The Eye of God

by James Rollins

  Vigor continued, “Other legends claim Genghis is indeed buried on that island. Not that we should put a whole lot of weight on that rumor. The same can be said of countless other places across Asia. But this particular story mentions that Genghis was buried with a great weapon, one that could destroy the world.”

  Rachel nodded. “This legend may be the source of the commonly held belief by the Mongols that if Genghis’s tomb is ever found and opened, the world will end.”

  Gray felt their excitement seeping into his blood.

  “From a real-world practicality,” Vigor said, “archaeologists have found many Mongol weapons and relics on that island. There are even historical records of Mongol warriors of Genghis’s time coming to that island. Though what they were doing there, no one knew.”

  “The island is also the center for a unique form of shamanism,” Rachel said. “The local Buryat tribesmen, who descend from ancient Mongols, practice a religion that merges Buddhism with naturalistic animism. They believe a great conqueror of the universe resides on the island. Shamans still protect many of that ruler’s sacred sites and believe trampling them would invite ruin upon the world.”

  Similar to the Genghis story . . .

  “Last,” Vigor said, “some travelers to that island report fits of energy. Those are their words.”

  Rachel nodded. “Maybe these folks are attuned or hypersensitive to whatever energy is emanating from St. Thomas’s cross. Some even claim to have visited a cave that opened a door to other worlds.”

  Gray remembered Dr. Shaw’s statements about dark energy and the multiverse. He also wondered if these other worlds could be related to the visions of St. Thomas.

  “Then let’s check it out,” Gray said. “I already have Sigma command arranging our transportation.”

  “But what about Monk and the others?” Rachel asked.

  Gray frowned. He doubted they could spare the time to wait for them. His group could easily lose half a day while Monk and the others returned from the mountains.

  “We’ll move on,” Gray decided. “Update them when we can.”

  Still, worry nagged him.

  What was going on with Monk’s team?

  23

  November 19, 6:20 P.M. ULAT

  Khentii Mountains, Mongolia

  Batukhan sat astride his horse, both mount and rider in traditional leather armor. He also wore a Mongol war helmet that was crowned with steel and draped with a mask made of real wolfskin to hide his features.

  It was important to remain anonymous, especially now when murder was involved.

  The bowstring near his ear still vibrated, singing a chorus of blood. He had watched his arrow pierce the back of the woman standing at the cliff’s edge above, enjoyed seeing her sink to her knees in shock. He smiled under his mask, his heart thundering in his ears.

  “Excellent shot,” Arslan said, sitting on a stallion to the side. Similarly attired in leather, the man also wore a helmet, but the ruin of his face was bared for all to see. Sutures knit his skin together, laddering across his cheek and brow. It was a sight both gruesome and fearsome.

  “I saved Sanjar for you,” Batukhan said.

  With only two targets visible along the cliff’s edge, he had chosen the woman. He found the kill as exciting as sex, the penetration equally satisfying. He had left Sanjar standing, knowing Arslan would want that prize for himself later, to exact personal vengeance.

  Now the cliff’s edge was empty, their quarry likely terrified and hiding. But there was nowhere to go.

  Batukhan cast his gaze across the dozen mounted men spread across the dark forested slope that led toward the shelf of rock above. They were the best and most loyal of the clan.

  Twelve warriors against three men and two women.

  Make that one woman now.

  Ideally he would spare the last woman’s life, so his men could celebrate afterward as the forces of Genghis Khan had in the past. It was their birthright and heritage, and a well-deserved reward after spilling blood this night.

  They could always kill her afterward.

  With a kick of his heels, he trotted his horse before his men, sitting tall in his saddle, knowing he cast a striking figure. He spoke a few words to each, showing respect, getting it back, like any good commander, readying his troops.

  Once he’d made his rounds, he returned to Arslan’s side and pointed up toward the plateau. Surrounded by ice-encrusted walls, his quarry was trapped. The only way down was through this forest—that, or leaping headlong off the cliff to the rocks below. There was nowhere else to go. It would be a slaughterhouse, with their victims’ screams echoing across the mountaintops, possibly to Genghis Khan’s own tomb, where he imagined the great man relishing the blood and horror to come.

  Batukhan yelled, knowing there was no further need for stealth.

  The first arrow had already flown, drawing blood.

  “Yavyaa!” he bellowed, a traditional call to battle. “Yavyaa!”

  6:33 P.M.

  As the thunder of hooves echoed up from below, Duncan crouched with Sanjar. They hid in a cluster of boulders near the snow line.

  Jada remained on the far side of the steep rockslide, near the shore of the lake, out of immediate harm’s way. He had left her with his pistol and quickly showed her how to use it. She guarded over the injured Khaidu, who still lived but needed medical care soon.

  After securing them, Duncan and Sanjar had joined Monk on the opposite side of the rock pile. They quickly prepared for battle, recognizing what was coming, knowing that the arrow had been sent to terrorize them, to draw first blood—a common tactic of Mongol fighters, or so Sanjar had informed them.

  Sanjar urged Duncan to hurry once he heard the yell echo up from below, a battle cry to charge. “Tie it to Heru’s jess. That piece of leather hanging from his claw.”

  Duncan held the damp headband in his hand and passed the dangling cord through it and secured it with a fast knot. Sanjar kept the hooded falcon close to his body, while Duncan finished.

  “Let him go,” Duncan said.

  Sanjar tugged the hood off and sent the bird flying from his wrist. Duncan ducked from the initial heavy flaps and studied the laptop at his knees, the screen’s glow lowered to its dimmest setting. On the monitor, he watched the falcon take flight, gaining a bird’s-eye view of the forest below, the feed coming from the tiny video camera attached to the headband. It worked even better in the air than underwater.

  The falcon soared high above the treetops, circling wide. Duncan did his best to count the number of horses pounding up from below. He saw at least a dozen, in full battle regalia, like their riders. He spotted no others on the ground.

  He radioed Monk, who had left the shelter of their boulders to prepare a welcome for the coming forces.

  “No more than a baker’s dozen,” Duncan reported in. “All on horseback. I spotted bows, swords, and several assault rifles.”

  Seems there was a limit when it came to sticking to the old ways.

  “Understood,” Monk transmitted back. “Just about ready here.”

  Duncan craned over the boulder to see his partner down on one knee by the rockslide. He had planted charges at its leading edge and was quickly securing them with wireless detonators. The explosives had been intended to destroy the wreck of the satellite in case it couldn’t be moved or salvaged. They couldn’t risk the Chinese or Russians getting hold of the classified advanced technology.

  But matters had changed.

  The plan was to hide here and lure the attackers toward the far side where Jada and Khaidu sheltered. Once within the narrow pass between the cliff and rockfall, they would blow the charges, trying to take out as many of the enemy as possible, while simultaneously closing off immediate access to the lake, keeping Jada and Khaidu safe for as long as possible.

  Enemies left on this side would be for Duncan, Monk, and Sanjar to handle. Not great odds, but it wasn’t like they had a whole lot of options.

&nb
sp; And it would take perfect timing.

  Hence, their eye in the sky.

  As Monk came hightailing it back toward them, Duncan kept watch on the screen. He spotted a figure leading the charge through the woods wearing what looked like a wolf’s head. It seemed like the Master of the Blue Wolves had decided to get his hands dirty this time.

  “Here they come,” Duncan hissed.

  The three of them ducked lower, not wanting to be seen as the mounted battle group pounded up the last stretch and onto the plateau.

  On the screen, they watched the horses and riders mill about momentarily. One had a rifle at his shoulder; others had bows drawn. Upon finding no one, their leader pointed toward the rockslide and the lake beyond.

  “Uragshaa!” he ordered, which likely meant go forward.

  Drawing a curved sword from a scabbard, the Master of the Blue Wolves led his men toward the hidden lake.

  Good, Duncan thought.

  Maybe if they could kill their leader, the rest would break ranks and flee.

  Monk had his thumb on the detonator, his eyes fixed to the screen, waiting until the first few men had trotted their horses into the gap between the rocks and the cliff’s edge.

  Now, Duncan silently urged.

  As if Monk had heard him, he pressed the detonator.

  Nothing happened.

  Or at least not much.

  A blasting cap popped like a firecracker, flashing out in the darkness. The noise startled the nearest horse, sending it cantering forward, bumping and jostling the next in line. Other horses shied entirely away from the rockslide, keeping on this side.

  “Cap must have fallen out of the first charge,” Monk mumbled. “That’s what I get for working in the damned dark.”

  He twisted the detonator to the next charge and pressed the button again. This time a major explosion rocked the plateau. Ice and snow showered over them, shaken loose from the cliffs above.

  Monk didn’t stop. In quick fashion, he blew the third and fourth charges in fast succession. Duncan’s ears rang from the explosions. Horses reared and whinnied. Riders fell out of their saddles.

  “Go!” Monk ordered.

  The three of them burst out of hiding, guns blazing.

  As he fired, Duncan prayed Jada and Khaidu were safe.

  6:39 P.M.

  From the far side of the lake, Jada had watched three riders barrel into view around the rocks, the first wearing a formidable wolf mask. She had heard the retort, like a gunshot, a second before.

  Then a series of loud fiery blasts had her cringing, covering her face with an arm. Boulders shattered amid a roll of smoke and rock dust. More came tumbling down to close off the lake from the other side. Smaller rocks continued to rain down, splashing into the water or bouncing over the granite shelf.

  Jada held her breath, hoping the explosions had dispatched the three riders—but out of the smoke, a trio of horses thundered back into view, the beasts in full panic.

  Taking advantage, Jada fired. She squeezed her trigger over and over again. She had never shot a pistol before, or any gun for that matter. So she opted for quantity versus quality.

  Still, she hit one horse. It reared, the rider clinging tightly. That was a mistake. As the panicked mount turned on a back hoof, it leaped blindly, tumbling over the cliff’s edge, taking the rider, too. The man’s scream of terror as he fell pierced through the echoing blasts of her pistol.

  Jada kept firing wildly.

  Another lucky round caught a second man in the throat as he tried to bring his bow up. He fell out of his saddle, landing facedown in the water, splashing feebly.

  The third rider, unharmed, came charging for her, a curved sword raised high. His wolf mask hid his face, making him appear a merciless force of nature.

  Jada squeezed the trigger again, but it wouldn’t budge—the slide had locked back. Duncan had told her what that meant.

  Out of bullets.

  The rider swooped down upon her, his sword flashing in the moonlight.

  Then an arrow zipped past her head, its feathers brushing her ear.

  It flew and struck the horse in the neck.

  The beast crashed, throwing the rider over its head toward Jada. She fled back on her knees, staring to the side as Khaidu struggled to notch another arrow to her bowstring, but the single pull had sapped the last of the young girl’s strength. Her fingers shook, pained sweat shining on her face, then the bow tumbled from her weak grasp.

  The rider climbed to his feet. Behind him, his horse had fallen to its side, the stone slick with arterial blood, struck through the carotid.

  Khaidu stared toward the beast with pity; plainly the horse hadn’t been her intended target. That was the man who picked up his sword and stalked toward them now. He had a palm resting on a holstered pistol.

  Khaidu turned to her, the girl’s expression no less pitying. “Run . . .”

  Jada took the advice, leaped to her feet, and dove into the neighboring lake.

  Cruel laughter followed her down into the depths.

  They both knew the truth.

  Where could she go?

  6:43 P.M.

  Duncan ran through the chaos of horseflesh and men. When the rock pile blew, a rough head count put eight men still on this side, armed with swords and rifles. Duncan, along with Monk and Sanjar, had dispatched half in the opening moments of their ambush.

  Now it was a more dangerous game.

  One of the combatants had dismounted near the edge of the plateau and set up a sniper’s position, flat to the ground, taking potshots at them, keeping them on the defensive. Out in the open with little shelter, it would have been like shooting fish in a barrel—but with the mix of eight horses and the sniper’s fellow men out here, Duncan and the others had some cover.

  If only that damned cover would quit moving or trying to kill you . . .

  Monk slammed into Duncan, dancing from a round that ricocheted at his toes. They both ducked behind a horse for a few breaths. Duncan kept hold of its lead to keep their stallion between them and the sniper.

  Sanjar joined them a second later.

  Monk gasped. “Dunk, go take out that shooter.”

  No argument here . . . that guy was really pissing him off.

  “Sanjar and I’ll try to make it over the wall,” Monk said and pointed.

  Moments ago, they had all heard the shooting on the far side, coming from the lake. A few of the enemy must have gotten through before the charges blew. Someone had to go help Jada and Khaidu.

  Duncan understood. For that to happen, the sniper had to be taken out. Monk and Sanjar would never be able to scale that rubble and drop to the other side with the shooter having a clear shot at them.

  “I got it,” Duncan said, “but I’m going to have to borrow this horse . . . and this guy’s helmet.”

  He tugged the headgear from a body underfoot and slammed it atop his head. Once ready, he hooked a boot in a stirrup, got a nod from Monk, then leaped into the saddle. Grabbing the reins, he turned his steed toward the sniper and goaded the beast into a full gallop, the leather armor flapping with each strike of a hoof.

  Duncan kept low to his mount’s neck, hoping the shooter only saw the horse and the helmet. The sniper fired—but he aimed into the chaos behind Duncan, likely spotting Monk and Sanjar striking for the wall.

  Duncan centered on the muzzle flashes in the dark. He urged the horse faster in that direction, knowing he’d only have this one chance. Hooves pounded the granite; sweat flecked the stallion’s neck.

  Then he reached the sniper.

  He caught a look on the man’s face as the sniper realized the ruse too late. The horse tried to shy away at the last moment, but Duncan held him firm by the reins. Eight hundred pounds of Mongolian stallion trampled over the sniper’s sprawled body, stamping bone and crushing flesh.

  Then Duncan was past him, flying down the slope toward the forest’s edge. It took several yards to slow and wheel the horse around and head b
ack up. He slid from the saddle—not to check on the sniper, who was clearly dead, but to go for the man’s gun, to turn the tables on the enemy.

  Unfortunately, an unlucky hoof had struck the rifle, breaking the stock and bending the barrel. He lifted the weapon up anyway and looked through the night-vision scope for his friends.

  A bobbling search across the killing floor revealed Monk standing over a limp form near the wall, his pistol smoking. Sanjar slit another man’s throat, dropping his body. Then a horse moved, and Duncan spotted a final attacker, coming from behind them.

  “MONK!” he yelled.

  The whinnying and clattering of horses drowned his warning.

  He could only watch as the man ran his sword through Sanjar’s back, while raising a rifle with his other hand toward Monk. Duncan recognized the attacker, even with his face in ruins.

  Arslan.

  Duncan was already on his feet running, knowing he’d be too late.

  6:47 P.M.

  Victory must be savored.

  Batukhan stood over the young Mongol woman, no more than a girl, her stomach soaked in blood. She had some skill with the bow, dropping his horse with a single arrow. He now had his sword pressed between her small breasts, pushing enough to pierce cloth and skin and touch its point against the bone of her sternum.

  Pain etched her features, but she still stared stonily at him.

  Tough, hardy stock.

  A flicker of pride for his people flared through him, not that he wouldn’t relish this kill. He remembered his favorite quote from Genghis Khan: It is not sufficient that I succeed—all others must fail.

  He would grant this one a quick death.

  The American would be slower.

  He held his pistol in his other hand, pointed back toward the lake. He would stalk the defenseless woman at his leisure. There was nowhere for her to run, no weapon with which to defend herself.

  Smiling behind his mask, he leaned forward, ready to plunge his sword to sweet satisfaction—then a loud splash erupted behind him.

  A glance behind revealed a dark figure rising out of the lake, a Nubian goddess, rushing toward him, swinging a deadly length of steel in one hand toward his head.