The Genghis Tomb Read online

  “Russian?”

  “The man who piloted the chopper back. There’s no question Vlad and I owe him our lives.” As Elizabeth hugged him even tighter, he added, “Because of him we’re a bit shaken up, but otherwise fine.”

  The grimfaced president swore under his breath.

  “Let’s get inside out of this rain,” he said. “Then we all want to know in detail just what the hell happened out there . . .”

  While waiting for the doctor’s report, David and a much-rejuvenated Vlad told their story around the oval table inside the base conference room. On the orders of the president, not only was the base sealed, but also his driver and two posted guards stood outside the door, barring access to anyone not attached to the infirmary.

  David eventually concluded by saying, “As for the somewhat sketchy revelations we learned from Major Nikitin on the return flight, I’ll leave that for him to further elaborate on—which he appears willing to do. As much as I wanted to question him more, I wasn’t about to press the man unduly. As you can imagine, he had his hands full just keeping the chopper airborne.”

  Dashiin was still trying to assimilate all these troubling events. “Do you believe this Nikitin is who he says he is?”

  “I’ve no reason not to,” replied David. “Surely his identity can be checked out.”

  “I fully intend to.” A quick glance at Zayaa. “Best make it a top priority.”

  “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

  The president now shifted his attention to Vlad.

  “So there’s no doubt in your mind, old friend, that the man with the machine pistol was Chinese—not Mongolian?”

  “None whatsoever. I also agree with David about his ultimate intentions. If he’d ever gotten the box in his possession, he planned to kill us for certain—including that poor monk. By his expression, I think he was even looking forward to it.”

  Dashiin shook his head.

  “Which now reminds me,” he said. “Zayaa, don’t let me forget to speak to the base commander before the night’s out. It probably won’t do any good at this point, but I suppose we should get some military people sent out to Erdene Zuu to try and calm things down. The less publicity on this, the better—though for the life of me I can’t see how we can keep this quiet. By now I suspect half the townspeople of Kharkhorin will be—”

  He was interrupted by a sharp knock on the glass door—and recognizing the base doctor, he immediately waved him in.

  “So what’s the prognosis?” he asked.

  “Actually, sir, not bad at all. We x-rayed the pilot and confirmed the bullet did indeed deflect into his upper chest—but not so deep as to be life threatening. It ended up lodged against his right lung. Some blood loss, of course, but he’s now stabilized and being transported over to Songdo Hospital for surgery as we speak.”

  “Excellent. And the other?”

  “Doing remarkable well. The bullet passed straight through the fleshy part of his forearm, causing surprisingly minimal damage. It’s been sterilized and stitched up. He probably should’ve taken a pint of blood, but declined. However, with the antibiotics we gave him I expect he’ll recover nicely.”

  “When can we talk to him?”

  “Any time now, I expect. From what I understand, he’s apparently anxious to speak with all of you, as well.”

  The doctor had scarcely left when the Russian was escorted into the room.

  Dashiin dismissed the attending guard as unnecessary.

  Beneath a supporting sling, the Russian’s right forearm was heavily bandaged. Perhaps an inch shorter than David, he was broad-shouldered and probably a good twenty pounds heavier about the middle than he undoubtedly was in his prime. Now seen for the first time under proper lighting, this observation—plus the weathered features and wiry shock of gray-speckled hair—only confirmed David’s earlier perception of a man somewhere in his mid-fifties.

  Dashiin quickly introduced himself and both of the women, then took the time to express his heartfelt gratitude for all the man had accomplished that night.

  “Major,” he then said, “I hate to contemplate what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shown up when you did. David and Vlad have relayed patches of what you told them on the flight back, yet I confess to still being confused on several levels. As I understand it, you’re stationed with the Russian embassy?”

  “Correct, sir. Senior Intelligence Office there for the past nine years.” He paused, drawing a cigarette from a crumpled pack. Before lighting it, however, he thought to ask, “May I?”

  The president nodded agreeably as David slid an ashtray across to him.

  “No problem, Major. Now you were saying . . .”

  The Russian inhaled deeply and with obvious pleasure, expelling the smoke up toward the circulation vents. “Perhaps the best way to resolve all of your legitimate concerns,” he said, “is for me to simply lay out my involvement in this going back over the past number of days. If that’s satisfactory, I’ll then answer whatever questions remain.”

  He paused, fixing his eyes on Dashiin.

  “Since much of what I’m about to say is of a highly sensitive nature, may I assume that everyone in this room has your complete confidence?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Very well.”

  The major’s following narration of events as they personally unfolded for him was concise and seemingly without undo elaboration. As he proceeded with his story, the facts pretty much spoke for themselves.

  It all began eleven days earlier when he received coded copies of several fax transmissions from Far Eastern Security Operations in Bratsk—with orders for him to somehow make sense of it all and report back. They were Chinese intercepts made a day earlier going back and forth between Ulan Bator, Athens and Salonika, all of an unusual nature. Included were three sheets of what eventually proved to be text written in ancient Uighur script—plus some identifying photos taken of David without his knowledge.

  “The text took me much longer to translate than I anticipated,” he said. “To be safe, I gave just one sheet each to three different so-called experts, limiting their overall knowledge as to what the full text contained. The result, as you can imagine, made damn little sense to me—but the supposition that it was a map of some sort to the tomb of Genghis Khan couldn’t be denied.”

  Now beginning to formulate a clearer understanding of the clandestine involvement of the Chinese, the major then took it upon himself to begin a personal surveillance of the goings on around the Chinese embassy. By piecing together snatches of hushed conversations overheard inside the local bars, he learned that a colonel had unexpectedly flown in from Beijing on the evening prior to the intercepts and had apparently taken complete control of the embassy. Of equal curiosity to many, another man had arrived a few days later; a somewhat sinister looking Chinese civilian who enjoyed unrestricted access to the colonel’s private office. All very irregular, to say the least.

  “It was actually by pure accident,” he said, “that I encountered the latter six nights ago outside one of these bars when I saw him cleverly maneuver an inebriated embassy personnel into his waiting car. When he drove off, I discreetly tailed him out to what I later learned was one of a half dozen secluded Chinese safe houses dispersed around the city’s suburbs.”

  There the major settled in for what proved a long wait.

  An hour before dawn, he watched as the man finally emerged alone from the darkened building. Rather than risk following him a second time, for the streets were now empty of traffic, he instead waited a full twenty minutes before making his way into the one-story house. Visible evidence told him the victim had been brutally tortured and killed in the basement—even down to the disposal of the body. A shovel and a patch of freshly turned earth said it all, requiring no need for further exploration.

  Who exactly the victim was, the major never learned for certain—though he suspected it was somehow tied into the activities of the mysterious colonel. One promising
candidate was a young linguist attached to the embassy, a solitary figure no longer seen frequenting the bars as he was once prone to do.

  “My guess he was the one who made the translation—then paid the price to insure his silence in the matter.”

  It was at this juncture that the Russian began tailing the killer’s every move, increasingly concerned at what he believed was the man’s main function. By this time, the major had put together a dossier on Vlad, David and Elizabeth, and felt comfortable believing he knew precisely what they were attempting to do regarding the Uighur map. Pressured by his superiors in Bratsk, he submitted a full report on his findings two days ago, including not only his conclusions as to exactly what the Chinese were up to—but also his dire analysis of the long range effect their success would have on Mongolia’s aspirations.

  Within a matter of hours, he received a response.

  Short of creating an international incident—which Russia wasn’t prepared to sanction—the major was ordered to provide every possible assistance to President Dashiin’s initiative. Thus it was he then took it upon himself to follow the Chinese killer out to Karakorum—not knowing where the man was headed, but determined to thwart whatever he intended to accomplish.

  As the major paused and lit another cigarette, David took the opportunity to ask what was now on everyone’s mind.

  “Okay,” he said, “this explains your presence there, but it begs the question as to how the killer knew to be in the temple awaiting our arrival in the first place? He must’ve had advanced knowledge. Any theory on this?”

  “Actually, Professor, I do. My best guess is someone right here at this base is likely in the employ of the Chinese—and someone high enough up to have complete access to the helicopter’s timetable, flight plan, and passenger list. From the moment you and Vlad took off, you were both effectively flying into a well laid trap.”

  David looked into Dashiin’s conflicted face. The major’s tentative conclusion made perfect sense.

  The major now directed his eyes to the lacquered box on the table.

  “I take it that’s the infamous jade key mentioned in my rough translation. May I look at it?”

  Vlad opened the lid and pushed it over. Even he recognized the Russian’s right to examine it.

  The major nodded appreciatively at the polished detail of the artifact—then placed it carefully back inside the box, asking, “Is it everyone’s contention that this is the final item needed to locate the lost tomb of Genghis Khan?”

  It was the president who replied.

  “We believe so, yes.”

  “Just playing the devil’s advocate, but I suppose an argument could be made that after tonight’s events the Chinese might actually quit the board entirely, accepting the reality of defeat. Their brazen attempt to separate you from the jade key was well conceived, but it failed, gaining them nothing. Logically, one would have to ask what possible recourse remains for them . . .”

  “Not a theory to which you subscribe?”

  The major took another deep drag on his cigarette before responding.

  “No, I don’t see this happening. True, they’ve suffered a severe setback to their original plans, but quitting this far into the game isn’t in their nature.” A brief pause. “It’s certainly not my place to advise you, sir—or anyone else around this table, for that matter—but I feel compelled to offer what I consider a piece of sound advice. In my humble opinion, I have to think your team’s effort to locate the tomb should be carried out as expeditiously as possible. As the old adage goes, the proverbial cat is now out of the bag, is it not? If I’m right, any lengthy delay can only play into their hands.”

  “I fully concur,” agreed Dashiin, smiling for the first time in many hours. “I know I speak for everyone here, major. Would you consider becoming part of our team? God knows you’ve more than earned yourself a place.”

  The Russian immediately flashed a return grin.

  “Very much so,” he stated categorically. “I was afraid you’d never ask.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Twenty-eight hours later and three blocks northwest of Sukbaatar Square, a drained Zayaa swung into the roofed parking spot reserved for her alongside the high apartment complex she’d called home for the past six years. After what seemed a continuous series of meetings with President Dashiin and the others, she found her ability to effectively concentrate had become, at best, problematic.

  She required time to recuperate.

  By her wristwatch, it was five minutes past midnight, her intense desire for a quick shower and a solid night’s sleep almost overpowering. Yet not so acute as to negate her sudden sensation of being watched.

  The unfamiliarity of this feeling sent a slight shiver up her spine.

  Removing her purse, she locked the vehicle—then took a few moments to carefully peruse her immediate surroundings.

  All appeared normal.

  Certainly there was nothing detectable to support her apprehension. Despite the lateness of the hour, the street traffic remained moderately active, a sprinkling of darkened cars parked up and down along the curb. In other words, nothing the least bit unusual.

  All her imagination?

  Probably so, she concluded.

  Yet her sense of disquiet persisted as she entered the building and rode the ornately grilled elevator up to the twelfth floor.

  First-time visitors were invariably surprised at the complex’s decidedly plush interior, particularly as compared to the building’s rather bland and undistinguished outer façade. But this deception was intentional. Constructed during the latter years of communist control, its sole function then was to reward a wide assortment of government functionaries without attracting undue attention—or envy—from the general public.

  Long accustomed to this stark contrast, Zayaa paid no heed to the decorative plaster moldings or over-sized wall fixtures as she exited the elevator and walked the length of her thickly carpeted hallway. If anything, her inexplicable sense of anxiety only increased as she approached her apartment door. On pure impulse, she turned the doorknob without inserting her key.

  A part of her wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked.

  She let the door swing open.

  The muted hallway lighting illuminated part of her marble entranceway—but only enough to silhouette a tall figure standing in front of her living room fireplace.

  “Come in and close the door, Zayaa. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Recognizing the man’s voice, her previous anxiety immediately dissolved away. Instead it was instantly replaced by the pent-up anger and frustration she’d accumulated over the past two days. She first pushed the door shut, then tossed her purse onto the couch as she strode purposely over to where he stood. Giving him no time to react, she then slapped him as hard as she could across his face.

  “Lying bastard!” she cried. “Everything—every bit of what you said!—was a total lie, wasn’t it?”

  She tried to strike him a second time, but the man she knew only as Colonel Wu caught both of her wrists, restraining the attempt.

  “Keep your voice down, dammit, or I’ll have to—”

  “Have to what?” she hissed. “Kill me? Like your man intended to kill Vlad and David in Karakorum? Don’t try and deny it!”

  His hold on her arms eased only marginally.

  “So that’s the source of this?” he asked.

  “You promised me it wasn’t going to go down that way,” she said, a small measure of control now returning to her voice. “You swore that once your man got the jade key no harm would come to anyone. And I believed you! But that’s not what he was going to do, is it? Vlad and David said he intended to shoot them both.”

  Wu pushed her roughly onto the couch, his growing impatience now evident in his narrowed eyes. After taking a moment to switch on the nearest lamp, he said in a firm tone, “Now listen to me. That wasn’t the instructions I gave him.”

  “Liar!”

  “Not
hing so extreme would’ve happened if things had gone as planned,” he said in a calming voice. “It was the unexpected interference of that additional man that changed everything. You know this as well as I do, Zayaa—so get a grip on yourself.”

  Allowing her time to do so, he stepped away and lit a cigarette, his eyes never leaving her distraught face.

  Conscious of his scrutiny, she swallowed hard, her mind racing to find some escape from this continuing nightmare of her own making. Yet she feared no such exit was even possible. God help her, she was in far too deep.

  “I—I want out,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  “Out?” he repeated. He gave a dismissive toss of his head; his tight-lipped smile now a smirk of derision. “There is no out, Zayaa. This is hardly something you can simply walk away from with no consequence to yourself, now is it?”

  She stared at him, recognizing the implied threat behind his words.

  “Perhaps you need further reminding of just how long and deep your involvement in all this is—and how much you stand to lose if I begin to suspect your commitment is now becoming suddenly less than total.”

  He paused, flicking the cigarette’s ashes into an expensive crystal bowl.

  “As I initially told you, your file in the embassy records is substantial. Not to mention, extremely detailed. In fact, it was one of the first I encountered after arriving here in Ulan Bator. Your history with us goes back a considerable number of years, does it not?”

  She turned her face away.

  “I was a mere child when—”

  “Hardly a child, Zayaa. Nineteen, as I recall reading, and an extremely talented student at National University. I believe it was your great aptitude in languages that first drew the attention of one of our recruiters—that, of course, and the grave problems both you and your parents endured trying to finance your potential career. His assistance made this critical problem go away, did it not?”