The Emperor's Tomb (Cotton Malone 6)

The ground upon which he stood had once supported one of China’s main sources. Unfortunately, Gansu’s wells had run dry more than 200 years ago.

The site superintendent approached, a man with a thin face, a high forehead, and strands of stringy black hair swept back. He worked directly for the Ministry of Science, sent here by Tang, along with a trusted crew. Gansu’s governor had questioned the unauthorized activity but was told simply that the ministry was exploring, and if all went well the results might prove economically beneficial.

Which was the truth.

Just more so for him than the governor.

“I’m glad you were nearby,” the superintendent yelled over the noise. “I don’t think I could have contained it much longer.” A smile came to the man’s thin lips. “We’ve done it.”

He realized what that declaration meant.

This site had been specifically selected eleven months ago, not by geologists but by historians. An area had been cleared and leveled, then an access road cut through the nearby forest. A 2,200-year-old map, discovered in northwest Gansu, had been the source. The map, drawn on four identical pine plates, depicted the administrative division, geography, and economics of this region during the time of Qin Shi. Eighty-two locales were denoted by name, along with rivers, mountains, and forests. One of those rivers still flowed five hundred meters away. Even the distances of the imperial roadways were clearly specified. Lacking longitude and latitude coordinates, transposing those locales to reality had proven difficult, but it had been done.

By Jin Zhao.

Before he was arrested, before his hemorrhage, before his trial, conviction, and execution, Zhao had found this site.

“We hit the depth three days ago,” his superintendent reported. “I waited to call you until I was sure.” He saw the smile on the man’s face. “You were right.”

“Show me.”

He was led to the drilling platform, where workers were busy. He’d intentionally kept this crew to a minimum.

“We hit oil sand five days ago,” the superintendent told him above the intense noise.

He knew what that meant. When cuttings from the mud being drawn up revealed oily sand, oil was not much farther.

“We lowered sensors into the hole. Checked the pressures and extracted core samples. It all looked good. So we started to seal off.”

Tang knew what had been done next. Small explosive charges would have been lowered down to blast holes in the newly installed plug. Then tubing would have been snaked through the holes and any leaks sealed. At the top of the tubing, multivalves would have been cemented into place. Oil gushing from a well, in a massive blowout, was the last thing anyone wanted. “Taming the crude” with a measured flow, was far better.

“We’ve been pumping acid,” the superintendent said, “since yesterday. I stopped a few hours ago to wait for your arrival.”

Acid was used to dissolve the last remaining centimeters of limestone between the capped well and the oil. Once that was gone, the pressurized oil would flow upward, controlled by the valves.

“Unfortunately, I stopped the acid a little too late. An hour ago this happened.”

He watched as the superintendent twisted a valve and black crude drained out into a barrel.

He immediately noticed the pressure. “That’s strong.”

The man nodded. “There’s a lot of oil down there. Especially for a field that went dry two hundred years ago.”

He stepped back from the drill hole, remaining beneath the red-and-white derrick. He started thinking more like a scientist and less like a politician, considering the implications.

Incredible.

Jin Zhao had been right.

TWENTY

BELGIUM

NI GRIPPED THE GLOCK AND ADVANCED TOWARD THE FRONT of the house. He entered the vestibule, its walls gray brick with what he assumed was artificial bamboo fronting one section. Steps led down to the main entrance, where a stone fountain gurgled. A clear view of the oak doors was blocked by a green silk screen. He’d not seen Pau’s four minions since they had disappeared from the courtyard. Pau had told him to cover the main entrance, then vanished, too.

Four rat-tat-tats could be heard outside.

Gunfire.

He wasn’t interested in joining the melee, but Pau’s words rang in his ears. Have you considered the possibility that you are their target?

More shots. Closer this time.

His gaze locked on the doors.

Bullets thudded against the thick wood from the outside, then tore through, pinging off the walls and floor. He dove for cover behind a polished timber that held the roof aloft.

The front doors smashed open.

Two men burst inside with automatic rifles.

He crouched in a defensive posture, aimed, and sent a round their way.

The men scattered.

He was a couple of meters above them, but they carried heavy-duty assault rifles and he wielded only a pistol.

Where was Pau? And his men?

A spurt of automatic fire splintered the timber shielding him. He decided that a retreat was in order, so he rushed deeper into the house.

He passed a tall wooden cabinet, which offered momentary protection.

A slug whistled past his ear.

Sunlight from a sky well illuminated the hall, but there was no way to reach the opening, at least ten meters high. To his right, past swinging lattice door panels, several of which hung open, he spied movement in a courtyard. Another man wielding an automatic rifle and not wearing a gray jumpsuit.

His options were rapidly diminishing. It did seem as if these four were after him, not Pau. He glimpsed the squatting form in the courtyard and spotted a glint of metal as the gunman took aim through the lattice doors. He flattened himself on the floor, scrambling across the varnished wood, as bullets exploded through the wooden slats and cut a path barely a meter above him.

His mind throbbed.

Though a career military man, he’d never actually been under fire. Plenty of training, but the utter confusion of this situation smashed any practiced response he might have offered.

This was insane.

He rolled twice toward a heavy wooden armchair and overturned it so that its thickest portions would offer cover.

He saw a shadow play across the room. The man in the courtyard was advancing.

He came to his knees and sent three rounds through the latticework.

Flesh and bones thudded to stone.

Bullets instantly came in response.

The two from the front door had arrived.

He fired twice in their direction then bolted for the exterior lattice doors, crashing through, his arms forcing splintered wood away as his eyes searched for more danger.

The courtyard was empty.

The man with the automatic rifle lay on the pavement, downed not by two bullet holes, but by an arrow that protruded from his spine.

Ni heard movement behind him and knew what was coming so he sought cover be

hind a stone planter. Another chattering of gunfire sent a burst of bullets zipping through the courtyard, a few finding the huge glass jar—which shattered, sending a cascade of water and goldfish to the pavement.

He knew little about the remainder of the house, except the exhibit hall, whose door loomed ten meters away. If he could make it there, perhaps he could flee through one of its windows.

But any hope of salvation was dashed when a man appeared, pointing a rifle straight at him.

With two in the house and one dead a few meters away, all four assailants were now accounted for.

“Stand,” the man ordered in Chinese. “Leave the gun on the ground.”

The two remaining assailants emerged from the house.

He laid the pistol down and rose.

Goldfish slapped their way across the wet stones in desperation. He understood their horror. His breathing was labored, too.

He assessed the three. All Chinese, wiry and strong. Hired help. He employed several thousand just like them, throughout China.

“Have you already killed Pau?” he asked.

“You first,” the one man said, shaking his head.

Two swishes preceded the thud of arrows sucking into flesh. Two of the men began to realize that a shaft with feathered ends had pierced their chests. Before they could draw another breath, their bodies shrank to the ground, their guns falling away.

Three men in gray jumpsuits materialized from the sides of the courtyard, each holding a stretched bowstring, an arrow threaded, ready to fire, aimed at the final attacker.

“You may be able to shoot one, two, or maybe all three,” Pau’s disembodied voice said. “But you will not stop us all.”

The man seemed to consider his options, decided he did not want to die, and lowered his rifle.

Pau and the fourth man stepped from the exhibition hall. Two of Pau’s men assumed control of the last intruder, leading him away at arrow-point.