Rogue Angel 51: The Pretender's Gambit

by Alex Archer

  “No.” Ishii shook his head. “That war had to do with P’an-Lo T’ou-Ts’iuan’s raid into southern Vietnam while Thanh Tong was engaged fighting with pirates to the north and a mountain tribe to the west that was skirmishing along the borders. P’an-Lo T’ou-Ts’iuan, known as Tra-Toan in Vietnam, hoped to seize more territory for the Champa Kingdom, the empire he ruled. Thanh Tong wasted no time in addressing the attack. Besieged by the Vietnamese, P’an-Lo T’ou-Ts’iuan appealed to the Khmers, who lived in what we now recognize as Cambodia. The Khmers refused because they had an unpleasant history with the Champa Kingdom.”

  The details tumbled through Annja’s mind in freefall. Sometimes the connections were like that, pieces that fit together that she didn’t even remember. History was a mosaic. She gazed at the elephant with renewed excitement. “They had a history of hostility.”

  “Exactly. Not only that, Thanh Tong had made Vietnam strong and the Khmers did not want to stand against him because they feared him.”

  Klykov tapped the table. “The elephant,” he reminded. “Where does it come in?”

  “It is said the Elephant of Ishana hides the location of the Temple of the Dreaming Rumdul.”

  Annja picked up the elephant and took her camera from her backpack, snapped a picture of the flower on the elephant’s head, then magnified the view. As the details sharpened, she took out her tablet and pulled up a photo of a rumdul plant.

  The long leaves and balled blossom amid the three petals was a close enough match. Of course, there were a lot of other flowers and plants she wasn’t familiar with, too, but the three petals clustered around the ball of fruit looked a lot like the rumdul.

  “You see?” Ishii asked animatedly. “It is a rumdul plant, hai?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Ishii’s eyes shone as his excitement grew. “According to the histories I have read, long thought to be legends, the Temple of the Dreaming Rumdul was one of the first temples of Angkor Wat, but it was lost during the wars with the Champa Kingdom.” He paused and swept a hand through his hair. “According to legend, monks hid the treasures of the Temple of the Dreaming Rundul somewhere in what is now Cambodia when the Champas attacked them.”

  As Annja sipped her tea, she imagined all those years of history rolling by. So many things happened during the passage of time, it was a wonder that lost things ever showed up again.

  Yet she had the elephant. Sometimes it happened, and those instances were glorious.

  “The elephant was made to show the way to the temple’s hiding place, and only the monks of the Dreaming Rundul are supposed to know how to decipher the clues. If you believe the stories, the monks have searched for it since it was lost shortly after the fall of Angkor Wat to the Vietnamese. They did not know what had become of it till after Thanh Tong seized Champa. For a brief time, it is said, the monks of the hidden temple chased stories of the elephant though they never got their hands on it.”

  “But it eventually ended up in Japanese hands,” Annja said.

  “Yes.” Ishii toyed with his tea cup. “There came a time of unrest again in Thanh Tong’s reign. Chinese merchants began illegally trading with the Vietnamese. Thanh Tong took dire steps to prevent this, turning those guilty of the practice into eunuchs that served at the palace.”

  Klykov grimaced.

  “Somewhere in there, though, the elephant was lost to thieves.” Ishii shrugged. “The Tokugawa shogunate did not know what they had lost till they captured a group of monks attempting to steal the elephant back. By that time, the elephant—thought to be only a mild oddity that might please Queen Catherine—was already in Russia. The Tokugawa Emperor chose not to pursue the Elephant of Ishana because he did not believe in the stories.”

  “And Japan didn’t want to open its borders for any reason.”

  “Exactly. There was a tale that the monks of the Dreaming Rumdul Temple ventured to Queen Catherine’s palace in an attempt to retrieve the elephant. Have you heard of this?”

  “Yes. According to Russian records, an attempt was made by what was then believed to be Japanese thieves. Later an investigation revealed them to be Cambodian monks, but the proper royal records were never corrected.”

  “Interesting. They obviously did not get the elephant?”

  “No, but one of Catherine the Great’s disgruntled lovers chose to steal the elephant later, and that was how it ended up in New York.”

  Ishii smiled. “History is often so very fascinating, and the further back you go, the harder it becomes to separate fact from fanciful tales. Until recently, I had not believed in the Elephant of Ishana, yet here you are with it. This is very exhilarating.”

  Annja silently agreed, but she held herself in check. So much remained to be seen, and she still didn’t know where she was supposed to go with the information she had.

  “The statue could also,” Klykov spoke up, “be a fake. A totem created to play on the myth of the Temple of the Dreaming Rumdul. Just a curiosity that someone constructed to satisfy a whim.”

  Clearly unhappy with that line of thought, Ishii frowned irritably and leaned back. “Perhaps. But there is a way to find out.”

  “How?”

  “The myth goes on to say that documents regarding the Elephant of Ishana were taken from the monks that arrived there. They are kept in a small museum on Dejima. I have arranged permission to go there today and look over them.” Ishii spread his hands. “Unless you’d prefer to go by your hotel rooms first?”

  Annja looked at Klykov.

  “If you do not mind,” Klykov said, “there is one stop I would like to make first. It will not take but a moment. I would like to check in with an old friend.”

  Chapter 35

  “You are familiar with the history of Dejima Island?” Professor Ishii asked as he peered over the backseat of the rented car he’d arranged. He had also rented a driver to pilot the vehicle, a hard-faced man who remained quiet and drove with aggressive authority along the packed streets of Nagasaki leading down to the harbor.

  “Yes.” Annja peered past the professor at the coastline. She had reviewed the history of Dejima Island while en route from Russia and what she saw now only slightly fit with what she had expected. “In response to Japanese merchants wanting to trade with the Portuguese, part of Nagasaki’s coastline was cut off from the mainland.”

  “Hai. That maneuver was to satisfy the emperor’s desire to keep Japan isolated from the rest of the world. Sakoku, the emperor’s law, promised death to any foreigner who landed on Japanese soil, and death to any native who sought to leave Japan. The original island has been classified as a national historic site.”

  If she looked hard, Annja could still see the vague outlines of the fan-shaped island that had been created by the trenching effort back in the seventeenth century. However, as the centuries had passed, Nagasaki had reclaimed its wayward creation, linking it with elevated highways.

  The driver slowed at an intersection. He conversed quickly with the professor, then made a left-hand turn.

  Annja glanced at Klykov, trying to get some measure of the man’s mindset. He had been mostly quiet since they’d gotten into the car, and there were times he had stared at the driver in the rearview mirror.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Annja asked Klykov while Ishii gave more directions to the driver.

  Klykov shrugged. “We are far from home, Annja. Far from people who may help us if we need it. This is something that concerns me.”

  “It concerns me, too.”

  “I do not like trusting people I do not know.”

  She smiled at him. “I know, but I went looking for you a few days ago and that seems to have turned out all right.”

  He gave her a ghost of a grin that revealed some of the tension that he was feeling. “Yes, but you were fortunate in that instance. You chose to trust me.”

  She reached over and patted his hand. “Everything went well with the meeting with your friend?” She assumed the transaction for a
weapon had gone off without a problem.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you should be feeling better.”

  Klykov shrugged again. “Some better.”

  A few minutes later, the driver pulled into the private parking area of a small gray two-story brick building. There was no advertising, no signage of any kind except warnings of security and NO TRESPASSING in a handful of languages.

  The driver opened the door and Annja got out, surveying the building. She glanced at Ishii. “This is a museum?”

  “A private museum,” Ishii said. “It is owned by a businessman I know who is interested in archaeology and history. The tale of the Elephant of Ishana is something he has been acutely fascinated by.” The professor led her to the front doors, which were opened by a young man in a dark suit.

  Annja settled her backpack over her shoulders and entered the building. She couldn’t help noticing the way Klykov and the driver gave each other space like two aggressive male dogs.

  * * *

  THE INTERIOR OF the museum was quiet and the climate was perfectly controlled, slightly cooler than the outside temperature. A number of exhibits occupied the main room, which stretched two stories tall, but it was the almost complete skeleton of an allosaurus that claimed center stage.

  The assembled skeleton stood on a three-foot-high pedestal and towered almost seventeen feet above that. Most of the bones were true fossils, but one leg, parts of the tail, a few of the ribs and part of the skull plate had been created out of resins. The copies were expensively made because it took a second look to see that they weren’t real.

  “Impressive, isn’t it Creed-Chan?”

  Turning to her right, Annja took in the slim man in an elegant suit who stepped from the hallway there. Handsome and cruel looking, the man held himself with easy confidence. It was hard to place his age. He could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty, depending on whether the coal-black hair was natural or dyed.

  “It is impressive,” Annja admitted.

  The man advanced across the tiled floor and stopped just out of arm’s reach. Two younger men that looked an awful lot like the driver Ishii had hired flanked him.

  “I would have preferred a Tyrannosaurus Rex, but those are hard to get. Still, a full-grown allosaurus is quite a specimen.” The man gazed at the dinosaur with obvious pride. “I got this one from Thailand, from the Muang district of Nakhon Ratchasima Province. It cost me a lot of money, but it is worth it. So far it has been the centerpiece of my museum.”

  Annja didn’t say anything. Dinosaur-fossil trafficking remained a booming business. The man’s casual mention of the price automatically let her know he was used to dealing in criminal matters. Some of Klykov’s unease seeped into her and she realized how far from home and help they presently were.

  “Not everyone can have a Tyrannosaurus Rex,” the man stated good-naturedly. “And not everyone has an allosaurus.” His eyes gleamed. “I do. I am quite fascinated by monsters, the giants that used to walk the earth. Have you ever been on a dinosaur dig?”

  “A few times,” Annja admitted. “I prefer more current history. Shifting fossilized dinosaur poop isn’t work I enjoy. I’d rather learn about people, who they were and how they lived.”

  “I understand. You are here on another matter. The Elephant of Ishana.”

  “We haven’t confirmed that’s what I’m looking for.”

  The easy grin returned. “Professor Ishii tells me he believes you are looking for that very thing.”

  “Professor Ishii may be easier to convince than I am.” From the corner of her eye, Annja watched as Klykov took a slow step to her left and remained facing the man and his two companions. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  “All the more reason to put the professor’s theories to the test.” The man gestured to the rear of the museum. “I have the documents related to the elephant laid out in a study. Shall we adjourn there?”

  “Maybe we should have an introduction first,” Annja replied.

  The man smiled. “I am just an ardent supporter of historical things, Creed-Chan. No one you need trouble yourself over.”

  “His name is Yoichi Shirasaki,” Klykov said. “He is yakuza. A criminal.”

  The unease that had been coiling through Annja solidified into a stronger warning. She checked for exits in the building and noticed that other men had joined them in the main room now, all standing in the shadows.

  The man’s eyebrows rose slightly. He looked angry, surprised and troubled all at the same time. “Do I know you, old man?”

  Klykov shook his head. “No.”

  Shirasaki turned to Ishii and spoke rapidly in Japanese. The question was evident from the anger in Shirasaki’s tone.

  Klykov spoke before Ishii could reply. “I am Leonid Klykov. I have done business on occasion with Kano Kenzen.”

  The smile flickered across Shirasaki’s lips again, but it quickly died. “Kenzen is no longer involved in this business.”

  “I had heard that. Kenzen’s son holds you responsible for his father’s death.” Klykov’s words were flat, uninflected.

  “Is that going to be a problem?” Shirasaki asked.

  “Not as long as you deal with us in good faith. Kenzen and I did business only occasionally.”

  The driver started to step forward but Shirasaki held the man up with a look, then focused his gaze on Klykov. “Careful, old man. You would do well not to insult me.”

  “It’s not an insult,” Klykov replied. “Just something that needs to be addressed.”

  “We are all interested parties in this endeavor,” Shirasaki said.

  “Annja and I came here looking for answers, not partners,” Klykov said.

  Shirasaki’s eyes narrowed and his voice turned harder. “The information I have grants me an interest in the outcome of this treasure hunt.”

  The words burrowed into Annja’s mind and she regretted accepting Ishii’s offer of help so quickly. She should have vetted the man more completely before jumping in. But time, ironically, wasn’t always on an archaeologist’s side when pursuing an artifact or a story.

  Klykov said nothing.

  “Maybe I could look at those documents now,” Annja suggested.

  Shirasaki smiled again, once more the host, but the cold ruthlessness never left his eyes. “This way, please.”

  * * *

  THE WORKROOM WAS twelve-foot square, an eight-tatami room, and it seemed cramped with the long table that held the documents Shirasaki had laid out for Annja’s inspection. The inclusion of Klykov, Professor Ishii, Shirasaki and five of the bodyguards made the room seem even smaller.

  The documents were kept in a thick, oversize, leather-bound book and dated back hundreds of years. Unfortunately, that also meant they were in Hanyu logograms, graphemes that represented words or morphemes, which were helper words and didn’t exist on their own.

  Annja didn’t read Hanyu. She gazed at the pages in silent frustration.

  “If you will permit me, Creed-Chan.” Ishii acted contrite and polite as he stepped closer to Annja. “I will provide the translations.”

  In a calm, steady voice, Ishii read from the documents, more or less relating the story he had already told Annja. Judging from the bored and impatient look on Shirasaki’s features, the Japanese crime lord had heard the story before.

  Only as Ishii finished up this time, there was an added layer to the story.

  “It wasn’t until the Elephant of Ishana was sent as a gift to the Queen of Russia that the Emperor’s advisors realized they had made a mistake about the worth of the statue,” Ishii continued. “When monks from the Temple of the Dreaming Rumdul came to Dejima Island pursuing the Elephant, they were captured and tortured. Gradually, the story of the Elephant and the Maze came out.”

  The Maze? Annja leaned over the page Ishii slowly moved his finger along. In addition to the Hanyu logograms, this page also featured a drawing of a box. Markings outside this box might have list
ed the dimensions, but Annja didn’t know how big the construction was.

  “In addition to the information of the Elephant and the lost temple,” Ishii continued, “the monks also carried with them the Maze, which is the second part of the map to the Temple of the Dreaming Rumdul.”

  Annja moved to the other side of the table and peered at the drawing of the Maze. Even though the image was upside down, she made out the three-dimensional representation of what had to be a map. Rivers ran between broken countryside and trails cut through the jungle. Bridges spanned the river, paths throughout.

  “Do you know where this is?” Annja blurted out, consumed with the new piece of the mystery.

  “We have not been able to narrow it down.” Ishii peered at her through his glasses. “The temple was lost hundreds of years ago. Rivers change their courses.”

  “Mountains don’t move,” Annja countered. “Have you searched for this location using satellite imaging?”

  “Yes.” Shirasaki stepped toward the table and peered down at the book. “No expense has been spared. I have searched for the Elephant of Ishana for eight years, since I learned of it. Until the Elephant turned up in New York, I had thought it destroyed or lost forever.”

  “It might still be a tall tale,” Klykov said, “and you’ve wasted your time and money for nothing more than a fabrication.”

  Shirasaki shot Klykov a withering glare, then snapped his fingers. One of his men came forward carrying a small protective case. Without a word, the man opened the box and poured out pieces of carved teak inlaid with ivory. Age had darkened the wood and yellowed the ivory, but the carved images on the wood remained beautiful works of art.

  Quietly, the man began assembling the pieces, clicking the wooden sections together with obvious familiarity. They fit together so well the seams vanished, making it seem like the entire thing had been carved from one piece of wood. Within minutes, the Maze sat on the table, covering a two-foot square. Sections created the mountains and the river and the bridges. Other sections created clumps of trees and valleys.