The Mongol Objective (11 page)

Come on, somebody take a shot.

The footsteps behind him were gaining. Maybe preparing another knife for the back of his head. Caleb crossed in front of another window, the last one before the next doorway and a steep winding staircase inside the German tower.

He lunged like an Olympic sprinter at the finish line just as he heard the distant
pop
and, as he skidded into the tower, angling for the stairs, he heard a grunt and a flopping sound.

Behind him, his pursuer was down, his mask half-blown off, brains and bits of skull obscuring what was left of his face.

Caleb turned, biting his hand and wheezing for breath. He reached for the cell phone, flicked it open. “Good shot,” he said when he finally found his breath. “Thanks.”

“That’s it. We’re getting you out of there. Sit tight, there may be more.”

He glanced out the windows where he half-expected to see the Sultan and half the Moslem army massed at the front gate. “I’ll be back in the Centaur room. Give me cover and another ten minutes.”

“It’s not safe, we have to—”

He hung up, then was about to redial Phoebe when he saw something on the assassin’s neck, above the collar and the torn mask: a gold tattoo that looked like a trident, except with nine flowing things attached to the staff. Frowning, Caleb stared at the configuration for a moment before positioning his phone, pressing the camera function, lining up the shot and taking a picture.

He stood up, then called Phoebe as he stepped over the body and headed back down the hallway. “Sis?”

“Yeah, you okay? Feared we lost you there.”

“I’ll be better if you tell me you’ve got something.”

“About the centaurs? Hang on.”

He kept walking, past the windows where now he saw agents converging, running over the ramparts, seeking out hiding places, working their way toward him.

“Big brother?”

“Yeah?” He entered the room and stepped back to the bas-relief of the Centauromachy.

“Orlando’s just coming out of it, and—what? Ah, all right, here.”

“Hey, boss. You there?”

“Yeah, Orlando, but as I said before, I’m not your boss.”

“You pay me for this gig, so that makes you a boss in my book.”

“Then I’m going to fire you if you don’t tell me what you saw.”

“Okay, do you see the main centaur, the big one raising his arms?”

“Yep.”

“Is the head still intact?”

“Yes, but not all of the body. Rear legs are broken off.”

“Not a problem. I think you’re good to go. See his right horn?”

“Yes.” Caleb moved in closer and stared. It was slightly larger than the left, about the width of two fingers, and maybe six inches in length. But it was a little darker, greener than its mate, as if the sculptor had used a different material, something only noticeable up close. “Wait, this frieze was originally on the second tier, rather high up if I recall. Even if visitors came to admire it, they’d need a ladder to see the discoloration.”

Orlando coughed. “You need to trust me here.”

“Go on.”

“Twist the horn clockwise; it should release.”

Footsteps approached, agents with submachine guns drawn, coming from both entrances. Caleb moved quickly, turning the horn, which at first refused to budge. But then it gave, turned and screwed off. Caleb turned it upside down, looked into the hollow space inside. He held the phone between his ear and his shoulder, then tapped the horn against his palm.

“Is the key in there?” Orlando asked.

Agent Wagner came to a skidding halt, leading two agents from the eastern passage. She held a gun with both hands and wore a bullet-proof vest. “You find it?”

Caleb showed her his palm, which held only a single rolled up piece of paper. He tugged at the edge and flattened it out. Then his heart sunk, along with his hopes to save Alexander, as he saw the words written there in fresh red ink.

No prize for second place.

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?”