The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan

by P. B. Kerr

  John shrugged.

  “I expect the Americans were lending it to the Italian Army,” said John. “For a NATO exercise. After all, we’re all on the same side these days, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, we are,” Nimrod said firmly. “And right now, in more ways than one. We need to make a start in the lab. Before these lava samples get too hard to cut.”

  “You’re right,” agreed the professor. “There is no time to lose. Because I’m afraid our rock saw is not as sharp as it could be.”

  Philippa smiled at her brother. “It sounds like you and it have something in common.”

  CHAPTER 6

  TOOTSI FROOTSI

  Alone in his crummy room at the First Grand Imperial Britannia Hotel, Groanin did not enjoy his roast beef dinner. He took one look at the grisly plate on the trolley in front of him and knew without touching one congealed mouthful that the food he had ordered was quite inedible; however he was feeling a little guilty concerning the way he had spoken to Angus, the hotel receptionist, and the fuss he had made about having “proper English food” and now he was hesitant to pick up the phone and complain, which had been his first instinct.

  No more did he want to injure the feelings of the poor chef. As someone who had often cooked for Nimrod, Groanin was well aware of how hurtful a customer complaint could be to those in service, and instead of just leaving the food uneaten, he decided to go the extra mile and to dispose of it in some thoughtful way. It was fortunate — for this purpose, if nothing else — that Groanin’s second-floor room was immediately over the garbage at the back of the hotel and he was easily able to lean out of his grimy window and sweep the entire contents of his plate straight into an open trash can, where a family of rats ate them later.

  Following a decent interval, during which time it was possible he might actually have eaten the dinner, Groanin telephoned room service and told the switchboard operator that someone could come and remove the dinner trolley; a few minutes later, Angus himself, all smiles now, turned up at his hotel room door.

  “Everything all right?” the Scotsman asked Groanin.

  “Er, yes, it was very nice,” said Groanin.

  “There’s nothing like a nice roast, is there, sir?”

  Groanin nodded and restrained himself from telling the Scotsman that what had appeared on his plate had indeed been nothing at all like a nice roast. What would have been the point? The man was a Scot. In Groanin’s opinion, good food and the Scots were at opposite ends of life’s restaurant.

  “Can I get you anything else?” asked Angus.

  “Er, no, that was quite sufficient,” said Groanin. “I’m going to bed now. And you can forget the English breakfast. Or for that matter, the Scottish one. In the morning I shall only require transport to the station.”

  “I’m afraid that all the trains in southern Italy have gone on strike,” explained the Scotsman as he wheeled the dinner trolley toward the door.

  “Don’t say they’re affected by the volcano, too?”

  “No, no. They want more money, that’s all. And they’re going on strike in order to take advantage of the fact that there are no planes flying.”

  “Very Machiavellian, I’m sure,” said Groanin. “In which case I’d better have a taxi driver who’s prepared to take me to Rome.”

  “Very well, sir. Good night, sir. Sleep well, sir.”

  “Yes, I think I shall, you know. I said, I think I shall. One way or another, it’s been a most tiring, tiresome day.”

  The Scotsman closed the door behind him and rubbed his hands with malicious glee.

  “Sleep well, you fat Sassenach,” he said, and laughing at his soon-to-be-realized good fortune, Angus pushed the trolley into the elevator. “Sleep well.”

  It was fortunate that Groanin had not eaten his dinner because Angus had drugged it with a powerful sleeping draft. Somewhere in the wee small hours of the morning he intended to let himself into the insensible English butler’s room and steal the bag of cash that John’s djinn power had created for him.

  Groanin ate a couple of bags of potato chips from the minibar and watched TV, which was how he learned that several other European volcanoes were also showing signs of new activity: the Montañas del Fuego on Lanzarote, Hekla in Iceland, and near the Greek mainland, Santorini. There was no doubt about it, he thought. He had to reach Rome as soon as possible to get on a flight for Manchester, otherwise he faced being stranded in Europe for the rest of the summer as the effects of the strike and the volcanoes started to bite.

  This thought — about the effects of something starting to bite — prompted Groanin to remove his false teeth, and, having placed these in a large vodka and tonic, he went straight to bed.

  Despite the soporific effects of David Copperfield, Groanin slept only lightly that night, and just before dawn he awoke to hear furtive movement in his room, which was full of light coming through the threadbare curtains from the street-lamp outside his window. Opening one eye, he saw a figure with his money bag creeping toward the door. Groanin did not hesitate. He reached for a weapon and the first weapon that came, instinctively, to hand was his silver-framed picture of Her Majesty the Queen. Hurling it hard across the room like a Frisbee, the picture struck Angus squarely on the back of the head and knocked him out, but not before it had shattered into several pieces.

  Groanin switched on the bedside light, collected his false teeth, drank the vodka and tonic, leaped out of bed, and looked sadly at the scene that now met his eyes.

  Angus groaned loudly and rubbed the back of his red-haired head.

  “I am so sorry,” Groanin said to the picture. “I’d have given anything to have avoided that, Your Majesty. That you should be used as a projectile to bring down a light-fingered Scotsman. The indignity of it. The sheer disrespect of it takes one’s breath away. But in the heat of the moment, I took hold of the first thing and hurled it. I am so, so sorry.”

  He kicked the bag to the opposite side of the room and then picked up the pieces of the picture. He nodded at the woman in the photograph and placed her and the silver frame and the cardboard slip on the edge of his bed.

  “That’s all right,” said Angus. “Not much harm done, I think.”

  Groanin bent down and flicked the Scotsman’s pink ear very hard.

  “Ow!” said Angus.

  “No one’s talking to you, Rob Roy MacGregor. Except perhaps the police when I’ve telephoned them.”

  He picked up the telephone and started to dial.

  “Please, sir. Have pity on me. I’ve a police record and they’ll throw the book at me this time. I’ll be deported, for sure.” Angus rolled over and adopted a begging position, consistent with someone asking for mercy.

  Groanin stopped dialing. Being an ex-thief himself, he disliked the idea of turning someone in to the police; if Nimrod hadn’t been such a forgiving sort, he might have gone to prison himself, too. Could he do any less than forgive this worthless man? He put down the phone and picked up the Scot. One of the butler’s arms had been created with djinn power and as a result was superstrong. Mostly it came in handy for picking up Nimrod’s heavy suitcases and it was rare that the butler ever used it in an intimidating way. But this was the arm he used now to slowly lift the thieving Scot up to the ceiling.

  Which was very intimidating. The Scotsman squealed loudly, as his head brushed the ceiling light.

  “Count yourself lucky I’m the forgiving sort,” said Groanin.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Groanin looked at his watch. It was five o’clock and there seemed little point in going back to bed now.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “Get me a cab and we’ll call it quits.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

  Groanin carried Angus to the telephone and put him down; immediately the Scotsman dialed a number and spoke in Italian. This happened several times. Finally, Angus confessed that there were no taxis to be had in the whole of Naples.

  “Because of the rail stri
ke,” he explained.

  “You’d better find me some transport to Rome and pronto,” growled Groanin, “or you’ll find there’s no shortage of police cars prepared to come and ferry people to jail.”

  “Yes, sir,” squealed Angus, and once again he picked up the telephone.

  Half an hour later, Angus put down the phone with a look of relief.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ve got someone who’s prepared to take you to Rome. It’s not what you’d call a car, exactly, but I promise you it’s all there is this morning.”

  “If it’s not a car, what is it?”

  “A van,” said Angus. “The driver’s name is Bruno Tattaglia. Turns out Bruno was going to Rome, anyway. To visit his mother. You won’t have to pay him anything. He’s doing this as a favor to me.”

  Groanin nodded. “A van will have to do, I suppose.”

  “You promise you won’t call the police?”

  “If this van turns up, yes, I promise. But if it doesn’t, you’re cell meat.”

  An hour later, Groanin and Angus were standing outside the front of the hotel beside the butler’s leather suitcase and waiting on his ride to Rome.

  “Where is this blighter?”

  “This is him coming now, sir.”

  A cheeky jingle heralded the arrival of a pale blue van at the front of the hotel. On the roof of the van was a large cone from which a scoop of ice cream seemed to have melted over the side while the black-and-white seats inside appeared to have been upholstered in the skin of a dairy cow. The name on the van said TOOTSIE FROOTSIE GELATI.

  “It’s a flipping ice-cream van,” protested Groanin. “I’ve a good mind to turn you into the police after all, you impudent rascal.”

  “Honestly, sir, it’s the only transport I could find.” Angus shrugged. “Perhaps, if you gave me more time, I could find a suitable replacement, but today of all days —”

  “It’ll have to do,” said Groanin. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  The van pulled up, the jingle stopped, the window came down, and the driver leaned out.

  He was a big man with short, gray hair, an ample stomach, and bulging, bullfrog eyes. He spoke with a voice that sounded like crushed charcoal. Groanin thought he was rather frightening for an ice-cream man. He couldn’t imagine too many children buying ice cream from a man who looked more like a pro wrestler. And not just any wrestler but the bad wrestler, the evil, win-at-all-costs sort of wrestler.

  “Is this the English?” asked Bruno.

  “Yes,” said Angus. “This is him.”

  “Andiamo,” said Bruno. “We go. You put your bag in the back, English. Then ride shotgun, in the front. Okay?”

  Groanin put his suitcase in the back as ordered and then got into the van alongside Bruno. As they moved away from the hotel, the jingle played again.

  Minutes later, they were driving north on the autostrada, toward the Italian capital city of Rome.

  It was several more minutes before Groanin noticed the shotgun behind his seat, and several more minutes after that before he had worked up the courage to mention it to Bruno himself. But not right away. He decided to come at the subject from the side, by first talking about music which, it’s said, soothes the savage beast and even on occasion persuades him to buy ice cream.

  “Er, that tune your van plays,” he says. “Sounds familiar. What is it?”

  “It’s called ‘Parla Più Piano.’ You like it, English?”

  “Very much I like, yes. Very soothing and romantic, is that music.”

  “Is very Italian, too.”

  “Yes. It is. It’s the sort of music that makes you think of summer and flowers and friendly Italian people and good food and happy families. The kind of music that makes you wonder why a man should choose to keep a shotgun in an ice-cream van.”

  Bruno shrugged. “I can hardly ask you to ride shotgun in my van without a shotgun, English. What kind of man do you think I am?”

  It was now that Groanin noticed that Bruno was wearing a bulletproof vest. It was black with a little green crocodile logo on the breast pocket.

  “You mean ride shotgun like in them old Westerns?” said Groanin. “You’re joking, aren’t you? There aren’t any Native Americans on the autostrada.”

  “Is not Native Americans we got to watch out for.” Bruno laughed. “But I think maybe you can relax until we get to Rome, English. We get no trouble until then.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Ice cream in Rome is controlled by Mafia. Ice cream in Naples is controlled by Camorra. Camorra is gang like Mafia. Ice-cream people in Rome pay money to Mafia for protection. They no like Naples ice-cream people come to their city. Is bad for business. Me, I no plan to sell ice cream in Rome. But Mafia don’t know that.” Bruno shrugged. “So, you keep shotgun on lap just in case someone try to hijack van. Understand?”

  “Listen, Bruno, all I want is a ride to Rome airport.”

  “Is fine. I do you favor. But you do me a favor, too, or else I leave you here at side of road. Now you decide.”

  Groanin thought for a moment. “Very well. Since you put it like that.”

  They drove for about an hour before Bruno told Groanin that they were reaching the outskirts of Rome and to pick up the shotgun.

  Groanin did as he as he was told, cradling the weapon on his lap and certain that if they did encounter any trouble, there was no chance he was ever going to use it. Groanin had never shot anything except a rabbit or two. It was one of the advantages of working for a djinn that in matters of self-defense, guns were completely unnecessary.

  The journey might have continued being uneventful but for two unfortunate events. The first unfortunate event was that Bruno saw a pretty girl by the side of the road waving at him and so he stopped to sell her an ice cream.

  “Here, what are you doing?” said Groanin as, with the jingle playing loudly, the van drew up on the grass shoulder by the girl. “I thought you said you weren’t planning to sell any ice cream in the area of Rome. The Mafia won’t like it.”

  “I’m an ice-cream man,” insisted Bruno. “I can’t help it. Is what I do. Besides, she’s a very pretty girl.”

  This was certainly true. But, as it happened, the girl didn’t want an ice cream after all but a lift and, since the passenger seat of the ice-cream van was already occupied, Bruno felt obliged to refuse. So they drove off again, which was when they discovered the second unfortunate event, which was that the van kept on playing “Parla Più Piano” and would not stop.

  For several miles Groanin thought this was merely annoying until Bruno mentioned that the tune was considered especially irritating to the Mafia, even a little insulting.

  “Can’t you switch it off?” asked Groanin as they drove through a graffiti-covered suburb.

  “I’d have to stop the van to do that,” admitted Bruno. “And I don’t like to do that in this particular area we’re in now. Besides, I think they’re already onto us.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “There’s another ice-cream van following us. It’s been there for the last two miles.”

  Groanin leaned forward and glanced in the side mirror. Bruno was correct: A green ice-cream van was about thirty yards behind them. And even as he watched, this other ice-cream van accelerated toward them.

  “What will they do if they stop us?” asked Groanin.

  Bruno laughed grimly. “I don’t think they will buy an ice cream, English,” he said. “And maybe there’s raspberry sauce on the ground before this is over, yes?”

  “Put your foot down,” yelled Groanin. “They’re gaining on us.”

  But the green ice-cream van was more powerful than the blue one driven by Bruno and swiftly came alongside Groanin’s window.

  The driver was another very fat man with a mouth as wide as a shovel and hair so thick and black and curly it looked like a woolly hat. He grinned at Groanin and then drew his finger across one of his many double chins.

  “L
et them have it!” yelled Bruno. “The shotgun! Let them have it!”

  Groanin hardly needed telling twice. And feeling very relieved that Bruno didn’t seem to want to make a fight of it after all, he leaned out of his open window and handed the shotgun, stock first, to the driver of the other van.

  “What are you doing?” yelled Bruno.

  “You told me to let him have it,” said Groanin. “So I did.”

  “I meant you to shoot him.” Bruno cursed loudly as the other driver pointed at the roadside.

  “With the gun?” Groanin sounded shocked.

  “Now we have to stop,” said Bruno, slowing down. “Or they will shoot us.” He shrugged. “Maybe they shoot us, anyway, English. I hope you know how to pray. And I hope you know how to beg. And I hope you know how to act.”

  “Act? What are you talking about? Act.” Groanin shook his head. “I’m a butler, not some lovey-dovey thespian.”

  Bruno stopped the van, switched off the engine, and finally the jingle stopped.

  “Well, thank goodness for that,” said Groanin.

  “Your one chance is to act like you are crazy,” growled Bruno. “The Roman Mafia is very superstitious. They no like to kill crazy people. Not unless they’re politicians. So, maybe if you act crazy, they let you go.”

  “I shall do no such thing,” said Groanin. “I’m English. We didn’t get the British Empire by acting crazy in a crisis, you know. What’s required here is a bit of backbone, my Neapolitan friend. Backbone. Nerve. British stiff upper lip.”

  He put on his bowler hat and stepped out of the ice-cream van and prepared to face the enemy.

  CHAPTER 7

  ROCK ON

  The old Vesuvius Observatory, an elegant, red-ocher building in the neoclassical style, was located on the west flank of Mount Vesuvius, at around two thousand feet above sea level, in a verdant oasis of pine and ilex trees and yellow rock helichrysum flowers.