. . . a camel. One hump, no saddle, but a muzzle and its harness. Led across the snow-covered desert by a lone man wrapped tight in a llama-skin coat and a fur hat. The sun, distant and weak, follows the pair across the wilderness as the moon lights their way at night, enticing them to continue without rest.
Until finally they arrive at a frozen river, its surface like glass, reflecting the cold, distant constellations.
“Here?” the man asks the camel.
And the beast lowers its head. A female, she makes a whining sound, then half-trots, half-stumbles to the edge of the riverbank. Sniffing deeply.
“Here?” he asks again, setting down his pack, which he opens. He pulls out an ax. And a shovel.
The camel paws at the ground, then lifts its head in alarm.
Two dark shapes sprint across the landscape, converging from the north and the east.
With bows drawn.
The camel’s owner takes a step back, and is about to cry out when two arrows simultaneously pierce his chest. He slumps to his knees, eyes wide in disbelief. The ax drops. Arms at his side, he remains kneeling as if frozen, while the two forms approach, slower now.
One of them clicks his tongue, calming the beast. The other circles around it, draws a knife, then holds the camel’s head while he slits its throat, spilling hot blood upon the snow and ice.
After the beast stops thrashing on the ground, lying on its side beside her dying master, the two men turn to consider the man.
“He’s dead,” one says to the other.
“Too bad. We could have asked him.”
“But I think we know. This is the camel. The mother of the calf we buried last year.”
“Then it’s true. Camels have memories like elephants.”
One nodded, looking back at the beast. “A mother’s love is not easily swayed. We should have killed its whole family after burying the child with our master.”
“No matter. The site is safe. Now, even more so.” He looks out over the frozen expanse of the river, winding around in a huge, silver-coated “S” back to the distant black hills. “Our Khan is safe.”
#
A flash like a thunderbolt lights up the world . . .
. . . and the same river bends in the summer sun. Black flies swarm over a field of men slaving at the land, carving up trenches near the river, carving a path that will give it its S-shape.
“It is almost time,” one man on horseback says to his uniformed companions. “Ogadai is coming tomorrow to supervise and to formally close the tomb.”
“And then we will punch through the final barrier and divert the river over the entrance, there.” The general points to a large, dark aperture carved into the bedrock twenty feet below the earth. Men were still down there, moving up and down a wooden ramp, carrying items of great value—food, gold, urns full of jewels. Next, a single young camel is led by its harness into the depths. And in a nearby tent, twenty maidens are being prepared.
“Tomorrow,” the general says again, swatting a fly from his neck, “we finish this, make the sacrifices, and lead his caravan back to the Sacred Mountain. The secret of Temujin’s tomb shall be safe.”
“What about these laborers? They know—”
“I said, the secret shall be safe.”
Alexander’s vision fluttered, wind blew through the tent, the green aura around the edges flickered, and a voice whispered through the sands and the buzzing of flies.
“What have you seen?”
Alexander shook his head, whipping his hair across his face, and finally he pulled himself free. He looked up into the eyes of Xavier Montross, eyes that eerily reflected the color of the Emerald Tablet. Eyes that threatened to send him back into an ancient, inescapable world of dreams and visions, of blood and secrets.
“I—” he started, and then glanced again at the tablet.
And another vision suddenly exploded in a kaleidoscopic rush of intensity, more real than anything he’d ever experienced, except for the burst of fire in the lighthouse vault. It grabbed hold and shook him to his core as if to say: Not yet. You still need to see something more. . . .
The same river weaves through manicured gardens and past cobblestone walkways and under marble bridges scintillating with jewels while fountains spray diamond-like drops high into the air, where flocks of doves fly around golden-tipped minarets, in and out of rose- and hyacinth-covered terraces. The river flows on, right through the center of a palace so breathtakingly beautiful, so bright with its polished white marble walls, its seven golden domes, its pillars of sparkling blue, it makes the rest of the dazzling city pale in comparison.
Thousands of people wander around the city, talking, reading, dancing. Wearing loose and colorful robes, they sit in the gardens and drink from golden cups while strings and flutes play on the breeze.
“Was this wise?” says a man on an arched bridge, dressed all in black robes, with a dark hat shading his face. He speaks to an older man, dressed the same.
Shaking his head, the elder says, “Kublai believes in the old philosophy, the adage: Whatever you wish to hide, keep it in plain sight and none will think to look there.”
“Nowhere plainer, or more obvious,” the younger man notes, pointing to the sparkling water in the river’s bend below their feet. He can almost discern the outline of a slight mound, just off-color, distinct from its surroundings.
“It will be safe,” the elder assures his son. “We will see to that. And when Shang-du falls, as all great cities must, and when Kublai goes to join his grandfather in the Blue Heaven, we will make sure this place, and all its towers and golden domes, its wealth and power, are demolished and then spread across the empire, until the ruin of this city is thought of no more.”
#
“A palace!”
Montross dropped to a knee, studying the boy’s face. “You saw a palace? What was it like? How big?”
Alexander blinked, willing his eyes to focus. Suddenly Montross had his hands on the boy’s shoulders, hauling him up and away from the direct sight of the Emerald Tablet. “Where is it?”
“It was huge,” Alexander said, squirming. “Seven domes. Lots of pillars. And a river.”
Montross dropped the boy and took a step back. Remain calm. Work with him, let him speak. “Okay, what else? What did you ask to be shown?”
Alexander shrugged. “Nothing. I just knelt down, stared at that the tablet, and I started seeing stuff.”
“Okay, think carefully, kid. Tell me everything you saw.”
Frowning, Alexander raised a finger. Took a deep breath. “What’s in it for me?”
Montross smiled. “Your life, for starts.”
“And my dad’s? Aunt Phoebe’s? The Morpheus Initiative? I really like that Orlando guy, he’s cool. I don’t want any of them hurt.”
“Help me and I’ll do what I can.”
“Same goes for that Nina lady. Keep her away. She doesn’t play nice.”
Montross laughed. “She most certainly does not. But come on, scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”
Alexander made a face.
“Just an expression. Get me to Genghis Khan’s tomb, and I’m done with you, with all the Crowes. And the Morpheus Initiative too.”
Alexander raised an eyebrow like he saw Spock do all the time in the old Trek episodes. “What do you want?”
“The location. You know that.”
“No, what do you want from the grave? How much treasure do you need? And why can’t you see it on your own?”
“I don’t know why I can’t see it. I’m close. I did see them lower a coffin into the mountainside, but I can’t tell where. In eight hundred years the scenery has changed. I saw them trample the area with horses, then plant it over with trees. It’s probably in the forest, covered with roots, and we don’t have the time or the resources to get out the sonar and all the technology. There has to be an easier way.”
Alexander crossed his arms and gave a stern look. “I asked you what
’s in the grave.”
Montross sighed, then reached down the front of his shirt. “Fine, I’ll tell you. See this?”
“Nice necklace.”
“Yeah, well our friend Genghis has two just like it, buried with him. I want to complete this set of three. Is that enough for you?”
“They kind of look like the Emerald Tablet.”
Very observant. “How about that?”
“What do those necklace pieces do?” Alexander asked. “Let me guess—make you live forever?”
“Apparently not. Didn’t work for Genghis, or the other guy who left me this one.”
“Well, you said he didn’t have all three, right?”
Definitely observant. Montross smiled. “Enough chit-chat. I told you I’d let you go if you help me. What I didn’t tell you was that if you don’t, I’ll find it anyway, and then I will let Nina and her friends out there finish making you an orphan. Now, what did you see?”
Alexander lowered his eyes. His shoulders sagged. “Okay, I’ll tell you. But you won’t like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because what I saw . . . it wasn’t on this mountain.”
4.
Phoebe backed away, holding her head. The room spun, faces melding with artifacts. Tourists and worshippers blending with the walls and displays.
“Oh no,” she whispered, reaching for Caleb to steady herself. But he was indistinguishable from the blur all around her, the blur that now took shape, even as she was begging, Just show me what’s happening, show me what I need to see.
A blast of frigid air blew into her face . . .
. . . as she stands on a plain of ice under a picture-perfect sky. A fire roars, consuming logs and twigs, and roasting a large something that might have been a wild dog. A palatial tent ahead, the folds parting and a wizened old man, bald with a thin white braid of hair descending like a rope from his chin, inviting her inside.
“Come,Master Temujin. We are ready with the designs.”
Inside, candles and incense burn, a great llama-fur rug covers the ground, a table is set up with scrolls, maps and designs. “Right here,” the old man says, pointing at the map.
Temujin looks at it, recognizes the eastern coast of China and Mongolia, the island of Japan. The man points inland, to part of China. “Here is the burial site you asked to see. The concealed tomb of Qin Shi Huangdi, the first emperor of a unified China, who lived a hundred years after the Great Alexander. The designs for his mausoleum I have here.” He patted another scroll and started to unravel it, giving a glimpse of a pyramidal shape, and below it, a vast network of passageways, staircases and arches leading to an impossibly detailed cityscape. “Qin Shi began its construction as soon as he ascended to the throne, and it took thirty-six years to complete, at the cost of”—he waves his hand dismissively—“sources say somewhere around seven hundred thousand lives.”
“What of the city where he now dwells?” Temujin asks, and the old man smiles.
“Built in the immense hollowed-out cavern under the mound, his city is complete with everything a ruler would need for the next life: four temples, erected at the cardinal points, a central palace holding his concubines and his own tomb, storehouses of gold and silver, ornamental weapons and artwork. And surrounding the palace stand inner and outer walls, courtyards and gardens, rivers originally designed to run with Mercury.”
“Mercury?”
“A substance the emperor believed could bestow eternal life.”
Temujin chuckles. “Fool.”
“Yes,” says the old man. “The old man poisoned himself.”
Taking the scroll, unrolling it completely, Temujin studies the designs, unable to read the descriptive words. “Still, mercury has other advantages. What of the city’s defenses?”
“Eight thousand terra cotta warriors facing east, guarding against the Japanese threat; several hundred horses; chariots and archers—”
“I want more,” Temujin says decisively. “Guarding against every threat. What I protect is much more valuable than what this charlatan believed. He merely wanted to continue his rule, to live forever. But I know better. I know what the others seek, and only I can deny them.”
“Very well, master. We shall start construction today.”
“When will it be ready?”
“You are young,” the old man says, rubbing his thin white beard. “And I have seen ahead. We will have time. All we need now is the place of your choosing. You will let me know soon?”
Temujin nods. He turns and strides out of the yurt, then looks north, following the outline of the winding, frozen Odon River. He blinks and he imagines sparkling lights far to the north, at the head of the snake, which has now become a dragon, and its tail twitching right before him. A tail that will move, one that will be forcibly moved to cover his entrance.
Turning on his heels, he heads back into the tent, slapping aside the entrance and boldly stepping in to where the old man still pores over the designs, calculating how to mimic such a grand and nearly impossible undertaking.
“I have decided,” Temujin announces, pointing outside the tent. “It will be done here, right here. I have seen the way. There will be no burial mound, no obvious markers or pyramids. No sign that I am here, and as the last act, your men will divert the river and cover the entrance for all time.”
The old man blinks at him, expressionless. Then he smiles, acknowledging and respecting the humility and the single-mindedness of his master.
“As you wish.”
#
When Phoebe’s consciousness slammed back to reality, she saw Caleb and reached for him, touched him, but then suddenly she was away again, down in the trenches, years later . . .
. . . digging with thousands of others, climbing scaffolding, chiseling walls, dragging huge blocks down a makeshift ramp into a cavern the size of a small valley. Massive fires burn day and night, providing meager illumination to supplement each contingent’s battalion of torches. Smoke, dust, heat and poor ventilation take a tremendous toll, and men drop every hour, only to be carted out along with the next haul of dirt and rocks.
All while the great Khan’s mausoleum takes shape, a veritable subterranean city of shining marble and alabaster materializes as if carved from the bowels of the earth itself, as if born from its primordial core.
Here she works on the city’s outer walls, carving the massive blocks and sharpening the crenulated towers, thickening the defenses. And here she digs trenches for the underground rivers that will flow—one for a moat, the other bisecting the Khan’s great city. And there, she hangs below the domed ceiling in the palace, painting Temujin’s visage on the dome’s interior, surrounded by his wife Borto and his three sons, all smiling down to the immense marble-form sculpture of a white tent, his crypt, inside which even now others are carving his resting space.
At the entrance, looking down the ramp and into the massive cavern, she sees the first regiment of the twenty thousand terra cotta warriors tethered together and lying four on a side on a wooden sled, dragged down by horses, pulled into the depths to take up their eternal positions.
Forever vigilant.
And she smiles, confident in the mechanical defenses designed inside each one.
She retreats, seeing flashes now of great crossbows, loaded and poised at angles unseen by future trespassers. She sees pits dug into the floor and covered with false doors, trip wires and gear-actioned spikes, false passageways with even deadlier contents.
And she smiles, then retreats all the way, making room for the final procession—the coffin, the twenty silk-covered maidens, the young camel—and then when all is silent and all heads are bowed in mourning, she orders the great slab door shut. The dirt is piled over the entrance, and at last the river is diverted to its new course, concealing everything for all time.
#
“He’s in trouble!”
Phoebe gasped, blinking back to the present and still tasting the smoke in her lungs, the scent
of decay and death from so many thousands toiling and expiring underground. “What? Who?”
“Orlando.” Caleb clasped her arm, drew her to the side of the door, then pointed across the mausoleum grounds, the mausoleum that now, after Phoebe had seen the real thing first-hand, seemed like such a tawdry shadow.
Two agents were hauling Orlando into the back seat.
“What do you think he did this time?” Phoebe asked.
“I have a bad feeling about this. Should we call Agent Wagner?”
“Don’t bother,” said another voice. Right behind them.
Caleb turned just as Phoebe said, “Oh shit.”
Renée was in the doorway, the tip of her Walther .45 pressed Phoebe’s side, just as two of her Chinese colleagues quickly ushered the other visitors out. Then they turned and drew their weapons.
“Sorry about this,” Renée said. “But we don’t have any more time. Your friend out there went snooping, glimpsing things he had no business seeing. I knew it was a risk, allying myself with psychics, but there was no alternative, not if there’s a chance you might recover those keys.”
“Damn,” Caleb hissed. “I knew you were too good to be true.”
Renée leveled her eyes at him, and her lips drew back into a wolfish sneer. “I believe you know where they are, so let’s stop wasting time. Neither of us wants Montross to get those keys first.”
5.
Back in the jeep, Orlando sat uncomfortably with his wrists cuffed behind him. On the seat next to him, one of the FBI agents aimed a gun at his face while he spoke into a receiver. The other man got behind the wheel.
“We’ve got him,” said the closer one into the receiver. “Want us to hold here, or meet you at the site?”
“Just wait,” came the response.
Orlando leaned forward and wriggled his wrists behind him. “Uh, guys? What’s the charge here?”
“Shut up,” the driver said.
“Okey-dokey then.” Orlando offered a grin, seeing himself in the rearview mirror, surprised he didn’t have the look of a terrified rabbit cornered by wolves. “You know,” he said, “people tried to kill me yesterday and it didn’t take, so you might want to rethink this setup. I have a feeling it’s not my time.”
The Mongol Objective [Oct 2011] Page 12