Treasure of Khan dp-19

by Clive Cussler

  Corsov cut him off with a nod. "Indeed. The history books will tell you that the Golden Clan were direct descendants of Chinggis."

  "Chinggis?" Giordino asked.

  "Accomplished tactician, conqueror, and perhaps the greatest leader of the medieval age," Pitt injected with regard. "Better known to the world as Genghis Khan."

  -18-

  Dressed in dark clothes, Pitt and Giordino left the hotel after a late dinner, making a loud show of asking the front desk where the best neighborhood bars were located. Though foreign tourists were no longer a rarity in Ulaanbaatar, Pitt knew better than to raise suspicions. Casually walking around the block, they settled into a small cafe across from the hotel's rear entrance. The cafe was crowded, but they found a corner table and nursed a pair of beers while waiting for the clock to strike twelve. A nearby throng of drunken businessmen warbled ballads in noisy unison with a red-haired barmaid who played a stringed instrument called a "yattak." To Pitt's amusement, it seemed as if the song never changed.

  Corsov appeared promptly at midnight driving a gray Toyota sedan. He barely slowed for Pitt and Giordino to climb in, then accelerated down the street. Corsov took a circuitous route around the city, driving past the large open Sukhbaatar Square. The public gathering place in the heart of Ulaanbaatar was named for a revolutionary leader who defeated the Chinese and declared Mongol independence on the site in 1921. He would have probably been disappointed to know that a local rock band surrounded by teens in grunge attire was the main draw as Corsov drove by.

  The car turned south and soon left the city center traffic as Corsov drove through darkened side streets.

  "I have a present for you on the backseat," Corsov smiled, his buckteeth gleaming in the rearview mirror.

  Giordino searched and found a couple of weathered brown jackets folded on the seat, topped by a pair of battered yellow hard hats.

  "They'll help ward off the evening chill and make you look like a couple of local factory workers."

  "Or a couple of skid row hobos," Giordino said, pulling on one of the jackets. The worn coat was moth-eaten in places and Giordino felt like his muscular frame would burst the shoulder seams. He smiled when he saw that the sleeves on Pitt's jacket came up six inches short.

  "Any all-night tailors in the neighborhood?" Pitt asked, holding up an arm.

  "Ha, very funny," Corsov laughed. He then reached under the seat and handed Pitt a large envelope and a flashlight.

  "An aerial photo of the area, courtesy of the Ministry of Construction and Urban Development. Not very detailed, but it gives you a rough layout of the facility."

  "You've been a busy boy this evening, Ivan," Pitt said.

  "With a wife and five kids, you expect me to go home after work?" he laughed.

  They reached the southern fringe of the city where Corsov turned west, following alongside a set of railroad tracks. As they passed Ulaanbaatar's main train station, Corsov slowed the car. Pitt and Giordino quickly studied the photograph under the glow of the flashlight.

  The fuzzy black-and-white aerial photograph covered a two-square-mile area, but Corsov had circled the Avarga facility in red. There wasn't much to see. Two large warehouse buildings sat at either end of the rectangular compound, with a few small structures scattered in between. Most of the yard, which was walled on the front street and fenced on the rear and sides, was open-air storage for pipes and equipment. Pitt tracked a rail spur that ran out of the east end of the yard and eventually met up with the city's main rail line.

  Corsov turned off the headlights and pulled into a vacant lot. A small, roofless building sat at the edge, streaked with black soot marks. A former bakery, it had long ago caught fire and burned, leaving only singed walls as its skeletal remains.

  "The rail spur is just behind this building. Follow the tracks to the yard. There is just a chain-link gate over the rail entry," Corsov said, handing Pitt a small pair of wire cutters. "I'll be waiting at the train depot until three, then I'll make a brief stop here at three-fifteen. Any later and you are on your own."

  "Thanks, Ivan. Don't worry, we'll be right back," Pitt replied.

  "Okay. And please remember one thing," Corsov grinned. "If anything happens, please call the U.S.

  embassy, not the Russian embassy."

  Pitt and Giordino made their way to the burned-out building and waited in the shadows for Corsov's taillights to disappear down the road before moving around back. A few yards away, they found the elevated rail spur running through the darkness and began following the tracks toward an illuminated facility in the distance.

  "You know, we could be back sampling the local vodka in that cozy cafe," Giordino noted as a chilled gust of wind blew over them.

  "But the barmaid was married," Pitt replied. "You'd be wasting your time."

  "I've never yet found drinking in a bar to be a waste of time. As a matter of fact, I have discovered that time often stands still while in a bar."

  "Only until the tab arrives. Tell you what, let's find Theresa and her pals, and the first bottle of Stoli is on me."

  "Deal."

  Walking several feet to the side of the railroad tracks, they moved quickly toward the facility. The gate across the rail spur was as Corsov described, a swinging chain-link fence padlocked to a thick steel pole.

  Pitt pulled the wire cutters from his pocket and quickly snipped an inverted L shape in the mesh.

  Giordino reached over and pulled the loose section away from the fence so Pitt could crawl through, then scampered in after him.

  The rambling yard was well lit, and, despite the late hour, a steady buzz of activity hummed from within.

  Keeping to the shadows as best they could, Pitt and Giordino moved alongside the large fabricated building on the east end of the yard. The building's sliding doors opened to the interior of the yard, and the men crept toward the entrance, pausing behind one of the large doors.

  From their vantage point, they had a clear view of the facility. To their left, a dozen or so men were working near the rail line, milling over four flatbed railcars. An overhead crane loaded bundled sections of four-foot-diameter pipe onto the first railcar, while a pair of yellow forklifts loaded smaller drill pipe and casings onto the other cars. Pitt was relieved to see that several of the men wore mangy brown jackets and battered yellow hard hats that matched their own.

  "Drill pipe for an oil well and pipeline to transfer it to storage," Pitt whispered as he watched the loading.

  "Nothing unusual there."

  "Except they have enough materials to drill to the center of the earth and pipe it to the moon," Giordino mused, gazing across the yard.

  Pitt followed his gaze and nodded. Acres of the yard were jam-packed with forty-foot sections of the large-diameter pipe, stacked up in huge pyramids that towered over them. It was like a huge horizontal forest of metal trees, cut and stacked in an orderly sequence. A side section of the yard was filled with an equally impressive inventory of the small-diameter drill pipe and casings.

  Turning his attention to the open warehouse, Pitt inched around the corner and peered in. The interior was brightly illuminated, but Pitt saw no signs of movement. Only a portable radio blaring an unrecognizable pop tune from a small side office indicated the presence of any workers. Striding into the warehouse, he walked behind a truck parked near the side wall and took inventory with Giordino beside him.

  A half dozen large flatbed trailers occupied the front of the building, wedged between two dump trucks.

  A handful of Hitachi heavy-construction excavators and bulldozers lined the side wall, while the rear of the building was sectioned off as a manufacturing area. Pitt studied a stack of prefabricated metal arms and rollers that were in various stages of assembly. A nearly complete example stood in the center, resembling a large metal rocking horse.

  "Oil well pumps," Pitt said, recalling the bobbing iron pumps he used to see as a kid dotting the undeveloped fields of Southern California. He noted that they ap
peared shorter and more compact than the type he remembered, which were used to pump oil out of mature wells that were not pressurized enough to blow the black liquid to the surface on their own.

  "Looks more like the makings of a merry-go-round for welders," Giordino replied. He suddenly nodded toward a corner office, where they could see a man talking on the telephone.

  Pitt and Giordino were creeping behind the cover of one of the flatbed trucks and inching toward the warehouse entrance when two more voices materialized near the door. The two men quickly ducked down and scurried around the back of the flatbed and knelt behind its large rear wheel. Through the wheel well, they watched as two workers strolled by on the opposite side of the truck, engaged in an animated conversation as they walked to the office in back. Pitt and Giordino quickly moved through the line of trucks and exited the building, regrouping behind a stack of empty pallets.

  "Any one of those flatbeds could have been at Lake Baikal, but there was nothing that resembled the covered truck we saw at the dock," Giordino whispered.

  "There's still the other side of the yard," Pitt replied, nodding toward the warehouse on the opposite side of the facility. The other building sat in a darkened section of the yard and appeared sealed shut.

  Together, they moved off toward the second building, threading their way through a small collection of storage sheds that dotted the northern side of the yard. Midway across, they approached a cluster of sheds and a small guard office that marked the main entrance to the complex. With Giordino on his heels, Pitt circled well clear of the entrance, then picked his way closer. Stopping at the last shed, which contained a bin full of grease-stained yard tools, they studied the second warehouse.

  It was the same dimension as the first warehouse yet devoid of activity. Its front bay door was sealed shut, as was a small doorway to the side. What also made the building different was that an armed guard patrolled the perimeter.

  "What's worth guarding at an oil field depot?" Giordino asked.

  "Why don't we find out?"

  Pitt stepped over to the tool bin and rummaged through its contents. "Might as well look the part," he said, hoisting a sledgehammer off the rack and toting it over his shoulder. Giordino picked up a green metal toolbox and emptied its contents, save for a hacksaw and monkey wrench.

  "Let's go fix the plumbing, boss," he muttered, following after Pitt.

  The twosome marched into the open and toward the building's façade as if they owned it. The guard initially paid little attention to the two men, who, in their ragged coats and banged-up hard hats, looked like any other workers in the yard. But when they completely ignored his presence on the way to the smaller entry door, he snapped into action.

  "Stop," he barked in Mongolian. "Where do you think you're going?"

  Giordino did stop, but only to bend down and retie his shoelace. Pitt kept walking toward the door as if the guard did not exist.

  "Stop," the guard yelled again, shuffling toward Pitt as his hand reached for his holster.

  Pitt kept walking until the guard was only a step away, then he slowly turned and smiled broadly at the man.

  "Sorry, no habla" Pitt said, shrugging his shoulders benignly.

  The guard contemplated Pitt's Caucasian features and indecipherable phrase with a look of utter confusion. Then the blunt side of a green toolbox arced out of nowhere and struck him in the side of the head, knocking him cold before his body could hit the ground.

  "I think he bent my toolbox," Giordino said huffily, rubbing a large dent on the end of the green case.

  "Maybe he's got insurance. I think we might want to find a different resting place for Sleeping Beauty,"

  Pitt replied, stepping around the body.

  He walked over and tried the handle on the entry door but found it locked. Hoisting the sledgehammer, he swung the iron head against the door handle with a punishing blow. The lock smashed free of the doorjamb and Pitt easily kicked the door open. Giordino already had the guard's torso in his arms, and dragged the unconscious man through the doorway and deposited him to the side as Pitt closed the door behind him.

  The interior was dark, but Pitt flicked on the light switches next to the door and flooded the interior with fluorescent light. To his surprise, the building was nearly empty. Just two flatbed haulers sat side by side in the middle of the floor, taking up a fraction of the otherwise deserted warehouse. One of the flatbeds was empty, but the other held a large protruding object covered from view by a canvas tarp. The object under wraps had a streamlined shape resembling a subway car. It was nearly the opposite in dimension of the jaggedly vertical object that they had seen concealed on the truck at Lake Baikal.

  "Doesn't look like the present we were looking for," Pitt remarked.

  "Might as well unwrap it and find out what the big secret is," Giordino replied, pulling out the hacksaw from his battered toolbox. Jumping onto the flatbed, he attacked a maze of ropes that secured the canvas in a mummy wrap. As the cut ropes fell away, Pitt reached up and yanked at the canvas covering.

  As the canvas tarp fell to the floor, they stood staring at a tube-shaped piece of machinery that stretched almost thirty feet long. A tangled maze of pipes and hydraulic lines ran from a large cylinder head at the front end to a frame support at the tail. Pitt walked around and studied the prow of the device, finding a circular plate eight feet in diameter studded with small beveled disks.

  "A tunnel-boring machine," he said, rubbing one of the cutter-heads that was worn dull from usage.

  "Corsov mentioned the company had some mining interests. I've heard there are some rich copper and coal reserves in the country."

  "A rather expensive piece of equipment for a hack oil company."

  A shrill whistle suddenly sounded from somewhere across the yard. Pitt and Giordino glanced toward the door and immediately saw that the guard had disappeared.

  "Somebody woke up and ordered room service without telling us," Pitt said.

  "And I don't have any change for a tip."

  "We've seen all there is to see. Let's go meld into the woodwork."

  They sprinted to the door, which Pitt opened a crack to peer out. Across the yard, a trio of armed guards was headed toward the warehouse in a jeep. Pitt recognized the man in the backseat rubbing his head as the guard Giordino had clobbered.

  Pitt didn't hesitate, throwing open the door and bolting out of the building with Giordino on his heels.

  They turned and ran toward the maze of stacked pipes that paralleled the railroad spur. The pursuing guards shouted across the yard, but Pitt and Giordino quickly disappeared behind the first pallet of pipes.

  "I hope they don't have dogs," Giordino said as they paused to catch their breath.

  "I don't hear any barking." Pitt had instinctively grabbed the sledgehammer on the way out the door and held it up to show Giordino they weren't completely defenseless. He then surveyed the stacks of pipe around them and forged an exit strategy.

  "Let's maze our way through the pipes to the rail line. If we can skirt around the loading platform undetected, then we ought to be able to make it back to the gate while they're still sniffing around here."

  "I'm right behind you," Giordino replied.

  They took off again, skirting in and around the mammoth stacks of pipe that stood twenty feet high. A few yards behind, they heard the shouts of the guards as they fanned out in pursuit. Fording through the dozens of huge pallets was like snaking through a dense sequoia forest. The pursuers were at a decided disadvantage.

  Making a beeline as best he could, Pitt steered them in the direction of the railroad tracks, stopping again as they approached the last line of pallets. The rail spur ended just a few feet away, while just beyond was the southern boundary of the compound, marked by a twelve-foot brick wall.

  "No chance at scaling that," Pitt whispered. "We'll have to follow the tracks."

  They jumped over the railroad tracks and moved toward the loading ramp at a fast walk so as not
to attract attention. Ahead of them, the loading of the flatcars continued unimpeded. The workers had stopped briefly when the security alarm sounded, but resumed their loading when they saw the guards driving to the warehouse building.

  Pitt and Giordino approached the dock, walking along the backside of the flatcars with their hard hats pulled low over their eyes. They were nearly past the first of the three railcars when a foreman jumped off the flatcar, landing a few steps from Giordino. The workman lost his balance, stumbling into Giordino and bouncing off the stocky Italian like he'd hit a concrete wall.

  "Sorry," the man muttered in Mongolian, then looked Giordino in the face. "Who are you?"

  Giordino could see the glint of alarm register in the man's face and immediately extinguished it with a right cross to the chin. The man slumped to the ground just as a loud shout erupted in front of them. Standing on the next flatcar, two other workers witnessed Giordino punch out their supervisor and yelled out in bewilderment. The workers turned and yelled across the yard, waving their arms at the security jeep, which was just pulling away from the warehouse.

  "So much for a stealthy getaway," Pitt quipped.

  "I swear I was just minding my own business," Giordino muttered.

  Pitt peered down the rail line toward the gate they had cut through. If they took off at a sprint they had a chance to reach it before the jeep cut them off, but the guards would be right on their tail.

  "We need a diversion," Pitt said quickly. "Try to attract the attention of the jeep. I'll work on getting us a lift out of here."

  "Attracting attention won't be a problem."

  Together they ducked under the railcar and crawled to the other side. Pitt hesitated in the shadows while Giordino jumped into view and started running back toward the stacks of pipes. A second later, several dockworkers came streaking by after him, dust and gravel rising from their feet inches from Pitt's face.

  He looked out and saw the security jeep make a sudden turn, its headlights capturing Giordino's image in the distance.

  It was Pitt's turn to move now and he jumped from beneath the flatbed and ran toward the next railcar in line. One of the forklifts was setting a pallet of pipe casings on the flatbed when Pitt charged toward the driver's compartment. He still carried the sledgehammer with him and made a flying downward swing as he sprang into the cab. The heavy mallet head struck the foot of the operator before Pitt even landed.