The Emperor's Tomb

FIVE

COPENHAGEN

MALONE FOLLOWED THE CHINESE COURIER, HIS SUSPICIONS confirmed. She knew nothing about what she was sent to retrieve, only to take what he offered. Hell, she’d even flirted with him. He wondered how much she was being paid for this dangerous errand, and was also concerned about how much Cassiopeia’s captor knew. The voice on the laptop had made a point to taunt him about his government experience—yet they’d sent an uninformed amateur.

He kept the courier in sight as she eased her way through the crowd. The route she was taking would lead them out a secondary gate in Tivoli’s northern boundary. He watched as she passed through the exit, crossed the boulevard beyond, and reentered the Strøget.

He stayed a block behind her as she continued her stroll.

They passed several secondhand-book stores, the owners all competitors and friends, and countless outdoor tables for the many eateries, ending at Højbro Plads. She veered right at the Café Norden, which anchored the square’s east edge, and headed toward the steeple of Nikolaj, an old church that now served as a public exhibition hall. She turned along a side street that led away from Nikolaj, toward Magasin du Nord, Scandinavia’s most exclusive department store.

People paraded in the streets, enjoying a collective joviality.

Fifty yards away, cars and buses whizzed back and forth where the Strøget ended.

She turned again.

Away from the department store and the traffic, back toward the canal and the charred ruins of the Museum of Greco-Roman Culture, which still had not been rebuilt from a fire that had destroyed it last year. Cassiopeia Vitt had appeared that night and saved his hide.

Now it was his turn to return the favor.

Fewer people loitered here.

Many of the 18th- and 19th-century structures, their façades long restored, had once been brothels frequented by Copenhagen’s sailors. Apartments, favored by artists and young professionals, dominated today.

The woman disappeared around another corner.

He trotted to where she’d turned, but a trash receptacle blocked the way. He peered around the plastic container and spied a narrow alley closed in by walls of crumbling bricks.

The woman approached a man. He was short, thin, and anxious. She stopped and handed over the envelope. The man ripped it open, then yelled something in Chinese. Malone did not have to hear what was said to understand. Clearly, he knew what was expected, and it damn well wasn’t a book.

He slapped her face.

She was thrown back and struggled to regain both her balance and composure. A hand went to her wounded cheek.

The man reached beneath his jacket.

A gun appeared.

Malone was way ahead of him, already finding his Beretta and calling out, “Hey.”

The man whirled, saw both Malone and the gun and immediately grabbed the woman, jamming the barrel of his weapon into her neck.

“Toss the gun in that trash bucket,” the man yelled in English.

He was deciding whether to risk it, but the terrified look on the woman’s face told him to comply.

He dropped the gun over the container’s edge, which thumped around, signaling that little else lay inside.

“Stay put,” the man said as he backed down the street with his hostage.

He could not allow the trail to end here. This was his only route to Cassiopeia. The man and his captive kept easing toward where the alley connected to another busy street. A constant stirring of people passed back and forth at the intersection.

He stood, fifty feet away, and watched.

Then the man released his grip on the woman and, together, they ran away.

NI ASSESSED PAU WEN, REALIZING THAT HE’D FALLEN DIRECTLY into the trap this clever man had set.

“And what is best for China?”

“Do you know the tale of the crafty fox caught by a hungry tiger?” Pau asked.

He decided to indulge Pau and shook his head.

“The fox protested, saying, ‘You dare not eat me because I am superior to all other animals, and if you eat me you will anger the gods. If you don’t believe me, just follow and see what happens.’ The tiger followed the fox into the woods and all the animals ran away at the first sight of them. The awed tiger, not realizing that he was the cause of their alarm, let the fox go.” Pau went silent for a moment. “Which are you, Minister, the crafty fox or the unwitting tiger?”

“Seems one is a fool, the other a manipulator.”

“Unfortunately, there are no other contenders for control of China,” Pau said. “You and Minister Tang have done a masterful job of eliminating all challengers.”

“So do you say I am the fool or the manipulator?”

“That is not for me to decide.”

“I assure you,” Ni said, “I am no fool. There is corruption throughout our People’s Republic. My duty is to rid us of that disease.”

Which was no small task in a nation where 1% of the population owned 40% of the wealth, much of it built from corruption. City mayors, provincial officials, high-ranking Party members—he’d arrested them all. Bribery, embezzlement, misappropriation, moral decadence, privilege seeking, smuggling, squandering, and outright theft were rampant.

Pau nodded. “The system Mao created was littered with corruption from its inception. How could it not be? When a government is accountable only from the top down, dishonesty becomes insidious.”

“Is that why you fled?”

“No, Minister, I left because I came to detest all that had been done. So many people slaughtered. So much oppression and suffering. China, then and today, is a failure. There is no other way to view it. We are home to sixteen of the world’s twenty most polluted cities, the world leader in sulfur dioxide emissions. Acid rain is destroying our land. We pollute the water with no regard for consequences. We destroy culture, history, our self-respect, with no regard. Local officials are rewarded only for more economic output, not public initiatives. The system itself assures its own destruction.”

Ni cautioned himself that those observations could all be a deception. So he decided to utilize some misdirection of his own. “Why did you allow that woman to steal the lamp?”

Pau appraised him with a glare that made him uncomfortable, akin to his own father’s gaze that he’d once respected.

“That is a question to which you should already know the answer.”

MALONE TIPPED THE TRASH BIN OVER, FOUND HIS GUN, THEN bolted down the alley.

He should have known.

The courier was no victim. Just an accomplice who’d messed up. He came to the alley’s end and rounded the corner.

His two adversaries were a hundred feet ahead, running toward bustling Holmens Kanal, its lanes jammed with speeding vehicles navigating toward Copenhagen’s busiest square.

He saw the two dart left, vanishing around a corner.

He stuffed the gun away and mixed force with polite phrases to bump his way past the crowd.

He came to a traffic-lighted intersection. The Danish Royal Theater stood across the street. To his right, he caught sight of Nyhavn, busy with people enjoying themselves at colorful cafés that stretched the new harbor’s length. His two targets were making their way down a crowded sidewalk, paralleling traffic and a busy bicycle lane, heading toward the Hotel d’Angleterre.

A Volvo eased to the curb just before the hotel’s entrance.

The man and woman crossed the bicycle lane and headed straight for the car’s open rear door.

Two pops, like balloons bursting, and the man was thrown back, his body dropping to the pavement.

Another pop and the woman fell beside him.

Crimson rivulets poured from each body.

Fear spread, a ripple that sent a panic through the afternoon crowd. Three people on bicycles collided with one another, trying to avoid the bodies.

The car sped away.

Tinted windows shielded the occupants as it roared past, then whipped left in a sharp turn. He tried to spot the license plate, but the Volvo disappeared around Kongens Nytorv.

He rushed forward, knelt down, and checked pulses.

Both were dead.

The bicyclists appeared injured.

He stood and yelled in Danish, “Somebody call the police.”

He ran a hand through his hair and heaved a sigh.

The trail to Cassiopeia had just vanished.

He eased himself away from the throng of gawkers, close to the outside tables and windows for the Hotel d’Angleterre’s restaurant. People with shocked faces stood and stared. Dead bodies on the sidewalk were not commonplace in Denmark.

Distant sirens signaled that help was coming.

Which meant he needed to go.

“Mr. Malone,” a voice said, close to his left ear.

He started to turn.

“No. Face ahead.”

The distinctive feel of a gun barrel nestled close to his spine told him to take the man’s advice.

“I need you to walk with me.”

“And if I don’t?” he asked.

“You do not find Cassiopeia Vitt.”