“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?”