The Genghis Tomb Read online

  Accepting this harsh critique of his own performance, he went into the bathroom and thoroughly washed the lingering scent of chloroform from his hands. Thank God he’d had it with him tonight, for it wasn't something he always carried when undertaking 'break and enter ' jobs such as this.

  Which now reminded him that his mission wasn't quit finished.

  Sitting before the hotel-supplied fax machine, he unfolded and positioned the three sheets from his breast pocket, then carefully attached the personal encryption device supplied to him by the Chinese embassy back in Athens between the machine and the outgoing line. This done, he punched in the memorized phone number and hit 'send', watching as the sheets slowly fed through—not unlike the half dozen photo prints he'd taken of Manning and sent off the day before. Those were a rush job. Not his best work. He could've done better if given more time, but since no one complained he figured they must've proven adequate for their intended purpose—whatever the hell that might be.

  These sheets, however, were clearly something special. Why else pay so generously to fly him here to Salonika just to obtain them?

  As instructed, he sat and waited several minutes for the required response. When it finally arrived, the wording was concise and to the point.

  Transmission acceptable. Destroy originals.

  Now satisfied that another assignment was successfully completed, he lit a cigarette and glanced at his watch, wondering what time the two hotel bars closed for the night. Despite his close call inside Manning's lab, he felt a little celebrating was most definitely in order.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The last leg of David’s journey—far the longest spanning over eight hours—came to a welcome close as Aeroflot flight 1103 finally touched down at Ulan Bator’s Chinggiss Khaan International. Within minutes, the huge plane then pivoted around and taxied up to the terminal. He felt physically drained by the experience. Counting his earlier three-hour Olympic flight to Moscow—plus the lengthy transfer to Aeroflot at Sheremetyevo Airport—his twelve-hour ordeal wasn’t something he wished to soon repeat.

  Had he lost or gained a full day?

  He wondered about it as he stifled a yawn.

  Unsure, he retrieved his briefcase from the overhead compartment, glancing again through the plane’s window. The sun’s declining position in the western sky indicated it was now late afternoon local time. All he really knew for certain was that somewhere in all this he felt shorted a full night’s sleep.

  Once disembarked into the terminal and cleared through customs, he paused to get his bearings. At this point he heard his name paged over the loudspeaker system, requesting him to go to the Arriving Passengers Information Desk. He expected to find Vlad there to greet him as he followed the overhead signs in English, but his friend was nowhere in sight as he approached the counter. Before he could identify himself to the airport employee, a pleasant voice from behind asked, “Are you Professor Manning?”

  The query came from a slim Asian woman.

  “Yes. And you are—?”

  “Galsan Delgersayaa,” she replied, quickly extending her arm. “But please—all of my friends call me Zayaa.” Her handshake was surprisingly firm. Appearing to be in her mid-thirties, she wore no discernible makeup, her oval face and large eyes disarmingly attractive. “Vlad offers his apologies for not greeting you personally,” she added with a pleasant smile, “but he had to put in extended hours today in order to free himself up for your visit. I’ve been asked to drive you over to National University, if that’s agreeable with you.”

  “Very much so.”

  “Excellent. Then let’s first see to your luggage.”

  After his single suitcase was retrieved, she briskly led him outside the baggage claim area to an open top jeep in the parking lot. The late afternoon temperature was surprisingly pleasant, not as cool as he expected. If anything, he felt her confidant walk and manner projected an almost military-like efficiency. Too, he now noted what he’d first perceived to be a short, western style haircut was in actuality a long braid worn pinned up tight to the back of her head. He placed his meager possessions in the back seat and slipped into the passenger side.

  “So then, Zayaa, I take it you work with Vlad at the university?”

  This seemed a logical assumption.

  “No—but National is my Alma Mater.” She started the engine and drove toward the exit, adding, “As a young student it was my initial goal to eventually join their English department, but my facility with languages ultimately led me in another direction entirely.” She briefly lifted her shoulders. “To use your American slang, such is life . . .”

  Not quite the informative answer he expected.

  “Since you bring it up,” he said, “I’ve been admiring your fluency in English. Is it commonly spoken here?”

  The intended compliment appeared to please her.

  “To some degree, yes. However its use declines considerably once you move out into the countryside. There the rural population still prefers to speak Russian as a second language—though the shift to English is gradually taking hold.”

  She swung the jeep out onto the main highway and rapidly picked up speed, heading north toward Ulan Bator, roughly eighteen miles ahead. What few particulars David knew about Mongolia’s capital and largest city he’d learned just prior to his flight—and this was embarrassingly sketchy. Beyond the fact that it contained over a million people and lay in a valley of the Tuul River, his knowledge of the city pretty much petered out.

  She took note of his eyes darting about the semi-arid landscape. “I’m guessing this is your first trip to Mongolia, Professor. Am I right?”

  “That obvious, is it?”

  “Not really. It’s just that from my experience, almost every westerner I meet is a first-timer to our country.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Simply put, Mongolia ranks very low on the world’s list of repeat tourist destinations.” She glanced at her wrist. “Since we have about twenty minutes drive time ahead of us, is there anything specific you’d like to know?”

  “My knowledge of Ulan Bator is next to nonexistent,” he admitted. “Some generalities would be nice.”

  “A quick primer then?”

  “I can definitely use it.”

  “Well, let me begin by saying that our capital is actually quite young by anyone’s measure. Certainly by Asia’s standards.” She again smiled. “Historically, I guess one would be quite correct in saying it was founded back in 1639 when the old imperial capital of Karakorum was finally abandoned—though for all practical terms, it actually wasn’t until well into the nineteenth century that it became something more than a mere tent town with little population and almost no permanent structures.”

  “And it’s now become—what? Mongolia’s largest city?”

  “Some would say it’s our only real city,” she replied. “Literally everything of any consequence is now centered here: our national government, rail lines, industries, educational and cultural institutions—you name it. As you’ll soon discover, Ulan Bator is a sprawling mix of things both modern and extremely rural—and most definitely a city experiencing rapid and continuous growth. For me, I find it an exciting place to live.”

  Her enthusiasm was clearly genuine.

  Entering the outer fringes of the city’s bustling suburbs, he found Zayaa’s overall description to be spot on. Everywhere he looked there was a distinct visual clash between the old and the relatively new. To his surprise, he even saw a vast number of traditional yurts randomly interspersed between long blocks of drab, Soviet era, apartment buildings.

  The farther in they progressed, however, the more contemporary and better organized everything gradually appeared. Soon he began noting newer industrial areas, warehouses, business districts—and even the occasional western style hotel. By the time they reached the heart of the city, the final transition was a maze of attractive government offices, shopping areas, orderly parks—and what he took to be
an unusually high percentage of public museums.

  She eventually swung the jeep in front of a rather grand five-floor structure, its gleaming white façade defined by a high, curving line of stone columns. “Here’s where we part company,” she informed him. “This is the main administrative building for National University. You’re expected, of course, so simply introduce yourself at the front desk and they’ll direct you up to Vlad’s office.”

  David took his things from the back of the vehicle and clasped her hand.

  “Well, Zayaa, I appreciate the lift. If we don’t see each other again, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.”

  Her quick smile deepened considerably, her sparkling eyes seeming to convey an unspoken amusement. “I’m confident we will, Professor,” she said, restarting the engine. “In fact, I’m quite sure of it.”

  She sped off before he could respond, leaving him wondering what, if anything, she meant by this. He shook his head as he gathered up his few belongings. Probably nothing at all, he concluded, accepting that he was simply over-tired and reading more into her words than was actually there.

  Damn, he was looking forward to a solid night’s sleep!

  Inside National’s well-appointed lobby, a matronly woman working the reception desk confirmed he was indeed expected, then immediately dialed Vlad’s office to announce his arrival. Pointing to the elevator, she said, “Top floor and then to your left, Professor. Office 502. He’s waiting for you now.”

  And he was, looking much as David recalled from two years previously in Berlin. Of slight build and shorter than David by several inches, his round, cherubic face was all smiles beneath his unruly hair. Too, his expressive brown eyes reflected an obvious excitement at finally greeting his American guest. Following an enthusiastic handshake and brief exchange of pleasantries, the smaller man then led them into a roomy, but highly cluttered office—one in which he obviously spent a great deal of time. Not unlike the surface of his overburdened desk, a long side table held a second computer, this one almost engulfed by piles of old books and papers.

  Vlad showed no embarrassment.

  “Believe me, David, it’s not nearly as disorganized as it seems,” he said, pulling back a single chair in front of his desk. There, however, he found yet another stack of papers, which he hurriedly removed. “Sorry about that. Actually, I was wondering where these got to.” Before moving around the desk, he asked, “Tea? Coffee? It won’t take me long to make a fresh pot of either if you—”

  “No, nothing for me.”

  David cleared a space for his briefcase and snapped it open. Withdrawing the envelope containing the two missing sheets and old journal, he saw the undisguised anticipation building on Vlad’s expressive face. “Before giving you this, Vlad, I’ve just two quick questions. First, is this indeed old Uighur script?”

  Vlad nodded.

  “And is it something you can personally translate?”

  “Yes, though perhaps not as rapidly as—”

  “Works for me. On good faith, I’ve traveled damn near half way around the world to deliver everything you requested. Now I’m bone tired—and more than a little exasperated about being kept totally in the dark throughout all of this. So here’s what I suggest we do. No more evasions. My patience is wearing too thin. I think we’re now well beyond all of that. To be blunt, I’m going to give you some time to look through this.” He handed the envelope over. “After that, I expect you to explain to me precisely what the hell this is all about.”

  Bratsk, Irkutsk Oblast, Russian Federation

  Six hundred and thirty kilometers to the northwest, an equally weary General Perminov, Head of Far Eastern Security Operations, briefly glanced at the wall clock and waved his chief intelligence officer into his private office. It was fast approaching the end of another long and tiresome day, and he was thankful his twelve-hour shift was drawing to a close.

  Today much more so than normal.

  The entire day was spent painstakingly studying detailed images downloaded from the Tselina D satellites positioned four hundred miles up in low earth orbit. Circling the globe in groups of six spread 60 degrees apart, the LEO’s provided ‘real time’ coverage for both land and sea surveillance. Over the past several days, both men had been focusing all of their attention on the PRC naval exercises currently wrapping up north of Taiwan.

  He gestured his long-time CIO into a comfortable chair, taking note of the single folder in the man’s hand. “Well, Major,” he said, “unless you see things differently, I think our analysis of China’s fleet maneuvers will hold no surprises for anyone in Moscow. If their experts can find something we missed—then more power to them.”

  “I agree, sir. I’ll put a full report together and have it sent out.”

  The tired general flicked his finger at the folder, asking, “Anything else I should know about before I leave?”

  The major extracted several sheets. “Well, I’ve something here that may or may not be important. If nothing else, it really is rather curious . . .”

  “Something our ‘overheads’ picked up?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Explain.”

  “It involves a couple of recent intercepts back and forth between two Chinese embassies, the first made from Ulan Bator and the other from Athens. Not significant by itself, certainly, but within forty-eight hours they were followed up by multiple fax transmissions made to both embassies from—near as we can pinpoint--a hotel in Salonika, of all places.”

  “Regarding what, exactly?”

  “Unknown—at least so far as the two phone intercepts go. Both were placed on MSS secured lines, something we’ve so far been unable to crack. However, we lucked out on the follow-up fax transmissions. They were made using an older encryption system that our people broke several months ago. Here, I printed off copies for you . . .”

  The general scanned the top sheets, shaking his head in bewilderment. “What the devil is this gibberish?”

  “I’m assuming a language of some sort that I’m unfamiliar with, sir. I haven’t had time to run it by anyone—or even been sure it’s worth our effort to identify. Nor do I know what to make of those other few sheets. As you see, they appear to be random surveillance photos taken at some distance of a man in presumably in Salonika.”

  “And yet all collectively of some importance to the Chinese. I see why this piqued your interest. I agree, it is somewhat curious.” The general glanced again at the clock, and then made a decision. “However, I don’t believe this is necessarily something you and I need to pursue. Ulan Bator, you say? Pull out our present embassy personnel listing.”

  The major quickly retrieved the information.

  After a brief perusal, a faint smile crossed the general’s lips. “Hmm . . . I see here their ranking intelligence officer, Major Feliks Mikhailovich Nikitin, is close to taking his retirement. Only fifty-three, mind you, but just a matter of months from serving out his mandatory twenty-five years.” He paused, then closed the file and got to his feet. “What say you and I make his last weeks there productive ones?”

  “Sir?”

  “Send him everything you have, including any future intercepts you deem relevant. In fact, on my authorization, offer whatever technical assistance he might request—only make sure he understands I want this resolved to our satisfaction. And tell him the sooner the better.”

  Ulan Bator

  While Vlad used his allotted time to concentrate on the three sheets, David took the opportunity to closer examine the many maps either taped or pinned to the office walls. Of varying sizes and ages, most were centered on Mongolia and its surrounding neighbors. Their seemingly haphazard placement, however, was in itself a telling reflection of their owner’s personality. If there was a pattern or conscious method of organization anywhere here—or for that matter anywhere in his entire cluttered office—the logic of it was quite indiscernible. More probably, it was nonexistent.

  Then again, Vlad had earned his right to be e
ccentric.

  David glanced again at his host, knowing full well that the smallish man huddled so studiously over the desk was above all else a brilliant scholar of international recognition. One didn’t attain his high position within Mongolia’s largest university by being anything less. Thus what unconventional personality traits he possessed were forgivable, even paling to insignificance.

  Plus, he was so damned likeable.

  Apparently finished with his rushed translation, Vlad eased himself back in his chair, running spread fingers through his tangle of dark hair. On his face was a tight-lipped grin of satisfaction—definitely a good sign.

  “So, is it what you hoped it would be?”

  “Oh, yes,” Vlad muttered. “A thousand times yes!”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I—I scarcely know where to begin.”

  David pointed to the sheets.

  “Start by telling me exactly what this is.”

  Vlad blinked several times and swallowed hard.

  “For want of a better description,” he finally managed, “this is both a map and a set of instructions written over eight hundred years ago, directing us to the secret burial location of Genghis Khan. His actual tomb, if you will . . .”

  Now it was David who sat back, no longer feeling quite as weary.

  “Are you serious?”

  “After reading this in its entirety, I have no doubts, whatsoever.” Vlad wet his lips. “I believe it’s totally authentic.”

  “And you now conclude this . . . how?”

  Vlad hesitated, clearly organizing his thoughts.

  “Initially,” he began, “several factors immediately came into play when you first contacted me—not the least of which was the provenance of where your friend’s great-grandfather found it, plus the carbon 14 testing you ran on the horn. Needless to say, both were extremely encouraging. But of even greater importance to me is the simple fact that this is written in old Uighur script.” He paused. “Truth be told, David, if you’d faxed me that first sheet several days ago written in any other language—ancient or otherwise—I probably would’ve dismissed the likelihood of this being authentic out of hand.”