Addison Cooke and the Tomb of the Khan

by Jonathan W. Stokes

  “Maybe Dax was right,” said Eddie. “We should just go home.”

  “We still need Aunt Delia and Uncle Nigel.”

  Molly saw the faraway look in Addison’s eye that meant gears were turning in his brain. “What are you thinking?”

  Addison wasn’t listening. He stood up and sat down. Then he stood up, paced in a circle, and sat down again. “Julia Aurelia Zenobia, queen of Syria and scourge of Rome!”

  “Is he having another stroke?” asked Eddie.

  “I know where the lance is. We’ve been staring at it all morning!” He laughed excitedly.

  Molly watched him nervously; possibly the strain of travel was finally causing him to crack.

  Addison spoke quickly. “The Mongolians wouldn’t just pave over the ruins of a palace. Not when they have a perfectly good archaeology museum!” He leapt to his feet and crossed to one of the many museum ads that papered the lampposts of Ulaanbaatar. He pointed to the Mongol script. “I Don’t Know, what does this sign say?”

  “It’s an ad for the opening of a new museum exhibit.”

  “What sort of exhibit?”

  I Don’t Know read the sign and smiled. “Relics of the Wang Khan palace.”

  Addison studied the collage of images on the poster. One photo in particular caught his eye. “Wang Khan’s Weapons Room.” He turned to show the group, jabbing his finger at the picture. And there, front and center on the museum wall, hung a knight’s lance.

  The team gathered around to take a closer look.

  “You think so?” asked Molly.

  “Absolutely.” Addison’s face was suddenly solemn. “Molly, do you realize what this means?”

  Molly was already shaking her head. “Don’t even think it, Addison.”

  “What? What does it mean?” asked Eddie.

  “Addison, I’m warning you . . .” said Molly.

  “We have no choice.” Addison turned to face the group. “We’re going to do the one thing Uncle Nigel told us never to do in our lives: the worst imaginable crime.”

  Addison Cooke took a deep breath. “We’re going to rob a museum.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The Gala

  ADDISON STRODE THROUGH THE city streets, zeroing in on the museum. His team hurried after him, struggling to catch up with his pace and his logic.

  “You mean like, a heist?”

  “Yes, Raj. Poke your eyes back inside your head. I need your full wits.”

  “Can’t we just copy the clue from the lance and leave?” asked Eddie.

  “What, and leave the lance for Madame Feng to find?”

  “Can’t we just borrow the lance?” asked Molly. “Or explain the situation to the authorities?”

  “Sure, we’ll talk to the authorities,” said Addison. “Then the Khan’s secret will be out and Madame Feng has the police in her back pocket. Boris Ragar has the police in his pocket, too, if he’s anything like his brother.”

  Addison arrived at the museum, all modern glass and steel. “Raj, what do you figure the security’s like in a new building like that?”

  “State of the art.”

  Addison agreed, but he kept his hopes up. He crossed to the plaza in front of the museum to begin his location scout and immediately smelled opportunity. He noticed policemen erecting barricades in front of the museum and closing off downtown streets. “Nobody, what’s going on here?”

  “The festival of Naadam begins tonight. The city celebrates all weekend. There will be wrestling and archery and a carnival. Then the big horse race will go straight through the city. This is the biggest festival of the year. The Naadam horse race is our Super Bowl.”

  Addison approached the front of the museum and found that security guards had closed off the main pavilion. A red carpet was being rolled up to the front doors. Catering trucks were unloading mountains of lobsters, crab, and crushed ice.

  Nobody translated the sign posted on the barricaded front walkway. “The museum is closed today.”

  Molly shook her head. “Great. Now how do we get in?”

  Nobody continued reading. “It is closed for the opening night gala celebrating the new Wang Khan exhibit.” He nodded, pleased. “They timed the opening gala with the Naadam festival to celebrate Mongolian culture.”

  Addison smiled. “A high society gala. It’s perfect! Fewer alarms for us to bypass.”

  “I think high society galas require an invitation,” said Eddie.

  “Nonsense. They only require panache.”

  “So how do we get in?”

  Addison sized up the museum. He was not entirely sure yet.

  “I do have my lock-picking set,” said Raj optimistically.

  Addison counted the security guards: too many. He counted the security cameras: dozens. He imagined the motion sensors, pressure sensors, and heat sensors that could guard a museum of this immense size. “Well, it’s like they say. Go big, or go home.”

  “We can’t go home, Addison,” Molly said grimly. “Not yet.”

  “Then I guess we have to go big.”

  • • • • • •

  Addison’s first order of business was a trip to the bank. They were going to need to buy a few supplies if they wanted to pull off a successful heist. He pulled out Tony Chin’s last two credit cards and kissed them for good luck.

  “We’re pretty lucky the triads haven’t canceled these credit cards yet,” said Molly.

  “They’re gangsters, Mo. They don’t have the best accountants.”

  Addison strutted out of the bank a few minutes later, his pockets bulging with cash. “Money here is called tögrögs,” he explained, a fresh spring in his step. “The exchange rate is excellent. I asked the bank to change five hundred dollars and now I’m a millionaire in tögrögs!”

  “Thank the gods,” said Eddie. “We can finally get some real food!”

  “Soon, Eddie. First, we have a museum desperately in need of a robbing. We require provisions.”

  “What sort of equipment are you thinking?” asked Raj, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. “Rappelling ropes? Grappling hooks? Glass cutters? Mirrors to redirect laser trip wires?”

  Addison shook his head. “Our first stop is that shopping mall. We need decent attire.” He sized up the Black Darkhads’ sword sheaths and Raj’s camouflage pants. “No one’s going to let you into a formal gala dressed like two assassins and a commando.”

  • • • • • •

  The group was significantly spruced up when they arrived back at the museum that night. Addison was pleased that it had taken only a matter of hours to update the Black Darkhads’ wardrobe by eight hundred years. Nobody wore a sharp, black suit with a black tie and a black pocket square. I Don’t Know sizzled in a black dress, with all of the hay and road dust brushed out of her hair. When Addison saw her with her hair up for the first time, he stared for so long that Molly swatted him on the back of the head.

  They joined the line of partygoers heading toward the gala. Addison fussed over Raj and Eddie’s unbuttoned shirt cuffs and uncombed hair. “You are disheveled and I need you sheveled!” It amazed him how Eddie could memorize an entire Beethoven sonata and still have no idea how to tie a Windsor knot.

  Limousines pulling up to the red carpet disgorged all the glitterati of Mongolia. The mayor of Ulaanbaatar posed for photos with TV actors, CEOs, and foreign dignitaries. Addison smoothed his hair, buttoned his blazer, and strolled up the red carpet, beckoning his crew to follow.

  “Addison, this party’s filled with important people,” Eddie whispered. He eyed the guards at the museum entrance who were double-checking every guest’s name against a list. “I bet it’s a crime to go in there.”

  Addison beamed for the flashing cameras. “Eddie, it’d be a crime not to.”

  Eddie tugged at Addison’s sleeve, but
Addison did not slow his casual pace along the carpet. He winked and waved at local celebrities and spoke to Eddie out of the side of his mouth. “How much food have you eaten in the past week?”

  “Barely anything.”

  “And do you know what they have inside, Eddie?”

  “Food?”

  “No, something better than food.”

  “What,” asked Eddie, “is better than food?”

  “Free food.”

  They drew closer to the security guards checking names at the entrance. Eddie was sweating with nervousness. His blazer was two hours old and already needed a trip to the cleaners. “How are you going to talk us inside, Addison?”

  “I’m not. You are.”

  “Me?”

  “I’m counting on you, Eddie.”

  Eddie shook his head desperately. “No, absolutely not.”

  “Your mouth is telling me no. But your stomach, Eddie, your stomach is saying yes.”

  “But Addison . . .”

  But Addison was already at the door. The security guard held up his guest list and eyed them suspiciously. He addressed them in English. “Your names?”

  “Our names?” Addison pointed at Eddie indignantly. “Do you know who zis is?” For no reason Eddie could fathom, Addison was speaking in an exaggerated French accent. “Zis is zee prime minister’s son!”

  The security guard looked at Eddie Chang, not believing it for a second. He barked at Eddie in Mongolian.

  Eddie turned to Addison desperately. His pleading facial expression served up a combo platter of fear, anger, and bewilderment.

  Addison sighed with exasperation and turned to the security guard. “He is zee Chinese prime minister’s son.” China did not technically have a prime minister, but the guard did not know that, and neither did Eddie.

  The guard rattled a string of questions at Eddie in Mandarin Chinese, and to Addison’s pleasure, Eddie fired right back. Eddie took on a tone of righteous indignation, puffing up his chest and shaking his fist at the guard.

  The security guard bowed to Eddie in apology. He returned his unibrowed gaze to Addison. “All right, if he’s the prime minister’s son, who are you?”

  “I,” said Addison, drawing himself up, “am zee French ambassador’s son. Zis is my sister, Moliere.”

  “Moliere?”

  “Oui,” said Molly.

  “These are our Mongolian interpreters.” Addison gestured to Nobody and I Don’t Know.

  “And who are you?” asked the guard, pointing at Raj.

  “I’m Raj,” said Raj.

  This seemed good enough for the guard. He unclipped the velvet rope, and Addison’s team strode into the black tie gala.

  “Addison,” said I Don’t Know, squeezing his arm nervously in one of her silk-gloved hands, “you are one of the most unusual people I’ve ever met.”

  “Thank you,” said Addison, his cheeks flushed with color.

  The party was in the large entrance foyer to the museum. Floor-to-ceiling glass and steel opened the atrium to the stars overhead. Indoor trees grew to thirty feet. One wall was hung with oversize photos of the annual Naadam horse race. Women in opulent dresses clinked champagne glasses by an elegant fountain. High society gentlemen in sharp suits eyed priceless archaeological artifacts displayed on pedestals. Addison even spotted the prime minister of Mongolia, with a boy who Addison figured was the prime minister’s actual son.

  Eddie beelined to the buffet and scoped out the food like a cat burglar in a jewelry store. “Kebabs, just like the ones at Restaurant Anatolia! And Addison, you were right. This is a free buffet!”

  “That’s my favorite kind of buffet.” Addison stabbed a shrimp with a toothpick and dipped it in some cocktail sauce. His voice quavered as he savored the flavor. “Free is the best spice.”

  Eddie heaped a plate with hors d’oeuvres, appetizers, and amuse-bouches, and began shoveling them all into his mouth like an engineer piling coal into a steam engine. He did not find the Ulaanbaatar food exquisite. He thought the fish tasted like chicken and the chicken tasted like fish, but as long as he was getting both chicken and fish, he didn’t much mind the order in which the flavors arrived.

  “Eddie, don’t eat so much—you’ll kill yourself,” said Molly.

  “I want to die doing what I love.”

  Addison decided it was time for reconnaissance. He found a museum directory on a dais by the fountain and studied the map. “Excellent. Wang Khan’s Weapons Room display is on the second floor.”

  “There’s just one problem,” Molly said, pointing. The grand staircase was sealed off by a velvet rope. A quick glance at the second-floor balcony revealed a locked door. The rest of the museum was off-limits for the night. Only the downstairs was open for the party.

  Raj assessed the situation. “We could beat up a guard and take his keys?”

  Addison shook his head. “Too violent. It lacks finesse.”

  “We don’t have to knock the guard out, we could just tie him up. I have twenty feet of new climbing rope wrapped around my torso.” Raj held open his blazer to show everyone.

  “No wonder your cummerbund keeps slipping,” said Addison, buttoning Raj’s jacket. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Raj, but I don’t think we can beat up and hog-tie a guard without changing the mood of this party.”

  Nobody eyed the branches of a tall indoor poplar tree that leaned close to the lip of the second-floor walkway. “If I climb up to that balcony, I can open the security door from inside. Then I let you all in.”

  “How are you going to climb up there without everybody watching?” Molly asked.

  Addison smiled. “With a distraction.” He straightened his pocket square, adjusted his necktie a micron, and headed for the bandstand.

  The evening entertainment was a set of ancient Mongol monks in even older robes engaging in Khöömei throat singing. Addison wanted to fully appreciate Mongolian culture, but to his ears, throat singing sounded like the groaning of dying bullfrogs. Bullfrogs who were probably dying from having to listen to throat singing. Addison looked out at the stilted party and felt the need to liven things up. “Eddie,” he called. “Your fingers itching for some piano practice?”

  “Always!” said Eddie, looking up from the buffet table he had just ravaged.

  Addison pointed to the baby grand on the stage. “Tickle those ivories and give me a bouncy C.”

  “What’s a bouncy C?”

  “Okay, give me a fox-trot swing in the key of G.”

  “Can you be more specific? How about an actual song?”

  “Okay, fine. How about that old evergreen, ‘Keep Your Eyes on Me,’ by Ira Frankfurt.”

  Eddie nodded.

  “And Eddie?”

  “Yeah?”

  Addison straightened his tie pin so it glittered in the stage lights. “Make it classy.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Heist

  EDDIE CLIMBED UP ONTO the stage, rolled up his shirt cuffs, and took a seat at the baby grand. A flashy arpeggio, and the audience was paying attention.

  Addison slipped the throat singers a ten and told them to take five. He grabbed the microphone and suddenly felt at home in the world. “Eddie Chang on the black and whites, ladies and gentlemen.” There was a smattering of applause as Eddie lathered a bit of schmaltz into the intro of the jazz standard. Addison leaned over the mike and crooned. He was not a gifted singer, but he could work a crowd like da Vinci worked a paintbrush. A few winks and finger guns at the audience, and he was off and running.

  “Keep your eyes on me

  I realize there are other guys

  And some of them might mesmerize

  But darling keep your eyes on me . . .”

  Addison tracked Nobody at the back of the room. The tall boy, in suit and tails, had climbed onto a buffet tab
le and was slowly grappling his way up the poplar tree. Addison knew he had to hold the crowd riveted, and that was just fine by him. A few security guards roamed the room, but so far they were enjoying this impromptu performance.

  “Who is that singer?” Addison heard the prime minister say from the front row.

  “That is the French ambassador’s son,” a woman replied. “And his piano player is the son of the prime minister of China.”

  “What a rare treat!”

  Addison threw in a bit of soft shoe while Eddie took a solo. A quick spin, some jazz hands, some spirit fingers, and a “Shuffle Off to Buffalo.”

  Nobody was now halfway up the tree, in full view of anyone in the crowd who might happen to look over their shoulders.

  Addison needed to keep the whole room laser focused on the stage. He threw all the topspin he could into the next verse.

  “Keep your eyes on me

  Lots of guys may tantalize

  And hypnotize with tender sighs

  But darling keep your eyes on me”

  Nobody reached the lip of the high balcony and pulled himself up. He teetered for a moment, on the brink of falling, but somehow willed himself over the parapet. Addison breathed a sigh of relief into the microphone, and then sold it to the crowd as a musical flourish. They ate it up.

  Eddie paid off the big finish with a heart-stopping glissando up and down the ivories. Addison didn’t love a show-off, but he had to admire Eddie’s skill. The audience certainly did, roaring their approval. Addison basked in the applause and was genuinely reluctant to leave the stage, ignoring the shouts for an encore. The audience was visibly angry when the throat singers returned to the stage to resume groaning.

  Addison and Eddie worked the crowd as they carved a path to the back of the atrium. They even shook hands with the prime minister of Mongolia. At last, already exhausted by their newfound celebrity, they ducked behind a museum display. Molly tugged at Addison’s sleeve and led them under the velvet rope and up the grand staircase. As long as they crouched low, they were protected from view by the elaborate stone balustrade. They joined Raj and I Don’t Know at the second-story landing.