The Emperor's Tomb

THIRTEEN

COPENHAGEN

MALONE SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CAFÉ NORDEN, NESTLED close to an open second-story window. Outside, Højbro 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 résumé. 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 café 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.

“What is it he knows?”

Ivan shook his head. “It is better you not know.”

He faced Stephanie. “I hope you know.”

She said nothing.

His anger rose. “What has Cassiopeia stumbled into that’s so damn important somebody would waterboard her?”

Stephanie again did not answer him, though it was clear she knew the answer. Instead, she leveled her gaze at Ivan. “Tell him.”

The Russian seemed to consider the request, and Malone suddenly realized that Ivan was no field agent. He was a decision maker.

Like Stephanie.

“Vitt,” Ivan said, “is after the artifact. A lamp Karl Tang wants. When Sokolov does not cooperate, Tang steals Sokolov’s son. Then Sokolov does two things Tang does not expect. He calls Vitt and disappears. No one sees Sokolov for two weeks now.” He snapped his fingers again. “Gone.”

“So Karl Tang grabbed Cassiopeia?” Malone asked.

Ivan nodded. “I say yes.”

“What happened out there today, Cotton?” Stephanie asked.

He told her about the note, the waterboarding, his improvisation. “Seemed like the best play. Of course, I didn’t know I had an audience.”

“I assure you,” she said, “we were going to pursue those two to see where they led. I was going to brief you after. Killing them was not part of my plan.”

“You Americans nose into my business,” Ivan said. “Then want to tell me how to do it.”

“Get real,” Malone said. “You killed the two leads that could point us somewhere so we’re more dependent on you.”

Ivan shrugged. “Bad things happen. Take what you have.”

He wanted to plant a fist in the irritating SOB’s face, but knew better. So he asked, “Why is that lamp so important?”

Ivan shrugged. “It comes from old tomb. Sokolov has to have it to satisfy Karl Tang.”

“Where is it?” he asked.

“In Antwerp. That is why Vitt travels there four days ago. She disappears two days later.”

He wondered what could possibly have rankled the Russians to the point that they mounted a full-scale intelligence operation, dispatching a mid- to high-level operative and, to thwart the Americans, brazenly shooting two people in the middle of Copenhagen. Somebody, somewhere, was screaming that this was important. And why was Washington interested enough to have the Magellan Billet involved? Stephanie was usually called in only when conventional intelligence channels no longer were viable. Cassiopeia had certainly stumbled into something important enough that people were willing to torture her. Was she being tortured again, right now? Those two lying dead in front of the Hotel d’Angleterre had not reported in, so whoever sent the video surely suspected that the retrieval had gone wrong.

“I should get to my computer,” he said. “They may try to contact me again.”

“I doubt that’s going to happen,” Stephanie said. “When Ivan decided to improvise, he may have sealed Cassiopeia’s fate.”

He didn’t want to hear that, but she was right. Which made him madder. He glared at Ivan. “You don’t seem concerned.”

“I am hungry.”

The Russian caught the attention of a server and pointed toward a plate of roget in a glass-fronted case, displaying five fingers. The woman acknowledged that she understood how many of the smoked fish to bring.

“They will give you gas,” Malone said.

“But they are tasty. Danes are good at fish.”

“Is this now a full-scale Billet operation?” he asked Stephanie.

She nodded. “Big time.”

“What do you want me to do?” He pointed at Ivan. “Sergeant Schultz here knows nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing.”

“Who says this? I never say this. I know plenty. And I love Hogan’s Heroes.”

“You’re just a dumb Russian.”

The stout man grinned. “Oh, I see. You want to anger me. Aggravate, yes? Big, stupid man will lose temper and say more than he should.” He waggled a stubby finger. “You watch too many CSI on television. Or NCIS. I love that show. Mark Harmon is the tough guy.”

He decided to try a different tack. “What was to happen when Cassiopeia found the lamp?”

“She gives to Tang, who returns boy.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Me? No. Karl Tang is not honest. That boy is gone. I know that. You know that—”

“Cassiopeia knows that,” Stephanie finished.

“Exactly,” Malone said. “So she hedged her bets and hid the lamp away. They grabbed her. She told them I had it, bargaining for time.”

“I know little of her,” Ivan said. “She is smart?”

Maybe not smart enough, considering. “Ivan here tells me that eunuchs are going to take over China. The Ba, he called them.”

Stephanie nodded. “They’re a radical faction. They have big plans, none of which is good for us, or anyone else. The State Department thought them improbable, but they were wrong. That’s another reason why I’m here, Cotton.”

He caught her quandary. Russians or Chinese? A headache or an upset stomach? But he sensed something else. More than she wanted to discuss at the moment.

The server brought the five fish, smelling as if they’d just been caught.

“Ah,” Ivan said. “Wonderful. You are sure you do not want any?”

He and Stephanie shook their heads.

Ivan chomped down on one of the corpses. “I will say this concerns big things. Important. Things we do not want the Chinese to know.”

“How about the Americans?” he asked.

“You either.”

“And Sokolov told the Chinese?”

Ivan chewed his fish. “I not know. This is why we need to know about the lamp.”

Malone glanced outside. His shop stood across the sunny square. People streamed in and out the front door, more swarming the busy square like bees around their honeycombs. He should be selling books. He liked what he did. He employed four locals who did a good job keeping the shelves stocked. He was proud of his business. Quite a few Danes now regularly bought their collectible editions from him. Over the past three years he’d gained a reputation as a man who could deliver what they wanted. Similar to the dozen years when he was one of Stephanie Nelle’s agents.

At the moment, Cassiopeia needed him to deliver.

“I’m going to Antwerp,” he said.

Ivan was devouring another fish. “And what to do when you get there? You know where to look?”

“Do you?”

Ivan stopped eating and smiled.

Bits of flesh had lodged between his brown teeth.

“I know where Vitt is.”