The Mongol Objective (16 page)

“
I want more,” Temujin says decisively. “Guarding against every threat. What I protect is much more valuable than what this charlatan believed. He merely wanted to continue his rule, to live forever. But I know better. I know what the others seek, and only I can deny them.”

“
Very well, master. We shall start construction today.”

“
When will it be ready?”

“
You are young,” the old man says, rubbing his thin white beard. “And I have seen ahead. We will have time. All we need now is the place of your choosing. You will let me know soon?”

Temujin nods. He turns and strides out of the yurt, then looks north, following the outline of the winding, frozen Odon River. He blinks and he imagines sparkling lights far to the north, at the head of the snake, which has now become a dragon, and its tail twitching right before him. A tail that will move, one that will be forcibly moved to cover his entrance.

Turning on his heels, he heads back into the tent, slapping aside the entrance and boldly stepping in to where the old man still pores over the designs, calculating how to mimic such a grand and nearly impossible undertaking.

“
I have decided,” Temujin announces, pointing outside the tent. “It will be done here, right here. I have seen the way. There will be no burial mound, no obvious markers or pyramids. No sign that I am here, and as the last act, your men will divert the river and cover the entrance for all time.”

The old man blinks at him, expressionless. Then he smiles, acknowledging and respecting the humility and the single-mindedness of his master.

“
As you wish.”

#

When Phoebe’s consciousness slammed back to reality, she saw Caleb and reached for him, touched him, but then suddenly she was away again, down in the trenches, years later . . .

. . . digging with thousands of others, climbing scaffolding, chiseling walls, dragging huge blocks down a makeshift ramp into a cavern the size of a small valley. Massive fires burn day and night, providing meager illumination to supplement each contingent’s battalion of torches. Smoke, dust, heat and poor ventilation take a tremendous toll, and men drop every hour, only to be carted out along with the next haul of dirt and rocks.

All while the great Khan’s mausoleum takes shape, a veritable subterranean city of shining marble and alabaster materializes as if carved from the bowels of the earth itself, as if born from its primordial core.

Here she works on the city’s outer walls, carving the massive blocks and sharpening the crenulated towers, thickening the defenses. And here she digs trenches for the underground rivers that will flow—one for a moat, the other bisecting the Khan’s great city. And there, she hangs below the domed ceiling in the palace, painting Temujin’s visage on the dome’s interior, surrounded by his wife Borto and his three sons, all smiling down to the immense marble-form sculpture of a white tent, his crypt, inside which even now others are carving his resting space.

At the entrance, looking down the ramp and into the massive cavern, she sees the first regiment of the twenty thousand terra cotta warriors tethered together and lying four on a side on a wooden sled, dragged down by horses, pulled into the depths to take up their eternal positions.

Forever vigilant.

And she smiles, confident in the mechanical defenses designed inside each one.

She retreats, seeing flashes now of great crossbows, loaded and poised at angles unseen by future trespassers. She sees pits dug into the floor and covered with false doors, trip wires and gear-actioned spikes, false passageways with even deadlier contents.

And she smiles, then retreats all the way, making room for the final procession—the coffin, the twenty silk-covered maidens, the young camel—and then when all is silent and all heads are bowed in mourning, she orders the great slab door shut. The dirt is piled over the entrance, and at last the river is diverted to its new course, concealing everything for all time.

#

“He’s in trouble!”

Phoebe gasped, blinking back to the present and still tasting the smoke in her lungs, the scent of decay and death from so many thousands toiling and expiring underground. “What? Who?”

“Orlando.” Caleb clasped her arm, drew her to the side of the door, then pointed across the mausoleum grounds, the mausoleum that now, after Phoebe had seen the real thing first-hand, seemed like such a tawdry shadow.

Two agents were hauling Orlando into the back seat.

“What do you think he did this time?” Phoebe asked.

“I have a bad feeling about this. Should we call Agent Wagner?”

“Don’t bother,” said another voice. Right behind them.

Caleb turned just as Phoebe said, “Oh shit.”

Renée was in the doorway, the tip of her Walther .45 pressed Phoebe’s side, just as two of her Chinese colleagues quickly ushered the other visitors out. Then they turned and drew their weapons.

“Sorry about this,” Renée said. “But we don’t have any more time. Your friend out there went snooping, glimpsing things he had no business seeing. I knew it was a risk, allying myself with psychics, but there was no alternative, not if there’s a chance you might recover those keys.”

“Damn,” Caleb hissed. “I knew you were too good to be true.”

Renée leveled her eyes at him, and her lips drew back into a wolfish sneer. “I believe you know where they are, so let’s stop wasting time. Neither of us wants Montross to get those keys first.”

5.

Back in the jeep, Orlando sat uncomfortably with his wrists cuffed behind him. On the seat next to him, one of the FBI agents aimed a gun at his face while he spoke into a receiver. The other man got behind the wheel.

“We’ve got him,” said the closer one into the receiver. “Want us to hold here, or meet you at the site?”

“Just wait,” came the response.

Orlando leaned forward and wriggled his wrists behind him. “Uh, guys? What’s the charge here?”

“Shut up,” the driver said.

“Okey-dokey then.” Orlando offered a grin, seeing himself in the rearview mirror, surprised he didn’t have the look of a terrified rabbit cornered by wolves. “You know,” he said, “people tried to kill me yesterday and it didn’t take, so you might want to rethink this setup. I have a feeling it’s not my time.”

The driver turned, lowered his sunglasses and stared at him. “Don’t worry, when we get the order to terminate you, there’s no chance you’ll come out alive. Fate or not.”

“We’re professionals,” the other agreed.

Orlando nodded. “Great. So do you want to let me in on the big secret? Who the hell are you guys, really?”

They turned around, ignoring him again. The walkie-talkie crackled and now Orlando heard Renée’s voice. She must be inside the mausoleum, with Caleb and Phoebe.
“Tell me what you’ve seen. And be quick, or we start with your friend out there.”

The agent next to him pulled out a set of sharp-edged pliers, the kind used for cutting off stubborn construction nails. “That’s our cue.” He grabbed Orlando’s left wrist.

Orlando struggled as the man tried to secure his pinky finger. “What the hell! Shit, no—I don’t do torture.”

“
Tell me,”
Renée’s voice again,
“or he loses a finger every ten seconds. You can watch from the window if you like.”

Orlando squirmed, but the agent held him against the side of the car with his knee in his side and his elbow against his neck as he trapped the little finger between the plier blades.

Orlando groaned. “Oh shit, I really didn’t volunteer for this!”

#

Caleb held up a hand. “Please, we’ll tell you. Just wait.”

Renée held the phone to her mouth, lips parting, ready to give the word. Finally, she lowered it, took her finger off the button. “Speak.”

Phoebe tugged Caleb’s arm. “I don’t know about your visions, but I don’t think I got enough. I’m not sure—”

“Talk,” Renée interrupted.

Caleb turned to her. “Tell us what you want. Who are you?”

“You’re in no position to ask questions.”

Caleb clenched his teeth. “Listen, I know you’ve done your homework on me, just like you gathered intel on Montross. So you know what I’ve done to protect the Emerald Tablet, what I’ve sacrificed. You must know that I’m not going to let those keys fall into the wrong hands, and as much as I like that crazy kid out there, if it’s a choice between his fingers and the fate of the world, then I’ll live with the guilt.”

“Will you?”

Caleb never even blinked. “And if you kill him, I’ll apologize to his mom and leave flowers on his grave on his birthday. But that will be after I kill you.”

Renée smiled. “Now I know you’re bluffing. You’re not a killer. Prefer to let other people—or better yet, ancient booby traps—do that kind of thing for you.”

Phoebe stepped forward. “Why the game, bitch?” One more foot, then she froze as the two agents pointed their AK-47s at her. She held up her hands and backed up. “Okay, okay. Why all this ruse, posing as an agent?”

“I
am
an FBI agent,” Renée said. “It’s just not my main job.”

“A cover,” Caleb said. “For what?”

Renée ignored him and stared at Phoebe. “You may not care enough about Orlando Natch, but I’m guessing you might want your sister around a little longer.” She spoke over her shoulder. “Shoot her.”

The guards cocked the weapons, stepped forward, aimed—

And then Caleb stepped in front of Phoebe. “All right! All right. You want to know what we saw?”

Renée motioned with her hands and the armed agents stepped back. “Every detail.”

#

The cold fire of the pliers withdrew and Orlando wiggled his little pinky.
Still there, whew!
The pressure let up on his neck, and for a second he had his chance and as if on cue, feeling his limbs move as if on their own, he struck.

He leaned back, then swung sideways, threw his elbow around, taking the closer agent squarely in the jaw. He heard a crunch, then drew up his knees and kicked forward, just as the driver’s face appeared around the front seat and slammed his boots into his nose, cracking the sunglasses at the same time.

Swinging his legs around again, he hoped for one more bit of luck and a chance to drop kick the first agent, but instead a fist rocked his temple, then the butt of a gun struck the back of his skull, and the world went dim—

—but not dark. Instead, there was a spark, a fizzling brilliance . . .

. . .
a lighter struck and a flame brought to a cigarette.

I’ve seen this before
, he thought. Only hours before and now seeing it again, from a new angle, as if the first one wasn’t clear enough. . . .

. . . Renée, younger—a teen perhaps—kneeling below a man who lights a cigarette. A grey-haired, bespectacled man with similar eyes of cold slate. And a ring, which Renée kisses as she bows her head. A golden ring with an inset gem of black onyx, with a symbol of a lance cleaving a dragon.

Renée stands, pushes back her hair and unbuttons her shirt, halfway down, revealing the orbs of her breasts straining against a tight black bra, between which a necklace settles, placed there by the old man.

On the necklace’s charm, the same image of a lance and the dragon.

“
You are one of us now,” he whispers, and cheers rise up from the room. Others step out from the shadows. Robed, hooded. Not clear if they’re men or women. Wine is passed, shared. Music springs from somewhere. Haunting, wild. Primal.

Hands reach out for Renée, nudging her forward. They peel off her shirt. Her bra slips away. She steps out of her skirt, kicks off her shoes and follows where her brothers and sisters lead her.

Toward an altar. A ram’s head seemingly floats in the darkness above the marble slab, then moves forward, revealing a golden mask worn by another robed man, one who sheds his robe. He is naked, aroused. He pulls Renée to him, lays her on the altar, dutifully kisses her necklace, and then falls upon her as the congregation moves in to observe.

In the back, the well-dressed man lowers his head. He speaks to another member, the only other robed figure not at the altar.

“
This one will serve us well.”

The older man nods, his eyes sparkling.

#

“Underground,” Phoebe said after Caleb nodded for her to speak. “His tomb is underground somewhere. I saw them building a huge mausoleum under the earth, and then concealing the entrance. But I couldn’t tell where.”

Renée switched her aim on her weapon, pointing it now at her left eye. “If that’s all you saw, let’s hope your brother’s the better psychic.”

Caleb considered lunging, then thought better of it, seeing both men, nearly the size of sumo wrestlers, with automatic weapons trained on him. How did he not think this through, cover the bases, and insist they check Renée out when he’d had time?

It was the same mistake he had made with George Waxman, trusting someone without doing the proper background checks, the kind only someone like Caleb was suited to perform. If only he hadn’t lost his
sight.

And now this snake in their midst had used them to get this far, and for all he knew, despite what she’d said, she might be working with Montross, keeping tabs on Caleb, having him work the Khan’s tomb from another angle.

“Warriors!” Phoebe blurted out, and her eyes made contact, just briefly with Caleb’s, but it was enough—a steadying of her fright, the widening of her lids just enough as he saw her. A look that said
trust me.

“What warriors?” Renée asked.

“Lots of them. I saw an army under the ground, Asian soldiers. They were made of plaster, or—”

“Terra cotta?” Renée whispered. “Impossible. You must have had your vision mixed up with something else.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Phoebe said. “I just saw Genghis—Temujin—giving the command to hide his body, his tomb, inside of this other mausoleum that was already there.”