by Alex Ryan
ALSO AVAILABLE BY ALEX RYAN:
Beijing Red
HONG KONG BLACK
A NICK FOLEY THRILLER
ALEX RYAN
NEW YORK
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.
Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.
ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-028-0
ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-030-3
ISBN (Kindle): 978-1-68331-031-0
ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-032-7
Cover design by Lori Palmer.
www.crookedlanebooks.com
Crooked Lane Books
34 West 27th St., 10th Floor
New York, NY 10001
First Edition: May 2017
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part II
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part III
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
Glossary
PROLOGUE
The Necropolis of Qin Shi Huang
Xianyang (capital of China)
State of Qin
213 BC
Unification.
And punishment.
These were the things that kept Li Si awake at night. As chancellor and principal advisor to Qin Shi Huang, the First Emperor of China, Li’s job was to transform vision into reality. Of all the beasts that roamed the earth, only men possessed this great and unique power—the power to manifest the ethereal into the corporeal. But not all men had the will. Only great men. Divine men. Men such as himself. The creation of the world’s greatest empire, governed under singular rule and law, was proof of his greatness as chancellor. He and he alone was the architect of this momentous feat, and he had accomplished it through unification.
And punishment.
Li glared at a pile of horse dung on the footpath and sidestepped the offensive mass. This sort of filth was unacceptable inside the Emperor’s necropolis. The necropolis complex, although still under construction, was a sacred place and should be maintained as such. He filed the infraction away in his mind. Someone would be disciplined; he would see to that. As he made his way east, to the standing terracotta army, he could not help but marvel at the magnificence around him. The necropolis of Qin Shi Huang was the largest construction project in all of China; hundreds of thousands of laborers and craftsmen had been conscripted for the task. The necropolis was a microcosm of the empire, complete with an imperial palace, map room, and tomb mound at the center. It was designed to embody all aspects of daily imperial life and provide the Emperor with everything he would need to rule in the afterlife. Unlike his forbearers, who, upon death, demanded burial sacrifice of their attending staff, Qin Shi Huang had chosen to construct a legion of life-size terracotta doppelgängers to stand in for his host of advisors, servants, and soldiers. This shift in burial policy was Li’s doing; he had no intention of sacrificing his life for a man he intended to outlive. He had already begun making plans and alliances, secretly selecting Qin Shi Huang’s successor to ensure he would remain chancellor when the Emperor died.
He had worked too hard the last twenty years to let something as mundane as death rob him of power.
Craftsmen and laborers bowed their heads as Li strode along the outer wall, but he paid them no mind. The necropolis had two walls—an inner and outer—encircling the tomb mound. Inside the inner wall, statues of bureaucrats, courtiers, and advisors were staged, ready to serve the Emperor in the afterlife. Bronze chariots and horses, with drivers and guards, waited ready to transport and protect the Emperor wherever he might choose to go in the great beyond. Between the inner and outer walls, terracotta entertainers, artisans, and strong men engaged in their craft—immortal spectacle for Qin Shi Huang. The imperial stables were located outside the outer wall. The Emperor had decreed that real horses would be buried with terracotta grooms ready to service them in the immortal life. But the most impressive element of the Emperor’s mausoleum did not reside inside the necropolis. To the east, Li could just make out the columns of the terracotta army in the distance. Over six thousand life-size warriors were already completed, each soldier painstakingly handcrafted and unique. No two warriors in the Emperor’s legion were the same.
He picked up his pace, driven by compulsion.
Every day he searched their faces.
Every day he returned unsatisfied.
Ten minutes later, he was lost among the ranks, scanning their painted clay faces for his own. He had forbade the master craftsmen from using his countenance, but his unsettled heart told him that somewhere in this clay army, there was a soldier wearing his face. He would find it, and when he did, he would have the statue destroyed. The afterlife was a fool’s fantasy—Li was certain of this, which is why he had devoted all of his energy and faculties to accumulating as much power and pleasure in life as possible. Death is not transcendence, he told himself, and yet still he searched. Service to this Emperor in one lifetime was enough. He would not risk the same fate for eternity, no matter how unlikely the odds.
His gaze flicked from face, to face, to face.
No . . . no . . . no . . .
It’s here. Somewhere. I know it is.
As he searched for his doppelgänger, Li felt a thousand eyes on him.
Gooseflesh stood up on his forearms.
A surge of panic washed over him, and suddenly he found it difficult to breathe. Someone touched his shoulder. He whirled around. No one was there . . . except the clay soldiers. They were everywhere. Surrounding him. Enveloping him. Painted clay irises watching him, following his every move . . . mocking him.
He began to run.
“Chancellor Li,” a voice called from behind him.
Li froze in his tracks.
“Chancellor Li,” the voice beckoned again.
The voice sounded human enough, maybe even familiar. He turned slowly, beginning to question his sanity.
An imperial guard—a living imperial guard—greeted him with a deferential bow of the head. “I’m sorry to startle you, Chancellor.”
Li straightened his shoulders. “
A mind can play tricks in a place like this,” he growled. “You would do well to remember that next time you seek my audience.”
“My humblest apologies, Chancellor,” the guard said, the fear evident in his voice.
Li suppressed a smile. The guard was afraid of retribution, thoughts of the Five Pains undoubtedly swirling in the young man’s mind. Good. He should be afraid, the fool.
“Why have you disturbed me?” Li asked, regaining his composure.
“The Emperor has summoned you, my Chancellor. He is waiting for you in the map room.”
“Very well,” the chancellor said. “You may escort me.”
The imperial guard bowed his head. “As you command.”
Li followed the young guard back to the necropolis, passing through the outer and inner walls, until he reached the map room. The map room was the Emperor’s favorite place to loiter, and Li understood why. It was a marvel, depicting the whole of the empire with miniature topographical precision. Mountains and valleys, carved in three-dimensional relief and painted in vivid color, stretched across the room. Rivers made of liquid mercury snaked and shimmered, giving the illusion of flowing water. Miniature buildings dotted the countryside, forming villages and cities linked by winding cobblestone paths. It was a breathtaking experience every time he looked upon it.
“You summoned me, Emperor,” Li said, bowing to Qin Shi Huang.
“Chancellor Li,” the Emperor said. “I am ready to receive your report.”
A knot formed in Li’s stomach. “The report . . .” He had no idea which report Qin Shi Huang was referring to and fumbled for words as he tried to remember what he’d possibly forgotten that would warrant a private summons.
“The trial report,” the Emperor said with equal parts irritation and exasperation. “For the Elixir of Life presented by the shaman of Shennong Dengto Mountain.”
Li clenched his jaw to suppress the irritation hiding just beneath the surface. Unlike the Emperor, he was not enchanted by the never-ending stream of alchemists and shamans that flowed through the palace, peddling potions and teas purported to restore youth and vigor. He was of the mind to have these charlatans—with their unverifiable claims about the Elixir of Life—buried alive and then exhumed a week later to prove to the Emperor that they spouted nothing but lies. But the Emperor demanded proof in the form of scientific trials. Each elixir was evaluated for efficacy using a royal proxy over a period of eight weeks. If the test subject regained his youth, then the alchemist of the elixir would be rewarded with his weight in jade. No rewards had been paid to date.
“Ah yes,” Li said at last, nodding vigorously. “I’m sorry, my Emperor, but the formulation from Shennong Dengto is not the Elixir of Life. No immortal benefits were observed.”
Qin Shi Huang kicked a miniature mountain, spraying pebbles and dirt across the miniature kingdom. “Punish the shaman,” the Emperor seethed.
“But you have always prohibited the punishment of the holy men and alchemists who bring their potions and elixirs to the palace.”
“I grow weary of being played the fool,” the Emperor said. “The day is getting late, Chancellor Li. The Elixir of Life must be found. Spread the message throughout the kingdom—the reward for the elixir is great, but the consequence for deception will be severe.”
“Yes, my Emperor,” Chancellor Li said with a bow. “How shall I punish this charlatan?”
Qin Shi Huang eyed him. “You are the architect of punishment—inventor of the Five Pains—are you not?”
“I am.”
“Then decide his crime and punish him accordingly.”
“Yes, Emperor. I will see it done,” Li said, bowing again to take his leave. This time, he could not conceal the pleasure inside and grinned broadly. Too long had these frauds and deceivers prayed on the Emperor’s obsession. Now, finally, he could mete out the justice they deserved.
“Oh, and Chancellor,” the Emperor called after him. “Make preparations for one final pilgrimage to Zhifu Island. This time I will find Penglai and meet the immortals. This time I will find the Mountain of Immortality.”
“But sire, you have been to Zhifu Island twice already and found nothing.”
“Yes, but this time will be different,” the Emperor said, turning his attention the map of his kingdom. “Because this time you are coming with me.”
Li’s smile evaporated. “As you command.”
He left the map room in a foul temper. Zhifu Island . . . Zhifu Island! A pilgrimage would take six months, possibly more depending on the Emperor’s whims and health. Li did not have time for this foolishness. Did the Emperor not realize the irony of this decision? A third unsuccessful pilgrimage to Zhifu and back would undoubtedly be the death of him. Gritting his teeth, Li passed judgment on the shaman from Shennong Dengto before he’d even reached the imperial palace. For the crime of deceiving the Emperor of China, the shaman would be subjected to four of the Five Pains: permanent tattooing of the crime across the forehead, amputation of the nose, amputation of one hand, and amputation of the genitals. He would be spared the fifth and final pain, public execution by quartering. For the crime of deceiving the Emperor, Li intended to make the shaman of Shennong Dengto a walking ambassador. Everywhere the man traveled henceforth in the empire, everyone would know his crime.
Everyone would soon understand the fate of a man who claimed to be able to cheat death and lied.
PART I
CHAPTER 1
Beijing, China
1835 hours local—Day 1
Nick Foley gritted his teeth.
A voice inside his head was whispering for him to give up. This was one mission he simply wasn’t qualified for. A second voice chimed in. Ring the bell, Foley. You don’t have what it takes, taunted the ghost of Senior Chief Gunn, Foley’s infamous ball-busting instructor at BUD/S.
Nick wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and picked up the plastic carton of chicken stock—well, he hoped it was chicken stock. He’d purchased it based on the little caricature of a chicken in the upper-left corner because he couldn’t read a word of the Chinese hanzi decorating the carton. He poured a little more of the tawny liquid into the grainy mess that was supposed to be risotto. It was beginning to look like, in choosing risotto for his first ever “home-cooked” dinner date, he had bitten off more than he could chew.
So to speak.
He stirred the fresh liquid in as he poured. The rice grains were still rock hard. He cursed under his breath and tried to face the problem head on. This was not how risotto was supposed to look. The question now was whether to add more chicken stock, more white wine, or just keep stirring. If he were cooking for anyone other than Dash—the beautiful and brilliant Dr. Chen Dazhong of the Chinese CDC—then he wouldn’t be freaking out. But this was the woman who danced in and out of his thoughts countless times a day. He’d curated this first real date in his mind a hundred times, and he wanted it to be perfect.
Now here he was, torpedoed by risotto.
There was a knock on the door. He looked up at the wall clock in a panic; there was still a good half hour before Dash was supposed to arrive. Of all the times to be early . . .
He covered the risotto pan with a lid and wiped his hands on the dish towel draped over his shoulder. The raw lamb chops sat unseasoned on the cutting board, and he had forgotten to preheat the oven.
Damn it.
He took a deep breath, mustered a smile, and headed for the door.
His smile evaporated when he pulled it open.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Chet Lankford, the CIA’s ranking man in Beijing, was the last thing he needed tonight—doubly so because he didn’t want Dash to know he was still in contact with the man.
“Good evening to you too,” Lankford said, slipping past him into the living room.
Nick left the door open. He had no intention of letting Lankford stay.
“Nice apartment, Foley,” Lankford said, looking around.
“Than
ks,” Nick said, his hand still clutching the doorknob. “But you need to go.”
“Is this how you treat all your guests?”
“Seriously, Lankford, get the fuck outta here,” Nick said, beckoning him back to the entry. “Please.”
Lankford flashed him an Oscar-winning passive-aggressive smile and sat on the sofa.
Nick sighed and shut the door. “Your timing is terrible.”
“I can see that,” Lankford said, glancing toward the kitchen. Nick expected a snide follow-up remark, but instead the CIA man sighed. Lankford looked tired. And stressed. “Don’t worry, I’ll only take a minute.”
Nick nodded. “All right, now that you’ve made yourself at home, what’s on your mind?”
Instead of answering the question, Lankford’s attention shifted to an ornately painted cube topped with a bow that was sitting on the coffee table. He picked it up for closer examination. “What is this thing? Some kinda Chinese Rubik’s Cube?”
“It’s called a puzzle box, and it’s none of your business,” Nick said, walking over.
“What does it do?” Lankford asked, turning it over in his hands.
“Like I said, it’s a puzzle box—figure out the puzzle, and there’s a hidden chamber inside. I just finished rebuilding it, so please be careful.”
“You fix puzzle boxes?”
“Puzzle boxes, old cars, shot-up Navy SEALs . . . Fixing stuff is fixing stuff. It’s what I do.”
Lankford nodded, impressed. “The artwork is exquisite. Five elements: metal, water, wood, earth, fire . . . and the balancing forces, yin and yang. Do you mind if I try to solve it?”
“Yes, I do mind, actually,” Nick said, gently commandeering Dash’s prized childhood gift from his clutches and returning it to the coffee table. He was about to sit down beside Lankford, but a sudden fear of ruined risotto drove him running back to the kitchen. Lankford pulled himself off of the couch with a grunt and followed Nick to the stove.
Nick removed the lid from the pan and swore.
“Risotto?” Lankford asked.