The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  Strength or weakness?

  He’d called from the car and ordered his entire staff to assemble in the conference room. He required allies, not traitors, and it was time to find out where each one of them stood.

  Fourteen people waited. Nine men, five women. He calmed the flurry of excitement with a raised hand and immediately excused the women. Then he said to the men, “Drop your trousers.”

  They all stared at him in disbelief.

  He removed his gun and pointed it straight at them. “I won’t say it again.”

  Cassiopeia stared out the window at the mountainous landscape. Sunshine warmed the thin air. They’d been flying inside Chinese airspace for more than an hour with no problems. Glancing over, she was glad she was flying with Malone. Though Viktor Tomas had twice saved her life, she trusted Cotton.

  Implicitly.

  He’d come to Belgium when she needed him, and that meant something.

  She’d allowed only a few men close. Keeping emotions to herself had always proven the best course. She’d read once that women with strong fathers gravitated to strong men, and Malone definitely reminded her of her father. He’d been a giant in business, a self-made billionaire who’d commanded the attention of Europe and Africa. A lot like Henrik Thorvaldsen, whom she’d admired more than she’d ever realized until he was gone. Death seemed to claim everyone she loved. The thought of her own demise, which the experiences in the museum had so vividly illustrated, remained fresh in her mind. Such a confusion of feelings. What a defining moment. Soon enough she’d be forty years old. She had no husband, no children, no one with whom to share herself. She lived alone in an ancient French manor, her life devoted to helping others.

  And ignoring her own needs?

  Maybe it was time to change all that.

  She always looked forward to seeing Cotton, and regretted when they parted. Was she trying to find a replacement for her father, the one man in her life whom she’d never defied? No. That was too simple an explanation. Her mother would have said that men were like fields—they required careful cultivation and daily attention, all in the hope that one day they might prove productive. A somewhat cynical approach.

  Not one that worked for her.

  Here she was, flying across southern China, headed for who-knew-what. Was it worth it? If she found Lev Sokolov’s son, then yes.

  If not?

  She didn’t want to think about failure.

  So she comforted her anxiety with thoughts of Cotton and that perhaps she may have actually found something for herself.

  Something she wanted.

  Finally.

  Ni was satisfied that none of his close staff were traitors. He recalled what Pau Wen had told him about modern pharmaceuticals and their masking effects on castration, so he’d pursued the only investigative course that guaranteed results. He also ordered his chief aide to conduct an immediate physical inspection of every male in the building. While that was occurring, he reviewed what information his staff had accumulated since yesterday.

  There was absolutely no reference to any organization called the Ba in any security files. Those records would have included prisoner interrogations, witness statements, incident reports, news accounts, anything and everything that did not mandate a STATE SECRET stamp. The archives contained millions of documents, many of which had been digitalized, making a reasonably quick search possible. Historically, his staff uncovered much of what Pau Wen had already told him about how the Ba grew out of an ancient Legalist movement, supposedly disappearing around the 17th century.

  Nothing indicated that the organization still existed.

  He’d also ordered a vetting of Pau Wen, but no official record revealed any connections among Pau, the premier, and Karl Tang.

  Yet these clearly existed, by their own admissions.

  A tap on his office door disturbed his thoughts.

  His chief aide entered. “Everyone has been examined. No eunuchs, Minister.”

  “You think I’m insane, don’t you?”

  “I would never presume to judge you.”

  He liked this man, honorable and above reproach, which was why he’d selected him as first assistant.

  “I was unable to tell you before,” his aide said, “while the others were here. But we found something last night.”

  His attention piqued.

  “An overseas call came to Minister Tang’s satellite phone. I ordered his lines monitored weeks ago. He utilizes several phones, with numbers that change weekly. It has been a challenge to stay ahead of him. We don’t tap every conversation, but we find enough.” His aide handed him a flash drive. “A recording.”

  Ni inserted the drive into his computer and listened, immediately recognizing the voices of Tang and Pau. He heard the tension and conflict. Sensed the challenge these two men presented to the other. Tang’s betrayal, then his pronouncement to Pau, There is no legal way for you to reenter China. No visa will be issued. On that, I have absolute control. The few brothers you have at your disposal there will be barred from returning, too.

  “Is this the proof we seek?” his aide said.

  He shook his head. “Not enough.”

  But at least he knew the whole thing wasn’t fiction.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Malone spied the green expanse of a highland lake, its surface shining with ripples and dotted with junks.

  Lake Dian.

  Mountains bordered the west shore, the lush slopes sheathed in trees, the eastern side mostly plains of ocher-colored farmland. Smoke belched from chimneys in a fishing hamlet a few miles away.

  He dropped the plane’s altitude to 500 feet.

  Cassiopeia released her harness and moved forward, gazing down through the forward windows. He’d noticed on the chart that the mountains to the west were called Xi Shan. Carved into the cliff faces he spotted paths and stairways linking a succession of temples, their towering pagodas, with curved tile roofs and painted eaves, reminding him of Tivoli and home.

  “The undulating contours of the hills,” Pau Wen said, “resemble a reclining woman with tresses of hair flowing to the water. So they are called Sleeping Beauty.”

  He noticed that the label seemed apt.

  “The temples are from the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. There, where the chairlift stretches to the summit, in the 18th century a Daoist monk chipped a long corridor up the face of the mountain. Legend says the tip of his chisel broke as he neared the end. In despair, he threw himself into the lake. Fifty years later his followers reached the goal, which is now called Dragon Gate.”

  “Sounds like something for the tourists,” Cassiopeia said.

  “Actually, the tale is reasonably close to the truth.”

  Ivan had said that the lake stretched forty kilometers north to south, and Malone could believe that claim seeing nothing but water toward the horizon.

  “Let’s see what’s down there before we land.”

  He eased the yoke forward and reduced airspeed.

  The flight northward across Yunnan province had been quiet, the skies clear of traffic. He’d grown accustomed to the smooth journey but, suddenly, the Twin Bee’s wings skipped air.

  Engines sputtered, then quickly refired.

  Projectiles pierced the hull and rocketed through the cabin.

  Air rushed in through holes.

  The right wing sheared further from more impacts and the ailerons went loose. The plane arched left as the starboard side failed to respond to commands.

  “What was that?” Cassiopeia said.

  The answer came as a jet roared passed overhead, its afterburners flaming in the late-morning sky.

  “Cannon fire,” he said.

  The fighter’s delta-winged triangle disappeared in the distance, but a vapor trail indicated a turn for another approach.

  “That’s a People’s Liberation Army fighter,” he said. “And it ain’t here by accident. The Chinese knew we were coming.”

  He worked the rudder and u
sed airspeed to regain some semblance of control. He’d been annoyed the entire flight by the lack of synchronization in the two engines. Pitch was a pilot’s best warning, but the Twin Bee’s engines screamed at each other like an arguing soprano and baritone.

  “What can I do?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “Tell me where that jet is.”

  “He’s coming straight toward us, from behind,” Pau calmly reported.

  They were plowing through thick air, only a few hundred feet above the lake. He added altitude and rose to 1,000 feet. The Twin Bee was little match for modern avionics, cannons, and radar-guided missiles.

  There was, though, one weapon they did possess.

  “How far away?”

  “Hard to say,” she said. “Several miles.”

  He’d been around enough fighter pilots to know how they thought, no matter the nationality. Hell, he’d wanted to be one himself. This was easy prey, a hawk challenging a pigeon. The pilot would wait until he was close before firing.

  He checked his airspeed.

  A little under 110 kilometers.

  He recalled what his instructor had taught him.

  Nobody ever collided with the sky. Altitude is your friend.

  “He’ll be here in a few seconds,” Cassiopeia said.

  He hoped the Twin Bee could handle what he was about to do. The starboard control surfaces were damaged, but the port side and tail rudder seemed okay. Most important, the engines were working. He waited another two seconds, then slammed the throttle wide open and pulled back on the yoke. The amphibian rose in a steep climb, prying upward with a groan from her hull. Tracer rounds rocketed past as their altitude increased.

  2,000 feet.

  2,500.

  3,000.

  The fighter shot passed beneath them, its turbofans leaving a trail of black smoke. Fighters were not low-altitude machines. They worked best in the stratosphere, not near the ground where fuel and computers could be tapped to the max.

  He topped off at 3,300 feet.

  “My stomach is in my throat,” Cassiopeia said.

  “I had to do something he wouldn’t expect.”

  “That certainly qualified.”

  He knew small planes were not her favorite mode of transportation, recalling a rough helicopter ride in Central Asia, when Viktor had been at the controls.

  He focused through the windshield. The Annihilator loomed in the distance. He realized the fighter could easily shoot them down with air-to-air missiles. Another navy lesson flashed through his mind.

  Learn from other people’s mistakes.

  “We’re going in,” he said.

  He lowered speed and cranked the elevators. The outside air was capricious and inconsistent, which only aggravated the situation. He dropped the left wing and slipped into a slow bank. After a sharp turn he angled the nose and leveled off at 800 feet above the lake.

  “You see the jet?” he asked.

  Cassiopeia’s head spun in every direction. “No. But that doesn’t mean anything. He could still have us in his sights.”

  A fact he realized. He struggled to keep the wing level as the port side control surfaces ignored his commands.

  “Apparently this was a trap,” Pau Wen said.

  “Brilliant observation.”

  He threw Cassiopeia a glance that she seemed to understand. Viktor. How else would they have known? China was a big place, yet here they were, waiting, over Lake Dian, exactly where Ivan had sent them.

  Treetops grew in size as he glided toward the lake. Luckily, the nearest junk floated a mile or so away.

  A rush of wind shoved them to the right.

  He held the nose high.

  He’d never landed on water and could already tell depth perception was going to be different. He would have to judge the distance correctly and make sure speed was perfect when the plane’s bottom kissed the surface. The last thing he needed was to porpoise across the lake. He was also worried about stalling. Luckily, no crosswind blew, or at least none he could see on the treetops. He decided to make it easy and switched off the engines just as the last of the trees raced beneath and nothing but water loomed ahead.

  Like he’d been told, Gravity never loses.

  “I’m glad there’s lots of room,” she said.

  He was, too. Plenty to glide to a stop. He eased down the yoke and pitched the nose up so the tail touched first. One thought flashed through his mind. The floats on the underside of each wing needed to stay on top of the water, as both could quickly become anchors.

  The Twin Bee bounced twice, then hydroplaned. The rudder fishtailed and the plane came to a rest about two hundred yards from shore.

  He popped open the door.

  Cassiopeia did the same on her side.

  The Twin Bee bobbed in the agitated water, its fuselage riddled with bullet holes. Malone studied the sky. The fighter was nowhere to be seen. Off to the south, a flash appeared. An instant later a vapor trail snaked a path across the morning sky.

  He knew instantly what was happening.

  Air-to-ground missile, its fire-and-forget active radar zeroing in on them.

  “In the lake. Now. Go deep,” he yelled.

  He waited an instant to make sure that both Cassiopeia and Pau made it into the peaty-green water, then leaped in. He ignored the chill and powered himself toward the bottom, pawing with cupped hands.

  Another disturbing thought swept through his brain. Pollution. Most likely this water was not safe.

  A few seconds later an explosion rocked the surface as the Twin Bee was obliterated by the missile. He arched his body and kicked for the surface. His head found air and he opened his eyes to see nothing left of the amphibian except burning wreckage.

  A second later Cassiopeia and Pau broke the surface.

  “You okay?” he called out.

  Both nodded.

  “We need to get to shore.”

  He waded around the smoldering debris, toward them. He cocked his head toward the south. A black dot began to grow in size.

  The Annihilator was returning.

  “Float in the water, facedown. Play dead,” he said, “and don’t move until he’s gone.”

  He quickly assumed the same position and hoped the trick worked. He’d wondered why the fighter had not simply shot them down. It would have been easy, especially in the beginning when its presence was unknown. But the idea had surely been to allow the lake to swallow the evidence.

  He extended his arms and allowed his body to float, hoping the pilot did not ensure the kill with a strafe of cannon fire.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  LANZHOU

  Tang left the laboratory, satisfied that the problem of Lev Sokolov had been resolved. He’d instructed the men he’d left to guard the facility that any attempt to escape should be met with deadly force. He now knew enough to know how to begin—with or without Sokolov. The Russian merely offered a more convenient way to confirm the discovery, not the only means.

  And its implications were enormous.

  China craved more than 300,000,000 tons of crude a year. Its industrial output—which meant its entire economy—was based on oil. Sixty % was currently imported from Africa, Latin America, and Russia, as a way not to be vulnerable to volatile Middle East politics and not be within America’s sphere of influence. Why else, except to monopolize the Middle East oil supply, had America occupied Iraq? No reason he could conceive, and his foreign affairs experts said the same. Those same experts had repeatedly warned that the United States could easily wield Middle Eastern oil as a weapon. Just a minor disruption in supply could send China into a free fall, one that the government would be impotent to halt. He was tired of dealing with rogue nations rich in oil. Just a few weeks back, billions of yuan had been loaned to another African nation that would never repay—all to ensure that China was first on its oil export list. The present regime’s foreign policy—a dizzying blend of appeasement, contradiction, dismissal, and defense—had long bartered away ba
llistic missiles, nuclear resources, and precious technology just to ensure that oil kept flowing inward.

  That demeaned China, and exposed a weakness.

  But all that could change if the thousands of wells that now dotted China could provide perpetual energy. He could not reveal the how, but he could exploit the what by keeping the oil flowing and eliminating the tankers that flooded into Chinese ports every day loaded with foreign crude. Results bred success, and success bred pride. Properly packaged and distributed, its effects could certainly bolster any political regime.

  According to the fossil fuel theory, he knew China possessed a mere 2.1% of the world’s oil reserves. The United States 2.7%. Russia 7%. The Middle East, 65%. Nothing can be done about Arab dominance, one of his vice ministers had recently warned. He disagreed. It all depended on what you knew.

  His phone rang.

  He stopped walking toward the waiting car and answered.

  “The target is on the lake,” Viktor Tomas said.

  The idea had been to attack Pau Wen’s plane with minimal attention. Radio traffic, monitored by countless governmental agencies, including officials in Yunnan province, would verify that an unidentified aircraft had been intercepted by an army fighter. Protocol required that the intruder be brought to the ground.

  “Survivors?” he asked.

  “Three. In the water. The fighter is making its final pass. He’ll use cannons to make sure they will not be swimming to shore.”

  “You know what to do.”

  Malone lay prone, the water splashing in and out of his ears making it difficult to hear. He was hoping three floating bodies would satisfy the pilot’s curiosity. He risked only a slight angle of his head and determined that the fighter was still south, its afterburners growing in intensity.

  Then a new sound invaded. From the east.

  The steady thump of whirling blades biting through air.

  He rolled over and shook the water from his face.

  A helicopter roared in over the treetops. Bulkier than a swift-attack chopper, more an armed transport. The craft assumed a position over the lake, facing south. Cassiopeia and Pau both apparently sensed a change and started treading water, watching, too.