Black Order (25 page)

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
.
BÜREN, 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 cafés, 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
…it’s been the Burgschloß 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.”