The Emperor's Tomb

“I have a soft spot for Lev Sokolov’s son. I want to find that boy. To do that I need a sample of ancient oil to give Tang. To get that, we have to be in Xi’an.”

“You don’t really think that deal is still good, do you? Sokolov’s apparently in deep trouble.”

Her frustration was evident and he hated pressing, but it had to be said.

“Tang could already have Sokolov,” he said. “He may have no use for you any longer.”

“Then why are we still alive?” she asked.

He pointed at Pau. “Apparently, he’s what interests Tang now. Viktor made that abundantly clear.”

And there was what Ivan had not said. About Sokolov. The Russians wanted him back but, if left with no choice, dead was not out of the question.

He faced Pau. “What are we going to do once we’re on the ground?”

“We will enter the tomb of Qin Shi, just as I once did. But we’ll need flashlights.”

He found an equipment bay where two lay and retrieved them.

“The tomb was not finished at the time of Qin’s death,” Pau said. “His son, the Second Emperor, completed it and buried his father. He then tricked the designers, and some of the builders, into going inside, trapping them underground. They died with their emperor.”

“How do you know that?” Malone asked.

“I’ve seen their bones. They were there when I entered the tomb.”

“But you’re saying there was another way in and out,” Cassiopeia said.

Pau explained that groundwater had been a challenge for the builders, as their excavations had been deep enough to tap the water table. So an elaborate underground drainage system had been created. Long channels bore through the earth, as much as 800 meters long, which prevented water from penetrating the chambers during construction. Once completed, most of the tunnels were refilled with tamped earth to form a dam.

A few, though, had been left open.

“I stumbled across one when I found Qin Shi’s library. It bypasses all the traps that the builders set for robbers. Which was probably its purpose. They would have required a way to get inside to inspect the integrity, from time to time, without exposing themselves to danger.”

“Why didn’t they use it to get out once they were trapped inside?” Cassiopeia asked.

“The answer to that question will be obvious once you see the entrance.”

“What about the mercury?” Malone asked, recalling their conversation yesterday at Pau’s residence.

“I allowed the tomb to ventilate for several days before I entered. I also wore a respirator.”

“And what about now?” Cassiopeia asked. “The tomb has been sealed for over twenty years.”

“Preventive measures are in place.”

Not entirely comforting, Malone thought, glancing toward the cockpit and his other problem. Outside the windshield, rain closed in on the sun as threatening clouds approached.

“He saved our lives back there,” Cassiopeia said. “Yours included. He’s our way to Tang.”

“And what would have prevented Tang from already going into Qin’s tomb and taking the oil sample himself? Viktor has known about this for two days.”

“How would he get inside?” Pau said. “The tomb has never been excavated.”

“You don’t know what they’ve done,” he made clear. “We don’t even know if we’re headed toward Xi’an.”

“We are traveling in the right direction,” Pau said.

“And what if someone’s waiting for us when we land?”

“If that were the case,” Pau said, “why not just allow the fighter to shoot us down?”

Good point.

“What’s in the tomb?” Cassiopeia asked Pau.

“Not what you expect.”

Malone said, “Care to elaborate?”

“I’ll let you see for yourself, once we’re inside.”

FIFTY-ONE

2:30 PM

NI STEPPED FROM THE CAR THAT HAD DRIVEN HIM EAST FROM Xi’an into Lintong County and the Museum of Qin Dynasty Terracotta Warriors and Horses. The premier had told him that the helicopter carrying Pau Wen would arrive within the next thirty minutes. He’d also told Ni something that he’d never known, something that only one person left alive knew.

The tomb of Qin Shi, China’s First Emperor, had been opened.

Though the terra-cotta warriors had been dug from the ground and placed on display for the world to see, the tomb itself, a towering treed mound that dominated the otherwise flat, scrubby farmland, had supposedly never been violated. All agreed that the tomb represented one of the greatest archaeological opportunities on the planet. Qin Shi fundamentally changed the way his world was governed, solidifying Legalism, inventing a concept of government that unified China. He became the center of a nation and remained so even in death, taking with him not just a clay retinue, but a complete political system, one that reflected a supreme authority in both life and death. Those who came after him tried to diminish his influence by rewriting history. But entering the tomb, studying its contents, could well provide a way to correct every one of those edits.

Yet the communist government had always said no.

Officially, the reason was that technology and techniques did not, as yet, exist to properly preserve what lay beneath the mound. So it was deemed safer to leave the tomb sealed.

Ni had never, until a few hours ago, questioned that explanation. It was unimportant to his hunt for corruption. He’d only visited the museum once, a few years ago, when a series of thefts occurred in the restoration workshops—local laborers stealing pieces of the excavated warriors to sell on the black market. Now he was back, and the grounds swarmed with crowds, shifting and swaying like seaweed in a gentle current. Millions visited each year, and today—though a low-slung, oppressive gray sky yielded rain—seemed no exception. The car parks were full, an area specially reserved for buses packed tight. He knew a subway was currently under construction from Xi’an, a thirty-kilometer line that would ease traffic, but it was still a few years away from completion.

He’d told no one he was coming, commandeering a Central Committee helicopter that had flown him west. Karl Tang had left Lanzhou three hours ago, headed east, toward Xi’an, which meant his enemy should already be here. On the flight from Beijing he’d taken the time to read what his staff had amassed, studying a subject that he knew little about.

Eunuchs.

Their population had ranged from 3,000 to 100,000, depending on the era. To every Chinese, all naturally occurring forces came in cycles, reaching a peak with the yang, then receding with the yin. Maleness, strength, and virtue had always been associated with yang, while females, eunuchs, and evil were ruled by yin. He’d learned that there may have been a logical explanation for this dichotomy. All Chinese history was written by mandarins, the educated elite, who, as a class, despised palace eunuchs. Mandarins had to qualify for their position, after years of arduous study, by passing exams. Eunuchs acquired their influence without any qualifications. So it was understandable that what written records survived contained little good to say about eunuchs.

Not surprisingly, their mistreatment was common. Each time they encountered a member of the imperial family they were compelled to debase themselves as slaves. They realized early in life that they could never be venerated as scholars or statesmen. The inferiority complex generated from such treatment would breed resentment in anyone. They learned that their ability to survive, once their services were no longer needed, depended on how much wealth they could secretly amass. To acquire it meant to stay in close proximity to authority. So keeping themselves in good graces with their patrons, and keeping their patrons in power, became their primary interest.

There were, though, capable eunuchs who became valued advisers. Several achieved great stature. Tsai Lun, in the 2nd century, invented paper. Ssu-ma Chien became the father of Chinese history. Zheng He rose to be the