Black Order (6 page)

4. Charles Darwin’s family Bible.

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

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

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

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

“It is true?”

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

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

Monk’s grin grew broader. He could not help it. “Are you sure?”

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

Monk stood up. “Yesterday? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Kat disappeared into the bathroom, half closing the door.

“Kat?”

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

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

“Kat, talk to me,” he said gently.

“I’m just going to take a quick shower.”

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

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

“Kathryn…”

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

He blocked it with his foot. “It wasn’t like you were
using
the bathroom.”

“I was waiting for the shower to warm up.”

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

She leaned back.

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

She would not meet his eyes, head still hanging.

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

“I have to—” she started.

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

She finally met his eyes. “I…I’m sorry.”

He leaned closer. “For what?” Their lips brushed each other’s.

“I should’ve been more careful.”

“I don’t remember complaining.”

“But this sort of mistake—”

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

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

“I may not know everything, but I
do
know that answer.”

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

“Oh,” she said.

7:55
A.M
.
COPENHAGEN, DENMARK

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

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

Closed for now.

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

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

He could almost smell the sawdust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that so?”

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

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

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

She returned, a tall Styrofoam cup in each hand.

“Still here?” she asked.

“Don’t have anywhere else to be at the moment.”

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

“Oh.” Gray turned and opened the door for her.

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

“I thought you said—”

“Bollocks.” She rolled her eyes. “Enough with the act. Like you didn’t see me earlier.”

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

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

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

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

Gray searched deeper.

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

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

And best of all…

Gray took a deep breath.

No cats.

And the reason why became apparent.

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

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

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

“I don’t think coffee’s good for a dog,” Gray warned.

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

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

“Frostbite. Mutti took him in a long time ago.”

“Mutti?”

“My grandmother. She’s been waiting for you.”

A voice called from the rear of the shop. “
Er det ham der vil købe bøgerne,
Fiona?”

“
Ja
, Mutti! The
American
buyer. In English please.”

“Send ham ind paa mit kontor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, we’ve met,” Gray said. “In fact, it seems I’ve met your granddaughter
twice
today.”

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

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

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