few steps ahead, had been knocked onto his backside by the blast. He'd kept his gun only by locking his fingers on its leather strap. He scrambled up as a rain of broken tiles fell from the sky.

Ang Gelu gained his own feet and offered a hand to Lisa.

It was his undoing.

A sharper blast punctuated the clatter of tiles and roar of flames. A gunshot. The upper half of the monk's face blew away in a mist of blood. But this time it was not the handiwork of her armed escort.

The soldier's rifle still hung from its strap as the man fled the rain of stone tiles. He seemed deaf to the shot, but his eyes widened as Ang Gelu toppled over. Reacting on pure reflex, he dodged to the right, throwing himself into the shadow of the neighboring lodge. He yelled at Lisa, unintelligible in his panic.

Lisa crab-crawled back toward the temple doorway. Another shot sparked off the rocky courtyard. At her toes. She flung herself across the threshold and into the dark interior.

Ducking around a corner, she watched the soldier sidle along the wall, careful to keep clear of where he estimated the sniper might be perched.

Lisa forgot how to breathe, eyes fixed wide. She searched the rooflines, the windows. Who had shot Ang Gelu?

Then she saw him.

A shadow sprinted through the smoke billowing out of the far building. She caught a reflection of flames off gunmetal as the man ran. A weapon. The sniper had fled his original position and was tacking for a new vantage.

Lisa moved back into the open, praying the shadows hid her well. She called and waved to the soldier. He had his back to the wall, sliding toward her location, toward the main temple. His gaze and weapon focused on the roofline overhead. He had not seen the flight of the sniper.

She yelled again. "Get out!" She didn't speak the language, but her panic must've been plain. His eyes met hers. She urged him over to her hiding place. She pointed, trying to illustrate the path the sniper had fled. But where had he gone? Was he already in position?

"Run!" she screamed.

The soldier took a step toward her. A flash over the man's shoulder revealed Lisa's mistaken assumption. The sniper hadn't been sprinting to gain a new vantage. Flames danced behind a window in the neighboring building. Another bomb.

Oh, God…The detonation caught the soldier in midstep. The doorway behind him exploded outward with a thousand fiery shards, piercing through the soldier at the same time the blast lifted him off his feet and tossed him across the yard. He landed hard on his face and slid.

Once stopped, he did not move, even as flames ignited his clothing.

Lisa dodged into the depths of the main temple, eyes searching the doorway. She retreated toward the rear exit, back toward the narrow hall. She didn't have a plan. In fact, she barely had control of her own thoughts.

She was certain of only one thing. Whoever had murdered Ang Gelu and their escort had been no maddened monk. The actions had been too calculated, the execution too planned.

And now she was alone.

She checked the narrow hallway, spotted the bloody body of Relu Na. The rest of the hallway appeared clear. If she could get the dead man's abandoned sickle…at least have some weapon in hand…

She stepped into the hall.

Before she could take a second step, a form materialized behind her. A bare arm clamped tight around her neck. Hoarse words barked at her ear. "Don't move."

Never one to obey, Lisa drove her elbow into the gut of her attacker.

A satisfying oof and the arm fell away. The attacker fell back through the embroidered brocade drapery across the doorway, tearing it down with his weight. He landed on his backside.

Lisa spun, crouched and ready to run.

The man wore only a loincloth. His skin was deeply tanned but roped here and there with old scars. Lank black hair, disheveled, half-obscured his face. From his size, musculature, and broad shoulders, he appeared more Native American than Tibetan monk.

Then again, it could just be the loincloth.

With a groan, he looked up at her. Ice blue eyes reflected the lamplight.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Painter," he said with a groan. "Painter Crowe."

2 DARWIN'S BIBLE

MAY 16

6:05 a.m.

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

What was it with bookstores and cats?

Commander Grayson Pierce crunched another chewable Claritin tablet as he left Hotel Nyhavn. Yesterday's research among Copenhagen's bibliophile community had led him through a half dozen of the city's literary establishments. In every bookstore, colonies of dander-rich felines seemed to have taken up residence, lounging on counters, prowling the top of teetering bookshelves filled with dust and moldering leather.

He suffered for it now, stifling a sneeze. Or maybe it was simply the beginning of a cold. Spring in Copenhagen was as damp and cold as any New England winter. He had not packed warmly enough.

He wore a sweater he had purchased from an overpriced boutique neighboring his hotel. The turtleneck was corded merino wool, undyed and plain. And it itched. Still, it warded off the early morning chill. Though dawn was an hour past, the cold sun in a slate-gray sky offered no hope of a warmer day. Scratching at his collar, he headed toward the central train station.

His hotel was located beside one of the city's canals. Gaily painted row houses—a mix of shops, hostelries, and private homes—lined both sides of the waterway, reminding Gray of Amsterdam. Along the banks, a motley assortment of watercraft were moored tightly together: faded low-slung sloops, bright excursion boats, stately wooden schooners, gleaming white yachts. Gray passed one with a shake of his head. It looked like a floating wedding cake. Already at this early hour, a few camera-laden visitors wandered about or took up posts along the bridge rails, snapping away.

Gray crossed the stone span and followed the canal's bank for a half block, then stopped and leaned against the brick parapet that overlooked the waterway. His reflection in the still water appeared below, startling him a moment. Half-shadowed, his father's face stared back up at him; coal black hair hung lankily over blue eyes, a crooked cleft divided the chin, the planes of his face were all sharp angles defining a stony Welsh heritage. He was definitely his father's son. A fact Gray had been dwelling on a bit too much lately, and it was keeping him up at night.

What else had he inherited from his father?

A pair of black swans glided past his position, disturbing the waters, trembling apart the reflection. The swans headed for the bridge, their long necks sashaying, eyes searching with a nonchalant air.

Gray followed their example. Straightening, he feigned interest in taking a photo of the line of boats while actually studying the bridge he had just crossed. He watched for any stragglers, any familiar faces, anyone suspicious. It was one advantage of residing near the canal. The bridges were perfect squeeze points to observe anyone trailing him. By crisscrossing the stone spans, he would force any tail into the open. He watched for a full minute until satisfied, memorizing faces and gaits, then continued on.

On such a minor assignment as this one, the habit was more paranoid than necessary, but he carried a reminder around his neck of the importance of diligence: a chain from which hung a small silver dragon charm. It had been a gift from an operative playing on the other side of the fence. He carried it as a reminder. To be wary.

As he set off again, a familiar vibration stirred in his pocket. He retrieved his cell phone and flipped it open. Who was calling him at this early hour?

"Pierce here," he answered.

"Gray. Good, I reached you."

The familiar silkiness of the voice warmed through his morning chill. A smile softened his hard features. "Rachel…?" His steps faltered with concern. "Is something wrong?"

Rachel Verona was the primary reason Gray had asked for this assignment, winging across the Atlantic to Denmark. While the current investigation could have been handled by any low-level research assistant at Sigma, the mission offered a perfect opportunity to reconnect with the beautiful dark-haired lieutenant of the Italian carabinieri. The two had met while working a case last year in Rome. Since then they had fabricated whatever excuse to meet. Still, it had proven difficult. Her position kept her landlocked in Europe, while his position with Sigma Force limited his time away from Washington.

It had been almost eight weeks since they'd last been together.

Much too long.

Gray pictured their last rendezvous, at a villa in Venice, Rachel's form silhouetted against the open balcony door, her skin aglow in the light of the setting sun. They'd spent that entire evening in bed. Memories washed through him: the cinnamon-and-chocolate taste of her lips, the rich perfume of her damp hair, the heat of her breath on his neck, the soft moans, the rhythm of their entwined bodies, the caress of silk…

He prayed she remembered to pack that black teddy.

"My flight's been delayed," Rachel said, interrupting his reverie with reality.

"What?" He straightened beside the canal, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

"I've been rerouted on a KLM flight. I now land at twenty-two hundred."

Ten o'clock. He frowned. That meant canceling their sunset dinner reservations at St. Gertruds Kloster, a candlelit restaurant nestled inside the medieval monastery vault. He'd had to book it a full week in advance.

"I'm sorry," Rachel said, filling his silence.

"No…no worries. As long as you get here. That's all that matters."

"I know. I miss you so much."

"Me, too."

Gray shook his head at his lame response. He had so much more in his heart, but the words refused to come. Why was it always like this? The first day of every rendezvous required overcoming a certain formality between them, an awkward shyness. While it was easy to romanticize that they would simply fall easily and immediately into each other's arms, the reality was different. For the first hours, they were merely strangers with a shared past. They would certainly hug, kiss, say the right things, but the deeper intimacy required a span of time, hours necessary to catch up on each other's lives on either side of the Atlantic. But more importantly, they sought to find their rhythm again, that warm cadence that would smolder into the more passionate.

And each time Gray feared they would not find it.

"How is your father doing?" Rachel asked, beginning the first steps of the dance.

He welcomed the diversion, while not necessarily the subject matter. But at least he had good news. "He's actually doing very well. His symptoms have pretty much stabilized as of late. Only a few bouts of confusion. My mother is convinced the improvement is due to curry."

"Curry? As in the spice?"

"Exactly. She read an article that curcumin, the yellow pigment in curry, acts as an antioxidant and anti-inflammatory. Possibly it even helps break down the amyloid plaques attributable to Alzheimer's."

"That does sound promising."

"So now my mother puts curry into everything. Even my father's scrambled eggs in the morning. The whole house smells like an Indian restaurant."

Rachel's soft laughter brightened the dreary morning. "At least she's cooking."

Gray's smile broadened on its own. His mother, a tenured biology professor at George Washington University, had never been known for her homemaking skills. She'd been too busy building her career, a necessity after an industrial accident had disabled Gray's father almost two decades ago. Now the family was struggling with a new issue: the early stages of his father's Alzheimer's. Recently, Gray's mother had taken a short leave of absence from the university to help care for her husband, but now there was talk of her returning to the classroom. With everything going so well, it had proven a good time for Gray to escape D.C. for this short trip.

Before he could respond, his phone chimed with another call. He checked the caller ID. Damn…

"Rachel, I've got a call coming in from central command. I'll need to take this. I'm sorry."

"Oh, then I'll let you go."

"Wait, Rachel. Your new flight number."

"It's KLM flight four zero three."

"Got it. I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight," she echoed back and clicked off.

Gray pressed his flash button to activate the other call. "Pierce here."

"Commander Pierce." The speaker's clipped New England accent identified the man immediately as Logan Gregory, second in command of Sigma Force, serving directly under Director Painter Crowe. In his usual perfunctory manner, Logan did not waste words.

"We've new chatter to report that may relate to your search in Copenhagen. Interpol reports a sudden increase in interest in today's auction."

Gray had crossed another bridge. He stopped again. Ten days ago, a database at the National Security Agency had flagged a series of black market trades, all pertaining to historical documents that once belonged to Victorian-era scientists. Someone was collecting manuscripts, transcripts, legal documents, letters, and diaries from that era, many with shady trails of ownership. And while normally this would be of little interest to Sigma Force, which concentrated on global security issues, the NSA database tied several of the sales to factions within terrorist organizations. And such organizations' money trails were always scrutinized.

Still it made no sense. While certainly such historical documents had proven to be a growing market for speculative investment, it was not the bailiwick of most terrorist organizations. Then again, times were changing.

Either way, Sigma Force had been tapped to investigate the principals involved. Gray's assignment was to get as much background on the by-invitation-only sale that was to occur later this afternoon, which included researching items of particular interest, several being put up by local collectors and shops in the area. Hence he had spent the past two days visiting the dusty bookstores and antiquary establishments in the narrow backstreets of Copenhagen. He discovered the most help at a shop on Hojbro Plads, owned by an ex-lawyer from Georgia. With the ex-pat's help, Gray felt prepared. His plan this morning had been to canvass the auction site and secure a few buttonhole cameras near all entrances and exits. At the auction, Gray was merely to observe the principals and get head shots when possible. A minor assignment, but if it extended the database of peripheral players in the war on terror, all the better.

"What's stirred up the pot?" Gray asked.

"A new line item. It's attracted the attention of several of the principals we're investigating. An old Bible. Just put up by a private party."

"And what's so exciting about that?"

"According to the line item description, the Bible originally belonged to Darwin."

"As in Charles Darwin, the father of evolution?"

"Exactly."

Gray tapped a knuckle on the brick parapet. Another Victorian-era scientist.

As he contemplated this, he studied the neighboring bridge.

He found himself fixated on a teenage girl in a dark blue zippered sweater-jacket with the hood pulled up. Seventeen…eighteen. Smooth-faced, her skin was the color of burnt caramel. Indian? Pakistani? What he could see of her black hair was long, spilling out one side of the hood in a single thick braid. She carried a green, battered pack over her left shoulder, like many of the backpacking college students.

Except Gray had seen the young woman before…crossing the first bridge. Her eyes met his for a moment across the fifty yards. She turned away too quickly. Sloppy.

She was following him.

Logan continued, "I've uploaded the seller's address into your phone's database. You should have enough time to interview the owner before the auction."

Gray glanced to the address that appeared on the screen, pinpointed on a city map. Eight blocks away, just off the Stroget, the main pedestrian plaza that ran through the heart of Copenhagen. Not far.

But first…

From the corner of his eye, Gray continued to monitor the reflection of the bridge in the canal's still waters below. In the wavering mirror, he watched the girl hunch her shoulders, pulling her backpack higher in a weak attempt to hide her features.

Did she know her cover had been blown?

"Commander Pierce?" Logan said.

The girl reached the end of the bridge, strode away, and vanished down a side street. He waited to see if she doubled back.

"Commander Pierce, did you get that address?"

"Yes. I'll check into it."

"Very good." Logan signed off.

From the canal railing, Gray canvassed his surroundings, watching for the girl's return or the appearance of any accomplices. He regretted leaving his 9mm Glock in the hotel safe. But the instructions from the auction house warned that all invited participants would be searched upon entering, including passing through a metal detector. Gray's only weapon was a carbonized plastic knife in a boot sheath. That was it.

Gray waited.

Foot traffic flowed around him as the city woke. Behind him, a cadaverous shop owner was icing down a stack of street-side crates and slapping out a selection of fresh fish: Dover sole, cod, sand eel, and the ubiquitous herring.

The smell finally drove him from his post by the canal. He headed out, extra attentive to his back trail.

Perhaps he was being too paranoid, but in his profession, such a neurosis was healthy. He fingered the dragon pendant around his neck and continued into the city.

After several blocks, he felt secure enough to pull out a notepad. Written on the first page were items of particular interest, set for auction that afternoon.

A copy of Gregor Mendel's 1865 paper on genetics.

Max Planck's books on physics: Thermodynamik Irotn 1897 and Theorie der

Warmestrahlungfrom 1906, both signed by the author.

3. Botanist Hugo de Vries's 1901 diary on plant mutations.

Gray had annotated as much information as he could about these items, from his research yesterday. He jotted down the latest item of interest.

4. Charles Darwin's family Bible.

Flipping the notebook closed, he wondered for the hundredth time since flying here: What was the connection?

Perhaps it was a puzzle best left to someone else at Sigma. He thought about having Logan run some of the details past his colleagues Monk Kokkalis and Kathryn Bryant. The pair had proven to be experts at piecing together details and constructing patterns where none existed. Then again, maybe there really was no pattern here. It was still too early to tell. Gray needed to gather a bit more intelligence, a few more facts, especially about this last item.

Until then, he'd leave the two lovebirds alone.

9:32 P.M. EST WASHINGTON, D.C.

"It is true?"

Monk rested his palm on the bare belly of the woman he loved. He knelt beside the bed in orange-and-black Nike sweatpants. His shirt, wet after his evening jog, lay on the hardwood floor, where he had dropped it. His eyebrows, the only hair on his shaved head, were raised in hopeful expectation.

"Yes," Kat confirmed. She gently removed his hand and rolled out the other side of the bed.

Monk's grin grew broader. He could not help it. "Are you sure?"

Kat strode toward the bathroom, wearing only a pair of white panties and an oversize Georgia Tech T-shirt. Her straight auburn hair draped loose to her shoulders. "I was five days late," she answered sullenly. "I took an EPT test yesterday."

Monk stood up. "Yesterday? Why didn't you tell me?"

Kat disappeared into the bathroom, half closing the door.

"Kat?"

He heard the water turn on in the shower. He circled the bed and crossed to the bathroom doorway. He wanted to know more. She had dropped the bombshell when he returned from his jog to find her curled in bed. Her eyes had been swollen, her face puffy. She had been crying. It had taken some coaxing to discover what had been troubling her all day.

He rapped on the door. The noise was louder and more demanding than he intended. He scowled at the offending hand. The five-fingered prosthesis was state-of-the-art, chock full of the latest in DARPA gadgetry. He had received the hand after losing his own on a mission. But plastic and metal were not flesh. Rapping on the wood door had sounded like he was trying to batter it down.

"Kat, talk to me," he said gently.

"I'm just going to take a quick shower."

Despite her sighed words, Monk heard the strain. He peeked into the bathroom. Though they had been seeing each other for almost a year now and he had his own drawer in her apartment here, there were limits of propriety.

Kat sat atop the closed toilet, her head resting in her hands.

"Kathryn…"

She glanced up, plainly startled at the intrusion. "Monk!" She leaned to the door to push it the rest of the way closed.

He blocked it with his foot. "It wasn't like you were using the bathroom."

"I was waiting for the shower to warm up."

Monk noted the steam-fogged mirror as he entered. The chamber smelled of jasmine. A scent that evoked all manner of stirrings inside him. He stepped and knelt again before her.

She leaned back.

He placed his hands, one flesh, one synthetic, atop her knees.

She would not meet his eyes, head still hanging.

He pushed apart her knees, leaned between them, and slid his hands up along her outer thighs and cupped her buttocks. He pulled her to him.

"I have to—" she started.

"You have to come here." He lifted her and lowered her to his lap, straddling him now. His face was a breath from hers.

She finally met his eyes. "I…I'm sorry."

He leaned closer. "For what?" Their lips brushed each other's.

"I should've been more careful."

"I don't remember complaining."

"But this sort of mistake—"

"Never." He kissed her hard, not in anger but in firm assurance. He whispered between their lips. "Never call it that."

She melted into him, her arms entwining behind his neck. Her hair smelled of jasmine. "What are we going to do?"

"I may not know everything, but I do know that answer."

He rolled to the side and lowered her down to the bathroom rug beneath him.

"Oh," she said.

7:55 a.m.

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

Gray sat in the cafe opposite the small antiquarian shop. He studied the building across the street.

sj/elden B0GER was stenciled on the window, rare books. The bookstore occupied the first floor of a two-story row house topped by a red-tile roof. It appeared identical to its neighbors, lined one after the other down the street. And like the others in this less affluent section of town, it had fallen into disrepair. The upper windows were boarded up. Even the first-floor shop was secured behind a steel drop-gate.

Closed for now.

As Gray waited for the shop to open, he eyed the building more clinically, sipping what passed for hot chocolate here in Denmark, so thick it tasted like a melted Hershey's bar. He searched beyond the boarded windows. Though the building had faded, its Old World charm persisted: owl-eyed dormers peered out from the attic, heavy exposed beams crisscrossed the upper story, and a steep pitch of the roofline stood forever ready to shrug off a long winter's snowfall. Gray even spotted old scars below the windows where flower boxes had once been bolted.

Gray contemplated ways of renovating the house back to its original glory, rebuilding it in his head, a mental exercise balancing engineering with aesthetics.

He could almost smell the sawdust.

This last thought suddenly soured the daydream. Other memories intruded, unbidden and unwanted: his father's woodshop in the garage, working alongside him after school. What usually started out as a simple renovation project often ended up in shouting matches and words too hard to take back. The warring had eventually driven Gray out of high school and into the military. Only lately had son and father found new ways to communicate, finding common ground, accepting differences.

Still, Gray was haunted by an offhand remark of his mother's. How father and son were more alike than they were different. Why had that been bothering him so much lately? Gray pushed the thoughts away and shook his head.

With his concentration broken, he checked his watch, anxious to get on with the day. He had already canvassed the auction site and secured two cameras at the front and rear access points. All he had to do was interview the shop owner here about the Bible and take some snapshots of the principals involved—then he was finished, opening up a long weekend to spend with Rachel.

The thought of her smile eased the knot that had developed between his shoulder blades.

Finally, across the street, a bell chimed. The door to the shop opened and the security gate began to roll up.

Gray sat straighter, surprised by who opened the shop. Black braided hair, mocha complexion, wide almond-shaped eyes. She was the one who had followed him earlier this morning. She even wore the same zippered sweater-jacket and green, battered pack.

Gray scooped out a bundle of bills and left it on the cafe table, glad to get out of his head and back to the business at hand.

He strode across the narrow street as the girl finished securing the gate. She glanced over at him, unsurprised.

"Let me guess, mate," she said in crisp English, flavored with a British accent, eyeing him up and down. "American."

He frowned at her abrupt manner. He hadn't said a word yet. But he kept his face mildly curious, offering no clue that he knew she had been following him earlier. "How did you know?"

"The way you walk. Stick up your bum. Gives all you away."

"Is that so?"

She locked the gate. He noted she wore several pins on her jacket: a rainbow Greenpeace flag, a silver Celtic symbol, a gold Egyptian ankh, and a colorful assortment of buttons with slogans in Danish and one in English that read go lemmings go. She also wore a white rubber bracelet with the word hope stamped into it.

She waved him out of her way but bumped past him when he didn't move quick enough. She walked backward across the street. "Shop don't open for another hour. Sorry, mate."

Gray stood on the stoop, glancing between the shop door and the girl. She crossed the street and headed to the cafe. Passing the table he'd just vacated, she picked up one of the bills Gray had left and went inside. Gray waited. Through the window, he watched her order two large coffees and pay with the pilfered bill.

She returned, a tall Styrofoam cup in each hand.

"Still here?" she asked.

"Don't have anywhere else to be at the moment."

"Shame." The girl nodded to the closed door and lifted both hands. "Well?"

"Oh." Gray turned and opened the door for her.

She brushed inside. "Bertal!" she boomed—then glanced back at him. "Are you coming inside or not?"

"I thought you said—"

"Bollocks." She rolled her eyes. "Enough with the act. Like you didn't see me earlier."

Gray tensed. So it wasn't just coincidence. The girl had been following him.

She called into the shop. "Bertal! Get your tail over here!"

Confused and wary, Gray followed her into the shop. He stayed by the door, ready to move if necessary.

The shop was as narrow as an alley. To either side, rows of bookshelves rose from floor to ceiling, crammed with all manner of book, volume, text, and pamphlet. A few steps inside, two glass cabinets flanked the center aisle, plainly locked. Inside were crumbling leather-bound books and what looked like scrolls bound in acid-free white tubes.

Gray searched deeper.

Dust motes floated through the space in the slanting morning sunlight. The air tasted old, moldering as much as the shop's paper stock. It was like much of Europe. Age and ancientness were a part of everyday life here.

Still, despite the decrepitude of the building, the shop shone with a welcoming grace, from the stained-glass wall sconces to the handful of ladders that leaned against bookshelves. There was even an inviting pair of overstuffed chairs near the front window.

And best of all…

Gray took a deep breath.

No cats.

And the reason why became apparent.

Around one of the shelves, a large shaggy shape lumbered into view. It looked like a Saint Bernard cross, an elderly fellow with baggy brown eyes. The dog sullenly shambled toward them, hobbling on its left front limb. The paw on that side was a gnarled lump.

"There you are, Bertal." The girl bent down and poured the contents of one of her Styrofoam cups into a ceramic bowl on the floor. "The mangy sot's useless before his first morning latte." This last was said with obvious affection.

The Saint Bernard reached their side and began lapping the bowl eagerly.

"I don't think coffee's good for a dog," Gray warned.

The girl straightened, tossing her braid over her shoulder. "No worries. It's decaffeinated." She continued into the shop.

"What happened to his paw?" Gray asked, making small talk while he adjusted to the situation. He patted the dog on the side as he passed, earning a thump of a tail.

"Frostbite. Mutti took him in a long time ago."

"Mutti?"

"My grandmother. She's been waiting for you."

A voice called from the rear of the shop. "Er det ham der vil kobe bogerne, Fiona?"

"Ja, Mutti! The American buyer. In English please."

"Send ham ind paa mit kontor."

"Mutti will see you in her office." The girl, Fiona, led him toward the rear. The dog, finished with his morning coffee, followed at Gray's heels.

In the middle of the shop, they passed a small cash-register desk set up with a Sony computer and printer. It seemed the modern age had found its foothold here.

"We have our own website," Fiona said, noting his attention.

They passed the register and entered a back room through an open door. The space here was more parlor than office. There was a sofa, a low table, and two chairs. Even the desk in the corner seemed more in place to support the hot plate and teakettle than for any clerical function. One wall, though, was lined by a row of black filing cabinets. Above them, a barred window let in cheery morning light, illuminating the office's sole occupant.

She stood and offered her hand. "Dr. Sawyer," she said, using his assumed name for this mission. She had clearly reviewed some background on him. "I am Grette Neal."

The woman's grip was firm. She was rail thin, and though her skin was pale, the indomitable health of her countrymen shone from her pores. She waved Gray to one of the chairs. Her whole manner was casual, even her clothes: navy jeans, a turquoise blouse, and modest black pumps. Her long silver hair was combed straight, accentuating a serious demeanor, but her eyes sparkled with wry amusement.

"You have met my granddaughter." Grette Neal's fluency in English was smooth, but the Danish accent was evident. Unlike her granddaughter.

Gray glanced between the pale elderly woman and the dark girl. There was no family resemblance, but Gray kept silent on this matter. He had more important matters to clarify.

"Yes, we've met," Gray said. "In fact, it seems I've met your granddaughter twice today."

"Ah, Fiona's curiosity will get her in real trouble one of these days." Grette's chastisement was softened by a smile. "Has she returned your wallet?"

Gray's brow wrinkled. He patted his back pocket. Empty.

Fiona reached into a side pouch of her pack and held out his brown leather wallet.

Gray snatched it back. He remembered her bumping into him as she left to get the coffee. It had been more than impatient rudeness.

"Please don't take offense," Grette assured him. "It's her way of saying hello."

"All his ID checked out," Fiona said with a shrug.

"Then please return the young man's passport, Fiona."

Gray checked his other pocket. Gone. For the love of God!

Fiona tossed the small blue chapbook with the U.S. eagle on the cover.

"Is that everything?" Gray asked, patting himself down.

Fiona shrugged.

"Again, please excuse my granddaughter's exuberance. She gets overly protective sometimes."

Gray stared at the two of them. "Would either of you care to explain what's going on?"

"You've come to inquire about the Darwin Bibel" Grette said.

"The Bible," Fiona translated.

Grette nodded at her granddaughter. The slip of tongue plainly revealed some anxiety about the object.

"I represent a buyer who might be interested," Gray said.

"Yes. We know. And you spent all day yesterday questioning others about additional items for bid at the Ergenschein Auction?"

Gray's brows rose in surprise.

"We are a small community of bibliophiles here in Copenhagen. Word travels quickly among us."

Gray frowned. He had thought he'd been more discreet.

"It was your very inquiry that helped me decide to submit my Darwin Bible to the auction. The entire community is stirred up by the growing interest in Victorian-era scientific treatises."

"Making it a good time to sell," Fiona said a bit too firmly, as if this were the tail end of a recent argument. "The flat lease is a month past—"

Her words were waved away. "It was a difficult decision. The Bible was purchased by my father in 1949. He treasured the volume. There are handwritten names of the Darwin family, going back ten generations before the illustrious Charles. But the Bible is also of historic interest. It journeyed with the man on his around-the-world trip aboard the HMS Beagle. And I don't know if you knew this or not, but Charles Darwin once considered entering the seminary. In this one Bible, you find the juxtaposition of the religious man and the scientist."

Gray nodded. Plainly the woman was attempting to intrigue him. Was all this a ploy to get him to pitch into the auction? To get the best price? Either way, Gray could use that to his advantage.

"And the reason Fiona followed me?" he asked.

Grette's demeanor grew tired. "My apologies again for the intrusion. Like I mentioned before, there has been much interest of late in Victorian-era memorabilia, and it is a small community. We all know some of the transactions have been…shall we say…if not across the black market, then definitely the gray."

"So I've heard rumors," he said coyly, hoping to tease out more information.

"There have been some buyers who have reneged on bid prices or paid with illicit proceeds, bounced checks, et cetera. Fiona was only trying to protect my best interest. And sometimes she goes too far, falling back on talents best left behind." The woman raised a single scolding eyebrow at her granddaughter.

Fiona suddenly found the floorboards of particular interest.

"There was one gentleman a year ago who spent an entire month searching through my files of provenance, the historical records of ownership." She nodded to the wall of file cabinets. "Only to pay for the privilege with a stolen credit card. He showed particular interest in the Darwin Bible."

"So we can't be too careful," Fiona said, emphasizing again.

"Do you know who this gentleman was?" Gray asked.

"No, but I'd remember him if I saw him again. A strange, pale fellow."

Fiona stirred. "But a fraud investigation administered by the bank traced his trail through Nigeria to South Africa. That's as far as it could be followed. Bloody bastard covered his tracks."

Grette frowned. "Language, young lady."

"Why such diligent investigation for a bad debt?" he asked.

Fiona again found the floorboards fascinating.

Grette stared hard at her granddaughter. "He has the right to know."

"Mutti…" Fiona shook her head.

"Know what?"

Fiona glared at him, then away. "He'll tell others, and we'll get half the price for it."

Gray held up a hand. "I can be discreet."

Grette studied him, one eye narrowing. "But can you be truthful…that I wonder, Dr. Sawyer."

Gray felt himself scrutinized by both females. Was his cover as secure as he hoped? The weight of their combined gazes made his back stiffen.

Grette finally spoke. "You should know. Shortly after the pale gentleman absconded with the knowledge here, there was a break-in at the shop. Nothing was stolen, but the display where we normally showcased the Darwin Bible was picked and opened. Fortunately for us, the Bible and our most valuable items are kept hidden in a floor vault at night. Also, the police responded promptly to the alarm, chasing them off. The burglary remained unsolved, but we knew who came after it."

"The sniveling prat…" Fiona mumbled.

"Since that night, we've kept the Bible in a safe-deposit box in a bank around the corner. Still, we've been vandalized twice this past year. The culprit bypassed the alarm, and the place was ransacked each time."

"Someone was searching for the Bible," Gray said.

"So we supposed."

Gray began to understand. It wasn't just monetary gain that was the deciding factor in unloading the Bible, but also to relieve themselves of the burden. Someone wanted the Bible, and eventually the pursuit might escalate into more violent means to gain possession of it. And that threat might pass on to the new buyer.

From the corner of his eye, Gray studied Fiona. All her actions were done to protect her grandmother, to protect their financial security. He noted the fire in her eyes even now. The girl plainly wished her grandmother had remained more reticent.

"The Bible might be safer in a private collection in America," Grette said. "Such troubles might not pass over the proverbial Pond."

Gray nodded, reading the sales pitch behind the words.

"Did you ever find out what so possessed the stranger to pursue the Bible?" he asked.

Now it was Grette's turn to search off into the distance.

"Such information can only make the Bible more valuable to my client," Gray pressed.

Grette's eyes flicked to him. Somehow she knew the lie behind his words. She studied him again, weighing something more than just the truth of his words, looking deeper.

At that moment, Bertal shambled into the office, nosed longingly at a set of tea cakes beside the kettle on the desk, then crossed to Gray's side and slumped to the floorboards with a sigh. His muzzle came to rest atop Gray's boot, plainly comfortable with this stranger to their shop.

As if this were enough, Grette sighed and closed her eyes, and whatever hard edge softened. "I don't know for sure. I only have some suppositions."

"I'll take what you can give."

"The stranger came here looking for information regarding a library that was sold piecemeal after the war. In fact, four such items are up for auction this afternoon. The de Vries diary, a copy of Mendel's papers, and two texts by the physicist Max Planck."

Gray was well aware of the same list on his notepad. They were the very items that had sparked special attention among the questionable entities. Who was buying them up and why?

"Can you tell me anything else about this old library collection? Is there any provenance of significance?"

Grette stood and stepped toward her files. "I have the original receipt from my father's purchase back in 1949. It names a village and a small estate. Let me see if I can find it."

She moved into a shaft of sunlight below the back window and pulled open a middle drawer. "I can't give you the original, but I'd be happy to have Fiona photocopy it for you."

As the old woman rustled through her files, Bertal raised his nose from Gray's right shoe, trailing a rope of drool. A low growl burbled from the dog.

But it was not directed at Gray.

"Here it is." Grette turned and held out a sheet of yellowed paper in a plastic protective sleeve.

Gray ignored her extended arm and concentrated on her toes. A thin shadow shifted across the patch of sunlight where Grette stood.

"Get down!"

Gray leaped toward the sofa, reaching for the old woman.

Behind him, Bertal barked sharply, almost masking the crackof glass.

Gray, still reaching, was too late. All he could do was catch Grette Neal's body as the front of her face dissolved in a shower of blood and bone, shot from behind by a sniper outside the window.

Gray caught her body and pitched down to the sofa.

Fiona screamed.

Through the shattered rear window, two distinct pops sounded along with the shatter of glass. Two black canisters jetted into the office, struck the far wall, and clattered down, bouncing.

Gray leaped off the sofa, shouldering into Fiona. He shoved her bodily out of the office and around the corner.

The dog scrambled after them.

Gray half carried Fiona behind a sheltering bookcase as twin detonations ripped through the office, blasting apart the wall in a fiery explosion of plaster and splintered wood.

The bookcase toppled over, crashing into its neighbor and leaning precariously. Gray sheltered Fiona under him.

Overhead, texts burst into flame and fiery ash rained down.

Gray spotted the old dog. He had moved too slowly, hobbled by the bad paw. The concussion had slammed the poor dog into the far wall. He did not move. His fur smoldered.

Gray shielded Fiona from the sight. "We have to get clear."

He pulled her shocked form from under the leaning bookcase. Flames and smoke already filled the back half of the shop. Overhead sprinklers burst with tepid sprays. Too little, too late. Not with this much tinder on hand.

"Out the front!" he urged.

He stumbled forward with her.

Too slowly.

Before them, the outer security gate crashed down, sealing the front door and window. Gray noted shadows fading to either side of the barred gate. More gunmen.

Gray glanced behind him. A churning wall of flame and smoke filled the back of the shop.

They were trapped.

11:57 p.m. WASHINGTON, D.C.

Monk drowsed in that happy place between bliss and sleep. He and Kat had moved from the bathroom floor to the bed as passion dissolved to soft whispers and even softer touches. The sheets and comforters were still knotted around their naked forms; neither was ready to untie themselves, not physically, not in any way.

Monk's finger traced the curve of Kat's breast, lazily, more in reassurance than arousal. The smooth arch of her foot gently caressed his calf.

Perfection.

Nothing could ruin this—

A piercing warble erupted in the room, tensing them both.

It rose from the side of the bed, where Monk had dropped his sweatpants…or rather had them yanked off him. The pager was still clipped to the elastic waist. He knew he had switched the device to vibration when he returned from his evening jog. Only one manner of call broke through that mode.

Emergency.

On the other side of the bed, from the nightstand, a second pager burst with a matching clarion call.

Kat's.

They both pushed up, eyes meeting with worry.

"Central command," Kat said.

Monk reached down and grabbed his pager, dragging his sweatpants up with it. He confirmed her assessment.

He rolled his feet to the floor and reached for the phone. Kat sat up next to him, pulling the sheets to cover her bare breasts, as if some manner of decency was necessary to call into central command. He dialed the number for Sigma Force's direct line. It was picked up immediately.

"Captain Bryant?" Logan Gregory answered.

"No, sir. It's Monk Kokkalis. But Kat…Captain Bryant is here with me."

"I need you both back at command immediately."

Logan filled him in tersely.

Monk listened, nodding. "We're leaving now," he finished and hung up.

Kat met his gaze, brows pinched together. "What's wrong?"

"Trouble."

"With Gray?"

"No. I'm sure he's fine." Monk climbed into his sweats. "Probably having a great time with Rachel."

"Then—?"

"It's Director Crowe. Something's happened in Nepal. Details are sketchy. Something about a plague."

"Has Director Crowe reported in?"

"That's just it. His last report was three days ago, but a storm had closed off communication. So there was not too much concern. Then the storm broke today, and still no communication. And now there're rumors of plague, death, and some uprising out there. Possibly a rebel attack."

Kat's eyes widened.

"Logan is calling everyone into command."

Kat slid out of bed and reached for her own clothes. "What could be going on out there?"

"Nothing good, that's for damn sure."

9:22 a.m.

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

"Is there a way upstairs?" Gray asked.

Fiona stared at the closed gate, rooted in place, eyes wide and unblinking. Gray read the signs of shock in the girl.

"Fiona…" Gray stepped around and leaned close, nose to nose, filling her vision. "Fiona, we must get away from the fire."

Behind her, the firestorm spread rapidly, fueled by the stacks of dry books and broken pine shelving. Flames had climbed and lapped to the ceiling. Smoke churned and rolled along the roof. Sprinklers continued to leak tepidly into the conflagration, adding steam to the toxic pall.

The heat intensified with each breath. Still, as Gray took Fiona's hands in his, she shivered, her whole body trembling. But at least his touch finally focused her eyes on him.

"Is there a way upstairs? To another level?"

Fiona glanced up. A pall of smoke obscured the tin ceiling tiles. "Some old rooms. An attic…"

"Yes. Perfect. Can we get up there?"

She shook her head at first slowly, then more firmly, reviving to the danger. "No. The only stairs are…" She waved feebly toward the fire. "At the back of the building."

"On the outside."

She nodded. Ash swirled in fiery eddies around them as the wall of fire advanced.

Gray cursed silently. There must've once been an interior staircase, before the building was split into a shop and upper rooms. But no longer. He'd have to improvise.

"Do you have an ax?" he asked.

Fiona shook her head.

"How about a crowbar? Something to open crates or boxes?"

Fiona stiffened and nodded. "By the cash register."

"Stay here." Gray edged along the left-hand wall. It offered the clearest path back toward the central desk. The fire had not quite reached it.

Fiona followed.

"I told you to stay back."

"I know where the soddin' crowbar is," she snapped at him.

Gray recognized the terror behind her anger, but it was an improvement over the limp-limbed shock from a moment ago. Plus it matched his own fury. At himself. It was bad enough the girl had tailed him earlier, but now he'd allowed himself to be trapped by unknown assassins. He'd been too distracted by thoughts of Rachel, too dismissive of this mission and its parameters, and now it wasn't only his life in jeopardy.

Fiona pushed ahead of him, red-eyed and coughing from the smoke. "It's over here." She leaned across the desk, reached behind it, and tugged free a long green steel bar.

"Let's go." He led the way back toward the advancing flames. He pulled out of his wool sweater and traded it for the crowbar.

"Wet the sweater down. Soak it good in that sprinkler." He pointed with the crowbar. "And yourself, for that matter."

"What are you going to—?"

"Try to make our own staircase."

Gray mounted one of the bookshelf ladders and scrambled up. The smoke churned above his upraised face. The very air burned. Gray poked the crowbar at one of the tin ceiling tiles. It was easily dislodged and nudged aside. As he had hoped, the shop roof was a cantilevered drop ceiling. It hid the rafter-and-plank floor of the story above.

Gray climbed to the top of the ladder and scaled the last few shelves of the bookcase. He perched atop it. Using this vantage, he jammed his crow-bar between two of the planks. It sank deep. He shouldered and levered the crowbar. The steel bar ripped through the old wood. Still, he barely managed to gouge out a mouse hole.

Eyes watering and burning, Gray leaned down. A racking cough shook through him. Not good. It would be a race between his crowbar and the smoke. Gray glanced back to the fire. It grew fiercer. The smoke belched thicker.

He'd never make it at this rate.

Movement drew his gaze back down. Fiona had scrambled up the ladder. She had found a kerchief, soaked it, and had it wrapped around the lower half of her face like a bandit, a fitting disguise in her case.

She held up his soggy wool sweater. She had soaked herself, too, seeming to shrink in size like a wet puppy. Gray realized she was younger than the seventeen he had guessed earlier. She could be no more than fifteen. Her eyes were red-rimmed with panic—but also shone with hope, placing some blind faith in him.

Gray hated when people did that…because it always worked.

Gray tied the arms of his sweater around his neck and let the rest drape over his back. He tugged up a flap of sodden wool to cover his mouth and nose, offering some insulation from the ash-thickened air.

With water soaking through the back of his shirt, Gray knelt up again, ready to attack the stubborn planks. He sensed the presence of Fiona below. And the responsibility.

Gray searched the space between the drop ceiling and the rafters for any other means of escape. All around, piping and wiring crisscrossed in a haphazard pattern, plainly added piecemeal after the two-story home had been sectioned into a lower shop and upper apartment. The newer renovations appeared shoddy, the difference between Old World craftsmanship and modern slipshod construction.

As he searched, Gray spotted a break in the uniform run of planks and rafters. A boxed-off section, three feet square, framed by thicker bracing. Gray recognized it immediately. He'd been right earlier. The bracing marked the opening where a long-demolished interior staircase had once passed through to the floor above.

But how securely had it been sealed up?

Only one way to find out.

Gray rose up on his heels, stood atop the bookcase, and followed it like a balance beam in the direction of the framed opening. It was only a few yards—but it led deeper into the shop, toward the fire.

"Where are you going?" Fiona demanded from atop the ladder.

Gray didn't have the breath to explain. The smoke choked thicker with every step. The heat grew to an open-furnace intensity. He finally reached the section of bookshelf below the sealed stairwell.

Glancing down, Gray saw that the bookcase's lower shelves already smoldered. He'd reached the firestorm's leading edge.

No time to waste.

Bracing himself, he slammed his crowbar up.

The tip plunged easily through the thinner wood planking. It was no more than pressed fiberboard and vinyl tiles. Shoddy, as he'd hoped. Thank God for the lack of modern work ethic.

Gray hauled on his crowbar, cranking like a machine as the air burned and the heat blistered. Soon he had created an opening wide enough to climb through.

Gray tossed the crowbar through the opening. It clattered above.

He turned to Fiona and waved her to him.

"Can you get on top of the bookshelves and—?"

"I saw how you got over there." She scrambled up onto the bookcase.

A pop drew Gray's attention below. The bookcase shuddered under him.

Uh-oh…

His weight and the burning lower tiers were rapidly weakening his perch. He reached to the hole and half pulled himself up, shifting his weight off the shelf.

"Hurry," he urged the girl.

With her arms held out for balance, Fiona edged along the top of the bookcase. About a yard away.

"Hurry," he repeated.

"I heard you the first—"

With a resounding crack, the section of bookcase under Gray collapsed. He gripped the edges of the hole tighter as the case toppled away, crashing into the fire. A fresh wash of heat, ash, and flames swept high.

Fiona screamed as her section shook, but held.

Hanging by his arms, Gray called to her. "Leap over to me. Grab around my shoulders."

Fiona needed no further encouragement as her case wobbled. She jumped and struck him hard, arms latching around his neck, legs clinging around his waist. He was almost knocked from his perch. He swung in place.

"Can you use my body to climb up through the hole?" he asked with a strain.

"I…I think so."

She hung a moment longer, not moving.

The rough edges of the hole tore at his fingers. "Fiona…"

She trembled against him, then worked her way around to his back. Once moving, she climbed quickly, planting a toe into his belt, then pushing off his shoulder. She was through the hole with all the agility of a spider monkey.

Below, a bonfire of books and shelving raged.

Gray gladly hauled himself up after her, worming through the hole and beaching himself on the floor. He was in the center of a hallway. Rooms spread out in either direction.

"Fire's up here, too," Fiona whispered, as if afraid to attract the flames' attention.

Rolling to his feet, Gray saw the flickering glow from the back half of the apartment. Smoke choked these halls, even thicker than below.

"C'mon," he said. It was still a race.

Gray hurried down the hall away from the fire. He ended at one of the boarded upper windows. He peeked between two slats. Sirens could be heard in the distance. People gathered in the street below: onlookers and gawkers. And surely hidden among them was a gunman or two.

Gray and the girl would be exposed if they tried climbing out the window.

Fiona studied the crowd, too. "They won't let us leave, will they?"

"Then we'll get out on our own."

Gray backed away and searched up. He pictured the attic dormer window he'd spotted earlier from the street. They needed to reach the roof.

Fiona understood his intention. "There's a pull-down ladder in the next room." She led the way. "I would come up here to read sometimes when Mutti…" Fiona's voice cracked, and her words died.

Gray knew the girl would be haunted by the death of her grandmother for a long time. He put his arm around her shoulder, but she shrugged out of it angrily and stepped away.

"Over here," she said and entered what once must have been a sitting room. Now it held only a few crates and a faded, ripped sofa.

Fiona pointed to a frayed rope hanging from the ceiling, attached to a trapdoor in the roof.

Gray tugged it down, and a collapsible wooden ladder slid to the floor. He climbed first, followed by Fiona.

The attic was unfinished: just insulation, rafters, and rat droppings. The only light came from a pair of dormer windows. One faced the front street, the other toward the back. Thin smoke filled the space, but so far no flames.

Gray decided to try the rear window. It faced west, leaving the roof in shadow this time of day. Also, that side of the row house was on fire. Their attackers might be less attentive to it.

Gray hopped from rafter to rafter. He could feel the heat from below. One section of insulation was already smoldering, the fiberglass melting.

Reaching the window, Gray checked below. The roof pitch was such that he could not see into the courtyard behind the shop. And if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him. Additionally, smoke roiled up from the broken windows below, offering additional cover.

For once, the fire was to their advantage.

Still, Gray stood well to the side as he unhooked the window latch and pushed it open. He waited. No gunshots. Sirens could now be heard converging on the street outside.

"Let me go first," Gray whispered in Fiona's ear. "If all's clear—"

A low roar erupted behind them.

They both turned. A tongue of flame shot out of the heart of the burning insulation, licking high, cracking and smoking. They were out of time.

"Follow me," Gray said.

He edged out the window, staying low. It was wonderfully cool out on the roof, the air crisp after the perpetual stifle.

Buoyed by the escape, Gray tested the roof tiles. The pitch was steep, but he had good grip with his boots. With care, walking was manageable. He stepped away from the shelter of the window and aimed for the roofline to the north. Ahead, the gap between the row houses was less than three feet. They should be able to leap the distance.

Satisfied, he turned back to the window. "Okay, Fiona…be careful."

The girl popped her head out, searched around, then crept onto the roof. She stayed crouched, almost on all fours.

Gray waited for her. "You're doing fine."

She glanced over to him. Distracted, she failed to spot a cracked tile. Her toe shattered through it. It broke away, causing her to lose her balance. She landed hard on her belly—and began to slide.

Her fingers and toes fought for purchase, but to no avail.

Gray lunged for her. His fingers found only empty air.

Her speed increased as she skated over the tiles. More tiles broke away in her frantic attempt to halt her plummet. Shards of pottery chattered and bounced ahead of her, becoming an avalanche of roof tiles.

Gray lay splayed on his belly. There was nothing he could do to help.

"The gutter!" he called after her, forgoing caution. "Grab the gutter!"

She seemed deaf to his words, fingers scrabbling, toes gouging out more tiles. She bumped over on her side and began to roll. A fluttering scream escaped her.

The first few broken tiles rained over the edge. Gray heard them shatter to the stone courtyard below with firecracker pops.

Then Fiona followed, tumbling over the roof edge, arms flailing.

And she was gone.

3 UKUFA

10:20 a.m.

HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI GAME PRESERVE

ZULULAND, SOUTH AFRICA

Six thousand miles and a world away from Copenhagen, an open-air Jeep trundled across the trackless wilderness of South Africa.

The heat already sweltered, searing the savanna and casting up shimmering mirages. In the rearview mirror, the plains baked brilliantly under the sun, interrupted by thorny thickets and solitary stands of red bush willow. Immediately ahead rose a low knoll, studded thickly with knobby acacia and skeletal leadwood trees.

"Is that the place, Doctor?" Khamisi Taylor asked, twisting the wheel to bounce his Jeep across a dry creekbed, the dust rising in a rooster tail. He glanced at the woman beside him.

Dr. Marcia Fairfield half stood in the passenger seat, her hand clamped on the windshield's edge for balance. She pointed an arm. "Around to the west side. There's a deep hollow."

Khamisi downshifted and skirted to the right. As the current game warden on duty for the Hluhluwe-Umfolozi Game Preserve, he had to follow protocol. Poaching was a serious offense—but also a reality. Especially in the lonelier sections of the park.

Even his own people, his fellow Zulu tribesmen, sometimes followed the traditional way and practices. It required even fining some of his grandfather's old friends. The elders had given him a nickname, a word in Zulu that translated as "Fat Boy." It was said with little outward derision, but Khamisi knew there was still an undercurrent of distaste. They considered him less a man for taking a white man's job, living fat off of others. He was still a bit of a stranger around here. His father had taken him to Australia when he was twelve, after his mother died. He had spent a good portion of his life outside the city of Darwin on Australia's north coast, even spent two years at university in Queensland. Now at twenty-eight, he was back, having secured a job as a game warden—partly from his education, partly from his ties to the tribes here.

Living fat off of others.

"Can't you go any faster?" his passenger urged.

Dr. Marcia Fairfield was a graying biologist out of Cambridge, well respected, a part of the original Operation Rhino project, often called the Jane Goodall of rhinos. Khamisi enjoyed working with her. Maybe it was just her lack of pretense, from her faded khaki safari jacket to her silver-gray hair tied back in a simple ponytail.

Or maybe it was her passion. Like now.

"If the cow died birthing, her calf might still be alive. But for how long?" She pounded a fist against the edge of the windshield. "We can't lose both."

As game warden, Khamisi understood. Since 1970, the population of black rhinos had decreased ninety-six percent in Africa. The Hluhluwe-Umfolozi reserve sought to remedy that, as it had the white rhino population. It was the chief conservation effort of the park.

Every black rhino was important.

"The only reason we found her was the tracking implant," Dr. Fairfield continued. "Spotted her by helicopter. But if she gave birth, there'll be no way to track her calf."

"Won't the baby stay close to its mother?" Khamisi asked. He had witnessed the same himself. Two years ago, a pair of lion cubs had been found huddling against the cold belly of their dam, shot by a sport poacher.

"You know the fate of orphans. Predators will be drawn by the carcass. If the calf is still around, bloody from birth…"

Khamisi nodded. He punched the gas and bounced the Jeep up the rocky slope. The rear end fishtailed in some loose scree—but he kept going.

As they cleared the hill, the terrain ahead broke apart into deep ravines, cut by trickling streams. Here the vegetation thickened: sycamore figs, Natal mahogany, and nyala trees. It was one of the few "wet" areas of the park, also one of the most remote, well away from the usual game trails and tourist roads. Only those with permits were allowed to traverse this section under strict limitations: daylight hours only, no overnight stays. The territory ran all the way to the park's western border.

Khamisi scanned the horizon as he inched the Jeep down the far slope. A mile away, a stretch of game fencing broke across the terrain. The ten-foot-high black fence divided the park from a neighboring private preserve. Such reserves often shared a park's borders, offering the more affluent traveler a more intimate experience.

But this was no ordinary private preserve.

The Hluhluwe-Umfolozi Park had been founded in 1895, the oldest sanctuary in all of Africa. As such, the neighboring private reserve was also the oldest. The chunk of family-owned land predated even the park, owned by a living dynasty of South Africa, the Waalenberg clan, one of the original Boer families, whose generations stretched back to the seventeenth century. This particular reserve was a quarter the size of the park itself. Its grounds were said to be teeming with wildlife. And not just the big five—the elephant, rhinoceros, leopard, lion, and cape buffalo—but also predators and prey of every ilk: the Nile crocodile, hippo, cheetah, hyena, wildebeest, jackal, giraffe, zebra, waterbuck, kudu, impala, reedbuck, warthog, baboons. It was said that the Waalenberg preserve had unknowingly sheltered a pack of rare okapi, well before this relative of the giraffe had even been discovered back in 1901.

But there were always rumors and stories associated with the Waalenberg preserve. The park was only accessible by helicopter or small plane. The roads that once led to it had long since returned to the wild. The only visitors, occasional as they were, were major dignitaries from around the world. It was said Teddy Roosevelt once hunted on the reserve and even fashioned the United States national park system after the Waalenberg preserve.

Khamisi would give his eyeteeth to spend a day in there.

But that honor was limited only to the head warden of Hluhluwe. A tour of the Waalenberg estate was one of the perks upon acquiring that mantle, and even then it took a signed affidavit of secrecy. Khamisi hoped one day to achieve that lofty goal.

But he held out little hope.

Not with his black skin.

His Zulu heritage and education might have helped him get this job, but even after apartheid, there remained limits. Traditional ways die hard—for both black and white men. Still, his position was an inroad. One of the sad legacies of apartheid was that an entire generation of tribal children had been raised with little or no education, suffering under the years of sanctions, segregation, and unrest. A lost generation. So he did all he could do: opened what doors he could and held them for those who would come after.

He would play the Fat Boy, if that's what it took.

In the meantime…

"There!" Dr. Fairfield shouted, startling Khamisi back to the tortuous unmarked track. "Make a left at that baobab at the bottom of the hill."

Khamisi spotted the prehistoric giant tree. Large white flowers drooped mournfully from the ends of its branches. To its left, the land dropped away, descending into a bowl-shaped depression. Khamisi caught a sparkle of a tiny pool near the bottom.

Water hole.

Such springs dotted the park, some natural, some man-made. They were the best places for a glimpse of wildlife—and also the most dangerous to traverse on foot.

Khamisi braked to a halt by the tree. "We'll have to walk in from here."

Dr. Fairfield nodded. They both reached for rifles. Though both were conservationists, they were also familiar with the ever-present danger of the veldt.

As he climbed out, Khamisi shouldered his large-bore double rifle, a.465 Nitro Holland & Holland Royal. It could stop a charging elephant. In dense brush, he preferred it to any bolt-action rifle.

They headed down the slope, prickling with basket grass and shrubby sicklebush. Overhead, the higher canopy shielded them from the sun but created deep shadows below. As he marched, Khamisi noted the heavy silence. No birdsong. No chatter of monkeys. Only the buzz and whirring of insects. The quiet set his teeth on edge.

Beside him, Dr. Fairfield checked a handheld GPS tracker.

She pointed an arm.

Khamisi followed her direction, skirting the muddy pool. As he stalked through some reeds, he was rewarded by a growing stench of rotting meat. It didn't take much longer to push into a deep-shadowed copse and discover its source.

The black rhino cow must have weighed three thousand pounds, give or take a stone. A monster-size specimen.

"Dear God," Dr. Fairfield exclaimed through a handkerchief clutched over her mouth and nose. "When Roberto pinpointed the remains by helicopter…"

"It's always worse on the ground," Khamisi said.

He marched to the bloated carcass. It lay on its left side. Flies rose in a black cloud at their approach. The belly had been ripped open. Intestines bulged out, ballooned with gas. It seemed impossible that all this had once fit inside the abdomen. Other organs were draped across the dirt. A bloody smudge indicated where some choice tidbit had been dragged into the surrounding dense foliage.

Flies settled again.

Khamisi stepped over a section of gnawed red liver. The rear hind limb appeared to have been almost torn off at the hip. The strength of the jaws to do that…

Even a mature lion would've had a hard time.

Khamisi circled until he reached the head.

One of the rhino's stubby ears had been bitten off, its throat savagely ripped open. Lifeless black eyes stared back at Khamisi, too wide, appearing frozen in fright. Lips were also rippled back as if in terror or agony. A wide tongue protruded, and blood pooled below. But none of this was important.

He knew what he had to check.

Above the scum-flecked nostrils curved a long horn, prominent and perfect.

"Definitely not a poacher," Khamisi said.

The horn would've been taken. It was the main reason rhino populations were still in rapid decline. Powdered horn sold in Asian markets as a so-called cure for erectile dysfunction, a homeopathic Viagra. A single horn fetched a princely sum.

Khamisi straightened.

Dr. Fairfield crouched near the other end of the body. She had donned plastic gloves, leaning her rifle against the body. "It doesn't appear she's given birth."

"So no orphaned calf."

The biologist stepped around the carcass to the belly again. She bent down and, without even a wince of squeamishness, tugged a flap of torn belly up, and reached inside.

He turned away.

"Why hasn't the carcass been picked clean by carrion feeders?" Dr. Fairfield asked as she worked.

"It's a lot of meat," he mumbled. Khamisi circled back around. The quiet continued to press around him, squeezing the heat atop them.

The woman continued her examination. "I don't think that's it. The body's been here since last night, near a watering hole. If nothing else, the abdomen would have been cleaned out by jackals."

Khamisi surveyed the body again. He stared at the ripped rear leg, the torn throat. Something large had brought the rhino down. And fast.

A prickling rose along the back of his neck.

Where were the carrion feeders?

Before he could contemplate the mystery, Dr. Fairfield spoke. "The calf's gone."

"What?" He turned back around. "I thought you said she hadn't given birth."

Dr. Fairfield stood up, stripping off her gloves and retrieving her gun. Rifle in hand, the biologist stalked away from the carcass, gaze fixed to the ground.

Khamisi noted she was following the bloody path, where something was dragged away from the belly, to be eaten in private.

Oh, God…

He followed after her.

At the edge of the copse, Dr. Fairfield used the tip of her rifle to part some low-hanging branches, which revealed what had been dragged from the belly.

The rhino calf.

The scrawny body had been shredded into sections, as if fought over.

"I think the calf was still alive when it was torn out," Dr. Fairfield said, pointing to a spray of blood. "Poor thing…"

Khamisi stepped back, remembering the biologist's earlier question. Why hadn't any other carrion feeders eviscerated the remains? Vultures, jackals, hyenas, even lions. Dr. Fairfield was right. This much meat would not have been left to flies and maggots.

It made no sense.

Not unless…

Khamisi's heart thudded heavily.

Not unless the predator was still here.

Khamisi lifted his rifle. Deep in the shadowed copse, he again noted the heavy silence. It was as if the very forest were intimidated by whatever had killed the rhino.

He found himself testing the air, listening, eyes straining, standing dead still. The shadows seemed to deepen all around him.

Having spent his childhood in South Africa, Khamisi was well familiar with the superstitions, whispers of monsters that haunted and hunted the jungles: the ndalawo, a howling man-eater of the Uganda forest; the mbilinto, an elephant-size hippo of the Congo wetlands; the mngwa, a furry lurker of coastal coconut groves.

But sometimes even myths came to life in Africa. Like the nsui-fisi. It was a striped man-eating monster of Rhodesia, long considered a folktale by white settlers…that is, until decades later it was discovered to be a new form of cheetah, taxonomically classified as Acinonyx rex.

As Khamisi searched the jungle, he recalled another monster of legend, one that was known across the breadth of Africa. It went by many names: the dubu, the lumbwa, the kerit, the getet. Mere mention of the name evoked cries of fear from natives. As large as a gorilla, it was a veritable devil for its swiftness, cunning, and ferocity. Over the centuries, hunters—black and white—claimed to have caught glimpses of it. All children learned to recognize its characteristic howl. This region of Zulu-land was no exception.

"Ukufa…"Khamisi mumbled.

"Did you say something?" Dr. Fairfield asked. She was still bent down by the dead calf.

It was the Zulu name for the monster, one that was whispered around campfires and kraal huts.

Ukufa.

Death.

He knew why such a beast came to mind now. Five months ago, an old tribesman claimed to have seen an ukufa near here. Half beast, half ghost, with eyes of fire, the old man had railed with dead certainty. Only those as old as the leathery elder took heed. The others, like Khamisi, pretended to humor the tribesman.

But here in the dark shadows…

"We should go," Khamisi said.

"But we don't know what killed her."

"Not poachers." That's all Khamisi needed or wanted to know. He waved his rifle toward the Jeep. He would radio the head warden, get the matter signed off and settled. Predator kill. No poaching. They'd leave the carcass to the carrion. The cycle of life.

Dr. Fairfield reluctantly rose.

Off to the right, a drawn-out call split through the shadowy jungle—hoo eeee OOOO—punctuated by a high-pitched feral scream.

Khamisi trembled where he stood. He recognized the cry, not so much with his head as with his bone marrow. It echoed back to midnight campfires, to stories of terror and bloodshed, and even further back, to something primeval, to a time before speech, where life was instinct.

Ukufa.

Death.

As the scream faded away, silence again fell heavily over them.

Khamisi mentally measured the distance between them and the Jeep. They needed to retreat, but not in a panic. A fearful flight would only whet a predator's bloodlust.

Out in the jungle, another scream growled.

Then another.

And another.

All from different directions.

In the sudden quiet afterward, Khamisi knew they had only one chance. "Run."

9:31 a.m.

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

Gray lay on his belly across the roof tiles, head down, sprawled where he'd missed grabbing Fiona. The image of her tumbling over the smoky edge of the roof seared into his mind's eye. His heart thudded in his chest.

Oh, God…what've I done…?

Over his shoulder, a fresh spat of flames burst out the attic dormer, accompanied by a growled rush of heat and smoke. Despite his distress, he had to move.

Gray willed himself up onto his elbows, then hands, pushing up.

To the side, the fire took a momentary breath, falling back. In the lull, he heard voices below, urgent, furtive. Also closer to him… a low moan. Just beyond the roofline.

Fiona…?

Gray dropped back to his belly and scooted in a controlled slide to the roof's edge. Smoke choked up from the shattered windows directly below. He used the pall to cloak his approach.

Reaching the guttered edge, he glanced down.

Directly under him stretched a wrought-iron balcony…no, not a balcony. It was a landing to a staircase. The exterior stairs that Fiona had mentioned.

Sprawled across the landing was the girl.

With a second groggy groan, Fiona rolled over and began to haul herself up, using the railing posts.

Others noted her movement.

Out in the courtyard below, Gray spotted two figures. One stood in the middle of the flagstones, a rifle raised to his shoulder, searching for a clear shot. Black smoke belched out the broken apartment door window, obscuring Fiona from view. The sniper waited for the girl to get her head above the landing's railing.

"Stay down," he hissed at Fiona.

She glanced up. Bright blood dribbled across her brow.

The second gunman circled, a black pistol clutched double-fisted. He aimed for the stairs, intent to block any escape.

Gray motioned Fiona to remain crouched, then rolled along the roofline until he was above the second gunman. The churning smoke continued to keep him hidden. Most of the assassins' attention remained focused on the stairs. Once in position, Gray waited. He clutched a heavy roof tile in his right hand, one of the stone tiles Fiona had loosened during her tumble.

He would have only one shot.

Below, the man held his pistol at the ready and placed one foot on the lowermost stair.

Gray leaned over the edge, arm raised.

He whistled sharply.

The gunman glanced up, swiveling his weapon and dropping to a knee. Damned fast…

But gravity was faster.

Gray chucked the tile. It spun through the air like an ax and struck the gunman in his upraised face. Blood spurted from the man's nose. He fell back hard. His head hit the flagstones, bounced, then didn't move.

Gray rolled again—back toward Fiona.

A shout rose from the rifleman.

Gray kept his gaze fixed on him. He had hoped downing the man's partner would chase the other off. No such luck. The rifleman fled to the opposite side, finding shelter near a trash bin but leaving him a clear shot still. His sniping position was close to the burning rear of the shop, taking advantage of the smoke billowing out a neighboring window.

Gray reached Fiona again. He waved her to stay low. It would be their deaths to attempt to haul Fiona up. Both would be exposed too long.

That left only one choice.

Gripping the gutter with one hand, Gray lunged and swung down. He dropped to the landing with a ring of steel, then ducked low.

A brick above his head shattered.

Rifle shot.

Gray reached to his ankle sheath and pulled his dagger free.

Fiona eyed it. "What are we—?"

"Youare going to stay here," he ordered.

Gray reached a hand to the railing above. All he had was the element of surprise. No body armor, no weapon except his dagger.

"Run when I tell you," he said. "Straight down the stairs and over your neighbor's fence. Find the first policeman or firefighter. Can you do that?"

Fiona met his eyes. It looked as if she were about to argue, but her lips tightened and she nodded.

Good girl.

Gray balanced the dagger in his hand. One chance again. Taking a deep breath, Gray leaped up, pinioned off the railing, and vaulted over it. As he fell toward the flagstones, he did two things at the same time.

"Run!" he hollered and tossed the dagger toward the sniper's hiding place. He didn't hope for a kill, just a distraction long enough to close quarters with the man. A rifle was ungainly in tight situations.

As he landed, he noted two things.

One good, one bad.

He heard Fiona's ringing footsteps down the metal staircase.

She was fleeing.

Good.

At the same time, Gray watched his dagger wing through the smoky air, bang the trash bin, and bounce off. His toss hadn't even been close.

That was bad.

The sniper rose from his spot unfazed, rifle ready, aimed straight at Gray's chest.

"No!" Fiona screamed as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

The rifleman didn't even smile as he pulled the trigger.

11:05 a.m.

HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI GAME PRESERVE

ZULULAND, SOUTH AFRICA

"Run!" Khamisi repeated.

Dr. Fairfield needed no further prodding. They fled in the direction of their waiting Jeep. Reaching the watering hole, Khamisi waved Dr. Fairfield ahead of him. She shouldered through the tall reeds—but not before silently meeting his gaze. Horror shone in her eyes, mirroring his own.

Whatever creatures had screamed in the forest had sounded large, massive, and whetted from the recent kill. Khamisi glanced back at the rhino's macerated carcass. Monsters or not, he needed no other information about what might be hidden in the maze of heavy forest, trickling streams, and shadowed gullies.

Twisting back around, Khamisi followed the biologist. He checked over his shoulder frequently, ears straining for any sound of pursuit. Something splashed into the neighboring pond. Khamisi ignored it. It was a small splash. Too small. His brain teased out extraneous details, sifting through the buzz of insects and crunch of reeds. He concentrated upon real danger signals. Khamisi's father had taught him how to hunt when he was only six years old, drilling into him the signs to watch when stalking prey.

Only now, he was the hunted.

The panicked whir of wings drew his ear and eye.

A flick of movement.

Off to the left.

In the sky.

A single shrike took wing.

Something had frightened it.

Something on the move.

Khamisi closed the distance with Dr. Fairfield as they cleared the reeds.

"Hurry," he whispered, senses straining.

Dr. Fairfield craned her neck, her rifle swiveling. She was breathing hard, face ashen. Khamisi followed her gaze. Their Jeep stood at the ridgeline above, parked in the shade of the baobab tree at the edge of the deep hollow. The slope seemed steeper and longer than it had coming down.

"Keep moving," he urged.

Glancing back, Khamisi spotted a tawny klipspringer doe leap from the forest edge and skip-hop its way up the far slope, kicking up dirt.

Then it was gone.

They needed to heed its example.

Dr. Fairfield headed up the slope. Khamisi followed, sidestepping, fixing his double-barreled rifle toward the forest behind them.

"They didn't kill to eat," Dr. Fairfield gasped ahead of him.

Khamisi studied the dark tangle of forest. Why did he know she was right?

"Hunger hadn't goaded them," the biologist continued, as if struggling to qualm her panic with deliberation. "Hardly anything was eaten. It was as if they had killed for pleasure. Like a house cat hunting a mouse."

Khamisi had worked alongside many predators. It wasn't the way of the natural world. Lions, after a meal, seldom proved a threat, usually lounging about, even approachable, up to a distance. A sated predator would not tear apart a rhino, rip its calf from its belly, just for the sport of it.

Dr. Fairfield continued her litany, as if the present danger were a puzzle to solve. "In the domesticated world, it is the well-fed house cat that hunts more often. It has the energy and the time for such play."

Play?

Khamisi shuddered.

"Just keep moving," he said, not wanting to hear more.

Dr. Fairfield nodded, but the biologist's words stayed with Khamisi. What sort of predator kills just for the sport of it? Of course, there was one obvious answer.

Man.

But this was not the work of any human hand.

Movement again captured Khamisi's gaze. For just a moment, a pale shape shifted behind the fringe of dark forest, caught out of the corner of the eye. It vanished like white smoke as he focused on the spot.

He remembered the words of the wizened Zulu tribesman.

Half beast, half ghost…

Despite the heat, his skin went cold. He increased his pace, almost shouldering the older biologist up the slope. Loose shale and sandy dirt shifted treacherously underfoot. But they were almost at the top. The Jeep was only thirty meters away.

Then Dr. Fairfield slipped.

She went down on a knee and fell backward, knocking into Khamisi.

He took a stumbled step back, missed his footing, and went down hard on his rear. The angle of the slope and momentum tumbled him ass over end. He rolled halfway down the hill before he finally braked his fall using his heels and the butt of his rifle.

Dr. Fairfield still sat where she had fallen, eyes wide with fear, staring back down.

Not at him.

At the forest.

Khamisi twisted around, gaining his knees; his ankle screamed, sprained, maybe broken. He searched and saw nothing, but he raised his rifle.

"Go!" he screamed. He had left the keys in the ignition. "Go!"

He heard Dr. Fairfield scramble to her feet with a crunch of shale.

From the forest edge, another ululating cry arose, cackling and inhuman.

Khamisi aimed blindly and pulled the trigger. The boom of his rifle shattered through the hollow. Dr. Fairfield cried out behind him, startled. Khamisi hoped the noise also startled off whatever lurked out there.

"Get to the Jeep!" he bellowed. "Just go! Don't wait!"

He stood, leaning his weight off his bad ankle. He kept his rifle poised. The forest had gone quiet again.

He heard Dr. Fairfield reach the top of the slope. "Khamisi…" she called back.

"Take the Jeep!"

He risked a glance behind him, over his shoulder.

Dr. Fairfield turned from the ridgeline and stepped toward the Jeep. Above her, movement in the branches of the baobab drew his eye. A few of the tree's droopy white flowers swayed gently.

There was no wind.

"Marcia!" he yelled. "Don't—!"

A savage cry erupted behind him, drowning out the rest of his warning. Dr. Fairfield turned half a step in his direction.

No…

It leaped down from the deep shadows of the giant tree, a pale blur. It struck the biologist and knocked them both out of sight. Khamisi heard a curdling scream from the woman, but it was ripped away in half a breath.

Silence again settled.

Khamisi faced the forest edge again.

Death above and below.

He had only one chance.

Ignoring the pain in his ankle, Khamisi ran.

Down the slope.

He simply let gravity take hold of him. It wasn't so much a sprint as a freefall. He raced back to the bottom of the hill, legs struggling to keep him upright. Reaching the bottom, he pointed his gun toward the forest and squeezed out a second shot from his double barrel.

Boom.

He had no hope of scaring off the hunters. He sought only to buy himself an extra fraction of life. The rebound of the rifle also helped him keep his feet as the slope leveled out. He kept running, ankle on fire, heart thundering.

He spotted or maybe merely sensed the movement of something large just at the forest edge. A slightly paler shade of shadow.

Half beast, half ghost…

Though unseen, he knew the truth.

Ukufa.

Death.

Not today…he prayed not today.

Khamisi crashed through the reeds—

—and dove headlong into the water hole.

9:32 a.m.

COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

Fiona's scream punctuated the sniper's rifle blast.

Gray twisted, hoping to escape mortal injury. As he turned, a blur of something large crashed out through the remains of the smoky shop window.

The gunman must have caught the same movement a fraction before Gray, enough to throw his aim off by a hairbreadth.

Gray felt the sear of the bullet's passage under his left arm.

He continued to spin farther out of point-blank range.

From the window, the large shape bounded atop the trash bin and bowled into the rifleman.

"Bertal!" Fiona yelled.

The shaggy Saint Bernard, soaked to the skin, clamped his jaws onto the rifleman's forearm. The sudden and unexpected attack caught the man off guard. He fell back into the shadows behind the trash bin. His rifle clattered to the flagstones.

Gray lunged for it.

A canine yelp sounded near at hand. Before Gray could react, the assassin leaped out, high. He planted a boot heel into Gray's shoulder, smashed him into the stones, and bolted over him.

Gray flipped to his side, aiming the captured rifle. But the man moved like a gazelle. Flagging a black trench coat, he vaulted over a garden stone fence and ducked away. Gray heard his footfalls retreating down the alley.

"Bastard…"

Fiona ran up to Gray. She had a pistol in hand. "The other man…" She pointed behind her. "I think he's dead."

Gray shouldered the rifle and took the pistol from her hand. She didn't argue, too intent on another concern.

"Bertal…"

The dog came out, tottering, weak, one side was severely scorched.

Gray glanced back to the burning shop. How had the poor guy survived? Gray pictured where he had last seen the dog: blasted by the initial firebombs into the back wall, knocked unconscious.

Fiona hugged the soaked brute.

The dog must have landed under a sprinkler.

She lifted the Saint Bernard's face, staring nose to muzzle. "Good dog."

Gray agreed. He owed Bertal. "All the Starbucks you want, buddy," he promised under his breath.

Bertal's limbs trembled. He sank to his haunches, then to the stones. Whatever adrenaline had sustained the poor brute was giving out.

Off to the left, raised voices reached them, calling out in Danish. A spray of jetted water sailed high. Firefighters were headed around the far side of the shop.

Gray could stay no longer.

"I have to go."

Fiona stood up. She glanced between Gray and the dog.

"Stay with Bertal," he said, backing a step. "Get him to a doctor."

Fiona's gaze hardened. "And you're just going to leave…"

"I'm sorry." It was a lame response to encompass the horrors: the murder of her grandmother, the burning down of their shop, the hairbreadth escape. But he didn't know what else to say, and he had no time to explain more.

He turned and headed toward the rear garden wall.

"Yeah, go ahead, sod off!" Fiona yelled after him.

Gray hopped the fence, face burning.

"Wait!"

He hurried down the alley. He hated abandoning her—but there was no choice. She was better off. Within the circle of emergency personnel, she would be sheltered, protected. Where Gray had to go next was no place for a fifteen-year-old. Still, his face continued to burn. Deeper down, he could not deny a more selfish motivation: he was simply glad to be rid of her, of the responsibility.

No matter…it was done.

He stalked quickly down the alley. He tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants and ejected all the shells from the rifle. Once finished, he shoved the rifle behind a stack of lumber. Carrying it would be too conspicuous. As he continued, he pulled his sweater back on. He needed to abandon his hotel and change identities. The deaths here would be investigated. It was time to let the persona of Dr. Sawyer die.

But before that, he had one more task to complete.

He freed his cell phone from a back pocket and hit speed dial for central command. After a few moments, he was connected with Logan Gregory, his op mission leader.

"We have a problem out here," Gray said.

"What's wrong?"

"Whatever is going on is bigger than we initially thought. Big enough to kill over." Gray debriefed his morning. A long stretch of silence followed.

Logan finally spoke, a strain of tension in his voice. "Then it's best if we scrub this mission until you have more resources on the ground."

"If I wait for backup, it'll be too late. The auction is in a few more hours."

"Your cover's blown, Commander Pierce."

"I'm not sure it is. As far as the principals know, I'm an American buyer who asks too many questions. They won't try anything in the open. There'll be plenty of people in attendance at the auction, and the house has tight security. I can still canvass the site and perhaps ascertain some clues about who or what's really behind all this. Afterward, I'll disappear, go low until I have more help."

Gray also wanted to get his hands on that Bible, if only to inspect it.

Logan spoke. "I don't think that's wise. The potential risk outweighs the potential gain. Especially as a solo op."

Gray's response grew heated. "So the bastards try to fry my ass…and now you want me to sit on it?"

"Commander."

Gray's fingers tightened on the phone. Logan had plainly spent too much time as a paper pusher at Sigma. For a research mission, Logan was adequate as an ops leader—but this was no longer a fact-gathering assignment. It was turning into a full-blown Sigma Force op. And if that was the case, Gray wanted someone with real leadership backing him up.

"Maybe we should get Director Crowe involved," Gray said.

Another long pause followed. Perhaps he had said the wrong thing. He didn't mean to insult Logan, to go over his head, but sometimes you simply had to know when to step aside.

"I'm afraid that would be impossible at the moment, Commander Pierce."

"Why?"

"Director Crowe is currently incommunicado in Nepal."

Gray frowned. "In Nepal? What's he doing in Nepal?"

"Commander, you sent him."

"What?"

Then it dawned on Gray.

The call had come in a week ago.

From an old friend.

Gray's mind slipped into the past, back to his first days with Sigma Force. Like all other Sigma agents, Gray had a background with Special Forces: joining the army at eighteen, the Rangers at twenty-one. But after being court-martialed for striking a superior officer, Gray had been recruited by Sigma Force, straight out of Leavenworth. Still, he had been leery. There had been a good reason he'd struck that officer. The man's incompetence had resulted in needless deaths in Bosnia—deaths of children—but Gray's anger had deeper roots. Tangled issues with authority, going back to his father. And while those hadn't been completely resolved, it had taken a wise man to show Gray the path.

That man had been Ang Gelu.

"Are you saying Director Crowe is out in Nepal because of my friend the Buddhist monk?"

"Painter knew how important the man was to you."

Gray stopped walking and stepped into the shadows.

He had spent four months studying with the monk in Nepal, alongside his training for Sigma. In fact, it was through Ang Gelu that Gray had developed his own unique curriculum at Sigma. Gray had been fast-tracked to study biology and physics, a dual degree, but Ang Gelu elevated Gray's studies, instructing him how to search for the balance between all things. The harmony of opposites. The Taoist yin and yang. The one and the zero.

Such insight eventually helped Gray confront demons of his past.

Growing up, he had always found himself stuck between opposites. Though his mother had taught at a Catholic high school, instilling a deep spirituality in Gray's life, she was also an accomplished biologist, a devout disciple of evolution and reason. She placed as much faith and trust in the scientific method as in her own religion.

And then there was his father: a Welshman living in Texas, a roughneck oilman disabled in midlife and having to assume the role of a housewife. As a result, his life became ruled by overcompensation and anger.

Like father, like son.

Until Ang Gelu had shown Gray another way.

A path between opposites. It was not a short path. It extended as much into the past as the future. Gray was still struggling with it.

But Ang Gelu had helped Gray take his first steps. He owed the monk for that. So when the call for help reached Gray a week ago, he had not wanted to ignore it. Ang Gelu reported strange disappearances, odd maladies, all in a certain region near the Chinese border.

The monk had not known to whom to turn. His own government in Nepal was too focused on the Maoist rebels. And Ang Gelu knew Gray was involved in a nebulous chain of command in covert ops. So he had appealed to Gray for help. But already assigned to this current mission, Gray had turned the matter over to Painter Crowe.

Passing the buck…

"I had only meant for Painter to send a junior operative," Gray stumbled out, incredulous. "To check it out. Certainly there were others who—"

Logan cut him off. "It was slow here."

Gray bit back a groan. He knew what Logan meant. The same lull in global threats had brought Gray to Denmark.

"So he went?"

"You know the director. Always wants to get his hands dirty." Logan sighed in exasperation. "And now there's a problem. A storm blanketed communication for a few days, but now that it's cleared, we've still not heard an update from the director. Instead we're hearing rumors through various channels. The same stories as reported by your friend. Sickness, plague, deaths, even possible rebel attacks in the region. Only it's escalating." Gray now understood the strain he'd been hearing in Logan's voice. It seemed it was not only Gray's mission that was going tits up.

When it rains, it pours.

"I can send you Monk," Logan said. "He and Captain Bryant are on their way here. Monk can be on the ground there in ten hours. Stand down until then."

"But the auction will be over—"

"Commander Pierce, you have your orders."

Gray spoke rapidly, his voice tightening again. "Sir, I've already set up buttonhole cameras at entry and egress points around the auction house. It would be a waste to ignore them."

"All right. Monitor the cameras from a secure location. Record everything. But no more. Is that understood, Commander?"

Gray bristled, but Logan had his hands full. All because of a favor to Gray. So he had little reason to object. "Very good, sir."

"Report in after the auction," Logan said.

"Yes, sir."

The line clicked off.

Gray continued through the backstreets of Copenhagen, alert to all around him. But worry nagged him.

For Painter, for Ang Gelu…

What the hell was happening in Nepal?

4 GHOST LIGHTS

11:18 a.m. HIMALAYAS

"And you're sure Ang Gelu was killed?" Painter asked, glancing back.

A nod answered him.

Lisa Cummings had finished her story, having told how she'd been enlisted from an Everest climbing team to investigate an illness at the monastery. She had quickly related the horrors that followed: the madness, the explosions, the sniper.

Painter reviewed her story in his head as the pair wound deeper into the monastery's subterranean root cellar. The narrow stone maze was not meant for one his size. He had to keep tucked low. Still, the top of his head brushed across some hanging bundles of drying juniper branches. The aromatic sprays were used to make ceremonial smudge sticks for the temple overhead, a temple that was now just one large smudge stick, burning and smoking into the midday sky.

Weaponless, they had fled into the cellars to escape the flames. Painter had stopped only long enough to grab a heavy poncho and a pair of fur-lined boots from a cloakroom. In the current getup, he almost looked the part of a Pequot Indian, even if he was only half-blooded. He had no recollection of where his own clothes or packs had been taken.

Three days had vanished from his life.

Along with ten pounds.

While donning the robe earlier, he noted the prominence of his ribs. Even his shoulders seemed bonier. He had not fully escaped the illness here. Still, at least his strength continued to improve.

It needed to.

Especially with an assassin still on the loose.

Painter had heard the occasional spats of gunfire as they fled below. A sniper was killing anyone who fled the burning monastery. Dr. Cummings had described the attacker. Only one man. Surely there were others. Were they Maoist rebels? It made no sense. What end did their slaughter serve?

Bearing a penlight in hand, Painter led the way.

Dr. Cummings followed closely.

Painter had learned she was an American medical doctor and a member of an Everest climbing party. He studied her glancingly, evaluating her. She was long-legged with an athletic physique, blond and ponytailed, her cheeks rosy from windburn. She was also terrified. She kept close to him, jumping at the occasional muffled pop of the firestorm overhead. Still, she didn't stop, no tears, no complaints. It seemed she staved off any shock by sheer will.

But for how long?

Her fingers trembled as she moved aside a drying bouquet of lemongrass from her face. They continued onward. As they moved deeper into the root cellar, the air grew redolent from all the sprigs: rosemary, artemisia, mountain rhododendron, khenpa. All ready to be prepared into various incense sticks.

Lama Khemsar, the head of the monastery, had taught Painter the purposes of the hundreds of herbs: for purification, to foster divine energies, to dispel disruptive thoughts, even to treat asthma and the common cold. But right now, all Painter wanted to remember was how to reach the cellar's back door. The root cellar connected all the monastery's buildings. Monks used the cellars during the winter's heavy snowfall to pass underground from structure to structure.

Including reaching the barn at the outskirts of the grounds. It stood well away from the flames and out of direct sight.

If they could reach it…then escape to the lower village…

He needed to contact Sigma Command.

As his mind spun with possibilities, so did the passageway.

Painter leaned a hand on the cellar wall, steadying himself.

Dizzy.

"Are you all right?" the doctor asked, stepping to his shoulder.

He took a few breaths before nodding. Since he had awakened, bouts of disorientation continued to plague him. But they were occurring less frequently—or was that wishful thinking?

"What really happened up there?" the doctor asked. She relieved him of his penlight—it was actually hers, from her medical kit—and pointed it into his eyes.

"I don't…I'm not sure…But we should keep moving."

Painter tried to push off the wall, but she pressed a palm against his chest, still examining his eyes. "You're showing a prominent nystagmus," she whispered and lowered the penlight, brow crinkled.

"What?"

She passed him a canteen of cold water and motioned for him to sit on a wrapped bale of hay. He didn't argue. The bale was as hard as cement.

"Your eyes show signs of horizontal nystagmus, a twitch of the pupils. Did you take a blow to the head?"

"I don't think so. Is it serious?"

"Hard to say. It can be the result of damage to the eye or brain. A stroke, multiple sclerosis, a blow to the head. With the dizziness, I'd say you've had some insult to your vestibular apparatus. Maybe in the inner ear. Maybe central nervous system. Most likely it's not permanent." This last was mumbled in a most disconcerting voice.

"What do you mean by most likely, Dr. Cummings?"

"Call me Lisa," she said, as if attempting to divert attention.

"Fine. Lisa. So this could be permanent?"

She glanced away. "I'd need more tests. More background," she said. "Maybe you could start by telling me how all this happened."

He took a swig. He wished he could. An ache settled behind his eyes as he tried to remember. The last days were a blur.

"I was staying at one of the outlying villages. In the middle of the night, strange lights appeared up in the mountains. I didn't see the fireworks. By the time I'd woken, they'd subsided. But by the morning, everyone in the village complained of headaches, nausea. Including me. I asked one of the elders about the lights. He said they would appear every now and then, going back generations. Ghost lights. Attributed it to evil spirits of the deep mountains."

"Evil spirits?"

"He pointed to where the lights were seen. Up in a remote region of the mountains, an area of deep gorges, ice waterfalls, stretching all the way to the Chinese border. Difficult to traverse. The monastery sits on a shoulder of mountain overlooking this no-man's-land."

"So the monastery was closer to the lights?"

Painter nodded. "All the sheep died within twenty-four hours. Some dropped where they stood. Others bashed their heads against boulders, over and over again. I arrived back the next day, aching and vomiting. Lama Khemsar gave me some tea. That's the last thing I remember." He took another sip from the canteen and sighed. "That was three days ago. I woke up. Locked in a room. I had to smash my way out."

"You were lucky," the woman said, collecting back her canteen.

"How's that?"

She crossed her arms, tight, protective. "Lucky to be away from the monastery. Proximity to the lights appears to correlate to the severity of symptoms." She glanced up and away, as if trying to see through the walls down here. "Maybe it was some form of radiation. Didn't you say the Chinese border was not far? Maybe it was a nuclear test of some sort."

Painter had wondered the exact same thing days earlier.

"Why are you shaking your head?" Lisa asked.

Painter hadn't realized he was. He raised a palm to his forehead.

Lisa frowned. "You never did say what you are doing way out here, Mr. Crowe."

"Call me Painter." He offered her a crooked smile.

She wasn't impressed.

He debated how much more to say. Under the circumstances, honesty seemed the most prudent. Or at least as honest as he could be.

"I work for the government, a division called DARPA. We—"

She cut him off with a flip of her fingers, arms still crossed. "I'm familiar with DARPA. The U.S. military's research and development division. I had a research grant with them once. What's their interest out here?"

"Well, it seems you were not the only one Ang Gelu recruited. He contacted our organization a week ago. To investigate rumors of strange illnesses up here. I was just getting the lay of the land, determining what experts to bring into the area—doctors, geologists, military—when the storms blew in. I hadn't planned on being cut off for so long."

"Were you able to rule anything out?"

"From initial interviews, I was concerned that perhaps the Maoist rebels in the area had come into possession of some nuclear waste, preparing a dirty bomb of some sort. Along the lines of what you were conjecturing with the Chinese. So I tested for various forms of radiation as I waited out the storms. Nothing unusual registered."

Lisa stared at him, as if studying a strange beetle.

"If we could get you to a lab," she said clinically, "we might come up with some answers."

So she didn't consider him so much a beetle as a guinea pig.

At least he was moving up the evolutionary scale.

"First we have to survive," Painter said, recalling her to the reality here.

She glanced at the cellar's ceiling. It had been a while since they heard any gunfire. "Maybe they'll think everyone's dead. If we just stay down here—"

Painter pushed off the bale and stood. "From your description, the attack here was methodical. Planned in advance. They'll know about these tunnels. They'll eventually search here. We can only hope they'll wait for the fires to cool down."

Lisa nodded. "Then we keep going."

"And get clear. We can do this," he assured her. He placed a hand against the wall to steady himself. "We can do this," he repeated, more to himself this time than to her.

They set off.

After a few steps, Painter felt steadier.

Good.

The exit could not be much farther.

As if confirming this, a breeze whispered down the corridor, stirring the hanging bundles of herbs with a dry clacking. Painter felt the cold on his face. It froze him in place. A hunter's instinct took hold—half special ops training, half blood heritage. He reached behind him and took hold of Lisa's elbow, silencing her.

He flicked off the penlight.

Ahead, something heavy struck the floor, the sound echoing down the passage. Boots. A door slammed closed. The breeze died.

They were no longer alone.

The assassin crouched in the root cellar. He knew others were down here. How many? He shouldered his rifle and pulled out a Heckler & Koch MK23 pistol. He had already stripped his hands to fingerless wool under-gloves. He stood his post, listening.

The faintest scuffle and scrape.

Retreating.

At least two…maybe three.

Reaching up, he pulled shut the trapdoor that led to the barn above. The cold breeze died with one last whispered rush as darkness clamped over him. He pulled down a pair of night-vision goggles and clicked on an ultraviolet lamp affixed to his shoulder. The passage ahead glowed in shades of a silvery green.

Near at hand, a wall of shelves was stacked with canned goods and rows of wax-sealed jars of amber honey. He slipped past, moving slowly, silently. There was no need to hurry. The only other exits led to fiery ruin. He had shot those monks with sense enough still in their addled heads to flee the flames.

Mercy killings, all of them.

As he knew too well.

The Bell had been rung too loudly.

It had been an accident. One of many lately.

For the past month, he had sensed the agitation among the others at the Granitschloft. Even before the accident. Something had stirred up the castle, felt as far as the hinterlands where he made his solitary home. He had ignored it. Why should it be his concern?

Then the accident…and it had become his problem.

To clean up their mistake.

It was his duty as one of the last surviving Sonnekonige. Such was the decline of the Knights of the Sun—both in numbers and in status, debilitated and shunned, anachronistic and an embarrassment. Before long, the last of them would be gone.

And just as well.

But at least this duty today was almost finished. He could return to his hovel after he cleared out this root cellar. The tragedy at the monastery would be blamed on Maoist rebels. Who else but the godless Maoists would attack a strategically unimportant monastery?

To ensure this deception, even his ammunition matched the rebels'.

Including his pistol.

With weapon ready, he edged by a row of open oak barrels. Grain, rye, flour, even dried apples. He stepped carefully, wary of any ambush. The monks might be damaged of mind, but even the mad could display cunning when cornered.

Ahead, the passageway jagged to the left. He hugged the right wall. He stopped to listen, ears pricked for any scuffle of heel. He flipped up his night-vision goggles.

Pitch dark.

He lowered the scopes over his eyes, and the passageway stretched ahead, limned in green. He would see any lurkers well before they saw him. There was no escape. They would have to get past him to reach the only safe way out.

He slid around the corner.

A low bale of hay sat crooked across the passage, as if knocked aside in a hurry. He searched the stretch of cellar ahead. More barrels. The roof was raftered with hanging bunches of drying branches.

No movement. No sound.

He reached a leg over the blocking bale and stepped to the far side.

Under his boot heel, a brittle juniper branch cracked.

His eyes flicked down. The entire floor was covered with a spread of branches.

Trap.

"Now!"

He glanced up as the world ahead burst into a strobing brilliance. Amplified by the goggles' sensitivity, the exploding supernovas seared the back of his skull, blinding him.

Camera flashes.

He fired instinctively.

The explosions were deafening in the tight cellar.

They must have lain in wait in the dark, listening until he stepped on the crackling branch, giving away his proximity, then ambushed him. He backed a step, half tripping on the bale of hay.

Falling back, his next shot fired high.

A mistake.

Taking advantage, someone barreled into him. Low. Hitting him in the legs and knocking him over the bale. His back slammed into the stone floor. Something stabbed into the meat of his thigh. He kneed up, earning a grunt from the attacker atop him.

"Go!" the attacker yelled, pinning down his pistol arm. "Get clear!"

His attacker spoke English. Not a monk.

A second figure leaped past their bodies, appearing shadowy as his vision began to return. He heard the steps retreating toward the barn trapdoor.

"Scheifie/'he swore.

He heaved his body around, flinging the man from him like a ragdoll. The Sonnekonige were not like other men. His attacker struck the wall, rebounded, and tried to leap after the other escapee. But vision returned rapidly, illuminated by the retreating light. Furious, he grabbed his attacker's ankle and dragged him back.

The man kicked with his other foot, catching him in the elbow.

Growling, he dug his thumb into a tender nerve behind the Achilles tendon. The man cried out. He knew how painful that pinch could be. Like having your ankle broken. He drew the man up by his leg.

As he straightened, the world turned in a heady spin. All the strength suddenly sputtered out of him as if he were a popped balloon. His upper thigh burned. Where he'd been stabbed. He stared down. Not stabbed. A syringe still protruded from his thigh, jammed to the hilt.

Drugged.

His attacker twisted and broke his weakening grip, rolling and scrambling away.

He could not let the man escape.

He lifted his pistol—as heavy as an anvil now—and fired after him. The shot ricocheted off the floor. Weakening rapidly, he fired a second shot—but the man was already out of sight.

He heard his attacker fleeing.

Limbs heavy, he sank to his knees. His heart pounded in his chest. A heart twice the average size. But normal for a Sonnekonig.

He took several deep breaths as his metabolism adjusted.

The Sonnekonige were not like other men.

He slowly pushed to his feet. He had a duty to finish. It was why he had been born. To serve.

Painter slammed the trapdoor closed.

"Help me with this," he said, limping to the side. Pain prickled up his leg. He pointed to a stack of crates. "Stack them on the trapdoor."

He dragged off the topmost crate. Too heavy to carry, it crashed to the floor with a clang of rattling metal. He dragged it toward the door. He didn't know what was inside the crates, only that they were heavy, damn heavy.

He manhandled the box atop the trapdoor.

Lisa struggled with a second. He joined her, grabbing a third.

Together they hauled the load to the door.

"One more," Painter said.

Lisa stared at the pile of crates on the door. "No one's getting through that."

"One more," Painter insisted, panting and grimacing. "Trust me."

They dragged the last one together. It took both of them to lift it atop the others already piled on the trapdoor.

"The drugs will keep him out cold for hours," Lisa said.

A single gunshot answered her. A rifle round pierced through the loaded trapdoor and drilled into one of the barn rafters.

"I think I'm going to want a second opinion," Painter said, pulling her away.

"Did you get all of the midazolam…the sedative into him?"

"Oh yeah."

"Then how—?"

"I don't know. And right now, don't care."

Painter led her toward the open barn door. After searching for any other gunmen, they fled outside. To the left, the world was a fiery, smoky ruin. Flaming embers swirled into a lowering sky.

Clouds the color of granite obscured the summit overhead.

"Taski was right," Lisa mumbled, pulling up the hood of her parka.

"Who?"

"A Sherpa guide. He warned that another storm front would strike today."

Painter followed the flames twisting toward the clouds. Heavy white snowflakes began to sift downward, mixing with a black rain of glowing ash. Fire and ice. It was a fitting memorial to the dozen monks who had shared this monastery.

As Painter remembered the gentle men who made their home here, a dark anger stoked inside him. Who would slaughter the monks with such me re i I ess n ess?

He had no answer to the who, but he did know the why.

The illness here.

Something had gone wrong—and now someone sought to cover it up.

An explosion cut off any further contemplation. Flame and smoke belched out the barn door. One of the crate lids sailed out into the yard.

Painter grabbed Lisa's arm.

"Did he just blow himself up?" Lisa asked, staring aghast toward the barn.

"No. Just the trapdoor. C'mon. The fires will only hold him off so long."

Painter led the way across the ice-crusted ground, avoiding the frozen carcasses of the goats and sheep. They picked their way out the pen gate.

Snow grew heavier. A mixed blessing. Painter wore only a thick woolen robe and fur-lined boots. Not much insulation against a blizzard. But the fresh snowfall would help hide their path and shave visibility.

He led the way toward a path that ran along a sheer cliff face and trailed down to the lower village, the village he had visited a few days ago.

"Look!" Lisa said.

Below, a column of smoke churned into the sky, a smaller version of the one at their back.

"The village…" Painter tightened a fist.

So it wasn't just the monastery that was being eradicated. The scatter of huts below had been firebombed, too. The attackers were leaving no witnesses.

Painter pulled back from the cliff-side trail. It was too exposed.

The path would surely be watched, and others might still be below.

He retreated back toward the fiery ruins of the monastery.

"Where are we going to go?" Lisa asked.

Painter pointed beyond the flames. "No-man's-land."

"But isn't that where—?"

"Where the lights were last seen," he confirmed. "But the broken land is also a place to lose ourselves. To find shelter. To hole up and weather out the storm. We'll wait for others to come investigate the fire and smoke."

Painter stared at the thick black column. It should be visible for miles. A smoke signal, like his Native American ancestors once used. But was there anyone to see it? His gaze shifted higher, to the clouds. He tried to pierce the cover to the open skies beyond. He prayed someone recognized the danger.

Until then…

He had only one choice.

"Let's go."

1:25 a.m. WASHINGTON, D.C.

Monk crossed the dark Capitol Plaza with Kat at his side. They marched in brisk stride together, not so much in simpatico as irritation.

"I'd prefer we wait," Kat said. "It's too early. Anything might happen."

Monk could smell the hint of jasmine from her. They had showered hurriedly together after the call from Logan Gregory, caressing each other in the steam, entwined as they rinsed, a final intimacy. But afterward, as they separately toweled and dressed, practicality began to intrude with every tug of a zipper and securing of a button. Reality set in, cooling their passion as much as the night's chill.

Monk glanced at her now.

Kat wore navy blue slacks, a white blouse, and a windbreaker emblazoned with the U.S. Navy symbol. Professional as always, as spit-and-polished as her black leather pumps. While Monk, in turn, wore black Reeboks, dark jeans, and an oatmeal-colored turtleneck sweater, topped by a Chicago Cubs baseball cap.

"Until I know for sure," Kat continued, "I'd prefer we keep silent about the pregnancy."

"What do you mean by until I know for sure? Until you know for sure you want the baby? Until you're sure about us?"

They had argued all the way from Kat's apartment at the edge of Logan Circle, a former Victorian bed-and-breakfast that had been converted into condos, within walking distance of the Capitol. This night, the short walk seemed interminable.

"Monk…"

He stopped. He reached a hand out to her, then lowered it. Still, she stopped, too.

He stared her square in the eye. "Tell me, Kat."

"I want to make sure the pregnancy…I don't know…sticks. Until I'm further along before telling anyone." Her eyes glistened in the moonlight, near tears.

"Baby, that's why we should let everyone know." He stepped closer. He placed a hand on her belly. "To protect what's growing here."

She turned away, his hand now resting on the small of her back. "And then maybe you were right. My career…maybe this isn't the right time."

Monk sighed. "If all kids were born only at the right time, the world would be a much emptier place."

"Monk, you're not being fair. It's not your career."

"Like hell it's not. You don't think a kid isn't going to alter my life, my choices from here? It changes everything."

"Exactly. That's what scares me the most." She leaned into his palm. He wrapped her in his arms.

"We'll get through this together," he whispered. "I promise."

"I'd still rather keep quiet…at least for a few more days. I haven't even been to a doctor yet. Maybe the pregnancy test is wrong."

"How many tests did you take?"

She leaned against him.

"Well?"

"Five," she whispered.

"Five?" He failed to keep the amusement from his voice.

She half punched him in the ribs. It hurt. "Don't make fun of me." He heard the smile in her voice.

He wrapped his arms tighter around her. "Fine. It'll be our secret for now."

She turned in his arms and kissed him, not deeply, not passionately, just in thanks. They separated, but their fingers remained entwined as they continued across the mall.

Ahead, brightly lit, was their destination: the Smithsonian Castle. Its red sandstone battlements, towers, and spires shone in the dark, an anachronistic landmark to the orderly city surrounding it. While the main building housed the Smithsonian Institution's information center, the old abandoned bomb shelter below had been converted into Sigma's central command, burying DARPA's covert force of military scientists in the heart of the Smithsonian's score of museums and research sites.

Kat's fingers slipped from his as they neared the castle grounds.

Monk studied her, a worry nagging him still.

Despite their agreement, he sensed the core of insecurity persisted behind her manner. Was it more than just the baby?

Until I know for sure.

Sure of what?

The worry nagged Monk all the way down to the subterranean offices of Sigma command. But once below, the debriefing with Logan Gregory, Sigma's interim director, added a whole new batch of worries.

"Storm cover is still blanketing the region, with electrical storms surging across the entire Bay of Bengal," Logan explained, seated behind an orderly desk. A bank of LCD computer screens lined one wall. Data scrolled across two of them. One showed a live feed from a weather satellite over Asia.

Monk passed Kat a photo of one of the satellite passes.

"Hopefully we'll hear some further word before sunrise," Logan continued. "Ang Gelu left at dawn in Nepal to helicopter some medical staff up to the monastery. They were attempting the flight during the break between storms. It's still early. Only noon there now. So hopefully we'll have some further Intel soon."

Monk shared a glance with Kat. They had been briefed on the director's investigation. Painter Crowe had been out of communication for three days. From the haggard look of Logan Gregory, the man had been awake the entire time. He wore his usual blue suit, but it was slightly rumpled at elbow and knee, practically disheveled for the second in command of Sigma. His straw blond hair and tanned physique always gave him a youthful air, but this night, signs of his forty-plus years wore through: puffy eyes, a wan pallor, and a pair of wrinkles between his eyes as deep as the Grand Canyon.