And when you want something, you usually get it, don't you? she thought to herself with a grin.

Mason must have caught her look for he turned to her and asked, "Something funny?"

"Just imagining you spending your life herding goats like those locals back there," she said lightly, hiding her true thoughts behind the emotional wall she'd learned to erect in the orphanage so many years ago. Don't get close to anyone for they might not be here in the morning was an old mantra that still gave her some comfort.

He laughed. "Me? A goatherd? You've got to be out of your mind." His gaze caught hers. "Then again, a man can be induced to do anything if the reasons are right."

Was he flirting with her? Maybe she hadn't hidden her thoughts as well as she thought she had.

"All I know is with the right clothes and some dirt in your hair, you'd fit right in!" she said.

They continued in that vein, bantering back and forth for a time until Davenport spoke up from the backseat.

"I don't get it," he said.

Annja and Mason stopped their teasing. "Get what?" Mason asked.

"Why in heaven's name anyone would want to live out here?" Davenport said with a frown. "I mean, just look at this place!"

Apparently he hadn't heard a word of their conversation, which struck both Annja and Mason as hysterical. They broke into gales of shared laughter, leaving a bewildered Davenport staring at them from the backseat.

"What? Did I say something funny?"

Annja and Mason laughed even harder.

19.

A loud thrumming sound filled the air, causing the boy to look around nervously. He'd only come to the Shankh Monastery six months ago, on the eve of his eleventh birthday, but he'd heard enough stories of times past to know that the sound of helicopters in the morning air was not a good omen.

Hefting his water bucket, he hurried back along the path toward the main building, intent on telling the master. The thrumming sound grew louder as he drew closer and the boy felt his sense of inner peace begin to fray. A glance told him the brothers working in the field had heard it, too; they had stopped working and one or two were even pointing into the sky behind him.

The wind began to whip and churn at his feet, growing stronger and angrier by the moment, and the boy felt some great presence looming behind him. His heart leaped into his throat and all he wanted to do was run, but he knew if he did he'd end up dropping the water bucket and Master Daratuk would simply send him back out to fill it again. Instead, he turned around to look.

Immediately, he wished he hadn't.

A large black monster hung in the air behind him, gleaming in the morning sunlight, its bulbous eyes staring with unblinking intensity. Its hot breath washed over him like the tide and he could feel its growl of hunger all the way down to the core of his bones.

The water bucket crashed to the ground as the boy recoiled in shock.

Then the illusion washed away as the large military helicopter swung around so he could view it from nose to stern and then settled down right in the middle of the vegetable garden.

When the door on the side of the helicopter slid open and men armed with guns spilled out, the boy decided he'd seen enough.

The water bucket forgotten, he turned and ran for the main sanctuary.

R ANSOM KICKED ANSOM KICKED the flimsy wooden door open with one booted foot and strode inside the main hall, gun in hand. Behind him came Santiago and one of the local Mongolians that they had hired as an interpreter. Hundreds of candles lined the walls, casting a soft light across the room, allowing Ransom to see three rows of monks seated directly opposite the door, their orange robes a stark contrast against the dark wood and stone of the interior. the flimsy wooden door open with one booted foot and strode inside the main hall, gun in hand. Behind him came Santiago and one of the local Mongolians that they had hired as an interpreter. Hundreds of candles lined the walls, casting a soft light across the room, allowing Ransom to see three rows of monks seated directly opposite the door, their orange robes a stark contrast against the dark wood and stone of the interior.

An older monk in brown robes sat cross-legged in front of the others. His expression was noncommittal, despite Ransom's angry entrance.

We'll see how long you keep that peaceful expression if I don't get what I want, Ransom thought with a grim smile. He knew he was two hours, maybe three at most, ahead of Davenport and his crew and he had no intention of wasting any more time than was necessary. This man was going to give him what he wanted, one way or another.

Ransom strode across the room and stopped directly in front of the older monk. "I've been told that you can provide me with information about the location of the tomb of Genghis Khan," he said.

The monk stared at Ransom's face for a long moment, then smiled. He rattled off something in Mongolian.

Ransom looked back over his shoulder at the thin-faced man who'd agreed to translate for him.

"He welcomes you and prays that the wisdom and grace of the Buddha will be with you all of your days."

Ransom grunted. So it was going to be like that, was it? He raised his arm slowly and put the barrel of his pistol directly against the gleaming skin of the older man's bald head. Still speaking in English, he said, "I won't ask you again. You have ten seconds to tell me what I want to know."

Ransom began to count. "One. Two."

The old monk closed his eyes and began talking in a slow, unhurried voice.

"What's he saying?" Ransom asked.

The translator hesitated.

Ransom was in no mood for disobedience. Without taking his eyes off the monk, he said over his shoulder, "I asked you what he was saying. If you prefer, I can shoot you instead."

That did the trick. The translator swallowed hard and finally found his voice. "He's praying, asking forgiveness for any sins he has committed and..."

But Ransom had heard enough. He considered the older man sitting in front of him for a moment, decided that threatening his life wasn't going to accomplish much and turned to face the three rows of younger monks sitting behind their leader.

As one they bent their heads over their hands, closed their eyes and began to speak in that same lilting tongue as their leader, no doubt praying for his safety, as well.

It's not his safety you should be worrying about, Ransom thought, and then shot the monk closest to him in the head.

Blood flew, staining the face and robe of the man sitting next to the unfortunate victim in a harsh spray of crimson, eliciting a sharp cry of surprise and fear as the echo of the gunshot bounced around the interior of the room.

"You can either tell me what I want to know, or I will continue to kill your people one by one until you do. Your choice."

The old man didn't move; he didn't say anything to Ransom, didn't acknowledge the death of one of his students, didn't do anything but sit there, head bowed, praying aloud, just like the others.

Ransom shot another monk.

This time, it seemed to take longer for the sound of the shot to stop echoing around the inside of the room, but the results were the same. The dying man splattered those around him in a shower of blood.

He shot three more monks, without learning anything more, before he grew tired of the game.

Turning to Santiago, he said, "Interrogate each and every one of them. If they know something about the tomb, I want to know it, as well. While you are doing that, have the rest of the men search the place. If it's here, I want it found."

He stalked back outdoors and over to the helicopter, ignoring the sudden spate of gunfire occurring behind him. He climbed up into the copilot's seat and then made a call on his satellite phone.

Some seven thousand miles away the phone was answered on the first ring. "Yes, Mr. Ransom?"

"Do we have anything new with regard to the translation?"