Treasure of Khan

  "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."

  -24-

  BEHIND 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 carburetion. 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 so
und 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.

  -25-

  DARKNESS SETTLED QUICKLY OVER THE broad, rolling steppes. High clouds floating above the blowing dust blotted out the moon and stars, pitching the grasslands into an inky black. Only a tiny pinprick of light poked sporadically through the dry ground storm. Then the shaft of light would disappear, devoured by a blowing blanket of dust. In its wake was left the accompanying roar from a two-cylinder, four-stroke motor, whose constant rumble throbbed on without missing a beat. The Czech motorcycle and sidecar bounded over the sea of grass like a Jet Ski hopping the waves. The aged bike groaned over every bump and rut but charged steadily across the hills. Pitt's hand ached from holding the throttle at full, but he was driven to coax every ounce of horsepower out of the old motorcycle. Despite the lack of a road and the wallowing sidecar, the old cycle charged across the empty grasslands at almost fifty miles per hour. At their sustained speed, they were widening the gap between their pursuers with every mile. But at the moment, it was an inconsequential point. The motorcycle's tires left an indelible track in the summer grass, which offered a conspicuous trail to their whereabouts.

  Pitt had hoped to discover a crossroad that he could use to obscure their tracks, but all he found was an occasional horse path, too narrow to hide their tire marks. Once, he saw a light in the distance and attempted to steer toward it. But the brief ray vanished under a dust cloud, and they were left running across the darkened void. Though no roads appeared under the dim glow of the headlamp, Pitt could see that the landscape was gradually changing. The rolling hills had softened, while the grassland underfoot had thinned. The terrain must have moderated, Pitt noted wryly, as it had been awhile since he had heard Giordino curse from the jolts. Soon the hills disappeared altogether and the thick grassland turned to short turf, which eventually gave way to a hard gravel surface dotted with scrub brush.

  They had entered the northern edge of the Gobi Desert, a vast former inland sea that covers the lower third of Mongolia. More stony plain than billowy sand dune, the arid landscape supports a rich population of gazelles, hawks, and other wildlife, which thrive in a region once swarming with dinosaurs. None of that was visible to Pitt and Giordino, who could just barely make out rising granite uplifts among the sand and gravel washes. Pitt leaned hard on the handlebars, steering around a jagged stone outcropping before following a seam through giant boulders that eventually opened into a wide flat valley.

  The motorcycle picked up a burst of speed as its tires met firmer ground. Pitt was blasted by thicker swirls of dust, though, which made the visibility worse than before. The three-wheeled machine charged across the desert for another hour, smacking shrubs and small rocks with a regular battering. At last the engine began to hiccup, then gradually stuttered and coughed. Pitt coaxed the bike another mile before the fuel tank finally ran as dry as the surrounding desert and the engine wheezed to a final stop.

  They coasted to a stop along a flat sandy wash, the silence of the desert enveloping them. Only the gusting winds whistling through the low brush and the blowing sand skittering over the ground tested their hearing, blown raw by the motorcycle's loud exhaust. The skies above them began to clear and the winds settled down to just sporadic bursts. A sprinkling of stars peeked through the dusty curtain overhead, offering a snippet of light across the empty desert.

  Pitt turned to the sidecar and found Giordino sitting there caked in grit. Under the twilight, Pitt could see his friend's hair, face, and clothes saturated with a fine layer of khaki dust. To his utter disbelief, Giordino had actually fallen asleep in the sidecar, his hands still tightly gripping the handrail. The cessation of the engine's blare and the nonstop swaying eventually stirred Giordino. Blinking open his eyes, he peered at the dark, empty wasteland surrounding them.

  "I hope you didn't bring me here to watch the submarine races," he said.

  "No," Pitt replied. "I think it's a horse race that is on tonight's billing."

  Giordino hopped out of the sidecar and stretched while Pitt examined the wound to his shin. The arrow had just nicked the front of his shin before embedding itself in a cooling fin on the motor. The wound had stopped bleeding some time ago, but a splatter of red-based dust ran down to his foot like a layer of cherry frosting.

  "Leg okay?" Giordino asked, noticing the wound.

  "A near miss. Almost nailed me to the bike," Pitt said, pulling the broken arrow shaft from the engine.

  Giordino turned and gazed in the direction they had traveled. "How far behind do you suppose they are?"

  Pitt mentally computed the time and approximate speed they traveled since leaving Xanadu. "Depends on their pace. I'd guess we have at least a
twenty-mile buffer. They couldn't run the horses faster than a trot for any sustained amount of time."

  "Guess there wasn't a short road down the back of that mountain or they would have sent some vehicles after us."

  "I was worried about a helicopter, but they couldn't have flown in that dust storm anyway."

  "Hopefully, they got saddlesore and threw in the towel. Or at least stopped until morning, which would give us a little more time to thumb a ride out of here."

  "I'm afraid there doesn't appear to be a truck stop in the vicinity," Pitt replied. He stood and turned the motorcycle handlebars in an arc, shining the headlight across the desert. A high, rocky uplift stretched along their left flank, but the terrain was empty and as flat as a billiard table in the other three directions.

  "Personally speaking," Giordino said, "after that marble-in-a-washing-machine ride down the mountain, a small stretch of the legs sounds glorious. Do you want to keep marching into the wind?" he asked, pointing along the motorcycle's path, which led into the face of the breeze.

  "We have a magician's trick to perform first," Pitt said.

  "What trick is that?"

  "Why," Pitt said with a sly smile, "how to make a motorcycle disappear in the desert."

  • • • •

  The six horsemen had quickly given up any effort to keep pace with the faster motorcycle and settled their mounts into a less taxing gait, which they could maintain for hours on end. The Mongol horse was an extremely hardy animal, bred over centuries for durability. Descendants of the stock that conquered all of Asia, the Mongol horse was nail tough. The animals were renowned for being able to survive on scant rations yet still gallop across the steppes all day. Short, sturdy, and, on the whole, mangy in appearance, their toughness was unmatched by any Western thoroughbred.

  The tight group of horses reached the base of the mountain, where the lead horseman suddenly held up the pack. The dour-faced patrol leader peered at the ground though the heavy eyelids of a bullfrog. Shining a flashlight, he aimed the beam at a pair of deep ruts cut through the grass, studying them carefully. Satisfied, he stowed the light and spurred his mount to a trot along the trail of ruts as the other horsemen fell in behind.