gazing out the window. Her face revealed impatience and anxiety. Evidently, meeting her grandfather was an important event for her, but thoughts of pursuit and danger gave her no peace.
The UAZ drove along the main street of the village, raising dust and attracting the attention of the few pedestrians and dogs dozing in the evening shadows. It was a typical Kyrgyz village – single-story houses surrounded by high mud-brick walls, behind which the crowns of fruit trees were visible, occasional small shops, and a small mosque with a low minaret.
«Life here flows almost the same as it did a hundred years ago,» Ermek remarked. «Of course, there’s electricity, televisions, mobile phones. But the foundation remains the same – the land, the mountains, traditions passed down from generation to generation.»
The car turned toward the outskirts of the village and stopped in front of a mud-brick fence painted blue. Bakyt cut the engine, and the sudden silence, broken only by the distant barking of dogs and bleating of sheep, seemed deafening after the long journey.
«We’ve arrived,» announced Ermek, opening the door. «Welcome to my father’s house.»
They got out of the car. A tall elderly man in a traditional Kyrgyz kolpak – a conical white hat with an ornamental design – was already waiting for them at the gate. Despite his age, Rustam Kambarov looked fit and robust. He had a swarthy face with deep wrinkles, penetrating dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He held a carved walking stick in his hand but leaned on it lightly, more for convenience than necessity.
«Grandfather!» Dinara ran to him and embraced him.
«Kenzhem, my little one,» the old man smiled, hugging his granddaughter. «How glad I am to see you.»
Then he turned his attention to Ermek and warmly embraced his son. Finally, his gaze settled on Alexei. Something in that gaze – attentive, scrutinizing, as if looking into the very soul – made Alexei feel uncomfortable.
«And you must be Igor Nikolaevich’s grandson,» said Rustam, extending his hand. «I see his features in your face. The same eyes, the same chin.»
«Alexei Sorin,» Alexei introduced himself, shaking the old man’s dry but firm hand. «Very pleased to meet you, Rustam-aga.»
«You knew my grandfather?» he asked, surprised by how accurately Rustam had identified his relationship.
«Oh yes,» the old man nodded. «Igor Nikolaevich was a good man. Honest. A true friend.» He gestured for everyone to enter the courtyard. «But we’ll talk about that over dinner. You must be tired and hungry from your journey.»
They entered a spacious courtyard where a table had been set under a canopy of grapevines. A plump middle-aged woman in a traditional dress and headscarf was busy with preparations.
«This is Aigul, my helper,» Rustam introduced her. «She has been taking care of me since my wife, Dinara’s grandmother, passed away ten years ago.»
Aigul nodded warmly to the guests and returned to her tasks. Bakyt, saying goodbye, left on his own business, promising to return in the morning.
They sat down at the table, which was already laden with traditional Kyrgyz dishes – beshbarmak, manty, boorsok, kurut, jam, and, of course, apples and peaches grown in Rustam’s garden. The old man poured strong black tea into bowls.
«Eat, drink,» he invited. «Help yourselves to everything God has provided.»
During dinner, the conversation revolved around everyday matters – life in the village, harvest prospects, relatives’ health. Rustam asked Dinara about her work at the museum and Alexei about life in St. Petersburg. It seemed the old man deliberately avoided the topic of the medallion and the pursuit, as if waiting for the right moment.
When the meal was finished and Aigul had cleared the table, serving fresh tea, Rustam finally got down to business.
«Ermek told me by radio about what happened,» he said, looking intently at Alexei. «About the medallion, about Karabaev’s men.» He shook his head. «I knew this day would come. I’ve been preparing for it for many years. But it still caught me off guard.»
«What do you mean?» asked Alexei. «What day?»
«The day when the medallion would return to Issyk-Kul,» Rustam replied. «The day when the final chapter of a story that has lasted eight centuries would begin.»
Alexei felt the medallion on his neck seem to respond to these words – becoming warmer, heavier. He took it out from under his shirt and placed it on the table in front of Rustam.
The old man did not touch the medallion but looked at it with reverence mixed with anxiety.
«So it is indeed the one,» Rustam said quietly. «The very one your grandfather found in 1954 and then hid from everyone.»
«You knew about my grandfather’s find?» Alexei asked in surprise.
«Of course,» Rustam nodded. «I was there when Igor found it in the cave. I was twelve years old, helping the expedition as a guide. I saw how the medallion first glowed in his hands.»
«Glowed?» Alexei repeated. «You mean… literally?»
«Exactly,» Rustam confirmed. «The silver began to emit a bluish glow when Igor took it in his hands. The expedition leader, Voronov, attributed it to some optical effect, a reflection of light from minerals in the cave. But Igor and I knew it was something more.»
The old man sipped his tea and continued:
«After that, your grandfather began asking me questions about local legends, about the Nestorians, about sunken treasures. I told him what I knew from the stories of my father and grandfather. And then Igor decided to conceal the find from the expedition leadership.»
«Why?» asked Dinara. «Usually archaeologists strive to register every find.»
«Because Igor understood that the medallion was not just an ancient artifact,» Rustam answered. «It’s a key to something much more important. To a secret that had been kept for centuries. And this secret should not have fallen into the hands of the Soviet authorities, especially at that time – the height of the Cold War, spy mania, KGB everywhere…»
Rustam rose and went to a shelf where books and old photographs were kept. He retrieved a worn leather book tied with a cord.
«This is a family heirloom,» he said, returning to the table. «The diary of my distant ancestor, Murat Kambarov. He was a shaman and healer. People from all over the valley came to him for advice and help. He began helping people after a man once came to him who changed our family’s history.»
Rustam untied the cord and carefully opened the book. The pages were yellowed, with handwritten text in old Kyrgyz, faded in places.
«It says here,» Rustam began, slowly translating, «that in 1273, an old man named David came to my ancestor. He was very old, with a beard as white as snow, but his eyes were clear and lively. He spoke in a strange mixture of languages and wore a silver cross on his chest. The old man said he had come from afar to pass on important knowledge to one worthy of keeping it.»
Rustam turned the page.
«David said he was the last keeper of an ancient secret. His teacher, a European monk named Thomas, had entrusted him with preserving knowledge about a Nestorian treasure hidden during the Mongol invasion. Among the treasures was a special item that David called the «Key of Solomon’ – a crystal with extraordinary properties.»
«A crystal?» Alexei asked. «Not the medallion?»
«The medallion is a pointer, a guide to the crystal,» Rustam explained. «The real «Key of Solomon’ is a crystal hidden in a cache.» He continued translating: «David was too old to keep the secret himself. He gave my ancestor a map indicating the place where the treasures were hidden and said that someday a person would come