The Emperor's Tomb

FIFTY-SEVEN

TANG HAD READ ABOUT IMPERIAL TOMBS, EVEN VISITED A COUPLE of notable excavations, but now he was walking inside one totally intact. Clearly, though, someone had been here before. A thick electrical cable lined the base of the tunnel wall and disappeared into the blackness ahead. Pau Wen? Was that why he’d traveled straight to Xi’an? But Pau had gone underground inside Pit 3, a long way from where Tang stood. No, Ni Yong had entered here. Which meant that his adversary knew things that he did not.

Viktor and the two brothers led the way down the passage, wide as an avenue, black as night. The care in the construction, the detail, the colors—they were all spectacular. Stamped decoration in light relief sheathed the walls. In the weak light of their flashlights he saw scenes of court life, the amusements of nobility, a royal procession, bears, eagles, and mythical beasts. Incense burners, shaped as mountains and fashioned of stone, dotted their path.

Fifty meters ahead a shaft of light revealed an entrance between two polished marble doors, both alive with more carvings. Stone lions flanked either side. Hybrid figures of horned bird-men—intended, he knew, to repel malevolent spirits—sprang from the walls on either side. Above the doorway were carved three symbols:

He knew their meaning. “Beside the capital.” Which was fitting. He recalled what Sima Qian wrote of the First Emperor in Shiji. Qin Shi made up his mind that the population of his empire had grown large while the royal palaces of his ancestors were still small. So he built a massive new palace, south of the Wei River, adjacent to his capital. Nearly seven hundred meters long and more than a hundred meters wide, its galleries had been capable of holding 10,000 people.

He called it Afang, which reflected its location, “beside the capital.”

He studied the doors and discovered that they hung with no hinges. Instead, a convex half sphere had been carved at the top and bottom, then fitted inside a concave opening in the ceiling and floor. He surmised that, most likely, the joints had once been greased with oil.

They stepped through the space where the doors parted, the crack about a meter wide, into a lit room that opened into another, then two more, all supported by wide arches and thick columns. This was a yougong—a secluded place.

Strangely, the rooms were empty.

He remembered more of what Sima Qian had written. And there were marvelous tools and precious jewels and rare objects brought from afar. The rooms and alcoves should be filled with silk fabrics, garments, ceramics, headdresses, crowns, belts, ornaments, bronze and tin funerary objects, lacquerware, wooden figurines—everything the emperor would have needed in his afterlife.

Yet there was nothing.

He noticed ornamented pedestals dotting the walls at regular intervals and realized that lamps—like the one he’d sought from Pau Wen, the ones Pau had promised Malone and Vitt existed—would have rested atop to light the emperor’s way and nourish the spirits of the dead.

But there were no lamps.

Which meant no oil.

Nothing.

Only a blue-and-white urn, perhaps a meter wide and at least that tall in the center of the next chamber. He’d seen images of one before. An everlasting lamp, filled with oil, holding a wick afloat. He stepped close and peered inside, hoping that some of the ancient crude might remain, but the container stood dry.

Viktor advanced into the next chamber, the two brothers in tow.

Tang lingered, his mind alight with conflicting thoughts.

Qin Shi’s tomb had clearly been explored—enough that electricity had been run and lighting installed. This could not have occurred during the last decade. His ministry would have known of any such effort. Obviously, though, Ni Yong knew about what had happened here.

“Ni Yong,” he called out. “It is time to settle the matter between us.”

MALONE FROZE AT THE SOUND OF A VOICE, THE WORDS ricocheting through the silence like a gunshot. Cassiopeia reacted, too, and they both crouched to one side of the jade plinth, identifying that the voice had come from beyond the hall’s main entrance.

Was the Mandarin being spoken to them?

If so, they had no way of understanding.

“That wasn’t Pau Wen,” Cassiopeia whispered.

He agreed. “And we don’t have many options.”

They were positioned in the center of a hall, the plinth their only cover. He risked a glance and noticed shadows in the next chamber, perhaps thirty yards away. Doubtful he and Cassiopeia could make it back to the break in the wall through which they’d entered without being spotted.

He saw worry in her eyes.

They were trapped.

TANG ADVANCED TO THE ENTRANCE OF THE BURIAL CHAMBER and called out again, “Ni Yong, there is nowhere for you to go.”

From the open archway he studied the massive underground palace. The ceiling twinkled with thousands of lights, the floor a surreal three-dimensional map, sparkling with the shimmer of mercury from rivers, lakes, and seas. Now he understood why the government had resisted all requests to open the tomb. The site was bare. Except for a jade table, alive with carvings, in the center, where surely the First Emperor once lay.

The two brothers approached from behind.

“There are annex chambers,” one of them said.

He’d seen the dark doorways, too. “And there is another way out of here.” He pointed across the burial hall to a break in the marble wall on the far side, at least seventy or eighty meters away. “Where is Viktor?”

“Checking the annex rooms.”

He pointed at the distant exit. “Let us see if Ni Yong went there.”

NI SOUGHT REFUGE IN ONE OF SEVERAL ROOMS THAT OPENED off the three anterooms. No lights had been rigged here. He’d watched as Karl Tang and three other men marveled at what he’d already been stunned to see.

Though he was out of their immediate line of sight, there was simply no place to hide. The dim room he’d entered was bare except for a collection of murals. He’d heard Tang’s declaration and knew that he’d have to shoot his way to safety.

This must be a private affair. Between you and Tang.

That’s what the premier had told him. Was this what he meant?

I will not involve anyone else, or allow you to do so.

Unfortunately, Tang had not come alone. Could he take all four? It seemed to be the situation from Pau Wen’s residence all over again, except this time he possessed no savior.

He hoped the burial chamber would capture Tang’s attention long enough that he could slip out the way he’d entered. But before he could retrace his steps and make an escape, the doorway out was blocked by a man. Short, burly, fair-skinned, European, and holding a semi-automatic pistol.

Aimed his way.

The foreigner stood with his body backlit, spine straight, eyes locked ahead. Ni held his gun at his side, the barrel pointed to the floor.

He’d never lift it in time.

Two shots popped.

TANG STUDIED THE FLOOR AS HE CAREFULLY ADVANCED TOWARD the hall’s center. He’d just crossed a narrow causeway that spanned what was surely the China Sea. In Qin Shi’s time that would have been the empire’s eastern boundary. The “sea,” an area maybe twenty meters long by that many wide, shimmered with quicksilver. He was initially concerned about toxicity, but he noticed that a thin layer of mineral oil had been applied over the mercury.

Someone had thought ahead.

That was not an ancient innovation.

He knew that mineral oil only came about when petroleum was first distilled into gasoline—in the West’s 19th century—a long time after Qin Shi. He’d also noticed the sodium-vapor lamps, their bulbs not of the size and shape currently in use. These were older. Larger. Warmer. He estimated their age at maybe twenty-plus years, and wondered about the last time they were lit.

The detail of the topographic floor map was amazing, the rising topography of the south and west illustrating mountains that gradually flattened into fertile plains. Forests were represented by trees carved from jade. More rivers of mercury snaked a path among temples, towns, and villages. He assumed the plinth in the center stood where the imperial capital had been located at the time of Qin Shi, not far from present-day Xi’an.

Two pops disturbed the silence.

Gunshots. Behind him.

From where Viktor had gone.

He stopped his advance, as did the two brothers.

Another pop sounded.

He turned and rushed back toward the shots.

MALONE WATCHED AS THE FIRST VICE PREMIER, KARL TANG, and two other men fled the burial chamber. He’d recognized the face from photos Stephanie had provided. Viktor had surely known that his boss would be nearby, which explained both the other helicopter and why he’d so generously offered to create a diversion.

“That was close,” Cassiopeia said.

If the three men had found the table, avoiding them would have been impossible. He and Cassiopeia would have been exposed, and he’d already decided to kill the two minions and deal with Karl Tang separately.

“Who’s shooting?” Cassiopeia asked.

“I don’t know. I’m just glad they are.”