The Mongol Objective (17 page)

“Where?”

“Somewhere in China. Um . . . where one of the first emperors was buried or something. And he had this huge layout underground, with lots of traps and things.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Of course there’s got to be traps. But anyway, Genghis told them to bury him inside with this other dead ruler, since it was conveniently already there, and no one would think to look in someone else’s place.”

Caleb knew she was bluffing. He didn’t need a vision to understand that. Temujin would never defile another ruler’s rest, or share his own. But maybe what Phoebe had seen was close enough to make her lie convincing.

Renée took a step back, stroking her chin. She turned to the nearest agent, spoke something in Mandarin, nothing that Caleb could make out. “Emperor Qin Shi Huang. In Xian. An archaeological team is currently excavating the site. They found the terra cotta army back in 1998.”

Caleb met his sister’s look, and dared flash her a blink of a hope. But then two gunshots tore through the moment and Phoebe screamed.

#

Orlando’s eyes lost focus and then tracked back to something that didn’t make sense. A strange red splatter formation down the front of his
World of Warcraft
shirt.

I’ve been shot,
he thought. Those bastards did it, shot a handcuffed prisoner. He blinked, astounded at the lack of pain, sure they’d hit his spine.
Paralyzed. Well, at least that’s the way to go.

His eyes blurred, then focused again when he heard a scream and a loud
pop!
Again something warm splashed on him, on his neck, the right side of his face, with what felt like tiny pebbles.
Why can I feel that?

He shook his head and wiped his face on his shoulder.

“. . . are you?” asked a voice.

“Huh?” He still couldn’t see. Just a dark, slender shape outside his window, pointing something shiny at him.

“I asked who you are.” A woman’s voice. Heavily accented, confident and powerful.

“Orlando Natch, at your service.” He rubbed his eyes clean with his shoulder, then turned, trying to show off his shiny wrist bracelets. “Whoever you are, please help. I’ve got friends in there, and—”

“And they’re as good as dead,” said the woman, “unless you convince me in the next five seconds that you’re not after the same thing as these agents. Or the people I left earlier today on a mountaintop in Mongolia.”

#

“Outside!” Renée yelled to her agents. “Shots came from outside!”

She turned but kept the gun trained on Phoebe. “What else? Tell me now!”

“If you’ve hurt Orlando . . .”

“Shut up!” she shouted, then repeated to Caleb, “Tell me now, or she dies too.”

“You can’t rush remote viewing,” Caleb said, quickly getting in step with Phoebe’s con. “It’s given us one hit, but now we should all sit together and focus our visions on this Xian and the emperor there, see what we can come up with.”

“So you can collude together and hone your lies? Send me in the wrong direction? I don’t think so.”

Another gunshot, then automatic fire. Renée cursed as she turned toward the door. Two dark shapes had rushed in, guns drawn. Renée dropped to a crouch and fired, knocking one back and wounding the other, who returned fire, missing. Caleb and Phoebe dropped to the floor, covering their heads. Caleb rolled, saw Renée get up and aim again. And then saw a shape at the window. But Renée fired down the hallway first, and a red spray burst from the other black-clad intruder’s head. She stood, turned, and took two bullets in her chest. She stumbled back, staring down without growing comprehension, then another shot threw her into the wall below a replica shield.

She slumped to her knees, then fell face-forward.

“Go!” Caleb shouted, as Phoebe lay there, too shocked to move. He got to her, pulled her up by the arm, even as the steady footfalls ran toward him. A shadow fell over Phoebe, and Caleb lowered his head. Raised his arms.

He looked up and saw a startlingly serene face, crowned with straight midnight-black hair, tanned skin and warm eyes the mirror of a broad turquoise sky. She was dressed in a black ski jacket and black jeans with knee-high boots.

“Your friend is outside, and he’s convinced me not to kill you if you come along with me right now.”

Caleb helped Phoebe to her feet, keeping a wary eye on their rescuer. “I guess we’re going. And thanks.”

“You keep dangerous acquaintances,” the woman said, leading them through the hallway, stepping over other black-clothed bodies.

“You,” Caleb said, “are you Darkhad?”

She froze, then turned her head, considering him. “My name is Qara, and yes, I am. As you’ve guessed. But now, I’m taking you to Beijing, and then seeing you on a plane home.”

“Can’t,” Caleb said. “Not until I save my son.”

She studied his face. “Your boy?”

“Abducted by a man named Xavier Montross.”

“And,” said Phoebe, “a nasty bitch named Nina Osseni.”

Qara’s eyes turned dark. “Montross. He has red hair?”

Caleb nodded eagerly. “You’ve seen him? Is Alexander—”

“The boy was fine when I left his group in the Khenti Mountains. But they killed my friends.”

“I’m so sorry,” Caleb said, taking a deep breath, but inwardly nodding to himself, releasing a cry of relief.
Alexander’s okay. Kid’s probably driving Montross nuts.
“So they’re looking on the Sacred Mountain, following the wrong visions.”

Qara tightened her grip on the gun. “Why do you say they’re in the wrong place?”

“Because,” Phoebe said, “we’ve seen—”

“Because you’re here,” Caleb inserted, realizing his error. “Just a guess. If Montross’s team was on the right track, you never would have left them.”

Qara eyed him for a long moment, analyzing his face. Finally, she said, “True.”

Over her shoulder, Caleb saw a jet-black Hummer idling with Orlando inside, his face pressed against the window. The other visitors were leaving the parking lot, some running, others driving or biking. In the distance, he heard sirens.

Caleb blinked and looked away from her penetrating gaze. “But I’m sorry, we can’t leave yet. We need to find the tomb. It may be the only way to get my son back.”

Qara shook her head. “You won’t use my Lord’s secret as a bargaining chip.”

“I don’t want to, but I don’t believe there’s any other choice. Montross will come, and he will find it.”

“You said his visions were wrong.”

“And he’ll figure that out, soon enough.”
Or Alexander will
.

She narrowed her eyes at them. “And where do you think it is?”

#

Back in the western hall, Renée could still hear them. She lay flat on her stomach, wincing. The Kevlar vest had stopped the bullets, but the pain had drilled into her ribs, her breastbone. It felt like her lungs were on fire. But she had to lie still. Couldn’t give herself away, even though every cell screamed at her to get up, pick up her gun and blow that bitch to hell, and then start in on Phoebe and Caleb.

But that had to wait.

She had to listen.

This wasn’t over yet. She had played her part perfectly on this mission. Played up the dedicated FBI agent, sympathetic to Caleb’s plight, and his talents. Got them to lower their guard, but then that damn kid had too much time on his hands and went snooping where he didn’t belong. Well, her master and colleagues feared this might happen, and she knew the risks. Which was why Plan B was always ready. Her security force, listening in at all times for any sign the Morpheus team had got wind of who she really was. At that stage, the operation turned from one of stealth to one of brazen force.

More than one way to skin this cat. Besides, she never believed she was in any danger. Not with these people. She was protected, chosen.

She was fated to find those keys and fulfill her destiny.

#

“Tell her,” Caleb said, looking at Phoebe, “what you saw.” They were in the hallway, just past two dead Darkhad and before the other pair of Renée’s men, cut down at the entrance.

“What do you mean,
saw
?” Qara asked. “When?”

“We’re kind of psychic,” Phoebe admitted, looking to Caleb first for approval to elaborate. “Remote viewers. We find things, and can sometimes see into the past.”

Qara stared at her, then at Caleb. Her face gave away nothing. “And what did you see?”

“He’s in a city, a huge city, inside a domed palace.” Phoebe bit her lip, eyes losing focus, remembering.
“Underground.”

Qara remained frozen, just listening.

“I saw a river, and terra cotta warriors.”

“But,” said Caleb, “we told that agent in there it was Qin Shi Huang’s mausoleum, and that Genghis Khan just borrowed a pre-existing site.”

Phoebe cleared her throat. “But I saw the truth. Saw them merely model a new mausoleum after Huang’s older one. Saw them hollowing out great caverns underground, building an entire walled city, complete with a river and a small sea, gardens and monasteries, all for the dead. But it’s somewhere else.”

“Where?” Qara asked breathlessly.

“Why don’t you just tell us?” Caleb snapped. “We’re close. An hour or so with Orlando digitally mapping the exterior of the entranceway, designed from what Phoebe saw, and then matching the images to—” He looked at Phoebe, who had slumped forward, rocking. She slid sideways, supported against the wall.

“What?”

“Never mind Orlando,” Phoebe whispered. “I’m seeing . . . something.”

Caleb held her hand and she gripped him back, tighter.

“Paper,” she said sharply. “Give me paper, a pencil.”

He dug into her pack, pulled out the ever-handy sketchpad. And then Phoebe was down on her knees, eyes gone almost completely white, oblivious to the gun Qara still trained on them, oblivious to her look of confusion.

Caleb set the pencil in her right hand, the pad in her left. And she immediately bent down and started to sketch . . .

. . . a lonely farmhouse on the English moors, not far from a small cobbled church . . .

Tear off the page. Next . . .

. . . a single room, a candle and a chair. A man asleep in the chair, an open book on his chest, an empty glass on a nearby table, with a medicine stopper beside it. . . .

Next . . .

. . . letters at the top, spelling the name “COLERIDGE” underlined twice . . .

#

“Coleridge?” Caleb said, reading it aloud. “Coleridge . . . Oh my—”

“I don’t believe this,” Qara said, barely above a whisper.

Phoebe’s eyes focused. She dropped the pencil and stood up. She glanced at Qara, then to Caleb, her face lost in confusion. “What?”

“Phoebe,” Caleb said, “you’re magnificent.”

“I know, but what did I see?”

“A clue. Now I know,” Caleb exclaimed triumphantly, “where he’s buried.”

Qara groaned, raised the gun. “And now I’m sorry, but I think I have to kill you.”

A shot rang out, Caleb and Phoebe winced, but only the statue of Genghis Khan was struck—a wild shot, blasting off one of his hands. They turned and saw Renée, hobbling against a wall, leaning out from cover to shoot. She held her ribs with one hand and aimed with the other.

She fired again, but this time Caleb grabbed Qara and pulled her back toward the door and out of the line of fire. Phoebe was already in full sprint, pushing through the door, stumbling outside. Qara followed, but Caleb stopped over the body of one of the fallen agents and scooped up the AK-47. He hefted it, then throwing caution to the wind, turned the corner and squeezed off a burst of deafening fire at Renée. Never holding such a powerful weapon, it nearly rattled free from his grip. The bullets went wild, spraying the walls and the ceiling, missing Renée by a mile.

Then her hand swung around, finding Caleb in her sights.

Caleb turned and bolted as more shots rang out.

Through the door he ran, just as the Hummer launched forward and the back door opened, Phoebe waving him in. Four large strides and he was there, jumping inside, slamming the door behind him.

Renée appeared in the mausoleum’s doorway, still firing at them, when four white and blue jeeps roared into the parking lot—Chinese military—sirens blaring. Caleb looked back and saw Renée confidently running toward them.

Did she have connections with this crowd as well?

“Just who the hell is that FBI chick?” Phoebe asked from the back seat.

“I don’t know,” Caleb responded, then abruptly swung his weapon around, aiming at the back of Qara’s head. “But one thing at a time. Orlando, get her gun, and Qara, please just drive.”

He saw her eyes flash in the rearview mirror.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you’re sworn to protect his secret, but believe me in addition to us psychics, you’ve got another team of highly resourceful treasure-hunters on the trail of your master’s whereabouts. And unless you’ve got an army of Darkhad left to help, you might need our help.”

“I thought,” said Qara, “you were planning to break into the tomb.”

“We are,” Caleb admitted, “but not to steal. Temujin can remain, along with all his treasure and his secrets. We just need to protect what Xavier Montross is looking for. If he finds it—”

“We’re all screwed,” Orlando said as he snatched away Qara’s gun.

Qara accelerated, keeping an eye on the dirt road behind them as they roared into the desert, bounding over the sparse grasslands toward a dusty horizon.

“I’m guessing,” Caleb said, “that you don’t have any Darkhad at the actual site.”

“There are not many of us left,” Qara whispered.

“How many?” asked Phoebe.

“I left four on Burkhan Khaldun, but Montross brought in reinforcements—soldiers. They will try to pick off those men there, but—”

“But that’s it?” Phoebe asked. “Your people didn’t stay close to the real site?”

“Why would we? That would only draw attention.”

“What real site?” Orlando asked. “Did we find it? Where are we going?”

“Yeah,” Phoebe said. “Where? I’m still lost underground somewhere. What’s with this farmhouse I saw and someone named Coleridge?”

“Samuel Coleridge,” Caleb said, sitting back, still keeping his grip on the AK-47. “The English poet. The story goes that in 1797 he was in ill-health and stopped for a rest at a secluded farmhouse somewhere near Devonshire. It’s believed that he took some opium, and while reading a travel book, fell asleep”—