The Emperor's Tomb

“It took two days to truck away the bodies,” Ni said, his voice nearly a whisper. “What the West doesn’t know is that the government would not allow the wounded to be treated by hospitals. They were turned away. How many died because of that cruelty, we will never know.”

“Sounds like all that stuck with you.”

“It changed me. Forever.”

Malone could believe that. The pain he’d seen in Ni’s eyes could not be faked. Perhaps this Chinese leader was different?

“Who has my boy?” Sokolov asked.

“Some extremely bad people,” Ni said. “Eunuchs. I thought they no longer existed. And if you had told me this four days ago, I would have said it was impossible. Now I know how wrong I can be.”

“Do we know anything more about the Hall for the Preservation of Harmony?” Cassiopeia asked.

“I’m told,” Ni said, “that it’s not open to the public. But that’s not unusual. We have thousands of sites that are restricted. This region is disputed. We control the ground, while Pakistan and India fight over it. So long as the fight stays on the southern side of the mountains, which generally it does, we do not expend much on its defense.”

Power began to decrease to the engines and they started to lose altitude. Outside was pitch-black.

“What about the premier?” Malone asked.

Ni sat in his seat, staring ahead, seemingly in thought.

The plane continued to descend.

“He landed in Kashgar several hours ago.”

Malone heard the skepticism in his voice. “What is it?”

“I hate being lied to,” Ni said. “Pau and the premier lied to me. I fear I’m being used, by both of them.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Malone said. “So long as you know it.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Malone had to say, “You realize Tang may know where we’re headed. There’s no reason for him not to.” He pointed at Sokolov. “He’ll want him back.”

The Russian bristled at the prospect.

“There can’t be that many landing strips in this area,” Malone added. “Tang has surely checked.”

“What do you have in mind?” Ni asked.

“A little deception of our own.”

SIXTY-SEVEN

MALONE STARED BELOW AT YECHENG. THE TOWN SAT AT THE southern rim of the Taklamakan Desert, mountains just to its south. Ni had explained that it was home to about twenty thousand, blessed with a convergence of roads and rivers. Centuries ago, this was where caravans to India had started. Today it remained only as a market town, and a small airport had been constructed in the 1970s to accommodate commerce.

“Looks like the strip is a few miles from town,” he said.

Not many lights burned, the town virtually blacked out. A lighted highway snaked a path across the flat terrain to a small tower, two oversized hangars, and a runway lit to the night. He wondered what awaited them on the ground, but a preview of what that might be could be seen from headlights speeding their way.

Two vehicles.

At this time of night?

“It appears that we have a welcoming committee,” he said.

Cassiopeia was close to another of the cabin windows. “I saw them. Coming quick.”

“Minister Tang is predictable,” Ni said.

Sokolov remained silent, but the concern on his face could not be concealed.

“Stay calm,” Malone said to the Russian. “You all know what to do.”

NI’S BODY STIFFENED. THE LANDING HAD BEEN SMOOTH, AND they were now taxiing toward the tower. The tarmac was dimly lit, but the area around the two hangars and tower was brightly illuminated thanks to rooftop floodlights that cast an oily sheen across the black asphalt. The plane rolled to a stop, the engines still running.

Cassiopeia opened the rear door and hopped out.

Ni followed.

They walked about fifty meters, waiting for two vehicles to roar up to where they stood—one a Range Rover, the other a light-colored van, both bearing the insignia of the police. Ni had seen thousands of similar transports all across China, but never had he been the target of one.

He steadied himself.

Now he knew what the subjects of his investigations felt. Never quite sure what was going to happen, on edge, pondering what the other side may or may not know. He quickly concluded that it was definitely better being on the outside of the cage looking in.

The two vehicles screeched to a stop.

From the Range Rover a short, emaciated man with features far more Tibetan than Han Chinese emerged. He was dressed in an official green uniform and sucked deep drags from a cigarette. The driver stayed in the vehicle. No one exited the van.

Malone had explained what he had in mind and Ni had agreed—since, after all, there were few options.

“Minister Ni,” the man said. “I am Liang of the provincial police. We have been instructed to detain you and everyone aboard this plane.”

He stiffened his back. “Who instructed you?”

“Beijing.”

“There are twenty million people in Beijing. Could you narrow that down?”

Liang seemed not to like the rebuke, but quickly recovered his composure and said, “Minister Tang’s office. The orders were clear.”

Cassiopeia lingered to his right, watching. They carried weapons, his concealed beneath a jacket, hers shielded by an exposed shirttail.