Tomb of the Khan

  “Bayan,” Asutai said, drawing his horse near him. “We shall be there soon. I’m glad you are here.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “If you had been made a Kheshig earlier, perhaps my father would still be alive.”

  Bayan didn’t know how to answer that.

  “Have you given thought to my offer?”

  “I have, my lord.”

  “And what is your answer?”

  Natalya knew that Bayan meant to accept it. That was the only honorable answer he could give. Whether the Mongols conquered for the Sky-Father, or for the Templar Order, or simply for wealth and bloodlust, they were Bayan’s people. He was a man of the steppes, a warrior, a horse rider, an archer, and he would live and die that way, among the Horde.

  “My lord, I—”

  Natalya fought Bayan’s mind to keep him from answering, and the simulation went sideways with distortion.

  Rein it in, Griffin said.

  Natalya didn’t want to rein it in. She didn’t want Bayan to become a Templar.

  Natalya? You know you can’t change this.

  She did know that. But more important, she knew where the Khan would soon be buried, and Griffin didn’t. If she were to desynchronize, right now, he would never know.

  “I got this,” she said, and turned back to Asutai, who peered at her from his horse, frowning through the warped simulation. “No,” she told him firmly, and the world broke apart.

  The Mongols scattered like leaves, and the Burkhan Khaldun collapsed on itself, taking the ox horn formation with it, and a storm with the raging strength of the Parietal Suppressor tore through Natalya’s mind.

  When it cleared, she stood in the Memory Corridor, gasping.

  Griffin shouted in her ear, What did you do?

  “I lost control.”

  No, you didn’t! That was sabotage!

  Natalya closed her eyes, her stomach heaving with the aftereffects of her desynchronization.

  I’m sending you back in.

  “No,” she whispered.

  Yes!

  “No!” she said. “If you send me back in, I’ll just do it again.”

  Why? We’re so close!

  “Because I don’t want you to know where it is. I don’t want anyone to know where it is.”

  Griffin went quiet then, for a long time, and Natalya felt a chill creep through her, as if the Memory Corridor had heat, but someone had turned it off.

  “Let me out,” Natalya said.

  Okay. Stand by.

  A moment later, without warning, her mind lurched again. The simulation spit her out into the Animus chair. She pulled off the helmet and coughed, the force of it pounding the inside of her head with a barbwired baseball bat.

  “You owe me an explanation,” Griffin said.

  Natalya was too dizzy and nauseous to reply.

  “She doesn’t owe you anything,” she heard David say.

  “Stay out of this, kid.”

  “No,” David said. “We just left the Templars because they tried to control us. Now you’re gonna do the same thing?”

  “It’s for a different reason,” Griffin said.

  David snorted. “You think that makes you better?”

  “I do!” Griffin shouted. “We don’t—”

  “Stop.” Natalya appreciated David speaking up for her, but she could fight for herself. “Just stop,” she said.

  “Was this your plan from the beginning?” Griffin asked.

  Natalya shook her head. “No. I didn’t have a plan. I just …”

  “Just what?”

  “Leave her alone,” Javier said.

  Natalya rolled her eyes. If she didn’t need David, she didn’t need him, either.

  “Why should I leave her alone?” Griffin asked. “For all I know, she’s still working for Isaiah, and this whole thing was planned. For all I know—”

  “I’m not working for Isaiah!” Natalya shouted, and then regretted it when the pain in her head surged. But she ignored it, refusing to back down, and sat up in the Animus chair. “I’m also not working for you. I’m not an Assassin, and I’m not a Templar.”

  Griffin shut his mouth and walked away, rubbing the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other. “You sound like Monroe.”

  “Maybe he has the right idea,” Natalya said.

  Griffin pointed at the cement floor of the basement. “This is war!”

  “It’s not my war.”

  “That doesn’t matter! You’ve been dragged onto the battlefield whether you like it or not, and now you’re in the middle of it. Do you know what happens to people who freeze on the battlefield and do nothing?”

  Natalya risked getting to her feet, but she managed to stay standing.

  “They die,” Griffin said. “If you want to make it out of this, you have to choose who you’re going to fight alongside. You can’t stay neutral. Monroe isn’t neutral, no matter what he tells himself.”

  “What do you mean?” Javier asked.

  “He used to work for Abstergo,” Griffin said. “He was a Templar. You think that just washes off?”

  Natalya hadn’t really considered that. It didn’t exactly make her rethink her own choice, but it did worry her.

  Griffin continued. “Ask yourselves, why isn’t Monroe here with us? Why didn’t he get in that car with you?”

  David looked at Javier and Natalya. “He said he was staying for Owen.”

  Griffin nodded. “Maybe he was. Or maybe he had his own reason.”

  The basement went quiet then, except for the hum of the computer fans.

  But Natalya wasn’t in the mood for more manipulation. It didn’t matter what Monroe was doing or why he was doing it. She hadn’t desynchronized for him, or anyone else. Griffin wouldn’t get to her that easily.

  “So what?” she said.

  Griffin cocked his head. “So what?”

  “Yes. So what if he had his own reason? What does that have to do with me?”

  “Fine,” Griffin said. “While you struggle with this case of adolescent rebellion, I’m going to Mongolia.” He stomped over to the arsenal wall and started pulling down weapons.

  “We’re going, too, right?” David asked.

  “Yes,” Natalya said. “He gave us his word.”

  “A choice I now regret,” Griffin said, and then he muttered, “Besides, you haven’t kept your part of the bargain.”

  “I’ll find the tomb when we reach Mongolia,” Natalya said, careful of her wording.

  Griffin just grunted, but she knew he would take them. She didn’t actually want to go to Mongolia. But she had to somehow keep Griffin and Isaiah and anyone else from finding the Piece of Eden, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to do that from the basement of an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere.

  Owen stood outside the bank, watching the time. He had his instructions, and if he pulled this off, he’d be able to dig himself out of the hole and face his wife and son again. If he failed, they would lose their house and the life he had worked so hard to build for them. But no matter the outcome, they would be safe. He had been assured that much.

  The seconds ticked away, and then it was 4:23, and he entered the bank. For a few minutes, he stood at one of the counters, as if filling out a deposit slip, resisting the fear that had already broken him out in a sweat and dried his mouth to sawdust. Then he walked to the restroom, and chose the middle stall, where he closed the door most of the way, leaving a two-inch crack, and perched on the toilet rim.

  After that, he just had to wait.

  And wait.

  His thighs burned and his calves ached, but he stayed there, the tang of industrial cleaner and cherry air freshener sticking to the inside of his nose and coating his tongue.

  At 5:03, he heard the bathroom door open, and he could tell by the jangle of keys it was the security guard. If the man followed protocol, he’d check each stall, but since the doors were all open, he skipped that step, just as Owen had prayed he
would.

  The guard cut the lights, and the bathroom door closed.

  Owen climbed down from the toilet rim, and felt his way out of the stall in the dark, the only light coming from the red emergency exit sign over the door.

  Then he waited.

  At 5:17, he emerged from the bathroom and turned to the right, heading toward the bank’s rear offices, where he opened the emergency exit, admitting his accomplice who had already deactivated that alarm. The man wore a black denim jacket over a hoodie, his face partially obscured.

  Then the two of them walked toward the front of the bank, where tellers were still counting out before the safe had closed for the night.

  There in the lobby, Owen’s accomplice raised his voice, brandishing a pistol.

  It didn’t matter what he said. Owen wasn’t really listening. Instead, he watched the tellers and employees, looking for any sign of trouble, finding only surprise and terror on their faces. He’d thought that, working in a bank, maybe they’d be better prepared for this. Tougher, somehow. But they all just put up their hands and cowered, except the ones who filled the sacks with money. Owen prayed again, this time that none of them would do anything stupid.

  But then the security guard appeared, as if from nowhere.

  “Freeze!” he shouted.

  The fact that he had shouted the word freeze told Owen everything he needed to know about what would happen next, and he felt powerless to stop its unfolding.

  The accomplice shot the guard in the chest, and everyone screamed. One of the men stuffing money into the bags just froze, and another employee swore at him, ripped the bags from his hands, and took over the job.

  The security guard lay on the ground and moved for another minute or so, blood pooling beneath him, and then he lay still, and Owen went numb watching it. That wasn’t supposed to happen, but he grabbed as many bags as he could carry, as did his accomplice, and then they bolted for the rear exit, where a car waited.

  Have you seen enough? Isaiah asked.

  “Yes,” Owen said.

  The simulation fragmented, like an ancient scroll that crumbled as soon as it was exposed to the sunlight and air, and Owen found himself back in the Memory Corridor.

  “It wasn’t him,” he said.

  He still robbed a bank, Owen, Isaiah said.

  “Yeah, but they forced him to. He didn’t have a choice. And he wasn’t the one who shot the guard. He didn’t murder anyone.”

  He would have gone to prison anyway.

  “Maybe,” Owen said. But that wasn’t as important as the understanding he had just gained, the things he had learned about that day, because it all made sense now. His dad had been a victim as much as that security guard. No one would believe that, especially not Owen’s grandparents, but that didn’t matter. Owen knew the truth, and he realized that was what he’d wanted all along.

  “Was that accomplice an Assassin?” he asked.

  Perhaps.

  “I’m ready to come out.”

  Very well. In three, two, one …

  The Memory Corridor disappeared in a searing flash, and Owen opened his eyes back in Aerie, Isaiah standing over him, disconnecting him from the machine. Owen almost felt as if he should thank the Templar, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Not yet.

  Instead, he said, “I want to see Monroe.”

  Isaiah nodded. “I can certainly arrange that.”

  “What have you done with him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where is he?”

  “A holding cell.”

  “You haven’t … done anything to him?”

  “Like what?”

  Owen knew that Monroe had information the Templars and the Assassins wanted. Monroe had decoded something in Owen’s DNA, and the others’ DNA, that connected them all to one another, and to the Trident of Eden. Owen just didn’t know how far Isaiah would go to get that information out of Monroe.

  “Have you hurt him?” Owen asked.

  Isaiah scoffed. “Please. I may be angry with Monroe, but torture is always counterproductive. It inevitably damages the mind, and in my line of work, I find it pays to keep the mind intact. But you’ll soon see for yourself that he’s unharmed. Come, I’ll escort you back to the lounge.”

  With that, he walked Owen back down the hallways and corridors of the Aerie to the room where Grace and Sean had eaten breakfast that morning. Grace was still there, talking closely with that Victoria woman from that morning. Isaiah left, and Owen took a seat away from Grace to give her privacy, facing the large windows.

  The previous night’s storm had left everything outside with that greener-than-green glow. The trees, the delicate underbrush, and the grass that grew in patches where the sunlight fell. It seemed very odd to him that only hours ago he had been free-running in those woods to infiltrate this facility, and now he sat here on the inside looking out.

  “Owen,” Grace said.

  She and Victoria were both looking in his direction.

  “Did it work?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “It worked.”

  “And how are you feeling?” Victoria asked, and Owen figured she must be some kind of shrink.

  “I’m good,” he said. “Did you go into a simulation today, Grace?”

  She shook her head.

  “Last night was hard for everyone,” Victoria said. “And everyone has to deal with it in their own way.”

  Definitely a shrink. Owen had seen a few of them after his dad had died.

  “Are you okay if I go check on Sean?” Victoria asked.

  Graced nodded, and so the woman left them alone. Then Owen got up and walked over to Grace’s table.

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  He pulled out a chair and flipped it around to sit in it reversed, his arms folded across its back.

  “So,” she said, “did the Assassins set your dad up?”

  His shoulders tensed. “It looks that way.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He’d never had anyone to blame for his father’s death until now. The thing he didn’t know was how involved Griffin had been, if at all, and that bothered him the most. “I guess it shouldn’t come as a surprise,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  Owen told her about Zhi, and about how the Brotherhood had discarded her after her injury, even though she had single-handedly saved her empire. “It seems like that’s what they do,” he said. “They use people.”

  “That’s wrong,” Grace said.

  “So much of this is.”

  “But at least she honored her father’s memory, right? And that’s kinda what you’re doing.”

  That was true. Owen actually felt as though he owed something to Zhi for that. And he also owed Javier. Without the stolen DNA sample, Owen would still be where he was before, confused, alone, without answers. He wanted to tell Javier about everything he’d just learned, but he had no idea when he would see his friend again.

  “So are you a Templar now?” Grace asked with a smirk.

  He snorted. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Isaiah can be pretty convincing.”

  Owen still found it hard to fully trust him, and it was impossible to forget the damage that Templars like Boss Tweed had done in New York, no matter what Sean said about the organization now. “I’m not a Templar.”

  “But you’re not an Assassin, either.”

  “No. But I guess I’d started down that path.”

  “Me too. If you remember.”

  He did. His ancestor in New York had trained Grace’s ancestor to be an Assassin. Varius and Eliza had spent a lot of time together, and they’d become close. A residual of that closeness and trust still lingered between Owen and Grace, if he paid attention to it.

  Grace leaned back in her seat. “This situation messes with your mind.”

  “Yes, it does,” Owen said. “It’s like some kind of brain maze. It’s ha
rd to keep everything in its place. All the memories. The identities. You can get lost.”

  “You gotta find one true thing,” Grace said. “Victoria was just telling me that. You gotta find one true thing and hang on to it.”

  Owen thought about that. “For me, it’s my dad. What about you?”

  “It’s David,” she said.

  Owen dropped his gaze to the table. He still didn’t understand what had happened between Grace and her brother, and how they had come to be on opposite sides of this conflict, but he knew better than to press her on it. If that was something she wanted to share, she would share it.

  After that, a few Aerie staff brought in a tray of sandwiches and bags of chips, along with some fruit.

  “Lunch,” Grace said. “Not as nice as what we usually get.”

  “That’s okay,” Owen said. “Did I mention I’ve been hiding out in a storage unit?”

  “For real?”

  “Yes.” He got up and went to grab a sandwich, roast beef. “Trust me, this is great.”

  As they were eating, Sean returned to the lounge. He greeted them, and joined them at their table, but seemed distant and distracted. A different guy than Owen had met weeks ago in Monroe’s warehouse.

  “How are you doing?” Owen asked.

  “Huh?”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Oh, I’m good,” Sean said. “I won a Viking duel.”

  Owen raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

  Sean nodded. “I took control of the Jomsvikings, and now we’re going to raid the Danish coast.”

  “That’s cool.” Owen put his sandwich down. “But how are you doing?”

  Sean stopped chewing, and he looked confused, as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “I—I’m fine,” he said. “Better than fine.”

  Owen looked over at Grace, and she gave him a shrug. Sean seemed pretty lost in the brain maze, and Owen didn’t think he wanted to be found.