The Emperor's Tomb (Cotton Malone 6)

She spotted a water fountain, walked over, and savored a few long gulps.

She wiped her mouth and steadied herself.

Time to get this over with.

MALONE STEPPED OFF THE NATO CHOPPER AT A SMALL AIRFIELD north of Antwerp. Ivan followed Stephanie onto the tarmac. Stephanie had arranged the quick flight from Copenhagen. When they were clear of the blades, the helicopter departed back into the night sky.

Two cars awaited with drivers.

“Secret Service,” she told them. “Out of Brussels.”

Ivan had said little on the trip, just small talk about television and movies. The Russian seemed obsessed with American entertainment.

“All right,” Malone said. “We’re here. Where’s Cassiopeia?”

A third car approached from the far side of the terminal, passing rows of expensive private planes.

“My people,” Ivan said. “I must talk to them.”

The pudgy Russian waddled toward the car, which stopped. Two men emerged.

He stepped close to Stephanie and asked, “He has people here?”

“Apparently so.”

“Do we have any independent intelligence on this?” he quietly asked.

She shook her head. “Not enough time. It’ll be tomorrow, at the earliest, before I have anything.”

“So we’re bare-ass-to-the-wind, flying blind.”

“We’ve been there before.”

Yes, they had.

Ivan stepped back toward them, saying as he walked, “We have problem.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” Malone muttered.

“Vitt is on the move.”

“How’s that a problem?” Stephanie asked.

“She escapes her captors.”

Malone was suspicious. “How do you know that?”

Ivan pointed at the two standing beside the car. “They watch and see.”

“Why didn’t they help her?” But he knew the answer. “You want her to lead you to the lamp.”

“This is intelligence operation,” Ivan said. “I have job to do.”

“Where is she?”

“Nearby. Headed for a museum. Dries Van Egmond.”

His anger grew. “How the hell do you know that?”

“We go.”

“No, we don’t,” Malone said.

Ivan’s face stiffened.

“I’m going,” Malone made clear. “Alone.”

Ivan’s haggard face cracked a smile. “I am warned of you. They say you are Lone Ranger.”

“Then you know to stay out of my way. I’ll find Cassiopeia.”

Ivan faced Stephanie. “You take over now? You think I allow that.”

“Look,” Malone said, answering for her. “If I go alone, I have a better chance of finding out what you want. You show up with the goon squad and you’re going to get zero. Cassiopeia is a pro. She’ll go to ground.”

At least he hoped so.

Ivan jabbed a forefinger at Malone’s chest. “Why do I trust you?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing about you.”

The Russian removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and clamped one between his lips. He found matches and lit the smoke. “I not like this.”

“Like I care what you like. You want the job done. I’ll get it done.”

“Okay,” Ivan said as he exhaled. “Find her. Get what we want.” He pointed toward the car. “Has navigation that can lead the way.”

“Cotton,” Stephanie said. “I’ll arrange a little privacy. The Antwerp police are aware of what’s happening. They just don’t know where. I have to assure them there will be no property destruction, besides maybe a broken window or door. Just get her and get out.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I realize it shouldn’t be a problem, but you have a reputation.”

“This isn’t a World Heritage Site, is it? I seem to destroy only those.”

“Just in and out, okay?”

He turned to Ivan. “Once I make contact, I’ll call Stephanie. But I’m going to have to gauge Cassiopeia. She may not want partners.”

Ivan raised a finger and pointed. “She might not want, but she gets partners. This matter is bigger than one four-year-old boy.”

“That’s exactly why you’re staying here. First time those words are uttered and she’s gone.”

He did not plan to make the same mistake he’d made in Paris with Thorvaldsen. Cassiopeia needed his help and he was going to give it to her. Unconditionally and with full disclosure.

And Ivan could go to hell.

TWENTY-THREE

NI, STILL SHAKEN FROM THE ATTACK, WATCHED IN DISGUST. The fourth man, captured by Pau Wen, had been led from the house, beyond the gray walls, to a barn fifty meters behind the compound, among thick woods. Pau’s four acolytes had stripped off the man’s clothes, bound his body with heavy rope, then lifted him into the air, suspended from an L-shaped wooden crane.

“I have horses and goats,” Pau said to him. “We use the hoist to store hay in the top of the barn.”

The crane rose ten meters to a set of double doors in the gable. One of Pau’s men, the one from the video, stood in the upper doorway. The remaining three men—each wearing a green, sleeveless gown—fanned the flames of a steady blaze below, using dried logs and hay as fuel. Even from ten meters away, the heat was intense.

“It has to be hot,” Pau said. “Otherwise, the effort could prove fruitless.”

Night had come, black and bleak. The bound man hung suspended near the top of the hoist, his mouth sealed with tape, but in the flickering light Ni saw the horror on the man’s face.

“The purpose of this?” he asked Pau.

“We need to learn information. He was asked politely, but refused.”

“You plan to roast him?”

“Not at all. That would be barbaric.”

He was trying to remain calm, telling himself that Karl Tang had ordered his death. Plots, purges, arrests, torture, trials, incarcerations, even executions were common in China.

But op

en political murder?

Perhaps Tang thought that since the assassination would occur in Belgium, it could be explained away. The sudden demise of Lin Biao, Mao’s chosen successor, in 1971 had never been fully documented. Biao supposedly died in a Mongolian plane crash while trying to escape China, after being accused of plotting to overthrow Mao. But only the government’s version as to what happened had ever been released. No one knew where or how or when Lin Biao had died only that he was gone.

And he kept telling himself that the man dangling from the hoist had come to kill him.

One of the men motioned that the fire was ready.

Pau craned his neck and signaled.

His man in the barn rotated the hoist so that it was now no longer parallel but perpendicular to the building. That caused the bound man’s bare feet to hang about three meters above the flames.

“Never allow the fire to touch the flesh,” Pau quietly said. “Too intense. Too quick. Counterproductive.”

He wondered about the lesson in torture. This old man apparently was a connoisseur. But from all Ni knew about Mao, the entire regime had been masters of the art. Pau stood motionless, dressed in a long gown of white gauze, watching as the bound man struggled against the ropes.

“Will you,” Pau called out, “answer my questions?”

The man did not signal any reply. Instead he kept struggling.

“You see, Minister,” Pau said, “the heat alone is excruciating, but there is something worse.”

A flick of Pau’s wrist and one of the men hurled the contents of a pail into the flames. A loud hiss, followed by a rush of heat, spewed the powder upward as it vaporized, engulfing the prisoner in a scorching cloud.

The man’s thrashings increased wildly, his agony obvious.

Ni caught a scent in the night air.

“Chili powder,” Pau said. “The hot plume itself causes incredible agony, but the lingering chemical vapor increases the heat’s intensity on the skin. If he failed to close his eyes, he would be blind for several hours. The fumes irritate the pupils.”

Pau motioned and another batch of chili powder was tossed.

Ni imagined what the prisoner must be enduring.