The Emperor's Tomb

SEVENTY-EIGHT

MALONE APPROACHED THE MONASTERY WITH CAUTION. HE’D rounded the bend in the trail and immediately studied the great pile of crenellated walls, all a purplish red, that formed a solid rampart, its parapets broken only by a single gate.

He stopped at the entrance, tiled in a golden yellow. Above the massive red-lacquered doors hung a tablet with symbols.

He’d seen it on both the silk map at Pau Wen’s residence and on the map the Chinese premier displayed.

Afang.

The name of Qin Shi’s palace. And also the symbol of the Hall for the Preservation of Harmony.

The gates were open, seemingly inviting him inside, so he stepped onto a six-person-wide, stone-paved avenue. Three more elaborate gates gave way to a courtyard surrounded by multistoried buildings and colonnaded porches. Ornamental trees, shrubs, flowers, and the trickle of water through a man-made stream created a feeling of peace.

But he realized this place was anything but untroubled.

A figure of a deity with multiple arms and several faces rose before him. At the far end, up three narrow terraces, past a veranda, a set of doors hung open, guarded by ivory tusks, the space beyond well lit.

He still hadn’t seen anyone.

He kept the gun at his side, finger on the trigger, fighting violent heartbeats and a faint feeling from the thin air. Then he heard a sound. Laughter.

A child.

Speaking in Russian.

He scanned the courtyard and identified the source. To his right, one floor up, through an open window. Sokolov and his son? He had to find out.

CASSIOPEIA CLIMBED THE TRAIL, ZIGZAGGING UPWARD, TOWARD where she and Cotton would have arrived if their river crossing had not been interrupted. Trees provided handholds, their gnarly roots gripping the earth with rigid tentacles.

The exertion restored her body. Viktor led the way but occasionally glanced back, keeping watch on her. He’d held her tight on the river. Too tight. She’d sensed his emotions, knew that he cared, but like herself and Cotton, he kept far more inside than he ever allowed out. The murder of that Chinese pilot seemed to bother him. Unusual. Men like Viktor rarely analyzed their actions or expressed regret. A job was a job, ethics be damned. At least that was the way Viktor had always treated things. She believed him on Sokolov. Stephanie would want the Russian alive. Ivan, though, was another matter. He would want Sokolov silent.

Her wet clothes, stained brown from the silty water, hung heavy, dust from the trail clinging to her as if magnetized. She’d lost her gun in the fall and noticed that Viktor carried only a knife, so they were headed into God-knew-what unarmed.

They found the top of the trail and passed rock carvings and an altar. Around a bend they spotted the purplish mass of the monastery, perched high, overlooking a natural amphitheater of cliffs and valleys.

And heard a gong.

NI EASED HIMSELF CLOSE TO A DISPLAY OF BRONZE SWORDS. THE slim-faceted blades shone in the incandescent lights, their edges and tips sharp.

Do something.

Even if it’s wrong.

Pau turned toward Tang, and Ni used the moment to grip one of the weapons, instantly wrapping his arm around Pau, bringing the blade to the older man’s throat, flat edge to the skin—for the moment.

“This will easily slit your throat,” he said in Pau’s ear.

Tang reacted to the threat by summoning the men outside. Two brothers rushed in and leveled their crossbows.

“Tell them to lay down the bows and leave,” Ni commanded Pau. “It won’t take much to cause you to bleed to death.”

Pau stood still.

“Tell them,” he said again, and to emphasize the point he twisted the sword ninety degrees, bringing the sharp edge to the skin.

“Do as he says,” Pau commanded.

Both brothers laid down their weapons and retreated.

MALONE ENTERED ONE OF THE BUILDINGS THAT LINED THE courtyard and ascended a staircase one level. At the top, he inched his way down a wide corridor to an intersection. Carefully, he peered around the corner and spotted a younger man in a woolen robe standing guard outside a closed door. He estimated that the room would face the courtyard at the location of the open window.

Twenty feet lay between himself and the apparently unarmed guard. He decided a direct approach was best, so he tucked the gun into his back pocket and readied himself.

One.

Two.

He rushed around the corner and charged. Just as he’d assumed, the sudden sight of someone caused a momentary delay in reaction, enough for Malone to coldcock the guard with a fist, slamming the back of the man’s head into the stone wall.

The man collapsed to the floor.

Malone checked to be sure. No weapon. Interesting. Perhaps they weren’t thought necessary behind the impressive fortifications that encased this complex.

He found his own gun, checked behind him—all quiet—and slowly opened the door.

TANG WONDERED WHAT NI HOPED TO GAIN. THERE WAS NOWHERE to go. “You cannot escape.”

“But I can kill your master.”

“I do not fear death,” Pau said.

“Neither do I. Not anymore. In fact, I would rather be dead than live in a China ruled by you two.”

He silently congratulated himself on his forethought. All he had to do was coax Ni back out into the hall.

There, he could end this problem.

MALONE SAW THE LOOK OF RELIEF ON LEV SOKOLOV’S FACE, SAW the boy curled in his lap.

“Malone,” Sokolov muttered. “I wondered what happened to you.”

He crossed the empty bedchamber and stole a quick look out the window. The courtyard remained quiet. “How many men are in this place?”

“Not many,” Sokolov said. “I have seen only a few. Tang is here, though.”

“Where’s Ni?”

“They separated us about one half hour ago.” The boy stared at him with hard eyes.

“Is he okay?” he asked Sokolov.

“He seems fine.”

“We have to go, but he must remain quiet.”

Sokolov whispered to the boy, and several nods confirmed that the lad understood. Malone motioned and they left the room, with him leading the way down to ground level.

Heading toward the gate out required a crossing of the open courtyard.

He studied the upper galleries. Seeing no one, he gestured and they hustled forward. They passed through a lower gallery, negotiated one of the arched wooden bridges over the man-made stream, and sought a momentary refuge in a gallery on the courtyard’s opposite side.

So far, so good.

NI REALIZED THAT THE LONGER HE LINGERED WITHIN THIS confined space, the greater the risk. He had no idea how many brothers were waiting outside. More than he could handle, that was certain. But he was determined to act.

“Move out of here,” he told Tang.

His adversary drifted toward the door.

“Careful, Minister,” Pau whispered. “He seems to want you out there.”

“Shut up.”

Yet Pau was right. He’d seen the same thing in Tang’s eyes. But he could not stay here. What had the premier said to him? One’s life can be weightier than Mount Tai or lighter than a goose feather. Which will yours be?

“Move,” he ordered Pau.

Slowly, they inched their way out into the hall. His gaze raked the galleries, searching for threats, while simultaneously watching the three men only a few meters away.

So many places to hide.

And he was totally exposed, on a raised platform, an old man the only thing standing between him and death. “There is nowhere to go,” Tang calmly said.

“Tell anyone in those galleries to show themselves,” he said to Tang. To emphasize the point he pressed the blade into Pau’s throat, and the old man flinched. Good. About time he experienced fear. “Tell them yourself,” Tang said.

“Show yourselves,” he called out. “Now. Your master’s life depends on it.”

MALONE HEARD A SHOUT.

As did Sokolov, who cradled the boy in his arms, keeping his face buried in his shoulder, holding tight.

“That sounded like Ni,” he whispered.

“Something about showing themselves or their master will die,” Sokolov interpreted.

He allowed a soft exhale to escape his lips while he considered his options. He spotted an open doorway a few feet away. He grasped Sokolov’s arm and led him into the building. Another long corridor lined with doors spread out before them. He crept to one of the doors and slowly released its latch. Inside was a small windowless chamber, perhaps eight feet square, filled with oversized pottery, perhaps for the courtyard.

Wait in here, he mouthed to Sokolov.

The Russian nodded, seemingly saying, You’re right, we can’t leave him.

“I’ll be back, hide behind some of this stuff.”

“Where’s Cassiopeia?”

He couldn’t tell him what happened. Not now. “Just stay quiet. You’ll be fine.”

He closed the door, fled the building, and headed straight for the open doorway at the far end of the courtyard, where voices could still be heard.

TANG WAS ENJOYING THE MOMENT.

Ni Yong was trapped.

Only nine brothers manned the monastery. Two were here, one more watched over Lev Sokolov. The remaining six were scattered throughout the complex, awaiting his command.

MALONE ENTERED.

Beyond the open portal, he found a vestibule, and then an assembly hall, majestic in dignity, topped by a roof of more gleaming yellow tiles. The glow from six braziers, arranged three to a side, splashed the colorful walls with a fiery brilliance. Displays of armor and weaponry lined the perimeter. At the opposite end he saw five men.

Pau, Tang, Ni, and two others.

Ni held a sword to Pau’s throat.

They stood before shelving of diagonal bins, stuffed with rolled manuscripts. Thousands of them, rising fifty feet. He kept to the shadows, confident that nothing had betrayed his presence. He noticed that lesser rooms and pavilions formed a closed perimeter around the ground floor, screening out the world. Light streamed in from the upper colonnades, which apparently were lined with windows.

Outside, a gong rang again.

He used the armor and weaponry for cover. His gaze raked the upper two stories of galleries. He thought he caught movement, but wasn’t sure.

He had to help Ni.

One of the braziers burned a few feet away, just outside the gallery where he was hiding. He advanced and shielded his body with the huge copper vessel, its heat intense, glancing left and behind to see if any danger existed.

Nothing.

“Minister Ni,” he called out. “It’s Cotton Malone. I have you covered with a gun.”

NI COULD NOT BELIEVE HIS GOOD FORTUNE AND CALLED OUT, “It is good to hear your voice.”

He saw Malone emerge from behind one of the braziers, gun pointed his way.

“Now I can slit your throat and be done with it,” he whispered in Pau’s ear. “Your lies are over.”

“Have you found the courage to take a life?”

“Yours would not be a problem for me.”

“Choose wisely, Minister. Much is at stake.”

The blade rested tight to the skin, an easy matter with one swipe to sever the old man’s throat. He stared at Karl Tang, wishing it was him, not Pau, who faced the sword.

That decision would be an easy one.

And he noticed something in Tang’s eyes.

“He wants you to do it,” Pau whispered.