David Sakmyster - The Mongol Objective

Behind him, his pursuer was down, his mask half-blown off, brains and bits of skull obscuring what was left of his face.

Caleb turned, biting his hand and wheezing for breath. He reached for the cell phone, flicked it open. “Good shot,” he said when he finally found his breath. “Thanks.”

“That’s it. We’re getting you out of there. Sit tight, there may be more.”

He glanced out the windows where he half-expected to see the Sultan and half the Moslem army massed at the front gate. “I’ll be back in the Centaur room. Give me cover and another ten minutes.”

“It’s not safe, we have to-”

He hung up, then was about to redial Phoebe when he saw something on the assassin’s neck, above the collar and the torn mask: a gold tattoo that looked like a trident, except with nine flowing things attached to the staff. Frowning, Caleb stared at the configuration for a moment before positioning his phone, pressing the camera function, lining up the shot and taking a picture.

He stood up, then called Phoebe as he stepped over the body and headed back down the hallway. “Sis?”

“Yeah, you okay? Feared we lost you there.”

“I’ll be better if you tell me you’ve got something.”

“About the centaurs? Hang on.”

He kept walking, past the windows where now he saw agents converging, running over the ramparts, seeking out hiding places, working their way toward him.

“Big brother?”

“Yeah?” He entered the room and stepped back to the bas-relief of the Centauromachy.

“Orlando’s just coming out of it, and-what? Ah, all right, here.”

“Hey, boss. You there?”

“Yeah, Orlando, but as I said before, I’m not your boss.”

“You pay me for this gig, so that makes you a boss in my book.”

“Then I’m going to fire you if you don’t tell me what you saw.”

“Okay, do you see the main centaur, the big one raising his arms?”

“Yep.”

“Is the head still intact?”

“Yes, but not all of the body. Rear legs are broken off.”

“Not a problem. I think you’re good to go. See his right horn?”

“Yes.” Caleb moved in closer and stared. It was slightly larger than the left, about the width of two fingers, and maybe six inches in length. But it was a little darker, greener than its mate, as if the sculptor had used a different material, something only noticeable up close. “Wait, this frieze was originally on the second tier, rather high up if I recall. Even if visitors came to admire it, they’d need a ladder to see the discoloration.”

Orlando coughed. “You need to trust me here.”

“Go on.”

“Twist the horn clockwise; it should release.”

Footsteps approached, agents with submachine guns drawn, coming from both entrances. Caleb moved quickly, turning the horn, which at first refused to budge. But then it gave, turned and screwed off. Caleb turned it upside down, looked into the hollow space inside. He held the phone between his ear and his shoulder, then tapped the horn against his palm.

“Is the key in there?” Orlando asked.

Agent Wagner came to a skidding halt, leading two agents from the eastern passage. She held a gun with both hands and wore a bullet-proof vest. “You find it?”

Caleb showed her his palm, which held only a single rolled up piece of paper. He tugged at the edge and flattened it out. Then his heart sunk, along with his hopes to save Alexander, as he saw the words written there in fresh red ink.

No prize for second place.

“They were here,” Caleb told her. “We missed them.”

Renee holstered her gun, a black Walther. 45 with a walnut grip, a weapon Caleb had noticed earlier and thought was a little flashy for an FBI agent. “So,” she said, “Montross managed to do in minutes what Alexander the Great failed to do all his life?”

Caleb offered a weak smile. “The Great Conqueror didn’t have our gifts.” Well, at least Phoebe and Orlando still have access to those gifts.

Renee led Caleb back to the dead body. Her men had removed the assassin’s mask. “Recognize him?”

“You mean by what’s left of him.”

She shrugged. “Sorry. He’s Asian. We can tell that much, but he’s got no ID.”

“Nothing but that tattoo,” another agent pointed out.

“Wait,” Caleb said. He took out his phone, brought up the photo and sent it as a picture message to Phoebe’s phone. Then he called her.

Renee frowned. “What are you doing?”

Caleb held up a hand. “Following a hunch.”

“Another one?”

“Yeah. This thing looks familiar, and I’ve got a weird feeling that it’s important. Phoebe?”

The phone crackled. “Yeah, we’re packing up here. Did you get it?”

“We got screwed. Again. Montross and Nina beat us to it. But listen, I just sent a picture to your phone. Load it into Orlando’s tablet and have him do his magic on it. Find a match.”

“We’re on it,” she said. “Call you right back.”

“What are you thinking?” Renee asked as they walked back to the room with the weaponry and the ancient ship reproductions. “Isn’t this guy just another one of Montross’s thugs, like those he used back at Sodus?”

“I don’t think so,” Caleb replied. “There was just something about the killer’s demeanor. He actually bowed to me before he attacked.”

“He what?”

“It was reminiscent of how someone else treated me when I was trying to uncover the secret of the Pharos. Someone who had been sworn to protect it. It was the same. Like he admired my efforts, but couldn’t let me get any closer.”

“Okay, but why would he have been protecting something that Montross had already taken?”

Caleb thought for a moment. “Maybe he didn’t know it was gone. Montross might have done it quickly, using diversion or just blending in earlier with the other tourists, and this guy-its protector-would have been on the alert only for a direct attempt.”

Renee rubbed her forehead. “Like what we did just now.”

Caleb’s phone rang and he answered at once, putting the call on the speaker. “Orlando, what do you have?”

“An itching for a raise, boss.”

“Just tell me.”

“All right, but are you sure you don’t want to guess first?”

Caleb groaned. “Okay, it’s an ancient symbol. Something Chinese, or…” He blinked, suddenly the emblem on a flag, a waving flag on a pole, or a spear, one spear among hundreds, thousands, massed on a battlefield.

“… Mongolian.”

“Bingo!” Orlando cried with impatience, bridling in his voice. “It’s the banner of the nine ox tails, the standard symbol of the one and only…”

Caleb mouthed it just as Orlando said the name.

“… Genghis Khan. ”

“So if I was confused before, now I’m certifiable,” Renee said. “What does Genghis Khan have to do with any of this?”

Keeping the speakerphone connection on, Caleb started pacing, aware that he was treading on the same stones the knights had walked on during the Crusades. “It could have a lot to do with all this. Genghis Khan, whose real name was Temujin, surpassed even Alexander the Great’s conquests by ruling a territory four times as large, creating a vast empire across Asia, sweeping through the Middle East, marching even to the doorstep of Europe. But what many don’t know was that he wasn’t just a savage tyrant; he was a seeker of truth, much like Alexander. And also like both Alexander and Cyrus, he was tolerant of all religions, respecting that in their hearts all faiths were driven by the quest to understand the will of heaven.” He thought for a moment. “And there are myths, legends that Temujin even sought out relics of Alexander’s legacy, artifacts that would solidify his hold on power and on life itself.”