The Emperor's Tomb (Cotton Malone 6)

“Why not just go to Pau Wen himself? Or send you? Why me?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

She kept the gun leveled. “Honestly? Now there’s a word not in your vocabulary.” Her gaze zeroed in. “You tortured me.”

“I made sure you weren’t tortured.”

“Not from my perspective.”

The features on his face softened. “Would you rather have been waterboarded by someone who really meant it?”

He’d changed from a year ago. Though still short and burly, his shocks of then-unkempt hair had been replaced with a neat trim above the ears. The wide nose and deep-set eyes, from some Slavic influence, remained, but the skin was swarthier than in Central Asia. He was early forties, no older, and had shed baggy clothes, which had then concealed shoulders and arms obviously accustomed to exercise, for more stylish, and snugly fitting, trousers and a designer shirt.

“Where’s the boy?” she asked.

“Sokolov played the Russians. Now he’s playing the Chinese. And those two you don’t mess with, especially the Chinese. They kill with no repercussions, since they are the law.”

“We’re not in China.”

“But Sokolov is. Tang is looking for him. I assume you hid him away, but it’s only a matter of time before he’s found. Tang has spies by the tens of thousands, every one of whom want to please the first vice premier, perhaps even the man who will be the next premier of China. You or I don’t really matter in the overall scheme.”

She doubted that. “What are you doing for him?”

“Tang hired me last fall. He needed a non-Chinese operative, and I was between jobs. He didn’t have me working this particular assignment until I heard your name mentioned. When I explained my connection—with some necessary adjustments to the facts—Tang sent me here.”

She lowered the gun, her emotions riding a thin edge. “Do you have any idea what you put me through?”

“I had no choice. Tang gives the orders. I gave you an opportunity to escape yesterday when I had food brought, but you were asleep. I sent my compatriot in there a little while ago, hoping this time you’d act.” He pointed at the gun. “Which you apparently did. I was waiting here for you.” He motioned at the phone lying on the table. “The call was fake.”

“And what made you think I wouldn’t just leave?”

“Because you’re angry.”

This man knew her well. “Any more helpers around?”

“Just the one in your room. You hurt him?”

“It’ll leave a mark.”

“Cassiopeia, Karl Tang wants that lamp. Can’t you just give it to him and be done with this?”

“And lose that child? Like you say, my having that lamp is the only bargaining chip I possess. You said you know where the boy is being held. Tell me.”

“It’s not that easy. You’d never get near him. Let me help.”

“I work alone.”

“Is that why you involved Malone? And I knew you were lying on that one, but Tang made me make contact.”

“What happened in Copenhagen?”

“I haven’t heard from the two who were hired for the job. But with Malone, something bad surely happened to them both.”

She needed to call Denmark and explain. But not here. “Where are the keys to that car outside?”

“In the ignition.” He stood from the chair. “Let me go with you. I can’t stay. No matter what I say, Tang will hold me responsible for your escape. My job with him is over. I have good intel on his operation that could prove valuable.”

She considered the proposal. It actually made sense. No matter how she felt about Viktor Tomas, he was clearly resourceful. Last year, he’d cleverly managed to wedge amazingly close to the president of the Central Asian Federation. Now he was near Karl Tang, who held the key to reuniting Lev Sokolov with his son. No doubt she’d made a mess of things. She needed to retrieve the lamp, then broker a deal. So why not a little assistance from a man who could make direct contact with Tang?

And who knew where Sokolov’s child was located.

“All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She stepped aside and allowed Viktor to leave first.

He reached for the cell phone and pocketed the unit. Just as he passed, headed for the door, she raised the gun above her head and slammed the butt into the base of his neck.

A moan seeped from his mouth as a hand reached upward.

She drove the gun’s hard metal into his left temple.

His eyes rolled skyward and he collapsed to the floor.

“Like I’m going to believe a word you say.”

FIFTEEN

SHAANXI PROVINCE, CHINA

11:40 PM

TANG WANDERED AMONG THE CLAY WARRIORS, KEEPING THEIR eternal guard. He’d left Pit 3 and returned to Pit 1. His expert was gone. The fact that the Pit 3 repository contained no Confucian texts, though all six should have been there, was telling. As was the silver watch, which he still held.

He’d suspected much had happened thirty years ago.

Now he knew.

Back then this region of Lintong County had been rural farmland. Everyone realized that the First Emperor lay beneath the hill-like mound that had stood there for the past 2,200 years. But no one had known of the underground army, and its discovery had led to a flurry of digging. For years workers toiled night and day removing layers of earth, sand, and gravel, photographing and recording the hundreds of thousands of shards. More workers then reassembled the shattered figures, one piece at a time, the fruits of their exhaustive labors now standing all around him.

The terra-cotta army had come to be regarded as a monumental expression of Chinese communal talents, symbolizing a unified state, a creative, compliant culture, a government that worked for and with its people.

A near-perfect symbolism.

One of the few times he’d agreed with using the past to justify the present.

But apparently, during all that digging, a cache of documents—Qin Shi’s lost palace library—had also been found.

Yet no one was told.

And a reminder of that omission remained.

A watch.

Left on purpose?

Who knew.

But given the person who’d most likely made the discovery, Tang could not discount anything.

Pau Wen.

Special counsel to the Central Committee, adviser to both Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping, a learned man whose value came from his ability to deliver desired results—as nothing secured privilege better than repeated success. Neither Mao nor Deng was the most effective administrator. Both governed with broad strokes across vast canvases and left the details to men like Pau. Tang knew Pau had led many archaeological digs throughout the country and had, at one point, overseen the terra-cotta warrior excavations.

Was the watch he held Pau’s?

It had to be.

He faced one of the warriors who stood at the army’s vanguard. He and the others with him would have been the first to descend on an enemy, followed by waves and waves of more terrifying men.

Seemingly endless. Indestructible.

Like China itself.

But the nation had come to a crossroads. Thirty years of unprecedented modernization had produced an impatient generation, one unmoved by the pretensions

of a communist regime, one that focused on family, cultural and economic life, rather than nationality. The doctor at the hospital seemed an excellent example.

China was changing.

But not a single regime in all Chinese history had relinquished power without bloodshed, and the Communist Party would not be the first.

His plan for power would take daring, but he hoped that what he was searching to prove could provide a measure of certainty, an air of legitimacy, perhaps even a source of national pride.

Movement above caught his attention.

He’d been waiting.

At the railing five meters overhead a figure sheathed in black appeared, then another. Both forms were lean and muscular, their hair cut short, their faces unemotional.

“Down here,” he quietly said.

Both men disappeared.

When he’d summoned his expert from the West, he’d also ordered that two more men accompany him. They’d waited nearby until his call, which he’d made on his walk over from Pit 3.

The men appeared at the far end of the line of warriors and approached without a sound, stopping a few meters away.

“Burn it all,” he ordered. “There are electrical cables and a transformer, so the lights can be blamed.”

Both men bowed and left.

MALONE AND STEPHANIE CROSSED HØJBRO PLADS. THE LATE-AFTERNOON sun had receded behind Copenhagen’s jagged rooflines. Ivan was gone, back in one hour, saying there were matters that required his attention.

Malone stopped at a fountain and sat on its damp edge. “You had a purse snatched right here a couple of years ago.”

“I remember. Turned into quite an adventure.”

“I want to know exactly what this is all about.” She remained silent.

“You need to tell me what’s at stake,” he said. “All of it. And it’s not a lost child or the next premier of China.”

“Ivan thinks we don’t know, but we do.”

“Enlighten me.”

“It’s kind of remarkable, really. And turns on something Stalin learned from the Nazis.”