The Cotton Malone Series 7-Book Bundle

by Steve Berry

  “Go,” Viktor yelled. “Get up there. I’ll go after her.”

  Like hell, he thought.

  He found his gun.

  Viktor tossed the bridge back over the edge. The rope found the water, its end dipped into the churning river. His enemy stared across, as if to say, Are you going to shoot me or let me try to find her?

  The helicopter was swooping around for another pass.

  Malone leveled the gun.

  Cannon fire roared through the gorge. A deadly hail of heavy-caliber rounds pinged off stone just yards away, approaching in an ever-widening storm.

  He dove for cover as the chopper zipped past.

  “Get up there,” Viktor yelled. “Ni and Sokolov need you.”

  And Viktor started climbing down.

  What he wouldn’t give for some rope of his own. He wanted to kill Viktor Tomas, but the bastard was right.

  Ni Yong and Sokolov.

  Find them.

  Tang entered the windowless chamber, its space divided into four rooms. Pau Wen had stepped inside first, followed by Ni Yong. Two brothers waited outside, each carrying a crossbow.

  Soft lights illuminated rose-red walls, the ceiling a deep blue and dotted with golden stars. The center chamber was dominated by a bronze plinth upon which lay a jade burial suit.

  He was stunned by the sight, and now understood why the First Emperor’s tomb had been bare.

  “I rescued Qin Shi,” Pau said. “Unfortunately, the jade altar upon which he lay was too large to transport. It obviously had been constructed within the mound. But this I could retrieve.” Pau pointed to the artifact. “The head and face masks, jacket, sleeves, gloves, pants, and foot coverings were tailored for the occupant. Which meant Qin Shi was no more than a hundred seventy-five centimeters tall and quite thin. So different from the image of a towering, portly man history has created.” Pau hesitated, as if to allow his words to sink in. “Two thousand and seven pieces of jade, sewn together with golden thread.”

  “You counted them?” Ni asked.

  “This is the most important archaeological find in all Chinese history. The body of our First Emperor, encased in jade. It deserves careful study. We estimate about a kilogram of golden thread was utilized to bind the stone. This suit would have taken artisans about a decade to produce.”

  Tang wanted to know, “You plundered the entire site?”

  “Every object. Here it all rests, in safety, inside a makeshift dixia gongdian. Not quite a traditional underground palace, but sufficient.”

  The remaining three chambers brimmed with funerary objects. Bronze sculptures, copper vessels, lacquered wood, and bamboo ware. Objects of gold, silver, and jade. Musical instruments, pottery, and porcelain. Swords, spearheads, and arrows.

  “Two thousand one hundred and sixty-five items,” Pau said. “Even the bones of the builders and the concubines. I made a complete photographic record of the tomb. The exact location of everything is precisely documented.”

  “How gracious of you,” Ni said. “I’m sure historians will one day appreciate your diligence.”

  “Does sarcasm make you feel superior?”

  “What am I supposed to be? Impressed? You are a liar and a thief, just like I said the first time we met. Along with being a murderer.”

  “Do you realize what Mao would have done with this?” Pau asked, motioning to the jade suit. “And the incompetents who ruled after him. None of it would have survived.”

  “The terra-cotta warriors have,” Ni said.

  “True. But for how long? The site is deteriorating by the day. And what is being done? Nothing. The communists care nothing for our past.”

  “And you do?”

  “Minister, my methods may have been unconventional, but the results are clear.”

  Ni stepped close to the plinth.

  Tang kept back, himself drawn to the surreal image—like a robot lying there, stiff, unbending. But he was growing impatient. He wanted to know why Pau had killed the four men in Belgium and allowed Ni to survive. Why had the master lied to him about the oil lamps in Qin Shi’s tomb?

  “Did you open the suit?” Ni asked.

  Pau shook his head. “That did not seem right. Qin deserves our respect, even in death.”

  “How many hundreds of thousands died so he could rule?” Ni asked.

  “That was necessary in his time,” Pau said.

  “And it still is,” Tang felt compelled to add.

  “No,” Ni said. “Fear and oppression are no longer viable mechanisms. Surely, you can see that we have progressed beyond that. Two-thirds of the world practices democracy, yet we cannot embrace even a few of its qualities?”

  “Not while I am in charge,” Tang declared.

  Ni shook his head. “You will find, as our communist forefathers learned, that force is only a short-term solution. For a government to survive, it must have the willing support of the people.” Ni’s face tightened. “Has either of you ever visited the petition office in Beijing?”

  “Never,” Tang said.

  “Every day hundreds of people from all over the country are there, waiting in line, to register complaints. Nearly all of them have been victimized. Their son was beaten by a local official. Their land was taken by a developer, with the local government’s help. Their child was stolen.”

  Ni hesitated, and Tang knew he was allowing that charge to hang in the air.

  “They are angry at local officials and are convinced that if only someone in the capital hears their case, then their wrongs will be addressed. You and I know they are sadly mistaken. Nothing will ever be done. But those people understand basic democracy. They want the ability to address their government directly. How long do you think we can continue to ignore them?”

  Tang knew the answer.

  “Forever.”

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Cassiopeia hit the water hard and was swept forward with a rush from an overwhelming current, her body tossed about as if in a tornado. The water was cold, but that was the least of her problems. Breathing was her main concern and she managed to thrust her way to the surface, grabbing a quick breath through the foam before the water assaulted her again.

  She had to stop moving forward. Eventually she would be propelled into rocks, breaking a bone, smashing her skull, if not killing her. Her ears were filled with a deep rumble and the swirl of a trillion bubbles. She’d yet to touch bottom.

  She snagged another breath and caught sight of what lay ahead.

  Boulders. Big ones. Their soaked profiles protruding from the surge.

  She’d have to risk it.

  In a wild scramble, she pawed at the water and tried to steer her course. Her body was tossed with no regard, the water oblivious to everything but gravity. A cloud of brown foam boiled against her face. She kept her arms extended, leading the way, feeling until her hands slammed into something hard.

  But she did not bounce off.

  Instead, she held tight.

  Her head emerged.

  Water thundered past her shoulders, but at least she wasn’t moving. She sucked several deep breaths, shook the blur from her eyes, and finally realized she was freezing.

  Malone followed a trail lined with chorten and prayer walls. A sudden breeze brought the chilling breath of nearby glaciers. He trembled from both the brisk air and a nearly overwhelming intensity, fists closed tight, eyes moist with emotion.

  How many more friends did he have to lose?

  Gray rabbits scurried across the path, then dove into crevices. He could still hear the water tumbling behind him. The helicopter was gone. Viktor was presumably at the bottom of the gorge, doing whatever he thought he could do.

  Damn that son of a bitch.

  He hadn’t felt such rage since Gary was taken last year. He’d killed his son’s abductor without the slightest remorse. And he’d do the same to Viktor.

  Right now he had to focus. Protecting Sokolov was the key. Helping Ni Yong, imperative. Obviously, Stephanie
had considered both of those objectives important. Why else would she have used both him and Cassiopeia, and enlisted Viktor’s help. He’d wondered in Copenhagen why Stephanie had not been overly concerned about Cassiopeia’s predicament. And how she knew so much about abiotic and biotic oil.

  Now he knew.

  She had Viktor on the scene, supposedly looking after her. But had he been?

  Stephanie, too, would have to face a few consequences when this was over.

  He spotted a stone altar lit by two lamps and approached with caution. The trail ahead veered right and a sheer wall blocked what lay past the turn. Light splintered off the towering gray rock in shimmers and sparkles. He lived in fear of emotions, denying their existence, burying them under an avalanche of responsibilities. Yet in truth, he was utterly dependent upon them—a fact he’d never realized until far too late.

  He’d miss Cassiopeia Vitt more than he ever imagined.

  He’d loved her—yes, he had—but could never bring himself to utter the words.

  Why the hell not?

  A gong sounded in the distance.

  Deep tones faded, and a great, empty, reverberating silence engulfed him.

  Ni was determined that he was not going to show weakness. He would face these fanatics down to the end.

  “The Soviets maintained,” he said, “that they could force the people to serve them. Even you, Pau, in Belgium pointed out that mistake.”

  “The Soviets did indeed make many errors. We must avoid those.”

  “But I will not allow China to lose its way,” Tang declared. “The West tries every day to promote its values and ideologies here, believing that we can be destabilized by some sort of marketing campaign. By democracy.”

  “You have no idea the dangers we face,” Ni said. “We are not the China of Qin Shi’s day.”

  “We are still Chinese,” Tang said. “Toppling our government, whether from outside or within, will be far more difficult than it was in the Soviet Union.”

  Ni watched both Tang and Pau Wen. Men so deceitful were no different from the despots who’d come before them. China did indeed seem doomed to repeat one mistake after another.

  He stepped away from the plinth and stared into the three other chambers, not as large as their underground counterparts in Xi’an, but roomy, each filled with grave goods.

  Pau approached. “A few of the bronze vessels are filled with liquid. I broke the seal on one and savored an ambrosial aroma. The liquid inside tested for alcohol, sugar, fat—a buttered rum, from over two thousand years ago.”

  Any other time he’d be impressed, but at the moment he was trying to determine how to avoid dying in a helicopter crash.

  “Those bronze lamps,” Tang said. “There. Are they the same?”

  Ni had already noticed them. Arranged around the walls on pedestals, on shelves, and on the floor. A dragon’s head on a tiger’s body, with the wings of a phoenix. Maybe a hundred of them. Just like the one he’d retrieved at the museum.

  “They are the same as the one in Antwerp,” Pau said. “Each is filled with oil extracted from the ground in Gansu over two millennia ago. I kept one, as a keepsake, and took it with me to Belgium.”

  “I need that oil sample,” Tang said.

  “I’m afraid the emperor’s tomb is no longer pristine,” Ni said.

  Malone and Vitt had told him what happened after he fled. About the fire and the smoke. He told Pau.

  “Hopefully,” Pau said, “the damage was minimal. The mineral oil I left to shield the mercury would have caused no real damage. The mercury, though, is another matter. Its vapors will take time to flush away.”

  “It matters not,” Tang said.

  “Unlike you,” Ni said to Pau, “he seems to care little for the past.”

  “A fault he will remedy. We shall discuss the matter.”

  “There are many things we need to discuss,” Tang made clear. “Things you seem to have neglected to mention.”

  Pau faced Tang. “Like why I killed the men you sent to my home?”

  “That’s one.”

  “We will talk. But know that I explain myself to no one.” Tang clearly did not appreciate the rebuke. “This more of the show?” Ni asked. “You two fighting.”

  “No, Minister,” Pau said. “This disagreement is real.”

  Cassiopeia’s grip was weakening, the freezing current lancing her joints with pain. For the third time in two days death seemed close. She doubted she would survive the ride downstream and, surely, at some point there’d be a waterfall to the valleys below. A cloud of brown foam engulfed her face and she shut her eyes to the onslaught.

  Something firm gripped her right arm, from above, yanking her grip free from the rock.

  She opened her eyes to see Viktor staring down at her. He was balancing atop a boulder, right hand locked on her arm. She reached out with her left hand and her body spun as she was lifted from the water.

  He’d saved her life.

  Again.

  “Thought you weren’t going to do that anymore,” she said, catching her breath.

  “It was either that or be shot by Malone.”

  A chill swept through her, one she could not control. Viktor knelt close, both of them atop the rocks, and removed his jacket. He wrapped its thick fleece around her chest and held her close.

  She did not resist.

  She couldn’t.

  The chills came uncontrollably.

  Her teeth chattered and she fought to calm her nerves.

  Viktor continued to hold her tight. “I tried to divert the soldiers until you and Malone were beyond the bridge, but I didn’t know about the chopper. It came quick, apparently knowing you’d have to negotiate the bridge. Tang planned well.”

  “Where’s Cotton?” she managed to ask, hoping the cannon fire had not found him.

  “I told him to go. That was after he decided not to shoot me. The chopper wanted to take me out, too, but couldn’t get a shot down here. So it left.”

  She stared up into his eyes and saw both concern and anger. “How’d you find me?”

  “When I saw you hanging on, that bought me enough time. I actually expected to find a few broken bones.”

  “You and me both.”

  She was steadying herself, the shakes fading. Glancing back she saw the risk he’d taken, step by step, fumbling across the exposed boulders. One slip and he’d have been swept away.

  “Thank you, Viktor.”

  “I couldn’t let you drown.”

  She freed herself of his embrace and stood, but kept the jacket close. Water poured from her clothes. Her hands were blue from the cold. Direct sunlight could not, at this early hour, find its way down the perpendicular walls that towered above her. But she knew there was warmth, higher up. “We have to get to that hall.”

  He pointed to the far bank. “There’s a trail that leads back up. Malone should be at the monastery by now.”

  “You and he can make your peace, when this is over.”

  “I doubt that will happen.”

  “He can be reasonable.”

  “Not when it comes to you,” he said.

  “And what about you?”

  He pointed out the safest path across the rocks to the bank. “It’s a good twenty minutes to the top. We need to hurry.”

  She grabbed his arm. “I asked you a question.”

  “Malone was right back in town,” he said. “I murdered that pilot for no reason other than to gain your trust.” He paused. “Like Malone says all the time, I’m a random asset. Another term for nobody. What about me, you asked? Who the hell cares.”

  “Stephanie does. She sent you to get Sokolov.”

  “And Ivan sent me to kill Tang. Yet here I am, saving your life. Again.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she released her grip.

  And he leaped to the next rock.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Malone approached the monastery with caution. He’d rounded the bend in the
trail and immediately studied the great pile of crenellated walls, all a purplish red, that formed a solid rampart, its parapets broken only by a single gate.

  He stopped at the entrance, tiled in a golden yellow. Above the massive red-lacquered doors hung a tablet with symbols.

  He’d seen it on both the silk map at Pau Wen’s residence and on the map the Chinese premier displayed.

  Afang.

  The name of Qin Shi’s palace. And also the symbol of the Hall for the Preservation of Harmony.

  The gates were open, seemingly inviting him inside, so he stepped onto a six-person-wide, stone-paved avenue. Three more elaborate gates gave way to a courtyard surrounded by multistoried buildings and colonnaded porches. Ornamental trees, shrubs, flowers, and the trickle of water through a man-made stream created a feeling of peace.

  But he realized this place was anything but untroubled.

  A figure of a deity with multiple arms and several faces rose before him. At the far end, up three narrow terraces, past a veranda, a set of doors hung open, guarded by ivory tusks, the space beyond well lit.

  He still hadn’t seen anyone.

  He kept the gun at his side, finger on the trigger, fighting violent heartbeats and a faint feeling from the thin air. Then he heard a sound. Laughter.

  A child.

  Speaking in Russian.

  He scanned the courtyard and identified the source. To his right, one floor up, through an open window. Sokolov and his son? He had to find out.

  Cassiopeia climbed the trail, zigzagging upward, toward where she and Cotton would have arrived if their river crossing had not been interrupted. Trees provided handholds, their gnarly roots gripping the earth with rigid tentacles.

  The exertion restored her body. Viktor led the way but occasionally glanced back, keeping watch on her. He’d held her tight on the river. Too tight. She’d sensed his emotions, knew that he cared, but like herself and Cotton, he kept far more inside than he ever allowed out. The murder of that Chinese pilot seemed to bother him. Unusual. Men like Viktor rarely analyzed their actions or expressed regret. A job was a job, ethics be damned. At least that was the way Viktor had always treated things. She believed him on Sokolov. Stephanie would want the Russian alive. Ivan, though, was another matter. He would want Sokolov silent.