Black Order (Sigma Force 3)

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 g*y," 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.