The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan Read Online Free PDF Page B

Manchester and was congratulating himself on his own resourcefulness when an announcement on the Naples airport loudspeaker announced that because of the ash plume from Vesuvius, all southern Italian airspace was closed to passenger aircraft until further notice.
    “When is that?” he demanded of the frazzled-looking girl manning the easyJet check-in desk. “Until when are we likely to be stranded here?”
    “Until I don’t know,” she said. “Until someone decides it’s safe. Until tomorrow at the very earliest. Until someone tells me different.”
    “If this is southern Italy,” said Groanin, “then what constitutes northern Italy? They’re flying from there, right? Where do I have to go to get on a plane home?”
    “Get yourself to Rome,” said the girl. “They’re still flying from Rome. Is what I would do.”
    “How far is that, then?”
    “From here, is one hundred forty miles,” said the girl. She switched off her computer and then walked quickly away from the desk before Groanin or anyone else could ask her another awkward question.
    Groanin bit his lip and, pulling his largish suitcase on wheels, went outside to look for transport and found the line at the taxi rank was already more than a hundred yards long with no actual taxis in sight. The line for buses into Naples was even longer and there seemed to be no train station attached to the airport.
    “Flipping heck,” he murmured. “This is a nightmare. A real one. Forget being chased by a grizzly bear. This is worse.”
    Seeing a sign for Naples city center, he followed it, hoping to hail a taxi along the way. But if the lines of tourists at the airport had been bad, the lines of traffic on the
autostrada
were even worse. All of the roads between the airport and the city center were one big traffic jam and, in spite of the91° heat, Groanin had little alternative but to take off his jacket and walk into the city, because Sorrento was too far for him to go all the way back there.
    Not that Groanin wanted to return to the Excelsior Vittoria hotel and face Nimrod like a dog with its tail between its legs. That would have been too humiliating. Worse, there was every chance that Nimrod would offer Groanin his job back and, weakened by heat and exhaustion and the sheer horror of traveling on his own dollar, he might easily accept it. Groanin knew that now was his best chance to escape Nimrod’s service for good. It wasn’t that he disliked Nimrod. And he loved the children, of course. But as he had explained, the hazards of working for a djinn were just too great for him to bear his employment any longer.
    Four miles and two hours later, Groanin finally came in sight of a hotel that looked equal to his fastidious, xenophobic tastes: the First Grand Imperial Britannia Hotel. A British flag hung like a dishcloth on a flagpole outside the entrance.
    Dripping with sweat, and almost faint with dehydration, Groanin trudged into the dingy lobby and approached the ancient-looking reception desk.
    On the wall behind the desk was a large picture of the queen. Another good sign, or so Groanin thought.
    A short, red-haired man ignored him carefully for a moment and then condescended to pay him some attention.
    “Good afternoon, and welcome to the First Grand Imperial Brittania Hotel, sir,” said the man behind the desk, who seemed to be British. “Can I help you?”
    “Thank goodness for an English accent,” said Groanin. “If it was an English accent.” He collapsed against the desk and looked more closely at the man behind it. “I dunno. Was it?”
    Unfortunately, Groanin was one of those people who, to the irritation of the Scots, the Irish, and the Welsh, employ the word
English
when they really mean
British.
In Groanin’s case this was the result of having spent so much time with John and Philippa who, being Americans, had little or no sense of the subtle difference between what are two very different things.
    Groanin frowned and peered more