Resurrect: A Jason Quinn Thriller Read online

  RESURRECT

  By Kane Gilmour

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Hidden

  The Final Expedition

  Book One: The Project

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Book Two: The Cathedral

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Book Three: The Holy City

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Book Four: The Lost Tomb

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Promise

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright ©2011 by Kane Gilmour

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design copyright ©2011 by Kane Gilmour

  Mountain photo courtesy of Claude Florin. Used with permission.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Kane Gilmour at [email protected]

  Visit Kane Gilmour on the World Wide Web at:

  www.kanegilmour.com

  E-book format by Stanley J. Tremblay, www.findtheaxis.com

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR:

  CALLSIGN: DEEP BLUE (with Jeremy Robinson)

  RAGNAROK (with Jeremy Robinson)

  For Perttu Santeri Aho,

  my brother in arms at Pearl War.

  HIDDEN

  December 4th, 1864

  Nanjing, China

  My hand grasps the killing power in Heaven and Earth.

  —Hong Xiu Quan

  Guo Cheng was startled in the darkness. It was quiet in the barracks, but Cheng almost shouted in surprise when he saw Commander Xiang standing over him.

  “There is a secret mission,” Xiang whispered to him. “I’m taking only two soldiers for it.”

  “When?” Cheng started to ask, still wiping the small crusty bits of sleep from his eyes.

  “We leave right now. Only your weapons and your warmest clothes.” Xiang had cut him off, his normal joviality replaced by a dour demeanor. Cheng had grabbed his clothes and after quickly stuffing them into a sack, he grabbed his long, tasseled spear from the rack against the wall and followed Xiang out the door of the barracks.

  He saw that Xiang had also chosen Wu Xiao Jin for the mission. There were few soldiers stationed in Nanjing that Cheng did not know personally. Xiao Jin was one of the ones that kept mostly to himself. Rumors abounded that he was a ferocious fighter who had single-handedly won more than a few battles near Canton. Xiao Jin and the burly commander stood waiting in the dark. They were both packed and ready to go.

  “I’ll explain when it’s safe,” was all Xiang offered them as they started walking toward the northwestern edge of town. They walked in silence for hours until they were well into the countryside.

  Near dawn, Xiang called a halt to their march and suggested they set up a camp well into the woods, away from the road. They sat on the hard ground eating cold precooked rice. Xiang told them it wasn’t safe to make a fire. When they had finished, the tall and lithe Xiao Jin asked, “Commander?”

  “Yes. Time to explain. The prophecies have come true. Our Lord has fallen.” Commander Xiang said solemnly. Both Cheng and Xiao Jin were flabbergasted at the news.

  “We will meet with a small group of pious holy men, who will be carrying His holy remains. We will travel for many days to the northwest frontier. There, He will be interred in a special tomb, far from the control of our enemies. We three are the escort. We are a small group. We move fast and travel light, so we may avoid the enemy troops as we pass through the western provinces.” The commander, older than both Cheng and Xiao by only a few years, seemed far wearier than a man his age should.

  “And after the entombment?” Cheng asked slowly. Commander Xiang didn’t answer, and both Cheng and Xiao realized that no answer would be forthcoming.

  They traveled only at night, and camped by day, taking turns on watch. After three nights of long quiet hours placing one foot in front of the other down the dirt and mud roads, with no words passed between them, they came across the priests. There were six of them, and they carried the shroud-wrapped body in silence. The priests would only speak when the group made its camp—and then only in whispers. Xiao kept mostly to himself, and he clearly took his task of guarding the group seriously. Commander Xiang rarely spoke either. Cheng resigned himself to being vigilant, spending long nights walking with the group, and dreaming of the farm he always wanted to own. Somewhere in beautiful Hunan province, far from the fighting, would have suited him fine.

  Inevitably, they were set upon by bandits somewhere west of Xi’an. Bandits roamed the region, usually seeking silver and traveling in unwashed groups of eight to ten. The fighting was fierce, but with the assistance of the priests, who were very good at unarmed combat, they prevailed battle after battle.

  Until they didn’t.

  In the last battle with bandits, they lost Xiao. He had been killed taking down five of the Mongols all on his own. Commander Xiang was wounded in the same fight, and now the man limped whenever he thought Cheng wasn’t looking. The loss of even one of their small team on a mission so dire, as they felt pursued by their enemies and the elements, was a crushing blow to an already damaged morale. The remaining nights of their journey were uneventful, but filled with quiet sorrow.

  Now, that dream of the farm was looking bleaker all the time. It was nearly three weeks later, and the puddle of urine Guo Cheng had deposited on the frozen ground outsid
e the tomb was beginning to freeze. He looked at it in astonishment. He had relieved himself less than a minute before. He scanned the hills that ringed the valley for any sign of Qing troops or Barbarians. As usual, he found nothing but the howling wind, as it ripped through the mountains and across the beautiful frozen lake.

  “No one will ever find this place,” he said to himself.

  The tomb was set into a small hollow in the earth, just at the top of a hill and at the foot of another beyond it. Cheng the stood outside of the stone structure. Xiang and the priests were all inside. Performing the rituals, Cheng supposed, but he wasn’t really sure. Even though they had journeyed for weeks to reach this desolate place, he was not permitted inside of the tomb. He was just a soldier, as Commander Xiang had reminded him when they arrived.

  A light snow began to fall, and Cheng wrapped his cloak around him a bit tighter. He still had about two hours to go before the commander would relieve him on the watch. He squatted down and leaned against the wall of the tomb, hoping to lessen the impact of the wind against his body.

  He tried to remember the last time he had truly felt warm, and then he scanned the horizon for any sign of movement once more. He kept his eyes open, even when he wasn’t on duty. Whenever he closed them, he would see Xiao Jin’s contorted death face. Although Cheng hadn’t gotten to really know Xiao Jin, he wished it had been one of the priests that had been killed in the battle instead. For the rest of the journey everyone had been in foul spirits, paranoid, and on edge. Finally, they had reached the tomb. Xiang had explained how a separate group of priests had journeyed ahead of them to prepare the structure. Cheng saw no sign of the other priests when he arrived and wondered where they had gone, but he thought better of asking the commander.

  The snow was starting to fall heavier now. Just as Cheng was wondering where Commander Xiang was, he heard a noise behind him and turned to see Xiang in the doorway to the tomb. The look on Xiang’s face was now even more severe than it had been at any time during their travels.

  “Come to relieve me?” Cheng asked, knowing that was why the Commander had stepped out into the cold. What other reason would there be? Xiang wasn’t one for idle chatter.

  “No, Guo Cheng.” Xiang replied. “The tomb is to be sealed now. The priests and I are to remain inside with our Lord. The priests told me you should be locked in here with us as well, but I gave them the excuse that I wouldn’t permit it, because you are such a low soldier. You know I don’t really feel that way, I hope. I don’t know how well you’ll fare out in the cold, my friend, but it will be a better fate for a soldier than to be locked in here. Take all your belongings. Leave no trace that we were ever here. It doesn’t matter where you go, just get as far from here as you can. You are a free man now, no longer a soldier. Good luck, Cheng. Remember: He is with you.”

  Cheng looked at the commander aghast.

  “Step back now, Cheng,” the commander instructed.

  As Cheng did so, Xiang stepped back into the doorway and placed his hand on a spot on the inside of the tomb wall. A massive stone door fell into place from above the doorway, landing in the snow and sealing the tomb with a heavy thud.

  Cheng was stunned.

  He was unsure whether to feel more horrified for the priests and Commander Xiang, destined to starve to death in the tomb with the remains of their master, or for himself, abandoned to the cold. He stood staring at the dark stone door for several minutes. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Perhaps the door would open again? But no. Cheng knew from the look on Xiang’s face, that this was no joke. Seven years in the rebellion army now meant nothing. They had lost the war. Their leader was dead. Cheng was now a free man.

  He left the front of the tomb, and walked to the place where he and Xiang had camped the previous day. He buried Xiang’s few belongings in the sandy soil beneath the deep snow, and then collected all of his own belongings. After hefting his sack onto his back, Guo Cheng took one last look at the frozen lake and the snow flurries that swirled across the ice. Then a thought occurred to him. He would be in danger every minute of his life from the Qing forces, if he even made it back to China. He would now be looked upon as a war criminal. All soldiers from the losing side always were.

  “Where then?” he asked out loud.

  Only the howling wind replied, its moan giving no advice.

  Then, he turned to his left and began walking deeper into Tibet. It would have to be distant Lhasa. There would be no farm in Hunan for him. But perhaps, he thought as the wind whipped around him screaming, perhaps a new life in Tibet. If I last that long.

  THE FINAL EXPEDITION

  November 24th, 1952

  Stockholm, Sweden

  This time, it would no longer be a matter of merely getting acquainted with Central Asia.

  —George Kish

  The old man sat on the bed for a moment, and tried to decide whether he was up for the task at hand. He was 87 years old, and he was about to embark on a journey that he felt only a younger, more vigorous man should undertake. More than 4,000 miles lay ahead of him in the coming weeks, but he felt fresh and full of passion for the notion of returning to the desert, one final time.

  He looked around the room at his familiar antique furniture, and at the shelves lined with hundreds of books. All of my worldly possessions, he thought. No hint of longing or regret in the thought, and it quite surprised him.

  “So be it,” he said aloud.

  The man walked quietly to the parlor and assessed the items laid out on the table.

  “Very little scientific equipment,” he observed.

  He scanned the clothing, the array of pencils, maps, compasses, and leather satchels that filled nearly every part of the table’s surface.

  “Very little equipment of any kind.”

  But this will not be a scientific journey, he reminded himself. This will be a spiritual journey. “How odd it shall be, to travel with only a caravan of solitude. One man carrying all he requires. Surely, this is freedom.”

  He began to place the items on the table into the three leather satchels he had had a tanner in Uppsala make for him. “That man is a genius,” he said. “He was able to implement all of the design elements I requested, and he even managed to improve on the design of these arm loops.” The old man studied the loops for a few moments, tugging on them and rubbing them between his fingers, before returning to packing. He packed carefully and methodically, examining each item and reevaluating his need of it before placing it into the bag. In the end, he had not discarded any items. He smiled, smugly acknowledging to himself that he had planned well in laying the items out the night before.

  The thought occurred to him that he might want to bring along two other items. He returned to the bedroom and picked a blank, leather-bound book from one of the shelves.

  “A fresh journal,” he said aloud. “The old one must remain.” Then, he crossed to a small writing desk in the corner of the room and opened the small cherry-wood box that sat near the lamp. Inside was a tiny, very old pair of spectacles. He hadn’t needed them in three years, not even for reading. His eyes were perfect since the cataract surgery, and he had reveled in that fact every day. Still, he thought, and placed the glasses in his inside vest pocket.

  Just in case.

  On the bottom of the wooden box, under where the spectacles had lain was a tiny, yellowed photograph not much larger than a postage stamp. The man took the photo, closed the box, and glanced at the picture’s subject. The woman in the photo was young and very beautiful. After just a brief look, he tossed the picture onto the table and walked back into the other room.

  A quick look out of the window confirmed that he still had some time before the dawn. He went into the kitchen and fixed a cup of tea, then sat in the parlor with his packed bags. He took his time in sipping the tea; he was in no hurry. He would be in Germany by the time Lars made the announcement. He thought that Lars would handle all the aspects to the deception quite masterfully, perhaps
even better than he could have done himself. The deception was necessary, the old man reminded himself, because the press would have jumped all over his proposed journey. And once the communists got word of it...

  No. Lars would handle things. The foundation would be set up, the newspapers would write their editorials, and he would be on his way to the Taklamakan, with no one the wiser.

  The tea was finished. On a whim, he went into the bedroom and placed the cup on its side on the floor by the bed, spilling the last drop of tea with its black specks onto the carpet. The man looked at the cup and smiled again, this time broader.

  “A nice touch,” he said. Then, he strode purposefully into the parlor, stuffed the fresh journal into the oversized pocket of his coat, picked up the bags, and left the apartment. He walked down the stairs and out onto the street bristling with barely controlled excitement. As he walked though the snow to the train station, watching the gray light come up over the harbor, he thought that for this trip, his greatest expedition of all, no one would ever know.

  But he was wrong.

  BOOK ONE: THE PROJECT

  CHAPTER 1

  20,000 feet over China

  But at the end of five days the route enters another province whose name is Tibet.

  —Marco Polo

  The mountains were too close. Way too close. The plane was out of control, and Dr. Eva Rayjek watched out the windows across the fuselage as the battered old plane’s starboard engine coughed and then quit. The propeller haltingly finished its last revolution as Eva looked on. Not a DC-3, but an Ilyushin, she recalled with mounting panic. A Russian plane. What was it Malcolm had said about it being thrown together by trained monkeys? She looked to the front of the plane and saw that Malcolm and David were just now kicking in the door to the cockpit. What could have gone wrong? she wondered.

  Eva was still feeling disoriented from her long nap. She had woken feeling uncomfortable from the sun on her face as she dozed in a passenger seat. She, David, and Malcolm were the only three passengers on the ancient Xinjiang Airlines flight from Xinning to Guangzhou. Once in Guangzhou, they would have to take a train to reach Hong Kong. They had been at the dig site 25 miles northwest of Xinning for five months, and they were all looking forward to a week’s vacation in Hong Kong before they headed back to their respective universities and institutes.