Treasure of Khan by Clive Cussler Page A

mileage, which exceeds what your British Museum people contracted me to fly,” Schodt explained, spreading a map of the region across a stack of crates. Ulaanbaatar, the capital of Mongolia, was marked with a star in the north-central region of the country, over four hundred miles from the Chinese border.
    â€œYou have my authorization,” Hunt replied, handing the pilot a handwritten request for the change in route. “I assure you, the museum will honor the additional expense.”
    â€œSure they will, they don’t want your artifacts to end up in the Tokyo Museum,” Schodt laughed. Sticking the note in his pocket, he added, “Dave has the route to Ulaanbaatar laid in and promises we can make it in one hop. Since we’ll be flying over the Gobi Desert, you’re lucky the Blessed Betty has extra fuel tanks. Whenever you’re ready.”
    Hunt walked over and surveyed the two remaining mule carts still packed with equipment and artifacts. Tsendyn stood holding the reins of the lead mule, stroking the animal’s ears.
    â€œTsendyn, we have had a difficult but fruitful summer. You have been invaluable in the success of the expedition.”
    â€œIt has been my honor. You have done a great service to my country and heritage. My heirs shall be particularly grateful.”
    â€œTake the remaining equipment and artifacts to Shijiazhuang, where you can catch the rail to Nanking. A representative from the British Museum will meet and arrange shipment of the items to London. I will wait for you in Ulaanbaatar, where we will investigate our latest find.”
    â€œI look forward to the next search with great anticipation,” Tsendyn replied, shaking the archaeologist’s hand.
    â€œFarewell, my friend.”
    Hunt climbed aboard the loaded Fokker as the plane’s three 220-horsepower Wright Whirlwind radial engines roared to life. Tsendyn stood and watched as Schodt turned the plane into the wind, then shoved the throttles to their stops. With a deafening roar, the aircraft jostled across the meadow, bouncing up and down several times before slowly lumbering into the air. Turning in a graceful arc low above the field, Schodt swung the big plane northwest toward the Mongolian border as it gradually gained altitude.
    Tsendyn stood in the meadow and watched as the plane grew smaller on the horizon and the throbbing of the motors dissolved from his ears. Not until the aircraft had completely vanished from sight did he reach into the vest pocket of his coat for a reassuring touch. The bolt of silk was still there, as it had been since the early hours of the night before.
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    I T WAS two hours into the flight when Hunt reached for the satchel and pulled out the lacquered box. The boredom of the flight mixed with the excitement of the find was too much to bear and he was drawn to run the silk painting through his fingers one more time. With the box in his hands, he felt the familiar weight of the bronze tube rolling around inside in a reassuring manner. Yet something didn’t feel right. Prying off the lid, he found the cheetah skin tightly rolled up and stuffed to one side, as it had been before. The bronze tube sat next to it, appearing secure. But picking the tube up, he noticed it felt heavier than he remembered. With a shaking hand, he quickly pulled off the cap, releasing an outpouring of sand that dribbled onto his lap. As the last grain tumbled out, he peered in and saw that the silk scroll had vanished.
    His eyes bulged at the sudden realization that he’d been duped and he struggled to catch his breath. The shock quickly turned to anger and regaining his voice, he began screaming at the pilots.
    â€œTurn back! Turn the airplane around! We must return at once,” he cried.
    But his plea fell on deaf ears. In the cockpit, the two pilots suddenly had something more troubling of their own to contend with.
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    T HE M ITSUBISHI G3M bomber, known in the west as a