The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan (28 page)

“But what possible advantage could he gain from using the Hotaniya crystals of the Xi Xia emperor Xuanzong to affect the world’s weather?” asked Philippa.

“Aye, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” said Groanin.

“Say that again, Groanin,” said Nimrod.

Groanin frowned. “What?”

“One would hardly think you needed an invitation to say things twice,” said Nimrod with some exasperation. “You say so many other things twice, unbidden. Say it again.”

A little bewildered, Groanin said, “I said, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

Nimrod nodded. “And when we were flying over India, on our way to Australia, you said something else of great wisdom, didn’t you?” “I did?”

“You said that whoever is doing this is very likely doing it for the same reason as all of the people who kidnapped you.
Money
.”

“Aye, money. I did say that. Money’s still the reason most folk do things, good and bad.”

“Precisely,” said Nimrod. “Dollars. Thousands of dollars. Millions of dollars, probably. Perhaps more.”

“How could Rashleigh Khan be making money from causing volcanoes to erupt?” asked John.

“That I don’t know,” said Nimrod. “But it’s what we’re going to find out.”

He walked briskly to the carpet.

“Where are we going?” asked Groanin.

To his surprise Nimrod was singing a song in Italian:

“Very nice, I’m sure,” said Groanin. “But what does it mean? Where are we going?”

“It means that we’re going back to Sorrento, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “Back to the Bay of Naples.”

S
itting on the elegant terrace of the Excelsior Vittoria hotel high above the local docks in Sorrento, Nimrod watched Rashleigh Khan’s enormous yacht, the
Schadenfreude
, which was still anchored in the Bay of Naples, through a pair of powerful binoculars while a waiter in a white jacket served afternoon tea to him, Groanin, the professor, and the twins.

Bigger than two football fields, the white motor yacht dwarfed every other boat in the bay. On the foredeck was a black helicopter and, from time to time, another smaller supply boat would leave the yacht’s side and visit the Italian coast. Nimrod noted that the yacht was sailing under an American flag, which seemed to indicate that Rashleigh Khan was a citizen of the United States.

“Feels like déjà vu all over again, us being here,” said Groanin. “If you believe in such things.”

“I think you can believe in the feeling at least, Groanin,” observed Nimrod. “It’s the interpretation you choose to put on the feeling that is open to question.”

“So much has happened since we were here,” said Philippa, staring out to sea. “Makes you wish you could turn the clock back on all of this.”

“Yes,” agreed Nimrod. “It does.”

Meanwhile, Philippa just wished that Axel could have been there with them to see the view. She hadn’t told anyone that she loved him and now it didn’t seem to be appropriate to mention it. So she just looked at the view and wished he could have seen it, too. And what a view it was. As a volcanologist, Axel would surely have appreciated it. The great pyramid of Vesuvius was connected to the summit of another inverted pyramid, only this one was made of smoke and ash. The sight dominated the whole landscape like the bearded, gray stone head of some giant Roman god — Jupiter or Mars — and she had an insight into what it must have been like for the poor citizens of Pompeii in
A.D.
79.

Sorrento, on the other side of the bay from Vesuvius, was far enough away from the volcano for the ash cloud not to be a problem for the resort and its visitors. But the population of the city of Naples had been evacuated as a precaution and the local airport — like other airports all over the world — remained closed until further notice.

Nimrod was the only one on the terrace watching the yacht; everyone else was watching Vesuvius, many of them with telescopes in the hope of seeing something more
spectacular than what was already taking place. It was hard to imagine just what this might have been: the mountain blowing its top, perhaps. Or molten lava pouring down the slopes of the volcano.

“Funny to think that just a short while ago, we were all sitting here enjoying our holiday,” said Groanin. “Without a cloud in the sky to spoil things. Blissfully unaware of all that lay ahead of us. Funny thing, life. It seems to be what happens when you’re making plans to do something else.”

“As always, Groanin,” murmured Nimrod, “you provoke my mind to cogitate in a way it did not cogitate before.”

“Eh? What’s that you say? I say, what’s that you say?”

Nimrod did not answer his butler. He was too busy thinking.

So Groanin shrugged and looked at John.

“How big did you say that daft yacht is?” he asked John.

“Six hundred and fifty feet,” said John.

“I’d be embarrassed to arrive anywhere in such a boat,” said Groanin. “Even Queen Cleopatra in her barge, like a burnished throne that burned on the water, attracted less attention than that.”

“Well said, Groanin,” murmured Nimrod.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Rashleigh Khan had it built just to spite another billionaire, Victor Pelorus, whose yacht until then had been the world’s largest,” explained John. “It cost four hundred million dollars and it’s got its own missile defense system. It’s even got a submarine and a tennis court.” John lifted up
his digital camera and took another picture. “It must be true,” he added. “I read it in your newspaper, Groanin.”

“Who on earth needs a submarine?” said Philippa.

“They’re not much good on earth,” observed John.

“Or a tennis court,” said Groanin. “Who needs a tennis court? I said, who needs a tennis court? Beastly boring game.”

“According to the newspaper it costs him a hundred thousand dollars just to fill up the fuel tanks,” said John.

“How does anyone afford a garage bill like that?” said Groanin.

“You’ve heard of a hedge fund,” said John. “Well, he’s an expert in what the newspaper calls financial topiary. That’s like an extreme hedge fund. Rashleigh Khan shapes whole economies into whatever shape you like. Tigers, pigs, you name it.”

“I’ve never understood all that financial stuff,” admitted the professor.

“Me, neither,” said Groanin. “And if you ask me, most of them that are in it are just spivs and cowboys.”

Nimrod was still watching the yacht through the binoculars. “It’s an interesting yacht,” he said. “All of the curtains in the staterooms are drawn. There’s very little activity on deck.”

“Well, I think it’s a horrible yacht,” said Philippa. “With a very horrible name. Imagine naming a yacht after a thing like that.”

“What’s most interesting about the yacht,” said Nimrod, “is that it doesn’t appear to move. I’ve been watching it quite closely and I swear this one hasn’t moved by so much as a foot.”

“It’s at anchor,” said Groanin. “It’s not supposed to move.”

“Not true,” said Nimrod. “All ships at anchor move around a bit. The sea moves them. But this one hasn’t moved an inch since I’ve been looking at it, which is” — Nimrod glanced at his watch — “almost an hour now. And that’s even odder when you consider that the engines are running.” Nimrod shook his head. “The engines on that yacht are running all the time.”

“That is odd,” agreed the professor. “The man’s carbon footprint must be enormous.”

“Bigger than we yet know, I’ll warrant,” said Nimrod.

John took another picture, which gave Nimrod another idea.

“John? Did you take any pictures of the
Schadenfreude
when we were last here?”

“Yes, sir,” said John. “Would you like to see them?”

“Yes, please.”

John found some pictures he had taken on the day before the earthquake. “There’s one,” he said, showing his uncle the screen on the back of his camera. “I took that one off this terrace as well.” John looked up at the
Schadenfreude
and then back at the picture on his camera. “Hey, Uncle, I think you’re right. It was in exactly the same position as it is now.”

“I thought as much,” said Nimrod.

“I don’t know what that tells us,” muttered Groanin. “Other than the fact that some folk are so rich and bone idle that they can’t even be bothered to move their boats and have nothing better to do than lie around all day and watch the rest of us poor idiots try to scratch a living.”

“It tells us that the
Schadenfreude
doesn’t behave like any ordinary yacht,” said Nimrod. “Even one that’s six hundred and fifty feet.” He put down the binoculars. “No, I think we shall have to go aboard and take a look for some answers.”

“At last,” said John. “We’re going to see some action.”

“But I suspect the answers have a lot to do with Vesuvius. It was you, Groanin, who reminded me that it was Vesuvius that was the first volcano to erupt, when last we were here, enjoying our holiday. This is where it all got started.” He shook his head. “What would I do without you, Groanin?”

“Don’t mention it, sir,” said Groanin.

“That’s right,” agreed the professor. “That’s absolutely right. The earthquake that struck this region was what started all of the world’s volcanoes to erupt at once. Which doesn’t ever happen. At least it never did before.”

“Rashleigh Khan was here then and he’s here now,” said Nimrod. “And he’s up to no good, I’ll stake my life on it.” He frowned. “Did you say that the yacht has its own submarine, John?”

“Yes, sir. A luxury submarine.”

“Now, why does anyone need a luxury submarine?”

“To go underwater in comfort,” Groanin offered helpfully. He enjoyed being Watson to Nimrod’s Sherlock Holmes. “Without getting wet? To run silent and sleep deep?”

But this time Nimrod ignored his butler.

“How are we going to get on board?” asked John eagerly. “Fly over there on the carpet? Steal a boat, maybe? Borrow a submarine of our own from the U.S. Navy base in Naples?
Scuba gear: We could wear wet suits, swim over underwater, and go aboard under cover of darkness, perhaps.” He grinned. “Man, this is going to be fun.”

“There’s no time for any of that feature-film nonsense,” said Nimrod. “Stealing. Wet suits. Swimming. Ugh. Even the flying carpet might not be a good idea if it has a missile defense system.”

“Then how are we going to go aboard?” asked John. “Wait for an invitation to dinner?”

“Have you forgotten what we are?” Nimrod smiled and placed his hand on top of his nephew’s. “We shall go aboard the
Schadenfreude
invisibly, of course. We shall float across the violet bay like the sweet breath of Zephyrus. Like three ghosts, we shall see what we shall see but we shall not be seen. So.” Nimrod clapped his hands loudly. “We have to go up to our suite right now and leave behind our bodies, immediately.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right,” admitted John. “I had forgotten about invisibility.”

“Good,” said Groanin. “That lets me out.”

“Yes, and myself,” said the professor.

“Me, too,” said Philippa.

“You, Philippa?” said Nimrod. “Whatever do you mean? Surely you’re coming with us.”

“If you don’t mind, Uncle Nimrod,” said Philippa. “It feels much too soon for me to leave my body behind again, especially after what happened the last time with Charlie, in Australia. It scares me. But for him I might be dead.”

“Yes, of course, my dear,” said Nimrod. “I’d forgotten. It
was insensitive of me even to suggest it. John and I will go, just the two of us. Eh, John?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You three can stay here and await our return.”

“And I shall float, like the west wind, toward the hotel bar,” said Groanin, heading across the marble terrace. “I feel the sweet, cold breath of a cocktail coming on,” he said.

John chuckled.

“You’re absolutely right, Uncle Nimrod. Being invisible is the best fun anyone can have.”

J
ohn lay down on his bed and, leaving almost all of his power inside his body — which is the great disadvantage for any djinn, young or old, who steps out of his or her body — and set about raising his own spirit up to the ornate ceiling of the hotel bedroom.

In some ways, it always felt like he was growing taller — much taller — and it was only when he looked down and saw a figure lying on the bed that he hardly recognized as himself that John was absolutely certain he was hardly more substantial than the air-conditioned air around him.

“Are you there?” said a voice tinklingly close by the chandelier. It was Nimrod, whose spirit he couldn’t see but whom he could smell quite distinctly. His uncle’s body was lying on the other bed in John’s room and, like John, his eyes were closed and he was for all intents and purposes, deeply asleep.

“Yes, I’m here,” said the disembodied John.

“Since we have to travel a mile or so across the Bay of Naples to reach Rashleigh Khan’s boat, it might be a good idea to hold hands,” said Nimrod. “Sea breezes can be quite treacherous when one is out of body. One can be easily blown away.”

John, who disliked holding hands with anyone unless they happened to be a girl who was not his sister, declined Nimrod’s offer. “Er, no thanks, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not.”

“As you wish,” said Nimrod.

Suddenly, he became almost visible, at least in outline, for Nimrod had moved in front of the air-conditioning unit on the wall up near the ceiling. “If you do get lost, then move somewhere cold, like this air-conditioning unit, so I can see you a bit.”

“I remember,” said John.

“Only try not to do it where there are people around or some hapless mundane will think you to be a ghost. Which is fine if you want to scare someone, but not so fine if it isn’t. People have been known to have heart attacks when they see a careless, disembodied djinn.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

“And if you feel yourself starting to panic a bit about being a free and disembodied spirit, or if you’re beginning to suffer from astral sickness, then just step inside a mundane’s body and have a breather. Most likely, they’ll think they had a daydream or something, and leave it at that.”

“I have done this before, you know,” said John. “Several times.”

“I know you have,” Nimrod said patiently. “And, of course, it’s natural that you should think you know it all. I was the same when I was your age, John. To think you know everything is the enormous advantage of all young men; to realize for a fact that you know almost nothing in the scheme of things is the greater curse of old ones.” He sighed loudly. “It must be so. It was always so. All right, listen. We’ll rendezvous on the bow of the boat. Inside the helicopter if there’s no one in it. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

The two djinn floated out of the window, across the red roof of the hotel, down over the terrace with its marble balustrade and Roman statues, over the dock with its smaller pleasure boats and passenger ferry to Capri, and out to sea.

It was a warm day but not as warm as it had been before the eruption of Vesuvius; the huge cloud of ash and smoke in the sky acted like a screen to prevent the sun from raising the temperature in the Bay of Naples to the normal seasonal levels. As well as the air temperature, which seemed to be part of him, John could taste the salt in the sea, and smell the sulfur in the breeze; these were almost part of him, too. To be a free spirit was, for a djinn, to be at one with the universe.

John found that he moved much more easily as a spirit than as a physical body. Faster, too. Faster than any speedboat could have traveled. He skimmed the surface of the water like an invisible missile and, thinking he had left Nimrod far behind, he reached the gleaming white bows of the
Schadenfreude
in less than ten minutes.

The foredeck landing for the helicopter was more than twenty-five feet above the waterline and gradually John let himself rise up the bow until he was on the deck and standing next to a little black helicopter that neatly occupied an encircled H. A few yards away, a helicopter landing officer was talking to the pilot. John stepped through the solid that was the monogrammed door of the helicopter and found Nimrod already there ahead of him.

“What took you?” said his uncle’s voice as John looked around the aircraft’s interior.

“How did you do that?” he asked. “I was going pretty fast.”

“But I was going faster,” said Nimrod.

“I thought you were tired,” said John.

“I was. I am. Very. In fact, I believe I’ve almost come to the end of myself. To the end of all that makes me what I am. But this is more important, wouldn’t you say? That’s why I hurried here just now. Because this is much more vital — this quest of ours, to rescue the world from itself, ironic as that might sound — than the mere matter of my own vitality. You know, I’ve never felt safe in these things. Even on the deck of a ship.”

“What do you mean?” asked John. “I don’t understand.” And he felt this lack of understanding more because he could not see Nimrod’s face, only hear his voice.

“I mean a helicopter seems so inherently non-aerodynamic,” said Nimrod. “Just the nickname
chopper
sounds like it could be you that gets the chop, if you see what I mean.”

“I’m not talking about the chopper,” said John. “Nimrod? Are you saying you are losing your powers?”
“What happened to Dybbuk can happen to us all,” said Nimrod. “He exhausted his Neshamah: the source of all his djinn power. He used it all up in sheer vanity, with trying to be a cheap cabaret magician. Remember?”

“How could I forget? But you’re not saying that this is happening to you? Are you?”

Nimrod sighed loudly. “I suppose I am rather. Really, it will be all I can do to get us back to Fez to see Mr. Barkhiya and collect those other carpets we ordered.”

“Don’t say that,” said John. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Is there?”

“No one can keep going forever,” said Nimrod. “And it’s not that I’m losing
all
my powers, John. It’s just that, like dear old Mr. Rakshasas, it’s not what it was. Nor am I. I get tired more easily after using it. I need to rest more than of old.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“In case something happens to me. Like poor Charlie. And Axel. I’m afraid they’ve been on my mind, rather. Which is something else that happens when you get older.”

“Nothing is going to happen to you, Uncle,” insisted John.

“Let’s hope so. Look, what I’m saying is this: that I can’t do this without you, John. Or Philippa. Whatever lies ahead of us, I’m going to need your joint strength to help me through it. For all our sakes, you must promise me not to give up on the world of mundane. They have need of us now more than ever, my boy.”

“Of course, I’m not going to give up on them. My dad’s a mundane. And yes, I promise.”

“Good. Come on. Let’s go and snoop around. I think
we’ll head belowdecks and look for Mr. Rashleigh Khan himself, shall we? Follow me.”

“How shall I do that? That is, follow you.”

“Oh, yes. I was forgetting. Tell you what, I’ll hum. That’s it. Just follow my humming.”

“And if someone hears you? I thought you were worried that some poor mundane might think us a ghost.”

“That’s their problem. Now that I’m here and see the size of his boat, I realize I’m too tired to care much about the feelings of the people who work for Mr. Rashleigh Khan.”

“What will you hum?”

“That’s an excellent question, John. Let me see, now. It ought to be something appropriate, I think. Ah, yes. How about ‘Coming Through the Rye’?”

“I don’t know it.”

“Of course you do. You just think you don’t.”

They went down the polished wooden stairs into the dining room with John following the sound of Nimrod humming “Coming Through the Rye,” which, of course, he did recognize. A couple of times in the yacht’s narrow gangways and passageways, they passed close by members of the
Schadenfreude
’s smartly uniformed crew who, hearing the sound of Nimrod humming, looked around nervously to see from where it was coming.

After several minutes, Nimrod stopped abruptly in what looked like a finely furnished study and, for a brief second, John passed straight through his uncle’s spirit. Momentarily, he experienced his uncle’s great worry for the world as well as a little of the weariness he had been talking about, and
he let out a gasp as he felt the weight of them on his uncle’s shoulders.

The study was like a museum and decorated with many Mongol treasures in glass cases that had obviously been looted from the grave of Genghis Khan: a golden breastplate, a shield, a golden helmet, several Mongol swords, and a collection of priceless Mughal paintings. A small man sat in a big leather chair behind a large custom-made desk on which was ranged a whole battalion of telephones. He looked European but he wore an Asian-looking chin beard. And he was wearing a pair of chocolate-brown silk pajamas on which was the monogram
RK
.

“I think that’s our man,” whispered Nimrod as the man got up from his chair and knelt down beside a safe from which he took an ancient-looking gold box. The box was inlaid with the design of an erupting volcano and looked Chinese.

“The Hotaniya crystals,” whispered John. “It has to be them.”

For a moment, the man stopped and looked around, as if he had heard something; but then he shook his head, closed the safe, and left the room.

“Come on,” whispered Nimrod. “Let’s follow him.”

John and Nimrod followed Rashleigh Khan into the center of the ship, where there was a sort of control room with a large indoor pool. But the pool was not for swimming. Floating in the bright blue water was a small submarine. Khan climbed aboard, followed invisibly by John and Nimrod; a few minutes later one of the submarine’s crew
members closed the outside hatch and they began their enclosed and rapid descent.

It was a short voyage to the bottom of the sea — no more than five minutes — where the midget submarine docked again with some other vessel. And this time, when the outside hatch opened, the two djinn were met with an astonishing discovery.

Anchored on the seabed underneath the
Schadenfreude
was a submersible drilling platform equipped with a viewing bubble, a small crew, a gymnasium, and a radio-control room. The drilling platform was tethered to the hull of the ship by several long cables which, thought John, probably explained why it was that the
Schadenfreude
never moved from its anchor.

Rashleigh Khan greeted the men aboard the drilling rig with an affable silence and carried on walking through a set of double doors that opened automatically and then closed behind him, but not before, once again, John and Nimrod had followed; as soon as they felt themselves rising slowly to the leather-lined ceiling, the two djinn realized they were in an elevator car and that this time they were descending at some considerable speed into a borehole made by the drill rig.

Their descent lasted almost fifteen minutes, by the end of which John was feeling decidedly queasy and told himself that if he’d had a stomach, he might have thrown up; it was only when the elevator car stopped moving and they emerged into a small and very warm cave that John realized he was actually feeling claustrophobic.

Other than Rashleigh Khan himself, there was only one person in the dimly lit cave: a short, fair-haired woman with a pointy nose and glasses. She was dressed in a white coat and holding a clipboard and, according to the name badge she wore on her breast pocket, her name was Dr. Björk Sturloson.

This was not a common name and John wondered if she might be related to the professor.

On the floor of the cave was a metal hatch like the one in the submarine and, once Khan arrived, the woman in the white coat put on a pair of thick leather gauntlets and began to turn the wheel on the hatch to open it.

As soon as the hatch was laid open, a wave of intense heat filled the undersea cave. Undeterred by the temperature, Khan put on some goggles, knelt beside the hatch, and carefully opened the inlaid golden box he had brought from the surface. Inside was what looked like a handful of small, uncut yellow diamonds.

John thought they might easily have been part of a meteorite from outer space; they looked to have an extra luminosity and sparkle that no terrestrial, earthly diamond ever had.

He glanced down the hatch and saw, at the bottom of a deep drill hole, a point of intense light that resembled a little sun, and it was a second or two before John realized he was looking into the actual molten bowels of the earth.

“Let’s have some fun with Mr. Khan,” whispered Nimrod.

“Yes, let’s,” whispered John.

“Did you say something, Mr. Khan?” asked Dr. Sturloson. “No.”

“My mistake.”

Khan removed one of the crystals from the golden box and held it up to the light for a moment; he was about to drop it down the drill hole when the hatch closed abruptly with a loud bang.

“I think not, Mr. Khan,” said the woman in the white coat. But the voice was not a woman’s. It belonged to Nimrod and as soon as he heard it, John realized that his uncle had taken possession of Dr. Sturloson’s body. “This horrible endeavor is now at an end.”

Rashleigh Khan stood up and frowned.

“What on earth’s the matter with you, Björk?” he said. “And why in the name of Sam Hill are you speaking in that ridiculous English voice?”

John almost laughed because Mr. Khan’s own voice — thin, lisping, effete, with a distinct flavor of the American Deep South — was almost cartoonish in its delivery, and reminded John most of Droopy Dog.

“Well? I’m waiting. Explain yourself.”

“I’m afraid that would take much too long to explain now,” said Dr. Sturloson/Nimrod. “Let’s just say that I’ve had a complete change of heart about what we’re doing here.”

“Look, Doctor,” said Khan, “if this is some elaborate scheme of yours to persuade me to pay you more money, it isn’t going to work. Considering all you have to do is keep an eye on the magma level and the temperature in the shaft, I think I pay you quite handsomely already.”