The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan (17 page)

He leaned into the Toyota interior for a moment and, touching the steering wheel and the gearshift, he uttered his focus word quietly, just so as to leave a small something for the three kidnappers, if and when they returned.

“Where are we going?” asked Groanin, fetching his luggage from the trunk of the car.

“Australia,” said Nimrod.

“Follow that camel, eh?” said the professor.

“Exactly.”

Groanin nodded and, putting on his jacket, he buttoned it up to cover the hole in his shirt.

“Just as long as no one asks me to follow that spider.”

Philippa hugged him happily. “I don’t think any of us can run that fast,” she said.

T
hey followed the road out of Kandahar and into the pitch-black and silent desert.

“That small stone you left near the spot where we buried the carpet should come in handy anytime now,” John told Nimrod.

“If you mean,” said Nimrod, “as I think you do, John, that we won’t find it or the carpet in the dark, then you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s a beacon stone. It gets hotter, the nearer I get to it. And the hotter it gets, the more it starts to glow.”

“Oh. I see. Well, why didn’t you say so before?”

They walked on until seeing something very bright on the road ahead, Philippa said, “Is that it?”

Nimrod frowned. “No, that is much too bright for a beacon stone,” he said. “That’s something altogether larger. Besides, it’s off the ground. Not on it.”

“Looks military to me,” said John. “Most probably a Solar Stik Remote Area Lighting System that’s used by the EOD guys. That’s explosive ordnance disposal to you.”

“I presume you mean the bomb squad,” said Groanin.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?” muttered the butler.

Farther down the road, a British soldier waving a flashlight walked slowly toward them.

“’Ere, you: Mustapha. You can’t go up this pigging road.” The soldier spoke first in English, and then in a sort of mangled Pashto that sounded quite unintelligible to Afghan ears. “It’s closed.”

“What seems to be the trouble, Officer?” said Nimrod politely.

“You speak English, then?” said the British soldier.

“I am English,” said Nimrod.

“Where from?”

“London,” said Nimrod. “Kensington, to be exact.”

“You’re a long way from pigging Kensington, mate,” said the soldier.

“And these are my friends from New York, Iceland.” Nimrod pointed at Groanin. “And Manchester.”

“Manchester? Which team do you support?”

“City,” said Groanin. “You?”

“Me, too,” said the soldier. He grinned and clapped Groanin on the back.

For several minutes, the two Mancunians discussed the state of English football before Nimrod politely cleared his throat and asked again why the road was closed.

“’Cos there’s something big buried in the ground up ahead,” explained the soldier. “Most likely a pigging bomb.

We’re waiting for one of our lads from the squad to come and have a look at it.”

“How big?”

“Pretty big. At least twenty or thirty feet long.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” said Nimrod. “For which I am sincerely sorry. You see, we buried something by this road earlier on today. A carpet. For safekeeping. It was heavy and we didn’t want to carry it all the way into Kandahar. No more did we feel inclined to leave it by the side of the road, in case it was stolen. So, as I say, we buried it. And now we’re back to dig it up again. I should have realized how sensitive people are to that sort of thing in this country.”

“You’d better speak to my officer,” said the soldier. “Captain Sargent.”

“Lucky he’s not a sergeant,” said Groanin.

“That’s nothing,” said the soldier. “We have a lieutenant colonel whose name is Major. And a brigadier whose name is Sirr, with two
r
s. You’ve no idea the pigging confusion that’s caused when those three are in the room. Which is pretty typical of the whole mission, really. None of us really knows what we’re doin’ here.”

The soldier led the way to his officer, Captain Sargent. The captain was a big, fat man with a very small mustache and a blue beret.

“This man is British, sir,” explained the soldier. “From Kensington.”

“You don’t look very English,” observed the captain.

“We’re dressed to blend in,” said Nimrod.

“He says it’s not a bomb that’s buried by the side of the road, sir. He says it’s a carpet.”

“A carpet?” The captain looked aghast. “What kind of Englishman goes around burying a carpet? Haven’t you heard? You’re supposed to put a carpet on top of the ground. Not underneath it.”

“We buried it for safekeeping,” said Nimrod.

“A carpet?”

“That’s right,” said Nimrod patiently. “It was too heavy to carry it into town.”

“But not too heavy to carry somewhere else, eh? I don’t see you here with a cart or a truck or anything. What are you planning to do, fly it away?”

Nimrod smiled patiently.

“My friends here will dig it up and show you.”

“I suppose you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said the captain. “Dig it up and set it off with all of us standing around while you were doing it. You must think we’re daft.”

“I can assure you, Captain Sargent, that nothing could be further from the truth. But if you are at all concerned, then I suggest you and your men withdraw to a safe distance while we’re digging up the carpet. That way the only people who could possibly get hurt if my carpet exploded are us.”

“Couldn’t do any harm, sir,” said the soldier. “I mean, we’re planning to blow it up, anyway, when the squad gets here.”

Captain Sargent thought for a moment. “Very well,” he said. “But no tricks, eh? We’ll be watching you people carefully.”

When the British soldiers had withdrawn to a safe distance, Nimrod, Groanin, the professor, Axel, and the twins started to dig. And a few minutes later they lifted the rolled-up carpet onto the road and waved at the soldiers.

“Look,” said Nimrod. “It’s perfectly safe.”

The soldiers approached cautiously.

“Just an ordinary carpet,” said Nimrod. “Blue, of course. Which some people think is unlucky.” He nodded at the captain’s beret. “But I wouldn’t have thought that was a belief you shared.”

“Are you sure you don’t have anything rolled up in it?” said the captain.

“What, you mean like Queen Cleopatra?” said Philippa.

Nimrod smiled.

But the captain, who had never read Shakespeare, and didn’t know who Cleopatra was, frowned. “Well, maybe, yes.”

“Let’s unroll the carpet,” Nimrod told his companions, “and show the captain here that we don’t have one of the world’s most desirable and gorgeous women hidden inside it.”

“Someone talking about me?”

Everyone looked around to see an astonishingly beautiful woman — perhaps the most beautiful woman any of them had ever seen. She was wearing a golden silk sari, and a variety of Indian bridal jewelery including a tiara, a necklace, and a nose ring that was hooked up to the tiara. She was very tall, and very black, with a spoiled, pouting mouth and an expression that was so haughty and proud, she looked like she’d been born in the most expensive palace in a city that
was full of palaces. In her hand, she held a small clutch bag and a diamond-encrusted cell phone.

“I think I’m in love,” whispered Axel.

Nimrod groaned. “Hello, Alexandra,” he said.

“Trying to sneak out of Kandahar without saying hello, were you? No, don’t deny it. Remember who it is you’re talking to.”

“Not at all.”

“And you thought you could be here without me knowing about it.” She tapped the middle of her forehead. “In here. With my third eye.”

“No, of course not.”

“That was stupid of you,” she said. “I’m always ahead of you. You should know that by now. I know what you’re going to say before you can even think it yourself.”

“If you say so, dear,” said Nimrod. “Philippa. John. This is your aunt Alexandra. Whom I was telling you about on the flight into Kandahar.”

Alexandra stepped toward the twins and gave them a critical, unfriendly look, as if she had been inspecting a couple of tethered goats for a forthcoming barbecue.

“So these are Imelda’s twins, are they?”

Philippa thought that Alexandra sounded English, like her uncle.

“You mean Layla,” he said patiently. “My sister is called Layla, not Imelda, as you well know.”

“I must say, they don’t look like twins,” said Alexandra. “Nor do they look particularly special. Hardly the stuff of prophecy, are they? I expected something much more
impressive. Children who really look like the stuff of myth and legend. These two kids look more like a couple of local beggars. And look at their clothes. They’re not much better than rags. What a pair of urchins.”

“What do you mean?” asked Philippa.

“Oh, my God,” said Alexandra. “You’re Americans.”

“Something wrong with that?” said John.

“No, sweetie. Not if you like
gum
on the sole of life’s
sneakers.
” She laughed. “Bad enough that your sister should have married a mundane. But you mean to say he’s an American, too?”

“Yes, he is,” said Nimrod. “And a very agreeable fellow, to boot.”

Alexandra shrieked with laughter. “I’ll bet he is.”

Hoping to change the subject — or so it seemed to John and Philippa — Nimrod continued with the introductions to Professor Sturloson and then Axel, but these were ignored by Alexandra. She had big, clear-as-a-bell brown eyes only for the twins.

“You poor, poor dears,” she said, touching John’s face and then Philippa’s. “Americans.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t it drive you mad? Living among such barbarians. The clothes are just rubbish. Even in New York. There’s no decent tailoring to be had anywhere. And the food. How can you eat there? Hot dogs. Hamburgers. Milk shakes.” She swallowed biliously and pressed her bag to her stomach with a heavily be-ringed hand. “Light my lamp, but it makes me feel sick just to utter these words. Really sick. I think I’m going to throw up.”

Nimrod sighed. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” said John. “If you like hot dogs, and hamburgers, and milk shakes. Which I do.”

“Me, too,” said Philippa irritably.

“Oh, I can see that, dear,” said Alexandra. “Let’s face it. You could afford to lose a few pounds.” Once again, she touched Philippa’s cheek. “And your complexion is — well, it’s not exactly flawless, is it? I’ve seen trays of gloves with better skin than you, honey. A little less grease in your diet might not go amiss, you know. And as for those glasses. Where did you get them? A bottle bank? A submarine?”

“Don’t you know?” Philippa’s tone was challenging.

“Believe me, little girl,” said Alexandra. “I’ve forgotten more things than you’ve ever even remembered. And don’t for minute doubt that I can foretell the future.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I know that the private is going to sneeze in five seconds, that the stupid captain with the ridiculous mustache is going to scratch his ear and wave away a mosquito….”

The private sneezed and the captain scratched his ear and waved away a mosquito.

“Gesundheit,” said John.

“See what I mean?” Alexandra jabbed Philippa on the shoulder. “Don’t mess with me, shorty. Or I’ll give you the full forecast on the rest of your young, soon-to-be-ending djinn life.”

Philippa tutted loudly. “Really,” she said, exasperated.

“Get off her case,” John told Alexandra.

“And as for you, meathead. You have a fool’s face. The world must be in a pretty poor state of repair if you’re half of its best hope, sonny. Try closing your mouth once in a while. The way your jaw hangs down. It makes you look like the village idiot.”

“I have trouble breathing through my nose, sometimes, that’s all,” protested John.

“If you are going to save the world, you should first try to look like you can save a couple of cents for your bus fare.”

“I can see you’ve lost none of your talent for diplomacy, Alexandra,” said Nimrod.

Alexandra snorted. “You talk to me about talent, looking like that. If you wanted to dress like an Afghan, why did you choose to look like a filthy peasant? Not that you ever had any taste in clothes, Nimrod. Tell me: Are you still wearing those stupid red suits?”

“She certainly doesn’t sound like an Eremite,” Philippa told her uncle.

“The Eremites.” Alexandra laughed. “I gave up on them years ago. What a bunch of losers. These days I just stick to telling the future. Which is not looking good. At least not for you and your dumb brother.”

“He’s not dumb,” insisted Philippa.

“No?” Alexandra looked at John with barely disguised contempt. “Hey. Brainbox. What’s the capital of Afghanistan?”

John thought for a moment and then pulled a face. “I dunno.”

Alexandra shrugged. “See what I mean? It’s Kabul. How
can you be in a country and not know what the capital is? Oh, wait. I know the answer to that one, too. You’re an idiot.”

“I hate to interrupt this touching family reunion,” said Captain Sargent, “but if we could get back to the main business in hand.”

“Unless I’m very much mistaken, this
is
the main business in hand,” snapped Alexandra. “These two children of the lamp. Eh, Nimrod? Your being here is to do with the Taranushi prophecy, isn’t it? After all, this is the time that was surely foretold in that book you were always going on about. When ‘a sea of cloud arises from the bowels of the earth and turns the lungs of men to stone, the wheat in the fields to ash, and the rivers to liquid rock.’ There’s no getting away from any of that, is there?”

She looked at Philippa and flashed a thin, insincere smile.

“Certainly not for you, niece of mine,” she said. “The sooner you and your doofus brother here sacrifice yourselves to save the world, the better for the rest of us. My cell phone has been useless since this whole thing began. I don’t know why I’m even carrying it. Habit, I guess.”

“If you could just unroll the carpet, sir, and let us check that there’s nothing concealed inside,” insisted the captain.

“If you interrupt me again, Officer Dibble,” said Alexandra, “you’ll regret you ever left whichever neglected mouse hole of a town you sprang from. And I don’t care if you are English.” Alexandra gritted her teeth and stamped her stiletto heel angrily. “I won’t be interrupted by a mundane. Not ever. Do you hear?”
“No need for unpleasantness, Alexandra dear.” Nimrod stood on the edge of the carpet and kicked the rest of it hard — so hard that it unrolled completely. “The captain is merely doing his job.”

“We’re back to using these old things, are we?” said Alexandra. “Still, in the absence of commercial air travel, it’s better than nothing, I suppose. But it’ll never beat a whirlwind.”