The Mongol Objective [Oct 2011] Page 9

  10.

  “They were here,” Caleb told her. “We missed them.”

  Renée holstered her gun, a black Walther .45 with a walnut grip, a weapon Caleb had noticed earlier and thought was a little flashy for an FBI agent. “So,” she said, “Montross managed to do in minutes what Alexander the Great failed to do all his life?”

  Caleb offered a weak smile. “The Great Conqueror didn’t have our gifts.” Well, at least Phoebe and Orlando still have access to those gifts.

  Renée led Caleb back to the dead body. Her men had removed the assassin’s mask. “Recognize him?”

  “You mean by what’s left of him.”

  She shrugged. “Sorry. He’s Asian. We can tell that much, but he’s got no ID.”

  “Nothing but that tattoo,” another agent pointed out.

  “Wait,” Caleb said. He took out his phone, brought up the photo and sent it as a picture message to Phoebe’s phone. Then he called her.

  Renée frowned. “What are you doing?”

  Caleb held up a hand. “Following a hunch.”

  “Another one?”

  “Yeah. This thing looks familiar, and I’ve got a weird feeling that it’s important. Phoebe?”

  The phone crackled. “Yeah, we’re packing up here. Did you get it?”

  “We got screwed. Again. Montross and Nina beat us to it. But listen, I just sent a picture to your phone. Load it into Orlando’s tablet and have him do his magic on it. Find a match.”

  “We’re on it,” she said. “Call you right back.”

  “What are you thinking?” Renée asked as they walked back to the room with the weaponry and the ancient ship reproductions. “Isn’t this guy just another one of Montross’s thugs, like those he used back at Sodus?”

  “I don’t think so,” Caleb replied. “There was just something about the killer’s demeanor. He actually bowed to me before he attacked.”

  “He what?”

  “It was reminiscent of how someone else treated me when I was trying to uncover the secret of the Pharos. Someone who had been sworn to protect it. It was the same. Like he admired my efforts, but couldn’t let me get any closer.”

  “Okay, but why would he have been protecting something that Montross had already taken?”

  Caleb thought for a moment. “Maybe he didn’t know it was gone. Montross might have done it quickly, using diversion or just blending in earlier with the other tourists, and this guy—its protector—would have been on the alert only for a direct attempt.”

  Renée rubbed her forehead. “Like what we did just now.”

  Caleb’s phone rang and he answered at once, putting the call on the speaker. “Orlando, what do you have?”

  “An itching for a raise, boss.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “All right, but are you sure you don’t want to guess first?”

  Caleb groaned. “Okay, it’s an ancient symbol. Something Chinese, or . . .” He blinked, suddenly the emblem on a flag, a waving flag on a pole, or a spear, one spear among hundreds, thousands, massed on a battlefield.

  “. . . Mongolian.”

  “Bingo!” Orlando cried with impatience, bridling in his voice. “It’s the banner of the nine ox tails, the standard symbol of the one and only . . .”

  Caleb mouthed it just as Orlando said the name.

  “. . . Genghis Khan.”

  #

  “So if I was confused before, now I’m certifiable,” Renée said. “What does Genghis Khan have to do with any of this?”

  Keeping the speakerphone connection on, Caleb started pacing, aware that he was treading on the same stones the knights had walked on during the Crusades. “It could have a lot to do with all this. Genghis Khan, whose real name was Temujin, surpassed even Alexander the Great’s conquests by ruling a territory four times as large, creating a vast empire across Asia, sweeping through the Middle East, marching even to the doorstep of Europe. But what many don’t know was that he wasn’t just a savage tyrant; he was a seeker of truth, much like Alexander. And also like both Alexander and Cyrus, he was tolerant of all religions, respecting that in their hearts all faiths were driven by the quest to understand the will of heaven.” He thought for a moment. “And there are myths, legends that Temujin even sought out relics of Alexander’s legacy, artifacts that would solidify his hold on power and on life itself.”

  The phone crackled with Orlando’s voice. “But he didn’t get too far in that respect. In his old age he fell off a horse or something and never recovered from his injuries. Died like all rulers and tyrants—just like the rest of us.”

  “Knock it off,” came Phoebe’s voice. “We don’t need your anarchy speech here.”

  “I’m just saying, in the end we’re all the same: dead meat.”

  “It’s a good point,” Caleb said, “and where I was going next. He died on a way to another battle, a campaign to put down a revolt at Xi-Xia in 1227 CE. But his passing left behind one of the greatest archaeological mysteries of all time.”

  Renée blinked at him, waiting. “Which is . . .”

  Caleb gave her a weak smile. “Where is he buried?”

  Noting her impatience, he continued. “His body was taken somewhere in secret, as was the custom with all Mongolian rulers. Different theories about the whereabouts of his tomb have circulated ever since. There was a cryptic anecdote from Marco Polo, then some observations from visiting dignitaries decades later. And then some subtle clues surfaced, based on the Mongolian epic work written shortly after his death: The Secret History of the Mongol People.”

  “Well, does any of it help us here?” Phoebe asked.

  “I honestly can’t say how much we can rely on. The more colorful legends state that all those who labored on his crypt were massacred, and any unfortunate souls who had come across the funeral procession were put to the sword. And when his procession finally arrived, returning back across the Gobi Desert to his ancestral home in northeastern Mongolia, another force of soldiers were waiting to kill those who had escorted the Khan’s body. Some estimates put this burial-related death toll at over twenty thousand, all to ensure Temujin would have an undisturbed afterlife. Archaeologists and treasure-hunters have sought his resting place for centuries, certain there would be tremendous wealth buried inside his crypt with him.”

  On the other end of the line, Orlando made a choking sound. “How tremendous are we talking?”

  Caleb shrugged. “The spoils of all the conquests he had made, all the treasure acquired from the kingdoms he conquered. None of it has ever been found, so the speculation is that it’s all still there somewhere, with him or his descendents, whose graves are also unaccounted for, but rumored to be in the same area.”

  “Like the Valley of the Kings in Egypt,” Phoebe said, and then giggled. “Only it’s the Valley of the Khans.”

  “Okay,” Renée snapped. “But if no one knows where this place is . . .”

  “Well, there is a mausoleum for him.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she sighed. “Another mausoleum?”

  Caleb’s voice pitched excitedly. “Ceremonial only, built in 1954 in Erdos City, now part of China, as a place for Chinese and Mongolians alike to honor their national hero.” He lowered his head. “And now I’m thinking when Montross said we’d meet again at the mausoleum, he might not have meant this, Mausolus’s ancient Wonder of the World. He may have been referring to another tomb—the tomb of Genghis Khan.”

  “Or,” Renée said sarcastically, “maybe some other mausoleum? One of the Roman emperors? Or hell, Grant’s tomb?”

  Caleb gave her a look. “I thought you were a believer.”

  Renée blinked at him, then looked away. “This is too much. We’ve got nothing to go on, and meanwhile your son’s in danger. Let’s do this my way.”

  “Hang on,” Orlando chimed in, excitement in his voice. “That symbol, I traced some more references and found that somebody’s still using it. One group of people, actually.”

 
; “Using it how?”

  “As body art.”

  Renée frowned. “Who?”

  “They’re called the Darkhad. And their function, get this, is to conduct the ceremonies and rites around honoring the great Khan, and also to protect his mausoleum.”

  “I remember now,” Caleb said. “That force of loyal soldiers who waited for the Khan’s body to return? They were from the clan known as the Darkhads.”

  “Yeah,” Orlando continued tersely, taking back the spotlight. It sounded like he was reading again. “Originally there were eight mausoleums, then more, set up in portable white tents that moved around the Mongolian steppes. Some actually held relics like his saddle or his sword, but they were chiefly designed to inspire the continued worship and adoration of old Genghis. The Darkhad families, descendents of his two favorite generals, were given special privileges by Temujin—freedom from any other civil duties, freedom from taxes, the right to raise money on their lands—all so they could care for the mausoleums. Originally there were over five hundred Darkhad, and that number swelled to the thousands in later centuries. But during the 1950s the Communist government abolished the roving mausoleums and allowed just one, which housed all the relics. And the Darkhad dropped in number to only eight. And then during the Cultural Revolution, the Commies cracked down even more on any worship of their non-Communist past. All the cherished cultural elements were destroyed, the mausoleum sacked by angry punks, and the Khan’s relics were broken or burned. Only recently did the Darkhad rebuild the mausoleum and create replicas of the more significant artifacts.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson,” Caleb said. “But that only strengthens my theory that this assassin, if he was one of these Darkhad, was guarding the key. Mausolus’s key. A key that could open one of the locks guarding the Books of Thoth. Why would he be guarding that unless—”

  “—unless,” came Phoebe’s voice, “he knows where there’s another one, because he’s been sworn to protect it. Genghis must have found one, or both. Maybe he was the one who looted Alexander’s grave?”

  “And maybe,” said Orlando, “he wanted to leave this one here as bait, to see who came looking.”

  Caleb nodded. “I think we can safely guess that if Montross has this key, then he’s off to find the others.”

  “But,” said Renée, “if all the Khan’s relics were destroyed and his body isn’t even at that mausoleum in Erdos City, then what?”

  “Then,” Caleb said solemnly, “it looks like we’ve found our next RV target. One that will provide our greatest test since the Pharos.” He took a breath. “If we succeed, it’ll make us the envy of archaeologists everywhere, and quite possibly the enemy of billions of people who might not want to have their demigod dug up.”

  He sighed and met Renée’s stare before giving a nervous smile.

  “We need to find the tomb of Genghis Khan.”

  BOOK TWO: THE SEARCH FOR GENGHIS KHAN

  1.

  Ulaan Baatar, Mongolia, 1 P.M.

  Alexander sat alone in the center of the middle row seat of their rented black Jeep Commander. In the large cargo space behind him they had stuffed most of their gear, including tents and tarps, chests of food and water, blankets and sleeping bags. Three plastic chests were tethered to the roof rack. It looked like they were going on a long camping trip, the kind he wished he could have taken with his dad and Aunt Phoebe sometime, maybe in the Adirondacks.

  In the front seat, Xavier Montross sat next to their guide, a man they had met outside the airport. Alexander thought he looked like one of those actors in kung-fu movies, a man with a strong build, long braided hair, weather-worn face and penetrating eyes. The capital city itself was congested and noisy, the sights and sounds overwhelming. As they left the airport, Montross had left his window open, and the reek of diesel fumes from the hundreds of buses and taxis mingled with the smell of street vendors roasting some kind of meat, likely marmot, which Alexander had learned from their guide was a kind of dog. The thought of actually eating a dog almost made him sick.

  He didn’t want anything to do with this place or this search, this quest of Montross’s. He just wanted to wake up back home in his room surrounded by all his books, even those comics and graphic novels his mom frowned on despite Dad’s insistence that they contained some basic literary merit. A boy needed his heroes.

  Alexander even wished he could be back in Egypt, in Alexandria at the huge library where he got such a thrill every day being able to sneak into that private elevator with his mother and go all the way down to the secret bottom level. It had all been so exciting, the most perfect life a little boy with a curious mind could ask for. To be loved by two equally interesting and mysterious parents, spending time with each at their exotic homes, and sometimes, most happily, at holidays or on his birthday, together. But, in just one day, it had all been stolen from him.

  The reality hadn’t yet sunk in. Instead, he felt that at thousands of miles away he was suddenly too far removed to feel anything. To grieve for his mom, for the life he had. To do anything but try to cling to memories he already felt were fading away. The touch of her, the way she smelled, her giggling laughter when she let him tickle her feet.

  Something settled in the cargo area behind him under all their gear, and Alexander sat up and was about to look when Montross barked at him to turn around and buckle up. They were leaving the city, heading off-road into the steppes.

  Alexander looked out in awe of the vastness of this terrain, the open grasslands, the few lakes and rivers and the rolling hills stretching far to the north, where the white-capped peaks bordering Siberia glittered pristinely under a fiercely blue sky. It wasn’t hard to imagine what he’d been told by the guide, that in another two months this would all be covered with snow and ice and they’d have no chance to make this trip.

  They made a slight turn and there was a hill, steeper than the others, with an enormous likeness of a man’s face upon it.

  “There he is,” Montross said, pointing. “Genghis Khan.”

  “His portrait,” said the guide, “laid out in white stones for all of Ulaan Baatar, and Mongolia’s visitors, such as yourselves, to see.”

  Alexander blinked, keeping an eye on the image of Mongolia’s national hero as long as it was visible, until they left the main road and started on the bumpy trail northeast.

  Toward Burkhan Khaldun, the Sacred Mountain.

  Lulled by the jarring, bumpy ride, and exhausted from fitful naps on the plane, Alexander thought briefly about the mysterious woman who had come with them. Nina. He hadn’t seen her since the airport, but knew she was up to something, doing her own recon maybe with those military men who had left the sub with them.

  At first, Alexander had hoped the stern-faced customs officials would identify Montross from law enforcement alerts or something, or would see that Alexander wasn’t along willingly, and someone would rescue him, but Montross apparently knew what he was doing. A lot of money changed hands, and the right officials nodded and let them go on their way, no questions asked.

  So here he was, alone with his mother’s murderer. He was halfway around the world, so far from his home and his father. Hoping, believing that his dad and Phoebe, and the rest of the Morpheus Initiative, with all their psychic abilities, would be able to find him. Hopefully they’d succeed in no time at all. In fact, Alexander thought, they were probably on their way right now.

  That gave him a little comfort, and with the Khan’s face still in his mind, Alexander yielded to the embrace of sleep, hoping for a dreamless slumber—anything except what came, gingerly at first, then surging on full-tilt.

  Visions.

  #

  The nine ox-tail standard, carried high and charging into battle ahead of fifty thousand men on horseback, thundering over the snow-covered plains. A second contingent swarms along the eastern ridge and rains arrows down upon the hapless army caught in the valley, surrounded on all sides.

  High above it all, wrapped in
a blue cloak as the snow turns to a freezing rain, Temujin sits on a muscled black steed. The Khan’s hooded eyes follow the battle with rote interest, as if this was but another annoyance, an obstacle to overcome on the way to a far greater destiny . . . towers, domes and minarets covered with colorful mosaic tiles, glimmering in the desert sun, crumbling under the Mongol assault as monstrous catapults launch huge misshapen blocks into the air and over the walls of Koneurgenc, the capital of the Kwarizhm Empire. A hailstorm of epic proportions, the sky darkens as the rain of stones pummel into the stalwart edifices of this ancient city, reaching all the way to the Imperial Palace, where Mohammad huddles in prayer even as his soldiers race out to defend their lord, only to be cut down in a fusillade of arrows and an avalanche of boulders. Walls topple, towers crumble like cardboard game pieces, and soon the city burns.

  Miles away, on a dune surrounded by his standard bearers, the ox-tails blowing in the hot wind, Temujin lowers his head and lets his smile form. “Now is the time,” he tells his chief. “In the terms of surrender, offer to spare the women and children only if the Sultan delivers me the contents of the tomb of ancient Cyrus, and only once I have obtained the key.”

  “Surely,” says the chief, “Mohammad will deny its existence.”

  “Then I will deny him his,” Temujin replies. “And after we have massacred everyone inside those walls, I will still find it. The agents of Blue Heaven have decreed that I should become the world’s savior. But first, I must be its conqueror.” His eyes cloud over with visions distant and epic. “And I must have that key.”

  “What then, master? You spoke of the other two keys. Do we go to Bodrum?”

  Temujin blinks. “Not yet. We know that one is safe at the remains of the great Mausoleum. It will be there when we need it. No, first, we must go to . . .”

  . . . A crystal blue sea, a harbor filled with multi-colored sails and vessels of all types, and a sprawling city.

  Alexandria.

  Temujin rides hard, at the vanguard of a hundred men, thundering through the city, out through the Gate of the Moon and charging into the red-sand desert toward a distant outpost.