by Steve Berry
She needed to leave.
But not without Cotton.
She knew there was another way down, the staircase she’d used to climb, but flames blocked any path in that direction. She still held the lamp and the gun and decided to see if perhaps Cotton had made his way forward, through the connected rooms on the hallway’s opposite side.
No sign of the three men.
She turned and spotted the source of the problem. Two metal canisters overturned on the floor, both aflame.
She came to the end of the hall, where a marble balustrade opened to the main staircase that right-angled downward toward the second floor. No more corridor extended past where the stairs began, and she confronted a stone wall. Carefully she peered out and saw no movement in the fire’s glow. Something cracked behind her, then crashed and she saw the hall’s ceiling give way, the old house quickly surrendering. Perhaps the three men had fled? No need to hang around, except that they would want the lamp. But they could wait outside and confront her there.
The stairway began five meters away.
She dashed forward.
As she reached the end of the balustrade and started to turn for the stairs, something slammed shoulder-first into the back of her knees. Arms wrapped her legs. She fell forward, smashing into the marble wall.
A man had tackled her.
She thrashed her legs, twisting her body, banging the gun into his head. He was wiry and strong, but she managed to fling him away, sending herself sliding.
The lamp and gun flew from her grasp.
A kick sent her weapon flying toward the balustrade, where it disappeared between thick spindles over the side.
She sprang to her feet.
Her attacker was dressed in black, his face hooded by a wool mask. He was maybe thirty pounds heavier. She lunged, jamming her shoulder into his chest, ramming him back into the wall.
Malone heard Cassiopeia call his name but chose not to reply. He’d spotted three forms rushing through the darkness, all headed toward the main staircase. He’d managed to creep closer, through rooms that opened one into another, careful with his approach among the warm mass of dark shapes. Smoke gathered, which made both breathing and seeing difficult.
He heard fighting and saw something slide across the burning floor, into the flames. He raced to the doorway and spotted the object. Small. A foot long and half that tall.
A dragon’s head on a tiger’s body with wings.
The lamp?
He reached down to retrieve it but his fingers reeled back. Its bronze exterior was hot. He used his shoe and slid it away from the burning floorboards into the room where he stood, three walls of which had now joined the blaze.
He needed to leave.
He glanced out into the corridor, toward the top of the staircase, and saw Cassiopeia and a man clad in black.
Fighting.
Ni watched the Dries Van Egmond Museum burn. The top two floors were now on fire, flames roaring through the roof, licking the night. Windows shattered from heat and pressure, spewing glass into the garden.
“The Chinese were much better glass producers,” Pau said. “Much higher quality than anything Europe produced.”
Ni wondered about the history lesson, considering what they were witnessing.
“Did you know that at the terra-cotta warrior pit, we discovered that the weapons the figures carried—their swords and knives, which emerged from the ground sharp, shiny, and untarnished—were made of materials that actually prevented rust. We ultimately discovered that it was a copper–tin alloy combined with eleven other metals such as cobalt, nickel, chrome, and magnesium. Can you imagine? Over two millennia ago and our ancestors understood how to protect metal.”
“And we slaughtered ourselves,” Ni said, “with that technology.”
Pau’s gaze stayed on the fire. “You’re not much for violence, are you?”
“It never achieves long-range goals.”
“An effective state employs seven punishments to three rewards. A weak state employs five punishments to five rewards. That is a proven fact.”
“If a person’s life has no value, then the society that shapes that life has no value. How could anyone believe otherwise?”
“Empires, by nature, are repressive.”
“Aren’t you concerned that people may be dying in that fire? Your man one of them.”
“He must protect himself, that is his duty.”
“And you bear no responsibility?”
“Of course. I bear the burden of his failure.”
He could not, and would not, ever allow himself to have so little regard for other people’s lives. Ordering men to their deaths should never be taken lightly. Though he did not know the man inside, he cared about his safety.
All leaders should feel that way.
Shouldn’t they?
“You are an odd man,” he said to Pau Wen.
“That I am. But isn’t it fortuitous that you met me.”
THIRTY
Cassiopeia shoved herself away from her assailant and rose to her knees. The heat from the fire, raging only a few meters away, had grown in intensity, flames edging their way toward the landing. Luckily, the walls and floor here were marble. Smoke was building, making each breath a challenge. She needed to find the lamp, but there was the matter of the black-clad man who deftly came to his feet, ready for more. Her heart pounded, a heavy throbbing that rattled her ribs. Her muscles were watery with fatigue. Two days of torture and no food had taken a toll.
The man lunged.
She dodged, grabbed his arm and forced it back, twisting his body, trying to take him down. His wild kicking threatened her grasp and he managed to reverse the hold and drive her forward into the balustrade. Over the thick railing, she caught a view of a ten-meter drop below.
She was rolled so that her spine faced downward.
The back of the man’s hand slapped her face. He then tried to force her over the side. She tasted the acrid tang of blood. Adrenaline rushed through her as she swung her right leg up and planted the heel of her boot into his groin.
He doubled forward, both hands reaching for the pain.
She jammed her knee into his face and sent him staggering back.
Advancing, she balled her fist.
Malone used his shirttail to cradle the lamp, its exterior still warm from the roasting. It seemed solid, the only opening at the dragon’s head. In the flickering light he spotted bits of melted wax that had sealed the mouth clinging to the bronze. He caught a familiar smell and brought the lamp close.
Oil.
He jostled the vessel. It seemed about half full.
He spotted Chinese characters carved into the exterior and surmised that maybe the writing could be what made the thing so important. He’d seen that before—messages from the past, still relevant today. But whatever it was, he needed to get the hell out of this burning inferno while the getting was good.
He turned.
One of the men stood a few feet away, blocking the only exit. He held a gun waist-high, aimed straight ahead.
“Got to be hot in that wool mask,” Malone said.
“Give me the lamp.”
He motioned with the artifact. “This? I just found it in the fire. Nothing special.”
“Give me the lamp.”
He detected an Asian accent in the English. Fire burned all around where they stood, not raging, but spreading, using the furniture as fuel. Fresh, hot fingers ignited along the wood floor between him and the other man.
He stepped closer.
The gun was lifted higher. “The lamp. Toss it to me.”
“I don’t think that would be—”
“Toss it.”
Malone stared down at the dragon head and the bits of wax that dripped from the mouth. He could still smell the oil and decided that if the man wanted the lamp, then that’s what he was going to get.
He arced the vessel into the air but, as he released his grasp, a flick of his
wrist twisted the lamp. He was careful to provide only enough velocity so that it would fall short and his assailant would have to step forward to catch his prize.
He watched as the dragon’s head angled downward and spotted the first glimpse of liquid spilling from the mouth. The droplets met the heat below with a hiss and a flash, as the fire enjoyed what was surely a satisfying meal.
Oil spewed out as the armed man stepped forward and caught the lamp between its wings, upside down, the head pointed toward the floor.
Fresh flames ignited on the floor as the oil vaporized.
The fire searched upward for more.
When it found the lamp, a ball of heat and light erupted in the man’s hands.
A scream pierced the boiling air as the man’s clothes caught fire. He dropped the lamp and the gun, his arms flailing as his clothes disintegrated.
Malone found his Beretta on the floor and fired two shots into the man’s chest.
The burning body dropped to the floor.
He stepped close and planted one last shot in the head.
“More than you would have done for me,” he muttered.
Cassiopeia slugged her attacker in the face. He was weakened by her blow to his groin, stunned from the pain, all the breath smashed from him. He started coughing, gasping for bits of air among the smoke.
Another punch and he collapsed, not moving.
The fire had now consumed the hallway to her left—floor, walls, and ceiling—and smoke was spreading by the second. She, too, coughed out a lungful of carbon.
Two gunshots echoed from down the corridor.
“Cotton,” she called out.
Another gunshot.
“Cotton. For God’s sake answer me.”
“I’m here,” he yelled.
“Can you get to the stairs?”
“No. I’m going out one of the windows.”
She should go to him and help. He’d come for her.
“Can you get out?” he called out over the flames.
“It’s clear here.”
She kept her gaze down the third-floor corridor, now completely engulfed by fire. Her knuckles throbbed and her lungs ached. The heat was stifling. She realized there was no choice. She had to leave. But—
“I need the lamp,” she yelled.
“I have it.”
“I’m going,” she called out.
“See you outside.”
She turned and headed for the stairs, but something below caught her attention. On the landing stood a man, his face gaunt, his black eyes locked on her. In his grasp was a bow, an arrow threaded onto the string, pulled tight.
Her gun was gone. There was nowhere to run.
The man kept his aim, his intentions clear.
He’d come to kill her.
THIRTY-ONE
Ni heard another of the third-floor windows shatter, followed by something flying out into the night. He watched as a chair crashed into the garden, then saw shadowy movement in the open window. Something else was tossed down. Smaller but heavy, it fell quickly, landing in one of the graveled paths.
“That could be what we seek,” Pau said.
A man maneuvered his way out, grabbing hold of the vines that veined the museum’s rear façade. He was not the right size or build to be Pau’s minion.
“He is the one who entered after the three,” Pau said.
Ni agreed.
Sirens were approaching. Soon the area would be crowded with emergency personnel.
“We must see if that was the lamp before he reaches the ground,” Pau said.
He agreed. “I’ll go.”
“Hurry.”
Ni fled their hiding place and crossed the darkness back to the garden. He kept one eye on the man, noting that he was skillfully using the vines to descend. Ni chose an oblique approach, advancing not along the graveled paths, cut with precision through the odorous flora, but down the edge, using the soft soil and a row of tall cypresses to mask his approach.
He spotted the chair broken into pieces, then looked where he’d seen the smaller object land, catching sight of a dark form in the middle of one of the paths.
He glanced up and saw the man struggling with the vines, slowly making his descent. Head and eyes seemed intent on finding handholds, so Ni took advantage of the moment and crept to the object.
He lifted it and found it warm.
A dragon’s head on a tiger’s body with the wings of a phoenix.
The lamp.
Malone gripped the stalks and eased his body downward. He’d managed to re-retrieve the lamp from the fire, then tossed it down to the garden. He’d noticed on his initial approach that the gravel below was fine, like ball bearings, so it should have provided a cushioned landing.
He wasn’t sorry the man inside was dead. No doubt once he’d turned over the lamp he would have been shot himself.
He kept his attention on the vines, grateful that they’d apparently flourished a long time, their meaty stalks firmly attached to the exterior. The second level had yet to catch fire, and the smoke from the top two floors spewed upward, away from him. Definitely cooler and easier to breathe here.
He glanced down to see how far remained and spotted a shadow creeping past the destroyed chair. He watched as the form quickly scooped up the lamp.
“That’s not yours,” he called out.
The form hesitated an instant, looked up, then bolted away, rushing for the garden’s far exit.
His attention on the thief caused him to ignore the vines. Blindly, he reached for his next handhold and the plant gave way with a crack.
He fell backward.
And kept falling.
Ni ran from the garden but glanced back at the sound of something snapping. He watched as the man fell ten meters. No way to know if the fall would cause an injury or if the climber would come to his feet and pursue.
But he wasn’t going to stay and find out.
He rushed through the gate, crossed the drive, and found Pau Wen.
“We must leave,” Pau said.
Ni could not argue with that move. Enough risks had been taken. He could not be discovered here.
“I realize,” Pau said, “you are concerned about the people inside the museum. But we will return home and await my brother. Then we will know the situation.”
Cassiopeia realized there was no way to flee. The archer would have a clear shot across the balustrade until she reached a blazing hallway, which offered no escape. She’d also never make it anywhere near the bowman, since the arrow would find her far quicker than she could move.
Game over.
She hoped Cotton had escaped. She’d miss him, though only at this moment, facing death, had she considered how much. Why had she never expressed herself? Never said a word. Why the dance they both seemed to enjoy where neither one of them wanted to commit, yet they both always turned to the other in time of need.
She regretted not being able to help Lev Sokolov. She wondered what would happen to his son. Most likely he’d never be seen again. She’d tried. Done everything she could.
But it had not been good enough.
Strange, a person’s thoughts in the face of death. Perhaps there was an instinct that brought to the surface every regret. Was this what Henrik Thorvaldsen had experienced in Paris? If so, maybe Cotton was right and their friend did die thinking he’d been betrayed. How awful. Especially when it wasn’t true. She now understood Cotton’s anguish, his regrets at not making things right, and she wished for one more opportunity herself.
“Tou qie zhu ren de zei bi si wu yi,” the archer said.
She could not speak Chinese, so his words meant nothing.
“Get it over with,” she called out, waiting for the slap of the bowstring, then the arrow piercing her flesh.
Would it hurt?
Not for long.
Two bangs startled her.
The archer staggered and she realized that the man had been shot. She dove to the right just as he l
ost his grip on the bowstring. But because he was collapsing as the arrow released, its metal tip found only marble.
She pushed herself up from the floor and stared past the thick spindles.
A man walked up from the floor below, stopping at the landing where the archer’s body lay twitching in violent spasms.
Another shot and all movement stopped.
Viktor Tomas turned toward her.
She did not like the look in his eyes. He was surely angry from her attack on him back at the house. Yet he was here, holding her gun, the one that had fallen away, now aiming the weapon straight toward her, steadying his grip with both hands.
She faced the same dilemma with him that she had with the archer.
Nowhere to run.
He fired.
THIRTY-TWO
Malone rolled out of the shrubbery. God bless the groundskeeper who’d groomed these hedges thick, trimming them into a perfect wall that stood six feet high. Their many branches had broken his fall, though one annoying stalk had bruised his hip.
He rose to his feet.
At forty-eight he was a little old for this, but thoughts of Cassiopeia rushed through his brain. He needed to find her. He recalled noticing on the climb down that the first two levels had yet to burn, but this might no longer be the case. Sirens were approaching, so he assumed the privacy Stephanie had arranged was gone, as were the lamp and its thief.
All in all, a total bust for the evening.
He turned toward the terrace and the doors through which they’d all first entered.
Three firemen burst out.
They seemed startled by his appearance, and one of them shouted something. Flemish was not a language he knew. But no translation was required. Two policemen appeared and drew their guns.
He knew what they wanted.
So he raised his hands.
Cassiopeia waited for the bullet, but all she felt was a slap of air as the round zoomed past her right ear.
She heard metal sucking into flesh and whirled.
The man she’d beaten had risen to his feet, advancing toward her with a knife. Viktor’s shot had caught him in the chest. The body dropped to the marble, trembled as if racked by fever, then went still.