The Genghis Tomb Read online

  “Certainly, Professor. You wouldn’t be aware, but I’m hardly what anyone would label a deeply religious man. Yet truth be told—and I honestly can’t think of any better way for me to phrase this—I now firmly believe that it was either heaven or fate that brought you to us at such an extremely critical juncture in Mongolia’s history. I suspect this probably sounds overly dramatic, but I fear our future survival as an independent nation may very well be at risk if the locating of Genghis’ tomb is delayed much further.”

  Baffled by this statement, David shook his head in confusion.

  “Professor, what I’m about to share with you are the harsh conclusions I’ve gradually reached as both a student of history and one who has spent a great many years in national politics. In my judgment, Mongolia is fast approaching a tilting point with China that will definitely not be in our favor. I’ve no doubts whatsoever that their long-range plans always were—and still continue to be—the eventual absorption of Mongolia into what they refer to behind closed doors as Greater China. One has but to look at what they’ve done to Tibet. To use one of your American expressions, we’ve been carefully walking a tightrope ever since the collapse of the Soviet Union. Though the Russians continue to support our independence, they may not have the will or power to continue doing so indefinitely. We are a tiny nation, with an equally small population—and the Chinese are both patient and incredibly devious in pursuing their goals. To the best of my knowledge, there are really only two things that stand any chance of forestalling them—a united resurgent nationalism, plus the placing of Mongolia under the focused bright light of the entire world’s attention. Surely you can see the rationale behind what I’m saying.”

  David did, yet still wondered how he fit into this equation.

  As if to answer his unspoken question, the president now opened the blue folder.

  “Please don’t be offended,” he said, “but when we initially received your first fax several days ago I had Zayaa throw together a file on you and your background. Nothing overly invasive, I assure you, but something to better prepare me for your arrival today. I must tell you, what I learned was most impressive. I vaguely knew through Vlad that you were somehow involved in finding the gold sarcophagus and body of Alexander the Great roughly six years ago, but I didn’t realize how instrumental you actually were until Zayaa managed to put me on the phone with Egypt’s new Director of Antiquities, Mr. Omar Bayoumi. Not easily done, but she can be very persuasive.”

  He paused to quickly scan a few pages before continuing.

  “Though Mr. Bayoumi was somewhat reluctant to give any real particulars, he implied without actually saying that the discovery was mostly—if not entirely—the result of your initiative alone. Beyond this, he would say no more, only asking me to convey his sincere best wishes to you should we meet.”

  The president then closed the folder, taking a long moment to study David with an inquisitive expression. “All this, Professor—and yet you’ve made no apparent effort over the ensuing years to enjoy the accolades your tremendous accomplishment deserves. If anything, it actually appears you’ve gone out of your way to avoid any limelight, whatsoever. Quite extraordinary! But as curious as I find this, I won’t ask for an explanation.” He smiled. “However, if a time ever comes that you write a detailed biography of those fascinating events, please put me down for the very first copy.”

  “I’ll definitely do that, sir.”

  “There’s more in here, but what I most glean from all of this is that you’re quite a remarkable man on several levels. Not only are you undoubtedly a gifted archaeologist, but your career so far suggests you also have that intangible something that most people in your field can probably only dream of possessing. Not to any way denigrate the virtues of raw talent and perseverance, of course, but I’m referring to the subtle blessings of true luck, pure and simple. After your recent Alexander experience, how else can one possibly account for your now uncovering a map of such historic importance?”

  The question appeared rhetorical, no response expected.

  “So, with this being said, Professor, let me now get to the crux of the matter before us. What I am now proposing—and call it a personal plea, if you will—is that you remain here with Vlad for however long as it takes to determine if this map of yours can truly lead us to Genghis. Make no mistake, Vlad is highly skilled and knowledgeable in our long history and cultural traditions, but he will be the first to admit he has no background training or practical experience in archaeology. I’m now totally convinced that both are required to see this through. It can be well argued, certainly, that we have an abundance of competently trained people in your field to handle whatever needs doing if and when an actual discovery is made—but prior to this event happening, every fiber of my being tells me we desperately need your intuitive guidance.”

  Before David could respond, the president abruptly stood.

  “I don’t expect an immediate answer,” he said, once again shaking David’s hand, “for I can well understand that you’ve been given an enormous amount of information to digest—and this all in a very short period of time. However, what I can reasonably hope for, Professor, is that you’ll think long and hard on this before making your decision.”

  “I definitely will, sir,” replied David. “Count on it.”

  Despite its idyllic setting alongside the Yellow Sea, the relatively obscure city of Weihai had clearly seen better days. No longer did it enjoy anything close to the prosperity of times long past. Once a fortified naval port from which the Chinese fleet defended its coast from Japanese and Korean pirates, Weihai had steadily fallen in importance over the past century, now finding itself completely eclipsed by the far larger and more visited ports of its nearest neighbors, Yantai and Qingdao.

  Today few tourists, either domestic or foreign, came to explore the oldest districts still evident within various sections of the city—and those that did took little time to appreciate the narrow back-streets constructed of traditional wood and quaint antique brick where two-wheeled transportation still remained the norm. Although this steady decline had become the accepted way of things for most locals, those owning family businesses going back generations found this state of affairs to be particularly distressing.

  One of these was the elderly man who now sat alone sipping tea in the solitude of his enclosed courtyard, silently reminiscing of bygone days when reputable customers for his pleasure house, The Floating Garden, were never in short supply. But those profitable days were long gone, he acknowledged, and unlikely to ever return. And certainly not in his lifetime. Truth be told, even keeping his business open was fast proving problematic, for where once his selection of women had numbered a full dozen out of necessity, now he had but two to service his ever dwindling clientele base. It was a grave situation that needed to be quickly rectified if his business was to survive.

  Thus it was that after considerable thought and hesitation, the old man had recently accepted as a steady customer someone who in years past would never have been welcomed inside the entrance gate. But that was then, and times were certainly not the same. Now this man’s bi-monthly visits were proving a true godsend—the money he paid to have his specific sexual needs met increasingly vital to the old man’s financial bottom line. And though he felt a lingering sense of shame, he dismissed this as inconsequential compared to the alternative of closing down his pleasure house completely.

  And what was life anyway but a rough path of hard choices?

  He sighed in acceptance, turning as his wife now shuffled out to where he sat. In her hands was a small bowl of spiced dumplings, which she placed before him on the weathered stone table. Her expression was one of distaste as she then jerked her head back toward the far side of their enclosure.

  “Is he still here, husband?” she asked. “It approaches four hours since his arrival.”

  He gave a patient nod, knowing full well this was merely the prelude to her growing litany of complaints. I
n an attempt to stave this off, he said, “As you well know, wife, he never leaves his room until around this hour. Why must you bring it up each time as if this was somehow unusual?”

  The old woman chose not to have her irritation so easily dismissed.

  “Because it is I who must clean up after him—and it still shames me each time to know what takes place in there. How long must it be endured? I tell you there is a devil inside that man! How else can one explain his delight in deflowering and abasing girls of such tender years.”

  When he only looked away, she felt encouraged to continue.

  “And answer me this, husband! How long can we keep finding these wretched little street girls he demands of us? I worry it is only inevitable the city authorities must learn what takes place here.”

  The old man sighed, for this possibility also weighed heavy on his mind.

  “If it eases your fears,” he finally said, “procuring another for his next visit is no longer a pressing task. He is being called away on some business matter.”

  A pleased look instantly lit up her wrinkled face.

  “Truly?” she asked. “He told you this?”

  “When he arrived. It appears our enigmatic Mr. Zheng will be leaving Weihai this evening for an indeterminate period of time.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The following morning, David awoke earlier than intended from a fitful and unsatisfying sleep. Equally annoying, his head throbbed with something distinctly akin to a hangover—a condition he hadn’t experienced in several years. Though the possibility existed this was simply a natural bi-product of jet lag and Ulan Bator’s high altitude, he knew its real origin sprang almost entirely from yesterday’s mind-boggling revelations, all of which were still actively swirling about in his mind. No question it was this exotic imagery that had triggered his chaotic dreams.

  A check of his alarm clock informed him he was allowed at least another full hour to doze, but he reluctantly shut it off and threw back his blanket, accepting the futility of prolonging the inevitable. Simply laying in bed wasn’t an option. Not only was there much to think through, but the eventual necessity of phoning Elizabeth was now weighing on his mind. But what the hell could he tell her? he wondered, drawing a complete blank. Fortunately, however, this little predicament didn’t require immediate resolution. The earliest she’d expect a call would be sometime tonight.

  Choosing not to dwell on it, he showered a full ten minutes longer than was his habit, using the hot spray and billowing steam to flush the cobwebs from his head. It seemed to work. Toweling off, he put on one of the hotel’s two guest robes before giving his airy, ninth-floor suite the appreciative inspection he’d neglected the previous evening. Then all that really interested him was gratifying an overpowering desire for sleep.

  Now his needs were quite different, yet no less imperative.

  What he most desired at the moment was time to calmly think through his unique situation—that and to satisfy a sudden yearning for a strong cup of coffee. Being as it was still only 5:30 local time—too early for room service—he utilized the suite’s in-room coffee maker to prepare a small pot.

  As it brewed, he pulled a pen and fresh legal size pad from his briefcase and relaxed in one of the leather chairs placed around a circular table. It was his routine that whenever confronting a particularly complex problem, the best way to prioritize his thoughts was to simply jot them down as they randomly came to mind, regardless of how out of sequence they may be. If this technique were properly followed, more often than not they would eventually begin to self-organize themselves into a logical course of action. With a bit of luck it might work for him again—or at least steer him in the right path.

  Two hours and two cups of coffee later, he set his pen aside and flipped through his notes a final time. The results weren’t entirely what he’d hoped, but now at least he felt better able to focus on the two things most requiring his immediate attention. Firstly, and what should be the easiest to achieve, was to have Vlad work up a concise English translation of those three sheets. Only when he had this in his hands and the time to completely digest its contents could he even think of addressing the second—and definitely the most challenging—problem, which was the looming issue of the missing jade key. Though he’d already developed a few ideas there—actually more questions than theories—any further speculation would, of necessity, have to be put on hold for the time being.

  One step at a time.

  David placed the material back into his briefcase and snapped it shut, satisfied with the morning’s progress. He owed it both to himself and everyone else involved to give it his very best shot. As incredibly exciting as all this was, he yet wondered just how much time he could realistically devote to proving—or disproving—the map’s actual validity. He figured at most only a few weeks, tops. Hardly enough time to accomplish anything significant . . .

  A quick look at his wristwatch now told him he’d better get moving. It was fast approaching 8am, the time he and Vlad were scheduled to meet for breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant before heading back to National University.

  Hopefully, Vlad was punctual.

  He felt starved.

  Specialist Peng was by nature a rather timid man, and likewise always cautious on those rare occasions when summoned before a superior for a private meeting. And this afternoon was no exception. Though he soon discovered this one wasn’t exactly private, the pleasant smile of greeting on Colonel Wu’s face went far toward easing his trepidation.

  “Please, have a seat,” said the Colonel, gesturing him to the chair across his desk. “I won’t keep you but a few minutes.” Still smiling, he then added, “Major Kuo happened to mention you’re soon to be rotated back to Beijing. This is so?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Peng. His eyes shifted momentarily to the third person in the room, a somewhat nondescript fellow in his mid-thirties leaning against the far wall. He found it vaguely curious that no introduction—or even acknowledgement of his presence—seemed to be forthcoming. “I’m hoping it happens as early as this summer,” he thought to add, “though I’ve yet to receive my transfer orders.”

  “Well, I’m sure they’ll be along shortly. And you’ve been stationed here how long?”

  “Coming up on four years, sir.”

  “Ah, then I can see your eagerness to return. My understanding is that linguists are considered ‘required personnel’ on every embassy staff, even if their unique skills aren’t necessarily called upon with any real regularity. Am I correct?”

  Peng nodded.

  “This is true, sir. Unfortunately, opportunities to perform my assigned function are usually few and far between. Thus I was most grateful for the task you recently gave me.”

  “Which brings us to my reason for bringing you in today. I wished to personally express my appreciation for the translation you provided on those sheets. Excellent work. My personal commendation will shortly be placed into your permanent file.” The colonel once again smiled. “Something you can take back with you to Beijing.”

  Peng stood, recognizing he was being dismissed.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  With Peng’s departure, the cordial expression immediately dissolved from Wu’s face as Zheng casually stepped over and slid into the unoccupied chair. Noting the Colonel’s somber features, he broke the silence by asking, “Think perhaps he intends taking something else back to Beijing, do you?”

  Wu pursed his lips, still unsure. In all probability, the linguist had simply done his duty and kept no copies for himself. Still and all, not knowing for certain troubled him. In his experience, it was usually the existence of such loose threads as Peng that eventually unraveled even the best-laid plans.

  He now shifted his eyes across the desk, not surprised that Zheng had so quickly picked up on his concern. The man was good, no question. And totally amoral—which was a definite bonus in his line of work. Of average height and build, his undistinguished features and closely cropped
hair only enhanced his ability to blend effortlessly into almost any background. It was a physical anonymity bestowed by nature, and one he obviously practiced to perfection. Most important, however, was the overriding fact that whatever task Zheng was given, he’d always performed to Wu’s complete satisfaction.

  After all, wasn’t this what really counted in the final analysis?

  Knowing this made Wu’s decision easier.

  “I still have my doubts as to the necessity,” he said, “but I can’t risk gambling on Peng’s honesty in this matter. Unfortunately for him, there’s simply far too much at stake. His disappearance over the next couple of days will be your first assignment. Just make damn sure it’s permanent and untraceable to either of us. How you accomplish it, I leave for you to work out.”

  Zheng appeared genuinely pleased at the prospect.

  “Consider it done.”

  David slowly paced the length of Vlad’s cluttered office as he had throughout much of their long day. But at least he now did so with an increasing confidence that—just perhaps—his English translation of the three sheets might finally be approaching the accuracy he desired.

  They were getting close. But still not there.

  Specifically, the meaning of two rather enigmatic passages continued to puzzle the hell out of him. Unless an alternative phrasing—a rational clarification—could be formulated, the instructions seemed doomed to make no sense, whatsoever.

  He stopped in front of the freestanding blackboard they’d set up earlier and selected a piece of chalk. Pausing only briefly to re-check his notes, he then wrote both of the sections unto the surface, adding a large, bracketed question mark at the end of each.

  Watching him do so, a visibly tired Vlad stirred additional sugar into yet another cup of black coffee. “Back to these, again?” he asked. “I thought we’d pretty much—”

  “Not to be tedious,” interrupted David, “but I’m still convinced we need to explore more options here. A lot more. Take this top line, for instance. According to your translation, the head shaman of the Uriangut must begin the process of locating the tomb by first standing ‘in the footprints of Tengri’—which you must admit is so damned unspecific as to be totally meaningless. Are you certain there’s no other possible way to interpret this?”