The Eye of God

by James Rollins

  He didn’t. He remained mystified and was about to say so—when suddenly he knew, putting the clues together in a sudden flash of insight.

  “The Tisza River!”

  Josip smiled.

  “What about it?” Jada asked.

  Vigor sat up straighter. “It wasn’t just the tomb of Genghis Khan that vanished into the mists of time. But also the grave of another conquering warrior, a local Hungarian hero.”

  Rachel caught on. “You’re talking about Attila the Hun.”

  Vigor nodded. “Attila died from a nosebleed during his wedding night in AD 453. Like Genghis, his soldiers buried him in secret with all his pillaged treasures, slaughtering anyone who knew the tomb’s location. The story goes that Attila was entombed inside a set of three coffins. One of iron, another of silver, and the innermost one of gold.”

  Monk’s finger stopped tapping. “And no one ever discovered where he was buried?”

  “Over the centuries, rumors abounded. But most historians believe his soldiers diverted the flow of the Tisza River, buried him in a secret vault beneath its mud, then returned the river to its original course.”

  “That would certainly make it hard to find,” Monk admitted.

  Struck by another insight, Vigor swung to Josip. “But wait, you mentioned that drought during the eighteenth century, the one that triggered the witch hunts.”

  “When rivers dwindled to trickles,” Josip agreed, still smiling.

  “It could’ve exposed that secret vault!” Vigor imagined the receding waters revealing Attila’s secret. “Are you saying someone actually found it?”

  “And tried to keep it secret,” Josip added.

  “The twelve conspirators . . . the twelve accused witches.”

  “Yes.” Josip leaned his elbows on the table. “But unknown to the people of Szeged, there was a thirteenth witch.”

  6:07 P.M.

  Duncan returned to the subterranean library to find everyone seated in stunned silence. Sensing he had missed something important, he carried the two archaeological relics to the table, the pair still wrapped in their insulating foam. He preferred not to handle them directly with his sensitive fingertips.

  He leaned toward Jada and whispered, “What happened?”

  She shushed him, waving him to the bench.

  As he sat, the monsignor asked Josip, “What thirteenth witch?”

  Duncan frowned at the odd question.

  Yep, I definitely missed something.

  6:09 P.M.

  Vigor waited for Josip to explain.

  “From the records,” his friend said, “I discovered that the bishop of Szeged had failed to attend that particular witch trial, a rarity for the pious man. That struck me as odd.”

  It would be odd, Vigor thought.

  “So I sought out his personal diaries and found them stored at the Franciscan Church in town, a church that dates back to the early fifteen hundreds. Many of the books were water damaged or destroyed by mold. But in one of his journals, I found a hand-drawn picture of a skull resting atop a book. It reminded me of the accusations from the trial. Written in Latin below it were the words: God, forgive me for the trespass, for my silence, and for what I must take to my grave.”

  Vigor could guess Josip’s next move. “So you sought out his grave.”

  “His remains were stored in a mausoleum under the church.” From the reddening of his friend’s face, it was clear Josip’s next words clearly shamed him. “I did not ask permission. I was too impatient, too sure of myself, deep in a manic phase where every action seemed right.”

  Vigor reached across and touched his arm, reassuring him.

  Looking at the tabletop, Josip admitted his crime. “In the dead of night, I took a sledge to the marble front and broke inside.”

  “It was there you found the skull and the book.”

  “Among other items.”

  “What items?”

  “I discovered a final note from the bishop, his written confession sealed in a bronze tube. In it, he explained about the discovery of Attila’s grave site. How a farmer stumbled upon it in the dry riverbed—only to find the vault empty, ransacked long ago. Except for an iron box resting on a pedestal, preserving a few precious items.”

  “The skull and the book.”

  “Superstitious fear drove the farmer to the town bishop. He believed he’d stumbled upon the meeting place for a coven of witches. Upon hearing this, the bishop commissioned twelve of his most trusted allies to accompany him to the site.”

  “The twelve who were burned at the stake,” Vigor said.

  “Correct. At the river, the group discovered who had ransacked the vault. They found a calling card left behind by the thieves, a wrist cuff of gold sculpted with the images of a phoenix fighting demons, with the name Genghis Khan inscribed on it.”

  So Genghis Khan found Attila’s tomb . . . ?

  It was not beyond the realm of possibilities, Vigor realized. Their two empires—though centuries apart—overlapped geographically. Genghis must have heard the stories of Attila’s burial and sought the treasures hidden within. Mongol forces never fully subjugated Hungary, but there were skirmishes back and forth for decades. During one of those campaigns, some prisoner must have talked, likely under torture, and the tomb was discovered and ransacked.

  None of this, of course, answered the larger question.

  Vigor stared at Josip. “But how did Genghis Khan’s skull and a book bound in his skin end up back in Attila’s old vault?”

  “Because of a warning of doom.”

  Josip nodded to Sanjar, who had been obviously waiting for this signal. The man carried forward a sheaf of pages, each protectively sealed in Mylar plastic sleeves.

  “These pages were also found inside Attila’s vault.”

  They were placed before Vigor. He glanced at the ancient pages, where faint handwriting could be discerned. Squinting, he saw words written in Latin.

  He translated the opening lines. “This is the last testament of Ildiko, descended blood of King Gondioc de Burgondie. These are my dying words from the past to the future . . .”

  Vigor glanced up, recognizing the name. “Ildiko was Attila’s last wife. Some believed she murdered the Hun with poison on their wedding night.”

  “So she admits here.” Josip touched the stack of paper. “Read the pages at your leisure. She wrote them while buried alive in that vault with Attila’s body, a murder she committed at the behest of the Church.”

  “What?” Shock rang in Vigor’s voice.

  “Through intermediaries, Pope Leo the Great enlisted her to recover what had been given to Attila the year prior, an ominous gift to frighten the superstitious king of the Huns away from the gates of Rome.”

  Vigor knew about that fateful meeting—except for one detail. “What did the pontiff give him?”

  “A box. Or rather three boxes, one inside the other. The outer of iron, then silver, then gold.”

  The same as the rumored coffins of Attila.

  Was this papal gift the source of that story? Or did Attila copy it for his own grave?

  “What was inside the box?” Rachel asked, striking for the heart of the matter.

  “First, there was a skull, inscribed in ancient Aramaic.”

  Vigor pictured the writing he had examined in Rome. “So the box held the original relic, the one that was used as a template for Genghis’s skull.”

  Monk cocked a thumb toward the foam-wrapped objects. “So Genghis’s skull was just a Xerox copy of this older one. Why do that?”

  Rachel explained, “Someone wanted what was written on that first skull—a plea against the end of the world and its date—to survive the march of history.”

  “But why?” Jada interrupted, sounding offended. “Why go to all this effort to preserve this information, when nothing can be done about this doomsday prediction?”

  “Who said nothing can be done about it?” Josip quipped. “I said the skull was the first of
the objects hidden in those triple boxes.”

  “What else was there?” Vigor asked.

  “According to Ildiko, the boxes and their contents came from east of Persia, from the Nestorian sect of the Christian church. The treasure was sent west to Rome for safekeeping in the Eternal City, where it was hoped its contents might be preserved until the end of time.”

  “Or at least until the date marked on the skull,” Vigor added.

  Josip bowed his head in agreement. “Pope Leo gave this gift away without full knowledge of what it held. Only after a Nestorian emissary came from Persia and warned the pontiff of the contents’ true history did he realize his grave error.”

  Monk snorted. “So he sent a girl to get it back.”

  “It may have been the only way to get close to Attila,” Josip countered. “But in the end, she failed. Attila must have grown wise to what had been given to him and hid it away.”

  “What was it?” Vigor asked.

  “In Ildiko’s own words, a celestial cross, one sculpted from a star that had fallen to the earth far to the east.”

  “A meteorite,” Jada said, sitting up.

  “Most likely,” Josip agreed. “From that fallen star, a cross was carved and given as a gift to a holy visitor, one who came to their eastern shores, spreading word of a new god, one with a risen son.”

  Vigor glanced again to the wrapped relics, picturing the gospel bound in human skin. “You’re talking about St. Thomas,” he said with awe. “The Chinese emperor of that time gave St. Thomas that newly sculpted cross.”

  Historians readily accepted that the apostle Thomas traveled as far as India, where he was eventually martyred. But a few scholars believed he might have made it as far as China, maybe even Japan.

  Vigor could not keep the wonder out of his voice. “Are you saying the box held the cross of St. Thomas?”

  “Not just his cross,” Josip intoned.

  Vigor matched his friend’s tearful gaze and knew the truth.

  It held his skull, too.

  Vigor was struck momentarily dumb. Had this same knowledge pushed Josip over the edge? By his own admission, he had already begun to act irrationally. Had this driven him into a full psychotic break?

  “According to Ildiko’s testament,” Josip continued, “St. Thomas had a vision of the fiery destruction of the world, including when it would happen, while holding this cross. This knowledge was preserved by Christian mystics after his death.”

  “By inscribing it upon the saint’s skull.”

  Josip nodded. “According to St. Thomas, this celestial cross is the only weapon to prevent the world from ending on that date. If it remains lost, the world is doomed.”

  “And this cross was buried with Attila?” Vigor asked.

  Josip glanced to the pages. “Ildiko claims as much. While locked in that tomb, she found the boxes again—only now with the cross returned to its proper place inside. She wrote down her last testament in the hopes someone would find it.”

  “Which Genghis did,” Vigor finished.

  Silence hung over the room for several breaths.

  Finally, Monk cleared his throat. “So let me get this straight. The pope mistakenly gave Attila this treasure. A plot to retrieve it failed. Centuries later, Genghis ransacked Attila’s tomb, read Ildiko’s note, found the cross there, and upon his death, he used his own body to preserve this knowledge.”

  “Not only preserve it,” Josip said, “but I believe he was leaving behind a road map for a future generation, offering us a way to find where he hid this cross, turning his own body into a guide.”

  Vigor acknowledged that possibility. “Genghis Khan always believed the future belonged to him. And considering that one out of every two hundred men living today is his descendant, he might have been right. He would want to protect that legacy.”

  Josip agreed. “Despite his image as a bloody tyrant, Genghis was also forward thinking. His empire had the first international postal system, invented the concept of diplomatic immunity, and even allowed women in its councils. But more important, the Mongols were also unprecedented in their religious tolerance. In their capital city, there was even a Nestorian church. It might have been those priests who helped sway Genghis to this path.”

  “I think you may be right about that last part,” Vigor agreed. “Historically the Nestorians were a huge influence on Genghis. Just the fact that Genghis used his own skin to preserve a copy of the Gospel of Thomas speaks to their influence even in this endeavor.”

  Rachel, ever the detective, wanted more proof. “This is all fine, but can any of this be substantiated? Is there any piece of tangible evidence that Genghis possessed this cross, this talisman meant to save the world?”

  Josip pointed to Vigor. “He has it.”

  Vigor felt like a victim falsely accused. “What do you mean? Where do I have it?”

  “In the Vatican’s Secret Archives. You are now the prefect of that library, are you not?”

  Vigor racked his brain as to what Josip was implying—then he remembered one of the archive’s prize possessions. “The letter from Genghis Khan’s grandson!”

  Josip crossed his arms, the victorious prosecutor.

  Vigor explained to the others. “In 1246, the grandson of Genghis, the Grand Khan Guyuk, sent a note to the pope. He demanded the pontiff travel to Mongolia in person to pay homage to him. He warned that if the pope didn’t do this, there would be grave consequences for the world.”

  Rachel stared at him. “It’s not definitive proof, but I’ll admit it does sound like the grandson knew he had the fate of the world in his possession, or at least in his grandfather’s tomb.”

  Vigor gave a small shrug. “He may have even been offering to return it to the pope, if the pontiff were willing to travel there . . . which unfortunately he refused.”

  Duncan sighed. “If he had, that would’ve made things lots easier.”

  Monk shrugged heavily. “That’s all well and good. I appreciate the history lesson. But let’s cut to the chase, people. Can anyone tell me how finding this cross is supposed to save the world?”

  Vigor looked to Josip, hoping for a solution. His friend gave a small, defeated shake of his head. Instead, the answer came from a most unlikely source, from someone who had been as doubtful as St. Thomas all along.

  Dr. Jada Shaw raised her hand. “I know.”

  11

  November 18, 9:10 P.M. KST

  Pyongyang, North Korea

  The squeal of truck brakes announced their arrival at the prison gates.

  Hidden in the vehicle’s enclosed bed, Gray allowed himself a measure of relief. The strike team had made it safely out of downtown Pyongyang and into the swampy outskirts that bordered the Taedong River. En route here, they had run across a few search patrols, but the Triad members on the motorcycles had put on a good front, clearing a path through. With everyone still looking for a bus, their military truck raised no suspicions.

  But Gray knew such luck could not last forever. They’d lost half their force back at the hotel. One of those captured would eventually break and reveal their assault plans to the enemy.

  Gray listened to the loud voices as the driver shouted to the gate guards. The plan was to pose as reinforcements, sent from Pyongyang to beef up security here. The distant sirens of the city certainly added validity to that claim.

  Footfalls and voices flanked the side of the truck, working their way toward the rear. It seemed the guards here were on edge, likely still being kept in the dark in regard to the situation downtown.

  Suddenly the rear flap was tossed back. The beam of a flashlight speared inside, blinding them, giving them all a good excuse to shield their faces or turn away. Gray and Kowalski hunkered down closest to the cab, their pale faces blocked by the bodies of the others.

  The guard splashed his light around, but after discovering only men and women wearing North Korean uniforms, he let the flap drop and headed back to his gatehouse.

&nbs
p; With a grind of gears, the truck began moving again. It rolled slowly forward. Gray risked widening a rip in the bed’s tent fabric so he could peek out. The prison covered a hundred acres, all surrounded by high fencing topped with coils of razor wire. Guard towers rose every fifty yards. The facilities inside were a mix of squat cement-block buildings and row after row of wooden barracks.

  Gray fingered the map in his hands. He had studied it with a penlight while traveling here. The interrogation center was not far from the main gate. Seichan was likely being held at that location.

  But was she still there?

  Their vehicle slipped through the outer gate and rolled across a no-man’s-land covered in hidden mines before reaching the second fence. This inner gate also trundled open to receive them.

  The motorcycles led the way, followed by the truck, a Trojan horse on wheels. As they passed inside, the gates closed behind them.

  There was no turning back now.

  And getting in was the easy part.

  Tarps were stripped from the floor, revealing their heavier armaments: machine guns, grenade launchers, even a 60 mm lightweight mortar.

  Kowalski picked up one of the rocket launchers. He slung its long tube over his shoulder and gripped his assault rifle with his free hand.

  “Now I feel properly dressed,” Kowalski said, his voice covered by the rumble of the truck.

  The vehicle angled toward the interrogation center and parked in front of its entrance. The driver kept the engine running. With any luck, they could grab Seichan with a minimum of fuss or noise and leave the same way they had come, explaining they’d been recalled back to the city.

  Zhuang poked his head out the rear flap, making sure everything looked clear. Apparently satisfied, he waved Gray and Guan-yin forward. They huddled together at the flap.

  Gray studied the façade of the interrogation center. The cement-block building was one story and looked mostly dark at this late hour. They should be able to swiftly sweep it.

  “Let’s go,” he said and hopped out.

  With the truck blocking the view to the front door, they ran for the entrance. Other Triad members took up defensive positions around and even under the truck.