The Eye of God (27 page)

During this trip, she had grown even more concerned. Prior to this mission, she hadn’t seen as much of her uncle as she would have liked, just the occasional family dinner or holiday. But now, spending the past twenty-four hours with him, she feared it was
more
than age. She had noted the dark circles under his eyes back at his university office. She now saw how he breathed heavier, how he sometimes clutched his left side. But whenever he caught her looking, he dropped his hand.

He was not telling her something.

And it terrified her, even more than the end of the world.

After her father had died in a bus crash, Vigor had filled that void. Under his care, knowing she was hurting, he had taken her by the hand and kept her moving, exploring Rome’s museums, going on outings to Florence, diving at Capri. He taught her to pursue her passion, never to settle for less as a woman. He had also instilled in her the respect for and love of history and art, where the greatest expressions of humankind were cemented in marble and granite, oil and canvas, glass and bronze.

So how could she not want to protect him? Back in Rome, fear had made her want to bottle him up, to shelter him from harm, even against his will. But as she watched him now, smiling and excited, she knew she had been wrong. She didn’t know how many years she had with him, but she recognized it was time now for her to take
his
hand, to be the one to offer him strength when he needed it, to keep him moving.

He had given her the world—she could never take it from him.

Knowing that, she turned her attention to the blasted landscape below. The helicopter banked away from the rusted ship and turned to the north, headed for a region even more desolate and barren. Moonlight turned the baked salt flats into an endless silver expanse, broken by boulders, the decaying hulks of other ships, and the occasional chalky hill.

She pictured the seas refilling the basin below, swamping over the flatlands until the hills became islands again. They were headed to such a spot about forty kilometers to the northeast, a lone atoll in this ocean of dry salt and dust—all based on a map inked on the tongue of a dead conqueror.

She could not help but feel some of her uncle’s excitement spark inside her. What might they find? The others looked equally enthused, even the reluctant Jada Shaw. She shared a window with Duncan, a new Sigma operative, both equally young. Their eagerness shone from their skin.

Monk caught her staring and smiled, as if to say,
remember when we were so young.
He now had two girls at home and a wife who loved him, and he wore his scars proudly. Even his prosthetic hand was a badge of honor.

She sank back into her seat, happy for the company around her, even the young Sanjar, who carried his falcon on his wrist, held close to his body. Its plumage was a striking silvery white, accented with stripes of black and slate gray.

He noted her attention and nodded.

“What type of bird is he?” she asked.

Sanjar’s back straightened, happy for her interest. “He is a gyrfalcon.
Falco rusticolus
. One of the largest falcon breeds.”

“He’s beautiful.”

He grinned, showing a flash of white teeth. “Best he not hear that. Heru is already quite full of himself.”

“But he sits so still.”

He ran a finger over the top of a tufted bonnet. “Without sight, a bird knows not to move. A hooded falcon will remain motionless, trusting his handler. In the past aristocrats used to carry them to court, to banquets, even on horseback.”

“And apparently now on helicopters.”

“We must all adjust to the modern world. But falconry goes back to the time of Genghis Khan. Mongol warriors used to hunt foxes, even sometimes wolves, with falcons.”

“Wolves? Truly? Something so large.”

He nodded. “Not just
wolves
. But humans, too. In fact, Genghis’s personal bodyguards were falconers.”

“Then you are keeping up a proud tradition, Sanjar, continuing to look after Genghis even today.”

“Yes, my cousin and I”—he nodded to Arslan in the next row of seats—“we are very proud of our great ancestor.”

The pilot interrupted. “Folks, we’re a minute or so out from the designated spot. Do you want me to land or circle for an aerial view?”

Vigor answered, leaning forward. “From the air, please, that might prove useful.”

They all turned their attention to the windows as the helicopter swept over the Aralkum Desert, the salt marsh glistening even brighter here. Ahead, a gloomy peak broke through the dried crust. It was steep sided and wind carved, slightly concave on the top, looking not unlike a boat riding a wave of rock.

The helicopter circled it twice, but nothing of note struck anyone.

“We’ll have to land to continue our search from here,” Josip decided.

Monk yelled forward. “Put us down! As close to that hill as you can!”

The pilot expertly maneuvered the aircraft and landed within ten yards of the leeward side of the rock. But it had clearly been a struggle.

“Wind’s kicking up out there,” the pilot warned. “Pressure front must be moving in.”

As the doors were swung open, his weather report proved true. The temperature had dropped several degrees. Even sheltered by the bulk of the hill, Rachel felt an icy wind cut through her jacket.

They all hopped out.

Salt crunched underfoot. Around them spread a strange sight. It looked like someone had spread a thick layer of french fries over the hardpan. Bending down, she realized they were geometric straws of salt, each crystal a finger wide and pointy ended. It cast a prickly, otherworldly appearance to the place.

Standing beside her, Josip ignored the geological feature and stared up at the hill. Steep cliffs faced them, though some sections had crumbled down into flows of sand and boulders.

“We should circle around it on foot first,” he suggested, as flashlights were passed out.

Vigor nodded—though he held a hand pressed to his side.

Rachel crossed to her uncle and offered him the use of her shoulder for support. “Come on, old man, you dragged me out here . . .”

He scowled good-naturedly and took her up on her offer. Together, they headed out across the field of ice crystals. He leaned on her for the first ten minutes, then eventually felt strong enough to continue on his own. She wanted to question him about it, but she gave him the space to come to her when he was ready.

Monk came over, likely noting the same debilitation, his brow creased with concern. Still, with his usual infallible ability to sense a mood, he stayed silent. Or at least about her uncle.

He stared around the crust of sharp crystals. “Looks like no one has set foot around here in ages.”

She realized he was right. “No footprints.”

The crystals looked fragile and likely took years to form. If anyone had traipsed through here, there would have been a record of it in crushed salt.

Eventually they circled out of the shelter of the hill and into the wind’s teeth. It blew hard and steady, stinging of sand and tasting bitter on the tongue.

Sanjar had trouble controlling the falcon perched on his gloved hand. He slipped off the hood and cast the bird into the wind, letting it stretch its wings and work off its anxiety. It screamed into the night, its silvery wings flashing in the moonlight.

The young man’s cousin pointed to the horizon. The crisp line between salt flats and starry sky blurred out there.

“Storm coming,” Arslan warned.

“A black blizzard,” Sanjar clarified.

Shielding her eyes against the wind, Rachel stared out at the churning wall of sand, salt, and dust, remembering her uncle’s warning of the toxicity of such clouds.

“We don’t want to be here when it arrives,” Arslan warned.

No one argued, so they set a faster pace.

Within yards, they were soon covering the lower halves of their faces with handkerchiefs passed out by Sanjar. Clearly such a precaution was commonplace here, where winds regularly whipped over this ancient dead seabed. Still, between the burn of the stinging dust and the cold bite of the wind, any exposed skin felt flayed and raw.

The winds forced them to stay close to the hill. Moving single file, flashlights bobbling, they crossed into a narrow cut between the cliff face and a line of fanged rocks, perhaps the remains of an old reef. Any shelter from the wind was a welcome respite.

A shout rose from ahead.

Rachel hurried forward with the others, bunching together around Josip. He shone his flashlight at his feet, to the bottom of the cliff, where a large crack broke into the rock face. Rachel failed to understand what had the priest so riled up.

“Does that look like a horse’s head?” He pointed out the features with the beam of his light. “Nose high, ears pulled back, neck stretched.”

Stepping back, she realized he was right. It looked like the silhouette of a horse, drowning in billowing sand, trying to thrust its head up for air.

“
Equus,
” Vigor gasped out. “Like what was written on the tattoo.”

Josip nodded, his eyes feverishly bright.

Monk knelt at the entrance and shone his light inside. “Looks like there’s enough room to climb into it.”

“Is it a tunnel?” Jada asked.

Duncan searched up the cliff. “If so, it would’ve once been a
sea
tunnel,” he clarified. “When this lake was full, this entrance would have been underwater.”

Josip stared over to Vigor. “Just like the Tisza River in Hungary. It was only during the
drought
that the secret entrance to the river vault revealed itself.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Monk asked.

He ducked inside, taking the lead in case there was any danger. The others quickly followed.

Vigor glanced over to Rachel, grinning ear to ear, ready to follow, barely able to contain himself.

This is what he lived for.

She prayed that it didn’t also kill him.

10:37
P
.
M
.

Vigor followed on hands and knees behind Josip.

The tunnel had more headroom than he had expected, but it helped that Monk used his industrial-strength prosthetic hand to clear any blockages out of the way: tumbles of rocks, berms of sand, crusts of salt. He was a living drill bit, tunneling deeper into the former island.

“Looks like it opens a few yards ahead!” Monk called back.

A minute later, he was proven right.

Monk’s light vanished from view, leaving its glow behind. Then Josip followed him out, climbing free of the tunnel. Once on his feet, his friend froze, then stumbled weakly to the side, clearly in shock.

With his heart thudding harder, Vigor clambered to the tunnel’s end and pushed into the cave beyond.

Stunned, he lifted his light higher as he stood up, adding his illumination to the others.

A large cavern stretched before them—caked entirely in salt. The domed white roof dripped with glistening stalactites of crystalline salt. Stalagmites rose like opalescent fangs. Elsewhere full columns of salt connected floor to ceiling. Silvery-white crystals coated every surface.

The others joined them, voicing various levels of astonishment as they entered.

Duncan came last, adding, “Holy Mother of—”

Josip cut him off, gaping around. “This cave must have been underwater, too. When the waters receded, seeping slowly away, it left only the sea’s salt behind.”

“And hopefully something else,” Vigor added and pointed across the chamber. “We need to search for more of Genghis’s relics.”

The group spread out, working gingerly across the floor. It was a difficult task as the stone underfoot was piled thickly with the same fingerlike crystals seen outside, only some here were as thick around as a man’s thigh, leaning drunkenly upon one another, like a felled forest of salt.

The crunch of crystals echoed off the walls as they labored. The air smelled of the sea and burned the eyes.

Jada whispered with Duncan, but her voice reached everyone due to the cavern’s acoustics. “Water levels must have risen and fallen in here over the centuries to create this accumulation.”

“And rainfall added to it each year,” Duncan said. “Leaching more salt from the ground above.”

Jada stared up to the roof. “I’m guessing during Genghis’s time this cavern was not entirely flooded. But only accessible by swimming underwater.”

They were probably right.

Suddenly tired, recognizing that perhaps archaeology was a young man’s sport, Vigor leaned on a salt column as wide as a telephone pole to rest, believing it sturdy enough to hold his weight. Instead, it cracked under his hand, breaking in half, proving its fragility.

Luckily Monk and Rachel were there to pull him back and shield his body as a shower of crystal shards and larger chunks rained down.

“Take care, Uncle,” Rachel warned, helping him straighten and brushing sparkling dust from his shoulders.

“Look here,” Monk said, pointing to the flared base of the broken column.

Vigor turned, bringing up his flashlight. He shone its brightness into the core of the translucent pillar. Something buried there reflected his light even brighter.

“Over here!” he called to the group.

Others gathered and added their own beams, helping to reveal what was preserved in the salt.

Josip dropped to one knee. “It appears to be a pedestal of stone, holding up a box of some sort.”

His friend stared up at him, wonder shining in his face.

“Like the Hungarian bishop described in Attila’s tomb!” Vigor exclaimed. “This must be it.”

Josip stood. “We must break it free of the salt!”

Arslan appeared, bringing up a small satchel of tools. Using hammers, chisels, and brushes, Josip worked with Arslan to chip away at the thick base of the column.

As it was slowly revealed, the box proved to be large, a foot or so tall and twice as long.

Josip swept crystals off its black surface. The chisel had nicked it in a few places. Vigor’s friend used a fingernail to dig more vigorously at one of the scratches. “It looks to be silver under the tarnish.”