The Judas Strain - James Rollins [162]
Gray studied the faces, painted in lichen, worn by cracks. Despite the corruption of age, there remained a certain peacefulness in their expressions: broad foreheads shadowed downcast eyes, while thick lips curved gently, as enigmatic as any Mona Lisa.
“The Smile of Angkor,” Vigor said, noting his attention. “The face is that of Lokesvara, the bodhisattva of compassion.”
Gray stared a breath longer, praying for that compassion to spread to Nasser. Gray checked his watch. Twenty-five minutes until the next hour mark, when Nasser would order another of his mother’s fingers chopped off.
To stop that they needed some bit of progress to appease the bastard, to hold him off longer. But what?
Gray’s breathing became more pained at this thought. His objectives tugged between two extremes: a desire to hurry forward and discover those clues that would stay Nasser’s hand and an equally strong need to delay Nasser for as long as possible, to give Director Crowe more time to find his mother and father.
Stretched between the two, Gray fought for focus, for his center.
“Look…elephants!” Kowalski said, and pointed a bit too excitedly toward the massive gateway. He took a few hurried steps forward, his long duster jacket billowing out behind his legs.
Past the entrance, Gray spotted a pair of whitish-gray Indian elephants, trunks hanging slack to the stones, eyes smattered with flies. One of the tourists, burdened by a massive camera around his neck, was being helped to mount the great animal’s back, where a teetering colorful saddle, called a howdah, had been strapped. A hand-painted sign stood on a post cemented into a tire, announcing in a variety of languages: ELEPHANT RIDES TO THE BAYON.
“Only ten dollars,” Kowalski read.
“I think we’ll be walking,” Gray responded, disappointing the man.
“Yeah, straight through elephant shit. Before long, you’ll be wishing we paid that ten bucks.”
Gray rolled his eyes and waved Kowalski to follow the trail of Nasser’s men through the gate and into Angkor Thom.
Past the wall, a paved walkway shot straight ahead, shaded by towering silk-cotton trees, whose twisted roots snaked under and over stone blocks. Seedpods from the trees littered the way, crunching underfoot.
The forest grew denser ahead, obscuring the view.
“How much farther?” Nasser asked, joining them, but keeping a yard away, a hand in the pocket of his jacket.
Vigor pointed ahead. “The Bayon temple lies a mile into the jungle.”
Nasser checked his watch, then glanced significantly toward Gray, the threat plain.
One of the ubiquitous tuk-tuks buzzed past them, the main means of transportation, basically a rickshaw hooked to a two-stroke motorbike. A pair of tourists snapped pictures of their legion in black berets, chattering away in German. Then they vanished ahead.
Gray followed its trail of exhaust, picking up the pace.
Kowalski stared into the dense forest of palms and bamboo. His face pinched with suspicion.
Vigor spoke as they walked. “Over one hundred thousand people once lived here in Angkor Thom.”
“Lived where?” Kowalski asked. “In tree houses?”
Vigor waved an arm toward the forest. “Most of the homes, even the royal palace, were made of bamboo and wood, so they rotted away. The jungle consumed them. Only the temples were made of stone. But this once used to be a bustling metropolis, with markets selling fish and rice, fruit and spices, with homes crowded with pigs and chickens. The city planners had engineered a great irrigation and canal system to support the populace. It even had a royal zoo, where elaborate circuses were performed. Angkor Thom was a vibrant city, colorful and boisterous. Fireworks filled the skies during celebrations. Musicians outnumbered the warriors, ringing out with cymbals, hand bells, and barrel drums, playing harps and lutes, blowing trumpets made of horns or conches.”
“A regular orchestra,” Kowalski groused, unimpressed.
Gray tried to picture such a city as he studied the dense forest.