Opium Dream

Prologue

March

OUTSIDE THE frosted window, cotton batten snowflakes tumbled to the ground. Inside, the atmosphere was colder, despite a crackling fireplace. Liquor slopped over a shot glass as a stocky man in his fifties and a cheap suit poured a drink. He shoved the bottle toward a forest of others on the table. Around it sat six guests with frozen expressions.

"There’s no question about the ideogram?" he demanded.

A man about forty wearing a stylish leather jacket tapped one of two letters on the table. The report is from the museum. It confirms the Afghan’s guess.

The host shook his head. "And we reap the harvest while the Muslim world reaps a whirlwind. It is a beautiful plan! Thank you for bringing it to me. To all of us!"

He had addressed a tall, raw-boned man in his sixties with a handlebar mustache. The man nodded while the others murmured approval.

The host looked around the table. We’re … all … in agreement then…?

A shiver went through the air as each, in turn, raised his glass. A smile smeared across the host’s ruddy face. The monumental commitment made, the group, as one, warmed.

"What words will you use?" one of them asked.

The stocky man picked up the second letter. A coarse smile crept across his face. It’s stamped at the bottom, he slurred: ‘I … wish … peace … for … all … mankind.’

Laughter passed around the table with liquor bottles. While the guests became animated, the host retreated to the window. Pillows of snow bent pine bows but he didn’t see them. His eyes glazed as he peered beyond to the coming—glorious—events. The vision erupted a volcanic euphoria. It exploded in an epiphany: what he felt at that very moment had been experienced by only a handful of men throughout history. With a lava flow of emotion sweeping over him, he stumbled back to the table. As he raised his glass, the guests scrambled to their feet.

"For our success!"

They slammed back the toast. Cheers and rhythmic clapping were taken up as he crossed his arms and clumsily kicked up his legs.

So lost in reverie were they that they didn’t hear the quiet creak and click of the back door a room away, and the rapidly fading crunch of boots on the snow-packed path.

CHAPTER 1

Ho Chi Minh City

HEY, YOU! You have light?

I stopped and spun around, wet daydreams of Soon Song-Ee instantly dry. An edge in the voice sharpened my senses; Ho City is a place where one keeps a constant vigil. A Vietnamese male in ragged clothes and conical hat hurried to catch up.

You have light? he repeated.

That he didn’t hold a cigarette honed my survival instincts to a razor’s edge. We were in a deserted alley, a dog-leg from Ben Thanh Market behind, with a second dog-leg between us and the main boulevard of Le Loi ahead. He stopped 15 feet shy of me.

Of course, I replied, smiling. With my right hand—my left arm was curled around a bundle of army-surplus duffel bags—I dug into the pocket of my shorts for my BIC lighter. While wiggling it out, a half dozen multicolored condoms spilled onto the concrete. Ignoring them, I stepped forward raising the lighter—then felt a North Dakota chill blow down my neck as he yanked out a battle-scarred US Army .45. I stopped short.

Inexplicably, he wore a confused expression. What you name? he demanded.

My name…?

"Yes! He glanced over his shoulder. Anyone could stroll around the corner at any moment. Is you name Ree Liver?"

My mouth dropped. He knew my name. Lee Rivers. This wasn’t just another dong-a-dozen Saigon mugging.

No, I lied. "My name’s, uh, Mike … Mike Cheevers."

His hand dove into a pocket and yanked out a folded page. With surprise, I recognized it was from the Directory of the Foreign Correspondents Club of Thailand where I’m an associate member. With greater surprise, I knew from the head shots facing me that mine was on the other side—and that he was studying it. Frustration folding his face, he crammed it back into his pocket.

You wallet! He pointed at his splay-toed feet. Throw here!

I set my bags down and fished into my other pocket. My stuffed cobra-skin wallet fumbled and fell to the ground. I kicked it, but it stopped halfway between us. Go on. It won’t bite.

Snarling, he stepped forward and crouched with his eyes on me. He groped the concrete, couldn’t find it, then glanced down. The gun’s aim wavered to the right.

I jumped to the left and flicked the BIC. A stream of pepper spray splashed across his face as his head jerked up. He yelped and fired, the sound amplified by the alley’s high walls. An instant later my roundhouse kick skipped across the top of his hat, sending him sprawling—but still in possession of the gun. By the time he scrambled to his feet, I had raced to the forward dog-leg; I knew it wasn’t a Suzuki backfiring behind me because a chip flew off the wall near my head.

Dashing hat in hand and with arms pumping like a crazed man milking a giant cow, I exploded onto Le Loi’s jam-packed sidewalk. I ricocheted off a cart advertising Dung Gas Refills for real lighters, and tumbled ass over rice bowl onto a card table covered with counterfeit watches, collapsing the entire ensemble. After jumping to my feet, and with the proprietor’s screams stabbing my back, I dipsey-doodled between stalls flogging French bread and Coke can MiGs. After racing past the Rex Hotel, I slowed a block later to cross Dong Khoi across from the Continental Palace Hotel where I had checked in only two hours earlier.

My chest heaving, I scanned back over hundreds of bobbing heads. Satisfied I’d lost him, a smile jumped to my face. I’m long and lean and can run like a leopard.

Works first time, every time! I laughed as I pocketed my customized lighter and popped my hat back on. Then I remembered I’d had to abandon the duffel bags I’d purchased only minutes earlier, and there wasn’t time to buy replacements. Dammit, I swore—but just as quickly laughed again. Their loss had been worth it; there’s nothing I enjoy more than an adrenalin rush.

I strode past the hotel, pausing to collect my breath before The Deer Hunter, a bar a Texas spit beyond. My safari shirt was soaked with sweat as I checked behind me a last time before pushing through the door.

* * *

Even with my lousy sense of smell, the stench of stale beer, cigarettes, and sperm from the short-time room polluted my nostrils, but at least the dump was air-conditioned. I peered into the drab interior. The only thing more silent than a tomb is an empty bar—but then it wasn’t noon yet.

"Oy—Lee! a baritone with a Russian accent boomed. I almost forgot you’d have beard! Over here!"

I was wrong—the joint wasn’t empty. I had learned from a note waiting for me at the Continental that Boris Anklovitch wanted to meet me the moment I arrived. Unfortunately, I had to hustle a plane ticket back to Bangkok and buy those duffel bags first.

As my eyes adjusted, I made out two large figures at the far, short end of the bar running along the right wall. I slumped onto a stool next to Boris and pushed my sweaty hat aside. He wrapped his bear-sized paws around one of mine. I wasn’t the only one growing a beard, though his was still at the training bra stage.

"Finally, Lee! I’ve been waiting two weeks! Two weeks! Why don’t you carry cellphone in jungle?"

That’s one reason I go there—to get away from the fucking things.

When Boris laughed, his whole body laughed with him. He’s an ex-foreign correspondent who covered much of Asia for TASS. His last posting was our hometown—the Big Mango, Bangkok. Boris was now an antiquities collector. We share a passion for several of the ologies—anthropology, archaeology, especially gynecology. I’ve been piecing together anthropological and archaeological collections for years.

Boris often sought my advice dealing with New York and European galleries and auction houses, as well as museums worldwide.

Unfortunately, despite his marvelous passion, he was frequently broke; so many times did he fall for fakes that he lost credibility in the markets, and it’s a very small world. This forced him to fall back on freelancing for his old employer to put fried rice on the table.

He was middle-aged and had washed down a few perogis too many with a few vodkas too many. The rumpled field clothes he wore were as lumpy as his features; over his faded shirt he wore a fly fishing vest whose myriad pockets bulged with garlic bulbs. A T-34 tank could drive though the gap in his front teeth. He combed his thinning brown hair straight back with his fingers. His eyes were one of his best features—hazel and with a complete lack of guile. A quietly religious man, a gold Russian Orthodox cross hung from his neck.

His other best feature was his personality—gregarious and infectious. Russians emanate earthy warmth like the soft, summer soil of the steppes; Boris radiated that national heat like a pot-bellied samovar on the Trans-Siberian railway, a characteristic that made up for the many rough edges that endeared this big Russian Teddy bear of a man to me.

Thank God for Sergei here to visit teahouses with and play chess or I would have gone crazy waiting! Teahouses are synonymous with cheap brothels in Asia.

Boris’ omnipresent chess set lay atop a battered briefcase on the bar between them. It was a handsome, near full-size portable rendition with hand-carved ivory pieces. Each had a square peg on its base which fit into holes in a mother of pearl board. If a game was interrupted, the lid could close over the pieces, freezing them in mid-battle so the war could be continued later. It had been a farewell gift from Cairo’s Russian community following that posting.

Sergei Shewchuk … this is man I told you about. Lee Rivers.

Shewchuk, who had been eyeing me, offered a hand bearing a ruby ring large enough to choke a water buffalo. He was in his early forties with neatly trimmed dark hair and a strong jaw with a deep cleft. His smile revealed teeth as square as his shoulders and white as his Armani shirt, which didn’t look like a fake off the street. Disappointingly, his grip was limp.

You’re Russian? I asked. He didn’t look like the usual scruffy Slavs staggering through the bars, brothels, and backstreets of Southeast Asia.

My eyes were rapidly adjusting. Framed photos of Hueys, and grunts humping through rice paddies, were tacked to the tacky red walls. A dumpy bargirl sat in a booth painting her toenails.

Yes. When our military was stationed here, I worked as an engineer. He spoke with perfect grammar, if with that blocky Russian accent. Now I build apartment blocks in Vladivostok. I come here every year and rent an apartment for a month. His smile was as smooth as his tailoring.

Is good man, Boris said, as he finally recognized I was breathing hard. He invited me to stay with him, but I prefer hotel.

The bartendee, in an ao-dai, the sexy national dress, studied me before returning to her comic book. Besides being soaked with sweat, my safaris were grungy after a month in the jungle. I had hoped to shower before flying out; one reason I had booked into the Continental.

Russians stick together, Sergei grinned.

"Talking about stick together, what happened to you Lee?"

Not without excitement, I spread out the bare bones of the mugging as I dabbed my face with toilet paper from a dispenser. Ho City’s hotter than a toilet seat in hell, especially in mid-April.

Sergei’s face registered shock. He slipped half off his stool. If he’s blinded, maybe we can catch him!

Forget it, I laughed. It’s wall to wall Charlie out there.

He settled back reluctantly. How much money did he get?

Just 60,000 dong. Nothing. It was my mugger’s wallet. I keep my real one here. I patted my pickpocket-proof pocket. Oh, and I had to abandon some bags I was going to use to re-pack the collection I just brought out of the jungle. The present burlap would have to do.

Why not just give him mugger’s wallet then? Boris asked with concern while trying to attract the attention of the barkeepee. You’re crazy to fight man with gun!

I normally would have but something weird was going on. A nagging feeling whittled down my exhilaration.

What do you mean? Sergei pressed.

He knew my name. He also had a picture of me.

Sergei looked even more concerned. Perhaps he wanted to compare the picture with your face to be sure he had the right man. You told him you were someone else; maybe that’s why he wanted your wallet—to check your identification. Did you have a beard in the photograph?

No. Good point! I only grow them when I’m on expedition because shaving isn’t practical. Sergei’s analysis made good, obvious sense. Why the hell would I be fingered? And for what? The fun went out of the escape, like air from a balloon.

Boris said, I bet is because you come through Ho City many times carrying cash for expeditions! Someone learned this and hired thug to rob you. How many times have you passed through?

Perhaps a dozen.

Boris slapped his hands together—causing the tapgirl to jump. Unable to ignore him any longer, she set her comic aside.

"Oy! There you go! Is miracle you weren’t marked man after two trips!"

It made sense, too. A growing dread receded. "I shouldn’t be surprised. We Honkys stand out like sore thumbs. In future I’ll have to wear a disguise or something. Shit!"

Since Vietnam opened up it’s been a gold-mine for me. There are 54 ethnic groups—mostly hilltribes. With Thailand having less than a dozen and China only 56, you have an idea of how culturally rich this country is, and the opportunities presented to an anthropologist. And none of the tribes had seen one in decades—if ever. They didn’t accept Visa, of course, forcing me to carry bags of dong. The bulky money was a distinctly added risk—but the world’s museums lined up offering me contracts for ethnographic collections.

This one had been for the Smithsonian Institution. I’d been on an expedition among the Hmong, weaving together a 3,000-piece textile collection displaying their brilliant embroidery.

"Oy! Finally Miss Saigon 1962!"

She had shuffled over. You want dink? she asked me with disdain.

She presumed I was also Lien Xo—Russian. Vietnamese loathe Russians for being cheap.

"Da, I replied. Bah ii bah, and bring another round for my friends."

With a curl of her lips, she shuffled away to fetch a cold can of 33 and two more vodkas.

You should have told mugger you were Russian, too! Boris laughed while Sergei smiled stiffly. "He would have run away!"

Actually, I told him I was Snake. I named my best friend—Mike Cheevers—an Aussie based in Manila.

Snake was lined up in my mind right behind Soon Song-Ee because we had an expedition slated immediately after I wiped off the present one. A scowl passed over Boris’ face; I had forgotten that the last time he and Snake had met, three months earlier at the Club, Snake had drawn blood with a cutting remark about Boris cadging drinks. It had been my last night before flying to Papua New Guinea and an expedition among the Huli.

Our drinks arrived and Miss Saigon shoved the bill into a plastic cup in front of me. Boris reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a head of garlic and what he called his Egyptian Army knife—a knapped flint blade. He skinned two cloves and dropped them into Sergei’s and his drinks. Russian ice cubes! he laughed.

Sergei joined in but it seemed strained. I chuckled, winding down after my narrow escape. After they’d tossed their drinks back, I nodded to Sergei. You seem upset by my little adventure. Surely the crime rate wasn’t any different when you were stationed here?

No, it’s the same. It’s just that after leaving Russia on vacation to escape the crime, it’s upsetting to find it as bad here. And I’m wearing expensive clothes. That makes me a target, too. He checked his Rolex and slipped off his stool. Boris, I promised Yuri we’d have lunch on the Rex Terrace. We’ll meet later to finish the game?

If is time, Sergei. I have to go to Bangkok now that Lee is here, so he can help me sell those Khmer stone heads I told you about. Call me at Continental. If I can’t get flight today, tonight we can finish.

I cringed. Faking ancient stone Khmer heads is a cottage industry. Trust Boris to fall for the oldest antiquities scam in Southeast Asia.

Are you in Ho City for a while, Lee? Sergei asked while tallying bills. Boris was pleased his countryman covered the tab.

My plane leaves this afternoon. I glanced at my dive watch and cringed again; Boris had waited two weeks—and I could spare him only a half hour.

That’s a pity. You live an interesting life. I’d love to ask you so many questions. He flashed his perfect smile. Be careful. He hurried out the door.

"Boris, tell me about your new wealthy Russian friends."

"I met Sergei at Continental bar shortly after I arrived. Is good to have someone to speak fluid Russian with. He laughed, indicating his vodka glass. Yuri Igorov is part of local Russian community; exports rice to Russia. I was happy to meet Russians—especially since they have Russian cigarettes. Boris pulled out a white and blue pack of Belomors—the kind with a hollow tube with an inch of tobacco at one end—from behind a nerd pack. Also, is not good idea to travel around Ho City alone, as you find out—and Yuri is good man to be with. Shoulders like this!"

It’s always disappointing to have confirmed that the real jungle is in the city and that the jungle itself is safe.

Month in jungle is long time, Boris said with a wink as he folded his chess set. Monkeys must look sexy.

A month without being laid was a long time—and moist thoughts of Soon set Ol’ Thunder twitching in my shorts again. I’ll be seeing Soon in Bangkok soon. And none too soon either.

The scowl returned. Boris was a man unable to hide his emotions. You are still going with— He caught himself. Sorry. She is your girlfriend. Sorry. Is none of my business!

That last time I’d gotten together that time with Boris and Snake, I had introduced Soon. Boris had accidentally let loose with a ripper, which embarrassed him to no end. To my chagrin, she had been condescending. Sensitivity wasn’t Soon’s strong suit—though it was Boris’. To assuage his present discomfort, I reached into the cargo pocket of my shorts and pulled out a shoulder bag.

I brought this for you. The Hmong call it a money bag, though I don’t know why. Theirs is mostly a barter economy.

His face opened up like a sunflower. He slid his chess set into it. Is perfect fit! Thank you! Now all I need is money to put in it, too!

I wanted to ask you about that. You have a windfall? The Continental isn’t cheap. Boris’ parsimoniousness being legendary, I was curious what had brought him to Ho City to intercept me when he could have waited in the Mango—or taken Sergei’s offer to camp at his apartment.

He leaned into me, his garlicky breath almost knocking me off my stool. I gave up my apartment and sold my inventory. I got few thousand dollars. I am gambling everything on this—he winked again—"find."

Find? I glanced at my watch again. Boris, I’m sorry but I have a flight to catch and I’ve got less than a half hour before I head to the airport. What did you want to see me about? You mentioned Khmer heads….

"Is nothing to do with that, he whispered. You know they’re mostly fake, don’t you? I just told that to Sergei. Nok—Boris named my house manager—wasn’t sure if you planned to fly directly from Ho City to Washington, or if you are returning to Bangkok first. I couldn’t take chance missing you. He told me where you are staying, so I flew here to be sure I saw you as soon as possible."

"You’re making it sound awfully important."

The twinkle in his eyes told me it was. To my surprise, he grabbed my chit. "Drinks on me!"

This time Miss Saigon hurried over as Boris carefully counted out money. Here—he laughed, passing it to her—hold my dong.

She’d heard that chestnut before, gave him a tired smile, and snatched the cup away.

We’ll go to your room, Lee. I have something to show you. It won’t take long. He patted his briefcase while folding an ample wing over it. By the way, I am glad you grow beard.

He didn’t hear me ask why because Miss Saigon spat at our retreating backs as we pushed through the door. You number ten cheap Charlie!

We have old saying in Russia. Boris chortled as the sun’s naked force hit us like a Nagasaki-Class blast. Difference between Russian and bottle of vodka is vodka tip!

CHAPTER 2

The Continental Shelf

NOW, WHAT’S so doubly important, I said as I corralled two White Horse Scotches into tumblers and fed them ice, "that you actually flew?"

The free Scotch was why he chose my room. But besides being tight-fisted, Boris had a formidable fear of flying: something to do with getting shot down during the Afghan-Russian War he covered. He knew what I meant.

I’m getting over it! He had set his briefcase on the teak coffee table and was closing the shutters. The room was French-Colonial huge, with a brass fan lazily circling on the high ceiling. Sacks of the embroidery collection were stacked everywhere. First, let’s make sure we are not being eavesdropped on. Turn on TV.

Trust a paranoid Russian to worry about bugs. To humor him, I sat and clicked on the remote. It was tuned to CNN. An Oxford accent cut through the now muffled orchestra of horns and cyclo bells emanating from the street. Hey! Look who’s on! It’s Eboni!

Standing six-feet-tall, Eboni Whyte was blessed with fine Nubian features with high cheekbones and a model’s figure and grace. With formidable interview skills, she sautéed warlords and rampaging dictators from the Sudan to Bosnia to Chechnya—all attracted to her like moths to a blowtorch. Such was her impact—this beautiful, black, brilliant woman challenging powerful men, and doing stand-up in the midst of smoking tanks and mayhem—that her Eboni Live on CNN was an international sensation. And live it was, each week blanketing the globe. It was the highest rated show in the world.

Not bad for a woman 32 years old. She also possessed an eclectic fashion sense that was the subject of tabloids, with her passing through periods favoring baseball uniforms, then sailor, another time Sherpa. She’d look good in anything, Snake once mused. Especially my bed.

She gravitated to Bangkok whenever possible—for the Big Mango attracts the most fascinating and adventurous people on the planet. That’s how we had met, at the Club six months before. I’d just returned from an expedition and had my customary jungle beard; she was in her flight suit period. To my surprise, she was with Boris; they had known each other since his Egyptian station. He had introduced us.

We spent the next hour in conversation until I had to crowbar myself away to catch a flight. I’d found her to possess a happy, confident disposition, a quick wit and one of the clearest, most engaging minds I’d encountered. To say that I was attracted was an understatement; I was flattered she seemed to take a like interest in me. I thumbed up the sound:

…startling top secret summit meeting in Tehran of the leaders of Iran, Iraq, Libya, and Syria—the Extremist states—hosted by the Iranian leader concluded today.

What could have brought some of the former enemies together is not known, as the contents of the meeting were not divulged. In a move with precedents in Middle Eastern politics, reporters—excepting CNN’s—were barred from the nation. However, severe restrictions impeded our ability to cover the Tehran Conference. Throughout, I was restricted to the Hotel Esteghlal.

Middle East politics, despite the ineffably beautiful Eboni, bores the hell out of me. "Boris, let’s— ’

Hush please. Is my old beat.

Our role has been limited to publicizing a joint statement holding out an olive branch to the Moderate Arab states. It calls for a top-level meeting of all Arab leaders for the purpose of reconciliation.

Initial reaction throughout the Moderate Arab world has been a swift rejection. What is behind the Extremists’ sweeping move is the subject of considerable debate.

This is Eboni Whyte, Live on CNN, reporting from—

Hmmm, is fascinating.

To each his own. Let’s hear about this find of yours.

Lee … is discovery of a lifetime, Boris said, his voice cracking with emotion as he flopped down on the sofa opposite me and clicked open his briefcase. "No, is find of two lifetimes—yours and mine. Look!"

He fanned out a sheaf of five-by-seven-inch glossies on the coffee table. They were of a crude archaeological dig. The top photo displayed a trench perhaps seven-by-fourteen feet and eight feet deep. In it stood four pairs of statues in a row facing the same direction. From the height of Afghans standing over the site brandishing AK-47s, their faces hidden by shawls, the statues appeared to be almost lifesize. I looked up at Boris sharply. This was not one of his follies.

What are they?

Terracotta is what letter says.

That’s not what I meant, but I didn’t say so. Instead, my eyes burned back into the pictures. They look similar to the terracotta warriors of Xi’an!

One of archaeology’s greatest discoveries occurred in 1974 when Chinese farmers digging a well hit on a treasure trove of terracotta warriors buried near the tomb of Qin Shihuangdi. Qin, 259-210 B.C., was the first emperor and the builder of the Great Wall.

Boris broke into a broad, gap-toothed grin. "Da! But look at features."

Boris has a talent for physical anthropology. I flipped through to some close-ups.

…They’re Mongolian!

Not all. He pulled a scratched magnifying glass out of his case. Here. Look more carefully at front two statues.

From the ornate brocade and regal bearing, they were clearly officials, though their goofy headdresses indicated different ranks. You’re right, the more important one looks Mongolian, but the other is Chinese. I focused on another photo. But the next two pairs, these soldiers, are undoubtedly Mongolian. Look at that circular chest plate! I swept up a picture of the rear pair—and blinked. Bulked by brocade, they were of beautiful women. One’s Chinese, the other Mongolian.

I looked up at Boris’ smiling face again, then back down to the photographs.

"Da. I think is concubines, and men in front are harem keepers and guards. He took a quick swig of Scotch. Look at statues emerging from soil at back of dig: another pair of women."

I did, then sat back, stunned.

I knew this would be your reaction, Boris said happily.

What’s the story?

He leaned forward, blasting me with 5.8 Richters of his garlicky breath which, for a change, I hardly noticed. His resonant voice dropped to a whisper. Is suspected to be Kublai Khan’s burial site. In Afghanistan. "What!"

Keep voice down!

"You’re saying there’s a terracotta army down there, too?" I couldn’t hide my skepticism; Boris had a history of screwing things up.

From his nerd pack, he extracted eyeglasses with elastic bands in place of arms. He stretched the bands around his ears and consulted notes.

Is possible. Kublai lived from 1216-1294 A.D. He was khan that conquered China. Obviously he learned how Qin, the most famous emperor until Kublai himself, was entombed. And I think Kublai copied his burial style.

"But Afghanistan? I reached into the dusty drawers of my memory. When Kublai croaked, didn’t they plant him in Mongolia? I recall him being buried on the steppes like his granddaddy Genghis … and thousands of horsemen riding over the site to obliterate it…? Neither has been found."

Shhhh! I think is what we’ve been led to believe! Stop to consider: Genghis conquered empire twice size of Roman, and is passed down to Kublai. Kublai made his biggest empire world has known! He paused. And we don’t know where is either tomb? Is not strange?

I’ve often thought about it. They’re archaeology’s greatest prizes—especially Kublai’s.

Remember when Genghis swept through Afghanistan in about 1220 A.D. he slaughtered over a million people—annihilated almost whole country…? I think he did that to clear area for his tomb.

…You’re speculating he—then Kublai—had themselves buried there, in the most remote, empty corner of their empires to fool grave robbers…?

Boris grinned. And I think we have found one of them.

What’s at the site to support this?

He shuffled through the photographs. Here! Is close-up of same Chinese characters on base of each statue! Artists didn’t sign their work so it must be—

The name of who this bunch is accompanying into the hereafter! My eyes were to the magnifying glass. I looked up sharply again. "And it is Kublai’s…? You’ve had the ideogram translated?"

"Nyet. But my friend who mailed these to me thinks is Kublai. I’m sure you know scholar at one of your museums?"

Larry King announced his upcoming guest.

Of course, I replied, though I was disappointed. I scrutinized another photo. Taken a distance from the site, it revealed no landmarks—just flat, saltpan wastes. It made me wonder how the find had been made. I sat back.

"Boris, this is … incredible. I’m skeptical that it’s Kublai Khan, but whatever this is, it’s still one hell of a find! Even if they belong to a nobody, they could be the find of the century. King Tut was unheard of until Howard Carter discovered him." I couldn’t tell him how Tut was really found; that story would take up another book….

Boris snapped off his glasses and nodded eagerly.

How did you get onto it? You mentioned a friend.

He motioned me closer. By now I was oblivious to his breath. When I covered Afghanistan for TASS, I made good friends with deputy curator of National Museum. He lowered his voice further. His name is Hasheem. Here, I have old picture.

From his briefcase, Boris extracted a worn clipping from News from Abroad, Pravda’s weekly supplement, with his byline on it. The photograph portrayed a young man with startling green eyes standing in a dreary office; he wore a tweed jacket with elbow patches. A quiet confidence emanated from the relaxed figure. But he couldn’t have been over 25, and I said so.

He comes from influential family—his father was minister in last Russian supported government. But Hasheem’s job not just patronage position. He has degree in history. Is expert on invaders of his land.

"And he thinks the ideogram is Kublai Khan’s?"

"Da. But because Taleban destroyed museums and research books, he can’t verify."

What happened to him when the Russians pulled out in ’89? And during the Taleban years?

Boris’ visage darkened. Hasheem was in tough position. He was not communist but seen as such because of his father. His whole family—parents, wife, child—was slaughtered while he was away.

Heavy. How did he handle that?

I don’t really know. He never talked about it—I think because it hurt too much. He escaped to his grandparents at Quetta, Pakistan, and laid low. With Afghan-Russian War over, TASS transferred me to Bangkok. After few letters we lost touch—until two and a half weeks ago! I was very surprised, and happy! And now I have phone number to contact him, too!

Boris dug into his case again and pulled out the large manila envelope the glossies must have come in and passed it to me. It was covered in cancelled Pakistani stamps and was postmarked Quetta. It had been addressed to Boris c/o Itar-TASS in Moscow. His sometime employer had forwarded it to him in Bangkok. I slipped out the letter written on coarse paper.

Uh, it’s in English, but his handwriting’s worse than mine.

Give to me. I’ll tell you what he says. He fumbled his glasses back on. … Uh … only since Taleban thrown out has he dared move back to Afghanistan. He’s in Kandahar, and is leader of growing group. They call themselves ‘Seed of New Genesis.’

"A cult…?"

Boris looked as puzzled as I. Maybe. Hasheem does have quiet charisma, and is mystic with eccentric views. Is very sensitive man. Is attractive trait in such violent land.

Does the letter explain how he found the site?

… Uh, Hasheem writes he and his men is digging in southern desert six weeks ago to bury cache of food, medicine, and weapons—

So he’s one of the factions fighting for power then?

Boris looked at me blankly. Anyway, several feet down, they hit statues. He can smuggle out two dozen. He wants to sell them to museums. Do you think is possible?

"Possible? If this is Kublai’s gravesite, every museum in the