by Alex Archer
The trucks were Russian UAZ-469s, four-wheel-drive vehicles that looked like shorter versions of the Jeep Cherokee. They each held four passengers, with racks on the roof to carry the gear. Annja hadn't been overwhelmed when she'd seen them, but Mason had assured her the simple design and lack of computerized parts made them the best vehicles for the steppes. Each of the trucks carried two spare tires and several cans of extra gasoline as added protection against their getting stranded far from civilization. They had enough food and water to keep them going for a week, if need be, though they fully expected to be able to trade with several of the nomadic communities they would pass through during their search. Each vehicle had a satellite phone so they could communicate with one another without stopping.
A large metal trunk had also been bolted to the inside of each of the vehicles and when Annja peeked inside one she found an assortment of weapons: several handguns, a few assault rifles that she recognized as being HK MP-5 submachine guns and the like. In the wake of Ransom's attack at the estate, Mason wasn't taking any chances.
Considering how quickly this had come together, Annja was impressed with the attention to detail. She was even more impressed with the way Mason made certain each and every member of their small team knew where they were headed and what the rendezvous points were should they become separated at any time en route to their initial destination at Shankh. It was clear Mason had led small-group operations before; all that military training and attitude were hard to hide, even after a number of years in the private sector. Mason led the team the way an officer would lead a squad of special-operations men on a mission in enemy territory and it showed.
"Where'd you serve?" she asked him,
He flicked a glance in her direction, then went back to watching as the extra gas was being strapped to the rear doors of the trucks. "Is it that obvious?" he asked.
Annja saw no reason to lie. "Yes."
Mason shrugged. "I was 22nd SAS Regiment." And then, in case she didn't know what that was, he added, "British Special Forces."
Annja was fully aware the SAS were some of the best trained and experienced Special Forces soldiers in the world. It made sense that if Davenport was going to hire someone to protect him, he would hire the best. Annja guessed that there had been more than one problem in the past; otherwise, he probably would have been content with any of the half dozen or so security agencies that were typically used by the rich and powerful. Going out and hiring a freelance former SAS soldier wasn't something that you did every day—or lightly.
She watched him for another few seconds, wondering where he had been and what he had done while in the service. Wondered what it was that had made him leave it for civilian life. She'd come to enjoy his company over the past few days and knew in other circumstances she might consider going beyond the working relationship they currently had between them.
Growing up in an orphanage, she'd never been very close with anyone. She'd had her share of romantic encounters, but they were always of the ships-passing-in-the-night kind; fun while they lasted, but then she was on to some new dig or assignments and there wasn't room in her life for both a relationship and her career.
Later, once she'd become the heir apparent to Joan's mystical sword, she hadn't felt it was fair to drag anyone into a long-term relationship. Not when trouble seemed to find her at the drop of a hat.
Still, Mason might be an interesting diversion for a while.
First things first, Annja, her conscience said and her brain agreed. Maybe there would be time for something else later. Right now, they had a tomb to find.
She turned away to tend to her own gear.
18
As the loading was being finalized and last-minute adjustments were made, the man who had been placed inside Davenport's operations more than three years earlier slipped away from the others. An outdoor bazaar was adjacent to the airport and he took advantage of the general noise and confusion to mask his passage as he threaded his way into its depths. If anyone was following him, he was certain to lose them in the maze of stalls and shouting merchants.
When he was satisfied that there was no one behind him, he stepped out of the main thoroughfare and into a side street. He took a small, satellite phone out of his pocket and dialed a number he knew by heart.
It took a moment for the phone to connect. When it did, he heard Trevor Ransom's deep voice come over the line.
"What do you have for me?"
"Shankh," the informant told him. "They're headed to Shankh."
"Very well. Call me if you learn anything further but do not—I repeat, do not—jeopardize your position on the team."
"Understood."
The informant ended the call and pocketed the phone. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out of the alley and headed back the way he'd come.
* * *
T WO HOURS AFTER their arrival in Ulaanbaatar, the team was almost ready to head out. The trucks had been checked, the supplies divided and loaded on to the appropriate vehicles, and Annja had taken time to review the maps herself just in case something drastic went wrong.
But when it was time to leave, Mason wasn't anywhere to be found.
Davenport was just about ready to send out Williams and Harris to search for him when Mason wandered back inside the door of the hangar, something bright red held in each hand.
"Where'd you go? We've been looking for you," Annja asked as he walked toward her.
Mason grinned and tossed something underhanded in her direction. Annja caught it instinctively and looked down to see she was holding an ice-cold can of Coke.
"Last cold one for a while. After this, it's nothing but yak milk and warm water."
She had to admit, it certainly hit the spot.
Mason finished his own soda in one long swallow, tossed the can in a nearby trash barrel and then shouted so the rest of the team could hear. "All right. Enough lollygagging! Mount up! It's time to get this show on the road."
And, with that, they were off.
They quickly left the airport behind and headed west on the main road out of Ulaanbaatar. Slush lined the roadside and here and there unseen potholes made the driving difficult, forcing them to go slower than planned. At first it seemed as if they would never leave the seemingly endless industrial areas and their thick, coal-fueled smog behind as they followed the track for the Transmongolian Railroad out of the city proper, but eventually the factories slipped behind them and they began to pass small villages and residential areas. Those of a more permanent status were farther back from the road, while the ones that were intended for a night, two at most, lined the immediate edges of the thoroughfare.
On either side of the road, large herds of sheep, goats and cows grazed idly, paying no attention to the cars moving past them, sometimes no more than half a dozen feet away. More than once they were forced to stop or maneuver around an animal that had decided the middle of the road looked like a great spot to stand.
The people they saw were friendly and seemed to be genuinely happy with their lot in life, at least as far as Annja could see. She knew the past few years had been hard for many of the locals. A harsh winter followed by a long drought had killed off a lot of livestock, and those who depended on the herds for their livelihood were still trying to recover what they had lost as a result.
A few hours into the drive, they left even the smaller towns behind and found themselves on the famed Mongolian steppes. High rolling hills covered by a carpet of dry grass stared back at them wherever they looked, an endless sea of tan stretching away in all directions. Even the road took on a brown cast as the pavement had run out long before and the path beneath them was reduced to a large track of hard-packed earth.
Annja knew it would look different in the springtime, full of color and life, but this late in the season only the occasional herd of wild horses, one of Mongolia's national treasures, broke up the sameness of it all.
With nothing to see and time to waste, Annja's thoughts returne
d to Mason. Seated in the passenger seat, she had plenty of time to watch him without being obvious about it. Her initial impression, that he was a good-looking man with a dangerous side, had certainly been confirmed during the past week, but she didn't have a problem with that. He drove surely, confidently, just as he did everything else. Competence and a clear understanding and acknowledgment of their own abilities were things she prized in a man. It was one of the reasons she was attracted to Garin, in an odd, unresolved way.
She had to admit that Mason's past intrigued her, which was something she wouldn't have expected. Maybe it was just the mystery and mystique that surrounded the famed SAS regiment or the similarity she found between that and her own unique journey as the bearer of Joan's sword. She wasn't sure; she just knew that she wanted to know more, to understand where he came from and what made him tick.
And when you want something, you usually get it, don't you? she thought to herself with a grin.
Mason must have caught her look for he turned to her and asked, "Something funny?"
"Just imagining you spending your life herding goats like those locals back there," she said lightly, hiding her true thoughts behind the emotional wall she'd learned to erect in the orphanage so many years ago. Don't get close to anyone for they might not be here in the morning was an old mantra that still gave her some comfort.
He laughed. "Me? A goatherd? You've got to be out of your mind." His gaze caught hers. "Then again, a man can be induced to do anything if the reasons are right."
Was he flirting with her? Maybe she hadn't hidden her thoughts as well as she thought she had.
"All I know is with the right clothes and some dirt in your hair, you'd fit right in!" she said.
They continued in that vein, bantering back and forth for a time until Davenport spoke up from the backseat.
"I don't get it," he said.
Annja and Mason stopped their teasing. "Get what?" Mason asked.
"Why in heaven's name anyone would want to live out here?" Davenport said with a frown. "I mean, just look at this place!"
Apparently he hadn't heard a word of their conversation, which struck both Annja and Mason as hysterical. They broke into gales of shared laughter, leaving a bewildered Davenport staring at them from the backseat.
"What? Did I say something funny?"
Annja and Mason laughed even harder.
19
A loud thrumming sound filled the air, causing the boy to look around nervously. He'd only come to the Shankh Monastery six months ago, on the eve of his eleventh birthday, but he'd heard enough stories of times past to know that the sound of helicopters in the morning air was not a good omen.
Hefting his water bucket, he hurried back along the path toward the main building, intent on telling the master. The thrumming sound grew louder as he drew closer and the boy felt his sense of inner peace begin to fray. A glance told him the brothers working in the field had heard it, too; they had stopped working and one or two were even pointing into the sky behind him.
The wind began to whip and churn at his feet, growing stronger and angrier by the moment, and the boy felt some great presence looming behind him. His heart leaped into his throat and all he wanted to do was run, but he knew if he did he'd end up dropping the water bucket and Master Daratuk would simply send him back out to fill it again. Instead, he turned around to look.
Immediately, he wished he hadn't.
A large black monster hung in the air behind him, gleaming in the morning sunlight, its bulbous eyes staring with unblinking intensity. Its hot breath washed over him like the tide and he could feel its growl of hunger all the way down to the core of his bones.
The water bucket crashed to the ground as the boy recoiled in shock.
Then the illusion washed away as the large military helicopter swung around so he could view it from nose to stern and then settled down right in the middle of the vegetable garden.
When the door on the side of the helicopter slid open and men armed with guns spilled out, the boy decided he'd seen enough.
The water bucket forgotten, he turned and ran for the main sanctuary.
* * *
R ANSOM KICKED the flimsy wooden door open with one booted foot and strode inside the main hall, gun in hand. Behind him came Santiago and one of the local Mongolians that they had hired as an interpreter. Hundreds of candles lined the walls, casting a soft light across the room, allowing Ransom to see three rows of monks seated directly opposite the door, their orange robes a stark contrast against the dark wood and stone of the interior.
An older monk in brown robes sat cross-legged in front of the others. His expression was noncommittal, despite Ransom's angry entrance.
We'll see how long you keep that peaceful expression if I don't get what I want, Ransom thought with a grim smile. He knew he was two hours, maybe three at most, ahead of Davenport and his crew and he had no intention of wasting any more time than was necessary. This man was going to give him what he wanted, one way or another.
Ransom strode across the room and stopped directly in front of the older monk. "I've been told that you can provide me with information about the location of the tomb of Genghis Khan," he said.
The monk stared at Ransom's face for a long moment, then smiled. He rattled off something in Mongolian.
Ransom looked back over his shoulder at the thin-faced man who'd agreed to translate for him.
"He welcomes you and prays that the wisdom and grace of the Buddha will be with you all of your days."
Ransom grunted. So it was going to be like that, was it? He raised his arm slowly and put the barrel of his pistol directly against the gleaming skin of the older man's bald head. Still speaking in English, he said, "I won't ask you again. You have ten seconds to tell me what I want to know."
Ransom began to count. "One. Two."
The old monk closed his eyes and began talking in a slow, unhurried voice.
"What's he saying?" Ransom asked.
The translator hesitated.
Ransom was in no mood for disobedience. Without taking his eyes off the monk, he said over his shoulder, "I asked you what he was saying. If you prefer, I can shoot you instead."
That did the trick. The translator swallowed hard and finally found his voice. "He's praying, asking forgiveness for any sins he has committed and…"
But Ransom had heard enough. He considered the older man sitting in front of him for a moment, decided that threatening his life wasn't going to accomplish much and turned to face the three rows of younger monks sitting behind their leader.
As one they bent their heads over their hands, closed their eyes and began to speak in that same lilting tongue as their leader, no doubt praying for his safety, as well.
It's not his safety you should be worrying about, Ransom thought, and then shot the monk closest to him in the head.
Blood flew, staining the face and robe of the man sitting next to the unfortunate victim in a harsh spray of crimson, eliciting a sharp cry of surprise and fear as the echo of the gunshot bounced around the interior of the room.
"You can either tell me what I want to know, or I will continue to kill your people one by one until you do. Your choice."
The old man didn't move; he didn't say anything to Ransom, didn't acknowledge the death of one of his students, didn't do anything but sit there, head bowed, praying aloud, just like the others.
Ransom shot another monk.
This time, it seemed to take longer for the sound of the shot to stop echoing around the inside of the room, but the results were the same. The dying man splattered those around him in a shower of blood.
He shot three more monks, without learning anything more, before he grew tired of the game.
Turning to Santiago, he said, "Interrogate each and every one of them. If they know something about the tomb, I want to know it, as well. While you are doing that, have the rest of the men search the place. If it's here, I want it found."
He stalked
back outdoors and over to the helicopter, ignoring the sudden spate of gunfire occurring behind him. He climbed up into the copilot's seat and then made a call on his satellite phone.
Some seven thousand miles away the phone was answered on the first ring. "Yes, Mr. Ransom?"
"Do we have anything new with regard to the translation?"
He listened to the explanation, then asked, "And nothing with regard to the monastery? You're certain?"
"Yes, sir. I'm certain." There was no hesitation in her voice, no doubt. She was being a truthful as she could be.