NIGHTTIME HAD FALLEN over the jungle. Michael and Simon moved up the right bank of the river while Busch and Jon came up the left. They were well armed, guided by moonlight, radios in their ears.
“Tell me we have a plan,” Busch said through his ear mounted radio to Michael. He adjusted the sniper rifle strapped to his back and patted the pistol at his side, a force of habit from his days as a cop.
“Yeah, to find the thing that is going to save KC,” Michael whispered.
“Okay, just two more questions. How and what is it?”
“We’re doing the how, and I have no idea what ‘it’ is.”
They quietly walked in parallel on either side of the river. A quarter-mile up and around the bend, the river opened into a large lagoonlike lake. On the east side, a large waterfall cascaded into the lagoon, carrying water from the volcanic mountain above, churning up the water before flowing out to sea.
Jon and Busch arrived at the jungle’s edge, a white sandy beach before them. The embers of a fire still glowed where the real Colonel Lucas had been sitting an hour earlier.
As they looked across the beach, they saw a large temple upon a white dais, set back fifty yards from the water’s edge, its windows flame-lit from within. Though it was covered in the shadow of the mountain behind it, there was no mistaking its Chinese heritage: its multitiered sloped roof, its red hue, the small dragons resting upon the eaves.
But their attention was quickly drawn to the ship in the dock. It was a naval vessel, seventy-five feet long, brilliantly aglow in a wash of halogen light. There was a single sentry on the bow, his feet up on the rail as he read a book.
But then they saw the ships in the surrounding docks and their collective breath was taken away: It was a collection of oceangoing vessels worthy of any sea museum.
An enormous Chinese junk with furled sails; a Spanish galleon torn from history. A paddlewheel steamer that looked like something you’d find Mark Twain upon, an old merchant ship, and a Japanese war boat from World War II.
“Did you get a load of these boats?” Busch said into his microphone.
“Yeah,” Michael answered back from the other side of the river.
“That Chinese junk is nearly six hundred years old,” Simon said. “It doesn’t stay in shape like that without someone maintaining it.”
“You see the sentry at the bow?” Jon asked.
“Yeah, one more at the stern,” Simon said.
“Do you want me to take them?” Jon asked.
“No, no need to kill anyone unless we’re in danger,” Simon said. “I’ll deal with them. We need to figure out how many more are here.”
“We’ve got movement on the junk,” Jon said.
“Can’t see it from here,” Busch answered.
A shadow came down the gangplank onto the docks.
“I don’t think that is one of Lucas’s men,” Busch said.
A large Chinese man walked across the moonlit courtyard, his black hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was barrel-chested and commanding, dressed in a loose-fitting black robe.
“That’s impossible…” Jon whispered, looking closely.
“What’s impossible,” Busch said.
“That’s Zheng He.”
CHAPTER 58
The gun’s muzzle landed at the back of the sentry’s ear, startling him.
“We’re not here to cause problems,” Simon whispered, urging the man to stand up from his chair at the bow of the naval vessel.
The soldier was young, tanned, relaxed, and foolish. Simon took the gun from the holster at his waist and guided him to the back of the boat, where Michael had the other soldier.
Simon led them into the ship, staying three feet back, out of their range of counterattack.
“How many are on the island?”
The two soldiers remained silent as they kept walking.
Simon directed them down the stairs to the engine room and forced them through the open door. “We’ll be back soon,” he said as he closed the door behind them, spinning the wheel lock tight. He pulled a strand of rope from the bag at his side and secured the wheel lock from spinning.
MICHAEL AND SIMON stepped up on the deck of the Spanish galleon. Her deck was clean, as if ready to head out to sea, her sails furled, the stitching of numerous patches evident on her canvas.
The ship was smaller than images Michael had been bombarded with all his life and was dwarfed by the Chinese junk in the neighboring slip, but nonetheless was spectacular in its detail and craftsmanship, seeming to jump out of some painting of the Spanish Armada.
Busch came from belowdecks. “Follow me.” And he turned back down the stairs.
“You found Lucas?” Michael asked. Simon was right behind him.
“Yep,” Busch said as he squeezed down an impossibly narrow stairway into a hold, his head scraping the ceiling.
Michael came down the stairs, focused on Busch, Simon taking up the rear. “What the hell is he doing down here?”
But Busch didn’t answer; he merely turned and looked across the room. Michael and Simon followed his line of sight and inhaled in shock.
Before them were twenty chests, five of them wide open, overflowing with pieces of eight, gold ingots, sparkling jewels. “Do you realize what this is worth?”
Michael turned to him. Though he was amazed at the find, he was focused on saving KC. “This is great, but where’s Lucas?”
Busch nodded and led him back up the two flights of stairs to the main deck. “There’s a lot more going on on this island than I think any of us suspect.”
“Yeah, like what is a Spanish galleon doing in the South Pacific?” Simon asked as they walked along the deck toward the stern.
Busch opened the door to the captain’s quarters and ushered Simon and Michael in. The suite was small, though larger than any other space on the ship. It was well appointed in dark wood and thick, aged carpets; a large bed abutted the port wall, while a teak table sat in the middle of the room with several goblets and pewter plates filled with fruits.
Leaning against the far wall was Jon, his gun pointed at the man standing at the large span of ornate windows that overlooked the jungle.
It was Lucas, but not the same Lucas who had captured him, who had used him, who had poisoned KC; there were subtle differences in his posture, in the wrinkles at his eyes, the stresses of life etched just slightly differently on the same canvas.
“Colonel Lucas?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Lucas said. His was voice deep, matching the voice that Michael had come to know over the last week.
“My name is Michael St. Pierre.”
“Where are my men?”
“They’re safe, locked in the engine room of your ship, though they’re feeling a little embarrassed,” Simon said.
“We don’t mean you harm,” Michael said. “But someone very close to me is dying, poisoned by your brother.”
The real Colonel Lucas nodded. “No offense to you or them, but why should I care?”
Busch pulled out his pistol and held it to Lucas’s head. “I take extreme offense at that—”
“Besides our holding you at gunpoint,” Michael interrupted Busch, “you should care because your brother is on his way here to kill you.”
Lucas smiled.
“I’m glad you find that funny.”
“If he’s on his way, it means he’s dying.”
“The same poison in his veins is in my girlfriend’s.”
Lucas considered Michael, unfazed by the guns pointed at him.
“Is there a cure?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Lucas answered without delay.
“It’s here?” Michael asked, an urgency in his voice. “You know it works?”
“Of course.”
“How do you know?” Simon asked.
Lucas paused before his tone changed. “Because I’m standing here alive.”
Busch lowered his pistol.
“Please…” Michael looked i
nto Lucas’s eyes. “I can’t let her die.”
Lucas turned and looked back at Jon, who still aimed a gun at his back. “You can lower your weapon.”
Jon looked at Michael and let the gun fall to his side.
“You know your brother assumed your identity?” Jon said. “I thought I was working for you, as did a number of people.”
“I didn’t know,” Lucas said. “The son of a bitch left me for dead.”
“On the Gentlemen’s Den?” Michael asked.
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Because I was there,” Michael said.
“Really? Were you the one who cracked the safe?”
Michael nodded.
“That pissed my brother off something awful.”
“But I saw you tie him up; I saw you pilot your boat away.”
“You sure?” Lucas asked with a turn of his head.
Lucas looked at Michael for a moment. “Imagine the shame, the embarrassment of an army colonel having a brother who is a gang lord, a terrorist. No one ever suspected; Interpol, our government, everyone had him down as full-blooded Chinese.
“Over the years, when time allowed, I looked for him without success. A month ago intel started to percolate that he was planning something international, something to do with me, Zheng He, and a book. When I heard that, I suspected it concerned something our father had found. A diary and this island and something called Dragon’s Breath. I had a team looking for him and picked up his trail ten days ago.
“He knew we were behind him that night in Italy; he knew I had no intention of bringing him back alive. And on reflection, I realized he leaked the intel on himself to draw me there, to draw me to him, so he could steal the book and take my place.
“I captured him, his men were dead. He knelt on the floor before me.”
Michael remembered it all, how he had watched as Lucas slipped the bag over his brother’s head.
“But then how did he escape?”
“I had my gun held on him, and I approached him from behind to tie his hands. I was foolish; I should have just shot him dead.
“Though we are identical twins, his training is far superior—martial arts, swords, exotic weapons—he possesses an almost inhuman speed. My arrogance blinded me.
“As I leaned down over him, he attacked. Though he was blindfolded, he knew exactly where I was. He struck out, hitting me in the throat, swiping out my legs. He ripped the bag from his head and stood over me.
“He pulled out the black Chinese puzzle box and, running his fingers around it, opened it, extracting a black porcelain bottle, sealed within the puzzle box for centuries.
“He grabbed my jaw with his powerful hand, squeezing my mouth open, and poured in a single drop. It tasted like nothing; I wasn’t sure if it had actually entered my mouth. He placed the small bottle on the table.
“He stood above me, all proud, in the same manner as I had with him. And I jumped up, driving my head into his jaw, the force knocking him back and nearly out.
“I grabbed his sword from the deck; I dipped the tip in the black bottle on the table, coating it. I raised it above my head, bringing it down, but somehow he caught the blade in midflight, his hand wrapped in his shirt slapping the sword, trapping it between his flattened palms…
“Ripping the sword from my hand, he twisted me to the ground, trussing my hands in front of me.
“Then he saw the wound on his hand. It was just a nick, a barely visible cut, but he knew he’d been poisoned. And he smiled. It was as if the plan blossomed in his mind right there. He took his sword and cut off his ponytail. He stripped the shirt from my back; he put on my hat, picked up my gun, and stole my identity.
“He threw the bag over my head and left me to die. He wasn’t about to wait for the poison to work its way through my system; he was going to blow me up with the ship.
“He carried my dead crew to our boat, silent witnesses whose presence, combined with his identical appearance, left no doubt to command that he was Colonel Lucas. I struggled out of the hood, but was unable to free my bound hands. I leaped into the sea moments before the ship exploded. I nearly drowned before freeing my binds. Finally made it to shore. I didn’t have much time to find this island and find the cure.”
“But you never saw the compass or the book,” Busch said.
“My father had a copy of the map and pictures of the island. He sailed for countless years searching for the island where he had been stranded so many years before, never knowing the island would always elude him.”
“How did you get here?”
“I don’t care how mysterious this island is, how it can hide from a compass, disturb radio signals; it can’t hide from a satellite. I had a computer extrapolate the aerial image, matched it up to reconnaissance photos, and plotted a course. It took me three days to find it; I missed the island by fifty miles the first time, seventy the second, before I realized the compass problem.
“Zheng He’s diary was stolen from this island over five hundred years ago along with the red and black puzzle boxes containing the compass and the vial of Dragon’s Breath. It was taken from here by an assassin, one of Zheng He’s most trusted men, who thought it would sustain China’s greatness.
“Arriving back in the Forbidden City after ten years, he told the world that Zheng He had died at sea, his ship lost to the depths.
“He delivered the diary, the compass, and the Dragon’s Breath as proof of the island’s magic to the child emperor, Zhu Qizhen, known as the Zhengtong Emperor, the great-grandson of the Yongle Emperor. But as the emperor was all of sixteen, having assumed the throne at eight, he was advised by a very wise eunuch by the name of Wang Zhen.
“Fearing the book and the poison might fall into enemy hands—and in the state of the young emperor’s court at that time, anyone could be an enemy—Wang Zhen sealed the three items in a textile box in the bowels of the Forbidden City, hoping they would be hidden away forever.
“Of course, sadly, forever is not that long a period of time.” Lucas paused a moment, reflecting. “And here we all are. I was near death when I arrived here.”
“You look pretty good to me,” Busch said. “So where is this bottle of liquid life?”
“It’s in the temple. You’re going to have to take your girlfriend there and convince the man within the temple to save her.” Lucas changed his tone. “You say my brother is on his way?”
“He’s off course,” Michael said, “but I don’t doubt he’ll figure out the route.”
“Well, then, perhaps it would be a good idea to let my men go,” Lucas said. “And we’d better take care of your girlfriend before my brother, Jacob, shows up with guns blazing.”
A LARGE TILED courtyard led from the deep lagoon to a white dais, upon which sat a building from the past. The deep red structure was capped with a two-tiered sloped roof of yellow tile. Light blue and yellow accent bands wrapped the arches and the molding between the first and second roof lines. It was as if the building had been plucked from the Forbidden City and positioned according to feng shui right in the middle of the jungle, the body of water in front, the mountain to the rear.
“This design is ancient,” Simon said to Lucas.
Lucas nodded. “That’s not the half of it.”
As the two stepped inside, it was as if an echo manifested: The interior space was open and grand, dozens of red columns supporting the roof. Looking up, Simon saw a coffered ceiling, intricately designed, again with blue and gold accents, an individual dragon within each panel, meticulously done by hand. There were multiple rooms surrounding the central great room, ancillary living spaces.
And to the rear were three large doors, the two outer doors closed while the central one was open, revealing a dark, flame-lit tunnel.
Lucas turned to the right and led Simon down a long hallway, the walls decorated in Chinese silkscreen, images of cranes and rivers and the fairytalelike mountains in Guilin and Zhangjiajie, until they arrived at a dark
red door.
With a simple knock, Lucas opened the door and directed Simon inside. Four middle-aged men, dressed in loose-fitting dark clothes, their Asian faces hailing from different regions of the continent, sat at a table. Their conversation abruptly halted as Simon and Lucas entered.
Sitting at a large table was a Chinese man painting an intricate oil landscape. He was large, wrapped in a long dark robe, his long black hair pulled into a ponytail. Around his neck was an ornate square piece of ivory, a dragon and a tiger entwined in battle etched into its face—a symbol Simon had seen frequently throughout Zheng He’s diary.
But what Simon recognized even more clearly was the face of the man; he had seen it countless times throughout the diary. The orange peel–rough skin, the deep, piercing eyes, the broad cheeks.
As impossible as it was, he was looking at Zheng He.
CHAPTER 59
The small Zodiac rode down the dark river, cutting through the night as Busch manned the outboard engine; the jungle was alive with shadows and calls of the wild as shafts of moonlight pierced the canopy. Jon sat next to Busch while Michael was on the center bench, a sense of relief growing in him that KC would live. Despite his words of confidence, the optimism he tried to impart, he had feared her death; he had feared he would lose her just as he had lost Mary. But now… knowing Lucas had survived, his hope was renewed.
Lucas’s men stood on the bow of the naval boat, watching as they headed downriver. Michael had released them from the engine room with apologies to both of them and to Isaac Lucas; though they understood, residual anger still hung in their eyes at being captured by a man twice their age.
“The Japanese ship?” Jon said.
“Yeah,” Busch answered as he looked around the passing jungle.
“I bet that’s Yamashita’s gold.”
“Family friend?” Busch joked.
“He was a Japanese general,” Jon said. “He was the first convicted of war crimes and executed at the end of the war. But the boat carrying his namesake treasure was lost. Men have spent fortunes in search of it.”
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