The Mongol's Coffin, page 3
The other guy shouted in something like Mandarin.
Grant pushed off, already on his feet, the knife in hand. Somewhere behind him, sirens wailed, growing louder.
The struggle paused, the man kneeling on the woman's chest, the strap of her shoulder bag in his hands. She grabbed a corner of the bag and gave it a swing, knocking him sideways. Instead of letting go, he yanked on the strap and pulled it free over her arm, then took off running.
"Are you hurt?" Grant demanded
The woman gasped, a hand pressed to her chest as she struggled for breath. The woman from the hall, her bright hair a mess of old leaves. She managed to shake her head, and Grant started after her assailant.
A bright light flared out of the darkness, pinning him. "Drop your weapon! Hands where we can see them!"
Shit. Grant let the knife fall and kept his hands up. "The mugger is running—he's at your ten thirty, heading toward the student center." He started to gesture in that direction, in case the cop didn't get it, but the unmistakable ratchet of a rifle round being loaded stopped him cold.
"Still have your cell?" he muttered.
"Huh?" the woman moved around behind him.
"Ms. Kirschner. Your cell phone."
"Uh." A sound of assent, breathy.
"Snap the dead guy, his face. We'll want it later."
Another light joined the big one, smaller, moving over his face then toward the ground behind him. "Whoever's with you! Tell them to stand up, get where we can see them!"
"One of the perps is down," Grant announced. "The victim may need medical attention."
Feet trooped closer, then one of the cops was in his face. "Who the hell're you? Some kind of vigilante?"
"Grant Casey" he answered, suppressing a smile. "The Bone Guard."
Chapter Seven
Sitting in the too-bright police station, dazed, Liz answered questions about her missing bag, about the assailants, one missing, one deceased, and about the man who had saved her. She kept her hands wrapped around the cup of coffee they'd given her, barely sipping it, clinging to its warmth. Someone shot at her then stole her laptop, her copy of The Secret History, all her notes for that essay on comparative musical scales she was supposed to finish. Someone shot at her.
"You were heading for the call box, why did you call Mr. Casey? Why not the police?"
Liz took a swallow from the dark brew. "As I told the other officer, I had snapped his QR code. All I had to do was tap the screen." The call box had looked so far away.
The detective questioning her nodded, poking his notepad with a pencil. "How long have you known Mr. Casey?"
She giggled, then forced herself to calm down. "I don't—I just met him. Well, I didn't even meet him, really."
The detective made a little sound of disbelief. He leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips. Along with the gravelly tone of a smoker, or perhaps a habitual shouter, he had full lips and a long nose, the kind of face that could go bad quickly if he gained much more weight, but his muscular shoulders strained at his cheap suit. He rubbed his neck, giving a long sigh, and she caught a glimpse of something at the edge of his collar, a dark mark of some kind. A tattoo?
Liz sat up and pushed away the coffee. "You know him, too."
With a snort, the detective said, "You think so? Maybe you should join the force." He dropped the pencil he'd been fiddling with. "So your story is, you're walking home from a campus meeting, in the dark, and someone takes a shot at you. You start to run toward the call box, but you have Mr. Casey's number on your screen, so you give it a tap, then the second guy jumps you and starts wrestling you for your bag. The shooter comes over, apparently eager for the shot, but the guy who's got you won't let him. Then Mr. Casey shows up and takes out the shooter. The other guy snatches your bag and takes off. Right so far?"
Another officer arrived, laying a sheaf of papers by the detective's elbow, and departed. The detective glanced over them, then back at her.
"That's right. Does this mean I can go now? I'd really like to go home."
With a half-smile, the detective said, "Yeah, I can believe that. Here, read this over and sign it, if it's an accurate representation of what happened. Then you can go."
She drew the papers toward her, reading through her transcribed words before she signed off on the report. "What about Mr. Casey?"
"The Bone Guard?" The detective sighed again, as if Casey were a repeat offender, but one he couldn't quite nab. "His story matches yours, his use of force seems justified. We're looking into whether charges are warranted. Probably best if neither of you leaves town."
She pushed the papers back to him. "I just really want to go home." In the morning, she'd need a new laptop, and hopefully her most recent data were in the cloud so she wouldn't be too far behind. The attack left her shaken, and Professor Chan's outright denial of her work dragged at her like an anchor. Maybe she was all wrong about this and it was just a bunch of old songs.
Both of them rose and the detective stuck out his hand. "Thank you for your time. We'll be in touch if we need anything else or if we need you to identify any of your stolen items."
He walked her out to the lobby where a tall familiar form waited, giving that military pivot, his brows notching up just a little. "Free to go?" Casey asked.
"Yes, I guess so. Thanks—I mean, thanks for coming."
"It's what I do." He flashed a grin that did nothing to dispel the air of danger. He'd killed a man for her last night, and he didn't even have to change his clothes as a result. She couldn't decide if that made him just the guy she wanted on her side—or just another thug out to exploit her. The timbre of his voice still drew her, a voice she wanted to trust. At the same time, she knew he'd been trained to that tone—it was just as finely educated as Chan's visitor's, but with a completely different purpose.
The detective met Casey's eyes, but he had to draw himself up a little to do it. "Don't leave home, Casey. And stay out of trouble."
"How likely is that, Gooney?"
The detective's eyes narrowed. "Don't call me that. I didn't like it then, I certainly don't like it now."
Casey's grin widened, and he flicked a little salute. "Let me drop you off, Ms. Kirschner. My car is conveniently parked in the impound lot next door."
Chapter Eight
Grant held the door for her, and pointed her the right direction. In the growing light of early morning, she looked wrung out, with a slight bruise on her left cheek. She reached up as if to adjust the bag she expected to find on her shoulder, and frowned when it wasn't there. At the car, she let herself in, shooting him another of those worried glances, blue darts of concern. Did he need a change of image? The prof yesterday seemed to think so. No way the ink was going, and a year out of the service hadn't done much to dissipate its influence in his manner. Sorry, stuck with it.
Once on the streets, he looked for the nearest bridge, waiting for a bike courier to glide by, then navigating with quick turns, glancing in the mirror. Green Toyota.
"You'll want to turn here—" She pointed, then aimed the blue darts again. "Where are you taking me?"
"Someplace safe." He turned again, down into the tunnel, then abruptly changing lanes and popping back out again. No Toyota.
"Look, I appreciate your help last night, but I need to go home." She had slid to the far side of her seat, turning a little, so she could face him.
"Negative. You think two Chinese-speakers attack you out of the blue because you're going home in the dark? After a meeting in the Asian Studies department?"
"The—"she swallowed and turned a little pale—"the one who—"
"The dead guy," Grant supplied. He swung another turn, into a restaurant drive-thru. "You want anything?"
"He wasn't Asian."
"The other guy called out for him in Mandarin. Whether he was Asian or not, they had a clear expectation of mutual understanding. What's your research?" To the speaker outside his window, he said, "Four hash browns and a large vanilla chai. Did you want something? The coffee at the station tastes like wash water. Gooney should do something about that."
Mutely, she shook her head. He pulled up to the next window and picked up the order, handing it to her. She balanced the steaming cup in its cardboard tray on her lap and they re-entered traffic. A block ahead, green Toyota. Damn, the guy was pretty good. Grant made for the freeway, hoping the food wouldn't get cold before they lost this guy.
"Who's Gooney?"
"Corporal Tony Gonsalves. Gooney, to his friends." Or those who thought they could be. "We knew each other in the service."
"Which branch?"
"This green Toyota has been following us since we left the station. He's hard to shake. You seen anyone like that around your place?"
"What?" She swung about, staring out the back window.
"Figure of speech—he's actually ahead of us now." Grant put on his signal for the next exit, pulling over and slowing. Several cars ahead, the Toyota followed suit. When the concrete barriers loomed ahead, dividing the ramp from the highway, Grant stomped the accelerator and shot back into traffic, racking through the gears and flying between trucks. Not many drivers out at this hour. Good news, bad news. Good for him—bad for his tail. "I think that got him."
Her wide eyes drank in what was happening. "You're crazy."
"It works for me." He found the Somerville exit and slid down. "You want me to let you out? Toyota man's probably happy to pick you up."
She laughed a little. "He's really been following us? God." She sounded better now, more relaxed. "I can't imagine anyone would—steal my research." Then she pulled the tray a little closer to her and the frown returned.
"Yes, you can. You're imagining it right now. But don't tell me. The car was in the lot all night, chances are, it's not secure any more. Shit." He slapped his palm on the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes. "Get out. Don't forget the goodies." He grabbed the go-bag from his back seat, dumped it on the driver's seat to confirm all the stuff in there was his. Were these guys smart enough to tag his bag, not just his car? Chance he'd have to take—for now. It looked like an old gym bag, complete with smelly clothes on the top, and only the array of electronics and survival gear underneath said otherwise. He stuffed his things back in, along with a few other items from the glove box and side compartments.
Kirschner's eyes flicked with his movements, watching him bundle up a knife, a spare cell phone, an extra clip of rounds into the gym bag and zip it up. "The goodies?" He pointed to the tray she had set on the roof of the car.
"Are you sure this is safe?"
The neighborhood of boarded windows and narrow, heavily barred shops looked about perfect to him—if you wanted your car stolen. "It's good. You have a Charlie card?"
She shook her head. "In my bag."
"I'll add it to your bill." He led her down an alley and into a T-station, swiping a commuter pass through the entrance gate and ushering her in before he followed.
"My bill? I don't think I agreed, that is, I'm not sure—"
"You didn't plan on a hired gun." He found himself waiting for the train with his hands at his back, parade rest, and forced himself to shake it off. Facing the client, he told her, "If someone's willing to kill for this, there's money in it somewhere."
"But it's just—" the train arrived, and they stepped into an empty carriage, too early for the weekend shoppers, wrong day for commuters. The doors hissed shut again, and they were on their way. She caught a pole, and laughed again. "Okay, yes there is. Treasure, in fact." Her eyes alight, she said, "I've found the map to Genghis Khan's tomb."
Chapter Nine
Jin's phone buzzed softly as he stood in the courtyard, hands frozen in a posture of strength. He executed a swift change, one leg swinging up, the other balancing his weight as he kicked, then jabbed his hand after it, felling an imagined opponent. The last of the daylight fled over the ancient walls of his hutong house, leaving the statuary and carvings in shadow, standing in for his enemies.
His son, Mingbao, froze as well, but could not help glancing down toward the phone, his eyes the only thing moving. Distraction could prove fatal. Jin pivoted to face the boy, who snapped his gaze back again, lips compressing. He sank into his posture, but the buzzing sounded again, and Jin relented, stepping back with a tip of his head.
Mingbao scooped up the phone. "It's your assistant."
At such an hour? Yang knew better. Or he had cause. Jin accepted the phone and tapped it on. "Speak."
"The raven is taking flight."
The words registered as a blow, sending shocks through his chest. He had expected to wait at least two more years. His son's eyes flared in the dim light, watching him. "Now?" Jin recovered himself. "Are you certain?"
Yang answered with silence. If he felt any uncertainty, he would not have called, and Jin had allowed his surprise to overcome his discipline. It would not happen again. "What actions have been taken?"
"Operatives have pursued the information, the chain of evidence, and the one who discovered it. Shots have been fired, and one of the operatives was lost, but the discoverer escaped that rather inept approach."
"Who is the chosen one?"
"Elizabeth Kirschner, a graduate student in Boston."
Not even a professor? That was unexpected, as well. Jin stalked away from his son toward the lantern by the corner where a footed bronze vessel from the Shang dynasty caught the growing gloom. "Has she any credibility?"
"A sufficient amount, at least within the academic community. We have already moved against her primary source, and she has taken on a mercenary, a former soldier. It has been difficult to learn more about her ally. He is the one who eliminated our informant's hireling."
Was Jin imagining the edge of emotion he detected in Yang's voice? Yang never showed any emotion face-to-face, but the idea of this hired soldier worried or excited him. "I am sure you can deal with an unexpected adversary."
This, too, was met with silence. Yang waited for his signal.
Jin stared down into the pot. Similar ones stood outside of every temple in China, full of sand, with incense sticks thrust into them, smoldering in search of a poor man's fortune, or a woman's prayer for a son. This one stood empty. Jin preferred to make his own fortune, but this was sooner than he had anticipated. He expected his secret to rest for a few more years, at least. What would happen if his secret were revealed now? He had prepared for a siege, a lengthy tactical game, and was now facing an assault of a very different kind. He weighed the risk of inaction, the very real possibility that the plans he laid might be fulfilled by someone else. The Han people had not prospered for five thousand years by taking hasty action. But then, the world moved faster today than Sun Tzu might ever have imagined. His son required the best education, and his wife prayed daily for the indulgence of a second child. For a moment, he could feel the weight of an infant in his arms and see the eager young eyes returning his gaze. A sense of anticipation welled up in him, a focus like that he used to feel before a match. When he first began work on Project Raven, he knew the risks he would take, but his family deserved the rewards his audacity could reap.
Yang's silence hung upon the open line.
"Let the raven fly." Jin tapped the line closed, and turned back to his son. "Are you ready to spar?"
Mingbao grinned at him, readying his stance, bare feet braced. "Yes, Father. I will take you down."
"No," said Jin. "You will not." With quick strides and an almost casual spin, he swept his son's feet out from under him. The boy's head knocked hard against the tiled yard, the breath rushing from him. Jin stared down into his face, suppressing the urge to sympathy. "Never be surprised by an enemy."
"No," the boy mouthed, still winded, then he whispered, "Again."
Jin smiled.
Chapter Ten
Casey cocked his head. "Genghis Khan, scourge of the steppes? That guy?"
Liz gained her balance on the moving train, still carrying the tray from the drive-thru, though Casey made no move to eat or drink anything on it. "That's the one. The Mongols had the largest contiguous land empire in the history of the world. With Chinggis Khan's leadership, they conquered all of inner Asia, half the Middle East, Russia, Eastern Europe, and eventually China, under his successors. According to legend, when the Great Khan died, he was buried along with much of the plunder he took from those places, and all the men who built the tomb were killed so they couldn't reveal its location. He was afraid his enemies would come and desecrate his remains. Not to mention stealing his treasure. People have been looking for the tomb for almost eight hundred years."
"If everyone who knew the location was killed, then how could anyone make a map?" He stood easily, not hanging on to a strap or a pole, his knees slightly bent as if at a martial arts dojo, waiting for the next attack.
"Someone had to do the killing, didn't they? Someone Chinggis trusted had to have stayed alive to plan the whole thing and carry out the Great Khan's wishes. His son, Ogodei, oversaw the arrangements—when he wasn't busy conquering China."
"You keep calling him 'Chinggis.'"
"That's the Mongolian pronunciation. Are you going to tell me where we're going? If your car was bugged, don't they already know where you live?"
"We're not going to my place." The train slowed, and he pointed toward the door, a sharp, efficient gesture of command. "This is our stop."
He led the way out onto an open street lined with shops and restaurants, and starting to get busy with traffic. They followed a tree-lined street up past a little park and turned in at a brick apartment building, a little run-down, but no worse than the dorms back on campus. In the sheltered doorway, Casey leaned on a buzzer, counted to five, and buzzed again, short this time. Another moment passed, then the speaker crackled. "What's your delivery?"
