The Emperor's Tomb

FORTY-ONE

HALONG BAY, VIETNAM

THURSDAY, MAY 17

7:00 AM

MALONE STARED AT THE MAGNIFICENT SCENE.

He knew the tale. Once, a great dragon ran toward the coast with its tail flailing, gouging valleys and crevasses along the way. As the beast plunged into the sea, water filled the low spots and left towering monoliths, like a crop of unfinished sculptures, one after the other, rising skyward. Standing on the dock, admiring Halong Bay, whose name meant “where the dragon descended into the sea,” he found it easy to believe that legend. The tranquil waters stretched over six hundred square miles, eventually spilling out into the Gulf of Tonkin. Three thousand islands dotted the turquoise expanse, most uninhabited blocks of gray limestone. Verdant shrubs and trees sheathed most of them, the startling contrast of their spring color to the dull sheen only adding to the surreal scene.

Malone, Pau Wen, Cassiopeia, Stephanie, and Ivan had flown on a U.S. Air Force EC-37 from Belgium to Hanoi. The modified Gulfstream had made the trip in a little over ten hours, thanks to a free pass over Russian airspace courtesy of Ivan. They’d then taken a helicopter for a short flight east to the coast and Quang Ninh province. Russia apparently enjoyed a close relationship with the Vietnamese, as their entrance into the country had been met with unquestioned cooperation. When Malone had inquired about the lovefest, Ivan had only smiled.

“Have you ever been here before?” Cassiopeia asked him.

They stood near a cluster of houses that formed a floating village. Multidecked tour boats rested at anchor, as did many of the junks, their fan-shaped sails finding no wind. A tiny boat appeared with a fisherman standing in it, rowing with two oars crossed in an X. Malone watched as the man found his footing and tossed a net out into the water, its weights opening the mesh like a flower.

“Once,” he said, “years ago. On an assignment, I came through on the way into China.”

“As you will today,” Ivan said. The Russian was studying the sky, looking for something. “Border is less than two hundred kilometers north. But we do not go that way.”

“I get the feeling you’ve done this before,” Stephanie said.

“Sometimes.”

Pau Wen had remained quiet during the long flight, sleeping most of the way, as had they all, trying to adjust to a six-hour time difference. Pau gazed out at the calm sea with a sense that he’d been here before, too. A light fog steamed from the sea’s surface, filtering a rising sun. Oyster-colored clouds dotted a blue sky.

“Tran Hung Dao, Vietnam’s grand commander, faced off Kublai Khan’s army here,” Pau quietly said, “in 1288. He placed bamboo stakes in the rivers so that when the Chinese boats arrived at low tide, which he knew they would, the hulls would be pierced. When that occurred, his troops swooped down and slaughtered the invaders.”

Malone knew the rest of that story. “But the Chinese returned, conquered, and dominated here for nearly a thousand years.”

“Which explains why Vietnam and China are not friends,” Ivan said. “Long memories.”

On the flight, Malone had read what Stephanie had hastily amassed on Pau Wen. His background was one of academics, focusing on history, anthropology, and archaeology, but clearly he was a consummate politician. How else could someone become the confidant of both Mao Zedong and Deng Xiaoping, two utterly different personalities, and prosper under both?

“My uncle was a fisherman,” Pau said. “He sailed a junk. As a boy, I would go out on the water with him.”

Maybe fifty or more of the distinctive ships floated in the bay.

“The cotton sail is dipped in a liquid that comes from a plant similar to a yam,” Pau said. “That’s what gives the red-tan color. It also prevents rot and mildew. My task, as a boy, was to care for the sails.” Pau made no effort to hide a nostalgic tone. “I loved the water. I still recall sewing the coarse cotton panels together, one seam at a time.”

“What are you after?” Malone asked.

“Are you always so direct?”

“Do you ever answer a question?”

Pau smiled. “Only when I want to.”

Cassiopeia grabbed three bags from the dock. Earlier, she’d volunteered to find food and drink, and Ivan had provided her with several hundred Vietnamese dong.

“Soft drinks and bread,” she said. “Best I could do this early. In another hour there’s a café open just beyond the end of the dock.”

A small village nestled close to the shore—a cluster of low-slung pastel-colored buildings, rooftops bare and silent, a few faint curls of smoke wafting from several of the chimneys.

Malone accepted a Pepsi and asked Ivan, “Let’s see if you can answer a question. What exactly are we going to do?”

“Time to time, we sneak into China. They have coastal radar, but rocks and mountains give shelter.”

“We’re going to sail a junk in?”

Ivan shook his head. “Not today.”

Malone had also asked and received from Stephanie three other reports. One was on Karl Tang, China’s first vice president and the Party’s vice premier. Tang came from simple beginnings, trained as a geologist, rising steadily within the Communist Party until he was now one step from the top. In China’s convoluted political system, the Communist Party was intimately interwoven with the national government. Every key governmental position was occupied by a Party official. Which explained why the president also served as Party premier. No one ever achieved election to any position without the Party’s consent, which meant Karl Tang was a man of great power. Yet he required an oil lamp from an ancient grave so badly that he stole a four-year-old boy?

Ni Yong seemed the antithesis of Tang. Right off was his name, using the traditional form of last first. He’d grown up in Sichuan province in a village where nearly everyone was named Ni. He served two decades in the military, rising to high rank. He’d also been in Tiananmen Square in June 1989 when the tanks appeared. The West considered him a moderate, perhaps even a liberal, but they’d been fooled before by Chinese bureaucrats who said one thing then did another. Ni’s administration of the central disciplinary commission was widely regarded as admirable, a refreshing change of pace from the Beijing usual. The hope was that Ni Yong could become a new breed of Eastern leader.

The final report dealt with Viktor Tomas.

Beyond their direct contact, Malone knew little about the man. Their first encounter last year, in Central Asia, had been brief. Viktor had once worked with the Croatian security forces and, not wanting to be tried for war crimes, he’d switched sides and helped American intelligence as a random asset. Last year, when it was learned that Viktor had managed to position himself close to the head of the Central Asian Federation, pressure had been applied on him to exact his cooperation. On the plane, earlier, while the others slept, he’d asked Stephanie, “Is he Bosnian?”

She’d shook her head. “His father was American. He was raised partly in Bosnia, some in California.”

Which explained the lack of any European accent and his proficient use of slang.

“He’s helpful, Cotton.”

“He’s a random asset. Nothing but a whore. Where is he now?”

“Back with Tang. In China.”

“So what is it? Is he with the Russians? The Chinese? What’s his mission?”

She said nothing.

“We’re placing our asses right back in his hands,” he said. “And I don’t like it.”

Stephanie had still not commented—which spoke volumes.

But he meant what he’d said about random assets. No loyalty, usually reckless as hell. He knew that not only from Viktor, but from others he’d once encountered as a Magellan Billet agent. The mission may or may not be critical to them. Results didn’t matter. Surviving and getting paid, that’s what counted.

Malone watched as Ivan continued to study Halong Bay. The sun, the temperature, and the morning mist had all quickly risen.

“It’s a UNESCO World Heritage Site,” Stephanie said.

He caught the twinkle in her eye. “How much damage could I do to this bay?”

“I’m sure you could find a way.”

“There,” Ivan said. “Finally.”

He saw what had grabbed the Russian’s attention. A plane, dropping from the sky, out over open water, making its way toward them.