by A D Davies
“Maybe supplanting the Aradia tomb?” Charlie said. “Naming it after Thomas?”
A lot of pouting, thinking, and nodding followed.
“Possibly,” Toby finally replied. “But the term ‘Aradia’ stems from Herodias.”
“Or the ancient term Aradia was applied to Herodias retrospectively,” Bridget said.
Toby nodded. “It’s certainly possible. Could be, he intended to be buried there, but ended up being killed in Mylapore and his bones interred in Chennai after all.”
“Or he didn’t make it back to Mylapore, and those bones are someone else’s. Records like that are never straightforward, and there are no dates in the journal.”
“Quite. We have no way of knowing. Let’s keep an open mind for now and come back to it if it’s important.”
“Agreed.” Bridget pressed a finger to her notebook. “I guess you want to know the location of this temple now?”
“Wait, you had it all along?” Dan said. “It’s way past my bedtime, and we’re talking Jesus versus Buddha. Out with it, and I’ll get the jet fueled up.”
Valerio’s Gulfstream, Airborne
Tina appeared animated, almost happy, as she spoke, as though she’d forgotten her scumbag smuggler of a husband was dead. Perhaps she had allied with this game out of passion, and it had turned to greed over time. Valerio didn’t judge, though. He committed to it for the reverse of that: first for selfish reasons, and now because it fascinated him.
She said, “Churches are built on top of older sites. On castles, temples, yes? Just like Gandantegchinlen Monastery.”
Valerio tried pronouncing it but failed. “Bit of a mouthful.”
“Even the locals use ‘Gandan’ for ease. Restored in 1990. There are one-hundred-and-fifty monks living there. The Tibetan name translates to the ‘Great Place of Complete Joy.’ It came under state protection in 1994.”
Valerio turned to Horse. “Strategy?”
Horse had already brought up the monastery on his tablet’s Google Earth app as well as a number of pages describing it. “We can assemble a team, twelve should be plenty, deliver some shock and awe, round ’em up in the main courtyard and execute a couple. Make ’em tell us where it is.”
“It is unlikely they would know,” Tina said. “Even if it is still there.”
“It’s not there?”
“No. Before the restoration, they brought in ground-penetrating radar to check they were not destroying anything beneath the original construction.”
“They found something,” Valerio said.
“Yes.”
“Bottom line.” Valerio now paced. “Do you know what they found, and do you know where it went?”
Tina nodded, glancing at the kitchen. “I do.”
She was probably hungry. Valerio would make sure her final meal was a good one. Once they confirmed the location of the Mary bangle.
Sicily
“Gandan was built to honor Avalokiteśvara,” Bridget said, after explaining that several artifacts were found within a vault beneath the site and taken to the Mongolian Natural History Museum in Ulaanbaatar. “It features a twenty-six-meter statue of the deity, also known as the ‘lord who looks down.’”
“Sound familiar?” Toby said. “Neither male nor female. At least no cultures can get together to conclude which. The Mahayana account says the sun and moon were born from Avalokiteśvara’s eyes, the god Shiva from its brow, Brahma from its shoulders, Narayana from its heart, Sarasvati from its teeth. The wind was born from this major god’s mouth, the earth from its feet, the sky out of its stomach—”
Dan pulled an eww face. “This god vomited the sky into existence?”
“In other words,” Toby said as if he were never interrupted, “this god looks down from his or her dwelling place, created everything from him or herself. Again, does anything sound familiar?”
“Creation myth,” Charlie said from Alfonse’s tabletop. “Fairly standard, and all religions have them. Where does it leave the bangle?”
“With this.” Toby unlocked his phone and scrolled through his contacts, resting on one, which he dialed. When the person on the other end answered, he said, “Arthur! Yes, yes, rather well. I’m sorry to contact you out of the blue, but I believe you did a couple of years in Mongolia. Yes, yes, the salt pyramids. Wonderful paper, might I say... listen, I hate to call after all this time asking for a favor, but might you have a contact in that part of the world? I’m thinking near the capital. Where would a pre-Buddhism artifact end up?” A pause. “Of course, of course. I should be in Berkshire in a couple of weeks, actually. It’ll be lovely to catch up. Indeed. Goodbye, Arthur, and thank you.”
“Old archeology contact?” Bridget said.
“Archeology, yes,” Toby answered, but without conviction.
Toby’s past was pretty much a sealed book, and although his passion was clearly art and antiquities, the number of contacts he could drum up for information in virtually any area of the world suggested to Bridget that he’d been involved in more than curating the royal family’s treasures.
When his phone bonged with a text, he smiled and said, “Thank you, Arthur,” then turned to the group. “Arthur will make an introduction for us. Amir Fong is the curator at the Mongolian Natural History Museum. If anyone were to know what became of the items recovered from Gandan Monastery, it will be him.”
“Can we really just call and ask him?” Harpal said.
“Unless you would rather drive an excavator though the front door and pull the place apart.”
“So we go there in person?” Bridget asked.
“We don’t all need to go. Charlie is in London, you’re fine here. I’ll use my diplomatic clout to get a meeting, and—”
“Dan,” Bridget said. “How hard is it to get a Learjet into Mongolia? Four passengers?”
“Toby’s right,” Dan replied. “You nearly died back in Rome, and... I can’t be watching out for you in a foreign country, especially one like Mongolia. We don’t know the language, the customs, the laws. I’m sorry, I—”
“Oh, come on. I may not be able to fight like you guys, but I’m still useful. I will be needed if there are more clues out there. Toby, think for a second.”
Toby shook his head. “We can’t lose you.”
Charlie said, “Listen to them, hon. We got the documents the same time as Valerio. We had the same amount of time to work it out, so he may have too.”
“He’s probably on his way,” Dan said.
Silence. Bridget had a knack for getting her own way, but she sensed there would be no budging them. “I don’t have to come to the museum itself. Just think about it. If you pull it off and find the bangle, there’s a possibility there’ll be other things too. I mean, even after we get it to Alfonse and Jules gets his mom’s, we’re not just sitting on this, are we? That place Thomas mentions, the tomb. It could be Saint Thomas himself!”
She let her words settle, recognizing Toby’s facial tick.
“Imagine the literature, the burial possessions... heck, just finding him. I mean, if he’s there instead of Chennai, I know it’ll annoy folks in the cathedral, but... can you believe what that will mean?”
Toby stood and straightened his belt, looking at Dan. “She stays out of the field. But she might be of use.”
“Okay,” Dan said. “Looks like we’re going to Mongolia.”
Chapter Twenty
North of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia
The first part of Jules’s escape from the Gulfstream—after Valerio, Horse, and the two pilots departed—was freeing himself from behind the couch. He was able to flex and shift his limbs in small ways, meaning he hadn’t seized up completely, but remaining in that position for over twenty hours was going to take a toll. At one point, when Valerio rose from his sleep and vacated the room, Jules risked a stretch then too, but hadn’t progressed to listening at the door. All it would take was Valerio returning for another nap without announcing it, and he was done for.
/> They landed six hours after taking off from Rome to refuel, where none of the three disembarked despite most countries requiring passengers to do so. It was the only time Jules ventured out to eavesdrop—a swift five minutes—and listened through the door to Horse calling people and speaking Russian. He made four phone calls, and all he said to Valerio when he ended the fourth was, “We’re on. They’ll meet us there.”
The next leg of the journey lasted nine hours. To say Jules was stiff was understating the word. And starving wasn’t far behind in his list of most pressing sensations.
Now, having landed once more, the impatient Valerio demanded they disembark ASAP, and Jules took the chance to use the head, having held on desperately for the better part of a day, and to perform fifteen minutes of yoga to loosen himself up.
Then he set about figuring what to do next.
It was dawn outside, so they’d traveled east. But since he had no idea of their starting point, that calculation was useless. All he could do was switch his cell phone back on and call Charlie.
“Jules?” she said. “Where are you?”
“Hoping you can tell me. And quickly. I’m almost outa power. Ten percent.”
“Activate your tracker. I’ll tell you right now.”
“Don’t give me that line. You can trace the GPS in the phone. Or find out where Valerio’s jet landed.”
“Do you know if they translated the manuscript?”
“They kept that smuggler’s wife alive. She’s some kind of expert.”
“Then I don’t need to track you. You’re in Mongolia. Probably close to the capital.”
“Jeez, that’s great news.” He looked himself over, still in his bodysuit. “Anywhere I can take a shower and get some clothes that don’t make me look like a cat burglar?”
She muted him for thirty seconds, then came back on and said, “There’s a guesthouse with a western name. Oswald Backpacker Hostel. If you can get there, Toby’ll have a change of clothes and probably a cloth to freshen up with.”
Jules thanked her and hung up, unsure what he was feeling.
Basically, he’d gambled on a bunch of other people, competitors in many ways, and for once, it hadn’t resulted in a pit of regret and self-recrimination. The strangers had understood what he sent them, acted accordingly, and now they’d supplied a way out of a problematic situation.
After hearing nothing in the cabin, Jules palmed one of his final throwing knives, opened the door, and stalked out into the plush space. Empty, except for a sleeping woman, gagged, her hands bound and secured to a floor-to-ceiling handrail. He knelt beside Tina and tried to shake her awake.
Nothing.
She’d been drugged and left while Valerio sought out the bangle.
A quick recon out of each window revealed they were on open land with no guards in the vicinity. Why would there be? He was in a country thousands of miles from Rome, and Valerio plainly believed LORI had been eliminated.
Jules used the emergency release to open the door, the hinge on the bottom smooth and air cushioned.
He found himself on the edge of another private airfield, even smaller than the one in Rome and bitterly cold. The property seemed to belong to just one company; banners appeared on each of the four hangars with “Huang Jay” emblazoned in black letters on a yellow background in both western and Mongol script, and a similar logo adorned the sides of three small propeller airplanes. Men—mostly men—lugged parcels and sacks in a variety of shapes and sizes.
Jules guessed it was a delivery service similar to UPS or DHL and that Valerio had rented this strip at short notice.
Appears to be a legit operation.
Running would draw attention.
A man such as Valerio would also demand privacy.
Jules concluded the best course of action was to appear part as of Valerio’s entourage, so he ducked back in the plane to untie Tina. Next, he donned a jacket from Valerio’s closet that was slightly too small and found the trousers were too tight, but he didn’t bother searching out Horse’s garments as their size would make him look like a clown. The jacket would have to suffice for now.
Having dressed as well as he could, Jules threw himself out the door to dash across the runway. Yes, drawing much attention.
Running, appearing scared, he escalated as he neared and adopted a face of panic as he arrowed straight for one of the larger groups.
“Hey!”
They all stared at him as he arrived, faking a panting fit like most people would suffer after a burst of energy like that.
“Anyone speak English?” He doubted Latin, Hebrew, or Arabic would come in handy here.
One woman at the back nervously raised a hand. “Little English. Speak slow.”
Jules feigned relief. “My friend. In plane.” He pointed, annoyed at himself for dipping into pidgin English. “She’s sick. Won’t wake up. Ambulance.”
“Oh.” The woman stared at the plane, then back at Jules.
“You were told... ‘do not approach the plane.’ Right?”
“Plane isn’t here.” She shook her head. “We just work.”
“My boss’s wife. He will be angry if she dies. That means your boss will be angry. Understand?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Ambulance.” She spoke rapid-fire to her colleagues, and three of them rushed away. To Jules she said, “Ambulance come.”
“Thank you.” He gave a shallow bow in response, hoping it was the correct cultural norm. It drew an audible rumble from his empty stomach. “Now, since I’m obviously a very important guest, I need to borrow a car. Something with satellite navigation, and I need to get to Ulaanbaatar. So which way?”
Blank looks all round.
Okay, take it slowly.
“Car.” He mimed driving and pointed at himself. “For me.”
This might take a while.
Central Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia
Toby rarely went against his better judgment, and he knew when he agreed to let Bridget come along that she’d find a way to wheedle her way out of staying on the plane. Bridget pointed out that she’d be spending several hours alone in the Lear, parked on a runway in a strange country where they had no official status—other than the temporary visas arranged by Harpal through channels into which nobody inquired too hard.
As far as the authorities were concerned, they were academics seeking to make a financial contribution to the government-run museum.
Money. The only way to get an audience with the top man.
To remain low-key, after their trip in an old Land Rover with no heating, they’d checked into Oswald Backpackers Hostel in the manner of any group of travelers exploring this part of the world. They arrived late last night and slept a couple of extra hours in a six-berth room, having bought all six beds under the pretext that others would join them later.
Their appointment with Amir Fong at the museum was for ten a.m., but at eight, the call from Charlie interrupted their breakfast of fried buns, far-too-milky tea, and a helping of bread that tasted like yogurt. That Jules was on his way almost certainly meant Valerio was indeed going to be a pain at some point. Time would tell. And time was now at a premium.
At 09:15, Jules pulled up outside in a yellow van, made his way to the hostel’s dining room, took in the deeply basic decor and furniture, and headed for Toby and Bridget. He sat and stuffed a fried bread roll in his mouth. Chewed.
Bridget immediately hooked her hair behind an ear and looked at him side-on. “Now ain’t that a tad unhealthy for a man of your disposition?”
“I haven’t eaten in a day,” he said between bites. “I’m carb cramming. Valerio’s here with Horse and a team of guys arranged at the last minute. No idea on numbers. I don’t speak much Russian.”
He outlined his experiences in a succinct way, emphasizing he heard very little while sequestered in the bedroom, but enough to learn that Valerio was well equipped and willing to take the violent option if required. With some time to kill, Bridget summarized
what they had learned so far, from Saint Thomas’s wanderings, to the odd reference to Zephon; an angel and, perhaps, a star.
Between mouthfuls, Jules floated the possibility of using the constellations to track the approximate location, but the reference was too vague. Charlie had mapped it to an area visible in the southern hemisphere. To rest beneath a single star at midnight would have felt accurate in ancient times, but today, knowing the earth moves through space and rotates, it could be anywhere. Unless they had a starting point, a reference to cross-check. And they lacked more information, so it was filed away for later.
Once they were all fed, Toby didn’t even try to dissuade Bridget from accompanying them. Short of treating her the way Valerio had Tina Trussot, she would find a way to participate. It did make him wonder what she was trying to prove.
A call came in from Dan, scouting the lay of the land around the museum. “All clear. Best as we can see, there’s no surveillance.”
Ulaanbaatar was a working city, not your typical tourist destination, but people who travel for the sake of traveling are drawn to such places. From what Jules understood, it was mostly used as a port to access the steppes, where the largest industry—aside from cheap and plentiful Genghis Khan memorabilia—had sprung up around the late 1990s in the desert regions where folks could camp in yurts or take up with genuine goat herders for a couple of weeks.
There was some effort on the streets to cater to the tourist dollar, but it wasn’t comparable to London or New York or Paris. There were bead salesmen in colorful hats and others hocking lucky charms, fake jade ornaments, and sculptures too large for the average backpack. The cars were old, as was public transport, and the clothes appeared to be applied in layers rather than in bulkier items.
And it was colder than he’d expected.
His fresh clothes came from Harpal, which meant they were a little short, but he pulled them off, and Toby bought him a dark-brown leather jacket on the walk over from the hostel. It fit nicely. Certainly suitable for a brisk walk across to their destination. The only downside was that his cell phone had died. Toby said it didn’t matter; they would only break radio silence if something looked hinky.