On shore about two hundred yards from the Al Qaida camp, Booker had cached the machine pistol given to him by a Janissary. He climbed out of the lake and found the weapon hidden in a tangle of dried grasses just as a searchlight on the houseboat snapped on. The beam turned the darkened shore into daylight just a few feet from him. A second gunman kept his weapon trained on the ground illuminated by the light.
There was nothing Book could do about the wet trail he’d left on the beach, so he waited, more exposed than he’d have liked. The beam brushed past the wet sand, paused, and returned. The two men on the bow of the houseboat jabbered excitedly, pointing. A third man emerged from a door that led to the pilothouse. All three raised their weapons.
Book fired first. The range was long for the stubby machine pistol and rounds just sprayed the boat randomly. Their return fire was much more accurate. He dove to his right to get away from where his fire had attracted their aim. Bullets peppered the ground all around him as he combat rolled a dozen times, never losing his bearings. His movements kept giving away his location on the open beach, and the firing intensified.
Sykes knew he didn’t have a prayer.
A streak of light shot from the hill above the camp, followed by a sharp whistle. The rocket-propelled grenade fell a little short of the houseboat, hitting the lake at its side in an eruption of water that doused the three fighters. Book used the distraction to lunge to his feet and start running.
The terrorist he’d seen manning the light saw him dash into the darkness and opened fire again, walking his bullets up Booker’s trail. He felt a bullet pass between his legs, knew the next one was coming for his spine, and threw himself to the left. He hit the rocky earth, rolled once, and was back on his feet in an instant, but the torn muscles in his back sent searing lances of pain radiating in all directions. His attempt to sprint away from the lake was little more than a drunken hobble and he came under fire almost immediately.
A second RPG slashed though the night, flying in a flat trajectory that sent it into the houseboat just aft of the bridge. It exploded and the houseboat disintegrated. The superstructure was peeled apart like an orange, fire erupting from the jagged seams as chunks of wood and metal rained down across the lake. Two of the gunmen were killed instantly, their backs flayed open by shrapnel. The third was blown off the boat and could have survived had there not been thirty pounds of rusted chain lodged in his abdomen. He hit the water and sank like a stone.
Booker turned and started limping back toward the compound. The battle was the most intense he’d ever seen. The two sides were exchanging fire at a staggering pace. He ultimately knew it was unsustainable. The Janissaries had only brought what they could carry-at most a couple hundred rounds each. Poli’s men had arrived with a near limitless supply. The simple truth was the Janissaries would be out of ammunition long before the Qaida forces.
He paused behind some cover to study the killing field. There were still twenty men firing up into the hills and he could see an officer organizing a patrol of another ten men to try to outflank the Janissaries. Of Ahmad’s troop of six he was only sure that three were still in the fight. Then he spotted a fourth. It was Ibriham himself. Somehow he’d found a gap in the Qaida perimeter and was crawling toward the excavated section of tunnel. From the Turk’s perspective he couldn’t see that there were two new men guarding the hole. He’d stumble right into them blindly.
Behind Booker was a twenty-foot sandstone cliff. He slung the machine pistol over his shoulder, reached for a handhold, and hauled himself off the beach. The agony in his back was like a hot coal lodged in his spine. He gritted his teeth against it, lifting himself another eighteen inches on stubbornness alone. Sheets of sweat bathed his body and he could feel tears rolling down his cheeks.
He found another toehold, braced himself for the pain, and lifted himself higher up the sandstone face. Nauseous saliva flooded his mouth and a whimper escaped his lips. Fearing he was doing permanent damage to his body, Booker thrust aside concerns for himself and fought on. It took him five minutes to scale the cliff and when he rolled over the top he wanted to lie there and let the pain wash over him.
Instead he got to his feet and surveyed the battle from his elevated perch. A pile of dirt was all that separated Ahmad from the men guarding the pit and still he hadn’t seen them. The range was nearly three hundred and fifty yards. Booker’s massive chest heaved and his heart was racing. He raised the machine pistol but his hands shook so badly he couldn’t get a sight picture.
One of the guards spotted Ibriham. He pointed and was going for his weapon.
“Dear Jesus, don’t fail me now.” Book tensed every muscle in his body for a second, drew down again, and opened fire, letting instinct guide his aim.
The first two rounds went wide. The third drilled the guard though the thigh, spinning him in place and dropping him. The fourth and fifth hit the second guard center mass, the bullets slowed enough that they ricocheted through his body, shredding his internal organs. Book put the sixth through the wounded guard’s head just as Ahmad rolled over the pile of excavated earth.
He didn’t acknowledge his guardian angel. He fumbled with a knapsack he’d carried to the pit and disappeared down the hole, leaving the bag behind.
Booker knew that Cali should be arriving any second, and even as he thought it he looked up the dark bay and could see the white of the Riva’s upper hull. She had idled the boat far enough out so she could react to a speedboat coming from the encampment, but not too close to draw attention. As much as he knew she wanted to be in the fight, she knew how to take orders and do her job.
He had turned back to study the battle and see where he needed to help the attack, when the knapsack Ahmad had left near the tunnel entrance exploded. The bag had to have contained thirty pounds of plastic explosives because the blast was massive. The fireball lit the head of the bay like a second sun as it climbed into the night. Fighters within fifty feet of the explosion were killed by the concussion scrambling their insides. Others a little farther were scythed down by debris, their bodies lying as limp as rag dolls.
In the fading light of the diminishing fireball Booker could see that the tunnel entrance had been obliterated. Ahmad had sealed the tomb to prevent Poli’s escape.
Poli and Salibi emerged from the farthest reaches of the tomb complex to see for themselves. The two guards followed in their wake. Mercer couldn’t guarantee taking them all so he let them go. As soon as they retreated to the first room, he dashed into the space where they’d been.
The oil lamps burning all around the chamber revealed it to be smaller still. And unlike the others, there were just a few columns. Instead the room was filled with the possessions Alexander would need in the afterlife. There were boats made of wood and reeds, tents, and furniture. There were several chariots and countless chests that would contain such household items as bowls and utensils. Unlike Tutankhamen’s tomb, there was very little gold, for Alexander hadn’t been a man bent on material wealth. Instead his tomb was filled with all manner of weapons- swords by the hundreds, javelins and lances, shields and helmets as well as bows and slings. Alexander’s generals had provided him everything he would require to outfit the army he would need for his military conquest of heaven.
Mercer wouldn’t let his attention focus on the golden sarcophagus sitting on a raised dais at the front of the room, with its panels of rock crystal shaved so fine they were as transparent as glass, or the mummified body within. Instead he looked at the large bronze drum that had been taken down from a niche in the wall. Its surface was dented and pitted from having been dragged all over the ancient world and later used in battles in Europe.
The Alembic of Skenderbeg was about six feet tall and four wide and was covered in Ancient Greek script. The two chambers were separated by a complicated mechanism that prevented the active plutonium from coalescing. There was something ominous about the device that went beyond Mercer’s knowledge of what it did. He sensed the alembic as a presence in the room with him, not alive exactly but aware. He could tell that it wanted to be found, that it wanted to be taken from this place so it could unleash its deadly radiation on a new world. The hairs on Mercer’s arms stood erect when he realized he was in the presence of pure evil.
The sound of gunfire echoed through the tomb. Mercer whirled as one of the guards burst into the burial chamber. Mercer was a fraction of a second slow reaching for his assault carbine. The guard fired a snap burst from his AK-47. The rounds stitched Alexander’s sarcophagus, shattering the delicate panes of crystal and powdering the mummified remains.
Mercer dove as the string of bullets cut through the air toward him, and came up hard against the wheels of a chariot. He slithered under the ornate vehicle as the terrorist started taking better aim. The filigreed wood splintered as it was savaged by the assault. Mercer got to his knees and fired through the spoked wheel, catching
