The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan (15 page)

Nimrod bowed and made his apologies again and withdrew. John, Axel, and the professor followed at a respectful distance.

Philippa shooed away someone who wanted to buy Moby, and hurried after them.

“So what did he say?” said the professor. What with his mask, and the little cloth grille in his
chadri
, the professor almost had to shout to make himself heard.

“He said he’d never heard of Dunbelchin,” said Nimrod. “And then said she wasn’t a dromedary but a Bactrian.”

“So he was lying,” said John.

“I think so. In fact, I’m more or less sure of it. He denied that the saddle and bridle of Genghis Khan existed, too. Having also described them as great treasures. A most evasive man was our Mr. Bilharzia.”

“So what happens now?” asked Axel. “We can’t make him tell the truth.”

“Oh, yes we can,” said Nimrod. “I can. And I will. There’s no time to be subtle with this man. But I’m not going to do it here. Not in the middle of the camel market. That would be unwise. Especially now that I’ve confirmed the existence of these Darkhats.”

“So how are you going to make him talk?” said the professor. “Are you going to torture him?”
Nimrod looked horrified. “Certainly not. There are other ways of getting the truth out of people. I shall simply make him cough it up of his own free will. Well, almost free.”

“You mean you’re going to use a quaesitor binding, don’t you?” John grinned. “Cool.”

Nimrod shot his nephew an uncomfortable look. “I take no pleasure in this, John. And neither should you. I dislike using this kind of extreme djinn binding, but he gives me really no choice in the matter.”

“So let me do it,” said John. “I’ve never used a quaesitor on someone.”

Nimrod stayed silent, thinking about it, and wondering if he could trust his nephew to get this right.

“Come on,” pleaded John. “Please. You know I could use the practice. You were going to show us how to fly a carpet and you never did. And as our uncle you’re supposed to be teaching us how to do djinn stuff, remember?”

“Very well,” said Nimrod.

John punched the air. “Yes,” he said. “That’s fantastic. This is going to be fun.”

“Sometimes, John,” said Philippa, “I worry about you.”

L
ater that evening, Mr. Bilharzia was followed home through a series of military checkpoints by Nimrod and the others who, speaking fluent English and equipped with the kind of impeccable documentation that only Nimrod’s djinn power could provide, were quite above suspicion in the eyes of the mostly British soldiers guarding the city.

The camel dealer’s house, a three-story neocolonial villa, was located in the southwest of Kandahar, which is the richest part of the city. Only half finished, it was still quite habitable with an enormous kitchen and a television room with all the latest equipment. At the rear of the house was an empty camel-shaped swimming pool, some stables, and a garage full of expensive cars. On one side of the house was a large poppy field, and on the other side, a large expanse of grass where several of Mr. Bilharzia’s more expensive beasts were grazing. The front of the house was protected by several barbed-wire fences and a pack of almost-wild guard dogs.

“So how are we going to get past all of this security?” asked the professor.

“QWERTYUIOP,” said Nimrod, and the fences disappeared. And as soon as the fence disappeared all of the guard dogs simply ran away. “That’s how.”

“Oh, right,” said the professor. “Well, that’s one way. Yes.”

Nimrod led the way up the front door and rang the doorbell. It was clear that no one was expecting visitors because instead of the door opening, all of the lights inside the house were immediately extinguished, as if Mr. Bilharzia was frightened of whoever might be standing outside his house.

“I don’t think they’re feeling hospitable tonight,” observed Philippa.

A shot rang out and they all ducked as something zipped over their heads.

“Or any other night.”

“Yes, that was foolish, wasn’t it?” said Nimrod. “I should have remembered that Kandahar isn’t at all like Kensington, where the inhabitants don’t mind when people ring their doorbells. Well, most people, anyway. In Kensington, we’re never very keen on unemployed miners selling dishcloths and tea towels. Or shifty types selling bargain-priced garden furniture. Or young ruffians singing half a verse of just one carol at Christmas. And I’d certainly prefer it if religious people of any persuasion never ever rang my doorbell.”

Another shot rang out and this one seemed to come closer than before, as if the hidden gunman’s aim was improving.

“Perhaps,” said the professor, “you might tell us this another time.”

“Please, do something,” said Axel. “Before we get shot.”

“Yes, of course,” said Nimrod.

He murmured his focus word again and a square of bulletproof glass (effective against all 7.62-millimeter armor-piercing ammunition) appeared around them like an invisible cage.

“There,” he said. “That should keep us safe while I open this door.” He turned the handle. “Which appears to be locked. No matter.” He sighed and shook his head. “You know, I’m using rather a lot of power these days, much more than I feel comfortable with; but I can see no alternative if we’re going to be in time to save the world from itself.”

“Let me, Uncle,” said Philippa, and muttering her latest focus word, PARASKAVEDEKATRIAPHOBIA (Philippa was always changing her focus word), which, as any fool knows, means having an abnormal fear of Friday the thirteenth, the door came off the hinges and fell like a drawbridge onto the marble floor with a loud bang.

“Thank you, Philippa,” said Nimrod.

Advancing into the main hallway of the house, Axel found a big Maglite on a shelf by the door — because there are frequent power cuts in the city of Kandahar — and switching it on, aimed a thick beam of light ahead of them.

They were met by the sight of Mr. Bilharzia and his large family cowering in a corner and begging for mercy.

“Please,” shouted the camel dealer. “Don’t hurt us.”

“My dear fellow, I have no intention of hurting you or
your family,” said Nimrod. “But do kindly tell whoever it is who was shooting at us to desist forthwith, before someone really does gets hurt.”

“It’s my twelve-year-old son, Sirhan,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “He is upstairs with a rifle.”

Mr. Bilharzia shouted up the stairs and finally a boy came onto the landing. He was wearing a long, white
galabiya
and carrying an automatic rifle. His father barked an order at him and Sirhan laid the rifle on the floor.

“And do put the lights back on,” said Nimrod.

Mr. Bilharzia flicked a switch that returned all the electric lights.

“Thank you,” said Nimrod.

“You’re the man who was looking for the saddle of Genghis Khan,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “Why are you here?”

“I’m afraid I really do need some urgent answers to questions of an ungulate nature,” said Nimrod.

“Ungulate? You mean camel.”

“I most assuredly do.” Nimrod smiled at his niece and then the professor. “Ladies? Why don’t you take Mrs. Bilharzia and her children upstairs and keep them company while John and I and Axel ask Mr. Bilharzia some questions.”

“I have nothing to say,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “About anything. And certainly nothing about any camels, or saddles, or bridles that were once owned by Genghis Khan. I don’t know anything.”

Nimrod was staring at a mural — a copy of an Indian Mughal painting depicting the funeral procession of Genghis Khan and the murder of all those who had observed it.

“Oh, I think you do,” insisted Nimrod.

He turned to examine a very old portrait of a white camel; it was encased with silver and resembled nothing so much as a religious icon.

“Is this a picture of Dunbelchin?”

“Really, I know nothing.”

“Well,” said Nimrod, “we’ll soon see, won’t we?”

“What do you mean? You said that you weren’t going to hurt us.”

“True,” said Nimrod. “And I give you my word that it won’t hurt a bit.”

When Philippa and the professor had taken Mr. Bilharzia’s family upstairs, Nimrod led him to the dinner table where the four of them sat down.

“What won’t?”

“My young nephew’s quaesitor,” said Nimrod. “It’s a djinn binding that’s designed to find out the thing you find most unpleasant and then make it appear in your mouth until you start to tell the truth. My nephew here really detests vegetables. Which I don’t think are so bad.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said John.

“But I’ve seen all sorts of horrible things coming out of people’s mouths. Cockroaches, rats, snakes, spiders. So what’s it to be? Regurgitation or reality? Verbals or vomit. The truth or the taste of something you find vile.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“One last time: everything you know about Dunbelchin and the saddle or else you’ll have to eat your words.”

Mr. Bilharzia was not convinced. He shook his head and
squeezed his lips tight, as if defying Nimrod and John to do their worst.

“I regret this,” confessed Nimrod. “Really I do.”

Mr. Bilharzia swore in Pashto.

“John?” Nimrod glanced at his nephew. “Whenever you’re ready.”

John nodded and placed a finger quickly on the camel dealer’s mouth just to help with the binding, and then he spoke his word of power. “ABECEDARIAN.”

Nimrod nodded. “Right. First of all. Do you speak English?”

“Yes, I speak English,” said Mr. Bilharzia, speaking English. “Why?”

“It’s just to help my nephew,” said Nimrod. “He doesn’t speak Pashto. Which means his binding doesn’t, either. It’s very much to your benefit that his quaesitor can tell the difference between a truth and a lie.”

Mr. Bilharzia swore again, only this time in English.

“Oh, dear, it would appear that something horrible is already emerging from your mouth,” observed Nimrod. “Let your next words be truthful, clean ones, or endure the taste of something truly abhorrent. Now then: Tell us everything you know about Dunbelchin.”

Mr. Bilharzia was about to swear again but found something coming up his windpipe that was squarely in the way of the bad word. He gagged a little and finding the object now in his mouth, let it plop onto the palm of his outstretched hand.

The object was round and greenish brown and about the size of a small bread roll. John had no idea what it was. But Mr. Bilharzia recognized it instinctively.

“Camel dung,” he said with horror.

“That seems appropriate,” said Nimrod. “Given your potty mouth.”

John snorted with horror. “That is so disgusting,” he said. “I couldn’t ever have thought of that on my own.”

“I’m glad to hear it, John,” said his uncle. “That’s the great thing about the quaesitor. It does all of the nasty work for you.”

“Aieee!” Mr. Bilharzia choked again, spat, and with his tongue, pushed another piece of camel dung out of his mouth. “Horrible! Horrible! Horrible!”

“Odd, don’t you think, John?” said Nimrod. “That a camel dealer would find the animal’s dung so disgusting? You’d think he was used to it by now.”

“Used to seeing it and sniffing it, maybe,” agreed John. “But not eating it. Yeeugh. Can’t imagine how gross that must taste.”

“I can’t agree, given that a camel is vegetarian,” said Nimrod. “The dung would be so much less palatable if camels were meat eaters.”

“Yeeugh,” said John, horrified at the effect his quaesitor was having on Mr. Bilharzia.

Nimrod was no less horrified than his nephew.

“I really don’t like this sort of thing at all,” said Nimrod, shaking his head. He sighed loudly. “But, given all of the circumstances, I suppose it can’t be helped.”

“The end justifies the means?” offered John.

“Perhaps,” said Nimrod. “Yes. In this particular case it does, I’m afraid.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He knew that usually the idea of the end justifying the means was something his libertarian uncle had no time for; he was always saying as much. So Nimrod’s admission that here the end did justify the means made John wonder just how far his uncle was prepared to go in order to achieve the end, which was, he imagined, to save the world from the threat of catastrophe caused by this sudden rash of volcanic eruptions. Recollecting what his sister had told him about the books their uncle had been reading in the Rakshasas Library and the passages he had underlined, John wondered if, in Nimrod’s mind, the end might even justify the sacrifice of his nephew and niece.

More dung appeared from the camel dealer’s mouth.

“Make it stop!” he wailed.

“There’s a very easy way to make it stop, of course,” explained Nimrod. “And that’s simply to tell us everything we want to know about Dunbelchin.”

“I cannot.”

Mr. Bilharzia coughed and retched a fourth and a fifth piece of quite malodorous camel dung onto the floor.

“It’s said that the taste of a quaesitor remains with you for many months afterward,” said Nimrod. “And the longer it lasts, the more the memory lingers in your mouth. I once knew a man who used more than a hundred gallons of mouthwash to get rid of the taste of a really nasty quaesitor.”

“Very well,” yelled the camel dealer. “I will tell you everything, mighty lord djinn.”

“Promise?” said John. “On your word of honor?”

“Yes! Yes! I promise. On my word of honor. As I hope to see heaven, yes.”

“Excellent,” said Nimrod. “I’m so glad. Doing this sort of thing to people always leaves a nasty taste in my mouth, too.” He shrugged. “But not, I imagine, as nasty as the taste in yours.”

“Please come this way,” said Mr. Bilharzia.

He led them into the basement of the house, where he unlocked an ancient-looking door.

“The house is new,” he explained. “But down here is very old. These cellars belonged to the original house and stables, which were destroyed by an American bomb in 2003. The cellars date back to the mid-sixteenth century, and possibly before that. I keep all the Bilharzia family records and accounts down here, not to mention the family treasures.”

He ushered Nimrod, John, and Axel into the cellars, past a series of shelves that were full of leather-bound ledgers, to a room that looked like an inner sanctum if only because it was dominated by a rather threadbare-looking stuffed white camel that was wearing a fine old leather saddle and a jeweled bridle. Mr. Bilharzia switched on a light to properly illuminate his treasures.

“There it is,” he said. “The saddle, the bridle, and most important, Dunbelchin herself. All of them bought by my ancestor from the thief who stole them: Kamran Hotak Mahomet of Charikar.”

“And this is the original animal?” said Nimrod. “The camel that was stolen from Genghis Khan?”

“The very same. My ancestor, Ali Bilharzia, had Dunbelchin stuffed when she died in 1240. The taxidermist was the most skilled in all of central Asia. But she has been stuffed twice: once by the great Louis Dufresne in 1799, and again by the great Carl Akeley, in 1920. I keep these things secret, O mighty djinn. The Darkhats would kill to have these things in their possession. This is why security is so tight here. And why I have always denied even knowing about Dunbelchin. If they so much as even suspected that these things were here, our lives wouldn’t be worth living.”

“But don’t they know about Sidi Mubarak Bombay’s book?” asked Nimrod. “
The
Secret
Secret History of the Mongols
.”

“They are not great readers, sir.” Mr. Bilharzia shook his head. “Books are a foreign country for the Darkhats. They do things differently in their world. Besides, there were very few copies ever printed. Four to be exact.”

“Hardly a bestseller, then,” observed John.

“I have one here. There was one in the British Library but that was lost many years ago. The third copy was bought by the billionaire Rashleigh Khan, who is deluded enough to believe that he is the descendant of Lord Genghis Khan. And the fourth copy was bought from a bookshop in Calcutta by a Mr. Rakshasas in 1867.”

“I have that one,” said Nimrod. “In my own library.”

“Then thank goodness they don’t have it,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “The Darkhats.” He spat on the floor, hoping to get rid of the awful taste that remained in his mouth.

John fished in his pocket and produced a packet of mints and gave one to the hapless camel trader.