by Sewell, Ron
Bear pulled a tight smile. “PK, don’t piss in my pocket and tell me it’s raining. We’ve survived worse. Wisdom invariably comes from a million mistakes. I remember two thirsty men and a baby walking four hundred miles across Africa.”
“That was a long time ago. We were younger. Ready?”
“Let’s go, I’m hungry and they’ll soon be serving breakfast at the hotel.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sheng Su opened the hotel main door and stared at the two dust-covered men. “What have you been doing?”
“Climbing,” said Bear. “Are you serving breakfast?”
Taken aback, Sheng shrugged. “You dirty. The girl will bring to your room.”
“Great,” said Bear. “The same as yesterday will do nicely.”
Sheng grinned. “Same every day. Girl deliver in twenty minutes.”
“Cheers,” said Bear. “Come on, PK, let’s get clean.”
Petros stopped at the open door to his room. He pressed a finger against his lips. With his good hand, he eased it wide. Asleep and fully clothed on his bed was George. “Wakey, wakey, sunshine, we’re back.”
George opened his sleep-filled eyes. “Long night?”
“You might say so,” said Petros.
George raised his body and swung his legs to the floor. “Any luck?”
“We didn’t find a thing,” said Bear.
George’s eyes flashed with rage and distrust. “So what do you intend to do now?” His voice sharp and cutting, as if talking to subordinates.
The lift ascended, its reflective wall coverings showing Sheng's impassive face. The unit shuddered, stopped and the doors parted. With little effort, he pushed the food-laden trolley along the corridor.
“We’ll try again tonight,” said Petros, not attempting to explain. The rattling of cups disturbed his thoughts. He moved towards the door. “Ah, breakfast. Time you went, George. Later, after a few hours’ sleep, we’ll talk.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Later, George.”
He waited at the door as George strolled along the corridor. Sheng entered, pushing his trolley. Petros hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the handle. “Sheng, I need to get out of this hotel and back in without him knowing.” This was easy to say but ...
As Sheng began to speak, Bear appeared to be in every respect busy eating. “Mr George is not a good man. Ring room service. I will come to remove trolley and show you way.”
“I’ll need a taxi.”
“No problem, I arrange. Eat your food while hot.”
Bear stopped devouring his third slice of toast. “Ok, I’m aware you boast a black belt in bullshit, but what are you doing?”
Petros sat and levelled his eyes at the face in front of him. “My gut feeling is those bastards George and Ding Lang are planning our demise and they won’t be bringing flowers.”
“I twigged when you bought the pistols, but for the moment the two of us are swimming around in a sea of well-fed sharks. What worries me is if they get hungry. So tell me.”
Petros poured a glass of orange juice. “One, if we try to leave, Ding Lang and his merry men will stop us. Two, if we find the treasure, how do we remove it without being seen? Three, I don’t trust George or Ding Lang to hand whatever we find over to the authorities. Four, we need help.”
“I agree. My plan is simple. Get the fuck out of here and run like hell, the British embassy our first stop. Unfortunately, once the Chinese police fabricate a case against us we’d be out on our arses and in jail.”
“I’ve given this scenario plenty of thought,” said Petros. “There’s a club in Beijing for journalists. I believe there’s a good chance I can find and speak to someone from the BBC or CNN who might help.”
“Why?”
“To prove our innocence when the proverbial hits the fan. If what we’re doing is documented and sent by satellite link to a major broadcaster, at least there will be proof. The diplomats can sort out the detail and get us home. Ok, we’ll never be able to visit China again, but I don’t give a toss.”
“Worth a try or we hit the fan big time.”
“Right, I’m off for a shit, shave and shower. Give me a shout if Sheng returns.”
Refreshed, Petros was ready when Sheng arrived. “Ah, Mr Petros. Good, come with me.”
“Bear. Go to bed.”
“If you follow me along the corridor, Mr Petros, I will take you to the service exit. It leads through my kitchen, but as you are with me, the staff will say nothing. On your return, enter kitchen and ask for me. I will come when safe for you to reach your room. Outside, taxi is waiting for you, the driver speaks little English, so please tell me where you wish to go, and I will tell him.”
“Of course, Sheng, no problem. I need to go to The Foreign Correspondents’ Club of China.”
In less than three minutes, Petros stared out of a taxi window on his way to Beijing. He let his eyes close and sleep overtook him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The taxi stopped at the entrance of an unimpressive building.
“I wait,” said the driver.
Petros paid the fare plus an extra hundred Yuan. “You wait.”
The man grinned. “I wait long time.”
Petros walked up the well-worn stone steps and entered the Journalists’ Club through the open door, past reception and into what appeared to be the main lounge. A few men and women stood, gathered in groups, chatting, while others sat and read newspapers. He let his eyes wander until he saw a man on his own.
Julian Cesar, BBC China correspondent, lounged in a cracked leather armchair, working on his laptop.
“Excuse me,” said Petros. “Is there anyone in here who works for the BBC?”
“You found me. Take a pew.”
Petros studied the well-spoken man dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and faded denim jeans. He offered his hand. “Petros Kyriades.”
“Julian Cesar. With a name like that, you don’t look Greek.”
“I’m not. London Cypriot but I’m not here to discuss my heritage.”
“Fancy a cup of tea?”
“Love a cup.”
Julian waved and snapped his fingers for a Chinese steward. “Pot of your best English tea, please. Put it on my account.” The man nodded and strolled away.
“Right, that’s the important business. Please tell me why you’re here?”
“Because of what I might discover in two or three days, I might be murdered.”
“Great opening gambit. Grabs my attention. May I ask why you believe this?”
In less than ten minutes, with a brief interruption when the tea arrived, Julian received a summary of the story.
He remained silent, his eyes questioning. “You’re extracting the urine. Who put you up to this?”
“I told you, this Commander Ding Lang is a nasty piece of work. I’m not laughing and need help.”
Julian shrugged and was unexpectedly wary. “I’ll assume your knowledge of China is limited. In a few years I’ve learnt their openness does not apply throughout the country. Beijing is not dire but our e-mails, broadcasts, mobiles and everything else are monitored. We abide by their code of conduct and still we are confined. I need written permission to interview people, and even with it I can be detained. It’s against the law in China to obstruct foreign journalists, yet often the police turn a blind eye when the heavies arrive, smash our equipment and give us a beating. You want me to help. No way. I can’t. I’d be thrown out of the country. But there is a freelance outfit from Sydney who might. Well they say they’re self-employed but word has it News International pays them a hefty retainer for exclusives. They’re a mixed bunch but good.” He removed two mobiles from his pocket, chose one, and pressed a memory button.
“Mike, Julian. Got a job for you. Get your booze-sodden carcass to the club.”
Petros checked the time. “Taxi waiting, I’d better get rid of him.”
“I’ll go,�
� said Julian. “I know the language. Got a first at Cambridge.”
Petros let his eyes wander around as he waited. This room was practical. The frills and trappings of the Empire no longer existed.
“Petros,” said Julian, “your taxi’s gone. Leave the club, turn left, and keep walking. Mike will catch up with you.”
“He’s not coming in?”
“These walls have eyes as well as ears.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Every member of staff reports back to an official. Best you meet in the open. I’ve briefed him on your outfit. He’s interested. Good luck.”
They shook hands. “Thanks. Enjoyed the tea.”
Petros followed his instructions and walked at a moderate pace.
“Got a light, mate?”
“Sorry, don’t smoke.”
“Nor do I but I got your attention. Mike Newman. Let’s walk.”
Mike, bearded, with long dishevelled grey hair, wearing a dirty sweater and worn jeans, appeared more a vagrant than a journalist.
As they strolled, Petros brought Mike up to speed.
“Exclusive rights?”
“Exclusivity guaranteed. Can you climb?”
“You bet,” said Mike, “faster than an aborigine chasing a dingo up Ayres Rock.”
Petros smiled. “We abseil and climb. The gear’s on site.”
“What’s with the broken wing?”
“Long story and unimportant.”
“Okay, I’ll be there at ten. You won’t spot me until ya flash your torch. No point in getting up to me neck for nothing.”
“Thanks.”
“No thanks required, mate. I could make a bomb out of this. Don’t shake hands, stop and stare into a shop window, then walk back to the club. Tell the concierge Mike says to get ya a taxi.”
* * *
Petros woke and rubbed his eyes. The remnants of a watery sun streamed onto his bed. He listened; the passing traffic disturbed the peace. With a yawn, he got up, stretched, went to the bathroom and splashed tepid water over his face. He dressed and checked the time – 8pm. Dinner beckoned.
He entered the dining room and Bear stopped eating. “Sleep well?”
“Of course.” He sat in the empty chair opposite Bear. “I met an interesting man this morning and he’s going to help save our bacon.” He lowered his voice and explained.
“Can you trust him?”
“No choice, but he did volunteer.”
For the rest of the meal they ate in silence before returning to their rooms.
* * *
Petros and Bear strolled out of the hotel and into a waiting taxi. They travelled the direct route to the construction site, and as their car drew to a stop, another pulled up alongside. Petros paid the driver and waited.
“Thought I’d come and check on progress,” said George.
“Suit yourself,” said Bear, “but you do your own climbing. I’m not hauling your fat arse anywhere.”
George stared up at the wall soaring above them, its top vanishing into the dark of the night. “Changed my mind. I’m wearing an expensive suit.”
“You can wait here until we return,” said Petros.
“I’ll be in the hotel. Wake me if you find something of importance.” He jumped back into the taxi, said something to the driver and the car sped away.
“Never expected him to be here,” Bear remarked.
“He’s shit-scared and his mood’s changed.” He flashed the beam from his torch against the cliff face.
Mike appeared from the dark, dressed in black overalls and carrying a holdall.
“Glad you made it. This is Bear, a trusted partner of many years. If he tells you to jump, don’t bother to ask how high.”
“Good on ya, mate. You’re a pal of this fella, so I trust ya. Ok, where’s the treasure cave?”
“Hope your gear’s not heavy. It’s a fair old hike,” said Bear.
“Betsy and I have trudged across paddy fields and climbed mountains.”
“Betsy?” said Petros.
“Me camera and bits. Don’t go anywhere without her. She never fails. There’s no doubt in me mind the Japanese produce the best cameras in the world.”
The three men strolled into the compound, entered the railcar shed, and positioned themselves in the first car. Petros pressed the start button. From behind, the electric drive motor started and, with a shudder, the car began to move.
“Petros,” said Mike. “I’ll take a few shots now to give this kit and caboodle continuity.”
“Is your camera good enough to take pictures in the dark?”
“Don’t be stupid. It’s got built-in lights.”
“Enough to illuminate this whole railcar?” asked Bear.
“You’d better believe it.”
“No way,” said Petros as he shook his head. “Just what we need, someone to spot a blaze of light moving up this slope. In ten minutes we’d be up to our necks in shitty little police officers.”
“When do I start filming?”
“Once we’re inside the cavern you can film to your heart’s content. What’s the duration of your batteries?”
“If I work the lights and camera together, two hours.”
With a metallic clunk, the brake engaged and the car stopped.
“From here we walk and abseil to the cave.”
The anchors from the night before identified their position.
Petros retrieved the harness and ropes hidden earlier. “Mike, two harnesses. I’ll go first, and you lower your gear and follow. Bear last. Make sure you’re out of his way. He abseils like a ton of shit.”
“Roger, dog,” said Mike. “Is this the gear?”
“The rest is inside the cave,” said Bear.
“Right, I’m ready,” said Petros.
“Anchors good,” said Bear. “Why are you waiting?”
With a push backwards from his legs, Petros launched out and into the air. Many metres lower he repeated the course of action until he placed both feet securely on the ledge. With a tug on the rope, he signalled Bear. Thirty seconds later he eyeballed his harness rise up the wall.
A rapid flash of light from above told him Mike’s gear was on the way. A few times it snagged, but Mike, descending with it, released it.
“You walked rather than abseiled,” said Petros.
“Kept me gear safe.”
“Bear will be on his way in a moment. Come over here. If he hits you, you’ll be unconscious for a week.”
“Funny, ha, ha. You’ll see I stopped right on the button.”
“I’ll go first and light the candle,” said Petros. “The air yesterday was crap.”
“Candles? We’re back in the dark ages? Electronic monitors are better,” remarked Mike.
“I trust a candle flame,” said Petros. “It burns, I breathe. It goes out, I get the fuck out.” He eased his frame through the opening and sat on the cobbled path. With the aid of his torch, he found the box of candles and lit one. Close to the entrance, it burned bright and steady.
“You can come in, Mike. Pass your gear.”
“Here it comes and don’t drop it.”
Petros shuffled to one side with Mike’s equipment.
“Always go head first,” said Mike. “Me army sergeant told me the best way is to lie on ya back and pull yourself through the opening. The other golden rule, never enter alone.”
“Now you know why I work with Bear. There’s no alternative to a partner you can trust with your life. Get your camera rolling. We’ll either find nothing or win the lottery.”
Petros led the way, holding the candle at waist height. Behind him and to the right Mike operated his camera.
“There’s a flight of steps in front of you,” said Petros. “The candle went out yesterday on the tenth. Shine your lights to the bottom.”
They stood and stared at a rock fall.
Petros continued. The candle flickered but remained alight. “Mike, we’re in luck, the air’s breathable.” He shone his torch on
the rocks and examined them. “This is recent. You can tell by the clean cracks. Sandstone and limestone aren’t the most stable of rock formations. Fancy giving me a hand?”
“Let’s give it an hour before we turn back. I’ve no hot date waiting.”
Petros clambered to the top and began passing the larger debris to Mike.
“Can you manage with your busted wing?” said Mike.
“Providing I don’t overdo it, I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, your arm.” Mike placed each rock on the side of the staircase. They concentrated on the top level and within half an hour a small gap appeared.
“Pass the torch, Mike.” Petros angled the beam through the hole. “We’re in luck. There’s a large chamber on the other side.” Excited, he pulled at the rocks making the opening large enough to enter. “I’ll go first. You hand me your camera and follow.”
“No problem, mate. If a dragon blasts ya it’ll give me a chance to do a runner.”
“Cheers, bastard.”
Petros dragged himself through and shone his torch around the chamber. He froze at the sight before him.
“Petros, grab my gear.”
He turned and took Mike’s gear. “You won’t believe this.”
“Jesus Christ.” The beams from the camera shone on countless skeletons still dressed in uniform.
“Empress Dowager Yehenara’s soldiers, faithful to the end.”
“Don’t be so sure. These guys were murdered. Take a gander at where the swords are. Bit difficult to slice ya own neck from the back. We’ll never know for sure unless ya can make the deceased talk.”
“Over here. Hundreds of boxes.”
“Bloody hell, the ornate carvings on these alone are worth a bomb. If they contain one item from the last emperor you’ll be famous.”
“Or dead.”
“That’s OTT.”
Petros explained how he and Bear were on a road which might well end in disaster.
“Might as well open one,” said Mike, pulling a screwdriver from his bag. “Use this.”
“No need,” said Petros. “The fasteners are rotten.” He lifted a lid. “Jackpot time.” From the box, he removed a bar of gold. “I reckon twelve ounces, give or take. There’s got to be twenty at least.”
