The Eye of God

by James Rollins

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

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

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

  She bolted straight for the restaurant.

  Damn it . . .

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

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

  So much for being discreet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Move it! Out the rear!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I knew we never should have left Rome.”

  2:22 P.M.

  She didn’t know what she was doing here.

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

  It was that remote.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Of course, I am.”

  At least that wasn’t entirely a lie.

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

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

  Like a girl from Congress Heights becoming an astrophysicist.

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

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

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

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you, too, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

  Including perhaps the mystery of dark energy.

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

  What . . . ?

  She sat up straighter.

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

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

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

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

  She clutched the edge of the door.

  What is going on?

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

  Vigor and Rachel Verona.

  Neither looked happy.

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

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

  The group hurried to the waiting helicopter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Jada stared around the cabin.

  What the hell have I got myself into?

  3:07 P.M.

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

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

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

  Only a priest would describe what happened as a commotion.

  “Monsignor, you can call me Duncan.”

  “Only if you call me Vigor.”

  “Done.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What are you doing?” Jada asked.

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

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

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

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

  The leather of the tome was worn and deeply wrinkled.

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

  “Even fainter . . . but it’s identical.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  For lack of a better term, it felt wrong.

  8

  November 18, 5:28 P.M. ULAT

  Ulan Bator, Mongolia

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

  Only his lieutenant knew his true name.

  Batukhan, meaning firm ruler.

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

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

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

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

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

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