by Steve Berry
Sokolov nodded. “A way to know for sure.”
Excellent.
“The world has been aggressively extracting oil from the ground for a little over 200 years,” Sokolov said, his voice in a low monotone. “Biotic oil, fossil fuel, waits not far beneath the surface. It’s easy to get, and we have taken all of it.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve tested a sample from every well on the planet. There is a repository in Europe where those are stored. None of those samples contains fossil fuels.”
“You still haven’t said how you know that to be true.”
“Abiotic oil looks, smells, and acts the same as biotic oil. The only difference is that you have to drill deep to get it. But I’m not sure that even matters anymore. Where’s my boy? I want him back.”
“And you’ll get him. When I get what I want.”
“You’re a liar.”
He shrugged. “I’m the only path to your son. Right now, he’s just one of thousands of young boys who disappear each year. Officially, the problem doesn’t even exist. Do you understand? Your son doesn’t even exist.”
He saw the utter hopelessness in the Russian’s face.
“Biotic oil is gone,” Sokolov quietly continued. “It once was plentiful. Formed from decomposing organic matter, shallow in the earth, and easy to get. But as we pumped fossil fuels from the ground, the earth replenished some of those reserves with oil created deeper in the crust. Not all wells replenish. Some are biotic with no way for the deeper, abiotic oil, to filter upward. So they go dry. Others lie over fissures where oil can seep up from below.”
Questions formed in his brain. 2,200 years ago, oil had first been found in Gansu. 200 years ago, that same field went dry. He’d studied the subterranean geography and knew that the fissures there ran deep—earthen channels through which pressurized oil could easily move upward. Jin Zhao had theorized that abiotic oil might have seeped up from below and restored the Gansu field. “How do we know that the site in Gansu simply did not contain more oil than was known?”
Sokolov appeared to be in pain. His breathing was labored, his attention more on the floor than on Tang.
“Your only chance to see your son again is to cooperate with me,” he made clear.
The Russian shook his head. “I will tell you nothing more.”
Tang reached into his pocket, found his phone, and dialed the number. When the call was answered, he asked, “Is the boy there?”
“I can get him.”
“Do it.”
He stared straight at Sokolov.
“He’s here,” the voice said in his ear.
“Put him on the phone.”
He handed the unit to Sokolov, who did not accept the offer.
“Your son wants to speak with you,” he said.
Defiant lines faded from the Russian’s face. A hand slowly came up to grip the phone.
Tang shook his head, then pressed the SPEAKER button.
An excited voice—young, high-pitched—started talking, asking if his father was there. Clearly, Sokolov recognized the voice and opened his mouth to speak, but Tang muted the mouthpiece with another press of a button and said, “No.”
He brought the unit back to his own ear and unmuted the call.
“Stay on the line,” he directed the man on the other side. “If Comrade Sokolov does not tell me exactly what I want to know in the next minute, I want you to kill the boy.”
“You can’t,” Sokolov screamed. “Why?”
“I tried persuasion, then torture, and I thought we had made progress. But you remain defiant. So I will kill your son and find out what I need to know elsewhere.”
“There is no elsewhere. I’m the only one who knows the procedure.”
“You’ve recorded it somewhere.”
Sokolov shook his head. “I have it solely in my head.”
“I have no more time to deal with your lack of cooperation. Other matters require my attention. Make a decision.”
An iron ceiling fan slowly rotated overhead, barely stirring the lab’s warm air. Defeat filled the geochemist’s face as his head nodded.
“Keep the boy there,” he said into the phone. “I may call back in a few moments.”
He ended the call and waited for Sokolov to speak.
“If that sample on the table contains the marker,” the scientist said, “then it’s proof that the oil is from an abiotic source.”
“What marker?”
“Diamondoids.”
He’d never heard the term before.
“Smaller than the wavelength of visible light. Tiny specks of diamond that form within oil created deep in the earth’s crust, where there is high temperature and high pressure. A million of them would barely fit on the head of a pin, but I found them, and I named them. Adamantanes. Greek for ‘diamond.’ ”
He caught pride in the declaration, ignored it, and asked, “How did you find them?”
“Heating oil to 450 degrees Celsius vaporizes away the chemical compounds. Only diamondoids remain, which X-rays will reveal.”
He marveled at the concept.
“They are shaped as rods, disks, even screws, and they are not present in biotic oil. Diamond can only be formed deep in the mantle. It is conclusive proof of abiotic oil.”
“And how do you know that the earth actually produces the oil?”
“Right here, in this lab, I heated marble, iron oxide, and water to 1,500 degrees Celsius at 50,000 times atmospheric pressure, mimicking conditions one hundred miles beneath the earth. Every time, I produced both methane and octane.”
Tang grasped the significance of that result. Methane was the main constituent of natural gas and octane the hydrocarbon molecule in petrol. If those could be produced in a lab, they could be produced naturally, along with oil itself.
“The Russians know all this, don’t they?” he asked.
“I personally found over eighty fields in the Caspian Sea applying this theory. It is still doubted by some, but yes, the Russians are convinced oil is abiotic.”
“But they have no proof.”
Sokolov shook his head. “I left before I discovered the diamondoids. Zhao and I did that here.”
“So the Russians work from an unproven theory?”
“Which is why they speak little of this publicly.”
And why, Tang thought, they were so interested. Surely they wanted Sokolov back. Maybe even permanently silenced. Thank goodness Viktor Tomas had kept him apprised of exactly what the Russians were doing. But he made no mention of that intrigue and instead said, “And that’s also why they maintain the myth of scarcity?”
“They watch, amused, as the rest of world pays too much for oil, knowing it is endless.”
“But they are likewise cautious, since they have no proof that their concept is true.”
“Which is understandable. They lack what you have. A verified sample from a place where ancients drilled for oil. Only the Chinese could have such a sample.” Disgust had invaded his voice. “This was the only place on earth man drilled for oil two centuries ago.”
Pride swelled within him.
Sokolov pointed to the table. “If diamondoids are in that sample, then the oil is abiotic. All you would need is another sample, from long ago, from the same field, for comparison. To prove the theory, that sample must test biotic with no diamondoids.”
He appreciated the simplicity of the equation. Biotic oil first, siphoned away with drilling, replaced with abiotic oil. And Gansu might be the only place on earth where such a comparison could be made. Every surviving historical record made clear that those first explorers, more than 2,000 years ago, drilled exclusively in the vicinity of the well in Gansu. Any oil surviving from that time would have come from the ground there.
All he required was a confirmed sample of that oil.
“You told me the lamp is gone,” Sokolov said. “Along with its oil. So where will the comparison sample come from?”
/> “Not to worry, comrade. I secured that sample and you will soon have it.”
FORTY-FIVE
BEIJING
NI REALIZED THAT THE PREMIER EXPRESSED HIMSELF IN A SUBTLE manner devised to keep his listener on edge. Before, a desk had always stood between them, his investigative reports received with only a flicker of interest and little comment. But this talk was different.
“I remember,” the old man said, “when every bus window was plastered with slogans and pictures of Mao. Store windows the same. Radios only broadcast revolutionary music, Mao’s thoughts, or state news. Movie houses showed only Mao greeting Red Guards. Even the opera and ballet performed only revolutionary works. We all carried our book of quotations since you never knew when you would be called upon to cite a section.”
The premier’s voice was quiet, rough, as if the memories were bitterly painful.
“Serve the People. That was Mao’s message. In reality, we all simply served him. This building is proof we still do.”
Ni began to understand why they were here.
“Hegemony is our weakness,” the premier said. “That unwillingness within us to work with any foreign power, even when there is no threat. Hegemony is a natural expression of our totalitarianism, just as peaceful relations are to democracy. We have always believed ourselves to be the geographic and geopolitical center of the world. For centuries, and especially since 1949, the sole goal of our foreign policy has been to dominate our neighbors and then, eventually, the remainder of the world.”
“That is totally beyond our grasp.”
“You and I know that, but does the remainder of the world know? I recall when Kissinger came in 1971, on a secret mission to lay the groundwork for renewed contact between the United States and China. The use of the word hegemony baffled the American translators. They could not adequately convey its meaning. The concept was literally unknown to them.” The premier pointed to the crypt. “Mao said then, China has stood up. He was telling the world that no outsiders would ever control us again. I’m afraid, though, no one was listening.”
“We have always been ignored,” he said. “Thought of as backward, unmodernized. Even worse, repressive and dictatorial.”
“Which is our own fault. We never have done much to counter that perception. We seem to actually revel in a negative light.”
Ni was puzzled. “Why are you so cynical?”
“I’m simply speaking the truth—which, I suspect, you well know. Democracy is the nemesis of hegemony. Dispersing power among elected officials, instead of concentrating it in the hands of the ruler, empowering rather than subjugating the people—those concepts are beyond our comprehension.”
“But they cannot remain so any longer.”
“I recall the 1950s, when Mao was at the height of his power. Maps were drawn showing our borders extending far to the north, south, and west, into lands we did not then control. These were distributed to officials solely to motivate them to think in such grandiose terms. And it worked. We eventually intervened in Korea, invaded Tibet, bombarded Quemoy, attacked India, and aided Vietnam, all with the intent to dominate those lands.” The premier paused. “Only Tibet remains within our control today, and our hold there is fragile, relying on force.”
He recalled what Pau had said. “Are you saying that we should not then, or now, have national pride?”
“It seems all we have is pride. We are the longest-existing culture on this planet, yet look at us. We have little to show for our efforts, beyond a multitude of insurmountable problems. I’m afraid hosting the Olympics had a similar effect as those maps once did. They are motivating the ambitious within the government to do foolish things.” For the first time the voice bristled with anger, and the eyes flashed hot with rage. “We remain conscious of slights that occurred decades, even centuries, ago. Given any pretext we will avenge those, no matter how trivial. It is ludicrous, and that nonsense will be our downfall.”
“Not all of us think that way,” he said.
The premier nodded. “I know. Only old men. But there are many of us still, and there are young men ready to exploit our fears.”
He knew exactly to whom that comment was directed.
“Mao lies there,” the premier said, “for us to worship. A wax imitation of a failed leader. An illusion. Yet a billion and a half Chinese still adore him.”
“I don’t.” He felt empowered to make the declaration.
“Don’t. Ever.”
He said nothing.
“Men like Karl Tang are a danger to us all,” the premier said. “They will advocate the forcible reclaiming of Taiwan, then the entire South China Sea region. They will want Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, Myanmar, even Korea. Our lost greatness, found again.”
For the first time the gravity of the coming battle began to take hold. He said, “And in the process they will destroy us. The world will not stand idle while all that happens.”
“I have kept things in order,” the premier said. “I knew I could not change anything, only hold what was there until my successor arrived. That man would be in a better position to exact change. Are you ready, Minister, to be that person?”
Asked the same question three days ago, he would have answered that he was. Now he wasn’t so sure, and something in his eyes must have betrayed his doubt.
The older man nodded and said, “It’s okay to be afraid. Fear keeps you humble, and humility makes you wise. That is what Karl Tang lacks. It is his weakness.”
A few moments of silence passed between them. An inner voice cautioned him to be careful with his words, as another thought of Mao’s came to mind.
The Hundred Flowers Campaign.
A time in the 1950s when criticism of the government had been encouraged, new solutions and ideas encouraged, and millions of letters poured in. Eventually, posters appeared on campuses, rallies were held, articles published, all advocating a shift toward democracy.
But it had been a political trap, a clever way to ferret out dissidents. More than half a million were imprisoned, tortured, or killed.
“You know of the eunuchs?” the premier asked, catching him unawares.
He nodded.
“Pau Wen and I both trained for the Ba. We engaged in the required two years of meditation and instruction, preparing ourselves for initiation. Both of us stripped naked and had our abdomens wrapped with bandages, our bodies bathed with hot pepper water. I held Pau while he was castrated, felt the tremble in his legs, saw the anguish on his face, watched as he accepted mutilation with honor.” The voice had dropped to a mere whisper. “Yet when my time came and the Tao asked if I would regret what was about to happen, I said yes.”
Ni stared in disbelief.
“I was afraid. When faced with the prospect of what was about to happen, something told me the knife was not my destiny.”
“And that voice was right.”
A tired look flooded the aged face. “Perhaps so. But know that men who can face the knife, and never utter a sound, possess a strength you and I cannot fathom.”
He would not forget that.
“The official Party line, then and now, is that Mao was 70 percent right and 30 percent wrong. But we never identify which part of his thought is right or wrong.” A chuckle seeped from the premier’s thin lips. “What fools we are.”
The old man motioned toward Mao’s body.
“He supposedly lies upon a black stone from Tai Shan as a reminder of what Sima Qian wrote in Shiji. One’s life can be weightier than Mount Tai or lighter than a goose feather. You must decide, Minister. Which will yours be?”
MALONE KEPT THE PLANE’S ALTITUDE AT AROUND 5,000 FEET. Never had he thought that he’d be leisurely cruising across Vietnamese airspace. Below stretched a panorama of jagged mountains and sloping hills, many striated by terraced rice farms, towering over lush green valleys shrouded in mist.
“We’re approaching the border,” Cassiopeia said to him. She’d been studying the chart Ivan had
provided.
“The local officials in Yunnan province,” Pau said, “have good relations with their neighbors. They front not only Vietnam, but also Laos and Myanmar. Beijing is a long way away, so their allegiance has always been more local.”
“I hope that’s still true,” Malone said. “We’re not carrying much in the way of armament.”
“During Mao’s purges, many fled to Yunnan. Its remoteness offered refuge. The terrain north of here, in China, is similar to what is below us now.”
Ivan had told them to follow the Kunming–Hekou railway, a line the French built in the early part of the 20th century through Vietnam, into China, past the heavily populated cities of Gejiu and Kaiyuan.
“You work with the Russians often?” Pau asked him.
“Not usually.”
“What is their interest here?”
“Like we’re going to tell you,” Cassiopeia said, turning around and facing Pau. “How about this? You tell us why you’ve come home and we’ll tell you why the Russians are here.”
“I’m returning to stop a revolution.”
“More likely to start one,” she said.
“Are you always so aggressive?”
“Are you always so deceitful?”
“You apparently have no knowledge of guanxi.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Throughout our history, to weather tough times, the Chinese have relied on friends and family. People who may be in a position to help. It is called zôu hòu mén. ‘Through the back door.’ Of course, if a favor is offered and taken, the receiver is obligated to return it. This keeps the guanxi in balance.”
“And what keeps you from leading us straight into a disaster,” she asked.
“I am not the enemy. Karl Tang has that distinction.”
“I see the border,” Malone said.
Cassiopeia returned her attention out the windows.
The railway line snaked northward, crossing a highway that Ivan had said now connected China and Vietnam. The roadway veered west, the rail line north. A bridge spanned the Red River, clogged with cars stopped at a checkpoint.
