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.
But all that had changed with the institution of democratic rule.
Genghis Khan was rising again from those ashes to inspire a generation of young people. He was their new demigod. Countless children and young people bore the name Temujin, which was the conqueror’s original name before he took the title Genghis Khan, meaning Universal Ruler. Across Mongolia, streets, candy, cigarettes, and beer all carried that title now. His face decorated their money and their buildings. A 250-ton shimmering steel statue of Genghis astride a horse greeted visitors to the capital city of Ulan Bator.
Newfound pride flowed through the veins of the country’s people.
Staring into his lieutenant’s face now, Batukhan saw none of that pride, only the shame of failure. He hardened his words, seeking to stir that shame to greater duty.
“Then we must move forward, never relenting. We will wait for the Italians to reach the priest in the desert. It is where they will travel next, if not frightened back to Rome.”
“I will go there myself.”
“Do so. Yet are you sure the priest does not suspect we have enfolded members of our clan among his workforce?”
“Father Josip sees only the sand and his purpose.”
“Then join them.”
“And if the Italians come?”
“Kill them. Take what they carry and bring it to me.”
“And what of Father Josip?”
Batukhan stared around the room. The clan had existed for three generations, formed as a resistance group by his grandfather during the time of Soviet oppression. Each leader took the title Borjigin, meaning Master of the Blue Wolf, the ancient clan name of Genghis Khan.
But the world had since changed. Mongolia now had the world’s fastest-growing economy, fueled by its mining operations. The true wealth of the country lay buried not in the lost tomb of Genghis Khan, but in the deposits of coal, copper, uranium, and gold, a treasure trove valued at over a trillion dollars.
Batukhan already had a major stake in several mines—but he could not let go of the stories told to him by his grandfather and father, tales of Genghis Khan, of the vast wealth hidden in his tomb.
He kept tabs on anyone searching for that sacred grave site.
That included the reclusive and odd Father Josip Tarasco.
Batukhan had heard rumors six years ago about a man appearing out of nowhere in Kazakhstan, hiding under many different names, digging holes in sand and salt, chasing the receding waters of the dying sea. The stranger had already been doing that for two years before word finally reached Ulan Bator about his intent: that he was seeking clues to Genghis Khan’s burial site. It was such a strange place to be looking that Batukhan hadn’t given these excavations much thought—other than infiltrating a handful of clan members to keep track of the elusive man.