Treasure of Khan

"but that still wasn't enough to locate it."

Borjin raised a brow at Pitt's comment. "My father acquired information as to the general location. It required the use of additional technologies to find the specific grave site."

"Von Wachter's acoustic seismic array."

"Indeed. A prototype discovered the buried grave. Additional improvements to the instrument have proven most remarkable, as you have witnessed." The words dripped with irony, as Borjin's eyes scoured the room for a means of defense.

Pitt moved slowly to the center of the room and placed his free hand on the granite tomb displayed on the pedestal. "Genghis Khan," he said. Weary and frozen as he was, he still felt an odd reverence in the presence of the ancient warlord. "I suspect the Mongolian people won't be too thrilled to learn you've been keeping him in your backyard."

"The people of Mongolia will revel in a new dawn of conquest," Borjin replied, his voice rising in a shrill cry. "In the name of Temujin, we will rise against the fools of the world and take our place in the pantheon of global supremacy."

He barely finished the raving when a deep rumble echoed through the floor. The rumble grew for several seconds until resounding in a loud crash as the entire north wing of the residence, or what was left of it, broke free of its foundation and slid unceremoniously down the hillside.

The resulting impact shook the grounds all around the estate, jarring the remaining residence structure as well as the sanctuary. The mausoleum floor visibly vibrated under the feet of Pitt and Borjin, throwing them off balance. Wobbly and exhausted from the cold, Pitt grabbed hold of the tomb in order to keep his gun trained on Borjin.

Borjin fell to a knee, then stood as the rumble and shaking subsided. His eyes widened as a sharp cracking sound rippled from overhead. He looked up to see a huge chunk of the ceiling come hurtling toward the ground beside him.

Pitt flattened himself against the side of the tomb as the rear of the sanctuary collapsed on itself. A barrage of stones and mortar smashed to the ground, raising a thick cloud of blinding dust. Pitt could feel chunks of the ceiling smack the top surface of the tomb beside him, but none of the stones struck him directly. He waited several seconds for the dust to clear, as he felt the cool night wind rustling on his skin.

Standing in the remains of the now-darkened sanctuary, he could see that half the ceiling and the entire back wall had collapsed under the shifting ground. Through the piles of stones, he could see cleanly to the corral in back and the old car parked inside.

It took him a few moments to spot Borjin in the debris. Only his head and part of his torso were exposed from a mound of stones. Pitt walked near as Borjin's eyes fluttered open, dull and listless. A trickle of blood streamed from his mouth, and Pitt noticed the Mongol's neck seemed u

"Why ... why won't you die?" Borjin stammered.

But he never heard the answer. A muted choke grumbled from his throat and then his eyes glazed over.

His body crushed by his own monument to conquest, Tolgoi Borjin died quickly in the shadow of Genghis Khan.

Pitt stared at the broken body without pity, then slowly lowered the Colt still gripped in his hand. He reached down and unzipped the large pocket on the front of his jacket, then used the moonlight to peek inside. The heavy seismic array operator's manual with metal clipboard was right where Gu

Pitt walked over to Borjin and looked down at the lifeless body.

"Sometimes, I'm just lucky," he said aloud, answering Borjin's final query.

The collapse of the residence's northern wing had fu

Pitt turned to make his escape before any more walls toppled, but hesitated as he glanced through the open rear wall at the corral in back. He turned and gazed again at the tomb of Genghis, which had miraculously survived the collapsing sanctuary intact. For an instant, Pitt wondered if he would be the last man to see the tomb. Then it hit him. It was a crazy idea, he thought, and he couldn't help but grin through a cold shiver.

"All right, old boy," he muttered at the tomb. "Let's see if you've got one more conquest left in you."

-62-

The feeling was just returning to Pitt's feet with a painful tingle as he climbed out the back of the sanctuary and into the corral. He staggered to the side and quickly yanked several timbers off the wooden fence to clear an opening. Tossing boxes and crates aside, he burrowed a wide path through the junk and debris until he reached his objective, the dust-laden old car.

It was a 1921 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost open tourer, with a custom body by the English coachmaker Park Ward. Decades of dirt and grime covered a unique eggplant purple body paint. Long since faded, the color once complemented the car's burnished aluminum hood and wheel covers. More familiar on the streets of London, Pitt wondered how such a grand auto had ended up in Mongolia. He then recalled that T. E. Lawrence had acquired a Rolls-Royce armored car built on a 1914 Silver Ghost chassis, which he used in his desert campaign against the Turks in Arabia. Pitt wondered if the car's reputation for durability in the desert had reached the Gobi years before. Or perhaps a car built before the Mongolian revolution was the only vehicle of opulence that the Communist Party would allow Borjin's family to own.

None of that mattered to Pitt. What did matter was that the Rolls had a silver-handled crank protruding from its snout. Equipped as a backup for the early electric starters, the crank gave Pitt a small hope that he could start the car, even with a long-dead battery. Provided, that is, that the engine block wasn't frozen solid.

Pitt opened the right-side driver's door and placed the gearshift in neutral, then stepped to the front of the car. Leaning down and grabbing with both hands, he pulled up on the crank, driving with his legs. The crank held firm, but Pitt grunted out a second effort and the handle inched upward. He rested for a second, then gave another heave. The crankshaft broke free with the extra push, driving the six pistons up and down in their cylinders.

With his own small collection of antique cars at home in Washington, Pitt was well versed with the intricacies of starting up a vintage vehicle. Climbing back into the driver's seat, he adjusted the throttle, spark, and governor controls, which were set by movable levers mounted on the steering wheel. He then opened the hood and primed a tiny pump on a brass canister, which he hoped contained gasoline. He then returned to the crank and proceeded to manually turn the engine over.

Each pull of the crank led to a series of rasps as the old motor tried to suck in air and fuel. Zapped by exposure to the cold, Pitt's strength waned on every pull. Yet he willed himself to keep trying in the face of each dying wheeze from the engine. Then on the tenth pull, the motor coughed. Several more pulls produced a sputter. With his feet frozen, yet beads of sweat on his brow, Pitt heaved again on the crank.