Black Order (19 page)

Like a spooked herd of cattle, the crowd bristled and bumped against one another. Claustrophobia accentuated the anxiety. Fireworks died overhead, but by now, frightened cries erupted across the parade route. As one person fled, two more took flight, reflexive, growing exponentially. Feet pounded on pavement, retreating, aiming for the exit.

A trickle became a surge.

The stampede toward the exit began.

Gray allowed himself to be carried with it, Fiona in his arms. He prayed no one was trampled. But so far the retreat was not in full panic. With the boom of the fireworks ended, confusion reigned more than horror. Still, the flow of the crowd hastened toward the main gate.

Gray set Fiona down, freeing his arms. He wiped his face clean with the sleeve of his Armani jacket. Fiona stayed at his side, one hand clutching his belt to keep anchored to him amid the throng.

The gate appeared ahead.

Gray nodded toward it. “If anything happens…
run
. Keep going.”

“I don’t know if I can make it. Side hurts like a bitch.”

Gray saw that she was limping now, scrunched over slightly.

Up ahead, Gray saw security guards trying to control the crowd through the gates, keeping the press of bodies from crushing anyone. As he watched, Gray spotted a pair of guards standing off to the side, conspicuously not helping with crowd control. A young man and woman. Both snowy blond. The bidders from the auction house. In disguise, they guarded the gates. Both had holstered pistols, palms resting on them.

For just a moment, the woman’s eyes met his in the crowd.

But they shifted away.

Then snapped back again.

Recognition.

Gray backpedaled through the crowd, fighting the current.

“What?” Fiona asked, pushed behind him.

“Go back. We need to find another way.”

“How?”

Gray edged off to the side, swimming against the riptide. It was too hard to retreat straight back. A moment later, he broke free. Only a handful of people still bustled around him, a small eddy in the greater current.

They needed better coverage.

Gray saw that they had reached the edge of the deserted parade route. The floats had ground to a stop, lights still blinking, but no music. It seemed the panic had spread to the float operators. They had abandoned their chariots and fled. Even the security guards had moved to the gates.

Gray spotted the open door to a cab of one of the floats.

“This way,” he said.

He half carried Fiona away from the crowd and ran for the float. Over the cab towered a giant illuminated puppet of a gangly duck with an oversize head. Gray recognized the figure. From the Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale “The Ugly Duckling.”

They dashed under one of its upraised wings aglow with twinkling yellow lights, plainly meant to flap. Gray helped Fiona into the cab, expecting to be shot in the back at any moment. He climbed in after her and closed the door, snapping it shut as quietly as he could.

As he glanced out the windshield, he appreciated his caution.

A figure appeared ahead, stepping out of the crowd, dressed in black. Grette’s killer. He did not bother hiding his shotgun. All attention had diverted to the front of the park. He circled the edge of the retreating crowd, staring out toward the lake and parade circuit.

Gray ducked with Fiona.

The man passed within yards and continued down the line of abandoned floats.

“That was close,” Fiona whispered. “We should—”

“Shh.” Gray pressed a finger to her lips. His elbow nudged a lever. Something clicked in the dashboard.

Oh crap…

Speakers buried in the puppet overhead erupted.

—
QUACK
,
QUACK
, QUACK…
QUACK
,
QUACK
, QUACK—

The Ugly Duckling had awakened.

And everyone knew it.

Gray straightened. Thirty yards away, the gunman swung around.

There was no hiding now.

Suddenly the cab’s engine growled. Glancing over, he saw Fiona sitting up, popping the clutch.

“Found the key in the ignition,” she said and shifted into gear. The float lurched forward, swinging out of line.

“Fiona, let me—”

“You drove last time. And look where that got us.” She aimed straight for the gunman with the shotgun. “Besides, I owe this bastard.”

So she had recognized him, too. The man who murdered her grandmother. She had shifted into second by the time he raised his shotgun. She barreled toward him, careless of the threat.

Gray sought some way to help, searching the cab.

So many levers—

The assassin fired.

Gray winced, but Fiona had already twisted the wheel, anticipating. A corner of the windshield spiderwebbed, the shot wide. Fiona yanked the wheel back around, trying to run the man over.

With the sudden turn, the float, top-heavy, tipped over on two wheels.

“Hold on!” Fiona yelled.

The float crashed back down on four tires, but it bought the man an extra moment to sprint to the left. He was damn fast, already readying his shotgun, planning to shoot point-blank through the side window as the float passed.

They had no time to maneuver out of the way.

Returning his attention to the row of levers, Gray grabbed the left-most one. It only made sense. He yanked it down. Gears ground. The Duckling’s left wing, raised a moment ago, flapped low. It struck the gunman in the neck, clotheslining him from the side, shattering vertebrae. The man was lifted off his feet and tossed aside.

“Go for the gates!” Gray urged.

The Ugly Duckling had its first taste of blood.

—
QUACK
,
QUACK
, QUACK…
QUACK
,
QUACK
, QUACK—

The siren call of the float cleared a path. People scattered to the sides. The security guards were crushed back by the crowd. Even those in disguise. The service gate next to the main entrance, thrown wide earlier to ease the crush of fleeing people, stood open.

Fiona aimed for it.

The duck shattered through it, tearing off its deadly left wing. The cab shuddered, and they were on the streets. Fiona headed away.

“Take the first corner,” Gray said, pointing.

She obeyed, downshifting into the turn like a pro. The Duckling flew around the corner. After two more turns, Gray urged her to slow down.

“We can’t keep driving this thing,” he said. “It’s too conspicuous.”

“You think?” Fiona glanced to him and shook her head in exasperation.

Gray found a long wrench in a tool kit. He had them stop at the top of a hill and waved Fiona out. Shifting over, Gray popped the clutch, jammed the wrench on the accelerator, and jumped to the curb.

The Ugly Duckling took off, lights blazing, clipping parked cars as it fled downhill. Wherever it finally came to roost, the crash site would divert the attention of any trackers.

Gray headed in the opposite direction. They should be safe for a few hours. He checked his watch. Plenty of time to reach the airport. And Monk. He would be touching down shortly.

Fiona limped beside him, eyes glancing back.

Behind them, the Duckling trumpeted into the night.

—
QUACK
,
QUACK
, QUACK…
QUACK
,
QUACK
, QUACK—

“I’m going to miss him,” Fiona said.

“Me, too.”

4:35
A.M
.
HIMALAYAS

Painter stood by the hearth. He had risen from his chair upon the pronouncement of his death sentence.

The massive guard had come forward three steps when Painter rose to his feet, but Anna had held the man back with a raised hand.
“Nein, Klaus. Alles ist ganz recht.”

Painter waited for the guard, Klaus, to return to his post by the door. “There’s no cure?”

Anna nodded. “I spoke truly.”

“Then why isn’t Painter showing the same madness as the monks?” Lisa asked.

Anna glanced to Painter. “You were away from the monastery,
ja
? At the outlying village. Your exposure was less. Rather than the rapid neurological degeneration, you’re experiencing a slower, more generalized
bodily
deterioration. Still, it is a death sentence.”

Anna must have read something in his face.

“While there is no cure, there is a hope of slowing the deterioration. Over the years, experimenting with animals, we have devised some models that show promise. We can prolong your life. Or at least we could have.”

“What do you mean?” Lisa asked.

Anna stood. “It is why I called you down here. To show you.” She nodded to the guard, Klaus, who opened the door. “Follow me. And perhaps we’ll find a way to help each other.”

Painter offered Lisa a hand as Anna stepped away. He burned with curiosity. He sensed both a trap and a measure of hope.

What better bait?

Lisa leaned toward him as she stood. “What is going on?” she whispered in his ear.

“I’m not sure.” He glanced to Anna as she spoke with Klaus.

Perhaps we’ll find a way to help each other.

Painter had planned to propose the same to Anna, even discussed it with Lisa earlier, to bargain for their lives, to buy time. Had they been eavesdropped upon? Bugged? Or had matters simply grown so much worse here that their cooperation was truly needed?

Now he was worried.

“It must have something to do with that explosion we heard,” Lisa said.

Painter nodded. He definitely needed more information. For now, he tabled any concern about his own health…though it was difficult, as another migraine built behind his eyes, aching in his back molars, reminding him of his illness with every throb.

Anna motioned them over. Klaus stepped back. He did not look happy. Then again, Painter had yet to see the man happy. And for some reason, he hoped never to. What made this man happy had to involve screaming and bloodshed.

“If you’ll come with me,” Anna said with cold politeness.

She headed out the door, flanked by two of the outer guardsmen. Klaus followed Lisa and Painter, trailed by another two armed men.

They headed in a direction different from their plush prison cell. After a few turns a straight tunnel, wider than any of the others, stretched into the heart of the mountain. It was also lit by a row of electric bulbs, lined up in wire cages along one wall. It was the first sign of any modern amenities.

They walked along the corridor.

Painter noted the smoky reek to the air. It grew stronger as they progressed. He returned his attention to Anna.

“So you know what made me sick,” he said.

“It was the accident, as I said before.”

“An accident involving
what
?” he pressed.

“The answer is not easy. It stretches far back into history.”

“Back to when you were Nazis?”

Anna glanced to him. “Back to the origin of life on this planet.”

“Really?” Painter said. “So how long is this story? Remember, I only have three days left.”

She smiled at him again and shook her head. “In that case, I’ll jump forward to when my grandfather first came to the
Granitschloß
. At the end of the war. Are you familiar with the turmoil at that time? The chaos in Europe as Germany crumbled.”

“Everything up for grabs.”

“And not just German land and resources, but also our research. Allied forces sent competing parties, scientists and soldiers, scouring the German countryside, pillaging for secret technology. It was a free-for-all.” Anna frowned at them. “Is that the right word?”

Painter and Lisa both nodded.

“Britain alone sent in five thousand soldiers and civilians, under the code name T-Force. Technology Force. Their stated goal was to locate and preserve German technology from looting and robbery, when in fact
looting and robbery
was their true goal, competing against American, French, and Russian counterparts. Do you know who was the founder of the British T-Force?”

Painter shook his head. He could not help comparing his own Sigma Force to the earlier British World War II teams. Tech-plunderers. He would love to discuss the same with Sigma’s founder, Sean McKnight. If he lived that long.

“Who was their leader?” Lisa asked.

“A gentleman named Commander Ian Fleming.”

Lisa made a dismissive snort. “The writer who created James Bond?”

“The same. It was said he patterned his character on some of the men on his team. That gives you some idea of the roughshod and cavalier exuberance of these plunderers.”

“To the victor go the spoils of war,” Painter quoted with a shrug.

“Perhaps. But it was my grandfather’s duty to protect as much of that technology as possible. He was an officer in the
Sicherheitsdienst
.” She glanced at Painter, testing him.

So the game was not over. He was up for the challenge. “The
Sicherheitsdienst
was the group of SS commandos involved in evacuation of German treasures: art, gold, antiquities, and technology.”

She nodded at him. “In the final days of the war, as Russia pushed across the eastern lines, my grandfather was given what you Americans call a
deep black
mission. He received his orders from Heinrich Himmler himself, before the
Reichsführer
was captured and committed suicide.”

“And his orders?” Painter asked.

“To remove, safeguard, and destroy all evidence of a project code-named Chronos. At the heart of the project was a device simply called
die Glocke
. Or the Bell. The research lab was buried deep underground, in an abandoned mine in the Sudeten Mountains. He had no idea what was the purpose of the project, but he would eventually. He almost destroyed it then, but he had his orders.”