“Beijing police?” KC asked.
“No and yes; privatized but with all of the authority of the authorities. Armed and trained, most are former police; the pay is better and, even more appealing, the risk is minimal if not nonexistent.”
Jenna turned to the door on the right. She waved a small white credit-card-sized card over the reader, and the sound of the lock echoed as it pulled back. Seconds later the door swung open.
The three women entered and walked into a small lobby. The black-and-white photos of The Hall of Supreme Harmony hanging on the wall above two couches, the fresh flowers on a side table, the art magazines in a rack made the space look like a doctor’s office waiting room.
Without a word, Jenna waved her security card on the reader next to the only other door and they entered a large, antiseptic white corridor. Other hallways lined with doors ran off the main artery, extending hundreds of feet.
“Administrative offices,” Jenna said as she pointed to the first door on the left. Continuing to walk, she pointed to a succession of doors on the right. “Environmental control, server room, cafeteria. Mechanical—”
Annie shook her head, uninterested, uncomfortably halting Jenna midsentence.
“How long did it take to build this?” KC said, trying to keep Jenna talking.
“Five years. There was a great deal of fear when this project was still in its early stages that the foundation would be compromised and the buildings above would be damaged. People forgot about the huge undertaking over forty years ago.” Jenna walked briskly as she talked, KC and Annie listening as they kept pace.
“What was that?”
“At the height of the Cold War, when the Chinese feared nuclear war with the USSR, an enormous project commenced. Tunnels, shops, storage facilities, a literal underground city was built beneath Beijing. It was vast, employing thousands of workers. It was China’s greatest undertaking since the Great Wall. There were fallout shelters, medical facilities, entire sections to accommodate the central government; living accommodations, roadways that are said to run for thirty miles into the mountains, an escape route for VIPs in the event of nuclear holocaust.”
“Can you access it from down here?” Annie’s interest perked up.
“No, there are multiple entrances around Beijing but most of them have been sealed. It’s a home to rats and the indigent now. Dark and flooded in many areas. Though I have my suspicions.”
“About?” KC asked.
“In the rear northeast section within a maze of buildings, there is Fengxian Hall, where they enshrined forebears; it is sealed, off-limits to even museum personnel. In my research I came across multiple references to a tunnel out of the city, constructed during the Ming Dynasty, an escape route constructed in the event the palace fell.
“In 1644, Manchu troops took over Beijing. The Forbidden City with its enormous walls and deep moat acted not only as a fortress protecting the emperor and his family but as a prison—with enemy forces on the far side of the water, awaiting his departure on all sides and all bridges. There was no escape.
“On the eve of its downfall, the emperor, Chongzhen, held a feast, gathering everyone of the imperial household aside from his sons.” Jenna turned left down a deep corridor, continuing to speak as they walked. “With his sword, he killed them all except his second daughter, Princess Chang Ping, who survived though her arm was severed. It was said that Chongzhen fled to Jingshan Hill and hanged himself on a tree. But rumors persisted that the man found at the end of the noose was a servant dressed in imperial robes, his neck already broken before he was strung up on a thick branch. The body buried in Siling, in the Ming Dynasty Tombs, is that of an impostor. The real Emperor Chongzhen was smuggled out of the Forbidden City through an underground tunnel by his loyal advisors in the hope of his one day returning in triumph.
“One year later, when the Qing Dynasty took hold after the one-year Shun Dynasty had fallen, a wealthy man matching the description of Chongzhen tried to buy himself an army, only to be killed by bandits.
“I believe the story to be true.” Jenna paused. “I know that the tunnel out of the Forbidden City exists.”
“How do you know?” KC asked.
Jenna looked at KC, ignoring her question as she continued. “And it was the emperor’s means of escape. I venture it was connected to the vast network of tunnels and bunkers dug as fallout shelters in the sixties. But I’m quite sure it has since been sealed.” Jenna stopped at a door near the end of the hall, which was marked with a Chinese symbol that KC didn’t understand.
“Why?” KC asked.
“No robberies,” Jenna said matter-of-factly, “no workers or homeless wandering in. If the tunnel was accessible, we would have seen some kind of evidence of it.”
Jenna ran her tag over the doorway and it opened with a hiss, the negative pressure released.
The room was nearly one hundred feet deep and wide, partitioned by metal shelves that held various cases, boxes, and trays. In the far corner of the room were two men in white lab coats. They sat at a table, bright lights above their heads shining on an old painting, which they examined intently to the point of not even acknowledging Jenna’s entrance.
Looking about, KC noted there were no cameras in the room. Annie’s eyes searched the space for security devices.
“What are you looking for?” Jenna said to Annie.
“No security measures in here,” Annie said. “Not very smart.”
“No need,” Jenna said as she began searching for the crate. “The cameras in the hallway will catch you as will the hallway floors.”
“What? Do they rise up and suck you into the tile?” KC joked.
Jenna smiled. “No, but aside from the sensors in the floor, there is a security net that runs ten thousand volts through your body when activated, kind of like a never-ending stun gun. Won’t kill you but it will take you down and make you squirm.”
KC smiled. “Great. Should have worn rubber-soled shoes.”
“It won’t help,” Jenna said. “Don’t worry. It’s only activated at night or when there is a security breach.”
“So I guess nobody works late,” KC said. “That must be nice.”
“No.” Jenna held up her white security card and pointed to a large red sign in bold Chinese lettering.
“Warning,” Annie translated as she read. “Check your pockets; did you leave it behind? All personnel, be sure to keep your key card with you at all times. Remember: RED LIGHT STOP, GREEN LIGHT GO.”
Jenna looked at Annie, surprised at her grasp of Chinese.
“If you get stuck in here after closing hours, this card disables the system by each successive corridor you’re in so you don’t get tased.” Jenna looked at KC. “It’s not easy to find good Chinese historians.”
KC and Annie looked at her, unsure if she was serious.
Jenna nodded. “Let me find that crate.”
Annie handed Jenna a piece of paper with a number on it. She examined it, tucked it in her pocket, and headed into the rows of storage shelves.
As Jenna disappeared, Annie leaned into KC’s ear. “When she returns with the box, I say we chew and screw, grab what we came for and go.”
“We wouldn’t get fifty feet before we’re fried on the electric carpet.”
Jenna returned carrying a large wooden crate. It was three feet by three feet, the stenciled markings on the side in Chinese, Japanese, and English: 9296273. She laid it on a work bench, opened a drawer, and pulled out a screwdriver.
“Most of these older boxes have never been placed on display,” Jenna said as she jammed the screwdriver into the box lid and pried it upward, the old rusted nails squealing in protest as the top came free. “The curator wanted the original box left intact, because he believes the markings are a reminder to all that stealing from the Chinese is not possible, and that those who do so will inevitably fail and experience swift justice.”
Jenna put on a pair of white gloves and peered into the b
ox. There were six items in the wooden crate. She took each one out, laying it upon the work bench. A jade Buddha; an hourglass, its sands once again flowing as it was placed on the table; a whale tooth etched with a Chinese poem and a pouncing tiger; a tarnished brass bracelet; a porcelain crane; and a red lacquer box intricately carved with images on every side. She picked each one up, examining them as if she was holding history in her hand.
“It’s as if you can feel the centuries; these were crafted nearly six hundred years ago.” Jenna was in her element, inspecting the intricacy of each piece. Her strong focus seemed to transport her to another time. “The sand of this hourglass, from a beach six centuries ago. Imagine that beach…”
Jenna finally picked up the small red box, rolling it about in her hand. “Interesting.”
“What?” Annie asked.
Jenna handed KC and Annie each a pair of gloves; they quickly put them on. She passed KC the small box. “What do you see?”
KC looked closely; the detail on the box was intricate, nearly photographic. A tall man, broad, with piercing eyes, dressed in elegant robes, stood upon the deck of a Chinese junk. On the other side was a fleet of Chinese ships, each dwarfed by an enormous six-masted junk in front, the black etching of equal detail and craftsmanship. KC finally looked up. “It’s beautiful.”
“Open it,” Jenna said with a smile.
KC turned the box around, looking for a hasp or lock. There was no hinge, no visible door or lid. She looked at Jenna, confused.
“It’s a puzzle box.” Jenna took the box and passed it to Annie, who ran her fingers along the corners and sides. “Do you know what’s inside?”
“No idea,” Annie lied.
Jenna pulled over a large book, thumbing through the pages, running her fingers down the Chinese numbers until… “Interesting.”
“What?” Annie asked.
“It doesn’t say what the box contains.” Jenna took the box from Annie, sat at the bench, and pulled over the mounted magnifying light, viewing the red case through the magnifier. “Eight seams. These boxes were and are quite common. Shouldn’t take long to open.”
“How long?” Annie asked.
“A few hours unless you know someone who knows the trick.”
Annie and KC exchanged a glance.
“That’s odd,” Jenna said.
“What?” Annie asked
“That’s Zheng He,” Jenna said, pointing to the engraved image of the man on the small case. She looked again at the book. “There’s no reference to him in the catalogue.”
Jenna grew excited as she looked closer at the intricate box. KC became caught up in her interest and looked over her shoulder.
“I should really alert the curator when he returns on Monday; this is a significant piece.”
Annie took a step back, looked about the room, at the closed door, at the lack of cameras, at the three Chinese men equally absorbed in their own piece of art on the far side of the room. She took a deep breath, reached into her long black coat, and drew out a pistol, her arm falling to her side as she looked at the three men. Annie turned to Jenna, who was still absorbed in the small red box, and raised the gun to the back of her head.
Her eyes darted briefly to the men at the table on the far side of the room, who were equally oblivious to her actions. Her finger wrapped the trigger, she took another breath, and—
KC snatched the gun from her hand.
Jenna jumped in her seat, nearly dropping the box; startled at the commotion, she spun around. “What’s the matter?”
KC shook her head as she buried the gun within her coat. “Nothing, sorry.”
Annie couldn’t disguise her anger.
Jenna stared at her, suspicious. Finally, “You’re annoyed.”
“It’s that obvious?” Annie said as she looked at KC. “You have no idea.”
Jenna looked back at the crate. “What you were looking for wasn’t in there, was it? Perhaps in one of the other cases.” Jenna pointed to the hundreds of crates on the shelves.
“No,” Annie said. “This is the right case.”
“Do you mind if I inquire what you were hoping to find?” Jenna asked.
“No, you may not,” Annie said.
“Of course.” KC glared at Annie. “We were just making sure that certain U.S. property wasn’t mixed in with the crate. A number of World War II files concerning war criminals.”
“After sixty-five years?”
“The government’s a little upside down and behind,” KC said with a smile. She hated how she could lie so easily.
“Well,” Jenna placed the items back in the crate. She picked up the red box last. “I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay,” KC said. “We just need to verify that mistakes weren’t made. Thank you, though.”
Jenna placed the red box in the crate, pulled a hammer from the drawer, put the lid in place, and banged the nails back in.
CHAPTER 20
1950
Jacob and Isaac Lucas were born January 3, 1950, to Admiral Howard and Lily Lucas at Naval Base San Diego, what some affectionately called 32 Street Naval Station, home to the Pacific Fleet. The boys came into the world a month early and several pounds underweight. It being the 1950s, the prognosis wasn’t good, and neither child was expected to live. Placed in separate incubators, the three-pound boys were barely recognizable as human beneath all of the tubes, wires, and gauze.
Both were near death, neither expected to make it through the night. Howard and Lily were at their side, each laying hands upon the boys, as their frailness and need for oxygen prevented them from being held. The grieving parents bade them good-bye, left the ICU, and went to the lounge to wait for the inevitable.
Brittany Colin was the nurse on duty for the neonatal ICU. Her only charges were the boys, and she, too, sat in wait for God’s hand to take them away. Seeing them alone, never to know the closeness of another human being, never to know what it was like to be held, broke her heart. They had lived for nine months together in their mother’s womb, growing side by side, only to leave the comforting warmth to arrive sickly in a cold world. She couldn’t imagine the confusion and loneliness the two brothers felt. Coming into the world early, only to know pain, never to know what it was like to laugh, to feed at their mother’s breast, to jump and play, to feel the warmth of love.
With their end near, Brittany had a thought and immediately acted upon it. She looked down the hall, but no one was around: The doctor on call was sleeping in an upstairs office, the duty nurse at the desk was doing a crossword puzzle. In their short little lives, she would at least give them the feeling of knowing each other, of knowing what it was like to lie beside family, to feel the unconditional love of a brother’s touch.
Arranging the tubes and wires in such a way as not to impede their function, Brittany moved Isaac into Jacob’s incubator. She laid them face-to-face, their small legs touching, each feeling the small amount of warmth flowing from the other, both knowing what it was like to be in the presence of another human being, of the warmth of family.
Brittany climbed back into her chair and finally drifted off to sleep, fearing the fateful sound of the monitor alarm, of the crashing hearts of the infants when death came calling. But by seven that morning, there had been no alarm, no death. Looking back in the incubator, she saw both boys alive, their skin pigment improved, warm, red, and alive.
They had cheated death, as small and frail as they were. With no one believing in them, no one giving them a chance, they were saved by each other.
WHEN THE BOYS were nine months old, well on their way to toddlerhood, their father was transferred back to Japan, where he continued to be in charge of repatriating the looted wares of China. Though the war had ended with the Allies victorious, the unwinding of the war effort continued for seven years. They mapped each of the sunken vessels of the war, both U.S. and Japanese. War crime trials lasted forever, and there were mysteries to be solved: Planes had gone missing and ships had sunk
with their final resting places unknown. Families deserved closure and members of his office would see to that. Then there were the opportunists, the war profiteers who pillaged and plundered homes, museums, banks. Priceless artifacts had gone missing, huge stores of gold were nowhere to be found. And Howard Lucas was in charge of finding it, returning it, and closing it all out.
While the boys had started their lives so close to death, they had quickly recovered and caught up with their peers. Inseparable, they were twins in every way, not just in appearance but in manner and mind, except for one difference: Isaac was closer to his father while Jacob was closer to his mother. It was almost as if they bore the respective genes of each parent. As in most families, they loved their parents and their parents loved them in return, but there was a special connection, a certain subtle favoritism and closeness that was evident.
When the boys were three, their father was stationed back to San Diego, and upon arrival, immersed his boys in everything American. He took them to baseball games, fed them hamburgers and hot dogs. He took them to the movies to see Fantasia, Pinocchio, A Christmas Carol, and the wellspring of 1950s cinema. And he introduced them to sailing.
The boat was only thirty-nine feet, but to the boys it was a grand yacht. They were Captain Ahab, they were Blackbeard, they were Columbus seeing the New World for the first time as they cut across the blue waters off San Diego. They slept on the boat on too many occasions to remember, their father regaling them with stories of pirates, of distant lands, of a far-off island he called Penglai, not on any map—a place filled with treasure, where life was simple, where magic existed and no one ever died; where the secret of life and death was forever hidden. Their father told them of the journeys of Jason and the Argonauts, Sinbad, and Odysseus, filling their minds with wonderment and adventure.
He taught them to man the jib, hoist the sail, guide the ship by the stars like the heroes from the stories of old. He taught them knots, currents, the tides, and the seasons; he taught them how to smell the air, feel the wind, and most important, to taste life.
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