The Emperor's Tomb

THIRTY-NINE

LANZHOU, CHINA

TANG SHOWED LEV SOKOLOV WHAT WAS SCURRYING AROUND inside the bucket. The Russian’s eyes went wild.

“Active ones,” Tang said.

Sokolov still lay on the floor, strapped to the chair, his legs folded above his head, eyes to the ceiling, like an astronaut in his capsule. His head began to shake back and forth, pleading for everything to stop. Sweat beaded on the Russian’s forehead.

“You have lied to me for the last time,” Tang said. “And I protected you. Officials here in Gansu wanted you arrested. I prevented that. They wanted to banish you from the province. I said no. They called you a dissident, and I defended you. You have been nothing but a problem. Even worse, you’ve caused me personal embarrassment. And that I cannot allow to go unanswered.”

His three men stood beside the chair, two at the legs, one at the head. He motioned and they gripped Sokolov so his body would stay in position. Tang quickly approached and righted the metal pail, pressing down hard, holding the bucket in place, the rats trapped underneath, now scurrying around on Sokolov’s bare chest. The Russian’s head whipped left and right, held tight by Tang’s man, the eyes closed in agony.

Tang pressed his own chest against the bucket’s end to secure it in place and brought the ropes lying on the floor up, securing the pail to Sokolov’s body.

Tang allowed a moment for things to calm, but Sokolov continued to struggle.

“I would suggest lying still,” Tang said. “You’ll agitate them less.”

The Russian seemed to gain some measure of control and stopped thrashing, though the three men retained a firm hold.

Tang stepped to the table and retrieved one of the last two items he’d brought with him from the oil platform. A small, handheld instant-ignition torch fueled with acetylene. The kind of tool utilized for quick fixes on the rigs. He opened its brass valve. Gas hissed from the tip. He stood the torch upright on the table, gripped the final item, a striker, and sparked the end to life.

He adjusted the flame to blue hot.

He crouched down and allowed the heat to lick the bucket’s bottom, then painted the sides of the pail with the flame. “As it warms, the rats instinctively shun the metal. They’ll quickly sense a desperate need to leave their prison. But there’s no way out. Everything is resistant to their claws, except your flesh.”

He heard the rats popping against the inside of the bucket, squealing at their predicament.

Sokolov screamed behind the tape, but only a murmur could be heard. The Russian’s restrained body was knotted in tension and wet with perspiration. Tang kept heating the bucket, careful not to make it too hot, just enough to entice the rats to attack the flesh.

Sokolov’s face squeezed with anguish. Tears welled in the Russian’s eyes and rained from the edges.

“The rats will claw down to your stomach,” he said. “They will burrow through your flesh, trying to escape the heat.” He kept stroking the metal with the flame. “They can’t be blamed. Any creature would do the same.”

Sokolov screamed again—a long, deep murmur muted by the tape. Tang imagined what was happening. The rats scratching furiously, aided by their teeth, softening the flesh that might allow them to escape faster.

The trick, as Tang had been taught, was knowing when to stop. Too long and the victim would receive severe, perhaps even fatal wounds from the infections the rats left behind. Too short and the point would not be made, and repeating the process was problematic, unless it didn’t matter if the subject survived.

Here, it did.

He withdrew the torch.

“Of course,” he said, keeping his eyes as gentle as his voice, “there is an alternative to this, if you’re willing to listen.”