The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan (18 page)

“You see?” Nimrod said to the captain. “There’s nothing hidden inside. No weapons. No bombs. No Cleopatra.”

“I wonder why you even bother trying to humor
him
,” said Alexandra. “After all, he’s just a mundane.”

“Look, I’m still not satisfied that you people are on the level,” said the captain. “If I could see some proper ID from you all.”

As he finished speaking, Alexandra’s jewel-encrusted cell phone flew through the air and struck him on the head.

“I told you not to interrupt me when I’m speaking,” shrieked Alexandra. “Didn’t I? Well, didn’t I?”

Groanin rolled his eyes. He had seen this kind of bad behavior from Nimrod’s wife before. “Now then, missus,” he said. “No need for any unpleasantness, is there?”

“I’ve no reason for not throwing something at you, either, you old baldy,” she said. “And count yourself lucky I don’t foretell your future as well.”

“That’s it,” said Captain Sargent. “I’ve had enough of you. Private Parz? Arrest them all.”

“Yes, sir. Right you are, sir.”

In truth, only the first two words of what the soldier said sounded at all human. The next four words amounted to little more than braying, which was not surprising as in the blink of an eye, the private, the captain, and several other British soldiers in the vicinity were transformed into a small herd of donkeys by Alexandra who was, after all, a powerful djinn, and a cross and angry one at that. All of this was accompanied by a bang, a strong smell of sulfur, and a loud exclamation of surprise from the professor.

“
Gœfa mín, Peir eru sauðir
,” said the professor. This means “My goodness, the soldiers are all donkeys,” in Icelandic.

“
Otrúlegt
,” exclaimed Axel. “
Pað er rifið pað
.”

“That’s torn it, right enough,” said Groanin, who knew a little Icelandic himself. “I say, that’s torn it.” He looked at John and Philippa and threw up his arms in horror. “The woman’s mad. Mad. Always was. Always will be.”

The donkey that had been Captain Sargent began to bray in agreement with the butler.

“No wonder she and Nimrod don’t live together,” added Groanin. “This is why she lives in Afghanistan. Everyone here is mad or angry about something. So she fits right in. Isn’t that right, Alexandra?”

Alexandra lowered her head in shame. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, it is.”

“Alexandra, Alexandra, Alexandra.” Nimrod sounded almost weary. “Why must you always get so angry?”

“People like you make me angry.” She pointed at Groanin. “And him. Not to mention that stupid soldier.” But already she was becoming calmer, as if the exercise of her power had
purged something of her irritation and anger, which was always increased by seeing Nimrod again. “Anyway, it’s not my fault I have the gift of prophecy. I didn’t ask to be like this. It just happened.”

Nimrod looked at the twins. “She’s not a bad person, really she isn’t. It’s the gift of prophecy that makes her this way. Impossible to be with. Isn’t that right, Alexandra?”

“It’s a curse,” agreed Alexandra, who seemed to be coming back to her senses. “Right enough. Every night I lie awake and hear the future. And the next day when I tell people what’s going to happen, they just don’t believe me.” She shook her head. “It’s a terrible predicament I’ve lived with for a long time now. This sense of understanding everything and yet being powerless to make anyone act upon that.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Look, I’m sorry for being so rude to you both. I didn’t mean anything I said. I often speak rashly, without thinking. I was just so pleased to see Nimrod again and yet mad at the same time that he was going away without speaking to me, that I got really angry and said all kinds of nonsense that simply isn’t true.” She stroked John’s hair with affection. “Nonsense about you and Philippa and the dreadful fate that awaits you in the clouds after you have discovered that the price of chocolate is far above rubies. Nonsense about the death of a man in a black mask. About the ship that’s inside a ship and a gray tiger. What can that mean? Oh, yes, and some nonsense about poor Axel winning the jackpot in the University of Iceland Lottery. And the shock he experiences when the worm turns. I don’t know.”

“
Pví miður
, I haven’t won the lottery,” said Axel.

“You see?” said Alexandra. “I told you it was all nonsense, didn’t I?” She laughed a hysterical sort of laugh and shrugged.

“Never mind that now,” said Nimrod. “What about these soldiers? You can’t leave them like this. As donkeys. It’s hardly fair, is it?”

“No, I suppose not. But look, before I turn them back into men, you’d better sit down on that carpet and get out of here. Just in case that captain causes any more trouble for you. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. He’s going to cause a lot of problems for a lot of people before he’s done in Afghanistan.”

Nimrod took Alexandra’s hand and, in the moonlight, Philippa saw that it was beautifully tattooed with
mehndi —
intricate henna markings that are considered good luck.

“Why not come with us?” he said.

“No,” she said firmly. “We both know that wouldn’t be a good idea. It’s best I stay here where I can’t cause too much trouble.” She shrugged. “I mean, who would notice?” She tried a smile. “But thanks. Thanks for asking. And next time, don’t leave it so long before you stop by, okay?”

Nimrod nodded and then kissed her hand.

A minute later they were airborne.

“She wasn’t always like that,” Nimrod said quietly. “Certainly not when I married her. But she had a brother. Who was killed. And the grief of that was so acute that it seemed to bring on her ability to foresee the future. While at the same time it made her so very angry about things. Until
that happened she was the most wonderful woman in the world.”

“She’s very beautiful,” said Axel. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful woman.”

Philippa smiled bravely and tried to contain her disappointment.

“I agree,” said the professor who by now had thrown off his
chadri
and was looking like a man again — albeit a man in a black mask.

“I feel sorry for her,” said Philippa.

“Me, too,” said John.

Nimrod said nothing. But after a moment or two, Philippa noticed him wipe a tear from his eye. And she stopped feeling sorry for her aunt and started feeling sorry for her uncle.

P
ast life regression,” said Nimrod. “It’s a technique that human hypnotists use to recover memories of past lives or incarnations. Of course, they got it from the Upanishads — the philosophical texts of the Hindu religion of ancient India.”

He glanced over the edge of the flying carpet at a more modern India, which lay several thousand feet beneath them. It was dawn and Nimrod had been flying all night and because he was feeling tired, ‘Groanin had just fetched him a reviving cup of his excellent tea, which Nimrod had declared was the best cup of tea in the world.

“Only the Indians called it karma from previous lives,” said Nimrod. “Now, the Chinese believe that people are prevented from remembering their past lives by the goddess Meng Po, also known as the Lady of Forgetfulness. Anyway, all of them got the idea of PLR, or ‘reverse birthing’ as it is sometimes called, from us. From the djinn.

“Many years ago, a very holy djinn guru called Patanjali wished to purify himself of all worldly experience. And so
he fasted and meditated very hard but it wasn’t enough, and he decided that the only way he could really become pure was if everything that had happened to him since being born simply hadn’t happened at all.”

“Daft so-and-so,” muttered Groanin, pouring his master another cup of tea.

“So he set out to go back beyond himself and to travel into the past, through his previous incarnations and, along the way, discovered that what he was really doing was traveling through the memories of all his ancestors.”

“You mean in a Jungian sense,” said the professor.

“Something like that, yes,” agreed Nimrod. “You see, the brain, even the human brain, is very large indeed. It contains approximately one hundred billion neurons and perhaps ten times as many support cells, called glia. Hence, it has enormous overcapacity. Or so it was once thought. In fact, there’s a part of all brains — djinn, human, actually all mammals have it — that the djinn call the Well. But instead of water, this is a well that contains thoughts and memories that belonged to our ancestors. And from time to time, our conscious and unconscious mind dips into it for ideas. This Well affects how and what we dream about. The Well makes us who and what we are.”

“Utter rubbish,” said Groanin, and buttered some toast that he handed to John.

“So the plan is very simple, really,” said Nimrod, ignoring his butler. “As soon as we get to Australia we’re going to retrace the steps of the explorers Burke and Wills across the continent, to try to find a wild camel descended from Dunbelchin. And —”
“Horrible beasts,” muttered Groanin, and returned to the skillet where a large quantity of sausages were frying noisily. He poked the sausages around the skillet and wondered what a sausage made from camel meat might taste like.

“I get it,” said John. “Because then we can go inside this camel’s memories — its ‘Well,’ if you like — and find the memories that originally belonged to Dunbelchin.”

“Exactly, John,” said Nimrod.

Philippa nodded. “And that way we can find out where Genghis Khan is buried,” she said. “And when we find out where that is, we can find out what happened to those Hotaniya crystals that were once owned by the Chinese emperor Xuanzong.”

“Precisely.”

“And when we find
that
out,” continued John, “we’ll know who’s behind what’s going on with the earth’s volcanoes.”

“On the button,” said Nimrod. “Simple, really.”

“Simple?” Groanin laughed a hollow-sounding laugh. “Very,” he said. “I’ve seen advanced quadratic equations that looked more simple than what you just described. I’ve peeked inside computers that were children’s toys next to that plan, sir. As a matter of common interest, how many wild camels are there in Australia?”

“About a million,” said Nimrod.

“A million?” Groanin snorted back another guffaw. “And you think you’re going to happen on the one that’s descended from this Dunbelchin that was once owned by the sons of Genghis Khan? It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Nimrod grinned. “It’s good to have you back, Groanin,” he said fondly.

“Eh?” Groanin frowned. “How’s that?” He forked some sausages onto a dinner plate and handed them around.

“I’ve certainly missed your input,” said Nimrod. “Your positive outlook on life in general. Not to mention your tea. And your sausages. These are delicious.”

“So’s this toast,” said John. “And those sausages smell fantastic.”

“But you’re missing the point,” added Nimrod. “It’s not
one
camel that’s descended from Dunbelchin. Very likely it’s tens of thousands of camels. Perhaps more. That’s how genetic descent works. For example: You’ve heard of DNA.”

“Of course. I’m not an idiot.”

“Well then,” continued Nimrod. “Recently, a group of scientists were able to isolate a Y chromosome particular to Genghis Khan. How many men in the world do you think share this same Y chromosome?”

“I dunno,” said Groanin. “Half a dozen?”

“Sixteen million. Sixteen million men can claim to be directly descended from Genghis Khan. So you see, it won’t be like looking for a needle in a haystack at all. In fact, it’s my guess that we won’t have to get into the bodies of more than a couple of camels before we find what we’re looking for.”

Groanin grunted. “I see. Well, either way it’s very hot in Australia. Very hot. And very uncomfortable. And I’ve had more than enough of hot, uncomfortable places.” He shook his head. “What were Burke and Hare doing in Australia, anyway?”
“Burke and Hare were grave robbers in early nineteenth-century Edinburgh,” explained Philippa. “Burke and
Wills
were thirty years later, in the 1860s. They were two Victorian explorers who set out to walk two thousand miles across the Australian continent. From one coast to another.”

“Why?” asked Groanin. “I say, why would anyone want to walk all that way? And in Australia, of all places.”

“To find out what was in the middle,” said Nimrod. “At the time Australia was largely unknown country.”

“Still is,” said Axel. “Most of it, anyway. Everyone lives on the coast and hardly anyone in the middle.”

“Is that a fact?” said Groanin. “And what happened to them?”

“They died,” said Nimrod. “Of thirst and hunger in the desert.”

“Yes, that
is
encouraging,” grumbled Groanin.

Axel clapped Groanin on the back. “Don’t worry, Mr. Groanin,” he said. “That’s the advantage of a flying carpet. We don’t have to walk anywhere.”

“Axel is right,” said Nimrod. “When we get to Darwin on the north coast of Australia, we shall simply fly directly south toward Melbourne, across the Northern Territory, along the same sort of route as Burke and Wills. And when we see some wild camels, as we surely will, we shall swoop down on them and pick out a few so that we might investigate their minds.”

“Now I’ve heard everything,” said Groanin. “Mind reading a camel.”

“If you have a better plan, my dear fellow, I’d certainly like to hear it,” said Nimrod.

“Well,” said Groanin. “It seems to me that we’re going about this all wrong. We need to be thinking more like detectives and asking ourselves some basic questions. Always supposing that it’s not just a coincidence that all these volcanoes become active at once —”

“Impossible,” said Professor Sturloson. “It’s never happened before. Not even in prerecorded history.”

“Well then,” continued Groanin, “we need to ask ourselves who stands to profit from such a thing? And how?”

“You tell me,” said Nimrod.

“Another djinn, perhaps,” suggested John.

“It disadvantages us as much as it does mankind in general,” said Nimrod.

“If not a djinn, then a human being?” said Philippa.

“What kind of human being could do this?” mused Axel.

“Aye, well, I’ll admit it’s not easy to see who could gain from such a thing,” said Groanin. “I’m not a detective, see? But I would think that whoever it was would have to be mad for a start. I mean, you’d have to be mad to look for profit or advantage in this kind of thing. Then I think you’d have to be either rich or powerful, possibly both because to do this requires money and influence.”

“Go on,” said Nimrod.

Groanin nodded. “All right, sir. There’s this. You say that the burial place of Genghis Khan has been lost for almost eight hundred years?”

“That’s right.”

“Then it stands to reason that whoever found this tomb might have spent many years looking for it. Perhaps all his
life. It might be that this bloke’s already pretty well known to the world as an enthusiastic collector of all things Genghis so to speak, and that he’s wealthy enough to indulge this hobby. Perhaps, he’s bought some bits and pieces at an auction: pictures, sculptures, Mongol objets d’art, junk like that. This bloke might even be someone who admires the character of Genghis Khan and all the nasty things that he did. Could even be that he’s as daft as Genghis was. I say, this bloke might be as daft as Genghis was. A right megalomaniac who wants to be the most powerful man in the world, and all that imperial malarkey. A nasty evil so-and-so — pardon my French — who has about as little respect for human life as Genghis.”

Nimrod frowned. “Groanin, that’s brilliant,” he said. “Is it?”

“Yes. It is. Have you been eating fish?”

Groanin smiled a quiet smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“Fish always improves Groanin’s thinking,” explained Nimrod.

“So,” said John. “Let’s see. We could be looking for a crazy guy who’s very rich and powerful, who collects all kinds of weird stuff about Genghis Khan, who doesn’t care about anyone except himself, and stands to make money or gain power or both from behaving like a James Bond villain.”

“I think you have summed that up very well,” said Nimrod. “But until we think of a precise motive, I still think we need to find the camel that will help us locate the grave of the tyrant conqueror who stole the crystals of the Chinese emperor to spike the volcanoes of the world to change the
weather for power or money or —” He shook his head. “Or whatever. Something. I don’t know what. I’m afraid I start to run out of ideas when I come to an explanation of how you could achieve power and money from doing this.”

“Yes,” said Philippa. “How could anyone profit by a volcanic winter and the failure of the world’s crops and possibly the worst famine in history?” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

Groanin thought for a moment. Being kidnapped — by at least four sets of kidnappers that he could remember — had given him a keener understanding of extortion and ransom, not to mention human nature and the perfidy and callous criminality that some people were capable of. There were, he knew, plenty of decent men and women in the world; but sometimes, it was easy to believe that there were almost as many evil ones. Especially after you’d been treated the way Groanin had been treated.

“No, miss,” he said grimly. “It makes a lot of sense if whoever it is plans to hold the world to ransom in some way. Same as a Bond villain. Just like John said. And if so, then very likely he’s in it for the same grubby reason as the folk that kidnapped me.
Money.
Money’s still the reason most folk do things, good and bad. And probably always will be.”