The Emperor's Tomb

to the outer reaches, where problems were hidden away.

He turned toward the other uniform and motioned.

The captain removed his holstered sidearm, approached the bed, and fired one shot through Jin Zhao’s forehead.

The body lurched, then went still.

The respirator continued to force air into dead lungs.

“Sentence has been carried out,” Tang declared. “Duly witnessed by representatives of the People’s government, the military … and this facility’s chief administrator.”

He indicated that it was time to leave. The mess would be the doctor’s to clean up.

He walked toward the doors.

“You just shot a helpless man,” the doctor screamed. “Is this what our government has become?”

“You should be grateful,” he said.

“For what?”

“That the government does not debit this facility’s operating budget for the cost of the bullet.”

And he left.

THREE

COPENHAGEN

1:20 PM

MALONE LEFT HIS BOOKSHOP AND STEPPED OUT INTO HOJBRO Plads. The afternoon sky was cloudless, the Danish air comfortable. The Stroget—a chain of traffic-free streets, most lined with shops, cafes, restaurants, and museums—surged with commerce.

He’d solved the problem of what to bring by simply grabbing the first book off one of the shelves and stuffing it into an envelope. Cassiopeia had apparently opted to buy herself time by involving him. Not a bad play, except the ruse could only be stretched so far. He wished he knew what she was doing. Since last Christmas, between them, there’d been visits, a few meals here and there, phone calls, and e-mails. Most dealing with Thorvaldsen’s death, which seemed to have hurt them both. He still couldn’t believe his best friend was gone. Every day he expected the cagey old Dane to walk into the bookstore, ready for some lively conversation. He still harbored a deep regret that his friend had died thinking he’d been betrayed.

“You did what you had to in Paris,” Cassiopeia told him. “I would have done the same.”

“Henrik didn’t see it that way.”

“He wasn’t perfect, Cotton. He sent himself into a spiral. He wasn’t thinking and wouldn’t listen. There was more at stake there than just his revenge. You had no choice.”

“I let him down.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Tell you what. If I’m ever in big trouble, let me down the same way.”

He kept walking, hearing her words in his head.

Now it was happening again.

He left the Stroget and crossed a boulevard clogged with the gleaming metal of cars, buses, and bicycles. He hustled through the Radhuspladsen, another of Copenhagen’s many public squares, this one stretching out before the city’s town hall. He spotted the bronze trumpeters atop, soundlessly blowing their ancient lurs. Above them stood the copper statue of Bishop Absalon who, in 1167, expanded a tiny fishing village into a walled fortress.

On the plaza’s far side, beyond another traffic-choked boulevard, he spotted Tivoli.

He gripped the envelope in one hand, his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta tucked beneath a jacket. He’d retrieved the weapon from under his bed, where it stayed inside a knapsack with other reminders of his former life.

“I think you’re a little nervous,” Cassiopeia said to him.

They stood outside his bookshop in chilly March weather. She was right. He was nervous. “I’m not much of a romantic.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have known. Lucky for you, I am.”

She looked great. Tall, lean, skin the color of pale mahogany. Thick auburn hair brushed her shoulders, framing a striking face highlighted by thin brows and firm cheeks.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Cotton.”

Interesting that she’d known he was actually thinking about Thorvaldsen.

“You’re a good man. Henrik knew that.”

“I was two minutes too late.”

“And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

She was right.

But he still could not shake the feeling.

He’d seen Cassiopeia both at her best and when circumstances had stripped her of all confidence—when she was vulnerable, prone to mistakes, emotional. Luckily, he’d been there to compensate, as she’d been for him when the roles reversed. She was an amazing blend of femininity and strength, but everyone, even she, occasionally stepped too far.

A vision of Cassiopeia tied to plywood, a towel over her face, flashed through his mind.

Why her?

Why not him?

KARL TANG STEPPED ONTO THE HELICOPTER AND SETTLED HIMSELF in the rear compartment. His business in Chongqing was at an end.

He hated the place.

Thirty million people consumed every square meter of the hills surrounding the confluence of the Jialing and Yangtze rivers. Under Mongol, Han, and Manchu rule it had been the empire’s center. A hundred years ago it became a wartime capital during the Japanese invasion. Now it was a mix of old and new—mosques, Daoist temples, Christian churches, communist landmarks—a hot, humid, wretched place where skyscrapers broke the horizon.

The chopper rose into a carbon-laced fog and vectored toward the northwest.

He’d dismissed his aides and the captains.

No spies would come on this part of the journey.

This he must do himself.

MALONE PAID HIS ADMISSION AND ENTERED TIVOLI. PART amusement park, part cultural icon, the treed and flowered wonderland had entertained Danes since 1843. A national treasure, where old-style Ferris wheels, pantomime theaters, and a pirate ship blended with more modern gravity-defying rides. Even the Germans had spared it during World War II. Malone liked visiting—easy to see how it inspired both Walt Disney and Hans Christian Andersen.

He fled the main entrance and followed a flora-bordered central avenue. Bulb gardens, roses, lilacs, as well as hundreds of lime, chestnut, cherry, and evergreen trees grew in an ingenious plan that, to him, always seemed bigger than a mere twenty-one acres. Scents of popcorn and cotton candy wafted in the air, along with the sounds of a Vienna waltz and big-band tunes. He knew that Tivoli’s creator had justified the excess by advising Denmark’s Christian VIII that when the people are amusing themselves, they do not think about politics.

He was familiar with the Chinese pagoda. Within a leafy bower it stood four stories tall and faced a lake. More than a hundred years old, its Asiatic image adorned nearly every brochure that advertised Tivoli.

A cadre of young boys, smartly dressed in red jackets, bandoliers, and bushy bearskin hats marched down an