Tibetan tapestries.”
They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks.
“Ah, Ying Ko,” Khan said, “grown men still shiver at the mere mention of your name. Your raid on the village of Barga?—a master stroke. Swift, vicious, preemptive. I made a keen study of it. You are, I must confess, my idol.” Khan appraised Cranston’s expression, pleased to see a glimmer of pride. “Ah, so you remember it.”
“It . . . rings a bell.”
“A bell?” Khan said in exaggerated disbelief. “To be sure, a Neban bell from the Temple of the Cobras.” He set the glass down on a pedestal that supported a Greco-Roman bronze, and walked into the control room.
Again, Cranston followed. “So tell me, what brings you to the Big Apple—aside from an elaborate coffin, I mean.”
Khan smiled faintly. “Why, destiny, of course. Temüjin conquered half the known world in his lifetime. His descendant Qubilai Khan went on to conquer most of China, including Tibet. I intend to finish the job.”
Cranston considered it. “Yes, but if I’m not mistaken, your ancestors were backed by armies of one hundred thousand Mongol horsemen and an infantry of Chinese bowmen. How do you plan to do it?”
Khan’s ambiguous smile held. By now he had circled through the stairwell arches and was back in the sitting room. “If I told you, Ying Ko, it wouldn’t be a surprise. But know this much: I traveled from Asia in the holy crypt of Kha Khan in order to absorb his power. In three days, on the day of the Chinese New Year and on the anniversary of his birth in the Year of the Swine, the entire world will hear my roar and willingly fall subject to the hidden empire of Shang-tu—what you in the West call Xanadu.”
He paused for a moment, peering intently at Cranston. “That’s a lovely tie, by the way. May I ask where you acquired it?”
Cranston fingered the Windsor knot. “Brooks Brothers.”
“Is that Midtown?”
“Forty-fifth and Madison,” Cranston said in a rush; then: “You—” gesturing with a forefinger “—are a barbarian.”
“Thank you,” Khan returned, sounding as if he meant it. “We both are.” He closed on Cranston. “I know that inside you lies a lake of darkness. You dip into it every time you put on the hat and cloak of your alter ego. Veiling your mouth, encircling your ring finger, moving in anonymity . . . Just as you were instructed to do to ward off possession by evil.”
Without warning, he took hold of Cranston’s wrist, holding on to him while he continued, hissing rapid words, low and urgent.
“Join me, Ying Ko, despoiler of Barga, butcher of Lhasa. You, and only you, deserve to rule by my side.”
Cranston broke free, even while deliberately allowing himself to be backed against the wall where the sitting room and control room met.
“Together, we’ll pit armies against one another, as in a game of chess,” Khan was saying. “We’ll collect our due of pain; we’ll bathe our hands in blood. Your mouth still waters at the prospect of real power. I’m offering you a chance to recapture your past. Become my partner, Ying Ko!”
Cranston’s back was to the wall now. “I don’t answer to that name any longer.”
“What’s in a name, Lamont Cranston ?” Khan motioned broadly to the control room. “Would you deny that this, all this, your entire mechanism for fighting crime, was financed by opium? Would you deny that you had a hand in creating the addiction for heroin that has settled as a plague on your precious America?”
In one rapid motion, Cranston kicked an area of the block wall at knee level, exposing a secret compartment whose door was hinged along the bottom edge. Reaching down, his left hand took hold of a nickel-plated, nacre-handled automatic—his never-before-flourished ace in the hole for just such an occasion.
But Khan seemed to have second-guessed him. He was standing by one of the shaft’s arches, his hand at the sash of his tunic. “For the bourbon,” he said,
They clinked glasses and sipped their drinks.
“Ah, Ying Ko,” Khan said, “grown men still shiver at the mere mention of your name. Your raid on the village of Barga?—a master stroke. Swift, vicious, preemptive. I made a keen study of it. You are, I must confess, my idol.” Khan appraised Cranston’s expression, pleased to see a glimmer of pride. “Ah, so you remember it.”
“It . . . rings a bell.”
“A bell?” Khan said in exaggerated disbelief. “To be sure, a Neban bell from the Temple of the Cobras.” He set the glass down on a pedestal that supported a Greco-Roman bronze, and walked into the control room.
Again, Cranston followed. “So tell me, what brings you to the Big Apple—aside from an elaborate coffin, I mean.”
Khan smiled faintly. “Why, destiny, of course. Temüjin conquered half the known world in his lifetime. His descendant Qubilai Khan went on to conquer most of China, including Tibet. I intend to finish the job.”
Cranston considered it. “Yes, but if I’m not mistaken, your ancestors were backed by armies of one hundred thousand Mongol horsemen and an infantry of Chinese bowmen. How do you plan to do it?”
Khan’s ambiguous smile held. By now he had circled through the stairwell arches and was back in the sitting room. “If I told you, Ying Ko, it wouldn’t be a surprise. But know this much: I traveled from Asia in the holy crypt of Kha Khan in order to absorb his power. In three days, on the day of the Chinese New Year and on the anniversary of his birth in the Year of the Swine, the entire world will hear my roar and willingly fall subject to the hidden empire of Shang-tu—what you in the West call Xanadu.”
He paused for a moment, peering intently at Cranston. “That’s a lovely tie, by the way. May I ask where you acquired it?”
Cranston fingered the Windsor knot. “Brooks Brothers.”
“Is that Midtown?”
“Forty-fifth and Madison,” Cranston said in a rush; then: “You—” gesturing with a forefinger “—are a barbarian.”
“Thank you,” Khan returned, sounding as if he meant it. “We both are.” He closed on Cranston. “I know that inside you lies a lake of darkness. You dip into it every time you put on the hat and cloak of your alter ego. Veiling your mouth, encircling your ring finger, moving in anonymity . . . Just as you were instructed to do to ward off possession by evil.”
Without warning, he took hold of Cranston’s wrist, holding on to him while he continued, hissing rapid words, low and urgent.
“Join me, Ying Ko, despoiler of Barga, butcher of Lhasa. You, and only you, deserve to rule by my side.”
Cranston broke free, even while deliberately allowing himself to be backed against the wall where the sitting room and control room met.
“Together, we’ll pit armies against one another, as in a game of chess,” Khan was saying. “We’ll collect our due of pain; we’ll bathe our hands in blood. Your mouth still waters at the prospect of real power. I’m offering you a chance to recapture your past. Become my partner, Ying Ko!”
Cranston’s back was to the wall now. “I don’t answer to that name any longer.”
“What’s in a name, Lamont Cranston ?” Khan motioned broadly to the control room. “Would you deny that this, all this, your entire mechanism for fighting crime, was financed by opium? Would you deny that you had a hand in creating the addiction for heroin that has settled as a plague on your precious America?”
In one rapid motion, Cranston kicked an area of the block wall at knee level, exposing a secret compartment whose door was hinged along the bottom edge. Reaching down, his left hand took hold of a nickel-plated, nacre-handled automatic—his never-before-flourished ace in the hole for just such an occasion.
But Khan seemed to have second-guessed him. He was standing by one of the shaft’s arches, his hand at the sash of his tunic. “For the bourbon,” he said,
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