Clive Cussler - Treasure of Khan

She looked quizzically at a mangled aluminum frame that was roped to Dirk's surfboard, which she noticed was pummeled in several places.

"And what happened to your board?"

"Sis," Dirk said with a shrug, "it's a long story."

The hands of the clock had stopped. Or so it seemed to Theresa. She knew that the constant glances at the ornate timepiece on the wall of Borjin's study only acted to slow its movements. The pending attempt at escape was making her nervous until she finally willed herself to stop staring at the clock and at least pretend to focus on the geological report in front of her.

It was the second straight day they had worked into the night, sequestered in the study with only a break for meals. Unbeknown to their captors, Theresa and Wofford had actually completed the drilling analysis hours before. They feigned continued work in hopes that their evening escort would be just one guard, as occurred the night before. One of the two guards stationed at the door had disappeared after their dinner was cleared away, raising their prospects for escape.

Theresa glanced at Wofford, who was digesting a seismic-imaging report with an almost-happy glow.

He had marveled at the detailed imaging that von Wachter's technology had produced and devoured the profiles like a hog at Sunday brunch. Theresa quietly wished she could push the fear out of her mind as easily as Wofford seemed to.

The clock's hands were creeping past nine when Tatiana entered the study, dressed in black slacks and a matching light-wool sweater. Her long hair was combed neatly, and she wore a dazzling gold amulet around her neck. Her attractive external appearance, Wofford judged, was not enough to mask the cold and emotionless personality that ticked within.

"You have completed the analysis?" she asked bluntly.

"No," Wofford replied. "These additional profiles have impacted our earlier assumptions. We need to make further adjustments in order to optimize the drilling prospects."

"How long will this take?"

Wofford yawned deeply for effect. "Three or four hours should put us pretty close."

Tatiana glanced at the clock. "You may resume in the morning. I will expect you to complete the assessment and brief my brother at noon."

"Then we will be driven to Ulaanbaatar?" Theresa asked.

"Of course," Tatiana replied with a thin smile that bled insincerity.

Turning her back, she spoke briefly to the guard at the door then vanished down the hallway. Theresa and Wofford made a slow show of restacking the reports and cleaning up the worktable, stalling for time as best they could. Their best chance, perhaps their only chance, was if they remained alone and unseen with the guard.

After stalling as long as they dared without appearing obvious, they stood up and stepped toward the door. Wofford scooped up a stack of files to take with him, but the guard pointed at the reports and shook his head. Dropping the reports on the table, Wofford grabbed his cane and hobbled out the door with Theresa, the guard following on their heels.

Theresa's heart was racing as they walked down the long corridor. The house was quiet and the lights were turned low, lending the appearance that Tatiana and Borjin had retired to their private quarters in the south wing. The emptiness was broken when the short doorman popped out of a side room, holding a bottle of vodka. He gave a haughty glance to the captives, then scurried off toward the stairwell and the servants' quarters downstairs.

Wofford hobbled along with exaggerated effect, playing the role of harmless invalid to full effect.

Reaching the end of the main corridor, he slowed at the turn, quickly scanning the side passages to ensure there were no other guards or servants about. Passing through the foyer, Wofford waited until they were close to their rooms along the north hall before making his move.

By all appearances, it was simply a careless act. He poked his cane forward and a little out of line, tapping the ground in front of Theresa's right foot. Stepping forth, she caught her foot on the cane and lurched forward in a fall worthy of a Hollywood stuntman. Wofford followed suit, staggering forward as if to fall, then kneeling down on his good leg. He looked over at Theresa, who was sprawled flat on the floor, barely moving. It was up to the guard now.

As Wofford had predicted, the Mongolian guard proved himself more gentleman than barbarian and reached down to help Theresa up. Wofford waited until the guard grabbed Theresa's arm with both hands, then he sprang like a cat. Driving off his good leg, he jumped up and into the guard, whipping his cane up by the stock in a pendulum motion. The curved handle of the cane struck the guard flush under the chin, popping his head back. The force of the blow snapped the wooden cane in two, the loose handle clattering across the marble floor. Wofford watched as the guard's eyes glazed over before he tumbled backward to the ground.

Theresa and Wofford remained motionless in the still household, nervously waiting for a charge of guards down the corridor. But all remained quiet, the only sound in Theresa's ears being the loud thumping in her chest.

"You all right?" Wofford whispered, bending over to help Theresa to her feet.

"I'm fine. Is he dead?" she asked, pointing with a tentative finger at the prone guard.

"No, he's just resting." Wofford pulled out a drapery cord he had purloined from his room and quickly bound the guard's hands and feet. With Theresa's help, he dragged the man along the polished floor to the first of their rooms and across the threshold. Yanking a pillowcase off the bed, he gagged the guard's mouth with it, then closed the door and locked him inside.

"You ready to earn your pyromania stripes?" he asked Theresa.

She nodded nervously, and together they crept to the main foyer.

"Good luck," he whispered, then slipped behind a side column to wait.

Theresa had insisted that she return to the study alone. It made more sense, she convinced Wofford. He moved too slow and noisily on his game leg, which placed them both in greater jeopardy.

Hugging one wall, she scurried down the main corridor as quickly as she dared, stepping lightly on the stone floor. The hallway was still empty and quiet, save for the ticking pendulum of an old clock. Theresa quickly reached the study and ducked through its open door, thankful the guard had turned the lights off on the way out. The dark room gave her cover from the illuminated hallway, and she allowed herself a deep breath to help reduce the anxiety.

Feeling her way across the familiar room, she reached the rear bookcase. Grabbing a stack of books at random, she knelt down and began quietly tearing the pages out in handfuls, crumpling the sheets as they broke free of the bindings. Accumulating a small mound of kindling, she then built a pyramid-shaped stack of books around it, cracking open the spines and facing the loose pages inward. When she was satisfied with her handiwork, she stood and probed around the back of the study until finding a small corner table. Perched on the tabletop was a cigar humidor and a crystal decanter filled with cognac.

Theresa grabbed the decanter and began pouring its contents around the room, dumping the last quarter's worth onto her paper pyramid. She returned to the table and opened the humidor, feeling around inside until she found a box of matches that Wofford had discovered earlier. Gripping the matches tightly, she tiptoed to the front of the room and carefully peeked out the door. The main corridor was still quiet.

Creeping back to the book pile, she leaned over, lit one of the matches, and tossed it onto the cognac-soaked papers. There was no explosive ball of fire or immediate inferno, but just a small blue flame that traveled across the cognac-stained carpet like a river.