“How do you know this?” he demanded of Jin Zhao.
The irritating geochemist had refused to cooperate, so he’d finally ordered Zhao’s arrest.
“Minister, I know nothing. It’s all theory.”
He’d heard that explanation before. “It’s more than theory. Tell me.”
But his prisoner refused.
He motioned and the soldier standing a few feet away advanced on Zhao, yanking him from the chair and pounding him twice in the stomach. He heard the breath leave the older man. Zhao dropped to his knees, arms wrapping his gut.
A slight nod from him signaled that two blows were enough.
Zhao struggled to breathe.
“It will only get worse,” he said. “Tell me.”
Zhao calmed himself. “Don’t hit me anymore. Please. No more.”
“Tell me what I want to know.”
He’d thoroughly investigated Jin Zhao and knew that he was not a Party member, not associated with any Party activities, and often spoke disparagingly about the government. His name appeared regularly on a local watch list, and he’d been warned several times to cease dissident activities. Tang had acted as protector on more than one occasion, blocking an arrest, but that had been conditioned on cooperation.
Zhao pushed himself up from the floor. “I will not tell you a thing.”
The soldier slammed a fist into Zhao’s jaw. Another found the chest. A third blow crashed down on the man’s skull.
Zhao collapsed.
Blood seeped from his half-opened mouth.
Two teeth were spit out.
A kick to the stomach and Zhao retreated into the fetal position, arms and legs brought tight to his body.
A few minutes later Jin Zhao lapsed into an unconsciousness from which he never awoke. A cerebral hemorrhage protected all that he knew, but a search of his house and office revealed enough documents for Tang to learn that right here, 2,200 years ago, men had drilled for brine and found oil. And while Jin Zhao lay on the floor, begging for help, screaming that his head exploded with pain—
“Tell me this,” Tang said. “One simple thing and I will call the doctor. You can receive care. No more beatings.”
He saw the hope of truth in the older man’s eyes.
“Has Lev Sokolov found the marker?”
Zhao’s head nodded yes.
At first slowly, then quickly.
TWENTY-TWO
ANTWERP
9:05 PM
CASSIOPEIA HUSTLED DOWN THE STREET SEARCHING FOR A place to hide. Three men had been following her since she’d left the hotel. Her left arm cradled the dragon lamp. She carried it carefully, nestled within a plastic bag, surrounded by balled paper.
Redbrick buildings and whitewashed houses surrounded her, all guarding a maze of empty cobbled streets. She rushed past a quiet square, the three men fifty meters behind. No one else could be seen. She could not allow them to take the lamp. Losing it meant losing Sokolov’s son.
“Over here,” she heard a voice say.
Across the street stood Cotton Malone.
“I got your message,” Cotton said. “I’m here.”
He was waving her toward him.
She ran, but when she made it to the corner he was gone.
The three men kept pace.
“Here.”
She stared down a narrow lane. Cotton was fifty meters away, still waving her forward.
“Cassiopeia, you’re making a mistake.”
She turned.
Henrik Thorvaldsen appeared.
“You can’t help him,” he said.
“I have the lamp.”
“Don’t trust him,” he said, and then the Dane was gone. Her eyes searched the street and buildings. The three men had not advanced closer and Cotton was still waving for her to come.
She ran.
Cassiopeia awoke.
She was lying on the park bench. Daylight had waned, the sky now the color of faded ink. She’d been asleep awhile. She glanced back, past the tree trunk. The Toyota remained parked and there were no police or loiterers in sight. She shook the grogginess from her brain. She’d been more tired than she realized. The gun lay beneath her shirt. The dream lingered in her mind.
Don’t trust him, Thorvaldsen had said.
Cotton?
He was the only other person there.
She was a good thirty-minute walk away from the Dries Van Egmond Museum. The jaunt would allow her to make sure no one was following. She tried to force her emotions to subside, her mind to stop questioning, but she couldn’t. Viktor Tomas’ appearance had unnerved her.
Was that who Henrik was referring to?
She spotted a water fountain, walked over, and savored a few long gulps.
She wiped her mouth and steadied herself.
Time to get this over with.
MALONE STEPPED OFF THE NATO CHOPPER AT A SMALL AIRFIELD north of Antwerp. Ivan followed Stephanie onto the tarmac. Stephanie had arranged the quick flight from Copenhagen. When they were clear of the blades, the helicopter departed back into the night sky.
Two cars awaited with drivers.
“Secret Service,” she told them. “Out of Brussels.”
Ivan had said little on the trip, just small talk about television and movies. The Russian seemed obsessed with American entertainment.
“All right,” Malone said. “We’re here. Where’s Cassiopeia?”
A third car approached from the far side of the terminal, passing rows of expensive private planes.
“My people,” Ivan said. “I must talk to them.”
The pudgy Russian waddled toward the car, which stopped. Two men emerged.
He stepped close to Stephanie and asked, “He has people here?”
“Apparently so.”
“Do we have any independent intelligence on this?” he quietly asked.
She shook her head. “Not enough time. It’ll be tomorrow, at the earliest, before I have anything.”
“So we’re bare-ass-to-the-wind, flying blind.”
“We’ve been there before.”
