The Eye of God: A Sigma Force Novel sf-9

by James Rollins

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

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

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

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

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

  “With help.” Josip nodded to Sanjar.

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

  It was a good question.

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

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

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

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

  The priest balked at answering.

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

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

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

  “I waited too long,” Josip conceded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Vigor frowned. “What are you both saying?”

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

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

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

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

  Vigor turned to Father Josip.

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

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

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

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

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

  Awe filled Vigor’s voice. “Get me a—”

  Josip passed him a magnifying lens.

  “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A noise at the door drew all their attentions around.

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

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

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

  13

  November 18, 10:17 P.M. ULAT

  Ulan Bator, Mongolia

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

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

  Still, such a collection was not just for show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  What a waste.

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

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

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

  “More archaeologists?”

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

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

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

  A significant clue . . .

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

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

  “It will be done.”

  Batukhan did not doubt it.

  Arslan had never failed him.

  14

  November 18, 11:22 P.M. KST

  Taedong River, North Korea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gray felt exposed out in the open like this.

  Even the rumble of their motorcycles seemed to grow louder, echoing over the empty farmlands. But they only had a couple of miles or so to go.

  Then a new noise intruded, an ominous thump-thumping.

  Gray slowed enough to crane around, searching the skies.

  Seichan clutched his good shoulder and pointed to the southeast. A dark shadow swept low over the barren fields, slightly silhouetted against the glow of Nampho.

  A helicopter, running without lights.

  It wouldn’t be doing so unless it had already acquired its target. It flew in the dark, attempting to close as much distance on them as possible before being detected.

  From this, Gray knew they had been found.

  Someone in Pyongyang must have given up this escape route, or maybe some rural farmer reported the passage of the three dark motorcycles in the night. Either way, there was no hiding from here.

  Knowing the helicopter was likely equipped with night-vision equipment anyway, Gray stabbed on his headlamp to better illuminate the road. They needed as much speed as possible from here.

  “Keep with me!” he yelled to the others, gunning his engine.

  Lights flared behind him, coming from the other bikes.

  Off to the southeast, the sky ignited with the chopper’s navigation lights. A spotlight beamed down upon the farmlands, sweeping toward them.

  Gray raced his motorcycle along the edge of the rutted road. Kowalski took the other side, trailed close by Zhuang and Guan-yin. They had no means to take out the helicopter. Back at the prison, they had used up all their rockets. Any additional heavy equipment had gone with the truck, a defensive necessity. The vehicle was meant to be the larger target, intended to lure the hunt away from the bikes.

  Seated behind him, Seichan swung around and raised her assault rifle. Clinging to the bike with her thighs, she aimed across the field and fired a short burst.

  The chopper’s course wobbled, but only from surprise.

  Still, the distraction allowed them to stretch their lead.

  Kowalski pointed to the right, toward a large farmstead. Pinned between the rows of barbed wire, their bikes had no room to maneuver, no way to avoid the coming onslaught. Their best recourse was to reach open country.

  Gray agreed. “Go!”

  The three bikes cut into the farm. Trundling over a cattle guard, they entered a wide gravel expanse. Rows of milking barns lined one side. On the other, a series of bunkhouses and mechanics shops. Corrals and fields spread out from here. It looked like a major operation.

  House lights clicked on, illuminating faces at several windows, likely drawn by the noise. But upon seeing what was coming, they quickly ducked away and pulled their shades.

  In his rearview mirror, Gray spotted the lights of the attack helicopter. The chopper dove toward them. It would be on top of them in the next few seconds.

  “This way!” he yelled and swerved his bike to the left.

  He raced for the open doors to one of the milking barns. They needed cover. Emphasizing this necessity, the rattling roar of a chain-gun erupted, ripping toward them. The pilot must have recognized that his prey was trying to dive into a hole.

  Seichan fired back at them, and so did Guan-yin from the back of Zhuang’s bike. Mother and daughter faced the coming barrage without flinching, doing thei
r best to match it, their rifles blazing on full automatic fire.

  Then Gray’s bike flew through the barn doors and into its shadowy depths. To his right and left, the other two bikes followed.

  The chopper brushed higher, thumping over the top of the barn, sweeping for the other side, where another set of doors stood open.

  The barn was long and wide. It had a Soviet industrial feel to it, built for mass production. A long line of automatic milking machines and stations rose to the left. On the other side stretched a long line of pens, each holding four or five cows, their large eyes shining back at them, mooing a complaint at the intrusion.

  Gray figured over a hundred head of cattle were housed inside. Beyond the far door, massive corrals flanked to either side, packed nose to tail with more cows. The smell was likely to kill them long before any gun-fire.

  He doused his headlamps and slowed to a stop halfway down the length of the barn; the others followed his example. The helicopter circled overhead, thumping ominously, knowing its targets were pinned down, waiting to see which end they might run out.

  Unfortunately, Gray knew they would have to make the attempt. They could not stay here. Ground forces were surely en route.

  But that was the least of his worries.

  He checked his watch. It was almost midnight. If they didn’t reach the coast in the next few minutes, none of this would matter.

  “What’s the play here?” Kowalski asked.

  Gray explained.

  Kowalski went pale.

  11:41 P.M.

  It’s not like we have much choice, Gray thought as he got everyone ready.

  Using a set of binoculars, he searched beyond the empty fields of the farm. A tree line beckoned a quarter mile away. If they could get there, the coastal forest should offer them enough coverage to reach the beach and make their rendezvous.

  But that meant abandoning the shelter of the milk barn.

  “Let’s do this,” Gray ordered.

  He and the others dismounted their bikes and swiftly went about opening the pens, starting from the middle and working their way to either end. With pats on rumps, they got the cows moving into the alleyway in the center. It didn’t take much effort as the cattle were clearly conditioned by their regular milking schedule.