Still, as they made their way around the first level, Vigor paused by a spectacular bas-relief on the north wall, larger than all the rest, covering an entire section all by itself. His feet slowed as he passed it.
It depicted two forces — gods and demons, the same as the statues along the causeway. They were playing tug-of-war with a great snake as a rope. Between them, the snake was wrapped around a mountain seated on the back of a turtle.
“What is it?” Gray asked.
“One of the main Hindu creation myths. The Churning of the Ocean of Milk.” Vigor pointed out details. “On this side are the devas or gods…on the other are the demonic asuras. They are using the snake god Vasuki as a rope to turn the great magical mountain. Back and forth, back and forth. Stirring the cosmic ocean into a milky froth. It is from this froth that the elixir of immortality called amrita will be churned. The turtle underneath the mountain is an incarnation of the god Vishnu, who aids the gods and demons by holding up the mountain so it doesn’t sink.”
Vigor pointed to the central tower of the Bayon. “And supposedly there is that mountain. Or at least its representation here on Earth.”
Gray glanced to the fifteen-story tower, then back to the bas-relief. He trailed a finger along the carved mountain, his brow furrowed. “So what happened? Did the elixir get made?”
Vigor shook his head. “According to the story, there were some complications. The snake Vasuki got sick from all the tugging and vomited a great poison. It sickened both gods and demons, threatening to kill them all. Vishnu saved them by drinking up the poison himself, but in the process of detoxifying it, he turned blue, which is why he is always depicted with a blue throat. And with his help, the churning continued that produced not only the elixir of immortality but also the dancing celestial spirits called apsaras. So all ended well.”
Vigor tried to urge them onward, but Gray remained where he was, staring at the bas-relief, an odd expression on his face.
Nasser came up to him. “Time has run out,” he said, tapping his wristwatch with his cell phone. His voice was thick with disdain. “Do you have any sudden insights?”
Vigor felt coldness flowing from the man amid a dark amusement. He was enjoying torturing Gray. Vigor started to step between them, fearing Gray might react badly and attack Nasser again.
But instead Gray only nodded. “I do.”
Nasser’s eyes widened, surprised.
Gray placed a palm on the bas-relief. “The story here. It’s not a creation myth. It’s the story of the Judas Strain.”
“What are you talking about?” Nasser asked.
Vigor had the same question.
Gray explained. “From what you told us about the exposure over in Indonesia, the disease all started with seas in the area glowing with bacteria. Seas described as frothy and white. Like churned-up milk.”
Vigor straightened, stepping around Gray to view the bas-relief with new eyes. He stood with his hands on his hips.
Seichan joined him. Off to the side, Kowalski remained where he was, studying a line of bare-breasted women, his nose close to the stone.
Gray continued, pointing to the snake. “Then a great poison was released that threatened all life, good and bad.”
Seichan nodded. “Like the toxic bacteria, spewing poison and laying a swath of death.”
Nasser looked unconvinced.
Gray pressed his point home. “And according to this myth, someone survived the exposure and saved the world. Vishnu. He drank the poison, detoxified it, and turned blue…”
“As if he were glowing,” Vigor mumbled.
“Like the survivors described in Marco’s book,” Gray added. “And like the patient you described, Nasser. All glowing blue.”
Vigor slowly nodded. “It’s too perfect to be coincidence. And many ancient myths grew out of true histories.”
Gray turned to Nasser. “If I’m right, here is the first clue that we’re on the right track. That perhaps there is more yet to learn.”
Nasser’s eyes narrowed, momentarily angry — but he slowly nodded. “I believe you may be right, Commander Pierce. Very good. You just reset the clock for another hour.”
Gray attempted to hide his relief, letting out his breath with a slight rattle.
“So let us continue,” Nasser said.
Vigor drew them toward a shadowed flight of steep stairs. Behind him, Gray lingered a moment more, studying the carving. He reached out and ran a finger along the carved mountain — then back to the central tower.
Gray’s eyes met Vigor’s. Vigor noted the barest shake of the commander’s head when he turned away.
Did Gray know something more?
Vigor ducked into the narrow stairs. Before Gray had turned, Vigor had noted something else, something in the commander’s face.
Fear.
“They must not go there…” Susan moaned again.
The woman lay sprawled across the rear seats of the Sea Dart, slipping into and out of consciousness, close to rolling back into a full catatonic stupor. Susan fought to pull away the fire blanket that Lisa had spread over her.
“Lie still,” Lisa urged. “Try to rest. Ryder will be back soon.”
The Sea Dart rocked and bumped against the end of the fuel dock. They had landed in the sheltered bay of a small island, somewhere off the coast of Borneo. Rain continued to pour out of low clouds, but the dark anger of the typhoon had swept away. Thunder rumbled, but it sounded distant and fading.
Still leaden with grief over Monk, Lisa stared past the Sea Dart’s windshield. While she waited, her thoughts slipped easily into recriminations. She could have done more. Moved faster. Thought of something clever at the last moment. Instead, Monk’s prosthetic hand still hung from the wing’s strut. Ryder hadn’t been able to pry it off.
Lisa glanced to the hatch, wishing Ryder would get back soon. He had topped off his boat’s petrol tank and gone in search of a telephone with a fistful of emergency cash he had stored here.
But his chances looked doubtful. The nearby village lay dark along the beach, storm-damaged with stripped roofs, downed palm trees, and beaches littered with overturned skiffs and debris. There had been no power at the dock’s fuel pumps. Ryder had to hand-crank the petrol, passing a wadful of cash to a wet dog of a man in flip-flops and knee-length shorts. The man had left with Ryder on a motorcycle, assuring him they could find a phone near the island’s small inland airport.
The tropical island of Natuna Besar served the tourist trade with its abundant snorkeling reefs and excellent sport fishing. But it had been evacuated with the threat of the typhoon. The place looked deserted.
Most of the islands they had flown over had been in a similar state of shambles.
From the air, Ryder had spotted the airport on Natuna Besar. “Surely someone down there has a sat-phone we could borrow,” he had said. “Or a way to repair our radio.”
Needing to fuel anyway, they had made a landing in the sheltered bay. Lisa now waited with Susan.
Worried, Lisa placed a hand on the woman’s damp brow. In the dimness of the cabin, Susan’s face shone with a deeper glow, seeming to rise more out of her underlying bones than her skin. Lisa felt a burn under her palm as she rested it on Susan’s forehead.
But it was not a fever.
Lisa lifted away her hand. It still continued to burn.
What the hell?
Lisa frantically rinsed her palm with water from a canteen and dried it on the fire blanket. The smolder subsided.