David Sakmyster - The Mongol Objective

She had to make up for it. Had to give Caleb and his team a chance. But not like this, she needed time.

“Please,” Caleb urged. “Don’t be stupid.”

Renee sighed, lifted the weapon and stepped back. She pointed to one of the commandos. “Cuff her. Bandage her up, but no drugs. And keep her awake.” She glared at Qara. “And for your sake, I hope Caleb’s impression of your usefulness is not overrated. The moment I believe you’re no longer helping, you’re dead.”

Qara looked at them all, in turn. “The Khan’s armies are down there, waiting for you, with deadly surprises that no one, Darkhad and psychics alike, can possibly foresee. We will all soon be entombed along with my master.”

The Pentagon, Washington, DC. Wednesday 3:45 A.M.

Robert Gregory hung suspended in a tank. Naked, supported by straps around his back, neck and legs, with a mouthpiece between his charred lips supplying oxygen, he drifted in and out of consciousness while electrodes attached to his index finger and his temples relayed his vitals.

His bath consisted of ninety percent water, ten percent “other”-a collection of esoteric herbs and rare compounds detailed in the Bogratus Manuscript, a three thousand-year-old scroll, once part of the Library of Alexandria, recovered from the Pharos vault. This particular item detailed the treatment of burn victims, a way to heal the scars and speed the patient’s recovery without the use of skin grafts.

The Keepers were going to release this secret surreptitiously to the medical community next fall, allowing a promising researcher to “discover” the treatment by accident. But now, because of the disaster at Caleb’s place, Robert had to use it personally. The first such patient in millennia.

He scowled, and he could only imagine the doctor out there suddenly getting edgy because of his spiking blood pressure.

Montross. Xavier had promised he’d foreseen everything, and there would be no chance of failure. Now Robert cursed his gullibility.

Lydia. Poor Lydia had been right. Montross couldn’t be trusted. Most likely Montross had seen this outcome and hadn’t cared. He survived, and he gained the tablet. That’s all that mattered to him. He had turned the tables on Robert, left him to burn.

Fortunately, the shock of being shot had worn off. His lungs had begun filling with blood, which may have saved him, as he coughed his way out of unconsciousness long enough to drag himself out the open front door, but not far enough. He’d heard the explosion, seen the lighthouse in flames, the billowing smoke and the fire spreading to the house, roaring through the rooms and leaping across the roof, seeking him out. He had tried crawling further, coughing up blood, too weak to stand, but then the roof collapsed, pouring burning material on top of him. From that point on, he had maintained consciousness only long enough to direct the medics to call in his special agents to save him and cover up his survival.

Now he took deep, slow breaths, trying to get his vitals under control. Stop thinking about Montross.

Never mind that Robert was going to do the same thing to Xavier, as soon as he could get his hands on the tablet. He was reasonably sure Montross wouldn’t have thought of the right questions to ask in order to poke around in Robert’s past or to discern his current motivations. He would have thought only about the Keepers, a bunch of dusty old librarians who had gotten their wish, and now had a new responsibility: protecting and disseminating the ancient documents.

All except for Robert. Montross would have accepted the obvious-that he still craved the Emerald Tablet, the lone lost object from the library’s catalog. No need to remote view anything further to probe my motivations. Nothing about my true master. Or the other artifact I seek.

Still, Robert let a little anger back in. He did not take kindly to liars, or thieves. And Caleb Crowe was both. But as bad as that was, to be lied to again by Montross was unforgivable.

Robert tried to stifle a laugh, coughing up bubbles into the tank. His skin tingled and felt cold, brittle, but surprisingly good. Then, he gave into a little laugh, thinking about how alike his two great enemies were.

He had long known of The Westcar Papyrus. His father, Nolan Gregory, had prepared him for his destiny by often retelling one of its stories, sometimes by firelight while he and Lydia lay in their beds. The Westcar Papyrus, written in the eighteenth century BCE, had been discovered in Egypt by Henry Westcar in 1824. It contained a collection of tales, in the vein of The Arabian Nights, told to Pharaoh Khufu by his sons about the deeds of magicians in those days.

But the fourth story dealt with something else altogether, something of great interest to the Keepers. The Hall of Records, the sanctuary of Thoth himself, and the prophecy that only one of three brothers could open the door and reach the books inside. Never mind, his father had said, that the fifth story, fragmented, only details the birth of triplets to a woman years later, one of whom was fated to open the door. There was no mention of the brothers’ success, or what would come of the prophecy. The fifth story might have been nothing more than literary denouement, or nothing less than an outright deception. Nothing had happened. Nothing yet.

But in time, and with research and study into the most mystical texts to survive the Dark Ages, the Keepers learned that Thoth’s great book, although unreadable, had been moved to an even more secure location under the Pharos Lighthouse. And as further protection, it had been separated from its translation. But to work, to gain its true power, both elements were needed.

And, Nolan Gregory came to believe, both pieces might only be found by individuals with extraordinary powers. Psychics gifted above all others. Psychics that might even be related.

Enter Caleb. With a little research, the Keepers had found that his father had another son, unknown even to him. Brother number two.

And so they had kept an eye on both of them, encouraged when both wound up in Alexandria, part of the Morpheus Initiative. Caleb had found the tablet, but Xavier was by no means out of the hunt.

While his father continued to search for brother number three and to hope, Robert began to believe in his own destiny, in the stretching of the words of prophecy, which often ruled by vagaries of language.

Robert was, after all, a brother through marriage. And while he lacked his brothers’ abilities, he excelled in what they lacked.

Power.

He had consolidated his position, used the other influential members among his fellow Keepers to win key appointments. And then, of course, he was chosen from an early age by the senior leaders of another organization. Chosen, just as Renee had been chosen to play her part.

He smiled, thinking of her initiation ceremony, of the mask he had worn to welcome her to her new identity. And now she was his, body and soul.

He clenched his fists, feeling the newly healed skin prickle, threaten to burst, but then hold.

He was close.

Death couldn’t claim him, not when prophecy had set his fate. Soon he would be well enough to stand. To dress. To hold a gun.

And fly to Cairo. Then to Giza. To be ready when Renee returned with the keys and the tablet, and with confirmation that Caleb and Xavier were dead, leaving only Robert with the chance to enter and claim his legacy.

To fulfill Marduk’s plan.

And of course, to be justly rewarded.

Xanadu, 9 P.M.

Caleb made his way through the deepening shadows to where Phoebe was tending to Qara. Her side had been bandaged and a Chinese medic had removed the bullet without finesse and without anesthesia.