ALSO BY STEVE BERRY
NOVELS
The Amber Room
The Romanov Prophecy
The Third Secret
The Templar Legacy
The Alexandria Link
The Venetian Betrayal
The Charlemagne Pursuit
The Paris Vendetta
E-BOOKS
“The Balkan Escape”
The Emperor’s Tomb is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Steve Berry
Map copyright © 2010 by David Lindroth, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Berry, Steve.
The emperor’s tomb : a novel / Steve Berry.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52314-3
1. Malone, Cotton (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Booksellers and bookselling—Fiction. 3. Antiquarian booksellers—Fiction. 4. Kidnapping—Fiction. 5. Ransom—Fiction. 6. Denmark—Fiction. 7. Pakistan—Fiction. 8. China—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.E764E46 2010 813′.6—dc22 2010019168
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.1
For Fran Downing, Frank Green, Lenore Hart,
David Poyer, Nancy Pridgen,
Clyde Rogers, and Daiva Woodworth
Teachers extraordinaire
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To the folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Cindy Murray, Kim Hovey, Katie O’Callaghan, Beck Stvan, Carole Lowenstein, Rachel Kind, and all those in promotions and sales. Once again, thanks.
To Mark Tavani, thanks for being a persistent editor.
To Pam Ahearn I offer a ninth bow of gratitude and my continued appreciation.
To Simon Lipskar, I deeply appreciate your wisdom and guidance.
A few special mentions: Charlie Smith, who performed some much-appreciated reconnoitering in China; Grant Blackwood, a superb thriller writer who saved me from falling in Denver; Els Wouters, who provided, on short notice, vital on-site research in Antwerp; Esther Levine for opening doors at the terra-cotta warrior exhibit; Bob and Jane Stine, who stimulated my imagination over lunch and connected me with “Julia” Xiaohui Zhu; James Rollins for once again helping save the day; Michele and Joe Finder, who offered some sage advice; Meryl Moss and her wonderful staff; Melisse Shapiro, who is more helpful than she could ever realize; and Esther Garver and Jessica Johns who keep History Matters and Steve Berry Enterprises running.
I also want to say thank you to every one of my readers around the world. I appreciate your loyal support, insightful comments, infectious enthusiasm, and, yes, even your criticisms. You are what keeps me writing every day.
And there’s Elizabeth—critic, cheerleader, editor, wife, muse. The whole package.
Finally, this book is dedicated to Fran Downing, Frank Green, Lenore Hart, David Poyer, Nancy Pridgen, Clyde Rogers, and Daiva Woodworth. Together, they showed me how to teach myself to be a writer.
Whether I succeeded is still a matter of debate.
One thing, though, is clear.
Without their influence, nothing ever would have been printed.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Map
Timeline of Relevant Events of Chinese History
Prologue
Part 1 - Three Days Earlier
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Part 2
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Part 3
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Part 4
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Writer’s Note
About the Author
Study the past if you would define the future.
—CONFUCIUS
History is a maiden, and you can dress her however you wish.
—CHINESE PROVERB
All countries large and small suffer one defect in common: the surrounding of the ruler with unworthy personnel. Those who would control rulers, first discover their secret fears and wishes.
—HAN FEI TZU, 3rd century BCE
TIMELINE OF RELEVANT
EVENTS OF CHINESE HISTORY
1765–1027 BCE Shang Dynasty (earliest known)
770–481 BCE Spring and Autumn Period
551–479 BCE Confucius lives
535 BCE Origin of the eunuch system
481–221 BCE Warring States Period and emergence of Legalism
200 BCE Chinese first drill for oil
221 BCE Qin Shi unifies the warring states into China and becomes First Emperor
210 BCE Qin Shi dies; terra-cotta army is completed and interred with First Emper
or in Imperial tomb mound
146 BCE–67 CE Eunuch system expands into a political force
89 BCE Sima Qian completes Records of the Historian (Shiji)
202 CE–1912 CE Dynastic rule of China flourishes
1912 CE Last emperor is forced from throne; dynastic rule ends; eunuch system is abolished; Republic of China is formed
1949 CE Communist Revolution; People’s Republic of China is formed
1974 CE Terracotta army is rediscovered
1976 CE Mao Zedong dies
PROLOGUE
NORTHERN AREAS, PAKISTAN
FRIDAY, MAY 18
8:10 AM
A BULLET ZIPPED PAST COTTON MALONE. HE DOVE TO THE rocky ground and sought what cover the sparse poplars offered. Cassiopeia Vitt did the same and they belly-crawled across sharp gravel, finding a boulder large enough to provide the two of them protection.
More shots came their way.
“This is getting serious,” Cassiopeia said.
“You think?”
Their trek had, so far, been uneventful. The greatest congregation of towering peaks on the planet surrounded them. The roof of the world, two thousand miles from Beijing, in the extreme southwestern corner of China’s Xinjiang Autonomous Region—or the Northern Areas of Pakistan, depending on whom you asked—smack up against a hotly disputed border.
Which explained the soldiers.
“They’re not Chinese,” she said. “I caught a glimpse. Definitely Pakistanis.”
Jagged, snowy summits as high as twenty thousand feet shielded glaciers, patches of green-black forest, and lush valleys. The Himalaya, Karakoum, Hindu Kush, and Pamir ranges all merged here. This was the land of black wolves and blue poppies, ibex and snow leopards. Where fairies congregated, Malone recalled one ancient observer noting. Possibly even the inspiration behind James Hilton’s Shangri-la. A paradise for trekkers, climbers, rafters, and skiers. Unfortunately, India and Pakistan both claimed sovereignty, China retained possession, and all three governments had fought over the desolate region for decades.
“They seem to know where we’re headed,” she said.
“That thought occurred to me, too.” So he had to add, “I told you he was trouble.”
They were dressed in leather jackets, jeans, and boots. Though they were more than eight thousand feet above sea level, the air was surprisingly mild. Maybe sixty degrees, he estimated. Luckily, both of them carried Chinese semi-automatic weapons and a few spare magazines.
“We have to go that way.” He pointed behind them. “And those soldiers are close enough to do some damage.”
He searched his eidetic brain for what they needed. Yesterday, he’d studied the local geography and noted that this slice of earth, which wasn’t much larger than New Jersey, was once called Hunza, a princely state for over nine hundred years, whose independence finally evaporated in the 1970s. The fair-skinned and light-eyed locals claimed to be descendants of soldiers in Alexander the Great’s army, from when Greeks invaded two millennia ago. Who knew? The land had remained isolated for centuries, until the 1980s, when the Karakoram Highway passed through and connected China to Pakistan.
“We have to trust that he’ll handle it,” she finally said.
“That was your call, not mine. You go first. I’ll cover.”
He gripped the Chinese double-action pistol. Not a bad weapon. Fifteen rounds, fairly accurate. Cassiopeia prepared herself, too. He liked that about her—ready for any situation. They made a good team, and this striking Spanish Arab definitely intrigued him.
She scampered off toward a stand of junipers.
He aimed the pistol across the boulder and readied himself to react at the slightest movement. To his right, in the tomb-like illumination that filtered through the spring foliage, he caught the glimmer of a rifle barrel being aimed around a tree trunk.
He fired.
The barrel disappeared.
He decided to use the moment and followed Cassiopeia, keeping the boulder between himself and their pursuers.
He reached her and they both raced forward, using more trees as cover.
Sharp bursts of rifle fire echoed. Bullets pinged around them.
The trail twisted out of the trees and rose in a steep but climbable slope, held to a rocky bluff by retaining walls of loose boulders. Not much cover here, but they had no choice. Beyond the trail, he spied canyons so deep and sheer that light could enter only at high noon. A gorge dropped away to their right, and they ran along its edge. Bright sun blazed on the far side, dulled by black mountain slate. A hundred feet below water rushed and tumbled, gray with sand, tossing foamy spray high into the air.
They clambered up the steep embankment.
He spotted the bridge.
Exactly where they’d been told.
Not much of a span, just shaky poles wedged upright between boulders on each end, horizontal timbers fastened on top, connected by thick hemp. A footwalk of boards dangled over the river.
Cassiopeia reached the top of the trail. “We have to cross.”
He didn’t like that prospect, but she was right. Their destination was on the far side.
Gunfire echoed in the distance and he glanced behind them.
No soldiers.
Which bothered him.
“Maybe he’s leading them away,” she said.
His distrust made him defensive, but there was no time to analyze the situation. He stuffed the gun into his pocket. Cassiopeia did the same, then stepped onto the bridge.
He followed.
The boards vibrated from the rush of water below. He estimated less than a hundred feet to the other side, but they’d be suspended in open air with zero cover, moving from shadows to sunlight. Another trail could be seen on the far side, leading across loose gravel into more trees. He spotted a figure, maybe fifteen feet high, carved in the rock face beyond the trail—a Buddhist image, just as they’d been told.
Cassiopeia turned back toward him, Eastern eyes peering from her Western face. “This bridge has seen better days.”
“I hope it has at least one more left.”
She gripped the twisted ropes that held the span aloft.
He tightened his fingers around the coarse strands, too, then decided, “I’ll go first.”
“And the reason for that?”
“I’m heavier. If they hold me, they’ll hold you.”
“Since I can’t argue with that logic”—she stepped aside—“be my guest.”
He assumed the lead, his feet attuned to the steady vibrations.
No sign of any pursuers.
He decided a brisk pace would be better, not giving the boards time to react. Cassiopeia followed.
A new sound rose over the rushing water.
Deep bass tones. Far off, but growing louder.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He whipped his head to the right and caught the first glimpse of a shadow on a rock wall, maybe a mile away, where the gorge they were negotiating met another running perpendicular.
At the halfway point it seemed the bridge was holding, though the moldy boards gave like a sponge. His palms loosely gripped the rough hemp, ready to apply a death lock if the bottom fell out beneath him.
The distant shadow grew in size, then was replaced with the distinct shape of an AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter.
American-made, but this was no salvation.
Pakistan operated them, too, provided by Washington to help a supposed ally with the war on terrorism.
The Cobra powered straight toward them. Twin-bladed, dual-engined, it carried 20mm guns, anti-tank missiles, and aerial rockets. Fast as a bumblebee, and equally maneuverable.
“That’s not here to help,” he heard Cassiopeia say.
He agreed, but there was no need to voice that he’d been right all along. They’d been herded to this spot, for this precise purpose.
Damn that son of a bitch—
The Cobra started firing.
A steady procession of po
ps sent 20mm rounds their way.
He dove belly-first to the bridge boards and rolled, staring past his feet as Cassiopeia did the same. The Cobra roared toward them, its turboshafts sucking through the dry, limpid air. Rounds found the bridge, ripping wood and rope with a savage fury.
Another burst arrived.
Concentrated on the ten feet between him and Cassiopeia.
He spied fury in her eyes and watched as she found her gun, came to her knees and fired at the copter’s canopy. But he knew that armor plating and an aircraft moving at more than 170 miles an hour reduced the chances of causing damage to zero.
“Get the hell down,” he yelled.
Another burst of cannon fire annihilated the bridge between him and Cassiopeia. One moment the wood-and-rope construction existed, the next it was gone in a cloud of debris.
He sprang to his feet and realized the entire span was about to collapse. He could not go back, so he ran ahead, the final twenty feet, clinging to the ropes as the bridge dropped away.
The Cobra flew past, toward the opposite end of the gorge.
He held tight to the ropes and, as the bridge divided, each half swinging back toward opposite sides of the gorge, he flew through the air.
He slammed into rock, rebounded, then settled.
He did not give himself time to be terrified. Slowly, he pulled himself upward, scaling the remaining few feet to the top. Rushing water and the thump of chopper blades filled his ears. He focused across the gorge, searching for Cassiopeia, hoping she’d managed to make it up to the other side.
His heart sank when he saw her clinging with both hands to the other half of the bridge as it dangled against the sheer cliff face. He wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do. She was a hundred feet away. Only air between them.
The Cobra executed a tight turn within the gorge, arching upward, then began another run their way.
“Can you climb?” he screamed over the noise.
Her head shook.
“Do it,” he yelled.
She craned her neck his way. “Get out of here.”
“Not without you.”
The Cobra was less than a mile away. Its cannon would start firing any second.
“Climb,” he screamed.
One hand reached up.
Then she fell fifty feet into the rushing river.