Clive Cussler - Treasure of Khan

Two men soon appeared on horseback, preceded by the clopping sound of horse hooves on the slate walkway. The horsemen curled around the stone building, then paced alongside the corral and stopped.

Theresa's heart nearly stopped when she caught sight of the men. They were dressed in nearly the same garb as the warrior in the hall painting. Their orange silk tunics reflected gold under the courtyard lights.

Baggy pants, thick-soled boots, and a round metal helmet with horsehair spike completed their warrior appearance. The two men milled about for several minutes, just a few feet from where Theresa and Roy lay hidden. They were so close Theresa could taste the dust kicked up by the horses as they pawed at the ground.

One of the men barked something unintelligible, and then the horses suddenly bolted. In an instant, both horsemen disappeared into the darkness amid a small thunder of hoofbeats.

"The night watchmen," Roy declared as the sound of the horses vanished.

"A little too close for comfort," Theresa said, standing and shaking the dust from her clothes.

"We probably don't have much time before they make another pass. Let's see if we can skirt around the other end of the main house and try for the garage."

"Okay. Let's hurry. I don't want to meet up with those guys again."

They scrambled through the rail fence and headed toward the guest wing of the complex. But midway across the courtyard, they heard a sharp cry and the sudden gallop of horses. Looking back in horror, they saw the horses charging them from just yards away. The two horsemen had quietly backtracked to the stone building and broke when they saw Theresa and Roy sprinting across the courtyard.

They both froze in their tracks, unsure whether to run back to the main house or flee the courtyard. It made no difference, as the horsemen were already at the edge of the courtyard and had them plainly in view. Theresa watched one of the horses rear up in the air as the rider suddenly yanked on the reins, pulling the horse to a standstill. The other rider continued on at a gallop, directing his mount to where Theresa and Roy stood.

Roy saw immediately that the horseman was going to try to bowl them over. A quick glance to Theresa revealed fear and confusion in her eyes, as she stood frozen in place.

"Move!" Roy shouted, grabbing Theresa's arm by the elbow and flinging her out of harm's way. The horseman was nearly upon them, and Roy barely managed to sidestep the charging mount, the rider's stirrup grazing his side. Regaining his balance, Roy did the unthinkable. Rather than looking for cover, he turned and sprinted after the charging horse.

The unsuspecting horseman galloped a few more yards, then slowed the horse and pivoted it to his right, intending to make another charge. As the horse wheeled around, the horseman was shocked to find Roy standing in his path. The seismic engineer reached up and grabbed the loose reins dangling beneath the horse's chin and jerked them sharply downward.

"That's enough horseplay," Roy muttered.

The rider had a blank look on his face as Roy fought to restrain the trained horse, the animal heaving clouds of vapor from its nostrils.

"Nooooo!" The piercing cry came from Theresa's lips, in a volume that could have been heard in Tibet.

Roy glanced at Theresa, who lay sprawled on the ground but appeared in no imminent danger. Then he detected a faint object whisking toward him. A viselike grip suddenly squeezed his chest, while a fiery sensation started to burn from within. He dropped to his knees in a wave of light-headedness as Theresa immediately appeared and cradled his shoulders.

The razor-tipped arrow fired by the second horseman had missed Roy's heart, but just barely. Instead, the projectile penetrated his chest just outside his heart, puncturing the pulmonary artery. The effect was nearly the same, with massive internal bleeding leading to imminent heart failure.

Theresa desperately tried to stem the flow of blood from the arrow's entry point, but there was nothing she could do about the internal damage. She held him tight as the color slowly drained from his face. He gasped for air before his body began to sag. For a moment his eyes turned bright, and Theresa thought he might hang on. He looked at Theresa and painfully gasped the words, "Save yourself." And then his eyes closed and he was gone.

The Aeroflot Tu-154 passenger jet banked slowly over the city of Ulaanbaatar before turning into the wind and lining up on the main runway of Buyant Ukhaa Airport for its final approach. Under a cloudless sky, Pitt enjoyed an expansive vista of the city and outlying landscape from his cramped passenger's seat window. A large sprinkling of cranes and bulldozers indicated that the capital of Mongolia was a city on the move.

A first impression of Ulaanbaatar is that of an Eastern Bloc metropolis mired in the 1950s. Home to 1.2

million people, the city is mostly built with Soviet-style design, featuring Soviet-style blandness and conformity. Drab gray apartment buildings dot the city by the dozen, offering all the warmth of a prison dormitory. Architectural consciousness was an afterthought for many of the large block government buildings surrounding the city center. Yet recent autonomy, a taste of democratic governing, and a dose of economic growth has added a vibrancy to the city that openly seeks to modernize itself. Colorful shops, upscale restaurants, and booming nightclubs are creeping into the scene of the once-staid city.

At its heart, there is a comfortable blend of old and new. Outlying suburbs are still filled with gers, muffin-shaped tents made of felt that are the traditional homes of the nomadic Mongolian herdsmen and their families. Hundreds of the gray or white tents jam the empty fields around the capital city that comprises the only true metropolis in the country.

In the West, little is known of Mongolia save for Genghis Khan and Mongolian beef. The sparsely populated country wedged between Russia and China occupies an expansive territory just slightly smaller than the state of Alaska. Rugged mountains dot the northern and western fringes of the landscape, while the Gobi Desert claims the south. Across the belt of the country run the venerable steppes, rolling grasslands that produced perhaps the finest horsemen the world has ever known. The glory days of the Mongol Horde are a distant memory, however. Years of Soviet dominion, during which Mongolia became one of the largest communist nations, stifled the country's identity and development. Only in recent years have the Mongolian people begun to find their own voice again.

As Pitt stared down at the mountains ringing Ulaanbaatar, he wondered whether chasing to Mongolia was such a good idea. It was after all a Russian vessel that had nearly been sunk at Lake Baikal, not a NUMA ship. And none of his crew had been harmed. The oil survey team was certainly not his responsibility either, though he was confident they were an innocent party. Still, there was some connection with their survey on the lake that had contributed to the foul play and abductions. Somebody was up to no good and he wanted to know why.

As the jet's tires screeched onto the runway, Pitt jabbed his elbow toward the passenger's seat next to him. Al Giordino had fallen asleep seconds after the plane lifted off from Irkutsk, and he continued to snooze even as the flight attendant spilled coffee on his foot. Prying a heavy eyelid open, he glanced toward the window. Spotting the concrete tarmac, he popped upright in his seat, instantly awake.

"Did I miss anything on the flight down?" he asked, suppressing a yawn.

"The usual. Wide-open landscapes. Some sheep and horses. A couple of nude communes."

"Just my luck," he replied, eyeing a brown stain on his shoe with suspicion.