Then, three days ago, word came of a strange sight, of ancient relics said to be the source of the man’s quest. No one had ever viewed them before, as they had been hidden away from sight all these years by the man’s paranoia. But according to his spies, the man had become increasingly agitated over the past month, desperate and frantic, and let slip the existence of these relics.
Word spread among the workers. Many fled in fear, speaking of a skull and a book bound in human skin. Then suddenly the man crated them and sent them off, perhaps fearing that word of the relics might reach the wrong ears—which, in fact, it did.
Batukhan’s ears.
Intrigued, he tried to intercept the package before it was mailed to Rome. But he had acted too slowly, letting it escape his fingertips. Still, he finally learned the man’s true name, written on the package.
Father Josip Tarasco.
Batukhan also learned where the package was to be delivered.
And still the relics escaped him.
But not for long.
Arslan stirred, awaiting his decision concerning the strange priest.
Batukhan lifted his face. “If possible, take Father Josip also. Bring him here for me to question.”
“And if it’s not possible?”
“Then put him in the grave with the others.”
With matters settled, he headed back through the maze of steam tunnels, climbing toward the early evening. The other clan members dispersed in various directions along the way.
Batukhan kept his wolf mask on as he passed through areas where many of Ulan Bator’s homeless sought shelter from the cold. Derided as the ant tribes, they were mostly alcoholics and the unemployable. He ignored them, dismissing them. These were not the hope of a new Mongolia, but something best kept out of sight.
Men, women, and a few children scattered like vermin from his path, turning away fearfully from the mask he wore.
Finally, he reached a ladder and climbed through a secret exit into an alleyway. A clan member closed the manhole cover as he exited.
Only after that man left did Batukhan remove his wolf mask and tuck it away. Straightening his suit, he headed out into the main street. The night was brisk, but still unseasonably warm. Ulan Bator was considered the coldest capital city in the world, but true winter seemed to be holding its hoary breath, as if anticipating something great about to happen.
Across Sükhbaatar Square rose the country’s parliament house. At the top of its marble stairs, a giant bronze figure of a seated Genghis Khan, lit brightly by spotlights, looked out across the city.
Or perhaps he was staring at the comet’s fiery show in the sky.
It was said that Halley’s Comet had appeared during Genghis’s lifetime. The khan came to consider it his personal star. He took its westward trajectory as a sign to launch his forces toward Europe.
Could this new comet also be a sign of great things to come?
As Batukhan headed into the square, he spotted the brief flashes of two falling stars in the sky, as if acknowledging this thought.
With a surge of renewed vigor, he headed toward the parliament building. A figure crossed toward him, noted his approach, and bowed his head as Batukhan passed. While he wished to believe the gesture was some acknowledgment of his being the rightful keeper of Genghis Khan’s legacy, he knew it was simply recognition of his station with the government—as the Mongolian minister of justice.
Batukhan glanced back to the comet.
Like Genghis, maybe that is my own personal star . . . guiding me to conquest, power, and wealth.
9
November 18, 7:02 P.M. KST
Pyongyang, North Korea
It was a strange way to invade a country.
Gray sat near the back of the rattling bus. Behind him, Kowalski sprawled his big bulk across the large seat at the rear, snoring. The rest of the vehicle was full of Chinese men and women, drowsing or talking in low voices, some with cameras around their shoulders, others wearing baseball caps emblazoned with the same Cheshire-grinning yellow cat that was painted on the side of the gray bus, the official symbol of a Beijing-based tour company.
Near the front of the bus, Zhuang kept vigil by the driver, who was also a member of the Duàn zhī Triad, like the rest of their fellow travelers.
This morning, the group had flown in private jets from Hong Kong to a small airfield not far from the China–North Korea border. There, they found the two tour buses waiting. Unlike the heavily fortified demilitarized zone between North and South Korea, the border to the north was a cursory affair, mainly meant to restrict the flow of refugees from fleeing into China from the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea.
That proved to be the case.
Gray and Kowalski had been hidden in a secret compartment that also held a major cache of weapons during the border crossing, but not a single member of the North Korean military even stepped aboard. Such buses were commonplace as the more affluent Chinese flocked to tour the natural, rugged beauty of the forested green mountains between the border and Pyongyang. Plus the impoverished North Korea did nothing to discourage visitors, a major source of needed tourism dollars.
Once across the border, the pair of buses had slowly trundled the winding mountain roads, working their way south toward the capital city. Four hours later, Pyongyang came into view, sprawled in the flatlands beyond the hills. After the bustle and dazzling lights of Hong Kong, the city ahead looked deserted and dark. Shadows of skyscrapers stood silhouetted against the night sky. A few monuments glowed in the darkness, along with a handful of streetlamps and windows, but little else. Nothing seemed to be moving, like a city frozen in time.
A figure stirred in the seat ahead of Gray, straightening and noting his attention. “It is a sad testament,” Guan-yin said, looking as though she’d not slept at all, worry for her daughter shining in her eyes. “The residents of Pyongyang are only allowed three hours of electricity a day. So it must be used sparingly.”
As they headed toward the city, traveling along a four-lane highway, not a single vehicle was seen. Even as they reached the outskirts, they found no other cars on the streets; even the traffic lights were dark. A hush fell over the bus, as if they were all afraid to disturb the ghosts of this seemingly deserted town.
The first sign of life was a lone military vehicle circling slowly in the front of a massive well-lit building.
“That’s the Kumsusan Palace of the Sun,” Guan-yin whispered. “It was once the official residence of President Kim Il-Sung. After his death, it now serves as his mausoleum, where his embalmed body lies in state inside a glass sarcophagus.”