Treasure of Khan (25 page)

“No,” Pitt replied. “We'll just try riding out of here on a horse of a different color.”

T
HE WALL-MOUNTED RADIO POPPED
with the receipt of a signal, followed by the caller's voice. The blowing wind created a background static that muffled the gravelly voice, though the proximity of the transmission made for a strong signal.

“We have them surrounded behind the sanctuary. They arrived with the Chinese delegation as Mongolian state security escorts, but are apparently imposters. My guards who were locked in the test chamber claim they are not Chinese but appear Russian.”

“I see,” Borjin replied, speaking into the handset in an irritated voice. “Government agents or, more likely, spies from a Russian oil company. See that they don't leave the compound alive, but hold the gunfire until the delegation has departed. I will expect a full report from security as to why they were not monitored at their arrival.”

Borjin replaced the handset, then closed a cherrywood cabinet that concealed the two-way radio transmitter. Exiting the small anteroom, he walked down the hall and returned to the formal conference room. The Chinese minister stood at the window staring into the dust storm outside with his own sense of swirling obfuscation.

“Excuse the interruption,” Borjin said, taking a seat with a grim smile. “A slight mishap has occurred with two of your state escorts. I'm afraid they won't be able to join you on your return trip. I will, of course, provide replacement escorts, if you desire.”

Shinzhe nodded vaguely. “The gunshots we are hearing from the outside?” he asked.

“A training exercise by my security guards. No reason to be alarmed.”

The minister stared blankly out the window, his mind clearly elsewhere. As if slowed by age, he sluggishly turned and sat down across from Borjin. “Your offer is akin to blackmail and your demands are preposterous,” he said, his anger finally surfacing.

“My demands are nonnegotiable. And perhaps they are not so preposterous for a country facing an economic meltdown,” Borjin hissed.

Shinzhe stared at his host with contempt. He had disliked the arrogant and demanding magnate from the moment they met. Though perfunctorily gracious, he obviously had no respect at all for China or its leadership position in the world. It pained Shinzhe even to attempt to negotiate, but he knew the state leaders, and the president in particular, were expecting a deal for the oil. With reason, he feared his country's leadership would accept the abominable proposal out of desperation. If only there was another way.

“Minister Shinzhe, you must view it as a mutually beneficial transaction,” Borjin continued, regaining his composure. “China gets the oil it needs to keep its economy running, I get a long-term commitment as a major supplier, and the Mongolian Autonomous Republic rejoins its rightful place as part of greater Mongolia.”

“Acceding sovereign territory is not an act taken lightly.”

“There is nothing of significance that China must accede. We both know the region is little more than a rural dust bowl that is largely occupied by Mongol herders. My interest in reunifying the region is born of a cultural desire to restore the lands that once belonged to our nation.”

“You may be correct that the region represents little of value. Still, it is most unusual for a private entity to be interfering in territorial exchanges.”

“This is true. In fact, my government knows nothing of our accord. They will find it a quite pleasing political gift, one that will be most favored by the masses.”

“And you will benefit handsomely, no doubt?”

“As broker, I have assigned a portion of the land rights to my company, but it represents only a small percentage of the total,” he smiled devilishly. He handed a thick leather binder to Shinzhe. “I have already worked up the necessary agreements for state representatives of both countries to sign. It would please me to receive acknowledgment of your country's acceptance at the earliest opportunity.”

“I will be reporting to the general secretary's council tomorrow afternoon. A decision will be forthcoming. Your fixed position on the terms may negate an agreement, I must warn.”

“So be it. Those are my terms.” Borjin rose to his feet. “I look forward to a long and fruitful relationship, Minister Shinzhe.” Borjin bowed graciously, if insincerely.

Shinzhe rose and bowed stiffly in return, then left the room with his entourage. Borjin and Tatiana followed the Chinese delegation to the door and watched as they staggered through the howling dust storm to their cars. As the taillights blinked past the guard gate, Borjin closed the door and turned to Tatiana.

“The plum is ours for the taking,” he said, walking back down the corridor.

“Yes, but the risks are many. They will not find it easy to give up the lands of Inner Mongolia. Perhaps they will begin to suspect something.”

“Nonsense. The Chinese can appreciate the cultural desire of Mongolia to seek unification with its prior territory. A perfect cover story. And a rich irony, that they will give us the lands that we will in turn exploit to sell them oil.”

“They will not be happy once they learn the truth. They might nullify the agreement, or worse. And they won't want to pay prices above the market rate.”

“The latter point is a simple matter. With our newfound technology, we can keep the entire market unstable for years and profit richly. We have already proven that in the Persian Gulf, and will do so again.”

They reached the conference room and stepped inside, moving to the small bar that was surrounded by dozens of shelved liquor bottles. Borjin reached for a bottle of cognac and poured two glasses.

“My dear sister, we have already won. Once the oil starts flowing, we will have the Chinese by the throat and they dare not renege. Should they have a change of heart, we simply accelerate the pipeline to Siberia and link up with the connection to Nakhodka. Then we will be able to sell our oil to Japan and the rest of the world and laugh in their face.”

“Yes, thanks to our brother's fire ship incident at Ningbo the Chinese are in a desperate bind.”

“Temuge has been working miracles, hasn't he?”

“I need not remind you that he nearly caused my death in Baikal,” she said irritably.

“An unforeseen side effect, the large wave. But no matter, you are here safe now,” he said with a slightly patronizing tone. “You must admit, he has been most effective. Coordinating the pipeline destruction in Siberia, then setting fire to the Chinese port when a suitable fault line could not be found. And the Persian Gulf team he assembled has been most effective. After the next demonstration in the Middle East, the Chinese will be crawling to us on their knees.”

“And Temuge is proceeding across the Pacific to North America for the final strike?”

“They are already at sea. The Baikal equipment arrived in Seoul two days ago, and they departed shortly thereafter. I sent the Khentii excavation team with Temuge, since we had to cease operations after the incident with the Russian survey team.”

“Their search efforts have produced nothing anyway. It is apparent from the empty crypt we found near Genghis that the other tomb was ransacked or else never interred. It is a mystery why the associated riches have never come to light.”

“No matter, as the Chinese will soon provide us a healthy cash flow. We'll have to wait a week or two for the next oil shock,” he said and smiled, “then they will be agreeably inclined.”

Stepping out of the conference room, he walked to the adjacent staircase, his sister following close behind. Stopping at the head of the stairs, he raised his glass to the huge portrait of the ancient Mongol warrior that hung on the facing wall.

“The first step is complete. We are well on our way now to restoring the riches and glory of the Golden Clan.”

“Our father would be proud,” Tatiana said. “He has made it possible.”

“To father and to our lord, Chinggis,” he said, swallowing a gulp of the cognac. “May the conquests begin again.”

B
EHIND THE RESIDENCE, THE HEAD
of security refastened a handheld radio to his belt. A bear-sized man by the name of Batbold, he had just received word that the Chinese delegation had left the compound. If the two marauders were still alive in the corral, they could be finished off with the rifles now.

The swirling dust obscured the interior of the corral, but the earlier rain of lead and arrows must have taken the two spies down. There was no longer the futile attempt to fling field implements at the surrounding forces. And, in fact, there had been no sight of either man for several minutes. They were surely dead by now, he surmised. Just to be sure, he ordered three more volleys of rifle fire into the center of the corral, then halted the shooting.

Removing a short sword he carried at his waist, Batbold dismounted and led three other men on foot toward the corral to examine the bodies. They marched to within ten feet of the wooden fence when they heard the sound of a wooden crate being smashed inside. As Batbold and his men froze in their steps, a new sound emerged, that of a metallic whirring that slowly died away. The security head took a tentative step forward, finally seeing movement behind one of the wagons as the whirring noise repeated itself again and again.

“There!” he shouted, pointing toward the wagon. “Aim and fire.”

The three guards raised their carbines to their shoulders as a loud pop reverberated from inside. As the gunmen tried to take aim, a wall of boxes suddenly erupted from the side of the corral, knocking out a section of the wooden fence. An instant later, a low-slung object came bursting toward them accompanied by a screeching din.

Batbold stared wide-eyed as he watched a faded red motorcycle with attached sidecar racing straight toward him. The motorcycle appeared riderless, with a wooden crate propped on the seat, next to another crate atop the sidecar. Sidestepping its path, Batbold realized his eyes were deceiving him and quickly hoisted his sword in defense of the approaching machine. But it was too late.

As the motorcycle brushed by, Al Giordino popped through the crate on the sidecar like a crazed jack-in-the-box. In his hands he gripped a square-bladed shovel, which he swung at Batbold. The blunt face of the blade struck the security chief on the side of his jaw with a hard smacking sound. Batbold quickly melted to the ground, a look of stunned confusion frozen on his face.

The motorcycle charged toward the three guards behind Batbold, who scattered in panic without firing a shot. One man slipped and fell, his legs run over by the sidecar's wheels. The second man dove to safety, while the third got whacked in the back of the head by Giordino's shovel, sending him sprawling.

Peeking through a slot in the wooden crate draped over his shoulders, Pitt gunned the motorcycle away from the mounted riflemen and steered toward the group of archers. Picking a gap in the horses, he blasted toward the hole to break through the siege line.

“Keep down, the heat's about to turn up,” he shouted to Giordino.

An instant later, a flurry of arrows began pinging into the sidecar and ripping into their makeshift wooden armor. Pitt felt a stinging in his left thigh from an arrow nick, and would have noticed a trickle of warm blood running down his leg had his senses not been focused elsewhere.

The aged motorcycle ripped toward the line of horsemen, trailing a cloud of black smoke from its overrich carburation. As Pitt had hoped, the riflemen behind him had held their fire for fear of shooting the archers. But the archers themselves had no such qualms and let loose with a flurry of flying arrows.

Pitt decided to lessen the fire and drove directly toward one of the horses. The startled beast reared on its hind legs and spun to the side to let the noisy contraption pass, leaving its rider hanging on for dear life. Pitt saw the flash of a lance go soaring by inches in front of his face, piercing the ground nearby. Then he was past the rearing horse and the line of archers, speeding away from the courtyard.

Giordino spun backward in the sidecar and peeked over the edge of his protective crate. The horsemen had quickly regrouped and began chasing after the motorcycle.

“Still on our heels,” he shouted. “I'm going to play toss with these guys. Let me know when we get to the ski jump.”

“Coming up,” Pitt replied.

Before climbing aboard the motorcycle, Giordino had noticed a gunnysack full of horseshoes hanging from the wagon. He had judiciously tossed the bag into the sidecar and now used the metal shoes as projectiles. Popping out of the crate, he began hurling horseshoes at the nearest rider's head. The loopy hunks of metal were awkward to throw, but Giordino quickly took note of their aerodynamic qualities and began zeroing in on his targets. He quickly dazed two of the riders and disrupted the bow fire of several others, forcing the pursuers to keep their distance.

In the driver's seat, Pitt raced the motorcycle across the edge of the courtyard while holding the throttle at full. When he rolled against the Czechoslovakian motorcycle in the corral, he figured the 1950s-era bike was a metal corpse. But the 1953 Czech JAWA 500 OHC still had air in its tires, a couple of gallons of stale gas in its tank, and its engine turned over freely. On the seventh kick of its manual starter, the old twin-cylinder motor coughed to life, giving Pitt and Giordino a slim chance at freedom.

With the help of Giordino's horseshoe toss, they had opened up a comfortable lead over the pursuing horsemen. Pitt suddenly swung the handlebars to one side and aimed for the rear edge of the property.

“Fasten your seat belt, we're ready for takeoff,” he yelled to Giordino.

Giordino ducked back into the sidecar and grabbed a handrail that ran across the front of the compartment. In his other hand, he gripped the last of the horseshoes he was preparing to toss.

“For luck,” he muttered, and wedged the horseshoe into the cowling of the sidecar.

There was no wall at the back of the estate, as the edge of the yard dropped down a steep precipice. Pitt knew it might be suicidal to make the attempt, but there was no other avenue for escape. Blasting toward the edge of the yard, he braked slightly then guided the motorcycle over the brink.

Pitt could feel his stomach drop as the ground disappeared from beneath their wheels and the motorcycle thrust forward. The first thirty feet were nearly a vertical drop and they plunged through the air before the front wheel kissed the ground. The rest of the motorcycle struck hard, jarring the wooden crates off the driver and passenger. The wooden shields, stitched with arrows, crashed to the ground beside them. Pitt was thankful to be free of the clumsy obstacle, though he knew the boxes had probably saved their lives. His focus quickly diverted to keeping the motorcycle balanced.

With the uneven weight of the sidecar, the motorcycle by all rights should have flipped when they struck the ground. But Pitt kept a firm hand on the handlebars and deftly adjusted the front wheel to compensate for the uneven landing. Fighting the natural instinct to pull away, he kept the motorcycle aimed straight down the mountain. The forward momentum stabilized the bike and sidecar, though they now tore down the slope at breakneck speed. Giordino's horseshoe seemed to bring them luck, as they faced no large rocks or major obstacles in their path down the steep face. Flecks of gravel occasionally spewed off the ground in front of them and Pitt realized they were being shot at from the ledge above. The roar of the motorcycle and the howl of the wind easily obscured the sound of the gunshots. A swirl of dust blew over them, providing temporary cover from the peppering gunfire. But the winds also blinded Pitt. He held the handlebars rigid and just hoped they wouldn't fatally collide with a rock or tree.

Up on the ledge, several guards stood and fired at the fleeing motorcycle with their carbines, cursing as it disappeared into a blowing cloud of dust. A half dozen other horsemen continued the chase, leading their mounts down the steep incline. It was a slow decent for the horses, but once past the initial drop, the guards continued the pursuit with speed.

On the motorcycle, Pitt and Giordino hung on for dear life as the machine barreled down the mountain at nearly eighty miles per hour. Pitt finally released the rear brake, which he had instinctively held locked up since they went over the edge, realizing it was doing little to slow their decent.

After several seconds of a near-vertical plunge, the incline gradually eased. The slope still fell away sharply, but they no longer had the feeling of free falling. Pitt began to twist the handlebars slightly to avoid shrubs and rocks that dotted the hillside, regaining a minor control over the bike. Bounding over a sharp rut, both men flew out of their seats but were able to recover before the next dip. Pitt felt like his kidneys were being crushed with each bump, the stiff springs and hard leather seat offering little in the way of comfort.

Several times the motorcycle careened to one side or another, teetering on the brink of flipping over. Each time, Pitt nudged the front wheel just enough to keep them upright, while Giordino would shift to aid balance. Pitt couldn't avoid every obstacle and several times the sidecar crashed over small boulders. The streamlined nose of the sidecar soon looked like it had been battered with a sledgehammer.

Gradually the steep incline abated and the rocks, shrubs, and scattered trees gave way to dry grass. Pitt soon found himself feathering the throttle to maintain speed as the terrain softened. The wind was as harsh as ever and seemed to blow directly into Pitt's face. The swirling dust was thick and constant, limiting visibility to a few dozen feet.

“We still have a tail?” Pitt shouted.

Giordino nodded yes. He had stolen glances behind them every few seconds and had observed the initial contingent of horsemen start their ascent down the mountain. Though the pursuers were well behind now and long since obscured by the blowing blankets of dust, Giordino knew the chase was just beginning.

Pitt knew it as well. As long as the old motorcycle surged on, they would remain well ahead of the pursuing horses. But it might be a contest of elusion, and Pitt could only hope that their tracks would be obscured by the windstorm. The fact remained that their lives were pinned on an aged motorcycle with limited gas.

Pitt inquisitively reflected on the Czech motorcycle. The JAWA originated before the war, growing out of a factory that produced hand grenades and other armaments. Known for their lightweight but powerful engines, the postwar JAWAs were fast and technically innovative bikes with a reputation for durability, at least until the factory was nationalized. Despite gulping on a tank of flat gas, the old motorcycle purred along with barely a sputter. I'll take what you give me, Pitt thought, realizing that the more distance he put between himself and the horsemen, the better. Gritting his teeth, his squinted into the blowing dust and squeezed the throttle harder, holding tight as the old motorcycle roared into the swirling gloom.