by Steve Berry
“So you hopped on a plane and flew to Denmark.”
“That’s my job, Cotton.”
“This isn’t my job. Not anymore.”
“None of us,” Ivan said, “wants Tang to win. He is Mao again, only worse.”
He pointed at Ivan. “You told me about a missing child and man named Lev Sokolov.”
“Comrade Sokolov is the geologist,” Ivan said. “He is Russian, but works for Chinese. Let us say he knows information that would be better he not know.”
“Which is why it was better when he was dead,” he pointed out.
Ivan nodded.
“What is it he knows?”
Ivan shook his head. “It is better you not know.”
He faced Stephanie. “I hope you know.”
She said nothing.
His anger rose. “What has Cassiopeia stumbled into that’s so damn important somebody would waterboard her?”
Stephanie again did not answer him, though it was clear she knew the answer. Instead, she leveled her gaze at Ivan. “Tell him.”
The Russian seemed to consider the request, and Malone suddenly realized that Ivan was no field agent. He was a decision maker.
Like Stephanie.
“Vitt,” Ivan said, “is after the artifact. A lamp Karl Tang wants. When Sokolov does not cooperate, Tang steals Sokolov’s son. Then Sokolov does two things Tang does not expect. He calls Vitt and disappears. No one sees Sokolov for two weeks now.” He snapped his fingers again. “Gone.”
“So Karl Tang grabbed Cassiopeia?” Malone asked.
Ivan nodded. “I say yes.”
“What happened out there today, Cotton?” Stephanie asked.
He told her about the note, the waterboarding, his improvisation. “Seemed like the best play. Of course, I didn’t know I had an audience.”
“I assure you,” she said, “we were going to pursue those two to see where they led. I was going to brief you after. Killing them was not part of my plan.”
“You Americans nose into my business,” Ivan said. “Then want to tell me how to do it.”
“Get real,” Malone said. “You killed the two leads that could point us somewhere so we’re more dependent on you.”
Ivan shrugged. “Bad things happen. Take what you have.”
He wanted to plant a fist in the irritating SOB’s face, but knew better. So he asked, “Why is that lamp so important?”
Ivan shrugged. “It comes from old tomb. Sokolov has to have it to satisfy Karl Tang.”
“Where is it?” he asked.
“In Antwerp. That is why Vitt travels there four days ago. She disappears two days later.”
He wondered what could possibly have rankled the Russians to the point that they mounted a full-scale intelligence operation, dispatching a mid- to high-level operative and, to thwart the Americans, brazenly shooting two people in the middle of Copenhagen. Somebody, somewhere, was screaming that this was important. And why was Washington interested enough to have the Magellan Billet involved? Stephanie was usually called in only when conventional intelligence channels no longer were viable. Cassiopeia had certainly stumbled into something important enough that people were willing to torture her. Was she being tortured again, right now? Those two lying dead in front of the Hotel d’Angleterre had not reported in, so whoever sent the video surely suspected that the retrieval had gone wrong.
“I should get to my computer,” he said. “They may try to contact me again.”
“I doubt that’s going to happen,” Stephanie said. “When Ivan decided to improvise, he may have sealed Cassiopeia’s fate.”
He didn’t want to hear that, but she was right. Which made him madder. He glared at Ivan. “You don’t seem concerned.”
“I am hungry.”
The Russian caught the attention of a server and pointed toward a plate of roget in a glass-fronted case, displaying five fingers. The woman acknowledged that she understood how many of the smoked fish to bring.
“They will give you gas,” Malone said.
“But they are tasty. Danes are good at fish.”
“Is this now a full-scale Billet operation?” he asked Stephanie.
She nodded. “Big time.”
“What do you want me to do?” He pointed at Ivan. “Sergeant Schultz here knows nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing.”
“Who says this? I never say this. I know plenty. And I love Hogan’s Heroes.”
“You’re just a dumb Russian.”
The stout man grinned. “Oh, I see. You want to anger me. Aggravate, yes? Big, stupid man will lose temper and say more than he should.” He waggled a stubby finger. “You watch too many CSI on television. Or NCIS. I love that show. Mark Harmon is the tough guy.”
He decided to try a different tack. “What was to happen when Cassiopeia found the lamp?”
“She gives to Tang, who returns boy.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
“Me? No. Karl Tang is not honest. That boy is gone. I know that. You know that—”
“Cassiopeia knows that,” Stephanie finished.
“Exactly,” Malone said. “So she hedged her bets and hid the lamp away. They grabbed her. She told them I had it, bargaining for time.”
“I know little of her,” Ivan said. “She is smart?”
Maybe not smart enough, considering. “Ivan here tells me that eunuchs are going to take over China. The Ba, he called them.”
Stephanie nodded. “They’re a radical faction. They have big plans, none of which is good for us, or anyone else. The State Department thought them improbable, but they were wrong. That’s another reason why I’m here, Cotton.”
He caught her quandary. Russians or Chinese? A headache or an upset stomach? But he sensed something else. More than she wanted to discuss at the moment.
The server brought the five fish, smelling as if they’d just been caught.
“Ah,” Ivan said. “Wonderful. You are sure you do not want any?”
He and Stephanie shook their heads.
Ivan chomped down on one of the corpses. “I will say this concerns big things. Important. Things we do not want the Chinese to know.”
“How about the Americans?” he asked.
“You either.”
“And Sokolov told the Chinese?”
Ivan chewed his fish. “I not know. This is why we need to know about the lamp.”
Malone glanced outside. His shop stood across the sunny square. People streamed in and out the front door, more swarming the busy square like bees around their honeycombs. He should be selling books. He liked what he did. He employed four locals who did a good job keeping the shelves stocked. He was proud of his business. Quite a few Danes now regularly bought their collectible editions from him. Over the past three years he’d gained a reputation as a man who could deliver what they wanted. Similar to the dozen years when he was one of Stephanie Nelle’s agents.
At the moment, Cassiopeia needed him to deliver.
“I’m going to Antwerp,” he said.
Ivan was devouring another fish. “And what to do when you get there? You know where to look?”
“Do you?”
Ivan stopped eating and smiled.
Bits of flesh had lodged between his brown teeth.
“I know where Vitt is.”
FOURTEEN
Cassiopeia assessed what Viktor had said about Lev Sokolov’s missing child. Again she asked, “Who do you work for?”
“When I left the Central Asian Federation, I headed east and ended up in China. I found lots of employment opportunities there.”
“Especially for a lying, double-dealing SOB like you.”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe you feel that way. What I did in Central Asia was my job. And I did it well. The mission objectives were all met.”
“And I was almost killed. Twice.”
“That’s the operative word. Almost. Again, I did my job.”
She knew he was avoiding
the question. “Who do you work for?”
“I’m telling the truth. Karl Tang.”
“A bit of a drop for you. From the supreme president of the Central Asian Federation to China’s second in command.”
“He pays well, there’s health and dental and three weeks’ paid vacation. He’s starting a retirement plan next year.”
His humor did not interest her. “You sent those men after me two days ago?”
Viktor nodded. “We couldn’t let you leave Belgium with that lamp.”
“Why? Tang wanted it.”
“He has no intention of returning Sokolov’s boy. So he decided to take control of the lamp here.”
“Why not just go to Pau Wen himself? Or send you? Why me?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
She kept the gun leveled. “Honestly? Now there’s a word not in your vocabulary.” Her gaze zeroed in. “You tortured me.”
“I made sure you weren’t tortured.”
“Not from my perspective.”
The features on his face softened. “Would you rather have been waterboarded by someone who really meant it?”
He’d changed from a year ago. Though still short and burly, his shocks of then-unkempt hair had been replaced with a neat trim above the ears. The wide nose and deep-set eyes, from some Slavic influence, remained, but the skin was swarthier than in Central Asia. He was early forties, no older, and had shed baggy clothes, which had then concealed shoulders and arms obviously accustomed to exercise, for more stylish, and snugly fitting, trousers and a designer shirt.
“Where’s the boy?” she asked.
“Sokolov played the Russians. Now he’s playing the Chinese. And those two you don’t mess with, especially the Chinese. They kill with no repercussions, since they are the law.”
“We’re not in China.”
“But Sokolov is. Tang is looking for him. I assume you hid him away, but it’s only a matter of time before he’s found. Tang has spies by the tens of thousands, every one of whom want to please the first vice premier, perhaps even the man who will be the next premier of China. You or I don’t really matter in the overall scheme.”
She doubted that. “What are you doing for him?”
“Tang hired me last fall. He needed a non-Chinese operative, and I was between jobs. He didn’t have me working this particular assignment until I heard your name mentioned. When I explained my connection—with some necessary adjustments to the facts—Tang sent me here.”
She lowered the gun, her emotions riding a thin edge. “Do you have any idea what you put me through?”
“I had no choice. Tang gives the orders. I gave you an opportunity to escape yesterday when I had food brought, but you were asleep. I sent my compatriot in there a little while ago, hoping this time you’d act.” He pointed at the gun. “Which you apparently did. I was waiting here for you.” He motioned at the phone lying on the table. “The call was fake.”
“And what made you think I wouldn’t just leave?”
“Because you’re angry.”
This man knew her well. “Any more helpers around?”
“Just the one in your room. You hurt him?”
“It’ll leave a mark.”
“Cassiopeia, Karl Tang wants that lamp. Can’t you just give it to him and be done with this?”
“And lose that child? Like you say, my having that lamp is the only bargaining chip I possess. You said you know where the boy is being held. Tell me.”
“It’s not that easy. You’d never get near him. Let me help.”
“I work alone.”
“Is that why you involved Malone? And I knew you were lying on that one, but Tang made me make contact.”
“What happened in Copenhagen?”
“I haven’t heard from the two who were hired for the job. But with Malone, something bad surely happened to them both.”
She needed to call Denmark and explain. But not here. “Where are the keys to that car outside?”
“In the ignition.” He stood from the chair. “Let me go with you. I can’t stay. No matter what I say, Tang will hold me responsible for your escape. My job with him is over. I have good intel on his operation that could prove valuable.”
She considered the proposal. It actually made sense. No matter how she felt about Viktor Tomas, he was clearly resourceful. Last year, he’d cleverly managed to wedge amazingly close to the president of the Central Asian Federation. Now he was near Karl Tang, who held the key to reuniting Lev Sokolov with his son. No doubt she’d made a mess of things. She needed to retrieve the lamp, then broker a deal. So why not a little assistance from a man who could make direct contact with Tang?
And who knew where Sokolov’s child was located.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
She stepped aside and allowed Viktor to leave first.
He reached for the cell phone and pocketed the unit. Just as he passed, headed for the door, she raised the gun above her head and slammed the butt into the base of his neck.
A moan seeped from his mouth as a hand reached upward.
She drove the gun’s hard metal into his left temple.
His eyes rolled skyward and he collapsed to the floor.
“Like I’m going to believe a word you say.”
FIFTEEN
SHAANXI PROVINCE, CHINA
11:40 PM
Tang wandered among the clay warriors, keeping their eternal guard. He’d left Pit 3 and returned to Pit 1. His expert was gone. The fact that the Pit 3 repository contained no Confucian texts, though all six should have been there, was telling. As was the silver watch, which he still held.
He’d suspected much had happened thirty years ago.
Now he knew.
Back then this region of Lintong County had been rural farmland. Everyone realized that the First Emperor lay beneath the hill-like mound that had stood there for the past 2,200 years. But no one had known of the underground army, and its discovery had led to a flurry of digging. For years workers toiled night and day removing layers of earth, sand, and gravel, photographing and recording the hundreds of thousands of shards. More workers then reassembled the shattered figures, one piece at a time, the fruits of their exhaustive labors now standing all around him.
The terra-cotta army had come to be regarded as a monumental expression of Chinese communal talents, symbolizing a unified state, a creative, compliant culture, a government that worked for and with its people.
A near-perfect symbolism.
One of the few times he’d agreed with using the past to justify the present.
But apparently, during all that digging, a cache of documents—Qin Shi’s lost palace library—had also been found.
Yet no one was told.
And a reminder of that omission remained.
A watch.
Left on purpose?
Who knew.
But given the person who’d most likely made the discovery, Tang could not discount anything.
Pau Wen.
Special counsel to the Central Committee, adviser to both Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping, a learned man whose value came from his ability to deliver desired results—as nothing secured privilege better than repeated success. Neither Mao nor Deng was the most effective administrator. Both governed with broad strokes across vast canvases and left the details to men like Pau. Tang knew Pau had led many archaeological digs throughout the country and had, at one point, overseen the terra-cotta warrior excavations.
Was the watch he held Pau’s?
It had to be.
He faced one of the warriors who stood at the army’s vanguard. He and the others with him would have been the first to descend on an enemy, followed by waves and waves of more terrifying men.
Seemingly endless. Indestructible.
Like China itself.
But the nation had come to a crossroads. Thirty years of unprecedented modernization had produced an impatient generation, one unmoved by the pretensions
of a communist regime, one that focused on family, cultural and economic life, rather than nationality. The doctor at the hospital seemed an excellent example.
China was changing.
But not a single regime in all Chinese history had relinquished power without bloodshed, and the Communist Party would not be the first.
His plan for power would take daring, but he hoped that what he was searching to prove could provide a measure of certainty, an air of legitimacy, perhaps even a source of national pride.
Movement above caught his attention.
He’d been waiting.
At the railing five meters overhead a figure sheathed in black appeared, then another. Both forms were lean and muscular, their hair cut short, their faces unemotional.
“Down here,” he quietly said.
Both men disappeared.
When he’d summoned his expert from the West, he’d also ordered that two more men accompany him. They’d waited nearby until his call, which he’d made on his walk over from Pit 3.
The men appeared at the far end of the line of warriors and approached without a sound, stopping a few meters away.
“Burn it all,” he ordered. “There are electrical cables and a transformer, so the lights can be blamed.”
Both men bowed and left.
Malone and Stephanie crossed Højbro Plads. The late-afternoon sun had receded behind Copenhagen’s jagged rooflines. Ivan was gone, back in one hour, saying there were matters that required his attention.
Malone stopped at a fountain and sat on its damp edge. “You had a purse snatched right here a couple of years ago.”
“I remember. Turned into quite an adventure.”
“I want to know exactly what this is all about.” She remained silent.
“You need to tell me what’s at stake,” he said. “All of it. And it’s not a lost child or the next premier of China.”
“Ivan thinks we don’t know, but we do.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s kind of remarkable, really. And turns on something Stalin learned from the Nazis.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“During World War II, refineries in Romania and Hungary supplied much of Germany’s oil. By 1944 those refineries had been bombed to oblivion, and not so coincidentally the war ended soon after. Stalin watched as Germany literally ran out of oil. He resolved that Russia would always be self-sufficient. He saw oil dependency as a catastrophic weakness to be avoided at any cost.”