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

Vigor and Rachel Verona.

Neither looked happy.

Duncan had crossed to the trunk and retrieved their luggage: a single roller bag suitcase. Was that all their gear?

Monk was bent half through the passenger door, settling with the driver. When he straightened, she saw the blood covering his face and gasped. Her gaze flicked to that rising smoke signal above the town, knowing the two were connected.

The group hurried to the waiting helicopter.

Rachel’s scowl deepened with every step, as if reluctant to climb aboard. At the hatch, she finally stopped.

“We should stay here!” she yelled, clutching the priest’s arm. “Head back to Rome!”

Jada hoped that would be their decision. It would mean they could leave Kazakhstan immediately and head straight to the mountains of Mongolia to start their hunt for the crashed satellite.

Monk shook his head. “Rachel, you’ve already got a target on your back. Whoever planned this is more resourceful than we first imagined. They’ll try again.”

Duncan agreed with his partner. “That Father Josip got you all into this mess. He’s the best chance to get you out.”

Rachel clearly recognized the practical wisdom of that. She freed her uncle’s arm, and they both climbed in. Jada made room, nodding to the pair as they strapped in across from her, delaying any formal introduction until they were in the air.

Duncan found a spot next to Jada. She appreciated his physical presence, his solidity, even the warmth of his body as he breathed deeply, still running high on adrenaline.

As Monk strapped in, he leaned over and touched Jada’s knee. “Sorry for the rush. We didn’t want to be trapped on the ground if Kazakh law enforcement shuts down airspace because of the bombing.”

Jada stared around the cabin.

What the hell have I got myself into?

3:07 P.M.

As the Eurocopter reached its cruising altitude, Duncan looked below at the passing scenery. With a roar of its rotors, the chopper rushed away from the expanse of blue sea and out over a desert landscape of rust-colored sand, patches of scrub, salt-white mesas, and wind-carved rock. The territory below could pass for sections of New Mexico, except for the scatter of camels and the occasional lone yurt, the white tent standing out starkly against the darker terrain.

A tug on his sleeve drew his attention back to the cabin.

Monsignor Verona pointed to the suitcase on the seat next to Duncan. “ Scusa, Sergeant Wren, could you open my bag? I’d like to make sure everything is still intact after the commotion.”

Only a priest would describe what happened as a commotion .

“Monsignor, you can call me Duncan.”

“Only if you call me Vigor.”

“Done.”

Duncan bent and hauled the case up with one arm and dropped it across his knees. He unzipped it and folded back the top. He found some clothing packed around two objects insulated in black foam.

“I’m mostly concerned about the larger of the two,” Vigor said. “It’s the most fragile.”

The monsignor waved for Duncan to strip back the foam to expose what was inside.

Duncan could guess what concerned the older man, so he knew what to expect. As he removed the top half of the padding, the crown of a skull appeared, its empty eye sockets staring up at him.

“Can you remove it and pass it over so I can examine it for damage, please?”

Duncan had seen plenty of death in Afghanistan, but a part of him still cringed inwardly. Next to him, Jada’s face wavered between professional interest and disgust.

Ignoring his own aversion, Duncan reached in with both hands, prepared to grab the skull, but even before touching bone, the nerve endings in his fingertips registered a tingling pressure, stimulated by the stirring of his tiny magnets.

Surprised, he pulled his hands away, shaking his fingers.

“There’s nothing to fear,” Vigor said, misreading his reaction.

Ignoring the monsignor, Duncan hovered his fingers over the dome of the cranium. It was nothing like he’d ever felt before, like slipping his fingers into cold gel, both electric and oily.

“What are you doing?” Jada asked.

He realized how this must look. “The skull is giving off some sort of strange electromagnetic signature. Very faint, but there.”

Jada drew her brows together. “How . . . why do you say that?”

He had never told her about the magnets, but he explained to everyone now. Finishing, he said, “My fingertips are definitely picking up something off this skull.”

“Then you should examine the old book, too,” Rachel said. She reached over and tugged back its protective foam.

The leather of the tome was worn and deeply wrinkled.

He slowly ran his fingers along the surface. This time, he had to touch the leathery skin to feel the tiniest buzz. Still, the feel was the same. Goose bumps pebbled his flesh.

“Even fainter . . . but it’s identical.”

“Could it be some form of residual radiation?” Rachel asked. “We don’t know where these relics have been kept until now. Perhaps it was near a radioactive source.”

Jada frowned, not buying that explanation. “In my suitcases, I have equipment to examine the crashed—”

She stopped abruptly and glanced over to Monk, plainly realizing how close she’d come to mentioning their mission objective, which so far had been kept from the Veronas.

Clearing her throat, she continued. “I have tools to check for various energy signatures. Geiger counters, multimeters, et cetera. Once we land, I can verify Duncan’s claims.”

He shrugged. “It’s there. I can’t explain why, but it’s there.”

Vigor settled back into his seat. “Then the sooner we reach the coordinates supplied by Father Josip, the happier we’ll all be.”

Duncan placed little faith in the monsignor’s assessment. He zipped the case back up and returned his attention to the desolate landscape. After a moment, he realized he had been rubbing his fingers together, as if to erase that oily sensation. He had a hard time expressing in words what his sixth sense had perceived.

For lack of a better term, it felt wrong .

8

November 18, 5:28 P.M. ULAT

Ulan Bator, Mongolia

Steam hissed from the hot pipes lining the subterranean chamber deep beneath the streets of Ulan Bator. Oil lanterns illuminated the clan’s meeting place with a fiery glow. The Master of the Blue Wolves stood before his lieutenant and the clan’s innermost circle. He adjusted the wolf mask to better hide his features.

Only his lieutenant knew his true name.

Batukhan, meaning firm ruler .

“And they survived the attack in Aktau?” he asked his lieutenant.

Arslan gave a fast nod of his head. The young lieutenant, not yet thirty years old, was barefaced, lean and tall, his hair as black as the shadows. He wore typical Western clothes jeans and a thick wool sweater, but from his high cheekbones and his ruddy face, shining with steamy dampness, he was of pure Mongolian stock—not tainted by the blood of the Chinese or Soviets, his people’s former oppressors.

His lieutenant was like many of the younger generation of Mongolians, stoked with pride, exalted by the freedoms hard won by Batukhan’s generation. Here were the true descendants of the great Genghis Khan, the man who had conquered most of the known world on the back of a horse.

Batukhan remembered, during the decades of Soviet rule, how Moscow had forbidden mentioning the name of Genghis, lest it stoke nationalistic pride in its oppressed subjects. Soviet tanks even blocked the roads up in the Khentii Mountains to keep people from visiting or revering the great khan’s birthplace.