In the last decade, the illegal excavation and sale of fossils had become big business, especially in Asia. China in particular had been cited as a primary offender by a number of investigative bodies, but all of them lacked the teeth to enforce penalties within her borders. The previous year, a report by the Sustainable Preservation Initiative estimated that of the thousands of tons of fossil artifacts sold on the black market, less than one percent of them are intercepted-and, of these, none led to a single conviction.
“It’s big money,” Remi said. “Private collectors are willing to pay millions for intact fossils, especially if it’s of one of the sexier species:
“Millions of dollars is pocket change to King.”
“You’re right, but there’s no denying what’s in front of us. Wouldn’t this qualify as leverage, Sam?”
He smiled. “It would indeed. We’re going to need more than pictures, though. How do you feel about a bit of skullduggery?”
“I’m a big fan of skullduggery.”
Sam checked his watch. “We’ve got a few hours until nightfall.”
Remi turned around and retrieved their digital camera from her pack. “I’ll make the most of what daylight we have left.”
Whether a trick of light or a genuine phenomenon, twilight seemed to last hours in the Himalayas. An hour after Sam and Remi hunkered down in the foliage to wait, the sun began dipping toward the peaks to the west, and for the next two hours they watched dusk ever so slowly settle over the forest until finally the bulldozers’ and trucks’ headlights popped on.
“They’re finishing up,” Sam said, pointing.
Along the perimeter of the pit, digging crews were emerging from the tunnels and heading toward the ramp.
“Working from dusk till dawn,” Remi remarked.
“And probably for pennies an hour,” replied Sam.
“If that. Maybe their pay is, not getting shot at.”
To their right they heard a branch snap. They froze. Silence. And then, faintly, the crunch of footsteps moving closer. Sam gestured to Remi with a flattened palm, and together they pressed themselves against the ground, their faces turned right toward the sound.
Ten seconds passed.
A shadowed figure appeared on the trail. Dressed in olive drab fatigues and a floppy jungle hat, the man carried his assault rifle diagonally across his body. He walked to the edge of the pit, stopped, and gazed down. He raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and scanned the pit. After a full minute of this, he lowered his binoculars, then turned, stepped off the trail, and disappeared from view.
Sam and Remi waited for five minutes, then rose up onto their elbows. “Did you see his face?” she asked.
“I was too busy waiting to see if he was going to step on us.”
“He was Chinese.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Sam considered this. “Looks like Charlie King’s got himself some partners. One bit of good news, though.”
“What?”
“He wasn’t carrying night-vision binoculars. Now all we have to worry about is bumping into one of them in the dark.”
“Ever the optimist,” Remi replied.
They continued to watch and wait, not only for the last of the men and equipment to make their way up the ramp and out of sight but also for any signs of further patrols.
An hour after night had fully fallen, they decided it was safe to move. Having decided against bringing rope of their own, they tried the organic approach and spent ten minutes quietly rummaging about the forest floor until they found a vine long enough and strong enough for their needs. After securing one end to a nearby tree trunk, Sam dropped the coil over the side into the pit.
“We’ll have a drop of about eight feet.”
“I knew my paratrooper training would come in handy someday,” Remi replied. “Give me a hand.”
Before Sam could protest, Remi was wriggling sideways, sliding her lower body over the edge. He grasped her right hand as she clamped onto the vine with her left.
“See you at the bottom,” she said with a smile and dropped from sight. Sam watched her descend to the bottom of the vine, where she let go, hit the ground, and performed a shoulder roll that brought her back to her knees.
“Show-off,” Sam muttered, then went over the side. He was beside her a few moments later, having performed his own roll, though not as gracefully as his wife. “You’ve been practicing,” he told her.
“Pilates,” she replied. “And ballet.”
“You never did ballet.”
“I did as a little girl.”
Sam grumbled and she gave him a conciliatory kiss on the cheek. “Where to?” she asked.
Sam pointed to the nearest tunnel entrance fifty yards to their left. Hunched over, they dashed along the pit’s earthen side and followed it to the entrance. They crouched just inside.
“I’ll have a peek,” Remi said, then slipped inside.
A few minutes later she reappeared beside him. “They’re working on a few specimens, but nothing earth- shattering.”
“Moving on,” Sam replied.
They sprinted to the next tunnel and repeated the drill, with similar results, then moved on to the third tunnel. They were ten feet from the entrance when, on the far end of the pit, a trio of pole-mounted klieg lights glowed to life, casting half the pit in stark, white light.
“Fast!” Sam said. “Inside!”
They skidded to a halt inside the entrance and dropped to their bellies. “Did they spot us?” Remi whispered.
“If they had, we’d be taking fire right now,” Sam replied. “I think. One way or another, we’ll know shortly.”
They waited, breaths held, half expecting to hear the pounding of footsteps approaching or the crack of gunshots, but neither happened. Instead, from the ramp area they heard a woman’s voice shout something, a barked command.
“Did you catch that?” Sam asked. “Is it Chinese?”
Remi nodded. “I missed most of it. Something like ‘Bring him,’ I think.”
They crawled forward a few inches until they could see around the corner of the entrance. A group of two dozen or so workers were walking down the ramp flanked by four guards. At the head of the column was a small female figure in a black jumpsuit. Once the group reached the bottom of the pit, the guards herded the workers into a line facing in the direction of Sam and Remi’s hiding spot. The woman continued walking.
Sam grabbed his binoculars and zoomed in on her. Sam lowered the binoculars and looked sideways at Remi. “You’re not going to believe this. It’s Crouching Tiger, Scary Lady herself,” he said. “Zhilan Hsu.”
Remi grabbed her camera and stared snapping pictures. “I don’t know if I got her,” she said.
Hsu stopped suddenly, whirled on the assembled workers, and began shouting and gesticulating wildly. Remi closed her eyes, trying to catch the words. “Something about thieves,” she said. “Stealing from the site. Missing artifacts.”
Hsu stopped abruptly, paused, then pointed an accusatory finger at one of the workers. The guards were on him immediately, one slamming the butt of his rifle into the small of his back, sending him sprawling forward, a second guard heaving him back to his feet and half dragging, half walking him forward. The pair stopped a few feet before Hsu. The guard released the man, who fell to his knees and began chattering.
“He’s begging,” Remi said. “He has a wife and children. He stole only one small piece . . .”
Without warning, Zhilan Hsu drew a pistol from her waistband, took a step forward, and shot the man in the forehead. The man toppled sideways and lay still.
Hsu began speaking again. Though Remi was no longer translating, it took little imagination to understand the
