The Mongol Objective [Oct 2011] Read online

  Montross sighed. “To answer that question, I’ll need some peace and quiet.” He looked back to Alexander. “And maybe a little help from our guest.”

  He lifted up the satchel with the tablet, feeling it hum, vibrate through the leather. Waiting, impatient. “We’re going to check it out. I can only imagine, though, what old Genghis has in store. But I bet,” he said to Alexander, “it’ll make your dad’s defenses down in your old lighthouse look like a walk in the park.”

  “Oh great,” said Alexander, trying to sound confident, but Montross could feel the boy tremble.

  Good, he thought. Fear will sharpen his senses, attune his visions.

  “Help us, kid. And you help your father too. Because this time he doesn’t have years to ponder and study and prepare for this descent, not like the Pharos. This time, he’s only got a few hours. And unless he’s asking the right questions, and seeing the right visions, he and your aunt won’t last a minute down there.”

  9.

  “I saw him!” Caleb yelled, spinning around, waving his arms through the dimming light. “Montross. He was here.”

  Twenty yards from the main archway and the jeep, he had run chasing the phantom. Around him the stones and broken pillars of once-mighty Xanadu lay in their eight hundred-year-old positions, fodder for weeds and moss, dismissed by the centuries.

  “I might have seen something,” Orlando said, his voice uncertain. He still trained the gun on Qara, who seemed to be edging a little too close. He waved it at her. “Back away, I’m watching you.”

  Phoebe scanned the area, looking into the distance, over the hills, the wide spaces. The only cover being a few trees in the distance. “I don’t know, I don’t see anything. It’s been a long drive. A long trip, no sleep.”

  “I saw him,” Caleb countered. “But it was different. It was like when I saw Dad.”

  “What?”

  “Years ago, in Alexandria, and back in Sodus at Mom’s deathbed. Like he was there, but he wasn’t.”

  “I wonder,” Orlando said, moving closer to Caleb, who still carried the AK-47.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Being in possession of that tablet now, if it really can grant the owner the secrets of the universe. Well, Montross may have picked up an ability or two.”

  “Like what?” Phoebe asked.

  “I was thinking,” Orlando said, “of Star Wars. The whole Obi-Wan ‘Strike me down and I’ll only become stronger’ deal. He was able to send out his spirit, separate it from his body so it could appear all ghost-like and stuff.”

  “Astral Projection? But that was after Obi-Wan died,” Caleb argued. “Like what I believe my father managed to do. He could appear, but only for a brief moments, to convey something, to lead me to the truth.”

  “Maybe,” Phoebe said, “Montross figured out how to do it while still alive.”

  “Or maybe he is dead,” said Qara hopefully. “There were other Darkhad I left behind, guarding the Sacred Mountain. They would not have hesitated taking his life.”

  Caleb thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, he’s alive. I feel it. In fact, I think he was searching for us, and I fear we may have given ourselves—and this position—away.”

  “Damn,” Qara said, then flashed an annoyed look to Orlando. “Please, take that gun off me and let me use my phone. I need to fortify this site.”

  “No time,” Caleb told her. “We have the edge here, for a few hours anyway. We can uncover the entrance, get inside and secure the keys before he even arrives.”

  “And then what?” Qara asked. “Use them to barter for your son? I won’t let that happen.”

  Caleb stared at her, and his fingers holding the gun began to sweat. Phoebe and Orlando were in a triangular position around Qara, silently waiting for Caleb.

  “Please,” Qara said. “Do not go any farther with this. Leave my Khan alone. Nothing good will come of his discovery.”

  “We could wait,” Phoebe said. “Maybe hide out. We know Montross is coming. We can surprise him.”

  “Unless he looks for us again,” Orlando said. “And then he’d be able to get the jump on us. And he’s got Nina. Nope, I say we go in. Wait for him down there.”

  “No,” Qara pleaded.

  Caleb let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, but all I can do is promise you I will do everything I can to ensure Montross never gets those keys, that Temujin is not disturbed. We will never speak of this location, never betray his secret.”

  “Not good enough,” Qara said, dropping her arms to her side. Her legs tensed, fingers unclenched and clenched into fists. “No one gets inside.”

  “Wait,” Orlando said, looking around, turning in a big circle. “Where is it anyway?” “What?” asked Phoebe.

  “The river. I don’t see any damn river.”

  Qara’s face relaxed. She opened her fists, then folded her fingers together, bowing her head. “You don’t know.”

  Caleb came closer, raising the tip of his weapon. “We’ll find out. Orlando, what did we use two years ago in Cambodia to locate the lost temple of Anuk-Beng?”

  “Satellite radar imaging from NASA combined with public databases provided by National Geographic Atlases. Thermal imaging. Hang on, I’ll start it.” He took off his backpack and pulled out the iPad.

  “The maps are very detailed,” Phoebe said, “highlighting things we’d never see from this vantage point. Like ruins in the middle of a jungle or old dried-up riverbeds.”

  Qara hung her head. She glanced back to the arch.

  “Come on,” said Caleb. “We can do it the hard way, or you can help us.”

  She turned to him slowly. “And if I show you the door, what’s to stop you from killing me?”

  “Hey!” said Phoebe. “We’re not the thugs here, honey. But if we don’t get in there and find those keys first, we’re all as good as dead. Come on. Please help us.”

  “And betray my sacred duty?”

  Caleb lowered his gun, switched it to his left hand, and approached. “All right, I’ll leave it up to you. Here’s my gun. Orlando, put yours away. Now it’s your choice, Qara. But if you really mean to protect your Khan, you had better think about letting us in.”

  He held out the gun, and Qara’s dark eyes flickered with uncertainty. They flashed to Phoebe, and then Orlando.

  “From what my sister saw,” Caleb continued, “there’s still a lot of ground to cover beneath here, in ‘caverns measureless to man.’ So showing us the door isn’t the end of this. We may still stop Montross and Renée before they can get to Temujin’s crypt, but we can’t do it from up here. Not out in the open, not like this. And even if we run, Montross, with my son’s help, will find the way in if doesn’t already know.”

  Qara reached for the gun, touched it. And for a moment both Caleb and Qara held it, then he let go, bowed his head and took a step back.

  Qara shouldered the weapon and took aim.

  She wavered, then lowered the tip, pointing it at the ground. She sighed. “Dig under the arch, directly in the center. About five feet down you’ll find the door.”

  Caleb nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll help you dig,” she said, “until we reach the door. But then you go in alone.”

  “No way!” said Orlando. “You’ll seal us in.”

  “No. I’ll stay out here,” she said, hefting the gun, “and wait for your friends. Kill as many of them as I can. And if I fail, I must trust you to finish them off and leave my Lord intact. Can you promise me that?”

  “We can,” Caleb said.

  “And re-bury the door? And tell no one?”

  “Cross our hearts,” said Phoebe.

  Suddenly the wind picked up, swirling, kicking up leaves and twigs. And a rumbling sound rattled the earth. Qara turned, switched her aim, and fired into the sky—

  —just as the sleek black helicopter descended, pinning them in a spotlight. A helmeted woman, perched in the open door, fired back.

  #

&nb
sp; Qara felt the sting of the bullet in her side, then screamed as another ripped past her head. She dropped the gun and watched helplessly as the helicopter landed and the shooter jumped out, followed by six commandos in camouflage.

  “Don’t raise your gun,” Caleb yelled to Orlando. “Just drop it.”

  “Listen to him,” said Renée Wagner, as she ripped off her helmet and let her hair whip in the winds of the dying helicopter blades. “I’ve also got six jeeps on their way, another forty men.” She advanced on Qara, who had fallen to her knees, her good hand trying to stop the flow of blood from her side.

  Qara grimaced as a tsunami of pain swept through her side. She glared at Renée, now lording over her. In the corner of her eye, she saw Orlando, surrounded by three commandos, guns pointed at his face. He raised his hands.

  “All right,” Renée said. “Nice try, luring me to Qin Shi’s mausoleum instead, but you failed. You killed four of my best men, bitch.” She pressed the barrel of her Walther to Qara’s forehead.

  “No!” Caleb yelled, trying to push free of two other commandos who had him restrained. “If you kill her, we’ll never find him.”

  Renée paused, tilting her head. “Really? Doubting your abilities now, are we?”

  “I’m just being practical,” Caleb said. “Remote viewing is just a tool. We may know where the entrance is, but beyond that there’s a lot of real estate to cover before Temujin’s body.”

  Renée smiled, a smile meant for Caleb, but delivered right to Qara. “And you honestly think this Darkhad will help us? I’d rather pull the trigger and trust in you and your friends.”

  “I promise you,” Caleb insisted, “we won’t be enough.”

  Qara tensed for one last lunge, more than confident she could take Agent Wagner, but what then? Dimly, as the blood oozed from her arm and flowed through her fingers, she heard Caleb lobbying Renée to spare her life, and for a moment she regretted doubting him. Because of her blind adherence to tradition and loyalty to a man dead for eight centuries, she had placed them all in danger, and may have unleashed something far worse upon the world. If Wagner or Montross succeeded . . .

  She had to make up for it. Had to give Caleb and his team a chance. But not like this, she needed time.

  “Please,” Caleb urged. “Don’t be stupid.”

  Renée sighed, lifted the weapon and stepped back. She pointed to one of the commandos. “Cuff her. Bandage her up, but no drugs. And keep her awake.” She glared at Qara. “And for your sake, I hope Caleb’s impression of your usefulness is not overrated. The moment I believe you’re no longer helping, you’re dead.”

  Qara looked at them all, in turn. “The Khan’s armies are down there, waiting for you, with deadly surprises that no one, Darkhad and psychics alike, can possibly foresee. We will all soon be entombed along with my master.”

  BOOK THREE

  UNDER XANADU

  1.

  The Pentagon, Washington, DC. Wednesday 3:45 A.M.

  Robert Gregory hung suspended in a tank. Naked, supported by straps around his back, neck and legs, with a mouthpiece between his charred lips supplying oxygen, he drifted in and out of consciousness while electrodes attached to his index finger and his temples relayed his vitals.

  His bath consisted of ninety percent water, ten percent “other”—a collection of esoteric herbs and rare compounds detailed in the Bogratus Manuscript, a three thousand-year-old scroll, once part of the Library of Alexandria, recovered from the Pharos vault. This particular item detailed the treatment of burn victims, a way to heal the scars and speed the patient’s recovery without the use of skin grafts.

  The Keepers were going to release this secret surreptitiously to the medical community next fall, allowing a promising researcher to “discover” the treatment by accident. But now, because of the disaster at Caleb’s place, Robert had to use it personally. The first such patient in millennia.

  He scowled, and he could only imagine the doctor out there suddenly getting edgy because of his spiking blood pressure.

  Montross. Xavier had promised he’d foreseen everything, and there would be no chance of failure. Now Robert cursed his gullibility.

  Lydia. Poor Lydia had been right. Montross couldn’t be trusted. Most likely Montross had seen this outcome and hadn’t cared. He survived, and he gained the tablet. That’s all that mattered to him. He had turned the tables on Robert, left him to burn.

  Fortunately, the shock of being shot had worn off. His lungs had begun filling with blood, which may have saved him, as he coughed his way out of unconsciousness long enough to drag himself out the open front door, but not far enough. He’d heard the explosion, seen the lighthouse in flames, the billowing smoke and the fire spreading to the house, roaring through the rooms and leaping across the roof, seeking him out. He had tried crawling further, coughing up blood, too weak to stand, but then the roof collapsed, pouring burning material on top of him. From that point on, he had maintained consciousness only long enough to direct the medics to call in his special agents to save him and cover up his survival.

  Now he took deep, slow breaths, trying to get his vitals under control. Stop thinking about Montross.

  Never mind that Robert was going to do the same thing to Xavier, as soon as he could get his hands on the tablet. He was reasonably sure Montross wouldn’t have thought of the right questions to ask in order to poke around in Robert’s past or to discern his current motivations. He would have thought only about the Keepers, a bunch of dusty old librarians who had gotten their wish, and now had a new responsibility: protecting and disseminating the ancient documents.

  All except for Robert. Montross would have accepted the obvious—that he still craved the Emerald Tablet, the lone lost object from the library’s catalog. No need to remote view anything further to probe my motivations. Nothing about my true master. Or the other artifact I seek.

  Still, Robert let a little anger back in. He did not take kindly to liars, or thieves. And Caleb Crowe was both. But as bad as that was, to be lied to again by Montross was unforgivable.

  Robert tried to stifle a laugh, coughing up bubbles into the tank. His skin tingled and felt cold, brittle, but surprisingly good. Then, he gave into a little laugh, thinking about how alike his two great enemies were.

  #

  He had long known of The Westcar Papyrus. His father, Nolan Gregory, had prepared him for his destiny by often retelling one of its stories, sometimes by firelight while he and Lydia lay in their beds. The Westcar Papyrus, written in the eighteenth century BCE, had been discovered in Egypt by Henry Westcar in 1824. It contained a collection of tales, in the vein of The Arabian Nights, told to Pharaoh Khufu by his sons about the deeds of magicians in those days.

  But the fourth story dealt with something else altogether, something of great interest to the Keepers. The Hall of Records, the sanctuary of Thoth himself, and the prophecy that only one of three brothers could open the door and reach the books inside. Never mind, his father had said, that the fifth story, fragmented, only details the birth of triplets to a woman years later, one of whom was fated to open the door. There was no mention of the brothers’ success, or what would come of the prophecy. The fifth story might have been nothing more than literary denouement, or nothing less than an outright deception. Nothing had happened. Nothing yet.

  But in time, and with research and study into the most mystical texts to survive the Dark Ages, the Keepers learned that Thoth’s great book, although unreadable, had been moved to an even more secure location under the Pharos Lighthouse. And as further protection, it had been separated from its translation. But to work, to gain its true power, both elements were needed.

  And, Nolan Gregory came to believe, both pieces might only be found by individuals with extraordinary powers. Psychics gifted above all others. Psychics that might even be related.

  Enter Caleb. With a little research, the Keepers had found that his father had another son, unknown even to him. Brother number two.
/>   And so they had kept an eye on both of them, encouraged when both wound up in Alexandria, part of the Morpheus Initiative. Caleb had found the tablet, but Xavier was by no means out of the hunt.

  While his father continued to search for brother number three and to hope, Robert began to believe in his own destiny, in the stretching of the words of prophecy, which often ruled by vagaries of language.

  Robert was, after all, a brother through marriage. And while he lacked his brothers’ abilities, he excelled in what they lacked.

  Power.

  He had consolidated his position, used the other influential members among his fellow Keepers to win key appointments. And then, of course, he was chosen from an early age by the senior leaders of another organization. Chosen, just as Renée had been chosen to play her part.

  He smiled, thinking of her initiation ceremony, of the mask he had worn to welcome her to her new identity. And now she was his, body and soul.

  He clenched his fists, feeling the newly healed skin prickle, threaten to burst, but then hold.

  He was close.

  Death couldn’t claim him, not when prophecy had set his fate. Soon he would be well enough to stand. To dress. To hold a gun.

  And fly to Cairo. Then to Giza. To be ready when Renée returned with the keys and the tablet, and with confirmation that Caleb and Xavier were dead, leaving only Robert with the chance to enter and claim his legacy.

  To fulfill Marduk’s plan.

  And of course, to be justly rewarded.

  2.

  Xanadu, 9 P.M.

  Caleb made his way through the deepening shadows to where Phoebe was tending to Qara. Her side had been bandaged and a Chinese medic had removed the bullet without finesse and without anesthesia.

  “She seems to be doing okay,” Phoebe said. “But she needs a hospital.”

  Caleb risked a glance toward Renée, where she stood close to the arch, arms folded, as her team of commandos dug a nine-by-twelve square out of the earth. They were at knee-depth, and Orlando was in their midst, looking miserable with his face caked with dirt, his eyes alone shining in the four floodlights they had set up. Caleb could tell he was complaining every minute about his “talents being wasted.”