by Steve Berry
The leader reached through a shattered pane in the door and opened the latch from the inside, apparently just as Cassiopeia had done.
The three disappeared inside.
Malone walked between the soft fragrances and muted colors of the flower beds, toward the doors.
He found his Beretta.
TWENTY-SIX
GANSU PROVINCE, CHINA
TANG TAPPED THE KEYBOARD, ENTERING A PASSWORD THAT completed the video connection. He preferred cyber-communication to face-to-face meetings. If performed with the right encoding, security was nearly foolproof. Unless one of the parties to the conversation allowed a violation.
But that wasn’t a worry here.
All of the participants were sworn by oath, bound by the brotherhood, each a loyal and dedicated member of the Ba.
He stroked the touch pad, and the laptop’s screen divided into ten panes. A man’s face appeared in each, bearing features of the Han Chinese, all of them in their fifties like himself. They served in diverse areas. One was a judge on the Supreme People’s Court. Several were respected department heads. Two were generals in the military. Three were members of the all-powerful Central Committee. They’d risen in rank, just like Tang—steadily, unnoticed—and served as Ba division leaders. Men who supervised other brothers, scattered throughout the national and local governments and the military. Their total numbers were limited, little more than two thousand, but enough to accomplish their goal.
“Good day,” he said into the laptop’s microphone.
China, though 5,000 kilometers across and spread over five international time zones, stayed on Beijing time. He’d never understood the logic since it led to annoying differences in work hours, but it explained the varied dress of the men on the screen.
“I wanted to report that the premier’s health is rapidly deteriorating,” he said. “I have learned that he has less than a year left. Of course, that fact will be kept secret. But it is imperative we maintain a constant readiness.”
He saw heads nod.
“The Central Committee is prepared,” he said. “We have a solid majority to achieve the premiership.”
One hundred and ninety-eight people served on the all-powerful Central Committee. He’d cultivated well over a hundred, men not of the Ba, who believed as he did that China must head in a direction more reminiscent of Mao than Deng Xiaoping.
“And what of Ni Yong?” one of the men asked. “He has growing support.”
“That matter is being handled. A state funeral in his honor will greatly rally the people to our cause.”
“Is that necessary?”
“The simplest way to eliminate the problem is to eliminate the candidate. This was discussed and approved.”
“Conditionally,” one of the others quickly added. “As a last resort. Ni’s death could have implications, depending on the manner of his demise. We don’t want a martyr.”
“That will not happen. His death will be attributed to one of his many investigations, one that went terribly wrong. It will happen outside the country.”
He saw that several agreed, but a few did not.
“Ni has strong support in the military,” one of the generals said. “His death will not be ignored.”
“Nor should it be. But in the larger view, he will be quickly forgotten as events play out. The premier’s demise will be unexpected. That will inevitably lead to uncertainty, and the people will not allow that condition to exist for long. They will crave security, and we will provide it.”
“How fast will we move?”
“As fast as the constitution allows. I’ve arranged for the provinces to call for an immediate vote. Of course, until that happens, I will be in temporary charge, as first vice president. We should have control in a matter of weeks.”
Then the real work would begin, starting with a swift, hasty retreat from democratization, which should stay the Party’s demise. And there would no longer be a need for the Central Discipline Inspection Commission. Instead corruption would be dealt with privately. Likewise, all dissension would be quelled with appropriate punishments. Many world observers had predicted either the Westernization of China or the end of the Communist Party, and staying the present course would almost certainly have accomplished both. His goal was to alter that course 180 degrees.
Qin Shi, the emperors after him, and Mao had all done it.
Now he would do it.
All Chinese have an irrational fear of chaos and disorder.
“We will offer the nation exactly what it craves,” he said. “Stability. Order. Once those are established, the people will grant us many liberties.”
“We are but a few,” another of the men said. “Keeping that order could prove difficult.”
“Which is why we must control the premiership. That office grants us unrestricted power. From there, we can easily reshape the nation.”
He was careful when speaking with the brothers to always use the first-person plural we. Theirs was, in theory, a collective effort, and he realized that he could not accomplish his goal without everyone’s help.
“We must be ready to act with short notice,” he said to the others. “For my part, I am presently working on a tactic that could greatly enhance our position, perhaps even grant us a dominant hand in world politics. The West will not be dictating how China lives, moralizing on what is right and wrong, deciding our future.”
“You sound confident.”
“Their missionaries and educators tried to modernize and Christianize us. The Japanese wanted to conquer us. The Americans attempted to democratize us. The Soviets tried to insinuate control. They all failed. Even worse, we experimented with ourselves and failed, too. We are a great civilization.” He paused. “We shall once again be what we were.”
He saw that the men on the other end of the connection agreed with him.
“And what of the master?” one of the men finally asked. “We hear nothing from him.”
“Rest assured,” he made clear. “He is with us.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
ANTWERP
CASSIOPEIA PASSED THROUGH ANOTHER OF THE MUSEUM’S many parlors, recalling its layout from her first visit. The ground-floor rooms were arranged around a central hall from which a marble staircase rose in broad flights. She passed the same English long clock and two Chinese-style cases that held expensive curios. A porcelain gallery opened to her right, the 18th-century tables littered with ivories, enamels, and some 19th-century Adelgade Glasvaerker collectibles. Through a main hall, divided by four Ionic columns, she found a rear staircase, most likely once used by the household staff.
She started to climb.
Her entry had been easy. She knew that many of these old places were not alarmed. Instead, interior motion sensors were the security of choice, but on her first visit she hadn’t noticed any. Perhaps it was thought that there was nothing here thieves would waste time stealing, or maybe it was a matter of cost.
She kept her steps light, her senses alert, the gun at her side. She stopped at the first landing and glanced down to the ground floor, her ears attuned to every sound. But she heard nothing.
She shook away her apprehension.
Just get the lamp and get out.
MALONE HAD NO IDEA WHERE HE WAS HEADED, BUT THE THREE men ahead of him did not suffer the same problem. They moved through the rooms in a deliberate path, following the tracker, which the one man still held. He stayed back and used furniture for cover, careful with his rubber soles on the marble floor. He was inside a gallery, probably light and airy during the day thanks to bay windows that opened to the rear garden.
He peered into the gloomy cavern and saw ceilings of enamel and carved wood. To his left opened a wainscoted room lined with walls that appeared to be leather. He could still smell the roses, lilacs, and hawthorn outside the terrace doors. He was crouched behind a high-backed upholstered chair, waiting for the three to head farther inside.
To his left, movement drew his a
ttention.
Three more men entered through the terrace door.
He stayed low and used the darkness to his advantage.
Two of the newcomers stood tall. One moved with the slowness of age, and in the tiny bursts of light that came from outside, he caught the face. Definitely an older man.
One of the men toted a bow and a quiver of arrows slung across his shoulder.
Don’t see that every day.
All three crept in silence, then stopped, the older man directing the one with the bow, who quickly disappeared into the mansion. The remaining two hesitated, then advanced.
Malone fled the room through a second portal, away from where the others had gone, and headed toward the front, finding the main entrance.
Behind a small writing desk, which seemed to act as the admission table, opened a gift shop. He stepped inside, careful to keep his attention on what might be happening behind him, but he heard nothing.
He spotted a booklet that described the mansion in several languages, one of which was English. He grabbed it and stepped to a window. On the inside rear cover was a map of the four floors. He noted three staircases and many rooms. On the third level was a space labeled CHINESE BOUDOIR. No other room carried a similar designation.
Was that where Cassiopeia had hidden the lamp?
He grabbed his bearings and decided to use one of the secondary staircases.
CASSIOPEIA CAME TO THE TOP OF THE STAIRS AND QUICKLY made her way toward the Chinese boudoir. Gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls and a rich parquet sheathed the floor. Oriental porcelain sat atop carved chests. It had been one of those, a red lacquered cabinet with a refined finish, that had solved her problem. Surely, she’d reasoned, the cabinets weren’t inspected on a regular basis. From all she’d been able to learn this was a minor museum, of little consequence, something that merely preserved the formality and taste of a once-wealthy owner, which at least for a few days could provide a convenient hiding place.
Quickly she reentered the boudoir, stepped to the cabinet and opened the doors. The lamp lay exactly where she’d placed it. She had nothing to carry it in. She’d find a bag later, she figured, and taking a train directly to Copenhagen was beginning to sound like a good idea. Once there, she could decide on her next move.
She lifted out the lamp.
A dragon’s head, on a tiger’s body, with wings. She’d noticed at Pau Wen’s residence that the lamp contained some sort of liquid, its mouth sealed with wax.
A noise rose from behind.
She whirled.
Everything in the darkness seemed frozen.
Three meters away two forms appeared in the archway that led out to the hall. A third form materialized and blocked the other exit to her right.
Silhouettes of guns materialized, pointed her way.
“Lay the lamp down,” one of the two men said in English.
She considered shooting her way out, then decided that was foolishness.
She could not evade all three.
“The gun, too,” the voice said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
MALONE HEARD A VOICE JUST AS HE FOUND THE TOP OF THE stairs—a man talking about a lamp and a gun. Apparently, some of the six individuals who were inside had found Cassiopeia. He recalled from the map that the Chinese boudoir lay to his left, through a portrait gallery with a collection of miniatures, then one door down the hall.
He passed through the gallery, threading his way around dark shapes, careful not to bump anything. At a doorway leading out, a quick look confirmed that two men stood in the hall, facing into another room.
Both held weapons.
Elaborate paintings inside thick frames dotted the wide corridor. He noticed that the flooring was parquetry, which meant, unlike the marble he’d traversed so far, it would announce his presence. Since he needed to do something and there was no time for subtlety, he decided the direct approach would be best.
“Excuse me,” he said.
Both men whirled.
One of the men raised his gun and fired.
NI STOOD DOWNSTAIRS WITH PAU WEN. HE DID NOT LIKE ANYTHING about this situation. He was a high-ranking official in the Chinese government—a man beyond reproach, whose reputation meant everything—yet here he was inside a Belgian museum that had just been burglarized.
He heard a voice from up the main staircase.
Then another.
And a shot.
Pau said something to the third man—who’d returned a moment ago—then, with a flick of his wrist, dismissed him.
The acolyte darted up the staircase.
“This could escalate,” Pau said. “I confess that I thought no one would be here. Apparently, I was wrong. We must leave.”
More shots rang out.
“There’s quite a fight happening up there,” Ni said.
Pau grabbed his arm and they started for the terrace door. “All the more reason for us to leave. We can retreat to our previous position, away from the garden, and observe. My associate will do what he can to secure the lamp. He’s—”
“Expendable?”
“I was thinking capable. But he is certainly both.”
CASSIOPEIA HEARD A VOICE SAY “EXCUSE ME,” SAW THE TWO MEN react, and decided to use their moment of distraction to deal with the man to her right. She’d laid the lamp on the floor, but instead of relinquishing her gun, as ordered, she swung around and fired at the third man.
But the doorway was empty.
She scooped up the lamp just as the two men in the archway opened fire. If she didn’t know better she’d swear the voice had been Cotton’s. But that would be too fortuitous even to wish for.
More shots erupted, but they were directed away from her.
She decided that since the two were occupied, the third man presented the greater threat. So she darted to the doorway, peered into the next room, and caught no sight of movement. The room was loaded with dark silhouettes—furniture and wall hangings. Another exit opened ten meters away, with many places to hide in between.
All problems.
But she had no choice.
MALONE WAS STUCK IN A FIRESTORM. HE CARRIED A FULLY loaded Beretta but only one spare magazine, so he resisted the impulse to retaliate.
Luckily, he’d anticipated their attack and slipped into the next room, just as he’d diverted their attention from Cassiopeia. At least they were now focused on him.
Glass shattered as bullets found hard targets and wood splintered. To his left a vase added its coarse fragments to the ruin of porcelain on the floor.
Stephanie was going to kill him, but this wasn’t his fault. No one warned him that this could be a Shootout at the OK Corral reenactment.
He decided Enough and sent three shots in reply. At least now they knew he was armed. Movement confirmed they were shifting position. He fired two more rounds and fled his hiding spot, rushing down the hall, toward where the two men had first stood.
But they were gone, surely retreating toward the main staircase.
Time to find an ally.
“Cassiopeia,” he called out. “It’s Cotton.”
CASSIOPEIA HEARD MALONE CALL HER NAME, BUT SHE COULD not reply. The third man was close. She could feel his presence, within a few meters, hidden within the maze of furniture that stretched out before her. She’d utilized the gunfire’s chatter to steadily ease toward the archway that led out.
But her nemesis was probably doing the same thing.
She crouched behind a high-backed chair for cover and made it to the doorway, advancing with the lamp in one hand, the gun in the other. Coming around the way she was headed, she could catch the two men in a crossfire, Cotton on one side of the hallway, her on the other.
MALONE DARTED FROM ONE ROOM TO THE NEXT, CROSSING the hallway. The two men were ahead of him, or at least he thought so, and the gunfire had stopped.
Which was a problem.
Something popped, like metal bending.
A smell filled his nostrils.
He recalled the two containers that the first set of men had hauled inside. He’d wondered what they held. What had the lead man said?
Just in case.
He spotted a glistening ooze, reflected off the weak light from outside, seeping down the wooden floor toward him.
He caught a sweet odor.
Gasoline.
He realized what was coming and managed to drop back just as a woosh of air rushed his way, followed by the blinding light and intense heat of an erupting blaze.
TWENTY-NINE
NI AND PAU WEN FLED THE MUSEUM GARDEN, CROSSED THE rear drive and the graveled parking lot, and sought refuge in the shadows of the buildings of the next block over. The gunfire had stopped and Ni expected to hear sirens approaching. Surely someone had called the police.
“Should we not leave?” he asked Pau.
“We must see what happens.”
He stared back at the museum and caught a bright flash from the third-floor windows.
“It’s on fire,” he said.
Beams of light split the blackness as the museum’s third floor erupted into flames.
“This could be a problem, on a multitude of layers,” Pau said, his eyes locked on the destruction.
Ni didn’t want to hear that. “Care to explain?”
“Let us hope my brother can succeed. And quickly.”
CASSIOPEIA’S BONES AND MUSCLES TIGHTENED AS SHE REELED from the unexpected blast of heat. Her eyes burned from the burst of light the flames had generated. Spots dotted her vision and she struggled to see what lay before and behind her.
