Treasure of Khan

"It wasn't the box that was noteworthy but the bronze tube. Or, rather, something that was inside the bronze tube. A silk scroll of some sort was apparently rolled up inside. Painted on it was a treasure map to an unbelievable find."

"The canister was empty when we found it. Do you suppose it's still with Hunt on the plane?"

"Here, read Hunt's last entries," Pitt said, passing the diary to Giordino. Three brief passages were written on the last page of text.

August 5, 1937. En route to Ulaanbaatar by aircraft. With a heavy heart, I must write of a dreadful discovery. Tsendyn, my loyal associate, partner, and friend, has betrayed me in the end. The silk scroll is gone, stolen from its canister, which I carefully guarded since its excavation. Tsendyn was the only person who could have removed it, striking a dagger in my back before the plane left the ground. With it, the trail to G.K. is lost. I shall endeavor to recall the clues and reconstruct the map by memory. Then I will outfit a small party in U.B. and make the search attempt. Perhaps if nothing else, I will run into Tsendyn on the slopes of Burkhan Khaldun and obtain fair retribution. My only hope The entry ended midsentence, resumed later in a shaky hand. Giordino noted that the dusty page was stained with drops of blood.

Date unknown. We have crashed in the desert, shot down by a Japanese warplane. Both pilots dead. I fear my back and legs are broken. Am unable to move. Waiting for help. I pray we will be discovered soon. Pain is unbearable.

Then later, in a crude scribble:

Last entry. All hope is gone. My sincere regrets to Leeds at the British Museum, and my love to my dear wife, Emily. God save our souls.

"Poor bugger," Giordino said. "That explains why he was lying atop the debris in the plane. He must have lay there several days before dying."

"His pain must have been all the worse, knowing what he lost."

"So what was the treasure on the silk map? Who or what is G.K.?"

"Hunt describes the silk scroll in an earlier entry, after its discovery. He was convinced, as was his aid Tsendyn, that it depicted the map to a lost tomb. The location in the Khentii Mountains of Mongolia, the royal markings, even a legend about a weeping camel all fit the historical records. The silk map indicated the final burial place of Genghis Khan."

Giordino let out a low whistle, then shook his head. "Genghis Khan, eh? Must have been sold a phony map. Old Genghis has yet to be found. His grave still rates as one of the biggest archaeological mysteries on the planet."

Pitt gazed at a swirling cloud of dust on the horizon, a thousand images ru

"On the contrary. His tomb has indeed been found," he said quietly.

Giordino stared at him with a blank look on his face but knew better than to question Pitt's assertion. Pitt flipped through the diary to a page near the begi

"Hunt's assistant from Mongolia, Tsendyn. His last name is Borjin."

"It can't be. His father?"

"If I'm not mistaken, we recently visited the marble tomb of the late Tsendyn Borjin."

"If that was Borjin's father in the stone chapel, then the sarcophagus in the center of the chamber ..."

"That's right," Pitt said ruefully. "The tomb of Genghis Khan is sitting in Tolgoi Borjin's backyard."

***

They joined the lama and monks at sunset for di

The monks ate in silent reverence, nodding only in reply to the lama's occasional spoken word. Pitt casually studied the faces of the wizened monks who moved with stoic grace. Most were older than sixty, their studious brown eyes peering from crevice-lined faces. All wore their hair shaved close to the head but for one younger man with a thick build. He quickly gulped down his meal, then turned and gri

After the meal, Pitt and Giordino observed an evening prayer in the temple, then retired to the storeroom.

The revelation about Genghis Khan in Hunt's diary consumed Pitt's thoughts, and he was more anxious than ever to return to Ulaanbaatar. As they prepared to turn in, he dragged one of the cots over near the entryway.

"Can't sleep under a closed roof anymore?" Giordino chided.

"No," Pitt replied. "Something's bothering me."

"The lack of a decent meal in nearly a week is bothering me," Giordino said, crawling under a blanket.

Pitt pulled down an open box from the shelf that contained incense, beads, and other accoutrements of Buddhist prayer. After rummaging around a few minutes, he turned out the kerosene lamp and joined Giordino in counting sheep.

***

The prowler came after midnight, silently opening the storeroom door just enough to let himself and a sliver of moonlight through the crack. Hesitating a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior, he moved slowly toward the cot near the entry. Stepping toward the bed, his foot grazed a small prayer bell left on the floor. As the soft metallic ring echoed through the still room, the intruder froze, halting even his breathing. As the seconds ticked away, his ears strained to detect movement or stirring in the room, but all remained quiet.

Steady on his feet, the man knelt to the floor, locating the bell with a soft hand and gently sliding it out of his path. His knuckles grazed a second bell, which he cautiously moved before inching closer to the cot.

He could just make out the sleeping body that lay still under a blanket. Standing above it, he raised a glistening double-edged sword toward the rafters with both hands, then swung the blade down in a lethal slash. The razor-sharp blade struck just below the pillow, where the sleeper's neck would be.

But something was wrong. There was no knotty resistance of the blade cutting through bone, no splash of blood or gasp of breath from the dying victim. The sword instead cut through without resistance down to the cot, the blade driving deep into the wooden frame. A startled confusion came over the would-be assassin before the sudden realization that he'd been had. But by then it was too late.

Pitt was already charging from his cot at the back of the room. The sliver of light creeping through the open door perfectly backlit the would-be killer hunched over the entryway cot, giving Pitt a clear target.

In his hands, Pitt carried a wooden-handled shovel that he had borrowed from the excavation area and stashed under his bed. A step away from the cot that was stuffed with pillows, he pulled the shovel over his shoulder and swung at the black silhouette.

The intruder did his best to recover. Hearing Pitt's footsteps approach, he pulled the sword out from the cot and wielded it over his head. Feeling rather than seeing Pitt draw near in the dark, he thrust the sword toward him in a wide arc.

But Pitt's movements were already ahead of him. The blade of the shovel materialized out of the darkness and smashed into the intruder's hand as he started his downswing. The crunching sound of knuckles mashed on metal was quickly followed by a bloodcurdling cry of agony that echoed across the compound.

The sword flew out of the assassin's hand and clattered across the hardwood floor. Not interested in a duel, he grasped his mangled hand and staggered back toward the doorway. Pitt made another swing with the shovel from his left side but the intruder lurched out of harm's way. The cot was situated between the two men and Pitt made one more lunge across the empty bed. He swung hard and low as he saw the intruder turn toward the door. The shovel head clipped the back of the man's leg just below the calf.