The Mongol's Coffin, page 15
Nick wrinkled his face up, reminding Grant of D. A. "Butter and salt? You making tea, or making an omelet?"
"No eggs. In the steppes, not so many chickens. For the khan's army, no chickens at all. If they must ride a long way, they survive on the blood of their horses."
"Y'all are nuts."
Half an hour later, their diminished convoy set out, acquiring replacements for some of their lost gear on the way. Grant and Byambaa took the jeep while the others flew on ahead, transmitting GPS coordinates to the waterfall they had identified. "Grasslands thick as winter wool," Byambaa muttered, flipping through the looter's photographs. He squinted at three of them in turn, images like the prairie back home, maybe like the steppes of Byambaa's home as well. "We should have horses."
"Agreed. But for now, the jeep's faster."
"Only until we get there." Byambaa pointed at the mountains growing ahead. "The mountains that call my spirit to rest. You ride?"
"When I can. I grew up around horses." He dodged a tumble of stones that crossed the dirt track, then set out across the dry land. "But the cortege included carts, right? So there must have been a track to get close to the site." They ascended along a series of switchbacks and narrow paths between thrusting stones until they reached the top of the waterfall, and the broad, flat valley through which the river flowed. A herd of goats scattered, bleating, a pair of lean dogs holding their ground, stiff-legged, watching the jeep like wolves.
Overhead, the copter soared out in a broad arc over the surrounding cliffs, disappearing in one direction, then another. A pagoda rose from one of the crags, clinging with wooden struts, its red roofs crumbling, the whole structure subsiding into the grip of time. The radio crackled and Byambaa clicked it on.
"Go ahead."
"Bird here, no sight of the grass, but come east, uh, about ten degrees. Do you see the pagoda? There's a pass beyond it. Go that way." Liz clicked out, then came back and said, "Over and out."
Grant suppressed his laughter. They were amateurs, doing their best.
"You heard that?" Byambaa asked.
The jeep bounced across old ruts and swerved around a handful of trees. The streams spread fingers out among the valleys. The wind shifted, and Grant clenched the steering wheel. The wind smelled of ashes. He saw Gooney running, saw the jeep explode into flames. But that was miles away. They came around the crag with its lonely monument and through a crumbling gap in the yellow stone. A high valley opened here, more gently sloped and decked with the spikes of burnt trees. Grant slowed. If they'd been Stateside, he would have blamed the fire on a lit cigarette, a scorched area spreading from the road up the slope until it ran out of fuel. On the other side, on a rise by a trickling stream, a few large, round circles marked the ground, stones piled around their edges. The open circles, ringed by scorched earth, stood out like scars. Another heap of stones stood to one side, topped with a staff and a singed blue cloth that dangled limp in the breeze.
"Mongols," Byambaa said as he jumped down, heading for the circles.
The radio crackled and Grant scooped it up. This time, he didn't follow right away, but surveyed the area from his position by the jeep, a replacement Norinco pistol tucked in a new thigh holster. "Go ahead, Bird."
"What do you have down there?" The helicopter moved over the valley, then came back and hovered.
"Hard to say. Looks like a wildfire. A ger camp moved out not too long ago."
"After living here a long time," Byambaa said. He held up a stone with an image of a wolf. "The guide spirit of the clan of Chinggis Khan."
"The seventh clue, a forest tended by family?" Liz's voice shone by with excitement.
Grant swept the scene with his gaze one more time. "Maybe it was—until somebody burned it down."
Byambaa wiped the stone clean, his brow furrowed. "It is the Oigurat clan who were to tend the trees at the khan's burial site, not his own clan."
"So you don't think this is it?" Grant's hand dangled, the radio still in his grip.
Byambaa tipped his hand one way and the other, a gesture like a shrug. "We should look around."
"Hang on," Grant said into the radio. He set out paralleling Byambaa's course. The Mongolian paced slow and careful, then froze on the rise and his head shook. He stumbled a few steps, shouting in his own language, then plunging down the other side of the settlement.
Grant's gun was already in hand as he ran, taking the high ground Byambaa had abandoned, keeping the stone heap between him and any possible threat. His injured hand throbbed with the strength of his grip. Byambaa's voice echoed from the cliffs, a torrent of words that could only be curses. The Mongolian language sounded more like Russian than Chinese, gruff and melodious. Down below, a rough dam of loose stones backed up the river into a small pool. Between his position and the pond lay three blackened mounds with outthrust legs, ribs showing beneath cracked hide, necks stretched toward a post, but the ropes that tethered them had burned. Horses. Grant's jaw ached from clenching, and let the Mongol howl enough fury for both of them. The radio crackled. Grant ignored it.
At last, Byambaa turned from the sight, viciously wiping tears from his face. "They are barbarians. Nobody lets horses burn. Nobody."
Except maybe a gang of Chinese looters with a trunk full of empty gas cans. Grant holstered the gun. "Looks like the smoke took them down before the fire got this far."
"I should sing for them."
Grant squeezed the Mongolian's shoulder. "Later. For now, we should avenge them."
Chapter Forty
The director of the Western Xia Tombs Archaeological Preserve kept his hands behind him, perhaps politely, but Jin thought otherwise. The man was restraining himself from wringing them. "It is quite an honor to have a visit from the Minister of Antiquities," the man squeaked. "I regret that the lack of warning has prevented me from offering a proper welcome."
Jin inclined his head magnanimously. "I understand, of course, Director. Truly, do not be troubled by my visit. I was merely in the area, and wished to view the collections." He gestured toward the museum. "Do not feel that you need to accompany me."
"If you are certain, Minister." He bowed again.
"I am anticipating a guest—perhaps you can direct him to the courtyard?"
"Of course, Minister." He hovered still, shifting from one foot to the other, his eyes scanning the museum's glass cases and antiquated displays. All of the signage was in Chinese, the cabinets dusty on their edges, the lights flickering—once the Director had located the switches. In the central case, where the finest of the Xia imperial grave goods should have been displayed, a prime location in the case held only a notice to the effect that an item had been removed for conservation, but the yellowed edges of the message suggested the item had been gone for a long time. Jin moved closer, reading the notice. It pricked at his mind, like an approaching assailant in the sparring arena. "The five-sided crown—which conservator is working on it?"
Arrested by the sound of his voice, the director scuttled forward, peering with him. "I will check on that, Minister." He swallowed a few times, blinked, turned away, then turned back, brightening. "I believe that your assistant, Li, provided the name of the conservation firm, he may recall—"
"Li has not been with the ministry for nearly eighteen months, Director." That sense of approaching danger tensed his muscles. "Assuming you promptly followed up on his advice, that implies that this valuable artifact has been off display for quite some time. Please find the information. I will expect to hear from your shortly."
The man bobbed his head, then gave a jump when a pair of people entered, the woman who handled ticket sales, and a man in the dark, crisp suit of the People's Security Service, a cap tucked under his arm, and his lips set in a grim line.
"A man to see you, Minister Jin," said the woman, then promptly bowed herself out again, setting a fine example for the director whose cheeks sucked in at the sight of the officer before he hurried away.
"Lieutenant Ma at your service." A click of the heels and the slightest bow. "My office has given me to understand that you interfered with a provincial investigation, Minister."
Blunt. The officer contained his anger, though not as well as he might believe. "There is information that your office requires to handle this investigation properly." Jin strolled through the doors into the courtyard beyond, the officer catching up in a few sharp strides. "The Ministry of Antiquities is always interested in the movements of a collector like Mr. Huang."
They emerged into bright sun, then passed again into a pavilion of dioramas that showed the stages of the Xi Xia empire's demise. One impressive display showed heaps of dead soldiers with a few men still standing, fighting a desperate action against the Mongols, the unstoppable horde. Vivid artificial blood spattered the armor of the life-sized figures and the vast painting behind them, depicting the battlefield as an endless array of corpses.
"Mr. Huang's record is quite clear, Minister, and I was given to understand that he might be in search of local investment opportunities. Do you believe his acquisitions to be in doubt?"
"So far as we are aware, his collection contains only items of very clear provenance." Jin met eyes with the figure of Genghis Khan. "However, that sort of collector often brings out vendors of suspect items, hoping to achieve a capitalist dream."
"Thanks to our rich heritage, Minister, Yinchuan has its share of such persons. As fortune would have it, several of the most notorious were recently killed in separate accidents." A vertical line of consternation pinched between his eyes, and Jin interrupted his train of thought.
"Huang's new American associates are known to have frequented sites of looting in the Middle East during their tenure in the armed forces."
"Soldiers," the officer said, with a thrill of recognition. "Mercenaries?"
"Apparently. Or looters of a more advanced nature. Now that you've told me about these coincidental accidents, I wonder if they are not accidents at all." He spread his hands. "Lieutenant. I apologize for disrupting your investigation, of course. I merely wished to express the same concerns you, yourself possess—there is no need to unduly concern a person of Mr. Huang's stature. I have to imagine that, if his new associates are not of the best reputation, he is unaware of that." He glanced meaningfully at the heaps of painted plaster corpses.
"Minister, no need to apologize. I am grateful for any information which might advance my investigation, especially if it aids me in uncovering greater wrongs." He gave a sigh. "I was not able to separate the American from Mr. Huang's party, and, at the time, I had little reason to suspect his story."
"These men were not mere infantry, Lieutenant—they have numerous skills, and I am sure that deception is very high among them." Jin folded his arms. "One of my assistants is in the local desert in the area where Mr. Huang has shown interest. He may be able to give you the opportunity to question the soldier on his own."
"I would be most grateful, Minister."
"May I give him your direct line?"
"Please."
Jin's cellphone vibrated in his pocket and he slipped a hand around it. "In that case, Lieutenant, I wish you all success in your investigation."
They parted with a slight bow, the officer pressing his cap to his head and marching off to do his duty.
He slipped out the phone and looked at the display. Above the army photo of Grant Casey a single word appeared, "Yes." The operative had identified Casey, just as Jin had feared. It was a good thing he had already taken action. He slid the message away. Between the two of them, Lieutenant Ma and Yang should be able to solve this problem. The Chinese system of justice was robust—it had devoured men like that before. And some of those who emerged were never the same.
Chapter Forty-One
Liz pressed her face to the curved window at her side, peering down at Grant and Byambaa. They stood close together now, Grant reaching out to touch him, a startlingly human gesture, but he still hadn't answered her buzz on the radio. Below them in the dell lay a group of mounds she couldn't identify, but Byambaa's reaction had been all too clear, his fury soaring full-throat. She buzzed again. This time, Grant gave a thumbs up, turning from Byambaa and leading the way back to the jeep. Sitting down, he finally spoke, "Three dead horses down here, killed in the fire. I suspect those looters might have been involved—they had a few empty gas cans."
"Oh, jeez." Liz stared down at her fiancé. "Those burnt shapes, those are horses."
"Horses? Shit, the chief must be spitting mad." Nick took them up a little higher, now that the concerns were laid to rest.
"I didn't realize he was such a horseman. No wonder they're getting on so well."
Nick grinned. "Good. What's not so good is that." He pointed toward a brilliant sunset glow on the western horizon over the rugged peaks. "Can't fly in the dark, not in an unfamiliar range. Radio the chief—tell him we need to call it a night."
"Right." Liz squeezed her microphone. "Bird to Tracker. Nick says we need to head back before nightfall."
"Affirmative," Grant replied, but his voice betrayed frustration. "Hate the fact that we're losing ground."
"I know what you mean," she said.
"I am not aware there is any alternative," Huang murmured from the cramped back seat.
Down below, the jeep started up, sounding rough, and the headlights came on in the gathering dusk. "What's my direction? Can we get out ahead?" Grant inquired
Nick pushed the yoke and took the copter out of the valley, following the narrow track below. The cliffs opened up into a broad, high plain, with a cluster of white gers about a mile away, glowing in the ruddy light of the setting sun. Dogs barked up at them and sheep huddled together in that protection.
"It is as if we look back in time," Huang said. "Imagine the camp of the great khan spreading in just such tents." His hands described it, setting imaginary gers all across the horizon.
"The way looks good. There's a ger camp ahead, and a road leading east west, back toward Yinchuan," Liz reported.
"Thanks, Bird. On it."
The lights of the jeep bobbed below, up and down over the rough ground, making Liz grateful for her comfortable perch in the air.
"You're getting pretty good on the mic—telling him what he needs to know. Nice work, for a grad student," Nick remarked as he guided the copter back toward the lights of the city. "Someday, maybe you'll be looking for D. A.'s job."
"Thanks. What is her job, exactly?"
"Sig-int. Signals Intelligence. Listening, tracking, researching, like that."
"Who are you guys?"
His grin looked too bright in the twilight interior. "Now? We're the Bone Guard."
The mic crackled and Liz answered it. "Tracker, this is Bird, what's up?"
"Out of gas," Grant sighed. "Thought we checked the auxiliary can, but it's dry—sprung a leak."
"You want us to come back for you?"
"Negative, you've only got one seat. By the time Nick drops you guys and comes back, it'll be dark. Byambaa's going to talk with the folks in the ger. Worst-case, we spend the night with the jeep. I've got a solid go-bag."
Nick and Liz shared a glance. "If you think so. Can I say good night to Byambaa?"
After a moment, Byambaa came on the line. "These nomads may know about the fire—they may be the same family. I hope they speak the same dialect."
"I'm sure you'll be fine. If all else fails, sing for them."
Byambaa chuckled, then he switched to Mongolian. "I miss you more than the steppes miss the sun."
Warmth spread through her, and she whispered back, "I miss you more than the flute misses the breath. Goodnight." She clicked off, and settled back in her seat.
"What'd he say?" Nick inquired.
"Things that only lovers should know," answered Huang, and she could hear his smile as they left the sunset, and her love, behind.
Chapter Forty-Two
Shouldering his bag, Grant followed Byambaa toward the ger camp, barely visible in the fading day. How could he have not noticed the leak? Blame it on the morning, on Gooney's injuries, on the appearance of Chinese police at the hospital. Too many damn distractions, and now Grant was screwing up his job. Byambaa practically bounded forward, eager to talk with the locals; it was a good chance for some human intelligence on the ground. This whole operation had been rushed, without proper intel from the start. Slow was smooth, and smooth was fast: his CO had pounded that one into him in Ranger School. Better to move carefully, deliberately toward the goal than to move too fast and have the whole thing go south. Thank God Huang had been able to defuse the situation with the police.
Tall grass swished against his legs, then he emerged onto the dirt track. Byambaa waited for him there. "If they invite us in, don't step on the threshold—that's bad luck. They'll direct us where to sit. If they offer a snuff bottle, accept it, even if you don't sniff."
"Good to know, thanks." An etiquette briefing, just like the kind they used to get—and sometimes give—before any trans-national operation. The two gers rose a little way off, glowing faintly through the wheel-like opening at their tops. Smoke curled up out of one of them, scented with roasting meat, and a faint strain of Asian pop music drifted toward them.
Dogs barked, then four of them sprang out of the darkness, tall rangy animals more like jackals than sheepdogs. Byambaa kept walking, and the dogs circled, backing up before them, forming a perimeter of bright eyes and sharp teeth.
Solar panels on stakes glinted, explaining the aerial antennas on top of the classic round tents. The door of the first ger popped open and someone leaned out, giving a whistle. The dogs waved their tails and grinned, drawing back, clearly pleased with themselves. The woman stood in her doorway, her face invisible against the glow of the interior.
