James Rollins - The Eye of God - A Sigma Force Novel

“And spread their genetic stamp.”

“A stamp we can verify. Those Y-chromosome markers are well known to geneticists and easy enough to compare to our sample.”

“That’s what Dr. Conti is doing right now?”

“He said he could have the results almost immediately, as the DNA sequencing on our samples had already been completed.”

“But if you’re right and the markers match, what does that tell us? Like you said, many men carry this Y-chromosome.”

“Yes, but Genghis died in 1227.”

“The thirteenth century . . .” Her brows knit together. “The same age as the skull.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “How many men back then carried that specific chromosome?”

Rachel did not look convinced.

Vigor pressed his case. “After Genghis died, his followers slaughtered his entire funeral procession. Those who constructed his tomb were also killed. So were the soldiers who oversaw its construction. And apparently such bloody efforts were effective in keeping it secret. Despite centuries of searching, the location of his tomb remains a mystery to this day. A tomb said to hold all the riches from his conquered lands.”

“The discovery of which might be worth killing someone over,” Rachel said, plainly referring to the grenade attack.

“We’re talking about a treasure that would put Tutankhamen to shame. The world’s greatest treasures flowed into Mongolia and were never seen again, the vast spoils of war from China, India, Persia, Russia. The royal tomb was even said to hold the crowns of the seventy-eight rulers he conquered. Not to mention the priceless religious artifacts pillaged from countless churches, mostly those of the Russian Orthodox.”

“And nothing was ever found?”

“More important to us, his body was never found.”

Before Rachel could respond, Vigor’s phone rang. He snatched it up to find Dr. Conti on the line.

“I did as you asked, Monsignor Verona. We compared the twenty-five genetic markers that make up the Genghis Khan haplotype to your sample.”

“And how many match?”

“ All twenty-five.”

Blood drained from Vigor’s face. He stared down at the rolling case at his feet, realizing what it might hold. He understood now why someone might kill to possess what it contained, how the contents inside might hold clues to the world’s greatest treasure. Inside his suitcase, he perhaps held the skull and skin of the world’s greatest warlord, a man revered as a semigod by his people.

The relics of Genghis Khan.

2:10 P.M.

“You were right,” Duncan said. “Our Italian friends picked up a tail.”

He stood with Monk Kokkalis at a beachside barbecue stand. Cold sunlight shone off the neighboring sea. The day was chilly, but the wood and charcoal grill—where skewers of meat, fat, and vegetables sizzled—cast off enough heat to make even Duncan’s light jacket feel too warm. The burn of Persian spices and oils also wafted over him, stinging his eyes with every gust off the sea.

After landing at the Aktau International Airport, they had shuttled Dr. Jada Shaw to their chartered helicopter at a neighboring private airfield. Once she was secure, Monk and Duncan had headed to the central district of the small port town to retrieve the final additions to their team. Duncan had been informed about the attack on the pair, and Monk had suggested caution in approaching them, to make sure the two weren’t being tracked from Rome.

If they’re dragging a tail, Monk had said, let’s cut it off now.

It proved to be a smart precaution.

Duncan recognized that he could learn a thing or two from this more seasoned Sigma operative.

“How do you want to play this?” he asked.

During their twenty-minute vigil on the restaurant, they spotted a pair of people showing an inordinate amount of interest in the couple seated at the window. The restaurant bordered the beach’s pedestrian thoroughfare, where joggers and bikers vied for space on the narrow strip of asphalt. Though it was November and the off-season, this central district of the town still bustled with activity. So it was easy to spot anyone suspiciously lingering by the restaurant.

A dark-haired man, clearly Asian, had settled onto a bench on the far side of the restaurant, at the edge of the beach. He wore a knee-length coat, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his back to the view, seldom taking his eyes off the restaurant.

Not exactly sophisticated.

The other, a woman, matched her partner’s hair and features. She wore a black woolen cap, and a shorter version of the man’s brown coat. She was slim and not unattractive with high cheekbones and smoldering eyes. She leaned against a light pole on this side of the restaurant.

“I’ll go along the beach,” Monk said. “Approach the man from behind. You get close to the woman. Wait until I’m in position. Upon my signal, we’ll grab them both.”

“Got it.”

“And keep your weapon hidden, march them over to our SUV. Be discreet. We’ll secure them there and question them en route back to the airfield. I want to know who the hell they are and why they tried to blow up my friends.”

“Why do you think they’re watching now versus attacking?”

Monk shook his head. “Might be too public to act in broad daylight. Or maybe they’ve been ordered to follow them, to discover why the pair traveled from Rome to Kazakhstan? Either way, it ends here for them.”

Monk set off, moving onto the sand and casually strolling down the beach. He never looked once toward the seated man. Once his partner was halfway toward his target, Duncan pushed away from the counter and headed toward the woman. He did his best to match Monk’s pace, to time his approach so that they’d reach their respective targets at the same time.

That was the plan—until the ring of a bell drew Duncan’s attention to the asphalt path. He glanced back to find a bicyclist signaling him out of the way. Only steps away, the woman also stirred.

As the bicycle swept past, she followed, as if drawn in its wake, heading toward her partner. In an unfortunate set of circumstances, Monk chose that moment to shift from the beach toward the bench.

The woman’s shoulders stiffened. She stopped, clearly sensing something amiss. She swung around, her eyes immediately locking onto Duncan’s. Whether it was some telltale giveaway in his face or the fact that he was clearly American, like the other closing in on her friend, she reacted instantly.

She bolted straight for the restaurant.

Damn it . . .

Duncan lunged after her, his arm outstretched, his hand grabbing for the tail of her coat. Waterproof fabric slipped through his fingertips. A jogger got in her way, bouncing her to the side like a startled deer. The brief stumble gave Duncan the extra moment to catch and grab a firmer hold. He yanked her back to him, hugging his other arm around her chest.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Monk slamming his target back down onto the bench as the man tried to stand.

So much for being discreet.

The flow of pedestrians slowed, stirring away from the commotion.

Duncan shifted his arm, getting a better grip. But where he should have felt soft breasts, he found only stiff, rigid contours. Worse still, his fingertips buzzed as the tiny rare-earth magnets registered a strong electrical current hidden under the coat.

He immediately knew why the woman was running headlong toward the restaurant. Lifting her off her feet and twisting at the waist, he flung her bodily back toward the sand. Her small form flew high and far.

“Bomb!” he hollered to all around him, especially his partner.

As people scattered or froze, he sprinted toward the restaurant window. Monk vaulted the bench, throwing an elbow into the man’s face, knocking him backward—then followed.