The Emperor's Tomb

MALONE FOLLOWED CASSIOPEIA AND PAU WEN TO THE END OF the pier, Stephanie walking beside him.

“You realize this is crazy,” he said in a low voice.

“Ivan says they slip in all the time. Usually from the shoreline to the north. Only difference here is half the flight will be over Vietnam.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

She smiled. “You can handle it.”

He pointed at Pau. “Bringing him along is crazy, too.”

“He’s your guide.”

“We’re not part of whatever he’s after. I doubt he’ll be much help.”

“Since you know that, be ready.”

He shook his head. “I should be selling books.”

“How’s your hip?”

“Sore.”

“I need to make contact before we leave,” Cassiopeia called out, stopping at the pier’s end. She’d told them that a neighbor of Lev Sokolov’s had agreed to act as go-between. All she needed was a laptop, which Stephanie produced, and a satellite connection, which Ivan arranged.

Cassiopeia balanced the computer on the dock’s wooden railing, and Malone held it in place. He watched as she typed in an e-mail address, then a message.

I HAVE BEEN READING THE THOUGHTS OF MAO, BUT CANNOT FIND HIS WORDS REGARDING UNITY. COULD YOU HELP ME?

“That’s clever,” he said.

He knew the Chinese censored the Internet, restricting access to search engines, blogs, chat rooms, any site that allowed open conversation. They also employed filters that screened all digital content in and out of the country for anything suspicious. They were in the process of creating their own intranet, solely for China, which would be far easier to regulate. He’d read about the venture and its skyrocketing costs and technological challenges.

“I found a copy of the The Little Red Book and worked out a code,” she said. “The words of Mao would never arouse suspicion. The neighbors said they would check constantly for any message.”

Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong—or, as the West labeled it, The Little Red Book—was the most printed book in history. Nearly seven billion copies. Once, every Chinese was required to carry one, and those editions now were valuable collector’s items. Malone had bought one himself a few months ago, at the monthly book auction in Roskilde, for one of his customers.

The laptop dinged with an incoming message.

IT IS THE DUTY OF THE CADRES AND THE PARTY TO SERVE THE PEOPLE. WITHOUT THE PEOPLE’S INTERESTS CONSTANTLY AT HEART, THEIR WORK IS USELESS.

She looked up at him. “That’s the wrong response. Which means trouble.”

“Can they clarify what’s going on?” Stephanie asked.

She shook her head. “Not without compromising themselves.”

“She is correct,” Pau Wen said. “I, too, use a similar coding method when communicating with friends in China. The government watches cyberspace closely.”

Malone handed the laptop back. “We need to go. But first I have to do something.”

Ivan had been talking on the phone for the past few minutes, standing away from them. Malone walked down the dock and, as the Russian ended his call, asked, “Anything you’re willing to tell us?”

“You do not like me much, do you?”

“I don’t know. Try a new posture, different clothes, a diet, and a change in attitude and maybe our relationship will improve.”

“I have job to do.”

“So do I. But you’re making it difficult.”

“I give you plane and way in.”

“Viktor. Where is he? I miss him.”

“He is doing job, too.”

“I need to know something, and for once tell me the truth.”

Ivan stared back at him.

“Is Viktor there to kill Karl Tang?”

“If opportunity arise, this will be good thing.”

“And Sokolov? Is he there to kill him, too?”

“Not at all. That one we want back.”

“He knows too much? Maybe some things you don’t know?”

Ivan only glared at him.

“I thought so. Sokolov must have been busy while in China. Tell me, if it’s not possible for Viktor to retrieve Sokolov or, God forbid, we get our hands on him first, what are his orders?”

Ivan said nothing.

“Just like I thought, too. I’m going to do us all a favor and keep this to myself.” He gestured to the end of the dock. “She’s not going to let that happen to Sokolov.”

“She may have no say. Much better when we thought Sokolov dead. Now it is Viktor’s choice.”

“We’ll make sure he makes the right one.”

He headed back toward the others where Cassiopeia was climbing into the plane’s cabin, followed by Pau.

“Spry sucker,” he whispered to Stephanie.

“Watch him, Cotton.”

He pointed at Ivan. “And you watch him.”

He climbed inside. Two leather seats rested side by side, Cassiopeia in one, a center bench behind them where Pau sat. The instrument panel did not extend to the passenger side, which provided Cassiopeia a wide view ahead through the forward windows. He strapped himself in and studied the controls, noticing the top speed to be around 200 kilometers per hour. One fuel tank in the keel, below the cabin door, held 320 liters. Another auxiliary tank in the tail carried 60 liters. He did the math. About a 1,500 kilometer range. Plenty for a one-way trip, as Ivan had said, which he hoped did not have a double meaning.

“I assume you know what you’re doing?” she asked.

“As good a time as any to learn.”

She gave him a quizzical look.

“What?” he asked.

“You can fly this, right?” Doubt clouded her tone.

He adjusted the throttle, props, and fuel mixture. He glanced down at the keel plugs and noticed that they were intact. A flick of a switch and the twin engines roared to life. He played with the fuel mixture until the props spun firm. He twisted the cranks for the elevator and rudder trims.

“No problem,” he said.

Cassiopeia did not appear to share his confidence.

The plane started to drift, so he grasped the yoke and maneuvered out onto the bay. He turned toward the south so the faint breeze he’d noted on shore would be at their back.

He throttled up the engines to 180 horsepower.

The Twin Bee skimmed across the surface, the controls tightened, and he gripped the yoke.

This would be his first off-water takeoff. He’d always wanted to do it.

Less than five hundred feet was needed before the wings caught air and the plane lifted, slow and steady, as if in an elevator. They found open water beyond the bay. He banked left and adjusted course toward the northwest, heading back over shore. The controls were sluggish, but responsive. Not a P-3 Orion, he reminded himself, or even a Cessna or a Beechcraft. This tank was designed for little more than short water hopping.

“Take a look at that chart,” he said to Cassiopeia.