The Mongol Objective

1

Alexander sat alone in the center of the middle row seat of their rented black Jeep Commander. In the large cargo space behind him they had stuffed most of their gear, including tents and tarps, chests of food and water, blankets and sleeping bags. Three plastic chests were tethered to the roof rack. It looked like they were going on a long camping trip, the kind he wished he could have taken with his dad and Aunt Phoebe sometime, maybe in the Adirondacks.

In the front seat, Xavier Montross sat next to their guide, a man they had met outside the airport. Alexander thought he looked like one of those actors in kung-fu movies, a man with a strong build, long braided hair, weather-worn face and penetrating eyes. The capital city itself was congested and noisy, the sights and sounds overwhelming. As they left the airport, Montross had left his window open, and the reek of diesel fumes from the hundreds of buses and taxis mingled with the smell of street vendors roasting some kind of meat, likely marmot, which Alexander had learned from their guide was a kind of dog. The thought of actually eating a dog almost made him sick.

He didn’t want anything to do with this place or this search, this quest of Montross’s. He just wanted to wake up back home in his room surrounded by all his books, even those comics and graphic novels his mom frowned on despite Dad’s insistence that they contained some basic literary merit. A boy needed his heroes.

Alexander even wished he could be back in Egypt, in Alexandria at the huge library where he got such a thrill every day being able to sneak into that private elevator with his mother and go all the way down to the secret bottom level. It had all been so exciting, the most perfect life a little boy with a curious mind could ask for. To be loved by two equally interesting and mysterious parents, spending time with each at their exotic homes, and sometimes, most happily, at holidays or on his birthday, together. But, in just one day, it had all been stolen from him.

The reality hadn’t yet sunk in. Instead, he felt that at thousands of miles away he was suddenly too far removed to feel anything. To grieve for his mom, for the life he had. To do anything but try to cling to memories he already felt were fading away. The touch of her, the way she smelled, her giggling laughter when she let him tickle her feet.

Something settled in the cargo area behind him under all their gear, and Alexander sat up and was about to look when Montross barked at him to turn around and buckle up. They were leaving the city, heading off-road into the steppes.

Alexander looked out in awe of the vastness of this terrain, the open grasslands, the few lakes and rivers and the rolling hills stretching far to the north, where the white-capped peaks bordering Siberia glittered pristinely under a fiercely blue sky. It wasn’t hard to imagine what he’d been told by the guide, that in another two months this would all be covered with snow and ice and they’d have no chance to make this trip.

They made a slight turn and there was a hill, steeper than the others, with an enormous likeness of a man’s face upon it.

“There he is,” Montross said, pointing. “Genghis Khan.”

“His portrait,” said the guide, “laid out in white stones for all of Ulaan Baatar, and Mongolia’s visitors, such as yourselves, to see.”

Alexander blinked, keeping an eye on the image of Mongolia’s national hero as long as it was visible, until they left the main road and started on the bumpy trail northeast.

Toward Burkhan Khaldun, the Sacred Mountain.

Lulled by the jarring, bumpy ride, and exhausted from fitful naps on the plane, Alexander thought briefly about the mysterious woman who had come with them. Nina. He hadn’t seen her since the airport, but knew she was up to something, doing her own recon maybe with those military men who had left the sub with them.

At first, Alexander had hoped the stern-faced customs officials would identify Montross from law enforcement alerts or something, or would see that Alexander wasn’t along willingly, and someone would rescue him, but Montross apparently knew what he was doing. A lot of money changed hands, and the right officials nodded and let them go on their way, no questions asked.

So here he was, alone with his mother’s murderer. He was halfway around the world, so far from his home and his father. Hoping, believing that his dad and Phoebe, and the rest of the Morpheus Initiative, with all their psychic abilities, would be able to find him. Hopefully they’d succeed in no time at all. In fact, Alexander thought, they were probably on their way right now.

That gave him a little comfort, and with the Khan’s face still in his mind, Alexander yielded to the embrace of sleep, hoping for a dreamless slumber — anything except what came, gingerly at first, then surging on full-tilt.

Visions.

The nine ox-tail standard, carried high and charging into battle ahead of fifty thousand men on horseback, thundering over the snow-covered plains. A second contingent swarms along the eastern ridge and rains arrows down upon the hapless army caught in the valley, surrounded on all sides.

High above it all, wrapped in a blue cloak as the snow turns to a freezing rain, Temujin sits on a muscled black steed. The Khan’s hooded eyes follow the battle with rote interest, as if this was but another annoyance, an obstacle to overcome on the way to a far greater destiny… towers, domes and minarets covered with colorful mosaic tiles, glimmering in the desert sun, crumbling under the Mongol assault as monstrous catapults launch huge misshapen blocks into the air and over the walls of Koneurgenc, the capital of the Kwarizhm Empire. A hailstorm of epic proportions, the sky darkens as the rain of stones pummel into the stalwart edifices of this ancient city, reaching all the way to the Imperial Palace, where Mohammad huddles in prayer even as his soldiers race out to defend their lord, only to be cut down in a fusillade of arrows and an avalanche of boulders. Walls topple, towers crumble like cardboard game pieces, and soon the city burns.

Miles away, on a dune surrounded by his standard bearers, the ox-tails blowing in the hot wind, Temujin lowers his head and lets his smile form. “Now is the time,” he tells his chief. “In the terms of surrender, offer to spare the women and children only if the Sultan delivers me the contents of the tomb of ancient Cyrus, and only once I have obtained the key.”

“Surely,” says the chief, “Mohammad will deny its existence.”

“Then I will deny him his,” Temujin replies. “And after we have massacred everyone inside those walls, I will still find it. The agents of Blue Heaven have decreed that I should become the world’s savior. But first, I must be its conqueror.” His eyes cloud over with visions distant and epic. “And I must have that key.”

“What then, master? You spoke of the other two keys. Do we go to Bodrum?”

Temujin blinks. “Not yet. We know that one is safe at the remains of the great Mausoleum. It will be there when we need it. No, first, we must go to…”

… A crystal blue sea, a harbor filled with multi-colored sails and vessels of all types, and a sprawling city.

Alexandria.

Temujin rides hard, at the vanguard of a hundred men, thundering through the city, out through the Gate of the Moon and charging into the red-sand desert toward a distant outpost.

He glances back ruefully at the tower on the distant harbor, the once-proud Lighthouse. The Pharos. Two-thirds of its former size only, already wracked by earthquakes, it still stands proud and resolute, mocking him. Mocking his earlier attempt to plumb its secrets.

“Failure,” he mutters…

… as men holding torches and descend a dark stairway, passing two huge statues and stand before a wall etched with seven symbols.

He climbs back up the stairs, having commanded his men to turn the symbols, hoping what the old Chinese philosopher told him about the alchemical combinations will work.

But while the door opens, it isn’t enough. Only a trick, a ruse. A test — one that has found him wanting. Forty men die. Some burned to death, others drowned. Forty is enough. The Pharos is too strong, and Temujin is not worthy — not yet. But he will be. When the world is his, when the keys are his. Then, maybe then, he will try again. He will truly earn the Way into the Pharos, the path to the ultimate treasure.

So now he rides, his horse kicking up sand and creating dervishes that his followers burst through and scattered. Finally, he arrives at a small collection of huts, altars, stones and markers.

He dismounts before his horse even stops, running ahead, outpacing his men who finally catch up with him at an unassuming hillock under a mass of large stones no different from dozens of others.

Temujin reaches into his burka and pulls out a scroll, which he promptly unrolls, revealing a crudely drawn map. “Here!” he shouts. “It is just as I drew in my vision. Here, beside six other markers, between two blank obelisks.

“Here,” he says again, turning to his men, “is Alexander’s tomb. Dig! Keep anything of value you find, except for the stone, the one that looks like this.” He reaches for the cord around his neck and lifts the charm he took from Koneurgenc, the one from Cyrus’s tomb, a tiny piece of green stone shaped like a pyramid. “It will be on the body, around his neck maybe, or set in a ring. Bring it to me.”

Temujin steps away.

He kneels on the hot sand, and while his men work he meditates on his life, his future. His destiny.

Alexander Crowe awoke in the back of the jeep just as it came to a grinding halt.

Xavier Montross looked back, smiling broadly. “We’re here!”

As their guide drove them over the rough terrain, Montross stared with feigned interest at the scenery, the lush grasslands, the forests of pine, the flocks of sheep and cows, the lone camel. All the while, he had his thoughts primed for just one thing.

And while he waited, he occasionally reached inside the buttons of his shirt to feel the small triangular stone set as a charm on a silver necklace. He felt its power, sensed it tremble at his touch, the same as the Emerald Tablet. One and the same material, he had realized with excitement right away, after Nina had delivered it from the Petroneum. One of three just like it.

The other two were calling, reaching out for their brother.

After sixty miles in the jeep, cutting through rough grasslands, crossing meandering streams and navigating boggy marshes, they stepped out under a darkening sky and stretched, gazing up on the rising hillocks and toward the mountain range, and then back the way they had come over the vast steppes leading back to the Mongolian capital.

They had arrived at Burkhan Khaldun.

Their driver and guide, Nilak Borogol, led them to an encampment of a half-dozen felt tents—yurts as they were called. “This was all part of the Ikh Khorig, the Great Taboo,” he explained. “For centuries, this one hundred-square-mile area was defended ruthlessly. Trespassers were turned away — or killed.” He made a smug face. “Now, the government permits pilgrimages, and even allows tourists and foreigners entrance.”

“Foreigners like us?” Alexander said in a low voice.

Montross cut off Nilak’s response with a question. “Forbidden because the tombs of the great Khans are supposed to be here?” He spoke in a rushed voice, trying to sound like a naïve tourist. “Genghis, his sons Jin and Odai, and grandson, Kublai Khan?”

Nilak smiled, and in the dying light over the cooling winds, Montross could see the tattoo just peeking out over the guide’s sweater. “Yes,” Nilak said. “But it is sacred for many reasons. Its closeness to the great Blue Heaven, for one. Its majestic scenery, the life-giving rivers: the Kherlen and the Odon. But also it was here that Temujin, Chinggis Khan himself, while still a boy, evaded the vengeance of his father’s killers. The mountain sheltered him among its forests and hills, preserving him for his destiny.”

“So it was a place he never forgot,” Montross said.

“His father was killed,” Alexander said, repeating what he had heard. “And he survived? Now I see what made him so cruel to everybody.” He shivered in his hooded red sweatshirt.

“Not cruel,” said Nilak defensively, “merely just. He was no sadist. While other conquerors delighted in the torture and debasement of their defeated enemies, Temujin only doled out justice to those who had defied him. He once said to the sultan of the Kharmezhm Empire, ‘You have greatly sinned upon the world and your own people. Why else would God have sent someone like me to destroy you?’”

Alexander smiled, then gave Montross a cold look. “I like that. A lot.”

“Yes, it’s all very Homeric.” Montross pulled back strands of his red hair into a neat ponytail. “But still a little paranoid, right? He made sure no one could ever find his grave, venerate his body.”

“Oh, we venerate him,” Nilak said, fingers balling into fists. “Through his relics, his statues. His mausoleums. There are specific holy days of worship. Incense and songs, rituals.”

“And what of his body?” Montross glanced at the hills and the steep ascent of the sacred mountain before them, rising to a flattened peak about seven thousand feet high. “Where is it?”

Nilak regarded him coolly as the breezes let up. “No one knows.”

“But there are many theories, right?” Montross’s voice had lost its naiveté. “And these other camps here — Americans? Come looking for the same thing?”

“They have gone,” Nilak said with a dose of satisfaction. “Last month, and left their tents, some of their supplies. Gone the way of the Japanese archaeologists in the 1990s, who brought their ground-penetrating radar, their satellite survey maps and their tools, and found nothing. Some graves, but only of those more recent burials.”

Xavier turned his face to the mountain, listening to the wind sizzling through the firs. “They were looking in the wrong spot.”

He gazed at the deceptively difficult ascent, to be undertaken only with practiced horses who could navigate the steep rocky hillsides. “The Wall, right? Almsgivers Wall. Discovered by that Japanese team and dating to a much older era. It was the only area the government permitted them to search. They weren’t allowed on the peak or at the southern area called the Threshold, where hundreds of stone piles remain and lingering traces of a temple can be seen. And, what of other requests by similar, well-funded projects? Teams hoping to use satellite magnetometry to search for subsurface disturbances in the soil, a technique that would indicate areas that might have ditches — or tombs carved out of the ground? What about those? Why are the permissions not coming? What are they hiding?”

Nilak’s eyes turned cold, the blue leeching out into black, mirroring the great expanse of cloudless sky overhead. “Who are you, sir?”

Montross spread out his arms, smiling innocently. “Just a man and his son, out for a grand hike into history.”

Nilak stared at Alexander, considered the boy for a moment, then raised a hand, clenching his fingers into fists. At once, two Mongolian men emerged from the nearest tent.

Both had AK-47s slung over their shoulders, weapons which they promptly unhooked and turned toward Montross as they approached.

Montross noted the tattoos on their necks. “Ah,” he said, “the Darkhad come to greet us.”

Nilak held out a restraining hand and his men paused. A dog whined from inside the nearest tent, sounding more like a wolf, and Montross wondered if there were more men inside.

“You’ve come for the Great Khanite, the valley of the Khans,” said Nilak. “It was obvious the moment you landed in Ulaan Baatar. And your son here is no son. Although, he bears some resemblance.”

Alexander frowned. “What?”

“But it does not matter. The grave of my lord will never be found. He will remain undisturbed for all time.”

Montross blinked at him. “Why?”

“It was his wish.”

Shrugging, Montross said, “Wishes usually go unfulfilled. Now tell me, where is it?”

“You think we know?”

“Of course, you do,” Montross said. “You — I also knew you from the moment you volunteered to be our guide. You are of the line of Mubuqoi and Boroochi, Temujin’s favorite generals. The leaders of five hundred families who tended the lands in this area. Your master gave your ancestors special privileges in return for your promise to guard his remains, his relics, and to continue his worship.” Montross lowered his head, his eyes drilling into Nilak’s. “You know.”

“That was eight hundred years ago. So many generations. Memories fade.”

“Not this memory,” Montross said. “You’ve succeeded in a great game of deception, clouding the minds of your leaders and your people, the people of China and Mongolia alike, as well as the world. From the beginning, the Darkhad created false rumors, inciting historians and explorers, such as Marco Polo himself, into quoting prefabricated fantasy and outright misdirection. Throwing out names of fake mountains and imaginary rivers, providing fodder for future treasure seekers to chase their proverbial tails. Classic misdirection.”

Nilak’s gaze never wavered. “Who are you? How do come by such beliefs?”

Montross merely smiled.

“Very well,” said Nilak, glancing around at the wide expanse of the hills, the steppes where once the Golden Horde, the greatest army in the world, had launched their campaigns, conquering kingdom after kingdom and ruling the largest collection of people that had ever fallen under one leader. Nilak looked over the vast grasslands, hills and bogs; the empty, skeletal forest of pines burned in a great fire decades ago. Desolate but for a few packs of roving sheep and cows.

Nilak sighed and spoke two words.

“Kill them.”

Alexander cried out as the men raised the machine guns, looking to Montross for help, for some sort of saving word or plea, but Xavier just stood with his arms outstretched, still smiling.

He’s insane, completely whacko! Alexander thought, believing it was to be the last thought of his too-short life, before joining his mother, hopefully in Heaven.

Two gunshots snapped the night air. Crisp, loud, echoing off the hills of the Burkhan Khaldun. Alexander clenched his eyes shut, but not before first seeing something out of the corner of his eye: a dark form slipping out from the back of the jeep, from under the tarps and equipment they had packed in the cargo hold at Ulaan Baatar.

His eyes popped back open just as Nilak’s head whipped around to see his companions drop silently, guns unfired.

“Thank you, Nina,” said Montross, lowering his arms. His gaze never left Nilak’s. And his smile never wavered, not until Nina walked right up to their guide and placed the muzzle of her still-warm Beretta against the back of his head.

“Now,” Montross said, “where were we?”

“Check the tents,” he said after he had disarmed Nilak, taking away the guide’s sleek stainless steel Ruger SR9c. “Make sure we’re alone.”

Nina’s head cocked, eyes narrowing. She nodded and approached the first yurt, one with an orange glow inside.

“I will never betray the Khan,” said Nilak, still locked in a stare with Montross. “Never.”

Montross shrugged. He kept the Ruger pointed at the Darkhad while he reached into the pack slung over his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. We could torture you. Nina is an expert at such things. And out here, no one will hear your pitiful cries. But such tactics are uncomfortable for me, and unnecessary. Especially when I have this.”

He pulled out the object, glowing with a shimmering emerald aura, and for the first time, Nilak gave a reaction, as if a jolt ripped through his body. “Impossible.”

Montross cocked his head. “I see you know what this is. Why do you say impossible?”

“No one could penetrate the seal.”

“Why not? Because your Temujin failed?”

The Darkhad seethed. “Only because he had other demands on his time.”

Montross nodded. “Provinces to keep in line, adversaries to crush, I understand. So much to do, and all of it so much more important than the Truth.”

Nina came out of the first tent, then headed to the next.

Nilak said, “Nothing was more important than the truth, not to Temujin. It was why he called for the great philosopher-mage Chi-Chan from China to study the seven symbols his men discovered under the tower in Alexandria.”

“Lot of good that did,” Montross said, hefting the tablet. “Let me guess, you lost a few battalions there, eh? Before giving up? But regardless, we’ve got it. We did what your great leader could not.”

Nilak stared, then slowly nodded. But after a moment, he let his lips curl back into a smile. “But it is not enough, yes? You cannot read what you hold, cannot gain its secrets. Not without—”

“Without the keys.” Montross sighed. “Keys your master spent a lifetime trying to find. A search which your sacred book, the Secret History of the Mongols, fails to mention.”

“Then how do you know of it?”

“I”—he pulled Alexander closer to him—“we have our ways.”

Nina came out of a tent and headed for the next.

“I have seen,” Montross continued, “how your master subjugated the peoples of Persia, the world of Babylon, and took from there some of the greatest artifacts. Pieces he used to bargain for the lives of their princes. I’ve seen how the great Khan learned of the keys, and once the truth took hold, he would not let it rest. Having found one key, he sought the others. One of which was located in Bodrum, Turkey.”

“The Mausoleum,” Nilak whispered. “You killed him, my cousin.” It wasn’t a question.

Montross fingered the charm around his neck. “Not personally, but I had a feeling he might not make it.”

“Nevertheless, you will pay.”

“Oh? I didn’t think vengeance was your thing. Single-minded and all.”

Nilak glared at him. “Vengeance is most assuredly permitted, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our mission.”

Montross held up the tablet. “Oh yes it will. I am close. I have seen many burials, many elaborately staged ceremonies with white tents, rituals and the Khan’s standard. But thanks to your infernal exercises, where I know you’ve spread out his relics, buried some here, some there, and the true treasure only in one place, I don’t know exactly where it is, where the two keys have been kept. Except that they are on his body. That much I’m certain of. But I want you to know this one thing whether or not it helps in making your decision. I don’t want or care for the rest of your hero’s treasure. I just want those keys.”

Nilak said nothing.

“Tell me,” Montross said, “and you live. You can continue to preserve the secret. Go on playing your little mind-trick games with a billion people. I want the keys, and you’re going to—”

Nina screamed.

Something punched through the last tent, a small hole made by an arrow launched from a composite bow, taking her in the shoulder. She dropped her weapon, grunting, the arrow lodged in her flesh. And as Montross swung his gun around, the tent flaps burst open and a bright white stallion erupted from inside, bearing a cloaked rider, a dark-haired woman slinging a bow over her shoulder as she gripped the reins and galloped ahead.

Nina dodged, then picked up her gun with her other hand, turned and aimed. But the horse leapt, darting in front of Montross, then around so the rider could reach down and scoop up Nilak before turning and racing in a white flash to the woods.

Shots rang out, both Nina and Montross emptying their magazines after the fleeing horse. Bullets exploded into tree trunks and branches, kicked up sparks on the rocks as the horse wove in and out of the trees. With her last shot, Nina gave a smile of satisfaction.

A cry followed the dying echoes of gunfire as Nilak tumbled off the back of the horse, hit the ground and rolled. The horse turned and Montross had a glimpse of a face below the hood — a feminine, chiseled jaw line with sharp cheekbones and haunting eyes. Then, as Nina reloaded, the horse turned and fled into the safety of the trees.

For a moment, she had a clear shot at the rider’s retreating figure, and was about to fire when Alexander threw himself at her knees, bringing her down and then avoiding a backward slap at his face.

“Damn it!” Nina pushed him away, sprang up, holstered her gun, and then reached for the arrow in her shoulder. She grimaced, and then yanked it out with a muffled scream.

Barely showing a reaction, she scowled as she applied pressure to the wound. “Xavier, I’m sorry. I missed her.”

“Forget it,” Montross said, listening to the sounds of clawing hooves, the horse racing up the hill, where the jeep couldn’t follow. “Check on Nilak. And get on the sat-phone and call in the others.” In addition to Colonel Hiltmeyer and his squad of five soldiers, they had secured ten hand-picked mercenaries, ex-Chinese soldiers, dissidents whose loyalty to the highest bidder far outweighed their loyalty to an eight hundred-year-old dead man.

“They’re waiting beyond the ridge, as ordered,” Nina said, after making the call. “And should be able to get here in twenty minutes.”

They approached the fallen Darkhad, Montross dragging Alexander along with him. Nilak groaned and squirmed, his legs twitching. The bullet had caught him between the shoulder blades.

“I’m looking forward to this,” Nina said, standing over the man, who looked up at them now, biting back his pain.

“I die as my Lord,” he said. “Fallen from a horse.”

“Nonsense,” said Nina. “You’ll die when I say you die. When you beg.”

Something whistled through the air and Montross lunged, caught Nina and drove her to the ground just as an arrow thunked into the hard grassland at Alexander’s feet. He stood there alone, unprotected, and saw up the mountainside the flash of a white horse and the cloaked rider fitting another arrow.

“She’s aiming again,” Alexander said, still unafraid. For a moment, he thought their eyes met, his and the Darkhad’s, but then she looked away, a little to his right. And she let loose another arrow — one that struck home.

Nilak grunted and wheezed a satisfying gasp of air. Smiling, his hand settled on the shaft of the arrow stuck in his heart, and he met Alexander’s horrified stare. “Please, leave the dead to their rest.”

Another flash of white, and the horse was bounding away, even as Nina let loose with her Beretta.

“Damn,” she hissed. “Gone. And this one dead.” She nudged Nilak’s body with her foot. “So much for the easy way.”

Montross sighed, thinking for a moment. “It doesn’t matter. Our visions were clear. I saw the coffin buried inside this mountain. The funeral procession was led up these very hills. We’re on the right track. It’s at one of two probable locations up near the southern side of the summit. Once the rest of the team joins us with all our gear, we’ll proceed and narrow down the search.”

Nina kept her eyes on the hill, on the shadows within the forest. “I’ll go on ahead with the night-vision goggles.” She tapped her gun, caressing the newly installed LaserMax sighting device attached to the barrel. “I’ll find her.”

“Ah yes, your precious Beretta. Sometimes I think you love that weapon more than me.”

“It’s never let me down. And besides,” she said with a cold stare, “I know your heart belongs to another.”

Montross was silent for a moment and his eyes lost focus before snapping back to her. “Yes, well then. You take care of our Darkhad antagonist up there, but capture her if possible. And while you’re busy, Alexander and I will try again to remote view our long-buried friend.”

Qara Lan-Naatun watched from behind an ancient pine tree, gnarled and drooping with age. Watched as the intruders stood over the body of her brother, Nilak.

Her brother. She closed her eyes, praying that his soul now journeyed to the Blue Heaven, and would soon be at peace, rewarded for his lifetime of faithful service to the Master. But her heart ached for him, overwhelmed by the immensity of what she had done. What she had to do.

They would have tortured him, and Nilak was not as strong as some. She couldn’t risk that pair tearing him open for the secret. It was up to her now. Especially after the news from Bodrum. Alexia Nomantu had been killed defending the Third Key. Whoever they were they were strong, prepared and ruthless. And yet, this man and his “son” seemed different. Not archaeologists, nor scholars. Not warriors either, although the woman displayed enough skill. Yet the man she had overheard talking to Nilak. He possessed certain knowledge. Dangerous knowledge.

And that artifact… could it really be the sacred stone, the tablet itself? The one Chinggis sought all his life?

Still, it didn’t matter. The traditions were clear. No one was to disturb the Khan. No one. It wasn’t a matter of gold, of treasure and plunder. The rules, passed on for more than sixty generations now, were clear. Temujin must be protected so that he might continue his service to heaven. Even in the afterlife, Temujin was still protecting what he had rightfully earned.

And all Qara knew was that given the timing of this team’s arrival here, coming just hours after the news of Alexia’s death and the likely theft of Mausolus’s Key, Temujin’s secret was in jeopardy as never before. And if these invaders should succeed, she had no doubt the keys would be used to open something her Lord and Master — and sixty previous generations — had deemed too dreadful to allow anyone else to possess.

But as she watched the team below, and even as she saw the distant trio of jeeps heading her way, likely bringing men as well as heavy equipment, she couldn’t help but smile.

After all, despite the presence of the Emerald Tablet, despite what these invaders had said and believed they knew, the secret was still safe. The ruse still held.

They were looking in the wrong place.

2

Caleb and Phoebe ascended the steps and, after catching their breaths, took a moment to gaze over the three grand halls of the Mausoleum, three structures shaped like Mongolian yurts. White walls with red doors and domed roofs painted with blue and yellow designs. Caleb looked back the way they had come, down the stairs and across the concrete pathway to the well-trodden parking area where their minibus and two jeeps idled. Orlando and Renée were inside the minibus, working on the route for the next leg of their journey. And behind them: the vast expanse of the Ordos Desert.

They were 180 miles southwest of Beijing.

And a hundred miles away from the Mongolian border.

“So why are we here?” Phoebe asked, tugging Caleb’s shoulder. “It wasn’t really on the way.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he said, contemplating the Main Hall, the largest of the yurts.

“And we don’t really have the time. Montross has Alexander, and the longer we take…”

Caleb started walking, heading inside, behind two older women, heads bowed, carrying beaded necklaces and small bottles of something that looked like milk. “Montross needs Alexander. Needs us, I think. Agent Wagner confirmed that someone matching his description was seen leaving the airport at Ulaan Baatar in Mongolia. So he’s got to be heading for the most likely location — Burkhan Khaldun, the Sacred Mountain in the northeast. Poor Xavier. He must have let the literature and history lead his thoughts, control his visions. He asked himself the wrong questions.”

“But how sure are you that you’ve asked the right ones?”

“I’m not. You had the visions, not me. That ability is still inaccessible.”

Phoebe gave him a sympathetic look. “Well, you knew enough to pose the question to us. To ask to be shown what was inside funeral procession’s great white tent that marched across the Gobi in 1227.”

“And you saw it.”

“Well, Orlando mostly. We complemented each other, built on each other’s visions.” She blushed. “Sometimes we do that.”

He opened his mouth, about to ask an awkward question, but then thought better of it. “In that huge funeral procession back into Mongolia, to the Sacred Mountain, you saw through the fabric of that tent, through the wooden box itself, the knock-off golden coffin, with nothing inside. You confirmed that they wanted it to look like he was going back there and did everything to ensure the myth, including the massacre of eyewitnesses and those who made the long march.”

Still listening, half-seeing it again for herself, Phoebe bowed her head as she entered the faux mausoleum, mimicking what the other visitors had done. She stepped inside first, ahead of Caleb. “But we also know it’s not here. This is just ceremonial.”

Ahead of them, in the center of the hall, stood a thirteen-foot-tall white marble statue of Genghis Khan in all his triumph. On the wall behind this statue was a map of the Yuan Dynasty and the vast territory he and his sons had conquered.

“Yes,” Caleb agreed. “Ceremonial, but also spiritual. I believe it’s vital to honor the memory of Temujin.” He pointed past the statue, past the corridors leading in either direction, covered with frescoes of the Khan’s life, one passage leading to a hall filled with relics from his life, the other containing the coffins commemorating his three sons and his first wife.

“Come on,” he said, moving forward. “His coffin’s down here. We’re going to pay our respects. Honor tradition. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll get some hints about where his actual resting place is.”

Phoebe nodded and then, afraid that the group of milling tourists and worshippers might overhear, she whispered, “And then apologize for what we’re going to do next?”

He gave his sister a reproachful look at first, one that soon gave way to a smile when he saw the excitement bubbling in her eyes. “Most definitely. And pray his spirit forgives us.”

Back in the minibus, Orlando leaned forward in his seat from the second row and looked over Agent Wagner’s shoulder. Renée was in the driver’s seat, ticking away at her laptop, scrolling over field reports, maps and other intel.

“How ya doin’?” he asked, causing her to jump.

She turned, her eyes flashing. “Don’t you have something to do?”

Orlando shrugged, sat back and took a swig from his water bottle — water, mixed with Red Bull. He glanced out the windows. “Not really. Just enjoying my first time in a damned desert. Could you turn up the AC?”

“It’s fifty degrees outside.”

“Really?” Orlando rolled the window down halfway and stuck his hand out. “How about that? Some desert. Hey, so I’m sorry you got stuck with us misfits. I bet you wish this was just a typical domestic abduction thing, something where you could just bring in the SWAT team and take out the perps.”

“Seventy-five percent of all kidnappings end in the murder of the abducted person.” Renée looked back to her laptop screen. “And one hundred percent of the ten cases I’ve worked on.”

“Oh.”

“So no, I don’t wish I was back there. But I can’t say this one is making me feel any better. In fact—”

“You feel like you’re out of control.”

She blinked, stared at his reflection in her screen. “Again, don’t you have anything to do? Shouldn’t you be trying to remote view something?”

“Oh, I already did. While you were driving.” He smiled. “I was in the zone. Saw some interesting things.”

Renée shrugged. “So do another one. Or go in the mausoleum yourself, or out back and get some of that Mongolian beef I smell. I think they’re cooking it up in the field for some kind of re-enactment.”

“Mmmm, sounds good, but no. I want to stay and bother you.”

Renée turned. “I’m still wearing my gun, you realize. Annoy me again and I won’t be responsible if it happens to go off.”

Orlando crossed his arms, considering her. He looked back toward the mausoleum, then to their right, to the jeeps which held the second team of three local agents, a guide and a field officer. Should I risk it?

“Why not?” he said under his breath. “So, Agent Wagner, I’d like to ask you something.”

“Make it quick, I’m busy.”

“Okay, well, here it is. How did you get this case?”

She stopped typing. Turned around. “What?”

“I know a little something about FBI procedure. Studied up on it quite a bit before we left the States.”

“You studied procedure?” Her eyes were dark, flat stones.

“Seems all this was a little rushed. You guys coming onto the scene so fast.” Not backing down from her stare, Orlando continued. “A little unorthodox. And it also seems that your selection as lead agent came from much higher up.”

Silence. Then, “How could you know that?”

Orlando gave her a loopy grin. “You know how.”

Her eyes darkened. “I see.”

He took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the jeep beside them, the three faces pressed against the windows. He swallowed, noticing that the light on Renée’s cell phone, on the passenger seat, was on. Speakerphone? Walkie-talkie connection? It didn’t matter, he had already taken this past the point of no return and had to continue. “Does this — your interest in this case — have anything to do with that necklace you wear under your shirt?”

The doors on the other vehicle popped opened all at once and the black-suited agents leapt out just as Renée shook her head and reached for her gun.

“You should have gone out for the beef.”

Before leaving, Caleb decided to take Phoebe into the West Hall to see the relics.

“These are all replicas, right?” she asked, pushing past the visitors, some of them kneeling before the glass-encased pieces. A curved sword, a milk-pot, headgear.

Caleb walked up to the only item not protected by glass — a weathered-looking leather saddle. “Yes, except for possibly this one. There’s an account I read on the way up here, an interview with one of the Darkhad several years ago. Asked about the destruction of the relics during the Cultural Revolution, he inferred that the saddle alone might have escaped the zealots’ wrath.”

He approached it, glanced around at everyone else involved with the other pieces, reading the descriptions or leaving offerings.

“Want me to cop a feel?” Phoebe asked with a lopsided grin.

“Well, since I still think I’m kind of…”

“Impotent?”

He looked down as she whispered, “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” She reached for the saddle, brushed her fingers against it, closed her eyes and stepped back.

And as Caleb watched with pained jealousy, her visions took her away.

3

Nina Osseni darted around trees, dove through brush, ducked and ran from cover to cover as she ascended the mountain, following the trail of the white stallion and the fleeing Darkhad woman.

But after about thirty minutes, the trail had gone cold. Too many rocks, boulders and paths overrun with horse prints for her to determine which were new. And the light was fading, the bright blue of the sky leeched out by hungry violets and grays.

“Damn,” she whispered, stopping with her foot it mid-step. Catching her breath, she looked down. In the hazy twilight she had just seen the barest outline of a wire.

She stepped back, following the wire with her eyes, seeing where it ended up a tree on a mechanism controlling a raft of sharp stakes, all pointed down at her. “Diabolically impressive.”

Nina scanned the shadows on the mountainside, seeing all the nooks and crevasses. She put on her night-vision goggles and let the world jump into green and white, but it was still no use. No wonder the Darkhad have been so successful. She backed up slowly, expecting to hear the thwang of an arrow zipping toward her.

She would wait for Colonel Hiltmeyer’s team, his men and his supplies. Flak jackets and automatic weapons. Floodlights and flares. Grenades. But they’d have to be careful, and even then… She glanced at the trap again and imagined what else lay in store on the way up.

Best to send up the grunts first, one at a time. It was the only way they might make it to the top.

Frustrated and growing angrier by the minute, she made her way back down toward the camp.

On the descent, her thoughts turned to Caleb, imagining where he might be right now. Was he remote viewing her this very instant? For a moment she paused, feeling naked, exposed even more than being on this mountain at the mercy of an expert marksman. She narrowed her eyes, then quickened her pace.

Best to get back to Montross, and to the tablet. It had some kind of psychic deterrent built up around it, a kind of cloud that made its presence, and those around it, invisible to scrying eyes. Part of the reason it had gone undetected for so many centuries. And of course, Montross had something else, something like it — a sphere he had stolen from the Smithsonian archives years ago. It had shielded him from any prying eyes while he prepared for this mission. Now, they were doubly protected.

But as she got close to the camp and saw the men suiting up, preparing for the ascent, she found herself wishing their situations were reversed, that she was the one remote viewing Caleb. Seeing his every move, voyeuristically laughing, or cheering at his progress.

“We can make the Threshold before dark, if we move now,” Colonel Eric Hiltmeyer said. He was fitting on his vest over his camouflage threads and supervising his team of fifteen soldiers, all loaded with gear and weapons.

Montross was eyeing the mountain in the distance, with its twenty or more square miles of available hiding space just begging him to try. He narrowed his eyes, then turned and headed for the first tent. “Hold on, we need a little more precision before we go blindly tramping up there.”

“I agree,” said Nina, skidding and sliding down the last few yards to their camp. “And I think our friends up there have devised some rather nasty traps for the unwary. This might not be such a good idea in the dark.”

Hiltmeyer coughed in his hand. “Bullshit. We can handle it.”

Nina scoffed. “Doubtful, but you’re welcome to try. I’ll just hang back and watch the carnage from down here. I say we wait until morning.”

“No waiting,” Montross said. “Get ready to move on my return.” And with that, he stormed into the first tent, tossed back the flap, and stepped inside where just a lone candle bathed the white felt material in a pale glow, mixing with the emerald haze from the tablet beside Alexander.

Alexander emerged from his trance slowly, grudgingly. He had been sitting cross-legged on a mat on the hard ground with the Emerald Tablet right in front of him. Its aura had tugged at his consciousness once he was left alone with it, and he had spent several minutes just staring deeply into its oddly angled surfaces, trying to force the images into some sort of cohesive shape. But the edges wouldn’t line up, and the letters appeared to vibrate with a frequency all its own. Pulsing into his mind, tweaking parts of his brain, nudging him down paths of sight that were alien, powerful and terrifying.

But at last he gave in. He had to be brave, had to do this for his dad. For Aunt Phoebe. For Mom. It was up to him. He had to see. Maybe if he found what Xavier Montross was looking for, then all this could end. He could go home, be with Dad and forget all this.

But his home was gone. Burnt. All his toys, his books. His treasured books.

Anger swirled in his thoughts, but he pushed the emotion aside and trusted the waves of green, throbbing behind his eyelids, prying open his inner sight. And then he saw…

… a camel. One hump, no saddle, but a muzzle and its harness. Led across the snow-covered desert by a lone man wrapped tight in a llama-skin coat and a fur hat. The sun, distant and weak, follows the pair across the wilderness as the moon lights their way at night, enticing them to continue without rest.

Until finally they arrive at a frozen river, its surface like glass, reflecting the cold, distant constellations.

“Here?” the man asks the camel.

And the beast lowers its head. A female, she makes a whining sound, then half-trots, half-stumbles to the edge of the riverbank. Sniffing deeply.

“Here?” he asks again, setting down his pack, which he opens. He pulls out an ax. And a shovel.

The camel paws at the ground, then lifts its head in alarm.

Two dark shapes sprint across the landscape, converging from the north and the east.

With bows drawn.

The camel’s owner takes a step back, and is about to cry out when two arrows simultaneously pierce his chest. He slumps to his knees, eyes wide in disbelief. The ax drops. Arms at his side, he remains kneeling as if frozen, while the two forms approach, slower now.

One of them clicks his tongue, calming the beast. The other circles around it, draws a knife, then holds the camel’s head while he slits its throat, spilling hot blood upon the snow and ice.

After the beast stops thrashing on the ground, lying on its side beside her dying master, the two men turn to consider the man.

“He’s dead,” one says to the other.

“Too bad. We could have asked him.”

“But I think we know. This is the camel. The mother of the calf we buried last year.”

“Then it’s true. Camels have memories like elephants.”

One nodded, looking back at the beast. “A mother’s love is not easily swayed. We should have killed its whole family after burying the child with our master.”

“No matter. The site is safe. Now, even more so.” He looks out over the frozen expanse of the river, winding around in a huge, silver-coated “S” back to the distant black hills. “Our Khan is safe.”

A flash like a thunderbolt lights up the world…

… and the same river bends in the summer sun. Black flies swarm over a field of men slaving at the land, carving up trenches near the river, carving a path that will give it its S-shape.

“It is almost time,” one man on horseback says to his uniformed companions. “Ogadai is coming tomorrow to supervise and to formally close the tomb.”

“And then we will punch through the final barrier and divert the river over the entrance, there.” The general points to a large, dark aperture carved into the bedrock twenty feet below the earth. Men were still down there, moving up and down a wooden ramp, carrying items of great value — food, gold, urns full of jewels. Next, a single young camel is led by its harness into the depths. And in a nearby tent, twenty maidens are being prepared.

“Tomorrow,” the general says again, swatting a fly from his neck, “we finish this, make the sacrifices, and lead his caravan back to the Sacred Mountain. The secret of Temujin’s tomb shall be safe.”

“What about these laborers? They know—”

“I said, the secret shall be safe.”

Alexander’s vision fluttered, wind blew through the tent, the green aura around the edges flickered, and a voice whispered through the sands and the buzzing of flies.

“What have you seen?”

Alexander shook his head, whipping his hair across his face, and finally he pulled himself free. He looked up into the eyes of Xavier Montross, eyes that eerily reflected the color of the Emerald Tablet. Eyes that threatened to send him back into an ancient, inescapable world of dreams and visions, of blood and secrets.

“I—” he started, and then glanced again at the tablet.

And another vision suddenly exploded in a kaleidoscopic rush of intensity, more real than anything he’d ever experienced, except for the burst of fire in the lighthouse vault. It grabbed hold and shook him to his core as if to say: Not yet. You still need to see something more….

The same river weaves through manicured gardens and past cobblestone walkways and under marble bridges scintillating with jewels while fountains spray diamond-like drops high into the air, where flocks of doves fly around golden-tipped minarets, in and out of rose- and hyacinth-covered terraces. The river flows on, right through the center of a palace so breathtakingly beautiful, so bright with its polished white marble walls, its seven golden domes, its pillars of sparkling blue, it makes the rest of the dazzling city pale in comparison.

Thousands of people wander around the city, talking, reading, dancing. Wearing loose and colorful robes, they sit in the gardens and drink from golden cups while strings and flutes play on the breeze.

“Was this wise?” says a man on an arched bridge, dressed all in black robes, with a dark hat shading his face. He speaks to an older man, dressed the same.

Shaking his head, the elder says, “Kublai believes in the old philosophy, the adage: Whatever you wish to hide, keep it in plain sight and none will think to look there.”

“Nowhere plainer, or more obvious,” the younger man notes, pointing to the sparkling water in the river’s bend below their feet. He can almost discern the outline of a slight mound, just off-color, distinct from its surroundings.

“It will be safe,” the elder assures his son. “We will see to that. And when Shang-du falls, as all great cities must, and when Kublai goes to join his grandfather in the Blue Heaven, we will make sure this place, and all its towers and golden domes, its wealth and power, are demolished and then spread across the empire, until the ruin of this city is thought of no more.”

“A palace!”

Montross dropped to a knee, studying the boy’s face. “You saw a palace? What was it like? How big?”

Alexander blinked, willing his eyes to focus. Suddenly Montross had his hands on the boy’s shoulders, hauling him up and away from the direct sight of the Emerald Tablet. “Where is it?”

“It was huge,” Alexander said, squirming. “Seven domes. Lots of pillars. And a river.”

Montross dropped the boy and took a step back. Remain calm. Work with him, let him speak. “Okay, what else? What did you ask to be shown?”

Alexander shrugged. “Nothing. I just knelt down, stared at that the tablet, and I started seeing stuff.”

“Okay, think carefully, kid. Tell me everything you saw.”

Frowning, Alexander raised a finger. Took a deep breath. “What’s in it for me?”

Montross smiled. “Your life, for starts.”

“And my dad’s? Aunt Phoebe’s? The Morpheus Initiative? I really like that Orlando guy, he’s cool. I don’t want any of them hurt.”

“Help me and I’ll do what I can.”

“Same goes for that Nina lady. Keep her away. She doesn’t play nice.”

Montross laughed. “She most certainly does not. But come on, scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

Alexander made a face.

“Just an expression. Get me to Genghis Khan’s tomb, and I’m done with you, with all the Crowes. And the Morpheus Initiative too.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow like he saw Spock do all the time in the old Trek episodes. “What do you want?”

“The location. You know that.”

“No, what do you want from the grave? How much treasure do you need? And why can’t you see it on your own?”

“I don’t know why I can’t see it. I’m close. I did see them lower a coffin into the mountainside, but I can’t tell where. In eight hundred years the scenery has changed. I saw them trample the area with horses, then plant it over with trees. It’s probably in the forest, covered with roots, and we don’t have the time or the resources to get out the sonar and all the technology. There has to be an easier way.”

Alexander crossed his arms and gave a stern look. “I asked you what’s in the grave.”

Montross sighed, then reached down the front of his shirt. “Fine, I’ll tell you. See this?”

“Nice necklace.”

“Yeah, well our friend Genghis has two just like it, buried with him. I want to complete this set of three. Is that enough for you?”

“They kind of look like the Emerald Tablet.”

Very observant. “How about that?”

“What do those necklace pieces do?” Alexander asked. “Let me guess — make you live forever?”

“Apparently not. Didn’t work for Genghis, or the other guy who left me this one.”

“Well, you said he didn’t have all three, right?”

Definitely observant. Montross smiled. “Enough chit-chat. I told you I’d let you go if you help me. What I didn’t tell you was that if you don’t, I’ll find it anyway, and then I will let Nina and her friends out there finish making you an orphan. Now, what did you see?”

Alexander lowered his eyes. His shoulders sagged. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But you won’t like it.”

“Why not?”

“Because what I saw… it wasn’t on this mountain.”

4

Phoebe backed away, holding her head. The room spun, faces melding with artifacts. Tourists and worshippers blending with the walls and displays.

“Oh no,” she whispered, reaching for Caleb to steady herself. But he was indistinguishable from the blur all around her, the blur that now took shape, even as she was begging, Just show me what’s happening, show me what I need to see.

A blast of frigid air blew into her face…

… as she stands on a plain of ice under a picture-perfect sky. A fire roars, consuming logs and twigs, and roasting a large something that might have been a wild dog. A palatial tent ahead, the folds parting and a wizened old man, bald with a thin white braid of hair descending like a rope from his chin, inviting her inside.

“Come,Master Temujin. We are ready with the designs.”

Inside, candles and incense burn, a great llama-fur rug covers the ground, a table is set up with scrolls, maps and designs. “Right here,” the old man says, pointing at the map.

Temujin looks at it, recognizes the eastern coast of China and Mongolia, the island of Japan. The man points inland, to part of China. “Here is the burial site you asked to see. The concealed tomb of Qin Shi Huangdi, the first emperor of a unified China, who lived a hundred years after the Great Alexander. The designs for his mausoleum I have here.” He patted another scroll and started to unravel it, giving a glimpse of a pyramidal shape, and below it, a vast network of passageways, staircases and arches leading to an impossibly detailed cityscape. “Qin Shi began its construction as soon as he ascended to the throne, and it took thirty-six years to complete, at the cost of”—he waves his hand dismissively—“sources say somewhere around seven hundred thousand lives.”

“What of the city where he now dwells?” Temujin asks, and the old man smiles.

“Built in the immense hollowed-out cavern under the mound, his city is complete with everything a ruler would need for the next life: four temples, erected at the cardinal points, a central palace holding his concubines and his own tomb, storehouses of gold and silver, ornamental weapons and artwork. And surrounding the palace stand inner and outer walls, courtyards and gardens, rivers originally designed to run with Mercury.”

“Mercury?”

“A substance the emperor believed could bestow eternal life.”

Temujin chuckles. “Fool.”

“Yes,” says the old man. “The old man poisoned himself.”

Taking the scroll, unrolling it completely, Temujin studies the designs, unable to read the descriptive words. “Still, mercury has other advantages. What of the city’s defenses?”

“Eight thousand terra cotta warriors facing east, guarding against the Japanese threat; several hundred horses; chariots and archers—”

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

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

“When will it be ready?”

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

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

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

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

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

“As you wish.”

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

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

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

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

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

Forever vigilant.

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

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

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

“He’s in trouble!”

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

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

Two agents were hauling Orlando into the back seat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5

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

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

“Just wait,” came the response.

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

“Shut up,” the driver said.

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

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

“We’re professionals,” the other agreed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk,” Renée interrupted.

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

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

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

“Will you?”

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

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

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

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

“A cover,” Caleb said. “For what?”

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

The guards cocked the weapons, stepped forward, aimed—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This one will serve us well.”

The older man nods, his eyes sparkling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What warriors?” Renée asked.

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

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

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

“Where?”

“Somewhere in China. Um… where one of the first emperors was buried or something. And he had this huge layout underground, with lots of traps and things.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Of course there’s got to be traps. But anyway, Genghis told them to bury him inside with this other dead ruler, since it was conveniently already there, and no one would think to look in someone else’s place.”

Caleb knew she was bluffing. He didn’t need a vision to understand that. Temujin would never defile another ruler’s rest, or share his own. But maybe what Phoebe had seen was close enough to make her lie convincing.

Renée took a step back, stroking her chin. She turned to the nearest agent, spoke something in Mandarin, nothing that Caleb could make out. “Emperor Qin Shi Huang. In Xian. An archaeological team is currently excavating the site. They found the terra cotta army back in 1998.”

Caleb met his sister’s look, and dared flash her a blink of a hope. But then two gunshots tore through the moment and Phoebe screamed.

Orlando’s eyes lost focus and then tracked back to something that didn’t make sense. A strange red splatter formation down the front of his World of Warcraft shirt.

I’ve been shot, he thought. Those bastards did it, shot a handcuffed prisoner. He blinked, astounded at the lack of pain, sure they’d hit his spine. Paralyzed. Well, at least that’s the way to go.

His eyes blurred, then focused again when he heard a scream and a loud pop! Again something warm splashed on him, on his neck, the right side of his face, with what felt like tiny pebbles. Why can I feel that?

He shook his head and wiped his face on his shoulder.

“…are you?” asked a voice.

“Huh?” He still couldn’t see. Just a dark, slender shape outside his window, pointing something shiny at him.

“I asked who you are.” A woman’s voice. Heavily accented, confident and powerful.

“Orlando Natch, at your service.” He rubbed his eyes clean with his shoulder, then turned, trying to show off his shiny wrist bracelets. “Whoever you are, please help. I’ve got friends in there, and—”

“And they’re as good as dead,” said the woman, “unless you convince me in the next five seconds that you’re not after the same thing as these agents. Or the people I left earlier today on a mountaintop in Mongolia.”

“Outside!” Renée yelled to her agents. “Shots came from outside!”

She turned but kept the gun trained on Phoebe. “What else? Tell me now!”

“If you’ve hurt Orlando…”

“Shut up!” she shouted, then repeated to Caleb, “Tell me now, or she dies too.”

“You can’t rush remote viewing,” Caleb said, quickly getting in step with Phoebe’s con. “It’s given us one hit, but now we should all sit together and focus our visions on this Xian and the emperor there, see what we can come up with.”

“So you can collude together and hone your lies? Send me in the wrong direction? I don’t think so.”

Another gunshot, then automatic fire. Renée cursed as she turned toward the door. Two dark shapes had rushed in, guns drawn. Renée dropped to a crouch and fired, knocking one back and wounding the other, who returned fire, missing. Caleb and Phoebe dropped to the floor, covering their heads. Caleb rolled, saw Renée get up and aim again. And then saw a shape at the window. But Renée fired down the hallway first, and a red spray burst from the other black-clad intruder’s head. She stood, turned, and took two bullets in her chest. She stumbled back, staring down without growing comprehension, then another shot threw her into the wall below a replica shield.

She slumped to her knees, then fell face-forward.

“Go!” Caleb shouted, as Phoebe lay there, too shocked to move. He got to her, pulled her up by the arm, even as the steady footfalls ran toward him. A shadow fell over Phoebe, and Caleb lowered his head. Raised his arms.

He looked up and saw a startlingly serene face, crowned with straight midnight-black hair, tanned skin and warm eyes the mirror of a broad turquoise sky. She was dressed in a black ski jacket and black jeans with knee-high boots.

“Your friend is outside, and he’s convinced me not to kill you if you come along with me right now.”

Caleb helped Phoebe to her feet, keeping a wary eye on their rescuer. “I guess we’re going. And thanks.”

“You keep dangerous acquaintances,” the woman said, leading them through the hallway, stepping over other black-clothed bodies.

“You,” Caleb said, “are you Darkhad?”

She froze, then turned her head, considering him. “My name is Qara, and yes, I am. As you’ve guessed. But now, I’m taking you to Beijing, and then seeing you on a plane home.”

“Can’t,” Caleb said. “Not until I save my son.”

She studied his face. “Your boy?”

“Abducted by a man named Xavier Montross.”

“And,” said Phoebe, “a nasty bitch named Nina Osseni.”

Qara’s eyes turned dark. “Montross. He has red hair?”

Caleb nodded eagerly. “You’ve seen him? Is Alexander—”

“The boy was fine when I left his group in the Khenti Mountains. But they killed my friends.”

“I’m so sorry,” Caleb said, taking a deep breath, but inwardly nodding to himself, releasing a cry of relief. Alexander’s okay. Kid’s probably driving Montross nuts. “So they’re looking on the Sacred Mountain, following the wrong visions.”

Qara tightened her grip on the gun. “Why do you say they’re in the wrong place?”

“Because,” Phoebe said, “we’ve seen—”

“Because you’re here,” Caleb inserted, realizing his error. “Just a guess. If Montross’s team was on the right track, you never would have left them.”

Qara eyed him for a long moment, analyzing his face. Finally, she said, “True.”

Over her shoulder, Caleb saw a jet-black Hummer idling with Orlando inside, his face pressed against the window. The other visitors were leaving the parking lot, some running, others driving or biking. In the distance, he heard sirens.

Caleb blinked and looked away from her penetrating gaze. “But I’m sorry, we can’t leave yet. We need to find the tomb. It may be the only way to get my son back.”

Qara shook her head. “You won’t use my Lord’s secret as a bargaining chip.”

“I don’t want to, but I don’t believe there’s any other choice. Montross will come, and he will find it.”

“You said his visions were wrong.”

“And he’ll figure that out, soon enough.” Or Alexander will.

She narrowed her eyes at them. “And where do you think it is?”

Back in the western hall, Renée could still hear them. She lay flat on her stomach, wincing. The Kevlar vest had stopped the bullets, but the pain had drilled into her ribs, her breastbone. It felt like her lungs were on fire. But she had to lie still. Couldn’t give herself away, even though every cell screamed at her to get up, pick up her gun and blow that bitch to hell, and then start in on Phoebe and Caleb.

But that had to wait.

She had to listen.

This wasn’t over yet. She had played her part perfectly on this mission. Played up the dedicated FBI agent, sympathetic to Caleb’s plight, and his talents. Got them to lower their guard, but then that damn kid had too much time on his hands and went snooping where he didn’t belong. Well, her master and colleagues feared this might happen, and she knew the risks. Which was why Plan B was always ready. Her security force, listening in at all times for any sign the Morpheus team had got wind of who she really was. At that stage, the operation turned from one of stealth to one of brazen force.

More than one way to skin this cat. Besides, she never believed she was in any danger. Not with these people. She was protected, chosen.

She was fated to find those keys and fulfill her destiny.

“Tell her,” Caleb said, looking at Phoebe, “what you saw.” They were in the hallway, just past two dead Darkhad and before the other pair of Renée’s men, cut down at the entrance.

“What do you mean, saw?” Qara asked. “When?”

“We’re kind of psychic,” Phoebe admitted, looking to Caleb first for approval to elaborate. “Remote viewers. We find things, and can sometimes see into the past.”

Qara stared at her, then at Caleb. Her face gave away nothing. “And what did you see?”

“He’s in a city, a huge city, inside a domed palace.” Phoebe bit her lip, eyes losing focus, remembering. “Underground.”

Qara remained frozen, just listening.

“I saw a river, and terra cotta warriors.”

“But,” said Caleb, “we told that agent in there it was Qin Shi Huang’s mausoleum, and that Genghis Khan just borrowed a pre-existing site.”

Phoebe cleared her throat. “But I saw the truth. Saw them merely model a new mausoleum after Huang’s older one. Saw them hollowing out great caverns underground, building an entire walled city, complete with a river and a small sea, gardens and monasteries, all for the dead. But it’s somewhere else.”

“Where?” Qara asked breathlessly.

“Why don’t you just tell us?” Caleb snapped. “We’re close. An hour or so with Orlando digitally mapping the exterior of the entranceway, designed from what Phoebe saw, and then matching the images to—” He looked at Phoebe, who had slumped forward, rocking. She slid sideways, supported against the wall.

“What?”

“Never mind Orlando,” Phoebe whispered. “I’m seeing… something.”

Caleb held her hand and she gripped him back, tighter.

“Paper,” she said sharply. “Give me paper, a pencil.”

He dug into her pack, pulled out the ever-handy sketchpad. And then Phoebe was down on her knees, eyes gone almost completely white, oblivious to the gun Qara still trained on them, oblivious to her look of confusion.

Caleb set the pencil in her right hand, the pad in her left. And she immediately bent down and started to sketch…

… a lonely farmhouse on the English moors, not far from a small cobbled church…

Tear off the page. Next…

… a single room, a candle and a chair. A man asleep in the chair, an open book on his chest, an empty glass on a nearby table, with a medicine stopper beside it….

Next…

… letters at the top, spelling the name “COLERIDGE” underlined twice…

“Coleridge?” Caleb said, reading it aloud. “Coleridge… Oh my—”

“I don’t believe this,” Qara said, barely above a whisper.

Phoebe’s eyes focused. She dropped the pencil and stood up. She glanced at Qara, then to Caleb, her face lost in confusion. “What?”

“Phoebe,” Caleb said, “you’re magnificent.”

“I know, but what did I see?”

“A clue. Now I know,” Caleb exclaimed triumphantly, “where he’s buried.”

Qara groaned, raised the gun. “And now I’m sorry, but I think I have to kill you.”

A shot rang out, Caleb and Phoebe winced, but only the statue of Genghis Khan was struck — a wild shot, blasting off one of his hands. They turned and saw Renée, hobbling against a wall, leaning out from cover to shoot. She held her ribs with one hand and aimed with the other.

She fired again, but this time Caleb grabbed Qara and pulled her back toward the door and out of the line of fire. Phoebe was already in full sprint, pushing through the door, stumbling outside. Qara followed, but Caleb stopped over the body of one of the fallen agents and scooped up the AK-47. He hefted it, then throwing caution to the wind, turned the corner and squeezed off a burst of deafening fire at Renée. Never holding such a powerful weapon, it nearly rattled free from his grip. The bullets went wild, spraying the walls and the ceiling, missing Renée by a mile.

Then her hand swung around, finding Caleb in her sights.

Caleb turned and bolted as more shots rang out.

Through the door he ran, just as the Hummer launched forward and the back door opened, Phoebe waving him in. Four large strides and he was there, jumping inside, slamming the door behind him.

Renée appeared in the mausoleum’s doorway, still firing at them, when four white and blue jeeps roared into the parking lot — Chinese military — sirens blaring. Caleb looked back and saw Renée confidently running toward them.

Did she have connections with this crowd as well?

“Just who the hell is that FBI chick?” Phoebe asked from the back seat.

“I don’t know,” Caleb responded, then abruptly swung his weapon around, aiming at the back of Qara’s head. “But one thing at a time. Orlando, get her gun, and Qara, please just drive.”

He saw her eyes flash in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’re sworn to protect his secret, but believe me in addition to us psychics, you’ve got another team of highly resourceful treasure-hunters on the trail of your master’s whereabouts. And unless you’ve got an army of Darkhad left to help, you might need our help.”

“I thought,” said Qara, “you were planning to break into the tomb.”

“We are,” Caleb admitted, “but not to steal. Temujin can remain, along with all his treasure and his secrets. We just need to protect what Xavier Montross is looking for. If he finds it—”

“We’re all screwed,” Orlando said as he snatched away Qara’s gun.

Qara accelerated, keeping an eye on the dirt road behind them as they roared into the desert, bounding over the sparse grasslands toward a dusty horizon.

“I’m guessing,” Caleb said, “that you don’t have any Darkhad at the actual site.”

“There are not many of us left,” Qara whispered.

“How many?” asked Phoebe.

“I left four on Burkhan Khaldun, but Montross brought in reinforcements — soldiers. They will try to pick off those men there, but—”

“But that’s it?” Phoebe asked. “Your people didn’t stay close to the real site?”

“Why would we? That would only draw attention.”

“What real site?” Orlando asked. “Did we find it? Where are we going?”

“Yeah,” Phoebe said. “Where? I’m still lost underground somewhere. What’s with this farmhouse I saw and someone named Coleridge?”

“Samuel Coleridge,” Caleb said, sitting back, still keeping his grip on the AK-47. “The English poet. The story goes that in 1797 he was in ill-health and stopped for a rest at a secluded farmhouse somewhere near Devonshire. It’s believed that he took some opium, and while reading a travel book, fell asleep”—

“Been there, done that,” Orlando said. “But maybe not opium.”

—“and had a dream. I’m wondering now if it might not have been more of a vision, a remote vision. He woke and wrote down part of his dream, but then a guest showed up, and when he sat back to finish it he could only capture fleeting bits of it.”

Qara’s expression fell. She shook her head. “I don’t understand how this is possible, how you know.”

“We don’t understand how it works either,” Caleb admitted. “Sometimes we’re just shown what we ask to see, other times we see what we need. It’s as if some unseen hand controls the projection booth in our minds, and we’re just in the audience, watching.”

“I’m still lost,” Phoebe said. “I was a science geek. English lit I kind of slept through.”

“Ditto,” said Orlando, “but that’s why God invented Google.” He flipped open his notebook tablet and accessed the web.

“I don’t remember all of the poem,” Caleb said. “Just a few lines: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran / Through caverns measureless to man / Down to a sunless sea…”

Orlando clapped his hands together. “Aha, you skipped Coleridge’s first line: In Xanadu did Kublai Khan / a stately pleasure-dome decree.”

“Xanadu,” Phoebe whispered, and Qara made a soft moan.

“Kublai Khan was Temujin’s grandson,” Caleb told her, “and built his marvelous summer palace and imperial center, the likes of which dazzled visitors including Marco Polo, here in Mongol-controlled China. At Shang-du or Tei-bing — also known as Xanadu.”

“And he built this place,” Phoebe asked, “over the spot of his grandfather’s tomb?”

Caleb saw Qara’s reaction, the brief closing of her eyes, and knew he was right.

“As above, so below.”

6

Alexander felt like a farm animal, herded into the lead jeep — more of a tank-like thing with seriously thick metal plating, tinted windows and leather seats — and forced to sit right between Xavier Montross and Nina Osseni, on the hump.

The military guy, Hiltmeyer, drove, while someone named Harris, a soldier with a crew cut and a square jaw, sat in the front passenger seat. He had a machine gun in his lap. Alexander squirmed in his seat, looking over his shoulder, past the containers, portable generators, body armor, weapons and digging equipment, to look out the back window at the other four vehicles revving up behind them.

“On our way,” Hiltmeyer said, turning from the base camp and away from the Sacred Mountain, leaving the Khenti Mountain range in their wake. “Program the route, sergeant.”

“Already done,” said the soldier up front, after finishing up with the GPS assistant, and lighting up the map on the small built-in screen.

“Xanadu.” Montross shook his head, his eyes blinking quickly. “All this time, everyone who looked for the Khan’s grave… right under their noses.”

“They tricked you good,” Alexander said quietly.

“Tricked everybody good.” He glanced past Alexander, to Nina. “Now that we have time, let’s be sure about this — and see exactly where it is we need to excavate. I don’t want to waste any time when we get there. Go ahead, Nina. Touch him.”

“What—?” Alexander bolted upright, but Nina had already reached down, grasped his right wrist and took it in an iron-fisted grip.

“One of her special talents,” Montross said, his words drowning in the gunning of the motor, lost in the moans coming from Alexander’s own throat. Unbidden sounds released from the primal source of his most recent visions, rising up again.

Replayed, this time for the sole enjoyment of the woman clenching his wrist. Nina, her eyes gone white, head back, in almost ecstatic pose.

Taking.

Seeing.

She released him, flexed and rubbed her fingers as if singed, and took a deep breath. “Got it.” She rubbed her hands together, then gently touched Alexander’s head. “I saw the spot over the river, the entrance. There were early Darkhad members staring down at it from a gilded bridge in Xanadu.”

“It’ll look a lot different now,” Montross said. “I considered visiting Shangdu years ago on a trip to Beijing to see the Wall.” He grinned. “To see the Wall actually defended and rebuilt, first-hand. But I thought better of wasting the time to go all that way, since there’s nothing at old Xanadu anymore, and no other sites of interest in the vicinity. Just some perimeter stones and an archway. Almost no tourism.”

Alexander perked up, trying to get over what had just been ripped from him. “The whole city’s gone?”

Montross nodded. “After Kublai Khan’s death in 1294, later generations couldn’t sustain the Mongol empire. Xanadu fell out of use, despite its splendor, and the Chinese emperors chose the more strategically located Beijing as their capital.”

“So,” Colonel Hiltmeyer said, glancing in the rearview mirror, “we’re going to a field of old rocks?”

“Exactly. The perfect hiding spot. They sent us scurrying up distant mountainsides, even sacrificed themselves to make it look like we were close, and all the while, they knew it was far away, in the middle of nowhere.” He leaned forward and started talking to Hiltmeyer, discussing strategy and deployment of the men once they got there.

Nina took that as her chance to go back — back to the well for more.

“Alexander,” she whispered, leaning in close even as the boy shrank away. She again took his wrist, hissing, “Play along. This will be over in a moment.”

“What are you doing?” he whispered back.

“You’ve been keeping secrets,” she said. “I saw a glimpse. Something else, something you’ve been seeing. A lot.”

“No.”

“Oh yes, boy. The Sphinx. And the door. Show it to me.”

“No, please, it scares me. I don’t like to—”

“Now!”

A rush of something like electricity tingled through Nina’s fingertips and up her arm, jolting the synapses in her brain, firing the spaces between them, lighting up a holographic screen in her vision.

Maybe, she thought, it was the proximity of the Emerald Tablet, in a sturdy plastic case at Xavier’s feet. Or maybe it was just being so close to the boy and to Montross, their power seeping into her, augmenting what talents she had.

Dimly, she heard Montross and Hiltmeyer talking, someone asking about the whereabouts of Caleb Crowe, and the fact that they had lost him after Turkey, assuming he was on his way either to Mongolia, or else he was already ahead of them, nearing Xanadu.

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Montross said, “which is why I took his son. Had a feeling it would charge Caleb up, get him to the church on time, as the old song goes.”

Nina tuned him out and tuned in to the presentation she had tapped into: the boy’s vision, his suppressed dream. Just as Caleb’s childhood had been plagued by recurring dreams of his father in an Iraqi torture cell, and images of an eagle and a star — implicit answers to his life’s most desperate questions provided by his hyper-aware subconscious — so too did Alexander’s psyche conjure visions that he might someday need to see…

… the Giza plateau, on a torch-lit walkway leading to the forepaws of the Great Sphinx. Only, its head is different, that of a lion instead of the ill-proportioned pharaoh countenance that sits on its body today. Behind the Sphinx looms a triangular leviathan, an enormous pyramid blotting out the stars, its shape only visible by the absence of light.

Approaching the stairwell between the paws, descending the marble stairs. Down a flight of large steps, into a room of solid gold walls bereft of writing, and two emerald pillars flanking a great door — a huge imposing slab of onyx, black as the blackest starless night.

Before that doorway stands a man dressed in regal attire, a pharaoh’s headdress, a gilded snake crown on his head, the flail and staff held in his hands.

“Welcome, Djeda. Thank you for obeying my summons.”

“I had little choice, Lord Khufu.” The voice was sad and resigned.

“You are a magician.”

“Some call me that.”

“And you have certain access to knowledge, lost wisdom concerning what may lie behind this door.” He motions over his shoulder. “This door that cannot be forced, bent, dislodged or even scratched. My workers uncovered it while excavating this area, but have found no record of its purpose, much less how to proceed beyond it. But I believe you may know.”

“I do, My Lord.”

“You can open it?”

“I did not say that.”

“Do not try my patience.”

“I said I know how it can be opened, but I do not have the power to do so.”

“Who does?”

“There is a tale, recorded on building texts at the Temple of the Great Horus in Edfu, that refers to sacred books and objects of power that our Lord Thoth deemed too dangerous for mankind. And so he gathered them all and hid them away in a great underground temple, protected by power staffs and pillars, and he then sealed the entrance, leaving only its guardians to know of its whereabouts.”

“Until I discovered it,” Khufu says. “Perhaps I am destined to collect those objects, those sacred writings, and become like the gods themselves. Who are these guardians? Are you one?”

“I am not worthy. But I gained some knowledge, scraps of the truth, so that I know what this is. I know this is the place, the door to the sacred temple which lies below this plain, through passages remote and twisting, further guarded by magic and cruel invention. I know this only, but no more.”

The Pharaoh makes an impatient, wolfish snarl. “Who can open this door?”

“A prophecy tells of three keys.”

“Keys?” The Pharaoh turns. “I see no place for keys.”

“Three keys,” Djeda continues. “For three brothers.”

“What brothers?”

“I do not know. It is said they were, or will be, born on the fifteenth day of Tybi, to the wife of the high priest of Ra.”

“And you do not know if they have already been born? If they walk among us?”

“No.”

“Then I will send for this priest. And every priest of Ra.”

“You may have a long wait.”

Pharaoh Khufu turns and faces the door. He bows his head. Places a hand on the smooth door. “I found this for a reason. I will not be denied.”

“It is not for me to say, Lord, if your destiny lies behind that door.”

“I heard you, magician.”

Nina blasted out of the vision, rocked with a jarring bump on the rocky terrain as the jeep banked around a bend in the Kherlen River, speeding toward the Chinese border.

She released Alexander, who was sweating, eyes heavy, barely open.

“What happened to him?” Montross asked, turning around. Alexander slumped to the side, breathing slowly, exhausted.

Nina shook her head, lowered her eyes. “Nothing. Car sick, maybe.”

“Tough it out, kid. Going to be a long ride.”

Nina took a deep breath, then leaned back, trying to appear relaxed. “Xavier? I never asked you about your childhood. Did you have sisters? Brothers?”

Frowning at her, he shook his head. “Remember? Parents killed when I was six? And no other rugrats before or after me, far as I know.”

“You never looked?”

His expression darkened despite the waning sun blasting through his window. “Okay, my father? He wasn’t my real father.”

“You were adopted?”

“No, I only said my dad wasn’t my dad. He married my mother after she had me.” He sighed, and his eyes dulled with anger. “I only tried to find my real father once. Saw my mother with someone. An oily haired college-type.” He waved his hand. “Some quick tryst, and she never saw him again. I got that much.”

“What else?”

“What else? That’s it. That’s all I wanted to know. He was a prick, and I had more important things to chase after than someone who only wanted to chase after coeds.”

“Oh. Okay, then. So, when was your birthday?”

“What the hell is this, twenty questions?”

She gave a weak smile. “Maybe I want to send you a card, and a tie.”

“It’s October fifteenth, okay? My favorite color is red, I love pistachio ice cream, long walks through ancient ruins, treasure hunting and seeking magical objects of immense power. And I’m not afraid who gets hurt — or killed — in the process. Anything else, dear Nina? Are we a good fit?”

She laughed. “No one’s a match for me, you know that.”

“Black widow?”

“The blackest.” She closed her eyes, thinking. The Emerald Tablet, so close. It could enhance her visions, but she was never good at initiating them, only in bringing such powers out of other people, and then sharing in the sights. She could try it with Xavier, try to view his father again, but she wasn’t sure if this was something she wanted to share with him just yet.

Three brothers.

Three keys.

Alexander had been seeing this vision for years, but never anything more. No further details, but whatever this was, it was vitally important, crucial that he understand it. But he was still too young, and couldn’t rationalize it out.

But maybe she could, given more time with the boy.

On the drive, as Montross closed his eyes, meditating or dreaming, she wasn’t sure which, Alexander fell completely asleep. He rested his head on Nina’s shoulder, perhaps drawing comfort there in a longing for his lost mother. She shifted in her seat to prevent it from lolling forward.

Who were the three brothers? she thought. Surely they hadn’t been born in Khufu’s time, around 2600 BCE, or any time in the following forty-five hundred years, or else the door would have been opened, and the keys would not still have been hidden away, protected.

Guarded.

Some prophet and seer had glimpsed the future, seen enough to reveal a prophecy. It was possible the three could be here, right now. Who were they?

She had an idea now, based on what Montross had told her and Alexander’s vision of his parents’ car crash. His true father.

A college-type.

She thought back to her time in Alexandria, one night with Caleb, sharing his visions, his dreams. And of course, she had read George Waxman’s extensive file on the Crowe family. Especially the details on Phillip, Caleb’s father. The college professor.

A smile formed on her lips.

Things were certainly getting a lot more interesting.

7

Renée Wagner put away her badge and her credentials. The lead sergeant, Chang Xiaolong, returned her satellite phone after his supervisor in Beijing had sternly ordered him to provide Renée with anything she wished.

She spoke in Mandarin, with authority, as she removed her Kevlar vest, trying not to wince. “He told you what we have here?”

“Yes, Agent Wagner.”

“A threat to your national security. And an opportunity. Your men, are they trustworthy? Loyal?”

“Of course, every one.”

“Good, then not a word of this gets out. And they are now under my control, is that clear?”

He bowed his head quickly, and Renée smiled. Must’ve gotten his ear chewed off. “I want all these vehicles on the road now. But first, load them with halogen floodlights, generators, dynamite, shovels and flashlights, extra ammo. And call in a helicopter. I want you and three of your best shooters there ASAP. And find me a new vest. Please.” She dropped the one that had just saved her life. She touched the chain around her neck, pulled out the charm and stared at it — at the lance spearing the dragon, the ancient symbol.

Soon, they would have the keys. Caleb and his new friend couldn’t stop her. And if Montross was on his way, she would deal with him, too.

“Agent? The jeeps — once they have the supplies, where should I send these men?”

She turned her face to the cool wind and the bright blue sky.

“To Xanadu.”

Senator Mason Calderon followed his armed escort through the sub-basement halls, around a corner and through a door requiring a palm-print verification and retina scan. He moved slowly, deliberately, walking with a cane although he didn’t need it. Smooth mahogany shaft, the cane had a golden handle in the shape of a coiled dragon with a spearpoint through its skull. Calderon’s fingers gently held the solid gold tip, carrying it more than using it to lean on as he glided down the silent polished floors.

Various black-ops projects were given space down here in these well-protected and anonymous bunkers, and this one’s budget was modest compared to some. Not concerned with regime change, terrorist tracking or domestic surveillance, this one had simply existed for the purpose of monitoring certain sites of archaeological and cultural significance.

But eight years ago, after the incident at the Pharos site, its mandate had changed from passive observation to direct participation, and preparation for an event more than five thousand years in the waiting.

A new leader had assumed control, a man that was particularly motivated, a high initiate in the true organization behind this project.

As soon as the door whisked shut behind him, Senator Calderon set his briefcase on the table and ignored, for the moment, the man sitting at the far end, in the shadows, visible only by the dim glow of his cigarette.

Something smelled foul, not entirely masked by the smoke.

Calderon stared at the eight flat screens mounted on the side walls. Four screens displayed only text and numerical data, coordinates of various teams in the field. The other four showed satellite images of several sites: a familiar blue-domed structure; a downward-facing view of the desert plain, three pyramids and a reclining stone sphinx; and then moving views of two sets of vehicles speeding across barren terrain.

“How close are they?” Calderon asked.

A throat cleared in a raspy, agonized cough. “Which team? The Morpheus Initiative or Agent Wagner’s?” Calderon could barely make out the words. The voice, ravaged, grating as though speaking through a mouthful of hot ash. He could only imagine the pain the man must be enduring, and to have refused drugs and treatment. True, it was a miracle he survived, and clearly he was favored, but maybe this was his punishment for failure.

Calderon looked at the screens. “Where’s Renée?”

“On her way. She’ll catch them soon.” His voice tapered and faded in a shrill hiss. “But, you should be more concerned about our third party.” A scarred and bandaged hand emerged into the cone of light, a hand with two fingers free of wrappings, revealing a single large black ring on the ring finger. A ring with a familiar design. The hand pressed a button on the table-top remote and the scene with the mausoleum switched to another view, zooming down in increments until focusing on a gap in a pine forest where four jeeps were parked, the occupants outside.

“Rest stop for Montross?” Calderon asked.

“Probably the boy,” said the voice. “They’ll be on the move again soon. Intel from Agent Wagner seems reliable. Confirmed by the Montross team as well, after their initial mistake.”

“Xanadu,” said Calderon. “Amazing. So, now we take them out?”

“No.” The shadows deepened as the cigarette went out. “Finding Genghis’s mausoleum was the easy part. Getting inside, through the surprises he’s got waiting for us, will be hell. So no, we need them. Caleb and Phoebe, and their talents. See that Agent Wagner doesn’t start shooting right away.”

Calderon’s hands clenched into fists. “It was too risky putting her in the middle of their group when they were still so paranoid after Waxman. Just one probe and that kid got pretty close to us. Lucky he was too preoccupied and distracted to focus his abilities. But we don’t know. What if they’ve figured out who we are?”

“Doesn’t matter what they know. Caleb’s preoccupied with saving his son. He’ll get those keys.”

“Or Montross will. And who knows what he’ll do with them?”

“He’ll do exactly what we fear he’ll do,” said the voice. A raspy sigh. “So he dies first. Tell Renée. Remove him as soon as he’s no longer of use.”

“What about Hiltmeyer? Do they suspect him?”

The bandaged hand waved in the air, scattering the lingering smoke. “I would think Nina suspects everyone, but Hiltmeyer’s ready. He’ll keep up his guard.”

“This is a dangerous game, playing with people who can see your best-kept secrets as if you’ve stapled them to your forehead. I don’t like it.”

“We have no choice.”

Calderon stared at his feet. “Don’t we? The tablet is there, with Montross and our man. We can get it any time. We could work at our own method of translation.”

“The thought has crossed my mind. But no, I don’t think even the NSA computers would succeed with this. We need the sacred box.”

“And your scrolls, the ones you Keepers recovered from the Pharos? They can’t tell us anything?”

A spark and another cigarette was lit, briefly highlighting a gruesome face burnt and blackened, oozing with pus, one eye scarred shut, the other fiercely blue.

“I have learned all I can from them. Found further verification, focusing the time now, here at the end of the Age of Pisces. One of Three Brothers will open the great sealed box of Thoth.”

“Yes. We know two, but who is the third?”

The man stood, easing himself out of the shadows. His scorched face and bandaged neck emerged into the dim light.

Robert Gregory offered a lipless smile. “If we depend on a loose reading of the prophecy, I believe it’s me.”

8

“Fifty miles to go,” Orlando said, noting the mileage on the GPS.

Caleb relaxed his hold on the gun. Qara seemed to be playing along, at least for now, following the route and keeping quiet. He could only imagine what she was thinking.

“Plenty of time to do a little recon.”

“What are you thinking, big brother?” Phoebe asked, stretching in the seat beside him.

“Thinking about our brush with death, about how I hate surprises and have had enough double-crosses for my life. I want to know about Renée.”

“Like who the hell she really is?”

“I can tell you what I saw,” Orlando said, glancing back. “What set her off.”

“Oh,” Phoebe said, “now I see. This was all your fault?”

He grinned. “Yep. I think she would have just been content to have us lead her to it, until I blew it by asking her about a necklace I saw in my vision.”

“Start from the beginning, please,” Caleb said. He might not be able to help with first-hand psychic visions, but his knowledge of history and the arcane facets of myth might just provide the help they needed.

“Okay, so I saw Renée. A bit younger, at an initiation-kind of ceremony. One of those things where there’s lots of people in black robes, and she, well…” He blushed and looked away from Phoebe. “Well, she wasn’t really wearing much. Some old dude gave her a necklace with a charm that looked like the one on his ring, and then some other guy took her on an altar while the others watched.”

“Sure this wasn’t just one of your sick fantasies?” Phoebe asked.

“Close, but no. I saw it, and when I asked her about the necklace, she unleashed hell on me and went after you guys.”

“Cover blown,” Caleb thought out loud. “Okay, so what was the image on the charm?”

“A dragon, run through with a spear.”

“Not a sword?”

“No, not really St. George-like. I looked at some images of him online, but it wasn’t a match. It’s different, it’s—”

“More ancient,” Caleb said, catching Qara’s eyes darting to his in the mirror. “It could be a number of symbols, but I have a theory.”

“Of course you do,” Phoebe said with a smile. “Let’s hear it.”

“Tiamat,” he said. “An ancient Sumerian goddess. She took the shape of a dragon or sea serpent. She represented the primeval chaos before creation, and she and her consort Apsu were credited with creating all the deities. In the Babylonian epic of creation, the Enuma Elish, the world, including humanity, is created around her remains after she is destroyed by the storm god, Marduk, whose symbol is the lance.”

“Ah,” said Orlando, searching for it on the Internet, “got it! Found a symbol, and it looks pretty much spot-on. And wait! It says Tiamat possessed something called the Tablet of Destiny! With it, she was given the power over the universe. Wow, that sounds familiar.”

“What else does it say?” Phoebe asked.

“Well, her offspring rose up against her to fight in some great primordial battle, and Marduk was chosen to be their hero. He bested Tiamat with arrows of the winds, a net and a powerful magic lance. But first, knowing they were coming, she had given the tablet to her son, Kingu, who somehow merged it with his armor, hoping to become invincible. But it didn’t help. Marduk went after him. With the power of his lance he overthrew Kingu, then took the tablet for himself.”

Caleb nodded. “But later, if I recall, he was forced to give it back to the eldest god, Anu, the lord of heaven.”

Phoebe leaned forward. “And what, dare I ask, did Anu do with it?”

“Well, he was part of a triad of gods, with Enki, lord of the waters, and Enlil/Marduk, lord of the sky. Anu was sometimes called their father, because he was the oldest. In any case, it was Enki who got the tablet. Anu must have trusted him more. And Enki, as he was known in Babylon, had another name in Egypt.”

“Oooh,” said Phoebe, raising her hand. She promptly put it down after a scowl from Caleb. “Of course, it’s got to be Thoth.”

“Bingo.”

“Here we go,” said Orlando. “So where does that leave us? What is Renée a part of? Some Marduk-lovers cult, jilted after doing all the work of beating Tiamat, wresting the tablet from her, only to have his daddy take it away and give it to his no-good brother?”

“Seems that way,” Caleb said. “And now they want it back.”

“Wait,” said Orlando. “Was Marduk ram-headed by any chance?”

Caleb nodded. “As Amun-Ra in Egypt, he was ram-headed during the Zodiacal age of the Ram. Why?”

“Oh, just because Renée’s boyfriend-lover in my dream wore a ram’s mask.”

Caleb scratched his chin. “Qara? You’ve been rather silent. Does any of this make sense?”

She was silent for a long time, merely staring ahead at the dusty road and the glimmering, hazy horizon. “It seems,” she said, turning her eyes on Caleb in the mirror, “there are two ancient forces contending for that tablet and the keys to unlock its power. Which side are you on?”

One hundred fifty miles to the northeast, Montross stretched his legs and stared at the road ahead. He sucked in a deep breath of air so pure and crisp it was as though his lungs were bared to the outside, directly absorbing every molecule.

While Colonel Hiltmeyer called in their location on his secure satellite phone, Nina stood by the back of their jeep, cleaning her guns and checking their equipment. Montross noticed she still kept a motherly eye on Alexander, off in the nearest set of bushes, busy relieving himself.

It was time. He opened his pack, reached down and touched the tablet. Caressed its impossibly smooth angles, felt its power as his index finger lingered over symbols that seemed to react to his touch. His heart rate increased, his eyes grew heavy, his legs weak. He reluctantly closed the flap, stumbled back to the jeep, then slid into the back seat.

“What’s wrong with you?” Nina asked, gliding over at once and ducking her head inside.

Montross held up a hand. “Nothing I didn’t ask for.”

“What, are you trying for a vision? Now?”

“Need to snoop on our friends. See how far they’ve gotten.”

“Okay fine. But do you”—she reached over, touched his face seductively, turned his chin toward her as she leaned in, placing her lips inches from his—“need any help?”

“Ordinarily, I might say yes. But now that I’ve got the tablet, I have what I need. And you, my dear, ought to keep an eye on our guest.”

“The boy’s not going anywhere. He’s just… Oh shit!” She stared out the window, incredulous. “The little brat’s actually making a break for it.”

“For what? We’re in the middle of nowhere. Just go get him.”

Montross knew she was still speaking, but there was no sound in the jeep. It was as if the world had fallen away, dissolving around him into an absence of color, pure white like a blank canvas, one that he longed to fill. He moaned, then opened his eyes and pushed his face forward, through what felt like a thick, gelatinous curtain, to pry this vision free — except it did more than that. Just as once before, down in Caleb’s lighthouse vault, it plucked his very psyche from his body and hurtled it across time and space, until…

… in a field of stones, weeds and grass. Broken pillars, moss-eaten stones that once ran in some kind of pattern.

Ruins.

Xanadu.

Shimmering, the landscape, the dying sun, the sickly grouping of nearby oak trees, oddly translucent, the bark glistening in the twilight, reflecting the dim glow of approaching headlights.

Headlights brighten, the engine coughs and the lights go out. A Hummer stops near the main archway, the only significant standing feature left of Xanadu. Without making any physical effort, Montross is closer, with just a directed thought.

Doors open. Two women get out. Two men.

One of them… Caleb!

In that instant, Caleb looks around, and Montross pulls back, trying to disappear, to reel himself back. The sudden fear of discovery leads to the panic of being non-corporeal, of being unable to make it back. Could he be trapped like this? Far from his body, so distant, slumped in the back seat of a jeep? Vulnerable.

Caleb turns toward him, mouth open.

He knows! He can see!

Frowning, Caleb takes a step toward him, then another, reaching out. Now he is running.

Montross tries to get away as Caleb’s image flutters, breaks into pieces and scatters like a million multicolored leaves blowing all around him, spinning, circling, then reforming into the interior of a jeep.

Nina’s face…

… bent over his, Alexander thrust into the seat beside him, Nina’s hand still clutching his hair. “You, sit still!” Then to Montross, “You okay? I thought we’d lost you.”

Montross, taking deep gulps of air, wiped the sweat from under his tangled red hair, turned to Nina and smiled at Alexander.

“Just saw your dad. He’s waiting for us at Xanadu.”

Hiltmeyer let Private Harris drive while he sat in the front passenger seat and reviewed the site. “Remote, no tourist centers, guards or anything. Sounds like the annual visitors are pretty much nil, a bunch of backpackers maybe, but that’s it.”

“So much for their national treasure,” Nina said.

“Just the way the Darkhad wants it,” Montross added. “They couldn’t have been too happy with Kublai Khan’s decision to build his summer palace right over the secret mausoleum.”

Alexander stirred, squeezing his shoulders free. “But I get why he did it, don’t you?”

“What?” Nina asked.

“A palace and a city, right over the underground caverns. And then another city.” Alexander beamed. “As Above, so Below!”

Montross shrugged, then let a smile form. “Still, the Darkhad didn’t like it and were happy to let the place go to hell after Kublai died. They probably helped to scatter the remnants and encourage the focus to shift to Beijing.”

“So,” said Hiltmeyer, “the top, the ‘Above’ as the kid puts it, is a piece of cake. Assuming Crowe and his team find the entrance for us, what can we expect in the ‘Below’?”

Montross sighed. “To answer that question, I’ll need some peace and quiet.” He looked back to Alexander. “And maybe a little help from our guest.”

He lifted up the satchel with the tablet, feeling it hum, vibrate through the leather. Waiting, impatient. “We’re going to check it out. I can only imagine, though, what old Genghis has in store. But I bet,” he said to Alexander, “it’ll make your dad’s defenses down in your old lighthouse look like a walk in the park.”

“Oh great,” said Alexander, trying to sound confident, but Montross could feel the boy tremble.

Good, he thought. Fear will sharpen his senses, attune his visions.

“Help us, kid. And you help your father too. Because this time he doesn’t have years to ponder and study and prepare for this descent, not like the Pharos. This time, he’s only got a few hours. And unless he’s asking the right questions, and seeing the right visions, he and your aunt won’t last a minute down there.”

9

“I saw him!” Caleb yelled, spinning around, waving his arms through the dimming light. “Montross. He was here.”

Twenty yards from the main archway and the jeep, he had run chasing the phantom. Around him the stones and broken pillars of once-mighty Xanadu lay in their eight hundred-year-old positions, fodder for weeds and moss, dismissed by the centuries.

“I might have seen something,” Orlando said, his voice uncertain. He still trained the gun on Qara, who seemed to be edging a little too close. He waved it at her. “Back away, I’m watching you.”

Phoebe scanned the area, looking into the distance, over the hills, the wide spaces. The only cover being a few trees in the distance. “I don’t know, I don’t see anything. It’s been a long drive. A long trip, no sleep.”

“I saw him,” Caleb countered. “But it was different. It was like when I saw Dad.”

“What?”

“Years ago, in Alexandria, and back in Sodus at Mom’s deathbed. Like he was there, but he wasn’t.”

“I wonder,” Orlando said, moving closer to Caleb, who still carried the AK-47.

“What?” he asked.

“Being in possession of that tablet now, if it really can grant the owner the secrets of the universe. Well, Montross may have picked up an ability or two.”

“Like what?” Phoebe asked.

“I was thinking,” Orlando said, “of Star Wars. The whole Obi-Wan ‘Strike me down and I’ll only become stronger’ deal. He was able to send out his spirit, separate it from his body so it could appear all ghost-like and stuff.”

“Astral Projection? But that was after Obi-Wan died,” Caleb argued. “Like what I believe my father managed to do. He could appear, but only for a brief moments, to convey something, to lead me to the truth.”

“Maybe,” Phoebe said, “Montross figured out how to do it while still alive.”

“Or maybe he is dead,” said Qara hopefully. “There were other Darkhad I left behind, guarding the Sacred Mountain. They would not have hesitated taking his life.”

Caleb thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, he’s alive. I feel it. In fact, I think he was searching for us, and I fear we may have given ourselves — and this position — away.”

“Damn,” Qara said, then flashed an annoyed look to Orlando. “Please, take that gun off me and let me use my phone. I need to fortify this site.”

“No time,” Caleb told her. “We have the edge here, for a few hours anyway. We can uncover the entrance, get inside and secure the keys before he even arrives.”

“And then what?” Qara asked. “Use them to barter for your son? I won’t let that happen.”

Caleb stared at her, and his fingers holding the gun began to sweat. Phoebe and Orlando were in a triangular position around Qara, silently waiting for Caleb.

“Please,” Qara said. “Do not go any farther with this. Leave my Khan alone. Nothing good will come of his discovery.”

“We could wait,” Phoebe said. “Maybe hide out. We know Montross is coming. We can surprise him.”

“Unless he looks for us again,” Orlando said. “And then he’d be able to get the jump on us. And he’s got Nina. Nope, I say we go in. Wait for him down there.”

“No,” Qara pleaded.

Caleb let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, but all I can do is promise you I will do everything I can to ensure Montross never gets those keys, that Temujin is not disturbed. We will never speak of this location, never betray his secret.”

“Not good enough,” Qara said, dropping her arms to her side. Her legs tensed, fingers unclenched and clenched into fists. “No one gets inside.”

“Wait,” Orlando said, looking around, turning in a big circle. “Where is it anyway?” “What?” asked Phoebe.

“The river. I don’t see any damn river.”

Qara’s face relaxed. She opened her fists, then folded her fingers together, bowing her head. “You don’t know.”

Caleb came closer, raising the tip of his weapon. “We’ll find out. Orlando, what did we use two years ago in Cambodia to locate the lost temple of Anuk-Beng?”

“Satellite radar imaging from NASA combined with public databases provided by National Geographic Atlases. Thermal imaging. Hang on, I’ll start it.” He took off his backpack and pulled out the iPad.

“The maps are very detailed,” Phoebe said, “highlighting things we’d never see from this vantage point. Like ruins in the middle of a jungle or old dried-up riverbeds.”

Qara hung her head. She glanced back to the arch.

“Come on,” said Caleb. “We can do it the hard way, or you can help us.”

She turned to him slowly. “And if I show you the door, what’s to stop you from killing me?”

“Hey!” said Phoebe. “We’re not the thugs here, honey. But if we don’t get in there and find those keys first, we’re all as good as dead. Come on. Please help us.”

“And betray my sacred duty?”

Caleb lowered his gun, switched it to his left hand, and approached. “All right, I’ll leave it up to you. Here’s my gun. Orlando, put yours away. Now it’s your choice, Qara. But if you really mean to protect your Khan, you had better think about letting us in.”

He held out the gun, and Qara’s dark eyes flickered with uncertainty. They flashed to Phoebe, and then Orlando.

“From what my sister saw,” Caleb continued, “there’s still a lot of ground to cover beneath here, in ‘caverns measureless to man.’ So showing us the door isn’t the end of this. We may still stop Montross and Renée before they can get to Temujin’s crypt, but we can’t do it from up here. Not out in the open, not like this. And even if we run, Montross, with my son’s help, will find the way in if doesn’t already know.”

Qara reached for the gun, touched it. And for a moment both Caleb and Qara held it, then he let go, bowed his head and took a step back.

Qara shouldered the weapon and took aim.

She wavered, then lowered the tip, pointing it at the ground. She sighed. “Dig under the arch, directly in the center. About five feet down you’ll find the door.”

Caleb nodded. “Thank you.”

“I’ll help you dig,” she said, “until we reach the door. But then you go in alone.”

“No way!” said Orlando. “You’ll seal us in.”

“No. I’ll stay out here,” she said, hefting the gun, “and wait for your friends. Kill as many of them as I can. And if I fail, I must trust you to finish them off and leave my Lord intact. Can you promise me that?”

“We can,” Caleb said.

“And re-bury the door? And tell no one?”

“Cross our hearts,” said Phoebe.

Suddenly the wind picked up, swirling, kicking up leaves and twigs. And a rumbling sound rattled the earth. Qara turned, switched her aim, and fired into the sky—

— just as the sleek black helicopter descended, pinning them in a spotlight. A helmeted woman, perched in the open door, fired back.

Qara felt the sting of the bullet in her side, then screamed as another ripped past her head. She dropped the gun and watched helplessly as the helicopter landed and the shooter jumped out, followed by six commandos in camouflage.

“Don’t raise your gun,” Caleb yelled to Orlando. “Just drop it.”

“Listen to him,” said Renée Wagner, as she ripped off her helmet and let her hair whip in the winds of the dying helicopter blades. “I’ve also got six jeeps on their way, another forty men.” She advanced on Qara, who had fallen to her knees, her good hand trying to stop the flow of blood from her side.

Qara grimaced as a tsunami of pain swept through her side. She glared at Renée, now lording over her. In the corner of her eye, she saw Orlando, surrounded by three commandos, guns pointed at his face. He raised his hands.

“All right,” Renée said. “Nice try, luring me to Qin Shi’s mausoleum instead, but you failed. You killed four of my best men, bitch.” She pressed the barrel of her Walther to Qara’s forehead.

“No!” Caleb yelled, trying to push free of two other commandos who had him restrained. “If you kill her, we’ll never find him.”

Renée paused, tilting her head. “Really? Doubting your abilities now, are we?”

“I’m just being practical,” Caleb said. “Remote viewing is just a tool. We may know where the entrance is, but beyond that there’s a lot of real estate to cover before Temujin’s body.”

Renée smiled, a smile meant for Caleb, but delivered right to Qara. “And you honestly think this Darkhad will help us? I’d rather pull the trigger and trust in you and your friends.”

“I promise you,” Caleb insisted, “we won’t be enough.”

Qara tensed for one last lunge, more than confident she could take Agent Wagner, but what then? Dimly, as the blood oozed from her arm and flowed through her fingers, she heard Caleb lobbying Renée to spare her life, and for a moment she regretted doubting him. Because of her blind adherence to tradition and loyalty to a man dead for eight centuries, she had placed them all in danger, and may have unleashed something far worse upon the world. If Wagner or Montross succeeded…

She had to make up for it. Had to give Caleb and his team a chance. But not like this, she needed time.

“Please,” Caleb urged. “Don’t be stupid.”

Renée sighed, lifted the weapon and stepped back. She pointed to one of the commandos. “Cuff her. Bandage her up, but no drugs. And keep her awake.” She glared at Qara. “And for your sake, I hope Caleb’s impression of your usefulness is not overrated. The moment I believe you’re no longer helping, you’re dead.”

Qara looked at them all, in turn. “The Khan’s armies are down there, waiting for you, with deadly surprises that no one, Darkhad and psychics alike, can possibly foresee. We will all soon be entombed along with my master.”