Black Order

But hope was not the purpose of the ruse.

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

And when that happened, Painter would be ready.

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

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

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

Gunther just stared at him.

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

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

"Leper King," Gunther finally growled.

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

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

"Exiled. Like lepers."

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

"Yet you still help here," Painter said. "Still serve."

"It was what I was born for. I know my duty."

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

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

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

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

Gunther's eyes flashed. "Ich bin nicht krank."

"What do you mean you're not sick?"

"The Sonnekonige were born under the Bell," Gunther said pointedly.

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

"You're immune," he said.

Gunther turned away.

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

Then what—?

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

"You love Anna," Painter mumbled aloud.

"Of course I do," Gunther snapped back. "She's my sister."

Holed up in Anna's study, Lisa stood by the wall where a light box hung. Normally such boxes illuminated a patient's X-ray films, but presently Lisa had snugged two acetate sheets in place, striped with black lines. They were archived chromosome maps from research into the Bell's mutational effects, before shots and after shots of fetal DNA, collected by amniocentesis. The after shots had circles where the Bell had transformed certain chromosomes. Notations in German were written beside them.

Anna had translated them and had gone off to fetch more books.

At the light box, Lisa ran a finger down the mutational changes, searching for any pattern. She had reviewed several of the case studies. There seemed no rhyme or reason to the mutations.

With no answers, Lisa returned to the dining table, now piled high with books and bound reams of scientific data, a trail of human experimentation going back decades.

The hearth fire crackled behind her. She had to restrain an urge to chuck the research into the flames. Still, even if Anna hadn't been present, Lisa probably wouldn't have. She had come to Nepal to study physiologic effects at high altitudes. Though a medical doctor, she was a researcher at heart.

Like Anna.

No…not exactly like Anna.

Lisa nudged aside a research monograph resting on the table. Teratogenesis in the Embryonic Blastoderm. The document related to aborted monstrosities that resulted from exposure to the Bell's irradiation. What the black stripes on acetate had delineated with clinical detachment, the photographs in the book revealed with horrifying detail: limbless embryos, Cyclopean fetuses, hydrocephalic stillborn children.

No, she was definitely not Anna.

Anger built again in Lisa's chest.

Anna clattered down the iron ladder that led to the second tier of her research library, another load of books tucked under one arm. The Germans certainly were not holding back. And why would they? It was in all their best interest to discover a cure to the quantum disease. Anna believed it to be a futile effort, confident that all possibilities had been explored over the past decades, but it hadn't taken much persuasion to get her to cooperate.

Lisa had noted how the woman's hands shook with a barely detectable palsy. Anna kept rubbing her palms, trying to hide it. The remainder of the castle suffered more openly. The tension in the air all morning had been palpable. Lisa had witnessed a few yelling matches and one fistfight. She had also heard of two suicides in the castle over the past several hours. With the Bell gone and little hope of a cure, the place was coming apart at the seams. What if the madness set in before she and Painter could figure out a solution?

She pushed that thought aside. She would not give up. Whatever the reason for the current cooperation, Lisa intended to use it to her best advantage.

Lisa nodded to Anna as she approached. "Okay, I think I have a layman's grasp on the larger picture here. But you raised something earlier that's been nagging at me."

Dropping the books to the table, Anna settled into a seat. "What is that?"

"You mentioned that you believed the Bell controlled evolution." Lisa waved her hand across the breadth of books and manuscripts on the table. "But what I see here is just some mutagenic radiation that you've tied to a eugenics program. Building a better human being through genetic manipulation. Were you just being grandiose when you used the word e vo/ution?"

Anna shook her head, taking no offense. "How do you define evolution, Dr. Cummings?"

"The usual Darwinian way, I suppose."

"And that is?"

Lisa frowned. "A gradual process of biological change…where a single-celled organism spread and diversified into the present-day range of living organisms."

"And God has no hand in this at all?"

Lisa was taken aback by her question. "Like in creationism?"

Anna shrugged, eyes fixed on her. "Or intelligent design."

"You can't be serious? Next you'll be telling me how evolution is just a theory."

"Don't be silly. I'm not a layman who associates theory with a 'hunch' or 'guess.' Nothing in science reaches the level of theory without a vast pool of facts and tested hypotheses behind it."

"So then you accept Darwin's theory of evolution?"

"Certainly. Without a doubt. It's supported across all disciplines of science."

"Then why were you talking about—"

"One does not necessarily rule the other out."

Lisa cocked up one eyebrow. "Intelligent design and evolution?"

Anna nodded. "But let's back up so I'm not misunderstood. Let's first dismiss the ravings of the Flat Earth Creationists who doubt the world is even a globe, or even the strict biblical literalists who believe the planet is at best ten thousand years old. Let's jump ahead to the main arguments of those who advocate intelligent design."

Lisa shook her head. An ex-Nazi stumping for pseudoscience. What was going on?

Anna cleared her throat. "Admittedly, I will contend that most arguments for intelligent design are fallacious. Misinterpreting the Second Law of Thermodynamics, building statistical models that don't withstand review, misrepresenting radiometric dating of rocks. The list goes on and on. None of it valid, but it does throw up lots of misleading smoke."

Lisa nodded. It was one of the main reasons she had concern for the current drive to have pseudoscience presented alongside evolution in high school biology classes. It was a multidisciplinary quagmire that your average Ph.D. would have difficulty sorting through, let alone a high school student.

Anna, though, was not done with her side of the argument. "That all said, there is one concern proposed by the intelligent design camp that bears consideration."

"And what is that?"

"The randomness of mutations. Pure chance could not produce so many beneficial mutations over time. How many birth defects do you know that have produced beneficial changes?"

Lisa had heard that argument before. Life evolved too fast to be pure chance. She was not falling for it.

"Evolution is not pure chance," Lisa countered. "Natural selection, or environmental pressure, weeds out detrimental changes and only allows better-suited organisms to pass on their genes."

"Survival of the fittest?"

"Or fit enough. Changes don't have to be perfect. Just good enough to have an advantage. And over the vast scope of hundreds of millions of years, these small advantages or changes accumulate into the variety we see today."

"Over hundreds of millions of years? Granted, that is indeed a vast gulf of time, but does it still allow enough room for the full scope of evolutionary change? And what about those occasional spurts of evolution, where vast changes occurred rapidly?"

"I presume you're referring to the Cambrian explosion?" Lisa asked. It was one of the mainstays of intelligent design. The Cambrian Period encompassed a relatively short period of time. Fifteen million years. But during that time a vast explosion of new life appeared: sponges, snails, jellyfish, and trilobites. Seemingly out of the blue. Too fast a pace for antievolutionists.

"Nein. The fossil record has plenty of evidence that this 'sudden appearance' of invertebrates was not so sudden. There were abundant Precambrian sponges and wormlike metazoans. Even the diversity of shapes during this time could be justified by the appearance in the genetic code of Hox genes."

"Hox genes?"

"A set of four to six control genes appeared in the genetic code just prior to the Cambrian Period. They proved to be control switches for embryonic development, defining up and down, right and left, top and bottom, basic bodily form. Fruit flies, frogs, humans, all have the exact same Hox genes. You can snip a Hox gene from a fly, replace it into a frog's DNA, and it functions just fine. And as these genes are the fundamental master switches for embryonic development, it only takes minuscule changes in any of them to create massively new body shapes."

Though unsure where this was all leading, the depth of the woman's knowledge on the subject surprised Lisa. It rivaled her own. If Anna were a colleague at a conference, Lisa thought she might actually enjoy the debate. In fact, she kept having to remind herself to whom she was talking.

"So the rise of Hox genes just prior to the Cambrian Period might explain that dramatic explosion of forms. But," Anna countered, "Hox genes do not explain other moments of rapid—almost purposeful—evolution."

"Like what?" The discussion was becoming more interesting by the moment.

"Like the peppered moths. Are you familiar with the story?"

Lisa nodded. Now Anna was bringing up one of the mainstays on the other side of the camp. Peppered moths lived on birches and were speckled white, to blend in with the bark and avoid being eaten by birds. But when a coal plant opened in the Manchester region and blackened the trees with soot, the white moths found themselves exposed and easy targets for the birds. But in just a few generations, the population changed its predominant color to a solid black, to camouflage against the soot-covered trees.

"If mutations were random," Anna argued, "it seems amazingly lucky black showed up when it did. If it was purely a random event, then where were the red moths, the green moths, the purple ones? Or even the two-headed ones?"

Lisa had to force herself not to roll her eyes. "I could say the other colored moths were eaten, too. And the two-headed ones died off. But you're misunderstanding the example. The change in color of these moths was not from mutation. The species already had a black gene. A few black moths were born each generation, but they were mostly eaten, maintaining the general population as white. But once the trees blackened, then the few black moths had an advantage and filled the population as the white moths were consumed. That was the point of the example. Environments can influence a population. But it wasn't a mutational event. The black gene was already present."

Anna was smiling at her.

Lisa realized the woman had been testing her knowledge. She sat straighter, both angry and conversely more intrigued.

"Very good," Anna said. "Then let me bring up a more recent event. One that occurred in a controlled laboratory setting. A researcher produced a strain of E. coli bacteria that could not digest lactose. Then he spread a thriving population onto a growth plate where the only food source was lactose. What would science say should happen?"

Lisa shrugged. "Unable to digest the lactose, the bacteria would starve and die."

"And that's exactly what happened to ninety-eight percent of the bacteria. But two percent continued to thrive just fine. They had spontaneously mutated a gene to digest lactose. In one generation. I find that astonishing, /a? That goes against all probability of randomness. Of all the genes in an E. coli's DNA and the rarity of mutation, why did two percent of the population all mutate the one gene necessary to survive? It defies randomness."

Lisa had to contend that it was strange. "Maybe there was laboratory contamination."

"The experiment has been repeated. With similar results."

Lisa remained unconvinced.

"I see the doubt in your eyes. So let's look elsewhere for another example of the impossibility of randomness in gene mutation."

"Where's that?"

"Back to the beginning of life. Back to the primordial soup. Where the engine of evolution first switched on."

Lisa recalled Anna making some mention before about the story of the Bell stretching back to the origin of life. Was this where Anna was leading now? Lisa pricked her ears a bit more, ready to hear where this might lead.

"Let's turn the clock back," Anna said. "Back before the first cell. Remember Darwin's tenet: what exists had to arise from a simpler, less complex form. So before the single cell, what was there? How far can we reduce life and still call it life? Is DNA alive? Is a chromosome? How about a protein or an enzyme? Where is the line between chemistry and life?"

"Okay, that is an intriguing question," Lisa conceded.

"Then I'll ask another. How did life make the leap from a chemical primordial soup to the first cell?"

Lisa knew that answer. "Earth's early atmosphere was full of hydrogen, methane, and water. Add a few jolts of energy, say from a lightning strike, and these gases can form simple organic compounds. These then cooked up in the proverbial primordial soup and eventually formed a molecule that could replicate."

"Which was proven in the lab," Anna agreed, nodding. "A bottle full of primordial gases produced a slurry of amino acids, the building blocks of proteins."

"And life started."

"Ah, you are so eager to jump ahead," Anna teased. "We've only formed amino acids. Building blocks. How do we go from a few amino acids to that first fully replicating protein?"

"Mix enough amino acids together and eventually they'll chain up into the right combination."

"By random chance?"

A nod.

"That's where we come to the root of the problem, Dr. Cummings. I might concede with you that Darwin's evolution played a significant role after the first self-replicating protein formed. But do you know how many amino acids must link up in order to form this first replicating protein?"

"No."

"A minimum of thirty-two amino acids. That's the smallest protein that holds the capacity to replicate. The odds of this protein forming by random chance are astronomically thin. Ten to the power of forty-one."

Lisa shrugged at this number. Despite her feelings for the woman, a grudging respect began to grow.

"Let's put these odds in perspective," Anna said. "If you took all the protein found in all the rain forests of the world and dissolved it all down into an amino acid soup, it would still remain vastly improbable for a thirty-two-amino-acid chain to form. In fact, it would take five thousand times that amount to form one of these chains. Five thousand rain forests. So again, how do we go from a slurry of amino acids to that first replicator, the first bit of life?"

Lisa shook her head.

Anna crossed her arms, satisfied. "That's an evolutionary gap even Darwin has a hard time leaping."

"Still," Lisa countered, refusing to concede, "to fill this gap with the Hand of God is not science. Because we don't have an answer yet to fill this gap, it doesn't mean it has a supernatural cause."

"I'm not saying it's supernatural. And who says I don't have an answer to fill this gap?"

Lisa gaped at her. "What answer?"

"Something we discovered decades ago through our study of the Bell. Something that today's researchers are only beginning to explore in earnest."

"What's that?" Lisa found herself sitting straighter, forgoing any attempt to hide her interest in anything associated with the Bell.

"We call it quantum evolution."

Lisa recalled the history of the Bell and the Nazi research into the strange and fuzzy world of subatomic particles and quantum physics. "What does any of this have to do with evolution?"

"Not only does this new field of quantum evolution offer the strongest support for intelligent design," Anna said, "but it also answers the fundamental question of who the designer is."

"You're kidding. Who? God?"

"Nein."Anna stared her in the eye. "Us."

Before Anna could explain further, an old radio wired to the wall sputtered with static and a familiar voice rasped through. It was Gunther.

"We have a trace on the saboteur. We're ready to move."

7:37 a.m.

BUREN, GERMANY

Gray steered the BMW around an old farm truck, its bed piled high with hay. He slipped into fifth gear and raced through the last hairpin turn. Cresting the hill, he had a panoramic view of the valley ahead.

"Alme Valley," Monk said beside him. He clutched tight to a handhold above the door.

Gray slowed, downshifting.

Monk glared at him. "I see Rachel has been giving you Italian driving lessons."

"When in Rome…"

"We're not in Rome."

Plainly they were not. As they crested the ridge, a wide river valley stretched ahead, a green swath of meadows, forests, and tilled fields. Across the valley, a picture-postcard German hamlet huddled in the lowlands, a township of peaked red-tile roofs and stone houses set amid narrow, twisted streets.

But all eyes fixed upon the massive castle perched on the far ridge, nestled in the forest, overlooking the town. Towers jutted high, topped by fluttering flags. While hulking and massive, like many of the fortified structures along the larger Rhine River, the castle also had a fairy-tale quality to it, a place of enchanted princesses and knights on white stallions.

"If Dracula had been gay," Monk said, "that would so be his castle."

Gray knew what he meant. There was something vaguely sinister about the place, but it might just be the lowering sky to the north. They'd be lucky to reach the lowland village before the storm struck.

"Where to now?" Gray asked.

A crumpling sound rose from the backseat as Fiona checked the map. She had confiscated it from Monk and assumed the role of navigator, since she still withheld their destination.

She leaned forward and pointed to the river. "You have to cross that bridge."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I know how to read a map."

Gray headed down into the valley, avoiding a long line of bicyclists outfitted in a motley display of racing jerseys. He sped the BMW along the winding road to the valley floor and entered the outskirts of the village.

It appeared to be from another century. A German Brigadoon. Everywhere tulips filled window boxes, and each peaked roof supported high gables. Off to the sides, cobbled streets stretched out from the main thoroughfare. They passed a square lined by outdoor cafes, beer gardens, and a central bandstand, where Gray was sure a polka band played every night.

Then they were trundling across the bridge and soon found themselves back in the meadows and small farmsteads.

"Take the next left!" Fiona yelled.

Gray had to brake sharply and twist the BMW around a sharp turn. "A little warning next time."

The road grew narrower, lined by tall hedgerows. Asphalt turned to cobbles. The BMW shuddered over the uneven surface. Soon weeds were sprouting among the cobbles. Iron gates appeared ahead, spanning the narrow road, waiting open.

Gray slowed. "Where are we?"

"This is the place," Fiona said. "Where the Darwin Bible came from. The Hirszfeld estate."

Gray edged the BMW through the gates. Rain began pelting down from the darkening skies. At first lightly…then more forcefully.

"Just in time," Monk said.

Beyond the gates, a wide courtyard opened, framed on two sides by the wings of a small country cottage estate. The main house, directly ahead, stood only two stories high, but its slate-tiled roof rose in steep pitches, giving the home a bit of majesty.

A shatter of lightning crackled overhead, drawing the eye.

The castle they'd noted earlier rose directly atop the wooded ridge behind the estate. It seemed to loom over the cottage.

"Oy!" a call snapped out.

Gray's attention flicked back.

A bicyclist who had been trotting his bike out of the rain had almost got himself run over. The youth, dressed in a yellow soccer jersey and biker's shorts, slapped the BMW's hood with the palm of his hand.

"Watch where you're going, mate!" He flipped Gray off.

Fiona already had the back window rolled down, head sticking out. "Sod off, you prat! Why don't you watch where you're running around in those poncey shorts of yours!"

Monk shook his head. "Looks like Fiona's got a date for later."

Gray pulled the car into a slot near the main house. There was only one other car, but Gray noted a line of mountain and racing bikes chained up in racks. A cluster of bedraggled young men and women stood under one awning, backpacks resting on the ground. He heard them speaking as he cut the engine. Spanish. The place had to be a youth hostel. Or at least it was now. He could practically smell the patchouli and hemp.

Was this the right place?

Even if it was, Gray doubted he'd find anything of value here. But they had come this far. "Wait here," he said. "Monk, stay with—"

The back door popped open, and Fiona climbed out.

"Next time," Monk said, reaching for his door, "choose the model with child locks for the back."

"C'mon." Gray headed out after her.

Backpack over her shoulder, Fiona strode toward the front door of the main house.

He caught up with her at the porch steps and grabbed her elbow. "We stick together. No running off."

She faced him, equally angry. "Exactly. We stick together. No running off. That means no leaving me in airplanes or cars." She twisted out of his grip and pulled open the door.

A chime announced their arrival.

A clerk glanced up from a mahogany reception desk just inside the door. An early morning fire glowed in the hearth, chasing away the chill. The entrance hall was box-beamed and tiled in slate. Muted murals that looked centuries old decorated the walls. But the place showed signs of disrepair: crumbling plaster, dust in the rafters, frayed and faded rugs on the floor. The place had seen better days.

The clerk nodded to them, a hale young man in a rugby shirt and green slacks. In his late teens or early twenties, he looked like some blond collegiate freshman from an Abercrombie & Fitch advertisement.

"Guten morgen,"the clerk said, greeting Gray as he stepped to the counter.

Monk scanned the hall as thunder rumbled down the valley. "Nothing guten about this morning," he mumbled.

"Ah, Americans," the clerk said, hearing Monk's gripe. There was a slight chill to his tone.

Gray cleared his throat. "We were wondering if this is the old Hirszfeld estate?"

The clerk's eyes widened slightly. "Ja, aber…Ws been the BurgschloB Hostel for going on two decades. When my father, Johann Hirszfeld, inherited the place."

So they were at the right place. He glanced at Fiona, who lifted her eyebrows at him as if asking What? She was busy searching through her backpack. He prayed Monk was correct: that there were no flash grenades in there.

Gray turned his attention back to the clerk. "I was wondering if I might speak to your father."

"Concerning…?" The chill was back, along with a certain wariness.

Fiona bumped him aside. "Concerning this." She slapped a familiar book on the reception counter. It was the Darwin Bible.

Oh, God…he had left the book under guard on the jet.

Apparently not well enough.

"Fiona," Gray said in a warning tone.

"It's mine," she said out of the side of her mouth.

The clerk picked up the book and flipped through it. There was no sign of recognition. "A Bible? We don't allow proselytizing here at the hostel." He closed the book and slid it back toward Fiona. "Besides, my father is Jewish."

With the cat out of the bag, Gray proceeded more directly. "The Bible belonged to Charles Darwin. We believe it was once a part of your family's library. We were wondering if we could ask your father more about it."

The clerk eyed the Bible with less derision. "The library was sold off before my father took over this place," he said slowly. "I never did get to see it. I've heard from neighbors that it had been in the family going back centuries."

The clerk stepped around the reception desk and led the way past the hearth to an arched opening into a small neighboring hall. One wall was lined by tall thin windows, giving the room a cloistered feel. The opposite wall held a cold hearth large enough to walk into upright. The room was filled with rows of tables and benches, but it was empty, except for an older woman in a smock who swept the floor.

"This was the old family library and study. Now it's the hostel's dining hall. My father refused to sell the estate, but there were back taxes. I suppose that was why the library was sold half a century ago. My father had to auction off most of the original furnishings. Each generation, a bit of history vanishes."

"A shame," Gray said.

The clerk nodded and turned away. "Let me call my father. See if he's willing to talk to you."

A few moments later, the clerk waved to them and guided them to wide-set double doors. He unlocked the way and held the door. It led to the private section of the estate.

The clerk introduced himself as Ryan Hirszfeld as he marched them to the back of the house and out into a glass-and-bronze conservatory. Potted ferns and colorful bromeliads lined the walls. Stepped shelves climbed one windowed side, crowded with a mix of specimen plants, some looking like weeds. At the back, a lone palm tree rose, its crown brushing against the glass roof, some fronds yellowing in neglect. There was an old, overgrown feel to the place, unkempt and untended. The feeling was enhanced by the drizzle of water leaking through a cracked pane, trailing into a bucket.

The sunroom was far from sunny.

In the center of the conservatory, a frail man sat in a wheelchair, a blanket over his lap, staring out toward the back of the property. Rainwater sluiced across all the surfaces, making the world beyond appear insubstantial and unreal.

Ryan went to him, almost shyly. "Vater. Hier sind die Leute mit der Bibel."

"Auf Englisch, Ryan…auf Englisch." The man hauled on one wheel and the chair turned to face them. His skin looked paper thin. His voice wheezed. Suffering from emphysema, Gray guessed.

Ryan, the son, wore a pained expression. Gray wondered if he was even aware of it.

"I am Johann Hirszfeld," the old man said. "So you've come to inquire about the old library. Certainly has been a lot of interest lately. Not a word for decades. Now twice in one year."

Gray remembered Fiona's story of the mysterious elderly gentleman who had visited Grette's bookshop and searched through their files. He must have seen the bill of lading and followed the same path here.

"Ryan says you have one of the books."

"The Darwin Bible," Gray said.

The old man held out his hands. Fiona stepped forward and placed it in his palms. He settled it to his lap. "Haven't seen this since I was a boy," he wheezed. He glanced up at his son. "Danke, Ryan. You should see to the front desk."

Ryan nodded, stepping back reluctantly, then turned and left.

Johann waited for his son to shut the conservatory door, then sighed, his eyes returning to the Bible. He opened the front cover, checking the Darwin family tree inside. "This was one of my family's most cherished possessions. The Bible was a gift to my great-grandfather in 1901 from the British Royal

Society. He had been a distinguished botanist at the turn of the century."

Gray heard the melancholy in the man's voice.

"Our family has a long tradition of scientific study and accomplishments. Nothing along the lines of Herr Darwin, but we've made a few footnotes." His eyes drifted back to the rain and watery property. "That's long over. Now I guess we'll have to be known as hoteliers."

"About the Bible," Gray said. "Can you tell me anything else about it? Was the library always kept here?"

"Natürlich. Some books were taken out into the field when one or another of my relatives went abroad for research. But this book only left the household once. I only know that because I was here when it was returned. Mailed back by my grandfather. Caused a stir here."

"Why's that?"

"I thought you might ask. That's why I sent Ryan out. Best he not know."

"Ask about what?"

"My grandfather Hugo worked for the Nazis. As did his daughter, my aunt Tola. The two of them were inseparable. I learned later, whispered scandalously among the relatives, that they were involved in some secret research project. Both were noted and distinguished biologists."

"What sort of research?" Monk asked.

"No one ever knew. Both my grandfather and Aunt Tola died at the end of the war. But a month before that, a crate arrived from my grandfather. It contained the part of the library he had taken with him. Maybe he knew he was doomed and wanted to preserve the books. Five books actually." The man tapped the Bible. "This was one of them. Though what he might want with the Bible as a research tool, no one could tell me."

"Maybe a piece of home," Fiona said, softly.

Johann seemed finally to see the young girl. He slowly nodded. "Maybe. Perhaps some connection to his own father. Some symbolic stamp of approval for what he was doing." The old man shook his head. "Working for the Nazis. Horrible business."

Gray remembered something Ryan had said. "Wait. But you're Jewish, aren't you?"

"Yes. But you have to understand, my great-grandmother, Hugo's mother, was German, with deep local family roots. Which included connections within the Nazi party. Even when Hitler's pogrom began, our family was spared. We were classified as Mischlinge, mixed blood. Enough German to avoid a death sentence. But to prove that loyalty, my grandfather and aunt found themselves recruited by the Nazis. They were gathering scientists like squirrels after nuts."

"So they were forced," Gray said.

Johann stared out into the storm. "It was complicated times. My grandfather held some strange beliefs."

"Like what?"

Johann seemed not to hear the question. He opened the Bible and flipped through the pages. Gray noted the hand-inked marks. He stepped forward and pointed to a few of the hand-drawn hash marks.

"We were wondering what those were," Gray said.

"Are you familiar with the Thule Society?" the old man asked, seeming not to hear his question.

Gray shook his head.

"They were an extreme German nationalistic group. My grandfather was a member, initiated when he was twenty-two. His mother's family had ties with

Johann held up the book. "The family tree at the back is gone."

"Let me see." Gray took the book. He examined the inside of the end cover more closely. Fiona and Monk flanked him.

He ran a finger along the binding, then examined the back cover closely.

"Look here," he said. "It looks like someone sliced free the back flyleaf page of the Bible and glued it over the inside of the back cover. Over the original pastedown." Gray glanced to Fiona. "Would Grette have done that?"

"Not a chance. She would rather rip apart the Mona Lisa."

If not Grette…

Gray glanced to Johann.

"I'm sure no one in my family would've done that. The library was sold only a few years after the war. After it was mailed back here, I doubt anyone touched the Bible."

Johann held up the book. "The family tree at the back is gone."

"Let me see." Gray took the book. He examined the inside of the end cover more closely. Fiona and Monk flanked him.

He ran a finger along the binding, then examined the back cover closely.

"Look here," he said. "It looks like someone sliced free the back flyleaf page of the Bible and glued it over the inside of the back cover. Over the original pastedown." Gray glanced to Fiona. "Would Grette have done that?"

"Not a chance. She would rather rip apart the Mona Lisa."

If not Grette…

Gray glanced to Johann.

"I'm sure no one in my family would've done that. The library was sold only a few years after the war. After it was mailed back here, I doubt anyone touched the Bible."

That left only Hugo Hirszfeld.

"Knife," Gray said and crossed to a garden table.

Monk reached to his pack and unhooked a Swiss Army knife. He opened it and passed it to Gray. Using the tip, Gray razored the edges of the back sheet, then teased a corner up. The thick flyleaf lifted easily. Only the edges had been glued.

Johann wheeled his chair to join them. He had to push up with his arms to see over the table's edge. Gray did not hide what he was doing. He might need the man's cooperation for whatever was exposed.

He removed the flyleaf and revealed the original pasteboard of the cover. Neatly written upon it was the other half of the Darwin family tree. Johann had been correct. But that was not all that was there now.

"Horrible," Johann said. "Why would Grandfather do that? Deface the Bible so?"

Superimposed over the family tree, inked across the entire page in black, dug

That left only Hugo Hirszfeld.

"Knife," Gray said and crossed to a garden table.

Monk reached to his pack and unhooked a Swiss Army knife. He opened it and passed it to Gray. Using the tip, Gray razored the edges of the back sheet, then teased a corner up. The thick flyleaf lifted easily. Only the edges had been glued.

Johann wheeled his chair to join them. He had to push up with his arms to see over the table's edge. Gray did not hide what he was doing. He might need the man's cooperation for whatever was exposed.

He removed the flyleaf and revealed the original pasteboard of the cover. Neatly written upon it was the other half of the Darwin family tree. Johann had been correct. But that was not all that was there now.

"Horrible," Johann said. "Why would Grandfather do that? Deface the Bible so?"

Superimposed over the family tree, inked across the entire page in black, dug deep into the backboard of the Bible, was a strange symbol.

Y

In the same ink, a single line in German had been penned below it.

Gott, verzeihen mir.

Gray translated.

God, forgive me.

Monk pointed to the symbol. "What is that?"

"A rune," Johann said, scowling and dropping back into his seat. "More of my grandfather's madness."

Gray turned to him.

Johann explained. "The Thule Society believed in rune magic. Ancient power and rites associated with the Nordic symbols. As the Nazis took to heart the Thule's philosophy of supermen, they also absorbed the mysticism about runes."

Gray was familiar with the Nazi symbology and its ties to runes, but what did it mean here?

"Do you know the significance of this particular symbol?" Gray asked.

"No. It's not a subject a German Jew would find of interest. Not after the war." Johann turned his wheelchair and stared out at the storm. Thunder rumbled, sounding far away and close at the same time. "But I know who might be able to help you. A curator at the museum up there."

Gray closed the Bible and joined Johann. "What museum?"

A crackle of lightning lit the conservatory. Johann pointed upward. Gray craned. In the fading light, veiled in rain, rose the massive castle.

"Historisches Museum des Hochstifts Paderborn," Johann said. "It is open today. Inside the castle." The old man scowled at his neighbor. "They'll certainly know what the symbol means."

"Why's that?" Gray asked.

Johann stared at him as though he were a simpleton. "Who better? That is Wewelsburg Castle." When Gray didn't respond, the old man continued with a sigh. "Himmler's Black Camelot. The stronghold of the Nazi SS."

"So it was Dracula's castle," Monk mumbled.

Johann continued, "Back in the seventeenth century, witch trials were held up there, thousands of women tortured and executed. Himmler only added to its blood debt. Twelve hundred Jews from the Niederhagen concentration camp died during Himmler's reconstruction of the castle. A cursed place. Should be torn down."

"But the museum there," Gray asked, directing Johann away from his growing anger. The man's wheezing had worsened. "They would know about the rune?"

A nod. "Heinrich Himmler was a member of the Thule Society, steeped in rune lore. In fact, it was how my grandfather was brought to his attention. They shared an obsession with runes."

Gray sensed a convergence of ties and events, all centered on this occult Thule Society. But what? He needed more information. A trip to the castle museum was doubly warranted.

Johann wheeled himself away from Gray, dismissing him. "It was because of such common interests with my grandfather that Himmler granted our family, a family of Mischlinge, the pardon. We were spared the camps."

Because of Himmler.

Gray understood the root of the man's anger…and why he had asked his son to leave the room. It was a family burden best left undiscovered. Johann stared out into the storm.

Gray collected the Bible and waved everyone out. "Danke," he called back to the old man.

Johann did not acknowledge him, lost in the past.

Gray and the others were soon out on the front porch again. The rain continued to pour out of low skies. The courtyard was deserted. There would be no biking or hiking today.

"Let's go," Gray said and headed into the rain.

"Perfect day to storm a castle," Monk said sarcastically.

As they hurried across the courtyard, Gray noted a new car parked next to theirs. Empty. Engine steaming in the cold rain. Must have just arrived.

An ice-white Mercedes.

9 SABOTEUR

12:32 p.m. HIMALAYAS

"Where is the signal coming from?" Anna asked.

The woman had rushed into the maintenance room, responding immediately to Gunther's call. She had arrived alone, claiming Lisa had wanted to remain behind in the library to follow up on some research. Painter thought it more likely that Anna still wanted to keep them apart.

Just as well that Lisa was out of harm's way.

Especially if they were truly on the track of the saboteur.

Leaning closer to the laptop screen, Painter massaged the tips of his fingers. A persistent tingling itched behind his nails. He stopped rubbing long enough to point at the three-dimensional schematic of the castle.

"Best estimate is this region," Painter said, tapping the screen. He had been surprised to see how extensively the castle spread into the mountain. It hollowed right through the peak. The signal came from the far side. "But it's not a pinpoint. The saboteur would need a clear line of sight to use his satellite phone."

Anna straightened. "The helipad is there."

Gunther nodded with a grunt.

On the screen, the overlay of pulsing lines suddenly collapsed. "He's ended the call," Painter said. "We'll have to move fast."

Anna turned to Gunther. "Contact Klaus. Have his men close off the helipad. Now."

Gunther swung to a phone receiver on the wall and started the lockdown. The plan had been to search everyone in the signal vicinity, discover who had an illicit sat-phone in their possession.

Anna returned to Painter. "Thank you for your help. We'll search from here."

"I may be of further help." Painter had been busy typing on the laptop. He memorized the number that appeared on the screen, then detached his hand-built signal amplifier from the castle's ground wire. He straightened. "But I'll need one of your portable satellite phones."

"I can't leave you here with a phone," Anna said, knuckling her temple and wincing. Headache.

"You don't have to leave me. I'm going with you to the helipad."

Gunther stepped forward, his usual frown deepening.

Anna waved him back. "We don't have time to argue." But something silent passed between the large man and his sister. A warning for the big man to keep an eye on Painter.

Anna led the way out.

Painter followed, still rubbing his fingers. The nails had begun to burn. He studied them for the first time, expecting the nail beds to be inflamed, but instead, his fingernails were oddly blanched, bled of color.

Frostbite?

Gunther passed him one of the castle's phones, noted Painter's attention, and shook his head. He held out a hand. Painter didn't understand—then noted the man was missing the fingernails on his last three fingers.

Gunther lowered his arm and marched after Anna.

Painter clenched and unclenched his hands. So the tingling burn wasn't frostbite. The quantum disease was advancing. He recalled Anna's list of debilitations in the Bell's test subjects: loss of fingers, ears, toes. Not unlike leprosy.

How much time?

As they headed toward the far side of the mountain, Painter studied Gunther. The man had lived his whole life with a sword hanging over his head. Chronic and progressive wasting, followed by madness. Painter was headed for the Reader's Digest version of the same condition. He could not deny it terrified him—not so much the debilitation as the loss of his mind.

How long did he have?

Gunther must have sensed his reverie. "I will not let this happen to Anna," he growled under his breath to Painter. "I will do anything to stop it."

Painter was again reminded that the pair were brother and sister. Only after learning this did Painter see subtle similarities of feature: curve of lip, sculpt of chin, identical frown lines. Family. But the similarities ended there. Anna's dark hair, emerald rich eyes contrasted sharply with her brother's washed-out appearance. Only Gunther had been born under the Bell, one child sacrificed, a tithing in blood, and the last of the Sonnekonige.

As they crossed hallways and descended stairs, Painter worked the back cover off the portable phone. He pocketed it, loosened the battery, and jury-rigged his amplifier to the antenna wire behind the battery. The broadcast would only be a single burst, seconds long, but it should do the job.

"What is that?" Gunther asked.

"A GPS sniffer. The amplifier recorded the chip-specs from the saboteur's phone during the call. I may be able to use it to hunt him down if he's close."

Gunther grunted, buying the lie.

So far so good.

The stairs emptied into a wide passageway, large enough to trundle a tank through. Old steel tracks ran along the floor and headed straight through the heart of the mountain. The helipad was located at the other end, remote from the main castle. They mounted a flatbed car. Gunther released the hand brake and engaged the electric motor with the press of a floor pedal. There were no seats, only rails. Painter held on as they zipped down the passage, lit intermittently by overhead lamps.

"So you have your own subway system," Painter said.

"For moving goods," Anna replied, wincing, her brows furrowed tight in pain. She had taken two pills on the way here. Pain relievers?

They passed a series of storage rooms piled high with barrels, boxes, and crates, apparently flown in and warehoused. In another minute, they reached the terminal end of the passageway. The air had grown more heated, steamy, smelling vaguely sulfurous. A deep sonorous thrum vibrated through the stone and up Painter's legs as he climbed off the train cart. He knew from his peek at the castle schematics that the geothermal plant was located in the nether regions of this area.

But they were headed up, not down.

A ramp continued from here, wide enough to accommodate a Humvee. They climbed up into a cavernous space. Light streamed through an open set of steel doors in the roof. It looked like the warehouse of a commercial airfield: cranes, forklifts, heavy equipment. And in the center rested a pair of A-Star Ecuriel helicopters, one black, one white, both shaped like angry hornets, made for high-altitude flying.

Klaus, the hulking Sonnekonige guard, noted their entrance and marched up to them, favoring his weak side. He ignored everyone except Anna. "All is secure," he said in crisp German.

He nodded to a line of men and women off to the side. A good dozen stood under the watchful eyes of a phalanx of armed guards.

"No one slipped past you?" Anna asked.

"Nein. We were ready."

Anna had positioned four Sonnekonige in each main quadrant of the castle, ready to lock down whichever region Painter pinpointed with his device. But what if he had made a mistake? The commotion here would surely alert the saboteur. He or she would go even deeper into hiding. This was their one chance.

Anna knew it, too. She moved stiffly as she crossed the space. "Have you found—?"

She stumbled a step, weaving a bit. Gunther caught her arm, steadying her, his face worried.

"I'm fine," she whispered to him and continued on her own.

"We've searched everyone," Klaus said, doing his best to ignore her misstep. "We've found no phone or device. We were about to start searching the helipad."

Anna's frown deepened. It was what they had feared. Rather than carrying the phone, the saboteur might easily have stashed it somewhere after the call.

Or then again, Painter might have miscalculated.

In which case, he would have to redeem himself.

Painter stepped to Anna's side. He lifted his makeshift device. "I might be able to accelerate the search for the phone."

She eyed him suspiciously, but their choices were few. She nodded.

Gunther kept to his shoulder.

Painter lifted the satellite phone, turned it on, and punched in the number he had memorized. Nine digits. Nothing happened. Eyes were fixed on him.

He scrunched in concentration and punched them in again.

Still nothing.

Had he got the number wrong?

"Was ist /os?" Anna asked.

Painter stared at the line of digits on the phone's small screen. He read through them again and saw his error. "I mixed up the last two numbers. Transposed them."

He shook his head and typed them in again, concentrating hard, going slow. He finally entered the right sequence. Anna met his eyes when he glanced up. His error was more than stress. She knew it, too. Keypad punching was often used as a test of mental acuity.

And this had only been a simple telephone number.

But an important one.

Painter's signal net had acquired the saboteur's sat-phone number. He pressed the transmit button and glanced up.

After a millisecond, a phone rang in the chamber, trilling loudly.

All eyes turned.

To Klaus.

The Sonnekonig backed up a step.

"Your saboteur…" Painter said.

Klaus opened his mouth, ready to deny—but instead he yanked out his handgun, his face going hard.

Gunther reacted a second faster, his MK23 pistol already in hand.

A blast of muzzle fire.

Klaus's weapon flew from his fingertips with a ricocheted spark.

Gunther lunged forward, pressing his pistol's smoking barrel against Klaus's cheek. Cold flesh sizzled, branded by the hot muzzle. Klaus didn't even wince. They needed the saboteur alive, to answer questions. Gunther asked the foremost one.

"Warum?"he growled. Why?

Klaus glared out of his one good eye. The other's lid drooped along with his half-paralyzed face, turning his sneer into something more dreadful. He spat on the ground. "To put an end to the humiliating reign of the Leprakonige."

A long-suppressed hatred shone from his twisted face. Painter could only imagine the years of anger smoldering in the man's bones, years of ridicule while his body deteriorated. Once a prince, now a leper. But Painter sensed it was more than mere revenge. Someone had turned the man into a mole.

But who?

"Brother," Klaus said to Gunther, "it doesn't have to be this way. A life of the living dead. There is a cure." A keening edge of hope and pleading entered the man's voice. "We can be kings among men again."

So there was the man's forty pieces of silver.

Promise of a cure.

Gunther was not swayed. "I am not your brother," he answered from deep in his chest. "And I was nevera king."

Painter sensed the true difference between these two Sonnekonige. Klaus was a decade older. As such, he had grown up as a prince here, only to have it all taken away. Gunther, on the other hand, had been born at the end of the test run, when the reality of the debilitation and madness had become known. He had always been a leper, knowing no other life.

And there was another critical difference between them.

"You sentenced Anna to death with your betrayal," Gunther said. "I will make you and anyone who supported you suffer for it."

Klaus did not retreat but became more earnest. "She can be cured, too. It can be arranged."

Gunther's eyes narrowed.

Klaus sensed the hesitation, the hope in his adversary. Not for himself, but his sister. "She doesn't have to die."

Painter remembered Gunther's words earlier. I will not let this happen to Anna. I will do anything to stop it. Did that include betraying everyone else? Even defying his sister's wishes?

"Who promised you this cure?" Anna asked in a hard voice.

Klaus laughed gutturally. "Men far greater than the sniveling things you have become here. It is only right that you should be cast aside. You have served your purpose. But no longer."

A loud pop exploded in Painter's hands. The satellite phone he'd used to expose the saboteur shattered as the battery detonated, short-circuited by his amplifier. Fingers stinging, he dropped the smoking remains of the sat-phone and glanced skyward, toward the helipad bay doors. He prayed the amplifier had lasted long enough.

He was not the only one distracted. All eyes had swung toward him when the phone blew up. Including Gunther's.

Using the momentary inattention, Klaus freed a hunting knife and leaped at the other Sonnekonig. Gunther fired, catching his attacker in the gut with the large slug. Still, Klaus's blade grazed through the meat of Gunther's shoulder as he fell.

Gasping, Gunther twisted and threw Klaus to the floor.

The man crashed hard, sprawled out. Still, he managed to roll up on his side, his good arm clutching his belly. Blood poured heavily out of the stomach wound. Klaus coughed. More blood. Bright red. Arterial. Gunther's wild shot had struck something vital.

Anna hurried to Gunther's side to check his wound. He brushed her back, keeping his pistol trained on Klaus. Blood soaked through Gunther's sleeve and dripped to the stone.

Klaus merely laughed, a grating of rocks. "You will all die! Strangled when the knot tightens!"

He coughed again, convulsive. Blood spread in a pool. With a final trembling sneer, he slumped to the floor facedown. Gunther lowered his gun. Klaus needed no further guarding. One last breath and the large man lay still.

Dead.

Gunther allowed Anna to use an oily scrap of rag from a pile nearby to tie off his wound until it could be better tended.

Painter circled Klaus's body, nagged by something. Others in the room had gathered around, talking among themselves in voices both fearful and hopeful. They had all heard the mention of a cure.

Anna joined him. "I'll have one of our technicians examine his satellite phone. Maybe it can lead us to whoever orchestrated the sabotage."

"Not enough time," Painter mumbled, tuning everything else out. He concentrated on what bothered him. It was like grasping at threads just out of reach.

As he paced, he ran through what clues Klaus had offered.

…we can be kings among men again.

…you have served your purpose. But no longer.

A headache flared as Painter attempted to piece things together.

Klaus must have been recruited as a double agent…in a game of industrial espionage. For someone carrying on parallel research. And now the work at the castle here had become superfluous, and steps had been put into motion to eliminate the competition.

"Could he have spoken truthfully?" Gunther asked.

Painter remembered the large man's hesitation a moment before, baited by an offer of a cure, for himself and his sister. It had all died with Klaus.

But they weren't giving up.

Anna had dropped to a knee. She removed a small phone from Klaus's pocket. "We'll have to work quickly."

"Can you help?" Gunther asked Painter, nodding to the phone.

Their only hope lay in finding out who had picked up the other line.

"If you could trace the call…" Anna said, standing up.

Painter shook his head, not in denial. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. His head pounded, rounding up to a full migraine. But even that wasn't what had him shaking his head.

Close…whatever nagged him was so close…

Anna stepped near to him, touched his elbow. "It is to all our best interest to—"

"I know," he snapped. "Now shut up! Let me think."

Anna's hand dropped from his arm.

His outburst silenced the room. He fought to drag up what his mind kept hidden. It was like transposing the numbers on the sat-phone. The sharp edge to his mental acuity was dulling.

"The sat-phone…something about the sat-phone…" he whispered, pressing back the migraine by sheer will. "But what?"

Anna spoke softly. "What do you mean?"

Then it struck him. How could he have been so blind?

Painter lowered his arms and opened his eyes. "Klaus knew the castle was under electronic surveillance. So why did he make the call at all? Expose himself? Why take that risk?"

Cold terror washed over him. He swung to Anna. "The rumor. The one about having a cache of Xerum 525 still left. Were we the only ones who knew the rumor was false? That there really isn't any more of the liquid metal?"

The others in the room gasped at his revelation. A few voices rose in anger. Much hope had been seeded by the rumor, inflaming some optimism that a second Bell could be built. Now it was dashed.

But certainly someone else had believed the rumor, too.

"Only Gunther knew the truth," Anna said, confirming his worst fear.

Painter stared out across the helipad. He pictured the castle schematic in his head. He now knew why Klaus had made the call…and why he made it from here. The bastard thought he could hide in plain sight afterward, so confident he hadn't even disposed of the phone. He had chosen this spot specifically.

"Anna, when you spread the rumor, where did you say you had the Xerum 525 locked up? How had it avoided being destroyed in the explosion?"

"I claimed it was locked up in a vault."

"What vault?"

"Away from the explosion site. The one in my study. Why?"

All the way on the other side of the castle.

"We've been played," Painter said. "Klaus called from here, knowing the castle was being monitored. He meant to lure us here. To pull our attention away from your study, from the secret vault, from the supposed last cache of Xerum 525."

Anna shook her head, not understanding.

"Klaus's call was a decoy. The real goal all along was the fabled last batch of Xerum 525."

Anna's eyes grew wide.

Gunther understood now, too. "There must be a second saboteur."

"While we're distracted here, he's going after the Xerum 525."

"My study," Anna said, turning to Painter.

It finally struck him, what had been nagging him the most, making him heartsick and nauseated. It burst forth with a white-hot stab of blinding pain. Someone stood in the direct path of the saboteur.

Lisa searched the upper story of the library. She had climbed the wrought-iron ladder to the rickety iron balcony and now circled the room. She kept one hand on the balcony railing.

She had spent the past hour gathering books and papers on quantum mechanics. She even found the original treatise of Max Planck, the father of quantum theory, a theory that defined a bewildering world of elemental particles, a world where energy could be broken down into small packets, called quanta, and where elemental matter behaved like both particles and waves.

It all made her head ache.

What did any of this have to do with evolution?

She sensed any cure lay in discovering that answer.

Reaching out, she tilted a book from the shelf, studying the binding. She squinted at the faded lettering.

Was this the right volume?

A commotion at the door drew her attention around. She knew the exit was guarded. What now? Was Anna returning already? Had they found the saboteur? Lisa turned back toward the ladder. She hoped Painter was with Anna. She didn't like being apart from him. And maybe he could make heads or tails of these strange theories of matter and energy.

She reached the ladder and turned to step down on the first rung.

A sharp scream, quickly silenced, froze her in place.

It came from right outside the door.

Reacting on instinct, Lisa lunged back up and spread herself flat on the wrought-iron balcony. The open floor grating offered little cover. She slid close to the stacks, into the shadows, away from the wall sconces on this level.

As she lay still, the door across the room opened and closed. A figure slipped into the room. A woman. In a snow-white parka. But it wasn't Anna. The woman tossed back her hood and pulled down a scarf. She had long white hair and was as pale as a ghost.

Friend or foe?

Lisa kept hidden until she knew more.

There was something too confident about the woman. The way her eyes searched the room. She half turned. A spray of blood marred the side of her jacket. In her other hand, she held a curved katana, a short Japanese saber. Blood dripped from the blade.

The woman danced into the room, turning in a slow circle.

Hunting.

Lisa dared not breathe. She prayed the shadows kept her hidden up here. The library's few lamps lit the lower level, as did the hearth fire. It crackled and shone with a few flames. But the upper balcony remained gloomy.

Would it be enough to hide her?

Lisa watched the intruder make another circle, standing in the middle of the room, bloodied katana held at the ready.

Seemingly satisfied, the ice-blond woman strode quickly toward Anna's desk. She ignored the clutter on top and stepped behind the wide table. Reaching to a tapestry on the wall, she pulled it back and exposed a large black cast-iron wall safe.

Hooking the tapestry aside, she knelt and inspected the combination lock, the handle, the edges of the door.

With the woman's concentration so focused, Lisa allowed herself to breathe. Whatever thievery was afoot, so be it. Let the woman abscond with whatever she came for and be gone. If the burglar had slain the guards, maybe Lisa could turn it to her advantage. If she could reach a phone…the intrusion might actually turn out for the best.

A loud clatter startled her.

A few yards away, a heavy book had fallen from its shelf and landed splayed open on the wrought-iron balcony. Pages still fluttered from the impact. Lisa recognized the book she had half pulled out a moment ago. Forgotten until now, gravity had done the rest, slowly tugging the book free.

Below, the woman retreated to the center of the room.

A pistol had appeared in her other hand, as if out of thin air, pointed up.

Lisa had nowhere to hide.

9:18 a.m.

BUREN, GERMANY

Gray pulled open the door to the team's BMW. He began to duck inside when a shout rose behind him. He turned toward the entrance to the hostel. Ryan Hirszfeld hurried toward them, hunched under an umbrella. Thunder echoed, and rain lashed across the parking lot of the cottage estate.

"Get inside," Gray ordered Monk and Fiona, waving to the sedan.

He faced Ryan as the young man reached his side.

"Are you heading to the castle…to Wewelsburg?" he asked, lifting the umbrella to shelter them both.

"Yes, we are. Why?"

"Might I hop a ride with you?"

"I don't think—"

Ryan cut him off. "You were asking about my great-grandfather…Hugo. I may have more information for you. It'll only cost you a ride up the hill."

Gray hesitated. The young man must have eavesdropped on their earlier conversation with Johann, his father. What could Ryan know that his father didn't? Still, the man stared at him with earnest eyes.

Turning, Gray popped the back door and held it open.

"Danke."Ryan folded the umbrella and ducked into the back with Fiona.

Gray climbed behind the wheel. In moments, they were bumping down the driveway out of the estate.

"Shouldn't you be home watching the store?" Monk asked, half turned in the passenger seat to address Ryan.

"Alicia will cover the front desk for me," Ryan said. "The storm will keep everyone close to the fire."

Gray studied the young man in the rearview mirror. He looked suddenly uncomfortable under Monk's and Fiona's scrutiny.

"What did you want to tell us?" Gray asked.

Ryan's eyes met his in the mirror. He swallowed and nodded. "My father thinks I know nothing about my great-grandfather Hugo. Thinks it best be buried in the past, /a? But it's still whispered about. Same with Aunt Tola."

Gray understood. Family secrets had a way of surfacing, no matter how deeply you tried to bury them. Curiosity had plainly been instilled in Ryan about his ancestors and their role during the war. It practically shone from the man's eyes.

"You've been doing your own investigation into the past?" Gray said.

Ryan nodded. "For three years now. But the trail goes back further. To when the Berlin Wall came down. When the Soviet Union dissolved."

"I don't understand," Gray said.

"Do you remember when Russia declassified the older Soviet files?"

"I suppose. But what about them?"

"Well, back when Wewelsburg was reconstructed—"

"Wait a sec." Fiona stirred. She'd been sitting with her arms crossed, as if disgruntled by the intrusion of the stranger. But Gray had caught the few sidelong glances she gave the man, sizing him up. He wondered if the man still had his wallet. "Reconstructed? They rebuilt that ugly place?" she asked.

Ryan nodded as the castle came into view on the ridgeline. Gray signaled and turned onto Burgstrasse, the road that headed up toward the castle. "Himmler had it blown up near the end of the war. Only the North Tower was untouched. After the war, it was rebuilt. Part museum, part youth hostel. Still bothers my father."

Gray could understand why.

"It was finished in 1979," Ryan continued. "The museum directors over the years have petitioned former Allied governments for documents and such related to the castle."

"Including Russia," Monk said.

"Natürlich. Once records were decommissioned, the current director sent archivists over to Russia. Three years ago, they returned with truckloads of declassified documents related to the Russian campaign in the area. The archivists had also left here with a long list of names to search for in the Russian files. Including my great-grandfather, Hugo Hirszfeld."

"Why him?"

"He was intimately involved in the Thule Society rituals at the castle. He was well known locally for his knowledge of runes, which decorate the castle. He even corresponded with Karl Wiligut, Himmler's personal astrologer."

Gray pictured the three-pronged mark in the Bible but remained silent.

"The archivists returned with several boxes specifically about my great­grandfather. My father was informed but refused to participate in any way."

"But you snuck up there?" Monk said.

"I wanted to know more about him," Ryan said. "Figure out why…what happened…" He shook his head.

The past had a way of grabbing hold and not letting go.

"And what did you learn?" Gray asked.

"Not much. One box contained papers from the Nazi research lab where my great-grandfather worked. He was given the rank of Oberarbeitsleiter. Head of the project." This last was said with a tone both shamed and defiant. "But whatever they were working on must not have been declassified. Most of the papers were personal correspondence. With friends, with family."

"And you read through them all?"

A slow nod. "Enough to get the feeling my great-grandfather had begun to have doubts about his work. Yet he couldn't leave."

"Or he would've been shot," Fiona said.

Ryan shook his head, a forlorn expression waxing for a breath. "I think it was more the project itself…he couldn't let it go. Not completely. It was like he was repulsed but drawn at the same time."

Gray sensed Ryan's personal pursuit into the past was tinged with the same tidal push and pull.

Monk tilted his head and cracked his neck with a loud pop. "What does any of this have to do with the Darwin Bible?" he asked, bringing the subject back around to the beginning.

"I found one note," Ryan answered. "Addressed to my great-aunt Tola. It mentions the crate of books my great-grandfather sent back to the estate. I remember it because of his rather strange remarks about it."

"What did he say?"

"The letter is up at the museum. I thought you might like to have a copy of it…to go along with the Bible."

"You don't remember what it said?"

Ryan scrunched his brow. "Only a couple lines. 'Perfection can be found hidden in my books, dear Tola. The truth is too beautiful to let die and too monstrous to set free.™

Silence settled in the car.

"He died two months later."

Gray contemplated the words. Hidden in my books. The five books Hugo had mailed back home before he died. Had he done it to keep some secret safe? To preserve what was too beautiful to let die and too monstrous to set free?

Gray fixed Ryan with a stare in the rearview mirror. "Did you tell anyone else about what you found?"

"No, but the old gentleman and his niece and nephew…the ones who came earlier this year to speak to my father about the books. They had already been here, searching through my great-grandfather's papers in the archives. I think they must have read the same note and come to inquire further with my father."

"These folks…the niece and nephew. What did they look like?"

"White hair. Tall. Athletic. Good stock, as my grandfather would say."

Gray shared a glance with Monk.

Fiona cleared her throat. She pointed to the back of her hand. "Did they have a mark…a tattoo here?"

Ryan slowly nodded. "I think so. Shortly after they arrived, my father sent me away. Like with you today. Mustn't speak in front of the children." Ryan tried to smile, but he plainly sensed the tension in the car. His eyes darted around. "Do you know them?"

"Fellow competitors," Gray said. "Collectors like us."

Ryan's expression remained guarded, disbelieving, but he didn't inquire further.

Gray again pictured the hand-drawn rune hidden in the Bible. Did the other four books contain similar cryptic symbols? Did it tie back to Hugo's research with the Nazis? Was that what this was all about? It seemed unlikely these assassins would just show up here and start sifting through records…not unless they were searching for something specific.

But what?

Monk still faced backward. But he swung around and settled into his seat. He spoke low, under his breath. "You know we're being followed, right?"

Gray only nodded.

A quarter mile back, slowly climbing the switchbacks behind them, a car followed in the rain. The same one he had spotted earlier parked back at the hostel. A pearl white Mercedes roadster. Maybe they were just fellow tourists, out on a sightseeing excursion to the castle.

Right.

"Perhaps you shouldn't follow so close, Isaak."

"They've already spotted us, Ischke." He nodded past the rainswept windshield to the BMW a quarter mile ahead. "Note how his turns are more restrained, less enthusiastically sharp and tight. He knows."

"Is that something we want? To alert them?"

Isaak tilted his head toward his sister. "The hunt is always the best when the prey is spooked."

"I don't think Hans would agree." Her manner darkened with grief.

He reached a finger and touched the back of her hand, sharing her sadness and apologizing. He knew how sensitive she could be.

"There is no other road down from the ridge," he assured her. "Except for the one we are on. All is ready at the castle. All we have to do is flush them into the trap. If they are looking over their shoulder at us, they are less likely to see what's in front of them."

She inhaled her agreement and understanding.

"It's time we cleared up all these tattered loose ends. Then we can go home."

"Home," she echoed with a contented sigh.

"We're almost done. We must always remember the goal, Ischke. Hans's sacrifice will not be in vain, his spilt blood will herald a new dawn, a better world."

"So Grandfather says."

"And you know it's true."

He tilted his head toward her. Her lips thinned into a weary smile.

"Careful of the blood, sweet Ischke."

His sister glanced down to the long steel blade of the dagger. She had been absently wiping it clean with a white chamois. A crimson drop had almost fallen onto the knee of her white pants. One loose end severed. A few more to go.

"Thank you, Isaak."

1:22 p.m. HIMALAYAS

Lisa stared at the raised pistol.

"Wer 1st dort? Zeigen Sie sichf"the blond woman called up to her.

Though Lisa didn't speak German, she understood the gist. She rose into view slowly. Hands up. "I don't speak German," she called down.

The woman eyed her, so focused in intent that Lisa swore she could feel it like a laser across her body.

"You're one of the Americans," the woman said in crisp English. "Come down. Slowly."

The pistol didn't waver.

With no cover on the open balcony grating, Lisa had no choice. She stepped to the ladder, turned her back, and climbed down. With every rung, she expected to hear a blast of a pistol. Her shoulders tensed. But she reached the ground safely.

Lisa turned, arms still held a bit out to the side.

The woman stepped toward her. Lisa stepped back. She sensed a good portion of the woman's restraint in not immediately shooting her was due to the noise it might generate. Except for the single short cry, she had dispatched the outer guards with barely a sound, employing the sword.

The assassin still held the bloody katana in her other hand.

Maybe Lisa would've been safer staying atop the balcony, making the woman fire at her like a duck in a shooting gallery. Maybe the gunfire would have drawn others in time. She had been foolish to put herself within sword reach of the intruder. But panic had clouded Lisa's judgment. It was hard to refuse someone when they had a gun pointed at your face.

"The Xerum 525," the woman said. "Is it in the safe?"

Lisa weighed her answer for a heartbeat. Truth or lie? There seemed little choice. "Anna took it," she answered. She waved vaguely toward the door.

"Where?"

She remembered Painter's earlier lesson after they had been captured. Be necessary. Be useful. "I don't know the castle well enough to describe it. But I know how to get there. I…can take you." Lisa's voice faltered. She needed to be more convincing. And how better than to barter as though her lie had value? "I'll take you onlyW you promise to help me get out of here."

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Would the woman fall for it? She was stunningly beautiful: svelte, unblemished skin, generous lips, but her glacial blue eyes glinted with cold calculation and intelligence.

She scared Lisa witless.

There was something unearthly about her.

"Then you will show me," the woman said and bolstered her pistol. She kept the katana in hand.

Lisa would've preferred it the other way around.

The sword pointed at the door.

Lisa was to go first. She circled toward the door, keeping some distance. Perhaps she could make a break for it out in the halls. It would be her only hope. She would have to watch for a moment, some distraction, a hesitation, and then just run like hell.

A brush of air, the flicker of flame in the hearth, was her only warning.

Lisa turned—and the woman was already there, a step away, having glided swiftly and silently from behind. Impossibly fast. Their eyes met. Lisa knew in the heartbeat before the sword fell that the woman had not believed her for a moment.

It had all been a trap to drop Lisa's guard.

It would be her last mistake.

The world froze…caught in a flash of fine Japanese silver as it plunged toward Lisa's heart.

9:30 a.m.

WEWELSBURG, GERMANY

Gray slid the BMW into a parking place beside a blue Wolters tour bus. The large German vehicle hid the sedan from direct view of the street. The arched entryway to the castle courtyard stood directly ahead.

"Stay in the car," he ordered the others. He twisted around. "That means you, young lady."

Fiona made an obscene gesture, but she stayed buckled.

"Monk, get behind the wheel. Keep the engine running."

"Got it."

Ryan stared at him wide-eyed. "Was 1st los?"

"Nothing's los" Monk answered. "But keep your head down just in case."

Gray opened the door. A gust of rain slapped against him, sounding like machine-gun fire as it struck the flank of the neighboring bus. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

"Ryan, may I borrow your umbrella?"

The young man nodded and passed it forward.

Gray climbed out. He shook out the umbrella and hurried to the far side of the bus. He took up a post near the rear door, sheltering against the rain. He hoped to appear like just another tour employee. He kept himself shielded by the umbrella while he watched the road.

Headlights appeared out of the gloom, climbing the last switchback.

The white two-seater roadster appeared a moment later. It slid up to the parking lot and, without slowing, passed it. He watched the taillights recede into the rain, heading toward the tiny hamlet of Wewelsburg that nestled against the flank of the castle. The car disappeared around a corner.

Gray waited a full five minutes, circling behind the bus and signaling the all clear to Monk. Monk cut the engine. Finally satisfied that the Mercedes was not returning, Gray waved the others out.

"Paranoid much?" Fiona asked as she passed and headed to the arch.

"It's not paranoia if they're really out to get you," Monk called after her. He turned to Gray. "Are they really out to get us?"

Gray stared into the storm. He didn't like coincidences, but he couldn't stop moving forward just because he was spooked. "Stick with Fiona and Ryan. Let's talk to this director, get a copy of old Hugo's letter to his daughter, and get the hell out of here."

Monk eyed the hulking mass of tower and turret. Rain poured over the gray stone and sluiced from green gutters. Only a few of the windows on the lower floors shone with signs of life. The vast bulk was dark and oppressive.

"Just so we're clear," he grumbled, "if I see one friggin' black bat, I'm out of here."

1:31 p.m. HIMALAYAS

Lisa watched the sword plunge toward her chest. It all happened between heartbeats. Time thickened and slowed. This was how she was going to die.

Then a tinkle of glass shattered the stillness…followed by the soft crack of a gunshot, sounding impossibly far away. Near at hand, the assassin's throat blossomed with a fountain of blood and bone, head thrown back.

But even then, the assassin's death stroke completed its arc.

The sword struck Lisa in the chest, pierced skin, and collided into her sternum. But there was no weight behind it. Limp fingers released the katana's hilt. The heel of a dying hand knocked it down before further damage could be inflicted.

Lisa stumbled back, released from the spell.

The length of Japanese steel pirouetted and struck the floor with the sound of a perfectly tuned bell. The body of the assassin followed next, thudding heavily beside it.

Lisa retreated, disbelieving, numb, senseless.

More tinkling of glass.

Words reached her as if from underwater.

"Are you okay? Lisa…"

She stared up. Across the library. The single library window. Frosted and glazed before, its pane shattered away under the butt of a rifle. A face appeared in the opening, framed by shards of broken glass.

Painter.

Beyond his shoulder, a storm blew, swirling snow and icemelt. Something large, heavy, and dark descended out of the sky. A helicopter. A rope and harness dangled below it.

Lisa trembled and sank to her knees.

"We'll be right there," he promised.

Five minutes later, Painter stood over the body of the assassin. The second saboteur. Anna was on one knee, searching the woman. Off to the side, Lisa sat in a chair by the hearth, her sweater off, her shirt open, exposing her bra and a bloody cut below it. Assisted by Gunther, Lisa had already cleaned the wound and now applied a series of butterfly bandages to seal the inch-long slice. She had been lucky. Her bra's underwire had helped block the blade from penetrating deeper, saving her life. Talk about offering additional support.

"No papers, no identification," Anna said, turning to him. Her gaze fell heavily onto Painter. "We needed the saboteur alive."

He had no excuse. "I aimed for her shoulder."

He shook his head in frustration. A debilitating bout of vertigo had paralyzed him after his descent in the rope harness. But they had no time to spare, barely making it here from the far side of the mountain. They would've never made it on foot through the castle. The helicopter had been their only chance, hopping over the shoulder of the mountain and dropping someone down on a harness.

Anna was no good with a gun, and Gunther was piloting the helo.

That left only Painter.

So despite the vertigo and double vision, Painter had crawled to the castle and aimed as best he could through the window. He'd had to act fast as he saw the woman rush Lisa, sword poised.

So he had taken his shot.

And though it may have cost them everything—even the knowledge of the true puppetmaster who manipulated these saboteurs—Painter did not regret his choice. He had seen the horror on Lisa's face. Vertigo be damned, he had fired. His head still pounded now. A new fear rose.

What if he had struck Lisa…? How long until he was more of a liability than an asset? He shoved this thought aside.

Quit wringing your hands and roil up your sleeves.

"What about any distinguishing marks?" Painter asked, getting back into the game.

"Only this." Anna turned over the woman's wrist and exposed the back of the assassin's hand. "Do you recognize it?"

A black tattoo marred her perfect white skin. Four entwined loops.

"Looks Celtic, but it means nothing to me."

"Nor me." Anna sat back, dropping the corpse's hand.

Painter noted something else and knelt down closer. He turned the hand over again, still warm. The woman's pinkie fingernail was missing, the bed scarred. A tiny blemish, but a significant one.

Anna took the hand from him. She rubbed the nail bed. "Dry…" A deep furrow formed between her brows. Her eyes met his.

"Does that mean what I think it means?" he asked.

Anna's gaze shifted to the woman's face. "But I'd have to do a retinal scan for sure. Look for petechia around the optic nerve."

Painter didn't need any further evidence. He had seen how fast the assassin had moved across the room, preternaturally agile. "She's one of the Sonne konige."

Lisa and Gunther joined them.

"Not one of ours," Anna said. "She's way too young. Too perfect. Whoever created her employed our latest techniques, those that we finessed over the past decades from our in vitro studies. They've advanced them into human subjects."

"Could someone have created them here, behind your back…after hours?"

Anna shook her head. "It takes an enormous amount of energy to activate the Bell. We would know."

"Then that only means one thing."

"She was created somewhere else." Anna rose to her feet. "Someone else has an operable Bell."

Painter remained where he was, examining the nail and tattoo. "And that someone means to shut you down now," he mumbled.

Silence settled over the room.

In the quiet, Painter heard a tiny chime, barely audible. It came from the woman. He realized he had heard it a few times, but there had been so much commotion, so much speculation, it had not fully registered.

He pulled up her parka sleeve.

A digital watch with a thick leather band, a full two inches in width, was secured to her wrist. Painter studied its red face. A holographic hand swept fully around, marking off the seconds. A digital readout glowed.

01:32

Seconds subtracted with every sweep.

Just over a minute.

Painter unstrapped the watch and checked the inside of the band. Two silver contact points were wired in place. Heartbeat monitor. And somewhere inside the watch must be a microtransmitter.

"What are you doing?" Anna asked.

"Did you search her for any explosives?"

"She's clean," Anna said. "Why?"

Painter stood and spoke rapidly. "She's wired with a monitor. When her heartbeat stopped, a transmission must've been sent out." He glanced to the watch in his hand. "This is just a timer."

He held it out toward them.

01:05

"Klaus and this woman had full access to your facilities for who knows how long. Plenty of time to jury-rig a failsafe." Painter held up the watch. "Something tells me we don't want to be here when this reaches zero."

The second hand swept around, and a small chime sounded as the count dropped below a minute.

00:59

"We must get out of here. Now!"

10 BLACK CAME LOT

9:32 a.m.

WEWELSBURG, GERMANY

"The SS started out as the personal bodyguard for Hitler," the docent said in French, leading a group of sodden tourists through the heart of the Wewelsburg museum. "In fact, the term SS is derived from the German word Schutzstaffel, which means 'guard detachment.' Only later did they become Himmler's Black Order."

Gray stepped aside as the tour group passed. While waiting for the museum director, he had eavesdropped on enough of the tour to gain the gist of the castle's history. How Himmler had leased the castle for only one Reichsmark, then spent a quarter billion rebuilding the castle into his personal Camelot, a small price compared to the cost in human blood and suffering.

Gray stood beside a display case with a striped prison uniform from the Niederhagen concentration camp.

Thunder rumbled from beyond the walls, rattling the old windows.

As the tour group drifted away, the docent's voice faded into the babble of the few other visitors, all seeking shelter against the storm.

Monk stood with Fiona. Ryan had gone to fetch the director. Monk leaned down to examine one of the infamous Toten Kopf rings on display, a silver band granted to SS officers. It was engraved with runes, along with a skull and crossbones. A gruesome piece of art, ripe with symbolism and power.

Other exhibits stretched across the small hall: miniature models, photographs of daily life, SS paraphernalia, even a strange little teapot that once belonged to Himmler. A sun-shaped rune decorated the pot.

"Here comes the director," Monk said, stepping closer. He nodded to a squat gentleman who strode out a private door. Ryan accompanied him.

The museum director appeared to be in his late fifties, salt-and-pepper hair, rumpled black suit. As he approached, he removed a pair of eyeglasses and held out his other hand toward Gray.

"Dr. Dieter Ulmstrom," the man said. "Director of the Historisches Museum des Hochstifts Paderborn. Wilkommen."

The man's harried look belied his welcome.

He continued, "Young Ryan here has explained how you've come to investigate some runes found in an old book. How intriguing."

Again the man appeared more hassled than intrigued.

"We won't keep you long," Gray said. "We were wondering if you could help us identify a particular rune and its significance."

"Certainly. If there is one thing a museum director at Wewelsburg must be fluent with, it is rune lore."

Gray waved to Fiona for the Darwin Bible. She already had it out.

Flipping open the back cover, Gray held the book out.

Lips pursing, Dr. Ulmstrom replaced his glasses and looked closer. He studied the rune scoured in ink by Hugo Hirszfeld on the back pasteboard.

t

"May I examine the book, bitte?"

After a moment's hesitation, Gray relented.

The director flipped through the pages, pausing at some of the chicken-scratched marks inside. "A Bible…how strange…"

"The symbol at the back," Gray pressed.

"Of course. It is the Mensch rune."

"Mensch,"Gray said. "As in the German word for 'man.'"

"Ja. Note the form. Like a decapitated stick figure." The director drifted back to the earlier pages. "Ryan's great-grandfather seemed very fixated on symbols associated with the All-Father."

"What do you mean?" Gray asked.

Ulmstrom pointed to one of the scratches on the inner pages of the Bible.

"This is the rune for k" the director said, "also called cen in Anglo-Saxon. It's an earlier rune for 'man,' only two upraised arms, a cruder portrayal. And on this other page is the rune's mirror image." He flipped a few pages and pointed to another.

"The two symbols are sort of like two sides of the same coin. Yin and yang. Male and female. Light and dark."

Gray nodded. It reminded him of his discussions with Ang Gelu when he had studied with the Buddhist monk, how all societies seemed to be transfixed by this duality. This reverie tweaked his concern about Painter Crowe. There'd been no word yet from Nepal.

Monk redirected the talk. "These runes? What do they all have to do with this

All-Father guy?"

"All three are related. Symbolically. The big rune, the Mensch rune, is often considered to represent the Norse god Thor, a bringer of life, a higher state of being. What we all strive to become."

Gray's mind puzzled through to the answer, picturing it in his head. "And these two earlier runes, the /r runes, they form the two halves of the Mensch rune."

"Huh?" Monk grunted.

"Like this," Fiona said, understanding. Using her finger, she drew in the dust atop a display case. "You push the two-armed runes together to form the Mensch rune. Like a jigsaw."

Y-Y

"Sehr gut,"the director said. He tapped the first two runes. "These represent the common man—in all his duality—joining together to form the All-Father, a supreme being." Ulmstrom handed the Bible back to Gray and shook his head. "These runes certainly seemed to obsess Ryan's great-grandfather."

Gray stared at the symbol on the back cover. "Ryan, Hugo was a biologist, correct?"

Ryan stirred. He seemed dismayed by all this. "Ja. As was my great-aunt Tola."

Gray nodded slowly. The Nazis were always interested in the myth of the superman, the All-Father from which the Aryan race supposedly descended. All these scribblings, were they just Hugo's declaration of his belief in this Nazi dogma? Gray didn't think so. He remembered Ryan's description of his great-grandfather's notes, the scientist's growing disillusionment—and then the cryptic note to his daughter, a hint of a secret, one too beautiful to let die and too monstrous to set free.

From one biologist to another.

He sensed it was all tied together: runes, the All-Father, some long-abandoned research. Whatever the secret was, it seemed it was worth killing over.

Ulmstrom continued, "The Mensch rune was also of particular interest to the Nazis. They even renamed it the leben-rune."

"The life rune?" Gray asked, focusing his attention back.

"Ja. They used it to represent the Lebensborn program."

"What's that?" Monk asked.

Gray answered. "A Nazi breeding program. Farms to produce more blond, blue-eyed children."

The director nodded. "But like the duality of the k rune, the leben-rune also has its mirror image." He motioned for Gray to turn the Bible upside down, upending the symbol. "Reversed, the leben-rune becomes its opposite. The toten-rune."

Monk frowned at Gray.

He translated. "The rune of death."

1:37 p.m. HIMALAYAS

Death ticked down.

0:55

Painter stood with the dead assassin's wrist timer in his hand. "No time to make it out on foot. Never get clear of the blast zone."

"Then what—?" Anna asked.

"The helicopter," Painter said and pointed toward the window. The A-Star helicopter they'd used to hop here still sat outside the castle, engine warm.

"The others." Anna headed to the phone, ready to raise the alarm.

"Keine Zeit,"Gunther barked, stopping her.

The man unhitched his assault rifle, a Russian A-91 Bullpup. With his other hand, he yanked out a grenade cartridge from his waistband and jammed it into the rifle's 40mm launcher.

"HierfHe strode in large steps to Anna's massive desk. "Schnell!"

He pointed the rifle at arm's length toward the room's barred window.

Painter grabbed Lisa's hand and ran for shelter, Anna on their heels. Gunther waited until they were close enough and fired. A jet of gas blasted from the rock-steady weapon.

They all leaped behind the desk.

Gunther grabbed his sister around the waist and bodily rolled her under him. The grenade exploded deafeningly. Painter felt his ears pop. Lisa clamped her hands over her ears. The concussion shoved the desk a full foot. Bits of rock and glass pelted the front of the desk. Rock dust and smoke choked over them.

Gunther hauled Anna to her feet. They wasted no words. Across the library, a ragged hole had been blasted through to the outside. Books—shredded and aflame—dotted the floor and had been blown out into the courtyard.

They ran for the exit.

The helicopter sat beyond the mountain overhang. A good forty yards. Bounding through the jumbled blast zone, they sprinted for the helicopter.

Painter still clutched the wrist timer. He didn't check it until they were at the helicopter. Gunther had reached the chopper first and ripped open the rear door. Painter helped Anna and Lisa inside, then dove in after them.

Gunther was already in the pilot's seat. Belts snapped into place. Painter glanced at the timer. Not that it would do any good. Either they'd get clear or they wouldn't.

He stared at the number. His head pounded, stabbing his eyes with pain. He could barely make out the digital readout.

00:09

No time left.

Gunther had the engine roaring. Painter glanced up. The rotors had begun to spin…slowly, too slowly. He glanced out a side window. The helo perched at the top of a steep snowy slope, freshly corniced from last night's storm. The sky beyond was shredded with clouds, and icy mists clung to cliffs and valleys.

From the front seat, Gunther swore under his breath. The bird refused to climb into the thin air, not without top rotor speed.

00:03

They'd never make it.

Painter reached for Lisa's hand.

He gripped it tightly—then suddenly the world lifted and crashed back down. A distant hollow boom sounded. They all held their breath, ready to be blasted off the mountain. But nothing else happened. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all.

Then the cornice upon which they were perched broke away. The A-Star tilted down nose first. Rotors churned uselessly overhead. The entire snowy slope slipped in one sheet, sliding away, as if shrugged off the mountain, taking the helicopter with it.

They were headed for the cliff's edge. Snow tumbled over it in a churning torrent.

The ground bumped again…another explosion…

The helo bucked but refused to get airborne.

Gunther wrestled with the controls, choking the throttle.

The cliff rushed toward them. The snow could be heard beyond the roar of the helicopter, growling like Class V rapids.

Lisa pressed against Painter's side, her hand white-knuckled around his fingers. On her other side, Anna sat ramrod straight, face blank, eyes fixed forward.

In front, Gunther went deathly silent as they were carried over the cliff.

Shoved off the edge, they tipped sideways, snow falling away under them, behind them. Dropping fast, the craft jittered, yawing back and forth. Cliffs of rock rose in all directions.

No one made a sound. The rotors screamed for all of them.

Then just like that, the craft found air. With no more jolt than an elevator coming to a stop, the A-star steadied. Gunther grunted at the controls…slowly, slowly, spiraling the craft upward.

Ahead, the last of the avalanche tumbled over the cliff face.

The helo climbed enough to survey the damage to the castle. Smoke choked out all the fa cade's windows. The front doors had been blown off. Over the shoulder of the mountain, a thick black column rose into the sky, coming from the helipad on the far side.

Anna sagged, palms on the side window. "Almost a hundred and fifty men and women."

"Maybe some got out," Lisa said dully, unblinking.

They spotted no movement.

Only smoke.

Anna pointed toward the castle. "Wir sollten suchen—"

But there would be no search, no rescue.

Ever.

A blinding white flash, like a crack of lightning, blazed from all the windows. Beyond the shoulder, a sodium-arc sunrise. No noise. Like heat lightning. It burned into the retina, shutting off all sight.

Blinded, Painter felt the helo lurch up as Gunther yanked on the collective. A noise intruded, a vast grating rumble of rock. Impossibly loud. Not just an avalanche. It sounded tectonic, a grinding of continental plates.

The helo trembled in the air, a fly in a paint shaker.

Sight returned painfully.

Painter pressed against the window and stared below.

"My God…" he uttered in awe.

Rock dust obscured most of the view, but it could not hide the scope of the destruction. The entire side of the mountain had buckled in on itself. The shoulder of granite that had overhung the castle had collapsed, as if all beneath it—the castle and a good section of mountain—had simply vanished.

"Unmoglich,"Anna mumbled, stunned.

"What?"

"Such annihilation…it had to be a ZPE bomb." Her eyes had gone glassy.

Painter waited for her to explain.

She did after another shuddering breath. "ZPE. Zero point energy. Einstein's formulas led to the first nuclear bomb, tapping into the energies of a few uranium atoms. But that's nothing compared to the potential power hidden within Planck's quantum theories. Such bombs would tap into the very energies birthed during the big bang."

Silence settled throughout the cabin.

Anna shook her head. "Experiments with the fuel source for the Bell—the Xerum 525—hinted at the possible use of zero point energy as a weapon. But we never pursued that avenue with any real intent."

"But somebody else did," Painter said. He pictured the dead, ice blond assassin.

Anna turned to Painter, her face etched with horror and utter violation. "We have to stop them."

"But who? Who are they?"

Lisa stirred. "I think we may find out." She pointed out the starboard side.

Over the edge of a neighboring peak, a trio of helicopters appeared, camouflaged in white against the glaciered peaks. They spread out and swept toward the lone A-Star.

Painter knew enough of aerial combat to recognize the pattern.

Attack formation.

9:32 a.m.

WEWELSBURG, GERMANY

"The North Tower is this way," Dr. Ulmstrom said.

The museum director led Gray, Monk, and Fiona out the back of the main hall. Ryan had left a moment earlier with a slim woman dressed in tweed, a museum archivist. They were off to make copies of Hugo Hirszfeld's letter and anything else pertaining to his great-grandfather's research. Gray sensed he was close to discerning some answers, but he needed more information.

To that end, he had agreed to the director's personal tour of Himmler's castle. It was here where Hugo had begun his connection with the Nazis. Gray sensed that to move forward he would need as much background as possible—and who better to supply that information than the museum curator?

"To truly understand the Nazis," Ulmstrom said, leading the way, "you have to stop considering them as a political party. They called themselves Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei—the National Socialist German Workers' Party—but in reality, they were really a cult."

"A cult?" Gray asked.

"They bore all the trappings, /a? A spiritual leader who could not be questioned, disciples who wore matching clothes, rituals and blood oaths performed in secret, and most important of all, the creation of a potent totem to worship. The Hakenkreuz. The Broken Cross, also called the swastika. A symbol to supplant the crucifix and the Star of David."

"Hari krishnas on steroids," Monk mumbled.

"Do not joke. The Nazis understood the inherent power of ideas. A power greater than any gun or rocket. They used it to subjugate and brainwash an entire nation."

Lightning cracked, brightening the hall behind them. Thunder followed on its heels, booming, felt in the gut. The lights flickered.

They all stopped in the hall.

"One squeaking bat," Monk whispered. "Even a small one…"

The lights flared brighter, then steadied. They continued onward. The short hall ended at a barred glass door. A larger room lay beyond.

"The Obergruppenfuhrersaal." Ulmstrom pulled out a weighty set of keys and unlocked the door. "The inner sanctum to the castle. This is restricted from regular visitors, but I think you might appreciate it."

He held the door for them to enter.

They trailed inside. Rain pelted against the ring of windows that surrounded the circular chamber.

"Himmler built this room to mirror King Arthur's in Camelot. He even had a massive oaken round table placed in the middle of the room and gathered his twelve leading officers of his Black Order for meetings and rituals here."

"What's this Black Order?" Monk asked.

"It was another name for Himmler's SS. But more accurately, the Schwarze Auftrag—the Black Order—was a name given to Himmler's inner circle, a secret cabal that traced its roots back to the occult Thule Society."

Gray's attention focused. The Thule Society again. Himmler was a member of the group, so was Ryan's great-grandfather. He pondered the connection. An inner cabal of occultists and scientists who believed that a master race once ruled the world—and would again.

The director continued his tour. "Himmler believed this room and its tower to be the spiritual and geographic center of the new Aryan world."

"Why here?" Gray asked.

Ulmstrom shrugged and walked to the middle of the room. "This region is where the Teutons defeated the Romans, a pivotal battle in Germanic history."

Gray had heard a similar story from Ryan's father.

"But the reasons may be multiple. Legends are ripe here. Nearby stands an old Stonehenge-like set of prehistoric monoliths, called Externsteine. Some claim the roots of the Norse World Tree, Yggdrasil, lie below it. And then, of course, there were the witches."

"The ones killed here," Gray said.

"Himmler believed, and perhaps rightly so, that the women were slain because they were pagans, practicing Nordic rites and rituals. In his eyes, the fact that their blood was spilt at this castle only succeeded in consecrating these grounds."

"So then it's like the real estate agents say," Monk mumbled. "It's all about location, location, location."

Ulmstrom frowned but continued. "Whatever the reason, here is the ultimate purpose of Wewelsburg." He pointed down to the floor.

In the gloom, a pattern had been done in dark green tiles against a white background. It looked like a sun, radiating twelve lightning bolts.

"The Schwarze Sonne. The Black Sun." Ulmstrom stalked around its circumference. "This symbol also has roots in many myths. But to the Nazis it represented the land from which the All-Father descended. A land that went by many names. Thule, Hyperborea, Agartha. Ultimately the symbol represents the sun under which the Aryan race would be reborn."

"Returning again to the All-Father," Gray said, picturing the Mensch rune.

"That was the ultimate goal of the Nazis…or at least for Himmler and his Black Order. To advance the German people back to their godlike status. It was why Himmler chose this symbol to represent his Black Order."

Gray began to sense what research Hugo might have been involved with. A biologist with roots at Wewelsburg. Could he have been involved with a twisted form of the Lebensborn project, some type of eugenics program? But why would people kill over such a program today? What had Hugo discovered that he felt needed to be kept so secret, burying it in code in his family's books?

Gray remembered Ryan's recitation of his great-grandfather's letter to his daughter, shortly before his death. He hinted at a secret that was too beautiful to let die and too monstrous to set free. What had he discovered? What had he wanted kept secret from his Nazi superiors?

Lightning crackled again, shining through all the windows. The symbol of the Black Sun shone brilliantly. Electric lights trembled as the thunder reverberated throughout the hilltop castle. Not the best place to be in an electrical storm.

Confirming this, the lights flared again—then went dark.

Blackout.

Still, enough murky illumination came through the windows to see.

Voices shouted in the distance.

A loud clang rang out closer at hand.

All eyes turned.

The door to the chamber had slammed closed. Gray reached for the butt of his gun, holstered under his sweater.

"Security lockdown," Ulmstrom assured them. "Nothing to fear. Backup generators should—"

Lights flickered, then ignited again.

Ulmstrom nodded. "Ah, there we go. Es tut mir leid" he apologized. "This way."

He led them back through the security door, but rather than heading toward the main hall, he aimed for a set of stairs to the side. Apparently the tour was not over.

"I think you might find this next chamber of particular interest as you'll see the Mensch rune from the Bible depicted there."

Footsteps approached down the hall, coming fast.

Gray turned, realizing his hand still rested on his gun. But there was no need to unholster it. Ryan hurried toward them, a stuffed manila envelope clutched in his hand.

He joined them, slightly out of breath. His eyes darted a bit, plainly spooked by the brief blackout. "Ich glaube…" He cleared his throat. "I have all the paperwork, including the letter to my great-aunt Tola."

Monk took the envelope. "Now we can get our butts out of here."

Maybe they should. Gray glanced to Dr. Ulmstrom. He stood at the head of stairs leading down.

The curator stepped toward them. "If you're in a hurry…"

"No, bitte. What were you saying about the Mensch rune?" It would be foolish to leave without exploring this fully.

Ulmstrom lifted an arm and motioned toward the stairs. "Below lies the only chamber in the entire castle where the Mensch rune can be found. Of course, the rune's presence only makes sense considering…"

"Considering what?"

Ulmstrom sighed, checked his watch. "Come. I'll have to make this quick anyway." He turned and strode to the staircase and headed down.

Gray waved Fiona and Ryan to follow. Monk rolled his eyes at Gray as he passed. "Spooky castle…time to go…"

Gray understood Monk's itchiness to leave. He felt it, too. First the false alarm with the Mercedes, then the blackout. But nothing untoward had happened. And Gray hated to pass up a chance to learn more about the Bible's rune and its history here.

Ulmstrom's voice carried up to Gray. The others had reached the landing below. "This chamber lies immediately below the Obergruppenfuhrersaal."

Gray joined them while the curator unlocked a matching door to the one above, also barred and sealed with thick glass. He held it open for them, then stepped in after them.

Beyond lay another circular chamber. This one windowless, lit gloomily by a few wall sconces. Twelve granite columns circled the space, holding up a domed roof. In the center of the ceiling, a twisted swastika symbol had been painted.

"This is the castle's crypt," Ulmstrom said. "Note the well in the center of the room. It is where the coat of arms of fallen SS officers would be burned ceremonially."

Gray had already spotted the stone well, directly below the swastika in the ceiling.

"If you stand near the well, and look at the walls, you'll see the Mensch runes depicted here."

Gray stepped closer and followed his directions. At the cardinal points, the runes had been engraved in the stone walls. Now Gray understood Ulmstrom's remark. The rune's presence only makes sense considering…

The Mensch runes were all upside down.

Toten-runes.

Death runes.

A loud clang, a match to the one a moment ago, resounded across the chamber. Only this time there had been no blackout. Gray swung around, realizing his mistake. Curiosity had lessened his guard. Dr. Ulmstrom had never moved far from the door.

The curator now stood outside it, clicking the lock.

He called through the thick glass, doubtless bulletproof. "Now you'll understand the true meaning of the toten-rune."

A loud pop sounded next. All the lamps went dark. With no windows, the chamber sank into complete darkness.

In the shocked silence, a new sound intruded: a fierce hissing.

But it came from no snake or serpent.

Gray tasted it on the back of his tongue.

Gas.

1:49 p.m. HIMALAYAS

The trio of helicopters fanned out for an attack run.

Painter studied the approach of the choppers through a set of binoculars. He had unbelted and crawled into the copilot seat. He recognized the enemy crafts: Eurocopter Tigers, medium-weight, outfitted with air-to-air gun pods and missiles.

"Do you have any weapons equipped on the helo?" Painter asked Gunther.

He shook his head. "Nein."

Gunther worked the rudder pedals to bring them around, swinging away from their adversaries. Pitching the helo forward, he accelerated away. It was their only real countermeasure: speed.

The A-Star, lighter and unburdened of armaments, was quicker and more maneuverable. But even that advantage had its limitations.

Painter knew the direction in which Gunther was headed now, forced by the others. Painter had thoroughly studied the region's terrain maps. The Chinese border lay only thirty miles away.

If the attack choppers didn't eliminate them, invading Chinese airspace would. And with the current tensions between the Nepalese government and the Maoist rebels, the border was closely watched. They were literally between a rock and a hard place.

Anna yelled from the backseat, head craned to watch their rear. "Missile launch!"

Even before her warning ended, a screaming streak of smoke and fire shot past their port side, missing by mere yards. The missile slammed into the ice-encrusted ridgeline ahead. Fire and rock shot high. A large chunk of cliff broke off and slid away, like a glacier calving.

Gunther tipped their helo on its side and sped clear of the rain of debris.

He darted their craft down and raced between two ridges of rock. They were temporarily out of the direct line of fire.

"If we put down," Anna said. "Fast. Flee on foot."

Painter shook his head, shouting to be heard above the engine. "I know these Tigers. They have infrared. Our heat signatures would just give us away. Then there'd be no escaping their guns or rockets."

"Then what do we do?"

Painter's head still spasmed with white-hot bursts. His vision had constricted to a laser focus.

Lisa answered, leaning forward from the backseat, her eyes on the compass. "Everest," she said.

"What?"

She nodded to the compass. "We're heading right toward Everest. What if we landed over there, got lost in the mass of climbers."

Painter considered her plan. To hide in plain sight.

"The storm's backlogged the mountain," she continued loudly. "Some two hundred people were waiting to ascend when I left. Including some Nepalese soldiers. Might even be more after the monastery burned down."

Lisa glanced over to Anna. Painter read her expression. They were fighting for their lives alongside the very enemy who had burned down that monastery. But a greater adversary threatened all. While Anna had made brutal, unforgivable choices, this other faction had triggered the necessity for her actions, setting in motion the chain of events that led them all here.

And Painter knew it wouldn't stop here. This was just the beginning, a feint meant to misdirect. Something monstrous was afoot. Anna's words echoed in his pounding head.

We must stop them.

Lisa finished, "With so many satellite phones and video feeds broadcasting from Base Camp, they'd dare not attack."

"Or so we hope," Painter said. "If they don't back off, we'd be jeopardizing many lives."

Lisa leaned back, digesting his words. Painter knew her brother was among those at Base Camp. She met his eyes.

"It's too important," she said, coming to the same conclusion he had a moment ago. "We have to risk it. Word must get out!"

Painter glanced around the cabin.

Anna said, "It will be shorter to go over the shoulder of Everest to get to the other side, rather than taking the longer route around." She pointed to the wall of mountain ahead of them.

"So we head for the Base Camp?" Painter said.

They were all in agreement.

Others were not.

A helicopter roared over the ridgeline, its skids passing directly over their rotors. The intruder seemed startled to come across them. The Tiger twisted and climbed in a surprised pirouette.

But they'd been found.

Painter prayed the others were spread out in a wide search pattern—then again, one Tiger was enough.

Their unarmed A-Star shot out of the trough into a wider couloir, a bowl-shaped gully full of snow and ice. No cover. The Tiger's pilot responded quickly, plunging toward them.

Gunther throttled up the engine speed and increased the blade pitch, attempting a full-out sprint. They might outrun the heavier Tiger, but not its missiles.

To punctuate this, the diving Tiger opened fire with its gun pods, spitting flames, and chewing through the snow.

"Forget outrunning the bastard!" Painter yelled and jerked his thumb straight up. "Take the race that way."

Gunther glanced at him, heavy brows knit tight.

"He's heavier," Painter explained, motioning with his hands. "We can climb to a higher elevation. Where he can't follow."

Gunther nodded and pulled back on the collective, turning forward motion into vertical. Like riding an express elevator, the helo shot upward.

The Tiger was taken aback by the sudden change of direction and took an extra moment to follow, spiraling up after them.

Painter watched the altimeter. The world record for elevation reached by a helicopter had been set by a stripped-down A-Star. It had landed on the summit of Everest. They didn't need to climb that far. The armament-heavy Tiger was already petering out as they went above the twenty-two-thousand-foot mark, its rotors churning uselessly in the rarefied air, making it difficult to maintain yaw and roll, confounding an attack pitch in which to employ its missiles.

For now, their craft continued to sail upward into safety.

But they could not stay up here forever.

What went up eventually had to come down.

And like a circling shark, the attack helicopter waited below. All it had to do was track them. Painter spotted the two other Tigers winging in their direction, called into the hunt, a pack closing in on its wounded prey.

"Get above the chopper," Painter said, pantomiming with one palm over the other.

Gunther's frown never wavered, but he obeyed.

Painter twisted around to Anna and Lisa. "Both of you, look out your side windows. Let me know when that Tiger is directly below us."

Nods answered him.

Painter turned his attention to the lever in front of him.

"Just about there!" Lisa called from her side.

"Now!" Anna responded a second later.

Painter yanked on the lever. It controlled the winch assembly on the undercarriage of the chopper. The rope and harness had lowered Painter earlier when he'd been pursuing the assassin. But he wasn't lowering the harness now. The emergency lever he gripped was used to jettison the assembly if it should be jammed. He cranked it fully back and felt the pop of the release.

Painter pressed his face to the window.

Gunther banked them around, pitching for a better view.

The winch assembly tumbled end over end, unreeling its harness in a wide tangled mess.

It struck the Tiger below, smashing into its rotors. The effect was as destructive as any depth charge. The blades tore apart, flying in all directions. The chopper itself twisted like a spun top, flipping sideways and falling away.

With no time to spare, Painter pointed toward their only neighbor at this elevation. The white summit of Everest rose ahead, shrouded in clouds.

They had to reach Base Camp on its lower slopes—but below, the skies were not safe.

Two more helicopters, angry as hornets, raced toward them.

And Painter was out of winches.

Lisa watched the other helicopters swoop toward them, growing from gnats to hawks. It was now a race.

Pitching the chopper steeply, Gunther dove out of the rarefied ether. He aimed for the gap between Mount Everest and its sister peak, Mount Lhotse. A shouldered ridgeline—the famous south col—connected Lhotse to Everest. They needed to get over its edge and put the mountain between them and the others. On the far side, Base Camp lay at the foot of the col.

If they could reach it…

She pictured her brother, his goofy smile, the cowlick at the back of his head that he was perpetually trying to smooth down. What were they thinking, bringing this war to Base Camp, to her brother?

In front of her, Painter was bent with Gunther. The engine's roar ate their words. She had to place her trust in Painter. He would not jeopardize anyone's life needlessly.

The col rose toward them. The world expanded outward as they dove toward the mountain pass. Everest filled the starboard side, a plume of snow blowing from its tip. Lhotse, the fourth highest peak in the world, was a wall to the left.

Gunther steepened their angle. Lisa clutched her seat harness. She felt like she might tumble out the front windshield. The world ahead became a sheet of ice and snow.

A whistling scream cut through the roar.

"Missile!" Anna screamed.

Gunther yanked on the stick. The nose of the chopper shot up and yawed to the right. The missile sailed under their skids and streaked into the eastern ridge of the col. Fire blasted upward. Gunther banked them clear of the eruption, dipping the nose down again.

Pressing her cheek against the side window, Lisa glanced to the rear. The two choppers had closed the distance, angling toward them. Then a wall of ice cut off the view.

"We're over the ridge!" Painter yelled. "Hang tight!"

Lisa swung back around. The helicopter plunged down the vertiginous slope of the south col. Snow and ice raced under them. Ahead, a darker scar appeared. Base Camp.

They aimed for it, as if intending to crash headlong into the tent city.

The camp swelled below them, growing with each second, prayer flags flapping, individual tents discernable now.

"We're going to land hard!" Painter yelled.

Gunther didn't slow.

Lisa found a prayer rising to her lips or maybe a mantra. "Oh God…oh God…oh God…"

At the last moment, Gunther pulled up, fighting the controls. Winds fought him. The helicopter continued falling, rotors now shrieking.

The world beyond was a Tilt-A-Whirl.

Thrown about, Lisa clenched the armrests.

Then the skids slammed hard to the ground, slightly nose down, throwing Lisa forward. The seat harness held her. Rotor wash churned up snow in a flurried burst, but the chopper rocked back onto its skids, level and even.

"Everybody out!" Painter yelled as Gunther throttled down.

Hatches popped, and they tumbled out.

Painter appeared at Lisa's side, taking her arm in his. Anna and Gunther followed. A mass of people converged toward them. Lisa glanced up to the ridge. Smoke rose behind the col from the missile attack. Everyone at camp must have heard it, emptying tents.

Voices in a slur of languages assaulted them.

Lisa, half-deafened by the helicopter, felt distant from it all.

Then one voice reached her.

"Lisa!"

She turned. A familiar shape in black snowpants and a gray thermal shirt shoved through the crowd, elbowing and pushing.

"Josh!"

Painter allowed her to divert the group in his direction. Then Lisa was in her brother's arms, hugging tight. He smelled vaguely of yaks. She had never's me I led anything better.

Gunther grunted behind them. "Pass auf!"

A warning.

Cries arose around them. Attention shifted in a spreading tide. Arms pointed.

Lisa freed herself from her brother.

A pair of attack helicopters hovered at the top of the col, stirring the smoke from the missile impact. They hung in place, predatory, lethal.

Go away, Lisa prayed, willing it with all her strength. Just go away.

"Who are they?" a new voice grated.

Lisa didn't need to turn to recognize Boston Bob, a mistake from her past. His accent and perpetual whining undercurrent identified him plainly enough. Always intrusive, he must have followed Josh. She ignored him.

But Josh must have felt her tense when the helicopters appeared. "Lisa…?"

She shook her head, eyes fixed to the skies. She needed her full concentration to will them away.

But to no avail.

In unison, both helicopters tipped out of their hovers and dove down the slope toward them. Spats of fire lit their noses. Snow and ice blasted up in parallel lines of death, chewing down the slope, aiming straight for Base Camp.

"No…" Lisa moaned.

Boston Bob yelled, backing away, "What the hell did you do?"

The crowd, stunned and frozen for a breath, suddenly erupted in screams and shouts, breaking apart and fleeing in all directions.

Painter grabbed Lisa's other arm. He tugged her away, hauling Josh, too. They retreated, but there was nowhere to hide.

"A radio!" Painter yelled at Josh. "Where's a radio?"

Her brother stared mutely at the sky.

Lisa shook her brother's arm, drawing his eyes down. "Josh, we need to find a radio." She understood Painter's focus. If nothing else, word of what had happened must reach the outside world.

Her brother coughed, collected himself, and pointed. "This way…they set up an emergency communication net after the rebel attack at the monastery." He hurried out toward a large red tent.

Lisa noted Boston Bob kept up with them, checking over his shoulder, sensing the authority radiating from Painter and Gunther. Or maybe it was the assault rifle Gunther carried. The German had slammed another grenade into the weapon's launcher. He was ready to make a last stand, guard them while they attempted to radio out.

But before they could reach the tent, Painter yelled, "Get down!"

He yanked Lisa to the ground. Everyone followed his example, though Josh had to pull Boston Bob off his legs.

A strange new scream suddenly echoed off the mountains.

Painter's gaze searched the skies.

"What—?" Lisa asked.

"Wait," Painter said with a confused frown.

Then over the shoulder of Mount Lhotse, a pair of military jets shot into view, streaking on twin contrails. Fire flared from under their wings.

Missiles.

Oh, no!

But the base wasn't the target. The jets shot overhead, streaking away, booming as they passed and sailing straight up into the ether.

The pair of attack helicopters, already three-quarters of the way down the slope, exploded as the jets' heat-seeking missiles crashed into them. Fiery ruins slammed into the slope, blasting snow and flames. Debris rained, but none of it reached the camp.

Painter gained his feet, then helped Lisa up.

The others followed.

Boston Bob shoved forward, bullying up to Lisa. "What the hell was all that? What shit did you bring down on our heads?"

Lisa turned away. Whatever had possessed her back in Seattle to sleep with him? It was as if that had been a different woman.

"Don't turn your back on me, you bitch!"

Lisa swung around, fingers clenched—but there was no need. Painter was already there. His arm pistoned and smashed into the man's face. Lisa had heard the term "coldcocked" but never had witnessed it. Boston Bob fell back, stiff as a board, and crashed to the ground. He did not get up, splayed out, nose broken, out cold.

Painter shook his hand, wincing.

Josh gaped, then grinned. "Oh, man, I've been wanting to do that for a solid week."

Before more could be said, a sandy-haired man stepped out of the red communication tent. He wore a military uniform. A United States military uniform. He stepped to their group, his eyes settling on Painter.

"Director Crowe?" the man asked in a Georgian drawl, his arm out.

Painter accepted the handshake, grimacing at the pressure on his bruised knuckles.

"Logan Gregory sends his best wishes, sir." The man nodded to the blasted ruins smoking on the slope.

"Better late than never," Painter said.

"We have him on the horn for you. If you'll follow me."

Painter accompanied the Air Force officer, Major Brooks, into the communication tent. Lisa tried to follow with Anna and Gunther. Major Brooks held up an arm, blocking them.

"I'll be right back," Painter assured them. "Hold fast."

Ducking, he entered the tent. Inside stood an array of equipment. A communication officer stepped back from a satellite telecommunication station. Painter took his place, picking up the receiver.

"Logan?"

The voice came through clear. "Director Crowe, it's wonderful to hear you're okay."

"I think I have you to thank for that."

"We got your SOS."

Painter nodded. So his message had gotten out, sent by burst transmission from his jury-rigged amplifier back at the castle. Luckily the GPS signal had broadcast before the overloaded amplifier had exploded. Apparently it had been enough to track.

"It took some fast footwork to get surveillance up and coordinate with the Royal Nepalese military," Logan explained. "Still, it was close, too close."

Logan must have been monitoring the entire situation via satellite, possibly from the time they'd fled the castle. But details could wait. Painter had more important concerns.

"Logan, before I fully debrief, I need you to get started on a search. I'm going to fax you a symbol, a tattoo." Painter mimed writing on a pad to Major Brooks. Supplies were brought to him. He quickly drew the symbol he had seen on the assassin's hand. It was all they had to go on.

"Get started immediately," Painter continued. "See if you can find out if any terrorist organization, political party, drug cartel, even Boy Scout troop, might be associated with this symbol."

"I'll get right on it."

Finishing a rough approximation of the cloverleaf tattoo, Painter passed it to the communication officer, who stepped to a fax machine and fed the sheet into it.

While the transmission was sent, Painter gave a thumbnail version of what happened. He was grateful Logan didn't interrupt with too many questions.

"Did the fax arrive there yet?" Painter asked after a few minutes.

"Just in my hands now."

"Perfect. The search…give it top priority."

A long pause followed. Dead air. Painter thought maybe they'd lost their signal, then Logan spoke, tentative, confused. "Sir…"

"What is it?"

"I know this symbol. Grayson Pierce sent it to me eight hours ago."

"What?"

Logan explained about the events in Copenhagen. Painter struggled to wrap his mind around it. With the adrenaline from the chase dissipating, the pounding in his head confounded his attention and focus. He fought against it, putting pieces together. The same assassins were after Gray, Sonnekonige born under a foreign Bell. But what were they doing in Europe? What was so important about a bunch of books? Gray was currently off in Germany investigating the trail further, seeing what he might uncover.

Painter closed his eyes. It only made his headache worse. The attacks in Europe only further confirmed his fear that something global was afoot. Something major was stirring, about to come to fruition.

But what?

There was only one place to start, a single clue. "The symbol has to be significant. We must find out who it belongs to."

Logan spoke crisply. "I may have that answer."

"What? Already?"

"I've had eight hours, sir."

Right. Of course. Painter shook his head. He glanced down to the pen in his hand, then noted something odd. He turned his hand. The nail on his fourth finger was gone, ripped away, possibly when he'd punched the asshole a moment ago. There was no blood, just pale, dry flesh, numb and cold.

Painter understood the significance.

Time was running out.

Logan explained what he had learned. Painter interrupted him. "Have you passed this Intel to Gray?"

"Not yet, sir. We're having trouble reaching him at the moment."

Painter frowned, dismissing his own health concerns. "Get word to him," he said firmly. "However you can. Gray has no idea what he's up against."

9:50 a.m.

WEWELSBURG, GERMANY

Light flared in the crypt as Monk clicked on a flashlight.

Gray found his own flashlight and pulled it free of his pack. He turned it on, pointing it up. Tiny vents ran along the edges of the dome. A greenish gas poured forth, heavier than air, spilling in smoky waterfalls from all the vents.

They were too high and too many to plug.

Fiona drifted closer to him. Ryan stood on the other side of the well, arms clutched around himself, disbelieving his eyes.

Movement drew Gray's attention back to Monk.

He had pulled out his 9mm Glock and aimed it at the glass door.

"No!" Gray called out.

Too late. Monk fired.

The pistol blast echoed, accompanied by a sharp ping as the bullet ricocheted off the glass and struck one of the steel vents with a fiery spark.

At least the gas didn't appear to be flammable. The spark could have killed them all.

Monk seemed to realize the same. "Bulletproof," he said sourly.

The curator affirmed this. "We had to install extra security. Too many neo-Nazis trying to break in." The reflection of their lights off the glass hid his position.

"Bastard," Monk mumbled.

The gas began to fill the lower spaces. It smelled sweetly musty but tasted acrid. Not cyanide, at least. That had a bitter almond scent.

"Keep standing," Gray said. "Heads high. Get in the center of the room, away from the vents."

They gathered around the ceremonial pit. Fiona's hand found his. She clasped it tightly. She lifted her other hand. "I nicked his wallet, if that makes any difference."

Monk saw what she held. "Great. You couldn't steal his keys?"

Ryan called out in German. "My…my father knows we're up here! He'll call the Pofitzefi"

Gray had to give the young man credit. He was trying his best.

A new voice responded, faceless behind the reflective glass. "I'm afraid your father will not be calling anyone…ever again." The words were not spoken in threat, merely a statement.

Ryan fell back a step, as if physically struck. His eyes flicked to Gray, then back to the door.

Gray recognized the voice. As did Fiona. Her fingers had clenched hard in his grip. It was the tattooed buyer from the auction house.

"There will be none of your tricks this time," the man said. "No escape."

Gray's head began to feel woozy. His body grew lighter, growing weightless. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. The man was correct. There would be no escape. But that didn't mean they were defenseless.

Knowledge was power.

Gray turned to Monk. "Get your lighter out of your pack," he ordered.

As Monk obeyed, Gray dropped his own backpack and yanked out his notebook. He threw it into the pit.

"Monk, toss in Ryan's copies." Gray held out his hand. "Fiona, the Bible, please."

They both obeyed.

"Light the pit," Gray said.

Monk flicked his lighter and ignited one of Ryan's recently copied sheets. He dropped it into the pit. In seconds, a smattering of flame and smoke rose, consuming all. The rising smoke even seemed to drive back the poison momentarily…or so Gray hoped. His head swam drunkenly.

Beyond the doors, voices murmured, too low to make out.

Gray held up the Darwin Bible. "Only we know what secret is hidden in this Bible!" he called out.

The white-blond assassin, still faceless behind the glass, answered, vaguely amused. "Dr. Ulmstrom discerned all we needed to know. The Mensch rune. The Bible is worthless to us now."

"Is it?" Gray held the book up, shining his light on it. "We only showed Ulmstrom what Hugo Hirszfeld wrote on the back pasteboard of the Bible. But not what was scrawled on the front"

A moment of silence, then voices again drew back into furtive murmurs. Gray thought he heard a woman's voice, perhaps the blond man's pale twin.

A clear nein arose in Ulmstrom's voice, defensive.

Fiona stumbled next to him, her knees giving way. Monk caught her, holding her head above the rising pool of poisonous gas. But even he wobbled on his feet.

Gray could wait no longer.

He clicked off his flashlight for dramatic effect and dropped the Bible into the fire pit. He was still Roman Catholic enough to feel a twinge of misgiving, burning a Bible. The old pages took to flame immediately, flaring up to their knees. A fresh curl of smoke plumed upward.

Gray took a deep breath, putting as much conviction as possible in his voice, needing to sell it. "If we die, so does the secret of the Darwin Bible!"

He waited, praying his ruse would work.

One second…two…

The gas rose under them. Each breath gagged now.

Ryan suddenly collapsed, as if someone had cut the strings holding him up. Monk reached for his arm but went down on a knee, burdened by Fiona. He never rose again. He slumped, cradling Fiona with him.

Gray stared toward the black door. Monk's flashlight rolled from his limp fingers, spinning. Was anyone even out there? Had anyone believed him?

He would never know.

As the world drowned from sight, Gray fell back into darkness.

5:50 p.m.

HLUHLUWE-UMFOLOZI PRESERVE

Thousands of miles away, another man woke.

The world returned in a miasma of pain and color. His eyes flickered open to something fluttering over his face, the wings of a bird. His ears filled with a chanting.

"He wakes," another said in Zulu.

"Khamisi…" This time a woman's voice.

It took a moment for the waking man to reconnect the name to himself. It fit uneasily. A groan reached his ears. In his own voice.

"Help him sit up," the woman said. She also spoke Zulu, but her accent was British, familiar.

Khamisi felt himself tugged up into a weak slouch, propped by pillows. His sight stabilized. The room, a mud brick hut, was dark, but painful lances of light pierced around shaded windows and the edges of a rug shielding the hut's door. The roof was decorated with colorful gourds, twists of hides, and strings of feathers. The odor of the room cloyed with strange scents. Something was snapped under his nose. It reeked of ammonia and shoved his head back.

He flailed out a bit. He saw his right arm trailed an IV line, attached to a hanging bag of yellowish fluid. His arms were caught.

On one side, the bare-chested shaman wearing a crown of feathers held his shoulder steady. He had been the one chanting and waving a desiccated vulture wing over his face, to ward away death's scavengers.

On the other, Dr. Paula Kane held his arm, placing it back down on the blanket. He was naked beneath it. Sweat had soaked the cloth to his skin.

"Where…what…?" his voice croaked.

"Water," Paula ordered.

The third person in the room obeyed, a crooked-backed elder of the Zulu. He passed a dented canteen.

"Can you hold it?" Paula asked.

Khamisi nodded, strength feebly returning. He took the canteen and sipped the tepid water, loosening his pasty tongue and his memories. The elder who brought the canteen…he had been in Khamisi's house.

His heart suddenly beat faster. His other hand, trailing the IV line, rose to his neck. A bandage lay there. He remembered it all. The fanged dart. The black mamba. The staged snake attack.

"What happened?"

The old man filled in the blank spaces. Khamisi recognized him as the elder who had first reported seeing an ukufa in the park five months ago. Back then, his claims had been dismissed, even by Khamisi.

"I heard what happened to Missus Doctor." He nodded to Paula in sympathy and sorrow. "And I heard what you say you saw. People talk. I come by your home, to speak to you. But you not home. So I wait. Others come, so I hide. They chop a snake. Mamba. Bad magic. I stay hiding."

Khamisi closed his eyes, remembering. He had then come home, been darted, left for dead. But his attackers hadn't known about the man hiding in the back.

"I come out," the elder continued. "I call others. In secret, we take you away."

Paula Kane finished the story. "We brought you here," she said. "The poison almost killed you, but medicine—both modern and ancient—saved you. It was a close call."

Khamisi glanced from the IV bottle to the shaman.

"Thank you."

"Do you feel strong enough to walk?" Paula asked. "You should get your limbs moving. The poison hits the circulatory system like a load of bricks."

Assisted by the shaman, Khamisi stood up, modestly keeping his soaked blanket around his waist. He was walked to the door. While taking his first steps he felt as weak as a babe, but a frail strength quickly suffused his limbs.

The rug over the door was pulled back.

Light and the day's heat flowed inside, blinding and blistering.

Midafternoon, he guessed. The sun sank in the west.

Shielding his eyes, he stepped out.

He recognized the tiny Zulu village. It stood at the edge of the Hluhluwe-Umfolozi reserve. Not far from where they'd found the rhino, where Dr. Fairfield had been attacked.

Khamisi glanced at Paula Kane. She stood with her arms crossed, her face exhausted.

"It was the head warden," Khamisi said. He had no doubts. "He wanted to silence me."

"About how Marcia died. What you saw."

He nodded.

"What did you—?"

Her words were cut off as a twin-engine helicopter sped past overhead, low and loud. Rotor wash thrashed bushes and tree limbs. Rugs flapped from doorways, as if trying to wave away the interloper.

The heavy aircraft raced away, passing low over the savanna.

Khamisi watched it. It was no tourist junket.

Beside him, Paula had raised a pair of Bushnell binoculars, following the aircraft. It drifted farther away, then settled for a landing. Khamisi stepped out farther to watch.

Paula passed him the binoculars. "There've been flights in and out of there all day."

Khamisi lifted the glasses. The world magnified and zoomed. He saw the twin-engine drop behind a barrier of ten-foot-high black fencing. It marked the boundary of the Waalenberg private estate. The helicopter vanished behind it.

"Something has them all stirred up," Paula said.

The tiny hairs on the back of Khamisi's neck quivered.

He twisted the focus, fixing more sharply on the fencing. The old main gates, rarely used, stood closed. He recognized the old family crest, done in silver filigree across the gates. The Waalenberg Crown and Cross.

THIRD

11 DEMON IN THE MACHINE

12:33 a.m.

AIRBORNE OVER THE INDIAN OCEAN

"Captain Bryant and I will do our best to investigate the Waalenbergs here in Washington," Logan Gregory said over the phone.

Painter wore an earpiece that dangled a microphone. He needed his hands free as he sifted through the mountain of paperwork that Logan had faxed to their staging area in Kathmandu. It contained everything about the Waalenbergs: family history, financial reports, international ties, even gossip and innuendo.

On top of the pile rested a grainy photograph: a man and a woman climbing out of a limousine. Gray Pierce had taken the picture from a hotel suite across the street, prior to the start of an auction. The digital surveillance had confirmed Logan's assessment. The tattoo was tied to the Waalenberg clan. The two in the photo were Isaak and Ischke Waalenberg, twins, the youngest heirs to the family fortune, a fortune that rivaled most countries' gross national product.

But more importantly, Painter recognized the wan complexions and white hair. The pair were more than heirs. They were Sonnekonige. Like Gunther, like the assassin back at the mountain castle.

Painter glanced to the front of the Gulfstream's cabin.

Gunther slept, sprawled across a sofa, legs dangling over the end. His sister, Anna, sat in a nearby chair, facing a pile of research as daunting as Painter's. The two were guarded over by Major Brooks and a pair of armed U.S. Rangers. Roles were now reversed. The captors had become the prisoners. But despite the shift in power, nothing had really changed between them. Anna needed Painter's connections and logistical support; Painter needed Anna's knowledge of the Bell and the science behind it. As Anna had stated earlier, "Once this is over, then we'll settle matters of legality and responsibility."

Logan cut into his reverie. "Kat and I have an appointment set for the morning with the South African embassy. We'll see if they can't help shed some light on this reclusive family."

And reclusive was putting it mildly. The Waalengbergs were the Kennedys of South Africa: rich, ruthless, with their own estate the size of Rhode Island outside of Johannesburg. Though the family owned vast tracts elsewhere, the Waalenberg family seldom strayed far from their main estate.

Painter picked up the grainy digital photo.

A family of Sonnekonlge.

As time ran short, there could be only one place a second Bell could be hidden. Somewhere on that estate.

"A British operative will meet you when you touch down in Johannesburg. MI5 has had their eye on the Waalenbergs for years—tracking unusual transactions—but they've been unable to penetrate their wall of privacy and secrecy."

Not surprising, since the Waalenbergs practically own the country, Painter thought.

"They'll offer ground support and local expertise," Logan finished. "I'll have more details by the time you touch down in three hours."

"Very good." Painter stared at the picture. "And what about Gray and Monk?"

"They've dropped off the map. We found their car parked at the airport in Frankfurt."

Frankfurt? That made no sense. The city was a major international airline hub, but Gray already had access to a government jet, faster than any commercial airline. "And no word at all?"

"No, sir. We're listening on all channels."

The news was definitely disconcerting.

Rubbing at a needling headache that even codeine couldn't touch, Painter concentrated on the drone of the plane as it sailed through the dark skies. What had happened to Gray? The options were few: he'd gone into hiding, been captured, or killed. Where was he?

"Turn over every stone, Logan."

"It's under way. Hopefully by the time you reach Johannesburg, I'll have more news on that matter, too."

"Do you ever sleep, Logan?"

"There's a Starbucks on the corner, sir. Make that every corner." A tired amusement flavored his words. "But what about you, sir?"

He had taken a power nap back in Kathmandu while all the preparations had been made and fires put out—literally and politically—in Nepal. They had been delayed too long in Kathmandu.

"I'm holding up fine, Logan. No worries."

Right.

As Painter signed off, his thumb rubbed absently over the pale pebbly flesh that was the nail bed to his fourth finger. All his other fingers tingled—and now his toes. Logan had attempted to convince him to fly back to Washington, have tests run at Johns Hopkins, but Painter had trusted that Anna's group was well ahead of the curve on this particular illness. Damaged at the quantum level. No conventional treatment would help. To slow down the disease, they needed another functioning Bell. According to Anna, periodic treatment with the Bell's radiation under controlled situations could buy them years instead of days. And maybe down the line, even a complete cure, Anna concluded hopefully.

But first they needed another Bell.

And more information.

A voice behind his shoulder startled him. "I think we should talk to Anna," Lisa said, as if reading his mind.

Painter turned. He thought Lisa had been asleep in back. She had cleaned up, showered, and now leaned against his seat back, dressed in khaki slacks and a cream-colored blouse.

Her eyes searched his face, clinical, judging. "You look like crap," she said.

"Such a good bedside manner," he said, standing and stretching.

The plane tilted and darkened. Lisa grabbed his elbow, steadying him. The world brightened and stabilized. It hadn't been the plane, just his head.

"Promise me you'll get some more sleep before we land," she said, squeezing his elbow in a demanding pinch.

"If there's time—owwwF

She had a grip like iron.

"Okay, I promise," he relented.

Her grip relaxed. She nodded to Anna. The woman was hunched over a stack of invoices, going over bills of lading for the Waalenberg estate. She was looking for any telltale signs that the Waalenbergs had been bringing in supplies consistent with the operation of a functioning Bell.

"I want to know more about how that Bell works," Lisa said. "The fundamental theories behind it. If the disease causes quantum damage, we must understand how and why. She and Gunther are the only survivors from Granitschloft. I doubt Gunther has been instructed on the finer points of the

Bell's theories."

Painter nodded. "More guard dog than scientist."

As if confirming this, a loud snore rumbled from the man.

"All the remaining knowledge of the Bell is in Anna's head. If her mind should go…"

They'd lose it all.

"We need to secure the information before that happens," Painter agreed.

Lisa's eyes met his. She did not hide her thoughts. They were plain on her face. He remembered her climbing on board the plane in Kathmandu. Exhausted, frayed to a ragged edge, she had not hesitated to come along. She understood. Like now.

It wasn't just Anna's mind and memory that were at risk.

Painter was also in danger.

Only one person had been following this trail from the beginning, one person with the medical and scientific mind to follow it all, a mind free of impending dementia. Back at the castle, Lisa and Anna had shared long conversations alone. Also on her own, Lisa had explored the depths of Anna's research library. Who knew what tiny fact might prove to be the critical one, the difference between success and failure?

Lisa had understood.

It had taken no discussion in Kathmandu.

She had simply climbed on board.

Lisa's hand slipped from his elbow and slid to his hand. She gave his fingers a squeeze and nodded to Anna. "Let's go pick her brain."

"To understand how the Bell works," Anna explained, "you must first understand quantum theory."

Lisa studied the German woman. Her pupils were dilated from the codeine. She was taking too much. Anna's fingers shook with fine tremors. She clutched her reading glasses in both hands, as if they were an anchor. They had retreated to the back of the jet. Gunther still slept under guard in the front.

"I don't think we have time for the full Ph.D. program," Painter said.

"Naturlich. Only three principles need to be understood." Anna let go of her glasses long enough to hold up one finger. "First, we must understand that once matter is broken down to the subatomic level—the world of electrons, protons, and neutrons—then the classical laws of the universe begin to erode. Max Planck discovered that electrons, protons, and neutrons act as both particles and waves. Which seems strange and contradictory. Particles have distinct orbits and paths, while waves are more diffuse, less distinct, lacking any specific coordinates."

"And these subatomic particles act like both?" Lisa asked.

"They have the potential to be either a wave or a particle," Anna said. "Which brings us to our next point. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle."

Lisa was already familiar with it and had read further about it back in Anna's laboratory. "Heisenberg basically states that nothing is certain until it is observed," she said. "But I don't understand what that has to do with electrons, protons, and neutrons."

"The best example of Heisenberg's principle is Schrodinger's cat," Anna responded. "Put a cat in a sealed box hooked to a device that may or may not poison the cat at any moment. Purely random odds. Dead or alive. Heisenberg tells us that in that situation, with the box closed, that the cat is potentially both dead and alive. Only once someone opens the box and looks inside does reality choose one state or the other. Dead or alive."

"Sounds more philosophical than scientific," Lisa said.

"Perhaps when you're talking about a cat. But it has been proven true at the subatomic level."

"Proven? How?" Painter asked. He had sat quietly up until now, letting Lisa direct the questioning. She sensed he knew much of this already but wanted Lisa to get all the information she needed.

"In the classic double-slit test," Anna said. "Which brings us to point number three." She picked up two pieces of paper and drew two slits on one and held them up on end, one behind the other.

i I

"What I'm about to tell you is going to seem strange and against common sense… Suppose this piece of paper were a concrete wall and the slits were two windows. If you took a gun and sprayed bullets at both slits, you'd get a certain pattern on the wall on the far side. Like this."

She took the second piece of paper and punched dots on it.

*

"Call this Diffraction Pattern A. The way bullets or particles would pass through these slits."

Lisa nodded. "Okay."

"Next, instead of bullets, let's shine a big spotlight on the wall, with light passing through both slits. Because light travels in waves, we would get a different pattern on the far wall."

She shaded a pattern of light and dark bands across a new piece of paper.

"This patterning is caused by the light waves passing through the right and left windows interfering with each other. So let's call this Interference Pattern B…what is caused by waves."

"Got it," Lisa said, not sure where this was going.

Anna held up the two patterns. "Now take an electron gun and shoot a single line of electrons at the double slits. What pattern would you get?"

"Since you're shooting electrons like bullets, I'd guess Diffraction Pattern A." Lisa pointed to the first picture.

"Actually, in laboratory tests you get the second. Interference Pattern B."

Lisa thought about this. "The wave pattern. So then the electrons must be shooting out of the gun—not like bullets—but like light out of a flashlight, traveling in waves and creating Pattern B."

"Correct."

"So electrons move like waves."

"Yes. But only when no one actually witnesses the electrons passing through the slits."

"I don't understand."

"In another experiment, scientists placed a little clicker at one of the slits. It beeped whenever it sensed an electron passing through the slit, measuring or observing the passage of an electron past the detector. What was the pattern on the other side when the device was turned on?"

"It shouldn't change, should it?"

"In the larger world, you're correct. But not at the subatomic world. Once the device was switched on, it immediately changed into Diffraction Pattern A."

"So the simple act of measuring changed the pattern?"

"Just as Heisenberg predicted. Though it may seem impossible, it's true. Verified over and over again. Electrons exist in a constant state of both wave and particle until something measures the electron. That very act of measuring the electron forces it to collapse into one reality or the other."

Lisa tried to picture a subatomic world where everything was held in a constant state of potential. It made no sense.

"If subatomic particles make up atoms," Lisa asked, "and atoms make up the world we know, touch, and feel, where is the line between the phantom world of quantum mechanics and our world of real objects?"

"Again, the only way to collapse potential is to have something measure it. Such measuring tools are constantly present in the environment. It can be one particle bumping into another, a photon of light hitting something. Constantly the environment is measuring the subatomic world, collapsing potential into hard reality. Look at your hands, for example. At the quantum level, the subatomic particles that make up your atoms operate according to fuzzy quantum rules, but expand outward, into the world of billions of atoms that make up your fingernail. Those atoms are bumping, jostling, and interacting—measuring one another—forcing potential into one fixed reality."

"Okay…"

Anna must have heard the skepticism in her voice.

"I know it's bizarre, but I've barely scratched the surface of the fuzzy world of quantum theory. I'm skipping over such concepts as nonlocality, time tunneling, and multiple universes."

Painter nodded. "Gets pretty weird out there."

"But all you need to understand are those three points," Anna said, ticking them off on her fingers. "Subatomic particles exist in a quantum state of potential. It takes a measuring tool to collapse that potential. And it is the environment that constantly performs those measurements to fix our reality."

Lisa lifted her hand, acquiescing for the moment. "But what does that have to do with the Bell? Back at the library, you mentioned something called quantum evolution."

"Exactly," Anna said. "What is DNA? Nothing but a protein machine, /a? Producing all the basic building blocks of cells, of bodies."

"At its simplest."

"Then go even simpler. Is DNA not merely genetic codes locked in chemical bonds? And what breaks these bonds, turning genes on and off?"

Lisa switched back to basic chemistry. "The movement of electrons and protons."

"And these subatomic particles obey which rules: the classical or the quantum?"

"The quantum."

"So if a proton could be in two places—A or B—turning a gene on or off—which place would it be found?"

Lisa squinted. "If it has the potential to be in both places, then it is in both places. The gene is both on and oil. Until something measures it."

"And what measures it?"

"The environment."

"And the environment of a gene is…?"

Lisa's eyes slowly widened. "The DNA molecule itself."

A nod and a smile. "At its most fundamental level, the living cell acts as its own quantum-measuring device. And it is this constant cellular measurement that is the true engine of evolution. It explains how mutations are not random. Why evolution occurs at a pace faster than attributable by random chance."

"Wait," Lisa said. "You'll have to back that one up."

"Consider an example, then. Remember those bacteria that could not digest lactose—how when they were starved, offered only lactose, they mutated at a miraculous pace to develop an enzyme that could digest lactose. Against astronomical odds." Anna lifted an eyebrow. "Can you explain it now? Using the three quantum principles? Especially if I tell you that the beneficial mutation required only a single proton to move from one place to another."

Lisa was willing to try. "Okay, if the proton could be in both places, then quantum theory says the proton was in both places. So the gene was both mutated and not mutated. Held in the potential between both."

Anna nodded. "Go on."

"Then the cell, acting as a quantum-measuring tool, would force the DNA to collapse on one side of the fence or the other. To mutate or not to mutate. And because the cell is living and influenced by its environment, it tilted the scale, defying randomness to produce the beneficial mutation."

"What scientists now call adaptive mutation. The environment influenced the cell, the cell influenced the DNA, and the mutation occurred that benefited the cell. All driven by the mechanics of the quantum world."

Lisa began to conceive an inkling of where this was heading. Anna had used the term "intelligent design" in their previous discussion. The woman had even answered the question of who she thought was behind that intelligence.

Us.

Lisa now understood. It is our own cells that are directing evolution, responding to the environment and collapsing potential in DNA to better fit that environment. Darwinian natural selection then kicked in to preserve these modifications.

"But even more importantly," Anna said, her voice beginning to catch and rasp a bit, "quantum mechanics explains how life's first spark started. Remember the improbability of that first replicating protein forming out of the primordial soup? In the quantum world, randomness is taken out of the equation. The first replicating protein formed because it was order out of chaos. Its ability to measure and collapse quantum potential superseded the randomness of merely bumping and jostling that had been going on in the primordial soup. Life started because it was a better quantum-measuring tool."

"And God had nothing to do with it?" Lisa said, repeating a question Anna had first asked her…what seemed like decades ago.

Anna lifted a palm to her forehead, fingers shaking. Her eyes tweaked. She stared out the window with a pained expression. Her voice was almost too soft to hear. "I didn't say that either…you're looking at it the wrong way, in the wrong direction."

Lisa let that drop. She recognized that Anna was growing too exhausted to continue. They all needed more sleep. But there was one question that had to be asked.

"The Bell?" Lisa asked. "What does it do?"

Anna lowered her hand and stared first at Painter, then at Lisa. "The Bell is the ultimate quantum-measuring device."

Lisa held her breath, considering what Anna was saying.

Something fiery shone through Anna's exhaustion. It was difficult to read: pride, justification, faith…but also a fair amount of fear.

"The Bell's field—if it could be mastered—holds the ability not only to evolve DNA to its more perfect form, but also to take mankind with it."

"And what about us?" Painter said, stirring. From his expression, he was plainly unmoved by her ardor. "You and me? How is what is happening to us perfection?"

The fire died in Anna's eyes, quenched by exhaustion and defeat. "Because as much as the Bell holds the potential to evolve, the reverse also lurks within its quantum waves."

"The reverse?"

"The disease that's inflicted our cells." Anna glanced away. "It's not just degeneration…it's devolution."

Painter stared at her, stunned.

Her words dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Our bodies are heading back to the primordial ooze from which we came."

5:05 a.m. SOUTH AFRICA

The monkeys woke him.

Monkeys?

The strangeness shocked him, snapping him from a groggy somnolence to an instant alertness. Gray shoved up. Memory crackled up next as he tried to comprehend his surroundings.

He was alive.

In a cell.

He remembered the flow of gas, the Wewelsburg museum, the lie. He had burned the Darwin Bible, claiming it contained a secret only his group knew about. He had hoped caution would outweigh revenge. Apparently it had. He was alive. But where were the others? Monk, Fiona, and Ryan?

Gray searched his cell. It was utilitarian. A cot, a toilet, an open shower stall. No windows. The door was inch-thick bars. It opened into a hallway lit by overhead fluorescent lighting. Gray took a moment to inspect himself. Someone had stripped him naked, but a neat pile of clothes had been folded atop a chair bolted to the foot of the bed.

He tossed aside the blanket and stood up. The world tilted, but a few breaths steadied it. An edge of nausea continued. His lungs felt coarse and heavy. The aftereffects of the poisoning.

Gray also noted a deep ache in his thigh. He fingered a fist-size bruise on his flank. He felt some scabbed needle pricks. There was also a Band-Aid stuck to the back of his left hand. From an IV? Apparently someone had treated him, saving his life.

Distantly he heard another spat of howls and screamed calls.

Wild monkeys.

It wasn't a caged sound.

More like the natural world awakening.

But what world? The air smelled drier, warmer, scented muskier. He was in a much more temperate climate. Maybe somewhere in Africa. How long had he been out? They had left him no wristwatch to check the time of day, let alone which day it was. But he sensed no more than a day had passed. The thickening of stubble on his chin belied any long nap.

He stepped to the doorway and reached for the piled clothes.

His motion drew someone's attention.

Directly across the hall, Monk stepped to the barred door on the far cell. Gray felt a surge of relief at finding his partner alive. "Thank God…" he whispered.

"You okay?"

"Groggy…wearing off though."

Monk was already dressed, wearing the same white jumpsuit that had been left for him. Gray climbed into his.

Monk lifted up his left arm, baring his stumped wrist and the titanium bio-contact implants that normally linked Monk's prosthesis to his arm. "Bastards even took my goddamn hand."

Monk's missing prosthesis was the least of their worries. In fact, it might be to their advantage. But first things first…

"Fiona and Ryan?"

"No clue. They may be in another cell here…or somewhere else entirely."

Or dead, Gray added silently.

"What now, boss?" Monk asked.

"Not much choice. We wait for our captors to make the first move. They want the information we have. We'll see what we can buy with that knowledge."

Monk nodded. He knew Gray had been bluffing back at the castle, but the ruse had to be maintained. The cellblock was likely under surveillance.

Proving this, a door clanged open at the end of the hall.

Many footsteps approached. A group.

They came into view: a troop of guards dressed in green and black camouflage uniforms, led by the tall, pale blond man, the buyer from the auction. He was dapperly fashioned as usual: in black twill pants and pressed linen shirt, with white leather loafers and a white cashmere cardigan. He looked like he was dressed for a garden party.

Ten guards accompanied him. They split into two groups, crossing to each cell. Gray and Monk were marched out, barefoot, with their arms secured in plastic ties behind their backs.

The leader stepped in front of them.

His blue eyes were ice upon Gray.

"Good morning," he said stiffly and a bit staged, as if he were sensitive to the cameras in the halls, knew he was being watched. "My grandfather requests an audience with you."

Despite the civility, a black anger etched each word, an unspoken promise of pain. The man had been denied his kill before and now merely bided his time. Still, what was the real source of his fury? His brother's death…or the fact that Gray had outfoxed him at the castle? Either way, behind all the cultured dress and mannerisms lurked something feral.

"This way," he said and turned away.

He again led the group down the hall, Gray and Monk in tow. As they proceeded, Gray searched the cells to either side. Empty. No sign of Fiona or Ryan. Were they still alive?

The hall ended at three steps that led up to a massive steel exterior door.

It stood open, guarded.

Gray stepped out of the sterile cellblock and into a dark and verdant wonderland. A jungle canopy climbed high all around, trailing thorny vines and flowering orchids. The dense leafy foliage hid the sky. Still Gray knew it must be very early in the morning, well before sunrise. Ahead, black Victorian-era iron lampposts marked paths that trailed off into a wild jungle. Birds twittered and squawked. Insects droned. Farther up in the canopy, a single hidden monkey announced them with a staccato, coughing call. His outburst woke a flame-feathered bird and set it to wing through the lower branches.

"Africa," Monk mumbled under his breath. "Sub-Saharan at least. Maybe equatorial."

Gray agreed. He estimated that it must be the morning of the next day. He'd lost eighteen to twenty hours. That could put them anywhere in Africa.

But where?

The guards escorted them along a gravel pathway. Gray heard the soft measured step of something large pushing through the undergrowth a few yards off the trail. But even so close, its shape could not be discerned. The forest offered plenty of cover if they could make a run for it.

But the chance never arose. The path ended after only fifty yards. A few more steps and the jungle fell away around them.

The forest opened into a stretch of manicured and lamplit greensward, a garden of dancing waters and flowing springs. Ponds and creeks trickled. Waterfalls burbled. A long-horned antelope lifted its head at their appearance, froze for a heartbeat, then took flight, bounding away into the forest cover.

The sky, clear above, twinkled with stars, but to the east, a pale rosy glow hinted at the approach of morning, maybe an hour off.

Closer at hand, another sight drew Gray's eye and fully captured his attention.

Across the gardens rose a six-story mansion of stacked fieldstone and exposed exotic woods. It reminded him of The Ahwahnee lodge in Yosemite, but this was much more massive, Wagnerian in scope. A woodland Versailles. It had to cover ten acres, rising in gables and tiers, balconies and balustrades. To the left, a glass-enclosed conservatory protruded, lit from within, blazing in the predawn darkness like a rising sun.

The wealth here was staggering.

They headed toward the manor house, across a stone path that split the water garden and arched over a few of the ponds and creeks. A two-meter-long snake slithered across one of the stone bridges. It was not identifiable until it reared up and fanned open its hood.

King cobra.

The snake guarded the bridge until the white-blond man broke off a long reed from a creekbed and shooed it away like an unruly cat. The snake hissed, fangs bared, but it backed down and sashayed off the planks and slid into the dark waters.

They continued on, unfazed. Gray's neck slowly craned as they approached the manor house.

He spotted another eccentricity about the construction. Spreading outward from the upper stories were forest-top pathways—wood-slatted suspended bridges—allowing household guests to step out of the upper-story levels and into the very jungle canopy itself. These paths were also strung with lamps. They cast a constellation through the dark jungle. Gray turned in a circle as he walked. They glowed all around.

"Heads up," Monk mumbled, nodding to the left.

Up on the canopy trail, a guard marched slowly into view, limned against one of the lamps, rifle on his shoulder. Gray glanced to Monk. Where there was one, there must be more. An entire army could be hidden up in the canopy. Escape seemed less and less likely.

At last they reached a set of steps that led up to a wide porch of polished zebra wood. A woman waited, a twin to their escort and as nattily attired. The man stepped forward and kissed each of her cheeks.

He spoke to her in Dutch. While not fluent with the language, Gray was familiar enough to catch the gist.

"Are the others prepared, Ischke?" he asked.

"We just wait word from grootvader." She nodded to the illuminated conservatory at the far end of the porch. "Then the hunt can begin."

Gray struggled for any clue to their meaning, but he was too much in the dark.

With a heavy sigh, the blond man turned back to them, fingering a stray lock of hair back in place. "My grandfather will see you in the solarium," their guide said, biting off each word. He headed down the length of the porch toward it. "You will speak to him civilly and with respect, or I will personally see you suffer for every word of disrespect."

"Isaak…" the woman called to him.

He stopped and turned. "Ja, Ischke?"

She spoke in Dutch again. "De jongen en net meisje? Should we bring them out now?"

A nod answered her, followed by a final order in Dutch.

As Gray translated this last bit, he had to be tugged to move. He glanced over a shoulder at the woman. She vanished inside the house.

De jongen en net meisje.

The boy and the girl.

It had to be Ryan and Fiona.

The two were still alive. Gray took some consolation in the revelation—but Isaak's last words chilled and terrified him.

Bloody them up first.

5:18 a.m.

AIRBORNE OVER AFRICA

Painter sat with a pen in hand. The only noise in the plane was the occasional snore from Gunther. The man seemed oblivious to the danger into which they were flying. Then again, Gunther did not have the same time constraints as Anna and Painter. Though all three were headed toward the same place—devolution—Anna and Painter were in the fast lane.

Unable to sleep, Painter had used the time to review the history of the Waalenberg clan, gaining as much Intel on the family as possible.

To know your enemy.

The Waalenbergs had first reached Africa by way of Algiers in 1617. They proudly traced their family history back to the infamous Barbary pirates along the North African coast. The first Waalenberg was a quartermaster for the famous pirate Sleyman Reis De Veenboer, who operated an entire Dutch fleet of corsairs and galleys out of Algiers.

Eventually, rich upon spoils from the slave trade, the Waalenbergs had moved south, settling into the large Dutch colony at the Cape of Good Hope. But their piracy didn't end there. It just went aground. They gained a powerful stranglehold on the immigrant Dutch population, so that when gold was discovered in the lands they settled, the Waalenbergs profited the most. And the gold found was not a small amount. The Witwatersrand Reef, a low mountain range near Johannesburg, was the source of forty percent of all the world's gold. Though not as ostentatious as the famous diamond mines of the De Beerses, the gold of the "Reef" was still one of the world's most valuable storehouses of wealth.

It was upon such wealth that the family set up a dynasty that transcended the First and Second Boer Wars, and all the political machinations that became South Africa today. They were one of the richest families on the planet—though for the past generations, the Waalenbergs had grown ever more reclusive, especially under the auspices of their current patriarch, Sir Baldric Waalenberg. And as they disappeared from the public's eye, rumors grew around the family: of atrocities, perversions, drug addictions, inbreeding. Yet still the Waalenbergs grew richer, with stakes in diamonds, oil, petrochemicals, pharmaceuticals. They put the multi in multinational.

Could this family truly be behind the events at Granitschlofi?

They were certainly powerful enough and had ample resources. And the tattoo Painter had found on the blond assassin definitely bore a resemblance to the "Cross" of the Waalenberg crest. And then there were the twins, Isaak and Ischke Waalenberg. What was their purpose in Europe?

So many unanswered questions.

Painter flipped a page and tapped his pen on the Waalenberg crest.

Something about the symbol…

As with the history of the Waalenbergs, Logan had forwarded information about the symbol. It traced back to the Celts, another Nordic tribe.

Emblematic of the sun, the symbol was often found emblazoned on Celtic shields, earning it the name of shield knot.

Painter's hand paused.

Shield knot.

Words filled his head, spoken by Klaus as he died, a curse cast at them.

You will all die! Strangled when the knot tightens!

Painter had thought Klaus had been making a reference to a tightening noose. But what if he had been referring instead to the symbol?

When the knot tightens…

Painter turned over a fax sheet. He sketched while staring at the Waalenberg crest. He drew the symbol as if someone had cinched the knot more tightly, drawing the loops together, like tying a shoelace.

"What are you doing?" Lisa materialized at his shoulder.

Startled again, he scooted his pen across the paper, almost tearing it.

"Good God, woman, will you please stop sneaking up on me like that!"

Yawning, she settled on the arm of his chair, perching there. She patted him on the shoulder. "Such a delicate disposition." Her hand remained there as she leaned closer. "Really. What were you drawing?"

Painter suddenly was too conscious of her right breast next to his cheek.

He cleared his throat and returned to his sketch. "Just playing with the symbol we found on the assassin. Another of my operatives saw it on a pair of Sonnekonige in Europe. Twin grandchildren of Sir Baldric Waalenberg. It must be important. Perhaps a clue we've overlooked."

"Or maybe the old bastard just likes branding his offspring, like cattle. They're certainly breeding them as such."

Painter nodded. "Then there was something Klaus said. Something about tightening a knot. Like an unspoken secret."

He finished the sketch with a few more careful strokes, cinching it down. He put one beside the other. The original and the tightened.

Painter studied both drawings and realized the implication.

Lisa must have noted the slight intake in his breath. "What?" she asked, leaning even closer.

He pointed his pen at the second sketch. "No wonder Klaus was swayed to their side. And possibly why the Waalenbergs had become so reclusive these past few generations."

"I don't understand."

"We're not dealing with a new enemy here. We're dealing with the same one." Painter shaded the center of the cinched-down shield knot, revealing its secret heart.

Lisa gasped. "A swastika."

Painter glanced to the slumbering giant and his sister.

He sighed. "More Nazis."

6:04 a.m. SOUTH AFRICA

The glass conservatory had to be as old as the original house. Its paned windows were leaded and swirled, as if melted under the African sun and set into a black iron framework that reminded Gray of a spiderweb. Condensation on the inside of the glass blurred the view to the dark jungle outside.

After first stepping inside, Gray was struck by the moisture. The humidity in the chamber had to be pressing the 100 percent mark. His thin cotton jumpsuit sagged against him.

But the solarium was not for his comfort. It sheltered a wild profusion of greenery, potted and shelved, climbing in tiers, hanging from baskets held by black chains. The air was perfumed by hundreds of blossoms. A small fountain of bamboo and stone tinkled quietly in the center of the room. It was a handsome garden, but Gray wondered who needed a hothouse when you already lived in Africa.

The answer appeared ahead.

A white-haired gentleman stood on a second tier with a tiny pair of snip scissors in one hand and tweezing forceps in the other. With the skill of a surgeon, he leaned over a small bonsai tree—a flowering plum—and clipped a tiny branch. He straightened with a satisfied sigh.

The tree appeared ancient, twisted, and was bound in copper wire. It hung heavy with blossoms, each one perfectly symmetrical, balanced and in harmony.

"She is two hundred and twenty-two years old," the old man said, admiring his handiwork. His accent was thick, Heidi's grandfather in a waistcoat. "She was already old when given to me by Emperor Hirohito himself in 1941."

He set down his tools and turned. He wore a white apron over a navy suit with a red tie. He held out a hand toward his grandson. "Isaak, te'vreden…"

The young man hurried forward and helped the elder down from the second tier. This earned him a fatherly pat on the shoulder. The old man shed his apron, retrieved a black cane, and leaned heavily upon it. Gray noted the prominent crest upon the cane's silver crown. A filigreed capital IV surmounted the familiar cloverleaf symbol, the same icon tattooed on the twins, Ischke and Isaak.

"I am Sir Baldric Waalenberg," the patriarch said softly, eyeing Gray and Monk. "If you'll please join me in the salon, we have much to talk about."

Swinging around, he tapped his way toward the back of the solarium.

The old man had to be in his late eighties, but besides the need for a cane, he showed little debilitation. He still had a thick mane of silver-white hair, parted in the middle, and cut a bit rakishly to the shoulder. A pair of eyeglasses hung from a silver chain around his neck, one lens of which was outfitted with what looked like a jeweler's magnifying loupe.

As they crossed the slate floor, Gray noted that the conservatory's flora consisted of organized sections: bonsai trees and shrubs, a fern garden, and last, a section that was dense with orchids.

The patriarch noted his attention. "I've been breeding Phalaenopsis for the past six decades." He paused by a tall stalk bearing midnight purple blossoms, the hue of a ripe bruise.

"Pretty," Monk said, but his sarcasm was plain.

Isaak glared at Monk.

The old man seemed oblivious. "Yet still, the black orchid escapes me. The Holy Grail of orchid breeding. I've come so very close. But under magnification, there is either banding or more purpling than a solid ebony."

He absently fingered the jeweler's loupe.

Gray now understood the difference between the jungle outside and the hothouse. Nature wasn't enjoyed here. It was something to master. Under the dome of the conservatory, nature was snipped, strangled, and bred, its growth stunted with copper bonsai wire, its very pollination orchestrated by hand.

At the back of the solarium, they passed through a stained-glass door and reached a seating area of rattan and mahogany woods, a small salon dug into the side of the main house. On the far side, a double set of swinging doors, muffled with insulating strips, led into the interior of the mansion.

Baldric Waalenberg settled into a wingback chair.

Isaak crossed to a desk, complete with an HP computer and wall-mounted LCD monitor. A blackboard stood next to it.

Prominently chalked across its surface was a line of symbols. All of them runes, Gray saw, noting the last was the Mensch rune from the Darwin Bible.

r i x in y

Gray counted and memorized them discreetly. Five symbols. Five books. Here was the complete set of Hugo Hirszfeld's runes. But what did they mean? What secret was too beautiful to let die and too monstrous to set free?

The old man folded his hands in his lap and nodded to Isaak.

He tapped a key, and a high-definition image filled the LCD monitor.

A tall cage hung suspended above the jungle floor. It was sectioned into two halves. A small figure huddled within each side.

Gray took a step forward, but a guard restrained him at rifle point. On the screen, one of the figures looked up, face bright, illuminated by an overhead spotlight.

Fiona.

And in the other half of the cage, Ryan.

Fiona had her left hand bandaged, rolled up in the hem of her shirt. The cloth was stained dark. Ryan held his right hand tucked under his armpit, putting on pressure. Bloody them up first. The bitch must have cut their hands. Gray prayed that was all it was. A dark fury hollowed out his chest. His vision sharpened as his heart hammered.

"Now we will talk, /a?" the old man said with a warm grin. "Like gentlemen."

Gray faced him, but he kept one eye on the screen. So much for gentility. "What do you want to know?" he asked coldly.

"The Bible. What else did you find within its pages?"

"And you'll let them free?"

"And I want my goddamn hand back!" Monk blurted out.

Gray glanced from Monk to the old man.

Baldric nodded to Isaak, who in turn waved to one of the guards and barked an order in Dutch. The guard turned on a heel and shoved through the double doors, entering the manor house's interior.

"There is no need for further nastiness. If you cooperate, you have my word you will all be kept well."

Gray saw no advantage in holding out, especially as he held nothing of value except lies. He shifted sideways and displayed his bound wrists. "I'll have to show you what we found. I can't accurately describe it. It's another symbol, like these others."

Another nod, and in a moment, Gray was free. He rubbed his wrists and approached the blackboard. Several rifles were dead-leveled upon him.

He had to draw something that would be convincing, but he was not all that familiar with runes. Gray remembered Himmler's teapot, the one back at the museum. A runic symbol had decorated the pottery. It should be cryptic enough, convincing enough. And by throwing a proverbial wrench in the works, it might also delay these folks from solving the mystery here.

He picked up a piece of chalk and sketched the symbol on the pot.

*

Baldric leaned forward, eyes pinched. "A sun wheel, interesting."

Gray stood by the board, chalk in hand, like a student awaiting a teacher's verdict on a math problem.

"And this is all you found in the Darwin Bible?" Baldric asked.

From the corner of his eye, Gray noted a slight smirk on Isaak's face.

Something was wrong.

Baldric waited for Gray to answer.

"Let them go first," Gray demanded, nodding to the monitor.

The old man locked gazes with Gray. Despite his dissembling attitude, Gray recognized a savage intelligence and a hint of hard cruelty. The old man enjoyed all this immensely.

But finally Baldric broke their standoff, glancing over to his grandson and nodding again.

"Wie ee/-sf?"lsaak asked. Who first?

Gray tensed. Something was definitely wrong.

Baldric answered in English, his eyes again fixed on Gray, wanting to fully enjoy the entertainment. "The boy, I think. We'll save the girl for later."

Isaak tabbed a command on the keyboard.

On the screen, the bottom of the trapdoor fell open underneath Ryan. He silently screamed, flailing as he fell. He crashed hard into the tall grasses below. He stood quickly, searching around, terrified. The boy was plainly aware of a danger to which Gray was blind, perhaps something drawn by their dripping blood.

Ischke's earlier words replayed in Gray's head.

We just wait word from grootvader… Then the hunt can begin.

What hunt?

Baldric motioned to Isaak, miming turning a knob.

Isaak tapped a key, and sound rose from speakers. Screams and shouts echoed out.

Fiona's voice rang clear. "Run, Ryan! Get up in a tree!"

The boy danced once more in a circle, then ran, limping, out of the frame. Worse still, Gray heard laughter. From guards out of camera view.

Then a new scream stretched out from the speakers.

Feral and full of bloodlust.

The cry shivered the hairs all over Gray's body, standing them on end.

Baldric made a slashing motion across his neck and the audio was muted.

"It is not only orchids we breed here, Commander Pierce," Baldric said, dropping all pretense of civility.

"You gave us your word," Gray said.

"If you cooperated!" Baldric stood, rising smoothly. He waved an arm dismissively to the blackboard. "Do you think us fools? We knew all along that there was nothing else in the Darwin Bible. We have what we need already. This was all a test, a demonstration. We brought you here for other reasons. Other questions that need answering."

Gray reeled from what he was hearing, realization dawning. "The gas…"

"Only meant to incapacitate. Never kill. Your little sham was amusing though, I'll grant you that. Now it is time to move on."

Baldric stepped closer to the mounted screen. "You are protective of this little one, are you not? This fiery little slip of a girl. Zeer goed. I will show you what awaits her in the forest."

A nod, a tapped key, and an image filled a side window on the monitor.

Gray's eyes widened in horror.

Baldric spoke. "We wish to know more about a certain accomplice of yours. But I wanted to be sure we are done with games now, /a? Or do you need another demonstration?"

Gray continued to stare at the image on the screen, defeated. "Who? Who do you want to know about?"

Baldric stepped closer. "Your boss. Painter Crowe."

12 UKUFA

6:19 a.m.

RICHARDS BAY, SOUTH AFRICA

Lisa watched Painter's legs tremble as they climbed the steps to the local office of British Telecom International. They had come here to meet a UK operative who would aid in logistical and ground support for any assault on the Waalenberg estate. The firm was only a short taxi ride from the airport at Richards Bay, a major port along the southern coast of South Africa. It lay only an hour's drive from the estate.

Painter clutched the handrail, leaving a moist handprint. She caught his elbow and assisted him up the last step.

"I've got it," he said with a bit of a snap.

She didn't respond to his anger, knowing it bubbled up from an internalized anxiety. He was also in a lot of pain. He'd been popping codeine like M&M's. He limped toward the door to the telecom firm.

Lisa had hoped the downtime on the plane would have helped him regain some strength, but if anything, the half day spent in the air had only advanced his debilitation…his devolution, if Anna was to be believed.

The German woman and Gunther remained at the airport, under guard. Not that any sentry was necessary. Anna had spent the last hour of the trip vomiting in the jet's bathroom. When they had left, Gunther had been cradling Anna on the couch, a damp washcloth over her brow. Her left eye had turned bloodshot and seemed painfully bruised. Lisa had given her an antiemetic for the nausea and a shot of morphine.

Though Lisa hadn't voiced it aloud, she estimated Anna and Painter had at best another day before they were too far gone for any hope of a treatment.

Major Brooks, their only escort, opened the door ahead for them. His eyes scanned the streets below, ever vigilant, but few people were about at this early morning hour.

Painter walked stiff-limbed through the door, struggling to hide his limp.

Lisa followed. In a few minutes, they were ushered past the reception area, through a large gray maze of cubicles and offices, and into a conference room.

It was empty. Its wall of windows at the back overlooked the lagoon of Richards Bay. To the north stretched an industrial port of cranes and container ships. To the south, divided by a seawall, spread a section of the original lagoon, now a conservation area and park, home to crocodiles, sharks, hippos, pelicans, cormorants, and the ever-present flamingos.

The rising sun turned the waters below into a fiery mirror.

As they waited, tea and scones were brought into the room and spread out on the table. Painter had already settled into a seat. Lisa joined him. Major Brooks remained standing, not far from the door.

Though she didn't ask, Painter read something in her expression. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," she countered softly. The empty room intimidated her for some reason.

He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling. Despite his outward degeneration, the man himself remained sharp. She had noted a very slight slurring to his speech, but it could just be the drugs. Would his mind be the last to go?

Beneath the table, her hand reached for his, a reflexive gesture.

He took it.

She didn't want him to go. The strength of her emotion overwhelmed her, surprising her. She had barely gotten to know him. She wanted to know more. His favorite food, what made him belly laugh, how he danced, what he would whisper when he said good night. She didn't want it all to go away.

Her fingers squeezed, as if her will alone could hold him here.

At that moment, the door to the room opened again. The UK operative had finally arrived.

Lisa turned, surprised at who walked in. She had been picturing some James Bond clone, some clean-cut and Armani-suited spy. Instead, a middle-aged woman, dressed in a wrinkled khaki safari suit, entered the room. She carried a hat crumpled in one hand. Her face was mildly pancaked in red dust, except around her eyes, where sunglasses must have sat. It gave her a startled appearance, despite the weary set to her shoulders and a certain sadness in her eyes.

"I'm Dr. Paula Kane," she said, nodding to Major Brooks as she entered, then stepping over to join them. "We don't have much time to coordinate."

Painter stood over the table. An array of satellite photos was spread out over the table. "How old are these shots?" he asked.

"Taken at dusk last night," Paula Kane said.

The woman had already explained her role here. After graduating with a Ph.D. in biology, she had been recruited by British intelligence and posted in South Africa. She and a partner ran a series of research projects while secretly monitoring and watching the Waalenberg estate. They had been spying upon the family for close to a decade, until a tragedy less than two days ago. Her partner had been killed under strange circumstances. Lion attack was the official explanation. But the woman had looked little convinced as she offered this explanation.

"We did an infrared pass after midnight," Paula continued, "but there was a glitch. We lost the image."

Painter stared at the layout of the massive estate, over a hundred thousand acres. A small landing strip was visible, cut through a swath of jungle. Outbuildings dotted a landscape of forested highlands, vast grassy savannas, and dense jungle. In the center of the densest section of forest squatted a castle of stone and wood. The Waalenberg main residence.

"And we can't get a better view of the lay of the land around the mansion?"

Paula Kane shook her head. "The jungle in the area is Afromontane forest, ancient woodlands. Only a few such forests remain in South Africa. The Waalenbergs picked this location for their estate both because of its remoteness and to capture this gigantic forest for themselves. The bones of this forest are trees forty meters high, layered into distinct strata and canopies. The biodiversity within its bower is denser than any rain forest or Congo jungle."

"And it offers a perfect insulating cover," Painter said.

"What goes on beneath that canopy is known only to the Waalenbergs. But we do know the engineering of the manor house is only the tip of an iceberg. A vast underground complex lies beneath the estate."

"How deep?" Painter asked, eyeing Lisa. If they were experimenting with the Bell here, they would want it buried away.

"We don't know. Not for sure. But the Waalenbergs made their fortune in gold mining."

"At the Witwatersrand Reef."

Paula glanced up at him. "Correct. I see you've been doing your homework." She turned her attention back to the satellite photos. "The same expertise at mine engineering was used to construct a subterranean complex beneath their mansion. We know the mining engineer, Bertrand Culbert, was consulted in the construction of the manor's foundations, but he died shortly thereafter."

"Let me guess. Under mysterious circumstances."

"Trampled by a water buffalo. But his death was not the first, nor the last associated with the Waalenbergs." Her eyes flared with pain, plainly reminded of her partner. "Rumors abound of people vanishing in the area."

"Yet no one has served a search warrant on the estate."

"You have to understand the volatility of South African politics. Regimes may change, but gold has always ruled here. The Waalenbergs are untouchable. Gold protects them better than any moat or personal army."

"And what about you?" Painter asked. "What's MI5's interest here?"