Black Order (Sigma Force 3)

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 cafe 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 cafe. 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 kobe bogerne, 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.