They seemed startled by his appearance, and one of them shouted something. Flemish was not a language he knew. But no translation was required. Two policemen appeared and drew their guns.
He knew what they wanted.
So he raised his hands.
CASSIOPEIA WAITED FOR THE BULLET, BUT ALL SHE FELT WAS A slap of air as the round zoomed past her right ear.
She heard metal sucking into flesh and whirled.
The man she’d beaten had risen to his feet, advancing toward her with a knife. Viktor’s shot had caught him in the chest. The body dropped to the marble, trembled as if racked by fever, then went still.
“I told you I wasn’t the enemy,” Viktor said.
She caught her breath, then hustled down the stairs to the landing. “If you work for Tang, who do these men work for?”
Viktor pointed back to the top of the stairs. “He was mine. But this one.” He shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“You shot your own man?”
“He’s actually Tang’s. And would you have preferred to be stabbed?”
She pointed. “He said something before you shot him. In Chinese. I don’t speak it.”
“I do.”
Her ears perked.
“He said, ‘Death to the thief who steals from the master.’ ”
MALONE DECIDED TO TRY WHAT HE COULD. “THERE’S A WOMAN inside. On the third level. She needs help.”
He wasn’t sure if his English was being understood, as the two policemen were intent only on taking him into custody. They didn’t seem to care about anybody else.
His arms were twisted behind his back and a nylon strap pulled tight at his wrists.
Too tight, but there was little he could say.
CASSIOPEIA FOLLOWED VIKTOR DOWN THE MAIN STAIRCASE, away from the fire and a black ceiling of ash above them. Streams of soot-stained sweat stung her eyes. Breathing was easier, as the smoke seemed confined to the top two stories. She heard sirens and spotted flashing emergency lights through the windows. They needed to leave. Far too many questions would be asked, and she had no satisfactory answers.
“I hope you have an exit plan,” she said.
“There’s a way out through the basement. I checked.”
“How did you find me?”
Wood splintered below and something crashed. Voices were raised in urgency. Firemen, most likely, breaking through the main entrance.
She and Viktor stopped at the first-level landing.
Let them pass, he mouthed.
She agreed.
They abandoned the stairway and retreated into one of the first-floor rooms. No fire was here as yet. She hoped the emergency personnel would be concentrating on the upper stories.
A large billiard table provided cover, its green baize decorated with ivory accessories.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she whispered. “How did you find me?”
He motioned with the gun he still held. “If you hadn’t pounded me on the head, I would have told you that it had a pinger inside. Tang’s idea. Chinese intelligence issue. We would have left the gun. As it was, we tracked you straight here.”
And she already knew who’d sent the archer. Pau Wen. Death to the thief who steals from the master. She’d sensed more to that old man, but had been in too much of a hurry to care.
Footfalls rang out. Firemen rushed up the staircase and kept ascending, carrying axes and hoses.
It’s too risky, Viktor mouthed. Let’s find another way down.
“There’s a back staircase that way.” She pointed to their left. “I used it to go up.”
“Lead the way. When they find those bodies, this place is going to be heavy with police.”
They scampered through a series of dim rooms to the stairs and crept down to the basement, careful their soles did not slap the risers. A black hallway led into the mansion’s center, passing several doors clamped tight with hasp locks. Storage rooms, most likely. A high-pitched moan from overhead pipes suggested elevated pressure and temperature. They entered a room stuffed with gardening supplies—but it had an exit door.
“That has to lead up to ground level,” Viktor said.
“More likely the side of the building,” she noted. “We could be okay there.”
The door unlocked from the inside. Viktor eased the metal door inward and peered out. Emergency lights brought the darkness to life in a rhythmic beat. But she heard no sounds from where a short set of stone steps ended up at ground level.
“After you,” Viktor said.
She slipped out and savored the cool air. They crouched and climbed, using the stairway for cover.
At the top they darted to the right, where the street that ran before the museum stretched. She realized that they needed to emerge, unnoticed, from the narrow alley that separated the museum from the building next door.
Two meters from the end the path was suddenly blocked.
A woman stood in the way.
Stephanie Nelle.
MALONE WAS BROUGHT TO THE FRONT OF THE MUSEUM BY WAY of a police car that waited just beyond the garden, in the rear drive. A bruise on his right hip emitted a steady ache that caused him to limp.
He was pulled from the car and saw three fire trucks occupying the street that had been deserted when he first arrived. Hoses spit water into the air from ladders that extended upward off two trucks. As close as everything stood, on both sides of the block, confining the fire to one building could prove challenging. Luckily, the weather was calm.
One of the uniformed officers led him through the maze of trucks where cars were parked, maybe a hundred feet from the inferno.
He spotted Stephanie.
She didn’t look happy.
“They found three bodies in there,” she said as he was brought close. “All shot.”
“What about Cassiopeia?”
Stephanie pointed to her right. Cassiopeia appeared from behind one of the police vans, her face blackened with smoke, wet with sweat, eyes bloodshot, but otherwise she appeared okay.
“I found her slipping out of the building.”
Behind her walked a man. At first, Malone was so pleased to see Cassiopeia that he did not notice. But now, as his fears alleviated and calm returned, he focused on the face.
Viktor Tomas.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Malone asked.
“Long time, no see, Malone,” Viktor said. “I love the handcuffs. They suit you.” Viktor pointed a finger. “I haven’t forgotten that I still owe you one.”
He knew what that meant. From the last time they were together. In Asia.
“And here we are,” Viktor said. “Together again.”
Malone faced Stephanie. “Cut these cuffs off.”
“Are you going to behave?”
Cassiopeia stepped close and said to him, “Thanks for coming.”
He saw that she appeared unscathed. “I had little choice.”
“That I doubt. But thanks.”
He motioned with his head toward Viktor. “You and him working together?”
“He saved my life in there. Twice.”
He glanced over at Viktor and asked, “What’s your involvement this time?”
“I answer that, Malone,” Ivan said, waddling out from behind another of the parked vehicles.
The Russian pointed at Viktor.
“He works for me.”
THIRTY-THREE
HE LAY ON THE CUSHIONED BENCH AND STEADIED HIMSELF. HIS LEGS spread, his genitals exposed. Centuries ago there was a place, a ch’ang tzu, located outside the palace gates, where specialists performed the service for a modest six taels. They also taught apprentices the technique, thus transforming a profession into a tradition. The specialist he now faced was as skilled as those artisans, though he worked only for the brothers.
The final cleaning ended.
The hot water laced with pepper stung.
He’d remained rigid as the two attendants tightly wrapped his abdomen and thi
ghs with white bandages. He could hardly breathe, but he understood their purpose.
Would it hurt?
He forced the thought from his brain.
Pain did not matter. Only his oath mattered. The bond. The brothers. They meant everything to him. His teacher had introduced him to the Ba and now, after several years of study, he would become a part. What would his mother and father say? They’d be mortified. But they were visionless nothings. Tools to be used as a shovel or a rake, discarded when either broken or no longer needed. He did not want to be one of those.
He wanted to command.
The specialist nodded and he adjusted his posture on the chair, spreading his legs wider. Two brothers clamped both limbs in place. To speak, to acknowledge the coming pain, would be a show of weakness, and no brother could be weak.
Only the strong were allowed.
He saw the knife, small and curved.
“Hou huei pu hou huei?” he was asked.
He slowly shook his head. He would never regret it.
It happened fast. Two swipes, and his severed scrotum and penis were displayed.
He waited for the pain. He felt blood seeping from the wound, the skin burning, his legs shaking. But no pain.
He watched as the organs were laid on a silver tray, blood encircling the flesh like some presentation at a restaurant.
Then the pain arrived. Sharp. Bitter. Excruciating.
His brain exploded in agony. His body trembled.
The two men maintained strong grips. He kept his mouth closed. Tears welled in his eyes but he bit his tongue to steady his control.
Silence was the only acceptable response.
One day he would lead the brothers, and he wanted them to say that he’d accepted his initiation with courage.
Tang thought back to that day thirty-six years ago. He’d lain still while the wound had been wrapped in wet paper, layer upon layer, until the bleeding stopped. He’d fought the shock that swept through his nerves, keeping a loose hold on reality. The three days that followed tested him further with agony from thirst and the inability to urinate. He recalled hoping that liquid would flow on the fourth day.
And it had.
He stood in the quiet trailer, remembering, readying himself to leave the drill site. He seldom thought of that day anymore, but tonight was special.
His satellite phone rang.
He found the unit and noted the number displayed. Overseas. A Belgian country code. He knew the number well.
Pau Wen’s residence.
“I did exactly as you instructed,” he said as he answered. “I ordered the strike on Ni Yong, while he was there at your residence.”
“And I thwarted that strike, just as planned. Minister Ni was most grateful and now believes me to be his ally.”
“Where is Ni?”
“He will shortly be on his way back to China. With the lamp.”
“The lamp was to be mine.”
“It matters not anymore,” Pau said. “The oil is gone. Burned away.”
“You assured me the lamp would be safeguarded.” His voice had risen. “You told me that it would be turned over to me, intact, once Ni left Belgium.”
“And you were not to disturb Cassiopeia Vitt,” Pau said. “She was to bring the lamp to you.”
“She couldn’t be trusted.”
“So you stole her away and hoped to win your prize by force?”
“I did what I thought best.”
“And you were only to attack Ni Yong,” Pau calmly said. “Not kill me.”
He steadied himself.
“We killed three of the men you sent,” Pau said. “And captured the fourth. I questioned him. He was most uncooperative, but finally told me that he and the others were ordered to kill Minister Ni and myself. No one was to be left alive at my residence. He said your orders on that were clear. Of course, he was not a brother. Only paid to do a job, which he failed to do.”
The moment had come.
“You are the one no longer needed,” he told Pau.
“From that comment, I assume you have taken charge of the brotherhood? The Ba now answers to you?”
“As they have for the past decade. I am the only master they know.”
“But I am Hegemon. Their duly elected leader.”
“Who abandoned us, and this country, years ago. We no longer require your involvement.”
“So you ordered my death?”
“Why not? It seemed the right course.”
“I conceived this endeavor. From the beginning. You were but a young initiate, fresh to the Ba.”
“Is that when you found the Confucian texts at the terra-cotta warrior site?”
“What do you know of that?”
“The repository was rediscovered a few days ago. Your watch was found inside.”
“So I did lose it there,” Pau said. “I long suspected. But of course I intended on returning and examining that chamber further. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity.”
“Why did you remove only the Confucian texts?”
“To preserve them. If Mao’s research fellows and archaeologists had discovered them, they would never have survived. Mao despised Confucius.”
“The library is gone. Burned.”
“You are no better than they were.”
He resented the insolent tone. “I am not a young initiate any longer. I am first vice premier of the People’s Republic of China. Poised to be the next premier and president.”
“All because of me.”
He chuckled. “Hardly. You have been gone for a long time. We have implemented your plan without your assistance. So stay in your refuge, safe in Belgium. China has no use for you.”
“Your nemesis, though,” Pau said, “is returning home far wiser. Minister Ni now knows of the Ba. He may well prevent you from succeeding.”
“Ni is no match for me.”
“But I am.”
“There is no legal way for you to reenter China. No visa will be issued. On that, I have absolute control. The few brothers you have at your disposal there will be barred from returning, too.”
“Not everyone supports you,” Pau made clear.
He knew that could well prove true, but he was counting on success to win over any doubters.
“I have enough. Live short, Pau.”
He ended the call.
There was nothing more to say.
A lesson he’d been taught long ago, during his training to become a brother, came to mind.
Never signal your intentions.
He smiled.
Not necessarily.
THIRTY-FOUR
NI STROLLED THROUGH PAU WEN’S EXHIBIT HALL, WAITING for his host to return. When they’d arrived back at the compound, Pau had excused himself. On the drive from Antwerp, Ni had called Beijing and spoken with his chief assistant, telling him he wanted an immediate report on Karl Tang’s activities. Contrary to what Pau Wen might think, Ni had been watching Tang for some time, employing spies embedded deep within the first vice premier’s office. Still, never had anyone spoken of eunuchs or the Ba.
He already knew Tang had left the capital yesterday, ostensibly to meet with local officials in Chongqing, but the true purpose of his journey had been to oversee the death sentence of a man named Jin Zhao, whose treason conviction had recently been upheld by the Supreme People’s Court. He’d instructed his chief assistant to learn more about Zhao’s case, along with Tang’s interest in the man’s death.
The vibration of his cell phone startled him. His staff had been fast, as usual. He answered, hoping that Pau would be delayed at least a few minutes more since this conversation must be private.
“Jin Zhao was an experimental geochemist who worked under the Ministry of Geological Development,” his aide reported. “He supposedly passed sensitive information about oil exploration to the Russians.”
“What type of information?”
“The record is silent. State secret.”
&nb
sp; “And the Russian agent?”
“No mention.”
“Was the information actually passed?”
“No. An attempt thwarted, or so the trial record notes. However, the name you provided, Lev Sokolov, was also mentioned during the proceedings.”
He’d taken Pau’s advice and asked his office for a dossier on and current whereabouts of Lev Sokolov.
“He’s a Russian expatriate who worked with Jin Zhao at a petrochemical research facility in Lanzhou, a lab under the direct jurisdiction of the Ministry of Geological Development.”
Which meant Karl Tang controlled the facility.
“Were Zhao and Sokolov colleagues?”
“They were working on an experimental project relative to advanced oil exploration. That’s what the facility’s budget reveals. Beyond that, we learned no details.”
“Learn them,” he said. He knew there were ways, especially in his department.
He listened as he was told about Tang’s busy night, traveling from Chongqing to the terra-cotta warrior site. Interestingly, a portion of one of the display pits had been destroyed by a fire, preliminarily blamed on an electrical short. Tang had been gone when the destruction occurred, flown to an oil exploration site in northern Gansu. Nothing out of the ordinary there, as Tang oversaw the nation’s entire oil exploration program.
“He’s in Gansu now,” his aide reported. “We have no eyes or ears at that location, but it’s not necessary. We know his next destination. Lev Sokolov has been missing for the past two weeks. Tang’s emissaries found him yesterday in Lanzhou. The minister is flying there.”
“We have men in Lanzhou?”
“Five. Ready.”
He recalled what Pau Wen had said. Find Sokolov. He is the person who can explain the lamp’s significance. “I want Sokolov taken before Tang gets him.”
“It will be done.”
“I’m on my way back.” He already held a reservation on a flight leaving Brussels, which he’d confirmed on the ride from the city. “It will be fifteen hours or so before I’m there. Send whatever you learn on Sokolov and Zhao by e-mail. I’ll be able to access it while en route. I want to know how they are connected and why Tang is so intent on them both.”