Treasure of Khan (19 page)

Roy looked up and noticed a tiny video camera mounted beside the smiling stuffed head of a reindeer.

“Best we at least pretend to study the files,” Wofford continued in a low voice, holding the map in front of his mouth as he spoke.

Roy sat down and pulled one of the laptops close, then slunk down in the chair so that the opened screen blocked his face.

“I don't like the looks of this. These people are warped. And let's not forget we were brought here at gunpoint.”

“I agree,” Theresa whispered. “The whole story about trying to protect us at Lake Baikal is ludicrous.”

“As I recall, Tatiana threatened to blow my left ear off if I didn't leave the
Vereshchagin
with her,” Wofford mused, tugging his earlobe. “Not the words of someone who cares about my well-being, I should think.”

Theresa unfolded a topographical map of a mountain range and pointed out meaningless features to Wofford as she spoke.

“And what about Dr. Sarghov? He was taken captive with us by accident. I think they may have killed him.”

“We don't know that, but it may be true,” Roy said. “We have to assume the same outcome awaits us, after we have provided them the information they are looking for.”

“It's all so crazy,” Theresa said with a slight shake of her head. “But we've got to find a way out of here.”

“The garage, next to the industrial building across the lawn. It was full of vehicles,” Wofford said. “If we could steal a truck and drive out of here, I'm sure we could find our way to Ulaanbaatar.”

“They've got us either locked in our rooms or under surveillance. We'll have to be prepared to make a break for it on short notice.”

“Afraid I'm not up for any wind sprints or pole vaults,” Wofford said, adjusting his injured leg. “You two will need to try without me.”

“I've got an idea,” Roy said, eyeing a desk across the room. Making a show of looking for a lost pen among the maps, he stood and walked to the desk, where he grabbed a pencil from a round leather holder. Turning his back to the video camera, he scooped out a silver metal letter opener that was mixed in with the pencils and slid it up his sleeve. Returning to the table, he pretended to write some notes while whispering to Theresa and Wofford.

“Tonight we'll check things out. I'll get Theresa and we'll reconnoiter the area and figure out an escape route. Then tomorrow night, we'll make our break. With the invalid in tow,” he added, grinning at Wofford.

“I'd be much obliged,” Wofford nodded. “Much obliged indeed.”

R
OY AWOKE PROMPTLY AT TWO A.M.
and dressed quickly. Removing the letter opener from its hiding place under his mattress, he groped his way across the darkened bedroom to the locked door. He felt along the doorframe, finding the raised edges of three metal hinges that protruded on the interior side. Sliding the letter opener into the top hinge, he carefully pried out a long metal pin that held the interlocking hinge together. Removing the pins from the other two hinges, he gently lifted the door and pulled it into the room laterally as the exterior dead bolt popped out of the opposite doorframe. Roy then crept into the hallway and pulled the door back against the frame, so that upon a casual glance it still appeared closed and locked.

Finding the hallway empty, he tiptoed to Theresa's room next door. Unlocking the latch, he opened the door to find her sitting on the bed, waiting.

“You did it,” she whispered, seeing his figure in the light from the hallway.

Roy flashed a thin smile, then nodded for her to follow. They crept into the corridor and moved slowly toward the main foyer. A row of low-wattage footlights provided muted lighting along the hallway, which by all sight and sound appeared completely deserted. Theresa's rubber-soled shoes began squeaking on the polished marble floor, so she stopped and removed them, continuing on in her stocking feet.

The foyer was brightly illuminated by a large crystal chandelier, which prompted Roy and Theresa to hug the walls and approach cautiously. Roy knelt down and scurried over to a narrow window, which fronted the main doorway. Peering outside, he turned to Theresa and shook his head. Despite the late hour, there was still a pair of guards stationed outside the front door. They would have to find another way out.

Standing in the foyer, they found themselves at the base of an inverted T. The guest rooms had been to the left and the occupant's private rooms were presumably to the right. So they crept instead down the wide main corridor that led to the study.

The house remained still but for an old grandfather clock ticking loudly in the hallway. They reached the study and kept moving, tiptoeing past the main dining hall and a pair of small conference rooms, all decorated with an impressive collection of Song and Jin dynasty antiques. Theresa scanned the ceilings searching for additional video camera monitors but saw nothing. A whispering sound played on her ears, and she instinctively clutched at Roy's arm until he winced in pain from her sharp fingernails. They both relaxed when they realized the sound was only the wind blowing outside.

The corridor ended in a large open sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. Though there was little to be seen at night, Theresa and Roy could still sense the dramatic view offered from the mountain perch, which overlooked the rolling steppes of the valley below. Near the entrance to the room, Roy spied a carpeted stairwell that ran to a lower level. He motioned toward the stairs and Theresa nodded, following him quietly. The thick carpet was a welcome relief to her feet, which were beginning to tire of the hard marble floor. As she reached a turn in the stairwell, she looked up to face a huge portrait of an ancient warrior. The man in the image sat tall on a horse wearing a fur-trimmed coat, orange sash, and the classic Mongol bowl helmet. He stared at her triumphantly through gold-black eyes. His mouth showed a wisp of a grin, exposing sharpened teeth that reminded her of Borjin. The intensity of the image made her shudder and she quickly turned her back on the painting and moved down the next set of steps.

The landing opened onto a single corridor, which ran away from the house a short distance. One side of the corridor was windowed, which looked out upon a large courtyard. Theresa and Roy peered out the nearest window, faintly observing a freestanding structure across the way.

“There must be a door to the courtyard along here,” Roy whispered. “If we can get out here, we ought to be able to move around the end of the guest wing and sneak toward the garage.”

“It's going to be a long way for Jim to hobble, but at least there don't seem to be any guards around here. Let's find that door.”

They moved rapidly to the end of the corridor where they at last found an exit door. Theresa tested the unlocked door, half expecting an alarm to sound when the latch released, but all remained silent. Together they crept into the open courtyard, which was partially illuminated by a few scattered pathway lamps. Theresa slipped her shoes back on soon after her feet touched the cold ground. The night air was brisk, and she shivered as a chill breeze blew through her light clothes.

They followed a slate pathway that angled across the courtyard toward a stone structure at the rear of the property. It appeared to be a small chapel, though it was circular in shape with a domed roof. Its stone composition differed from the marble used in the main house, and it had a decidedly ancient look to it. As they drew close, Roy bypassed the tunneled entrance and followed its curved walls toward the rear.

“I think I saw a vehicle in back,” he whispered to Theresa, who hung tight on his heels.

Reaching the back of the stone building, they found a covered bay enclosed by a low split-rail fence. Once a corral, the interior was crammed with a half dozen old horse-drawn wagons, their wooden beds stacked with shovels, picks, and empty crates. From beneath a canvas tarp poked the front wheel of a dust-covered motorcycle, while, in the back of the bay, Roy studied the car he had seen across the courtyard. It was a huge old antique, layered with decades of dust and sitting on at least two flat tires.

“Nothing here that's going to get us to Ulaanbaatar,” Theresa remarked with disappointment.

Roy nodded. “The garage on the other side of the mansion will have to be our ticket.” He froze suddenly as a shrill whine carried near on the breeze.

It was the neighing of a horse, he recognized, not far from the courtyard.

“Behind the wagon,” he whispered, pointing to the corral.

Dropping to the ground, they silently crawled through the rail fence and slithered beneath the nearest wagon. Lying behind one of the wagon's old-fashioned wooden wheels, they cautiously peeked through the spokes.

Two men soon appeared on horseback, preceded by the clopping sound of horse hooves on the slate walkway. The horsemen curled around the stone building, then paced alongside the corral and stopped. Theresa's heart nearly stopped when she caught sight of the men. They were dressed in nearly the same garb as the warrior in the hall painting. Their orange silk tunics reflected gold under the courtyard lights. Baggy pants, thick-soled boots, and a round metal helmet with horsehair spike completed their warrior appearance. The two men milled about for several minutes, just a few feet from where Theresa and Roy lay hidden. They were so close Theresa could taste the dust kicked up by the horses as they pawed at the ground.

One of the men barked something unintelligible, and then the horses suddenly bolted. In an instant, both horsemen disappeared into the darkness amid a small thunder of hoofbeats.

“The night watchmen,” Roy declared as the sound of the horses vanished.

“A little too close for comfort,” Theresa said, standing and shaking the dust from her clothes.

“We probably don't have much time before they make another pass. Let's see if we can skirt around the other end of the main house and try for the garage.”

“Okay. Let's hurry. I don't want to meet up with those guys again.”

They scrambled through the rail fence and headed toward the guest wing of the complex. But midway across the courtyard, they heard a sharp cry and the sudden gallop of horses. Looking back in horror, they saw the horses charging them from just yards away. The two horsemen had quietly backtracked to the stone building and broke when they saw Theresa and Roy sprinting across the courtyard.

They both froze in their tracks, unsure whether to run back to the main house or flee the courtyard. It made no difference, as the horsemen were already at the edge of the courtyard and had them plainly in view. Theresa watched one of the horses rear up in the air as the rider suddenly yanked on the reins, pulling the horse to a standstill. The other rider continued on at a gallop, directing his mount to where Theresa and Roy stood.

Roy saw immediately that the horseman was going to try to bowl them over. A quick glance to Theresa revealed fear and confusion in her eyes, as she stood frozen in place.

“Move!” Roy shouted, grabbing Theresa's arm by the elbow and flinging her out of harm's way. The horseman was nearly upon them, and Roy barely managed to sidestep the charging mount, the rider's stirrup grazing his side. Regaining his balance, Roy did the unthinkable. Rather than looking for cover, he turned and sprinted after the charging horse.

The unsuspecting horseman galloped a few more yards, then slowed the horse and pivoted it to his right, intending to make another charge. As the horse wheeled around, the horseman was shocked to find Roy standing in his path. The seismic engineer reached up and grabbed the loose reins dangling beneath the horse's chin and jerked them sharply downward.

“That's enough horseplay,” Roy muttered.

The rider had a blank look on his face as Roy fought to restrain the trained horse, the animal heaving clouds of vapor from its nostrils.

“Nooooo!” The piercing cry came from Theresa's lips, in a volume that could have been heard in Tibet.

Roy glanced at Theresa, who lay sprawled on the ground but appeared in no imminent danger. Then he detected a faint object whisking toward him. A viselike grip suddenly squeezed his chest, while a fiery sensation started to burn from within. He dropped to his knees in a wave of light-headedness as Theresa immediately appeared and cradled his shoulders.

The razor-tipped arrow fired by the second horseman had missed Roy's heart, but just barely. Instead, the projectile penetrated his chest just outside his heart, puncturing the pulmonary artery. The effect was nearly the same, with massive internal bleeding leading to imminent heart failure.

Theresa desperately tried to stem the flow of blood from the arrow's entry point, but there was nothing she could do about the internal damage. She held him tight as the color slowly drained from his face. He gasped for air before his body began to sag. For a moment, his eyes turned bright, and Theresa thought he might hang on. He looked at Theresa and painfully gasped the words, “Save yourself.” And then his eyes closed and he was gone.

T
HE
A
EROFLOT
T
U
-154
PASSENGER JET
banked slowly over the city of Ulaanbaatar before turning into the wind and lining up on the main runway of Buyant Ukhaa Airport for its final approach. Under a cloudless sky, Pitt enjoyed an expansive vista of the city and outlying landscape from his cramped passenger's seat window. A large sprinkling of cranes and bulldozers indicated that the capital of Mongolia was a city on the move.

A first impression of Ulaanbaatar is that of an Eastern Bloc metropolis mired in the 1950s. Home to 1.2 million people, the city is mostly built with Soviet-style design, featuring Soviet-style blandness and conformity. Drab gray apartment buildings dot the city by the dozen, offering all the warmth of a prison dormitory. Architectural consciousness was an afterthought for many of the large block government buildings surrounding the city center. Yet recent autonomy, a taste of democratic governing, and a dose of economic growth has added a vibrancy to the city that openly seeks to modernize itself. Colorful shops, upscale restaurants, and booming nightclubs are creeping into the scene of the once-staid city.

At its heart, there is a comfortable blend of old and new. Outlying suburbs are still filled with
gers
, muffin-shaped tents made of felt that are the traditional homes of the nomadic Mongolian herdsmen and their families. Hundreds of the gray or white tents jam the empty fields around the capital city that comprises the only true metropolis in the country.

In the West, little is known of Mongolia save for Genghis Khan and Mongolian beef. The sparsely populated country wedged between Russia and China occupies an expansive territory just slightly smaller than the state of Alaska. Rugged mountains dot the northern and western fringes of the landscape, while the Gobi Desert claims the south. Across the belt of the country run the venerable steppes, rolling grasslands that produced perhaps the finest horsemen the world has ever known. The glory days of the Mongol Horde are a distant memory, however. Years of Soviet dominion, during which Mongolia became one of the largest communist nations, stifled the country's identity and development. Only in recent years have the Mongolian people begun to find their own voice again.

As Pitt stared down at the mountains ringing Ulaanbaatar, he wondered whether chasing to Mongolia was such a good idea. It was after all a Russian vessel that had nearly been sunk at Lake Baikal, not a NUMA ship. And none of his crew had been harmed. The oil survey team was certainly not his responsibility either, though he was confident they were an innocent party. Still, there was some connection with their survey on the lake that had contributed to the foul play and abductions. Somebody was up to no good and he wanted to know why.

As the jet's tires screeched onto the runway, Pitt jabbed his elbow toward the passenger's seat next to him. Al Giordino had fallen asleep seconds after the plane lifted off from Irkutsk, and he continued to snooze even as the flight attendant spilled coffee on his foot. Prying a heavy eyelid open, he glanced toward the window. Spotting the concrete tarmac, he popped upright in his seat, instantly awake.

“Did I miss anything on the flight down?” he asked, suppressing a yawn.

“The usual. Wide-open landscapes. Some sheep and horses. A couple of nude communes.”

“Just my luck,” he replied, eyeing a brown stain on his shoe with suspicion.

“Welcome to Mongolia and ‘Red Hero,' as Ulaanbaatar is known,” Sarghov's jolly voice boomed from across the aisle. He was wedged into a tiny seat, his face wallpapered with bandages, and Giordino wondered how the Russian could be so merry. Eyeing the fat scientist slip a flask of vodka into a valise, he quickly determined the answer.

The trio made their way through immigration, Pitt and Giordino garnering extraordinary scrutiny, before collecting their bags. The airport was small by international standards, and while waiting for a curbside cab Pitt noticed a wiry man in a red shirt studying him from across the concourse. Scanning the terminal, he observed that many of the locals gawked at him, not used to seeing a six-foot-three Westerner every day.

A weathered cab was flagged down, and they quickly motored the short distance into the city.

“Ulaanbaatar—and all of Mongolia, really—has changed a good deal in the past few years,” Sarghov said.

“Looks to me like it hasn't changed much in the past few centuries,” Giordino said, noting a large neighborhood of felt
gers
.

“Mongolia somewhat missed the station on the twentieth century,” Sarghov nodded, “but they're catching up in the twenty-first. As in Russia, the police state no longer controls daily life and the people are learning to embrace freedom. The city may look grim to you, but it is a much livelier place than a decade ago.”

“You have visited often?” Pitt asked.

“I have worked on several projects with the Mongolian Academy of Sciences at Lake Khovsgol.”

The taxi careened around a crater-sized pothole then screeched to a stop in front of the Continental Hotel. As Sarghov checked them in, Pitt admired a collection of reproduced medieval artwork that decorated the large lobby. Glancing out the front window, he noticed a car pull up to the entrance and a man in a red shirt climb out. The same man he had seen at the airport.

Pitt studied the man as he lingered by the car. His features were Caucasian, which suggested he wasn't with the Mongolian police or immigration authorities. Yet he looked comfortable in his surroundings, earmarked by a toothy grin that habitually flashed from his friendly face. Pitt noticed that he moved with a measured balance, like a cat walking atop a fence. He was no tap dancer, though. In the pit of his back just above the waistline, Pitt saw a slight bulge that could only be a gun holster.

“All set,” Sarghov said, handing room keys to Pitt and Giordino. “We're in neighboring rooms on the fourth floor. The bellboys are taking our bags up now. Why don't we grab lunch in the hotel café and strategize our plan of inquiry?”

“If there's a prospect of a cold beer in this joint, then I'm already there,” Giordino replied.

“I'm still stiff from the plane ride,” Pitt said. “Think I'll stretch my legs a bit with a walk around the block first. Order me a tuna sandwich, and I'll join you in a few minutes.”

As Pitt exited the hotel, the man in red quickly turned his back and leaned on the car, casually checking his watch. Pitt turned and walked in the other direction, dodging a small group of Japanese tourists checking into the hotel. Walking briskly, he set a fast pace with his long legs and quickly covered two blocks. Turning a corner, he shot a quick glance to his side. As he suspected, the man in the red shirt was tailing him a half block behind.

Pitt had turned down a small side street lined with tiny shops that sold their goods along the sidewalk. Temporarily out of sight of his pursuer, Pitt started running down the street, sprinting past the first half-dozen shops. Ducking past a newsstand, he slowed in front of an open-air clothing shop. A rack of heavy winter coats jutted from the shop's side wall, offering a perfect concealment spot from someone rushing down the street. Pitt stepped into the shop and around the coatrack, then stood with his back to the wall.

A wrinkled old woman wearing an apron appeared from behind a counter piled with shoes and looked up at Pitt.

“Shhh,” Pitt smiled, holding a finger to his lips. The old woman gave him an odd look, then returned to the back of the shop shaking her head.

Pitt had only to wait a few seconds before the man in the red shirt came hurrying along, nervously scanning each shop he came to. The sound of the man's footsteps announced his arrival as he approached and stopped in front of the shop. Pitt stood perfectly still, listening for the sound of heavy leather soles on concrete. When the patter resumed, Pitt sprang from the rack like a coiled spring.

The man in the red shirt had started to jog to the next shop when he detected a movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to find Pitt, towering nearly a foot taller, only a step behind him. Before he could react, he felt Pitt's large hands grasp his shoulders.

Pitt could have tackled the man, or spun him around, or thrown him to the ground. But he wasn't one to fight physics and instead simply used their forward momentum and pushed the smaller man ahead toward a round metal hat rack. The assailant smacked face-first into the rack and fell forward onto his stomach amid a clutter of baseball caps. The fall would have incapacitated most, but Pitt was hardly surprised when the wiry man bounced up immediately and crouched to strike Pitt with his left hand while his right hand reached behind his back.

Pitt took a step back and grinned at the man.

“Looking for this?” he asked. With a slight flick of his wrist, he flashed a Serdyukov SPS automatic pistol, which he leveled at the man's chest. A blank look crossed the man's face as his right hand came up behind his back empty. He coolly looked Pitt in the eye, then smiled broadly.

“Mr. Pitt. You seem to have taken advantage of me,” he said in English only slightly tinged with a Russian accent.

“I don't like people crowding my space,” Pitt replied, holding the gun steady.

The other man looked up and down the street nervously, then spoke quietly to Pitt. “You need not fear me. I am a friend looking out for you.”

“Good. Then you can join me for lunch with some of my friends, who will be interested to meet you.”

“To the Continental Hotel.” The man smiled, removing a child's hat with the image of a running camel on its crest that had somehow stuck to his head during the scuffle. He slowly sidestepped Pitt and began walking in the direction of the hotel. Pitt followed a few steps behind, concealing the gun in his pocket and wondering what sort of eccentric this was who had been following him.

The Russian made no move to escape, instead marching boldly into the hotel and across the lobby to the main restaurant. To Pitt's surprise, he walked directly up to a large booth where Giordino and Sarghov were sitting, enjoying a drink.

“Alexander, you old goat!” he greeted Sarghov with a laugh.

“Corsov! They haven't run you out of the country yet?” Sarghov replied, standing and giving the smaller man a hug.

“I am an invaluable presence to the state mission,” Corsov replied with mock seriousness. Eyeing Sarghov's bruised face, he frowned and said, “You look as if you just escaped from the gulag.”

“No, just the inhospitable mongrels I told you about. Forgive me, I have not properly introduced you to my American friends. Dirk, Al, this is Ivan Corsov, special attaché to the Russian embassy here in Ulaanbaatar. Ivan and I worked together years ago. He's agreed to help us with the investigation of Avarga Oil.”

“He followed us from the airport,” Pitt said to Sarghov with lingering doubt.

“Alexander told me you were coming. I was just making sure that no one else was following you.”

“It seems I owe you an apology,” Pitt smiled, covertly handing the pistol back to Corsov, and then shaking hands.

“Quite all right,” he replied. “Though my wife may not like the looks of my new nose,” he added, rubbing a purple welt administered by the hat rack.

“How your wife liked the looks of your old one is a mystery to me,” Sarghov laughed.

The four men sat down and ordered lunch, the conversation turning serious.

“Alexander, you told me of the attempted sinking of the
Vereshchagin
and the abduction of the oil workers, but I didn't know you were seriously injured in the ordeal,” Corsov said, nodding at a thick bandage around Sarghov's wrist.

“My injuries would have been a lot worse had my friends not intervened,” he replied, tilting a glass of beer toward Pitt and Giordino.

“We weren't too happy about getting our feet wet in the middle of the night, either,” Giordino added.

“What makes you think that the captives were brought to Mongolia?”

“We know that the freighter was leased by Avarga Oil, and the survey team was working under contract for them as well. The regional police authorities could find no permanent holdings in all of Siberia for the company, so we naturally assumed they would return to Mongolia. Border security confirmed that a truck caravan matching the description of those seen at Listvyanka had crossed into Mongolia at Naushki.”

“Have the appropriate appeals for law enforcement assistance been made?”

“Yes, a formal request was sent to the Mongolian national police, and cooperation is taking place at the lower levels as well. An Irkutsk police official cautioned me that assistance would likely be forthcoming very slowly here.”

“It is true. Russian influence in Mongolia is not what it used to be,” Corsov said, shaking his head. “And the level of security here is much reduced from the past. These democratic reforms and economic issues have loosened the state's control over its own people,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Pitt and Giordino.

“Freedom has its costs, pal, but I wouldn't take it any other way,” Giordino replied.