The Eye of God

by James Rollins

  She ran for the rows of barracks, intending to hide herself among the prisoners, to keep out of sight until help could arrive.

  For the first time in her life, Seichan put her trust in hope.

  10

  November 18, 5:05 P.M. QYZT

  The Aral Sea, Kazakhstan

  The Eurocopter sped over an endless landscape of blowing sand and crusted salt. Jada stared listlessly below, finding it hard to believe this blighted region was once a beautiful blue sea, teeming with fish, the shores dotted with canneries and villages, all full of vigorous life.

  It seemed unimaginable.

  She had read the mission dossier concerning the Aral Sea, how the Soviets had diverted its two major rivers to irrigate cotton fields back in the sixties. As the decades passed, the sea quickly dried up, dwindling to only 10 percent of its original size, draining a volume equal to Lake Erie and Lake Ontario combined. Now all that remained of the sea were a few salty pools to the north and south.

  Between them, this wasteland was born.

  “They call this the Aralkum Desert,” the monsignor whispered as the others slept, noting her attention. “Its toxic salt fields are so large they can be seen from space.”

  “Toxic?” she asked.

  “As the sea vanished, it left behind pollutants and pesticides. Strong winds regularly stir up that sand and dust into dark storms called black blizzards.”

  As Jada stared, she watched a swirling zephyr spin across the salt flats as if chasing them.

  “People began to get sick. Respiratory infections, strange anemias, spikes in cancer rates. The average life expectancy dropped from sixty-five to fifty-one.”

  She glanced at him, surprised by those numbers.

  “And its effect was not just local. These fierce winds continue to blow the desert’s poison around the globe. Aral dust can be found in the glaciers of Greenland, in the forests of Norway, even in the blood of penguins in Antarctica.”

  Jada shook her head, wondering for the thousandth time why they had detoured to this desolate place. If given a choice, she would have preferred to visit another location in Kazakhstan: the Baikonur Cosmodrome, Russia’s premier space center. It lay only two hundred miles east of their coordinates.

  At least there, I could collect more data on the crash.

  That is, if everything weren’t so top secret.

  Still, she looked sidelong at Duncan, at his fingertips. He said he had noted some energy signature emanating from the archaeological relics. As much as she was in a hurry, a part of her was intrigued by his assessment.

  But was it all nonsense?

  Jada studied Duncan’s features as he lightly drowsed beside his stocky partner. The man did not strike her as someone prone to flights of fantasy. He seemed too well grounded.

  The pilot came over the intercom. “We’re ten minutes out from the coordinates.”

  Everyone stirred.

  She returned her full attention to the window. The sun sat low on the horizon. Hillocks and the rusting remains of old ships cast long shadows across the flat desert.

  As the coordinates grew closer, the Eurocopter began to descend, sweeping lower, speeding over the salt flats.

  “Dead ahead,” the pilot said.

  Everyone pressed their noses to their respective windows.

  The helicopter rushed toward the only feature for miles: the rusted hulk of a massive ship. It sat upright, its keel sunk deep into the sand, a ghost ship riding this dusty sea. Oxidation and corrosion had worn away most details, eating away its forecastle, staining the bulkhead a deep orange-red, a sharp contrast to the white salt flats.

  “Is this the place?” Rachel asked.

  “It matches the coordinates,” the pilot confirmed.

  Duncan spoke by his window. “I see lots of tire tracks in the salt around the beached ship.”

  “This must be right,” the monsignor insisted.

  Monk touched his radio to communicate better with the pilot. “Take us down. Land fifty or so yards away from the ship.”

  The bird immediately banked to the side, hovered for a breath, then lowered until its wheels touched down, blowing up a whirlwind of sand and salt.

  Monk pulled off his earphones and yelled to the pilot. “Keep the rotors turning until I give you the all-clear.”

  He pulled open the hatch. With an arm raised against the sting of whipping sand, he cautioned everyone to remain inside, except Duncan. “Let us check this out first.”

  Jada was happy to let them take the lead. From the shadows of the cabin, she watched Monk and Duncan head out across the dusty sand. The winter day was cool, but not bitterly. The air smelled of salt, motor oil, and decay.

  Across the way, a dark door in the ship’s port-side hull beckoned. It lay even with the sands and open to the elements. Before the two men had crossed half the distance toward it, a desert-camouflaged Land Rover burst out of a hidden hatch in the vessel’s stern. It sped on wide, paddle-treaded tires built for the sand and swept in an intercepting arc to reach Monk and Duncan.

  The two men had their weapons raised and pointed toward it.

  The Land Rover drew abreast of them, keeping a distance away.

  An exchange of words followed, with much gesticulation on Monk’s part. The monsignor’s name was mentioned. After another full minute of discussion, Monk stomped back to the helicopter.

  “They say Father Josip is inside the ship,” he said. “I tried to convince them to have the priest come out and greet us, to make sure we’re not being set up. But they refused.”

  “I imagine by now the level of Father Josip’s paranoia is quite high,” Vigor said.

  Jada heard a slight catch in the monsignor’s voice, as if he were holding something back about the man.

  “I’ll go meet him alone,” Vigor said, hopping out.

  “No, you won’t,” Rachel said. She leaped down to join her uncle. “We stick together.”

  “We’ll all go,” Monk said, but he turned to Jada. “Maybe you’d best stay with the helicopter.”

  She considered it for a few seconds, then shook her head, forcing as much bravado as she could muster. “I’ve not come all this way to stay in the helicopter.”

  Monk nodded, then popped his head into the cabin and yelled to the pilot. “I’ll be on radio. Lock this bird up tight, but keep her warmed and ready in case we need a fast takeoff.”

  The pilot gave Monk a thumbs-up. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  With the matter settled, they all took off across the sand to rejoin Duncan. Jada moved into the larger man’s shadow. He gave her a wink of reassurance—which surprisingly worked to calm her.

  That, and perhaps the assault rifle in his hands.

  A lone stranger hopped out of the passenger seat of the Land Rover to greet them. He was her height with shaggy dark hair, likely about her same age, too, dressed in traditional-looking Kazakh attire, consisting of wide trousers, a long shirt, and a sleeveless sheepskin jacket. He came to them empty-handed, but he lifted his arm, exposing a leather cuff around his left wrist.

  A sharp whistle from him drew a screeched response.

  A dark shape swooped into view overhead and plummeted into a steep dive. Just before striking the Kazakh man, a bird with huge wings swooped wide, braking to a stop. Sharp talons found the leather cuff, and the tall falcon came to a fluttering rest, tucking its wings. Tiny dark eyes stared at the newcomers with suspicion—until the man placed a small leather hood over the bird’s head.

  The stranger faced them, offering the monsignor a respectful nod of greeting. “Father Josip has shown me pictures of his dear friend, the monsignor Verona. Please be welcome.” He spoke flawless English, with a prominent British accent. “I am Sanjar, and my feathered companion of foul temper is Heru.”

  Vigor smiled. “The Egyptian variant on the Greek name Horus.”

  “Indeed. The falcon-headed god of the sky.” Sanjar headed toward the ship. “Please follow me. Father Jos
ip will be very happy to see you.”

  He led the group toward the door cut through the ship’s hull. To the left, the Land Rover sped away, swinging around the stern and vanishing out of view.

  Vigor craned his neck to look up at the tall derelict ship. “Father Josip has been living in here all this time?”

  “Not in here, but under here.”

  Sanjar ducked into the dark interior of the ship.

  Jada followed Duncan, finding herself in the cavernous hold of the ship. The vessel’s interior had fared no better than its outside. Over the passing decades, the elements had worked deep into the ship, wreaking great damage, turning the hold into a rotted-out cathedral of rust and ruin.

  To the far right, she spotted the Land Rover parked in its makeshift garage, sheltered from the elements.

  “This way.” Sanjar motioned to the left, to an open staircase, its rails dripping with rivulets of corrosion. He clicked on a flashlight and led the way down.

  As they progressed deeper, the steel treads underfoot abruptly changed to rock. Through a rent in the ship’s bottom, a steep passage delved downward, dug through the sandstone, leading to a vast maze burrowed beneath the decaying behemoth. Dark tunnels branched off from the main passageway, revealing a warren of rooms and additional passageways and crawlways.

  It looked like an entire village could have been housed down here.

  “Who built all this?” Duncan asked Sanjar.

  “First, drug smugglers back in the early seventies, then it was expanded by militant forces during the late eighties, and it was mostly abandoned after Kazakhstan declared independence in the nineties. Once discovered, Father Josip made it his base camp, where he could work undisturbed and out of the public eye.”

  A glow rose up from below. As they neared it, Sanjar clicked off his flashlight and returned it to his pocket. The falcon on his wrist stirred with a ruffle of feathers.

  Moments later, they reached what appeared to be the lowest level. The stairs emptied into a large man-made cavern, as big as a basketball court. Other halls burrowed out from here, but there was no need to go any farther.

  The main room looked like a cross between a medieval library and the mad nest of a hoarder. Rows of bookcases strained under the weight of their volumes. Desks lay buried under mounds of papers and notebooks, along with bits of broken pottery, even a few dusty bones. Additionally, charts and maps had been nailed to the wall, some torn in half, others marked over so heavily with a thick scrawl as to be indiscernible. Then there were the chalked diagrams spanning another section of the walls, with arrows connecting and dividing, as if someone were engineering a giant Rube Goldberg machine.

  In the center of the chaos stood the clear master of this domain.

  He was dressed similarly to Sanjar, but with the addition of a Roman collar. Over the years, the sun and wind had weathered the priest’s skin to a burnished brown, while also bleaching his hair white. His cheeks and chin were scruffy with several days’ worth of beard.

  He looked much older than Vigor—though Jada knew the man was actually a decade younger.

  Still, despite his aged countenance, a pair of eyes blazed brightly as he turned toward them. But Jada wondered: Was that shine brilliance or madness?

  5:58 P.M.

  Vigor could not hide his shock at the state of his colleague.

  “Josip?”

  “Vigor, my friend!” Josip waded through stacked books on the floor, his thin arms raised in greeting, tears beginning to brim. “You came!”

  “How could I not?”

  When Josip reached him, they hugged. His friend clung to him, repeatedly squeezing his shoulders as if to test that he was real. In turn, Vigor felt the thinness of his colleague’s frame, thinking Josip’s years in this harsh desert had almost mummified him. But Vigor suspected it was obsession more than anything that had burned his friend to skin and bone.

  Sadly, such had been the case in the past, too.

  Early in his seminary years, Josip Tarasco had suffered his first psychotic break. He had been found naked atop the roof of the school, claiming he could hear the voice of God in the stars, explaining he needed to remove his clothes so the starlight could bathe him more fully, drawing him closer to the Lord.

  Shortly after that, he had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, a manic condition of deep lows and blazing highs. Lithium and other antidepressants helped stabilize the severity of those emotional swings, but never entirely. On the positive side, that same condition seemed to stoke a fire of genius in the man, a brilliance born out of that streak of madness.

  Still, lapses of his mental status did occur, expressed as bouts of obsessive compulsion, tics of behavior, and, in rare moments, full psychotic breaks. So Vigor was not entirely surprised when Josip suddenly vanished off the face of the earth ten years ago.

  But what about now . . . ?

  As they ended their embrace, Vigor searched Josip’s face.

  His friend noted the attention. “I know what you’re thinking, Vigor, but I am in my right mind.” He glanced around the chamber, running a hand through his hair. “Perhaps a bit compulsive at the moment, I will admit that, but stress was always my enemy. And considering the timetable we’re all under, I must accept and utilize every unique gift God has given me.”

  Upon hearing all this, Rachel looked sternly at him. Vigor had failed to mention Josip’s mental condition to her, fearing it would dissuade her from allowing him to travel here. He also worried such a revelation might cast doubts on the validity of the man’s concerns.

  Vigor had no such prejudices.

  He respected Josip’s genius, regardless of his diagnosis.

  “And speaking of that rushed timetable,” Vigor said, “perhaps you can explain why you summoned me here in such a strange manner. What you sent brought a great deal of trouble along with it.”

  “They found you?”

  “Who found us?” Vigor pictured the attack at the university and the deadly bombing in Aktau.

  Josip shook his head, his gaze turning flighty, edgy with paranoia. Vigor could see the man struggling against it.

  He licked his lips. “I don’t know. Someone killed the courier I sent overland to mail the crate. On his way back he was waylaid, tortured, his dead body dumped in the desert. I thought . . . I was hoping it was just bandits. But now . . . ?”

  Josip was losing his battle. Raw suspicion shone in his face, his gaze glancing off everyone now. It seemed compulsion was not the only symptom manifesting during this stressful time.

  In order to stem that growing paranoia, Vigor made fast introductions, ending with, “And you must remember Rachel, my niece.”

  Josip’s face brightened with sudden recognition and relief. “Of course! How wonderful!” This slice of the familiar seemed to immediately drain the tension out of Vigor’s colleague, to reassure him that he was among friends. “Come, I have much to show you and so very little time.”

  He marched them over to a long wooden table with bench seating. Sanjar helped him clear the surface. Once that was done, they all settled down.

  “The skull and the book?” Josip started, his desire plain to read.

  “Yes, I have them with me. On the helicopter.”

  “Can someone fetch them?”

  Duncan stood up and volunteered to retrieve them.

  “Thank you, young man,” Josip said. He then turned to Vigor. “I assume you’ve already identified the skull’s owner, the same man who once wore that skin.”

  “Genghis Khan. The relics were crafted from his body.”

  “Very good. With your resources, I knew you’d solve that mystery.”

  “But where did you find such macabre items?”

  “In the grave of a witch.”

  The young woman, Dr. Shaw, made a scoffing noise. She had not been won over to their cause during the flight here, even after Vigor had revealed the history of the relics. She clearly suffered from her own single-mindedness and was anxiou
s to continue onward with Sigma’s secret mission in Mongolia.

  Ignoring her, Vigor encouraged Josip. “I remember you were on a research trip to Hungary, investigating the witch hunts of the eighteenth century.”

  “Indeed. I was in Szeged, a small town along the Tisza River in southern Hungary.”

  Josip stressed the name of the river, staring harder at Vigor, as if offering a hidden clue. Something about the name did trigger a flicker of recognition. He just couldn’t say why.

  Josip continued, “In July of 1728, during the height of that witch hunt, a group of twelve local townspeople were burned at the stake on a small island in the river called Boszorkánysziget. Which means Island of the Witches, named after the great number of innocents torched there.”

  “Such superstitious nonsense,” Rachel muttered with a scowl.

  Jada nodded next to her.

  “Actually, superstitions had very little to do with these particular murders. Hungary was at the end of a decade-long drought. Rivers dwindled to trickles, farmlands turned to dust, famine was rampant.”

  “The people needed a scapegoat,” Vigor said.

  “And someone to sacrifice. Over four hundred people were killed during that time, but not all those deaths were born of fearful superstitions. Many public officials used that bloody period to rid themselves of threats or for petty revenge.”

  “And the twelve in Szeged?” Rachel asked, ready to hear more about this cold case.

  “I found a copy of the original trial transcript in a monastery outside of town. Their inquisition was less concerned about witchcraft and more about rumors of the twelve discovering a buried treasure. Whether true or not, they refused to speak. Others took the stand to say they heard some of the twelve talking about finding a skull and a book bound in human skin. Such accusations of the occult eventually led them to be burned at the stake.”

  Monk tapped one of his prosthetic fingers on the table. “So you’re saying that these twelve were tortured to death to find the location of some lost treasure.”

  “Not just any lost treasure.” Josip looked hard again at Vigor, as if expecting him to understand this cryptic response.