Treasure of Khan (33 page)

“We're about finished, Captain. Dirk and I will get our things and join Jack on the barge.”

“You are still working on the wreck?” Tong asked.

“We have a final section of timber to uncover, which we believe may be part of the rudder post,” Summer explained. “If so, it will give us a better idea of the ship's dimension. The
Mariana Explorer
needs to continue a reef survey project on the other side of the island, so Dirk, Jack Dahlgren, and I are going to camp out on the barge for a few days and complete the excavation work.”

“I see,” Tong replied. “Well, thank you for sharing the recovered artifacts with me. When I return to Malaysia, I will research our museum's records and see if I can't provide you some additional information about the ceramics I have seen today.”

“Thank you for taking the time to visit us and share your insights. We are excited that you have confirmed our initial assessment of the ship's age and possible ancestry.”

Dirk and Summer quickly threw together a few personal belongings and jumped onto the barge, where Dahlgren was busily removing the ship's mooring lines. With a blast of the horn, Captain Stenseth backed the
Explorer
away from the barge and in a short while the turquoise ship disappeared around the jagged coastline heading toward Hilo.

“Well, what did you two find out about our Chinese lava ship?” Dahlgren asked, digging into a large cooler for a drink.

“Dr. Tong agrees that the age of the ceramics matches our initial readings, which put the wreck at seven to eight hundred years old,” Summer replied.

“The good doctor seemed mighty interested in the plate our lab boys thought had royal markings, though he wasn't willing to bite,” Dirk said.

“Professional jealousy, I think,” Summer grinned. “It's a royal ship, I just know it.”

“Royalty,” Dahlgren said, plopping into a canvas chair with a can of beer and hoisting his feet to the side rail. “Now, don't that beat all?”

F
IVE THOUSAND MILES TO THE
east, Pitt and Giordino tramped into the lobby of the Continental Hotel in Ulaanbaatar looking like a pair of worn saddlebags. Their wrinkled clothes were laden in dust, which permeated their hair, skin, and shoes. Sunbaked blisters tainted the portion of their faces where scraggly growths of beard failed to sprout. All that was missing was a circle of flies buzzing around their heads.

The hotel manager looked down his nose with disdain as the two stragglers approached the front desk with bleary eyes.

“Any messages for rooms 4024 or 4025?” Pitt asked, his white teeth sparkling brightly behind his blistered lips.

The desk manager raised a brow in recognition, then briefly retreated to a small side room.

“One message and a delivery, sir,” he said, handing Pitt a slip of paper and a small box plastered with overnight-shipping labels.

Pitt took the message and handed the package to Giordino while stepping away from the desk.

“It's from Corsov,” he said quietly to Giordino.

“Pray tell, what does our favorite KGB agent have to say?”

“He was called away to a Foreign Ministry conference in Irkutsk. Sends his regards, hopes our foray south was productive. He'll contact us in a few days when he gets back to town.”

“Very polite of him,” Giordino said with a touch of sarcasm. “I wonder if Theresa and Jim will have the luxury of awaiting his return.” He ripped open the overnight package, revealing an old leather book and a heavy jar of vitamins. A small card fell out, which he picked up and handed to Pitt.

“From the wife?”

Pitt nodded, silently reading the handwritten note inside.

“A book and vitamins? Not very romantic of Mrs. Pitt,” Giordino chided.

“Ah, but it is my favorite story. Always packs a wallop.” Pitt held up the leather-bound novel, displaying the spine to Giordino.

“Melville's
Moby-Dick.
A tasteful choice,” Giordino said, “though the adventures of Archie and Veronica work fine for me.”

Pitt opened the book and flipped through the pages until a cutout section revealed itself. Buried in the center of the mock book was a Colt .45 automatic.

“I see she comes with a harpoon, Ahab,” Giordino whispered, letting out a low whistle.

Pitt popped open the vitamin bottle cap, displaying a dozen or so .45 caliber rounds that matched the Colt.

“Wouldn't a congresswoman get in a bit of trouble for shipping firearms around the world?” Giordino asked.

“Only if she got caught,” Pitt smiled, sealing the bottle and closing the book.

“With a little canned heat, there's no sense in waiting for Corsov,” Giordino urged.

Pitt shook his head slowly. “Nope, I think we make for a quick turnaround. It probably wouldn't be safe lolling about here for long anyway, once Borjin fails to hear back from his Buddhist hit man.”

“A shower and a beer should aid the planning process.”

“First some facts,” Pitt said, walking to a cramped business center off the main lobby. He fished into his pocket and pulled out the silver pendant taken from Borjin's lab and laid it on a copy machine. He scribbled a note on the resulting photocopy, then fed it through an adjacent fax machine, dialing up a long-distance number by rote. He then fed the pages from the seismic-imaging manual through the fax, dialing a second number.

“That ought to keep a few pair of idle hands out of the devil's workshop,” he said to himself as he made his way up to his room.

 

T
HE EXTERIOR
of the Georgetown carriage house looked like any other upscale residence in the swanky quarter of Washington, D.C. The weathered-brick structure had freshly painted eaves, its nineteenth-century glass windows were sparkling clean, and the small surrounding yard was neatly manicured. It was a stark contrast to the home's interior, which resembled the book depository for the New York Public Library. Polished wooden bookshelves lined nearly every wall in the house, each packed to the brim with historical books on ships and seafaring. More books littered the dining table and the kitchen counters, in addition to strategic stockpiles at various locales on the floor.

The home's eccentric owner, St. Julien Perlmutter, wouldn't want it any other way. Books were a major passion for one of the nation's preeminent maritime historians, who had assembled a reference collection that librarians and private collectors salivated over. Generous with his archives, he gladly shared his knowledge and resources with those like him who had a love of the sea.

The beep and whir of a fax machine startled Perlmutter awake from an overstuffed leather chair, where he had fallen asleep while perusing the ship's log from the famous ghost ship
Mary Celeste.
Hoisting his rotund, nearly four-hundred-pound frame from the chair, he walked to his den and retrieved the fax. He stroked a thick gray beard as he read the brief note on the cover page:

“
Airag?
That's bloody blackmail,” he muttered with a grin.

Perlmutter was a grand gourmand who loved rich and exotic food, as evidenced by his immense belly. Pitt had touched a culinary nerve with a bribe of the Mongolian fermented mare's milk. Perlmutter closely examined the following fax pages, which showed the front and back side of a silver pendant.

“Dirk, I'm no jeweler, but I know who just might peg this,” he said aloud. Picking up a telephone, he dialed a number and waited for a voice to answer.

“Gordon? St. Julien here. Say, I know we had lunch scheduled for Thursday but I could use your help on something. Could you meet today instead? Fine, fine, I'll take care of the reservation and see you at noon.”

Perlmutter hung up the phone and gazed again at the image of the pendant. Coming from Pitt, that meant there was probably a wild tale behind it. Wild and dangerous.

 

T
HE
M
ONOCLE
near Capitol Hill was bustling with a workday lunch crowd when Perlmutter walked in the door. A popular haunt of Washington politicians, the restaurant was filled with senators, lobbyists, and Hill staffers. Perlmutter quickly spotted his friend Gordon Eeten in a side booth, as he was one of the few occupants not wearing a blue suit.

“St. Julien, good to see you again my friend,” Eeten greeted. A large man himself, Eeten had a humorous demeanor mixed with the observant eye of a detective.

“I see I have some catching up to do,” Perlmutter grinned, eyeing a nearly empty martini glass on the table.

Perlmutter hailed the bartender for a Sapphire Bombay Gibson, then the two men ordered lunch. As they waited for the meal, Perlmutter handed Pitt's fax to Eeten.

“Business before dining pleasure, I'm afraid,” Perlmutter said. “A friend ran across this brooch in Mongolia and would like to know its significance. Can you shed any light?”

Eeten studied the photocopies with a poker face. As an antiquities appraiser with the famed auction house of Sotheby's, he had assessed literally thousands of historic artifacts before they were put up for public auction. A childhood friend of Perlmutter's, he regularly tipped off the marine historian when a pending auction contained items of maritime interest.

“Difficult to gauge the quality,” Eeten prefaced. “Hate to give an estimate over a fax copy.”

“Knowing my friend, he could care less about its value. I believe he is more interested in its age and historical context.”

“Why didn't you say so in the first place?” Eeten replied, visibly relaxing.

“So you know what it is?”

“Yes, I believe so. I've seen something similar in a lot we auctioned a few months ago. Of course, I would have to examine the piece in person to verify its authenticity.”

“What can you tell me about it?” Perlmutter asked, taking notes in a small book.

“It appears to be Seljuk in origin. The double-headed eagle, a very unique motif, was a favored symbol of the dynasty.”

“If my memory serves, the Seljuks were a band of Turkish Muslims who briefly controlled a large chunk of old Byzantium,” Perlmutter said.

“Yes, they overran Persia around 1000
A.D
., but their power peaked about two hundred years later, before they were crushed by the rival Khwarezmid Empire under Ala ad-Din Muhammad. The Seljuks were fine artisans, particularly in carving stone, but were also skilled in metallurgy. They even minted coins of silver and copper for a time.”

“So this pendant is within their skill base.”

“Absolutely. The minute calligraphy is consistent with a Seljuk practice of inscribing an Islamic prayer or dedication on their later metalwork. There's a professor at Columbia who could translate the inscription for you, which is probably written in Kufic. Who knows, perhaps it is a personal inscription to a sultan.”

“Royalty implications?”

“Yes. You see, the Seljuks seldom used silver and gold in their artwork. The materials were regarded as luxury items and therefore inconsistent with the Islamic ideal of simplicity. Of course, the rules didn't necessarily apply to the sultans, some of whom hoarded the stuff. So if this pendant is made of silver, which it appears to be, then there's a strong likelihood of a sultan connection.”

“So we are talking Seljuk manufacture, dating approximately 1100 to 1200
A.D
., and possibly sultan pedigree,” Perlmutter summed up, scribbling in his book.

“Most likely. The items we examined and auctioned recently were part of a cache linked to Malik Shah, a Seljuk sultan who died in 1092. It is interesting that your friend found this piece in Mongolia. As I mentioned, the Seljuks were sacked by the forces of Ala ad-Din Muhammad, who in turn was defeated by Genghis Khan around 1220. This may well have been one of the spoils of war brought home by the armies of Genghis Khan.”

A waiter arrived and set their lunches on the table, a rib-eye steak for Eeten and an order of calf's liver for Perlmutter.

“Some remarkable insights, Gordon. I don't suppose a great deal of twelfth-and thirteenth-century Asian artifacts reach the marketplace very often.”

“It's a funny thing. We seldom used to see artifacts from that era. But about eight or nine years ago, we were contacted by a broker in Malaysia who had a consignment to sell and he has provided us a steady stream of artifacts ever since. I bet we have sold over one hundred million dollars' worth of similar goods in that time. And I know Christie's has been auctioning similar quantities.”

“My word. Any idea of the source of all those relics?”

“I could only speculate,” Eeten said, chewing on his steak. “The Malaysian broker is a most secretive fellow and refuses to divulge his sources. I've never even been allowed to meet the man face-to-face. But he has never shipped us anything phony. Every consignment has contained the genuine article from top to bottom.”

“Seems a little odd that kind of volume emanates from Malaysia.”

“True, but the goods could be routed from anywhere. He's just a broker. Neither he nor his firm's name even sounds Malaysian.”

“What's that?” Perlmutter asked, finishing his meal.

“An odd name. It's called the Buryat Trading Company.”