by Joanne Pence
“The red pearl was used to explain some of the vicious things that certain men did in Europe after the time of Marco Polo,” Charlotte began. “Historians agree that it wasn’t a pearl at all, but a philosopher’s stone conjured by Chinese alchemists thousands of years ago. It had nothing to do the usual tenets of alchemy, creating gold, the perfect and incorruptible metal, or even with creating a perfect and incorruptible man, one who was immortal. Instead, whoever owned it could control demons. Unfortunately, the demons influenced its owner as well, making men who might have been only a little shady, turn into monsters.
“Apparently, if the pearl is buried in some special earth found in the north China-Inner Mongolia area, the demons lose their power. Somehow, Genghis Khan learned about the pearl, and used it to cruelly take over most of the known world. Then, when Kublai Khan became Emperor, Kublai’s mother understood how evil the pearl was, and gave it to Nestorian monks to hide. Did you know she was a Nestorian Christian?” Charlotte asked.
“I didn’t,” Michael admitted.
“I find that fascinating!” Charlotte was bursting with enthusiasm. “In fact, she was the reason Kublai Khan was so open to other ways of thinking, and invited Westerners to his court. But I digress. Kublai’s mother asked the monks to put the pearl into that special earth so her son wouldn’t be influenced by demons the way Genghis Khan had been. She wanted him to be a kind and compassionate ruler.
“For the most part, her wishes worked. But the empire was so vast and diffuse that as Kublai Khan grew old, it began to break down. One theory is that the breakdown happened after Marco stole the pearl.
“In any case, Marco Polo had three daughters. After he died, his daughters split up his fortune, but the red pearl wasn’t mentioned. No one knows if it was still part of his fortune, or if Marco gave it away or threw it away earlier. Rumor had it, he thought the pearl had brought him bad luck.
“But the pearl does pop up throughout European history, always connected with unnaturally evil men. This is where it gets really fascinating.”
Michael and Jianjun grinned at each other. They both could imagine Charlotte pouring over history books, gleefully rubbing her hands together over discoveries, and loving every minute of her research.
“Vlad the Impaler was said to have been one of its owners—the sadist who was so cruel in Romania he was fictionalized as Dracula. It’s theorized that Henry the Eighth became increasingly heartless not only because of his alleged syphilis and festering sore that never healed, but because he gained possession of the pearl.
“Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria is believed to have owned the pearl. He was a patron of the composer Richard Wagner, whose Ring of the Nibelung is said to be a parable about the pearl. Wagner was a onetime friend and father figure to Nietzsche before their falling out.
“Nietzsche went mad after writing books that ultimately influenced Hitler, a man fascinated by all things connected with the occult and alchemy. The red pearl supposedly reached Der Führer, and shortly after, he began to build concentration camps.
“After Hitler’s downfall, the pearl somehow ended up in Egypt. But exactly where it’s been since it was last seen, around 1946, is unknown. And that’s as much as I’ve been able to find.”
Michael and the others thanked Charlotte for her research.
“Might I ask what you plan to do next?” Charlotte asked.
Michael noticed a figure dart past his window out in the courtyard. Sheer curtains covered the window so people couldn’t see into his apartment, but the morning sunlight allowed him to see a little outside. “It’s believed that the Nestorian monastery that housed the pearl when Marco Polo stole it is still on the Old Silk Road, and if the pearl were returned, it would cease to be powerful. I guess that special earth you spoke of is also in that area.” He moved to the edge of the window and pushed a sliver of curtain out of the way to see outside. “We’re going to go look for it.”
Two men crept towards his door.
“I can’t begin to tell you how tempted I am to join with you,” Charlotte said ruefully. “But I’ll—”
“Got to go,” he whispered. He hung up, motioned for Jianjun and Kira to go into the kitchen while he hurried to the far side of the front door.
They waited, staying quiet. Before long, they heard a key in the lock, and the apartment door slowly opened.
As an intruder crept into the room, a revolver was the first thing Michael saw from his hiding place behind the door. He reached out, grabbed the hand holding it, and jerked it forward. As the gunman stumbled, Michael kneed him in the sternum, lifting him off his feet, then gave him a chop to the back of the neck that dropped him to the floor.
Michael reached for the gun as a second gunman stepped into the room.
“Don’t touch it! Get back!” he ordered, his pistol pointed at Michael.
Michael froze, his shoulder once again throbbing. He had seen both these men before—the same two at the monastery in Rome. Jianjun crept up behind the gunman, a cast iron frying pan in hand.
“I said let the gun go, or I shoot!” the gunman ordered.
Jianjun slammed the frying pan down on the gunman’s head. He dropped, out cold.
The larger man awoke to find Michael pointing a gun at his head. Michael grabbed his jacket and dragged him to his feet.
“I’m sick of you two following me,” he said. “What the hell is going on? Talk!”
“We weren’t going to hurt you. In fact, we thought no one was home,” the big man said.
“What do you want here?”
“A red pearl. That’s all I know. We were promised a lot of money if we got it away from you. We were told that, for sure, the red pearl was here now, and we just needed to get it.” He shook his head, then winced and put his hand against the back of his neck.
“Who told you all that?”
“An American. I’ve got his phone number. Nothing else.”
“Give it to me.
He carefully reached inside his jacket pocket and held out a scrap of paper. Michael took it. It was a U.S. phone number. The 208 area code was familiar because he had just used it to call Idaho.
“No name?”
“Never.”
“Why do you trust he’d pay you?”
“He’s in the U.S., I’m here. If I didn’t get the money, I wouldn’t send him what he wanted.”
“He trusted you to send it?”
“Why not? I prefer money over a red pearl.”
“How forgiving will he be that you failed him?” Michael asked.
The man glanced nervously at his cohort, still unconscious. “Not very,” he mumbled.
Michael called the police and his landlady, saying he had caught two men who broke into his apartment. Mrs. Silvestri was more fearsome than the police. She was infuriated that anyone would try to bother her nice tenant, il professore, and immediately noticed that his shoulder was hurting him again. She found pain medicine and a heating pad for him. She liked trying to make Michael happy and well cared for in his adopted home, and apologized for the slowness of the locksmiths, swearing she would change the lock herself if she couldn’t get one to come the very next day.
To go from someone wanting to shoot or at least pummel him, to someone who pampered him in a matter of minutes made his head spin.
The robbers had little to say when the police arrived. They took the robbers to jail, while an inspector took statements from Michael, Kira, Jianjun, and Mrs. Silvestri.
Inspector Lucca, a thin man of medium height, intense brown eyes, and a small mustache, told Michael he would need to come down to the police station to press charges.
“No,” Michael said.
“No?”
“They didn’t take anything. This was more than a robbery, and they’re just pawns. Let them worry about what might happen, and then let them go. They won’t be back.”
“That’s not a good idea, signore,” the inspector said.
“It’s what I want.”
“Do you think it’s wise to let them go?” Jianjun asked.
“The less the police look into any of this, the better off we are.”
“Could be,” Jianjun admitted. “Now, what?”
“I’m going to call Charlotte Reed, apologize for hanging up on her, and ask if she can get the sheriff to find out about this Idaho phone number,” Michael said. “Then we’re going to leave Florence tonight. The sooner we’re away from whoever is sending goons after me, the better I’ll like it.”
Ethnographer Renata Corbi phoned Michael with names of guides to hire when he reached Tashkent, but then added, “If you don’t mind, I’d love to come with you. The search for a Nestorian monastery would make a great topic for a paper.”
“If you’d like to come, that’s fine,” Michael said. “I know you’ll be helpful—but, will you be ready to leave tomorrow? We’re already in Rome. We’re taking a seven P.M. flight tomorrow night.”
She didn’t hesitate. “See you in Rome.”
Michael hung up his cell phone and gave Kira and Jianjun the news. They sat in Kira’s hotel room, having ordered focaccia and beer. The TV was on. Breaking news from Florence caught their attention. Two men were gunned down as they left a police station. The shooter was in a car that immediately sped away.
When the photos of the deceased were shown, they were the two men who had broken into Michael’s apartment earlier that day.
Part II
The Journey
Chapter 34
Tashkent, Uzbekistan
Michael never cared to spend a lot of time in Tashkent because it reminded him of all that had been lost in Central Asia. Home to over three million people, the heart of Tashkent was now a modern capital—big and sprawling, with high-rises, traffic jams, and numerous government institutions. Some cement-block reminders of the failed USSR’s onetime power and hold over the land could still be found, and there remained an ever-shrinking traditional Uzbek town of narrow streets lined with mud-walled houses interspersed with ornate blue-domed mosques.
The old Tashkent that Michael enjoyed had been one of the major stops along the caravan route between Europe and China. Not only was most of that gone, but even moderately aging areas were being destroyed by the new Uzbek government. In a few more years, he probably wouldn’t recognize the city at all.
He and his companions flew into Tashkent, or “Toshkent” in the local language, as the best spot to start searching for Father Berosus’ monastery. From there, they would follow the Old Silk Road eastward.
“Remember, we’re tourists,” Renata said as they headed to a Hyatt Hotel with lots of other tourists to blend in with. “Two couples traveling together. It’s what people here are used to, and they won’t take much notice of us. So, you two are a couple,” she pointed at Jianjun and Kira, “and I’m Michael’s Italian girlfriend.” She took Michael’s arm. “Got it?”
Jianjun looked uncomfortably at Kira. “Is it okay with you?”
She shrugged. “Whatever it takes.”
“After we check in, Renata and I will go in search of guides who know the route best aligned with that of the Old Silk Road,” Michael said. “You two need to be on the lookout around the hotel. There shouldn’t be anyone or anything to worry about, but we need to be vigilant. So far, things are progressing almost too smoothly.”
After registering for their room, Jianjun took Kira’s arm and led her toward the elevator. She gave him a harsh look, but didn’t pull away. A guy could dream, couldn’t he?
Up ahead, he saw Michael and Renata waiting for the elevator. They all got off on the same floor.
Jianjun watched Michael open the door to his room and disappear inside with Renata.
He faced his door, holding the key card. He felt as if he were all thumbs, but steadied himself. The card easily fit into the slot and the lock clicked. He pushed the door open and held it to allow Kira to enter first.
He followed her into the room and froze. The queen-size bed practically filled the entire space. He gawked, not sure what to do.
“This is awkward.” Kira put her hands on her hips as she looked around, as if expecting a second bed to miraculously appear.
He darted across the room to the closet. “Ah! Here’s an extra blanket. And a pillow. Which is okay. I mean, not that it’s okay that there’s nowhere else to sleep. But there’s the floor. It’s comfortable enough, I’m sure. I mean, not comfortable as such, but better than standing. Or, there’s a chair—”
“Jianjun, it’s all right. We’ll manage,” she said.
“Uh … Maybe I can request a rollaway bed.”
“And blow our cover?” She put her knapsack on a chair, upzipped it, and started digging through her things. “Don’t worry. I know you’re married. You can trust me to leave you alone.”
“No.” Where had that come from? “I mean, of course.”
She suddenly stopped what she was doing, faced him, and then grinned.
He wished the floor would open and swallow him. But instead something—maybe one of Michael’s demons—caused him to say, “It was an arranged marriage in the Chinese tradition.”
Her eyebrows rose high.
The silence stretched out before she said, “Maybe we should freshen up and then go for a walk before dinner.” She headed towards the bathroom. “I’d like to see a bit of Tashkent while we’re here.”
“Yes! Good idea!” He sat down on the bed to wait and then jumped to his feet. “I’m sorry! I forgot to ask … which side do you want?”
Michael and Renata wandered through old, bazaar sections of Tashkent in search of the guide she had used in the past. Stalls around them sold everything from pots and pans to used shoes and old spoons. The crowded markets supported a number of outdoor cafes, called chaikhanas or tea rooms, that sold kebabs, shawarma, samosa, and pilaf. The two were tempted to stop and eat, but they decided to locate the guide first.
Michael’s cell phone rang. It was Charlotte, telling him the phone number he gave her was from a burner satellite phone. She hadn’t known burner satellite phones existed. “Apparently they cost beaucoup bucks,” she added. “We’re trying, but so far, no clue as to who it belongs to.”
“Okay—thanks. That gives us some idea, at least,” Michael said. He soon hung up because Renata found her contact.
The guide, however, refused to help, saying it had become too dangerous beyond Tashkent with marauding bands of thieves, and government soldiers looking for spies, terrorists, and opposing government militants. If they insisted on going anyway, he knew two men willing, for enough money, to lead them across the steppes and through Kyrgyzstan to the Chinese border. After that, they were on their own.
A sinking feeling hit Michael. They weren’t even out of Tashkent, and already they had a problem.
Marco Polo had followed the Silk Road through Tashkent to the Chinese cities of Kashgar and Khotan (or Hotan as it was now known since the conquering Chinese didn’t have the guttural “kh” sound of the Turkic languages), and then across the desert to Kublai Khan’s capital city of Cambaluc, now present day Beijing, or some two hundred plus miles north to the ruins of Khan’s summer palace, Xanadu, in Inner Mongolia. Somewhere between those cities lay the Nestorian monastery for which they searched. It was a ridiculously long distance—about 1800 miles—but Father Berosus had sounded convinced the monastery they sought was in the Central Asian part of the journey, or at worst, not far into land now owned by China. Michael hoped he was right.
Eventually, they found the guides and agreed on a price, place and time to meet. Michael rented a Japanese four-wheel-drive van fitted with enormous tires for the dire snow conditions, and then, with satellite phones on his mind, he bought one for their trip into the back roads of Central Asia. Most of the time, it would be their only means of communication with the outside world.
He and Renat
a returned to the hotel after that and joined Jianjun and Kira for dinner. They agreed to meet in the lobby at six o’clock the next morning.
Renata and Michael entered their room. He took out his computer and checked on US and British news sources while Renata showered. She came out with her skin warm and glowing, and wearing a short, thin nightgown. He did a double-take. She might be a scholar, but she was full-bodied and womanly. His gaze followed her as she got into bed.
“Come join me,” she said, patting the mattress beside her.
He was tempted until Irina and the demon, never far from his thoughts, swept over him. Who or what was Renata Corbi? He had met the real woman months earlier, but could he be sure this was her? Her nightgown dipped provocatively low, making her almost too tempting—just as the demon had been.
“We’ll be working together many days,” he said. “It’s not a good idea.”
She cocked her head. “You Americans, too many of you are still Puritans. I find you attractive, Michael. What’s the problem?”
“And I find you incredibly sexy. If I were someone else, you wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. But I’m me, and now, I’m going to read.”
She shrugged her shoulder. “As you wish.” She shut the lamp on the nightstand, leaving only the light in his side of the room, then turned onto her side. “Good night, Michael.”
Michael gazed at the hills and valleys of the blanket that covered her and wondered if he was being ten-times a fool.
Down the hall, Jianjun went into the bathroom to change into sweat pants and a sweat shirt. Ever since he nearly froze to death on a trip with Michael to fjords in Norway, he made sure he always had something warm to sleep in. He padded into the bedroom. Kira sat on the one comfortable chair in the room, reading something on her computer tablet. The lamp beside her was the only one in the room still lit. He stood in the middle of the floor, then decided the least awkward thing to do was to get into bed. He lay on his back and shut his eyes.
