The Emperor's Tomb

by a locked iron gate, the windows barred. Stephanie had called and said that she’d arranged for the alarm system to be disabled, as Europol and the police were working with her. Local cooperation usually meant folks many pay grades higher than Stephanie were calling the shots. Which only reemphasized that this involved far more than a missing four-year-old boy.

He hugged the side of a building and kept to the shadows, avoiding the burst of a nearby streetlight. He peered around the corner, hoping he might spot Cassiopeia.

But all he saw were three men emerging from a parked car.

No light came on when the doors opened, which caught his interest.

They were beyond the museum entrance, a good fifty yards away from where he stood, hidden by the night.

The tight cluster of dark figures stepped onto the sidewalk, walked without a sound to the museum entrance, and tested the iron gate.

“Around back,” he heard one of them say in English. “She’s definitely here. Get the stuff, just in case.”

Two of the men retreated to the car, where each removed an oversized canister. Together the three headed to the nearest corner and turned right. Malone figured there must be another way into the building—from the rear, the next block over. So he crossed the street and decided to approach from the opposite direction.

NI STOOD IN THE DARKNESS, BEYOND THE GARDEN OF THE DRIES Van Egmond Museum, Pau Wen beside him. They’d made the journey from the countryside to Antwerp, parking several blocks away and assessing the building from the rear. Pau had brought one of his men, who’d just reconnoitered the darkness.

The man reappeared and whispered his report. “A woman is near the building, about to break inside. Three men are approaching from the far end of the street.”

Pau considered the information, then mouthed, Watch the men.

The shadow hustled off.

Their position was adjacent to a drive that ran behind the museum, between the buildings on the next block over. A small graveled parking lot stretched the length of a row of tall hedges that separated the garden from the drive. An open gateway, framed by ivy, led into a courtyard, surrounded on three sides by the museum. Ni tried to focus, but other images floated through his mind. None good. Men speared with arrows. The bound man being shot in the head. He told himself that, at least for the moment, he was again on the offensive. Pau appeared to be helping, though Ni remained highly suspicious.

Three forms appeared, two of them carrying containers. They disappeared through the portal into the rear yard.

“Vitt has returned for the lamp,” Pau whispered. “But Tang has come, too.”

“How do you know that?”

“There is no other explanation. Those men work for him.”

Another form appeared, this from the opposite direction. A solitary man. Tall, broad-shouldered, hands empty. He entered the garden, too. Ni wished for more light, but the moon was gone and all that stretched before them was a dense band of darkness.

“And who is that?” he asked Pau.

“An excellent question.”

MALONE HAD ADDED UP HIS SUSPICIONS AND NOW HE KNEW. The three men were tracking Cassiopeia. Two of them wore ski masks over their heads and black clothing, tight over lean bodies, gloves and dark shoes on their hands and feet. The third man was dressed in dark clothing as well, but a jacket and trousers. He was shorter, a bit stouter, and seemed in charge. He carried a small device in one hand, which he kept at his waist, following its lead.

Cassiopeia had been electronically tagged.

He wondered if she knew.

The leader motioned and they picked their way through the dark, hurrying toward a set of glass doors that opened onto a terrace. Ivy veined the building’s rear facade. Malone imagined that when this was once a residence, the terrace had been a gathering spot to enjoy the garden. Interestingly, unlike the front entrance, these rear doors were not barred. Perhaps that was more of Stephanie’s intervention. Amazing what a few Russians coming around could do.

The leader reached through a shattered pane in the door and opened the latch from the inside, apparently just as Cassiopeia had done.

The three disappeared inside.

Malone walked between the soft fragrances and muted colors of the flower beds, toward the doors.

He found his Beretta.

TWENTY-SIX

GANSU PROVINCE, CHINA

TANG TAPPED THE KEYBOARD, ENTERING A PASSWORD THAT completed the video connection. He preferred cyber-communication to face-to-face meetings. If performed with the right encoding, security was nearly foolproof. Unless one of the parties to the conversation allowed a violation.

But that wasn’t a worry here.

All of the participants were sworn by oath, bound by the brotherhood, each a loyal and dedicated member of the Ba.

He stroked the touch pad, and the laptop’s screen divided into ten panes. A man’s face appeared in each, bearing features of the Han Chinese, all of them in their fifties like himself. They served in diverse areas. One was a judge on the Supreme People’s Court. Several were respected department heads. Two were generals in the military. Three were members of the all-powerful Central Committee. They’d risen in rank, just like Tang—steadily, unnoticed—and served as Ba division leaders. Men who supervised other brothers, scattered throughout the national and local governments and the military. Their total numbers were limited, little more than two thousand, but enough to accomplish their goal.

“Good day,” he said into the laptop’s microphone.

China, though 5,000 kilometers across and spread over five international time zones, stayed on Beijing time. He’d never understood the logic since it led to annoying differences in work hours, but it explained the varied dress of the men on the screen.

“I wanted to report that the premier’s health is rapidly deteriorating,” he said. “I have learned that he has less than a year left. Of course, that fact will be kept secret. But it is imperative we maintain a constant readiness.”

He saw heads nod.

“The Central Committee is prepared,” he said. “We have a solid majority to achieve the premiership.”

One hundred and ninety-eight people served on the all-powerful Central Committee. He’d cultivated well over a hundred, men not of the Ba, who believed as he did that China must head in a direction more reminiscent of Mao than Deng Xiaoping.

“And what of Ni Yong?” one of the men asked. “He has growing support.”

“That matter is being handled. A state funeral in his honor will greatly rally the people to our cause.”

“Is that necessary?”

“The simplest way to eliminate the problem is to eliminate the candidate. This was discussed and approved.”

“Conditionally,” one of the others quickly added. “As a last resort. Ni’s death could have implications, depending on the manner of his demise. We don’t want a martyr.”

“That will not happen. His death will be attributed to one of his many investigations, one that went terribly wrong. It will happen outside the country.”

He saw that several agreed, but a few did not.