The Thieves of Darkness (50 page)

Michael looked down onto a wide-open courtyard, nearly four acres in size. The grounds were green and lush, standing in sharp contrast to the bitter, frostbitten world at the other end of the tunnel behind him. Snow fell gently, drifting down, melting as it hit the warm ground. It was a world like nothing Michael had ever seen before. A rushing river bisected the grounds, the wash of water echoing softly in the enclosed valley. A warm fog rose and roiled above the flowing waterway, drifting off and condensing on the green riverbanks. It was forded by a natural land bridge and disappeared under the far wall. The grounds were entirely encased in rock face, as if a world sat at the bottom of a well. Michael looked up to see the swirling snows, their flakes carried aloft by the rising air currents.

Two small natural pools bubbled by the near wall, steam rising from their clear waters.

Michael ran his hand through the grass, over the rocks, along the granite wall; it was warm, radiating heat.

“This is incredible,” Busch said. “But … it’s impossible.”

“It’s geothermal, like the baths that Banyo showed us. Water runs along molten rock deep in the earth, turning to steam, and makes its way up through fissures in the granite, keeping the place warm,” Michael said. The warmth of the rock is heating the ground, keeping the lower air stratum at a moderate temperature.”

A small flock of yellow birds flitted about, wings spread wide, riding the updrafts, then suddenly falling back before the icy chill of the mountain air froze them out.

A single impossibly large temple stood at the far side. It sat upon a small hill and seemed to grow out of the rock face. It was constructed of dark polished logs; its roof was slanted, sheathed in heavy tile. A wide covered porch wrapped the structure, while deep red filigreed wood accented the underpinning of the roof and adorned the corners, windows, and columns of the large building. A long flight of stairs led the way to an enormous carved door, its color darker than night. The building appeared of Oriental design, but was different, unique, out of an impossibly old fairy tale.

Colorful begonias, orchids, and marigolds scattered the rocky, well-tended gardens that sat on either side of the stairs. Rhododendrons grew up against the rock face, thick with green waxy leaves; juniper trees, their branches heavy and old, were interspersed about the grounds, several desperately trying to climb the sheer walls.

Every rock, every plant was in pure harmony, as if its positioning came from a divine architect, all perfectly manicured with the precision of a bonsai gardener.

“Hey,” Busch said, snapping his fingers. “It’s real pretty and all, but…”

“I know,” Michael said, pulling back from his reverie.

“Do you think they know we’re here?”

“Not thinking they’re big on cameras or electricity up here. But there’s only one way in and we’ve a good hundred yards of open space to walk across to get to the front door.”

“Do you think they’re in there?”

“They’re in there and they either rounded up whoever lives up here or killed them already.”

“You know,” Busch said, “if this place is here, all that gold, all those jewels…”

“Yeah, and something else, and that’s what scares me.”

“Tell me you have a plan,” Busch said with pleading eyes.

* * *

M
ICHAEL WALKED ALONG
a natural stone pathway, his hands visibly open at his side, his Sig Sauer tucked in the small of his back, a black knapsack strung over his shoulder, concealing the glint of the pistol’s handle. Busch lay prone in the mouth of the cave, the Galil sniper rifle tucked against his shoulder. This time the chamber was full.

Michael passed the steam baths, feeling the heat that emanated from them. He took a closer look at the trees and gardens, all recently pruned back, all thick and perfect. He had been filled with more than doubt when Simon had told him what lay up upon Kanchenjunga; he was literally walking in the midst of a legend, a world spoken of in hushed tones and myths.

Michael felt a slight cool rain as he walked, noting that the snowfall had slowed and what made it to the open area turned to drizzle before it hit the ground.

He made his way to the long flight of stairs leading to the temple’s entrance. They were twenty feet wide with short risers and three-foot-deep treads that gave him the impression he was slowly floating upward as he climbed. They were bordered on either side by thick timber rails whose surface had been worn glassy smooth from centuries of use.

Michael’s eyes constantly darted about, looking left to right for any sign of life. The stairs were free of footprints, as was the landing he now stood upon. The porch was wide and deep, the heavy polished timbers that supported the roof above contributing to the feeling he was standing in a nave about to approach the inner sanctum of the holy altar.

The double door before him was more than fifteen feet high and equally wide, made of a deeply stained burl wood that gave the impression of hundreds of eyes looking out on the world. The handles were formed of iron O-rings and rope.

Michael held his breath as he grasped the iron ring. He knew he would be leaving the protection of Busch’s rifle within seconds and that he could be opening the gateway to his death.

He tugged gently on the door and it swung open without resistance.

KC stood in a stone room, the recessed shelves filled with hundreds of small butter candles that cast an orange hue about the thirty-foot-square space. Venue and Cindy stood next to her, lost in a whispered conversation.

Sitting in a lotus position against the back wall were forty monks. Monks who were far from what KC had expected. They all wore robes, some white, some maroon, some blue, some saffron. But there was no single design, no universal theme.

Their hairstyles varied; not all were bald as one would expect in an Asian monastery. Though some shaved their heads, some wore their hair long, others in a modern style more akin to that of Wall Street suits. And it wasn’t just the hairstyles that expressed individuality, it was the nationalities. The majority were Asian—Japanese, Indian, Tibetan, Chinese, Vietnamese—but there were also Africans, Caucasians, Middle Easterners, and Hispanics: a representative body of world culture.

And odder still were the adornments about their necks and waists. There was no unifying symbol. KC could plainly see the expressions of the world’s beliefs: crucifixes of Catholicism, crosses of Christianity, Hebrew Stars of David, Islamic Star and Crescent moons. There were Buddhist prayer beads and wheels of Dharma, a Hindu Omkar and several symbols KC didn’t recognize.

The monks had been working about the temple and its grounds when KC arrived with Venue and his team, emerging from the cave into what she could only describe as paradise. Some monks had been tending gardens, some were kneeling in the sanctuary, others were meditating in small anterooms. None of them offered resistance as Iblis’s men approached them with guns drawn; there was no surprise in their faces upon seeing the violent team, there was no fear in their eyes as they were shuffled inside, gathered up and forced into this room.

Throughout the ordeal, no one said a word except for a single monk they encountered in the sanctuary. He appeared to be Tibetan, of medium height, with dark bristle-short hair. He wore a green robe of silk, its sleeves and collar trimmed in gold. But for a single scar that ran down the man’s right cheek, his skin was unwrinkled and pure. He stood at the altar, his fingertips touching in peaceful prayer.

He looked up as Venue and his men came through the large doors; his eyes smiled as he tilted his head. He stared at Venue for the longest of moments. An anticipation hung in the air until the monk spoke. The man of peace merely said, “You are making the gravest of mistakes.”

And Iblis shot him, a single bullet that pierced the Tibetan’s right eye, carrying half of the man’s essence onto the back wall of the dais.

KC remained motionless at the violence, but the shock on Cindy’s face could not be missed. She had never borne witness to Iblis’s inhumanity. But for her kidnapping, she had lived a sheltered life, existing in her own little bubble, unaware of the cruelty that can exist in some people’s hearts.

Though KC’s face didn’t register shock at the man’s death, her mind did. It was not shock at the needless murder, or at the coldness that Iblis once again displayed, it was shock at what the monk had said. She corrected herself: not specifically what he had said, but how he had said it. The man seemed to know why they were there without hearing a word or demand from Venue or Iblis, as if he knew they were coming. But most shockingly to KC’s mind, he had addressed them in perfect English.

KC looked across the stone room at each of the monks, who sat quietly,
each of them calm, praying as if they were not being held hostage, as if they were oblivious of the barrels of guns that remained aimed at them.

Iblis appeared in the doorway, his sudden presence pulling KC back to the moment. He exchanged a knowing glance with Venue. “We found it.”

“Let’s go, girls,” Venue said without looking their way.

They all followed Iblis out of the room and down a long stone corridor carved from the granite, lit by intermittent torches that reminded them they were no longer in the modern world. The corridor jigged and jagged left and right, deeper into the mountainside, until they emerged in a large vestibule, the torches burning strong and bright, fighting back the shadows creeping in from all directions. The circular room was over nine hundred square feet with walls of polished stone. The floor and ceiling contained an intricate design like nothing KC had ever seen before; inlaid with gold, it appeared abstract, yet with a deeper spiritual purpose she could not grasp. Seven corridors led off in every direction like spokes from a central wheel.

Iblis pointed to one of the corridors that led to a circular flight of stairs that dove into darkness. They all descended, enveloped in the virtual night. The journey took no more than a minute, but they kept their hands on the wall for guidance. They came out into a small vestibule where four of Iblis’s men stood before a recessed door, with guns held at the ready. They finally parted upon seeing their boss, to reveal a large black doorway.

It was something out of a nightmare, made of thick ebony, carved with the effigies of hideous creatures, demons, and beasts, their mouths agape in rage and fear. Dozens of lost souls crawled along the surface: men, women, and children screaming for a redemption that would never come. Cindy recoiled at the sight, at the eyes of the children, alive with uncomprehending fear. She stepped back as if the door would somehow reach out and pull her into the same fate.

KC, though shocked, remained steadfast. She stared at the center of the door, at a hollowed-out recess. It was long and narrow, an absence
looking to be filled, as if someone had carved out its heart and extracted it with an expert hand. And as she stared at the door adorned in terror, she finally understood the purpose of the rod, where it came from, where it belonged.

Venue stepped forward, the group separating around him, and held out his hand. Iblis placed the leather satchel in it and took several steps back as if in ceremony. Venue opened the lid of the tube, reached in, and extracted the dark two-foot rod, its bejeweled body, its ruby eyes alive in the reflection of the torch flame.

Venue stepped to the door, holding the rod as he would a newborn child. Without hesitation, he reached up and placed it into the door’s recess, a perfect fit. Two black clips snapped over the rod, affixing it in place.

He stepped back, inspecting his work. The door was complete; the two dark serpents, their mouths ready to strike, were home. The jewels appeared to throb in the firelight, pulsing like a heart come back to life. All breaths held, waiting, wondering. A collective hush fell over the room in anticipation of the unknown.

And then a subtle noise began, deep and guttural, as if the earth were speaking. The guards’ eyes widened; they grasped their guns tighter. Cindy moved closer to the guards, as if they would protect her. Then, with a deafening crack, the rod snapped in two along its core. It slipped its bonds and fell to the floor, its opaque resin core exposed, its modern fabrication revealed to all.

Seeing the counterfeit rod, Iblis’s eyes turned dark, his body shaking in anger as he turned to KC, his face a mask of primal rage. “What have you done?”

But before he could continue, Venue stepped in, his large frame dwarfing Iblis, stopping his verbal assault. He looked at KC, holding her eyes. He looked down at the broken rod and, much to Iblis’s surprise, laughed beneath his breath.

“What did you do with the original?” Iblis shouted, trying to get past Venue.

“Let’s take a walk,” Venue said to KC and Cindy. He turned to Iblis.
“Go look through the other rooms; this door is my concern. I will take care of it.”

KC and Cindy silently followed Venue out of the room, back up the dark circular stairs. They walked back through the stone torchlit halls, past the room where the monks sat in silent prayer. They came to and scaled a flight of wide wooden stairs, heading to the second floor of the temple, and came out into a large foyer. The pine-log walls were decorated with religious iconography: mandalas and Madonnas, Abraham and Shiva, Muhammad and Shangdi.

Venue continued to a hall lined with doors; he opened the first, holding it open for his daughters.

The small room was the private quarters of one of the monks. A futon mattress was in the corner; large pillows were propped against the wall. There was a simple pine desk and chair. Venue picked up a journal from the desk’s small shelf and leafed through it, finding the vertical Chinese language indecipherable.

The room, like all the interior spaces, was lit by small candles. Several joss sticks glowed red, their earthy smoke curling upward. Venue took a seat in the desk chair, leaned back, and inhaled the sweet smell of pine resin, herbs, and spices that fought to calm the room.

Cindy took a seat on one of the large pillows as KC remained standing.