CHAPTER 1
The construction project had taken three years, not because it was especially complicated but because it was a secret. In the end, only one man would know what had been built, and that knowledge would be passed on to his successor alone — and to each subsequent successor in the same manner — in a perpetual chain of knowledge.
The two hundred workers toiled night after night in the stifling humidity and bone-chilling cold of the changing seasons, working only after dark so that no one could witness their presence. None of those who labored through the backbreaking work were allowed to return to their villages when their daily tasks were complete. Instead, before dawn, they were taken out a secret exit and escorted to a nearby compound. There they were fed well and given drink, and on occasion women were brought in for their pleasure. The workers considered themselves fortunate that they didn't have to claw out a daily existence like so many others throughout their country. Each was recruited because of his particular skill, and each was made to understand that he could not return to his home for several years if he accepted the work that was being offered. Their mysterious employer promised, through the person recruiting them, that their families would receive their wages during this time and would be well cared for. As proof of the employer's sincerity, those who accepted the offer of work were given a pouch of gold as a bonus.
The payments and work continued for three years. Then the information that the project was complete worked its way up the supervisory chain of command, ultimately reaching the employer. The following day, the workers were told to stay in their compound because a party was to be held in their honor before they returned home. In the early afternoon, a great amount of drink and food was brought in, and everyone feasted until they could consume no more.
While his workers were celebrating, the employer inspected their work, just as he'd done daily for just over three years. He expressed his satisfaction that everything had been done correctly and that the completed project would protect him and his family in times of peril. He then instructed his assistant to make very generous payments to the families of those who had labored in this effort.
Later he ordered that everyone involved — the workers, the soldiers guarding them, the staff who had overseen the project, and even the assistant to whom he was speaking — be given poison with their meal. The face of the person receiving this command slowly changed from shocked disbelief to acceptance because the power of the person speaking with him was absolute. A secret was a secret only if no one knew about it, the employer went on to say.
Later that day, when the employer opened the wooden shutters in his quarters, he saw billowing smoke in the distance. He knew it was coming from the walled enclosure that housed the workers; he owned the entire hill on which their housing was situated, and there were no other structures in that area. When he could no longer see any smoke, he ordered a small group of his most trusted advisers to bury the bodies and erase any evidence of the workers' existence. He demanded silence from those who performed this task. No threat was needed, however, for all knew that anyone who broke that pledge would suffer the same fate as the dead men.
In time, the dense hillside bushes encroached on the fire-scarred compound and hid what had occurred there. Those who carried out the command to bury the bodies had not been told what those victims had done to deserve the punishment they received. But that was wholly unimportant. The emperor of China was the Son of Heaven, and his commands were considered sacred edicts to be followed even at the cost of one's life.
Kundek Temuujin was thirty-two years old, six feet five, and three hundred pounds of hard muscle. Born in Baotou, Inner Mongolia, a city at the edge of the Gobi Desert, he began working in a steel mill at the age of fourteen. Eight years ago, he caught the attention of Wang Lei, a Chinese industrialist who had been touring the factory. Impressed with his size and physique, the defense contractor had offered him a job as a bodyguard.
The giant Mongolian had no facial hair and a moon-shaped face that was twice the size of a normal person's. He shaved his head so close to the scalp that he was effectively bald. His permanent scowl told the story of someone who'd experienced none of the joys of life, only its tragedies, and anyone who looked at him instinctively cowered.
Kundek did not feel any regret for what he was about to do. He was a murderer, and that's exactly why he was here — to kill someone. He grabbed the woman lying on the floor and positioned her exactly where she should be, then placed the man next to her. Both he'd rendered unconscious with a single blow to the side of the head before binding their hands and feet with soft cloths and placing gags in their mouths. As he removed the .22 handgun from his pocket and pointed it at the helpless woman, she opened her eyes. He saw the horrified look on her face, which would soon be frozen and add to the credibility of the scene. Perfect. He pulled the trigger, and the woman's head slammed back against the hardwood floor with a dull thud.
Having regained consciousness after hearing the gunshot, the Mongolian's next victim was frantically trying to wiggle away, but Kundek grabbed him by his shirt collar and dragged him back. He held the man with one hand while, with the other, he wiped the .22 handgun with a handkerchief to remove his prints. Then he put the weapon in the palm of the man's hand, forced the man's finger onto the trigger, and then wrapped his own enormous hand around both. The man bucked and gyrated wildly, trying to get away, but the Mongolian outweighed him by a buck and a half. He placed a tree-trunk-sized knee onto his victim's chest to hold him down. Moving the gun to the man's head, he positioned it exactly where it needed to be and forced the man to pull the trigger. Blood and brains blew out the back of the skull, and he released his grip and let the gun fall to the floor. He quickly untied and ungagged both bodies, then left through the back door before anyone came to investigate the gunshots.
Bone tired, David McAlister ran his hand over his bald head and down his day-old stubble. It was two in the morning. He knew he'd have more stamina if he lost forty-five pounds off his five-foot-eight frame, but the habits that had gotten him there over the past year were unlikely to change. When his now ex-wife had taken everything in the divorce and the judge had ordered a huge chunk of David's paycheck to be paid for alimony and child support, there had been nothing to look forward to except drinking and eating.
Everyone else had long since left the office, and with any luck, he'd be going home shortly. He'd spent the past eight hours documenting in intricate detail what he believed would prove to be the discovery of the century. Now all he needed to do was email the home office in London, inform them of what he had uncovered, and include images for the corporate naysayers who would otherwise try to stab him in the back.
Earlier David had thought about telling his fellow engineers before they left for the day, but he had decided against it. They'd want to jump on the bandwagon and take any credit they could for his...
