by Steve Berry
“I think I had a little to do with that, too.”
She motioned to the intersection approaching in the headlights and told him to turn east.
“You had no idea about the oil in the lamp,” she said. “You were flying blind.” She paused. “Sokolov’s wife is destroyed. That boy was her world. I met her last week. I don’t think she can survive knowing he’s gone forever.”
“We’re not done yet,” he said.
She turned her head and looked at him. He glanced across the darkness and caught sight of her face. She looked tired, frustrated, angry.
And beautiful.
“How’s your hip?” she asked.
Not exactly what he wanted her to ask, but he knew she was as skittish as he was about emotions.
“I’ll live.”
She reached across and laid a hand on his arm. He recalled another time they’d touched, just after Henrik’s funeral, on the walk back from the grave, through trees bare to winter, across ground dusted with snow, holding hands in silence. No need to speak. The touch had said it all.
Like now.
A phone rang. His. Lying on the console between them.
She withdrew her hand and answered. “It’s Stephanie. She has the info on Pau Wen.”
“Put it on speaker.”
CASSIOPEIA DIGESTED THE INFORMATION STEPHANIE RELATED on Pau Wen. Her mind drifted back to a few hours ago when she thought she was about to die. She’d regretted things, lamented on how she would miss Cotton. She’d caught his irritation when she’d defended Viktor, though it really wasn’t a defense since she still believed that Viktor knew far more about Sokolov’s son than he was willing to admit. Viktor was obviously playing another dangerous game. The Russians against the Chinese, the Americans against them both.
Not an easy thing.
Stephanie continued with her information.
Cotton was listening, his eidetic memory surely filing away every detail. What a blessing that could be, but also a curse. There was so much she’d prefer not to recall.
One thing, though, she clearly remembered.
In the face of death, staring at the archer, his arrow aimed straight at her, then again when Viktor’s gun had pointed her way, she’d desperately wished for one more opportunity with Cotton.
And received it.
THIRTY-SEVEN
BELGIUM
MALONE STARED AT THE MAN. THOUGH IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT, black as soot outside, and the entrance bore evidence of gunfire, the older man who’d opened the doors—short-legged, thin-chested, with red-rimmed eyes, bleary but alert—seemed unfazed.
A faint smile came to his lips. Malone recognized the face.
From the museum, with two others, one of whom had carried a bow and arrows.
Cassiopeia was right. Pau Wen did indeed have the lamp.
Cassiopeia did not give Pau time to react. She withdrew her gun, the same one Viktor had used to track her, and jammed the barrel into the man’s neck. She shoved Pau from the doorway and slammed him against a stone wall, pinning a few artificial stalks of bamboo between his silk robe and the wall.
“You sent that bowman to kill me,” she said.
Two younger Chinese appeared at the top of a short flight of wide stairs that led up into the house. Malone withdrew his Beretta and aimed it their way, shaking his head, telling them not to interfere. The two halted their advance, as if they knew Cassiopeia would not pull the trigger.
Glad they thought so. He wasn’t so sure.
“You came into my home,” Pau said. “Stole my lamp at gunpoint. Did I not have the right to retrieve my property?”
She cocked the gun’s hammer. The two standing above them reacted to the increased threat, but Malone kept them in place with his weapon.
“You didn’t send that man to kill me because of the lamp,” she said. “You wanted me to take the damn thing.”
“It was Minister Tang, not I, who changed this situation.”
“Perhaps we ought to let him speak,” Malone said. “And he might feel more inclined to do that if you took that gun away from his throat.”
“And men came to kill me today, as well,” Pau said. “Sent by Tang. You see evidence of that in the doors. Sadly, for them, they died trying.”
“And no police?” Malone asked.
Pau smiled.
Cassiopeia lowered the gun.
Pau smoothed his sleeveless gown and dismissed the other two men with a wave of his hand.
“You knew we’d come,” Malone said.
He’d seen that certainty in the man’s eyes.
“Not you. But her. I realized she would be here before the sun rose.”
NI WAS WAITING TO BOARD HIS FLIGHT FROM BRUSSELS TO BEIJING. He’d used his diplomatic passport to have the lamp stored on board, to be waiting for him in the terminal when he deplaned in China. He’d already telephoned his office, and a car would be at the airport to drive him straight to his office. Hopefully, by then, he would know more about the Ba and Karl Tang’s connection to it. Seemingly nothing had gone right over the past few hours, but he was far more informed and that was a plus. Pau Wen had proven helpful, perhaps too helpful, but Ni was now more concerned about Tang.
An announcement came that the first-class cabin could now board.
He’d booked that luxury for two reasons—because he needed to rest and because the airline offered in-flight Internet connection to its first-class passengers. He had to stay in touch.
He stood.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he answered.
“We don’t have Sokolov,” his assistant informed him. “Our men have disappeared. No contact for two hours.”
“Is Tang in Lanzhou?”
“He’s with Sokolov now.”
He thought quickly. They’d lost the element of surprise.
“Do you want more men sent?” came the question.
The course seemed clear. Retreat, reassess, then decide.
“No. Lay low. Stand down.”
“And Sokolov? That could prove fatal for him.”
“We’re just going to have to hope that it doesn’t.”
CASSIOPEIA FOLLOWED MALONE AND PAU WEN INTO ONE OF the gathering rooms. She noticed again the woodwork, the paneling and lattice, as well as the olden silk hangings, couplets, and lanterns. She watched as Malone absorbed the surroundings, too, surely concluding as she had during her first visit that this place expressed wealth and taste. Soft incandescent lighting cast a warm glow of candles, which calmed her nerves.
A map had caught Malone’s attention, and she noticed it, too. Maybe two meters long by a meter high, painted on silk—fine, stiff, and textured. A series of Chinese symbols wrapped its four sides, forming a border. She admired the colors—crimson, sapphire blue, yellow, and green, each hue appearing faded from a brownish yellow glaze.
“That’s impressive,” Malone said.
“It’s a reproduction of something I once saw. An ancient representation of China.” Pau pointed. “The Gansu and Qinghai desert plateaus to the west. South to Guangdong and Guangxi. The sea on the east and, to the north, the Ten Thousand Mile Long Wall.”
Malone smiled at the phrase.
“Chinese do not call it the Great Wall,” Pau said.
The map was quite detailed, showing lakes and rivers and what appeared to be roads that connected towns, all delineated by pictographs.
Pau pointed to some of the locations. “That’s Ling-ling at the bottom, the southernmost city. Chiu-yuan, beside the long wall, protected the north. Ch’i-fu and Wu guarded the Yellow Sea. The rivers shown are the Wei, Yellow, and Yangtze.”
“Is it accurate?” Malone asked.
“The Chinese were excellent cartographers. They actually developed the technique. So yes, quite accurate.”
Malone pointed to the extreme southwestern portion and what appeared to be a representation of mountains. Three symbols denoted a location.
“That’s a lonely outpost.”
Pau nodded. �
�The Hall for the Preservation of Harmony. An ancient site that actually still exists. One of thousands of temples in China.”
Their host motioned to two rattan couches, and they sat. Pau faced them from a Cantonese easy chair. Malone, apparently remembering Stephanie’s briefing on the phone, kept the facts to a minimum and made no mention of the Russians. But he did say, “We understand the lamp is not important. It was the oil inside that Karl Tang wanted. You don’t happen to know why?”
Pau’s eyes stayed flat and hard.
She’d been oblivious to the man’s manipulations on her first visit, thinking herself in charge. Now she knew better.
“Only that Tang required a sample of ancient oil for some purpose.”
“You’re a liar,” she declared.
Pau frowned. “And what if I am? What do you have to offer for the information you seek?”
“What do you want?” Malone asked. Then he motioned at the room. “Obviously, you don’t need money.”
“True, I am a man of means. But I do have a need. Let me inquire of Ms. Vitt. Do you intend to return to China?”
“You know about Sokolov, the boy, Tang. You know about everything, don’t you?”
“And the answer to my question?”
“I wasn’t. But I am now.”
“I assume your reentry will be without the Chinese government’s knowledge?”
“That would probably be best,” Malone said.
“I want to accompany you.”
“Why would we even consider doing such a thing?” she asked.
“I know where there is another sample of oil from 2,200 years ago.”
TANG HELD A METAL PAIL THAT HAD BEEN BROUGHT FROM THE car. He’d obtained it at the drill site, along with a few other items, before leaving. His man had returned with two rats, one of fairly good size, found in the alley behind the building. He knew it would not be hard. Buildings like this were infested.
He heard the pests scurrying inside a cardboard box that had been hastily utilized as a cage. He realized it would not take them long to discover that they could burrow through. His background investigation on Sokolov had revealed a terrible phobia of rats, which made the Russian’s choice of refuge even more strange. But under the circumstances, he’d probably not had many options. Hiding among the million and a half inhabitants of Lanzhou probably had seemed a safe bet.
He walked back to where Sokolov had been secured to a chair with heavy tape, his hands and feet still bound. He’d ordered the man’s shirt removed, his bare chest exposed. Some rope, which he’d brought, a couple of lengths about two meters long, lay on the floor behind the chair.
Sokolov had yet to see the rats, though he surely heard their chatter.
Tang motioned and the chair was tipped back. Sokolov was now facing the ceiling, his spine to the floor, feet in the air. The cardboard box was opened and Tang scooped the rats into the pail. Its slick metal prevented their claws any traction, though they tried in vain to climb.
He approached Sokolov.
“It’s time for you to understand just how serious I am.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
BELGIUM
MALONE HAD BEEN TOLD ENOUGH ON THE PHONE BY STEPHANIE to know that Pau Wen had maneuvered Cassiopeia a few days ago and was now trying to do it again.
“Why do you want to go to China?” he asked Pau. “I’m told you fled the country decades ago.”
“And what is your involvement here?”
“I’m your travel agent. The one who can book your ticket, depending on how I feel about you.”
Pau grinned. “There is about to be a revolution. Perhaps even a bloody one. In China, changes in power have always involved death and destruction. Karl Tang intends to assume control of the government—one way or another.”
“Why does he need a sample of oil from centuries ago?” Cassiopeia asked.
“Do you know about the First Emperor, Qin Shi?” Pau asked them.
Malone knew some. Lived two hundred years before Christ, a hundred years after Alexander the Great, and united seven warring states into an empire, forming what would later be called China, named after him. The first to do that, starting a succession of dynasties that ruled until the 20th century. Autocratic, cruel, but also visionary.
“Might I read you something?” Pau asked.
Neither he nor Cassiopeia objected. Malone actually wanted to hear what this man had to say, and he was glad Cassiopeia seemed to agree.
Pau clapped twice and one of the younger men who’d watched the encounter at the front door appeared with a tray, upon which lay a stack of brittle silk sheets. He laid the tray in Pau’s lap, then withdrew.
“This is a copy of Records of the Historian or Shiji, as it has come to be called. It was written to cover the whole of human history, from a Chinese perspective, up to the time of its author’s death in 90 BCE. It is China’s first work of recorded history.”
“And you just happen to have an original?” Malone asked. “Ready to show us.”
“As I said, I knew she would come.”
He smiled. This man was good.
“Shiji’s creator was the grand historian of the Han dynasty, Sima Qian. He supposedly consulted imperial records and traveled widely, learning from private documents, libraries, and personal recollections. Unfortunately, Qian eventually lost his emperor’s favor. He was castrated and imprisoned, but upon his release he again became the palace secretary and completed this work.”
“He was a eunuch?” Malone asked.
Pau nodded. “Quite an influential one, too. This manuscript still enjoys immense prestige and universal admiration. It remains the single best source that exists on the First Emperor. Two of its one hundred and thirty chapters specifically address Qin Shi.”
“Written over a hundred years after he died,” Malone said.
“You know your history.”
Malone tapped his skull. “Got a mind for details.”
“You are correct. It was written a long time after the First Emperor died. But it is all we have.” Pau motioned to the top silk, brown and stained as if tea had been spilled upon it. Faded characters, written in columns, were visible.
“May I read you something?” Pau asked.
And the First Emperor was buried at Mount Li.
From the time he came to the throne, Qin Shi had begun the excavation and building at Mount Li, and when gathered into his hands the whole empire, more than 700,000 workers were sent to the site to toil.
Through three underground springs they dug, and they poured molten bronze to make the outer coffin and to make the models of the palaces, pavilions, and government offices with which the tomb was filled.
And there were marvelous tools and precious jewels and rare objects brought from afar. Artisans were ordered to fashion crossbows as traps so that any grave robbers would meet sudden death.
Using quicksilver, they made the hundred rivers of the land, the Yellow and Yangtse, and the wide sea, and machines kept the waters in motion. The constellations of the heavens were reproduced above and the regions of the earth below.
Torches were made of oil to burn for a long time. Concubines without sons were ordered to follow the emperor in death, and of the artisans and workers not one was allowed to emerge alive.
Vegetation was planted so that it appeared to be a mountain.
“No ruler before, or since,” Pau said, “has created a memorial of this magnitude. There were gardens, enclosures, gates, corner towers, and immense palaces. Even a terra-cotta army, thousands of figures who stood guard, in battle formation, ready to defend the First Emperor. The tomb complex’s total circumference is over twelve kilometers.”
“And the point?” Cassiopeia asked, impatience in her voice. “I caught the reference to torches made of oil that burned for a long time.”
“That mound still exists, just a kilometer away from the terra-cotta warrior museum. It’s now only fifty meters high—half has eroded away—but inside remains the
tomb of Qin Shi.”
“Which the Chinese government will not allow to be excavated,” Malone said. “I’ve read news accounts. The site is filled with mercury. Quicksilver, as you said. They used it to simulate the rivers and oceans on the tomb floor. Ground testing a few years ago confirmed high amounts of mercury in the soil.”
“You are correct, there is mercury there. And I was the one, decades ago, who wrote the report that led to the no-excavation rule.”
Pau stood and walked across the room to another hanging silk image, this one of a portly man in long robes.
“This is the only representation of Qin Shi that has lasted. Unfortunately, it was created centuries after his death, so its accuracy is doubtful. What has survived is how one of Qin’s closest advisers described him. He has the proboscis of a hornet and large, all-seeing eyes. His chest is like that of a bird of prey and his voice like that of a jackal. He is merciless, with the heart of a tiger or a wolf.”
“How does any of this help us?” Malone asked.
A satisfied look came to Pau Wen’s aged face. “I have been inside the tomb of Qin Shi.”
THIRTY-NINE
LANZHOU, CHINA
TANG SHOWED LEV SOKOLOV WHAT WAS SCURRYING AROUND inside the bucket. The Russian’s eyes went wild.
“Active ones,” Tang said.
Sokolov still lay on the floor, strapped to the chair, his legs folded above his head, eyes to the ceiling, like an astronaut in his capsule. His head began to shake back and forth, pleading for everything to stop. Sweat beaded on the Russian’s forehead.
“You have lied to me for the last time,” Tang said. “And I protected you. Officials here in Gansu wanted you arrested. I prevented that. They wanted to banish you from the province. I said no. They called you a dissident, and I defended you. You have been nothing but a problem. Even worse, you’ve caused me personal embarrassment. And that I cannot allow to go unanswered.”
His three men stood beside the chair, two at the legs, one at the head. He motioned and they gripped Sokolov so his body would stay in position. Tang quickly approached and righted the metal pail, pressing down hard, holding the bucket in place, the rats trapped underneath, now scurrying around on Sokolov’s bare chest. The Russian’s head whipped left and right, held tight by Tang’s man, the eyes closed in agony.
