by Steve Berry
December 26, 1968.
Precious few of those first-generation leaders remained alive. Though they held a special status in the communist pantheon, many fell victim to Mao’s purges. Others died from old age. One, though, remained active in the government.
The premier, who’d occasionally displayed his gift from the former Chairman.
Tang needed to know for sure. “There are no Confucian texts here? You are sure?”
The expert shook his head. “This room has been purged of every one of them. They should be here, but they are gone.”
Challenges to his plans seemed to come from all fronts. Jin Zhao. Lev Sokolov. Ni Yong.
Now this.
He stared at what he held.
And knew exactly who the watch had once belonged to.
ELEVEN
CASSIOPEIA STEPPED AWAY FROM THE MAN LYING STILL ON THE floor and approached the doorway. Finally, she was on the offensive, and she’d shoot anyone who came between herself and freedom.
Carefully, she peered into the narrow hall. Two meters away the door for the bathroom hung half open. Another door, a meter or so past on the other side, was closed. The corridor ended in what looked like a brightly lit entrance hall.
She stepped out.
The walls were a dingy rose, the plaster ceiling in need of painting. Definitely a house. Some rental. Surely out of the way, with a convenient windowless room beneath a staircase.
She wore the same jeans and shirt from two days ago. Her jacket had been taken the first day. Interestingly, she still carried her wallet and passport. Everything smelled of sweat and she could use a hot shower, though the thought of more water flowing across her face made her stomach uneasy.
She was careful with her steps, each one pressed lightly, the gun at her side, finger on the trigger.
At the hall’s end she moved toward the front door, but the sound of a murmured voice halted her exit.
She stopped and listened.
Somebody was talking. Then silence. More speaking. As if on a telephone. She kept listening and confirmed only one voice. She decided that she owed that SOB, too. She’d already vented her anger on the man lying back in her cell, so why not finish things.
She identified the location down another short corridor that ended at a partially shut door. Before venturing that way she eased over to one of the windows and glanced out, spotting nothing but trees and pasture. They were somewhere in the countryside. She’d been transported here tied in the trunk of a car, blindfolded. She’d estimated about half an hour’s driving time, which given Antwerp’s location could place her anywhere in Belgium, Holland, or France.
A dark-colored Toyota was parked out front. She wondered if the keys were in the ignition or with one of her captors.
The muffled voice continued to speak on the telephone.
Might as well take advantage of the privacy they’d so conveniently arranged. She needed to find out who these people worked for. They could help lead her to Lev Sokolov’s missing son. Finding him was her only concern. Thank goodness she’d thought ahead and done what she did, involving Cotton.
Otherwise, she’d be dead and the boy lost forever.
She stopped outside the door, keeping her gaze locked on the vertical strip of bright light escaping from the room on the other side.
Something about the voice tugged at her memory.
She had no idea how many people were waiting in the next room, but she didn’t give a damn. Her nerves were frayed. Her patience exhausted.
She was tired, dirty, hungry, and pissed off.
She gripped the gun, planted her left foot on the floor, and slammed her right heel into the wood.
The door swung inward, smashing into the wall.
She lunged forward and immediately spotted only one man, talking on a cell phone.
He showed not the slightest surprise at her entrance.
Instead, he merely closed the phone and said, “About time.”
She stared at the face, as if she’d seen a ghost.
And in some ways, she had.
MALONE HAD NEVER ACTUALLY HEARD THE WORD EUNUCH USED in a conversation before.
“As in castrated male?” he asked.
“There is other kind?” Ivan said. “These are nasty people.” He spread out his short arms. “They lay down, open legs wide, snip, snip, everything gone.” He raised one finger. “And do not make sound. Not peep from the lips.”
“And the reason they do that?” he asked.
“Honor. They beg for this. You know what they do with the parts cut off? They call them pao, treasure, place them in jars on the high shelf. The kao sheng. High position. Symbolic of attaining high position. Whole thing is madness.”
He agreed.
“But they do it, all the time. Now eunuchs are prepared to take China.”
“Come again?”
“This southern slang? I understand you from American South. This where name Cotton comes from.”
“Get to the damn point.”
Ivan seemed to like for his audience to think him stupid, but this burly Russian was anything but.
“The Ba. Secret Chinese organization. Goes back two thousand years. The modern version is no better than original. They intend the play for power. Not good for my country or yours. These are bad people.”
“What does that have to do with Cassiopeia?”
“I do not know exactly. But there is the connection.”
Now he knew the man was lying. “You’re full of crap.”
Ivan chuckled. “I like you, Malone. But you do not like me. Lots of negativity.”
“Those two back on the street aren’t feeling much positivity.”
“No worry about them. Killing rids world of two problems.”
“Lucky for all of us you were here, on the job.”
“Malone, this problem we have is serious.”
He lunged forward, grabbed Ivan by his lapels and slammed him into the bricks behind them. He brought his face inches away. “I’d say that was true. Where the hell is Cassiopeia?”
He knew the backups were most likely reacting. He was prepared to whirl around and deal with them both. Of course, that was assuming they didn’t decide to shoot first.
“We need this anger,” Ivan quietly said, his breath stale.
“Who is we?”
“Me, Cotton.”
The words came from his right. A new voice. Female. Familiar.
He should have known.
He released his grip and turned.
Ten feet away stood Stephanie Nelle.
CASSIOPEIA COCKED THE GUN’S HAMMER AND AIMED THE weapon straight at Viktor Tomas. “You sorry, no-good mother—”
“Don’t say things you’ll regret.”
The room seemed some sort of gathering place, as there was one chair that held Viktor, three empty chairs, and a few tables and lamps. Windows opened to the front of the house through which she saw the Toyota.
“You tortured me.”
He shrugged. “Would you rather it not have been me? I made sure the experience was at least bearable.”
She fired into the base of the upholstered chair, aiming for a point between his legs. “Is that what you call it? Bearable?”
He never flinched, his eyes owlish and inexpressive. “Got that out of your system?”
The last time she’d seen this man was a year ago. He’d been serving a Central Asian dictator. Apparently, he’d found new employment.
“Who are you working for?”
He stood from the chair. “Chinese first vice premier Karl Tang.”
A renewed burst of anger surged through her. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shoot you dead.”
“How about that I know where Lev Sokolov’s son is being held.”
TWELVE
NI WAS ASTONISHED. “YOU AND THE PREMIER HAVE SPOKEN about me?”
Pau nodded. “Many times. We also talk of the nation.”
“And why would he talk t
o you about that?”
“A long time ago, he and I shared much together. He is not the impotent imbecile many think him to be.”
Ni knew that most of the Central Committee no longer cared what the premier thought. He was nearing eighty, sickly, and held the position simply because no one had, as yet, emerged with enough support to seize control.
Pau was right.
A division existed within the Chinese Communist Party. Similar to when Mao lay dying in 1976, and Mao’s wife and three others formed the infamous Gang of Four. The then-premier and Deng Xiaoping allied to oppose the gang, ultimately winning political control in another ideological battle—Legalism versus Confucianism—the conflict settled outside the public eye, within the Party hierarchy, just as the current conflict would be.
“What is it the premier is working for?”
“Trying to determine what is best for China.”
That told him nothing.
“Minister, you may think you enjoy widespread political support, and perhaps you do. But that support would evaporate in an instant if the Ba were to seize control. They have always been Legalists. Their every act geared to oppressive, single-minded domination. They would have no tolerance for you.”
“What could I have to fear from a group of eunuchs?”
Pau motioned at the open doorway across the courtyard that led back into the exhibit hall. “I have many great manuscripts from our past stored there. Fascinating texts, but there is no Magna Carta. No great forums or halls of independence. Minister, despotism is our inheritance. Chinese history is dominated by warlords, emperors, and communists. Legalists, one and all.”
“As if I do not know that. You worked for them once.”
“Tell me, what makes you think your future will be any different? What would you have for China? If given the premiership, what would you do?”
Privately, he’d considered that question many times. The nation teetered literally on the brink of collapse. The current national system was simply incapable of generating enough wealth and technology to both compete with the world and effectively contain a billion and a half people. Following Mao’s beliefs, concentrating all economic resources in the hands of the state, had failed. But so had Deng’s subsequent policies of encouraging unregulated foreign investment.
That had led to exploitation.
Governing China seemed like flying a kite on a windless day. You could adjust the tail, change the design, run faster, but without a breeze to sweep the thing skyward nothing would happen. For decades Chinese leaders had ignored that there was simply no breeze. Instead they tinkered and tinkered, trying to force the kite upward, always failing.
“I want to change everything,” he quietly said, surprised he’d voiced the words.
But Pau had finally coaxed them from him.
How did this old man know so much about him?
“Minister, there once was a time when the superiority of Chinese life, with its advanced agriculture, written language, and highly developed arts, was so attractive that those we conquered, or those who conquered us, willingly sought assimilation. They came to admire us, and wanted to be part of our society. That desire was complemented by an application of humane Confucian ritual—which stressed harmony, hierarchy, and discipline. There are countless ancient texts that reference peoples who, centuries ago, ceased to exist as separate ethnic groups, so complete was their assimilation. What happened? What changed us into something to be avoided?”
“We destroyed ourselves,” he said.
China had indeed gone through successive cycles of unification and fragmentation—and each time something was lost. Something irretrievable. A part of the collective conscience. A part of China.
“Now you understand why I left,” Pau quietly said.
No, he actually still didn’t.
“Our dynasties have fallen with an almost eerie predictability,” Pau said. “Often early leaders are masterful, while later ones are feeble, unmotivated, or mere puppets. Inevitably, corruption combines power and money, without the benefit of the law to prevent abuse. An absence of clear rules on political succession generates chaos. Rebellions eventually ferment, as the military weakens. The government then isolates itself and weakens. The end is never in doubt.” Pau went silent a moment. “That has been the fate of every Chinese dynasty for 6,000 years. Now it’s the communists’ turn.”
He could not argue with that conclusion. He recalled a trip to the south a few months ago during another investigation. A local official, an old friend, had driven him from the airport. Along the way they’d passed billboards advertising new apartments with swimming pools, gardens, and modern kitchens.
“The people are tired of Cultural Revolutions and wars,” his friend had said. “They like material things.”
“And you?” he’d asked.
“I like them, too. I want a comfortable life.”
That comment had stuck with him. It spoke volumes about China’s current state, where the government merely mended or patched problems, making do. Mao had preached a pride in poverty. Trouble was, nobody believed that anymore.
Pau bent down and, in the garden sand, sketched two characters.
Ni knew what they meant. “Revolution.”
Pau stood. “More accurately, ‘withdrawal of the mandate.’ Every Chinese dynasty justified its rise with that phrase. When the Qing dynasty fell in 1912, and the last emperor was forcibly removed, this was how we referred to that historic event. In 1949 Mao stole Chiang Kaishek’s mandate to build a post-Qing republic. It is time for another withdrawal of the mandate. The question is who will lead that effort.”
He stared at the older man, his head spinning with suspicions. The investigator within him had retreated. Now he was thinking like the politician—the leader—he wanted to be.
“Communism has outlived its historical role,” Pau said. “Unchecked economic growth and raw nationalism can no longer support it. There simply is nothing connecting the current Chinese form of government to its people. The demise of the Soviets proved that flaw clearly. Now it’s happening again. Unemployment within China is out of control. Hundreds of millions are affected. Beijing’s condescension, like Moscow’s decades ago, is inexcusable. Minister, you must realize that the same nationalism that comforts the Party today could well hurl China into fascism tomorrow.”
“Why do you think I am fighting for power?” he spit out. “Do you think I want that? Do you think the people who support me want that?”
“But you have discovered a problem, haven’t you?”
How did this sage, whom he’d met only today, know all that troubled him?
“Moscow’s collapse frightens you,” Pau said. “How could it not? But we are different. We are better suited to living with contradictions. Our rulers have long proclaimed themselves Confucians, then ruled as Legalists, yet no one ever questioned that dichotomy. And unlike Russians, most Chinese do not lack for the necessities of life, or a few gadgets in their home. Our Party is not ignorant. Even with all of our flaws, we will not commit political suicide. So your dilemma is clear. How do you persuade a billion and a half people to discard the norm and follow you to the unknown?”
He waited for the answer to that question.
“Pride, Minister. Such a simple thing. But appealing to that could well be your answer.”
THIRTEEN
COPENHAGEN
MALONE SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CAFÉ NORDEN, NESTLED close to an open second-story window. Outside, Højbro Plads vibrated with people. Stephanie Nelle and Ivan had also found chairs. Ivan’s two minders were downstairs, at one of the exterior tables.
“The tomato bisque soup is great here,” he told them both.
Ivan rubbed his belly. “Tomatoes give me the gas.”
“Then by all means, let’s avoid that,” Stephanie said.
Malone had known Stephanie a long time, having worked as one of her original twelve agents at the Magellan Billet. She’d created the Justice Depa
rtment unit, personally recruiting twelve men and women, each bringing to the table a special skill. Malone’s had been a career in the navy, where he rose to commander, capable of flying planes and handling himself in dangerous situations. His law degree from Georgetown, and ability in a courtroom, only added to his résumé. Stephanie’s presence here, on this beautiful day in Denmark, signaled nothing but trouble. Her association with Ivan compounded the situation. He knew her attitude on working with the Russians.
Only when necessary.
And he agreed.
The café tables were crowded, people drifting up and down from a corner staircase, many toting shopping bags. He wondered why they were talking in public, but figured Stephanie knew what she was doing.
“What’s going on here?” he asked his former boss.
“I learned of Cassiopeia’s involvement with Lev Sokolov a few days ago. I learned about the Russian’s interest, too.”
He was still pissed about the two murders. “You killed those two I was after so we’d have no choice but to deal with you,” he said to Ivan. “Couldn’t let me learn anything from them, right?”
“They are bad people. Bad, bad people. They deserve what they get.”
“I didn’t know that would happen,” Stephanie said to him. “But I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“You two acquainted?” he asked her.
“Ivan and I have dealt with each other before.”
“I not ask you to help,” Ivan said. “This not involve America.”
But he realized Stephanie had interjected herself into their business practicing the old adage Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
“Cotton,” she said. “Cassiopeia has involved herself in something that is much bigger than she suspects. China is in the midst of an internal power struggle. Karl Tang, the first vice premier, and Ni Yong, the head of the Communist Party’s anti-corruption department, are about to square off for control. We’ve been watching this battle, which is rapidly escalating into a war. Like I said, I became aware of Cassiopeia’s entrance a few days ago. When we dug further, we found Ivan was also interested—”