Driving clear of the working herd, he mashed the accelerator down as he shifted through the gears. With a shrill whine from its engine, the old bus soon crept up to fifty miles per hour as it bounced over the hard desert surface.
"Bulangiin Monastery ain't exactly a destination resort," the driver said, looking at Pitt and Giordino in the rectangular mirror mounted above his visor. "You boys on one of those horseback adventure tours of the Gobi?"
"You could say that," Pitt replied, "though I hope we're done with the horseback portion of the tour. We are just looking to return to Ulaanbaatar at this point."
"Not a problem. A supply truck from U.B. will be at the monastery tomorrow. If you don't mind spending the night with a cadre of high-rolling monks, then you can hitch a ride on the truck in the morning."
"That would be fine with us," Pitt said as the bus lurched over a rut. He watched in amusement as the dachshund flew into the air, then landed back on the seat, without raising an eyelid.
"If you don't mind me asking, what are you doing out here in these parts?" Giordino asked.
"Oh, I'm helping a private archaeological foundation from the States that is helping rebuild the Buddhist monasteries. Prior to the communist takeover of Mongolia in 1921, there were over seven hundred monasteries in the country. Nearly all of them were ransacked and burned in the 1930s during a devastating purge by the government. Thousands of monks disappeared in the annihilation, either executed on the spot or shipped off to Siberian work camps to die in captivity. Those not murdered were forced to renounce their religion, though many continued to worship in secrecy."
"Must be difficult for them to start anew with their church relics and holy scripts long since destroyed."
"A surprising number of ancient texts and monastery artifacts were buried by alert monks in advance of the purge. Important relics are turning up every day as some of the old monasteries reopen. The locals are finally becoming comfortable that the government abuses of the past are not going to recur."
"How did you get from laying bricks to driving a school bus?" Giordino asked.
"You have to wear a lot of hats out in the boondocks," the driver laughed. "The group I'm helping with isn't simply a bunch of archaeologists but also includes carpenters, educators, and historians. Part of our agreement with rebuilding the monasteries is that we also establish schoolrooms for the local children.
The structured education available to children of the nomadic herders is pretty spotty, as you can imagine. We're teaching reading, writing, math, and languages, in hopes of giving these rural kids a chance at a better life. Your friend Noyon, for example, speaks three languages and is a whiz at math. If we can offer him accessible schooling for the rest of his childhood, and keep a PlayStation from falling into his hands, he'll probably grow up to be a fine engineer or doctor. That's what we are hoping to offer all of these kids."
The bus crested a blunt ridge, exposing a narrow valley on the other side. At its midpoint, a splash of thick grass dotted with purple shrubs added a sparkle of color to the otherwise monotonous desert. Pitt noticed a cluster of small stone buildings built in the thicket, sided by a handful of white gers. A small herd of camels and goats were corralled nearby, while several small SUVs were positioned at the southern end.
"Bulangiin Monastery," the driver announced. "Home to twelve monks, one lama, seventeen camels, and an occasional hungry volunteer or two from the U.S. of A." He threaded his way down some coarse tire tracks, then pulled the bus to a stop in front of one of the gers.
"School's in," the driver said to Pitt and Giordino as the kids clamored off the bus. Noyon burst by, waving at the two men, before hopping off the bus.
"Afraid I need to go teach a geography lesson," the driver said after all the children had departed. "If you boys head to the large building with a dragon on its eave, you'll find Lama Santanai. He speaks English, and will be glad to look after you for the night."
"Will we be seeing you later?"
"Probably not. After I take the kids home, I promised an overnight stopover at one of the villages to give a talk on western democracy. Was nice chatting with you, though. Enjoy your visit."
"Many thanks for the lift, and for the information," Pitt replied.
The driver scooped up the sleeping dachshund and grabbed a book of world geography from under his seat, then waltzed toward the waiting classroom inside the ger.
"Nice fellow," Giordino said as he stood up and then stepped off the bus. Pitt followed, noticing a placard above the driver's visor that read, WELCOME, YOUR DRIVER'S NAME IS CLIVE CUSSLER.
"Yes," Pitt agreed with a searching nod. "But he drives like Mario Andretti."
They made their way across the compound toward three pagoda-shaped buildings whose upturned roofs were layered in an aged blue ceramic tile. The central and largest of the three buildings was the main temple, flanked by a shrine hall and a storeroom. Pitt and Giordino walked up a short flight of steps leading into the main temple, admiring a pair of curvaceous stone dragons that were mounted on the corner eaves, their long tails curving up the steeply angled roof. The two men mindfully entered the temple through an immense open door, where a chorus of low chants greeted them.
As their eyes adjusted to the dim illumination provided only by candlelight, they saw two broad benches that ran lengthwise across the temple, ending near a small altar. A half dozen elderly monks sat on each bench, facing one another across the center aisle. The monks sat cross-legged, dressed in bright saffron robes, their shaved heads held perfectly still as they chanted. Pitt and Giordino tiptoed clockwise around the temple, taking a seat along the back wall and watching the remainder of the mantra.
Tibetan Lamaism is the practiced form of Buddhism in Mongolia, the religious ties between the two countries forged centuries ago. Prior to the government purge, nearly a third of Mongolian males were practicing lamas, living an ascetic existence in one of the many unadorned monasteries scattered around the country. Buddhism nearly vanished during the communist reign, and a whole generation of Mongolians is just now being reacquainted with the spirituality of their ancestors.
Pitt and Giordino could not help but feel the mystique inside the temple as they observed the ceremony, which differed little than that practiced by lamas hundreds of years before. The scent of burning incense enchanted their noses with an exotic aroma. The interior of the ancient temple exuded a warm glow from the candlelight, which flickered off the red-painted ceiling and the bright crimson banners that hung from the walls. Tarnished statues of Buddha in various incarnates dabbled the nooks and altar. Then there was the haunting sound from the lips of the noble lamas.
The craggy-faced monks repeated in unison a line from their prayer books, which lie open in front of them. The mantra slowly grew louder and louder, the voices rising in intensity, until an elderly lama with thick glasses suddenly rapped at a goatskin drum. The other monks joined in the crescendo by ringing tiny brass bells or blowing into large white conch shells until the walls of the temple shook. Then, as if an invisible hand suddenly turned down the volume, the crescendo slowly fell away to complete silence, the monks meditating in quiet for a moment before rising from their benches.
The lama with the thick glasses set down his drum and approached Pitt and Giordino. He was nearly eighty-five yet moved with the strength and grace of a much younger man. His deep brown eyes shined with warmth and intelligence.
"The Americans who wander the desert," he said in heavily accented English. "I am Santanai. Welcome to our temple. We have included a prayer for your safe travels in our worship today."
"Please excuse our intrusion," Pitt said, startled at the lama's knowledge of their arrival.
"The path to enlightenment is open to all," the lama smiled. "Come, let me show you our home." The old lama proceeded to guide Pitt and Giordino around the temple, then led them outside for a walk around the grounds.
"The original monastery dates to the 1820s," he explained. "The occupants
were more fortunate than most during the great purge. Government agents destroyed the living quarters and the food stores, then drove away the faithful. For reasons unknown, the temple was left untouched, abandoned to stand empty for many decades. The sacred texts and other articles of worship were secured by a local herdsman and buried in the sands nearby. When the ways of tolerance were resumed by the government, we reopened the temple as the centerpiece of our monastery."
"The buildings look hardly the worse for wear after all those years," Giordino noted.
"Local herdsmen and underground monks secretly maintained the temple during the years of repression.
The remote location helped keep the site out of the prying eyes of the most troublesome government atheists. But we have much work yet to do to restore the compound," he said, motioning toward a stack of lumber and building materials. "We live in the gers now, but will someday have a permanent residence structure."
"You and a dozen disciples?"
"Yes, there are twelve monks here plus a visiting aspirant. But we hope to provide housing for an additional ten young men before long."
The lama led Pitt and Giordino to one of the smaller buildings beside the main temple. "I can offer you accommodations in our storeroom. The Western archaeological team visiting us is working at a nearby site for several weeks. They have left behind several cots that you may use. You wish to catch a ride on the supply truck tomorrow?"
"Yes," Pitt replied. "We are anxious to return to Ulaanbaatar."
"It shall be arranged. I must return to the temple for a tutoring session. Please make yourself comfortable, then join us for our evening meal at sunset."
The lama quietly turned and strode to the temple, his loose red robe flapping in the breeze. Pitt and Giordino climbed a short flight of steps and entered the storeroom, which was a narrow windowless structure with a high ceiling. They had to step around a giant iron bell just inside the doorway, a weathered relic in need of a bell tower. Past the bell, they found flour, noodles, tea, and other foodstuffs stacked along one wall. On the opposite side were bins of blankets and furs, stored for the frigid winter months ahead. In the back, they found several canvas cots beneath a painted image of Sakyamuni, the Buddha sitting cross-legged on a lotus-flower throne.
"Odd, that he knew we were in the neighborhood," Pitt said.
"It's a small desert," Giordino replied. "Look on the bright side. We don't have to sleep on the ground and we have plenty of time to relax until our ride shows up. As a matter of fact, I think I'd like to test out our new accommodations straightaway," he said, stretching out on one of the cots.
"I've got some reading to do first," Pitt replied, making his way toward the door before the snoring began.
Taking a seat on the front steps of the storeroom, he gazed in thought at the ancient temple and the dust-strewn valley stretching beyond. Then he pulled open the rucksack and began reading the diary of Dr. Leigh Hunt.
-32-
Good-bye, Dirk. And good-bye to your friend Al."
Noyon bounded up the steps and bowed. Pitt stood up and shook the boy's hand, marveling at the maturity of the ten-year-old.
"So long, my friend," Pitt replied. "I hope that we shall meet again."
"Yes. Next time, you ride the camels," the boy grinned, then ran down the path toward the waiting school bus at the edge of the monastery. The doors closed behind him and the old bus roared off up the ridge toward the setting sun.
The rumble woke Giordino from his nap and he padded onto the porch, stretching his arms to awaken.
"Noyon and the kids headed home from school?" he asked, catching a glimpse of the bus before it disappeared over the hill.
"He just came by and said farewell. Wanted me to tell you that his best camel is available for riding excursions at any time." Pitt stuck his nose back into Hunt's diary with a mesmerized look on his face.
"How's the kiss-and-tell saga of our petrified archaeologist?"
"One that you won't believe," Pitt said.
Giordino saw the serious look in Pitt's eyes and took a seat on the steps.
"What did you find?"
"Dr. Hunt, his Mongolian assistant, and a team of Chinese laborers were excavating the remains of a vanished city in northern China named Shang-tu."
"Never heard of it."
"You might know it by its more romanticized Western name ... Xanadu."
"Not another one," Giordino said, shaking his head. "Did it really exist?"
"Most definitely. It was the summer palace of Kublai Khan. He built the joint about one hundred twenty miles northwest of Beijing to get out of the summer heat. It was surrounded by a walled hunting ground and an adjacent village of upwards of one hundred thousand people. By the time Hunt came along, it was no more than a pile of rock and dust on an empty plain."
"So the artifacts on the plane date from Kublai Khan's reign? They must be worth a small fortune. That is, the few items not broken into a thousand pieces during the plane crash."
"Quite possibly. Though Hunt himself was disappointed with the haul. He writes that there was really nothing of significance uncovered until the very last day of the excavation. That's when your wooden box and the cheetah skin were dug up."
Pitt had the open wooden box sitting on the porch, the cheetah skin and bronze tube sitting inside. He pulled out the animal skin first.
"Hunt made little mention of the cheetah skin, but look at this," he said, laying out the fur, then flipping it over. On the skinned side was a series of eight small paintings in separate boxed panels. The first image showed a large Chinese junk sailing down a river trailed by two smaller vessels. The subsequent paintings showed the ships at sea, then anchoring in a small bay. The final panel showed the large ship on fire in the bay. A rippled banner of a blue dog fluttered in flames from the ship's foremast. On the shore, some boxes were stacked near the ship, but they, too, were surrounded by fire. Flames and smoke consumed the land all around the bay.
"Seems to relay a voyage that ended in a firestorm," Giordino said. "Perhaps they ran into some adversaries who were skilled with Greek Fire. Or it looks like they might have moored close to a forest fire ashore and were caught by blowing embers. There was no interpretation by the British archaeologist?"
"None. I wonder if he even examined the back side of the skin before he died."
"Any significance to the box?"
"It wasn't the box that was noteworthy but the bronze tube. Or, rather, something that was inside the bronze tube. A silk scroll of some sort was apparently rolled up inside. Painted on it was a treasure map to an unbelievable find."
"The canister was empty when we found it. Do you suppose it's still with Hunt on the plane?"
"Here, read Hunt's last entries," Pitt said, passing the diary to Giordino. Three brief passages were written on the last page of text.
August 5, 1937. En route to Ulaanbaatar by aircraft. With a heavy heart, I must write of a dreadful discovery. Tsendyn, my loyal associate, partner, and friend, has betrayed me in the end. The silk scroll is gone, stolen from its canister, which I carefully guarded since its excavation. Tsendyn was the only person who could have removed it, striking a dagger in my back before the plane left the ground. With it, the trail to G.K. is lost. I shall endeavor to recall the clues and reconstruct the map by memory. Then I will outfit a small party in U.B. and make the search attempt. Perhaps if nothing else, I will run into Tsendyn on the slopes of Burkhan Khaldun and obtain fair retribution. My only hope The entry ended midsentence, resumed later in a shaky hand. Giordino noted that the dusty page was stained with drops of blood.
Date unknown. We have crashed in the desert, shot down by a Japanese warplane. Both pilots dead. I fear my back and legs are broken. Am unable to move. Waiting for help. I pray we will be discovered soon. Pain is unbearable.
Then later, in a crude scribble:
Last entry. All hope is gone. My sincere regrets to Leeds at the British Museum, and my love to my dear wife, Emily. God
save our souls.
"Poor bugger," Giordino said. "That explains why he was lying atop the debris in the plane. He must have lay there several days before dying."
"His pain must have been all the worse, knowing what he lost."
"So what was the treasure on the silk map? Who or what is G.K.?"
"Hunt describes the silk scroll in an earlier entry, after its discovery. He was convinced, as was his aid Tsendyn, that it depicted the map to a lost tomb. The location in the Khentii Mountains of Mongolia, the royal markings, even a legend about a weeping camel all fit the historical records. The silk map indicated the final burial place of Genghis Khan."
Giordino let out a low whistle, then shook his head. "Genghis Khan, eh? Must have been sold a phony map. Old Genghis has yet to be found. His grave still rates as one of the biggest archaeological mysteries on the planet."
Pitt gazed at a swirling cloud of dust on the horizon, a thousand images running through his mind. Then it was his turn to shake his head.
"On the contrary. His tomb has indeed been found," he said quietly.
Giordino stared at him with a blank look on his face but knew better than to question Pitt's assertion. Pitt flipped through the diary to a page near the beginning and held the passage open for Giordino to see.
"Hunt's assistant from Mongolia, Tsendyn. His last name is Borjin."
"It can't be. His father?"
"If I'm not mistaken, we recently visited the marble tomb of the late Tsendyn Borjin."
"If that was Borjin's father in the stone chapel, then the sarcophagus in the center of the chamber ..."
"That's right," Pitt said ruefully. "The tomb of Genghis Khan is sitting in Tolgoi Borjin's backyard."
***
They joined the lama and monks at sunset for dinner in one of the gers. Like all their meals of late, it was a simple affair, consisting of a vegetable broth with noodles, washed down with some earthy black tea.
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