Treasure of Khan (24 page)

Or so they thought.

A
FTER A BOUNCY FOUR-HOUR
ride across the mountains and steppes of Central Mongolia, traversing a road that barely qualified as a pair of ruts, Commerce Minister Shinzhe was convinced his trek was a wild-goose chase. There was no magic supply of oil hiding in Mongolia. He had seen not a single oil well during the entire trip. It was President Fei's fault, foolishly charging at windmills rather than accepting reality. Only Shinzhe had inherited the Don Quixote outfit.

The commerce minister waited angrily for his driver to pull up to the next
ger
, half expecting the president of Avarga Oil to welcome him on a broken-down pony. His anger and disgust softened rapidly when the dusty caravan rolled through the iron gates and into the stately compound of Tolgoi Borjin. Arriving at such an outpost in the middle of nowhere suddenly gave a jolt of credence to their journey. And pulling up to the front of the elegant residence, Shinzhe could see that Borjin was no sheepherder.

The host was dressed in a finely cut European suit and bowed deeply as Shinzhe exited the vehicle. A translator at his side relayed his greetings in Mandarin.

“Welcome, Minister Shinzhe. I trust your journey was pleasant?”

“A delight to see the beautiful Mongolian countryside,” Shinzhe replied, maintaining his diplomatic form as he rubbed dust from his eyes.

“May I present my sister Tatiana, who is our director of field operations?”

Tatiana bowed gracefully to Shinzhe, who noted she wore the same look of conceit that Borjin carried. Shinzhe smiled warmly, then dutifully introduced his entourage. He turned and admired a contingent of horsemen in warrior attire that ringed the driveway.

“I have heard much about the Mongol horse,” Shinzhe said. “Do you breed horses, Mr. Borjin?”

“Just a small stock for my security detail. I require that all my security employees be proficient in horsemanship and expert marksmen with the bow.”

“An interesting testament to the past,” Shinzhe said.

“A practical one as well. In these parts, a Mongol horse can go where no vehicle can. And some skills of warfare never lose their value. Modern technology is well and fine, but my ancestors conquered half the world with the horse and bow. I find they are still perfectly useful skills today. Please, let us escape this infernal wind and relax indoors,” Borjin said, leading the group through the front door. He then led the group down the main hallway toward the large room at the end. Admiring the array of antiques decorating the corridor, Shinzhe stopped in front of a bronze sculpture of a prancing horse. The patinated green stallion was reflected off a colorful, framed mosaic mounted on the wall.

“A lovely sculpture,” Shinzhe said, recognizing the design as Chinese. “Yuan Dynasty?”

“No, the Song Dynasty of slightly earlier,” Borjin replied, impressed with the minister's eye. “Most of the antiques in the house date from the early thirteenth century, a time of the greatest conquests in Mongol history. The tile mosaic on the wall is an ancient work from Samarkand, and the carved pedestal on which the sculpture sits is from India, circa 1200
A.D
. Are you a collector?”

“Not officially,” the minister smiled. “I possess a few modest pieces of porcelain from the Yuan and Ming dynasties, but that is all. I am very impressed with your collection. Objects from that era are not readily marketed.”

“I have an antiquities dealer in Hong Kong,” Borjin explained with a flat look.

The entourage reached the conference room at the end of the corridor. Its huge floor-to-ceiling windows normally offered an expansive view from the hilltop, but little could be seen beyond the courtyard and sanctuary just below. The strong winds obscured most of the vista with swirling dust, the distant steppes peeking through the haze at only random intervals. Borjin strolled past a sitting area with couches and a bar, leading the group to a formal mahogany table where everyone was seated.

Borjin took a seat at one end, with his back to the wall. Behind him was a wide set of shelves that displayed a medieval arsenal. A collection of ancient spears, lances, and swords lined half the wall, while several handmade composite bows and metal-tipped arrows were hung opposite. Round metal helmets spiked with horsehair plumes lined the top shelf, fronted by several round clay objects that resembled primitive hand grenades. Guarding the entire collection was a huge stuffed falcon, its wings spread ominously at full breadth. The bird's head was tilted upward and its sharp beak pried open, as if it were shrieking a final cry of death.

Shinzhe looked from the weapons to the falcon and then to the man who owned them and felt an involuntary shiver. There was something about the oil executive that was savage like the falcon. The cold eyes seemed to hint at a hidden brutality. Shinzhe imagined that his host could pull one of the spears from the wall and thrust it through a man without a second thought. As a cup of hot tea was placed before him, the commerce minister tried to dispel his feelings and focus on the purpose of his visit.

“My government has received your proposal to supply a significant quantity of crude oil to our country. The party leadership is grateful for your offer and most intrigued by the bountiful nature of the proposal. On behalf of the party, I have been asked to confirm the validity of the proposal and discuss the remuneration necessary to conclude an agreement.”

Borjin leaned back in his chair and laughed.

“Yes, of course. Why does Mongolia, nemesis to Cathay for a thousand years, suddenly desire to assist our uneasy neighbor to the south? How can a dust-laden receptacle of sand and grass, inhabited by ragtag peasants and sheepherders, suddenly materialize as a major source of natural resources? I will tell you why. It is because you made us prisoners in our own land. You and the Russians have barricaded us from the rest of the world for decades. We have become an isolated wasteland, a landlocked island of a forgotten time and place. Well, I'm afraid those days are over, Minister Shinzhe. You see, Mongolia is a rich land in more ways than one, and you didn't take the time or effort to appreciate that when you had the chance. Only now, Western companies are clamoring to come in and develop our mines and cut timber from our forests. But they are too late for the oil. For when nobody was even interested in prospecting our grounds we made the effort ourselves, and now we shall reap the rewards.”

He nodded at Tatiana, who retrieved a map from a side bureau and unrolled it in front of the Chinese minister. She plucked a pair of jade carvings from the center of the table and used them to hold open the scrolled chart.

It was a country map of Mongolia. An irregular red oval was overlaid on a section near the southeastern border, appearing like an amoeba that had drowned in a cheap Merlot. The spot stretched for nearly fifty miles, its lower end rounding alongside the border of Chinese Inner Mongolia.

“The Temujin field. A natural basin that makes your aging Daqing field look like a bowl of spit,” Borjin said, referring to China's largest oil field, which was in a state of decline. “Our test wells indicate potential reserves of forty billion barrels of crude oil and fifty trillion cubic feet of natural gas. The million barrels a day we will sell to you will be a pittance.”

“Why has such a discovery not been publicized?” Shinzhe asked with a hint of skepticism. “I have heard nothing of such a find so close to our borders.”

Borjin smiled, his teeth bared in a sharklike grin. “Few living people outside of this room are aware of the find,” he said cryptically. “My own government knows nothing of these reserves. How else do you think I was able to acquire the entire land rights to the region? There have been minor exploratory forays into Mongolia that have touched upon the oil potential, but they have all missed the primary bonanza, if you will. A proprietary technology of ours helped pinpoint the windfall somewhat by accident,” he said with a smile. “These are deep reserves, which explains in part why they were overlooked by previous exploration teams. But I need not bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that a number of test wells have provided initial confirmation of the reserve estimates.”

Shinzhe sat quietly, the color draining from his face. He had little choice but to acknowledge the reality of the vast oil field. The fact that an arrogant charlatan of questionable morality controlled it made him sick to his stomach. Shinzhe was playing a weak hand and he knew that Borjin controlled the deck.

“Having oil in the ground is one thing, but delivering it within ninety days is quite another,” the minister said soberly. “Your offer suggests we could see crude oil flowing within that time frame. I don't see how that is possible.”

“It will take some doing on your part, but it is quite feasible,” Borjin replied. Turning to Tatiana, he asked for another map from the bureau. She unrolled a second chart, which showed a map of Mongolia and northern China. A spiderweb of red lines crisscrossed the Chinese section of the map.

“The existing oil pipelines of China,” Borjin explained. “Take a look at your recently completed northeast pipeline from Daqing to Beijing, with a spur from the port terminal at Qinhuangdao.”

Shinzhe studied the map, noting a small X along a barren stretch of pipeline that ran through Inner Mongolia.

“The X is thirty kilometers from the Mongolian border and forty kilometers from a nearly completed pipeline span I am building to the border. You need only extend the pipeline from my termination to that spot on your Daqing line and the oil will begin to flow.”

“Forty kilometers of pipeline? That can't be completed in ninety days.”

Borjin stood up and paced around the table. “Come now, the Americans laid ten miles of rail track in a day constructing their transcontinental railroad in the 1860s. I have taken the liberty of already surveying the route and have the necessary pipe committed from a supplier. For additional consideration, I can also provide temporary excavation equipment. Surely for the country that has built the Three Gorges Dam, this should be child's play.”

“You seem to have considered our needs well,” Shinzhe said with veiled contempt.

“As a good business partner should.” Borjin smiled. “And, in return, my demands are simple. You will pay a per barrel rate of one hundred forty-six thousand
togrog,
or one hundred twenty-five dollars U.S. You will accede the lands of southern Mongolia, or the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region, as you inanely refer to the territory. And you will provide me a direct and exclusive pipeline to the port of Qinhuangdao, where you will provide me an off-loading port facility where I may export my excess supply of oil.”

As Shinzhe gasped at the demand, the Mongol turned and gazed out the window, watching the winds swirl like tongues of fire. A movement caught his eye and he peered down at the courtyard. Two men dressed in dark suits were sprinting across it toward the sanctuary. Borjin watched as the two figures looped around the back side of the structure, then reappeared by the entrance and ducked inside. A tightness gripped his throat as he turned to the minister.

“If you will excuse me for a moment, I must attend to an urgent matter.”

Turning his back before the minister could say another word, Borjin strode briskly from the room.

T
HE WINDS HAD DIED DOWN TEMPORARILY
, forcing Pitt and Giordino to remain under cover in the stone entryway. Pitt looked up and admired the high archway that led to the main chamber of the stone edifice. Though the construction appeared ancient, it had obviously been rebuilt or refurbished, as evidenced by the smooth and unbroken layer of mortar between the stones. Situated in the center of the courtyard, Pitt realized that the main residence was probably built around the little stone building.

“A Buddhist temple?” Giordino asked, noting the flicker of candlelight down the corridor.

“Most likely,” Pitt replied, aware that Buddhism was the predominant religion in Mongolia. Their curiosity piqued while waiting for the winds to resume, the two men moved quietly down the wide corridor and stepped into the main chamber.

Under the glow of a dozen burning torches and candles, Pitt and Giordino were surprised to find the chamber was a mausoleum rather than a temple. Though a small wooden altar was built at the far end, a pair of large marble sarcophaguses occupied either side. The tombs were made of white marble and had a modern look, suggesting the occupants had been interred within the last twenty or thirty years. Though Pitt couldn't read the Cyrillic script carved on the top slabs, he guessed they were the tombs of Borjin's mother and father, based upon Corsov's biography of the oilman.

He could not wager a guess about who lay in the centerpiece of the crypt, however. Standing on a polished marble pedestal was a carved granite sarcophagus that appeared much older. Although not massive in size, the tomb was illustrated with horses and wild animals carved across the top and sides, overlaid with paint. Though the images were clear, the paint had worn thin from aging. At the head of the tomb, nine posts rose into the air, each dangling a shock of white fur, as they had seen at the entrance to the residence.

“Somebody got a nice sendoff to the afterlife,” Giordino said, eyeing the tomb.

“The illustrious Mr. Borjin must be something of a blueblood,” Pitt replied.

Giordino looked past the sarcophagus and noted an object lying beneath the altar.

“Looks like they're going to need another coffin in here,” he said, nodding toward the object.

Overlooked as they entered the chamber, the body both men now saw was stretched out on a bench beneath the altar. Pitt and Giordino walked over and were shocked to recognize the corpse. It was Roy, half covered in a thin blanket, but with the shaft of the arrow still protruding from his chest.

“Theresa and Wofford are here,” Giordino said, his voice trailing off.

“Let's hope they haven't suffered the same fate,” Pitt said quietly, pulling the blanket up so that it covered Roy's face. As he wondered whether they might be too late, the stillness of the chamber was suddenly broken by the approaching clatter of boots on the stone floor. A second later, the two guards Pitt had spied across the courtyard burst into the mausoleum. Dressed like the guards at the front gate, they didn't appear to be carrying traditional firearms. Instead, each man clutched a wooden spear capped by a razor-sharp metal tip. A short knife in a scarab hung from their waists, while on their backs they carried a small quiver and bow. They were the weapons of war used by the ancient Mongol horse soldiers and were every bit as deadly at short range as a modern handgun or rifle.

The guards slowed as they entered the chamber until spotting Pitt and Giordino at the altar. Regaining their speed, they charged around the central crypt with their spears thrust in front of them. It was a small stroke of luck that the guards did not stop and hurl their pikes at Pitt and Giordino but instead tried to impale them at close range.

Giordino reacted first, grabbing a small wooden bench by the altar and pitching it toward the legs of the charging guards. His aim was true and the wooden seat struck the nearer man's legs hard in the shin, taking his feet out from under him. He stumbled face-first to the floor, his wooden spear rolling harmlessly to the side.

The second guard leaped over the bench like a high hurdler and continued the charge, heading straight for Pitt at full speed. Pitt stood lightly on the balls of his feet, his legs coiled and his eyes glued to the tip of the spear as he waited for the attacker to lunge. Seeming to defy reason, he stood perfectly still, providing a stable target to aim for. The guard assumed Pitt was frozen with fear and would soon be an easy kill. But Pitt waited and watched until the guard was just a step away, drawing back the spear for a lethal forward jab. With a quick thrust of his legs, he sprang to one side while reaching out with his left hand and shoving the shaft of the spear in the other direction. The guard charged past, realizing with a sudden blank look on his face that he was stabbing air. He attempted to twist the spear to the side, but he had already run the spear tip past Pitt's body. Pitt tried unsuccessfully to grab the shaft but lost his grip as the guard barreled by and swung it toward him. The side of the shaft whipped around and jammed Pitt on the shoulder as it slipped through his fingers.

Both men were thrown off balance and staggered in different directions, the guard falling across the altar while Pitt was knocked toward the crypt. Pitt quickly rolled to his feet to face his attacker, then backed up toward the stone tomb that loomed a few inches behind him. The guard was leery of Pitt now, eyeing him for a moment as he regained his balance. Tightening his grip on the spear, he took a deep breath then charged again at Pitt, his eyes locked on his prey to ensure the kill.

Pitt stood unarmed with his back to the crypt, his eyes darting about in search of a weapon. Off to the side, he saw Giordino lunge at the fallen man on the ground. Preoccupied with subduing the first guard, Giordino was in no position to offer immediate help. Then Pitt remembered the fur-tailed poles.

The nine tall wooden poles stood in individual marble base plates at the head of the tomb. Pitt quickly backed over to the poles and reached around with his right hand, covertly gripping one of the poles behind his back. The guard thought nothing of the movement, simply adjusting his angle toward Pitt as he accelerated his charge. Pitt hesitated until the guard was a dozen steps away, then quickly yanked the upright pole toward the ground in front of him. At eight feet in length, the pole easily outstretched the guard's spear. With a stunned look, the guard helplessly tried to slow his charge as he realized Pitt was lunging at him with the huge rod. Too late, the blunt end of the pole struck in his stomach, driven forward by Pitt with all his might. The shocked guard was driven off his feet before falling to one knee, gasping for air as the wind was knocked out of him. The blow pried the spear from his clawlike grip, the lance rattling across the polished floor. Ignoring Pitt, he desperately crawled toward the weapon before looking up in horror. The wooden pole had been flipped around and now the marble base was hurdling toward him like a wrecking ball. Attempting to duck, the guard was struck on the top of his skull, dropping him flat to the floor in total unconsciousness.

“No respect for a man's furnishings,” Giordino's voice grumbled as the pole and marble base crashed to the floor. Pitt looked over and saw Giordino rubbing the back of his fist as he stood over the unconscious body of the first guard.

“You okay?”

“Much better than my friend here. What do you say we get out of this box before any more Royal Lancers show up?”

“Agreed.”

The two men hustled out of the chamber, Pitt scooping up one of the loose spears on their way out. The wind whistled through the archway as they reached the entryway and peeked cautiously into the compound. The sight was not encouraging.

Two horsemen, clad in bright silk tunics and round metal helmets, sat on their mounts near the residence door, replacing the foot guards. Nearby, another guard on horseback was combing the courtyard for signs of Pitt and Giordino. Knowing nothing good would come by hanging around, the two men ducked out the opposite side of the archway under a dirty gust of wind and crept around the back side of the stone mausoleum. As they moved toward the rear of the stone structure, they could see down the right wing of the residence. Curling around the far edge of the building, they spotted a half dozen horsemen in brightly colored garb riding in their direction. Unlike the guards they had encountered so far, these men appeared to have rifles slung over their shoulders.

“Fine time for the cavalry to appear,” Giordino said.

“Just makes our exit route a little clearer,” Pitt replied, knowing they would have to quickly cross the courtyard and backtrack the way they came in order to avoid the patrol.

Reaching the covered corral at the rear of the crypt, they ducked in to cut to the other side. Winding through a maze of crates and equipment, Pitt briefly eyed the large dust-covered antique car parked in back, surprised to identify it as an early 1920s Rolls-Royce. He started to take a step over the opposite rail when a whistling sound ripped past his ear, followed by a sharp twang. He glanced to his side to see an arrow fluttering out the side of a wooden crate just inches from Giordino's head.

“Incoming,” he yelled, ducking as another arrow whistled by.

Giordino was already crouching behind a wooden barrel when the arrow slammed into a support post. “A fourth horseman,” Giordino said, peering over the top of the barrel.

Pitt looked into the courtyard and saw the horseman beside a hedge, pulling on a bowstring to fire a third arrow. Pitt was the intended target this time and he just barely slipped behind a cart before the arrow zinged by. It no sooner struck the cart then Pitt jumped to his feet and turned toward the guard. It was his turn to retaliate now. As the horseman reached over his back to draw an arrow, Pitt let fly the spear he'd carried from the crypt.

The horseman was nearly fifty feet away, but Pitt's throw held true as the lance soared toward the man in the saddle. Only a quick turn saved the guard from being impaled, but the sharpened spear still pierced flesh, striking the man's right arm above the elbow. His bow fell to the ground as he clasped the wound with his left hand to stop the flow of blood.

Pitt and Giordino's respite from attack was short-lived, however. The other three horsemen quickly closed ranks with their wounded partner and resumed the aerial barrage. On the opposite side of the corral, the galloping hoofbeats of the other patrol echoed above the shrieking wind as they too raced to the scene. Within minutes, the air in the corral was filled with a flying maelstrom of razor-tipped arrows, bursting into the wooden crates and carts with deadly force. The archers were highly skilled at their lethal talent, their arrows following Pitt and Giordino's every movement like a magnet. If not for the gusting winds, the two men would have been killed quickly. But the swirling gusts hampered the horsemen's vision, as well as deflected the flight of their arrows. For their part, Pitt and Giordino kept the attackers from approaching too closely.

Though weaponless, the two men improvised a defense as best they could. They found the wagons to be full of tools and field implements, which they turned into makeshift projectiles. Giordino was particularly proficient at heaving double-pronged picks, managing to impale one guard in the thigh with a throw while knocking another from his horse with a swirling toss. The flying picks and shovels temporarily kept the riders at bay, but the horsemen knew that they had the men trapped.

Amid the battle, the dusty winds had served as an ally to Pitt and Giordino, providing intermittent clouds of cover while distorting the archers' fire. But as if the atmospheric gods decided to take a respite to inhale, the blowing winds suddenly fell for a moment. As the dust settled and the howling ceased, the sudden calm spelled doom for the two trapped men. Readily visible in the middle of the corral, the men now had arrows flying at them in a relentless fury. Standing to fight would mean instant death and the two men dropped their tools and dove for cover. They both rolled under a large wagon, finding minimal protection behind the large-spoked wheels. A half dozen arrows buried their razor tips into the sides of the wagon just inches above their heads. From the opposite side of the corral, gunfire now erupted, as the second patrol abandoned their bows and sought to end the siege with rifle fire.

“I can do without the Custer scene,” Giordino muttered, a trickle of blood running down his cheek where a splintered arrow shaft had ricocheted. “You don't suppose they would bite at a white handkerchief?”

“Not likely,” Pitt replied, thinking of Roy. An arrow smashed into the wagon wheel beside him and he instinctively rolled away from the impact. A thin knobby protrusion struck him in the back, halting his turn. He twisted his head to find an object covered in a dirty canvas tarp sitting next to the wagon. Another wave of arrows came flying in, forcing him to crouch to the ground alongside Giordino.

“The next cloud of dust, what do you say we rush one of the horsemen on the fringe?” Giordino asked. “You grab the reins, I'll grab the rider, and we've got ourselves a mount. Only way I can see us getting out of here is to make a play for one of the horses.”

“Risky,” Pitt replied, “but likely our best chance.” Rolling onto his side to survey the perimeter, he accidentally kicked off a section of the tarp covering the object by the wagon. Giordino noticed a sudden glint sparkle in Pitt's eyes as he peeked under the tarp.

“A change of plans?” he asked.