The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “I get the feeling you’ve done this before,” Stephanie said.

  “Sometimes.”

  Pau Wen had remained quiet during the long flight, sleeping most of the way, as had they all, trying to adjust to a six-hour time difference. Pau gazed out at the calm sea with a sense that he’d been here before, too. A light fog steamed from the sea’s surface, filtering a rising sun. Oyster-colored clouds dotted a blue sky.

  “Tran Hung Dao, Vietnam’s grand commander, faced off Kublai Khan’s army here,” Pau quietly said, “in 1288. He placed bamboo stakes in the rivers so that when the Chinese boats arrived at low tide, which he knew they would, the hulls would be pierced. When that occurred, his troops swooped down and slaughtered the invaders.”

  Malone knew the rest of that story. “But the Chinese returned, conquered, and dominated here for nearly a thousand years.”

  “Which explains why Vietnam and China are not friends,” Ivan said. “Long memories.”

  On the flight, Malone had read what Stephanie had hastily amassed on Pau Wen. His background was one of academics, focusing on history, anthropology, and archaeology, but clearly he was a consummate politician. How else could someone become the confidant of both Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping, two utterly different personalities, and prosper under both?

  “My uncle was a fisherman,” Pau said. “He sailed a junk. As a boy, I would go out on the water with him.”

  Maybe fifty or more of the distinctive ships floated in the bay.

  “The cotton sail is dipped in a liquid that comes from a plant similar to a yam,” Pau said. “That’s what gives the red-tan color. It also prevents rot and mildew. My task, as a boy, was to care for the sails.” Pau made no effort to hide a nostalgic tone. “I loved the water. I still recall sewing the coarse cotton panels together, one seam at a time.”

  “What are you after?” Malone asked.

  “Are you always so direct?”

  “Do you ever answer a question?”

  Pau smiled. “Only when I want to.”

  Cassiopeia grabbed three bags from the dock. Earlier, she’d volunteered to find food and drink, and Ivan had provided her with several hundred Vietnamese dong.

  “Soft drinks and bread,” she said. “Best I could do this early. In another hour there’s a café open just beyond the end of the dock.”

  A small village nestled close to the shore—a cluster of low-slung pastel-colored buildings, rooftops bare and silent, a few faint curls of smoke wafting from several of the chimneys.

  Malone accepted a Pepsi and asked Ivan, “Let’s see if you can answer a question. What exactly are we going to do?”

  “Time to time, we sneak into China. They have coastal radar, but rocks and mountains give shelter.”

  “We’re going to sail a junk in?”

  Ivan shook his head. “Not today.”

  Malone had also asked and received from Stephanie three other reports. One was on Karl Tang, China’s first vice president and the Party’s vice premier. Tang came from simple beginnings, trained as a geologist, rising steadily within the Communist Party until he was now one step from the top. In China’s convoluted political system, the Communist Party was intimately interwoven with the national government. Every key governmental position was occupied by a Party official. Which explained why the president also served as Party premier. No one ever achieved election to any position without the Party’s consent, which meant Karl Tang was a man of great power. Yet he required an oil lamp from an ancient grave so badly that he stole a four-year-old boy?

  Ni Yong seemed the antithesis of Tang. Right off was his name, using the traditional form of last first. He’d grown up in Sichuan province in a village where nearly everyone was named Ni. He served two decades in the military, rising to high rank. He’d also been in Tiananmen Square in June 1989 when the tanks appeared. The West considered him a moderate, perhaps even a liberal, but they’d been fooled before by Chinese bureaucrats who said one thing then did another. Ni’s administration of the central disciplinary commission was widely regarded as admirable, a refreshing change of pace from the Beijing usual. The hope was that Ni Yong could become a new breed of Eastern leader.

  The final report dealt with Viktor Tomas.

  Beyond their direct contact, Malone knew little about the man. Their first encounter last year, in Central Asia, had been brief. Viktor had once worked with the Croatian security forces and, not wanting to be tried for war crimes, he’d switched sides and helped American intelligence as a random asset. Last year, when it was learned that Viktor had managed to position himself close to the head of the Central Asian Federation, pressure had been applied on him to exact his cooperation. On the plane, earlier, while the others slept, he’d asked Stephanie, “Is he Bosnian?”

  She’d shook her head. “His father was American. He was raised partly in Bosnia, some in California.”

  Which explained the lack of any European accent and his proficient use of slang.

  “He’s helpful, Cotton.”

  “He’s a random asset. Nothing but a whore. Where is he now?”

  “Back with Tang. In China.”

  “So what is it? Is he with the Russians? The Chinese? What’s his mission?”

  She said nothing.

  “We’re placing our asses right back in his hands,” he said. “And I don’t like it.”

  Stephanie had still not commented—which spoke volumes.

  But he meant what he’d said about random assets. No loyalty, usually reckless as hell. He knew that not only from Viktor, but from others he’d once encountered as a Magellan Billet agent. The mission may or may not be critical to them. Results didn’t matter. Surviving and getting paid, that’s what counted.

  Malone watched as Ivan continued to study Halong Bay. The sun, the temperature, and the morning mist had all quickly risen.

  “It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site,” Stephanie said.

  He caught the twinkle in her eye. “How much damage could I do to this bay?”

  “I’m sure you could find a way.”

  “There,” Ivan said. “Finally.”

  He saw what had grabbed the Russian’s attention. A plane, dropping from the sky, out over open water, making its way toward them.

  FORTY-TWO

  BEIJING, CHINA

  8:40 AM

  Ni entered the tomb of Mao Zedong.

  The granite edifice stood on the southern side of Tiananmen Square, a squat building, lined with columns, erected in a little more than a year after the Chairman died. Seven hundred thousand workers had supposedly participated in its construction, a symbol of the love that the Chinese harbored for their Great Helmsman. But that had all been propaganda. Those “workers” had been bused into the capital every day—ordinary people, each forced to carry a brick to the site. The next day, another busload would remove the same bricks.

  Foolishness, but nothing unusual for China.

  For the past year the mausoleum had been closed for renovations. In the rush to erect a memorial, little care had been taken on placement. Feng shui had been ignored. Consequently, there had been many structural problems over the years, ones his grandfather easily might have prevented.

  On the flight from Belgium, he’d e-mailed a request for an immediate audience with the premier. Staff had responded quickly and said he would be seen as soon as he was in the country. His reporting directly on a pending investigation was nothing unusual, since the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection answered only to the premier. Meeting at Mao’s tomb, though, was different. The explanation had been that the premier was there, making a final inspection before the site reopened in a few days.

  In the mausoleum’s vestibule, a massive white marble armchair held a sitting statue of Mao. Behind, a mural featured the geopolitical range of the Chairman’s posthumous rule. Security men ringed the polished floor. He knew the drill. Two of the suited officers approached and he raised his arms, ready for a search.

  “No need,
” he heard a voice, cracking with age, say.

  The premier entered the vestibule, a short, stumpy man with bushy eyebrows that swept up toward his temples. He wore his characteristic dark suit and dark tie and walked while leaning on a red lacquered stick.

  “Minister Ni has my trust.” The premier motioned with his cane. “Allow him to pass.”

  The security men withdrew, never confiscating the pistol from his shoulder harness. A weapon had been waiting for him when he stepped off the plane. He had thought it wise, under the uncertain circumstances.

  “Let us walk,” the premier said.

  They drifted deeper inside.

  Evidence of renovations was everywhere, including fresh paint and sparkling stone.

  “What is so urgent?” the premier asked.

  “Tell me about Pau Wen.”

  The old man stopped.

  Though his breath was short, the voice weak and halting, the hands and fingers bony, Ni realized that there was nothing sluggish about this man’s mind.

  “He is a dangerous man.”

  “In what way?” he asked.

  “He’s a eunuch.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  The premier smiled. “Now you’re not being honest with me. You know precisely what that means.”

  Few lights burned inside and the building’s air-conditioning had chilled the interior to a winter’s feel.

  He’d made his move. Now he awaited a response.

  “A eunuch cannot be trusted,” the premier said. “They are inherently dishonest. They destroyed dynasty after dynasty with their treachery.”

  “I don’t need a history lesson.”

  “Perhaps you do. When the First Emperor died, his chief eunuch conspired to have the eldest son, the chosen heir, commit suicide. He then aided the next son in becoming Second Emperor, thinking that he, himself, from behind the throne, would be in actual control. But that reign lasted only four years. Everything Qin Shi fought to create—what millions died to achieve—disappeared within three years of his death. And all because of a eunuch. That pariah is still recalled by history as ‘a man who could confidently describe a deer as a horse.’ ”

  He could not care less. “I need to know about Pau Wen and your contacts with him.”

  The older man’s eyes narrowed, but no rebuke came. “Pau Wen likewise can confidently describe a deer as a horse.”

  He could not argue with that observation.

  They continued ahead, a steady click of the lacquered cane off the marble floor accompanied by the shuffle of leather soles.

  “Decades ago,” the old man said, “Pau Wen and I were friends. We did much together. We both became disenchanted with Mao.”

  The premier stopped, his face contorted, as if trying to assemble a long train of hitherto unconnected thoughts, some of which might be unpleasant.

  “The Cultural Revolution was an awful time. The young were encouraged to attack the old, the foreign, the bourgeois. We thought all of it right, all of it necessary. But it was insanity, and it all happened for nothing. In the end, the strong dragon proved no match for the local snake.”

  He nodded at the ancient saying.

  “China changed,” the premier said. “The people changed. Unfortunately, the government didn’t.”

  He had to ask, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because, Minister, I fear you will not win your coming battle with Karl Tang.”

  FORTY-THREE

  HALONG BAY

  Malone shook his head at the up-wing twin-engine amphibian, a Twin Bee, built like a tank with rivets, hefty struts, and thick walls of sheet metal painted red and white. Its hull rested in the calm water like a boat.

  “Your way into China,” Ivan said.

  “You can’t be serious,” Cassiopeia said. “They’ll blow us out of the sky.”

  The Russian shook his head. “It never happens before.”

  Ivan unfolded a map, laid it across the dock’s wooden railing, and rested a pudgy finger with dirty nails atop Halong Bay. He then traced a line to the northwest, straight across northern Vietnam, passing the border with China, ending at the city of Kunming, in Yunnan province, 500 miles away.

  “You have clear passage from here to border,” Ivan said.

  “Apparently you and the Vietnamese are asshole buddies.”

  Ivan shrugged. “They have no choice.”

  Malone smiled.

  “Lakes everywhere, south of Kunming. Dian Chi is the best one. Forty kilometers long. Plenty of places to land unnoticed.”

  “And what do we do once we’re there?” Malone asked.

  “We can take the train north to Xi’an,” Pau said. “A few hours. From there we can bus out to the terra-cotta warrior site.”

  Malone wasn’t impressed. “This isn’t some jaunt across Europe. You’re talking about flying 500 miles into a closed country, with a massive air force, unannounced. Somebody could easily get the wrong idea.”

  “I will provide pilot,” Ivan said, “who can handle controls.”

  “I can fly the damn thing,” he said. “I just want to be alive to land.”

  Ivan waved off his worries. “Yunnan province is friendly.”

  Pau nodded. “It has always been a renegade. Remote location, harsh terrain, diverse population. One-third of all the Chinese minorities live there.”

  “We have friends,” Ivan said, “who help us. The route will be clear. Take this chart, which I mark. I assume you navigate?”

  Cassiopeia snatched the map away. “I’ll handle that chore.”

  “Fully gassed?” Malone asked Ivan about the plane.

  “Enough to get there. But understand, it is one-way trip.”

  Ni would not allow the negative observation about himself to spark a response. He knew better. So he returned to his original question. “Tell me about Pau Wen.”

  “I do not answer to interrogation. I am not one of your investigations.”

  “Perhaps you should be.”

  “Because of Pau Wen? You give that man far too much credit.”

  “In Belgium, Karl Tang sent men to kill me. Pau Wen prevented that. He also told me things about Tang and you. Spoke of conversations between you and him. He said you even spoke of me. I want to know about those talks.”

  They stood at the entrance to the crypt. Mao’s body lay in the center, sheathed by a crystalline sarcophagus.

  “I had him brought from below,” the premier said. “I wanted to see him in all his glory.”

  Ni knew that like so many others in Beijing, Mao traveled to work each day. The body was raised and lowered from an earthquake-proof chamber deep underground, sealed inside a transparent cocoon, surrounded by pure nitrogen. Halogen lights cast the corpse in a golden glow.

  “You think Pau, Tang, and I are co-conspirators?” the premier finally asked.

  “I don’t know what to think. I’m simply asking a question. Tell me about your conversations with Pau Wen.”

  “I recall when Mao died,” the premier said, gesturing toward the corpse. “September 9, 1976, just after midnight. Ten days the nation mourned. Loudspeakers and radio stations broadcasting somber music. Newspapers proclaimed him the greatest Marxist of the contemporary era and said he will forever illuminate the road of advance of the Chinese people. For three minutes that day the entire country stood in silence.” The old man paused, his eyes still locked on the spectacle. “But for what, Minister? Tell me, for what?”

  He realized he was being ignored. “I wasn’t there. You were. What did you hope to gain from canonizing him?”

  The premier faced him. “Do you know what happened after he died?”

  Ni shook his head.

  “Publicly, Mao had written that he wanted to be cremated. He said, after people die they should not be allowed to occupy any more space. They should be cremated. He publicly proclaimed that he’d take the lead and be burned to ashes, used for fertilizer. But we all knew that was propaganda. He wanted t
o be worshiped. The problem came when no one knew about embalming. It’s simply not our way. The doctors located a Russian text in the national library and followed its procedure, but they injected so much formaldehyde that the face swelled like a ball and the ears projected at right angles. Can you imagine what a sight that was. Mao’s skin turned slimy from the chemicals that oozed out the pores. I was there. I saw it.”

  Ni had not heard this story before.

  “They couldn’t drain the excess off, so they used towels and cotton balls, hoping to massage the fluid down into the body. One of them pressed too hard and a hunk of the right cheek broke off. Eventually, they had to slit the jacket and pants just to get the body into the clothes.”

  He wondered why he was being told this.

  “But they were not entirely foolish, Minister. Before injecting the formaldehyde, they made a wax effigy of the entire body.” The fingers of the old man’s left hand pointed to the sarcophagus. “And that is what you see now.”

  “It’s not Mao?”

  He shook his head. “Mao is gone, and has been for a long time. This is but an illusion.”

  Malone followed Cassiopeia and Pau Wen to the end of the pier, Stephanie walking beside him.

  “You realize this is crazy,” he said in a low voice.

  “Ivan says they slip in all the time. Usually from the shoreline to the north. Only difference here is half the flight will be over Vietnam.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  She smiled. “You can handle it.”

  He pointed at Pau. “Bringing him along is crazy, too.”

  “He’s your guide.”

  “We’re not part of whatever he’s after. I doubt he’ll be much help.”

  “Since you know that, be ready.”

  He shook his head. “I should be selling books.”

  “How’s your hip?”

  “Sore.”

  “I need to make contact before we leave,” Cassiopeia called out, stopping at the pier’s end. She’d told them that a neighbor of Lev Sokolov’s had agreed to act as go-between. All she needed was a laptop, which Stephanie produced, and a satellite connection, which Ivan arranged.