Eddie paced the floor of Addison’s living room, scarfing down a bowl of cereal he had pilfered from the Cookes’ kitchen. “It’s out of the question,” he declared for the seventh time. “My parents want to send me to music camp. I shouldn’t even be in your apartment; I should be practicing.”
“You’re too high-strung,” Addison said with genuine feeling. “A pleasant vacation will do just the thing. Picture the cooling countryside, the rolling green pastures, the beautiful vistas.”
“I thought you said you’re going to the Gobi Desert.”
“We’ll work on our tans.”
“I can’t tolerate heat.”
“The Gobi is surrounded by mountains. We’ll go skiing.”
“The only skis I’m going near this summer are Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky, and Kabalevsky.”
“Are you trying to tell me you didn’t have fun in South America?”
“Addison, we were almost killed seventeen times.”
“The key word there,” said Addison, “is almost.”
Eddie paced into the kitchen to find a topping for his cereal. Rummaging through the backs of cabinets, he settled on sugar candy hearts left over from Valentine’s Day. “I don’t see what’s so great about this trip.”
Addison had read that the key to salesmanship is knowing what your customer wants. He watched Eddie shoveling cereal into his mouth and locked in on Eddie’s puppet strings. “The food, Eddie. Think of it. If you want good Chinese food, where do you go?”
“Sam & Lucy’s Chinese Bistro on 67th.”
“Right. But if Sam and Lucy want good Chinese food, where do they go?”
Eddie considered this. “China?”
“Exactly. They go straight to the source.”
Eddie was listening.
“Think of this trip as an all-expenses-paid culinary adventure. We’ll be eating our way across the Asian continent.”
“All expenses paid?”
Addison knew it was important to convince Eddie all the way so Eddie could set to work on the real challenge: convincing his parents to let him skip New England Music Camp. “I’ve already squared it with the museum. As research assistants, we’ll be employees.”
Eddie nodded slowly. He had only one more question. “Is Raj coming?”
At that moment, Raj burst into the living room by way of the fire escape window. He hit the ground, rolled, and sprang to his feet. He was dressed in his signature camouflage pants and clutching a survival backpack nearly twice his size. “Just finished packing. Is Eddie in?”
• • • • • •
Museums are lumbering, bureaucratic beasts with slow reaction times. It was July when the museum finally green-lit the trip. Addison’s group wasted no time boarding a transatlantic flight. They flew east into the rising sun, with brief layovers in London, Stockholm, and Kiev. The plane fast-forwarded through the hours of the day as earth’s time zones rolled beneath its wings.
Addison sat with Molly in economy class. Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel sat behind them, and Eddie and Raj sat in front, lowering their seats a little more than Addison would have preferred. Addison struggled to keep his newspaper out of his beef Stroganoff.
“Since when do you read The Wall Street Journal?” asked Molly, plucking the edge of the business section out of her rice pilaf.
“I’m checking stock prices.”
“You don’t own any stocks.”
“Yet.”
“Is this another one of your phases? Like the time you got interested in beekeeping and spent all your savings on a beekeeper suit?”
Addison folded his newspaper and regarded Molly philosophically. “I’m thinking about my future. I’m thirteen now. In many cultures I’d be considered an adult. I need to think about my prospects.”
“You’re going to become a stockbroker?”
“Molly, have you ever stopped to consider that archaeology is not a smart career choice?”
“Whoa,” said Molly. “Who are you and what have you done with Addison?”
“I’m serious, Mo. You’ve seen how Aunt D and Uncle N are always struggling with money.”
“Addison, you’ve wanted to be an archaeologist your entire life. Where is this coming from?”
“We go to school with people whose parents work on Wall Street. They always have plenty of money, and their parents never go missing unless it’s to spend an extra day in the Hamptons.”
“Wait. If you’re having doubts about archaeology, why were you so adamant about coming to China?”
“Well, that’s easy,” said Addison, shrugging. “Free trip. Besides, it was that or math camp like last summer.”
Molly looked at him skeptically. “Archaeology’s sort of our family business.”
“Exactly. We never chose it—it was chosen for us. But look where it got Mom and Dad. And a few months ago, look where it nearly got us.”
Molly frowned, troubled by this new side of Addison. “Dad wanted you to become an archaeologist.”
“Well, he doesn’t get a say anymore, does he?” Addison picked the peas out of his pilaf with a spork. “We can’t dwell in the past, Molly. It’s not about where we came from, it’s about where we’re going.”
“My kung fu sifu says you are your past. If you don’t know where you came from, how can you tell where you’re going?”
Addison chewed that over for a while. He knew he loved archaeology, and he knew he loved the past. But he also knew he didn’t want to see his family and friends in danger again.
About six hours into the long flight, he began to feel restless and punchy. Addison started singing “Summertime” by his favorite composer, George Gershwin. Eddie and Raj took up the tune. Soon, a few other jet-lagged passengers joined in. Addison got half the flight cabin singing before his aunt Delia put a stop to it.
It was midafternoon by the time they landed in Hong Kong. Addison unbuckled his seat belt and stretched luxuriantly. He had no idea he would soon be on the run for his life.
Chapter Three
The Hidden Tomb
SEARING TROPICAL HEAT AND a torrential downpour welcomed Addison’s group to the island city. As soon as they stepped out of the air-conditioned airport, monsoon rain drenched them like a dunking booth at a carnival. They high-stepped through puddles, leapt into a taxi van, and were whisked into the beating heart of Hong Kong.
Through windshield wipers, Addison’s eyes feasted on the city. Banyan trees and towering eucalyptus competed for space with concrete towers and glass skyscrapers. Curving wooden balustrades adorned the sloping eaves of ramshackle shops selling teas, snakeskins, and herbal remedies. A sinewy man pulled tourists in a red-painted rickshaw while motor traffic screamed in all directions. Every surface was cluttered with signs and billboards drawn in the beautiful black, curving sword strokes of Cantonese script.
After the death-defying drag race through Hong Kong rush hour, the taxi dropped the woozy Cooke team in front of the Hong Kong Museum of Archaeology. The building sported a massive, pillared edifice like the Acropolis in Greece and was only slightly less run-down. They clambered up the concrete steps, made slick in the pelting rain.
“Here she is,” Uncle Nigel exclaimed.
“The museum closes at five p.m., so there may not be anyone here to greet us,” Aunt Delia called over a clap of thunder.
As if on cue, the front doors swung open, and a twinkly-eyed old man beckoned them in from the rain.
“Eustace, you old quack!” Uncle Nigel cried, his face breaking into a grin.
“Nigel, you ridiculous excuse for an archaeologist!” the man cackled, laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Come inside before I have you arrested for loitering.”
The group pressed their way indoors, stomping rainwater from their shoes.
Uncle Nigel clasped the old man’s hand in two
of his and shook it warmly. “I thought this museum was for archaeology—I didn’t know they kept fossils.”
“Well,” said the man with twinkling blue eyes, “at least one old relic in this museum is genuine.”
“Everyone,” said Uncle Nigel with a grand sweep of his hand, “this is Eustace Goodworth Hawtrey III. The Hawtreys have curated here since Hong Kong became a colony of the British Crown in 1847.”
“1842,” corrected Eustace, “but who’s counting?” He shook hands with Addison and Molly. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you both. Your father used to work with me here at the museum.”
Addison reddened at the mention of his father. He never knew quite how to react.
Eustace turned quickly to Eddie and Raj. “Mr. Chang and Mr. Bhandari, I presume? Your reputations precede you.”
Eddie and Raj nodded politely.
Aunt Delia gave Eustace a fond peck on the cheek. “Sorry we’re late. We got bumped to a later connection in Kiev.”
“So my sources informed me. I was notified the second your wheels touched down in Hong Kong.” He guided them across the main atrium and into a replica of a sixteenth-century Japanese pagoda. He gestured for them to drop their luggage and take seats on the straw mat floor. “You are just in time for tea.”
Uncle Nigel happily accepted a cup. Like Eustace, he was incorrigibly British, and not at all interested in leading a life that did not include tea. “Japanese green tea,” he said, taking a grateful sip. “You remembered.”
“You always said the British couldn’t get the hang of green tea. I quite agree. And for the young people?”
“Earl Grey for me,” said Addison.
“I’ll take a soda,” said Eddie.
“Do you have any protein drinks?” asked Raj.
Aunt Delia shook her head. “You can have whatever you like as long as it’s water.”
Eustace hefted a pitcher of water and poured glasses all around.
“Now,” said Uncle Nigel, clapping his hands together, “what’s all this about a Song dynasty fortress?”
Eustace beamed a thousand-watt smile. “There is none!”
“I’m sorry, Eustace,” said Uncle Nigel, lowering his teacup. “It sounded almost as if you said there is no Song dynasty fortress.”
“There isn’t! I just fed your museum that line so they would fly you out here! What I actually found is far more important and far more secret.”
A phalanx of janitors entered the main atrium with mops and began working their way across the floor.
Eustace lowered his voice conspiratorially. “There are spies everywhere—come with me, where we can speak openly.” He leapt to his feet, surprisingly spry for a white-haired archaeologist. He beckoned Addison’s group to follow him through the after-hours museum. They strode down a corridor lined with war masks from Papua New Guinea. “My office is ransacked, my phones are tapped, and people are following me. Hong Kong has a million eyes and a million ears.”
Uncle Nigel looked at him skeptically. “Eustace, are you sure?”
“You’ve been followed since the airport. How do you think I knew the moment your flight touched down?”
Addison traded glances with Molly. The building rattled with a roll of thunder.
“Who are you worried about?” asked Uncle Nigel. “The Chinese gangs?”
“Absolutely,” said Eustace, shortcutting through an armory of Samurai weapons, “but they are pussycats compared to the Russian gangs. Just last week, I had to fire a research assistant for selling secrets. The Chinese are following me. The Russians are following the Chinese. And I am following the Russians. We chase each other in a circle. Hong Kong has changed since you were here, Nigel. It is a vipers’ nest.”
Eddie listened nervously. “Raj,” he whispered, “I thought this trip wasn’t going to be dangerous.”
Raj shrugged, hardly able to contain his grin.
Eustace guided them all into a massive atrium housing a reconstructed Burmese temple. “Now,” he said, ducking behind the temple, “I will show you what I really found!” He checked both ways to make sure no one was coming and flipped open a security keypad concealed in a marble pillar. A few keystrokes, a hydraulic hiss, and he pushed open a secret door embedded in the wall of the museum.
The old archaeologist ushered them quickly inside. He flicked on his Zippo lighter and held the flame aloft to guide the way. The group squeezed down a hidden passageway hollowed inside the museum wall. “Three months ago, the Uzbeks decided to tear down a Nestorian church and put in a shopping mall. My team rushed to Samarkand to excavate before this priceless site was destroyed.”
The passageway led down two dozen steps and fed into an underground chamber.
“We discovered an eight-hundred-year-old crypt hidden underneath the chapel in the church. And to our amazement, one of the coffins was carved with a coded message.”
Eustace turned to face the Cookes and saw he had their undivided attention. “Would you like to see it?” He smiled innocently. He knew that an eight-hundred-year-old secret message was chum in the water for the Cooke family.
Uncle Nigel and Aunt Delia bobbed their heads.
Eustace hunched over another keypad recessed into the marble and typed a passcode. Addison marked the thick walls of the vault. Whatever was hidden down here, Eustace did not want it stolen. The door unsealed, and he led them into a final chamber.
• • • • • •
Eustace clicked on a dim overhead light, revealing a vault packed with antiquities. There were parchment decrees from the Forbidden City, blood-encrusted bayonet rifles from nineteenth-century Mujahideen, and a Komodo dragon–tooth necklace from the island of Padar. But what most drew Addison’s eye was the casket in the center of the room.
“Eustace, this coffin is incredibly well preserved,” said Aunt Delia.
“Read the message on the lid.” Eustace clasped his hands together with excitement.
Uncle Nigel and Aunt Delia both reached into their pockets to slip on glasses and plastic gloves. They bent over the casket like doctors preparing for surgery.
The coffin was oak, hardened by time. Uncle Nigel blew dust from the lid and lowered his eyeline until he caught the faint lettering scratched in the wood. “You said you found this in Samarkand?”
“I certainly did.” Eustace’s eyes glittered with merriment.
“But this writing is in medieval French.”
“That,” said Eustace, “is the first reason I brought you here.”
“And the second?”
“Read what it says.”
Uncle Nigel studied the ancient script and translated. “‘Good Christian brother, inside my coffin lie the directions to . . .’” His voice trailed off. Uncle Nigel looked up at Eustace in wonder. “It’s not possible.”
“Keep reading,” said Molly.
Uncle Nigel cleared his throat. “‘Inside my coffin lie the directions to the tomb of Temüjin of Borjigin, son of Yesügei . . .’”
Aunt Delia peered over Uncle Nigel’s shoulder. “Can it be? A map to the tomb after all these years?” She pored over the ancient text, her jaw slack in amazement. “Eustace, this could lead to a treasure greater than anything the world has seen in a thousand years.”
Eustace smiled with delight.
“Who is Temüjin, son of what’s-his-futz?” asked Molly.
“Temüjin was his birth name,” said Uncle Nigel, straightening up. “You may know him by his nom de guerre . . .” He paused as monsoon thunder shook the earth. “Genghis Khan.”
Chapter Four
The Khan’s Treasure
EDDIE BROKE THE SILENCE that followed. “Okay, so there’s a map to a grave. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
“If the legends are true, it’s much more than a grave,” said Eustace. He pointed to a parchment map hangi
ng on the vault wall. “Genghis Khan conquered a quarter of the world, creating the largest empire in history. He looted every city from Beijing to Bukhara and carted all the treasure back to Mongolia, where it vanished. According to Mongol tradition, it was buried with the Khan.”
“So why has no one found his tomb after all this time?” asked Molly.
“Legend claims the burial site was masked by ten thousand horsemen who trampled the earth to make it even. Then a river was diverted and a forest planted, hiding the tomb forever.”
“Wow,” said Molly. “Genghis Khan had trust issues.”
“That isn’t the half of it,” said Eustace. “Mongol warriors killed the slaves who built the Khan’s tomb. And when those warriors rode back to their camp, the army murdered the warriors, too. That way, no living Mongol knew the location of the Khan’s tomb.”
Raj let out a low whistle. It was a skill he had only recently mastered, and he tried to inject a low whistle into a conversation any time it seemed appropriate.
“The Germans, Japanese, Americans, Russians, and Brits have all led expeditions in search of the Khan’s grave, spending millions of dollars. None have found anything. The location is one of the greatest mysteries in archaeology.”
“So how are we supposed to find it?” asked Molly.
“We,” said Eustace, “have a guide.”
“Who?”
“This gentleman.” Eustace tapped the wooden coffin. “Go ahead, open it.”
Uncle Nigel and Aunt Delia stood at opposite ends of the coffin and slowly hefted open the oak lid.
“Are you sure the kids should see this?” asked Aunt Delia.
“We probably shouldn’t,” said Eddie nervously.
Addison waved his hand dismissively. “We saw thousands of skeletons in the catacombs in Colombia. This is just another day at the office for us.”
Uncle Nigel and Aunt Delia set the heavy lid on the floor. Inside the coffin lay the skeleton of a medieval knight. His chain mail hung in loose folds over his dusty gray rib cage. Over his broad chest sat a circular iron shield.
Addison Cooke and the Tomb of the Khan Page 2
