“Well, good luck with that, kid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look around you.” Dax spread his arms wide to the bustling bazaar where bearded men in embroidered takiyah skullcaps bartered with women in colorful head scarves. “Kashgar is a Muslim city. If there are any churches left, they’ve been converted into mosques.”
“I like a challenge.”
“A challenge?” said Molly. “Addison, we’re not even sure we’re in the right city. Kashgar was kind of a guess.”
“An extremely well-educated guess. It was the Harvard PhD of guesses,” said Addison, with a confidence that brooked no argument. “Kashgar was a hugely important city for caravans traveling the Silk Road. Molly, haven’t you read Marco Polo?”
Molly had not, so she assumed Addison knew what he was talking about.
“Right, then,” he said, clasping his hands and scanning the crowded market. “We’re just going to do a bit of reconnaissance. We’re going to turn Kashgar upside down, shake it, and see if a church doesn’t fall out.” Addison flipped open Tony Chin’s wallet, peeled off a fresh hundred-yuan note, and tucked it into the chest pocket of Dax’s leather bomber jacket. Then he tore a sheet of paper from his notebook. “Here is a list of provisions we shall require.”
Dax regarded the list listlessly. “You want me to buy you eight climbing axes . . . sixty feet of nylon climbing rope . . . six pounds of dynamite . . . twelve blasting caps?” He crumpled the note into his pocket. “Sure. I’ll get right on this. Just as soon as I make a pit stop.” He turned down a crooked side alley, Mr. Jacobsen loping after him.
Addison noted that Dax did not appear to take direction well. He jogged after him. “I don’t mean to micromanage you, Dax, but I’m not sure you are likely to find provisions by leaving the market.”
“All Mr. Jacobsen and I require is an upscale establishment where we can enjoy a relaxing beverage and a civilized game of cards.”
“You said Kashgar’s a Muslim city. I don’t think you’re likely to find either beverages or cards.”
Dax held up Addison’s one-hundred-yuan note. “Where there’s a bill, there’s a way.”
The alley darkened under the looming shadows of teetering tenements where flint-eyed cats spied from drooping balconies and the curling eaves of clay-tiled roofs. Dax strode past a restaurant with bullet-shattered windows and turned his nose up at a smoking den where a one-eyed man threw daggers against a target on the wall. Finally, he reached a noisy saloon ringing with raucous laughter, shouts, and the occasional bloodcurdling scream.
A man hurled out of a second-story window crashed to the ground at Dax’s feet. His hat was thrown out after him. The shaken man struggled to his knees and spit three teeth into the dust.
“This’ll do,” said Dax, and pushed his way through the saloon doors. Mr. Jacobsen trotted after him, wagging his tail.
Addison’s team stood in the dusty street, flummoxed.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have handed him all that money,” said Molly.
“Do you think we’ll ever see him again?” asked Eddie.
“Of course,” said Addison, lathering his voice up with confidence. “Uncle Nigel has the utmost faith in Dax. He always comes through in the end. We will meet him back here after our reconnaissance.”
Addison, keen for a high vantage point, led them up the spiraling steps of an ancient minaret. They gazed out at the mud-brown sprawl of Kashgar.
“Are you sure we’re in the right city?” Molly asked again.
“Without a doubt,” said Addison, who was not at all certain. He was rapidly getting up to speed on Mongol history, much of which seemed to involve butchering staggering numbers of people. “Genghis Khan’s generals conquered Kashgar in 1219. They chopped off the prince’s head and paraded it through the town.”
“That must have ticked off a few people.”
“Not really.” Addison shrugged. “Nobody really liked the prince. Genghis was hailed as a conquering hero. It would make sense to hide a clue to his tomb here.” He gazed out at the myriad minarets, steeples, and spires stuck in the cityscape like candles in a birthday cake. “The question is, which church? You can’t throw a rock in Kashgar without hitting one. Not that I condone throwing rocks at churches,” he hastily added.
“It could take us weeks to search all these buildings,” said Molly.
“The solution to any problem is to be found in a book.” He dipped into his blazer pocket, drew out his pocket-size edition of Fiddleton’s Asia Atlas, and handed it to Molly. “How many churches does the good Mr. Fiddleton list in Kashgar?”
Molly thumbed through the index. “There are forty-seven churches, mosques, and churches that have been turned into mosques.”
“How many of them existed eight hundred years ago?”
Molly scanned the ages listed next to each building. “Only three.”
“You see, Mo? Books are the answer to life’s questions.”
“Do you trust Fiddleton’s numbers?”
Addison stepped backward in shock, a hand fluttering to his chest. “Roland J. Fiddleton is a world traveler, polar explorer, fisherman, trapper, polo champion, gourmet chef, bon vivant, holder of five patents and seven world records, and the treasurer of the London Explorers Club. If Roland J. Fiddleton says there are only three medieval churches left in Kashgar, then we must take Mr. Roland J. Fiddleton at his word.”
The team wound their way south, deeper into the city. Every wide street was a tent-covered bazaar. Leather-skinned merchants sold dates, saffron powder, and pistachio nuts from Persia. Laughing women in head scarves hawked frankincense, aloe, and myrrh from Somalia. Addison spotted sandalwood from India, handblown glass from Egypt, and dried fruit from as far away as Saudi Arabia.
“We’re almost at the first church on our list,” he said, consulting the atlas.
“How will we know if it’s the right church?” asked Eddie.
“Easy,” said Addison. “Our church will be the one crawling with Madame Feng’s triads.” He didn’t know if this would actually be the case, but he also didn’t know if this wouldn’t actually be the case, and he figured that what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, so he put his faith in the first option.
“You better hope we’re in the right city, Addison,” Molly grumbled, dodging land mines of cattle droppings in the potholed street.
“Molly, my youngest Cooke, lowest branch on the family tree,” said Addison, “I am absolutely positive we’re in the right city.”
“If the next clue is in the first church we check,” said Eddie, “this will be pretty easy.”
“Why would you say that, Eddie?” Molly sputtered. “You’ll jinx us!”
“What, I’m just saying.”
Eddie was about to turn the corner when Molly grabbed him by the jacket collar and tugged him back. “Okay, I take it back.”
“Triads!” she whispered.
The team peeked around the corner of the alley to a crumbling stone church across the cobbled square. The whole building was swarming with triad guards in dark suits and darker sunglasses.
“Not so easy, is it, Eddie?” Addison beamed.
“Well, don’t look so happy about it,” said Molly.
“I’m relieved,” said Addison.
“Why?”
“Until this moment, I had no idea if we were in the right city.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Triad Guards
ADDISON’S TEAM LOW-LINED ACROSS the alleyway and ducked behind a row of hay bales. Molly sneezed once, then twice, then two more times to keep the first two sneezes company. When she finally finished her sneezing fit, they peered over the wiry clumps of hay to survey the church.
Generations of pigeons roosted in the tower belfry, the wrought iron bells long since melted down for cannons. Great doors of rotte
d oak hung ajar in the porticos of Gothic arches. Sections of slate roof were crushed inward by the heavy hands of time.
“Sun Tzu says you must begin every battle by gathering information,” said Addison. “‘Know thyself, know thy enemy. A thousand battles, a thousand victories.’” He turned to Raj. “How many triads do you count?”
Raj counted the triads covering every door, watching the square, and patrolling the high parapets along the buttressed roof. “Seven. But if there are as many guards on the other side of the church, that makes fourteen.”
“They must be really worried about us finding them,” said Eddie.
“They’re not losing sleep over us—they’re worried about the Russians.” Addison grimaced. The guards had every square inch of the church covered. He was having trouble finding a silver lining to this thundercloud. He plumbed the depths of his mind, but no ideas bubbled to the surface. He tried taking a few deep, meditative breaths, but that only resulted in him, too, sneezing from the hay. That made Molly sneeze twice for good measure. At last he shook his head. There was only one solution. “I need an Arnold Palmer.”
The team slunk across the far end of the square to the outdoor patio of a mahogany wood teahouse. A group of Mongols sipping tin mugs of horse milk in the shadows grew silent and watchful as the New Yorkers entered.
A Tajik man with a wizened beard and a goatskin vest greeted Addison in broken English.
“Good afternoon,” said Addison, sinking into a cushioned seat. “Arnold Palmer, please.”
The Tajik man blinked and looked around the establishment. “He is not here.”
Addison saw that the man’s English was not much better than Addison’s Chinese. “I am not asking for Arnold Palmer, the famous golfer. I just want his drink.”
“You wish to have Arnold Palmer’s drink?”
“Precisely.”
“My friend, neither Arnold Palmer nor his drink have ever set foot in this restaurant.”
“I don’t need Arnold Palmer the person,” said Addison patiently. “I just need Arnold Palmer the drink.”
“If this Arnold Palmer is not here, how can he have left his drink?” The waiter was losing his patience.
Addison saw they were rapidly reaching an impasse. “Please fill a glass with tea and lemonade. Put some ice in it and we can forget all about Mr. Arnold Palmer.”
The waiter nodded.
“Do you have orange chicken?” Eddie asked.
“Our chickens are regular colored.”
“Do you have General Tso’s chicken?”
“I do not know General Tso, and I do not have his chicken. Is General Tso a friend of Mr. Palmer?”
“Okay, fine,” said Eddie. “How about moo shu pork?”
“No pork, Eddie,” said Molly. “We’re in a Muslim city!”
“Why don’t they have Chinese food in China?” cried Eddie. “Is that too much to ask?”
Once the team finally ordered, their food arrived quickly. They shared a cauldron of mutton stew so spicy, Addison broke out in a sweat. He could not decide if the stew was delicious or he was just ravenous with hunger. The team had barely eaten in a day.
Addison discovered his Arnold Palmer was a strange concoction of tea and pomegranate juice, inexplicably doused with a mound of curry powder. He rather liked it. He was enjoying a few thoughtful sips when Molly spotted movement on the parapet of the church across the street.
“Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel!”
Addison squinted his eyes and, sure enough, spotted the A & U being prodded along the tower roof by Madame Feng and Tony Chin. They appeared to be searching the outer wall of the belfry.
“If the aunt and uncle have led Madame Feng onto the roof, you can be sure the clue is down in the deepest basement,” said Addison. “They’ll be doing everything in their power to slow her down.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “We’ve got to get inside. Somewhere in that eyesore of a church is the next clue to the Khan’s treasure.”
“Any ideas?” asked Eddie, fanning his mouth from the steaming heat of a second helping of stew.
Addison concentrated. He’d taken this lunch break to observe the guards. He was hoping they’d rotate shifts, leave for coffee breaks, take naps, or perhaps grow old and retire. But it appeared these triads were professionals and they weren’t lowering their guard any time soon. The one advantage Addison could find was that he did not recognize any of the door guards’ faces. If they were recruited locally, they would not recognize him, either.
He downed the remainder of his Arnold Palmer, or whatever it was, and shivered from the dregs of curry powder at the bottom of the pewter cup. He rolled up his sleeves.
• • • • • •
“Do you have a plan?” asked Molly, hurrying to keep up as Addison strode toward the church.
“Sun Tzu says, ‘The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.’”
“Um, that’s great, Addison. But I think it might be a little bit better if we had a plan.”
“I don’t think they speak English, Addison,” Eddie put in.
“I’m counting on that.”
“Well, it’s just that I think I’m with Molly on this one,” said Eddie. “We need a plan.”
“Here’s a plan.” Addison gestured to a row of mules parked at the hitching post by the church’s front entrance. “Hide behind that fig cart and wait for my signal to walk inside the church.”
“What’s your signal?”
“The signal is when I tell you, Molly, and Raj to walk inside the church.” Addison selected an apple and two eggs from a pushcart vendor and slipped the merchant a few yuan. He unfolded a large insert map of Kashgar from Fiddleton’s Asia Atlas. Then, to his team’s horror, he strode right up to the armed triad guards, who quickly moved to block the church door.
The triads barked in Chinese. Addison didn’t know what they were saying, but it did not sound friendly. They pointed for him to leave.
“Hello,” he said genially. “Does anyone speak English?”
The guards looked at each other. “No English.”
Addison pointed to his map and spoke very slowly. “I’m creating a diversion so my friends can sneak into this church. Can you help me?”
The guards grunted more orders in Chinese. The shortest triad, who seemed to know a few words in English, stepped forward. “You go now!”
“Here,” said Addison, “take this apple and hold it over your head, like so.” Addison demonstrated and pressed the apple into the short triad’s hand.
The triad took it, baffled.
Addison pointed to the map, then pointed to the apple. He motioned for the triad to hold the apple directly over his own head. The triad, thoroughly confused, did so.
“Now you,” said Addison, turning to a tall, skinny triad. “Hold these two eggs directly over your eyes.” Addison demonstrated before handing the eggs over to the triad.
The triad covered his eyes with the eggs. Addison showed his map to the third triad, round and muscled. “This is your church on the map.” Addison pointed at it insistently. “My friends are going to sneak in while you stare at my finger.”
The short triad had no idea why he needed to hold an apple over his head. He slowly lowered the apple.
“No!” said Addison firmly, gesturing with his hand. “Keep that apple high.”
The short triad snapped the apple back into position over his head. The tall triad kept the eggs planted in front of his eyes. The round, muscled triad stared closer at Addison’s map in confusion. The language barrier was too high for him to scramble over. Across the square, more guards took interest. They moved in, surrounding Addison.
A large triad with a rifle slung over his shoulder gestured to Addison. “No English. You go now!”
“Do you know the Chinese word for ‘diversion’?
” Addison repeated himself slowly and carefully. “Di-ver-sion.”
The large triad looked to the dozen soldiers now flanking him. He struggled to pronounce the English word. “Diversion?”
“Yes, diversion. You know, like when a magician gets you to look in the wrong direction while they perform a trick?”
“No English!” said the guard again.
Addison led the triads a few steps away from the shadow of the church door and tilted his map to the sunlight. He pointed adamantly at the map. “Molly, Eddie, and Raj,” he said in the same tone he had been using, “walk inside the church now.”
The guards stared at him in confusion. The skinny guard dared to peek from behind the eggs he was holding in front of his eyes.
Addison risked a quick glance over the large triad’s shoulder to where Molly stepped uncertainly from behind the fig cart, tiptoeing toward the church.
Raj ninja rolled past her and scuttled up the church steps on all fours like a beetle.
Eddie stepped into the open and stood there blinking. Molly and Raj beckoned him toward the church door, but Eddie seemed to have lost his nerve.
The large triad seemed to sense movement behind him and turned to look.
Addison hiked his map up in front of the triad’s eyes. “I just need you to stare at this map a few seconds longer because my friend Eddie is very slow.”
Molly grabbed Eddie and hauled him bodily up the church steps.
Addison sighed as they safely skirted past the heavy oak door. He turned to the large triad. “So you have no idea what a diversion is?”
The guard shook his head.
“Clearly not,” said Addison, folding up his map. He patted the guard reassuringly on the shoulder and took the liberty of straightening the lapels on the man’s jacket. “I thank you gentlemen. Here is my card if you ever need anything.” He handed the large triad his business card with a flourish.
The guards pressed close to study the card with confusion. They did not read any more English than they spoke.
Addison Cooke and the Tomb of the Khan Page 9