The Emperor's Tomb (9 page)

Ivan chuckled. "I like you, Malone. But you do not like me. Lots of negativity."

"Those two back on the street aren't feeling much positivity."

"No worry about them. Killing rids world of two problems."

"Lucky for all of us you were here, on the job."

"Malone, this problem we have is serious."

He lunged forward, grabbed Ivan by his lapels and slammed him into the bricks behind them. He brought his face inches away. "I'd say that was true. Where the hell is Cassiopeia?"

He knew the backups were most likely reacting. He was prepared to whirl around and deal with them both. Of course, that was assuming they didn't decide to shoot first.

"We need this anger," Ivan quietly said, his breath stale.

"Who is we?"

"Me, Cotton."

The words came from his right. A new voice. Female. Familiar.

He should have known.

He released his grip and turned.

Ten feet away stood Stephanie Nelle.

CASSIOPEIA COCKED THE GUN'S HAMMER AND AIMED THE weapon straight at Viktor Tomas. "You sorry, no-good mother--"

"Don't say things you'll regret."

The room seemed some sort of gathering place, as there was one chair that held Viktor, three empty chairs, and a few tables and lamps. Windows opened to the front of the house through which she saw the Toyota.

"You tortured me."

He shrugged. "Would you rather it not have been me? I made sure the experience was at least bearable."

She fired into the base of the upholstered chair, aiming for a point between his legs. "Is that what you call it? Bearable?"

He never flinched, his eyes owlish and inexpressive. "Got that out of your system?"

The last time she'd seen this man was a year ago. He'd been serving a Central Asian dictator. Apparently, he'd found new employment.

"Who are you working for?"

He stood from the chair. "Chinese first vice premier Karl Tang."

A renewed burst of anger surged through her. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you dead."

"How about that I know where Lev Sokolov's son is being held."

Chapter
Twelve.

NI WAS ASTONISHED. "YOU AND THE PREMIER HAVE SPOKEN about me?"

Pau nodded. "Many times. We also talk of the nation."

"And why would he talk to you about that?"

"A long time ago, he and I shared much together. He is not the impotent imbecile many think him to be."

Ni knew that most of the Central Committee no longer cared what the premier thought. He was nearing eighty, sickly, and held the position simply because no one had, as yet, emerged with enough support to seize control.

Pau was right.

A division existed within the Chinese Communist Party. Similar to when Mao lay dying in 1976, and Mao's wife and three others formed the infamous Gang of Four. The then-premier and Deng Xiaoping allied to oppose the gang, ultimately winning political control in another ideological battle--Legalism versus Confucianism--the conflict settled outside the public eye, within the Party hierarchy, just as the current conflict would be.

"What is it the premier is working for?"

"Trying to determine what is best for China."

That told him nothing.

"Minister, you may think you enjoy widespread political support, and perhaps you do. But that support would evaporate in an instant if the Ba were to seize control. They have always been Legalists. Their every act geared to oppressive, single-minded domination. They would have no tolerance for you."

"What could I have to fear from a group of eunuchs?"

Pau motioned at the open doorway across the courtyard that led back into the exhibit hall. "I have many great manuscripts from our past stored there. Fascinating texts, but there is no Magna Carta. No great forums or halls of independence. Minister, despotism is our inheritance. Chinese history is dominated by warlords, emperors, and communists. Legalists, one and all."

"As if I do not know that. You worked for them once."

"Tell me, what makes you think your future will be any different? What would you have for China? If given the premiership, what would you do?"

Privately, he'd considered that question many times. The nation teetered literally on the brink of collapse. The current national system was simply incapable of generating enough wealth and technology to both compete with the world and effectively contain a billion and a half people. Following Mao's beliefs, concentrating all economic resources in the hands of the state, had failed. But so had Deng's subsequent policies of encouraging unregulated foreign investment.

That had led to exploitation.

Governing China seemed like flying a kite on a windless day. You could adjust the tail, change the design, run faster, but without a breeze to sweep the thing skyward nothing would happen. For decades Chinese leaders had ignored that there was simply no breeze. Instead they tinkered and tinkered, trying to force the kite upward, always failing.

"I want to change everything," he quietly said, surprised he'd voiced the words.

But Pau had finally coaxed them from him.

How did this old man know so much about him?

"Minister, there once was a time when the superiority of Chinese life, with its advanced agriculture, written language, and highly developed arts, was so attractive that those we conquered, or those who conquered us, willingly sought assimilation. They came to admire us, and wanted to be part of our society. That desire was complemented by an application of humane Confucian ritual--which stressed harmony, hierarchy, and discipline. There are countless ancient texts that reference peoples who, centuries ago, ceased to exist as separate ethnic groups, so complete was their assimilation. What happened? What changed us into something to be avoided?"

"We destroyed ourselves," he said.

China had indeed gone through successive cycles of unification and fragmentation--and each time something was lost. Something irretrievable. A part of the collective conscience. A part of China.

"Now you understand why I left," Pau quietly said.

No, he actually still didn't.

"Our dynasties have fallen with an almost eerie predictability," Pau said. "Often early leaders are masterful, while later ones are feeble, unmotivated, or mere puppets. Inevitably, corruption combines power and money, without the benefit of the law to prevent abuse. An absence of clear rules on political succession generates chaos. Rebellions eventually ferment, as the military weakens. The government then isolates itself and weakens. The end is never in doubt." Pau went silent a moment. "That has been the fate of every Chinese dynasty for 6,000 years. Now it's the communists' turn."

He could not argue with that conclusion. He recalled a trip to the south a few months ago during another investigation. A local official, an old friend, had driven him from the airport. Along the way they'd passed billboards advertising new apartments with swimming pools, gardens, and modern kitchens.

"The people are tired of Cultural Revolutions and wars," his friend had said. "They like material things."

"And you?" he'd asked.

"I like them, too. I want a comfortable life."

That comment had stuck with him. It spoke volumes about China's current state, where the government merely mended or patched problems, making do. Mao had preached a pride in poverty. Trouble was, nobody believed that anymore.

Pau bent down and, in the garden sand, sketched two characters.

Ni knew what they meant. "Revolution."

Pau stood. "More accurately, 'withdrawal of the mandate.' Every Chinese dynasty justified its rise with that phrase. When the Qing dynasty fell in 1912, and the last emperor was forcibly removed, this was how we referred to that historic event. In 1949 Mao stole Chiang Kaishek's mandate to build a post-Qing republic. It is time for another withdrawal of the mandate. The question is who will lead that effort."

He stared at the older man, his head spinning with suspicions. The investigator within him had retreated. Now he was thinking like the politician--the leader--he wanted to be.

"Communism has outlived its historical role," Pau said. "Unchecked economic growth and raw nationalism can no longer support it. There simply is nothing connecting the current Chinese form of government to its people. The demise of the Soviets proved that flaw clearly. Now it's happening again. Unemployment within China is out of control. Hundreds of millions are affected. Beijing's condescension, like Moscow's decades ago, is inexcusable. Minister, you must realize that the same nationalism that comforts the Party today could well hurl China into fascism tomorrow."

"Why do you think I am fighting for power?" he spit out. "Do you think I want that? Do you think the people who support me want that?"

"But you have discovered a problem, haven't you?"

How did this sage, whom he'd met only today, know all that troubled him?

"Moscow's collapse frightens you," Pau said. "How could it not? But we are different. We are better suited to living with contradictions. Our rulers have long proclaimed themselves Confucians, then ruled as Legalists, yet no one ever questioned that dichotomy. And unlike Russians, most Chinese do not lack for the necessities of life, or a few gadgets in their home. Our Party is not ignorant. Even with all of our flaws, we will not commit political suicide. So your dilemma is clear. How do you persuade a billion and a half people to discard the norm and follow you to the unknown?"

He waited for the answer to that question.

"Pride, Minister. Such a simple thing. But appealing to that could well be your answer."

Chapter
Thirteen.

MALONE SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CAFE NORDEN, NESTLED close to an open second-story window. Outside, Hojbro Plads vibrated with people. Stephanie Nelle and Ivan had also found chairs. Ivan's two minders were downstairs, at one of the exterior tables.

"The tomato bisque soup is great here," he told them both.

Ivan rubbed his belly. "Tomatoes give me the gas."

"Then by all means, let's avoid that," Stephanie said.

Malone had known Stephanie a long time, having worked as one of her original twelve agents at the Magellan Billet. She'd created the Justice Department unit, personally recruiting twelve men and women, each bringing to the table a special skill. Malone's had been a career in the navy, where he rose to commander, capable of flying planes and handling himself in dangerous situations. His law degree from Georgetown, and ability in a courtroom, only added to his resume. Stephanie's presence here, on this beautiful day in Denmark, signaled nothing but trouble. Her association with Ivan compounded the situation. He knew her attitude on working with the Russians.

Only when necessary.

And he agreed.

The cafe tables were crowded, people drifting up and down from a corner staircase, many toting shopping bags. He wondered why they were talking in public, but figured Stephanie knew what she was doing.

"What's going on here?" he asked his former boss.

"I learned of Cassiopeia's involvement with Lev Sokolov a few days ago. I learned about the Russian's interest, too."

He was still pissed about the two murders. "You killed those two I was after so we'd have no choice but to deal with you," he said to Ivan. "Couldn't let me learn anything from them, right?"

"They are bad people. Bad, bad people. They deserve what they get."

"I didn't know that would happen," Stephanie said to him. "But I shouldn't be surprised."

"You two acquainted?" he asked her.

"Ivan and I have dealt with each other before."

"I not ask you to help," Ivan said. "This not involve America."

But he realized Stephanie had interjected herself into their business practicing the old adage Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

"Cotton," she said. "Cassiopeia has involved herself in something that is much bigger than she suspects. China is in the midst of an internal power struggle. Karl Tang, the first vice premier, and Ni Yong, the head of the Communist Party's anti-corruption department, are about to square off for control. We've been watching this battle, which is rapidly escalating into a war. Like I said, I became aware of Cassiopeia's entrance a few days ago. When we dug further, we found Ivan was also interested--"

"So you hopped on a plane and flew to Denmark."

"That's my job, Cotton."

"This isn't my job. Not anymore."

"None of us," Ivan said, "wants Tang to win. He is Mao again, only worse."

He pointed at Ivan. "You told me about a missing child and man named Lev Sokolov."

"Comrade Sokolov is the geologist," Ivan said. "He is Russian, but works for Chinese. Let us say he knows information that would be better he not know."

"Which is why it was better when he was dead," he pointed out.

Ivan nodded.