The Genghis Tomb Page 11

  Now it was Vlad who shook his head.

  “In all honesty, David, we never had reason to ever take it that far. Nor can I give you a precise answer off the top of my head without doing some research. But let me ask you this—to what end?”

  “For openers, this gives us a timeframe to work within. If we can narrow down when the burial practice ceased, that should in turn correspond roughly to the time when this separation took place, right?”

  “Of course! How stupid of me. If we isolate a particular time period, then we can also deduce from the historical records what event—or events—caused this apparent disruption with the Urianguts.” His face fairly beamed as he now projected this epiphany out one step farther. “And once we determine this, then just maybe—maybe!—we’ll have some indication of where the shaman might’ve sent the jade key.” He downed the last of his coffee in a single swallow. “Quite brilliant,” he then said. “I must admit I’m very impressed. If you don’t mind my asking, however did you come up with this scenario out of the blue?”

  David winked at Elizabeth.

  “Let’s just say if this pans out, I intend to bill the president for one fancy, red skateboard and leave it at that.”

  “Say again?”

  “A private joke. Now if we’re all in agreement, I suggest we head over to your office and get to work. There’s a lot of research to do—plus I want to take a closer look at all those old maps of yours.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Bratsk, Irkutsk Oblast, Russian Federation

  After signing the last of the day’s paperwork, General Perminov briefly removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose above his eyes between thumb and forefinger to help alleviate what was becoming a habitual afternoon headache. It was 3:22, and he absently reached for the neglected mug beside him, only to find the cup now cold. He withdrew his hand, confidant what little remained of the strong tea wouldn’t be worth drinking.

  He leaned back in his chair and sighed, watching his efficient CIO gather up the stack of reports that had required his signature. What he wished for was a diversion, a mental distraction from the tedious routine of the past several days. Despite his many responsibilities, there were often long periods when he actually felt being Head of Far Eastern Security Operations was downright boring.

  A thought came to him.

  “So, Major,” he said, “what’s the latest we have on our friend in Ulan Bator? Any progress worth noting there?” He paused, the fellow’s name not immediately remembered. “Major Feliks . . .”

  “Nikitin, sir.”

  “Yes. Nikitin. As I recall, we asked for prompt action on his part, did we not? At a minimum, to be kept abreast of his investigation.”

  “Yes, sir. In exchange, we also offered whatever assistance and technical help he might require.”

  “And what came of it?”

  The CIO came close to smiling.

  “I’m afraid he’s been less than forthcoming. I fully expected by now we’d have received some sort of progress report from him. If nothing else, a translation of those intercepted fax sheets we sent him. So far nothing . . .”

  “That is a bit puzzling. And of our offer of help?”

  “He came back to us only once. His request struck me as a bit odd, but as per your orders I gave him what he wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  “Detailed satellite photos of specific co-ordinates inside north-eastern Mongolia, an area quite close to both us and the Chinese border.”

  “Curious,” mused the general. “Maybe we should get more involved in this little mystery. You can begin by telling him I want his translation of those faxes sent to me immediately—plus a full and detailed report on all of his activities.” He paused. “Though he’s the ranking intelligence officer at our embassy there, I’m starting to wonder if perhaps this is over his head—or worse, he’s simply incompetent.”

  “That thought did cross my mind, as well, sir, so I took the liberty of ordering up his complete service file from Moscow for your perusal. I scanned it this morning. If anything, it says quite the opposite is true.”

  “Well, at least that’s somewhat reassuring. Bring it in. I think it’s time I learned all there is to know about our Major Nikitin.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Ulan Bator

  It took David and Vlad longer than either had anticipated to do the necessary research on the great khans of the Yuan Dynasty. Another full day came and went before any final conclusions could be drawn. Even then it became a game based more on speculation than hard facts.

  After the death of Kubilai in 1294, nine of his descendants were eventually enthroned, the last being expelled from China in 1368 by the newly risen Ming Dynasty—and it was Vlad’s growing opinion that in all likelihood each of these was eventually laid to rest with Genghis, their Great Ancestor.

  “Other than Kubilai, I have no actual recorded proof of this,” he admitted, “but likewise I can find nothing anywhere to indicate tradition was abandoned for burial elsewhere. True, those years saw the beginning of very troubling times for Mongolia—yet I think we have to conclude that up to this point, at least, the Uriangut shamans still possessed both the jade key and the horn map.”

  David fully concurred. Not so much based on Vlad’s analysis, but more on the dramatic events that immediately followed the Mongol expulsion from China.

  In 1372, the first emperor of the Ming dynasty, Hongwu, sent a pursuing army into Mongolia, but was defeated in a fierce battle. However, his ambition wasn’t to be deterred. Eight years later in 1380, an even larger Ming army invaded, this time ultimately winning a decisive victory over the northeastern Mongols, and subsequently sacked Karakorum, itself.

  In David’s opinion, here was exactly the type of sudden disaster striking the Urianguts that he sought to help reinforce his theory. In his mind, everything fit too perfectly for it to be otherwise.

  “Then if we’re all in agreement on this,” he said to the three others seated around Vlad’s desk, “our starting point will be 1380.”

  No one argued this assumption.

  “Okay, then the big question now becomes what did the shaman likely do to hide the jade key from the invading Ming?” He paused. “We need all the input we can muster. If anyone wants to play devil’s advocate on this, please go ahead.”

  Zayaa was the first to speak up.

  “Isn’t it possible that he did nothing? It might’ve all happened too quickly to be properly hidden—or even sent away.”

  David shook his head.

  “Doesn’t hold up. If he’d time to send the horn map away, why not the jade key?”

  “Then how about he really did send it along with the horn map?”

  “We’ve been through that scenario before,” he replied. “Why put both eggs in one basket when it was unnecessary?”

  Elizabeth picked up where Zayaa left off.

  “All right,” she suggested, “so why not simply bury it someplace for later retrieval? If it’s made of jade, as we assume it is, then it wouldn’t corrode or be damaged in any way.”

  On the surface it seemed a valid point.

  “Another possibility, of course, but unlikely. Regardless of the shaman’s age at the time, he would’ve surely recognized the very real chance he might not live long enough to retrieve it. In times of war, nothing can be taken as a certainty—particularly if it’s happening right on your doorstep, so to speak. Remember, the long-term care of the key was his sacred charge going back many generations. Now I admit, burying your own personal valuables in an emergency might be considered an acceptable risk—but taking such a huge gamble with the fate of the jade key strikes me as being highly implausible. Far too dodgy a proposition.”

  Elizabeth saw a potential flaw in this logic.

  “Yet your contention is he actually took a similar gamble by sending the horn map off unprotected with that unfortunate man. If both of these artifacts were of relatively equal importance, why act
any different in this instance?”

  “Because when you get right down to it,” he answered, “the jade key must be considered the more valuable of the two.”

  “Why?” asked Zayaa.

  “Consider how both are used. The horn map and its set of instructions take you to the general location of Genghis’ burial site—but no farther. Only the jade key pinpoints the exact spot.”

  No one refuted the truth of his argument.

  “Any other thoughts? What about you, Vlad? You’ve been unusually quiet on this all morning.”

  The little man sighed thoughtfully.

  “Oh, I’ve no disagreement with anything you’ve said. None at all. In fact, I’ve been sitting here trying to mentally project out to the next level, wondering what I would do if I were in his situation. The responsibility he must’ve felt had to be enormous.”

  David waited, sensing Vlad wasn’t quite finished with his conjecture.

  “Draw any conclusions?” he finally prodded.

  “Actually, yes. For one thing, unlike the horn map, under no circumstances can I imagine he’d entrust its care to anyone else. In other words, if it was taken somewhere for safekeeping, then he was the one who took it. I can’t envision it happening any other way. His duty to protect it was too great. But the question is—to where? ”

  “Any suggestions?”

  Vlad paused to pick up one of his many small, desk maps.

  “Well, I suppose the most obvious answer would be for him to flee to the far western regions of Mongolia, keeping ahead of the advancing Ming army. It’s what I would do. But with the sacking of Karakorum that same year, his problem would’ve only been compounded.”

  “How so?”

  “For one thing, this disaster effectively destroyed the power of all the north-eastern clans, allowing the western Mongols to eventually become supreme. I say ‘eventually’ because it was a very slow process. They were primarily Oirats, ruled by the descendants of Genghis’s second son, Chagatai—and it literally took well over a century before a succession of these so-called Chinggisid rulers finally produced a khan strong enough to challenge the Ming and successfully reunite Mongolia. During most of that period they were mere figureheads, constantly involved with internal power struggles.”

  Vlad’s face was grim as he continued.

  “I guess what I’m concluding, my friend, is I’m afraid we may have come to a dead end as far as our ever finding the jade key. I hate to say it, but if I’m right about the shaman escaping to western Mongolia—and where else could he have gone?—the harsh reality of history says it must’ve all been for naught. The artifact would’ve surely been lost in the chaotic years and decades that we know followed. As for the Urianguts, by 1394 they had completely capitulated to the Ming.”

  He paused, shaking his head.

  “Yet, if indeed it all happened thus, I suspect the shaman was a most remarkable man to have gotten as far as he did. In his lifetime—no matter how long it might’ve been—even he must’ve recognized there was simply no one worthy to entrust with the artifact’s long-term care and protection.”

  “At least not inside Mongolia, anyway . . .”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  David had stepped over to a larger wall map as Vlad was talking. Now he circled with his finger the huge area once encompassing the Chinggisid territory.

  “If what you speculate is true” he mused aloud, “then just perhaps he was even more remarkable than you imagined. What I mean is, let’s suppose for the moment that he actually did recognize the ultimate futility of seeking someone worthy in the chaos and instability of western Mongolia. What was there to prevent him from looking elsewhere?” He stabbed the map with is finger. “Say here, for example.”

  Vlad stared at where he was pointing.

  “Tibet—?”

  “Why not? Think about it. Would the determined man you described simply give up on his obligation? I don’t believe so. At that time the far western regions of present day China were still nominally within the Mongol domains, so access to Tibet would’ve been relatively easy, correct?”

  Vlad blinked, appearing shocked this was even being suggested.

  “David, to surrender the jade key to non-Mongolians would be—be—”

  “Maybe the cleverest thing the shaman could’ve possibly done for its future preservation. If the political and military unrest existing inside Mongolia was as you say—then what was left for him to do but go elsewhere? And didn’t I read somewhere in these books of yours that around this period Tibet was then entering a long period of internal stability?”

  “Well, yes, but I still can’t imagine him—”

  “Why not?” interrupted David. “It’s not the least bit irrational when you consider his lack of viable options. By your own description of those perilous times, what other choice did he have to resolve his dilemma? None that I can think of . . .”

  Vlad had no immediate response.

  Instead, he got to his feet, pursing his lips as he stepped over to better examine the wall map. If he was swayed by David’s arguments, it still wasn’t evident on his normally expressive features. Only when he gradually began to nod his head did David take it as a good sign.

  “I suppose it is a possibility,” Vlad finally muttered. “Yet it still strikes me as somehow like—like—” He looked at David for a long moment. “You’re actually thinking he might’ve done this? A final act of desperation?”

  “What else remained to him? If short-term preservation of the jade key became out of the question—and this for all the reasons you’ve outlined—then he’d have no recourse but to seek a very long-term solution.”

  “Yes, I expect so . . .”

  Zayaa and Elizabeth tactfully remained silent throughout this exchange. Now Elizabeth’s curiosity got the better of her.

  “Just asking, mind you,” she said, “but if Tibet is now realistically in the picture, was there someone—or to some place in particular—that the shaman would’ve been drawn?”

  “Good question. What about it, Vlad?”

  The little man selected a thick book off his side table as he returned to his desk. Once seated, he leafed through until finding what he sought.

  “Considering the time period,” he then said, “it would in all likelihood be to the Monastery of Drepung, located about five kilometers west of Lhasa. Back then it was—and still is for that matter—the largest of all the Tibetan monasteries, and initially the official residence of the Dalai Lamas. That honor eventually shifted to the Potala Palace in the mid-17th century when the fifth Dalai Lama greatly expanded the size of that venerable building, making it the vast edifice everyone recognizes to this today.”

  He paused, glancing to David.

  “I fully expect if a visit was ever made by someone of the shaman’s importance, it would’ve been definitely recorded—which, if true, makes all of this doubly tragic from our point of view, doesn’t it? I fear there’s no way we’re ever likely to know one way or the other. How sad and disappointing. For us to perhaps have come so close, only to now see it all slip away. ”

  Elizabeth stared at both of them, bewildered by their somber expressions.

  “Slip away?” she said. “What am I missing here?”

  A lengthy period of silence followed. And not just from Vlad, but from David, as well—which she found increasingly puzzling. Then it hit her. “It’s the Chinese control over Tibet, isn’t it?”

  David nodded.

  “I’m afraid I have to agree with Vlad on this one,” he said. “The restrictions placed on anyone entering Tibet are extremely prohibitive. Even simple tourists who plan on visiting Lhasa find themselves waiting weeks, if not longer, after filing the required paperwork and subsequent scrutiny before permission is granted. And once there, all their activities and contacts are closely controlled and monitored. Nothing is left to chance. For us to try researching anything outside of a standard closed tour of the Potala palace would be totally impo
ssible. Plus, of course, if President Dashiin is correct about it being the Chinese who bugged our phones, then we’d only be further tipping our hand about the possible whereabouts of the jade key, wouldn’t we?”

  Elizabeth saw the magnitude of the problem.

  “So, that’s it then? It’s over?”

  “Seems so,” David replied. “It’s unfortunate, yet I see no option but to call it quits. We owe it the president to inform him of where we now stand.” He turned to Zayaa. “Can you put together a meeting for sometime later this afternoon or evening?”

  “He won’t be happy,” she replied, “but let me see what I can arrange.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was early evening as they again gathered in President Dashiin’s private quarters. Though Zayaa had relayed the reason for their request to meet, the president’s demeanor was surprisingly buoyant as he saw them comfortably seated about his massive desk. Clearly something unexpected was in the works.

  His eyes flicked to each in turn before settling on David.

  “In your native parlance, Professor, what I’m about to suggest is a veritable long-shot, at best . . . And I’ll be the first to admit it has only a moderate chance of producing any useable results. But if we’ve reached the proverbial dead-end in our investigation as it seems we have, then I think we’ve really nothing to lose by trying one last thing.”

  David’s curiosity was definitely piqued.

  “I’m listening, sir.”

  The president offered a wide smile.

  “What if I was to tell you there might be a ‘back door’ solution to our China problem—a possible means to ascertain whether or not that Uriangut shaman actually did take the jade key into Tibet? And this without the enormous obstacle of attempting to send people into the Potala Palace and somehow circumvent all the Chinese prohibitions.”

  “I’d say I want to hear more.”

  “I thought you might. One of the benefits I enjoy being president is having access to a great many government assets throughout the duration of my term in office. One of these perks is a newly acquired corporate jet currently kept at a military airport just outside the city’s western suburbs. Though it’s technically restricted to official use only, I believe what I’m about to propose falls within that rather narrow category. At the least, I hope to later explain it as such. But that’s my problem to face at some point down the road.”