The Emperor's Tomb (Cotton Malone 6)
Malone dropped to just above 1,000 feet.
“Here we go.”
FORTY-SIX
NI STORMED INTO THE OFFICES OF THE CENTRAL COMMISSION for Discipline Inspection, located purposefully away from the walled Zhongnanhai, Beijing’s complex of palaces, pavilions, and lakes that served as headquarters for both the Party and the government. His visit with the premier had been troubling. Nothing made sense. Everything seemed inverted. He was torn with doubt, engulfed by a roiling cloud of unfamiliar emotions, and haunted by the premier’s inquiry.
What would be the measure of his life?
Strength or weakness?
He’d called from the car and ordered his entire staff to assemble in the conference room. He required allies, not traitors, and it was time to find out where each one of them stood.
Fourteen people waited. Nine men, five women. He calmed the flurry of excitement with a raised hand and immediately excused the women. Then he said to the men, “Drop your trousers.”
They all stared at him in disbelief.
He removed his gun and pointed it straight at them. “I won’t say it again.”
CASSIOPEIA STARED OUT THE WINDOW AT THE MOUNTAINOUS landscape. Sunshine warmed the thin air. They’d been flying inside Chinese airspace for more than an hour with no problems. Glancing over, she was glad she was flying with Malone. Though Viktor Tomas had twice saved her life, she trusted Cotton.
Implicitly.
He’d come to Belgium when she needed him, and that meant something.
She’d allowed only a few men close. Keeping emotions to herself had always proven the best course. She’d read once that women with strong fathers gravitated to strong men, and Malone definitely reminded her of her father. He’d been a giant in business, a self-made billionaire who’d commanded the attention of Europe and Africa. A lot like Henrik Thorvaldsen, whom she’d admired more than she’d ever realized until he was gone. Death seemed to claim everyone she loved. The thought of her own demise, which the experiences in the museum had so vividly illustrated, remained fresh in her mind. Such a confusion of feelings. What a defining moment. Soon enough she’d be forty years old. She had no husband, no children, no one with whom to share herself. She lived alone in an ancient French manor, her life devoted to helping others.
And ignoring her own needs?
Maybe it was time to change all that.
She always looked forward to seeing Cotton, and regretted when they parted. Was she trying to find a replacement for her father, the one man in her life whom she’d never defied? No. That was too simple an explanation. Her mother would have said that men were like fields—they required careful cultivation and daily attention, all in the hope that one day they might prove productive. A somewhat cynical approach.
Not one that worked for her.
Here she was, flying across southern China, headed for who-knew-what. Was it worth it? If she found Lev Sokolov’s son, then yes.
If not?
She didn’t want to think about failure.
So she comforted her anxiety with thoughts of Cotton and that perhaps she may have actually found something for herself.
Something she wanted.
Finally.
NI WAS SATISFIED THAT NONE OF HIS CLOSE STAFF WERE TRAITORS. He recalled what Pau Wen had told him about modern pharmaceuticals and their masking effects on castration, so he’d pursued the only investigative course that guaranteed results. He also ordered his chief aide to conduct an immediate physical inspection of every male in the building. While that was occurring, he reviewed what information his staff had accumulated since yesterday.
There was absolutely no reference to any organization called the Ba in any security files. Those records would have included prisoner interrogations, witness statements, incident reports, news accounts, anything and everything that did not mandate a STATE SECRET stamp. The archives contained millions of documents, many of which had been digitalized, making a reasonably quick search possible. Historically, his staff uncovered much of what Pau Wen had already told him about how the Ba grew out of an ancient Legalist movement, supposedly disappearing around the 17th century.
Nothing indicated that the organization still existed.
He’d also ordered a vetting of Pau Wen, but no official record revealed any connections among Pau, the premier, and Karl Tang.
Yet these clearly existed, by their own admissions.
A tap on his office door disturbed his thoughts.
His chief aide entered. “Everyone has been examined. No eunuchs, Minister.”
“You think I’m insane, don’t you?”
“I would never presume to judge you.”
He liked this man, honorable and above reproach, which was why he’d selected him as first assistant.
“I was unable to tell you before,” his aide said, “while the others were here. But we found something last night.”
His attention piqued.
“An overseas call came to Minister Tang’s satellite phone. I ordered his lines monitored weeks ago. He utilizes several phones, with numbers that change weekly. It has been a challenge to stay ahead of him. We don’t tap every conversation, but we find enough.” His aide handed him a flash drive. “A recording.”
Ni inserted the drive into his computer and listened, immediately recognizing the voices of Tang and Pau. He heard the tension and conflict. Sensed the challenge these two men presented to the other. Tang’s betrayal, then his pronouncement to Pau, There is no legal way for you to reenter China. No visa will be issued. On that, I have absolute control. The few brothers you have at your disposal there will be barred from returning, too.
“Is this the proof we seek?” his aide said.
He shook his head. “Not enough.”
But at least he knew the whole thing wasn’t fiction.
FORTY-SEVEN
MALONE SPIED THE GREEN EXPANSE OF A HIGHLAND LAKE, ITS surface shining with ripples and dotted with junks.
Lake Dian.
Mountains bordered the west shore, the lush slopes sheathed in trees, the eastern side mostly plains of ocher-colored farmland. Smoke belched from chimneys in a fishing hamlet a few miles away.
He dropped the plane’s altitude to 500 feet.
Cassiopeia released her harness and moved forward, gazing down through the forward windows. He’d noticed on the chart that the mountains to the west were called Xi Shan. Carved into the cliff faces he spotted paths and stairways linking a succession of temples, their towering pagodas, with curved tile roofs and painted eaves, reminding him of Tivoli and home.
“The undulating contours of the hills,” Pau Wen said, “resemble a reclining woman with tresses of hair flowing to the water. So they are called Sleeping Beauty.”
He noticed that the label seemed apt.
“The temples are from the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. There, where the chairlift stretches to the summit, in the 18th century a Daoist monk chipped a long corridor up the face of the mountain. Legend says the tip of his chisel broke as he neared the end. In despair, he threw himself into the lake. Fifty years later his followers reached the goal, which is now called Dragon Gate.”
“Sounds like something for the tourists,” Cassiopeia said.
“Actually, the tale is reasonably close to the truth.”
Ivan had said that the lake stretched forty kilometers north to south, and Malone could believe that claim seeing nothing but water toward the horizon.
“Let’s see what’s down there before we land.”
He eased the yoke forward and reduced airspeed.
The flight northward across Yunnan province had been quiet, the skies clear of traffic. He’d grown accustomed to the smooth journey but, suddenly, the Twin Bee’s wings skipped air.
Engines sputtered, then quickly refired.
Projectiles pierced the hull and rocketed through the cabin.
Air rushed in through holes.
The right wing sheared further from more impac
ts and the ailerons went loose. The plane arched left as the starboard side failed to respond to commands.
“What was that?” Cassiopeia said.
The answer came as a jet roared passed overhead, its afterburners flaming in the late-morning sky.
“Cannon fire,” he said.
The fighter’s delta-winged triangle disappeared in the distance, but a vapor trail indicated a turn for another approach.
“That’s a People’s Liberation Army fighter,” he said. “And it ain’t here by accident. The Chinese knew we were coming.”
He worked the rudder and used airspeed to regain some semblance of control. He’d been annoyed the entire flight by the lack of synchronization in the two engines. Pitch was a pilot’s best warning, but the Twin Bee’s engines screamed at each other like an arguing soprano and baritone.
“What can I do?” Cassiopeia asked.
“Tell me where that jet is.”
“He’s coming straight toward us, from behind,” Pau calmly reported.
They were plowing through thick air, only a few hundred feet above the lake. He added altitude and rose to 1,000 feet. The Twin Bee was little match for modern avionics, cannons, and radar-guided missiles.
There was, though, one weapon they did possess.