The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan (9 page)

“You were indeed fortunate,” said Nimrod.

“So then. Let us find my two eldest sons. And we shall explain our wishes to you.”

Mr. Barkhiya took Nimrod and the others up to the rug emporium rooftop where his sons had spread out Nimrod’s flying carpet in the morning sunshine. The emporium’s rooftop was castellated like a fortress and the highest in all of the old city so that local people might not be alarmed at the sight of a carpet ascending into the sky. The carpet itself was about a thousand square feet and as blue as a sapphire. Under the hot Moroccan sun, the gold thread woven into the carpet seemed to glow like it was molten metal.

“If the carpet has not flown for a while,” explained one of the sons, “then you should always leave the carpet in the sun for a few minutes to warm the fibers up. Djinn power relies on heat, yes? Especially the heat of the sun?”

“Er, yes,” said Philippa. “That’s quite correct.”

He handed her a hat pin and bowed.

John knelt and ran a finger along the edge. “It sure doesn’t look like it’s been cut.”

“If the carpet is cut with a knife,” said the other son, “the knife must always first draw the blood of the djinn who owns it.”

“I see,” said John. “A bit like a samurai sword. I’ll remember that.”

Professor Sturloson and Axel sat close to the center of the carpet and patiently awaited takeoff.

Meanwhile, Mr. Barkhiya and his two eldest sons debated their three wishes among themselves.

“What’s the hat pin for?” asked John.

“I don’t know,” Philippa said. “One of Mr. Barkhiya’s sons just handed it to me.”

“I’ll take that,” said Nimrod. “It’s so that I can personalize the carpet, and make it so that only I can fly it. You certainly wouldn’t want another djinn to steal your carpet. Only, this requires the spilling of blood on the carpet. So my djinn blood will become part of the carpet. And the words of power that were used in its weaving will be mine to command.”

Hesitating, he pulled a face. “Oh, Lord, I’ve always hated needles.”

“Me, too,” said John.

“Oh, here,” said Philippa. “Give it to me.” She took the pin back from her uncle. “Don’t be such a wuss.”

She grabbed her uncle’s thumb and pricked it for him before he could protest.

“Ouch,” said Nimrod. “That hurt.”

Philippa squeezed his thumb hard and let a ruby of blood drop on the shining blue silk of the carpet.

Watching more closely, John noticed that the fibers seemed to emit a small cloud of smoke before the blood was completely absorbed, without so much as a stain.

“Er, thank you,” said Nimrod, and sucked his thumb. “Very kind of you, Philippa, I think.”

Mr. Barkhiya returned with his two eldest sons. “This is my eldest son, Hanif,” he said. “And this is my son Salman.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to wish for?” asked Nimrod.

“Yes, O great one,” said Mr. Barkhiya. He looked at Hanif and nodded urgently.

“Oh, right. It’s me first, huh?”

“You’re the eldest.” Hanif’s father looked at Nimrod and shrugged. “Educated in America,” he said by way of explanation for Hanif’s accent. “Like all my sons.”

“Um.”

“Hanif,” said Nimrod. “Just spit it out.”

“This is gonna sound kind of strange,” said Hanif. “But I always wanted to play the horn. I mean the trumpet. Like Miles Davis. I play already but I’m not nearly as good as he was. Yeah, that’s what I wish. To play the horn as well as him.”

“That’s nice.” Nimrod nodded and then looked at Salman. “And you?”

Salman grinned and looked at his brother. “The sax,” he said. “I wanna play sax like John Coltrane. All I ever wanted to do, man, was play the sax like John Coltrane. All my life that’s been my wish. You might say it was a love supreme. Yeah.”

Nimrod smiled and looked at Mr. Barkhiya. “And I suppose you want to play the double bass like Marcus Miller.”

“Drums,” said Mr. Barkhiya. “Like Philly Joe Jones or Billy Cobham.”

“I certainly can’t fault your taste,” said Nimrod. “Any of you. However, before I grant your wishes and give each of you a little bit of talent, which is important, it’s worth mentioning that most of their ability to play was the result of practice. Practice makes perfect.”

As soon as Nimrod had granted these three wishes, he stepped onto the huge blue square of silk carpet, alongside the twins, Professor Sturloson, and Axel; sat down cross-legged; and then muttered his focus word.

A second or two later the carpet started silently to rise into the air like a very well-behaved helicopter.

“
Otrúlegt
,” said Axel. “Unbelievable.” He rolled to the edge of the carpet and looked down at the retreating medina. “I feel like Sinbad. I never thought that I would fly on a real magic carpet.”

“Don’t say that word,” said Philippa. “
Magic
. It irritates my uncle.”

“Oh, right,” said Axel. “Sorry. But this is very exciting. And it certainly feels like magic to a boy from Reykjavik. I used to think that a carpet was something for covering floors with. Or vacuuming. Not flying on.”

“I agree.” The professor grinned. He smoothed the carpet with the flat palm of his hand and thought it smoother than the velvet curtains at the White House in Washington where, once, he’d been invited to a dinner given in honor of the Icelandic ambassador by the U.S. president. “I’m afraid it’s bound to feel very magical to us.”

“
Frábœr
,” said Axel. “Fantastic.” He rolled into a crouching position. “Is it safe?” he asked. “To stand? To walk around?”

“Isn’t that a question you should have asked before you got on?” Philippa smiled at the big Icelander. With his blue eyes, light blond hair, peppermint-white teeth, and chiseled cheekbones, she considered him the most marvelous-looking man she had ever seen.

“I suppose it is,” Axel said ruefully.

“Yes, it’s safe,” said Nimrod, and set a course east-northeast. “Only don’t go too near the edge, Axel. As we pick up speed and altitude the most comfortable place to sit will be in the center of the carpet.”

Axel grinned at Philippa. “I just wish I had my camera,” he said.

And because Philippa liked Axel and wanted him to like her, she whispered her focus word and, of course, Axel’s camera — a fine old Hasselblad — appeared in his big, strong hands.

“Did you do this?” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “For me?”

“Yes,” she confessed, and blushed as he kissed her on the cheek.

G
roanin surveyed the mountainous pile of dirty dishes in the kitchen sink and uttered a profound sigh. “Disaster,” he muttered. “What a disaster.” For once Groanin did not overstate the matter.

But he wasn’t talking about the news on television, although he might easily have been: Another volcano — Bjarnarey, on the Vestmannaeyjar Islands, near Iceland — had become active.

He was talking about events that had occurred in Decebal’s apartment in Guidonia the previous evening when Groanin had cooked an elaborate five-course dinner for ten, hosted by Decebal and his girlfriend, Bogna. Things had gone relatively well until the cheese course when Groanin had served a local blue Gorgonzola, which, the uncouth and ignorant Romanians insisted, was blue because it had spoiled; they proceeded to accuse him of trying to make a fool out of them and that he had intended to trick them into believing that the strong-smelling, blue-veined cheese was edible.

When Groanin had loudly protested that Gorgonzola was supposed to be blue veined and strong smelling, the skeptical Romanians had pelted him with the Gorgonzola as well as all the other cheeses he had purchased from the Guidonia Cheese Shop — d’Aosta, Grana Padano, Parmesan, and pecorino. They also pelted him with bread rolls, grapes, after-dinner mints, two antique silver salt and pepper cellars, and a television remote control. The butler had a large bruise on his head after being struck by a flying cell phone. And a couple of days working for Decebal already seemed like an age, an aeon.

“ ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone,’ right enough,” said Groanin. “And to think I used to complain about being in old Nimrod’s service.” He wiped a tear from his rheumy eye. “What kind of psycho throws a cell phone at his butler’s head?”

No less disastrous than the dinner party had been Groanin’s genuine attempts to educate the young gangster about good table manners and gracious living.

Preliminary instructions in the proper use of three sets of cutlery had been met with open hostility.

“What’s the point of having three sets of cutlery on the table when you could just as easily make do with one?” demanded Decebal. “It doesn’t make sense. Just more washing up.”

“Nevertheless, sir, that is the proper way to do these things,” insisted Groanin. “In restaurants — if you go to restaurants, that is, sir — it’s customary to start by using the cutlery on the outside, and to work in, as it were.”

“The whole world’s about to blow up,” said Decebal, “and you’re worried about the right spoon to use.”

“I’m not worried about it, sir,” said Groanin. “The spoons, I mean. I’m merely telling you what is correct. What is right. What is expected in polite circles.”

“I don’t care about polite circles,” insisted Decebal. “And I don’t care about cutlery.”

“Evidently, sir.”

No more did Decebal care to have his bath drawn when he could have a shower instead; moreover, his shirts were all nylon and could not be pressed, and he hardly saw the point of Groanin polishing the silver — which is the principal occupation of butlers all over the world — when he was in the habit of stealing a new set of silver whenever the old set started to look tarnished.

But mostly, Groanin’s attempts to teach Decebal how to behave had been thwarted by the boy’s insatiable sweet tooth. To Groanin’s obvious disgust and horror, Decebal was accustomed to eating chocolates from a large box before, during, and after any meal; he liked honey in his coffee and apricot jam in his sandwiches, and — after several attempts to drink the perfectly made tea that Groanin had prepared — he discovered he much preferred instant coffee with lots of sugar.

This was nothing, however, to compare with Decebal’s reaction to being awoken by Groanin bringing him his breakfast on a silver tray. It was the adolescent’s habit to sleep well past midday and into the early afternoon — a habit that Groanin considered to be nothing short of degenerate.
Nimrod liked to be awoken by Groanin at precisely seven
A.M.
with a breakfast tray and a newspaper. But Decebal didn’t like being woken any more than he liked breakfast or wanted a newspaper, especially an Italian paper like
Il Giornale.

Which was probably why he had pulled a gun from under his pillow and started shooting. Not actually at Groanin — Decebal wasn’t crazy, just loutish — but almost everywhere else. And the bedroom now looked like a saloon in Dodge City — all broken mirrors and gunshot pictures.

Later on, in the afternoon, when Decebal finally got out of bed, he went over the criminal activities that were on the agenda with his number two, Costica. Or at least he tried to go over the day’s business in hand.

“What’s that infernal noise?” he asked Costica.

“It’s the butler, boss, vacuuming the carpets and the curtains in the dining room,” explained Costica. He got up and closed the living room door.

“The man is crazy. What does he want to go and vacuum the curtains for?”

“I don’t know, boss.”

Decebal may have been ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid, and he knew that his idea of having a butler really wasn’t working out.

“Get rid of him,” said Decebal.

Costica drew his gun.

“Not like that, you idiot,” said Decebal. “Sell him.”

Costica frowned. “To whom? People around here haven’t got the money for butlers. We should ransom him, like the Italians suggested. To this guy he works for. Nimrod.”

“Maybe we could but the butler’s cell phone isn’t working.” Decebal shrugged. “So we can hardly call this Nimrod and demand a ransom to set his butler free. Can we?” He shook his head. “Kidnapping is no business to be in when the entire cellular phone network stops working.”

“So who are we going to sell him to?” asked Costica.

Decebal thought for a moment. “There’s a ship called the
Shebelle
in the port at Civitavecchia,” explained Decebal. “It’s owned by some pirates from Somalia. We’ll sell the butler to them. What those guys don’t know about kidnapping isn’t worth knowing. Plus, they’re much more ruthless than we are.”

“When shall we do this?”

The sound of Groanin vacuuming got nearer to the living room door.

“No time like the present,” said Decebal. “Before he drives me mad with his cleaning and his cutlery.”

T
he beginning of their lengthy journey on board the flying carpet took the fivesome over the island of Sicily, where they had an excellent view of Mount Etna, which, at almost eleven thousand feet, is the largest active volcano in Europe.

It was dark and they could not see the ash and gas plume that reached almost four miles into the air before trailing across Greece and Turkey some eight hundred miles away. What they could see, however, was a spectacular firework display of red-hot lava as it was shot one hundred and sixty feet out of the crater into the night sky, and several glowing streams of eighteen-hundred-degree Fahrenheit molten rock that flowed down the mountain slopes like a river of fire.

John and Philippa had crawled to the edge of the flying carpet to get the best possible view of Etna’s eruption.

“Wow,” said John.

“It’s a sobering sight, right enough,” said the professor.

“This is what lies in store for the whole of our planet unless we can put a stop to it,” said Nimrod.

“That is, if you’re right about this ancient Chinese curse,” said Axel.

“I sincerely hope I’m not,” said Nimrod. “However, I rather think I am.”

“What was it again?” said Axel. “The curse. Something like ‘
yi wàng nián de huōzăi
,’ wasn’t it?”

“Your accent is very good.” Nimrod put down the book he had been reading and smiled at the Icelander. “Sounds like you speak a bit of Chinese, Axel.”

“A bit,” said Axel modestly. “I used to have a Chinese girlfriend.”

“That might come in handy. The language, not the girlfriend.”

“She used to say I was terrible at speaking Chinese.” Axel smiled ruefully.

“Well, you speak Icelandic really well,” observed John. “And that sounds just as difficult.”

Axel’s smile widened and he rubbed the hair on John’s head with affection.

“If you say so, little brother,” he said.

“I must say, the lava from Etna doesn’t look very golden,” observed Philippa.

“All metal looks much the same at eighteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit,” said Nimrod. “I would suggest we fly down to take a closer look, if it wasn’t for what happened to your mother.”

“What happened to their mother?” asked the professor.

“She got hit by a pyroclastic flow, in Hawaii,” said Nimrod. “Much like you, Professor. Only she was less fortunate than yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” said the professor gravely. “I had no idea.”

“Oh, she’s not dead,” said John. “At least, her spirit isn’t. Her body was burnt to a crisp. But she was fortunate in that she managed to borrow another one. Well, not so much borrow, as take the body that had belonged to our housekeeper, Mrs. Trump. She had fallen downstairs and was in a coma.” He paused, suddenly aware of what this must sound like. “Well, it’s a long story.”

“Sounds like it,” said Axel.

“How fast can this thing go?” asked the professor, changing the subject.

“The carpet?” said Nimrod. “Well, it’s been a few years since I flew one, so I’m a little out of practice, to be honest. Back in the day, I could get five hundred miles per hour out of my father’s carpet. But now I’m lucky to get two or three hundred. All of which reminds me.” He put down his book again. “John? Philippa?”

“Yes, Uncle?”

“It’s high time you two learned how to fly a carpet.”

“I thought the drop of blood you spilled on it meant no one can fly this carpet except you,” objected John.

“Except that I give you my permission, of course,” said Nimrod. “Not to mention the fact that I’m actually sitting on it. No, no, the blood spot is just to ensure that when I’m not there no one else can fly it.”

“Er, right,” said John. “What do I do? Is it anything like flying a whirlwind?”

“Yes, and no,” said Nimrod.

“That’s very helpful,” said Philippa.

“A carpet is altogether heavier. Like driving a car that doesn’t have power steering. Or an old bicycle without springs and proper inflatable tires. And, of course, flying carpets are not so good in storms as I sincerely hope we won’t discover. It’s altogether a harder ride than a whirlwind. And why wouldn’t it be?” Nimrod banged the carpet hard with the flat of his hand. “This is solid whereas a whirlwind was just a cushion of air.” He sighed. “A flying carpet is so much more primitive than a whirlwind. Like going back to a propeller aircraft after one has grown used to flying on the Concorde.” He thought for a moment. “The action is more like a skimming stone on the surface of a lake. You must think of the carpet bouncing across the surface of one air pocket after another. Which accounts for the slight up-and-down sensation. Can you feel it?”

“I can,” admitted the professor. “And it’s making me ever so slightly seasick.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Nimrod grinned at John. “Come on, then, John,” he said. “Let’s see you try it. When you’re ready, just say
ready
and then I’ll give you control, all right?”

John pulled a face. “I remember the first time I flew a whirlwind,” he said. “In Kathmandu. I managed to flip over a car. And tore off someone’s satellite dish. And then Dybbuk threw up on the heads of some tourists.”

“Please don’t talk about throwing up,” said the professor. “Believe me, that’s not so easy when you’re wearing a mask.”

“I remember.” Philippa laughed. “All the hippies thought they had seen someone who’d actually mastered the art of yogic flying.”

John grinned back at his sister. “We’ve had some fun times, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” agreed Philippa.

“Come on, come on,” Nimrod said a little impatiently. “I haven’t got all day.”

“Oh. Right.” John paused for a moment, and then said, “Ready.”

“You have control,” said Nimrod.

Except that he didn’t. None by a long chalk.

Immediately, John felt the weight and dimensions of the carpet. It was as if someone had handed him a heavy barbell in a gym. For a moment he held it steady before the sheer bulk of it quite overwhelmed him and the carpet collapsed in on itself with everyone — Nimrod, Philippa, the professor, and Axel — wrapped up inside it like the contents of a tablecloth that had fallen through a hole in the middle of a table.

Everyone screamed as the carpet plunged toward the earth like a faulty elevator car, or perhaps a really terrifying theme park ride. Everyone except Nimrod.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Happens to everyone on their first attempt. Here. Let me straighten you out.”

John felt Nimrod take control of the flying carpet again and a few seconds later they were level and still aloft.

“Ready for another go?” Nimrod asked John.

“I don’t know about John, but I know I’m not,” said the professor. “I don’t think my nerves could stand another drop like that last one.”

“Yes, it was rather sudden, wasn’t it?” admitted Nimrod. “Like going over Niagara in a barrel.” He chuckled. “And I should know, having done that.”

“You’re a man of many parts, Nimrod,” said the professor. “But speaking for myself, I prefer to exist in just the one part, if you follow my meaning.”

“Yes,” said Nimrod. “Well, perhaps you’re right, Snorri, old friend. Children? We shall have to postpone our flying lesson for another time. Out of courtesy for our fellow passengers.”

The professor breathed a loud sigh of relief. “Thank you, Nimrod.”

A few minutes later, a bird landed on the edge of the carpet. Axel said that it was a wild duck. A mallard.

“Yes, that’s another problem with flying carpets,” said Nimrod. “Other creatures sometimes hitch a ride.”

“Still, it’s rather a nice wild duck,” said Philippa.

She crawled toward the bird with some cookie crumbs she had found in her pocket. “I’ve always thought of ducks as being friendly birds,” she said. “Because of their smiley-looking beaks.”

The bird quacked happily as Philippa tossed it the crumbs and then ate them, after which it allowed Philippa to stroke its head.

“Can I keep it, Uncle?” she asked after a while. “As a pet.”

“It’ll fly off before long,” said John. “You’ll see.”

“But if it doesn’t fly off. Can I keep it then, Uncle Nimrod?”

“On one condition,” said Nimrod. “That you don’t call it Donald.”

“All right.” Philippa thought for a second. “I shall call it Moby.”

“Moby.” Nimrod groaned. “Almost as bad, if not worse.”

John laughed. “Oh, I get it. Moby Duck, yeah. Cool.” He shrugged. “And if it doesn’t work out as a pet, we can always eat it.”

“What a crummy thing to say,” protested Philippa. She hugged the bird to her and kissed its green head. “Of course he’s going to work out.”

John shook his head. “It’s a long way to Mongolia, sis,” he said. “And I’ll bet you five bucks that Moby Duck will have taken off long before that.”

“We’re not headed to Mongolia,” announced Nimrod. “At least, not right away. No, first we have to stop in Afghanistan.” He tapped the book he had been reading. “According to this book, anyway.”

“There would have to be a very good reason for going to Afghanistan,” said the professor. “Especially since I could give any number of good reasons for not going to Afghanistan.”

“Yeah,” said John. “It’s dangerous.”

“Nevertheless,” said Nimrod. “Afghanistan is where we’re going.”

“Why?”

“I don’t remember you having any books when we got onto
this carpet,” said Axel. “And now it seems that you have several. Too many to have fitted in that Louis Choppsouis bag you have with you. Where did all these old books come from?”

Nimrod showed Axel an old silver djinn lamp.

“Inside here,” he said, “is a large library that belonged to an old friend of mine. Of ours. Mr. Rakshasas. He’s no longer alive, I’m afraid, and I now have custody of the lamp and the library. Which is one of the best libraries on secret hermetic things anywhere in the world. Although strictly speaking, it isn’t. In the world, I mean. It’s sort of both in it and out of it at the same time, if you understand what I mean.”

“Not really,” sighed the professor.

“I sort of popped in and browsed around a bit back on the hydrofoil between Sardinia and Nador. When you were all asleep.”

“A library? In a lamp?” Axel shook his head. “It’s not possible, is it?”

“He says this while he’s sitting on a flying carpet,” murmured the professor.

“I can assure you it is possible, Axel,” said Philippa. “A library with a reading room and shelves, and tens of thousands of books.”

“Not to mention the creepiest librarian you’ve ever seen.” John laughed. “Liskeard Karswell du Crowleigh. Although strictly speaking, he’s the bottle imp. By the way, Uncle, how is Liskeard?”

“He’s all right, thank you, John.”

“Could I see the library inside the lamp, sometime, perhaps?” asked the professor.

“I’m afraid not, Snorri,” said Nimrod. “A human being would suffocate and die inside a djinn lamp.”

“I feel the same way about almost any library,” said John.

Axel took the book from Nimrod’s hands and inspected the title that was tooled in gold on the old leather spine. He paused for a moment to read the title, which was in Hindi, and then said: “ ‘
The Secret
Secret
History of the Mongols
by Sidi Mubarak Bombay, with the most useful help of my very good friend, Henry Morton Stanley.’ ”

“You read Hindi, too,” said Nimrod. “Now I’m really impressed.”

“Before I was a volcanologist,” said Axel, “I was a mountaineer. In the Himalayas. I picked it up when I was there.”

Philippa stared at Axel with unashamed adoration. There seemed to be no end to the man’s talents.

“Well, you’re almost right,” said Nimrod, who spoke fluent Hindi. “But it’s
The
Secret
Secret History of the Mongols
.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Axel.

“Oh, quite a bit. My way of pronouncing the title makes it much more secret than your way. And certainly much more secret than
The Secret History of the Mongols.
That book is merely esoteric and only a bit secret. This one is hermetic. Which is to say, very secret indeed. And rare. And, I confess, so very rare that it was quite unknown to me until I got Karswell — the bottle imp librarian — to bring me all of the books on the subject of Genghis Khan and his secret mausoleum. In fact, I think there were only ever three copies printed.”

“I haven’t heard of Sidi Mubarak Bombay,” said Philippa, “but, Stanley was a Victorian English explorer, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Nimrod. “He’s the chap who found Livingstone, in Africa. He wasn’t really lost but Stanley didn’t know that.”

Axel turned the foxed pages of the book thoughtfully. “ ‘Dedicated to my great friend John Hanning Speke.’ ”

“Another Victorian explorer in Africa,” said Nimrod. “But long before Speke was in Africa, he was exploring Tibet and the Himalayas with Sidi Mubarak Bombay, a slave brought to India by Arab slavers, but freed by Speke, with whom he went on many expeditions. Among them, the search for the tomb of Genghis Khan. After Speke died, in 1864, Bombay went to India to look for the tomb there. He didn’t find it, I’m afraid. But rather usefully for us, he wrote this little book. With many important clues on what to look for. And one clue in particular.”

“Which is why we’re going to Afghanistan, right?” said John.

Nimrod nodded.

“And what’s the one clue in particular we’re looking for?” asked Philippa.

“A camel,” said Nimrod. “A very special camel.”