by Joanne Pence
Charcoal smoke filled the air and brought tears to her eyes. Tamarind stung her nostrils. Arab women wearing hijab, Orthodox Jews in black and white, and Christians wearing everything from jeans and Birkenstocks to cassocks and habits gave her strange looks.
The sense of being watched strengthened.
At the Wailing Wall she warily took in her surroundings and the people nearby. Behind her, she heard a muffled din of devotions; to the left, the piercing call of the muezzin from a minaret; and to the right, the peal of sonorous church bells. No one paid any attention to her, she told herself. And why should they? She was a tourist, nothing more.
She chided herself for baseless nervousness, and found an outdoor café for kanafeh and tea. She took a seat against the wall facing the street, shook out a Benson and Hedges menthol and lit it as she carefully watched the passersby.
Soon, she left the Old City and went up to the Mount of Olives with its magnificent views of Jerusalem. She sat stiffly on a bench near the Chapel of the Ascension and from that high lookout finally allowed herself to do what she had both longed for and feared ever since returning to the Holy Land.
She became lost in the past.
Another saying about the area came to her, this one attributed to the Hasidic spiritual leader, Rebbe Nachman: Wherever I go, I am going to Jerusalem.
In a sense, ever since fleeing the city after her husband’s horrible death, no matter how much she fought against it, she knew that one day she would need to face the past.
Memories washed over her. Some felt wonderful, while others held more pain than anyone should have to bear. She had spent years telling herself she had moved beyond it, but in reality she simply had refused to deal with what had happened here thirteen years earlier. Now, she steeled herself to face it. To remember.
She attended George Washington University in Washington D.C. as a first-year graduate student of Middle Eastern art and history when Dennis Levine entered her life.
Ten years older than her, with short, tightly waved dark brown hair and glasses, his remarkable intelligence—not his looks—first caught her attention. His brilliance in her field of studies made her feel like a complete amateur, grasping at straws and trying to learn through books what Dennis already knew, lived, and breathed to the marrow of his being.
Their casual coffee dates quickly became serious. Two months after they met, he asked her to marry him and go with him to Jerusalem where he worked with the State Department. He needed to return immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation, she agreed. That was when he added that he was, in fact, a CIA officer.
They explored the city together, spending endless hours walking everywhere, learning to love the modern city as well as the ancient one.
She rose from the bench and turned toward Mt. Scopus for her upcoming meeting. She didn’t mind the long walk; she wanted to feel the pulse of the city beneath her feet once more. As she walked, the sights before her faded, and in their place were ghosts of the past.
Once in Jerusalem, she had applied for transfer to the graduate program at the Hebrew University. Dennis's position had a lot to do, she believed, with the ease with which she'd been accepted. Nonetheless, her classes on the history, art, language, and culture from Egypt to Sumer captivated her.
Dennis seemed to think she'd be interested in joining him in the CIA someday, and that her knowledge of the Middle East would be useful to the agency. He taught her to use handguns and rifles, and insisted she carry a small handgun whenever she went out alone. She never did. As a student, she had firmly believed handguns should be banned and the nations of the world disarmed. The irony of her now being an armed agent with ICE wasn't lost on her. Back when Dennis was alive, she had feigned interest in the CIA because he adored his job and she wanted to make him happy. In truth, such a career held no appeal for her. She hoped to become a professor and naively wished to use her knowledge and admiration of this land to help soothe, in some small way, the international tensions surrounding it. But all her dreams had turned to nothing.
And now, she found herself in Jerusalem again, alone and trying to learn what she could about her husband's death. Ancient secrets. A bizarre American professor named Lionel Rempart. Alchemy. She found it hard to believe any of them were connected to her Dennis.
Before she knew it she had reached Al-Dajani's office building. She tapped on the glass door to get the attention of the guard, and then plastered the pass Al-Dajani had given her against it. The young guard read it and with a smile and nod, hit the buzzer to let her enter.
The door no sooner opened when, from behind, she heard running footsteps coming closer.
Chapter 6
Mongolia
MICHAEL COULD SCARCELY believe he had found Lord Hsieh’s tomb. The exploration had been beset with trouble from the outset.
Even the way it started was strange.
Michael and his older brother, Lionel, weren’t at all close, which wasn't surprising given their family and upbringing, so Michael found it curious when, over a year earlier, Lionel contacted him for help.
Lionel told him a strange story. Many years earlier, a Chinese foreign exchange student found materials indicating that a medieval French book on alchemy had been brought to the northwestern United States and ended up in what is now Idaho. After returning home to China, the exchange student had apparently become a geneticist, but Lionel could find nothing more about him.
Since Michael was in Beijing attending a symposium on archeological discoveries from the Shang dynasty, Lionel asked him to contact the scientist for more information. The idea that a Chinese scientist might know anything about an ancient alchemy book in the U.S. sounded far-fetched, but Michael asked Jianjun to attempt to find the man.
Jianjun succeeded, in a sense.
Dr. Chou An-ming was dead.
“I appreciate your agreeing to talk with me,” Michael said with a slight bow as he met Dr. Chou’s daughter, who introduced herself only as Mrs. Yang. She was a plain woman, her clothes as boxy as her build. Michael and Jianjun met her at her small apartment.
Michael felt awkward about being there, about having to ask personal questions, and wondered why he had agreed to Lionel's request. “I understand your father studied in the United States.”
“He was quite proud of his time there,” the daughter said. “He studied at George Washington University in Washington D.C. He was a good man, who died much too young.”
“I'm sorry.”
Mrs. Yang nodded. “He went to New York City for a symposium put on by a big American company, Phaylor-Laine Pharmaceuticals. And also he planned to meet with his best friend in college, a Danish scientist. Meeting the Dane, I've heard, truly excited him. Unfortunately, as he crossed a street, a truck hit him. He died instantly. It was fifteen years ago.”
“He died in the United States?” Michael asked, surprised.
“Yes. In New York City, near the United Nations building. He never got to meet his Danish friend.”
After words of condolence, Michael got to the point of his visit. “Did your father ever speak about alchemy, or about an ancient text on alchemy being in the U.S.?”
At the word “alchemy,” the daughter turned to Jianjun, who stood quietly in the background, for a translation. She looked quite bemused when she got it.
“My father's work involved genetic engineering. He did botanical and genetic analysis of early Chinese herbal medicine, concentrating on herbs used in far-flung regions. It certainly had nothing to do with anything so silly as alchemy.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” Michael said with a smile. “But did he ever mention alchemy at all?”
She thought for a moment. “Now that you mention it, he told me one story, both interesting and sad. I think that's why I remember it. It obviously moved him deeply.”
She sat stiff and upright as she relayed the story. “During the Han dynasty, from 206 BC to 220 AD, when the Chinese empire expanded into Central Asia its major problem soon became
control of the newly conquered population. A wealthy man, Lord Hsieh Ch'en-yu, was named governor of the northern outskirts of what is now the Xinjiang province. His wife refused to accompany him to such a barbaric region. One day, as he rode through a village, he saw a beautiful young woman. He demanded she become his concubine. She had no choice—if she refused, she and her family would have been killed.
“He forced the concubine to accompany him to the desolate outpost. She was very much afraid, and for protection brought with her many ancient herbs and potions to perform her magical arts, namely alchemy. She had been taught how to use them by her grandmother.”
She paused to see if this was the sort of story Michael sought. As an archeologist, anything going back two thousand years fascinated him. He nodded.
She continued. “In Central Asia, Lord Hsieh soon discovered that he could not hold back the freedom-loving nomads. Swords drawn, they swarmed over the Chinese. The new governor was among the first killed. As the Han Chinese soldiers continued to fight, the concubine urged them to flee into the mountains of what is now Mongolia, to a more desolate area where they might live. She took Lord Hsieh’s body with her. There, her retainers built an underground tomb for Lord Hsieh. Stories traveled back to the eastern capital of the magnificent woman who led her people, trying to find a safe haven for them. The young woman’s bravery so humbled and impressed the soldiers that—although a lowly concubine from a poor family—they honored her with the title ‘Lady.’ But soon after her people completed the tomb, nomadic tribes found them and attacked once more. Lady Hsieh knew there was no hope.
“She told the soldiers they were free to leave, to escape back to their homes if possible. She also set free all Lord Hsieh’s slaves and retainers, and then, in the dead of night, she disappeared. Everyone knew she desperately wanted to live, and many believed she used her magical arts to that end. To this day, however, no one knows what happened to her or to her husband's gold and possessions.”
For reasons he did not understand, Michael could feel the young woman’s terror at facing death far from everything she held dear.
“Over the centuries, the tale of Lady Hsieh slipped into the mists of time except in Bayan Ölgiy where she escaped. In Bayan Ölgiy it is believed that whoever finds Lord Hsieh’s tomb will possess untold riches.” Mrs. Yang folded her hands, her story ended.
Michael soon thanked Mrs. Yang for her time and left.
He reported on Dr. Chou's death to his brother. But the story of Lady Hsieh haunted him. One of his earliest lessons as an archeologist was to learn to listen to local legends. Before long he decided to search for Lord Hsieh's tomb.
Michael first sent Jianjun to the western Bayan Ölgiy area to see if anyone there could confirm the history behind the tale. The story was corroborated, and the areas where the tomb might have been located were narrowed to a manageable degree.
Many difficulties, political as well as geographic, hampered his plans. Mongolia wasn’t quite as paranoid about strangers as China, but almost. And, although Mongolia was an independent country, China maintained a high degree of influence over its government.
By this time, the dig had become an obsession to Michael. He never considered giving it up and forged ahead with his plans. While Jianjun located men and heavy equipment, he dealt with the government. Officials told him “No” for months, then out of the blue, like a drain unplugged, everything opened up. It seemed nothing short of miraculous, but he took it gladly.
He wasted no time making a site surface survey using resistivity meters and ground penetrating radar. Echoes from radio pulses reflected back changes in soil and sediment, and the depth of those changes. Scans revealed the location of a cavity some twenty-three feet below the surface with a diameter of ten feet or so.
The size fit that of a tomb.
In China, archeologists already had excavated more than forty Han dynasty tombs, all made of brick or stone and placed deep in the earth for preservation. This was the first, as far as Michael knew, found outside of China.
Michael opened the small crates. Inside he found pottery and jewelry of jade, gold and semi-precious stones. The quality and value, however, were minimal. They weren’t anything to give rise to the reputation the tomb had for riches. It didn’t worry Michael, however. The most valuable treasure was usually buried with the body.
Michael and Acemgul turned to the coffin. With surprisingly little effort, they lifted off the lid.
Inside, a skeleton stared up at them. The flesh was gone, its garments worn away to nothing but a gray gauzy film. The rest of the coffin was empty.
“So it comes to this,” Michael murmured, his disappointment palpable.
“Air clear. Ground stable. Storm is six miles across and will be here in less than thirty minutes!” Batbaatar called down.
Just then, dirt fell from the ceiling. A cloud of dust burned Michael’s eyes and nostrils. “Watch it up there,” he yelled, needing to keep Batbaatar and Jianjun away before they caused the whole roof to collapse, smothering him and Acemgul along with the worthless corpse they'd found.
Michael perused the tomb with dismay. “I don’t get it. Why set up such an elaborate site to bury the old governor and a few items with little value?”
Acemgul turned toward the ladder when a loud crack! filled the chamber. The floor opened up beneath him, and he dropped.
Michael dove toward him. He landed on his stomach and grabbed Acemgul's arms as the assistant tried to hold on to something, anything, to prevent himself from falling into the unknown.
The rotted floor under Michael's chest began to sag. His body slipped forward. “Batbaatar! Get down here! Help us,” he yelled.
Acemgul held onto him, his eyes wide with fear as he squirmed, his legs flailing to find support for his feet. “There's nothing under me,” he said, his voice tight, quavering. “I don't know how far down...”
“I know,” Michael said. “Move your hands. Grip my arms.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the ladder. “Not too close,” Michael warned as Batbaatar reached the floor.
Batbaatar knelt on the ground, and looped thick arms and hands around Michael's waist, pulling him back. The muscles along Michael's arms and shoulders felt ready to tear from Acemgul's weight as the men attempted to lift and drag him from the crater. Acemgul wasn't very tall, but he was solid and muscular.
The small Mongolian shifted forward, stretched, and grabbed Acemgul's jacket, and used it as a winch to pull the Kazakh from the hole as if he weighed no more than a child.
Michael and Acemgul sat on what they hoped was solid floor and waited for the tremors to cease in their quivering muscles.
Jianjun joined them and quickly noticed a musky yet sweet smell in the air. It wafted up from below. He checked the air meter, but it gave no indication of a problem gas.
“Flowers,” Michael murmured as he struggled to stand. “It smells like flowers.” He repressed a visceral reaction to the strong floral scent in the enclosed space. It brought back terrible memories of his mother’s death. He was only ten-years old, but he would never forget the overwhelming smell of the flowers that surrounded her casket, or how it had nauseated him.
“Peonies,” Jianjun murmured. “Much loved in China.”
A sudden loud whistling of the wind through the main burial chamber paused any further conversation.
“The storm is like a mountain filling the entire western sky.” Batbaatar’s voice shook with worry. “Truly, we must go.”
“The demons tried to swallow me up.” Acemgul stood, his back, shoulders and neck aching. “The sandstorm is a curse cast upon us for desecrating the grave.”
Such superstitions outraged Michael. “Go, if you feel that way!”
Acemgul's expression remained rigid. “I gave my word to help you. I will stay until you say otherwise.”
Michael nodded, sorry for his harsh tone. He moved toward the new hole in the floor, and shined his flashlight into it. “Another chamber, a littl
e smaller. The ground is eight or nine feet down. It explains why the radar reads indicated a deeper tomb than the one we found. I'm going to check it out.”
“The storm is visible.” Batbaatar sounded firm yet resigned. “It will be here in a matter of minutes.”
“Wait. I'll get you another ladder,” Jianjun told Michael as he headed up to ground level. “If you insist on going down there, I won't stop you. But I'm not going down! No way. One ladder, coming up!”
“I'll go with you, Michael,” Acemgul said defiantly, his dark eyes boring into Batbaatar as if challenging the Mongol to dare to argue against their boss' wishes.
It was reckless, Michael knew, given the storm and that there were only four of them. But then, his whole life had been reckless.
He and Acemgul chipped away at the decayed wooden floor until they reached a solid section. When Jianjun brought down the light aluminum extension ladder, they rested it there. Michael felt a surge of excitement, the kind he had felt in the past before making an important discovery.
“Wait here,” he said to the others. “I'll take a quick look.”
He descended the ladder to a second chamber. The floor seemed to have solid ground beneath it. But the scene puzzled him.
Nothing but a large, rectangular wooden box was in the space.
Before he knew it, Acemgul and Jianjun joined him.
“You?” Michael said, bemused, to Jianjun.
The strong light of the Petzl headlamp showed Jianjun’s pale face. The worry in Jianjun's eyes bothered Michael. His assistant loved to talk and complain, but he rarely showed any sign of fear. Usually, he took command of a given situation with the technical knowledge and equipment to handle just about anything that came up. And anything he didn’t know, he knew someone who did. Michael might be his boss, but Jianjun tended to mother-hen him, and more than once his cautious worry saved Michael’s life. At the same time on a few other occasions, Michael's selfless courage returned the favor.
