The Eye of God: A Sigma Force Novel

7

“It looks like the ocean.”

Monsignor Vigor Verona stirred at the words of his niece. He lifted his nose from a DNA report. He kept returning to the papers over and over again, sensing he was missing something important. The results had been faxed from the genetics lab just before the early-morning flight to this westernmost port city of Kazakhstan.

He took a deep breath and pulled himself back to the present, needing a break anyway. Maybe if I clear my head, I’ll figure out what is nagging me.

He and Rachel were seated at a small restaurant overlooking the Caspian Sea. Beyond the windows, its wintry waters crashed against the neighboring white cliffs for which the small town of Aktau had been named. The team from Sigma was scheduled to meet them here in less than an hour. Together, they’d take a chartered helicopter from here to the coordinates Father Josip had hidden inside the inscribed skull.

“Once upon a time, the Caspian was indeed an ocean,” Vigor said. “That was five million years ago. It’s why the Caspian still has salt in it, though only about a third of the salinity of today’s oceans. Then that ancient ocean became landlocked, eventually drying out to become the Caspian Sea, the Black Sea… and where we’re headed next, the Aral Sea.”

“Not that there’s much sea left in the Aral Sea,” Rachel said with a smile. She had traded her Carabinieri uniform for a red turtleneck sweater, jeans, and hiking boots.

“Ah, but that’s not the fault of geology, but the hand of man. The Aral Sea used to be the fourth-largest lake in the world, about the size of Ireland. But then the Soviets diverted its two main rivers for irrigation back in the sixties, and the sea dried up, losing ninety percent of its water, becoming a salty, toxic wasteland, dotted by the rusting hulks of old fishing boats.”

“You’re not selling this upcoming tour very well.”

“But Father Josip must believe the place is important. Why else summon us there?”

“Besides the fact that he might be crazy? He’s vanished for almost a decade.”

“Perhaps, but Director Crowe has enough confidence in this venture to supply us with field support.”

She leaned back and crossed her arms, scowling her dissatisfaction. After the attack at the university, she had been against this venture entirely, even threatening to lock him up in order to keep him in Rome. He knew the only reason they were seated at the edge of the Caspian Sea was because of Sigma’s conditional support.

Yet Director Crowe hadn’t explained why he had agreed to supply this help — not to Vigor or Rachel — which was troubling to both of them. The director had only expressed that he might need their help afterward as a cover story for a mission in a restricted area of Mongolia.

Mongolia…

That fact intrigued him.

His eyes drifted again to the DNA report concerning the relics — the skull and the book — but Rachel reached across and shifted the papers to the side.

“Not this time, Uncle. You’ve been looking at those for hours, and only growing more frustrated. I need you to focus on what’s ahead.”

“Fine, but then let me talk it out. I’m sensing I’m missing something critical to all this.”

She shrugged, conceding.

“According to the initial report compiled by the lab, the DNA is consistent with an East Asian ethnicity.”

“You mentioned that already. The skin and the skull came from the same guy, someone from out in the Far East.”

“Right, but from the autosomal study that was faxed overnight, the lab compared our sample to various known ethnicities. From that, they were able to compile a rank of the top possibilities of race.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Han Chinese, Buryats, Daur, Kazakhs—”

Rachel interrupted, “As in the people of Kazakhstan.”

“Right. But at the top of the ranking was Mongolian.”

She sat straighter. “Where Painter’s team wants us to go.”

“That’s what has got me so obsessed. I know there’s a connection I’m missing.”

“Then let’s start there,” she said. “Did Director Crowe say exactly where his team was planning to head in Mongolia?”

“Somewhere in the mountains northeast of their capital… the Khan Khentii Mountains.”

“And that’s a restricted area.”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“It’s both a nature preserve and historically significant.”

“Why historically?”

Vigor opened his mouth to answer — then went cold as a frightening possibility struck him. For a moment, the insight blinded him to his surroundings, so filling his brain he could not see.

“Uncle…”

His vision snapped back, as he recognized the mistake he’d made. “I’ve been looking at the trees and missed the forest…”

He reached into his pocket and took out his phone. He dialed the DNA lab and demanded to speak to Dr. Conti. Once the researcher came on the line, he told him what he needed done to confirm his fear. It took some convincing, but Conti finally relented.

“Check those Y chromosome markers,” Vigor finished. “And get back to me as soon as you can at this number.”

“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked as he hung up.

“The Khan Khentii Mountains. They are sacred to the Mongolian people because those peaks are said to hide the lost tomb of their greatest hero.”

Rachel was versed enough to guess the identity of that hero. “Genghis Khan?”

Vigor nodded. “The Mongolian warlord who forged an empire under the might of sword and will… an empire that extended from the Pacific Ocean to the waters outside this window.”

Rachel glanced out and back. “You don’t think the skull is—?”

“That’s what I’ve asked Dr. Conti to confirm.”

“But how can he even do that?”

“A few years back, a well-documented genetics study showed that one out of two hundred men in the world carry the same unique Y chromosome, a chromosome with a set of distinct markers that trace their roots to Mongolia. That number climbed to one out of ten in regions that were once part of the ancient Mongol Empire. The report concluded that this Super-Y chromosome came down from one individual, someone who lived approximately a thousand years ago in Mongolia.”

“Genghis Khan?”

Vigor nodded. “Who else? Genghis and his close male relatives took multiple wives, had even more offspring through rape and conquest. They conquered half the known world.”

“And spread their genetic stamp.”

“A stamp we can verify. Those Y-chromosome markers are well known to geneticists and easy enough to compare to our sample.”

“That’s what Dr. Conti is doing right now?”

“He said he could have the results almost immediately, as the DNA sequencing on our samples had already been completed.”

“But if you’re right and the markers match, what does that tell us? Like you said, many men carry this Y-chromosome.”

“Yes, but Genghis died in 1227.”

“The thirteenth century…” Her brows knit together. “The same age as the skull.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “How many men back then carried that specific chromosome?”

Rachel did not look convinced.

Vigor pressed his case. “After Genghis died, his followers slaughtered his entire funeral procession. Those who constructed his tomb were also killed. So were the soldiers who oversaw its construction. And apparently such bloody efforts were effective in keeping it secret. Despite centuries of searching, the location of his tomb remains a mystery to this day. A tomb said to hold all the riches from his conquered lands.”

“The discovery of which might be worth killing someone over,” Rachel said, plainly referring to the grenade attack.

“We’re talking about a treasure that would put Tutankhamen to shame. The world’s greatest treasures flowed into Mongolia and were never seen again, the vast spoils of war from China, India, Persia, Russia. The royal tomb was even said to hold the crowns of the seventy-eight rulers he conquered. Not to mention the priceless religious artifacts pillaged from countless churches, mostly those of the Russian Orthodox.”

“And nothing was ever found?”

“More important to us, his body was never found.”

Before Rachel could respond, Vigor’s phone rang. He snatched it up to find Dr. Conti on the line.

“I did as you asked, Monsignor Verona. We compared the twenty-five genetic markers that make up the Genghis Khan haplotype to your sample.”

“And how many match?”

“All twenty-five.”

Blood drained from Vigor’s face. He stared down at the rolling case at his feet, realizing what it might hold. He understood now why someone might kill to possess what it contained, how the contents inside might hold clues to the world’s greatest treasure. Inside his suitcase, he perhaps held the skull and skin of the world’s greatest warlord, a man revered as a semigod by his people.

The relics of Genghis Khan.

“You were right,” Duncan said. “Our Italian friends picked up a tail.”

He stood with Monk Kokkalis at a beachside barbecue stand. Cold sunlight shone off the neighboring sea. The day was chilly, but the wood and charcoal grill — where skewers of meat, fat, and vegetables sizzled — cast off enough heat to make even Duncan’s light jacket feel too warm. The burn of Persian spices and oils also wafted over him, stinging his eyes with every gust off the sea.

After landing at the Aktau International Airport, they had shuttled Dr. Jada Shaw to their chartered helicopter at a neighboring private airfield. Once she was secure, Monk and Duncan had headed to the central district of the small port town to retrieve the final additions to their team. Duncan had been informed about the attack on the pair, and Monk had suggested caution in approaching them, to make sure the two weren’t being tracked from Rome.

If they’re dragging a tail, Monk had said, let’s cut it off now.

It proved to be a smart precaution.

Duncan recognized that he could learn a thing or two from this more seasoned Sigma operative.

“How do you want to play this?” he asked.

During their twenty-minute vigil on the restaurant, they spotted a pair of people showing an inordinate amount of interest in the couple seated at the window. The restaurant bordered the beach’s pedestrian thoroughfare, where joggers and bikers vied for space on the narrow strip of asphalt. Though it was November and the off-season, this central district of the town still bustled with activity. So it was easy to spot anyone suspiciously lingering by the restaurant.

A dark-haired man, clearly Asian, had settled onto a bench on the far side of the restaurant, at the edge of the beach. He wore a knee-length coat, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his back to the view, seldom taking his eyes off the restaurant.

Not exactly sophisticated.

The other, a woman, matched her partner’s hair and features. She wore a black woolen cap, and a shorter version of the man’s brown coat. She was slim and not unattractive with high cheekbones and smoldering eyes. She leaned against a light pole on this side of the restaurant.

“I’ll go along the beach,” Monk said. “Approach the man from behind. You get close to the woman. Wait until I’m in position. Upon my signal, we’ll grab them both.”

“Got it.”

“And keep your weapon hidden, march them over to our SUV. Be discreet. We’ll secure them there and question them en route back to the airfield. I want to know who the hell they are and why they tried to blow up my friends.”

“Why do you think they’re watching now versus attacking?”

Monk shook his head. “Might be too public to act in broad daylight. Or maybe they’ve been ordered to follow them, to discover why the pair traveled from Rome to Kazakhstan? Either way, it ends here for them.”

Monk set off, moving onto the sand and casually strolling down the beach. He never looked once toward the seated man. Once his partner was halfway toward his target, Duncan pushed away from the counter and headed toward the woman. He did his best to match Monk’s pace, to time his approach so that they’d reach their respective targets at the same time.

That was the plan — until the ring of a bell drew Duncan’s attention to the asphalt path. He glanced back to find a bicyclist signaling him out of the way. Only steps away, the woman also stirred.

As the bicycle swept past, she followed, as if drawn in its wake, heading toward her partner. In an unfortunate set of circumstances, Monk chose that moment to shift from the beach toward the bench.

The woman’s shoulders stiffened. She stopped, clearly sensing something amiss. She swung around, her eyes immediately locking onto Duncan’s. Whether it was some telltale giveaway in his face or the fact that he was clearly American, like the other closing in on her friend, she reacted instantly.

She bolted straight for the restaurant.

Damn it…

Duncan lunged after her, his arm outstretched, his hand grabbing for the tail of her coat. Waterproof fabric slipped through his fingertips. A jogger got in her way, bouncing her to the side like a startled deer. The brief stumble gave Duncan the extra moment to catch and grab a firmer hold. He yanked her back to him, hugging his other arm around her chest.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Monk slamming his target back down onto the bench as the man tried to stand.

So much for being discreet.

The flow of pedestrians slowed, stirring away from the commotion.

Duncan shifted his arm, getting a better grip. But where he should have felt soft breasts, he found only stiff, rigid contours. Worse still, his fingertips buzzed as the tiny rare-earth magnets registered a strong electrical current hidden under the coat.

He immediately knew why the woman was running headlong toward the restaurant. Lifting her off her feet and twisting at the waist, he flung her bodily back toward the sand. Her small form flew high and far.

“Bomb!” he hollered to all around him, especially his partner.

As people scattered or froze, he sprinted toward the restaurant window. Monk vaulted the bench, throwing an elbow into the man’s face, knocking him backward — then followed.

Duncan had his pistol out. He shot two rounds into the plate glass, aiming away from any diners. With the glass weakened, he leaped and hit the window with his shoulder, shattering through it.

Glass scattered in a tinkling rain around him as he landed inside. With his next bound, he bowled into the two Italians, clotheslining them both to the ground.

He turned to see Monk dive headlong through the same hole — followed on his heels by a thunderous blast.

The entire wall of windows blew out, accompanied by a rain of rock, sand, and smoke. Monk shoulder-rolled amid the carnage across the restaurant floor. Duncan sheltered the two civilians.

Before the glass even stopped bouncing across tabletops and floor tiles, Duncan got his two charges up on their feet.

“Move it! Out the rear!”

The old man resisted, his arm reaching for a roller bag.

Duncan grabbed it versus arguing. Feeling like the most overpaid bellhop, he rushed the pair through the smoke toward the kitchen. He collected Monk along the way. The man bled from several lacerations, an imbedded shard of glass still poking out of his coat.

With Duncan’s ears ringing, his head pounding, he swore Monk said, “That could’ve gone better.”

They sped through the kitchen, dodging cooks crouched beside their stations, and out the back door. Once in the open, none of them slowed. They all knew where there were two suicide bombers, there might be more.

Fleeing the column of smoke at the beachfront, they reached a main drag through the business district. Duncan stopped a cab by stepping in front of it.

They all piled in. In the front seat, Monk, whose face was still dripping blood, ordered them to be taken to the airfield. The driver looked pale but nodded rapidly when Monk shoved a fistful of bills at him.

Only after they were speeding out of town did they relax. Duncan turned to the woman in the center of the backseat and discovered pretty caramel eyes — of course, they would have been even prettier if she wasn’t glaring at him.

“I knew we never should have left Rome.”

She didn’t know what she was doing here.

Jada sat in the large cabin of the blue-gray Eurocopter EC175. Though she might not like this detour to Kazakhstan, she could not complain about the legroom. She had her legs up and sprawled across the neighboring seats. The cabin could easily hold a dozen or more passengers versus the five that would be making the overland flight to the Aral Sea. Duncan had explained earlier that they needed such a large bird in order to haul the long distance, as there was no convenient airfield for a plane to land out there.

It was that remote.

But at least I’m not totally disconnected from the world.

She sat with her laptop open, reviewing the latest data on Comet IKON. A glance out the tinted windows showed the tiny blaze of its tail, like a shining comma in the daytime sky. Apparently it was putting on quite a show on the opposite side of the world, where it was the middle of the night.

She stared at the video footage on the screen from Alaska.

A large meteor shower blazed through the aurora borealis, in winking streaks and silvery trails, flashing every few seconds, if not more. All of it was overseen by the sweep of the comet’s tail; the footage was distinct enough to see the split between its dust tail and gas tail. One huge meteor shot across the screen, accompanied by a shout of surprise by the amateur videographer. It looked like a lance of fire that shattered into a ball of fireworks.

She had also been in touch with the Space and Missile Systems Center via the encrypted satellite phone supplied to her by Director Crowe. She had the phone at her ear now — though there was no need for encryption on this call.

“Yes, Mom, I’m fine,” she said. “It’s very exciting here in California.”

She hated to lie to her mother, but Painter had been adamant.

“Are you watching the light show in the night sky?”

“Of course, I am.”

At least that wasn’t entirely a lie.

“I wish I could be there watching it with you, honey,” her mother said. “Like we used to do back when you were a little girl.”

Jada smiled at the memory of lying sprawled in the grass of the National Mall, shivering under a blanket, watching the Leonid or Perseid showers. It was her mother who had instilled in her a love of the stars, who had taught her that the annual meteor shows were named after the constellations that seemed to birth them: Leo and Perseus. Growing up in a world where life seemed small and hand-to-mouth, Jada was reminded by the stars of a greater universe, of larger possibilities.

Like a girl from Congress Heights becoming an astrophysicist.

“I wish I could be with you, too, Mom.” She checked the time. “Hey, you’d better get going if you’re going to make your morning shift at the Holiday Mart.”

“You’re right, you’re right… I should be going.”

Pride rang through the line, traveling halfway around the world to reach her.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you, too, honey.”

As the connection ended, Jada felt a twinge of sorrow, feeling suddenly selfish and guilty that she got to live this life.

Blinking back tears, she returned to her work. She rewound the meteor shower footage once again. Over at the SMC, they were still trying to determine if this showy display was simply a coincidence or if it had something to do with the passage of Comet IKON through the solar system.

She had texted with a tech buddy, learning the latest conjectures. The current belief was that the passage of the comet might have disturbed the Kuiper belt, a region of icy asteroids past the orbit of Neptune, drawing an entourage of rocks in its wake and splashing them across the earth. The Kuiper belt contained over thirty thousand asteroids larger than a hundred kilometers in diameter, along with being the home to many short-period comets like the famous Halley’s comet.

The most exciting news, though, was the growing belief that IKON came from the much more distant Oort cloud, a spherical cloud of debris that circled one-fifth of the way toward our closest star. It was home to long-period comets, those rare visitors, like Hale-Bopp, that traipsed by only once every forty-two hundred years.

The latest calculations suggested that the last time IKON passed through the inner solar system was twenty-eight hundred years ago, definitely an ancient visitor. If true, it was an exciting proposition, as objects out in the Oort cloud were untouched remnants of the original nebula from which the entire solar system formed, making IKON a blazing herald from that most distant time, potentially carrying with it the keys to the universe.

Including perhaps the mystery of dark energy.

A loud rumble shook the helicopter’s cabin, followed by a low roar. The rotors overhead began a slow sweep.

What…?

She sat up straighter.

The copilot hopped out, came around, and opened the side door. The noise grew deafening.

The pilot leaned back, yelling to her, “Strap in! Just heard word! Got an order to prep for a fast takeoff!”

Her heart thudded harder as she snapped closed her laptop. She glanced out the open hatch as the copilot dashed about performing a final preflight check. In the distance, an angry column of black smoke climbed into the blue sky above the center of town.

Moments later, a taxi came racing into view, coming straight at them. She spotted Monk’s face in the front seat. But he and Duncan had left here in a black Mercedes SUV.

She clutched the edge of the door.

What is going on?

The taxi braked with a squeal, and doors popped open all around. She spotted Duncan climbing out the back. Out the other rear door came an older man in a light jacket and a black V-neck sweater, revealing the Roman collar of a priest. He was helped out by a young, petite woman with a pixie-bob of a haircut.

Vigor and Rachel Verona.

Neither looked happy.

Duncan had crossed to the trunk and retrieved their luggage: a single roller bag suitcase. Was that all their gear?

Monk was bent half through the passenger door, settling with the driver. When he straightened, she saw the blood covering his face and gasped. Her gaze flicked to that rising smoke signal above the town, knowing the two were connected.

The group hurried to the waiting helicopter.

Rachel’s scowl deepened with every step, as if reluctant to climb aboard. At the hatch, she finally stopped.

“We should stay here!” she yelled, clutching the priest’s arm. “Head back to Rome!”

Jada hoped that would be their decision. It would mean they could leave Kazakhstan immediately and head straight to the mountains of Mongolia to start their hunt for the crashed satellite.

Monk shook his head. “Rachel, you’ve already got a target on your back. Whoever planned this is more resourceful than we first imagined. They’ll try again.”

Duncan agreed with his partner. “That Father Josip got you all into this mess. He’s the best chance to get you out.”

Rachel clearly recognized the practical wisdom of that. She freed her uncle’s arm, and they both climbed in. Jada made room, nodding to the pair as they strapped in across from her, delaying any formal introduction until they were in the air.

Duncan found a spot next to Jada. She appreciated his physical presence, his solidity, even the warmth of his body as he breathed deeply, still running high on adrenaline.

As Monk strapped in, he leaned over and touched Jada’s knee. “Sorry for the rush. We didn’t want to be trapped on the ground if Kazakh law enforcement shuts down airspace because of the bombing.”

Jada stared around the cabin.

What the hell have I got myself into?

As the Eurocopter reached its cruising altitude, Duncan looked below at the passing scenery. With a roar of its rotors, the chopper rushed away from the expanse of blue sea and out over a desert landscape of rust-colored sand, patches of scrub, salt-white mesas, and wind-carved rock. The territory below could pass for sections of New Mexico, except for the scatter of camels and the occasional lone yurt, the white tent standing out starkly against the darker terrain.

A tug on his sleeve drew his attention back to the cabin.

Monsignor Verona pointed to the suitcase on the seat next to Duncan. “Scusa, Sergeant Wren, could you open my bag? I’d like to make sure everything is still intact after the commotion.”

Only a priest would describe what happened as a commotion.

“Monsignor, you can call me Duncan.”

“Only if you call me Vigor.”

“Done.”

Duncan bent and hauled the case up with one arm and dropped it across his knees. He unzipped it and folded back the top. He found some clothing packed around two objects insulated in black foam.

“I’m mostly concerned about the larger of the two,” Vigor said. “It’s the most fragile.”

The monsignor waved for Duncan to strip back the foam to expose what was inside.

Duncan could guess what concerned the older man, so he knew what to expect. As he removed the top half of the padding, the crown of a skull appeared, its empty eye sockets staring up at him.

“Can you remove it and pass it over so I can examine it for damage, please?”

Duncan had seen plenty of death in Afghanistan, but a part of him still cringed inwardly. Next to him, Jada’s face wavered between professional interest and disgust.

Ignoring his own aversion, Duncan reached in with both hands, prepared to grab the skull, but even before touching bone, the nerve endings in his fingertips registered a tingling pressure, stimulated by the stirring of his tiny magnets.

Surprised, he pulled his hands away, shaking his fingers.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Vigor said, misreading his reaction.

Ignoring the monsignor, Duncan hovered his fingers over the dome of the cranium. It was nothing like he’d ever felt before, like slipping his fingers into cold gel, both electric and oily.

“What are you doing?” Jada asked.

He realized how this must look. “The skull is giving off some sort of strange electromagnetic signature. Very faint, but there.”

Jada drew her brows together. “How… why do you say that?”

He had never told her about the magnets, but he explained to everyone now. Finishing, he said, “My fingertips are definitely picking up something off this skull.”

“Then you should examine the old book, too,” Rachel said. She reached over and tugged back its protective foam.

The leather of the tome was worn and deeply wrinkled.

He slowly ran his fingers along the surface. This time, he had to touch the leathery skin to feel the tiniest buzz. Still, the feel was the same. Goose bumps pebbled his flesh.

“Even fainter… but it’s identical.”

“Could it be some form of residual radiation?” Rachel asked. “We don’t know where these relics have been kept until now. Perhaps it was near a radioactive source.”

Jada frowned, not buying that explanation. “In my suitcases, I have equipment to examine the crashed—”

She stopped abruptly and glanced over to Monk, plainly realizing how close she’d come to mentioning their mission objective, which so far had been kept from the Veronas.

Clearing her throat, she continued. “I have tools to check for various energy signatures. Geiger counters, multimeters, et cetera. Once we land, I can verify Duncan’s claims.”

He shrugged. “It’s there. I can’t explain why, but it’s there.”

Vigor settled back into his seat. “Then the sooner we reach the coordinates supplied by Father Josip, the happier we’ll all be.”

Duncan placed little faith in the monsignor’s assessment. He zipped the case back up and returned his attention to the desolate landscape. After a moment, he realized he had been rubbing his fingers together, as if to erase that oily sensation. He had a hard time expressing in words what his sixth sense had perceived.

For lack of a better term, it felt wrong.

8

Steam hissed from the hot pipes lining the subterranean chamber deep beneath the streets of Ulan Bator. Oil lanterns illuminated the clan’s meeting place with a fiery glow. The Master of the Blue Wolves stood before his lieutenant and the clan’s innermost circle. He adjusted the wolf mask to better hide his features.

Only his lieutenant knew his true name.

Batukhan, meaning firm ruler.

“And they survived the attack in Aktau?” he asked his lieutenant.

Arslan gave a fast nod of his head. The young lieutenant, not yet thirty years old, was barefaced, lean and tall, his hair as black as the shadows. He wore typical Western clothes jeans and a thick wool sweater, but from his high cheekbones and his ruddy face, shining with steamy dampness, he was of pure Mongolian stock — not tainted by the blood of the Chinese or Soviets, his people’s former oppressors.

His lieutenant was like many of the younger generation of Mongolians, stoked with pride, exalted by the freedoms hard won by Batukhan’s generation. Here were the true descendants of the great Genghis Khan, the man who had conquered most of the known world on the back of a horse.

Batukhan remembered, during the decades of Soviet rule, how Moscow had forbidden mentioning the name of Genghis, lest it stoke nationalistic pride in its oppressed subjects. Soviet tanks even blocked the roads up in the Khentii Mountains to keep people from visiting or revering the great khan’s birthplace.

But all that had changed with the institution of democratic rule.

Genghis Khan was rising again from those ashes to inspire a generation of young people. He was their new demigod. Countless children and young people bore the name Temujin, which was the conqueror’s original name before he took the title Genghis Khan, meaning Universal Ruler. Across Mongolia, streets, candy, cigarettes, and beer all carried that title now. His face decorated their money and their buildings. A 250-ton shimmering steel statue of Genghis astride a horse greeted visitors to the capital city of Ulan Bator.

Newfound pride flowed through the veins of the country’s people.

Staring into his lieutenant’s face now, Batukhan saw none of that pride, only the shame of failure. He hardened his words, seeking to stir that shame to greater duty.

“Then we must move forward, never relenting. We will wait for the Italians to reach the priest in the desert. It is where they will travel next, if not frightened back to Rome.”

“I will go there myself.”

“Do so. Yet are you sure the priest does not suspect we have enfolded members of our clan among his workforce?”

“Father Josip sees only the sand and his purpose.”

“Then join them.”

“And if the Italians come?”

“Kill them. Take what they carry and bring it to me.”

“And what of Father Josip?”

Batukhan stared around the room. The clan had existed for three generations, formed as a resistance group by his grandfather during the time of Soviet oppression. Each leader took the title Borjigin, meaning Master of the Blue Wolf, the ancient clan name of Genghis Khan.

But the world had since changed. Mongolia now had the world’s fastest-growing economy, fueled by its mining operations. The true wealth of the country lay buried not in the lost tomb of Genghis Khan, but in the deposits of coal, copper, uranium, and gold, a treasure trove valued at over a trillion dollars.

Batukhan already had a major stake in several mines — but he could not let go of the stories told to him by his grandfather and father, tales of Genghis Khan, of the vast wealth hidden in his tomb.

He kept tabs on anyone searching for that sacred grave site.

That included the reclusive and odd Father Josip Tarasco.

Batukhan had heard rumors six years ago about a man appearing out of nowhere in Kazakhstan, hiding under many different names, digging holes in sand and salt, chasing the receding waters of the dying sea. The stranger had already been doing that for two years before word finally reached Ulan Bator about his intent: that he was seeking clues to Genghis Khan’s burial site. It was such a strange place to be looking that Batukhan hadn’t given these excavations much thought — other than infiltrating a handful of clan members to keep track of the elusive man.

Then, three days ago, word came of a strange sight, of ancient relics said to be the source of the man’s quest. No one had ever viewed them before, as they had been hidden away from sight all these years by the man’s paranoia. But according to his spies, the man had become increasingly agitated over the past month, desperate and frantic, and let slip the existence of these relics.

Word spread among the workers. Many fled in fear, speaking of a skull and a book bound in human skin. Then suddenly the man crated them and sent them off, perhaps fearing that word of the relics might reach the wrong ears — which, in fact, it did.

Batukhan’s ears.

Intrigued, he tried to intercept the package before it was mailed to Rome. But he had acted too slowly, letting it escape his fingertips. Still, he finally learned the man’s true name, written on the package.

Father Josip Tarasco.

Batukhan also learned where the package was to be delivered.

And still the relics escaped him.

But not for long.

Arslan stirred, awaiting his decision concerning the strange priest.

Batukhan lifted his face. “If possible, take Father Josip also. Bring him here for me to question.”

“And if it’s not possible?”

“Then put him in the grave with the others.”

With matters settled, he headed back through the maze of steam tunnels, climbing toward the early evening. The other clan members dispersed in various directions along the way.

Batukhan kept his wolf mask on as he passed through areas where many of Ulan Bator’s homeless sought shelter from the cold. Derided as the ant tribes, they were mostly alcoholics and the unemployable. He ignored them, dismissing them. These were not the hope of a new Mongolia, but something best kept out of sight.

Men, women, and a few children scattered like vermin from his path, turning away fearfully from the mask he wore.

Finally, he reached a ladder and climbed through a secret exit into an alleyway. A clan member closed the manhole cover as he exited.

Only after that man left did Batukhan remove his wolf mask and tuck it away. Straightening his suit, he headed out into the main street. The night was brisk, but still unseasonably warm. Ulan Bator was considered the coldest capital city in the world, but true winter seemed to be holding its hoary breath, as if anticipating something great about to happen.

Across Sükhbaatar Square rose the country’s parliament house. At the top of its marble stairs, a giant bronze figure of a seated Genghis Khan, lit brightly by spotlights, looked out across the city.

Or perhaps he was staring at the comet’s fiery show in the sky.

It was said that Halley’s Comet had appeared during Genghis’s lifetime. The khan came to consider it his personal star. He took its westward trajectory as a sign to launch his forces toward Europe.

Could this new comet also be a sign of great things to come?

As Batukhan headed into the square, he spotted the brief flashes of two falling stars in the sky, as if acknowledging this thought.

With a surge of renewed vigor, he headed toward the parliament building. A figure crossed toward him, noted his approach, and bowed his head as Batukhan passed. While he wished to believe the gesture was some acknowledgment of his being the rightful keeper of Genghis Khan’s legacy, he knew it was simply recognition of his station with the government — as the Mongolian minister of justice.

Batukhan glanced back to the comet.

Like Genghis, maybe that is my own personal star… guiding me to conquest, power, and wealth.

9

It was a strange way to invade a country.

Gray sat near the back of the rattling bus. Behind him, Kowalski sprawled his big bulk across the large seat at the rear, snoring. The rest of the vehicle was full of Chinese men and women, drowsing or talking in low voices, some with cameras around their shoulders, others wearing baseball caps emblazoned with the same Cheshire-grinning yellow cat that was painted on the side of the gray bus, the official symbol of a Beijing-based tour company.

Near the front of the bus, Zhuang kept vigil by the driver, who was also a member of the Duàn zhī Triad, like the rest of their fellow travelers.

This morning, the group had flown in private jets from Hong Kong to a small airfield not far from the China — North Korea border. There, they found the two tour buses waiting. Unlike the heavily fortified demilitarized zone between North and South Korea, the border to the north was a cursory affair, mainly meant to restrict the flow of refugees from fleeing into China from the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.

That proved to be the case.

Gray and Kowalski had been hidden in a secret compartment that also held a major cache of weapons during the border crossing, but not a single member of the North Korean military even stepped aboard. Such buses were commonplace as the more affluent Chinese flocked to tour the natural, rugged beauty of the forested green mountains between the border and Pyongyang. Plus the impoverished North Korea did nothing to discourage visitors, a major source of needed tourism dollars.

Once across the border, the pair of buses had slowly trundled the winding mountain roads, working their way south toward the capital city. Four hours later, Pyongyang came into view, sprawled in the flatlands beyond the hills. After the bustle and dazzling lights of Hong Kong, the city ahead looked deserted and dark. Shadows of skyscrapers stood silhouetted against the night sky. A few monuments glowed in the darkness, along with a handful of streetlamps and windows, but little else. Nothing seemed to be moving, like a city frozen in time.

A figure stirred in the seat ahead of Gray, straightening and noting his attention. “It is a sad testament,” Guan-yin said, looking as though she’d not slept at all, worry for her daughter shining in her eyes. “The residents of Pyongyang are only allowed three hours of electricity a day. So it must be used sparingly.”

As they headed toward the city, traveling along a four-lane highway, not a single vehicle was seen. Even as they reached the outskirts, they found no other cars on the streets; even the traffic lights were dark. A hush fell over the bus, as if they were all afraid to disturb the ghosts of this seemingly deserted town.

The first sign of life was a lone military vehicle circling slowly in the front of a massive well-lit building.

“That’s the Kumsusan Palace of the Sun,” Guan-yin whispered. “It was once the official residence of President Kim Il-Sung. After his death, it now serves as his mausoleum, where his embalmed body lies in state inside a glass sarcophagus.”

Just one example, Gray thought, of the elaborate cult of personality promoted by the state, where Kim Il-Sung and his descendants were worshipped as gods.

As the tomb vanished behind them, Guan-yin scowled darkly. “Some estimates put the mausoleum’s construction at close to a billion dollars… all while the people of North Korea starved.”

Gray knew the death of Kim Il-Sung in the midnineties coincided with a nationwide famine, where almost 10 percent of the population died. It became so bad at the end that cannibalism broke out in rural areas. Children were warned not to sleep in the open.

And life here had grown little better for the people of North Korea.

Under strict sanctions, the country still could not feed itself. The entire infrastructure of North Korea continued to operate on a shoestring budget. Even its factories had a hard time running due to a lack of spare parts and a scarcity of electricity.

The only industry still going strong was political theater.

Outside the bus window, canyons of dark apartment buildings spread far and wide. The only bits of brightness to break up the monotony were tall billboards and murals. But none of them advertised colas, beers, or the latest electronics. Instead, they all featured various versions of their Supreme Leader’s beneficent countenance.

As the pair of buses turned onto an empty six-lane road, their goal loomed into view: the Ryugyong Hotel. It was the tallest building in all Pyongyang. It looked like a glass rocket ship rising up on three wings. It towered a hundred stories over the city. But like the rest of the city, it was also dark. Only the lobby level and a scatter of lit windows indicated any sign of life.

The plan was to use the nearly deserted hotel as a staging ground. Through Guan-yin’s resources and heavy-handed use of bribes, they had discovered that a woman matching Seichan’s description had been taken to a military kyohwaso, a reformatory prison, a few miles outside of the capital city.

In a poor country where corruption ran rampant, money talked.

Here at the hotel, they would all change into North Korean military uniforms and arm themselves. At two in the morning, an empty military transport truck would be abandoned near a service exit of the hotel, courtesy of Guan-yin’s largest bribe. They would then use the truck and the uniforms to lead an assault on the camp in the dead of night.

Reaching the hotel, the lead bus rolled around the circular entrance and passed under the massive porte cochere.

Gray’s vehicle followed.

The hotel had partially opened a few months ago after a plague of problems and delays. Its construction had stretched over twenty years, the building standing empty and dark for all that time, a bitter metaphor for the capital city itself. It was why the place had earned its nickname in the press.

The Hotel of Doom.

Gray prayed that name did not prove true in the coming hours ahead.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have to wait even an hour.

As the first bus braked to a stop, a surge of men in military uniforms poured out of the lobby, weapons bristling, shouting angrily. Behind them, lights flared as military jeeps raced out of hiding to close off the driveway behind them.

They had rolled straight into a trap.

Ju-long Delgado stood before a window looking into the next room. He studied the assassin strapped to the interrogation chair, a device straight out of the Spanish Inquisition. She had been stripped to bra and panties as a psychological ploy to make her feel vulnerable. Each limb was secured separately in thick cuffs, allowing the hinged chair to twist the victim’s body in countless painful stress positions.

Currently she was bent backward, straining her spine, pulling on her hip and shoulder joints. She’d been in that position for the past three hours.

To make her more pliant, Hwan Pak had said, willing to bend.

The scientist had laughed much too loudly at his feeble joke, snorting through his bandaged broken nose. He plainly wanted revenge, to soothe his wounded pride. To that end, he intended to hurt her as he had been hurt.

The position must certainly be agonizing. The room was frigid, but sweat glowed across her bare skin, a shining testament to the pain. Delgado imagined her grimacing, teeth grinding, but her head was covered in a tight hood, with sound-dampening earphones in place, limiting her senses, making her focus only on the pain.

The North Koreans knew what they were doing.

And from the gaunt half-starved souls he’d seen moving listlessly about the packed camp, they were no kinder to their own people. Prisoners were crammed forty to a room, each space no larger than a double-car garage. He had watched a pair of men fighting over a dead body, to see who would win the right to bury it, all in order to earn an extra supplement of food.

It was a North Korean version of Auschwitz.

Ju-long’s phone chimed in his pocket. He removed it, guessing it was an update from the Ryugyong Hotel. Tomaz had traveled there with the strike team.

Instead, a softer voice answered, “Ju-long…”

He smiled, some of the tension ebbing. “Natalia, my love, why are you calling? Is everything all right?”

He pictured her full belly, holding his son.

“I just wanted to hear your voice before I fell asleep,” she said, her voice muffled at the edge of slumber. “I miss your warm body next to me.”

“This will be the last night your bed will be empty. I promise I’ll be home by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”

“Mmm,” she mumbled sleepily. “Don’t break your promise.”

“I won’t.”

They said their good nights and good-byes.

As he pocketed his phone, he stared at the tortured woman in the neighboring room, feeling a twinge of guilt. But he had been paid well to soothe such pangs. With the deal done, he would return to Macau tomorrow morning.

He would have left that very night, but he had gotten word earlier of Guan-yin’s escape from the fiery destruction of her Triad’s stronghold. He had also learned that the Americans had survived, hearing of their high-flying trapeze work to escape the flames. Then just half an hour ago, further intelligence filtered in from various sources suggesting that not only was Guan-yin in North Korea, but she intended to attack this base.

After he informed Hwan Pak, they were able to scramble a strike team to ambush the others at the Ryugyong Hotel, to quash their attempted rescue of this woman before it even began.

He stared into the room, bothered by a question.

Why are you so valuable?

Ju-long believed now that he had settled on too low of a price for her, but Pak was not to be dissuaded. With his honor as wounded as his nose, the highly placed North Korean nuclear scientist had left Ju-long with little choice but to accept his offer. Pak wanted revenge and would not be denied it.

As if eavesdropping on his thoughts, Pak appeared, smiling broadly as he entered the room. “They arrived as you described, Delgado-ssi. We have them in hand.”

He pictured Guan-yin joining the young woman here. Perhaps that was enough of a bonus for Ju-long’s troubles. With her gone, it would strengthen his position in Macau.

“But now we have business we must finish here,” Pak said, eyeing the room with raw lust. “You say she is an assassin with many criminal connections. We must know who they are, how they might benefit us, and, more important, what her connection is with the two Americans.”

“Were those two with Guan-yin?”

So far, Ju-long had not heard a definitive answer one way or the other from his contacts. Some said yes, others no.

“I do not know yet, but I’ll have answers within the hour.”

The door opened behind Pak. Another man entered, tall, skeletal, his head shaved bald, wearing a long white lab coat and carrying a stainless-steel tray of wicked-looking surgical tools and pliers. His face was impassive as he gave a small bow.

“Nam Kwon,” Pak introduced. “There are no answers he cannot extract with his tools.”

The interrogator headed into the next room, drawing Pak with him.

Pak paused in the doorway. “Do you care to join us? You are welcome. This is your merchandise.”

“No longer mine,” he corrected. “You have paid in full. What you do with the merchandise from here is no longer my concern.”

Or my fault, he added silently.

Dr. Pak shrugged and left.

Ju-long looked one last time into the neighboring room.

All this time, bent on a modern rack, the woman hadn’t cried out once — but she would soon.

“Throw the bus in reverse!” Gray hollered to the front. “Don’t slow down!”

He was instantly on his feet as the military police surrounded the first bus and swarmed from the hotel lobby toward their vehicle. They had moments to react before being permanently trapped in this vise.

Zhuang was enough of a tactician with the Triad to recognize the same. He repeated the instruction to the driver in Cantonese, and the bus lurched heavily backward.

As its speed picked up, Gray dropped to his knees beside the hidden trapdoor in the floorboards and yanked it open.

Gunshots peppered the side of the retreating bus, shattering windows. The front took the brunt of the assault. The driver suddenly fell to the side with a cry of pain. The bus listed crookedly. Zhuang rolled the driver aside, tossing his body roughly into the stairwell and taking the seat himself.

The bus immediately straightened and sped faster.

Gray grabbed the assault rifle strapped to the underside of the trapdoor. It had been readied there in case there was any trouble at the border. He had noted it earlier when he and Kowalski had hidden down there.

“Pass the weapons out,” he ordered Kowalski, pointing to the remainder of the cache below.

If they were to survive this, he needed this bus to become an urban assault vehicle — one with a smiling yellow cat on its side.

But first they had to break free of this closing trap.

He leaped atop the backseat, switching places with Kowalski, and popped open the emergency exit in the roof of the bus. Jumping, he pulled himself halfway through the hatch and braced himself there. He hauled up the assault rifle and aimed it at the pair of jeeps swinging up the circular driveway to cut off their retreat.

He strafed the windshield of the first, sending the vehicle careening off the driveway and into the manicured lawn. The second veered but kept on the road — until the bus, barreling in reverse, struck it a glancing blow.

The jeep crashed to the side, going up on two wheels.

The impact came close to throwing Gray out of the hatch, but at least they had broken free of the closing snare.

The bus reached the end of the driveway and did a 180-degree skid into the six-lane highway, turning the face of the bus away from the hotel. Gears cranked, the engine roared, then they were rolling forward again, gaining speed on the empty road.

Back at the hotel, the remaining military jeeps gave chase.

More vehicles with sirens flashing appeared ahead, racing toward them along the wide street. In the distance, the spearing lights of a helicopter rose into the sky over the darkened city.

So far, the North Korean ambush, though a surprise, had a rushed feel to it. Whoever had planned this attack must have had little time to fully mobilize the Pyongyang police force. But now the city was waking up, preparing to bring all force to bear.

Throughout the bus, weapons were handed out, windows pulled down. Assault rifles poked out on all sides. Still, how long could they hope to hold off the might of the North Korean armed forces?

The answer: not long at all.

Gray ducked back down and called over to Guan-yin. “Can you reach the man scheduled to bring the military transport truck? Get him to abandon it elsewhere for us.”

She nodded, slung her rifle over her shoulder, and took out her phone.

Their only hope of surviving, of reaching Seichan, was to stick to the old adage: If you can’t fight them, join them.

They had to create enough confusion and obfuscation to create a small window to offload the bus and get everyone into that transport truck. With all the military vehicles about to flood the streets of Pyongyang, they might be able to blend in with them during the chaos.

“There’s an underpass near the highway that heads south out of town,” Gray said. “Tell him to leave it there… and do it now!”

Leaving the details to her, he shoved up through the hatch again.

The military jeeps from the hotel were closing in on them, firing over the top of their windshields toward the fleeing bus. But the shots mostly went wide, a few pelting into the rear. One lucky round sparked near his elbow.

Gray ducked lower, aimed his assault rifle, and shot back. A windshield shattered on one jeep, and it swerved into its neighbor, bumping and rebounding away. The collision slowed the jeeps enough for the bus to stretch its lead substantially.

At the same time, flashing lights drew down upon the bus from up ahead. A barrage of gunfire erupted from both sides of the bus. Police vehicles scattered to either side. A few tried to barricade the way, but the six-lane thoroughfare proved too wide. The bus careened through them, delivering a merciless salvo of gunfire as punishment as they passed.

Then they were momentarily free of ground pursuit.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for the air.

A helicopter swept into view along the road ahead. It banked in a turn and dove toward them. A chain-gun under the nose blazed with fire, chugged heavy rounds, drilling across the asphalt straight toward their vehicle.

The heavier bus could never outmaneuver that deadly bird.

Gray twisted around and fired at the helicopter, but it was too thickly armored to have any effect. He might as well have been firing spitballs.

Then the side door opened at the front of the bus. A large form leaned out — Kowalski — shouldering a Russian RPG-29 grenade launcher. It was meant as a weapon against tanks, but anything with armor was fair game.

Kowalski whooped loudly as he fired at nearly point-blank range. The rocket-propelled grenade shot skyward in a trail of smoke and struck the bird just below its rotors.

Gray dropped back through the hatch and flattened to the floor. Through the exit door in the roof, he saw the helicopter explode above the bus as the vehicle shot under it, trying to escape both the blast and the rain of carnage.

It failed.

The explosion rocked the bus. A piece of rotor speared through the rear, slicing the air a foot above Gray’s sprawled body, close enough to feel the heat of its blasted steel on his face.

But they were still moving, limping now on a blown tire.

Using the rotor as a step-up, Gray climbed back through the hatch. The fiery wreckage of the helicopter smoked and receded behind them. But more birds lit up the skies across the city, converging toward them.

As if sensing the need for cover, Zhuang swung the bus off the wide thoroughfare and into a mazelike canyon of apartment buildings. He kept the headlamps off to keep their passage as hidden as possible.

Gray hoped the burning helicopter on the ground would draw the others toward it, like moths to a flame, allowing their bus to gain some further distance. They continued in a circuitous path southward through the city, avoiding main thoroughfares where they could.

Sirens rang throughout Pyongyang.

Still, the streets remained empty, the windows dark. The residents knew better than to show their faces.

After several tense minutes, the highway underpass appeared ahead down a narrow alley of closed shops and garages. Zhuang slowed as they crept toward that well of deeper darkness. The underpass was so low that Gray had to duck down through the hatch or risk getting decapitated.

He hurried to the front of the bus, where Kowalski still held the tube of the grenade launcher. They slid under the highway. The space appeared empty, but it was too dark to say for sure.

If the transport isn’t here…

With his heart in his throat, Gray whispered to Zhuang, “Try the lights.”

The swordsman flicked on the headlamps. Light exploded throughout the underpass, exposing every hidden corner.

Nothing.

Gray glanced back to Guan-yin, who had followed him forward.

She shook her head. “He said he’d be here.”

Kowalski slammed his palm against the door. “Motherfu—”

A set of headlamps suddenly blazed a few streets up. A large truck shot into view, skidded around a corner at a fast clip, and sped toward them.

Gray pulled the door release of the bus and hopped out.

He raised his weapon toward the racing vehicle.

Guan-yin joined him, urging him to lower his weapon. “It’s our truck.”

She was proven correct as the dark green vehicle braked hard next to theirs. It was a Chinese model with a tall driver’s compartment and an enclosed rear bed. It wasn’t armored, but Gray was not complaining.

The driver hopped out, collected a satchel of money from Guan-yin, then sprinted away.

“Guess he’s not big on small talk,” Kowalski said.

They quickly offloaded all their gear from the bus, both uniforms and weapons. Likewise, three military motorcycles were rolled out of the truck bed and onto the asphalt. The bikes would act as an entourage for the personnel carrier.

Five men — those who looked the most Korean and spoke the language fluently — dressed immediately. Three of them mounted the motorcycles, and two climbed into the truck’s cab. The rest of the crew ducked immediately into the rear bed.

Except for one plucky volunteer who agreed to stay with the bus.

The transfer was done in less than five minutes. The bus took off in one direction, the truck and motorcycles in the other. The hope was for the bus to lure the hunters away, to give them as hard and long a chase as possible. Then the driver would ditch the bus and vanish into the vastness of the dark city.

Gray stared out the back flap of the bed, watching the bus disappear. Once it was gone, he dropped the flap and stared around the dark, tight space as everyone switched into North Korean uniforms.

He caught one face, shadowed by a tattoo, staring back at him.

They both shared the same worry.

Once word reached Seichan’s captors of their escape, how would they react? Would they move her to a new location or kill her immediately?

And the more important question, How much time do we have left to save her?

Seichan writhed in her restraints as a steel needle was slowly driven under her fingernail. Four others already poked from the same hand. Pain shot all the way to her shoulders. She breathed heavily through her nose, refusing to scream.

Her torturer sat on a stool, bent over her arm, expressionless but intently focused, as if he were giving her a manicure.

Other tools of black interrogation were spread in plain view behind him, shining coldly under the fluorescent lights. She knew this was as much psychological as anything, a warning of what was to come if she continued to refuse to talk.

The room’s only other occupant paced to her other side, wringing his small hands. “Tell us who the Americans are,” Pak repeated, his voice high and nasal through his splinted bandage. “And this will stop.”

Like hell it would.

She knew they intended to wring everything and anything they could out of her. Her coming days promised endless suffering. Her worst fear was not the shining drill bits or threats of rape, but that she would eventually break. In time, she would tell them anything; whether true or false, it wouldn’t matter then.

Still, she took comfort where she could.

If they were questioning her about Gray and Kowalski, then likely the pair had survived the ambush in Macau and the fiery attack in Hong Kong. If he was breathing, Seichan knew, Gray would not stop trying to reach her.

But can I last that long?

Does he even know where I am?

She held back hope, knowing that path only led to weakness. In the end, it would be better if Gray never tried freeing her, because to do so would only get him killed.

Her interrogator — who had been introduced to her as Nam Kwon — gently attached tiny electrical clips to each of the five imbedded needles. He spoke softly, never looking up, his voice a whisper, almost apologetic.

“The jolt of electricity will feel as if your fingernails are being ripped out all at the same time. The pain will be beyond imagining.”

She ignored his words, knowing that he wanted her to imagine that pain. Often the anticipation of pain was worse than enduring it.

Pak came forward, leaning his face close to hers. “Tell us who these Americans are.”

She stared up at him and smiled coldly. “They’re the ones who are going to rip off your balls and feed them to pigs.”

As his eyes narrowed in anger, she slammed her head forward and butted him square in the face.

He bellowed, falling backward, fresh blood spurting from his nose.

Pak waved to Kwon. “Do it! Make her scream!”

Kwon remained calm. Unhurried, he reached and twisted a dial. “This is the lowest voltage,” he said — then flipped a switch.

Pak got what he asked for.

Pain ripped through her. Surprise more than agony squeezed a cry from her throat. Her arm turned to fire as electricity contorted her body. Rigid muscles fought the restraints in convulsive trembles.

Through the red fire, she saw the door open behind Kwon and Pak.

The interruption drew their attention. Kwon flipped the switch back, and she sagged into the chair, her body still quaking with aftershocks, her hand burning.

Delgado stared toward her, his face ashen but doing his best not to show any reaction. He finally had to look away.

Clearing his throat, Delgado said, “I’ve just heard word from my man Tomaz at the Ryugyong. Half of the Duàn zhī Triad have been captured or killed at the hotel. But another half escaped in a second bus. All Pyongyang is out searching for them.”

Confused, Seichan focused through the residual pain. The Duàn zhī was her mother’s gang. But what were they doing here in North Korea? She struggled to understand. Was her mother simply seeking revenge from the attack on her stronghold in Hong Kong? Or was it something more personal?

She swallowed back hope but failed to completely stanch it.

Pak glowered at Delgado. “And Guan-yin?”

Her mother…

Seichan held her breath.

Delgado did not look any happier than the North Korean. “She was not among those captured. Neither was Zhuang, her lieutenant.”

Pak stamped back and forth, balling a fist. “But she remains on our soil. She will not escape for long.”

Delgado made a noncommittal noise, plainly less convinced. Guan-yin had survived his fiery assault on her stronghold. He was not going to underestimate his opponent.

“I have more news,” Delgado said. “It appears the Americans came with Guan-yin.”

“They are here!” Pak’s face flushed darkly.

Seichan also felt a surge of emotion — hope rising inside her despite her efforts to rein it back.

“What about the prisoner?” Delgado asked, returning his attention to Seichan. “It would not be prudent to leave her here.”

Pak nodded. “There’s a prison camp near my lab. It’s in the remote northern mountains, known to only a handful of those in power, and well guarded. I had planned on transferring her tomorrow anyway. We will do that now.”

So he meant to keep her close to him, clearly intending to enjoy her every scream. Not good. Seichan knew that if she reached that camp, all was lost.

“It would be better to kill her now,” Delgado suggested and nodded to Pak’s holstered pistol. “A bullet to the head.”

Seichan sensed this proposition was expressed more as a concern for her than for Pak. A quick death would be better than months of torture that ended in the same grave.

Pak wasn’t having any of it, puffing out his chest with nationalistic pride. “That would be a cowardly response to a minor threat.”

Delgado shrugged.

Pak glanced at her, blood still dripping from his nose. She read his expression. His decision against killing her was less about honor and more about his fondness for torture. He had a small taste of it a moment ago. He wanted more.

Pak called to the guard outside the door, while slipping his own pistol free. Once the soldier stepped inside, he pointed to Seichan. “Free her, and take her to my jeep. Make sure she is securely bound.”

“It is very cold, seon-saeng-nim,” the guard said formally. “Should I find her clothes for travel?”

Pak eyed her up and down.

“Aniyo,” he finally declined. “If she wants warmth, she must beg for it.”

With the matter settled, the guard pointed his rifle at her. Kwon undid the padded cuffs that held her to the steel chair.

First her ankles, then her wrists.

As soon as her last arm was freed, she lashed out, stabbing the ends of the needles still poking from her fingertips into Kwon’s eyes. He stumbled back, partially blocking the guard’s angle of fire as she had planned.

She sprang up, grabbed Kwon, and rolled him fully between her and the soldier as the man opened fire. Rounds skewered through the interrogator but did not find her. She shoved his bulk at the guard, tangling them up long enough for Seichan to spin around and snatch the pistol from Pak’s stunned fingers.

She whipped back and planted a single shot into the soldier’s skull.

Running for the door, she snatched up his rifle with her free hand and fled the room — leaving Delgado and Pak unharmed. Not knowing what she might face, she dared not waste a bullet on them.

Once outside, she dead-bolted the door to the interrogation room. She then painfully pulled out each of the steel needles. Through the small window, she watched Pak rage impotently inside. Insulated against the screams of the tortured, not a sound escaped the room.

Behind Pak, Delgado caught her eyes, his arms folded over his chest. He smiled at her, offering her a small nod of respect.

Turning heel, she ran for the exit to the interrogation building. Luckily it was deserted at this late hour. She slowed only long enough to search a bank of lockers near the front door, hoping to find a North Korean uniform.

Failing that, she at least found a crumpled set of inmate clothing at the bottom of one locker. She slipped into the dark Communist tunic and pulled on a set of loose pants. The only decoration to its drabness was a red badge featuring Kim Il-Sung’s face on the left breast.

With regret, she placed the stolen assault rifle in the locker. It was too large to hide, and wearing the clothes of a prisoner, she would have a hard time explaining the presence of a rifle.

With the pistol hidden against her leg, she slipped out into the night. Off in the distance, she heard a faint echo of alarm sirens coming from the direction of Pyongyang.

Even with a pistol in hand, she would never make it through the heavily guarded front gates on her own. And even if she did, where could she go? She had to trust that Gray and her mother knew where to find her, that they’d come for her.

She ran for the rows of barracks, intending to hide herself among the prisoners, to keep out of sight until help could arrive.

For the first time in her life, Seichan put her trust in hope.

10

The Eurocopter sped over an endless landscape of blowing sand and crusted salt. Jada stared listlessly below, finding it hard to believe this blighted region was once a beautiful blue sea, teeming with fish, the shores dotted with canneries and villages, all full of vigorous life.

It seemed unimaginable.

She had read the mission dossier concerning the Aral Sea, how the Soviets had diverted its two major rivers to irrigate cotton fields back in the sixties. As the decades passed, the sea quickly dried up, dwindling to only 10 percent of its original size, draining a volume equal to Lake Erie and Lake Ontario combined. Now all that remained of the sea were a few salty pools to the north and south.

Between them, this wasteland was born.

“They call this the Aralkum Desert,” the monsignor whispered as the others slept, noting her attention. “Its toxic salt fields are so large they can be seen from space.”

“Toxic?” she asked.

“As the sea vanished, it left behind pollutants and pesticides. Strong winds regularly stir up that sand and dust into dark storms called black blizzards.”

As Jada stared, she watched a swirling zephyr spin across the salt flats as if chasing them.

“People began to get sick. Respiratory infections, strange anemias, spikes in cancer rates. The average life expectancy dropped from sixty-five to fifty-one.”

She glanced at him, surprised by those numbers.

“And its effect was not just local. These fierce winds continue to blow the desert’s poison around the globe. Aral dust can be found in the glaciers of Greenland, in the forests of Norway, even in the blood of penguins in Antarctica.”

Jada shook her head, wondering for the thousandth time why they had detoured to this desolate place. If given a choice, she would have preferred to visit another location in Kazakhstan: the Baikonur Cosmodrome, Russia’s premier space center. It lay only two hundred miles east of their coordinates.

At least there, I could collect more data on the crash.

That is, if everything weren’t so top secret.

Still, she looked sidelong at Duncan, at his fingertips. He said he had noted some energy signature emanating from the archaeological relics. As much as she was in a hurry, a part of her was intrigued by his assessment.

But was it all nonsense?

Jada studied Duncan’s features as he lightly drowsed beside his stocky partner. The man did not strike her as someone prone to flights of fantasy. He seemed too well grounded.

The pilot came over the intercom. “We’re ten minutes out from the coordinates.”

Everyone stirred.

She returned her full attention to the window. The sun sat low on the horizon. Hillocks and the rusting remains of old ships cast long shadows across the flat desert.

As the coordinates grew closer, the Eurocopter began to descend, sweeping lower, speeding over the salt flats.

“Dead ahead,” the pilot said.

Everyone pressed their noses to their respective windows.

The helicopter rushed toward the only feature for miles: the rusted hulk of a massive ship. It sat upright, its keel sunk deep into the sand, a ghost ship riding this dusty sea. Oxidation and corrosion had worn away most details, eating away its forecastle, staining the bulkhead a deep orange-red, a sharp contrast to the white salt flats.

“Is this the place?” Rachel asked.

“It matches the coordinates,” the pilot confirmed.

Duncan spoke by his window. “I see lots of tire tracks in the salt around the beached ship.”

“This must be right,” the monsignor insisted.

Monk touched his radio to communicate better with the pilot. “Take us down. Land fifty or so yards away from the ship.”

The bird immediately banked to the side, hovered for a breath, then lowered until its wheels touched down, blowing up a whirlwind of sand and salt.

Monk pulled off his earphones and yelled to the pilot. “Keep the rotors turning until I give you the all-clear.”

He pulled open the hatch. With an arm raised against the sting of whipping sand, he cautioned everyone to remain inside, except Duncan. “Let us check this out first.”

Jada was happy to let them take the lead. From the shadows of the cabin, she watched Monk and Duncan head out across the dusty sand. The winter day was cool, but not bitterly. The air smelled of salt, motor oil, and decay.

Across the way, a dark door in the ship’s port-side hull beckoned. It lay even with the sands and open to the elements. Before the two men had crossed half the distance toward it, a desert-camouflaged Land Rover burst out of a hidden hatch in the vessel’s stern. It sped on wide, paddle-treaded tires built for the sand and swept in an intercepting arc to reach Monk and Duncan.

The two men had their weapons raised and pointed toward it.

The Land Rover drew abreast of them, keeping a distance away.

An exchange of words followed, with much gesticulation on Monk’s part. The monsignor’s name was mentioned. After another full minute of discussion, Monk stomped back to the helicopter.

“They say Father Josip is inside the ship,” he said. “I tried to convince them to have the priest come out and greet us, to make sure we’re not being set up. But they refused.”

“I imagine by now the level of Father Josip’s paranoia is quite high,” Vigor said.

Jada heard a slight catch in the monsignor’s voice, as if he were holding something back about the man.

“I’ll go meet him alone,” Vigor said, hopping out.

“No, you won’t,” Rachel said. She leaped down to join her uncle. “We stick together.”

“We’ll all go,” Monk said, but he turned to Jada. “Maybe you’d best stay with the helicopter.”

She considered it for a few seconds, then shook her head, forcing as much bravado as she could muster. “I’ve not come all this way to stay in the helicopter.”

Monk nodded, then popped his head into the cabin and yelled to the pilot. “I’ll be on radio. Lock this bird up tight, but keep her warmed and ready in case we need a fast takeoff.”

The pilot gave Monk a thumbs-up. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

With the matter settled, they all took off across the sand to rejoin Duncan. Jada moved into the larger man’s shadow. He gave her a wink of reassurance — which surprisingly worked to calm her.

That, and perhaps the assault rifle in his hands.

A lone stranger hopped out of the passenger seat of the Land Rover to greet them. He was her height with shaggy dark hair, likely about her same age, too, dressed in traditional-looking Kazakh attire, consisting of wide trousers, a long shirt, and a sleeveless sheepskin jacket. He came to them empty-handed, but he lifted his arm, exposing a leather cuff around his left wrist.

A sharp whistle from him drew a screeched response.

A dark shape swooped into view overhead and plummeted into a steep dive. Just before striking the Kazakh man, a bird with huge wings swooped wide, braking to a stop. Sharp talons found the leather cuff, and the tall falcon came to a fluttering rest, tucking its wings. Tiny dark eyes stared at the newcomers with suspicion — until the man placed a small leather hood over the bird’s head.

The stranger faced them, offering the monsignor a respectful nod of greeting. “Father Josip has shown me pictures of his dear friend, the monsignor Verona. Please be welcome.” He spoke flawless English, with a prominent British accent. “I am Sanjar, and my feathered companion of foul temper is Heru.”

Vigor smiled. “The Egyptian variant on the Greek name Horus.”

“Indeed. The falcon-headed god of the sky.” Sanjar headed toward the ship. “Please follow me. Father Josip will be very happy to see you.”

He led the group toward the door cut through the ship’s hull. To the left, the Land Rover sped away, swinging around the stern and vanishing out of view.

Vigor craned his neck to look up at the tall derelict ship. “Father Josip has been living in here all this time?”

“Not in here, but under here.”

Sanjar ducked into the dark interior of the ship.

Jada followed Duncan, finding herself in the cavernous hold of the ship. The vessel’s interior had fared no better than its outside. Over the passing decades, the elements had worked deep into the ship, wreaking great damage, turning the hold into a rotted-out cathedral of rust and ruin.

To the far right, she spotted the Land Rover parked in its makeshift garage, sheltered from the elements.

“This way.” Sanjar motioned to the left, to an open staircase, its rails dripping with rivulets of corrosion. He clicked on a flashlight and led the way down.

As they progressed deeper, the steel treads underfoot abruptly changed to rock. Through a rent in the ship’s bottom, a steep passage delved downward, dug through the sandstone, leading to a vast maze burrowed beneath the decaying behemoth. Dark tunnels branched off from the main passageway, revealing a warren of rooms and additional passageways and crawlways.

It looked like an entire village could have been housed down here.

“Who built all this?” Duncan asked Sanjar.

“First, drug smugglers back in the early seventies, then it was expanded by militant forces during the late eighties, and it was mostly abandoned after Kazakhstan declared independence in the nineties. Once discovered, Father Josip made it his base camp, where he could work undisturbed and out of the public eye.”

A glow rose up from below. As they neared it, Sanjar clicked off his flashlight and returned it to his pocket. The falcon on his wrist stirred with a ruffle of feathers.

Moments later, they reached what appeared to be the lowest level. The stairs emptied into a large man-made cavern, as big as a basketball court. Other halls burrowed out from here, but there was no need to go any farther.

The main room looked like a cross between a medieval library and the mad nest of a hoarder. Rows of bookcases strained under the weight of their volumes. Desks lay buried under mounds of papers and notebooks, along with bits of broken pottery, even a few dusty bones. Additionally, charts and maps had been nailed to the wall, some torn in half, others marked over so heavily with a thick scrawl as to be indiscernible. Then there were the chalked diagrams spanning another section of the walls, with arrows connecting and dividing, as if someone were engineering a giant Rube Goldberg machine.

In the center of the chaos stood the clear master of this domain.

He was dressed similarly to Sanjar, but with the addition of a Roman collar. Over the years, the sun and wind had weathered the priest’s skin to a burnished brown, while also bleaching his hair white. His cheeks and chin were scruffy with several days’ worth of beard.

He looked much older than Vigor — though Jada knew the man was actually a decade younger.

Still, despite his aged countenance, a pair of eyes blazed brightly as he turned toward them. But Jada wondered: Was that shine brilliance or madness?

Vigor could not hide his shock at the state of his colleague.

“Josip?”

“Vigor, my friend!” Josip waded through stacked books on the floor, his thin arms raised in greeting, tears beginning to brim. “You came!”

“How could I not?”

When Josip reached him, they hugged. His friend clung to him, repeatedly squeezing his shoulders as if to test that he was real. In turn, Vigor felt the thinness of his colleague’s frame, thinking Josip’s years in this harsh desert had almost mummified him. But Vigor suspected it was obsession more than anything that had burned his friend to skin and bone.

Sadly, such had been the case in the past, too.

Early in his seminary years, Josip Tarasco had suffered his first psychotic break. He had been found naked atop the roof of the school, claiming he could hear the voice of God in the stars, explaining he needed to remove his clothes so the starlight could bathe him more fully, drawing him closer to the Lord.

Shortly after that, he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a manic condition of deep lows and blazing highs. Lithium and other antidepressants helped stabilize the severity of those emotional swings, but never entirely. On the positive side, that same condition seemed to stoke a fire of genius in the man, a brilliance born out of that streak of madness.

Still, lapses of his mental status did occur, expressed as bouts of obsessive compulsion, tics of behavior, and, in rare moments, full psychotic breaks. So Vigor was not entirely surprised when Josip suddenly vanished off the face of the earth ten years ago.

But what about now…?

As they ended their embrace, Vigor searched Josip’s face.

His friend noted the attention. “I know what you’re thinking, Vigor, but I am in my right mind.” He glanced around the chamber, running a hand through his hair. “Perhaps a bit compulsive at the moment, I will admit that, but stress was always my enemy. And considering the timetable we’re all under, I must accept and utilize every unique gift God has given me.”

Upon hearing all this, Rachel looked sternly at him. Vigor had failed to mention Josip’s mental condition to her, fearing it would dissuade her from allowing him to travel here. He also worried such a revelation might cast doubts on the validity of the man’s concerns.

Vigor had no such prejudices.

He respected Josip’s genius, regardless of his diagnosis.

“And speaking of that rushed timetable,” Vigor said, “perhaps you can explain why you summoned me here in such a strange manner. What you sent brought a great deal of trouble along with it.”

“They found you?”

“Who found us?” Vigor pictured the attack at the university and the deadly bombing in Aktau.

Josip shook his head, his gaze turning flighty, edgy with paranoia. Vigor could see the man struggling against it.

He licked his lips. “I don’t know. Someone killed the courier I sent overland to mail the crate. On his way back he was waylaid, tortured, his dead body dumped in the desert. I thought… I was hoping it was just bandits. But now…?”

Josip was losing his battle. Raw suspicion shone in his face, his gaze glancing off everyone now. It seemed compulsion was not the only symptom manifesting during this stressful time.

In order to stem that growing paranoia, Vigor made fast introductions, ending with, “And you must remember Rachel, my niece.”

Josip’s face brightened with sudden recognition and relief. “Of course! How wonderful!” This slice of the familiar seemed to immediately drain the tension out of Vigor’s colleague, to reassure him that he was among friends. “Come, I have much to show you and so very little time.”

He marched them over to a long wooden table with bench seating. Sanjar helped him clear the surface. Once that was done, they all settled down.

“The skull and the book?” Josip started, his desire plain to read.

“Yes, I have them with me. On the helicopter.”

“Can someone fetch them?”

Duncan stood up and volunteered to retrieve them.

“Thank you, young man,” Josip said. He then turned to Vigor. “I assume you’ve already identified the skull’s owner, the same man who once wore that skin.”

“Genghis Khan. The relics were crafted from his body.”

“Very good. With your resources, I knew you’d solve that mystery.”

“But where did you find such macabre items?”

“In the grave of a witch.”

The young woman, Dr. Shaw, made a scoffing noise. She had not been won over to their cause during the flight here, even after Vigor had revealed the history of the relics. She clearly suffered from her own single-mindedness and was anxious to continue onward with Sigma’s secret mission in Mongolia.

Ignoring her, Vigor encouraged Josip. “I remember you were on a research trip to Hungary, investigating the witch hunts of the eighteenth century.”

“Indeed. I was in Szeged, a small town along the Tisza River in southern Hungary.”

Josip stressed the name of the river, staring harder at Vigor, as if offering a hidden clue. Something about the name did trigger a flicker of recognition. He just couldn’t say why.

Josip continued, “In July of 1728, during the height of that witch hunt, a group of twelve local townspeople were burned at the stake on a small island in the river called Boszorkánysziget. Which means Island of the Witches, named after the great number of innocents torched there.”

“Such superstitious nonsense,” Rachel muttered with a scowl.

Jada nodded next to her.

“Actually, superstitions had very little to do with these particular murders. Hungary was at the end of a decade-long drought. Rivers dwindled to trickles, farmlands turned to dust, famine was rampant.”

“The people needed a scapegoat,” Vigor said.

“And someone to sacrifice. Over four hundred people were killed during that time, but not all those deaths were born of fearful superstitions. Many public officials used that bloody period to rid themselves of threats or for petty revenge.”

“And the twelve in Szeged?” Rachel asked, ready to hear more about this cold case.

“I found a copy of the original trial transcript in a monastery outside of town. Their inquisition was less concerned about witchcraft and more about rumors of the twelve discovering a buried treasure. Whether true or not, they refused to speak. Others took the stand to say they heard some of the twelve talking about finding a skull and a book bound in human skin. Such accusations of the occult eventually led them to be burned at the stake.”

Monk tapped one of his prosthetic fingers on the table. “So you’re saying that these twelve were tortured to death to find the location of some lost treasure.”

“Not just any lost treasure.” Josip looked hard again at Vigor, as if expecting him to understand this cryptic response.

He didn’t. He remained mystified and was about to say so — when suddenly he knew, putting the clues together in a sudden flash of insight.

“The Tisza River!”

Josip smiled.

“What about it?” Jada asked.

Vigor sat up straighter. “It wasn’t just the tomb of Genghis Khan that vanished into the mists of time. But also the grave of another conquering warrior, a local Hungarian hero.”

Rachel caught on. “You’re talking about Attila the Hun.”

Vigor nodded. “Attila died from a nosebleed during his wedding night in AD 453. Like Genghis, his soldiers buried him in secret with all his pillaged treasures, slaughtering anyone who knew the tomb’s location. The story goes that Attila was entombed inside a set of three coffins. One of iron, another of silver, and the innermost one of gold.”

Monk’s finger stopped tapping. “And no one ever discovered where he was buried?”

“Over the centuries, rumors abounded. But most historians believe his soldiers diverted the flow of the Tisza River, buried him in a secret vault beneath its mud, then returned the river to its original course.”

“That would certainly make it hard to find,” Monk admitted.

Struck by another insight, Vigor swung to Josip. “But wait, you mentioned that drought during the eighteenth century, the one that triggered the witch hunts.”

“When rivers dwindled to trickles,” Josip agreed, still smiling.

“It could’ve exposed that secret vault!” Vigor imagined the receding waters revealing Attila’s secret. “Are you saying someone actually found it?”

“And tried to keep it secret,” Josip added.

“The twelve conspirators… the twelve accused witches.”

“Yes.” Josip leaned his elbows on the table. “But unknown to the people of Szeged, there was a thirteenth witch.”

Duncan returned to the subterranean library to find everyone seated in stunned silence. Sensing he had missed something important, he carried the two archaeological relics to the table, the pair still wrapped in their insulating foam. He preferred not to handle them directly with his sensitive fingertips.

He leaned toward Jada and whispered, “What happened?”

She shushed him, waving him to the bench.

As he sat, the monsignor asked Josip, “What thirteenth witch?”

Duncan frowned at the odd question.

Yep, I definitely missed something.

Vigor waited for Josip to explain.

“From the records,” his friend said, “I discovered that the bishop of Szeged had failed to attend that particular witch trial, a rarity for the pious man. That struck me as odd.”

It would be odd, Vigor thought.

“So I sought out his personal diaries and found them stored at the Franciscan Church in town, a church that dates back to the early fifteen hundreds. Many of the books were water damaged or destroyed by mold. But in one of his journals, I found a hand-drawn picture of a skull resting atop a book. It reminded me of the accusations from the trial. Written in Latin below it were the words: God, forgive me for the trespass, for my silence, and for what I must take to my grave.”

Vigor could guess Josip’s next move. “So you sought out his grave.”

“His remains were stored in a mausoleum under the church.” From the reddening of his friend’s face, it was clear Josip’s next words clearly shamed him. “I did not ask permission. I was too impatient, too sure of myself, deep in a manic phase where every action seemed right.”

Vigor reached across and touched his arm, reassuring him.

Looking at the tabletop, Josip admitted his crime. “In the dead of night, I took a sledge to the marble front and broke inside.”

“It was there you found the skull and the book.”

“Among other items.”

“What items?”

“I discovered a final note from the bishop, his written confession sealed in a bronze tube. In it, he explained about the discovery of Attila’s grave site. How a farmer stumbled upon it in the dry riverbed — only to find the vault empty, ransacked long ago. Except for an iron box resting on a pedestal, preserving a few precious items.”

“The skull and the book.”

“Superstitious fear drove the farmer to the town bishop. He believed he’d stumbled upon the meeting place for a coven of witches. Upon hearing this, the bishop commissioned twelve of his most trusted allies to accompany him to the site.”

“The twelve who were burned at the stake,” Vigor said.

“Correct. At the river, the group discovered who had ransacked the vault. They found a calling card left behind by the thieves, a wrist cuff of gold sculpted with the images of a phoenix fighting demons, with the name Genghis Khan inscribed on it.”

So Genghis Khan found Attila’s tomb…?

It was not beyond the realm of possibilities, Vigor realized. Their two empires — though centuries apart — overlapped geographically. Genghis must have heard the stories of Attila’s burial and sought the treasures hidden within. Mongol forces never fully subjugated Hungary, but there were skirmishes back and forth for decades. During one of those campaigns, some prisoner must have talked, likely under torture, and the tomb was discovered and ransacked.

None of this, of course, answered the larger question.

Vigor stared at Josip. “But how did Genghis Khan’s skull and a book bound in his skin end up back in Attila’s old vault?”

“Because of a warning of doom.”

Josip nodded to Sanjar, who had been obviously waiting for this signal. The man carried forward a sheaf of pages, each protectively sealed in Mylar plastic sleeves.

“These pages were also found inside Attila’s vault.”

They were placed before Vigor. He glanced at the ancient pages, where faint handwriting could be discerned. Squinting, he saw words written in Latin.

He translated the opening lines. “This is the last testament of Ildiko, descended blood of King Gondioc de Burgondie. These are my dying words from the past to the future…”

Vigor glanced up, recognizing the name. “Ildiko was Attila’s last wife. Some believed she murdered the Hun with poison on their wedding night.”

“So she admits here.” Josip touched the stack of paper. “Read the pages at your leisure. She wrote them while buried alive in that vault with Attila’s body, a murder she committed at the behest of the Church.”

“What?” Shock rang in Vigor’s voice.

“Through intermediaries, Pope Leo the Great enlisted her to recover what had been given to Attila the year prior, an ominous gift to frighten the superstitious king of the Huns away from the gates of Rome.”

Vigor knew about that fateful meeting — except for one detail. “What did the pontiff give him?”

“A box. Or rather three boxes, one inside the other. The outer of iron, then silver, then gold.”

The same as the rumored coffins of Attila.

Was this papal gift the source of that story? Or did Attila copy it for his own grave?

“What was inside the box?” Rachel asked, striking for the heart of the matter.

“First, there was a skull, inscribed in ancient Aramaic.”

Vigor pictured the writing he had examined in Rome. “So the box held the original relic, the one that was used as a template for Genghis’s skull.”

Monk cocked a thumb toward the foam-wrapped objects. “So Genghis’s skull was just a Xerox copy of this older one. Why do that?”

Rachel explained, “Someone wanted what was written on that first skull — a plea against the end of the world and its date — to survive the march of history.”

“But why?” Jada interrupted, sounding offended. “Why go to all this effort to preserve this information, when nothing can be done about this doomsday prediction?”

“Who said nothing can be done about it?” Josip quipped. “I said the skull was the first of the objects hidden in those triple boxes.”

“What else was there?” Vigor asked.

“According to Ildiko, the boxes and their contents came from east of Persia, from the Nestorian sect of the Christian church. The treasure was sent west to Rome for safekeeping in the Eternal City, where it was hoped its contents might be preserved until the end of time.”

“Or at least until the date marked on the skull,” Vigor added.

Josip bowed his head in agreement. “Pope Leo gave this gift away without full knowledge of what it held. Only after a Nestorian emissary came from Persia and warned the pontiff of the contents’ true history did he realize his grave error.”

Monk snorted. “So he sent a girl to get it back.”

“It may have been the only way to get close to Attila,” Josip countered. “But in the end, she failed. Attila must have grown wise to what had been given to him and hid it away.”

“What was it?” Vigor asked.

“In Ildiko’s own words, a celestial cross, one sculpted from a star that had fallen to the earth far to the east.”

“A meteorite,” Jada said, sitting up.

“Most likely,” Josip agreed. “From that fallen star, a cross was carved and given as a gift to a holy visitor, one who came to their eastern shores, spreading word of a new god, one with a risen son.”

Vigor glanced again to the wrapped relics, picturing the gospel bound in human skin. “You’re talking about St. Thomas,” he said with awe. “The Chinese emperor of that time gave St. Thomas that newly sculpted cross.”

Historians readily accepted that the apostle Thomas traveled as far as India, where he was eventually martyred. But a few scholars believed he might have made it as far as China, maybe even Japan.

Vigor could not keep the wonder out of his voice. “Are you saying the box held the cross of St. Thomas?”

“Not just his cross,” Josip intoned.

Vigor matched his friend’s tearful gaze and knew the truth.

It held his skull, too.

Vigor was struck momentarily dumb. Had this same knowledge pushed Josip over the edge? By his own admission, he had already begun to act irrationally. Had this driven him into a full psychotic break?

“According to Ildiko’s testament,” Josip continued, “St. Thomas had a vision of the fiery destruction of the world, including when it would happen, while holding this cross. This knowledge was preserved by Christian mystics after his death.”

“By inscribing it upon the saint’s skull.”

Josip nodded. “According to St. Thomas, this celestial cross is the only weapon to prevent the world from ending on that date. If it remains lost, the world is doomed.”

“And this cross was buried with Attila?” Vigor asked.

Josip glanced to the pages. “Ildiko claims as much. While locked in that tomb, she found the boxes again — only now with the cross returned to its proper place inside. She wrote down her last testament in the hopes someone would find it.”

“Which Genghis did,” Vigor finished.

Silence hung over the room for several breaths.

Finally, Monk cleared his throat. “So let me get this straight. The pope mistakenly gave Attila this treasure. A plot to retrieve it failed. Centuries later, Genghis ransacked Attila’s tomb, read Ildiko’s note, found the cross there, and upon his death, he used his own body to preserve this knowledge.”

“Not only preserve it,” Josip said, “but I believe he was leaving behind a road map for a future generation, offering us a way to find where he hid this cross, turning his own body into a guide.”

Vigor acknowledged that possibility. “Genghis Khan always believed the future belonged to him. And considering that one out of every two hundred men living today is his descendant, he might have been right. He would want to protect that legacy.”

Josip agreed. “Despite his image as a bloody tyrant, Genghis was also forward thinking. His empire had the first international postal system, invented the concept of diplomatic immunity, and even allowed women in its councils. But more important, the Mongols were also unprecedented in their religious tolerance. In their capital city, there was even a Nestorian church. It might have been those priests who helped sway Genghis to this path.”

“I think you may be right about that last part,” Vigor agreed. “Historically the Nestorians were a huge influence on Genghis. Just the fact that Genghis used his own skin to preserve a copy of the Gospel of Thomas speaks to their influence even in this endeavor.”

Rachel, ever the detective, wanted more proof. “This is all fine, but can any of this be substantiated? Is there any piece of tangible evidence that Genghis possessed this cross, this talisman meant to save the world?”

Josip pointed to Vigor. “He has it.”

Vigor felt like a victim falsely accused. “What do you mean? Where do I have it?”

“In the Vatican’s Secret Archives. You are now the prefect of that library, are you not?”

Vigor racked his brain as to what Josip was implying — then he remembered one of the archive’s prize possessions. “The letter from Genghis Khan’s grandson!”

Josip crossed his arms, the victorious prosecutor.

Vigor explained to the others. “In 1246, the grandson of Genghis, the Grand Khan Guyuk, sent a note to the pope. He demanded the pontiff travel to Mongolia in person to pay homage to him. He warned that if the pope didn’t do this, there would be grave consequences for the world.”

Rachel stared at him. “It’s not definitive proof, but I’ll admit it does sound like the grandson knew he had the fate of the world in his possession, or at least in his grandfather’s tomb.”

Vigor gave a small shrug. “He may have even been offering to return it to the pope, if the pontiff were willing to travel there… which unfortunately he refused.”

Duncan sighed. “If he had, that would’ve made things lots easier.”

Monk shrugged heavily. “That’s all well and good. I appreciate the history lesson. But let’s cut to the chase, people. Can anyone tell me how finding this cross is supposed to save the world?”

Vigor looked to Josip, hoping for a solution. His friend gave a small, defeated shake of his head. Instead, the answer came from a most unlikely source, from someone who had been as doubtful as St. Thomas all along.

Dr. Jada Shaw raised her hand. “I know.”

11

The squeal of truck brakes announced their arrival at the prison gates.

Hidden in the vehicle’s enclosed bed, Gray allowed himself a measure of relief. The strike team had made it safely out of downtown Pyongyang and into the swampy outskirts that bordered the Taedong River. En route here, they had run across a few search patrols, but the Triad members on the motorcycles had put on a good front, clearing a path through. With everyone still looking for a bus, their military truck raised no suspicions.

But Gray knew such luck could not last forever. They’d lost half their force back at the hotel. One of those captured would eventually break and reveal their assault plans to the enemy.

Gray listened to the loud voices as the driver shouted to the gate guards. The plan was to pose as reinforcements, sent from Pyongyang to beef up security here. The distant sirens of the city certainly added validity to that claim.

Footfalls and voices flanked the side of the truck, working their way toward the rear. It seemed the guards here were on edge, likely still being kept in the dark in regard to the situation downtown.

Suddenly the rear flap was tossed back. The beam of a flashlight speared inside, blinding them, giving them all a good excuse to shield their faces or turn away. Gray and Kowalski hunkered down closest to the cab, their pale faces blocked by the bodies of the others.

The guard splashed his light around, but after discovering only men and women wearing North Korean uniforms, he let the flap drop and headed back to his gatehouse.

With a grind of gears, the truck began moving again. It rolled slowly forward. Gray risked widening a rip in the bed’s tent fabric so he could peek out. The prison covered a hundred acres, all surrounded by high fencing topped with coils of razor wire. Guard towers rose every fifty yards. The facilities inside were a mix of squat cement-block buildings and row after row of wooden barracks.

Gray fingered the map in his hands. He had studied it with a penlight while traveling here. The interrogation center was not far from the main gate. Seichan was likely being held at that location.

But was she still there?

Their vehicle slipped through the outer gate and rolled across a no-man’s-land covered in hidden mines before reaching the second fence. This inner gate also trundled open to receive them.

The motorcycles led the way, followed by the truck, a Trojan horse on wheels. As they passed inside, the gates closed behind them.

There was no turning back now.

And getting in was the easy part.

Tarps were stripped from the floor, revealing their heavier armaments: machine guns, grenade launchers, even a 60 mm lightweight mortar.

Kowalski picked up one of the rocket launchers. He slung its long tube over his shoulder and gripped his assault rifle with his free hand.

“Now I feel properly dressed,” Kowalski said, his voice covered by the rumble of the truck.

The vehicle angled toward the interrogation center and parked in front of its entrance. The driver kept the engine running. With any luck, they could grab Seichan with a minimum of fuss or noise and leave the same way they had come, explaining they’d been recalled back to the city.

Zhuang poked his head out the rear flap, making sure everything looked clear. Apparently satisfied, he waved Gray and Guan-yin forward. They huddled together at the flap.

Gray studied the façade of the interrogation center. The cement-block building was one story and looked mostly dark at this late hour. They should be able to swiftly sweep it.

“Let’s go,” he said and hopped out.

With the truck blocking the view to the front door, they ran for the entrance. Other Triad members took up defensive positions around and even under the truck.

Gray reached the door and found it open. He slipped inside, did a fast sweep with his rifle, but spotted no one. He strained for any voices, but he heard nothing.

Guan-yin joined him. She looked pale, her jaw tense. Only then did he remember Seichan’s mother had spent a brutal year in a camp such as this in Vietnam. He noted the curled scar across her cheek and brow. From the way she jumped when Zhuang touched her elbow as he entered, that physical scarring was probably the least of her damage.

“According to my map,” Gray said, drawing her attention to the task at hand, “the holding cells and interrogation rooms are in the back.”

Guan-yin gave him a shaky nod.

The three of them set off in that direction, sweeping room by room. At the end of the corridor, a pool of light spilled from an open doorway.

Gray aimed for there, still straining for any noises.

The silence was beginning to unnerve him.

He reached the open door and peeked his head around to search the next room. It was a small space with chairs facing a large window that viewed into a neighboring chamber.

With care, Gray slipped inside and stared through the glass, likely a one-way mirror. The well-lit room beyond revealed a strange sight. Two men lay sprawled on the floor in matching pools of blood. One was a North Korean guard. Gray surmised the other was a lab tech based on the long white coat he was wearing.

Two others shared the space with the dead men and appeared to be locked inside. The pair strained to open the only door. Gray also noted the toppled metal stool on the floor below the window. They must have tried to shatter through the mirrored glass only to find it bulletproof.

Gray recognized one of the trapped men immediately, even with the bandage over his nose.

Hwan Pak.

The other stood taller, with a dark beard and Eurasian features. Gray remembered him from the streets of Macau, hauling Seichan into the Cadillac.

“Ju-long Delgado,” Guan-yin said as she stepped beside him.

Gray stared again at the dead men, recognizing Seichan’s handiwork.

“I think we have a problem,” he said, picturing the hundred-acre prison. “Your daughter escaped.”

To make matters worse, sirens suddenly sounded all around the camp, blaring loudly, accompanied by a loudspeaker barking orders.

Gray turned to Guan-yin.

They’d been discovered.

Seichan lay in filth, despairing as the sirens erupted all around.

Earlier, she had crawled under one of the raised barracks to hide. The prison had been built in the swampy marshlands bordering the Taedong River, which regularly flooded its banks, requiring this stilt construction.

Unfortunately, that was as far as the planning went to keep the prisoners comfortable. There was no heat, little ventilation, and from the stink of ammonia and other rank smells, toilet facilities must be lacking above, too.

As she lay there for the past half hour, she listened to the muffled stir of humanity packed above: whispers, sobs, angrier outbursts, even the soft words of a mother comforting a child. Entire families were imprisoned here, condemned for reeducation, but mostly used as slave labor.

Anger burned through her. It was the only thing that kept her warm as the night had turned ever colder. She had chosen this spot so she would have a clear view of the main gate, hoping for some sign of Gray.

Moments ago, she had watched a dark green transport truck roll through the fence flanked by uniformed guards on motorcycles. They were bringing in reinforcements. Worse still, as the truck trundled into camp, it stopped in the shadow of the interrogation center with a wheeze of its brakes.

She cursed her luck.

Shortly after that, the sirens blew. She pictured the new arrivals discovering Pak and Ju-long locked in the torture chamber. Her escape was now known.

As the alarms continued to ring out, spotlights flared all along the fencing. The entire camp was being roused to find her.

She clutched her pistol, wondering where she could hide. She considered mixing with the general population, but surely someone would talk, point a finger at her in order to gain a small favor from the guards.

She began to sidle backward, away from the main gates, away from the brighter lights. Shadows were still her best defense.

Glancing toward the heart of the prison, she spotted the heavy tracks of a tank grinding through the muck. It was crossing from the depths of the camp toward the main gate, intending to close off any hope of escape that way.

She ran low for the next row of barracks and the shadows it afforded.

Moments ago, she had prayed for Gray to come.

Now she hoped he would stay far away.

Gray ran with Guan-yin back toward the entrance to the interrogation building. Zhuang rushed ahead of them, leading the way.

“Someone must have talked back at the hotel,” Gray said.

“Or someone saw through our ruse here,” Guan-yin offered. From her stern expression, she plainly refused to believe any of her captured men at the hotel would break so soon.

Reaching the door, Zhuang looked out and waved them to his side. Looking past the swordsman’s shoulder, Gray saw the dark camp now blazing with lights. Off to the right, the North Korean guards at the gate milled around in momentary confusion. No one seemed to be paying attention to their truck or the fake guards around it.

“Our cover remains intact,” Gray said, relieved. “Still, one of your men must have let them know this was our target.”

“But not the exact details of our plan,” Guan-yin countered, defending the man who was likely being severely tortured.

“At least not yet. Still, that leaves us a small window to take advantage of the element of surprise.” Gray eyed the confusion at the prison entrance, knowing it wouldn’t last. “We need to gain control of that main gate now.”

Guan-yin understood. “And hold it long enough until my daughter can be found.”

Gray nodded. Once they acted, all hell would break loose. But they had no choice. The time for stealth was over.

He turned to Guan-yin and her lieutenant. “I need you both to rally your crew — then attack and hold that gate. The firefight should draw all eyes to you, allowing for a small team to make a fast canvass of the remainder of the camp.”

In agreement, Zhuang silently slid his sword from the scabbard over his back.

Gray pointed to the motorcycles.

“I’ll take Kowalski and two of the bikes. We’ll split up and cover as much ground as we can. Seichan is surely watching what’s happening. Hopefully, she’ll recognize our faces if we can get close enough.”

Guan-yin consulted briefly with Zhuang, who then ran out to ready his strike team. She turned back to Gray and gripped his forearm.

“Find my daughter.”

“I will,” he promised.

Or die trying.

Seichan rolled out from under another barrack and straightened. She’d made it a third of the way across the camp, moving row by row, sticking to shadows, which grew thicker the farther she got away from the fences.

As she turned, ready to bolt for the next barrack, a huge explosion rocked the camp. She twisted around to see a column of black smoke curl through the flare of spotlights off by the main gate.

What the hell…?

A rattle of distant gunfire reached her.

Could that be Gray?

Cursing him for a fool while undeniably relieved, she headed along the length of the barracks. She wanted to reach the end of the row, which offered a clear view back toward the gate.

Lights suddenly flared behind her. With the sirens blaring and her focus elsewhere, she had failed to register the threat until too late. A North Korean jeep raced around the corner of the last barrack, spearing her with its headlamps. Behind the vehicle trotted twin lines of soldiers.

Momentarily frozen in the light, she realized she was holding her pistol in plain sight.

A prisoner with a gun.

Gray rode alongside Kowalski. Their two bikes raced away from the firefight at the gate and headed for the deeper camp.

Through his rearview mirror, Gray had watched the mortar blast take out the inner gate. Black smoke clouded the view as Guan-yin’s team ran forward to dispatch the remaining stunned troops. Zhuang’s steel blade flashed momentarily through the pall of smoke, like lightning in a thundercloud — then was gone.

Twin fiery explosions from rocket-propelled grenades took out the two guard towers that flanked the gate, turning them into blazing torches, adding to the thick smoke. Spats of additional rifle fire doused the spotlights farther along the fencing to either side, sinking the lower gate into deeper darkness.

As gunfire continued to rattle behind them, Gray waved his arm, signaling for Kowalski to split off. The big man was going to canvass the acres of barracks to the right, Gray to the left.

As his partner took off, Gray hunched over his bike and angled into the shadowy depths of the rows of barracks. He knew the attack at the gate had succeeded only because of the element of surprise. Once the camp fully rallied, their small force could not hold that spot for long.

He searched the dark rows to either side, sensing the press of time.

Where are you, Seichan?

Seichan leaped headlong toward the cover of the closest barrack, taking advantage of the momentary shock of the North Korean troops. She twisted in midair and aimed her pistol back at the jeep. She squeezed the trigger over and over again, taking out one headlamp and driving the troops to cover.

As she hit the ground, momentum rolled her between the stilts of the closest barrack and into darkness. Gunfire peppered the dirt behind her.

She kept going, spinning under the planks and through the muck to the other side. Without pausing, she dove for the next row, rolling again under the barrack.

All the while, she tracked the troops. The jeep sped past her original position, fishtailing around the end of the row, intending to circle around and trap her. Closer at hand, the twin rows of soldiers split apart, running between the barracks, flanking wide to prevent her escape.

Her flight had bought her only a minute or two of freedom at best. The wave of soldiers would eventually overwhelm her. And with only one bullet left in her pistol, she could never fight her way to freedom.

She needed another way.

Over the rumble of his motorcycle, Gray heard gunfire erupt to his left, along with shouts and hollered orders. He headed for the commotion, hoping for the best.

As he raced between a narrow squeeze of barracks, a figure popped into view ahead of him, wearing a muddy set of prison garb. It took him an extra breath to recognize Seichan.

Thank God…

Relief flooded through him, along with something deeper that warmed his heart.

She lifted her arm toward him, as if beckoning him to her side.

Only then did he see the pistol in her hand.

She centered her aim and fired.

Seichan needed that motorcycle.

A second ago, she had heard the throaty whine of its engine and headed toward it, knowing it could be her only means of escape. With one bullet left in her pistol, she dared not fail. As she stepped into the open, she aimed for a center-mass shot and pulled the trigger.

The rider flew backward with the impact, spinning off the bike.

The motorcycle twisted and crashed into the side of a barrack. Tossing her pistol aside, she sprinted to the bike. She hauled it off the ground, mounted it, and kicked the stalled engine into roaring glory. With a goose of power, she spun the bike around.

The rider rose to an elbow and reached for his assault rifle.

I could use that, too, she realized.

She gunned forward, leaning her arm out, ready to scoop the weapon off the ground.

The rider lifted his pained face toward her.

She gasped with recognition, blinded to everything but those storm-blue eyes.

Gray…

She braked hard as she reached him, skidding sideways.

He stood, with a hand pressed to his bloody shoulder. “You really have to stop shooting me,” he mumbled, retrieving the rifle with his good arm. “A simple hello will do next time.”

She pulled him to her and kissed his lips.

“Okay, that’s a little better… but we’ll have to practice it some more.”

She heard the growl of the jeep stalking along a neighboring row.

Shouts closed in behind her.

“Hop on!” she urged.

Despite the pain, Gray quickly swung a leg over. He circled her waist with one arm, while firing behind her with the other.

In the rearview mirror, she watched soldiers scatter out of view.

“Go!” he said.

She gunned the engine, and the bike took off like a jackrabbit.

Gray tightened his arm around her.

She didn’t know if they would make it to freedom, but she knew one thing for sure. She never wanted him to let go.

Gray’s shoulder burned with each bump. Blood flowed in hot streams across his chest. If he hadn’t shifted to the side at the last moment after seeing Seichan’s pistol, she would have struck him square in the chest.

He clung to her with his bad arm, twisted half around, his rifle gripped one-handed. He took potshots whenever he spotted anyone in a North Korean uniform.

Then thirty yards back, a jeep skidded into view, its one remaining headlamp shining toward them. A soldier on the passenger side was on his feet, leveling a rifle on the frame of the windshield.

Gray strafed the front of the jeep, taking out the other headlamp.

The impact swerved the vehicle, ruining the soldier’s aim. Rounds tore into the wooden stairs of a barrack to the left. Screams of panic echoed from inside.

“Veer right!” he hollered to Seichan.

She juked the bike in that direction, so fast that he almost lost his grip on her. With his thighs clenched to the seat, he leaned out and returned fire, concentrating on the jeep’s right front tire, unloading a full spray, tearing apart the rubber.

“Left!” he yelled.

The bike swung to the other side, as rounds blasted past his ear. Aiming at the left front tire, he fired another burst, shredding it to black confetti.

The trajectory of the jeep, already shaky after losing the first tire, became unruly as the rims drilled into the mud, miring the front end.

As the jeep slowed to a crawl behind them, Seichan sped away, aiming for the gates a hundred yards ahead. Gray kept his rifle pointed back, plinking a few shots to discourage any retaliation.

Suddenly Seichan hit the brakes hard, nosing the bike up on one wheel.

Gray swung around in time to see a tank burst into view ahead of them, treads churning mud in a fast turn toward the prison entrance. It was a forty-ton Chonma-ho battle tank. The behemoth filled the road ahead of them, trundling between a row of barracks and a line of cement-block administration buildings.

The monster ignored them or maybe assumed they were allies. Either way, its long 115 mm gun was pointed toward the gate, ready to put an end to their brief insurgency.

“Get around it!” Gray yelled in Seichan’s ear.

Their only hope of escape was to outrace that beast of steel and fire, to reach that main gate ahead of the tank and get everyone moving.

Seichan bent low over the bike’s handles and took the first left turn into the narrow space between the barracks. With a scream of the engine, she slipped past the first barrack and skidded into the smaller lane that paralleled the main road. Opening the throttle, they flew down this new track.

Gray stared to the right as barracks flashed past, catching glimpses of the tank churning up the neighboring road.

We’ll never make it.

Even if the tank didn’t fire its big gun, they would be hard-pressed to clear the gate ahead of that trundling Goliath.

That is, until David appeared.

A smaller shape shot out of the smoke by the gate and raced toward the tank. It was Kowalski on his bike. Gray had radioed his partner earlier to pull back after he found Seichan. The big man must have reached the gates ahead of them — and plainly had his own solution to the problem of the battle tank.

Letting go of his motorcycle’s handlebars, Kowalski lifted his RPG-29 launcher to his shoulder and fired. The rocket flew the remaining distance and struck the tank head-on.

The explosion sounded like the earth cracking, accompanied by fire, smoke, and a rain of scorched steel.

Kowalski lost control of his bike, dropped it on its side, and skidded toward the burning tank, which continued to roll forward on its own, about to crush him.

Pushing the bike harder, Seichan got ahead of the slowing tank, turned at the next barrack, and swept to the main road. She plainly meant to go to Kowalski’s aid, but as their bike shot through a wall of smoke, they found the big man already on his feet, sprinting for the gate.

The guy was indestructible.

A glance back showed the front of the tank, blast charred and smoking. It was no longer a threat, but they were far from safe.

They reached the gates only slightly ahead of Kowalski.

He huffed and puffed, pointing to Gray, then to Seichan, catching his breath. “Next time… don’t be so goddamned late.”

The rest of the strike team prepped to leave, ready to scramble.

And for good reason.

Out across the prison, the headlights of jeeps and armored personnel carriers converged toward them.

“Time to go,” Gray said, staying seated on the bike with Seichan.

One of the Triad members rolled a new motorcycle up to Kowalski and patted his broad shoulder in appreciation.

From here, the plan was for the truck to make a run for Pyongyang, where the vehicle would be ditched and the team would scatter into the city, reaching various prestaged safe houses where new Chinese papers would get them back across the border.

Gray and company would be going a different route on the bikes, away from Pyongyang.

But they wouldn’t be going alone.

Guan-yin limped forward, favoring her right leg. Zhuang had an arm around her waist, his sword in the other.

Seichan tensed upon seeing her mother, but now was not the time for a happy family reunion. A resurgence of gunfire made this plain. Still, daughter and mother shared a glance through the smoke, awkward and uncomfortable, obviously needing time to process it all.

Even before the pair could reach them, a bike was brought before the Triad’s leaders. Zhuang slipped his sword into the sheath across his back and took the front. Guan-yin climbed behind him, never taking her eyes off Seichan.

The remaining members of the strike team gathered back at the truck.

With a final shout, the heavy vehicle trundled through the blasted gates, drawing the three bikes in its wake. Once beyond the prison, the group quickly picked up speed. A quarter mile later, a small river road branched off from the main highway.

Seichan swung the bike onto it, followed by the other two.

As the truck continued on toward Pyongyang, the three motorcycles swept through the marshlands bordering the Taedong River. Lit by bright stars and the blaze of a comet, the river flowed all the way to the Yellow Sea, only thirty miles away.

As they sped along, Gray noted Seichan glancing frequently into the rearview mirror. He knew she was studying her mother, but Seichan never slowed, keeping her bike ahead of the others, as if being chased by a ghost through the marshes.

And maybe she was.

The ghost of her mother… an apparition now given flesh and form.

But any reconciliation of past and present must come later.

Gray kept his gaze ahead, knowing what they still faced, and it was no simple task. Though they had escaped the prison… they still had to escape North Korea.

12

“I want to test something,” Jada said.

For the first time, she wondered if this side excursion to this desolate landscape of blowing sand and landlocked rusted ships might be of value. Normally history held little interest for her, especially all this talk of Attila the Hun and the relics of Genghis Khan. But this mention of an ancient cross carved out of meteoric metal—that piqued her interest.

“According to everything you’ve told us,” she said, waving a hand to Father Josip, “the cross is the key to averting a disaster that is supposed to occur on the date inscribed on the skull.”

He nodded, glancing at a faded celestial calendar on the wall. It looked like it might have come from the time of Copernicus, with stylized constellations and astronomical notations.

“Roughly three days from now,” he confirmed.

“Right.” She glanced to Monk. “And we have confirmation from another source that also suggests a disaster on that date. One connected to the comet in the sky.”

Vigor and Rachel turned to Monk, clearly wanting to know what that confirmation was, but he simply crossed his arms.

The monsignor sighed, obviously irked at the secrecy. “Go on,” he encouraged her. “You said you might know how this cross could save the world.”

“Only a conjecture,” she warned. “But first I want to try something.”

She turned to Duncan.

All other eyes swung toward him too. He straightened from a slouch, his expression wary with surprise and confusion. “What?”

“Could you please unwrap the skull and the book?” she asked. “Place them on the table.”

She waited until he had done so, noting the distaste in his pinched lips as he handled the relics.

“You still feel an energy signature emanating from the objects, yes?”

“It’s there.” He rubbed his fingertips on his pants, as if trying to remove the sensation.

She faced the two priests. “If Genghis found this cross in Attila’s tomb, might he have carried it on his person? Kept it as some talisman on his body.”

Vigor shrugged. “After he read Ildiko’s account of its importance, I think that’s highly likely.”

“Genghis would consider it his duty,” Josip agreed, “to protect it during his life.”

“And maybe afterward,” Vigor added, motioning to the skull and book. He eyed her more closely. “Are you suggesting the cross somehow contaminated his bodily tissues, as if it were radioactive?”

“I don’t think it’s radioactive,” she said, though her hands itched to confirm that by examining the skull with the instruments she had left aboard the helicopter. “But I think the cross was giving off some sort of energy that left its trace on his body, altering his tissues perhaps at the quantum level.”

“What sort of energy would do that?” Rachel asked.

“Dark energy,” she said, happy to turn the discourse from history to science. “An energy tied to the birth of our universe. And although it makes up seventy percent of all energy left after the Big Bang, we still don’t know what it is, where it comes from, only that it’s a fundamental property of existence. It explains why the universe is expanding at an accelerating pace versus slowing down.”

Vigor lifted an eyebrow. “And you think the cross carries this energy? What, like a battery?”

“Very crudely put, but yes. Possibly. I can’t know for sure without examining it. But such matters are my field of expertise. My theoretical calculations suggest dark energy is the result of virtual particles annihilating one another in the quantum foam that fills all space and time in the universe.”

She read their blank expressions and simplified it. “It is the very fabric of space-time. Dark energy is the driving force behind quantum mechanics, an energy tied to all the fundamental forces in the universe. Electromagnetic, weak and strong nuclear forces, anything that causes an attraction between objects.”

“Like gravity?” Duncan asked.

She touched his shoulder, silently thanking him. “Exactly. Dark energy and gravity are intimately entwined concepts.”

Rachel frowned at Monk, then turned to Jada. With the mind of a true investigator, she went straight for the secret being kept from them. “Again,” she pressed, “not to belabor the point, why do you believe this cross might be giving off dark energy?”

“Because the comet in the sky is doing exactly that.”

As everyone stirred at her answer, Jada glanced at Monk, knowing she had crossed a line. But she thought Rachel deserved an answer. The woman had an analytical mind that she was growing to respect. It was foolish to keep her in the dark.

Monk returned a small shrug, giving Jada some leeway.

She took it and explained. “Or at least the comet’s path was showing tiny gravitational abnormalities in its course that exactly matched my theoretical calculations.”

“And the cross?” Josip asked.

“From your story, you said the cross was sculpted from a falling star. A meteorite.” She pictured the rain of meteors from the video footage in Alaska. “I wonder if that meteorite could have been a piece of that comet, a fragment that fell to the earth when it last passed.”

Rachel considered that possibility, then asked, “When did this comet make its last appearance?”

“Approximately twenty-eight hundred years ago.”

“So about 800 BC.” Rachel turned to Josip. “Does that correlate with anything you’ve learned about the cross?”

He rubbed the scruff on his chin, looking crestfallen. “Ildiko only says the cross came from a star that fell long before St. Thomas arrived in the East.”

That was disappointing. It would have been nice to have definitive confirmation.

Then Josip suddenly sat straighter. “Wait!” He reached and stirred through the parchments left by Ildiko. “Look here!”

As Josip shifted a page to the center of the table, Vigor stood up to get a better view.

His friend tapped an image found in the middle of the parchment.

“According to Ildiko, these three symbols were carved into the boxes holding the skull and the cross.”

Vigor adjusted his reading glasses. Very faintly inscribed, he could make out what appeared to be Chinese writing: a set of three symbols with Latin written below them.

Vigor leaned closer to examine the images and read the Latin aloud. “The first symbol is labeled as two trees.” It did, in fact, look like a pair of trees. “The next is command. And the last, forbidden.”

Josip touched the last character. “Notice how the first two symbols combine to form this third one. The one meaning forbidden.”

Vigor saw that, but he didn’t understand the significance.

“Read this,” Josip said. “Read what Ildiko wrote under the symbols.”

Those lines were even fainter, but he recognized two Latin verses from the Old Testament, both from the book of Genesis.

He translated the first one aloud. “ ‘And the Lord God commanded man, saying, Of every tree of the garden thou may freely eat. But of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die.’ ”

Vigor read the next line. Similarly, it was a condemnation against eating from another tree — in this second case, the Tree of Life found in the Garden of Eden. “ ‘Behold, man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live forever…’ ”

Before he could finish, Josip pulled the page back possessively. “The earliest Chinese writing used pictures to represent words or ideas, and it often combined simple symbols to form more complex concepts.”

Vigor glanced over to what Ildiko wrote. “But this seems to imply that the early Chinese knew about the book of Genesis. About the story of two trees that God commanded were forbidden to man.”

“I have other examples of the same.” Josip stood up, rushed to a neighboring desk, and began shifting through the stacks there.

Vigor studied the pages left on the table, wondering at the implication. Could the ancient Chinese have had knowledge of the events described in the book of Genesis? Was this confirmation of these biblical stories? The Chinese language was the oldest continuously written language, going back four millennia or so.

Josip returned. “I only found two, but I have many more examples.”

He placed down his first sheet.

The Chinese symbol for man combined with the character for fruit became the sign for naked. Even Vigor could guess the reference illustrated here.

From Genesis 3:6–7.

He quoted it aloud. “ ‘… she took of its fruit and ate, and she also gave some to her husband who was with her, and he ate. Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked.’ ”

Josip nodded vigorously and slid this page aside and replaced it with another. “And here is one more.”

His friend ran a finger along the illustration. “Here we have early Chinese symbols for alive, dust, and another variant of man. And together they form the character for first.” He looked expectantly toward Vigor.

“From Genesis again,” Vigor said. “A reference to Adam, the first living man God created.”

“Out of dust,” Josip added, tapping the corresponding symbol. “I can show you more.”

He looked ready to do so, the obsession shining in his eyes, but Vigor held up a hand, keeping him on task. “I don’t know if we’re reading too much into this or not, but what does this have to do with Dr. Shaw’s earlier question? About the date that meteorite fell, the one that became St. Thomas’s cross?”

“Ah,” he nodded. “Sorry. You see, the reliquaries of St. Thomas — the boxes, the skull, the cross — were crafted by Nestorian priests out of the East. They were the ones who inscribed those symbols on the boxes.”

“Nestorian?” Jada asked. “I’m not all that familiar with ancient Christian sects.”

Vigor smiled at her. “Nestorianism started in the early fifth century, shortly before the rise of Attila the Hun. It was founded by Nestorius, the patriarch at the time of Constantinople. He created a division in the Church by expressing a simple view that the human and divine persons of Christ were separate. Such a thought was deemed heretical, leading to a schism in the Church. Not that the details are important. But the Nestorian Church spread east after that. Persia, India, Central Asia, even as far as China by the seventh century.”

“Which brings me to my point,” Josip said. “I think the Chinese inscriptions on the reliquary by the Nestorian priests served multiple purposes.”

Vigor eyed him, waiting for him to continue. He seemed momentarily lost, staring off into space for several breaths.

Then Josip resumed as if there had been no pause. He counted off on his fingers. “First, I believe they were confirming that St. Thomas did indeed reach China. Second, I think it’s plain they were trying to imply that the Chinese writing they discovered out in the Far East held some clues to the veracity of the Old Testament, a truth buried in their ancient script. And third, I think they were sharing some hint as to the extreme age of the cross.”

He looked significantly at Jada.

“How so?” she asked.

“Because they paired the cross with a reference to the book of Genesis. I think these Nestorian priests had heard stories of this falling star from the Chinese. They were told about how this meteorite fell in ancient times. And this was their way of venerating the cross’s ancient origin.”

Jada’s lips thinned in thought. “Still, it doesn’t confirm a date that coincides with the last appearance of the comet. I accept that these Nestorian priests believed it was old. Biblically old. But all this is based on conjecture. Until I can examine the cross, I can’t substantiate its connection to the comet.”

Vigor nodded. “Which leaves us with the big question: Where is this cross now?”

Duncan listened to the discussions with half an ear. Instead, as the others talked, he fiddled with the relics sitting on the table. Like picking at a scab, he couldn’t stop testing the strange electrical field emanating from the objects.

“The cross must be in Genghis Khan’s tomb,” Josip insisted. “If we find his tomb, we’ll find the cross.”

“You’re probably right,” the monsignor agreed. “If his bones and bits of his body were laid down like bread crumbs, they were most likely meant to lead to his tomb.”

Duncan ran his hands over the dome of the old skull, his fingertips registering the slippery field. Goose bumps rose along his arms as he considered Jada’s belief that this was dark energy. Since he had a background in physics and electrical engineering, he had viewed Jada’s calculations that had been included in the mission dossier supplied to him. They’d been as elegant and as sexy as the woman who crafted them.

With a chill, he moved the skull aside and shifted his hands to the book.

Vigor paced around the table. “And that’s what you’ve been looking for, Josip. All these years.”

“After finding the relics, I wasn’t in the best state of mind. Shame, fear, paranoia sent me in a spiral. I needed somewhere quiet to think, to find my bearings.”

Duncan didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to sense the priest suffered from some form of chronic mental illness. He was a sack of emotional tics.

“And after dropping off the earth, it was easier to stay here,” he explained. “So I could work in peace. This became my self-imposed exile, my monastery where I could be in seclusion.”

“If you wanted to be alone,” Monk said, “you picked a helluva good spot for it. This is as close to the middle of nowhere as you can get.”

“It wasn’t just the isolation that drew me to the Aral Sea. Maybe at first, but later I realized somewhere in the back of my fevered brain, something was making connections that didn’t fully reach my consciousness until later. Like many times in the past, I’ve found the manic phases of my disease are not without their benefits.”

Ah, he’s bipolar, Duncan realized. He should have picked up on the signs. He had a college friend with the same condition. Not an easy cross to bear.

“What connections did you make?” Vigor asked.

Josip motioned to the relics. “Here we have Genghis’s skull. And from the eye on the gospel’s cover, we know it was bound from the skin of his face and head.”

Reminded of what his fingertips were hovering over, Duncan inwardly cringed. Still, macabre curiosity drew him closer, searching for that eye.

The priest continued, “In other words, the relics came from the neck up on Genghis Khan.”

Vigor mumbled, “You’re right. I didn’t even make that correlation.”

“Sometimes a little bit of madness is a good thing. In my manic phase, I ended up here. Only later did I realize why. That I was supposed to be here.”

“Why?” Vigor pressed.

“I think there are more relics. Not just these two.”

“Like more bread crumbs,” Rachel said.

“In Hungary, Genghis’s son left the relics from his father’s head, marking the westernmost reach of his son’s empire, an empire he had inherited from his father. But why just those objects there? It didn’t feel right. Over time, I came to a different theory, one I think is right. I believe Genghis had instructed his son to turn the entire known world into his grave, to spread his spiritual reach from one end of the Mongol Empire to the other.”

“That sounds like Genghis,” Vigor agreed. “So he had his head set at one end…”

“In Hungary, in the tomb of Attila,” Josip said with a nod. “But where next?”

“Here?” Jada asked.

The priest nodded. “The region around the Aral Sea was the westernmost reach of the Mongol Empire during Genghis’s reign. A place of significance. So it seemed a natural place to begin searching.”

Vigor turned, looking around the chamber. “You’ve been exploring for these lost relics all this time?”

“It’s a huge expanse. And the terrain was drastically altered after the seas dried up.” Josip stepped away and returned with a chart that he unfurled across the tabletop. “This is a map of how the Aral Sea once looked.”

Duncan shifted straighter and stared at the huge body of water — then returned his attention to the book, noting something odd.

“The Aral Sea means Sea of Islands,” the priest explained. “At one time, there were over fifteen hundred islands dotting the water. I assumed Genghis’s next relic would have been on one of them.”

“So you’ve been searching one by one?” Vigor asked.

“With help.” Josip nodded to Sanjar.

“And how have you paid for all this?” Monk asked.

It was a good question.

The priest looked down at his toes. Plainly it wasn’t a question he wanted to answer.

He was saved by the monsignor, who had figured it out. “You mentioned the Hungarian bishop had found a calling card left behind at Attila’s tomb, one with the name Genghis Khan written on it. A gold wrist cuff with images of a phoenix and demons.”

Josip slumped in on himself. “I sold it. To a buyer in Mongolia. Someone with a great deal of wealth who bought it for his personal collection. At the very least, I know that piece of history will be preserved.”

Rachel frowned deeply. Her work with the Italian police dealt specifically with the black market sale of antiquities. “Whom did you sell it to?”

The priest balked at answering.

Vigor didn’t press him. “Right now it doesn’t matter.”

Still, Josip explained, “Please, do not hold this buyer at fault. It was my choice to sell it, and he only bought it to preserve his own country’s history.”

Monk returned the discussion back to the problem at hand. “If you’re right that the next bread crumb is here, I don’t see us discovering it in time to do any good. It’ll be like trying to find a needle in a very dry haystack.”

“I waited too long,” Josip conceded.

“Then maybe we should just continue on to Mongolia,” Jada said, sounding not overly displeased at the prospect.

As the banter waned toward defeat, Duncan ran his hands over the surface of the book one more time, just to be sure, before speaking.

Satisfied, he hovered a finger over a spot on the surface. “Monsignor Verona… I mean Vigor… is this the location of the eye you mentioned?”

Vigor stepped closer and looked over his shoulder. “It is indeed. I know it’s hard to see. I only found it myself with the aid of a magnifying loupe.”

Duncan ran his fingertip over the book, tracing the surface of the energy field. As he reached the spot near the eye, his finger raised up, then down again after he passed it. “I don’t know if this is significant, but the energy is stronger over the eye. I can feel the upwelling of its field. It’s very distinct.”

Vigor crinkled his brow. “Why would that be?”

Jada moved to his other shoulder, bringing with her a waft of apple blossoms. “Duncan, you said the skull had a significantly stronger field than the skin. Which I assumed was a reflection of mass. More mass, more energy.”

Duncan nodded, loving when she talked science. “That must mean this spot on the cover has more mass than the rest of the surface.”

Vigor frowned. “What are you both saying?”

Duncan turned to the monsignor. “There’s something else hidden under this eye.”

Father Josip gasped. “I never thought to look. I had the book X-rayed, but nothing abnormal showed up.”

Jada shrugged. “If it’s soft tissue, like the skin, it could easily have been missed by X-rays.”

Monk pointed. “We have to open that eye.”

Vigor turned to Father Josip.

“I’ll get my tools,” he said and dashed off.

Vigor shook his head. “I should have considered that. The essential core message of St. Thomas’s gospel is that the path to God is open to anyone who looks. Seek and you shall find.”

“All you have to do is open your eyes,” Rachel added.

Josip ran back with a pointed X-Acto knife, tweezers, and forceps, ready to do some ophthalmological surgery.

Duncan moved aside to make room for Vigor and Josip. The two archaeologists set to work snipping tiny cords that bound the eye closed ages ago. The lids were too dried to peel open, so with great care they excised a circle around the eye and teased the leather up and to the side.

Awe filled Vigor’s voice. “Get me a—”

Josip passed him a magnifying lens.

“Thank you.”

The monsignor leaned closer to the hole they’d created in the cover. “I see what appears to be the desiccated remains of papillae on the surface. I think the hidden tissue is a thin slice of mummified tongue.”

“Oh, great,” Jada groaned, moving back. It seemed there were limits to her scientific curiosity.

“They tattooed the surface,” Josip commented. “Come see.”

Duncan leaned closer, while Vigor held the lens. On the surface of the leathery tissue was a distinct picture inked in black.

“It’s a map,” Duncan realized aloud, recognizing the resemblance to Josip’s earlier chart. “A map of the Aral Sea.”

Rachel looked no happier than Jada. “Preserved on his tongue?”

Josip glanced at her, feverish excitement shining from his face. “Genghis is telling us where to go.”

Vigor confirmed this. “One of the islands is tattooed in red with the word equus inked beneath it. Latin for horse.”

“Horses were extremely prized by the Mongols,” Josip said. “They were literally the life’s blood of their riders. Warriors would often drink their mounts’ blood while on long journeys or ferment mare’s milk to produce araq, a potent alcoholic drink. Without horses—”

A noise at the door drew all their attentions around.

Josip visibly tensed, but when the tall figure bowed into the room, he relaxed, breaking into a broad smile of greeting. “You’re back! And what timing. We have fantastic news!”

The priest hurried over and hugged the young man, who could be Sanjar’s brother, what with his similar taste in sheepskin and loose pants. Only this one must have left his falcon at home.

Josip led the stranger back to the table. “Everyone, this is my good friend and the leader of my excavation crew.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “His name is Arslan.”

13

Batukhan stood in the middle of his gallery, wearing a thick robe and slippers. He had spent the past quarter hour pacing through his collection, something he did often when in a contemplative mood.

He had treasures from across the golden ages of Mongolia: jewelry, funerary masks, musical instruments, pottery. One wall displayed an assortment of antique bows, once carried by Mongol warriors — from short, sinuously curved weapons meant for horseback, made of sinew and horn, to the oversized triple crossbows used to capture walled cities. He had other tools of war, too, including battle-axes, scimitars, and lances.

Still, such a collection was not just for show.

He spent many hours training in the old ways with his fellow brothers of the Blue Wolf, on the steppes surrounding the city, on horseback, in traditional silk garments, overlaid with lacquer-impregnated leather and iron-crowned helmets. He, like all his men, was skilled with both light and heavy Mongol bows.

He stared across the breadth of his collection. To accommodate its growth, he had turned the upper loft of his penthouse into his personal museum. A bank of windows overlooked the brightly lit parliament square and offered a spectacular view of the stars and the shining comet in the night sky.

But at the moment, he returned his full attention to a small case holding a gold wrist piece. The cuff was hinged on one side, featuring a phoenix being beset by demons. He had purchased the exquisite work from Father Josip Tarasco, back when Batukhan had considered the priest nothing more than a trafficker in antiquities, a crackpot in the desert.

In the end, the man had proved much more than he seemed.

Still, like the rest of his collection, the gold cuff was not just for show. He sometimes wore it proudly when among his brothers, knowing it had once adorned the wrist of Genghis himself.

For that privilege, Batukhan had paid dearly for the golden relic — only to have that money squandered by the priest, turned into hundreds of holes in sand and salt.

What a waste.

At last, the phone in his pocket chimed. He removed it and spoke, not bothering with greetings.

“Have you reached Father Josip? Are the Italians there?”

The caller was accustomed to his brusque manner and responded just as tersely. He pictured the young man huddled out of sight with his satellite phone. “They are here, along with a trio of Americans.”

“More archaeologists?”

“I don’t believe so. They look military, at least the men.”

“Is that going to be a problem?”

“No, I have my crew taking them into consideration. We’re almost set. But I wanted you to know that Father Josip believes he has a lead on a significant clue that could point to the great khan’s tomb. They are all very excited and determined to set out this night to investigate.”

A significant clue…

Batukhan stared across the breadth of his museum. It was a pale mirror of the true wealth and wonders that might be found in Genghis’s lost tomb.

“Discover what that clue is,” Batukhan decided. “And let them go search. If anything is discovered, make sure you secure it. After that — or if they don’t find anything — proceed as planned. Bury them all under that rusted ship.”

“It will be done.”

Batukhan did not doubt it.

Arslan had never failed him.

14

Gray raced along the river road with his bike’s headlamp off, trailed by the other two motorcycles, running equally dark. Tall marsh grasses and stands of willow trees further hid their race from Pyongyang to the Yellow Sea to the west. With the moon down and only starlight and the glow of the comet to light their way, their progress was agonizingly slow.

It didn’t help matters that his shoulder burned. Half an hour ago, Seichan had halted their flight for a brief pit stop, removing the med kit from the bike’s pack. As the others guarded from a distance ahead and behind, she had cleaned his wound, bandaged his shoulder, and popped him with an injectible analgesic and antibiotic.

It was the least she could do since she had shot him.

Luckily the bullet wound was only a deep graze. With the pain meds dulling the worst of the fire, he took the last shift on the bike, wanting to keep his arm from stiffening up in the cold. He didn’t know what they would face once they reached the coast.

To their left, the expanse of the Taedong River reflected the starlight, winding from its source high in the mountains to the north, through its capital city, until it drained into the sea. They did their best to avoid the few industrial plants along the way, sticking to the smaller roads.

The city of Nampho glowed in the distance, marking the mouth of the river basin. Gray used that marker to gain his bearings. A rutted track, an agricultural road, split off and headed away from the river.

He slowed to check the GPS reader on his wrist. Though the distance from Pyongyang to the coast was only thirty miles as a crow flies — on a motorcycle in the dark, winding through mud or gravel tracks, it seemed ten times that.

Still, they were close to the end, but they dared not miss their midnight rendezvous at the beach. Their window of opportunity was very narrow. They would only have this one chance.

Gray pointed down the side road, wincing with the motion, and called to the others. “This is it! Should take us straight to the sea.”

With a growl of his engine, he turned his bike and headed in that direction. It was less a road than a series of potholes and boulders strung together. They set off, moving as swiftly as possible. Gray found firmer terrain by running his motorcycle along the very edge of the road, where it wasn’t as churned by tractors and other agricultural equipment.

The fields around them were fallow with the start of the winter season, rolling away in frost-crusted furrows. Closer at hand, tangles of barbed-wire fencing ran to either side.

Gray felt exposed out in the open like this.

Even the rumble of their motorcycles seemed to grow louder, echoing over the empty farmlands. But they only had a couple of miles or so to go.

Then a new noise intruded, an ominous thump-thumping.

Gray slowed enough to crane around, searching the skies.

Seichan clutched his good shoulder and pointed to the southeast. A dark shadow swept low over the barren fields, slightly silhouetted against the glow of Nampho.

A helicopter, running without lights.

It wouldn’t be doing so unless it had already acquired its target. It flew in the dark, attempting to close as much distance on them as possible before being detected.

From this, Gray knew they had been found.

Someone in Pyongyang must have given up this escape route, or maybe some rural farmer reported the passage of the three dark motorcycles in the night. Either way, there was no hiding from here.

Knowing the helicopter was likely equipped with night-vision equipment anyway, Gray stabbed on his headlamp to better illuminate the road. They needed as much speed as possible from here.

“Keep with me!” he yelled to the others, gunning his engine.

Lights flared behind him, coming from the other bikes.

Off to the southeast, the sky ignited with the chopper’s navigation lights. A spotlight beamed down upon the farmlands, sweeping toward them.

Gray raced his motorcycle along the edge of the rutted road. Kowalski took the other side, trailed close by Zhuang and Guan-yin. They had no means to take out the helicopter. Back at the prison, they had used up all their rockets. Any additional heavy equipment had gone with the truck, a defensive necessity. The vehicle was meant to be the larger target, intended to lure the hunt away from the bikes.

Seated behind him, Seichan swung around and raised her assault rifle. Clinging to the bike with her thighs, she aimed across the field and fired a short burst.

The chopper’s course wobbled, but only from surprise.

Still, the distraction allowed them to stretch their lead.

Kowalski pointed to the right, toward a large farmstead. Pinned between the rows of barbed wire, their bikes had no room to maneuver, no way to avoid the coming onslaught. Their best recourse was to reach open country.

Gray agreed. “Go!”

The three bikes cut into the farm. Trundling over a cattle guard, they entered a wide gravel expanse. Rows of milking barns lined one side. On the other, a series of bunkhouses and mechanics shops. Corrals and fields spread out from here. It looked like a major operation.

House lights clicked on, illuminating faces at several windows, likely drawn by the noise. But upon seeing what was coming, they quickly ducked away and pulled their shades.

In his rearview mirror, Gray spotted the lights of the attack helicopter. The chopper dove toward them. It would be on top of them in the next few seconds.

“This way!” he yelled and swerved his bike to the left.

He raced for the open doors to one of the milking barns. They needed cover. Emphasizing this necessity, the rattling roar of a chain-gun erupted, ripping toward them. The pilot must have recognized that his prey was trying to dive into a hole.

Seichan fired back at them, and so did Guan-yin from the back of Zhuang’s bike. Mother and daughter faced the coming barrage without flinching, doing their best to match it, their rifles blazing on full automatic fire.

Then Gray’s bike flew through the barn doors and into its shadowy depths. To his right and left, the other two bikes followed.

The chopper brushed higher, thumping over the top of the barn, sweeping for the other side, where another set of doors stood open.

The barn was long and wide. It had a Soviet industrial feel to it, built for mass production. A long line of automatic milking machines and stations rose to the left. On the other side stretched a long line of pens, each holding four or five cows, their large eyes shining back at them, mooing a complaint at the intrusion.

Gray figured over a hundred head of cattle were housed inside. Beyond the far door, massive corrals flanked to either side, packed nose to tail with more cows. The smell was likely to kill them long before any gun-fire.

He doused his headlamps and slowed to a stop halfway down the length of the barn; the others followed his example. The helicopter circled overhead, thumping ominously, knowing its targets were pinned down, waiting to see which end they might run out.

Unfortunately, Gray knew they would have to make the attempt. They could not stay here. Ground forces were surely en route.

But that was the least of his worries.

He checked his watch. It was almost midnight. If they didn’t reach the coast in the next few minutes, none of this would matter.

“What’s the play here?” Kowalski asked.

Gray explained.

Kowalski went pale.

It’s not like we have much choice, Gray thought as he got everyone ready.

Using a set of binoculars, he searched beyond the empty fields of the farm. A tree line beckoned a quarter mile away. If they could get there, the coastal forest should offer them enough coverage to reach the beach and make their rendezvous.

But that meant abandoning the shelter of the milk barn.

“Let’s do this,” Gray ordered.

He and the others dismounted their bikes and swiftly went about opening the pens, starting from the middle and working their way to either end. With pats on rumps, they got the cows moving into the alleyway in the center. It didn’t take much effort as the cattle were clearly conditioned by their regular milking schedule.

With the central corridor crowded now with large milling bodies, Gray waved everyone back onto their bikes. From the middle of the barn, they kicked their engines into a roar, which got the cows moving away in either direction. To get them going faster, Seichan raised her rifle and fired a spat of rounds into the metal roof. The deafening noise did the job.

Bellowing loudly, the cows fled for both exits, bumping into one another, spreading and heightening the panic.

Gray followed the herd streaming out the back. The other two bikes did the same. They ran dark, headlamps off, tucked amid the stampeding bodies.

Caught off guard by the thundering forms bursting out both ends of the barn, the helicopter buzzed from one side to the other, plainly unsure what was happening.

Lost amid the chaos, the three bikes shot out into the night. For the moment, the helicopter hovered on the far side of the barn. But it was already heading back, its searchlight sweeping toward them.

Once in the open, Gray cut off in one direction, Zhuang the other. In tandem, barely slowing, mother and daughter hopped off the bikes and slid open the gates to the larger corrals on either side.

The panic of the neighboring stampede had already set the crowded pens to mooing, shifting nervously, and stamping their hooves. Growing alarm spread like a match in dry grass through the packed cows.

As the gates opened, the pressure inside released. The closest beasts burst free, drawn in the wake of the others. More followed, slaves to herd mentality.

In seconds, the trickling stampede became a flood.

Kowalski sat on his idling motorcycle to one side, while the women rushed back to their respective bikes. He had his rifle pointed up, steadied on his shoulder.

The thumping of the helicopter became a roar. The rotor wash and noise further panicked the animals — not to mention the blinding glare of its searchlight as it swept over the barn.

Kowalski fired from his position.

Glass exploded above and darkness returned.

The chopper, caught by surprise, shied away.

With Seichan and Guan-yin back on their bikes, the trio set off with the cattle. Staying low, lights off, they raced amid the thundering herd as it stampeded out into the open fields, away from the barns and toward the distant trees.

Gray tried his best to avoid colliding into any of his beefy companions, but the courtesy wasn’t returned. Several times, he got sideswiped or smacked with a tail, but he managed to keep them racing across the cold fields.

The other two bikes kept up.

Behind them, the helicopter still circled near the barn, baffled as to where its quarry had gone. With clear hesitation, the chopper slowly swept out into the fields. By now, the herd had spread out and ran in all directions.

Still, the helicopter refused to admit defeat. Its chain-gun rattled to roaring life as the chopper began sweeping back and forth in a deadly arc, ripping through cattle in its path.

Gray’s heart went out to the poor beasts, but considering the cruel housing, the poor conditions, the signs of neglect and abuse, maybe this was a kindness. At least the beasts had a momentary taste of freedom.

Kowalski had his own assessment as they reached the forest and slowed. He looked back at the slaughter. “Fucking assholes.”

It was a costly escape, but Gray intended not to waste it.

They fled through the shadowy coastal forest until they reached a road. Using GPS, Gray sped them to the coordinates at a breakneck clip. A minute later, they roared out of the trees and onto a wide stretch of rocky beach.

Gray searched the curving banks of the cove, as waves lapped against its flat stones. Starlight shone coldly down upon them.

It all appeared empty.

“Is this the place?” Kowalski asked.

Gray nodded, but he feared they were too late. From the storage pouch of his bike, he slipped out a flare, ignited it, and tossed it to the beach.

Green fire sparked to life, reflecting off the water.

He prayed someone would see it.

Someone did.

To the right, the North Korean helicopter burst out of the forest. Thumping loudly, it swung out over the water and sped back toward them, drawn by the sputtering flare.

Its guns chugged to life.

Then a flash of fire winked out in the darkness beyond the cove, accompanied by a furious whistling. A hellfire missile slammed into the side of the helicopter and exploded, shattering the chopper into fiery ruin.

Ducking from the deafening boom, Gray watched flaming debris rain into the forest, while the scorched bulk of the aircraft fell heavily into the sea.

Even before the blast echoed away, a small aircraft sped through the smoke and drew to a hover over the beach. It was a new design of stealth aircraft, a miniature version of a U.S. Blackhawk helicopter, with harsh angles and flat surfaces meant to confound radar.

But the fiery blast would not go unnoticed for long.

With its missile pod still smoking, the helicopter lowered to the beach and the doors opened to receive them.

Gray had arranged this extraction with Kat earlier. As planned, the stealth aircraft had taken off from a U.S. ship parked in South Korean territorial waters and flown low over the waves to the beach. Kat had warned that this was a onetime deal, requiring perfect timing. The North Koreans wouldn’t fall for it twice.

As his team clambered into the chopper, a crew member slammed the door shut behind them. The helicopter immediately turned its back on the Korean peninsula and sped away, whisking over the water, its blades whispering through the night.

Strapping in, Gray looked toward the shore, weighing all the risk and bloodshed. As he settled back, he saw Guan-yin reach from her seat toward Seichan.

For the first time in decades, a mother gently touched her fingertips to her daughter’s cheek.

Gray turned around, staring forward now.

It had been worth it.

15

As the Eurocopter lifted in a swirl of salt and sand, Rachel worried about her uncle. He was deep in conversation with Josip, their heads bent together, seated next to each other, like excited schoolboys about to head out on a field trip. But neither of them were boys.

Especially Vigor.

Though he put on a strong façade, age was beginning to crack through that veneer. She saw it as he climbed into the helicopter a moment ago, needing an extra hand, when in the past he could have vaulted inside. She had noted it in a thousand different ways before this trip, even commented upon it a couple of months ago, but he had dismissed her concerns, blaming it on the time he spent now at a desk versus out in the field. She suggested he lighten his schedule, take on fewer responsibilities at the Vatican, but that was like asking a freight train with a full head of steam to slow down.

During this trip, she had grown even more concerned. Prior to this mission, she hadn’t seen as much of her uncle as she would have liked, just the occasional family dinner or holiday. But now, spending the past twenty-four hours with him, she feared it was more than age. She had noted the dark circles under his eyes back at his university office. She now saw how he breathed heavier, how he sometimes clutched his left side. But whenever he caught her looking, he dropped his hand.

He was not telling her something.

And it terrified her, even more than the end of the world.

After her father had died in a bus crash, Vigor had filled that void. Under his care, knowing she was hurting, he had taken her by the hand and kept her moving, exploring Rome’s museums, going on outings to Florence, diving at Capri. He taught her to pursue her passion, never to settle for less as a woman. He had also instilled in her the respect for and love of history and art, where the greatest expressions of humankind were cemented in marble and granite, oil and canvas, glass and bronze.

So how could she not want to protect him? Back in Rome, fear had made her want to bottle him up, to shelter him from harm, even against his will. But as she watched him now, smiling and excited, she knew she had been wrong. She didn’t know how many years she had with him, but she recognized it was time now for her to take his hand, to be the one to offer him strength when he needed it, to keep him moving.

He had given her the world — she could never take it from him.

Knowing that, she turned her attention to the blasted landscape below. The helicopter banked away from the rusted ship and turned to the north, headed for a region even more desolate and barren. Moonlight turned the baked salt flats into an endless silver expanse, broken by boulders, the decaying hulks of other ships, and the occasional chalky hill.

She pictured the seas refilling the basin below, swamping over the flatlands until the hills became islands again. They were headed to such a spot about forty kilometers to the northeast, a lone atoll in this ocean of dry salt and dust — all based on a map inked on the tongue of a dead conqueror.

She could not help but feel some of her uncle’s excitement spark inside her. What might they find? The others looked equally enthused, even the reluctant Jada Shaw. She shared a window with Duncan, a new Sigma operative, both equally young. Their eagerness shone from their skin.

Monk caught her staring and smiled, as if to say, remember when we were so young. He now had two girls at home and a wife who loved him, and he wore his scars proudly. Even his prosthetic hand was a badge of honor.

She sank back into her seat, happy for the company around her, even the young Sanjar, who carried his falcon on his wrist, held close to his body. Its plumage was a striking silvery white, accented with stripes of black and slate gray.

He noted her attention and nodded.

“What type of bird is he?” she asked.

Sanjar’s back straightened, happy for her interest. “He is a gyrfalcon. Falco rusticolus. One of the largest falcon breeds.”

“He’s beautiful.”

He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth. “Best he not hear that. Heru is already quite full of himself.”

“But he sits so still.”

He ran a finger over the top of a tufted bonnet. “Without sight, a bird knows not to move. A hooded falcon will remain motionless, trusting his handler. In the past aristocrats used to carry them to court, to banquets, even on horseback.”

“And apparently now on helicopters.”

“We must all adjust to the modern world. But falconry goes back to the time of Genghis Khan. Mongol warriors used to hunt foxes, even sometimes wolves, with falcons.”

“Wolves? Truly? Something so large.”

He nodded. “Not just wolves. But humans, too. In fact, Genghis’s personal bodyguards were falconers.”

“Then you are keeping up a proud tradition, Sanjar, continuing to look after Genghis even today.”

“Yes, my cousin and I”—he nodded to Arslan in the next row of seats—“we are very proud of our great ancestor.”

The pilot interrupted. “Folks, we’re a minute or so out from the designated spot. Do you want me to land or circle for an aerial view?”

Vigor answered, leaning forward. “From the air, please, that might prove useful.”

They all turned their attention to the windows as the helicopter swept over the Aralkum Desert, the salt marsh glistening even brighter here. Ahead, a gloomy peak broke through the dried crust. It was steep sided and wind carved, slightly concave on the top, looking not unlike a boat riding a wave of rock.

The helicopter circled it twice, but nothing of note struck anyone.

“We’ll have to land to continue our search from here,” Josip decided.

Monk yelled forward. “Put us down! As close to that hill as you can!”

The pilot expertly maneuvered the aircraft and landed within ten yards of the leeward side of the rock. But it had clearly been a struggle.

“Wind’s kicking up out there,” the pilot warned. “Pressure front must be moving in.”

As the doors were swung open, his weather report proved true. The temperature had dropped several degrees. Even sheltered by the bulk of the hill, Rachel felt an icy wind cut through her jacket.

They all hopped out.

Salt crunched underfoot. Around them spread a strange sight. It looked like someone had spread a thick layer of french fries over the hardpan. Bending down, she realized they were geometric straws of salt, each crystal a finger wide and pointy ended. It cast a prickly, otherworldly appearance to the place.

Standing beside her, Josip ignored the geological feature and stared up at the hill. Steep cliffs faced them, though some sections had crumbled down into flows of sand and boulders.

“We should circle around it on foot first,” he suggested, as flashlights were passed out.

Vigor nodded — though he held a hand pressed to his side.

Rachel crossed to her uncle and offered him the use of her shoulder for support. “Come on, old man, you dragged me out here…”

He scowled good-naturedly and took her up on her offer. Together, they headed out across the field of ice crystals. He leaned on her for the first ten minutes, then eventually felt strong enough to continue on his own. She wanted to question him about it, but she gave him the space to come to her when he was ready.

Monk came over, likely noting the same debilitation, his brow creased with concern. Still, with his usual infallible ability to sense a mood, he stayed silent. Or at least about her uncle.

He stared around the crust of sharp crystals. “Looks like no one has set foot around here in ages.”

She realized he was right. “No footprints.”

The crystals looked fragile and likely took years to form. If anyone had traipsed through here, there would have been a record of it in crushed salt.

Eventually they circled out of the shelter of the hill and into the wind’s teeth. It blew hard and steady, stinging of sand and tasting bitter on the tongue.

Sanjar had trouble controlling the falcon perched on his gloved hand. He slipped off the hood and cast the bird into the wind, letting it stretch its wings and work off its anxiety. It screamed into the night, its silvery wings flashing in the moonlight.

The young man’s cousin pointed to the horizon. The crisp line between salt flats and starry sky blurred out there.

“Storm coming,” Arslan warned.

“A black blizzard,” Sanjar clarified.

Shielding her eyes against the wind, Rachel stared out at the churning wall of sand, salt, and dust, remembering her uncle’s warning of the toxicity of such clouds.

“We don’t want to be here when it arrives,” Arslan warned.

No one argued, so they set a faster pace.

Within yards, they were soon covering the lower halves of their faces with handkerchiefs passed out by Sanjar. Clearly such a precaution was commonplace here, where winds regularly whipped over this ancient dead seabed. Still, between the burn of the stinging dust and the cold bite of the wind, any exposed skin felt flayed and raw.

The winds forced them to stay close to the hill. Moving single file, flashlights bobbling, they crossed into a narrow cut between the cliff face and a line of fanged rocks, perhaps the remains of an old reef. Any shelter from the wind was a welcome respite.

A shout rose from ahead.

Rachel hurried forward with the others, bunching together around Josip. He shone his flashlight at his feet, to the bottom of the cliff, where a large crack broke into the rock face. Rachel failed to understand what had the priest so riled up.

“Does that look like a horse’s head?” He pointed out the features with the beam of his light. “Nose high, ears pulled back, neck stretched.”

Stepping back, she realized he was right. It looked like the silhouette of a horse, drowning in billowing sand, trying to thrust its head up for air.

“Equus,” Vigor gasped out. “Like what was written on the tattoo.”

Josip nodded, his eyes feverishly bright.

Monk knelt at the entrance and shone his light inside. “Looks like there’s enough room to climb into it.”

“Is it a tunnel?” Jada asked.

Duncan searched up the cliff. “If so, it would’ve once been a sea tunnel,” he clarified. “When this lake was full, this entrance would have been underwater.”

Josip stared over to Vigor. “Just like the Tisza River in Hungary. It was only during the drought that the secret entrance to the river vault revealed itself.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Monk asked.

He ducked inside, taking the lead in case there was any danger. The others quickly followed.

Vigor glanced over to Rachel, grinning ear to ear, ready to follow, barely able to contain himself.

This is what he lived for.

She prayed that it didn’t also kill him.

Vigor followed on hands and knees behind Josip.

The tunnel had more headroom than he had expected, but it helped that Monk used his industrial-strength prosthetic hand to clear any blockages out of the way: tumbles of rocks, berms of sand, crusts of salt. He was a living drill bit, tunneling deeper into the former island.

“Looks like it opens a few yards ahead!” Monk called back.

A minute later, he was proven right.

Monk’s light vanished from view, leaving its glow behind. Then Josip followed him out, climbing free of the tunnel. Once on his feet, his friend froze, then stumbled weakly to the side, clearly in shock.

With his heart thudding harder, Vigor clambered to the tunnel’s end and pushed into the cave beyond.

Stunned, he lifted his light higher as he stood up, adding his illumination to the others.

A large cavern stretched before them — caked entirely in salt. The domed white roof dripped with glistening stalactites of crystalline salt. Stalagmites rose like opalescent fangs. Elsewhere full columns of salt connected floor to ceiling. Silvery-white crystals coated every surface.

The others joined them, voicing various levels of astonishment as they entered.

Duncan came last, adding, “Holy Mother of—”

Josip cut him off, gaping around. “This cave must have been underwater, too. When the waters receded, seeping slowly away, it left only the sea’s salt behind.”

“And hopefully something else,” Vigor added and pointed across the chamber. “We need to search for more of Genghis’s relics.”

The group spread out, working gingerly across the floor. It was a difficult task as the stone underfoot was piled thickly with the same fingerlike crystals seen outside, only some here were as thick around as a man’s thigh, leaning drunkenly upon one another, like a felled forest of salt.

The crunch of crystals echoed off the walls as they labored. The air smelled of the sea and burned the eyes.

Jada whispered with Duncan, but her voice reached everyone due to the cavern’s acoustics. “Water levels must have risen and fallen in here over the centuries to create this accumulation.”

“And rainfall added to it each year,” Duncan said. “Leaching more salt from the ground above.”

Jada stared up to the roof. “I’m guessing during Genghis’s time this cavern was not entirely flooded. But only accessible by swimming underwater.”

They were probably right.

Suddenly tired, recognizing that perhaps archaeology was a young man’s sport, Vigor leaned on a salt column as wide as a telephone pole to rest, believing it sturdy enough to hold his weight. Instead, it cracked under his hand, breaking in half, proving its fragility.

Luckily Monk and Rachel were there to pull him back and shield his body as a shower of crystal shards and larger chunks rained down.

“Take care, Uncle,” Rachel warned, helping him straighten and brushing sparkling dust from his shoulders.

“Look here,” Monk said, pointing to the flared base of the broken column.

Vigor turned, bringing up his flashlight. He shone its brightness into the core of the translucent pillar. Something buried there reflected his light even brighter.

“Over here!” he called to the group.

Others gathered and added their own beams, helping to reveal what was preserved in the salt.

Josip dropped to one knee. “It appears to be a pedestal of stone, holding up a box of some sort.”

His friend stared up at him, wonder shining in his face.

“Like the Hungarian bishop described in Attila’s tomb!” Vigor exclaimed. “This must be it.”

Josip stood. “We must break it free of the salt!”

Arslan appeared, bringing up a small satchel of tools. Using hammers, chisels, and brushes, Josip worked with Arslan to chip away at the thick base of the column.

As it was slowly revealed, the box proved to be large, a foot or so tall and twice as long.

Josip swept crystals off its black surface. The chisel had nicked it in a few places. Vigor’s friend used a fingernail to dig more vigorously at one of the scratches. “It looks to be silver under the tarnish.”

Vigor leaned closer as Arslan freed the lower half of the chest. “I think you’re right. And it’s hinged at the back here.”

In short order, the remainder of the box was broken free of the crust. It shifted on its pedestal with a final strike of a hammer.

Arslan stepped back, his work done.

Vigor waved to Josip. “You open it. You’ve earned the right.”

His friend gripped his arm in gratitude, speechless with anticipation, his fingers shaking slightly on Vigor’s arm.

With both hands, Josip lifted the lid and cracked it open with a salty grate of its hinges. As he raised it, the front panel fell open, apparently hinged on its bottom edge.

Rachel stepped away, covering her mouth. “My God…”

As Vigor’s niece moved back, Duncan had a clear view of what the box held.

It looked like a miniature sculpture of a boat, with a prominent keel that swooped into a knobbed bowsprit at the front, its sides made of artfully curved planks. A pair of masts supported square sails, both slightly ribbed like a closed set of blinds.

“Looks like a Song dynasty junk,” Vigor said. “During the Middle Ages such ships plied the seas and rivers of China.”

Rachel shook her head. “But this one is constructed out of rib bones and vertebrae. The sails are made of dried human skin.”

Duncan stepped closer and saw she was right. The curved planks of the boat’s side were ribs. The knob of the bowsprit was a spinal vertebra. He would take her word that the sails were made of human skin.

“More of Genghis,” Monk said.

“Can we be sure?” Rachel asked.

“I can send a sample to the same genetics lab in Rome,” Vigor offered. “We could have confirmation in a day or so.”

Jada nudged Duncan and stated, “Or we find out right now.”

All eyes turned to him.

He understood. “She’s right.” He lifted his hands and wiggled his fingers. “If this tissue is from the same body, I’ll know.”

The others cleared out of his way. Stepping forward, he reached out and moved his fingertips to the curved sides of the boat. Immediately he registered the same pressure, the same unique energy field as in the earlier relics. He swore now he could almost sense the color of the field. It was a term people like him used to describe the minute variations of electrical fields that defied adequate description.

Like trying to describe blue to a blind person.

Only, in this case, if he had to pick a color for this field, it would be black.

He stepped away and shook the tingle from his fingertips, shivering all over for a breath.

“Definitely the same,” he concluded.

Before anyone could comment, a piercing screech made them all jump. Sanjar’s falcon flew effortlessly through the tunnel and swept high into the room. Sanjar lifted his arm and the bird dove to a fluttering landing, panting through its open beak.

“Storm must be here,” Sanjar said, brushing dust from the falcon’s feathers. “We should be going.”

Another squawk erupted. This time it was from the team’s radio. Monk spoke with the pilot and got confirmation.

“He says we must get going now.” Monk pointed Duncan toward the box. “Close that up and let’s get moving.”

With Josip’s and Vigor’s help, Duncan secured the tarnished chest and hauled it up. It was damned heavy. If it was indeed silver, it was likely worth a small fortune.

Monk assisted him in getting the chest through the tunnel. Once back outside, Duncan understood the falcon’s sudden desire to rejoin its master. The starry night of earlier was gone. Black clouds roiled overhead. Sand blasted against the cliff. To the west, conditions looked even worse.

The group hurried across the flatlands, following their crushed path back. They all shuttled sideways, putting their backs to the wind. Visibility was crap. Duncan carried the box under one arm and had a hold of Jada’s hand in the other. Ahead of him, Monk and Rachel helped Vigor, while Sanjar and Arslan supported Josip.

Finally they circled to the far side of the hill, out of direct assault by the storm. The pilot spotted them. He hopped out, opened the side door to the helicopter, and waved them to hurry.

Not that any of them needed the encouragement.

As a group, they ran for the shelter of the chopper’s cabin and clambered inside. Even before they had strapped in, the pilot had the bird lifting off.

Once the wheels were off the ground, the helicopter swung around and flew low across the salt flats, keeping to the shelter of the tall hill for as long as possible, putting as much distance as possible between them and the storm.

Everyone found seats, and harnesses clicked into place.

Finally, the helicopter shot higher, buffeted by the storm’s leading edge, and fled under full power. The bouncing and rattling jarred teeth and challenged the strength of their seat belts.

For a few more long minutes, no one spoke, and hardly anyone breathed.

Then the flight of the helicopter evened out as it escaped the teeth of the storm.

“Should be smooth sailing from here,” the pilot said, though his voice had a shaky edge that suggested their escape was closer than Duncan cared to think about.

They rushed through the night, the stars shining overhead again.

Duncan finally let out a long shuddering breath. “Well, that was fun.”

Jada looked at him aghast.

As they flew back toward their base of operations, Vigor studied the tarnished silver box. It rested on the seat next to Duncan, who kept a palm atop it.

Vigor pictured what it held, but he wasn’t the only one wondering.

“There must be a clue contained within that boat,” Josip said. “Some indication where we must go next.”

Vigor pictured the eye sewn shut on the cover of the book — and the secrets it had hidden. “You are probably right. Once at your library, we’ll see what we can discover.”

Josip must have noted the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Just tired,” he lied.

“I wonder how many more caches of Genghis’s relics are out there,” Josip said. “Into how many pieces had the great khan been divvied?”

Vigor shifted in his seat, surprised that Josip was so dense. “There is only one more spot to go.”

Josip frowned at him. “How do you know—?”

Then understanding dawned in his eyes. He patted Vigor on the knee. “Your body may be tired, my friend, but not your mind.”

Monk stirred across the way, having eavesdropped on the conversation. “How about you explaining it to those who are tired in both body and mind?”

Vigor smiled with warm affection at him. “The box we found is silver.” He nodded to the chest at Duncan’s side. “But according to the Hungarian bishop’s account, the box at Attila’s tomb was iron.”

Josip sat straighter, thrilled. “Which means the final box, the one holding the greatest treasure of this hunt, will be gold.”

Monk got it. “Like the three original boxes of St. Thomas’s reliquary. Iron, silver, gold.”

Vigor nodded. “We are one step away from the lost tomb of Genghis Khan.”

Duncan patted the box with his palm. “That is, if you can solve the riddle of that boat made of bone.”

Vigor sighed, praying that God would keep him strong enough for this challenge.

If only for a little longer…

The pilot reported good news. “We’re back to where we started, folks. But we may need to batten down the hatches for the night. The weather coming is not going to be fit for man or beast.”

Vigor looked out toward the storm on the horizon. It seemed that the black blizzard hadn’t given up its chase and bore down on them with all its fury.

Knowing what was coming, the helicopter dropped quickly toward the rusted bulk of the ship, seeking its shelter. The giant vessel had clearly weathered such gales in the past and would do so again.

Vigor settled back, relieved.

Once we get underground, we should be safe.

16

Seichan stood at the rail of the USS Benfold, a United States guided missile destroyer. She wore a borrowed parka, its fur-edged hood tossed back. She could not stand the confinement below any longer, with its cramped hallways, the press of bodies, the windowless chambers all painted the same drab colors.

She needed air, so she climbed topside.

The night was bitterly cold, the stars hard as diamonds; even the comet looked like a lump of ice dragged across the sky.

The ship cruised south through the territorial waters of South Korea. So far no alarm had been raised by Pyongyang. Likely those in power up north were too embarrassed to admit their failure. Still, it had been a very close call. Gray was with the medics getting properly attended.

She flashed back to firing her pistol, acting on instinct, blind to anything but survival. She had only meant to knock the rider off his bike. Still…

I almost killed him.

A deck hatch clanged open behind her. She closed her eyes, not wanting any intrusion. Footsteps approached, and a form stepped to the rail next to her. She smelled jasmine. The scent threatened to cast her deeper into the past if she let it. Even now, an image of a flowering vine in sunlight appeared in her mind’s eye, with purple flowers, the bobble of fat-bellied bees.

She pushed it down.

“Chi,” her mother said, using her old name, a single note from the lips that carried too much weight for that short exhalation of breath.

“I prefer Seichan,” she said, opening her eyes. “I’ve been that far longer than the other.”

Small hands gripped the rail beside hers, not touching hers, yet close enough for Seichan to feel the warmth from them on this cold night. Still, the distance between them remained a vast gulf.

Seichan had imagined this reunion a thousand ways, but none of them as such profound strangers. She had studied her mother’s features during the trip back here. She could touch and point to those that were achingly familiar: the arch of an eyebrow, the curve of her lower lip, the shape of her eyes. But at the same time, it was the face of a stranger. Not because of the purplish scar or the tattoo, but something deeper.

When last she looked upon her mother, she had been a child of nine. She looked upon her now as a woman two decades older. She was not that child any longer. Her mother was not that young woman.

“I must leave soon,” her mother warned.

Seichan took a deep breath, testing how that made her feel. Tears threatened — but only because she felt nothing at those words, and it devastated her.

“I have obligations,” her mother explained. “Men and women who are still in jeopardy and need my help. I cannot abandon them.”

Seichan held back a bitter laugh at the irony of those words.

Her mother must have still sensed it.

“I looked for you,” she said softly after a long pause.

“I know.” Seichan had heard the same from Gray.

“They told me you were dead, yet still I searched until it hurt too much to do so anymore.”

Seichan stared down at her own hands, surprised to find them so white knuckled as they gripped the rail.

“Come with me now,” her mother asked.

Seichan remained silent for too long.

“You can’t, can you?” her mother whispered.

“I also have obligations.”

Another silence stretched, filled with far more import than their words.

“I heard he is leaving again. So you will go with him?”

Seichan didn’t bother answering.

They stood together for a long time, both with so much to say, and so little to talk about. What else could they do? Compare scars, swap tales of horror and bloodshed, of what one did to survive? In the end, they said nothing.

Finally, her mother unclasped her hands and faded back, turning away, leaving only a whisper behind. “Have I lost you forever, my little Chi? Did I never really find you again?”

And then she was gone, leaving behind only the scent of jasmine.

Gray leaned against the conference table, too tired to trust his legs. He and Kowalski had the officers’ wardroom all to themselves, courtesy of the ship’s captain. The crew had brewed coffee and laid out a spread of scrambled eggs and bacon.

It wasn’t every day a couple of U.S. operatives escaped North Korea.

With his wounded shoulder scrubbed, sprayed with a liquid bandage, and wrapped, he felt worlds better. The muddy coffee certainly helped, too.

Kowalski sat in a neighboring chair, his feet propped up on the table, a plate of bacon resting on his stomach. He yawned with a jaw-cracking pop.

The large LCD monitor before Gray finally flickered to life. The feed was being dispatched through high-security channels to this private room. He found himself staring into the communications nest at Sigma command in D.C.

The director faced him, with Kat seated to the side, tapping furiously at a computer console. She had set up this private videoconference call.

Painter nodded to him. “Commander Pierce, how are you holding up?”

“I’ve had better days.”

And worse.

Despite all that had happened, they had succeeded in rescuing Seichan and made it out alive with their skin intact — okay, not entirely intact, but close enough.

“I know you’ve been through hell and back,” Painter said, “but we need you up and running for another mission, if you’re able.”

“In Mongolia,” Gray said.

He had already debriefed with Kat and was relatively up to speed in regard to events surrounding the crashed satellite.

“I need an honest assessment,” Painter said. “Are you and Kowalski fit enough to continue?”

Gray glanced over at Kowalski, who merely shrugged and picked up another slice of bacon.

“I think fit enough pretty much describes us,” Gray answered. “But a little more sleep en route, and we’ll be even better.”

“Good, then I wanted to show you this.” Painter turned to Kat.

She shifted into view, still tapping at the keyboard with one hand while staring at him. “I’m going to patch you in with Lieutenant Josh Leblang, out of McMurdo Station.”

“In Antarctica?”

“That’s correct. He’s with a recon crew about a hundred klicks out from the base, on the Ross Ice Shelf.” Kat punched a few more keys and spoke into a microphone by her chair. “Lieutenant Leblang, can you show us again what you found? Walk us through what you saw?”

A sputtering response reached Gray that sounded vaguely affirmative.

Then the screen cleared and was replaced with the face of a young man in a military parka. He had his hood thrown back, apparently enjoying the bright morning of an Antarctic summer. He wore a woolen cap over his short dark hair, his cheeks reddened from the cold, or maybe flushed from excitement.

From the shaky image, someone was filming him with a handheld camcorder. He spoke while walking backward up a ridge.

“About two hours ago, we saw five huge fireballs shoot over McMurdo. Thought it was a missile attack. The sonic booms — one after the other — had the entire base scrambling. My team was sent out to investigate. This is what we found.”

He reached the top of the ridge and stepped aside. The cameraman moved forward, the image jangling wildly. Once he stopped and steadied his hand, a hellish landscape came into clear focus.

Across the expanse ahead, massive craters pocked the blue ice, roiling with steam, blackened at the edges. Gray pictured the five meteorites punching through the ice and melting in the sea three hundred meters below. He spotted men, small black ants, moving on the ice, likely a part of Leblang’s crew. They offered perspective as to the huge size of those smoking pits.

Thunder rumbled over the speakers.

Gray didn’t understand the source of the noise — until a resounding series of thunderclaps followed. On the screens, cracks exploded across the snowy field, shattering ice high into the air. Fault lines burst jaggedly from crater to crater and splintered outward across the shelf.

Out of view, Leblang swore loudly. Then he appeared, running down the slope toward his endangered crew. The videographer dropped his camcorder and followed, too. The camera landed askew in the snow, still shooting, offering a crooked view of the chaos.

Fissures in the ice split wider, tearing apart the terrain below.

Men fled the destruction in all directions. Faint screams reached the camera’s microphone.

Gray spotted a pair of sailors falling away as the ice opened under them. An entire continent of ice slowly split away from the main shelf. Another crack skittered toward the camera and exploded before its lens, then the screen went black.

Kowalski, a former navy man himself, was on his feet, his fists clenched in frustration, unable to do anything.

Then Painter was back, red-faced and shocked, bent beside Kat, passing on orders. “—McMurdo Station. Raise the alarm. Tell them to get birds in the air ASAP.”

Gray waited silently as Painter and Kat sounded the alarm.

Once done, Painter finally returned his attention to Gray. “Now you understand what we might be facing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shortly before Leblang reported from Antarctica, technicians and engineers over at the SMC in Los Angeles had confirmed their initial speculation that the destruction caught digitally by the crashing satellite was secondary to a cluster of meteor strikes along the East Coast.”

Gray pictured the devastation from a moment ago, imagining what would happen if those five meteors had hit a population center.

“The techs estimate that what impacted Antarctica were superbolide meteors, averaging seventeen to twenty meters across. They each struck with the energy equivalent of eight atomic bombs.”

Gray swallowed.

No wonder that shelf shattered into pieces.

Painter continued, “From analyzing the satellite image in great detail — taking into account the blast patterns, the depth of the impact craters, the degree of catastrophic destruction — they estimate that it would take meteors threefold larger than in Antarctica to cause that much damage.”

Gray went cold, picturing all his friends and family out there, including everyone at Sigma command.

“And it might not just be the East Coast,” Painter warned. “We have only this one snapshot. There is no way of telling if the destruction is more widespread, even global.”

“Or if it will happen at all,” Gray added, still skeptical. But after what he’d just witnessed, he was willing to err on the side of caution.

“That’s why we need that satellite recovered,” Painter said. “We have every eye looking skyward at the moment — Hubble, NASA’s Swift satellite, the UK Space Agency. We’re tracking a slew of rocks dragging in the wake of that comet, some as large as two hundred meters across. So far, according to all estimates, none of them are at risk of hitting the earth.”

“But what about the ones that just struck Antarctica?”

“That’s the problem. We can’t catch everything. It’s taken NASA fifteen years to track fewer than ten thousand asteroids in near-Earth orbit, meaning the vast majority go undetected. Take the Chelyabinsk meteor that exploded over Russia last year. It came as a total shocker. And if that meteor hadn’t exploded in the upper atmosphere, releasing a lot of its energy, it would have hit Russia with the force of twenty Hiroshima bombs.”

“So we can’t be sure of anything.”

Painter glanced to Kat, as if reluctant to say something.

“What?” Gray asked.

Kat nodded to Painter, who sighed loudly.

“There’s one last bit of disturbing news coming out of the SMC. It’s too early to draw any firm conclusions. But one of the physicists who was working closely with Dr. Jada Shaw has been analyzing her data on the initial gravitational anomalies in the comet, those same inconsistencies that Dr. Shaw believed proved the presence of dark energy.”

“And?”

“And the physicist at the SMC has been continuing to track those anomalies, as the comet comes closer to Earth. He’s convinced they’re growing larger.”

“What does that mean?”

Painter shot a glance toward Kat. “We’re still waiting for an answer to that very question. It could be significant… or it could be meaningless. We won’t know until more data is collected and analyzed.”

“How long will that take?”

“Half a day at the least, maybe longer.”

“So in the meantime, we find that satellite.”

“It may hold the answers to everything.” Painter stared hard at him. “How soon can you leave?”

“Now. If Kat can arrange the logistics—”

She shifted back in her seat. “I can get Commander Pierce’s team on the ground in Mongolia by daybreak.”

“What about Monk’s team?” Gray asked.

“I just heard word out of Kazakhstan,” Kat said. “A storm front will have them pinned down for a short time. But barring any other problems, they should be able to join you in Ulan Bator by midmorning.”

“Then let’s make that happen,” Painter said. “We need as many eyes on the ground out there as possible. Is Seichan willing to join you?”

On the way to this meeting, Gray had spotted Guan-yin heading down the hall, hiding the tears in her eyes. She was flying back to Hong Kong to assist those of her Triad who were still in harm’s way. From those tears, Gray could guess the answer to Painter’s question.

“I believe Seichan will be coming.”

“Good.”

Painter quickly signed off, plainly busy on multiple fronts.

Gray stared at the black screen, again picturing the destruction in Antarctica, appreciating the urgency.

Monk had better not be late.

17

Rachel and the others hurried below, returning to the clutter of Father Josip’s inner sanctum. Deep in the warren of tunnels and rooms, the howl of the wind reached them as the storm bore down upon the derelict ship above their heads. It whistled through the rusted hull, shook loose tin, rattled broken rails.

Up above, the pilot was securing the chopper against the storm, positioning the craft on the leeward side of that mountain of corroded steel, and doing his best to seal and cover the engine and moving parts from the blowing salt and sand.

More of Josip’s crew occupied the lowermost levels, seemingly oblivious to the racket and danger, plainly used to retreating below when Nature grew too violent above. They lounged, or played cards, or did simple chores to occupy their time.

Rachel took some small comfort in their ease.

“Let’s get this box on the table,” Monk ordered Duncan.

As the two hauled the tarnished silver chest across the room, Jada shook sand from her hair and patted dust and salt off her clothes. But she wasn’t the only one with her feathers ruffled.

Sanjar coaxed his hooded falcon to a wooden perch. Heru flapped his wings several times, irritated, but his sharp claws clung to the roost; he knew better than to fly blind. His handler whispered soothingly, calming the bird with a preening scratch behind its neck.

Rachel stood next to him, appreciating his skill.

Her uncle had other interests. He waved Josip toward the table. “We should study this as thoroughly as we can, discern any clues about where to go next.”

Josip nodded, but again he wore that distracted look, as if his mind were elsewhere. He stood staring at a tall bookcase, his back to the table as Monk and Duncan placed the box next to the other relics.

Arslan moved to the priest’s side, as if to consult him.

Instead, he placed the muzzle of a black pistol into Josip’s side and barked loudly, “Everyone away from the table! Hands up and high!”

Caught off guard, no one moved for a breath — then men poured into the room through the open door, carrying rifles or curved swords. They appeared to be members of the excavation crew hired by Josip.

Gunfire echoed out in the hallway.

Rachel could guess the fate of the remainder of that crew. She pictured the explosion at the university, the bombing in Aktau. It seemed the enemy had been closer than anyone suspected all along.

Josip turned to his foreman, wearing a confused expression. “What is this about, Arslan?”

As answer, Arslan cuffed him hard across the mouth, splitting his lip. He then roughly grabbed Josip’s arm, spun him about, and moved the pistol to the middle of his back.

Sanjar stepped forward. “Cousin, what are you doing?”

“I do what the Master of the Blue Wolf commands,” Arslan said. “And you will obey. You swore allegiance, same as I.”

Josip turned to Sanjar with a wounded expression.

Arslan motioned with his head toward the door, bitter command in his voice. “Go now, Cousin. Or be buried here with them.”

Sanjar took a step back. “I agreed to watch, to report on Father Josip’s actions… but not this, never this. He is a good man. These others have done no harm.”

“Then die with them,” he said with ringing disdain. “You were always too weak, Sanjar, your head in the winds with your bird, pampered by your rich parents who looked down upon their poorer cousins. Never a true warrior of the khan.”

Turning aside, Arslan shouted to his crew in Mongolian. Four immediately ran up, scooped the relics from the table, and retreated to the door.

Rachel watched their hard-won treasures vanish.

Arslan followed in their wake, with Josip clutched in front of him, using the priest as a hostage and a shield. He called to his men, who began closing the door to the chamber. It was heavy steel. From the rivets and rust, it was probably a hatch salvaged from the ship above.

From the doorway, Arslan shared a final threat for his cousin, for them all. “While you were all gone, my warriors placed explosive charges throughout this hollowed-out rat’s nest. Rock will turn to dust, collapsing all. And as the heavy ship above sinks atop you, it will be your gravestone. None will ever know what happened here.”

A few men laughed harshly.

The crew kept their guns trained, especially on Monk and Duncan, wise enough to recognize the biggest danger to their plans.

“Kill them,” Arslan ordered his men in the room. “Then join us up top.”

Sanjar cast a glance toward Rachel, rolling his eyes up, then over to the falcon.

It took her a heartbeat, then she understood.

With the crew ignoring her, Rachel reached over and plucked the bonnet from Heru’s feathered head.

Sanjar yelled a command in his native tongue and pointed at Arslan. The falcon exploded off the perch, sweeping up to the wooden rafters that bolstered the sandstone roof.

Weapons shifted, shooting at the bird, the blasts stinging Rachel’s ears.

Untouched, Heru dove down, a feathered arrow shot from Sanjar’s bow. Claws raked Arslan, splitting cheek and scalp. Wings beat at his face, driving the man to his knees, screaming in pain.

Then gunfire erupted in the middle of the room.

As soon as the nearest weapon swung toward the roof, Duncan moved. He bowled into the nearest guard, taking him down. The gunman’s head hit the corner of the table, hard enough to crack bone. The man fell limp under him.

He grabbed the loose rifle and rolled away. Still, on his back, Duncan took out a second assassin with a burst of rounds to the chest. Then gunfire chewed into the stone between his legs, chasing him backward, until he was under the table.

From his sheltered vantage, he took out the shooter’s left kneecap — as the man toppled, Duncan placed a round between his eyes.

Another attacker slid into view on his knees, strafing under the table.

Then the neighboring bookcase fell on top of him, crushing him. Monk clambered over the top and punched a stunned gunman in the throat with his prosthetic hand. With his larynx crushed, the man fell to his side, writhing, choking on blood.

At the exit, one of Arslan’s crew clubbed the bird away from their leader’s face.

Josip used the chaos to break free and run deeper into the room.

Two shots cracked loudly.

The priest’s chest blew out. He collided with Monk, who caught him in his arms.

Behind them, Arslan’s pistol still smoked as his men dragged his bloody form through the door. Duncan fired after them, but the hatch swung closed with a clang of steel.

Climbing back to his feet, Duncan rushed the door and shouldered into it. It refused to budge, likely braced on the other side. They were locked in.

He surveyed the room, taking swift inventory.

Jada rose from a crouch behind another bookcase, shoved there by Monk as the first shots rang out.

Sanjar knelt by Heru, as his stunned bird flopped dazedly on the stone.

Rachel hurried alongside her uncle to Josip’s gasping form.

Seeing the blood pooling beneath the priest, she knew the man did not have long to live — which was probably true for all of them.

No, no, no…

Vigor knelt beside his friend, who had come back from the dead only to die again, a man whom the Fates had already afflicted so cruelly, gifting him with both brilliance and madness. He did not deserve this end.

He took Josip’s hand and began last rites.

Josip stared up at him, disbelief in his eyes, blood on his lips, unable to speak, his lungs collapsed and shredded by the bullets of a traitor.

“Lie still, my dear friend.”

Monk cradled his thin form in his lap, supporting him.

Vigor took Josip’s hand, squeezing all his love for the man between his palms. He could do no more. He had seen that truth in Monk’s eyes.

Stripped of his voice, Josip found the strength to take Vigor’s hand and bring his palm to his bloody chest. Vigor felt the beat of his friend’s heart.

“I will miss you, too.”

In his eyes, he read the man’s struggle, his regret. Josip knew the danger the world faced and could do nothing more to help.

“You’ve shouldered this burden long enough, my friend. Let me carry it from here.”

Josip kept staring at Vigor as he gently anointed a cross on Josip’s forehead.

“Go rest,” Vigor whispered.

And he did.

Duncan helped Monk place Father Josip atop the table.

“I’m sorry,” Duncan said. “I wish we had the time to bury him properly.”

Vigor fought tears but nodded, staring around the chaotic library. “This is a good spot for him.”

Monk got them all moving. “Let’s not make it our burial spot, too.”

Duncan turned to Sanjar. “Is there another way out?”

Sanjar had his falcon wrapped in a blanket. “I’m sorry, no. The other tunnels just lead to more rooms. Dead ends. The only way up is through this sealed door.”

Duncan knew they had at best another few minutes or so to break free. Once Arslan and his crew evacuated the ship, they’d blow the lower levels. His only hope was that the assassins would drag their feet long enough to scavenge anything of value on their way out, but he couldn’t count on that.

Jada stood, wide-eyed, hugging herself with her arms. “They meant to kill us,” she said, shivering, near shock.

“And they may still succeed,” Duncan conceded, figuring there was no reason to sugarcoat their situation.

She scowled at him. “That’s not what I meant. Think about it. If we hadn’t gotten the upper hand, we’d be dead. The explosions were meant to bury our bodies in this unmarked grave.”

Duncan still didn’t get it.

“We’re not supposed to be alive right now,” she said, her voice growing heated. She waved a hand around the room. “That jackass said he planted bombs throughout this place. So why not here, too? It’s the lowest level. He thought we’d be dead already.”

Of course…

Monk swore and set off looking along the walls.

Cursing his stupidity, Duncan canvassed the other side. It took him less than thirty seconds to find one of the charges. It was hidden at the base of a thick wooden brace that helped support the roof to this large room.

“Got one!” Duncan called out.

“Found another over here!” Monk yelled from across the room.

“Remove that one’s transceiver!” he shouted back. “And be careful!”

Rachel had followed him over. “Do you think you can defuse them all in time?”

“Not the plan,” he said as he worked. “They’re likely planted all over the place.”

With great care, he freed the wad of plastic explosive, being careful of the blasting cap and transceiver. He rushed with it over to the steel hatch.

Monk met him there, another transceiver in hand.

Duncan slapped the chunk of explosive to the thick hinges of the hatch. He popped open the transceiver, a device that contained both a radio transmitter and a receiver. Using a fingernail, he changed the receiver to a different setting, one unique from the other charges planted throughout this maze.

Don’t want to bring this whole place down.

He then took the transceiver out of Monk’s hand.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” his partner asked.

“I didn’t take all those electrical engineering courses to work at RadioShack.” Working quickly, he adjusted the transmitter to the new frequency, then waved everyone back. “Find shelter and cover your ears!”

He retreated with the group and hid behind a sturdy bookcase. Once in position, he brought his thumb to the tiny red button on the transceiver. His jury-rigged charge should be the only one that responded to this new frequency — but when it came to explosives and radios, bad things sometimes happened to good engineers.

He pressed the button.

From the skull-crushing explosion that followed, Duncan believed he had failed, that he’d blown everything. Smoke and dust rolled through the space. Standing up, he waved and coughed.

Across the way, the hatch was gone, along with a fair amount of the wall around it.

Monk joined him, sounding as if he were speaking underwater. “Bastard probably heard that!”

Duncan nodded.

In other words, run!

Jada sprinted up the steps behind Duncan, who led the charge topside with their only flashlight. Behind them, Monk and Rachel helped Vigor with the steep stairs, half carrying him between them. Sanjar brought up the rear.

At any moment, Jada expected the world to explode around her, crushing her under tons of stone, burying her in sand and salt.

The exit that led into the ship’s rusty hold seemed an impossible distance away. The size of this labyrinth swelled around her, stretching higher and wider, expanding in proportion to her terror. Above her, the winds whistled and howled through the corroded bulk of the ship, taunting her to run faster.

“Not much farther!” Duncan gasped, taking two steps at a time, his rifle in hand.

She craned up, but his bulk blocked her view.

In another five yards, he was proven right. Rock turned to steel treads under her boots. The group clanked the last of the way up—

— then the ground bucked violently under them, accompanied by the sound of the earth cracking beneath their feet.

They all went crashing to their knees on the salt-corroded stairs. A flume of sand, dust, and smoke blasted up from below, choking them, blinding them.

Jada climbed the remainder of the stairs on her hands and knees, drawn by the glow of Duncan’s flashlight. A hand grabbed hers and hauled her up and out of the stairwell, lifting her as if she were weightless. Placed back on her feet, she stumbled to the side as Duncan drew the others into the hold with her.

“Make for the exit!” he hollered and pointed to the hole cut into the port side of the ship’s hull.

She turned, but her footing slipped as her world tilted under her. The stern of the ship dropped precipitously behind her with a groan of steel, while the bow rose up. She pictured the back half of the thousand-ton vessel collapsing and crushing into the sinkhole created as the labyrinth below imploded.

Across the length of the hull, a half century of windblown sand suddenly shifted en masse, flowing toward the stern.

Jada could not hold her place any longer, dragged by the tide of sand. She fell to her knees and started sliding down the steep slant. The others fared no better, unable to gain any traction as the sands turned into a streaming cataract, growing deeper, pouring faster, trapping limbs, tumbling them all back toward the sinking stern.

Jada fought, flailing, feeling like a swimmer about to drown.

And maybe she was.

A sandstorm swirled treacherously below, waiting to swallow her up — behind her, the other half of the ship’s sand flowed after her, ready to swamp her once she was trapped.

Then Duncan appeared and sped past her, half skating, half body surfing, not resisting the tidal pull like the others.

He quickly vanished into the dusty cloud ahead.

Has he simply given up?

Racing atop the sand, Duncan aimed for their only hope of survival.

He recalled their arrival earlier in the day, when the Land Rover came wheeling out from a makeshift garage in the ship’s stern, sweeping out to confront the newcomers.

As the world upended a moment ago, he had spotted the Rover still parked back there. He aimed for its bulk, already axle-deep in sand and being buried rapidly. He hit the bumper hard and flung himself onto the hood. Once at the windshield, he squirmed sideways through the open side window and dropped into the driver’s seat.

He checked and found the keys still in the ignition.

Thank God…

With a twist of his wrist and a pound on the gas, he felt the paddle-treaded tires churn, kicking up a rooster tail of sand behind him. Then he was moving, tires digging back up the slope.

Monk had already noted Duncan’s goal and swept fast down the slanted hull, no longer resisting the pull of the sand. Reaching the Rover, Monk leaped over the front grill and rolled up onto the hood, landing belly down, passing Duncan a prosthetic thumbs-up.

“Keep going!” Monk yelled.

Duncan slowly ground his way upslope as Monk fished the others out of the churning flow of sand. Vigor slid across the hood until his back rested against the windshield; Rachel soon joined him. At the right fender, Jada helped Monk grab Sanjar, who still clung to his blanket-wrapped falcon.

With everyone on board, Duncan gave the engine more gas. Staying in a low gear, he climbed up the steepening slope, picturing the massive weight of the ship shifting to the stern, driving it deeper into the collapsing subterranean complex.

Even with sand tires and four-wheel drive, the Rover fishtailed in the flow. He held his breath each time the vehicle slipped, knowing if they fell back to the stern, they might never get out. If that happened, they’d be quickly buried alive as the ship’s five decades’ worth of sand, silt, and salt filled the stern.

As he labored, the rusted vessel groaned, echoing with the strain of stressed steel. Hull plates popped like gunshots and tumbled into the stern. It was all coming apart.

Angling to the port side, he finally reached the hole cut through the hull. With the ship tilted, the opening was several feet off the ground, but they would have to risk the jump.

Duncan fought the tide to hold them steady, as Monk shuttled everyone through the hole, half tossing them into the teeth of the storm out there.

“You next!” Monk screamed into the wind blowing through the opening.

Duncan waved to him. “Go! I’ll follow!”

It was a lie. There was no way Duncan could move. Once he let up on the gas, the Rover would immediately roll backward.

Monk stared through the windshield, read Duncan’s determination — then with a scowl, the man turned and jumped toward the hole. But rather than leaping through the opening, he hung from its lower edge by his prosthetic hand and reached out with his other arm.

“Pull even with me!” he yelled. “Then grab my hand!”

Duncan balked, knowing such a maneuver would likely end with both of them dead.

“Don’t make me jump down after you!” Monk bellowed.

Guy probably would, too.

Knowing that, Duncan gunned the engine and gained a couple of yards, his tires spinning on the sliding sand as he fought to hold his place. With one hand on the wheel, he stretched his arm out the window.

Monk caught his fingers, then his palm, gripping tightly.

With a silent prayer, Duncan let go of the steering wheel, took his foot off the gas, and shoved out the window. As he had suspected, the Rover immediately plummeted backward, shedding from around his body as it fell away, leaving Duncan hanging from Monk’s arm.

He gasped in relief.

But it was premature.

As he hung there, the ship broke in half.

From only yards away, huddled low against the storm, Jada watched the middle section of the rusted vessel fracture, splitting in half with a scream of rent steel. The entire bow came crashing down, blasting up more sand into the storm.

They all fled backward as debris rained down around them, whipped viciously by the wind. Sand swirled everywhere, obscuring anything beyond their noses.

Duncan… Monk…

The constant gale of the wind quickly cleared the worst of the dust, blowing it across the salt flats.

She searched the ruins of the ship.

Movement along the hull revealed two small forms climbing free of the hold and falling to the sands. Luckily, the ship had fractured above the exit, sparing their lives.

On the ground, Monk helped Duncan through the reefs of sharp steel littering the vessel’s skirts. He held the younger man under one arm as Duncan limped alongside him.

Jada hurried forward, shielding her face against the wind. Her heart quailed at the sight of Duncan’s blood-soaked pant leg.

The others gathered with her.

“What happened?” Jada asked.

“I tried to go down with the sinking ship,” Duncan said. “But Monk convinced me otherwise.”

“Let’s keep moving,” Monk warned, squinting through the storm. He noted someone was missing. “Where’s Sanjar?”

Jada searched around. She had failed to notice that he had slipped away.

Vigor answered, “He went to check on our pilot.”

Jada felt a flare of guilt, glancing toward the shadowy bulk of the helicopter. She had not even considered the man’s fate. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she must have assumed him dead, murdered like the rest of Josip’s crew at the onset of this assault.

Monk headed toward the helicopter with Duncan. Along the way, they found three bodies, sprawled in cooling pools of blood.

All shot.

Duncan limped through them. “Seems like our flyboy put up quite the fight.”

“And saved our lives at the same time,” Monk said. “His showdown likely delayed Arslan from blowing up the ship long enough for us to make our escape.”

Jada felt doubly guilty now. She had never even learned the pilot’s name.

They crossed to the helicopter and found its flank peppered with bullet holes, its canopy chipped and splintered. The tarps around it flapped and twisted in the wind.

A fast search found no sign of Sanjar.

Then from out of the dark storm, a pair of shadowy shapes appeared, leaning against each other, huddled against the fierce winds and the sting of blowing salt.

Sanjar and the pilot.

Monk left Duncan with Jada and helped the other pair back to the helicopter.

“I followed his blood trail,” Sanjar said, as he rejoined them. “From the helicopter out into the storm…”

“Got shot in the upper thigh,” the pilot said. “Pinned under the helicopter, I thought I was a goner, but then there was a big blast from the ship. Used the distraction to limp off into the storm, hoping to get lost. Which apparently worked.”

Jada pictured the shattered hatch down below.

So in the end, it sounds like we both saved each other.

“Can the bird still fly?” Monk asked.

The pilot frowned, eyeing the damage. “Not in this weather. But with a little bit of spackle and glue, I can probably get her flying after that.”

“Good man,” Monk said.

They all retreated into the helicopter’s cabin as the winds howled. But the storm was the least of their problems.

Monk turned to Sanjar, who had recovered his falcon from a seat, still covered in a blanket. He must have secured the bird inside the cabin before searching for the pilot.

“Do you know where Arslan was taking the relics?” Monk asked.

“I can’t say with certainty. But most likely back to Ulan Bator.”

Vigor pressed him. “Once there, what then? Who is he going to give them to?”

“Now that I can state with certainty. He’ll hand them over to head of my clan. A man who goes by the title Borjigin, meaning the Master of the Blue Wolf.”

“That was Genghis Khan’s old title, too,” Vigor said.

Sanjar nodded.

“What’s his real name?” Monk asked.

“I do not know. He came to us always wearing the mask of a wolf. Only Arslan knows his true identity.”

“Fat lot of good that does us,” Duncan said as he bandaged a deep gash on his leg.

“Without that last relic,” Vigor said, “we are doomed.”

Jada stared out the window as the storm began shredding apart, revealing the glow of the comet in the night sky. As a scientist, she put her faith in numbers and facts, in solid proofs and indisputable calculations. She had scoffed at the superstitions that led to this side excursion to the Aral Sea, dismissing it as irrelevant.

But as she looked skyward, she simply despaired, knowing the truth with all her heart.

The monsignor was right.

We are doomed.