The Mongol Objective [Oct 2011]

by David Sakmyster

  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 in
side 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 admitte
d, 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. . . .