"An explosion up on the mountain," Dimitri replied. "Probably a mining operation."
"Nice to know we're not the only people in this wilderness," the driver muttered, then returned to his nap.
"Perhaps someone up there can tell us the way home," Vlad ventured.
An answer was short in the waiting. The hum of an engine drew closer until a late-model four-wheel drive appeared in the distance. The vehicle rounded a hill, then barreled across the open flats toward the surveyors. The car hardly slowed until it was nearly upon them, then stopped abruptly in a cloud of dust.
The two occupants sat motionless for a moment, then exited the vehicle cautiously.
The Russians could tell immediately that the men were Mongolian, with their flat noses and high cheekbones. The shorter of the two stepped forward and barked harshly, "What are you doing here?"
"We're a bit off track," replied the unflappable Dimitri. "We somehow lost the road while surveying the valley. We need to get back across the border to Kyakhta, but we're not sure if we have enough fuel.
Can you help us out?"
The Mongol's eyes grew larger at hearing the word "survey," and for the first time he carefully studied the thumper truck parked behind the men.
"You are conducting oil exploration?" he asked in a calmer tone.
The engineer nodded yes.
"There is no oil here," the Mongol barked. Waving his arm around, he said, "You will bivouac here for the night. Stay in this spot. I will bring fuel for your truck in the morning and direct you toward Kyakhta."
Without a farewell or pleasantry, he turned and climbed into the car with his driver and roared back up the mountain.
"Our problems are solved," Dimitri said with satisfaction. "We'll set up camp here and get an early start in the morning. I only hope you have left us some vodka," he said, patting the shoulder of his sleepy truck driver.
***
Darkness fell rapidly once the sun set over the hills, bringing with it a ripe chill to the night air. A fire was built in front of a large canvas tent, which the men crowded around while downing a tasteless dinner of canned stew and rice. It didn't take long for the nightly entertainment of cards and vodka to emerge, with cigarettes and pocket change ruling the pots.
"Three hands straight." Dimitri laughed as he raked in the winnings from a hand of preference, a Russian card game similar to gin rummy. His eyes glistened under heavy lids, and a trickle of vodka dripped from his chin as he gloated to his equally inebriated coworkers.
"Keep it up and you'll have enough for a dacha on the Black Sea," one countered.
"Or a black dachshund on the Caspian Sea," said another and laughed.
"This game is too rich for my blood, I'm afraid," griped Vlad, noting he was down a hundred rubles for the night. "I'm off to my sleeping bag to forget about Dimitri's cheating ways."
The young engineer ignored a slew of derisive remarks from the others as he staggered to his feet.
Eyeing the canvas tent, he instead walked toward the rear of the thumper truck to relieve himself before turning in. In his inebriated state, he tripped and tumbled into a small gully beside the truck, sliding several feet downhill before colliding with a large rock. He lay there for a minute, clutching a wrenched knee and cursing his clumsiness, when he heard the clip-clop sound of horse hooves approaching the camp. Rolling to his hands and knees, he sluggishly crawled to the top of the ravine, where he could peer beneath the thumper truck and see the campfire on the opposite side.
The voices of his comrades fell silent as a small group of horses approached the camp. Vlad rubbed his eyes in disbelief when they came close enough to be illuminated by the fire's light. Six fierce-looking horsemen sat tall in the saddle, looking as if they had just ridden off a medieval tapestry. Each wore a long orange silk tunic, which ran to the knees and covered baggy white pants that were tucked into heavy leather boots. A bright blue sash around their waists held a sword in a scabbard, while over their shoulders they carried a compound bow and a quiver of feathered arrows. Their heads were covered by bowl-shaped metal helmets, which sprouted a tuft of horsehair from a center spike. Adding to their menacing appearance, the men all wore long thin mustaches that draped beneath their chins.
Dimitri raised himself from the fireside with a nearly full bottle of vodka and welcomed the horsemen to join them.
"A drink to your fine mounts, comrades," he slurred, hoisting the bottle into the air.
The offer was met by silence, all six riders staring coldly at the engineer. Then one of the horsemen reached to his side. In a lightning-quick move that Vlad would later replay in his mind a thousand times over, the horseman slammed a bow to his chest, yanked back the bowstring, and let fly a wooden arrow.
Vlad never saw the arrow in flight, only watched as the bottle of vodka suddenly lurched from Dimitri's hand and shattered to the ground in a hundred pieces. A few paces away, Dimitri stood clutching his throat with his other hand, the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding through his fingers. The engineer sank to his knees with a gurgling cry for help, then fell to the ground as a torrent of blood surged down his chest.
The three men around the campfire jumped to their feet in shock, but that was to be the last move they would make. In an instant, a hail of arrows rained down on them like a tempest. The horsemen were killing machines, wielding their bows and firing a half dozen arrows apiece in mere seconds. The drunken surveyors had no chance, the archers finding their targets with ease at such close range. A brief sprinkling of cries echoed through the night and then it was over, each man lying dead with a tombstone of arrows protruding from his lifeless body.
Vlad watched the massacre in wide-eyed terror, nearly crying out in shock when the first arrows took flight. His heart felt like it would beat out of his chest, and then the adrenaline hit, urging his body to get up and flee like the wind. Scrambling down the gully, he started to run, faster than he had ever run in his life before. The pain in his knee, the alcohol in his blood, it all vanished, replaced by the singular sensation of fear. He ran down the sloping foothills, oblivious to any unseen nighttime obstructions, pushed on by sheer panic. Several times he fell, cutting nasty gashes on his legs and arms, but immediately he staggered to his feet and resumed the pace. Over the pounding of his heart and the gasping from his lungs, he listened for the sound of pursuing hoofbeats. But they never came.
For two hours, he ran, staggered, and stumbled until he came to the rushing waters of the Selenga River.
Moving along the riverbank, he came upon two large boulders that offered both shelter and concealment.
Crawling into the crevice beneath the rocks, he quickly fell asleep, not wanting to awake from the living nightmare he had just witnessed.
-15-
The ride, Theresa decided, replicated the jarring discomfort of a Butterfield stagecoach passage across the American Southwest in 1860. Every bump and rut seemed to vibrate directly from the wheels to the bed of the two-ton panel truck, where the energy was transferred up her backside in a force that made her bones rattle. Bound, gagged, and seated on a hardwood bench across from two armed guards did not improve the comfort factor. Only the presence of Roy and Wofford shackled beside her offered a small degree of mental consolation.
Sore, tired, and hungry, she struggled to make sense of the events at Lake Baikal. Tatiana had said very little after waking her in their shared cabin with a cold pistol pressed against her chin. Marched at gunpoint off the Vereshchagin and onto a dinghy, she and the others had been transferred to the black freighter briefly, then pushed ashore and bound into the back of the panel truck. They waited on the dock nearly two hours, hearing gunshots and a commotion on the ship before the truck was started and they were driven away.
She wondered grimly what had become of the Russian scientist Sarghov. He had been roughly pulled away from the group when they first boarded the freighter and herded off to another part of the ship. It hadn't looked good, and she feared for the safe
ty of the jolly scientist. And what of the Vereshchagin? It appeared to be sitting low in the water when they were forced off. Were Al, Dirk, and the rest of the crew in danger as well?
The larger question was why had they been abducted? She feared for her life, but her self-pity quickly vanished when she gazed at Roy and Wofford. The two men were suffering far worse pain. Wofford was nursing a badly injured leg, likely fractured when he was shoved off balance from the black freighter. He held the leg stiffly in front of him, wincing in pain every time the truck lurched.
Gazing at Roy, she saw that he had fallen asleep with a small accretion of dried blood caked to his shirt.
Stopping to help Wofford up from his fall, a spiteful guard had swung his carbine at Roy, cutting a wide gash across his scalp. He was unconscious for several minutes, his limp body having been roughly tossed into the back of the truck.
Theresa's dread was temporarily displaced by another jolt from the truck, and she tried to close her eyes and sleep away the nightmare. The truck bounced along for another five hours, at one point passing through a sizeable city, as judged by its stop-and-go progress and the sounds of other vehicles. The traffic noise soon vanished and the truck again picked up speed, swaying across a winding dirt road for another four hours. Finally, the truck slowed, and from the sudden alertness exhibited by the two guards Theresa knew they were arriving at their destination.
"We might as well have flown, given the amount of time we've been airborne," Wofford grimaced as they all flew off the bench seat from another encounter with a pothole.
Theresa smiled at the brave humor but offered no reply as the truck ground to a halt. The clattery diesel motor was turned off and the back doors of the truck flung open, bathing the bay in a shock of bright sunlight. At the guards' nodding, Theresa and Roy helped Wofford from the truck, then stood absorbing their surroundings.
They stood in the center of a walled compound that encompassed two freestanding buildings. Under a bright blue sky, the temperature was much warmer than at Lake Baikal, despite a light breeze blowing across their faces. Theresa sniffed the air, noting a dry and dusty flavor. A rolling grass valley appeared far below in the distance, while a gray-green mountain peak rose adjacent to the complex. The compound appeared to be dug into the side of the mountain, which she noticed was covered by low shrubs and thick clusters of tall pines.
To their left, half hidden behind a long row of hedges, stood a low-rise brick building, similar to those found in a modern industrial park. Seemingly out of place, there was a horse stable attached to one end of the building. A half dozen stodgy horses milled about a large corral, nibbling remnants of grass that poked through the dust. At the other end of the building was a large steel garage, which housed a fleet of trucks and mechanical equipment. Inside, a handful of workers in black jumpsuits were working on a dusty fleet of earth-moving equipment.
"I thought the Taj Mahal was in India," Roy said.
"Well, maybe we are in India," Wofford replied with a pained smirk.
Theresa turned and studied the other building in the compound. She had to agree with Roy, it did bear a slight resemblance to the Indian landmark, albeit a much smaller version. In contrast to the functional efficiency of the brick industrial building, the structure before her was built with ornate flair and drama.
Thick columns fronted a gleaming white marble edifice that was built low to the ground. At its center, a circular portico enveloped the main entrance. A bulbous white roof capped the entry hall, topped by a golden spire protruding from its peak. The design was, in fact, little removed from the dome of the Taj Mahal. Though elegant, the image looked to Theresa as if a giant scoop of vanilla ice cream had fallen from the heavens.
The landscape in front of the structure was equally palatial. A pair of canals flowed across the compound, feeding a large reflecting pool before disappearing under the front of the building. Theresa could hear the rushing waters of a nearby river, which fed the canals some distance from the compound.
Around the canals and pool stretched a lush green ornamental garden, manicured to a detail that would shame an English nobleman.
Across the lawn, Theresa spied Tatiana and Anatoly conversing with a man who wore a holster on his side. The man nodded, then approached the back of the truck and said, "This way," in a thick accent.
The two guards bunched up behind Roy and Wofford to emphasize the command.
Theresa and Roy each lent an arm to Wofford and followed the squat man as he marched down a walkway toward the opulent building. They approached the portico, where a large carved wooden door led into the premises. Flanked on either side, like doormen at the Savoy Hotel, was a pair of guards dressed in ornately embroidered long silk coats colored orange. Theresa knew they were guards, as they made no move to open the door, instead standing perfectly still, firmly grasping sharp-pointed lances in one hand.
The door opened and they entered the domed foyer, which was filled with aged pastoral paintings of horses in the field. A short housekeeper with a crooked grin slipped from behind the door and nodded for the group to follow. Padding across the polished marble floor, he led them down a side hallway to three interior guest rooms. One by one, Theresa, Roy, and Wofford were escorted into comfortably decorated rooms, then were left facing a closed door that the housekeeper locked and bolted behind him.
Theresa found a side table next to the bed that was set with a bowl of steaming soup and a loaf of bread. Quickly washing the road grime from her face and hands, she sat down and devoured the food in hunger. Exhaustion finally overcoming her fears, she lay on the soft bed and promptly fell asleep.
Three hours later, a hard knock at the door jolted her from a deep sleep.
"This way, please," the little housekeeper said, eyeing Theresa with a hint of lasciviousness.
Roy and Wofford were already waiting in the hallway. Theresa was surprised to see that Wofford's leg had been wrapped and he now sported a wooden cane. Roy's head gash was also bandaged, and he wore a loose cotton pullover in place of his bloodstained shirt.
"Don't you two look the model of health?" she said.
"Sure. Assuming the model is a crash test dummy," Roy replied.
"The hospitality has taken a slight turn for the better," Wofford said, tapping his cane on the floor.
The three were led back to the foyer and down the main hallway to an expansive sitting room. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls, punctuated by a fireplace at the far end and a bar along one side.
Theresa looked up nervously at the torso of a black bear that lunged from the wall above her head, its sharpened claws and bared teeth frozen in a permanent display of aggression. Panning the room, she saw it was a taxidermist's heaven. A variety of stuffed deer, bighorn sheep, wolves, and foxes guarded the enclave, all leering viciously at the visitors. Tatiana stood in the middle of the room, next to a man who looked like he could have been mounted on the wall as well.
It was the grin, she decided. When he smiled, a row of sharp pointy teeth flashed like a shark's, seemingly eager to devour some raw flesh. Yet the rest of his appearance was less imposing. He had a slight though muscular build, and wore his jet-black hair brushed back loosely. He was handsome in the classic Mongol sense, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes that had an odd golden-brown tint.
A sprinkling of wind-and sun-borne wrinkles suggested he had spent his earlier years working outdoors.
However, the mannerisms of the man dressed in the fashionable gray suit suggested that those days were long over.
"It is good of you to join us," Tatiana said in an emotionless tone. "May I present Tolgoi Borjin, president of the Avarga Oil Consortium."
"Pleased to meet you." Wofford hobbled over, and shook the man's hand as if he were an old friend.
"Now, would you mind telling us where we are and why the hell we're here?" he asked, applying a vise grip to his handshake.
Wofford's sudden demand seemed to catch the Mongol off guard and h
e hesitated before answering, quickly letting go of Wofford's hand.
"You are at my home and enterprise headquarters."
"Mongolia?" Roy asked.
"My regrets for your hasty exit from Siberia," Borjin replied, ignoring Roy's remark. "Tatiana tells me that your lives were in peril."
"Indeed?" Theresa said, casting a wary eye toward her former cabinmate.
"The forced departure at gunpoint was most necessary for your security," she explained. "The environmental radicals of Baikal are very dangerous. They had apparently infiltrated the institute's survey ship and tried to sink it with all hands. I was fortunately able to contact a leased vessel nearby that assisted in our evacuation. It was best that we departed secretly, so as not to call attention to ourselves and risk further attacks."
"I have never heard of the Lake Baikal environmentalist groups acting in such a violent manner," Theresa replied.
"It is a new breed of youthful radicals. With the reduction in state administrative controls in recent years, I am afraid that the rebellious youths have become much more brazen and forceful."
"And what about the scientist, Dr. Sarghov, who was taken off the ship with us?"
"He was insistent on returning to the ship to alert the other institute members. I'm afraid we could no longer vouch for his safety."
"Is he dead? What about the others on the ship?"
"We were forced to evacuate the area for everyone's safety. I have no information on the research ship or Dr. Sarghov."
The color drained from Theresa's face as she contemplated the words.
"So why haul us here?" Roy asked.
"We have abandoned the Lake Baikal project for the time being. Your assistance in evaluating potential oil field sites is still of value to us. You were contracted to work for us for six weeks, so we will honor the contract through another project."
"Has the company been notified?" Theresa asked, realizing her cell phone had been left behind on the Vereshchagin. "I shall need to contact my supervisor to discuss this."
Treasure of Khan dp-19 Page 17
