Treasure of Khan dp-19

by Clive Cussler

  "Regrettably, our microwave phone line is down at the moment. A common problem in remote regions, as you can surely understand. Once the service is restored, you will of course be free to make any calls you like."

  "Why are you locking us in our rooms like animals?"

  "We have a number of sensitive research projects in development. I'm afraid we can't let outsiders go wandering around the facilities. We can give you a limited tour at the appropriate time."

  "And if we wish to leave right now instead?" Theresa probed.

  "A driver will take you to Ulaanbaatar, where you can catch a flight to your home." Borjin smiled, his sharp teeth glistening.

  Still weary from the trip, Theresa didn't know what to think. Perhaps it was best not to test the waters just yet, she decided. "What is it that you would like us to do?"

  Reams of folders were wheeled into the study along with several laptop computers, all chock-full of geological assessments and subsurface seismic profiles. Borjin's request was simple.

  "We wish to expand drilling operations into a new geographical region. The ground studies are at your fingertips. Tell us where the optimal drilling locations would be." Saying nothing more, he turned his back and left the room, Tatiana tailing close behind.

  "This is a load of bunk," Roy muttered, standing up.

  "Actually, this looks like professionally gathered data," Wofford replied, holding up a subsurface isopach map, which portrayed the thickness of various underground sedimentary layers.

  "I don't mean the data," Roy said, slamming a file down on the table.

  "Easy, big fella," Wofford whispered, tilting his head toward the corner ceiling. "We're on Candid Camera."

  Roy looked up and noticed a tiny video camera mounted beside the smiling stuffed head of a reindeer.

  "Best we at least pretend to study the files," Wofford continued in a low voice, holding the map in front of his mouth as he spoke.

  Roy sat down and pulled one of the laptops close, then slunk down in the chair so that the opened screen blocked his face.

  "I don't like the looks of this. These people are warped. And let's not forget we were brought here at gunpoint."

  "I agree," Theresa whispered. "The whole story about trying to protect us at Lake Baikal is ludicrous."

  "As I recall, Tatiana threatened to blow my left ear off if I didn't leave the Vereshchagin with her,"

  Wofford mused, tugging his earlobe. "Not the words of someone who cares about my well-being, I should think."

  Theresa unfolded a topographical map of a mountain range and pointed out meaningless features to Wofford as she spoke.

  "And what about Dr. Sarghov? He was taken captive with us by accident. I think they may have killed him."

  "We don't know that, but it may be true," Roy said. "We have to assume the same outcome awaits us, after we have provided them the information they are looking for."

  "It's all so crazy," Theresa said with a slight shake of her head. "But we've got to find a way out of here."

  "The garage, next to the industrial building across the lawn. It was full of vehicles," Wofford said. "If we could steal a truck and drive out of here, I'm sure we could find our way to Ulaanbaatar."

  "They've got us either locked in our rooms or under surveillance. We'll have to be prepared to make a break for it on short notice."

  "Afraid I'm not up for any wind sprints or pole vaults," Wofford said, adjusting his injured leg. "You two will need to try without me."

  "I've got an idea," Roy said, eyeing a desk across the room. Making a show of looking for a lost pen among the maps, he stood and walked to the desk, where he grabbed a pencil from a round leather holder. Turning his back to the video camera, he scooped out a silver metal letter opener that was mixed in with the pencils and slid it up his sleeve. Returning to the table, he pretended to write some notes while whispering to Theresa and Wofford.

  "Tonight we'll check things out. I'll get Theresa and we'll reconnoiter the area and figure out an escape route. Then tomorrow night, we'll make our break. With the invalid in tow," he added, grinning at Wofford.

  "I'd be much obliged," Wofford nodded. "Much obliged indeed."

  -16-

  Roy awoke promptly at two a.m. and dressed quickly. Removing the letter opener from its hiding place under his mattress, he groped his way across the darkened bedroom to the locked door. He felt along the doorframe, finding the raised edges of three metal hinges that protruded on the interior side.

  Sliding the letter opener into the top hinge, he carefully pried out a long metal pin that held the interlocking hinge together. Removing the pins from the other two hinges, he gently lifted the door and pulled it into the room laterally as the exterior dead bolt popped out of the opposite doorframe. Roy then crept into the hallway and pulled the door back against the frame, so that upon a casual glance it still appeared closed and locked.

  Finding the hallway empty, he tiptoed to Theresa's room next door. Unlocking the latch, he opened the door to find her sitting on the bed, waiting.

  "You did it," she whispered, seeing his figure in the light from the hallway.

  Roy flashed a thin smile, then nodded for her to follow. They crept into the corridor and moved slowly toward the main foyer. A row of low-wattage footlights provided muted lighting along the hallway, which by all sight and sound appeared completely deserted. Theresa's rubber-soled shoes began squeaking on the polished marble floor, so she stopped and removed them, continuing on in her stocking feet.

  The foyer was brightly illuminated by a large crystal chandelier, which prompted Roy and Theresa to hug the walls and approach cautiously. Roy knelt down and scurried over to a narrow window, which fronted the main doorway. Peering outside, he turned to Theresa and shook his head. Despite the late hour, there was still a pair of guards stationed outside the front door. They would have to find another way out.

  Standing in the foyer, they found themselves at the base of an inverted T. The guest rooms had been to the left and the occupant's private rooms were presumably to the right. So they crept instead down the wide main corridor that led to the study.

  The house remained still but for an old grandfather clock ticking loudly in the hallway. They reached the study and kept moving, tiptoeing past the main dining hall and a pair of small conference rooms, all decorated with an impressive collection of Song and Jin dynasty antiques. Theresa scanned the ceilings searching for additional video camera monitors but saw nothing. A whispering sound played on her ears, and she instinctively clutched at Roy's arm until he winced in pain from her sharp fingernails. They both relaxed when they realized the sound was only the wind blowing outside.

  The corridor ended in a large open sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides. Though there was little to be seen at night, Theresa and Roy could still sense the dramatic view offered from the mountain perch, which overlooked the rolling steppes of the valley below. Near the entrance to the room, Roy spied a carpeted stairwell that ran to a lower level. He motioned toward the stairs and Theresa nodded, following him quietly. The thick carpet was a welcome relief to her feet, which were beginning to tire of the hard marble floor. As she reached a turn in the stairwell, she looked up to face a huge portrait of an ancient warrior. The man in the image sat tall on a horse wearing a fur-trimmed coat, orange sash, and the classic Mongol bowl helmet. He stared at her triumphantly through gold-black eyes. His mouth showed a wisp of a grin, exposing sharpened teeth that reminded her of Borjin. The intensity of the image made her shudder and she quickly turned her back on the painting and moved down the next set of steps.

  The landing opened onto a single corridor, which ran away from the house a short distance. One side of the corridor was windowed, which looked out upon a large courtyard. Theresa and Roy peered out the nearest window, faintly observing a freestanding structure across the way.

  "There must be a door to the courtyard along here," Roy whispered. "If we can get out here, we ought to be able
to move around the end of the guest wing and sneak toward the garage."

  "It's going to be a long way for Jim to hobble, but at least there don't seem to be any guards around here. Let's find that door."

  They moved rapidly to the end of the corridor where they at last found an exit door. Theresa tested the unlocked door, half expecting an alarm to sound when the latch released, but all remained silent.

  Together they crept into the open courtyard, which was partially illuminated by a few scattered pathway lamps. Theresa slipped her shoes back on soon after her feet touched the cold ground. The night air was brisk, and she shivered as a chill breeze blew through her light clothes.

  They followed a slate pathway that angled across the courtyard toward a stone structure at the rear of the property. It appeared to be a small chapel, though it was circular in shape with a domed roof. Its stone composition differed from the marble used in the main house, and it had a decidedly ancient look to it. As they drew close, Roy bypassed the tunneled entrance and followed its curved walls toward the rear.

  "I think I saw a vehicle in back," he whispered to Theresa, who hung tight on his heels.

  Reaching the back of the stone building, they found a covered bay enclosed by a low split-rail fence.

  Once a corral, the interior was crammed with a half dozen old horse-drawn wagons, their wooden beds stacked with shovels, picks, and empty crates. From beneath a canvas tarp poked the front wheel of a dust-covered motorcycle, while, in the back of the bay, Roy studied the car he had seen across the courtyard. It was a huge old antique, layered with decades of dust and sitting on at least two flat tires.

  "Nothing here that's going to get us to Ulaanbaatar," Theresa remarked with disappointment.

  Roy nodded. "The garage on the other side of the mansion will have to be our ticket." He froze suddenly as a shrill whine carried near on the breeze.

  It was the neighing of a horse, he recognized, not far from the courtyard.

  "Behind the wagon," he whispered, pointing to the corral.

  Dropping to the ground, they silently crawled through the rail fence and slithered beneath the nearest wagon. Lying behind one of the wagon's old-fashioned wooden wheels, they cautiously peeked through the spokes.

  Two men soon appeared on horseback, preceded by the clopping sound of horse hooves on the slate walkway. The horsemen curled around the stone building, then paced alongside the corral and stopped.

  Theresa's heart nearly stopped when she caught sight of the men. They were dressed in nearly the same garb as the warrior in the hall painting. Their orange silk tunics reflected gold under the courtyard lights.

  Baggy pants, thick-soled boots, and a round metal helmet with horsehair spike completed their warrior appearance. The two men milled about for several minutes, just a few feet from where Theresa and Roy lay hidden. They were so close Theresa could taste the dust kicked up by the horses as they pawed at the ground.

  One of the men barked something unintelligible, and then the horses suddenly bolted. In an instant, both horsemen disappeared into the darkness amid a small thunder of hoofbeats.

  "The night watchmen," Roy declared as the sound of the horses vanished.

  "A little too close for comfort," Theresa said, standing and shaking the dust from her clothes.

  "We probably don't have much time before they make another pass. Let's see if we can skirt around the other end of the main house and try for the garage."

  "Okay. Let's hurry. I don't want to meet up with those guys again."

  They scrambled through the rail fence and headed toward the guest wing of the complex. But midway across the courtyard, they heard a sharp cry and the sudden gallop of horses. Looking back in horror, they saw the horses charging them from just yards away. The two horsemen had quietly backtracked to the stone building and broke when they saw Theresa and Roy sprinting across the courtyard.

  They both froze in their tracks, unsure whether to run back to the main house or flee the courtyard. It made no difference, as the horsemen were already at the edge of the courtyard and had them plainly in view. Theresa watched one of the horses rear up in the air as the rider suddenly yanked on the reins, pulling the horse to a standstill. The other rider continued on at a gallop, directing his mount to where Theresa and Roy stood.

  Roy saw immediately that the horseman was going to try to bowl them over. A quick glance to Theresa revealed fear and confusion in her eyes, as she stood frozen in place.

  "Move!" Roy shouted, grabbing Theresa's arm by the elbow and flinging her out of harm's way. The horseman was nearly upon them, and Roy barely managed to sidestep the charging mount, the rider's stirrup grazing his side. Regaining his balance, Roy did the unthinkable. Rather than looking for cover, he turned and sprinted after the charging horse.

  The unsuspecting horseman galloped a few more yards, then slowed the horse and pivoted it to his right, intending to make another charge. As the horse wheeled around, the horseman was shocked to find Roy standing in his path. The seismic engineer reached up and grabbed the loose reins dangling beneath the horse's chin and jerked them sharply downward.

  "That's enough horseplay," Roy muttered.

  The rider had a blank look on his face as Roy fought to restrain the trained horse, the animal heaving clouds of vapor from its nostrils.

  "Nooooo!" The piercing cry came from Theresa's lips, in a volume that could have been heard in Tibet.

  Roy glanced at Theresa, who lay sprawled on the ground but appeared in no imminent danger. Then he detected a faint object whisking toward him. A viselike grip suddenly squeezed his chest, while a fiery sensation started to burn from within. He dropped to his knees in a wave of light-headedness as Theresa immediately appeared and cradled his shoulders.

  The razor-tipped arrow fired by the second horseman had missed Roy's heart, but just barely. Instead, the projectile penetrated his chest just outside his heart, puncturing the pulmonary artery. The effect was nearly the same, with massive internal bleeding leading to imminent heart failure.

  Theresa desperately tried to stem the flow of blood from the arrow's entry point, but there was nothing she could do about the internal damage. She held him tight as the color slowly drained from his face. He gasped for air before his body began to sag. For a moment his eyes turned bright, and Theresa thought he might hang on. He looked at Theresa and painfully gasped the words, "Save yourself." And then his eyes closed and he was gone.

  -17-

  The Aeroflot Tu-154 passenger jet banked slowly over the city of Ulaanbaatar before turning into the wind and lining up on the main runway of Buyant Ukhaa Airport for its final approach. Under a cloudless sky, Pitt enjoyed an expansive vista of the city and outlying landscape from his cramped passenger's seat window. A large sprinkling of cranes and bulldozers indicated that the capital of Mongolia was a city on the move.

  A first impression of Ulaanbaatar is that of an Eastern Bloc metropolis mired in the 1950s. Home to 1.2

  million people, the city is mostly built with Soviet-style design, featuring Soviet-style blandness and conformity. Drab gray apartment buildings dot the city by the dozen, offering all the warmth of a prison dormitory. Architectural consciousness was an afterthought for many of the large block government buildings surrounding the city center. Yet recent autonomy, a taste of democratic governing, and a dose of economic growth has added a vibrancy to the city that openly seeks to modernize itself. Colorful shops, upscale restaurants, and booming nightclubs are creeping into the scene of the once-staid city.

  At its heart, there is a comfortable blend of old and new. Outlying suburbs are still filled with gers, muffin-shaped tents made of felt that are the traditional homes of the nomadic Mongolian herdsmen and their families. Hundreds of the gray or white tents jam the empty fields around the capital city that comprises the only true metropolis in the country.

  In the West, little is known of Mongolia save for Genghis Khan and Mongolian beef. The sparsely populated country wedged between Ru
ssia and China occupies an expansive territory just slightly smaller than the state of Alaska. Rugged mountains dot the northern and western fringes of the landscape, while the Gobi Desert claims the south. Across the belt of the country run the venerable steppes, rolling grasslands that produced perhaps the finest horsemen the world has ever known. The glory days of the Mongol Horde are a distant memory, however. Years of Soviet dominion, during which Mongolia became one of the largest communist nations, stifled the country's identity and development. Only in recent years have the Mongolian people begun to find their own voice again.

  As Pitt stared down at the mountains ringing Ulaanbaatar, he wondered whether chasing to Mongolia was such a good idea. It was after all a Russian vessel that had nearly been sunk at Lake Baikal, not a NUMA ship. And none of his crew had been harmed. The oil survey team was certainly not his responsibility either, though he was confident they were an innocent party. Still, there was some connection with their survey on the lake that had contributed to the foul play and abductions. Somebody was up to no good and he wanted to know why.

  As the jet's tires screeched onto the runway, Pitt jabbed his elbow toward the passenger's seat next to him. Al Giordino had fallen asleep seconds after the plane lifted off from Irkutsk, and he continued to snooze even as the flight attendant spilled coffee on his foot. Prying a heavy eyelid open, he glanced toward the window. Spotting the concrete tarmac, he popped upright in his seat, instantly awake.

  "Did I miss anything on the flight down?" he asked, suppressing a yawn.

  "The usual. Wide-open landscapes. Some sheep and horses. A couple of nude communes."

  "Just my luck," he replied, eyeing a brown stain on his shoe with suspicion.

  "Welcome to Mongolia and 'Red Hero,' as Ulaanbaatar is known," Sarghov's jolly voice boomed from across the aisle. He was wedged into a tiny seat, his face wallpapered with bandages, and Giordino wondered how the Russian could be so merry. Eyeing the fat scientist slip a flask of vodka into a valise, he quickly determined the answer.