The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan

by P. B. Kerr

  “Until Genghis Khan, the Mongols were illiterate,” said Nimrod, examining the parchment in Dr. Sturloson’s hand. “They had no writing. Now Genghis Khan recognized the importance of writing but he also recognized that the Mongols could never have adopted Chinese script. Because they hated the Chinese. So Genghis had the Mongols adopt a style of writing that was an offshoot of Hebrew. And it’s still in use today in some parts of Mongolia. Which is how I can read it. And you’re right. It is like Elvish.”

  On the short flight into Naples, Nimrod read the parchment over and over and had to rehearse what he was going to tell John about it several times before he felt able to mention to him what it contained.

  “It was Genghis Khan himself who wrote this parchment,” said Dr. Sturloson/Nimrod. “Being half djinn, I daresay he knew rather more about how to counter the probable effects of the Hotaniya crystals on a volcano than the Chinese emperor Xuanzong.”

  He was silent for a minute while he thought about what he had learned from the parchment.

  “Well?” asked Rashleigh Khan/John. “Does he say that there’s a way of reversing this catastrophe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “But it won’t be easy. It won’t be at all easy.”

  “I thought not.”

  Nimrod shook Dr. Sturloson’s head. “In essence, what’s written here is the Taranushi prophecy.” He read out half of what was written on the parchment. “ ‘For when a sea of cloud arises from the bowels of the earth and turns the lungs of men to stone, the wheat in the fields to ash, and the rivers to liquid rock, then only djinn who are twin brother and sister and true children of the lamp can save the world from inflammable darkness and destruction. Just as the creation of the world was attended by the sacrifice of many human twins, so the saving of the world will require the sacrifice of one set of djinn twins.’ ”

  “Oh,” said Rashleigh Khan/John. “I was afraid you might say something like that.”

  “But at least Genghis Khan suggests just what that sacrifice might entail,” added Dr. Sturloson/Nimrod. “Which is bad, although not as bad as perhaps you might think, John, all things considered. I mean, it’s really bad, there’s no doubt about that. But it could just be worse.”

  “So, let’s hear it.”

  Dr. Sturloson/Nimrod told him what Genghis Khan had written.

  Rashleigh Khan/John let out a loud sigh. “That’s just great,” he said. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m afraid so, John.”

  “Well, that’s just great.”

  John turned Rashleigh Khan’s head in the direction of Vesuvius, which now threatened the eastern part of Naples. There were, he knew, at least a million people living in the city before the evacuation, whose houses would be destroyed if the volcano blew its top the way it had back in A.D. 79. He couldn’t let that happen.

  “It does sort of make sense, rather, I’m afraid,” said Dr. Sturloson/Nimrod. “I wish I could say it didn’t. But it does. If I’m honest, I suppose I’ve always suspected that it would require something like this.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair,” objected Rashleigh Khan/John.

  “What you’re suggesting is way more than seems reasonable, Nimrod. At least to me. If I do this. If Philippa does this. Well, it’s the ultimate sacrifice is what you’re talking here, isn’t it? For us, anyway. And what’s more, you’ve had your life. We haven’t.”

  Dr. Sturloson/Nimrod didn’t answer.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” asked the pilot.

  John wanted to tell him it wasn’t; he wanted to tell him to turn the helicopter around and go back to the yacht. After all, who would know that he wasn’t the real Rashleigh Khan? The life of a billionaire might be fun. But, of course, he didn’t.

  “Yes, everything is fine, thank you,” said Rashleigh Khan/John. “All things considered.”

  “It’s just, well, you don’t sound very much like yourself, sir,” said the pilot. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I have a summer cold,” said Rashleigh Khan/John, by way of explanation. “We both have. Don’t we, Doctor?”

  “Yes,” said Dr. Sturloson/Nimrod. He was silent for a moment as he stared out at the Tyrrhenian Sea and thought of his niece and nephew and all they had been through together. He knew this meant the end of their adventures and he allowed himself to shed a small tear.

  “Rashleigh?”

  “Doctor?”

  Nimrod collected himself and thought of something less sentimental to say, something practical. “I just wanted to say that we shall have to stay long enough at the police station to make signed confessions. So I think it may be a while before you and I can return to the hotel in Sorrento.”

  “The others will be starting to worry about us.”

  “That can’t be helped. What’s important is that we leave these two characters behind bars. It doesn’t matter if they’re themselves again, even protesting their innocence and asking to speak to lawyers, provided the police have it all on tape.”

  “Yes. I understand. I understand everything now.”

  They landed on the roof of the police station in Naples and asked to speak to some detectives, who were surprised both by the manner of their arrival, and by their apparent willingness to confess to such heinous crimes. The Commissar himself came into the interview room and took their statements and, after several hours, the two signed their confessions and were led down to the cells at which point, Nimrod and John exited these mundane bodies. Immediately after this happened, Rashleigh Khan and Dr. Sturloson began, as Nimrod had predicted, to shout for lawyers and to protest their innocence and to demand bail.

  “I’m not sure how an Italian court will view a defense of possession,” Nimrod said to John. “Then again, Mr. Khan might just argue that he should be regarded as a special case because he’s so rich. The Animal Farm defense. All animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others. I believe that sometimes works.”

  “I hope they throw away the key,” said John who, understandably, was feeling less than charitable as far as Rashleigh Khan was concerned. “I hope they sink his stupid yacht.

  I hope they — I don’t know what I hope as far as what happens to Mr. Khan is concerned, but I hope it’s something really crummy.”

  They floated out of the police station and down to the city’s ancient port.

  “It’s a long way back to Sorrento,” said Nimrod. “Perhaps a little too far to float through air. I’d suggest the local Circumvesuviana train — the one we took before — only it’s probably not running because of the eruption. So we’d better take the ferryboat to the island of Capri, and change there for the ferry to Sorrento. You’ll like Capri. It’s one of the most beautiful islands in the world.”

  John growled his doubt. In other circumstances, he might have enjoyed a trip to Capri; after all, it was where the Roman emperors had gone on vacation. But since learning from Nimrod what needed now to be done, he had quite lost his previous mirth and found that he cared nothing for the island’s famous beauty. Now all he wanted to do was return to Sorrento and enjoy one last night with Groanin and Philippa before doing — according to Nimrod’s interpretation of the parchment — what needed to be done, first thing the following morning.

  It was dark by the time they got back to the Excelsior Vittoria hotel and reclaimed their bodies, after which they found Groanin, Philippa, and the professor on the balustraded terrace, again, almost as if they had not moved from the last time. The professor and Groanin were each facing a large cup of coffee. Philippa was nursing a soft drink and holding the binoculars.

  “We’ve been watching the Schadenfreude,” said Philippa. “Waiting for something to happen. But apart from the helicopter taking off, so far nothing has.”

  “That’s what you think,” said John, and confirmed what they all suspected — that it had indeed been Rashleigh Khan who had robbed the grave of Genghis Khan, and how the yacht was full of stolen treasures inc
luding the golden box containing the Hotaniya crystals.

  “So how come the Mongolian death worm didn’t attack him?” asked Groanin. “Back on the plateau.”

  “It did,” said John. “When I was inside his body, I learned that several of his men were killed before a thick fog descended on the plateau and they managed to make their escape.”

  “Then who covered up the excavation?”

  “I rather think that must have been the Darkhats?” said Nimrod. “The special clan of Mongol tribesmen who Mr. Bilharzia spoke of and who are dedicated to keeping the grave a secret.”

  “We also found out why Rashleigh Khan is doing this in the first place,” said John. “And while I understood it during the time I was in his loathsome body and I was using his enormous financial brain, I really don’t think I understand it now because it’s all economics and stuff.”

  Nimrod explained exactly how Rashleigh Khan had hoped to use a drastic alteration in the world’s weather in order to drive the price of the world’s chocolate supplies through the roof.

  “The rich are different,” said Groanin. “Truly it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for an obscenely rich so-and-so like Mr. Khan to behave like a decent human being.” He shrugged. “I suppose that’s how they got so rich in the first place.”

  “Don’t talk to me about camels,” said Philippa. “If I never see another camel again, it will be too soon. I can still taste that Ozzy camel’s mouth. Which makes me think a piece of chocolate might be just the thing right now.”

  Groanin noticed her eyeing the chocolate lying on the saucer of his coffee cup and handed it over. “Here,” he said. “Have it. This is dark chocolate. I never much liked dark chocolate. It’s much too bitter for me.”

  “Thanks,” said Philippa, and ate it.

  “Chocolate,” remarked the professor. “It doesn’t seem possible that someone should behave with such criminal disregard for his fellow human beings over something as mundane as chocolate.”

  “I prefer milk chocolate myself,” admitted Groanin. “I say, I prefer milk chocolate. I don’t know what I’d do if it was more expensive.”

  “None of that is important now,” insisted John. “What’s important is that we’ve stopped Rashleigh Khan from pouring yet more Hotaniya crystals into the borehole between the two tectonic plates in the Mediterranean Sea. And now we have to try to reverse this catastrophe. To turn the clock back to how things were when we arrived here in Italy.”

  “If only such things as turning the clock back were possible,” said Nimrod. “Unfortunately, they’re not.”

  Of course, if he had been aware of their previous adventure, their sixth together — which he wasn’t — then he would have realized that such things are possible, in which case, there would have been nothing of which he could have been aware because it would never have happened in the first place. Time is like that and it’s only the present you can ever be really sure of.

  “So what are we going to do?” asked Philippa.

  Nimrod nodded to John who proceeded to explain to his sister what needed to be done. To John’s surprise, she seemed quite prepared for what he told her. And, in the light of Charlie’s self-sacrificing and inspiring example, more than equal to what lay ahead.

  “I told you before,” she said to him bravely. “If I’m dealt the same cards as Charlie, I hope I have the guts to do as much as he did.”

  “I can help a bit,” said Nimrod. “But only you two can do this. I think that perhaps I’ve always known that you two were marked out for some sort of special mission.”

  John nodded. “Then we’re agreed,” he said. “Tomorrow morning, we’ll go back up Vesuvius and sort things out, if we can.”

  “Yes,” said Philippa. “Agreed.” She shrugged. “I’m sort of glad, really. Honestly, I am. I mean, it’ll be hard. But so be it.”

  “I’ve something to tell you, too, Professor,” said Nimrod. “Something that’s also rather hard to hear, perhaps. But all the same, I think you ought to know about it.”

  Then Nimrod told the professor of how he and John had made the acquaintance of the professor’s wife, and how she was now in a Neapolitan prison.

  “Best place for her,” said the professor. “But, I am still married to the woman, so I suppose I’ll go to Naples and see what I can do for her. At least I will after we’ve been back up Vesuvius.”

  “What about you, Groanin?” asked Nimrod. “Are you coming tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” said the butler.

  “You didn’t come the last time we decided to go up Vesuvius,” said Philippa. “You resigned.”

  “Aye, and shall I tell you what that taught me? That you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. I learned that I didn’t know how well off I really was with you and your brother and your uncle.”

  “It could be dangerous,” said John.

  Groanin laid a hand on John’s hand and then took Philippa’s in his own. “You honestly don’t think I’d let you do this by yourselves, do you? Not after everything that we’ve been through. Hot lava couldn’t stop me from coming this time. I say, hot lava couldn’t stop me from coming this time. Nor all the fire and smoke and ash that’s in the earth. And just remember this, you two: Fortune favors the brave.”

  CHAPTER 42

  THE SACRIFICE

  The twins slept little that night. They had far too much to think about. John watched television in his room for several hours. Philippa wrote a letter to their mother, which she signed from both of them.

  They were up at seven A.M. and somehow John managed to eat a large breakfast in the hotel’s spectacular dining room. Philippa had a cup of coffee. Groanin, who had already breakfasted, shimmied into the dining room carrying a picnic hamper.

  “Just in case we have need of refreshment,” he said. “That’s the thing with climbing a mountain. It gives you an appetite without the means of satisfying it.”

  “I don’t think I shall be wanting anything to eat, Groanin,” said Philippa.

  “Me, neither,” said John. “Take it from me, the condemned man just ate a very hearty breakfast.” “I’m very glad to hear it,” said Groanin.

  The Circumvesuviana train was, as Nimrod had supposed, not running; so they hired a Land Rover locally and drove north, around the bay, to the Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio. As before, this was closed and closely guarded by several dozen policemen and, this time, it was the professor who talked their way through. Which ought to have been a little easier now that he was no longer wearing a mask, but wasn’t; it was only when he pulled his black polo-neck sweater over his head and had Groanin cut him two eyeholes that the police finally recognized him.

  They drove up the mountain to the end of the winding road, and then, leaving the Land Rover, set out to ascend the last thousand feet on foot.

  The ground was warm underneath their boots. In other places, it was a lot more than warm. Steam poured out of fissures in the rocks in a way that reminded John of a New York hot dog stand on a cold day. A strong wind was carrying a plume of ash and smoke as tall as the Empire State Building away from them as they climbed. A couple of times Groanin stopped, almost out of breath, wiped his pink forehead, and looked up at the tumbling gray cloud and tried to contain his mounting fear for the sake of the twins.

  “I feel like Pliny,” he said with a brave smile. “That Roman writer fellow who popped up here to take a look when Pompeii was first threatened with destruction. I think he was writing a book about natural history at the time and he thought that coming here might be good research, as they say.”

  “What happened to him?” asked John.

  “Er, I don’t know,” admitted Groanin. “But I do know he got married three times. And his book got published. So he must have done all right for himself. Anyone who writes a book seems to do all right for himself.” He pulled a face. “Can’t imagine it were a bestseller, though. There wasn’t much that was natural that them Romans liked.”
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br />   “It was Pliny the Younger who got married three times, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “You were thinking of Pliny the Elder. And in spite of the fact that his book was published without a final chapter, it was a great success. Indeed, it is one of the few works of Roman literature that have survived to the present day.”

  “But why no last chapter?” asked Groanin. “Did he run out of inspiration, or ink, or what?”

  Nimrod shrugged, pretending that he couldn’t remember. “I’ve forgotten,” he said. “It must have slipped my mind.” Changing the subject, he added, “You know, it’s lucky the cloud is blowing the other way, so that we can enjoy the view. Local people come and get married up here, you know. Because of this marvelous view.”

  The professor, however, wasn’t much interested in the view; he’d seen it many times before. He was much more interested in Pliny the Elder.

  “Pliny the Elder was killed,” said the professor bluntly. “Right here, on Vesuvius.” He also stopped on the narrow path for a breath, and stroked a beard that was now as bushy as Pliny’s own.

  “I suppose the poisonous gas from the volcano got him, did it?” said Groanin. “Or the lava, perhaps?” “No, he had a heart attack walking up the slope,” said the professor. “He was rather a fat man. And not very fit.”

  “Oh,” said Groanin, who was quite fat himself. “I see.”

  “But even today,” added the professor, “we volcanologists still use his name as a term for a very violent eruption of a volcano that is marked by columns of smoke and ash that extend high into the stratosphere. We talk of a Plinian eruption. Like this one.”

  Groanin smiled thinly. “How very fascinating,” he said, although in truth, he was more horrified than fascinated. “Thank you for that. I say, thank you for that.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said the professor, whose own thoughts were mostly of his poor wife. Despite what he had said the previous day, he still loved her. Love is like this, sometimes.

  Noting Groanin’s obvious disquiet, Philippa said, “Don’t worry, Groanin. It’s not far to the top now. About half an hour.”