The Genghis Tomb Page 3

  Turning back to his guest, David added, “I know you’re eager to find out what I’ve learned, but let’s wait for the girls to finish up. Won’t be much longer by the look of it. I promised Elizabeth not to get too far ahead with this until she and Maria could join us.”

  Appearing to accept this delay, Nick sipped appreciatively at his scotch and soda, yet couldn’t resist asking, “Okay, at least tell me more about this contact of yours in Ulan Bator. With the name Vladimir, he’s what—? Part Russian?”

  Here, at least, David could safely oblige his impatient friend.

  “Oh, he’s one hundred percent Mongolian, alright. Elizabeth and I met him at a university conference in Berlin about two years ago. His full name is Vladimir Tsakiagiin. Quite a remarkable man, actually. One can’t help but like the little guy. A real dynamo. He’s only about thirty-five, or thereabouts, but already a major force at the National University of Mongolia, heading up both their Cultural Heritage Department and their School of Asian Studies.” He paused to sample his own drink. “And as for his first name—well, I admit I was curious about that myself. Came to find out that as early as the mid-seventies the gratitude the Mongolian people feel toward the Russians is such that even to this day many newborns are consistently given Russian first names. Male children in particular.”

  Nick lifted his shoulders.

  “Gratitude?”

  “For being their country’s protector. They believe—and rightly so from all I’ve learned off the internet—if it wasn’t for the firm backing of the then Soviet Union in the sixties and seventies, the Mongolian Republic would almost certainly have been swallowed up whole by China—probably suffering the same fate as Tibet. Needless to say, the people feel very kindly toward their northern neighbor.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting. Never heard that before.”

  “Heard what?” asked Elizabeth as she and Maria joined them around the table. Each carried an ice-filled glass of lemonade. Though the closest of friends, their physical appearance was notably dissimilar; Maria with her dark hair, dusky complexion and diminutive size—and the taller Elizabeth, whose striking features and profusion of copper-hued hair invariably drew everyone’s attention. Perhaps most endearing of all, she seemed totally oblivious to the effect her natural charm and beauty had upon others.

  “Now I hope you boys haven’t been—”

  “Not to worry, hon. Merely explaining how we came to know Vlad.”

  “Which I appreciate,” said Nick, “—but can we now please get to the matter at hand? So what’s the bottom line here? I mean, is my old horn—with all this hidden writing—actually worth anything, or not?” He winked, giving Maria an exaggerated grin. “If we have to begin planning an early retirement, I’d like to know before returning to Alexandria.”

  As Maria rolled her eyes in exasperation, Elizabeth laughed, saying to David, “Good! You really haven’t told him anything yet.”

  “Hey, I gave my promise, didn’t I?”

  Hearing this curious exchange, Nick’s expression grew a shade more serious.

  “Now you do realize,” he said, “I was only kidding just then, right? So why do I suddenly get the feeling maybe my family heirloom might actually have some value?” He hesitated, further intrigued by the fact that neither immediately replied. “Well, guys?” he prodded.

  David relented with a smile. It wasn’t his intention to torture his colleague.

  “To answer your question, I believe it does have value. Perhaps a great deal, in fact. However, at present I can’t yet verify it. Much more information is required.”

  “From where? This Vlad fellow? I thought you said a minute ago he couldn’t even confirm whether or not the writing is old Uighur script?”

  “No, I said he wouldn’t confirm it. There’s a difference—and that’s a big part of the growing puzzle.”

  “Okay, now I really am confused.”

  “I guess the easiest way to explain this is to simply tell you the gist of the three phone conversations I’ve had so far with Vlad—then let you draw your own conclusions.”

  “Works for me.”

  “My initial call to Vlad was two days ago,” David began, “and went pretty much as I anticipated it would. The time zone problem was a bit of a pain, but I was lucky enough to reach him in his office. Once I reintroduced myself, we basically had a very friendly conversation, catching up on the past few years, and such. I then explained my reason for contacting him, briefly saying how the horn came into your family, and asked if I could fax him these photocopies for his perusal. Though I didn’t come right out and request it, I was hoping to get at least a rough translation into English. But in this he disappointed me, suggesting I simply pick out one of the sheets and fax it through to his office. When he found the time, he promised to definitely give it a look and get back to me.”

  “Fair enough, I suppose. So which sheet did you—”

  “This one.” Elizabeth reached over and tapped her finger on the one marked number two. “Since all Vlad wanted was a single sheet, I convinced David to go with the middle one. It’s clearly the most interesting, don’t you think? It’s the only one with that boxed in ‘hack-saw’ image drawn across the top in red ink. When you add in the blue line beneath it, to my eye it almost looks like a crude map of some sort. ”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Well,” continued David, “that’s when things started to get a bit crazy. Less than an hour after I faxed it through, Vlad surprised me with a return call—only this time he sounded highly agitated, his tone quite different from our first conversation. If anything, he was actually somewhat confrontational—not like him at all—wanting to know if I was trying to pull some elaborate hoax on him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Not at all. In fact it took me several minutes to convince him otherwise. At that point he insisted on hearing the story of the horn’s discovery all over again in great detail. What’s more, he wanted to know the results of all my lab tests on it. We must’ve been on the phone for the better part of an hour, him firing off questions—most of which I couldn’t answer. Finally, he asked me to fax him all the pertinent paperwork I had from Beckman Analytic, detailing their radiocarbon dating results on that small section of bone. Seeing no reason to deny him, I agreed to send it through straightaway.”

  “Along with these other two sheets, right?”

  “I offered, of course, but for some unfathomable reason he was very adamant that I do no such thing.”

  “What—?” Nick frowned, sitting back in his chair. “Well that makes no sense. If just one page got him so excited, you’d think he’d be clamoring to see the rest.”

  “It surprised me, too. But it got even weirder. When I raised some obvious questions of my own, he essentially clammed up, saying he’d get back to me in twenty-four hours, promising to explain as much as he could at that time.”

  “And did he phone back?” asked a wide-eyed Maria.

  “Late yesterday evening. Almost to the very hour. This time he was much more composed, yet just as enigmatic and tight-lipped as before. Rather than answer even my simplest queries, he instead offered me an unusual invitation—one he practically begged me to accept. He wants me to make arrangements to fly out to Ulan Bator as soon as physically possible, with all my flight expenses, hotel accommodations—everything—to be reimbursed at his end.”

  Nick shook his head, trying to digest the significance of all this. Looking again at the single sheet, he muttered, “Whoa! It sure as hell makes you wonder what this says, doesn’t it? So what about the rest of the text here? Surely he wants to see—”

  “Oh, definitely. But, curiously enough, he insists those photocopies be hand-delivered by me—not transmitted to him in any other way. Also, he slipped in a couple of other requests that I think only underscores the importance—the value—he places on your family heirloom. Firstly, if I accept his offer, he wants both the horn and the leather sheathing locked away securely
in my lab safe—which I’ve already done.”

  “And the other?”

  “Something I couldn’t agree to without your approval. Vlad is adamant I bring your great-grandfather’s journal. Knowing it belongs to you, he offers his personal guarantee it will be returned to you undamaged—and I think I know him well enough to believe he’s sincere.”

  Nick lifted his hands, his expression still one of shock.

  “Hell, of course you can take it with you!” His eyes flitted between a grinning Elizabeth and David. “I mean, you are going, aren’t you? How do you turn down such a thing? If he and his university are going to pay all of your expenses just to—”

  “No, not him,” David clarified. Nor his university, in fact. And that’s yet another reason why I feel compelled to accept. You see, apparently Vlad used that twenty-four hour period before his last call to consult with some very highly placed people.”

  Nick frowned. “Okay, then who is so damn eager to pay for all this?”

  “The Mongolian government.”

  Beijing, China

  Six time zones to the east, a visibly weary Colonel Wu Tao exited the private elevator that had whisked him straight to the top floor of a secure government complex. It was a building he’d come to know reasonably well. Briefcase in hand, he walked the length of a long corridor carpeted in deep red. At the farther end was a wide, single door—and at his approach two heavily armed guards clicked their heels in unison and snapped off a salute. Ignoring them—for there was much on his mind—he rapped his knuckles but once and immediately entered. By his watch it was exactly one minute before seven o'clock, his early morning arrival expected.

  The coded summons for Colonel Wu to appear had reached him roughly eleven hours earlier in Xining, capital city of distant Qinghai province. Within thirty minutes of its receipt—scarcely time to shave and don his best uniform—a waiting army jeep drove him out to Xining’s Caujiabu Airport. There he boarded a six-engine military transport held over specifically for his arrival. If its crew was in any way annoyed at this disruption to their orderly schedule, their silent and deferential manner gave no indication. But this, too, was both expected and familiar, for experience had taught him that whenever Li Peiyan wished something done, it was invariably accomplished with efficiency and dispatch.

  Wu’s growing curiosity over the ensuing flight to Beijing precluded any serious attempt at sleep. At most, he managed less than an hour of fitful slumber. No more was possible. All he knew for certain was that his mentor once again had need of him—and, too, of his particular set of unique talents.

  The details he’d learn soon enough.

  Inside was a windowless room, brightly lit by a glass chandelier, beneath that a single desk. Six empty padded chairs were arranged along one wall. Across the room—and widely separated from each other—were two ornately carved, floor-to-ceiling doors. From behind the desk a uniformed army captain came quickly to his feet and saluted. Wu recognized him as Li Peiyan’s long-time ADC, a man he’d regularly dealt with over the years.

  “Good morning, sir,” smiled the captain. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. As usual, the premier has instructed that you await him in the conference room.” He gestured toward the door on his right. “Recalling your preference for coffee over tea, I took the liberty of providing a carafe if you so desire. Though he’s presently running a few minutes behind, I suspect he’ll be joining you momentarily. ”

  Wu nodded his appreciation.

  Unlike the outer office, the interior of the conference room had little need for artificial illumination, for the entire length of one wall appeared to be constructed of solid glass. Tinted a muted green, the high tech material was doubtless immune to any form of electronic eavesdropping from outside.

  An absolute necessity in this building.

  Wu laid his briefcase atop the elongated, teakwood table and glanced again at his wrist. Three minutes past seven. By the size and heft of the carafe on the table he now suspected the captain wasn’t being totally honest when he informed him the premier was running only a few minutes behind schedule. But this suited him fine.

  He gratefully filled a cup, and then stepped over to better view the awakening city far below as he sipped at the steaming brew. If he acknowledged any addiction, it was to black, unsweetened coffee.

  Wu’s imposing reflection in the thick sheets of glass was satisfying. Despite his fifty-three years, he remained trim and reasonably well muscled. After thirty-plus years in the military, he could conceive of no occupation that didn’t hinge on some other direct service to his country. Future retirement wasn’t even contemplated. Though he’d admittedly risen far beyond what any poor, village boy might realistically expect in life, he still harbored unfulfilled ambitions; personal goals that were now tantalizingly close to fruition.

  And all this he owed to Li Peiyan . . .

  It was as a young army captain that Wu Tao first came to the attention of the man who would become his lifelong mentor. It happened during the mid-eighties in the frontier province of Qinghai. Across the border a bloody resurgence of violent demonstrations had been sweeping neighboring Tibet for several months. Fearful this was destined to spill across the border into Qinghai—an area known for its many Buddhist Temples and volatile Tibetan minority—Beijing appointed Li Peiyan as its new provincial governor, charging him with the unenviable task of quelling any outbreaks that might arise. This was Li Peiyan’s first major posting to a position of national importance; and though his background in the east left him woefully inexperienced in the containment of social unrest, he was an ambitious man, quite determined to somehow use this placement as a platform to further advance his career.

  Little did he realize how spectacular that career was destined to become.

  As the new governor of Qinghai, it was actually his first decision that ultimately proved the most fortuitous toward attaining his goal—this being the addition of the young officer, Captain Wu Tao, to fill the position of his ADC. After reviewing dozens of files and interviewing several candidates, he intuitively selected the right man as his top aide. Not only was Wu familiar with all local customs and traditions—something the new commander was not—but he was also a man of high intelligence who quickly on became indispensable to Li Peiyan, routinely supplying him with viable solutions to vexing problems that others deemed unsolvable. And always with results that were invariably effective and acceptable. The young man clearly possessed an innate ability to analyze any situation and create order out of seeming chaos—and for Li Peiyan, the final confirmation of this unique talent was revealed when the expected Tibetan violence crossed over into Qinghai.

  Though fully anticipated, the suddenness of its arrival caught the government and Li Peiyan off-guard. The worst of the demonstrations was centered at Labrang Monastery, the largest and most significant temple-complex outside Tibet. There hundreds of Buddhist monks rioted in support of Tibet’s ongoing independence activism, clashing with Chinese security police. Making matters far more volatile, it was soon learned that an elderly monk intended to ritually immolate himself in the temple square a few days hence in an attempt to draw further international attention to their cause.

  All told, it presented a potentially disastrous situation.

  The officially sanctioned response to any such blatant challenge to government authority had always been straightforward: first ban the media and foreign journalists from the immediate area, then brutally crush the demonstrators with all necessary force. Though this was the tactic long employed as standard procedure inside Tibet, Li Peiyan decided on a completely different course of action.

  He did neither of these things.

  Instead, he took an unorthodox approach devised by him and his ADC, one that radically broke with all accepted policy. In point of fact, the army units he rushed in to support the security police were ordered to take no aggressive actions beyond what was needed to maintain physical containment in and around the monastery. Confusing a
s this quickly became for both demonstrators and attending journalists alike, this totally non-violent posture prevailed over the following two days—and this despite constant provocation.

  While it appeared to many that this humane approach would accomplish little toward defusing the situation, in actuality it was the behind-the-scenes arrangements engineered by Wu Tao that ultimately made it a resounding success. Precisely how his ADC accomplished the daring feat was something Li Peiyan never learned in full detail. Nor did he care to. It was enough that it worked flawlessly as planned.

  After sunset on the second day, well hidden behind the defensive barricades thrown up by the militant monks, an eruption of fire suddenly lit the night sky from within the temple square. As rumored he would, the aged monk had initiated his self-immolation by first drenching himself from a can of gasoline and then striking a match. Within mere seconds however, yet another burst of flame materialized directly behind him—and a great scream of panic rose from the massed observers in attendance.

  Though no actual detail was caught on tape, later evidence indicated that not only had the monk positioned himself far too close to the inner monastery wall, but he’d also been much too careless in pouring the gasoline. Obviously, some of the liquid had spilled out behind him. Simply put, there was no other explanation to account for what happened next. When the match was struck, the explosion of fire also ignited a profusion of banners hanging down against the building—immediately attacking the monastery’s ancient plaster and wood. In the blink of an eye, an ever-expanding section of the venerable structure was engulfed in flames.

  It initially appeared as if the entire monastery was doomed. But, as if on queue, the surrounding army units broke through the now undefended barricades and surged forward to the rescue. The end result of all this was a resounding triumph on two separate levels, each far exceeding even Li Peiyan’s high expectations. For three consecutive days—and to the delight of Beijing—both the national and foreign media broadcasted countless images of heroic young Chinese soldiers not only fighting valiantly to bring the flames under control, but also of them working hand-in-hand with hundreds of frantic monks to save most of the treasured artwork and ancient tapestries. As satisfying as this was, however, it was the seeming overnight secession of all pro-Tibetan demonstrations within his province that most pleased Li Peiyan, for this was the intended goal all along.