But all that had changed with the institution of democratic rule.
Genghis Khan was rising again from those ashes to inspire a generation of young people. He was their new demigod. Countless children and young people bore the name Temujin, which was the conqueror’s original name before he took the title Genghis Khan, meaning Universal Ruler. Across Mongolia, streets, candy, cigarettes, and beer all carried that title now. His face decorated their money and their buildings. A 250-ton shimmering steel statue of Genghis astride a horse greeted visitors to the capital city of Ulan Bator.
Newfound pride flowed through the veins of the country’s people.
Staring into his lieutenant’s face now, Batukhan saw none of that pride, only the shame of failure. He hardened his words, seeking to stir that shame to greater duty.
“Then we must move forward, never relenting. We will wait for the Italians to reach the priest in the desert. It is where they will travel next, if not frightened back to Rome.”
“I will go there myself.”
“Do so. Yet are you sure the priest does not suspect we have enfolded members of our clan among his workforce?”
“Father Josip sees only the sand and his purpose.”
“Then join them.”
“And if the Italians come?”
“Kill them. Take what they carry and bring it to me.”
“And what of Father Josip?”
Batukhan stared around the room. The clan had existed for three generations, formed as a resistance group by his grandfather during the time of Soviet oppression. Each leader took the title Borjigin, meaning Master of the Blue Wolf, the ancient clan name of Genghis Khan.
But the world had since changed. Mongolia now had the world’s fastest-growing economy, fueled by its mining operations. The true wealth of the country lay buried not in the lost tomb of Genghis Khan, but in the deposits of coal, copper, uranium, and gold, a treasure trove valued at over a trillion dollars.
Batukhan already had a major stake in several mines—but he could not let go of the stories told to him by his grandfather and father, tales of Genghis Khan, of the vast wealth hidden in his tomb.
He kept tabs on anyone searching for that sacred grave site.
That included the reclusive and odd Father Josip Tarasco.
Batukhan had heard rumors six years ago about a man appearing out of nowhere in Kazakhstan, hiding under many different names, digging holes in sand and salt, chasing the receding waters of the dying sea. The stranger had already been doing that for two years before word finally reached Ulan Bator about his intent: that he was seeking clues to Genghis Khan’s burial site. It was such a strange place to be looking that Batukhan hadn’t given these excavations much thought—other than infiltrating a handful of clan members to keep track of the elusive man.
Then, three days ago, word came of a strange sight, of ancient relics said to be the source of the man’s quest. No one had ever viewed them before, as they had been hidden away from sight all these years by the man’s paranoia. But according to his spies, the man had become increasingly agitated over the past month, desperate and frantic, and let slip the existence of these relics.
Word spread among the workers. Many fled in fear, speaking of a skull and a book bound in human skin. Then suddenly the man crated them and sent them off, perhaps fearing that word of the relics might reach the wrong ears—which, in fact, it did.
Batukhan’s ears.
Intrigued, he tried to intercept the package before it was mailed to Rome. But he had acted too slowly, letting it escape his fingertips. Still, he finally learned the man’s true name, written on the package.
Father Josip Tarasco.
Batukhan also learned where the package was to be delivered.
And still the relics escaped him.
But not for long.
Arslan stirred, awaiting his decision concerning the strange priest.
Batukhan lifted his face. “If possible, take Father Josip also. Bring him here for me to question.”
“And if it’s not possible?”
“Then put him in the grave with the others.”
With matters settled, he headed back through the maze of steam tunnels, climbing toward the early evening. The other clan members dispersed in various directions along the way.
Batukhan kept his wolf mask on as he passed through areas where many of Ulan Bator’s homeless sought shelter from the cold. Derided as the ant tribes, they were mostly alcoholics and the unemployable. He ignored them, dismissing them. These were not the hope of a new Mongolia, but something best kept out of sight.
Men, women, and a few children scattered like vermin from his path, turning away fearfully from the mask he wore.
Finally, he reached a ladder and climbed through a secret exit into an alleyway. A clan member closed the manhole cover as he exited.
Only after that man left did Batukhan remove his wolf mask and tuck it away. Straightening his suit, he headed out into the main street. The night was brisk, but still unseasonably warm. Ulan Bator was considered the coldest capital city in the world, but true winter seemed to be holding its hoary breath, as if anticipating something great about to happen.
Across Sükhbaatar Square rose the country’s parliament house. At the top of its marble stairs, a giant bronze figure of a seated Genghis Khan, lit brightly by spotlights, looked out across the city.
Or perhaps he was staring at the comet’s fiery show in the sky.
It was said that Halley’s Comet had appeared during Genghis’s lifetime. The khan came to consider it his personal star. He took its westward trajectory as a sign to launch his forces toward Europe.
Could this new comet also be a sign of great things to come?
As Batukhan headed into the square, he spotted the brief flashes of two falling stars in the sky, as if acknowledging this thought.
With a surge of renewed vigor, he headed toward the parliament building. A figure crossed toward him, noted his approach, and bowed his head as Batukhan passed. While he wished to believe the gesture was some acknowledgment of his being the rightful keeper of Genghis Khan’s legacy, he knew it was simply recognition of his station with the government—as the Mongolian minister of justice.
Batukhan glanced back to the comet.
Like Genghis, maybe that is my own personal star . . . guiding me to conquest, power, and wealth.
9
November 18, 7:02 P.M. KST
Pyongyang, North Korea
It was a strange way to invade a country.
Gray sat near the back of the rattling bus. Behind him, Kowalski sprawled his big bulk across the large seat at the rear, snoring. The rest of the vehicle was full of Chinese men and women, drowsing or talking in low voices, some with cameras around their shoulders, others wearing baseball caps emblazoned with the same Cheshire-grinning yellow cat that was painted on the side of the gray bus, the official symbol of a Beijing-based tour company.
Near the front of the bus, Zhuang kept vigil by the driver, who was also a member of the Duàn zhī Triad, like the rest of their fellow travelers.
This morning, the group had flown in private jets from Hong Kong to a small airfield not far from the China–North Korea border. There, they found the two tour buses waiting. Unlike the heavily fortified demilitarized zone between North and South Korea, the border to the north was a cursory affair, mainly meant to restrict the flow of refugees from fleeing into China from the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.
That proved to be the case.
Gray and Kowalski had been hidden in a secret compartment that also held a major cache of weapons during the border crossing, but not a single member of the North Korean military even stepped aboard. Such buses were commonplace as the more affluent Chinese flocked to tour the natural, rugged beauty of the forested green mountains between the border and Pyongyang. Plus the impoverished North Korea did nothing to discourage visitors, a major source of needed tourism dollars.
Once a
cross the border, the pair of buses had slowly trundled the winding mountain roads, working their way south toward the capital city. Four hours later, Pyongyang came into view, sprawled in the flatlands beyond the hills. After the bustle and dazzling lights of Hong Kong, the city ahead looked deserted and dark. Shadows of skyscrapers stood silhouetted against the night sky. A few monuments glowed in the darkness, along with a handful of streetlamps and windows, but little else. Nothing seemed to be moving, like a city frozen in time.
A figure stirred in the seat ahead of Gray, straightening and noting his attention. “It is a sad testament,” Guan-yin said, looking as though she’d not slept at all, worry for her daughter shining in her eyes. “The residents of Pyongyang are only allowed three hours of electricity a day. So it must be used sparingly.”
As they headed toward the city, traveling along a four-lane highway, not a single vehicle was seen. Even as they reached the outskirts, they found no other cars on the streets; even the traffic lights were dark. A hush fell over the bus, as if they were all afraid to disturb the ghosts of this seemingly deserted town.
The first sign of life was a lone military vehicle circling slowly in the front of a massive well-lit building.
“That’s the Kumsusan Palace of the Sun,” Guan-yin whispered. “It was once the official residence of President Kim Il-Sung. After his death, it now serves as his mausoleum, where his embalmed body lies in state inside a glass sarcophagus.”
Just one example, Gray thought, of the elaborate cult of personality promoted by the state, where Kim Il-Sung and his descendants were worshipped as gods.
As the tomb vanished behind them, Guan-yin scowled darkly. “Some estimates put the mausoleum’s construction at close to a billion dollars . . . all while the people of North Korea starved.”
Gray knew the death of Kim Il-Sung in the midnineties coincided with a nationwide famine, where almost 10 percent of the population died. It became so bad at the end that cannibalism broke out in rural areas. Children were warned not to sleep in the open.
And life here had grown little better for the people of North Korea.
Under strict sanctions, the country still could not feed itself. The entire infrastructure of North Korea continued to operate on a shoestring budget. Even its factories had a hard time running due to a lack of spare parts and a scarcity of electricity.
The only industry still going strong was political theater.
Outside the bus window, canyons of dark apartment buildings spread far and wide. The only bits of brightness to break up the monotony were tall billboards and murals. But none of them advertised colas, beers, or the latest electronics. Instead, they all featured various versions of their Supreme Leader’s beneficent countenance.
As the pair of buses turned onto an empty six-lane road, their goal loomed into view: the Ryugyong Hotel. It was the tallest building in all Pyongyang. It looked like a glass rocket ship rising up on three wings. It towered a hundred stories over the city. But like the rest of the city, it was also dark. Only the lobby level and a scatter of lit windows indicated any sign of life.
The plan was to use the nearly deserted hotel as a staging ground. Through Guan-yin’s resources and heavy-handed use of bribes, they had discovered that a woman matching Seichan’s description had been taken to a military kyohwaso, a reformatory prison, a few miles outside of the capital city.
In a poor country where corruption ran rampant, money talked.
Here at the hotel, they would all change into North Korean military uniforms and arm themselves. At two in the morning, an empty military transport truck would be abandoned near a service exit of the hotel, courtesy of Guan-yin’s largest bribe. They would then use the truck and the uniforms to lead an assault on the camp in the dead of night.
Reaching the hotel, the lead bus rolled around the circular entrance and passed under the massive porte cochere.
Gray’s vehicle followed.
The hotel had partially opened a few months ago after a plague of problems and delays. Its construction had stretched over twenty years, the building standing empty and dark for all that time, a bitter metaphor for the capital city itself. It was why the place had earned its nickname in the press.
The Hotel of Doom.
Gray prayed that name did not prove true in the coming hours ahead.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have to wait even an hour.
As the first bus braked to a stop, a surge of men in military uniforms poured out of the lobby, weapons bristling, shouting angrily. Behind them, lights flared as military jeeps raced out of hiding to close off the driveway behind them.
They had rolled straight into a trap.
7:33 P.M.
Ju-long Delgado stood before a window looking into the next room. He studied the assassin strapped to the interrogation chair, a device straight out of the Spanish Inquisition. She had been stripped to bra and panties as a psychological ploy to make her feel vulnerable. Each limb was secured separately in thick cuffs, allowing the hinged chair to twist the victim’s body in countless painful stress positions.
Currently she was bent backward, straining her spine, pulling on her hip and shoulder joints. She’d been in that position for the past three hours.
To make her more pliant, Hwan Pak had said, willing to bend.
The scientist had laughed much too loudly at his feeble joke, snorting through his bandaged broken nose. He plainly wanted revenge, to soothe his wounded pride. To that end, he intended to hurt her as he had been hurt.
The position must certainly be agonizing. The room was frigid, but sweat glowed across her bare skin, a shining testament to the pain. Delgado imagined her grimacing, teeth grinding, but her head was covered in a tight hood, with sound-dampening earphones in place, limiting her senses, making her focus only on the pain.
The North Koreans knew what they were doing.
And from the gaunt half-starved souls he’d seen moving listlessly about the packed camp, they were no kinder to their own people. Prisoners were crammed forty to a room, each space no larger than a double-car garage. He had watched a pair of men fighting over a dead body, to see who would win the right to bury it, all in order to earn an extra supplement of food.
It was a North Korean version of Auschwitz.
Ju-long’s phone chimed in his pocket. He removed it, guessing it was an update from the Ryugyong Hotel. Tomaz had traveled there with the strike team.
Instead, a softer voice answered, “Ju-long . . .”
He smiled, some of the tension ebbing. “Natalia, my love, why are you calling? Is everything all right?”
He pictured her full belly, holding his son.
“I just wanted to hear your voice before I fell asleep,” she said, her voice muffled at the edge of slumber. “I miss your warm body next to me.”
“This will be the last night your bed will be empty. I promise I’ll be home by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.”
“Mmm,” she mumbled sleepily. “Don’t break your promise.”
“I won’t.”
They said their good nights and good-byes.
As he pocketed his phone, he stared at the tortured woman in the neighboring room, feeling a twinge of guilt. But he had been paid well to soothe such pangs. With the deal done, he would return to Macau tomorrow morning.
He would have left that very night, but he had gotten word earlier of Guan-yin’s escape from the fiery destruction of her Triad’s stronghold. He had also learned that the Americans had survived, hearing of their high-flying trapeze work to escape the flames. Then just half an hour ago, further intelligence filtered in from various sources suggesting that not only was Guan-yin in North Korea, but she intended to attack this base.
After he informed Hwan Pak, they were able to scramble a strike team to ambush the others at the Ryugyong Hotel, to quash their attempted rescue of this woman before it even began.
He stared into the room, bothered by a question.
Why are you so valuable?<
br />
Ju-long believed now that he had settled on too low of a price for her, but Pak was not to be dissuaded. With his honor as wounded as his nose, the highly placed North Korean nuclear scientist had left Ju-long with little choice but to accept his offer. Pak wanted revenge and would not be denied it.
As if eavesdropping on his thoughts, Pak appeared, smiling broadly as he entered the room. “They arrived as you described, Delgado-ssi. We have them in hand.”
He pictured Guan-yin joining the young woman here. Perhaps that was enough of a bonus for Ju-long’s troubles. With her gone, it would strengthen his position in Macau.
“But now we have business we must finish here,” Pak said, eyeing the room with raw lust. “You say she is an assassin with many criminal connections. We must know who they are, how they might benefit us, and, more important, what her connection is with the two Americans.”
“Were those two with Guan-yin?”
So far, Ju-long had not heard a definitive answer one way or the other from his contacts. Some said yes, others no.
“I do not know yet, but I’ll have answers within the hour.”
The door opened behind Pak. Another man entered, tall, skeletal, his head shaved bald, wearing a long white lab coat and carrying a stainless-steel tray of wicked-looking surgical tools and pliers. His face was impassive as he gave a small bow.
“Nam Kwon,” Pak introduced. “There are no answers he cannot extract with his tools.”
The interrogator headed into the next room, drawing Pak with him.
Pak paused in the doorway. “Do you care to join us? You are welcome. This is your merchandise.”
“No longer mine,” he corrected. “You have paid in full. What you do with the merchandise from here is no longer my concern.”
Or my fault, he added silently.
Dr. Pak shrugged and left.
Ju-long looked one last time into the neighboring room.
All this time, bent on a modern rack, the woman hadn’t cried out once—but she would soon.
7:39 P.M.
“Throw the bus in reverse!” Gray hollered to the front. “Don’t slow down!”
The Eye of God: A Sigma Force Novel Page 13
