Emerald Buddha
†
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2015 by Russell Blake. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact:
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Contents
Books by Russell Blake
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Books by Russell Blake
Co-authored with Clive Cussler
THE EYE OF HEAVEN
THE SOLOMON CURSE
Thrillers
FATAL EXCHANGE
THE GERONIMO BREACH
ZERO SUM
THE DELPHI CHRONICLE TRILOGY
THE VOYNICH CYPHER
SILVER JUSTICE
UPON A PALE HORSE
DEADLY CALM
RAMSEY’S GOLD
EMERALD BUDDHA
The Assassin Series
KING OF SWORDS
NIGHT OF THE ASSASSIN
RETURN OF THE ASSASSIN
REVENGE OF THE ASSASSIN
BLOOD OF THE ASSASSIN
REQUIEM FOR THE ASSASSIN
The JET Series
JET
JET II – BETRAYAL
JET III – VENGEANCE
JET IV – RECKONING
JET V – LEGACY
JET VI – JUSTICE
JET VII – SANCTUARY
JET VIII – SURVIVAL
JET IX – ESCAPE
JET – OPS FILES (prequel)
JET – OPS FILES; TERROR ALERT
The BLACK Series
BLACK
BLACK IS BACK
BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
BLACK TO REALITY
Non Fiction
AN ANGEL WITH FUR
HOW TO SELL A GAZILLION EBOOKS
(while drunk, high or incarcerated)
About the Author
Featured in The Wall Street Journal, The Times, and The Chicago Tribune, Russell Blake is The NY Times and USA Today bestselling author of over forty novels, including Fatal Exchange, The Geronimo Breach, Zero Sum, King of Swords, Night of the Assassin, Revenge of the Assassin, Return of the Assassin, Blood of the Assassin, Requiem for the Assassin, The Delphi Chronicle trilogy, The Voynich Cypher, Silver Justice, JET, JET – Ops Files, JET – Ops Files: Terror Alert, JET II – Betrayal, JET III – Vengeance, JET IV – Reckoning, JET V – Legacy, JET VI – Justice, JET VII – Sanctuary, JET VIII – Survival, JET IX – Escape, Upon a Pale Horse, BLACK, BLACK is Back, BLACK is The New Black, BLACK to Reality, Deadly Calm, Ramsey’s Gold, and Emerald Buddha.
Non-fiction includes the international bestseller An Angel With Fur (animal biography) and How To Sell A Gazillion eBooks In No Time (even if drunk, high or incarcerated), a parody of all things writing-related.
Blake is co-author of The Eye of Heaven and The Solomon Curse, with legendary author Clive Cussler. Blake’s novel King of Swords has been translated into German, The Voynich Cypher into Bulgarian, and his JET novels into Spanish, German, and Czech.
Blake writes under the moniker R.E. Blake in the NA/YA/Contemporary Romance genres. Novels include Less Than Nothing, More Than Anything, and Best Of Everything.
Having resided in Mexico for a dozen years, Blake enjoys his dogs, fishing, boating, tequila and writing, while battling world domination by clowns. His thoughts, such as they are, can be found at his blog: RussellBlake.com
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Prologue
1431 A.D., near the Laos-Burma border
Birdcalls echoed through the hidden valley as the jungle awakened to a new day. Twenty Khmer warriors stirred to life on the riverbank, blinking in the dense fog that had seeped through a nearby pair of towering karst formations overnight. A team of fatigued oxen grazed a dozen yards from the water, where a ranking member of the royal court sat atop a wooden cart, deep circles shadowing his eyes from many sleepless hours on the long journey into the uncharted wilds.
Inside the ungainly conveyance rested chests containing the Khmer Empire’s treasure – holy relics, gold cups and icons, and gems of immeasurable value. But the most priceless possession was wrapped in a thick blanket: the legendary Emerald Buddha, whose smaller twin resided with the royal family in Thailand, now at war with the Khmers.
The Khmer Empire had been no match for its rival from the south, and only weeks ago the elaborate temple complex of Angkor Wat had fallen to the Thai army, which had sacked it and taken its inhabitants captive. King Ponhea Yat had made a summary decision when he’d heard from his spies that the Thais were approaching the beloved landmark, and had entrusted the nation’s riches to his deputy, Chey, as the rest of the Khmer court retreated north to safety.
A tall man in battle-scarred armor stood and approached the cart, a perpetual frown creasing the hard lines of his face. Sihanouk was one of the fiercest fighters in the entire kingdom, and clearly resented having been assigned to this duty when there was battle to be joined against the Thai invaders. It had not been his choosing to skulk around in the jungle like an old woman. But orders were orders, and he had followed them, whatever his feelings. He had escorted Chey, the royal appointee, deep into unfamiliar territory, and they’d finally arrived at a suitable location, where they would hide the king’s riches until it was safe to return it to the royal court.
“This valley is as well concealed and desolate as any I’ve seen,” Sihanouk began. “But I’m not sure that the treasure will be any safer at the end of the earth than it would be at home, surrounded by loyal warriors.”
“Our job was to find an auspicious location. From here it is out of our hands,” Chey said.
“Fate has been kind to us so far,” Sihanouk agreed. “Let’s hope that the cursed Hill People le
ave us be until we’re able to finish our work.”
“Have faith that all will turn out well.”
Sihanouk eyed Chey skeptically. “While I appreciate your optimism, I’ll still keep my sword close at hand.”
Chey nodded. “I would expect nothing less.”
There was no love lost between Chey, widely considered by the soldiers to be a schemer and sycophant, and Sihanouk, who had distinguished himself with valor. The king’s choice of confidants was irritating to the warrior, but in the end Sihanouk served at the king’s pleasure, and if he had to comply with Chey’s instructions, he would. But the slimy royal court eel gave Sihanouk doubts, and he would be glad when this mission was over and he could defend his people honorably.
“Do you have a location in mind?” Sihanouk asked.
Chey offered a sly smile. “I have some ideas.”
“We will be hard-pressed to find anything in this soup.”
“It will lift before long. Have the men do something useful while we wait. Set out lines and see if there are fish to be had for breakfast. We will go in search of a suitable spot after we’ve filled our bellies.”
The fog burned off by late morning, and Chey led Sihanouk along the river’s course in search of an auspicious cave. As he’d hoped, there were several; though the water’s erosion of the limestone had been inconsistent over millions of years, and all but one proved too shallow for their purposes. But the final depression was perfect – a narrow opening practically impossible to see from the river’s present course, with a passage into a larger cavern that fed into several smaller chambers.
A month went by, the days long as the men carved the soft stone to suit their needs. On the final morning, Chey supervised the unloading of the cart and the placement of the chests inside. The last item to be situated in the newly created temple was the Emerald Buddha, which glowed in the torchlight, its golden robe dazzling even in the dim light of the cave.
The following morning the soldiers retraced their steps. The cart had been dismantled and its beams sent adrift down the river to obliterate any trace of their passage. Chey followed the column rather than heading it; he’d discharged his obligation and found a haven for the treasure, and was happy to trail the men as Sihanouk led the way.
They spent the evening at the base of the mountain they’d descended to enter the hidden valley. After eating his fill of the fish they’d packed for the return trip, Chey stood near their small fire and removed a cask from his bag.
“My friends, congratulations. The king authorized me to offer you this, the Khmer’s finest rice wine, as a reward for a job well done. Gentlemen, I salute and honor each of you for your part.” Chey broke the seal on the cask, took a long draft, and then handed it to Sihanouk to pass around to the men. In no time the vessel was drained, each man having eagerly taken a brimming mouthful and savored the liquor’s pleasant burn. Chey excused himself and went to relieve himself in the brush. When he was finished, he rejoined the men, lingering at the edge of the small clearing, watching the dance of the orange flames.
Half an hour later the fire was little more than glowing embers and the soldiers were passed out, the sleeping agent in the wine having worked its magic. Chey had taken an antidote before he’d drunk, but the rest of the men were lost to the world, sprawled around the fire pit, snoring.
Chey approached Sihanouk and drew the warrior’s sword. He paused as he inspected the wicked blade, and then, without hesitation, thrust the point through his throat. Sihanouk stiffened as his appendages twitched, and he gurgled a strangled moan before falling still. Chey stepped back from the lifeless body and repeated the act with the others until he’d slaughtered all the men in their sleep. He glanced around at the corpses, his face impassive, and nodded once to himself before he retrieved Sihanouk’s belt and scabbard and cinched the wide leather strap around his waist.
He moved to the bag with the provisions and tested its weight. It was heavy, but he could always jettison food if he tired of carrying it. Better to have too much than too little, he reasoned, as he shouldered the sack and set off by moonlight for the trail that would lead him back to an uncertain future and to his king, who’d authorized the murder of his loyal men in order to keep the treasure’s hiding place secret.
Now, only Chey knew the truth. And Chey was a survivor. Whatever awaited him in his homeland, he would fulfill his oath and bring to the king the location of the temple, for which he was sure he would be rewarded lavishly.
All he had to do was make it back alive.
Chapter 1
Islamabad, Pakistan
Stars glimmered through a light haze of smog over Rawal Lake. Traffic had slowed to a trickle from the city, the raucous noise of poorly muffled vehicles fading as darkness fell. Now the air was filled with the sound of televisions blasting from open windows and the dissonant keen of polyrhythmic music from radios as the suburb of Bhara Kahu settled in for the night. Largely working class, the area was only five miles from Islamabad, connected via a highway that skirted the lake.
A garbage truck rumbled down a dusty street on its way to the communal neighborhood dumping spot, piled high with contributions from local residents and passersby. A lone dog trotted stiffly behind it, a hopeful look in its haunted eyes. Lights glowed behind the iron-barred windows of small homes encircled by high walls topped with broken glass.
Four local men sat outside a tiny café at a circular glass table, playing cards and smoking strong cigarettes from which serpentine coils of pungent smoke corkscrewed into the air before dispersing into the light breeze. A boy no older than ten carried out to the men a red enamel tray loaded with four cups of coffee the consistency of crude oil. He set each down carefully before scuttling back inside. The men laughed at a joke, toasted, and resumed their betting, insulting one another good-naturedly as they traded coins back and forth.
A battered Nissan sedan with glass tinted so dark it was nearly opaque crept down the street and slowed as it approached the café. The men visibly stiffened, and one reached beneath his baggy shirt; and then relaxed when the passenger-side window rolled down and one of his friends waved and called out a greeting.
Jack Rollins watched the exchange through night vision goggles from the second-floor window of a house at the end of the block. He was wearing a balaclava and head-to-toe black, invisible in the darkened interior. Next to him lay a Kalashnikov AKM with a collapsible wire stock and a satchel that housed six magazines. Beside it was a .50-caliber sniper rifle with a compact night vision scope – a weapon that fired hand-loaded explosive rounds that would vaporize a man’s head at a thousand yards.
He tapped his earbud and waited for a click to signal that all was still well. The answering pop came a second later. The target hadn’t shown himself since returning from the nearby mosque for Isha salat, the last prayer of the day, intended to carry the faithful from dusk until dawn. Jack had wanted to take the man out right on the street, but that wasn’t the mission, so instead he was waiting patiently.
“See anything on that side?” he murmured. A voice crackled in his ear almost immediately.
“Nothing’s changed. Lights are on inside the house. Couple of goons outside with assault rifles. AKs, of course.”
“Of course.” AK-47s were ubiquitous in the Punjab area of Pakistan, as common as flies after decades of nonstop warring in nearby Afghanistan – something Jack knew all too well after two tours of duty there. The Afghans were mean as striped snakes and lived to fight, most having grown up battling the Russians and then the Americans.
Not my problem, Jack thought. We all do what we must to survive.
“Any signs from the surrounding houses?” Jack asked.
“Negative. All’s quiet. Except for Saddam, of course. He never sleeps.”
Saddam was the nickname they’d given the shooter on the roof of the adjacent home, part of the target’s security precautions. Hamal Qureshi was a moderate voice in the debate with more extreme interpretations of the
Koran, a devout cleric respected by many – so much so that his views on the non-orthodoxy of the latest terrorist groups disrupting the Middle East were shaping the dialog on whether they were legitimate or a false-flag operation for Western imperialist interests. Dangerous questions to ask, which would be rewarded with a death sentence.
“Probably has a guilty conscience,” Jack mused, “or he’s daydreaming about those fifty-five virgins.”
“I think the number’s seventy-two.”
“Whatever.” Jack checked his watch. “We go live in twenty minutes. Got the flash bangs and the ack-acks ready?”
“You bet. And in this outfit I look like Omar the Tentmaker, so they’ll never see me coming.” Jack’s crew had been outfitted with local garb, in keeping with the clandestine nature of the assignment. They were to look like locals, terrorists out for a vocal dissenter’s blood. The assassination would create outrage in the community and hopefully dampen enthusiasm for criticism. Whether it would work or not was above Jack’s pay grade; he was just the hired help. And good at his job.
“All right. Let’s maintain radio silence until we’re ready to rock. Won’t be long now. Watch your backs.”
Jack signed off and watched the decrepit Nissan roll away, trailing exhaust from inadequate combustion. He’d been in town for three days with his crew, reconnoitering. Finally it was time – the waiting was the hardest part. He knew from experience that once the shooting started it would be over in a blink; hundreds of thousands of dollars of preparation, arms, fake papers, all for the two minutes he’d estimated it would take to neutralize Qureshi’s guard and take out the great man himself.
The four card players were accounted for – if they tried to get in the mix, he’d off them like a bad habit. Collateral damage was unavoidable in these sorts of incursions. Nature of the beast, Jack thought, and he silently wished them winning hands and the good sense to duck for cover instead of trying to help the cleric.
Emerald Buddha (Drake Ramsey Book 2) Page 1
