by Steve Berry
“You’re a good man. Henrik knew that.”
“I was two minutes too late.”
“And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
She was right.
But he still could not shake the feeling.
He’d seen Cassiopeia both at her best and when circumstances had stripped her of all confidence—when she was vulnerable, prone to mistakes, emotional. Luckily, he’d been there to compensate, as she’d been for him when the roles reversed. She was an amazing blend of femininity and strength, but everyone, even she, occasionally stepped too far.
A vision of Cassiopeia tied to plywood, a towel over her face, flashed through his mind.
Why her?
Why not him?
KARL TANG STEPPED ONTO THE HELICOPTER AND SETTLED HIMSELF in the rear compartment. His business in Chongqing was at an end.
He hated the place.
Thirty million people consumed every square meter of the hills surrounding the confluence of the Jialing and Yangtze rivers. Under Mongol, Han, and Manchu rule it had been the empire’s center. A hundred years ago it became a wartime capital during the Japanese invasion. Now it was a mix of old and new—mosques, Daoist temples, Christian churches, communist landmarks—a hot, humid, wretched place where skyscrapers broke the horizon.
The chopper rose into a carbon-laced fog and vectored toward the northwest.
He’d dismissed his aides and the captains.
No spies would come on this part of the journey.
This he must do himself.
MALONE PAID HIS ADMISSION AND ENTERED TIVOLI. PART amusement park, part cultural icon, the treed and flowered wonderland had entertained Danes since 1843. A national treasure, where old-style Ferris wheels, pantomime theaters, and a pirate ship blended with more modern gravity-defying rides. Even the Germans had spared it during World War II. Malone liked visiting—easy to see how it inspired both Walt Disney and Hans Christian Andersen.
He fled the main entrance and followed a flora-bordered central avenue. Bulb gardens, roses, lilacs, as well as hundreds of lime, chestnut, cherry, and evergreen trees grew in an ingenious plan that, to him, always seemed bigger than a mere twenty-one acres. Scents of popcorn and cotton candy wafted in the air, along with the sounds of a Vienna waltz and big-band tunes. He knew that Tivoli’s creator had justified the excess by advising Denmark’s Christian VIII that when the people are amusing themselves, they do not think about politics.
He was familiar with the Chinese pagoda. Within a leafy bower it stood four stories tall and faced a lake. More than a hundred years old, its Asiatic image adorned nearly every brochure that advertised Tivoli.
A cadre of young boys, smartly dressed in red jackets, bandoliers, and bushy bearskin hats marched down an adjacent lane. The Garden Guard, Tivoli’s marching band. People lined the route and watched the parade. All of the attractions were unusually crowded, given it was a Tuesday in May, the summer season beginning only last week.
He caught sight of the pagoda, three vertical repetitions of its base in diminishing proportions, each story with a projecting roofline and upturned eaves. People streamed in and out of the pagoda’s ground-floor restaurant. More revelers occupied benches beneath the trees.
Just before 2 PM.
He was on time.
Wandering ducks from the lake mingled with the crowd, showing little fear. He could not say the same about himself. His nerves were alert, his mind thinking like the Justice Department agent he’d been for twelve risky years. The idea had been to retire early and flee the danger, becoming a Danish bookseller, but the past two years had been anything but quiet.
Think. Pay attention.
The computerized voice had said that once he was here he’d be contacted. Apparently, Cassiopeia’s captors knew exactly what he looked like.
“Mr. Malone.”
He turned.
A woman, her thin face more long than round, stood beside him. Her black hair hung straight, and long-lashed brown eyes added a mysterious quality. Truth be known, he had a weakness for Oriental beauty. She was smartly dressed in clothes cut to flatter her contours, which included a Burberry skirt wrapping her tiny waist.
“I came for the package,” she said.
He motioned with the envelope he held. “This?”
She nodded.
She was in her late twenties, casual in her movements, seemingly unconcerned about the situation. His suspicions were rapidly being confirmed.
“Care to stay and have a late lunch?” he asked.
She smiled. “Another time.”
“Sounds promising. How would I find you?”
“I know where your bookshop is.”
He grinned. “How stupid of me.”
She pointed at the envelope. “I need to be leaving.”
He handed her the package.
“Maybe I’ll drop by your shop again,” she said, adding a smile.
“You do that.”
He watched as she sauntered off, merging with the crowd, walking leisurely, not a care in the world.
TANG CLOSED HIS EYES AND ALLOWED THE DRONE OF THE HELICOPTER’S turbine to calm his nerves.
He checked his watch.
9:05 PM here meant 2:05 PM in Antwerp.
So much was happening. His entire future was being determined by a collision of circumstances, all of which had to be tightly controlled.
At least the problem of Jin Zhao had been resolved.
All was finally assuming its assigned place. Thirty years of dedication about to be rewarded. Every threat had either been eliminated or contained.
Only Ni Yong remained.
FOUR
ANTWERP, BELGIUM
2:05 PM
NI YONG SETTLED INTO THE BLACK LACQUERED CHAIR, A QING-PERIOD reproduction. He was familiar with the elegant lines and beautiful curves, this one an excellent example of pre–18th century Chinese craftsmanship, the quality and accuracy of its joinery so precise that nails and glue were unnecessary.
His austere-looking host rested in a cane armchair, his face longer than most Chinese, eyes rounder, forehead high, the sparse hair slightly curled. Pau Wen wore a jade-colored silk jacket and white trousers.
“Your home is elegant,” Ni said in their native language.
Pau nodded at the compliment, accepting the praise with the humility expected of a man nearing seventy. Too young to have been with Mao in 1949 when the People’s Revolution swept Chiang Kai-shek and his Nationalists onto Taiwan, Ni knew that Pau’s role grew during the 1960s and remained important even after Mao died in 1976.
Then, ten years later, Pau left China.
Ending up here, in Belgium of all places.
“I wanted my residence,” Pau said, “to remind me of home.”
The house, located a few kilometers outside Antwerp, appeared on the exterior to be a simple structure of high gray walls, with multi-tiered roofs, flaring eaves, and two towers that incorporated all the fundamental elements—enclosure, symmetry, hierarchy—of traditional Chinese architecture. The inside was bright, airy, and reflected the colors and styles of classic décor, though all the modern conveniences—air-conditioning, central heat, a security system, satellite television—were present.
Ni was familiar with the design.
A siheyuan.
The ultimate symbol of Chinese wealth—a multifamily residence with a central courtyard enclosed by four buildings, usually embellished with a garden and deck. Once the homes of nobles, now they were affordable only to Chinese military, Party hierarchy, or the abominable new rich.
“This,” Ni said, “reminds me of a residence I visited recently in the northeast, owned by a local mayor. We found two hundred and fifty gold bars hidden inside. Quite a feat for a man who barely made a few thousand yuan a year. Of course, being the mayor, he controlled the local economy, which the area’s business owners, and foreign investors, apparently recognized. I arrested him.”
“Then you executed him. Quic
kly, I’m sure.”
He realized Pau would be familiar with the Chinese judicial system.
“Tell me, Minister, what brings you to Europe, and to me?”
Ni headed the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection of the Communist Party of China. Directly under the National Congress, on the same level as the all-powerful Central Committee, he was charged with rooting out corruption and malfeasance.
“You are not an official I would want as an enemy,” Pau said. “I have been told that you are the most feared man in China.”
He’d heard that label, too.
“Others say you may also be the most honest man in China.”
He’d heard that description, as well. “And you, Pau Wen, are still one of our citizens. You never relinquished those rights.”
“I am proud of my Chinese heritage.”
“I’ve come to reclaim some of that heritage.”
They sat in a drawing room that opened toward an inner courtyard dotted with flowering trees. Bees flitted from one fragrant bloom to another, their buzzes and the fountain’s gurgle the only disturbances. Glass doors and silk curtains separated them from an adjacent study.
“Apparently,” Ni said, “when you left the homeland, you decided that some of our artifacts would come with you.”
Pau laughed. “Do you have any idea what it was like when Mao was alive? Tell me, Minister, in your exalted position, as keeper of the Party’s conscience, do you have any conception of our history?”
“At the moment, only your thievery concerns me.”
“I have been gone from China nearly three decades. Why is my thievery only now becoming important?”
He’d been warned about Pau Wen, a trained historian, skillful orator, and master at turning adversity into advantage. Both Mao and Deng Xiaoping had made use of his talents.
“Your crime has only recently come to my attention.”
“An anonymous informant?”
He nodded. “We are fortunate to have them.”
“And you make it so easy. You even have a website. All they do is forward an e-mail, with no name or address, loaded with accusations. Tell me, are there any repercussions for filing a false report?”
He wasn’t going to fall into that trap. “On the walk in from the front gate I noticed a pottery horse from the Han dynasty. A bronze chime bell from the Zhou period. A Tang dynasty figurine. All originals, stolen by you.”
“How would you know that?”
“You were the overseer of a number of museums and collections, an easy matter for you to appropriate whatever you may have desired.”
Pau rose. “Might I show you something, Minister?”
Why not? He wanted to see more of the house.
He followed the older man out into the courtyard, which triggered memories of his own family’s ancestral home in Sichuan, a province of jade-green hills and well-tended fields. For 700 years Nis had lived there, within a copse of bamboo that outlined fertile rice paddies. There’d been a courtyard in that house, too. One difference, though. It wasn’t bricks, but pounded earth that had paved that space.
“Do you live here alone?” Ni asked.
So large a house would demand constant care, and everything appeared immaculate. Yet he’d seen or heard no one.
“More of that investigator in you. Asking questions?”
“It seems a simple inquiry.”
Pau smiled. “My life is one of self-imposed solitude.”
Not really an answer, but he’d not expected one.
They wove a path around potted shrubs and dwarf yews and approached a tall black door, with a red disk, at the courtyard’s opposite side. Beyond lay a spacious hall, supported by massive pillars that stood beneath green-colored fretwork. One wall displayed bookshelves, another hung scrolls of Chinese script. Soft light permeated window papers. He noticed the careful woodwork, the silk hangings, curio cabinets, hardwood tables, the objects displayed as if in a museum.
“My collection,” Pau said.
Ni stared at the trove.
“It is true, Minister. You saw valuable objects of art when you entered my home. Those are precious. But this is the real treasure.” Pau motioned and they walked farther into the room. “Here, for example. A glazed pottery model. Han dynasty, 210 BCE.”
He studied the sculpture, fashioned out of a lime-colored stone. The figure of a man turned a crank handle for what looked like a rotary mill.
“It shows something quite remarkable,” Pau said. “Grain was poured into an open receptacle on top and the mill winnowed what was inside, separating the husks and stalk. This type of machine was not known in Europe until nearly two thousand years later, when Dutch sailors imported it from China.”
Another pedestal displayed a ceramic figure on horseback, with a stirrup lying beside. Pau caught his interest.
“That’s a Tang dynasty piece. 6th to 7th century CE. Notice the warrior on the horse. His feet are in stirrups. China developed the stirrup centuries ago, though it did not make it to Europe until their Middle Ages. The concept of a medieval knight, on horseback, armed with lance and shield, would not have been possible but for the Chinese stirrup.”
He gazed around at the artifacts, maybe a hundred or more.
“I collected these from village to village,” Pau said, “grave to grave. Many came from imperial tombs located in the 1970s. And you’re right, I did have my choice from museums and private collections.”
Pau pointed to a water clock that he said was from 113 BCE. A sundial, gun barrels, porcelain, astronomical etchings, each invention evidence of Chinese ingenuity. One curious item caught Ni’s attention—a small ladle balanced on a smooth bronze plate upon which he noticed engravings.
“The compass,” Pau said. “Conceived by the Chinese 2,500 years ago. The ladle is carved from magnetic lodestone and always comes to rest facing south. While Western man was barely capable of existing, the Chinese learned how to navigate with this device.”
“All of this belongs to the People’s Republic,” Ni said.
“To the contrary. I saved this from the People’s Republic.”
He was tiring of the game. “Say what you mean, old man.”
“During our glorious Cultural Revolution I once watched as a 2,000-year-old corpse, discovered in perfect condition at Changsha, was tossed by soldiers into the sun to rot, while peasants threw stones at it. That was the fate of millions of our cultural objects. Imagine the scientific and historical information lost from such foolishness.”
He cautioned himself not to listen too closely to Pau’s talk. As he’d taught his subordinates, good investigators never allowed themselves to be swayed by an interrogee.
His host motioned to a wooden and brass abacus. “That is 1,500 years old, used in a bank or an office as a calculator. The West had no idea of such a device until many centuries later. The decimal system, the zero, negative numbers, fractions, the value of pi. These concepts—everything in this room—all were first conceived by the Chinese.”
“How do you know this?” Ni asked.
“It’s our history. Unfortunately, our glorious emperors and Mao’s People’s Revolution rewrote the past to suit their needs. We Chinese have little idea from where we came, or what we accomplished.”
“And you know?”
“Look over there, Minister.”
He saw what looked like a printer’s plate, characters ready to be inked on paper.
“Movable type was invented in China in 1045 CE, long before Gutenberg duplicated the feat in Germany. We also developed paper before the West. The seismograph, the parachute, the rudder, masts and sailing, all of these first came from China.” Pau swept his arms out, encompassing the room. “This is our heritage.”
Ni clung to the truth. “You are still a thief.”
Pau shook his head. “Minister, my thievery is not what brings you here. I’ve been honest with you. So tell me, why have you come?”
Abruptness was another known Pa
u trait, used to command a conversation by controlling its direction. Since Ni was tired of the banter, he glanced around, hoping to spot the artifact. As described, it stood about three centimeters tall and five centimeters long, combining a dragon’s head on a tiger’s body with the wings of a phoenix. Crafted of bronze, it had been found in a 3rd century BCE tomb.
“Where is the dragon lamp?”
A curious look spread across Pau’s wrinkled face. “She asked the same thing.”
Not the answer he expected. “She?”
“A woman. Spanish, with a touch of Moroccan, I believe. Quite the beauty. But impatient, like you.”
“Who?”
“Cassiopeia Vitt.”
Now he wanted to know, “And what did you tell her?”
“I showed her the lamp.” Pau pointed at a table toward the far end of the hall. “It sat right there. Quite precious. I found it in a tomb, from the time of the First Emperor. Discovered in … 1978, I believe. I brought the lamp, and all these items, with me when I left China in 1987.”
“Where is the lamp now?”
“Miss Vitt wanted to purchase it. She offered an impressive price, and I was tempted, but said no.”
He waited for an answer.
“She produced a gun and stole it from me. I had no choice. I am but an old man, living here alone.”
That he doubted. “A wealthy old man.”
Pau smiled. “Life has been kind to me. Has it to you, Minister?”
“When was she here?” he asked.
“Two days past.”
He needed to find this woman. “Did she say anything about herself?”
Pau shook his head. “Just pointed her gun, took the lamp, and left.”
A disturbing and unexpected development. But not insurmountable. She could be found.
“You came all this way for that lamp?” Pau asked. “Tell me, does it relate to your coming political war with Minister Karl Tang?”
The question threw him. Pau had been gone from China a long time. What was happening internally was no state secret, but neither was it common knowledge—not yet, anyway. So he asked, “What do you know of that?”
