The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “I raised those goldfish since birth,” Pau said. “I hope the shock will not kill them.”

  He could not care less. “Do you realize what just happened? Those men came to kill me.”

  “Which was the possibility I mentioned before they arrived. Tang apparently sent them to eliminate us both.”

  He tasted the acrid flavor of adrenaline in his mouth. His heart pounded. “I must return home.”

  “What of the lamp?” Pau asked. “I thought you wanted it.”

  “It’s not as important as what awaits there.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I think the answers you seek are here, and I know exactly how to obtain them.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  GANSU PROVINCE, CHINA

  3:20 AM

  Tang sat alone. His helicopter had left to refuel at an airport fifty kilometers to the south. He’d need full tanks, ready to fly, in four hours. That’s when he’d deal with Lev Sokolov.

  The portable buildings used by the drilling crew as sleeping quarters were located a quarter of a kilometer from the derrick, and the superintendent had offered his trailer. The room was neat, the hot plate and refrigerator clean, a few plastic dishes stacked beside a microwave oven. Not his usual accommodations, but perfect for the next few hours. He wasn’t sleepy, as the short nap on the flight from the museum had been adequate. He welcomed the solitude, and pondered the fact that everything around him had once been a thriving part of Qin Shi’s First Empire.

  Incredible what they had achieved so long ago.

  His ancestors had invented the umbrella, the seismograph, the spinning wheel, porcelain, the steam engine, kites, playing cards, fishing reels, even whiskey.

  But salt.

  That was the most amazing leap of all.

  Five thousand years ago coastal dwellers boiled seawater to produce salt. But as they settled farther and farther inland, salt, critical as a food supplement and preservative, essential to their survival, became hard to find, and transporting it hundreds or thousands of kilometers proved daunting. Another source would have to be found, and the discovery of brine aquifers—places where groundwater seeped from below, loaded with salinity—solved the problem.

  The first recorded discovery came during the time of the First Emperor, not far from where Tang now sat. At first wells were shallow, dug by hand, but deeper exploration led to the invention of drilling.

  The first bits were forged of heavy iron, the pipe and rig from bamboo. One or more men would stand on a wooden plank, designed like a seesaw, which lifted the bit a meter or so off the ground. Once dropped, it pulverized the ground rock. Centimeter by centimeter, that process would be repeated. Historians later theorized that the idea had come from the practice of pounding rice into flour.

  The technique eventually became highly sophisticated, and working solutions to many of the problems still common to drilling—cave-ins, lost tools, deviated wells, the removal of debris—were perfected. Wells to 100 meters became common in Qin Shi’s time. No comparable technology existed anywhere else in the world until more than 2,000 years later. By 1100 CE, wells to 400 meters were routine, and while American drillers barely managed 500 meters in the 19th century, Chinese drillers explored below 1,000 meters.

  Those first innovators, who sank wells searching for salt brine, also discovered something else.

  An odorless emission, highly combustible.

  Natural gas.

  They learned that it could be burned, producing a clean, hot energy source that dissolved the brine and revealed the salt.

  And they also found oil.

  A sludgy material—fatty and sticky, like the juice of meat, one observer noted—that bubbled up from deeper wells. At first the greenish black ooze was a mystery, but they soon learned that it, too, could be burned, producing a long-lasting, bright flame. It also could make the axles of their wagons turn faster. Oil became the substance of emperors, powering the lamps of their palaces and illuminating their tombs—even providing a fiery weapon used to devastate an enemy.

  Tang marveled at the accomplishments.

  In the process of inventing the mechanics of drilling, he knew they also had discovered the best places to bore, creating the science of geology. They became skilled at spotting salt frostings on surface rocks and detecting the pungent smell of hidden brine. They learned that yellow sandstone would yield brine high in ferric chloride, while black sandstone led to wells loaded with hydrogen sulfide. Of course, they were ignorant as to the chemical compositions, but they determined how to effectively recognize and use those compounds.

  His ministry had studied in detail the history of Chinese brine drilling. There was even a museum in Zigong that told the story to the masses. Incredibly, over the past two millennia, nearly 130,000 wells had been drilled, a few hundred of those during the time of the First Emperor.

  One in particular had been sunk about a quarter kilometer away.

  “How do you know this?” he demanded of Jin Zhao.

  The irritating geochemist had refused to cooperate, so he’d finally ordered Zhao’s arrest.

  “Minister, I know nothing. It’s all theory.”

  He’d heard that explanation before. “It’s more than theory. Tell me.”

  But his prisoner refused.

  He motioned and the soldier standing a few feet away advanced on Zhao, yanking him from the chair and pounding him twice in the stomach. He heard the breath leave the older man. Zhao dropped to his knees, arms wrapping his gut.

  A slight nod from him signaled that two blows were enough.

  Zhao struggled to breathe.

  “It will only get worse,” he said. “Tell me.”

  Zhao calmed himself. “Don’t hit me anymore. Please. No more.”

  “Tell me what I want to know.”

  He’d thoroughly investigated Jin Zhao and knew that he was not a Party member, not associated with any Party activities, and often spoke disparagingly about the government. His name appeared regularly on a local watch list, and he’d been warned several times to cease dissident activities. Tang had acted as protector on more than one occasion, blocking an arrest, but that had been conditioned on cooperation.

  Zhao pushed himself up from the floor. “I will not tell you a thing.”

  The soldier slammed a fist into Zhao’s jaw. Another found the chest. A third blow crashed down on the man’s skull.

  Zhao collapsed.

  Blood seeped from his half-opened mouth.

  Two teeth were spit out.

  A kick to the stomach and Zhao retreated into the fetal position, arms and legs brought tight to his body.

  A few minutes later Jin Zhao lapsed into an unconsciousness from which he never awoke. A cerebral hemorrhage protected all that he knew, but a search of his house and office revealed enough documents for Tang to learn that right here, 2,200 years ago, men had drilled for brine and found oil. And while Jin Zhao lay on the floor, begging for help, screaming that his head exploded with pain—

  “Tell me this,” Tang said. “One simple thing and I will call the doctor. You can receive care. No more beatings.”

  He saw the hope of truth in the older man’s eyes.

  “Has Lev Sokolov found the marker?”

  Zhao’s head nodded yes.

  At first slowly, then quickly.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ANTWERP

  9:05 PM

  Cassiopeia hustled down the street searching for a place to hide. Three men had been following her since she’d left the hotel. Her left arm cradled the dragon lamp. She carried it carefully, nestled within a plastic bag, surrounded by balled paper.

  Redbrick buildings and whitewashed houses surrounded her, all guarding a maze of empty cobbled streets. She rushed past a quiet square, the three men fifty meters behind. No one else could be seen. She could not allow them to take the lamp. Losing it meant losing Sokolov’s son.

  “Over here,” she heard a voice say.

  Across the street stood Cotton Malon
e.

  “I got your message,” Cotton said. “I’m here.”

  He was waving her toward him.

  She ran, but when she made it to the corner he was gone.

  The three men kept pace.

  “Here.”

  She stared down a narrow lane. Cotton was fifty meters away, still waving her forward.

  “Cassiopeia, you’re making a mistake.”

  She turned.

  Henrik Thorvaldsen appeared.

  “You can’t help him,” he said.

  “I have the lamp.”

  “Don’t trust him,” he said, and then the Dane was gone. Her eyes searched the street and buildings. The three men had not advanced closer and Cotton was still waving for her to come.

  She ran.

  Cassiopeia awoke.

  She was lying on the park bench. Daylight had waned, the sky now the color of faded ink. She’d been asleep awhile. She glanced back, past the tree trunk. The Toyota remained parked and there were no police or loiterers in sight. She shook the grogginess from her brain. She’d been more tired than she realized. The gun lay beneath her shirt. The dream lingered in her mind.

  Don’t trust him, Thorvaldsen had said.

  Cotton?

  He was the only other person there.

  She was a good thirty-minute walk away from the Dries Van Egmond Museum. The jaunt would allow her to make sure no one was following. She tried to force her emotions to subside, her mind to stop questioning, but she couldn’t. Viktor Tomas’ appearance had unnerved her.

  Was that who Henrik was referring to?

  She spotted a water fountain, walked over, and savored a few long gulps.

  She wiped her mouth and steadied herself.

  Time to get this over with.

  Malone stepped off the NATO chopper at a small airfield north of Antwerp. Ivan followed Stephanie onto the tarmac. Stephanie had arranged the quick flight from Copenhagen. When they were clear of the blades, the helicopter departed back into the night sky.

  Two cars awaited with drivers.

  “Secret Service,” she told them. “Out of Brussels.”

  Ivan had said little on the trip, just small talk about television and movies. The Russian seemed obsessed with American entertainment.

  “All right,” Malone said. “We’re here. Where’s Cassiopeia?”

  A third car approached from the far side of the terminal, passing rows of expensive private planes.

  “My people,” Ivan said. “I must talk to them.”

  The pudgy Russian waddled toward the car, which stopped. Two men emerged.

  He stepped close to Stephanie and asked, “He has people here?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Do we have any independent intelligence on this?” he quietly asked.

  She shook her head. “Not enough time. It’ll be tomorrow, at the earliest, before I have anything.”

  “So we’re bare-ass-to-the-wind, flying blind.”

  “We’ve been there before.”

  Yes, they had.

  Ivan stepped back toward them, saying as he walked, “We have problem.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” Malone muttered.

  “Vitt is on the move.”

  “How’s that a problem?” Stephanie asked.

  “She escapes her captors.”

  Malone was suspicious. “How do you know that?”

  Ivan pointed at the two standing beside the car. “They watch and see.”

  “Why didn’t they help her?” But he knew the answer. “You want her to lead you to the lamp.”

  “This is intelligence operation,” Ivan said. “I have job to do.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Nearby. Headed for a museum. Dries Van Egmond.”

  His anger grew. “How the hell do you know that?”

  “We go.”

  “No, we don’t,” Malone said.

  Ivan’s face stiffened.

  “I’m going,” Malone made clear. “Alone.”

  Ivan’s haggard face cracked a smile. “I am warned of you. They say you are Lone Ranger.”

  “Then you know to stay out of my way. I’ll find Cassiopeia.”

  Ivan faced Stephanie. “You take over now? You think I allow that.”

  “Look,” Malone said, answering for her. “If I go alone, I have a better chance of finding out what you want. You show up with the goon squad and you’re going to get zero. Cassiopeia is a pro. She’ll go to ground.”

  At least he hoped so.

  Ivan jabbed a forefinger at Malone’s chest. “Why do I trust you?”

  “I’ve been asking myself the same thing about you.”

  The Russian removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and clamped one between his lips. He found matches and lit the smoke. “I not like this.”

  “Like I care what you like. You want the job done. I’ll get it done.”

  “Okay,” Ivan said as he exhaled. “Find her. Get what we want.” He pointed toward the car. “Has navigation that can lead the way.”

  “Cotton,” Stephanie said. “I’ll arrange a little privacy. The Antwerp police are aware of what’s happening. They just don’t know where. I have to assure them there will be no property destruction, besides maybe a broken window or door. Just get her and get out.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “I realize it shouldn’t be a problem, but you have a reputation.”

  “This isn’t a World Heritage Site, is it? I seem to destroy only those.”

  “Just in and out, okay?”

  He turned to Ivan. “Once I make contact, I’ll call Stephanie. But I’m going to have to gauge Cassiopeia. She may not want partners.”

  Ivan raised a finger and pointed. “She might not want, but she gets partners. This matter is bigger than one four-year-old boy.”

  “That’s exactly why you’re staying here. First time those words are uttered and she’s gone.”

  He did not plan to make the same mistake he’d made in Paris with Thorvaldsen. Cassiopeia needed his help and he was going to give it to her. Unconditionally and with full disclosure.

  And Ivan could go to hell.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Ni, still shaken from the attack, watched in disgust. The fourth man, captured by Pau Wen, had been led from the house, beyond the gray walls, to a barn fifty meters behind the compound, among thick woods. Pau’s four acolytes had stripped off the man’s clothes, bound his body with heavy rope, then lifted him into the air, suspended from an L-shaped wooden crane.

  “I have horses and goats,” Pau said to him. “We use the hoist to store hay in the top of the barn.”

  The crane rose ten meters to a set of double doors in the gable. One of Pau’s men, the one from the video, stood in the upper doorway. The remaining three men—each wearing a green, sleeveless gown—fanned the flames of a steady blaze below, using dried logs and hay as fuel. Even from ten meters away, the heat was intense.

  “It has to be hot,” Pau said. “Otherwise, the effort could prove fruitless.”

  Night had come, black and bleak. The bound man hung suspended near the top of the hoist, his mouth sealed with tape, but in the flickering light Ni saw the horror on the man’s face.

  “The purpose of this?” he asked Pau.

  “We need to learn information. He was asked politely, but refused.”

  “You plan to roast him?”

  “Not at all. That would be barbaric.”

  He was trying to remain calm, telling himself that Karl Tang had ordered his death. Plots, purges, arrests, torture, trials, incarcerations, even executions were common in China.

  But open political murder?

  Perhaps Tang thought that since the assassination would occur in Belgium, it could be explained away. The sudden demise of Lin Biao, Mao’s chosen successor, in 1971 had never been fully documented. Biao supposedly died in a Mongolian plane crash while trying to escape China, after being accused of plotting to overthrow Ma
o. But only the government’s version as to what happened had ever been released. No one knew where or how or when Lin Biao had died only that he was gone.

  And he kept telling himself that the man dangling from the hoist had come to kill him.

  One of the men motioned that the fire was ready.

  Pau craned his neck and signaled.

  His man in the barn rotated the hoist so that it was now no longer parallel but perpendicular to the building. That caused the bound man’s bare feet to hang about three meters above the flames.

  “Never allow the fire to touch the flesh,” Pau quietly said. “Too intense. Too quick. Counterproductive.”

  He wondered about the lesson in torture. This old man apparently was a connoisseur. But from all Ni knew about Mao, the entire regime had been masters of the art. Pau stood motionless, dressed in a long gown of white gauze, watching as the bound man struggled against the ropes.

  “Will you,” Pau called out, “answer my questions?”

  The man did not signal any reply. Instead he kept struggling.

  “You see, Minister,” Pau said, “the heat alone is excruciating, but there is something worse.”

  A flick of Pau’s wrist and one of the men hurled the contents of a pail into the flames. A loud hiss, followed by a rush of heat, spewed the powder upward as it vaporized, engulfing the prisoner in a scorching cloud.

  The man’s thrashings increased wildly, his agony obvious.

  Ni caught a scent in the night air.

  “Chili powder,” Pau said. “The hot plume itself causes incredible agony, but the lingering chemical vapor increases the heat’s intensity on the skin. If he failed to close his eyes, he would be blind for several hours. The fumes irritate the pupils.”

  Pau motioned and another batch of chili powder was tossed.

  Ni imagined what the prisoner must be enduring.

  “Don’t sympathize with him,” Pau said. “This man is an associate of Karl Tang. Your enemy. I simply want him to tell us all that he knows.”

  So did Ni, actually.

  The fire continued to rage, the flames surely beginning to scorch the man’s feet.

  The prisoner’s head started to nod, signaling surrender.