The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “It will be done.”

  “One other item. I do not want Sokolov or Ni harmed. If they are, tell that policeman that he will pay a heavy price.”

  “And the other two?”

  “I harbor no protective feelings for them. In fact, if they were to disappear that local commander might find himself rewarded.”

  Malone snapped his seat belt into place as rough air jostled the plane’s descent.

  “We’re going to avoid Kashgar,” Ni said. “I’ve been told that both Tang and the premier flew there. This plane can land much closer to our destination. There is a small airport, about an hour’s drive away from our destination, in Yecheng.”

  Ni held a map of the region and explained how Afghanistan, Pakistan, and India, three volatile neighbors, had long claimed the mountains and valleys as their own. The Himalaya, Karakoum, Hindu Kush, and Pamir ranges all merged here, summits noted as high as twenty thousand feet. And though monasteries were common farther east into Tibet, they were relatively rare this far west.

  “There is only one locale in the vicinity of what was noted on the silk maps,” Ni said to them. “It’s ancient, in the mountains, inhabited by reclusive monks. I’m told that it is a quiet place, and there have never been any reports of unusual activity.”

  “Why would there be?” Malone asked. “The last thing the Ba would want is to attract attention.”

  “Getting there could be a challenge. We will have to consult the locals.”

  “We’ll need weapons,” Cassiopeia said.

  “I brought your guns and spare ammunition.”

  “Lot of trust,” Malone said.

  Ni seemed to catch the underlying message. “I placed a call before we left Xi’an, to a friend at the American embassy. He checked and said you are a man who can be trusted. He said, if you are here, it must be important.”

  “Ever heard of bullshit?”

  Ni smiled. “No, Mr. Malone, I think both you and Ms. Vitt are far more ally than enemy.”

  For the past hour he’d talked with Ni Yong about China, Ni fielding his questions, delivering straight answers.

  “I’m told you could be the next premier,” he’d said.

  “Is that what America wants?”

  “I don’t work for America.”

  Ni grinned. “You’re a bookseller. That’s what my friend at the embassy said. I, too, love books. Unfortunately, China does not feel the same. Did you know that not one book about what happened in Tiananmen Square is allowed in China. All websites and Web pages that even mention the words are filtered. It is as if that event never happened.”

  Malone saw the pain in Ni’s eyes. “Were you there?”

  Ni nodded. “I can still smell the odor, the stench of feces from a million people. Sanitation workers had tried to clear it in the months before, but they never managed to keep pace. When the people finally fled, only their waste remained. A horrible smell.” Ni paused. “Made worse by death.”

  Malone had read about the massacre. Seen the video of the tank columns, trundling down the street, a young man in a white shirt and black pants, shopping bags in each hand, blocking their way. When the tanks swerved around him, he jumped in front. Would they run him over? Would soldiers shoot him? Their duel continued for several tense minutes until he was hustled away.

  He’d told Ni what he recalled.

  “I was there,” Ni said. “I watched that duel. Many had already died. Many more were going to die. The whole time I kept thinking of the street where it was all occurring—Chang’an, Avenue of Eternal Peace. How ironic.”

  Malone agreed.

  “It took two days to truck away the bodies,” Ni said, his voice nearly a whisper. “What the West doesn’t know is that the government would not allow the wounded to be treated by hospitals. They were turned away. How many died because of that cruelty, we will never know.”

  “Sounds like all that stuck with you.”

  “It changed me. Forever.”

  Malone could believe that. The pain he’d seen in Ni’s eyes could not be faked. Perhaps this Chinese leader was different?

  “Who has my boy?” Sokolov asked.

  “Some extremely bad people,” Ni said. “Eunuchs. I thought they no longer existed. And if you had told me this four days ago, I would have said it was impossible. Now I know how wrong I can be.”

  “Do we know anything more about the Hall for the Preservation of Harmony?” Cassiopeia asked.

  “I’m told,” Ni said, “that it’s not open to the public. But that’s not unusual. We have thousands of sites that are restricted. This region is disputed. We control the ground, while Pakistan and India fight over it. So long as the fight stays on the southern side of the mountains, which generally it does, we do not expend much on its defense.”

  Power began to decrease to the engines and they started to lose altitude. Outside was pitch-black.

  “What about the premier?” Malone asked.

  Ni sat in his seat, staring ahead, seemingly in thought.

  The plane continued to descend.

  “He landed in Kashgar several hours ago.”

  Malone heard the skepticism in his voice. “What is it?”

  “I hate being lied to,” Ni said. “Pau and the premier lied to me. I fear I’m being used, by both of them.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Malone said. “So long as you know it.”

  “I still don’t like it.”

  Malone had to say, “You realize Tang may know where we’re headed. There’s no reason for him not to.” He pointed at Sokolov. “He’ll want him back.”

  The Russian bristled at the prospect.

  “There can’t be that many landing strips in this area,” Malone added. “Tang has surely checked.”

  “What do you have in mind?” Ni asked.

  “A little deception of our own.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Malone stared below at Yecheng. The town sat at the southern rim of the Taklamakan Desert, mountains just to its south. Ni had explained that it was home to about twenty thousand, blessed with a convergence of roads and rivers. Centuries ago, this was where caravans to India had started. Today it remained only as a market town, and a small airport had been constructed in the 1970s to accommodate commerce.

  “Looks like the strip is a few miles from town,” he said.

  Not many lights burned, the town virtually blacked out. A lighted highway snaked a path across the flat terrain to a small tower, two oversized hangars, and a runway lit to the night. He wondered what awaited them on the ground, but a preview of what that might be could be seen from headlights speeding their way.

  Two vehicles.

  At this time of night?

  “It appears that we have a welcoming committee,” he said.

  Cassiopeia was close to another of the cabin windows. “I saw them. Coming quick.”

  “Minister Tang is predictable,” Ni said.

  Sokolov remained silent, but the concern on his face could not be concealed.

  “Stay calm,” Malone said to the Russian. “You all know what to do.”

  Ni’s body stiffened. The landing had been smooth, and they were now taxiing toward the tower. The tarmac was dimly lit, but the area around the two hangars and tower was brightly illuminated thanks to rooftop floodlights that cast an oily sheen across the black asphalt. The plane rolled to a stop, the engines still running.

  Cassiopeia opened the rear door and hopped out.

  Ni followed.

  They walked about fifty meters, waiting for two vehicles to roar up to where they stood—one a Range Rover, the other a light-colored van, both bearing the insignia of the police. Ni had seen thousands of similar transports all across China, but never had he been the target of one.

  He steadied himself.

  Now he knew what the subjects of his investigations felt. Never quite sure what was going to happen, on edge, pondering what the other side may or may not know. He quickly concluded that it was de
finitely better being on the outside of the cage looking in.

  The two vehicles screeched to a stop.

  From the Range Rover a short, emaciated man with features far more Tibetan than Han Chinese emerged. He was dressed in an official green uniform and sucked deep drags from a cigarette. The driver stayed in the vehicle. No one exited the van.

  Malone had explained what he had in mind and Ni had agreed—since, after all, there were few options.

  “Minister Ni,” the man said. “I am Liang of the provincial police. We have been instructed to detain you and everyone aboard this plane.”

  He stiffened his back. “Who instructed you?”

  “Beijing.”

  “There are twenty million people in Beijing. Could you narrow that down?”

  Liang seemed not to like the rebuke, but quickly recovered his composure and said, “Minister Tang’s office. The orders were clear.”

  Cassiopeia lingered to his right, watching. They carried weapons, his concealed beneath a jacket, hers shielded by an exposed shirttail.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked the policeman in Mandarin.

  “I am aware of your position.” The last of the cigarette was flicked away.

  “And you still want to detain me?”

  “Is there a Russian aboard the plane? A man named Sokolov?”

  Ni saw that Cassiopeia caught the name, so he said to her in English, “He wants to know if there is a man named Sokolov with us.”

  She shrugged and shook her head.

  He faced Liang. “Not that we are aware of.”

  “I must search that plane. Instruct the pilot to switch off the engines.”

  “As you wish.”

  Ni turned, faced the cockpit, and waved his arms in a crossing fashion, sending a message.

  Nothing happened.

  He turned back. “Would you like me to have the two other men on the plane come off?”

  “That would be excellent. Please.”

  He faced Cassiopeia and said, “Get them.”

  Malone watched what was happening from a hundred feet away. He’d correctly surmised that whoever Tang sent to greet them would expect four people so, when only two left the plane, at some point they would want to see two more.

  And Cassiopeia was returning to get them.

  Ni waited as Cassiopeia trotted to the open cabin door and gestured.

  Two men leaped down, and they all headed toward where he stood with the police chief.

  Liang reached into his pocket and removed a folded sheet.

  He was afraid of this.

  Liang unfolded the page and Ni spotted a black-and-white photo, the face unmistakable.

  Sokolov.

  “Neither of these men is the Russian,” Liang said. “The other man should be American. These men are Chinese.”

  Malone could see that things were not going well.

  After the wheels had touched ground and they were taxiing to the terminal, he and Sokolov had switched places with the pilots, who’d been unwilling to argue with orders from Ni Yong.

  He saw Ni signal with his arms again, apparently wanting him to kill the engines. The police had not been fooled.

  “What are you going to do?” Sokolov asked.

  “Not what they expect.”

  Cassiopeia heard the plane’s motors rev, the propellers spinning faster, the fuselage turning left and inching forward, toward them. The policeman spoke to Ni in an excited voice, and she did not require an interpreter to know what was being said.

  The policeman pointed and Ni casually turned and watched as the plane kept coming, faster now.

  Forty meters.

  The two pilots panicked and ran toward the tower. The policeman let them go, clearly knowing they were not the men he sought.

  The propellers’ wash churned the dry air. It felt good. She’d been wearing the same clothes since yesterday, bathed in Chinese lake water, then dusted with the earth of a 2,200-year-old tomb.

  The plane straightened its path.

  Thirty meters.

  Cotton was making an entrance.

  Grand, as usual.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  Ni was shocked by Malone’s move. The American had told him that if the ruse didn’t work he’d cover their backs, but he had not explained how. He knew little about Cotton Malone besides the bits his staff had located, which indicated he’d been a highly respected American agent, capable and intelligent.

  The twin rotors of the plane were less that twenty meters away.

  “Tell him to stop,” Liang yelled over the roar. “Where is he going?”

  He casually glanced at the policeman. “Apparently here.”

  Lights on the wings and tail strobed the night red and green. He wondered how far Malone intended to go, but he was determined to hold his ground and see if the plane or the policeman yielded first.

  Malone timed his approach, waiting for the right moment before turning the wheel, swinging the fuselage around, using the left wing and propeller as a weapon.

  The policeman reacted, diving to the pavement, as did Ni and Cassiopeia.

  All three disappeared beneath the undercarriage. The two pilots were long gone. The driver of the Range Rover rolled from the car just as the wing swung past, the propeller only a foot or so away.

  Panic reigned, which was the whole idea.

  Except for one problem.

  As the driver emerged and lunged for the tarmac, Malone saw a gun in his hand.

  Cassiopeia rolled, the smell of cooling asphalt filling her nostrils, the propeller’s roar deafening. She’d seen Ni and the policeman flatten themselves to the pavement, as well as the driver of the Range Rover, who’d emerged holding a pistol.

  She found her weapon, straightened, and fired. Her bullet found the car door, which the driver was using for cover.

  Unfortunately, she was exposed.

  No place to hide.

  Ni heard the shot and saw that he and Cassiopeia were vulnerable. No protection from sure retaliation. Except—

  He unholstered his gun and jammed the barrel into Liang’s neck, keeping him pinned to the pavement, one hand on Liang’s spine, the other pressing the gun into the nape of the neck.

  The plane was completing a full circle, the propellers now facing away, the tail swinging left as the nose came back around.

  “Tell your man to stand down,” Ni yelled, applying more pressure with the weapon.

  The driver was taking aim, seemingly unsure of what to do. This situation had grown out of control, more so than the crew of this provincial police department routinely faced.

  Orders were bawled out.

  “Make it clear,” Ni said.

  Another command.

  Cassiopeia lay on the asphalt, her gun aimed at the Range Rover. He caught her gaze for an instant and shook his head. She seemed to understand that he was trying to negotiate a way out.

  “Tell him to toss away the weapon,” Ni said.

  Liang obeyed.

  The driver seemed to not want a fight and complied, standing from the door, hands above his head.

  Malone completed the arc and straightened the plane’s nose, once again facing the two vehicles. He was pleased to see one of the policemen on the ground with Ni’s gun to his neck and the other with his hands in the air, Cassiopeia rising to her feet. Apparently, his diversion had worked.

  But an unease swept through him.

  What about the van?

  There had to be at least a driver inside, yet no reaction had been offered to the unfolding drama.

  The van’s rear doors swung open.

  Four men leaped out, each carrying an assault rifle. They assumed positions on the ground, knees bent, guns aimed—two at the plane, one each at Ni and Cassiopeia.

  “That’s a problem,” he muttered.

  He’d taken a risk, gambling the locals could be either overwhelmed or outsmarted. Apparently, he’d underestimated them.

  The propellers still spun an
d he could charge again, but that would be foolish.

  They would simply obliterate the plane with bullets.

  Ni kept his gun pressed as the reinforcements assumed a firing position.

  “Let me up,” Liang ordered, seeing that the situation had changed.

  But Ni kept the weapon close.

  “You cannot win this battle,” Liang said.

  No, he couldn’t.

  Unsure of how far Tang’s orders stretched, and recalling what had happened in the tomb and the threats after, he withdrew his weapon and stood.

  The plane’s engines died.

  Apparently Malone had realized the same thing.

  They’d lost.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Tang left the helicopter, hopping out into a dark, grassy meadow adjacent to the town of Batang. He knew what surrounded him. Storied peaks, glittering glaciers, forests, and silty rivers fed by cascades that dropped hundreds of meters in perfect watery veils. He’d visited the hamlet many times as a young man, making the trek down from the highlands to retrieve rice, meat, chilies, cabbage, and potatoes—whatever the brotherhood required.

  Dawn was not far away, but daylight came slowly in the highlands. He sucked in the crystalline air and rediscovered the strength he’d once acquired in this solitary land. This was a place without moderation—black nights, brilliant days—the air perilously thin, the sun hot, the shadows stabbing the earth like black ice.

  A hundred meters away Batang slept. Maybe three thousand lived there, and not much had changed. Whitewashed buildings adorned with red ocher and flat roofs. A market town, busy with pilgrims, sheep, yaks, and traders. One of many that dotted the sporadic green carpets among the gray peaks, scattered like dice on the landscape. Cultural connections here ran far more to the south and west than east. Truly a world unto itself, which was why the Ba had long ago chosen this as its home.