The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan

by P. B. Kerr

  They smelled it before they saw it. And heard it, too. Hundreds of loudly belching, enormously smelly camels in a square the size of a football field. Flies, dust, and argument filled the air as gesticulating traders and their apparently indifferent customers haggled to buy and sell the strange-looking animals that patiently awaited their fate. This was not always to be a humpbacked beast of burden; here and there were hawkers carrying mountainous trays of camel livers — a local delicacy — to be eaten raw, or, even more deliciously, coated with peanut sauce.

  Just to look at these trays and catch the strong smell of the meat in her delicate, young nostrils made Philippa feel like throwing up; once or twice she had to bury her face in the silky depths of her Afghan clothes to escape the pungent stink of liver. And it was fortunate that Nimrod was in a hurry as he might otherwise have eaten some of this camel liver of which once he had been extremely fond; or worse, obliged his nephew and niece to eat some, too.

  As it was, he took several cups full of doh, which is the national drink of Afghanistan and made of yogurt, lemon juice, club soda, mint, and salt.

  John took one look into a glass proffered by Nimrod and, disliking any drink on principle that looked like snot, he decided against tasting it.

  “Besides,” he said, “it sounds more like a swear word than a drink. Like the sound you’d make if someone had just stepped on your toe.” He glanced down at his feet. “Which, in these sandals, would be kind of painful.”

  Nimrod grimaced. “And I thought Groanin was picky about what he’d eat and drink.”

  John smiled. “I expect the first thing he did when he got back to Manchester was make a cup of tea.”

  Nimrod frowned for he felt incomplete without his butler. “Yes, I shall miss his tea. No one, not even me or Mr. Rakshasas, could ever make tea like Groanin. In that respect, at least, the man was a genius.”

  “Followed by a large plate of sausages with fried eggs and buttered toast,” said John. “And maybe some trifle for — what did he call dessert again?”

  “Afters,” said Philippa. “And stop it, John. You’re making me feel hungry.”

  “Me, too,” said Axel. “I’m not keen on raw liver.”

  “Don’t know what you’re missing.” Speaking the local dialect of Pashto, which is the main language in Afghanistan, Nimrod began to inquire of the local camel traders if the Bilharzia family were still in the business of selling used dromedaries.

  Finally, he was directed along to a group of handsome-looking men seated on the ground and leaning on their camel saddles. Of these men, one was taller and more distinguished than all the rest; he had a white beard, blue eyes, and a nose like a catalina macaw’s beak. In his hand was a long length of cane with which he tapped the ground in front of him; from time to time, he would use this cane on the thickest part of a camel’s neck to make it kneel down or stand up to be inspected by a prospective buyer.

  Nimrod bowed politely and inquired if he was speaking to Mr. Bilharzia and, having established he was, Nimrod explained the purpose of his mission: “Many years ago, about one hundred and fifty years ago to be more precise, I believe that your ancestor Ali Bilharzia owned a saddle and a bridle of great antiquity and value, which were themselves more than five hundred years old and that had adorned Dunbelchin, the famous camel that once belonged to the sons of Genghis Khan.”

  Mr. Bilharzia frowned. “Who told you such a wicked lie?”

  “This is what was written in a book by a man called Sidi Mubarak Bombay,” said Nimrod.

  “I have heard of this book,” admitted Mr. Bilharzia. “But I have not read it myself. This is the book that was written with the collaboration of Henry Morton Stanley, was it not? The famous British explorer.”

  Nimrod nodded.

  “This Stanley,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “I have heard that he was a great liar. That many things of which he himself wrote were not true. That he never said ‘Doctor Livingstone, I presume’ and other things like that. So perhaps this man, Bombay, inspired by his friend Stanley, felt that he, too, could be similarly cavalier with the truth. Of course, this is true of all writers of books, to some extent. They are all wicked people who would never let the facts obstruct the telling of a good story. After all, there is only one book that is completely true and that is the holy Quran.”

  Nimrod bowed again. “Forgive me,” he said. “It was my mistake, Mr. Bilharzia.”

  “My family has been in the business of selling camels for many centuries,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “And I tell you that there never was any such camel as the one you mention. What was the name again?”

  “Dunbelchin,” said Nimrod.

  Mr. Bilharzia shook his head. “No such camel called Dunbelchin ever existed. Or was ever stolen. Nor was there any such saddle or bridle that belonged to Genghis Khan, as you describe. No, sir, you have been cruelly misinformed.”

  Nimrod bowed again. “Please forgive the intrusion, sir,” he said. “It was my mistake.”

  “You should be very careful making such allegations,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “Perhaps you have not heard of the Darkhats. A dangerous clan of fanatics who claim descent from nine of the wicked Khan’s generals and closest followers. For more than seven hundred years they have guarded his memory and I do not think it possible that they could allow any man not of their clan to remain in possession of the great and priceless treasures you describe. I think that they would cut many throats for such a bridle and saddle.” He smiled. “That is, always supposing that they even existed.” He stretched for a moment. “Myself, I have always believed that they were nothing more than the stuff of legends.”

  “Quite,” said Nimrod.

  “As for Dunbelchin, I believe she was not a white dromedary camel, but a Bactrian camel, with two humps rather than one. And as you can see, I only sell dromedaries. My family has only ever sold dromedaries. Bactrians are quite outside my family’s expertise.”

  Nimrod bowed and made his apologies again and withdrew. John, Axel, and the professor followed at a respectful distance.

  Philippa shooed away someone who wanted to buy Moby, and hurried after them.

  “So what did he say?” said the professor. What with his mask, and the little cloth grille in his chadri, the professor almost had to shout to make himself heard.

  “He said he’d never heard of Dunbelchin,” said Nimrod. “And then said she wasn’t a dromedary but a Bactrian.”

  “So he was lying,” said John.

  “I think so. In fact, I’m more or less sure of it. He denied that the saddle and bridle of Genghis Khan existed, too. Having also described them as great treasures. A most evasive man was our Mr. Bilharzia.”

  “So what happens now?” asked Axel. “We can’t make him tell the truth.”

  “Oh, yes we can,” said Nimrod. “I can. And I will. There’s no time to be subtle with this man. But I’m not going to do it here. Not in the middle of the camel market. That would be unwise. Especially now that I’ve confirmed the existence of these Darkhats.”

  “So how are you going to make him talk?” said the professor. “Are you going to torture him?” Nimrod looked horrified. “Certainly not. There are other ways of getting the truth out of people. I shall simply make him cough it up of his own free will. Well, almost free.”

  “You mean you’re going to use a quaesitor binding, don’t you?” John grinned. “Cool.”

  Nimrod shot his nephew an uncomfortable look. “I take no pleasure in this, John. And neither should you. I dislike using this kind of extreme djinn binding, but he gives me really no choice in the matter.”

  “So let me do it,” said John. “I’ve never used a quaesitor on someone.”

  Nimrod stayed silent, thinking about it, and wondering if he could trust his nephew to get this right.

  “Come on,” pleaded John. “Please. You know I could use the practice. You were going to show us how to fly a carpet and you never did. And as our uncle you’re supposed to be teaching us how to do djinn
stuff, remember?”

  “Very well,” said Nimrod.

  John punched the air. “Yes,” he said. “That’s fantastic. This is going to be fun.”

  “Sometimes, John,” said Philippa, “I worry about you.”

  CHAPTER 22

  VERBAL DIARRHEA

  Later that evening, Mr. Bilharzia was followed home through a series of military checkpoints by Nimrod and the others who, speaking fluent English and equipped with the kind of impeccable documentation that only Nimrod’s djinn power could provide, were quite above suspicion in the eyes of the mostly British soldiers guarding the city.

  The camel dealer’s house, a three-story neocolonial villa, was located in the southwest of Kandahar, which is the richest part of the city. Only half finished, it was still quite habitable with an enormous kitchen and a television room with all the latest equipment. At the rear of the house was an empty camel-shaped swimming pool, some stables, and a garage full of expensive cars. On one side of the house was a large poppy field, and on the other side, a large expanse of grass where several of Mr. Bilharzia’s more expensive beasts were grazing. The front of the house was protected by several barbed-wire fences and a pack of almost-wild guard dogs.

  “So how are we going to get past all of this security?” asked the professor.

  “QWERTYUIOP,” said Nimrod, and the fences disappeared. And as soon as the fence disappeared all of the guard dogs simply ran away. “That’s how.”

  “Oh, right,” said the professor. “Well, that’s one way. Yes.”

  Nimrod led the way up the front door and rang the doorbell. It was clear that no one was expecting visitors because instead of the door opening, all of the lights inside the house were immediately extinguished, as if Mr. Bilharzia was frightened of whoever might be standing outside his house.

  “I don’t think they’re feeling hospitable tonight,” observed Philippa.

  A shot rang out and they all ducked as something zipped over their heads.

  “Or any other night.”

  “Yes, that was foolish, wasn’t it?” said Nimrod. “I should have remembered that Kandahar isn’t at all like Kensington, where the inhabitants don’t mind when people ring their doorbells. Well, most people, anyway. In Kensington, we’re never very keen on unemployed miners selling dishcloths and tea towels. Or shifty types selling bargain-priced garden furniture. Or young ruffians singing half a verse of just one carol at Christmas. And I’d certainly prefer it if religious people of any persuasion never ever rang my doorbell.”

  Another shot rang out and this one seemed to come closer than before, as if the hidden gunman’s aim was improving.

  “Perhaps,” said the professor, “you might tell us this another time.”

  “Please, do something,” said Axel. “Before we get shot.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Nimrod.

  He murmured his focus word again and a square of bulletproof glass (effective against all 7.62-millimeter armor-piercing ammunition) appeared around them like an invisible cage.

  “There,” he said. “That should keep us safe while I open this door.” He turned the handle. “Which appears to be locked. No matter.” He sighed and shook his head. “You know, I’m using rather a lot of power these days, much more than I feel comfortable with; but I can see no alternative if we’re going to be in time to save the world from itself.”

  “Let me, Uncle,” said Philippa, and muttering her latest focus word, PARASKAVEDEKATRIAPHOBIA (Philippa was always changing her focus word), which, as any fool knows, means having an abnormal fear of Friday the thirteenth, the door came off the hinges and fell like a drawbridge onto the marble floor with a loud bang.

  “Thank you, Philippa,” said Nimrod.

  Advancing into the main hallway of the house, Axel found a big Maglite on a shelf by the door — because there are frequent power cuts in the city of Kandahar — and switching it on, aimed a thick beam of light ahead of them.

  They were met by the sight of Mr. Bilharzia and his large family cowering in a corner and begging for mercy.

  “Please,” shouted the camel dealer. “Don’t hurt us.”

  “My dear fellow, I have no intention of hurting you or your family,” said Nimrod. “But do kindly tell whoever it is who was shooting at us to desist forthwith, before someone really does gets hurt.”

  “It’s my twelve-year-old son, Sirhan,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “He is upstairs with a rifle.”

  Mr. Bilharzia shouted up the stairs and finally a boy came onto the landing. He was wearing a long, white galabiya and carrying an automatic rifle. His father barked an order at him and Sirhan laid the rifle on the floor.

  “And do put the lights back on,” said Nimrod.

  Mr. Bilharzia flicked a switch that returned all the electric lights.

  “Thank you,” said Nimrod.

  “You’re the man who was looking for the saddle of Genghis Khan,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m afraid I really do need some urgent answers to questions of an ungulate nature,” said Nimrod.

  “Ungulate? You mean camel.”

  “I most assuredly do.” Nimrod smiled at his niece and then the professor. “Ladies? Why don’t you take Mrs. Bilharzia and her children upstairs and keep them company while John and I and Axel ask Mr. Bilharzia some questions.”

  “I have nothing to say,” said Mr. Bilharzia. “About anything. And certainly nothing about any camels, or saddles, or bridles that were once owned by Genghis Khan. I don’t know anything.”

  Nimrod was staring at a mural — a copy of an Indian Mughal painting depicting the funeral procession of Genghis Khan and the murder of all those who had observed it.

  “Oh, I think you do,” insisted Nimrod.

  He turned to examine a very old portrait of a white camel; it was encased with silver and resembled nothing so much as a religious icon.

  “Is this a picture of Dunbelchin?”

  “Really, I know nothing.”

  “Well,” said Nimrod, “we’ll soon see, won’t we?”

  “What do you mean? You said that you weren’t going to hurt us.”

  “True,” said Nimrod. “And I give you my word that it won’t hurt a bit.”

  When Philippa and the professor had taken Mr. Bilharzia’s family upstairs, Nimrod led him to the dinner table where the four of them sat down.

  “What won’t?”

  “My young nephew’s quaesitor,” said Nimrod. “It’s a djinn binding that’s designed to find out the thing you find most unpleasant and then make it appear in your mouth until you start to tell the truth. My nephew here really detests vegetables. Which I don’t think are so bad.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” said John.

  “But I’ve seen all sorts of horrible things coming out of people’s mouths. Cockroaches, rats, snakes, spiders. So what’s it to be? Regurgitation or reality? Verbals or vomit. The truth or the taste of something you find vile.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “One last time: everything you know about Dunbelchin and the saddle or else you’ll have to eat your words.”

  Mr. Bilharzia was not convinced. He shook his head and squeezed his lips tight, as if defying Nimrod and John to do their worst.

  “I regret this,” confessed Nimrod. “Really I do.”

  Mr. Bilharzia swore in Pashto.

  “John?” Nimrod glanced at his nephew. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  John nodded and placed a finger quickly on the camel dealer’s mouth just to help with the binding, and then he spoke his word of power. “ABECEDARIAN.”

  Nimrod nodded. “Right. First of all. Do you speak English?”

  “Yes, I speak English,” said Mr. Bilharzia, speaking English. “Why?”

  “It’s just to help my nephew,” said Nimrod. “He doesn’t speak Pashto. Which means his binding doesn’t, either. It’s very much to your benefit that his quaesitor can tell the difference between a trut
h and a lie.”

  Mr. Bilharzia swore again, only this time in English.

  “Oh, dear, it would appear that something horrible is already emerging from your mouth,” observed Nimrod. “Let your next words be truthful, clean ones, or endure the taste of something truly abhorrent. Now then: Tell us everything you know about Dunbelchin.”

  Mr. Bilharzia was about to swear again but found something coming up his windpipe that was squarely in the way of the bad word. He gagged a little and finding the object now in his mouth, let it plop onto the palm of his outstretched hand.

  The object was round and greenish brown and about the size of a small bread roll. John had no idea what it was. But Mr. Bilharzia recognized it instinctively.

  “Camel dung,” he said with horror.

  “That seems appropriate,” said Nimrod. “Given your potty mouth.”

  John snorted with horror. “That is so disgusting,” he said. “I couldn’t ever have thought of that on my own.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, John,” said his uncle. “That’s the great thing about the quaesitor. It does all of the nasty work for you.”

  “Aieee!” Mr. Bilharzia choked again, spat, and with his tongue, pushed another piece of camel dung out of his mouth. “Horrible! Horrible! Horrible!”

  “Odd, don’t you think, John?” said Nimrod. “That a camel dealer would find the animal’s dung so disgusting? You’d think he was used to it by now.”

  “Used to seeing it and sniffing it, maybe,” agreed John. “But not eating it. Yeeugh. Can’t imagine how gross that must taste.”

  “I can’t agree, given that a camel is vegetarian,” said Nimrod. “The dung would be so much less palatable if camels were meat eaters.”

  “Yeeugh,” said John, horrified at the effect his quaesitor was having on Mr. Bilharzia.

  Nimrod was no less horrified than his nephew.

  “I really don’t like this sort of thing at all,” said Nimrod, shaking his head. He sighed loudly. “But, given all of the circumstances, I suppose it can’t be helped.”