The Judas Strain - James Rollins [76]
“Not angelic,” Vigor said, noting Gray’s attention to the lettering. “It’s Mongolian. It reads, ‘By the strength of the eternal heaven, holy be the Khan’s name. Let he who pays him not reverence be killed.’”
“I don’t understand,” Gray said, crinkling his brow. “Did this belong to Marco Polo? What is it?”
“In Chinese, it is called a paitzu. In Mongolian, a gerege.”
Three blank faces stared back at Vigor.
Vigor nodded to the object. “In the modern vernacular, it’s a VIP passport. A traveler bearing this superpassport could demand horses, supplies, men, boats, anything from the lands governed by Kublia Khan. To refuse such aid was punishable by death. The Khan granted such passes to those ambassadors who traveled in his service.”
“Nice,” Kowalski whistled—but from the glint in the man’s eyes, Gray suspected it was the gold more than the story that had won the man’s awe.
“And the Polos were given one of these passports?” Seichan asked.
“Three of them, in fact. One for each Polo. Marco, his father, and his uncle. In fact, there is an anecdote concerning these passports. A famous one. When the Polos arrived back in Venice, it was said no one recognized them. The trio came worn, tired, in a single ship. Looking little better than beggars. None would believe them to be the long-vanished Polos. Upon stepping to shore, the trio sliced open the seams of their clothes, and a vast wealth of emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and silver spilled out. Included in this treasure trove were the three golden paitzus, described in great detail. But after this story, the golden passports vanished away. All three of them.”
“The same number as the map’s keys,” Gray commented.
“Where did you find this?” Seichan asked. “In one of the Vatican museums?”
“No.” Vigor tapped the open notebook with the angelic script. “With the help of a friend, I discovered it under the marble tile upon which this inscription was written. In a secret hollow beneath the marble.”
Like the friar’s cross, Gray realized. Buried in stone.
Seichan swore slightly. Again the prize had been right under her nose all along.
Vigor continued, “I believe this is one of the very paitzus granted to the Polos.” He faced them all. “And I believe this is the first key.”
“So the clue leading to Hagia Sophia…” Gray began.
“It’s pointing to the second key,” Vigor finished. “Two more missing passports, two more missing keys.”
“But how can you be so sure?” Seichan asked.
Vigor flipped the gold bar over. Inscribed in great detail, a single letter adorned the back side. An angelic letter.
Vigor tapped the letter. “Here is the first key.”
Gray knew he was right. He glanced up, toward the massive church. Hagia Sophia. The second key had to be hidden there, but it was a huge structure. It would be like finding a golden needle in a haystack. It could take days.
Vigor must have read his worry. “I already have someone scouting ahead at the church. An art historian from the Vatican who helped me back at the Tower of Wind with the angelic riddle.”
Gray nodded. As he studied the single letter, he could not shake a deeper worry. For his two friends. Monk and Lisa. Already in harm’s way. If he could not contact Washington safely, perhaps there was another way he could help his friends: by beating the Guild to whatever lay at the end of this mystery.
To find the City of the Dead, to discover the cure.
Before the Guild did.
As he stared toward the sunrise, Gray remembered Vigor’s words about Istanbul being the crossroad of Marco’s journey. In fact, since its founding, the ancient city had been the crossroads of the geographic world. To the north lay the Black Sea, to the south the Mediterranean. The Bosporus Strait, a major trade route and seaway, flowed between them. But more important to history, Istanbul straddled two continents. It had one foot in Europe, the other in Asia.
The same could be said about the city’s place in the gulf of time.