The Emperor's Tomb (Cotton Malone 6)

They stood near a cluster of houses that formed a floating village. Multidecked tour boats rested at anchor, as did many of the junks, their fan-shaped sails finding no wind. A tiny boat appeared with a fisherman standing in it, rowing with two oars crossed in an X. Malone watched as the man found his footing and tossed a net out into the water, its weights opening the mesh like a flower.

“Once,” he said, “years ago. On an assignment, I came through on the way into China.”

“As you will today,” Ivan said. The Russian was studying the sky, looking for something. “Border is less than two hundred kilometers north. But we do not go that way.”

“I get the feeling you’ve done this before,” Stephanie said.

“Sometimes.”

Pau Wen had remained quiet during the long flight, sleeping most of the way, as had they all, trying to adjust to a six-hour time difference. Pau gazed out at the calm sea with a sense that he’d been here before, too. A light fog steamed from the sea’s surface, filtering a rising sun. Oyster-colored clouds dotted a blue sky.

“Tran Hung Dao, Vietnam’s grand commander, faced off Kublai Khan’s army here,” Pau quietly said, “in 1288. He placed bamboo stakes in the rivers so that when the Chinese boats arrived at low tide, which he knew they would, the hulls would be pierced. When that occurred, his troops swooped down and slaughtered the invaders.”

Malone knew the rest of that story. “But the Chinese returned, conquered, and dominated here for nearly a thousand years.”

“Which explains why Vietnam and China are not friends,” Ivan said. “Long memories.”

On the flight, Malone had read what Stephanie had hastily amassed on Pau Wen. His background was one of academics, focusing on history, anthropology, and archaeology, but clearly he was a consummate politician. How else could someone become the confidant of both Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping, two utterly different personalities, and prosper under both?

“My uncle was a fisherman,” Pau said. “He sailed a junk. As a boy, I would go out on the water with him.”

Maybe fifty or more of the distinctive ships floated in the bay.

“The cotton sail is dipped in a liquid that comes from a plant similar to a yam,” Pau said. “That’s what gives the red-tan color. It also prevents rot and mildew. My task, as a boy, was to care for the sails.” Pau made no effort to hide a nostalgic tone. “I loved the water. I still recall sewing the coarse cotton panels together, one seam at a time.”

“What are you after?” Malone asked.

“Are you always so direct?”

“Do you ever answer a question?”

Pau smiled. “Only when I want to.”

Cassiopeia grabbed three bags from the dock. Earlier, she’d volunteered to find food and drink, and Ivan had provided her with several hundred Vietnamese dong.

“Soft drinks and bread,” she said. “Best I could do this early. In another hour there’s a café open just beyond the end of the dock.”

A small village nestled close to the shore—a cluster of low-slung pastel-colored buildings, rooftops bare and silent, a few faint curls of smoke wafting from several of the chimneys.

Malone accepted a Pepsi and asked Ivan, “Let’s see if you can answer a question. What exactly are we going to do?”

“Time to time, we sneak into China. They have coastal radar, but rocks and mountains give shelter.”

“We’re going to sail a junk in?”

Ivan shook his head. “Not today.”

Malone had also asked and received from Stephanie three other reports. One was on Karl Tang, China’s first vice president and the Party’s vice premier. Tang came from simple beginnings, trained as a geologist, rising steadily within the Communist Party until he was now one step from the top. In China’s convoluted political system, the Communist Party was intimately interwoven with the national government. Every key governmental position was occupied by a Party official. Which explained why the president also served as Party premier. No one ever achieved election to any position without the Party’s consent, which meant Karl Tang was a man of great power. Yet he required an oil lamp from an ancient grave so badly that he stole a four-year-old boy?

Ni Yong seemed the antithesis of Tang. Right off was his name, using the traditional form of last first. He’d grown up in Sichuan province in a village where nearly everyone was named Ni. He served two decades in the military, rising to high rank. He’d also been in Tiananmen Square in June 1989 when the tanks appeared. The West considered him a moderate, perhaps even a liberal, but they’d been fooled before by Chinese bureaucrats who said one thing then did another. Ni’s administration of the central disciplinary commission was widely regarded as admirable, a refreshing change of pace from the Beijing usual. The hope was that Ni Yong could become a new breed of Eastern leader.

The final report dealt with Viktor Tomas.

Beyond their direct contact, Malone knew little about the man. Their first encounter last year, in Central Asia, had been brief. Viktor had once worked with the Croatian security forces and, not wanting to be tried for war crimes, he’d switched sides and helped American intelligence as a random asset. Last year, when it was learned that Viktor had managed to position himself close to the head of the Central Asian Federation, pressure had been applied on him to exact his cooperation. On the plane, earlier, while the others slept, he’d asked Stephanie, “Is he Bosnian?”

She’d shook her head. “His father was American. He was raised partly in Bosnia, some in California.”

Which explained the lack of any European accent and his proficient use of slang.

“He’s helpful, Cotton.”

“He’s a random asset. Nothing but a whore. Where is he now?”

“Back with Tang. In China.”

“So what is it? Is he with the Russians? The Chinese? What’s his mission?”

She said nothing.

“We’re placing our asses right back in his hands,” he said. “And I don’t like it.”

Stephanie had still not commented—which spoke volumes.

But he meant what he’d said about random assets. No loyalty, usually reckless as hell. He knew that not only from Viktor, but from others he’d once encountered as a Magellan Billet agent. The mission may or may not be critical to them. Results didn’t matter. Surviving and getting paid, that’s what counted.

Malone watched as Ivan continued to study Halong Bay. The sun, the temperature, and the morning mist had all quickly risen.

“It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site,” Stephanie said.

He caught the twinkle in her eye. “How much damage could I do to this bay?”

“I’m sure you could find a way.”

“There,” Ivan said. “Finally.”

He saw what had grabbed the Russian’s attention. A plane, dropping from the sky, out over open water, making its way toward them.

FORTY-TWO

BEIJING, CHINA

8:40 AM

NI ENTERED THE TOMB OF MAO ZEDONG.

The granite edifice stood on the southern side of Tiananmen Square, a squat building, lined with columns, erected in a little more than a year after the Chairman died. Seven hundred thousand workers had supposedly participated in its construction, a symbol of the love that the Chinese harbored for their Great Helmsman. But that had all been propaganda. Those “workers” had been bused into the capital every day—ordinary people, each forced to carry a brick to the site. The next day, another busload would remove the same bricks.

Foolishness, but nothing unusual for China.

For the past year the mausoleum had been closed for renovations. In the rush to erect a memorial, little care had been taken on placement. Feng shui had been ignored. Consequently, there had been many structural problems over the years, ones his grandfather easily might have prevented.

On the flight from Belgium, he’d e-mailed a request for an immediate audience with the premier. Staff had responded quickly and said he would be seen as soon

as he was in the country. His reporting directly on a pending investigation was nothing unusual, since the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection answered only to the premier. Meeting at Mao’s tomb, though, was different. The explanation had been that the premier was there, making a final inspection before the site reopened in a few days.

In the mausoleum’s vestibule, a massive white marble armchair held a sitting statue of Mao. Behind, a mural featured the geopolitical range of the Chairman’s posthumous rule. Security men ringed the polished floor. He knew the drill. Two of the suited officers approached and he raised his arms, ready for a search.

“No need,” he heard a voice, cracking with age, say.

The premier entered the vestibule, a short, stumpy man with bushy eyebrows that swept up toward his temples. He wore his characteristic dark suit and dark tie and walked while leaning on a red lacquered stick.

“Minister Ni has my trust.” The premier motioned with his cane. “Allow him to pass.”

The security men withdrew, never confiscating the pistol from his shoulder harness. A weapon had been waiting for him when he stepped off the plane. He had thought it wise, under the uncertain circumstances.

“Let us walk,” the premier said.

They drifted deeper inside.

Evidence of renovations was everywhere, including fresh paint and sparkling stone.

“What is so urgent?” the premier asked.

“Tell me about Pau Wen.”

The old man stopped.

Though his breath was short, the voice weak and halting, the hands and fingers bony, Ni realized that there was nothing sluggish about this man’s mind.

“He is a dangerous man.”

“In what way?” he asked.

“He’s a eunuch.”