by Steve Berry
He knew the score. Even if Tang prevailed and seized control of China, if the West had Sokolov, one bargaining chip would be replaced by another.
“I just hope Cassiopeia can hold out until we get there.”
TANG GLANCED OUT THE HELICOPTER WINDOW AS THE CHOPPER rose into the night air. He caught sight of flickering bursts of light from the Pit 3 building and realized the remaining cache of Qin Shi manuscripts was burning. Only a few moments would be required to vaporize every silk and turn brittle bamboo into ash. By the time any alarm was sounded, nothing would remain. The cause? Electrical short. Faulty wiring. Bad transformer. Whatever. Nothing would point to arson. Another problem solved. More of the past eradicated.
What was happening in Belgium now concerned him.
The copilot caught his attention and motioned to a nearby headset. Tang snapped it over his ears.
“There is a call for you, Minister.”
He waited, then a familiar voice said, “Everything went well.”
Viktor Tomas, calling from Belgium. About time.
“Is Vitt on her way?” Tang asked.
“She escaped, exactly as I predicted. However, she managed to knock me out cold before she left. My head aches.”
“Can you track her?”
“As long as she keeps that gun with her. So far the signal from the pinger inside is working.”
“Excellent forward thinking. Was she glad to see you?”
“Not particularly.”
“You need to know that Pau Wen is receiving a visit, as we speak. I ordered a strike.”
“I thought I was in charge here.”
“Whatever gave you that impression?”
“I can’t ensure success if you override me. I’m here, you’re not.”
“I ordered a strike. End of discussion.”
A moment of silence passed, then Viktor said, “I’m headed out to track Vitt. I’ll report when there’s a development.”
“Once you have the lamp—”
“Not to worry,” Viktor said. “I know. Vitt will not be left alive. But I do it my way. Is that acceptable?”
“As you say, you’re there, I’m here. Handle it your way.”
EIGHTEEN
CASSIOPEIA SLAMMED THE GEARSHIFT INTO FIRST, RELEASED the clutch, and charged the Toyota down the highway. Another two clicks and she was in third. She was unsure where she was headed, only that it was away from Viktor Tomas.
Did he really think she’d take him along?
She glanced in the rearview mirror. No cars in sight. A treeless landscape stretched out on each side of the road, and the only bumps breaking the green monotony were grazing cattle and the slender steeples of distant churches. She’d already determined that she was somewhere in north-central Belgium, since the country’s wooded valleys and high plateaus were confined to its southern portions. Near the German border she knew were bogs and swamps, none of which was visible here. Neither was the ocean, which bordered the extreme north.
She shifted into fourth, kept cruising, and glanced at the digital clock: 5:20 PM. The gas gauge read three-quarters full.
Awfully convenient.
Viktor sent the guard into her cell knowing that she’d overpower him, then waited, faking a call, for her to confront him.
She thought of Central Asia the last time Viktor was supposedly on her side.
“No way,” she said.
She locked the brakes.
The Toyota slewed side-to-side, clutching its way to a stop. Viktor had then played a role, flipping sides by the hour—with the Asians, then the Americans, then back. True, he’d ultimately ended on her side and helped, but still—what about today?
Viktor wanted her to take the car.
Okay, she’d take it, but not where he assumed. The Dries Van Egmond Museum in Antwerp was surely closed for the day. She’d have to wait until dark before retrieving the lamp.
And she could not lead Viktor there.
She shifted into first and drove on. Two kilometers later she came to an intersection. A sign informed her that Antwerp lay twenty kilometers west.
She sped in that direction.
NI DESCENDED FROM THE STAIRCASE AND FOLLOWED A SURPRISINGLY spry Pau Wen back into the courtyard, where his host clapped his hands three times. A door slid open and four young Chinese appeared, each wearing a gray jumpsuit and black sneakers.
One of the men he immediately recognized.
From the video.
“Yes, Minister,” Pau said. “He serves me.”
The compatriots moved with the firm steps of athletes, stopping before Pau in an attentive line, their eyes flat and hard, faces immobile.
“Four armed men are approaching through the front gate. You know what to do.”
They nodded in unison and fled the courtyard.
“I thought you lived alone,” Ni said.
“I never actually said that.”
He grabbed Pau’s arm. “I’m tired of your lies. I am not someone to play with.”
Pau clearly did not appreciate the assault. “I’m sure you are not. But while you are demonstrating your importance, armed men are approaching this house. Have you considered the possibility that you may be their target?”
He released his grip.
No, he hadn’t.
Pau motioned and they reentered the house, finding a small anteroom, bare except for a red oval rug and two black laquered cabinets. Pau removed a key from his pocket and unlocked one of the cabinets. Inside, hanging on silver pegs, were assorted handguns.
“Choose, Minister,” Pau said.
He reached for a Glock.
“The magazine is fully loaded,” Pau said. “Spares are in the drawer.”
He checked his weapon to be sure, then retrieved three magazines.
A gun in hand felt good.
Pau gripped his shoulder. “Let us send a message to Karl Tang that the coming fight will not be easy.”
CASSIOPEIA ENTERED THE OUTSKIRTS OF ANTWERP. SHE KNEW the city, having visited many times. The Scheldt River flanked one side, the other three protected by a series of boulevards whose names recalled Allied powers that fought for Flanders’ freedom in the First World War. Its historic center fanned out around a slim-spired cathedral, a Renaissance town hall, and a brooding castle. Not a tourist-thronged medieval theme park but a working, thriving city loaded with reminders from when it was one of the Continent’s most influential places.
She found the central railway station, an early 20th-century riot of marble, glass, and wrought iron, and parked a block away in a clearly marked illegal zone. If Viktor was tracking her by the car, the trail would end here. She hoped the local police would tow the thing quickly.
She stuffed the gun at her waist and allowed her open shirttail to conceal the bulge. Her mind and body were at the breaking point. She needed sleep. But she also had to rid herself of Karl Tang, at least until she was ready to negotiate.
She crossed the street and passed beneath a flurry of blooming trees, toward Antwerp’s zoo. Between the train station and the city’s natural history museum stretched a park overgrown with foliage. A quiet locale, particularly now as the zoo had closed for the day. She found an empty bench that afforded her a view of the parked car a couple of hundred meters away, with the added benefit of a tree trunk behind her.
She lay on the bench, the gun atop her navel beneath her shirt.
Darkness was at least three hours away.
She’d rest till then.
And watch.
NINETEEN
GANSU PROVINCE, CHINA
WEDNESDAY, MAY 16
2:10 AM
TANG STEPPED FROM THE CAR AND STUDIED THE WELL-LIT SITE. The portable rig supported a red-and-white derrick that towered forty meters. When he’d requisitioned the equipment from the oil ministry, he’d known that at least a 600hp mechanically driven plant, equipped with an inner circulation and water-cooling system, rated to at least 3,000 meters of drilling, would be required. Qu
ietly, he’d dispatched the proper rig overland to Gansu, where he’d once served in the provincial government. According to legend, this region had been the birthplace of Fú Xi, the mythical patriarch of all Chinese, and some recent excavations had confirmed that people had in fact lived here as far back as 10,000 years ago.
He’d slept during the ninety-minute flight, preparing himself for what lay ahead. The next forty-eight hours would be critical. Every move had to be made with no miscalculations, every opportunity maximized with no mistakes.
He listened to the grind of diesel turbines, electrical generators, and circulation pumps. Gansu was a treasure trove of natural resources, brimming with coal, iron, copper, and phosphorous. His ancestors had known that, too. Their records, some of which survived, some of which he’d stumbled onto in the newly opened chamber at Pit 3, noted extensive inventories of precious metals and minerals. He’d ordered this particular exploration in search of one of those resources—oil.
The ground upon which he stood had once supported one of China’s main sources. Unfortunately, Gansu’s wells had run dry more than 200 years ago.
The site superintendent approached, a man with a thin face, a high forehead, and strands of stringy black hair swept back. He worked directly for the Ministry of Science, sent here by Tang, along with a trusted crew. Gansu’s governor had questioned the unauthorized activity but was told simply that the ministry was exploring, and if all went well the results might prove economically beneficial.
Which was the truth.
Just more so for him than the governor.
“I’m glad you were nearby,” the superintendent yelled over the noise. “I don’t think I could have contained it much longer.” A smile came to the man’s thin lips. “We’ve done it.”
He realized what that declaration meant.
This site had been specifically selected eleven months ago, not by geologists but by historians. An area had been cleared and leveled, then an access road cut through the nearby forest. A 2,200-year-old map, discovered in northwest Gansu, had been the source. The map, drawn on four identical pine plates, depicted the administrative division, geography, and economics of this region during the time of Qin Shi. Eighty-two locales were denoted by name, along with rivers, mountains, and forests. One of those rivers still flowed five hundred meters away. Even the distances of the imperial roadways were clearly specified. Lacking longitude and latitude coordinates, transposing those locales to reality had proven difficult, but it had been done.
By Jin Zhao.
Before he was arrested, before his hemorrhage, before his trial, conviction, and execution, Zhao had found this site.
“We hit the depth three days ago,” his superintendent reported. “I waited to call you until I was sure.” He saw the smile on the man’s face. “You were right.”
“Show me.”
He was led to the drilling platform, where workers were busy. He’d intentionally kept this crew to a minimum.
“We hit oil sand five days ago,” the superintendent told him above the intense noise.
He knew what that meant. When cuttings from the mud being drawn up revealed oily sand, oil was not much farther.
“We lowered sensors into the hole. Checked the pressures and extracted core samples. It all looked good. So we started to seal off.”
Tang knew what had been done next. Small explosive charges would have been lowered down to blast holes in the newly installed plug. Then tubing would have been snaked through the holes and any leaks sealed. At the top of the tubing, multivalves would have been cemented into place. Oil gushing from a well, in a massive blowout, was the last thing anyone wanted. “Taming the crude” with a measured flow, was far better.
“We’ve been pumping acid,” the superintendent said, “since yesterday. I stopped a few hours ago to wait for your arrival.”
Acid was used to dissolve the last remaining centimeters of limestone between the capped well and the oil. Once that was gone, the pressurized oil would flow upward, controlled by the valves.
“Unfortunately, I stopped the acid a little too late. An hour ago this happened.”
He watched as the superintendent twisted a valve and black crude drained out into a barrel.
He immediately noticed the pressure. “That’s strong.”
The man nodded. “There’s a lot of oil down there. Especially for a field that went dry two hundred years ago.”
He stepped back from the drill hole, remaining beneath the red-and-white derrick. He started thinking more like a scientist and less like a politician, considering the implications.
Incredible.
Jin Zhao had been right.
TWENTY
BELGIUM
NI GRIPPED THE GLOCK AND ADVANCED TOWARD THE FRONT of the house. He entered the vestibule, its walls gray brick with what he assumed was artificial bamboo fronting one section. Steps led down to the main entrance, where a stone fountain gurgled. A clear view of the oak doors was blocked by a green silk screen. He’d not seen Pau’s four minions since they had disappeared from the courtyard. Pau had told him to cover the main entrance, then vanished, too.
Four rat-tat-tats could be heard outside.
Gunfire.
He wasn’t interested in joining the melee, but Pau’s words rang in his ears. Have you considered the possibility that you are their target?
More shots. Closer this time.
His gaze locked on the doors.
Bullets thudded against the thick wood from the outside, then tore through, pinging off the walls and floor. He dove for cover behind a polished timber that held the roof aloft.
The front doors smashed open.
Two men burst inside with automatic rifles.
He crouched in a defensive posture, aimed, and sent a round their way.
The men scattered.
He was a couple of meters above them, but they carried heavy-duty assault rifles and he wielded only a pistol.
Where was Pau? And his men?
A spurt of automatic fire splintered the timber shielding him. He decided that a retreat was in order, so he rushed deeper into the house.
He passed a tall wooden cabinet, which offered momentary protection.
A slug whistled past his ear.
Sunlight from a sky well illuminated the hall, but there was no way to reach the opening, at least ten meters high. To his right, past swinging lattice door panels, several of which hung open, he spied movement in a courtyard. Another man wielding an automatic rifle and not wearing a gray jumpsuit.
His options were rapidly diminishing. It did seem as if these four were after him, not Pau. He glimpsed the squatting form in the courtyard and spotted a glint of metal as the gunman took aim through the lattice doors. He flattened himself on the floor, scrambling across the varnished wood, as bullets exploded through the wooden slats and cut a path barely a meter above him.
His mind throbbed.
Though a career military man, he’d never actually been under fire. Plenty of training, but the utter confusion of this situation smashed any practiced response he might have offered.
This was insane.
He rolled twice toward a heavy wooden armchair and overturned it so that its thickest portions would offer cover.
He saw a shadow play across the room. The man in the courtyard was advancing.
He came to his knees and sent three rounds through the latticework.
Flesh and bones thudded to stone.
Bullets instantly came in response.
The two from the front door had arrived.
He fired twice in their direction then bolted for the exterior lattice doors, crashing through, his arms forcing splintered wood away as his eyes searched for more danger.
The courtyard was empty.
The man with the automatic rifle lay on the pavement, downed not by two bullet holes, but by an arrow that protruded from his spine.
Ni heard movement behind him and knew what was coming so he sought cover be
hind a stone planter. Another chattering of gunfire sent a burst of bullets zipping through the courtyard, a few finding the huge glass jar—which shattered, sending a cascade of water and goldfish to the pavement.
He knew little about the remainder of the house, except the exhibit hall, whose door loomed ten meters away. If he could make it there, perhaps he could flee through one of its windows.
But any hope of salvation was dashed when a man appeared, pointing a rifle straight at him.
With two in the house and one dead a few meters away, all four assailants were now accounted for.
“Stand,” the man ordered in Chinese. “Leave the gun on the ground.”
The two remaining assailants emerged from the house.
He laid the pistol down and rose.
Goldfish slapped their way across the wet stones in desperation. He understood their horror. His breathing was labored, too.
He assessed the three. All Chinese, wiry and strong. Hired help. He employed several thousand just like them, throughout China.
“Have you already killed Pau?” he asked.
“You first,” the one man said, shaking his head.
Two swishes preceded the thud of arrows sucking into flesh. Two of the men began to realize that a shaft with feathered ends had pierced their chests. Before they could draw another breath, their bodies shrank to the ground, their guns falling away.
Three men in gray jumpsuits materialized from the sides of the courtyard, each holding a stretched bowstring, an arrow threaded, ready to fire, aimed at the final attacker.
“You may be able to shoot one, two, or maybe all three,” Pau’s disembodied voice said. “But you will not stop us all.”
The man seemed to consider his options, decided he did not want to die, and lowered his rifle.
Pau and the fourth man stepped from the exhibition hall. Two of Pau’s men assumed control of the last intruder, leading him away at arrow-point.
