center. About five feet down you’ll find the door.”
Caleb nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’ll help you dig,” she said, “until we reach the door. But then you go in alone.”
“No way!” said Orlando. “You’ll seal us in.”
“No. I’ll stay out here,” she said, hefting the gun, “and wait for your friends. Kill as many of them as I can. And if I fail, I must trust you to finish them off and leave my Lord intact. Can you promise me that?”
“We can,” Caleb said.
“And re-bury the door? And tell no one?”
“Cross our hearts,” said Phoebe.
Suddenly the wind picked up, swirling, kicking up leaves and twigs. And a rumbling sound rattled the earth. Qara turned, switched her aim, and fired into the sky — just as the sleek black helicopter descended, pinning them in a spotlight. A helmeted woman, perched in the open door, fired back.
Qara felt the sting of the bullet in her side, then screamed as another ripped past her head. She dropped the gun and watched helplessly as the helicopter landed and the shooter jumped out, followed by six commandos in camouflage.
“Don’t raise your gun,” Caleb yelled to Orlando. “Just drop it.”
“Listen to him,” said Renee Wagner, as she ripped off her helmet and let her hair whip in the winds of the dying helicopter blades. “I’ve also got six jeeps on their way, another forty men.” She advanced on Qara, who had fallen to her knees, her good hand trying to stop the flow of blood from her side.
Qara grimaced as a tsunami of pain swept through her side. She glared at Renee, now lording over her. In the corner of her eye, she saw Orlando, surrounded by three commandos, guns pointed at his face. He raised his hands.
“All right,” Renee said. “Nice try, luring me to Qin Shi’s mausoleum instead, but you failed. You killed four of my best men, bitch.” She pressed the barrel of her Walther to Qara’s forehead.
“No!” Caleb yelled, trying to push free of two other commandos who had him restrained. “If you kill her, we’ll never find him.”
Renee paused, tilting her head. “Really? Doubting your abilities now, are we?”
“I’m just being practical,” Caleb said. “Remote viewing is just a tool. We may know where the entrance is, but beyond that there’s a lot of real estate to cover before Temujin’s body.”
Renee smiled, a smile meant for Caleb, but delivered right to Qara. “And you honestly think this Darkhad will help us? I’d rather pull the trigger and trust in you and your friends.”
“I promise you,” Caleb insisted, “we won’t be enough.”
Qara tensed for one last lunge, more than confident she could take Agent Wagner, but what then? Dimly, as the blood oozed from her arm and flowed through her fingers, she heard Caleb lobbying Renee to spare her life, and for a moment she regretted doubting him. Because of her blind adherence to tradition and loyalty to a man dead for eight centuries, she had placed them all in danger, and may have unleashed something far worse upon the world. If Wagner or Montross succeeded…
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.”
BOOK THREE: UNDER XANADU
1
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
