The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  Cassiopeia balanced the computer on the dock’s wooden railing, and Malone held it in place. He watched as she typed in an e-mail address, then a message.

  I HAVE BEEN READING THE THOUGHTS OF MAO, BUT CANNOT FIND HIS WORDS REGARDING UNITY. COULD YOU HELP ME?

  “That’s clever,” he said.

  He knew the Chinese censored the Internet, restricting access to search engines, blogs, chat rooms, any site that allowed open conversation. They also employed filters that screened all digital content in and out of the country for anything suspicious. They were in the process of creating their own intranet, solely for China, which would be far easier to regulate. He’d read about the venture and its skyrocketing costs and technological challenges.

  “I found a copy of the The Little Red Book and worked out a code,” she said. “The words of Mao would never arouse suspicion. The neighbors said they would check constantly for any message.”

  Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong—or, as the West labeled it, The Little Red Book—was the most printed book in history. Nearly seven billion copies. Once, every Chinese was required to carry one, and those editions now were valuable collector’s items. Malone had bought one himself a few months ago, at the monthly book auction in Roskilde, for one of his customers.

  The laptop dinged with an incoming message.

  IT IS THE DUTY OF THE CADRES AND THE PARTY TO SERVE THE PEOPLE. WITHOUT THE PEOPLE’S INTERESTS CONSTANTLY AT HEART, THEIR WORK IS USELESS.

  She looked up at him. “That’s the wrong response. Which means trouble.”

  “Can they clarify what’s going on?” Stephanie asked.

  She shook her head. “Not without compromising themselves.”

  “She is correct,” Pau Wen said. “I, too, use a similar coding method when communicating with friends in China. The government watches cyberspace closely.”

  Malone handed the laptop back. “We need to go. But first I have to do something.”

  Ivan had been talking on the phone for the past few minutes, standing away from them. Malone walked down the dock and, as the Russian ended his call, asked, “Anything you’re willing to tell us?”

  “You do not like me much, do you?”

  “I don’t know. Try a new posture, different clothes, a diet, and a change in attitude and maybe our relationship will improve.”

  “I have job to do.”

  “So do I. But you’re making it difficult.”

  “I give you plane and way in.”

  “Viktor. Where is he? I miss him.”

  “He is doing job, too.”

  “I need to know something, and for once tell me the truth.”

  Ivan stared back at him.

  “Is Viktor there to kill Karl Tang?”

  “If opportunity arise, this will be good thing.”

  “And Sokolov? Is he there to kill him, too?”

  “Not at all. That one we want back.”

  “He knows too much? Maybe some things you don’t know?”

  Ivan only glared at him.

  “I thought so. Sokolov must have been busy while in China. Tell me, if it’s not possible for Viktor to retrieve Sokolov or, God forbid, we get our hands on him first, what are his orders?”

  Ivan said nothing.

  “Just like I thought, too. I’m going to do us all a favor and keep this to myself.” He gestured to the end of the dock. “She’s not going to let that happen to Sokolov.”

  “She may have no say. Much better when we thought Sokolov dead. Now it is Viktor’s choice.”

  “We’ll make sure he makes the right one.”

  He headed back toward the others where Cassiopeia was climbing into the plane’s cabin, followed by Pau.

  “Spry sucker,” he whispered to Stephanie.

  “Watch him, Cotton.”

  He pointed at Ivan. “And you watch him.”

  He climbed inside. Two leather seats rested side by side, Cassiopeia in one, a center bench behind them where Pau sat. The instrument panel did not extend to the passenger side, which provided Cassiopeia a wide view ahead through the forward windows. He strapped himself in and studied the controls, noticing the top speed to be around 200 kilometers per hour. One fuel tank in the keel, below the cabin door, held 320 liters. Another auxiliary tank in the tail carried 60 liters. He did the math. About a 1,500 kilometer range. Plenty for a one-way trip, as Ivan had said, which he hoped did not have a double meaning.

  “I assume you know what you’re doing?” she asked.

  “As good a time as any to learn.”

  She gave him a quizzical look.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You can fly this, right?” Doubt clouded her tone.

  He adjusted the throttle, props, and fuel mixture. He glanced down at the keel plugs and noticed that they were intact. A flick of a switch and the twin engines roared to life. He played with the fuel mixture until the props spun firm. He twisted the cranks for the elevator and rudder trims.

  “No problem,” he said.

  Cassiopeia did not appear to share his confidence.

  The plane started to drift, so he grasped the yoke and maneuvered out onto the bay. He turned toward the south so the faint breeze he’d noted on shore would be at their back.

  He throttled up the engines to 180 horsepower.

  The Twin Bee skimmed across the surface, the controls tightened, and he gripped the yoke.

  This would be his first off-water takeoff. He’d always wanted to do it.

  Less than five hundred feet was needed before the wings caught air and the plane lifted, slow and steady, as if in an elevator. They found open water beyond the bay. He banked left and adjusted course toward the northwest, heading back over shore. The controls were sluggish, but responsive. Not a P-3 Orion, he reminded himself, or even a Cessna or a Beechcraft. This tank was designed for little more than short water hopping.

  “Take a look at that chart,” he said to Cassiopeia.

  She studied the map.

  “We’re going to ground-track our way there,” he made clear.

  “Assuming this chart is correct.”

  “Not to worry,” Pau said at his right ear. “I know this part of Vietnam and China well. I can get us there.”

  Ni watched the premier’s face, trying to gauge if this man was friend or foe. He truly had no idea.

  “What you see is the wax replica made before the Chairman was embalmed. The body decayed long ago and, in fulfillment of Mao’s wishes, was burned to ash.”

  “Then why keep all this open?”

  “An excellent question. One I have asked myself many times. The simplest answer is that the people expect it.”

  Ni had to say, “I don’t think that’s the case any longer.”

  “You may well be correct. That is the sad thing about our heritage. We have no single legacy. Just a succession of dynasties, each rising with its own agenda, opposing the one before it, welcomed by the people, then descending into the same corruption of its predecessor. Why should our future be any different?”

  “You sound like Pau.”

  “I told you that he and I were once close. But there came a time when we deviated. He took one path, I another.”

  An uncomfortable feeling swept over him. Usually, he was in command of a situation, knowing the questions and the answers. Not here. Others were many steps ahead of him. So he asked what he truly wanted to know. “Why will I lose to Karl Tang?”

  “Because you are unaware of the threats around you.”

  “That’s what Pau Wen said, too.”

  “I want to know something. If I perceive you are lying, or telling me what I want to hear, this will be the last time we will ever speak.”

  He didn’t particularly appreciate being spoken to like a schoolchild, but he recognized that this man had not risen to the top of the political triangle by being a fool. So he decided that he would answer the question honestly.

  “What will you do with China if given my job?”


  Ever since Pau Wen asked him the same question yesterday he’d thought about its answer. “First, I will separate the Communist Party from the government. That merger is the root of all our corruption. Next, the personnel system must be reformed, a reliance placed on merit, not patronage. The role of the National People’s Congress, and the other lower congresses in the provinces, has to be raised. The people must be heard. Finally, the rule of law must be established, which means the judiciary has to become independent and functioning. We have enacted five constitutions since 1949 and ignored every one of them.”

  “You are correct,” the premier said. “The Party’s authority has been undermined by irrational policies, corruption, and no vision. At present, and this is the greatest fear I possess, only the military has the ability to rule if we fail. I understand you are of the military, but the nation would not last long as a puppet.”

  “Of that there is no doubt. Three million active troops, controlled by seven regional commanders, of which I was once one, could not govern. We must locate and promote technical competence, managerial skills, and a business ability in our people. The glacial pace to our decision making does incalculable damage.”

  “Do you want democracy?”

  The question was asked in a whisper.

  “It is inevitable. In some form. Not like the West, but elements of it cannot be avoided. A new middle class has emerged. They are smart. They listen to not only the government but also one another. They are compliant for now, but that is changing. Guanxi must be abolished. It is the root of all our corruption problems.”

  The principle of “not what you knew, but who you knew” compelled dishonesty. Guanxi relied on connections, forcing entrepreneurs to bond with government and Party officials who could approve their requests and grant them favors. The system, ingrained so deeply that it was literally a part of the government’s fabric, allowed money and power to meld seamlessly, with no resistance from morality.

  The premier nodded. “That system must be dismantled. I have no way to make that happen. But youth is gaining power. The individual is emerging. Mao’s philosophy is gone.” A pause. “Thank goodness.”

  “In an age of instant texting, Internet access, and cell phones one small incident of corruption could become a riot,” Ni said. “I’ve seen that nearly happen several times. The people’s tolerance level for corruption is dropping by the day.”

  “The days of blind allegiance are over. I recall once when I was young. We all wanted to show our love for Mao, so we went to the river. We were told how Mao swam across the Yangtze, so we wanted to do that as well. Thousands jumped in. So many there was no room to swim. You couldn’t move your arms. The river was like a soup, our heads like dumplings.” The old man paused. “Hundreds drowned that day. My wife was one of those.”

  He did not know what to say. He’d long noticed that many of the former generation refused to openly speak about the three decades between the 1949 Revolution and Mao’s death. It was as if they were too overwhelmed by what happened to discuss its pain, the resentment, so they mentioned it casually, as they would the weather, or in a whisper, as if no one was listening.

  He harbored his own share of bitter memories. Pau Wen had reminded him of Tiananmen Square—June 4, 1989—apparently knowing that Ni had been there.

  He often thought about that day, when his life changed.

  “Where is my son?” the woman asked.

  Ni could offer her no answer. He was guarding one segment of the massive square, his division charged with making sure that Tiananmen’s perimeter remained secured.

  The cleanout had started yesterday, most of the protestors now gone, but the air still stank of their waste and death. Every day, since April, people had appeared until more than a million eventually occupied the pavement. Students had started the rebellion, but unemployed workers had eventually formed the bulk of the crowd, decrying double-digit inflation and public corruption. For the past week he’d been here, sent by his commander to watch the agitators, but he’d found himself doing far more listening.

  “You must leave,” he said to her.

  “My son was here. I have to find him.”

  She was middle-aged, a good twenty years older than him. Her eyes cast a sadness that only a mother could know. His own mother would have risked everything for him. Both his parents had defied the one-child policy and birthed four children, which brought an enormous burden to their family. He’d been the third, something of a disappointment, hating school, performing poorly, staying in trouble. When he failed the national high school entrance exam, his future became clear.

  The military.

  There he had found a home and a purpose, defending Mao, serving the motherland.

  He’d thought his life had finally defined itself.

  Until the past two days.

  He’d watched as the bulk of the crowd had been peacefully dispersed by the army’s 27th and 28th divisions, brought in from the outer provinces because Beijing had thought local divisions might be sympathetic. The soldiers, nearly all of them unarmed, had moved in on foot and dispersed the people with tear gas, and most of the demonstrators fled peacefully.

  A core group of about 5,000 had remained.

  They attacked the soldiers with rocks and bricks, using burned-out buses as barricades. Tanks were called in and the protestors attacked them, too, one of them catching fire, killing two occupants.

  That’s when everything changed.

  Last night the army had returned with rifles, bayonets, and more tanks. The shooting raged for several hours. Soldiers and demonstrators alike died. He’d been there, on the fringes, charged with protecting the outer boundaries while more of the 27th and 28th divisions exacted revenge.

  All previous orders not to shoot had been rescinded.

  Rickshaws and bicyclists had darted through the melee, rescuing the wounded, trying to transport them to hospitals. People had been beaten, stabbed, and shot. Tanks crushed both bodies and vehicles.

  He’d seen too many die to count.

  The mothers and fathers had started arriving a few hours ago, pushing their way closer to the now empty square. All had been warned off, told to leave, and most had. But a few, like the mother he now confronted, refused.

  “You must leave this area,” he told her again, his voice gentle.

  She studied his uniform. “Captain, my son would be about your age. He has been here since the beginning. When I heard what was happening I had to come. Surely, you understand. Let me look for him.”

  “The square is empty,” he said. “He is not here.”

  “There are bodies,” she said in a voice cracking with emotion.

  And there were. Stacked like wood, out of sight, a mere hundred meters away. One reason his men had been ordered here was to keep everyone away from them. They would be discarded after dark, taken away and buried in a common pit so no one could count the dead.

  “You must leave,” he ordered again.

  She thrust out an arm and shoved him aside, walking ahead, past the point that he’d ordered his men to defend. She reminded him so much of his own mother, who’d taught him how to swim, to roller-skate, to drive a truck. A loving soul who cared only that her four children grow old.

  Before he could stop the woman, another soldier, a captain, like him, leveled his rifle and fired.

  The bullet thudded into the mother’s spine.

  Her body lurched forward, then slammed face-first to the pavement.

  Anger surged through him. Ni aimed his rifle at the soldier.

  “You warned her not to advance. I heard you. She ignored you. I was following orders.”

  The captain stared down the gun, not a hint of fear in his eyes.

  “We don’t kill unarmed women,” Ni slowly declared.

  “We do what we must.”

  That captain had been right.

  The People’s Liberation Army did whatever it had to, including killing unarmed men and women. To this day no on
e knew how many had died in Tiananmen Square, or in the days and weeks after. Several hundred? Thousands? Tens of thousands?

  All he knew for sure was that one woman had lost her life.

  A mother.

  “We were foolish,” the premier said. “So many stupid things we did for Mao.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  LANZHOU, CHINA

  Tang was pleased that the facility had been secured. He’d ordered his men to take charge of the petrochemical laboratory, sending home all non-essential personnel and otherwise restricting access. Luckily, just a dozen people worked in the building, mostly clerks and assistants, and only one of the lab’s two research scientists was still alive.

  Lev Sokolov.

  The Russian expatriate had been brought from the city yesterday, after a doctor had tended to his wounds. The rats had left their mark, both physically and mentally. Killing Sokolov was not out of the question, but not before Tang learned what he needed to know. Jin Zhao had been unable to reveal anything except that Lev Sokolov had found the proof.

  But what was it?

  Sokolov stood with one arm wrapping his gut, guarding the bandages that Tang knew were there. Tang motioned to the stainless-steel table and the sealed container that rested on top. “That is a sample of oil extracted yesterday from a well in western Gansu. I had it drilled at a spot where the ancients drilled in the time of the First Emperor.” He caught recognition in Sokolov’s face. “Just as Jin Zhao instructed. I assumed you knew. Now tell me what you found. Zhao said you located a marker.”

  Sokolov nodded. “A way to know for sure.”

  Excellent.

  “The world has been aggressively extracting oil from the ground for a little over 200 years,” Sokolov said, his voice in a low monotone. “Biotic oil, fossil fuel, waits not far beneath the surface. It’s easy to get, and we have taken all of it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I’ve tested a sample from every well on the planet. There is a repository in Europe where those are stored. None of those samples contains fossil fuels.”

  “You still haven’t said how you know that to be true.”