Clive Cussler - Treasure of Khan

"Maybe they're asleep," he offered.

"No," Pitt replied. "There is no odor either."

Pitt had visited enough farms and ranches to know that the smell of manure was never far from a herd of livestock. He took a few steps forward, creeping up slowly until he stood alongside the three animals.

The creatures showed no fear, remaining still even as Pitt swatted one on its furry rump. Giordino looked on in shock as Pitt then grabbed one of the animals around the neck and shoved. The camel didn't resist at all but keeled stiffly over onto its side. Giordino ran over and stared at the animal, which lay motionless on its back with its legs in the air. Only they weren't legs sticking up but pieces of two-by-fours.

The fallen camel, like the rest of the herd, was made of wood.

Disappeared? What do you mean they disappeared?" As Borjin's anger rose, a vein in the shape of an earthworm protruded from the side of his neck. "Your men tracked them into the desert!"

Though he physically towered over Borjin, the gruff head of security wilted like a shrinking violet under his boss's tirade.

"Their tracks simply vanished into the sand, sir. There was no indication they were picked up by another vehicle. They were fifty kilometers from the nearest village, which was to the east as they were traveling south. Their prospects for survival in the Gobi are nonexistent," Batbold said quietly.

Tatiana stood listening at the bar in the corner of the study, mixing a pair of vodka martinis. Handing a glass to her brother, she took a sip from her own drink, then asked, "Were they spies for the Chinese?"

"No," Batbold replied. "I don't believe so. The two men apparently bribed their way onto the Mongolian state security escort. The Chinese delegation seemed not to notice their absence from the motorcade when they departed. It is noteworthy that they also match the description of the two men who broke into our storage facility in Ulaanbaatar two nights ago."

"The Chinese would not have been so clumsy," Borjin commented.

"The men were not Chinese. I saw them myself. They looked Russian. Though Dr. Gantumur at the laboratory claimed they spoke to him in English with an American accent."

Tatiana suddenly choked on her drink, setting the glass down and coughing to clear her throat.

"Americans?" she stammered. "What did they look like?"

"From what I saw out the window, one was tall and lean with black hair while the other was short and robust with dark curly hair," Borjin said.

Batbold nodded. "Yes, that is an accurate description," he mumbled, neglecting to relay how close he was to the two men when he got clobbered by the shovel.

"Those sound like the men from NUMA," Tatiana gasped. "Dirk Pitt and Al Giordino. They were the ones who rescued us from the fishing boat on Baikal. The same men who came aboard the Primoski and captured the Russian scientist shortly before we departed Siberia."

"How did they track you here?" Borjin asked sternly.

"I do not know. Perhaps through the lease of the Primoski."

"They have stuck their noses where they don't belong. Where did they go in the compound?" he asked, turning to Batbold.

"They drove into the garage with a flat tire, then entered the research facility. Dr. Gantumur phoned security immediately, so they were only in the lab a few minutes. They somehow eluded the responding guards, and were probably examining the residence when you spotted them entering the sanctuary."

Borjin's face flushed with anger, the vein on his neck rising to new heights.

"They are hunting for the oil company employees, I am certain," Tatiana said. "They know nothing of our work. Do not worry, my brother."

"You should have never brought those people here in the first place," he hissed.

"It is your fault," Tatiana roared back. "If you hadn't killed the Germans before they fully assessed the field data, we would not have needed further assistance."

Borjin glared at his sister, refusing to admit the truth of her words. "Then these oil people must be eliminated, too. Have them accelerate the analysis, I wish them gone by the end of the week," he said, his eyes raging with fire.

"Do not worry. The Americans know nothing of our work. And they will not survive to talk anyway."

"Perhaps you are right," he replied, his temper cooling. "These men of the sea are a long ways from the water now. But just to be sure they stay that way, send the monk down there immediately for insurance,"

he added, speaking to Batbold.

"A prudent decision, brother."

"To their dry and dusty demise," he mused now, raising his glass and sipping the martini.

Tatiana swallowed the rest of her drink but silently wondered if the demise of the Americans would come as predicted. They were determined men, she had come to realize, who would not face death easily.

***

It felt as though they were walking through the back-lot set of a Hollywood western, only they were surrounded by camels instead of cattle. Climbing through a fenced corral, Pitt and Giordino were amused to see a large trough to water the wooden livestock. The early-morning sun cast long shadows from the large immobile herd that was strategically placed around the village. Pitt gave up counting when he reached a hundred head of the prop camels.

"Reminds me of that guy in Texas who has all those Cadillacs half buried in his yard," Giordino said.

"I don't think these were put out here for art, if that's what you call it."

They made their way to the nearest ger, which was more than double the standard size. The circular felt tent was nearly a hundred feet across and stood over ten feet tall. Pitt found a white-painted entry door, which on all Mongol gers faced south. Rapping his knuckles on the doorframe, he shouted a cheery

"Hello." The thin doorframe didn't flex at all under his knocking, which echoed with a deep resonance.

Pitt placed his hand against the felt wall and pushed. Rather than simply a forgiving layer of canvas over felt, the wall was backed by something hard and solid.

"The big bad wolf couldn't blow this thing down," he said.

Grabbing an edge of the canvas covering, he ripped a small section off the wall. Beneath was a thin layer of felt, which he also tore away. Under the layer of felt he exposed a cold metal surface painted white.

"It's a storage tank," Pitt said, touching the metal side.

"Water?"

"Or oil," Pitt replied, stepping back and eyeing the other phony gers dotting the encampment.

"They may be large by nomadic-tent standards, but they are still relatively small for oil tanks," Giordino remarked.

"I bet we're only seeing the tip of the iceberg. These things might be buried thirty or forty feet down, and we're only seeing the tops."

Giordino scuffed the ground and loosened a small rock, which he picked up and rapped against the tank. A deep empty echo reverberated through the tank.

"She's empty." He took a half step, then lobbed the rock at the next closest ger. The stone bounced off the side, producing a similar pinging sound.

"Empty as well," he said.

"So much for your pot of coffee," Pitt replied.

"Why would some empty oil tanks in the middle of nowhere be disguised as a fake village?"

"We may not be far from the Chinese border," Pitt said. "Maybe someone is concerned about the Chinese stealing their oil? I'd guess the target audience is an aerial survey or satellite imaging, at which heights this place would look pretty authentic."

"The wells must not have panned out if these tanks are all dry."

Wandering around the phony village, the men realized there was no food or water to be found and the mystery lost its allure. They worked their way through the string of fakers, hoping to find some emergency supplies or something more than an empty oil tank. But all the tents were the same, masking large metal tanks half buried in the sand. Only at the very last tent did they find that the door actually opened, revealing a pumping station dug twenty feet into the ground. A maze of pipes led to the other storage tanks, fed from a single four-foot-diameter inlet pipe that protruded from beneath the desert floor.