The Mongol Objective (21 page)

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.”

“Uh oh,” Phoebe said, her voice barely audible over the pitch of the portable generators. “Here comes the bitch. Gonna make us get back to work.”

Renée strode up to them, tapping her gun. “Shouldn’t you be in a trance or something by now?”

Caleb didn’t look up, but just kept his eyes on Qara’s peaceful face, wondering what she might be dreaming right now, if maybe she were receiving some final words of instruction from the great Genghis just as he often prepared his generals before battle.

Phoebe cleared her throat. “Shouldn’t you be off torturing small animals?”

Renée glared at her. “Once we’re behind that door, we’ll need your
sight
. And I plan on marching Phoebe here right up front. I know you, Caleb. I know how you agonized, believing you caused her paralysis years ago. So unless you now want to be responsible for whatever those barbaric traps might do to her, you’d best find us a way past them.”

Caleb nodded slowly, swallowing. He debated telling Renée the truth—that he couldn’t. His powers had abandoned him, but he knew she wouldn’t believe him.
Best to stall.
“I know what we need to do; it’s just not that simple. I have no idea what’s down there. I’ve tried looking, but—”

“Try harder!”

“It doesn’t work that way. Sometimes we have to be right there, actually in the presence of the dangers we’re facing. And right now, to be honest, I’m a little preoccupied. My son’s in terrible jeopardy, and then I have you to worry about. Some kind of connection to an ancient Babylonian deity that I believe disappeared or died along with Thoth millennia ago.”

Renée opened her mouth, her face a mask of dismay.

“And all I know is that the god of wisdom, who did everything he could to teach humanity and raise early man out of the darkness of ignorance and spiritual bondage, was determined to hide this tablet from the likes of your “master.” Caleb took a step toward her, but was stopped by Phoebe’s hand on his arm.

“Not now,” she whispered. But then a shout from Orlando broke her concentration.

“Found it! I freakin’ found it!” Orlando raised a fist, grinning around at the blank faces of the Chinese soldiers. “Well,” he said, looking over to Caleb and pointing down, “I did. Here’s your door.”

#

They cleared away the slab of dark granite. It had six deep indentations, with bars across it, sealed into the stone.

“Handles,” said Commander Chang, pointing. “In Temujin’s day, they use ropes and horses to open door.” He smiled at his men, his brown teeth flashing in the spotlights. “But now, we have four-wheel drives.”

He turned to his men and ordered the setup to begin. They moved the halogen floodlights around the southern edge of the door, attached the six triple-braided nylon ropes to the back axle, and cleared everyone out of the way.

Orlando walked over to Caleb and Phoebe, rubbing the dirt off his face with his sleeve. “Why do I get a real bad feeling about this?”

“Because,” said a weak voice, as Qara struggled to sit up, “opening that door inflicts the curse upon you all.”

A moment later, the engine revved, the tires spun, the granite screamed, and something popped. The door launched from its ancient resting place, just as the jeep flew forward, lost its traction and spun sideways, then stalled as the floodlights highlighted the terrified face of the driver a second before the slab crashed through the cab, flattening it and crushing the man inside.

“Dear God,” Phoebe uttered, turning away.

Qara stood up, smirking at Renée, who returned her stare with pure hatred.

Orlando whistled. “Good thing I didn’t call shotgun.”

“Enough,” Renée hissed. “Chang, get your men to pack up these lights and the generators. Bring the weapons and everything else we need. And leave a team here to take care of Montross when he arrives. I’ll try to reach Hiltmeyer, but just in case, have our team stand by. Make sure we get the tablet and the other key from Montross’s dead body.”

“And the boy?”

Caleb snapped his attention to Renée.

Renée waved her hand. “Bring him, alive, and meet up with us. I’m sure we’ll find a use for him.”

She turned away from them, pulled out a satellite phone and walked to the edge of the hole, looking down the stairs descending into the waiting dark.

She dialed, and when a choked, gravelly voice answered, she said, “We’re in.”

3.

They stopped a mile from Shang-du, at a small ridge before the descent. The jeeps came to a halt, with their vehicle in the lead. Night had fallen and the stars were out, burning fiercely, dominating the sky before the full moon’s ascent.

Nina leaned forward. “I say we kill the headlights, come in slow. We don’t know what’s down there.”

“Yes,” Montross said, “we do.” His eyes popped open, having been closed for the past ten minutes. “Colonel, do as the lady says. Kill the lights.”

Nina smiled, and between the two adults Alexander squirmed. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Nina frowned. “Again?”

He lowered his chin. “Too much water.”

“Hurry,” said Montross. “Colonel, go with him.”

“What?” Hiltmeyer turned in his seat. “I’m no babysitter. Private Harris here can—”

“You both go.”

Alexander looked from one to the other man. “I can go by myself, really.”

“No way. Flight risk,” said Hiltmeyer. “We’ll go. I need to talk to my men in the other jeeps anyway. What’s our plan?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Montross, “when you get back.”

Hiltmeyer shot him a concerned glance, then opened his door.

Alexander slid out, helped along as Nina pushed him out the door. “Be quick.” When the doors had closed and they were alone, Nina asked, “What’s up? What did you see?”

“It seems,” said Montross, “that our colonel has other loyalties.”

#

Alexander found a cropping of small bushes. He unzipped and turned away from the man who had lit up a cigarette, watching him. He glanced over his other shoulder, toward his jeep, where two shadows in the back seat bent in close to each other.

“Wonder what they’re talking about,” Alexander said, loud enough for Private Harris to hear.