ago, he’d ordered a complete profile. From that he’d learned of the Russian’s devotion to his son. That was not always the case. Tang knew many men who cared little for their children. Money, advancement, even mistresses were more important. Not so with Sokolov. Which was, in a way, admirable. Not that he could sympathize.
Something else from the profile came to mind.
A small item that only last night had become important.
He stepped to the door, opened it, and motioned for one of the men to draw close.
“In the car below there are a few items,” he said in a low voice. “Retrieve them. Then,” he paused, “find me a few rats.”
MALONE DROVE WHILE CASSIOPEIA SAT SILENT IN THE PASSENGER seat. His hip still hurt, but his pride was more deeply wounded. He should have kept his cool with Viktor. But he had neither the time nor the patience to deal with any distractions, and that man bore constant watching. Perhaps, though, he was more bothered by Cassiopeia’s defense of Viktor.
“I meant it,” she said. “I appreciate you coming.”
“What else would I have done?”
“Sell books.”
He smiled. “I don’t get to do that as much as I thought I would. Video links from friends getting waterboarded keep getting in the way.”
“I had to do this, Cotton.” He wanted to understand.
“Five years ago, I was involved with something in Bulgaria that went bad. I met Sokolov there. He worked for the Russians. When trouble hit, Sokolov got me out of there. He took a big chance.”
“Why?”
“He hated Moscow and loved his new wife. A Chinese. Who was pregnant at the time.”
Now he understood. The same child now at risk.
“What were you doing in the Balkans? That’s a tough place to roam around.”
“I was after some Thracian gold. A favor to Henrik that turned ugly.”
Things with Henrik Thorvaldsen could go that way. “You find it?”
She nodded her head. “Sure did. But, I barely made it out. With no gold. Cotton, Sokolov didn’t have to do what he did, but I would never have made it out of there, but for him. After, he found me on the Internet. We’d communicate from time to time. He’s an interesting man.”
“So you owe him.”
She nodded. “And I’ve screwed the whole thing up.”
“I think I had a little to do with that, too.”
She motioned to the intersection approaching in the headlights and told him to turn east.
“You had no idea about the oil in the lamp,” she said. “You were flying blind.” She paused. “Sokolov’s wife is destroyed. That boy was her world. I met her last week. I don’t think she can survive knowing he’s gone forever.”
“We’re not done yet,” he said.
She turned her head and looked at him. He glanced across the darkness and caught sight of her face. She looked tired, frustrated, angry.
And beautiful.
“How’s your hip?” she asked.
Not exactly what he wanted her to ask, but he knew she was as skittish as he was about emotions.
“I’ll live.”
She reached across and laid a hand on his arm. He recalled another time they’d touched, just after Henrik’s funeral, on the walk back from the grave, through trees bare to winter, across ground dusted with snow, holding hands in silence. No need to speak. The touch had said it all.
Like now.
A phone rang. His. Lying on the console between them.
She withdrew her hand and answered. “It’s Stephanie. She has the info on Pau Wen.”
“Put it on speaker.”
CASSIOPEIA DIGESTED THE INFORMATION STEPHANIE RELATED on Pau Wen. Her mind drifted back to a few hours ago when she thought she was about to die. She’d regretted things, lamented on how she would miss Cotton. She’d caught his irritation when she’d defended Viktor, though it really wasn’t a defense since she still believed that Viktor knew far more about Sokolov’s son than he was willing to admit. Viktor was obviously playing another dangerous game. The Russians against the Chinese, the Americans against them both.
Not an easy thing.
Stephanie continued with her information.
Cotton was listening, his eidetic memory surely filing away every detail. What a blessing that could be, but also a curse. There was so much she’d prefer not to recall.
One thing, though, she clearly remembered.
In the face of death, staring at the archer, his arrow aimed straight at her, then again when Viktor’s gun had pointed her way, she’d desperately wished for one more opportunity with Cotton.
And received it.
THIRTY-SEVEN
BELGIUM
MALONE STARED AT THE MAN. THOUGH IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT, black as soot outside, and the entrance bore evidence of gunfire, the older man who’d opened the doors—short-legged, thin-chested, with red- rimmed eyes, bleary but alert—seemed unfazed.
A faint smile came to his lips. Malone recognized the face.
From the museum, with two others, one of whom had carried a bow and arrows.
Cassiopeia was right. Pau Wen did indeed have the lamp.
Cassiopeia did not give Pau time to react. She withdrew her gun, the same one Viktor had used to track her, and jammed the barrel into the man’s neck. She shoved Pau from the doorway and slammed him against a stone wall, pinning a few artificial stalks of bamboo between his silk robe and the wall.
“You sent that bowman to kill me,” she said.
Two younger Chinese appeared at the top of a short flight of wide stairs that led up into the house. Malone withdrew his Beretta and aimed it their way, shaking his head, telling them not to interfere. The two halted their advance, as if they knew Cassiopeia would not pull the trigger.
Glad they thought so. He wasn’t so sure.
“You came into my home,” Pau said. “Stole my lamp at gunpoint. Did I not have the right to retrieve my property?”
She cocked the gun’s hammer. The two standing above them reacted to the increased threat, but Malone kept them in place with his weapon.
“You didn’t send that man to kill me because of the lamp,” she said. “You
“It was Minister Tang, not I, who changed this situation.”
“Perhaps we ought to let him speak,” Malone said. “And he might feel more inclined to do that if you took that gun away from his throat.”
“And men came to kill me today, as well,” Pau said. “Sent by Tang. You see evidence of that in the doors. Sadly, for them, they died trying.”
“And no police?” Malone asked.
Pau smiled.
Cassiopeia lowered the gun.
