The strike team hit the building like a storm.
A battering ram smashed the front door open in one swing.
The feed went dark as his cameraman followed the others into the building. The team fanned out.
Painter waited.
Unable to sit any longer, he stood up, leaning his fists on the communication array. Technicians crowded either side, viewing other monitors as satellite feed streamed in from Indonesia. A major storm with hurricane-strength winds blanketed most of their region, hampering the search for the hijacked Mistress of the Seas. The storm also grounded a good number of the search planes out of Australia and Indonesia.
The lack of progress had boiled up Painter’s frustration. His fear for Lisa, for Monk, had grown close to crippling.
Then the hit on the phone trace.
He needed a win.
At least here.
Within his earpiece, he heard the chatter of the strike team, crisscrossing reports and call-outs. Finally, one clear voice rang through, coming from the cameraman. He had stopped inside what looked like a meat locker. Hooks hung from the roof.
“Director Crowe, we’ve completed the sweep of the butcher shop. We’re negative on the targets. The place is deserted.”
The video jittered as the cameraman bent down — then straightened, lifting his fingers into view.
They were damp.
“Sir, we’ve got blood.”
Oh, no…
One of the technicians glanced in his direction, saw something he didn’t like in Painter’s expression, and quickly turned back around.
A voice cut through his despair, coming from the door.
“Director Crowe…”
A woman stood in the doorway, dressed in navy blues. Her auburn hair was tied away from her face, shining with fear and worry. He understood the haunted look in her eyes.
“Kat…” he said, straightening. It was Monk’s wife.
“My aunt is watching Penelope. I couldn’t just sit at home any longer.”
He understood and lifted an arm. “We could use your help.”
She sighed and nodded.
It was all they could do.
Keep moving, keep fighting.
In any way they could.
Vigor stared down at the entwined bodies.
Marco and Kokejin.
The discovery still kept him frozen in front of the slab. Others were not as moved. Seichan pushed between Gray and Vigor.
She pointed an arm. “The third gold passport.”
Gray pulled the burial shroud fully aside. Nestled between the bodies, covered by the two skeletal hands, a glint of gold shone past the bones.
It was the third paitzu.
And resting beside it was a familiar length of bronze tube.
The third and final scroll.
With a reverential gentleness, Gray removed the items. He slipped the headpiece off the skull, too. “It might bear a clue,” he justified.
Vigor didn’t argue. With the burial chamber opened, it would be quickly stolen if left unattended.
They all climbed back up into the chapel.
Once there, they gathered in a corner of the room.
Gray turned over the golden passport to reveal a third angelic glyph.
“We have them all,” Seichan said.
“But not the entire story,” Gray said. He pulled out his notebook and nodded to Vigor. “Let’s hear it.”
Vigor needed no further prompting. He nicked open the bronze tube and extracted the scroll. “Silk again,” he commented, and began unwrapping it with care.
The last piece of the story was longer, stretching a quarter of the way across the chapel floor. Vigor translated Marco’s Italian dialect. The harrowing tale continued with the appearance of the glowing angelic figures, coming upon Marco’s party trapped inside a tower room.
Vigor read the story aloud:
These strange apparitions held forth the crude chalice; and in plain and vigorous method insisted we drink. In such a manner, we would be preserved against the dread pestilence that had turned the City of Death into a vision of Hell, as man consumed the flesh of his brother.
With such a promise, we each partook of the drink, which upon closer sight and taste was found to be blood. We also were urged to eat a bit of raw meat upon a palm leaf, which upon closer sight and taste was some form of sweetbread. Only after such consumption did I think to inquire as to the source of such offerings. The kaan’s man answered; and thus proved ourselves to be cannibals already; for it was blood and sweetbread drained and cut from a man.
Thus were we treated in such ill manner, which would later prove virtuous as it did indeed protect us from a great pestilence. But there was a cost for such a cure. Friar Agreer was not allowed to partake of the blood and sweetbread. There was much murmuring and pointing toward his cross and to the man who bore it. In the end, we were allowed only to depart if we left Friar Agreer behind.
In his great Grace and Blessed countenance, Friar Agreer insisted we escape. I wept hard, but obeyed the confessor. With his last word, he left me with his crucifix, so as to return it to the Holy See. The final sight of the noble man had him being led in the opposite direction; and I guessed their destination. Lit by the fullness of the moon, a great mountain towered above the forest, carved with a thousand faces of demons.
“Dear God,” Vigor muttered.
He slowly read the rest.
Upon escaping the city, Marco Polo related how a plague struck his fleet, stranding the ships and crew at a remote island. Only those who consumed the medicine offered by these glowing men remained untouched. Marco left the City of the Dead with enough additional medicine to treat his father and uncle, along with Kokejin and two of her maids. They ended up burning the ships and bodies of the diseased, many of them still alive.
Vigor read the final section.
May the Lord forgive my soul for disobeying a promise to my father, now dead. I must make one final confession. In that dread place, I discovered a map of the city, a chart which I destroyed upon the will of my father; but set to mind not to forget. I’ve recorded it here anew, so as to keep such knowledge from being lost forever. May whoever reads this take good warning: the gateway to Hell was opened in that city; but I know not if it was ever closed.
As Gray listened to the story and its cryptic ending, he worked on the puzzle in the notebook. It helped him concentrate to listen to Vigor while contemplating the mystery in hand. It distracted him from the terror clutching his own heart.
And as the story unfolded, he began to understand.
He’d been a fool.
He studied his notebook, blurring his eyes, seeing the answer hidden in the code. And with the three keys, perhaps a way to read it.
He flipped through the pages, looking for the right one. When he found it, he leaned closer, tracing with a finger. Could this be right? He needed to investigate it more.
He checked his watch.
With less than a half hour left, do I have enough time?
Before he could find out, a rattle of automatic fire echoed to them, sounding like firecrackers. Pop, pop, pop, pop…
Gray leaped up.
God, no…had Nasser found them?
He crossed to the chapel opening and stared out into the dark halls.
“Get everything together,” he urged without turning. “Now!”
Backlit by the filtering sunlight, Gray made out the slim shape of a figure running toward him. Bare feet slapped stone — then a voice called out, balanced between urgency and stealth.
“Hurry!”
It was Fee’az.