Treasure of Khan (Dirk Pitt 19)

FIVE THOUSAND MILES TO the east, Pitt and Giordino tramped into the lobby of the Continental Hotel in Ulaanbaatar looking like a pair of worn saddlebags. Their wrinkled clothes were laden in dust, which permeated their hair, skin, and shoes. Sunbaked blisters tainted the portion of their faces where scraggly growths of beard failed to sprout. All that was missing was a circle of flies buzzing around their heads. The hotel manager looked down his nose with disdain as the two stragglers approached the front desk with bleary eyes.

"Any messages for rooms 4024 or 4025?" Pitt asked, his white teeth sparkling brightly behind his blistered lips.

The desk manager raised a brow in recognition, then briefly retreated to a small side room.

"One message and a delivery, sir," he said, handing Pitt a slip of paper and a small box plastered with overnight-shipping labels.

Pitt took the message and handed the package to Giordino while stepping away from the desk.

"It's from Corsov," he said quietly to Giordino.

"Pray tell, what does our favorite KGB agent have to say?"

"He was called away to a Foreign Ministry conference in Irkutsk. Sends his regards, hopes our foray south was productive. He'll contact us in a few days when he gets back to town."

"Very polite of him," Giordino said with a touch of sarcasm. "I wonder if Theresa and Jim will have the luxury of awaiting his return." He ripped open the overnight package, revealing an old leather book and a heavy jar of vitamins. A small card fell out, which he picked up and handed to Pitt.

"From the wife?"

Pitt nodded, silently reading the handwritten note inside.

Your favorite book, along with some extra vitamins to keep you healthy. Please use sparingly, my love.

The kids send their best from Hawaii. They have created quite a stir by discovering an old wreck. Washington is a bore without you, so hurry home.

Loren

"A book and vitamins? Not very romantic of Mrs. Pitt," Giordino chided.

"Ah, but it is my favorite story. Always packs a wallop." Pitt held up the leather-bound novel, displaying the spine to Giordino.

"Melville's Moby-Dick. A tasteful choice," Giordino said, "though the adventures of Archie and Veronica work fine for me."

Pitt opened the book and flipped through the pages until a cutout section revealed itself. Buried in the center of the mock book was a Colt .45 automatic.

"I see she comes with a harpoon, Ahab," Giordino whispered, letting out a low whistle.

Pitt popped open the vitamin bottle cap, displaying a dozen or so .45 caliber rounds that matched the Colt.

"Wouldn't a congresswoman get in a bit of trouble for shipping firearms around the world?" Giordino asked.

"Only if she got caught," Pitt smiled, sealing the bottle and closing the book.

"With a little canned heat, there's no sense in waiting for Corsov," Giordino urged.

Pitt shook his head slowly. "Nope, I think we make for a quick turnaround. It probably wouldn't be safe lolling about here for long anyway, once Borjin fails to hear back from his Buddhist hit man."

"A shower and a beer should aid the planning process."

"First some facts," Pitt said, walking to a cramped business center off the main lobby. He fished into his

pocket and pulled out the silver pendant taken from Borjin's lab and laid it on a copy machine. He scribbled a note on the resulting photocopy, then fed it through an adjacent fax machine, dialing up a long-distance number by rote. He then fed the pages from the seismic-imaging manual through the fax, dialing a second number.

"That ought to keep a few pair of idle hands out of the devil's workshop," he said to himself as he made his way up to his room.

• • • •

The exterior of the Georgetown carriage house looked like any other upscale residence in the swanky quarter of Washington, D.C. The weathered-brick structure had freshly painted eaves, its nineteenth-century glass windows were sparkling clean, and the small surrounding yard was neatly manicured. It was a stark contrast to the home's interior, which resembled the book depository for the New York Public Library. Polished wooden bookshelves lined nearly every wall in the house, each packed to the brim with historical books on ships and seafaring. More books littered the dining table and the kitchen counters, in addition to strategic stockpiles at various locales on the floor. The home's eccentric owner, St. Julien Perlmutter, wouldn't want it any other way. Books were a major passion for one of the nation's preeminent maritime historians, who had assembled a reference collection that librarians and private collectors salivated over. Generous with his archives, he gladly shared his knowledge and resources with those like him who had a love of the sea.