Treasure of Khan (22 page)

“A shame. I was starting to get attached to that machine,” Giordino muttered as they quickly scrambled up the hill.

“Hopefully, a camel herder in the Gobi Desert will put it to good use.”

Cresting the ravine, they ducked behind a crumbling wall of the bakery and peered around the front lot. Corsov's car was nowhere to be seen.

“Remind me to bad-mouth the KGB next time we're in public,” Giordino said.

A half mile down the road, they suddenly eyed the red flash of a pair of taillights, illuminated from a tap on the brakes.

“Let's hope that's our boy,” Pitt said.

The duo took off from the building and ran down the road at a sprint. Approaching the crunching sound of tires on gravel, they jumped to the side of the road and hesitated as a car with its headlights off crept out of the darkness. It was the gray Toyota.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Corsov grinned as Pitt and Giordino climbed into the car. His breath filled the interior with the odor of vodka. “A successful tour?”

“Yes,” Pitt replied, “but our hosts wish to follow us home.”

Behind the bakery, they could see the flash of a bouncing headlight beam from down the hill. Without a word, Corsov whipped the car around and sped off down the road. In minutes, he was barreling down a mix of back-road city streets before suddenly appearing at the rear of their hotel.

“Good night, gentlemen,” Corsov slurred. “We shall reconvene tomorrow, when you can give me a full report.”

“Thanks, Ivan,” Pitt said. “Drive safe.”

“But of course.”

As Pitt slammed the door shut, the Toyota burst off down the street, disappearing around a corner with its tires squealing. Walking to the hotel, Giordino suddenly stopped and pointed. Across the street, music and laughter wafted from the little café, still bustling at the late hour.

Giordino turned to Pitt and smiled. “I believe, boss, that you owe me a diversion.”

T
HERESA SAT IN THE STUDY
, looking through a seismic report with a thousand-mile stare. A melancholy depression, tinged with anger, had gradually replaced her shock at Roy's brutal killing. He had been like a brother to her and his murder the night before was painful to accept. It had been made worse by the appearance of Tatiana in the courtyard shortly after Roy expired. With glaring eyes that spit fire, she'd hissed at Theresa.

“Do not obey and the same fate will befall you!”

The guard who had killed Roy was summoned to crudely drag Theresa back to her room and keep her under armed guard.

Since that moment, she and Wofford had been under constant surveillance. She gazed across the study to the entryway, where two stone-faced guards stood staring back at her. Their brightly colored silk
dels
, or tunics, softened their appearance, but she knew from the night before that they were highly trained killers.

Alongside her, Wofford sat with his bum leg propped on a chair, deeply engrossed in a geological report. He had been shocked by Roy's death but seemed to have shaken it off quickly. More likely, he was using the task at hand to conceal his emotions, Theresa decided.

“We might as well give them the work they asked for,” he had told her. “It might be the only thing that keeps us alive.”

Maybe he was right, she thought, trying to regain focus on the report in her hands. It was a geological assessment of a basin area in an unidentified plain. Sandstone and limestone rifts were identified as being overlaid with clay and shale stretched across the basin. It was just the type of stratigraphy that was conducive to subsurface petroleum reserves.

“The geology seems promising, wherever it is,” she said to Wofford.

“Take a look at this,” he replied, unrolling a computer printout across the table. Known as a seismic section, the printout showed a computer-enhanced image of several layered levels of sediment for a confined location. The chart was created by a seismic survey team that sent man-made shocks into the ground and recorded the sound reflections. Theresa stood up to get a better look, examining the chart with fresh interest. It was unlike any seismic image she had seen before. Most subsurface profiles were opaque and smudgy, resembling a Rorschach inkblot left out in a rainstorm. The profile before her was a crisp image, with clearly delineated subsurface layers.

“Amazing image,” she remarked. “Must be made with some cutting-edge technology. I've never seen anything this precise.”

“It definitely beats anything we've ever used in the field. But that's not the amazing aspect,” he added. Reaching over, he pointed to a bulbous shape near the bottom of the page that extended off the edge. Theresa leaned over and studied it carefully.

“That looks like a classic, not to mention nicely sized, anticlinal trap,” she said, referring to the dome-shaped layer of sediments. The cusp of a sedimentary dome like the one before her was a flashing red light for geophysicists, as it is a prime spot for petroleum deposits to accumulate.

“Nicely sized, indeed,” Wofford replied. Pulling over a stack of similar profiles, he spread several on the table. “That particular trap stretches nearly forty kilometers. There's six other smaller ones I've found in the same region.”

“It certainly looks like the right conditions for a deposit.”

“You never know until the drill gets wet, but from these images, it looks pretty promising.”

“And there's six more? That's a tremendous reserve potential.”

“At least six more. I haven't digested all the reports yet, but it is mind-boggling. Taking a stone's throw from the image, there might be two billion barrels potentially sitting in that one trap alone. Add in the others and you could have over ten billion barrels. And that's just for one field. No telling how much is in the entire region.”

“Incredible. Where is the field located?”

“That's the hitch. Someone has carefully removed all geographic references from the data. I can only tell that it is subterranean, and that the surface topography is flat with a predominant sandstone base.”

“You mean we might be looking at the next North Sea oil fields and you don't know where they are located?”

“I haven't a clue.”

 

S
ARGHOV LAUGHED
between sips from a cup of tea, his big belly jiggling with each guffaw.

“Charging through the night on a forklift, toting an Avarga security guard through the air,” he chuckled. “You Americans always have such a flair for dramatics.”

“It wasn't the understated exit I would have preferred,” Pitt replied from across the café table, “but Al insisted we ride, not walk.”

“And we still nearly missed last call.” Giordino smirked before sipping his morning coffee.

“I'm sure management is scratching their heads, wondering why a pair of Westerners were waltzing around their facility. A shame you didn't find any evidence that our oil survey friends had been there.”

“No, the only item of interest was the tunnel-boring machine. And it was concealed under a canvas tarp similar to the object that was removed from the freighter at Baikal.”

“It is possible the machine was stolen and brought into the country surreptitiously. Mongolia does not have easy access to high technology. Perhaps the company does not want the government to be aware of its technological equipment.”

“Yes, that could be true,” Pitt replied. “I would still like to know what it was that they hauled away from Baikal under wraps.”

“Alexander, have there been any developments in the abduction investigation?” Giordino asked before biting into a buttered roll.

Sarghov looked up to see Corsov enter the busy café situated across from Sukhbaatar Square. “I shall let our local expert address that question,” he said, standing and greeting his embassy friend. Corsov smiled his toothy grin and pulled a chair up to the table.

“I trust everyone had a comfortable night?” he said to Pitt and Giordino.

“Just until the vodka wore off,” Pitt grinned, cognizant that Giordino was nursing a mild hangover.

“Ivan, we were just discussing the investigation. Has there been any news on the official front?” Sarghov asked.

“Nyet,”
Corsov said, his jovial face turning solemn. “The National Police have still not been assigned the case. The investigative request is being held up in the Justice Ministry. My apologies, I misspoke when I said that Avarga Oil has no influence within the government. It is clear that a bribe is in effect at some level.”

“Every hour might count for Theresa and the others,” Giordino said.

“Our embassy is doing everything they can through official channels. And I am, of course, pursuing leads through unofficial means. Do not worry, my friend, we will find them.”

Sarghov drained the rest of his tea and set down the empty cup. “I'm afraid there is little more that we can ask of Ivan. The Mongol authorities often work on their own time frame. They will ultimately respond to the continued inquisitions from our embassy, despite whatever bribes are impeding the investigation. It may be best if we step back and wait for the bureaucratic hurdles to be cleared before any further action. As it is, I must return to Irkutsk to file a report on the damage to the
Vereshchagin
. I have gone ahead and booked airline tickets for the three of us this afternoon.”

Pitt and Giordino looked knowingly at Corsov, then turned to Sarghov.

“Actually, we have already made alternate travel plans, Alexander,” Pitt said.

“You are returning directly to the United States? I thought perhaps you would return to Siberia and collect your comrade Rudi first.”

“No, we're not going to the United States, or Siberia, just yet.”

“I don't understand. Where is your intended destination?”

Pitt's green eyes glimmered as he said, “A mystical place called Xanadu.”

C
ORSOV'S INTELLIGENCE NETWORK PAID
off again. Though the central government in Ulaanbaatar had taken a hard turn toward democracy after the fall of the Soviet Union, there was a sizeable communist minority opposition in the government ranks, many of whom still harbored pro-Moscow sentiments. It was a low-level analyst in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs that had notified Corsov about the pending Chinese state visit. But it was Corsov who had recognized it as a golden opportunity for Pitt and Giordino.

The Chinese minister of commerce was arriving on short notice, ostensibly to tour a new solar energy plant recently opened at the edge of the capital city. Yet the bulk of the minister's time was scheduled for a private visit with the head of the Avarga Oil Consortium, at his secluded residence southeast of Ulaanbaatar.

“I can put you in the motorcade, which will get you past Borjin's front door. The rest will be up to you,” Corsov had told Pitt and Giordino.

“No offense, but I don't see how anyone is going to buy us being part of the Chinese delegation,” Giordino said.

“They won't have to, because you'll be part of the Mongolian state escort.”

Giordino wrinkled his brow at what seemed to be a small difference.

Corsov explained that a formal reception was planned for the minister's arrival later in the day. A large welcoming escort from the Foreign Affairs Ministry would accompany the Chinese delegation for the evening. But tomorrow, when the delegation toured the solar energy plant and traveled to Avarga headquarters, only a small Mongolian security force had been requested to accompany the minister.

“So we are joining the Mongolian Secret Service?” Pitt asked.

Corsov nodded. “Ordinary officers of the National Police actually fill the roles. It took only a modest enticement to have you inserted as replacement security escorts. You will swap places with the real guards at the solar energy plant and follow the procession to Xanadu. As I told you, I would gladly use my own operatives for the assignment.”

“No,” Pitt replied, “we'll take the risk from here. You have gone out on a limb for us as it is.”

“It is all deniable by me. And I trust you not to reveal your sources,” he added with a grin.

“Cross my heart.”

“Good. Now just remember to keep a low profile and see if you can prove that your abducted friends are on the premises. We can prompt the Mongolian authorities to action if we have some evidence.”

“Will do. What do we owe you for the bribes?”

“That is such an ugly word,” Corsov replied, a pained look crossing his face. “I am in the information business. Anything you can share with me about Avarga Oil, Mr. Borjin, and his aspirations will more than repay the pittance spent on the police escort. Which means I expect you back here for borscht tomorrow night.”

“Now, there's an enticement,” Giordino groaned.

“And just one more thing,” Corsov added with a smile. “Try not to forget to keep the Chinese minister alive.”

 

P
ITT AND
Giordino took a cab to the solar energy facility, arriving an hour ahead of the Chinese minister's scheduled appearance. Smiling at a sleepy-eyed guard at the gate, they flashed a pair of dummy press credentials provided by Corsov and waltzed right into the facility. It was little more than a ten-acre lot peppered with dozens of flat black solar panels that supplemented the electricity produced by a large adjacent coal-burning power plant. Built by the power company as an experimental test station, it barely provided the power to light a football stadium. With more than two hundred sixty days of sunshine a year, Mongolia was rich in the essential resource needed to generate solar power, though the technology was well beyond affordability at the consumer level.

Steering clear of a hastily assembled greeting platform where a handful of state officials and power plant executives waited nervously, Pitt and Giordino concealed themselves behind a large solar panel near the entrance. Dressed in dark Chinese-tailored sport coats and sunglasses, with black woolen beret-type hats on their heads, they easily passed for local security types to those observing from a distance. They didn't have to wait long before the motorcade rolled through the gates a few minutes early and pulled up to the greeting platform.

Pitt smiled to himself at the unceremonious vehicles that made up the motorcade, a far cry from the ubiquitous black limousines found in Washington. A trio of clean but high-mileage Toyota Land Cruisers chauffeured the Chinese minister and his small cadre of assistants and security guards. The contingent was led by a Mongol security escort driving a yellow UAZ four-door jeep. Another UAZ jeep tailed the delegation, its left front fender battered by a prior traffic accident. The Russian-built UAZs, an offshoot of a military jeep, reminded Pitt of the boxy International Harvester four-wheel drives built in the U.S. back in the late 1960s.

“That's our ride,” Pitt said, referring to the battered UAZ at the rear.

“I hope it's got a satellite radio and a nav system,” Giordino replied.

“I just hope it's got tires that were manufactured in this century,” Pitt muttered.

Pitt watched as the two men in the car casually got out and disappeared into the field of solar panels as the welcoming committee greeted the Chinese minister. With the delegation preoccupied, Pitt and Giordino moved undetected to the car and took the guards' place in the front seats.

“Here's your nav system,” Pitt said, grabbing a map from the dashboard and tossing it on Giordino's lap. He smiled when he noticed that the car didn't even have a radio.

A few yards in front of them, Commerce Minister Shinzhe was making quick order of the welcoming committee. He briskly shook hands with the plant officials, then walked off toward some solar panels to hasten the tour. In less than ten minutes, he was thanking the officials and climbing back into his car.

“He's sure got ants in his pants,” Giordino said, surprised at the brevity of the tour.

“Guess he's anxious to get to Xanadu. The tour of the solar energy facility is apparently not the highlight of his visit.”

Pitt and Giordino scrunched down in their seats as the motorcade looped around the facility and passed right by them on the way to the gate. Pitt then started the car and quickly caught up to the third Toyota in line.

The caravan rumbled east out of Ulaanbaatar, curving past the Bayanzurkh Nuruu Mountains. Mount Bayanzurkh, one of four holy peaks that surround Ulaanbaatar like points on a compass, capped the range. The scenic mountain peaks gradually gave way to rolling empty grasslands that stretched treeless as far as the eye could see. This was the famous Asian Steppe of historical lore, a swath of rich pasture-lands that spanned central Mongolia like a wide, green belt. Stands of the thick summer grass rippled like waves on the ocean under a stiff breeze that blew across the open range.

The lead vehicle followed an uneven paved road, which eventually turned to dirt, then transgressed into little more than a pair of ruts through the grassland. Driving at the back of the pack, Pitt was forced to navigate through a dirty haze kicked up by the other vehicles and magnified by the dust-laden winds.

The caravan traveled to the southeast, bounding across the grass-covered hills for another three hours before ascending a small cluster of mountains. At a nondescript iron gate, the delegation turned onto another road, which Pitt noted was professionally groomed. The road climbed several miles up the mountain before skirting a ridge and approaching a fast-moving river. An aqueduct had been built off the river and the caravan followed the cement-lined waterway as it twisted around a tight bend and approached a high-walled compound. The aqueduct continued up to the compound, running underneath its facing stone wall near a single-arched entryway. Two guards wearing bright silk
dels
stood on either side of a massive iron gate blocking the entrance. As the vehicles slowed to a stop in front of the gate, Pitt contemplated their next move.

“You know, we probably don't want to join the party for the grand entrance,” he said.

“You never were one to fit in with the crowd,” Giordino remarked. “Do you know if the other Mongol escorts are aware that we replaced their pals for the afternoon?

“I don't know. And I guess there is no sense in finding out.”

Giordino gazed toward the entrance, then squinted. “Car problems?” he asked.

“I was thinking a flat tire.”

“Consider it done.”

Slipping out the passenger's door, Giordino crawled beside the front tire and removed the valve stem cap. Jamming a matchstick into the stem, he waited patiently as a rush of air whistled out of the valve. In a few seconds, the tire deflated to the ground and he screwed the cap back on. Just as he climbed back into the jeep, the iron gate was shoved open at the front of the line.

Pitt followed the line of cars as they entered the compound but stopped at the gate as one of the guards gave him a cross look. Pitt pointed toward the flat tire and the guard looked, then nodded. Barking something in Mongolian, he motioned for Pitt to turn right after he entered the compound.

Pitt made a show of limping slowly behind the other cars as he quickly surveyed the complex. The ornate marble residence was directly ahead, fronted by the manicured garden. Pitt had no idea what the real Xanadu looked like centuries ago, but the structure before him was spectacular in its own right. Plenty of pageantry was on display for the minister as a pair of escorts riding snow white horses led the procession to the front portico. A Chinese flag blew stiffly on a mast adjacent to an arrangement of nine tall wooden poles. Pitt noticed that a chunk of white fur resembling a foxtail dangled from each pole top. As the procession approached the residence, Pitt strained to identify Borjin among the greeting party on the porch but he was too far away to see any faces.

“Any sign of Tatiana in the welcoming committee?” he asked as he began wheeling the car out of line and toward the building on the right.

“There's at least one woman standing on the porch, but I can't make out if it is her,” Giordino said, squinting through the wind-shield.

Pitt guided the car toward the garage and drove through its open bay doors. The flat tire flopped loudly on the concrete floor as he brought the car to a stop beside a segregated bay flanked with tool chests. A grease-stained mechanic in a red baseball cap came running over, yelling and waving his arms at the jeep's occupants. Pitt ignored the man's ravings and flashed a friendly smile.

“Pfffft,” he said, pointing toward the flat tire.

The mechanic walked around the front of the car and examined Giordino's handiwork, then looked through the windshield and nodded. He turned and walked to the end of the bay, returning a moment later with a floor jack.

“Might be a good time to take a walk,” Pitt said, climbing out of the car.

Giordino followed him as they walked toward the open garage door, then stopped as if to mill about while waiting for the tire to be repaired. But rather than watch the mechanic, they carefully scrutinized the interior of the garage. Several late-model four-wheel drives were parked in front, while the rest of the building was filled with large trucks and some excavating equipment. Giordino rested his foot on a maintenance cart parked by the door and studied a dusty brown panel truck.

“The enclosed truck,” he said quietly. “Looks a lot like the one at Baikal.”

“Indeed, it does. How about the flatbed over there?” Pitt said, motioning to a cab and flatbed sitting nearby.

Giordino glanced at the truck and flatbed, which were empty save for some canvas and ropes strewn over one side.

“Our mystery prize?”

“Perhaps,” Pitt replied. He peered across the grounds and then at the building next to the garage.

“We probably have some temporary immunity around here,” he said, nodding toward the building. “Let's take a walk next door.”

Proceeding as if they knew where they were going, they strolled to the brick building next door. They passed a large loading dock and walked through an adjacent glass entry door. Pitt expected to find a reception area, but the entrance led instead into the middle of a large work bay that opened onto the empty dock. Test equipment machines and electronic circuit boards were scattered around several workbenches, being tinkered with by a pair of men in white antistatic lab coats. One of the men, who had small birdlike eyes set behind wire-rimmed glasses, stood and looked at Pitt and Giordino suspiciously.

“Stualét?”
Pitt asked, recalling the Russian word for “toilet” that he picked up in Siberia.

The man studied Pitt for a moment, then nodded and pointed down a corridor that ran from the center of the room. “On the right,” he said in Russian, then sat down and resumed his tinkering.

Pitt and Giordino walked past the two men and turned down the corridor.

“Impressive language skills,” Giordino said quietly.

“Just one of the nearly five words I know in Russian,” Pitt boasted. “I just recalled Corsov saying that most Mongolians know a smidgen of Russian.”