The Emperor's Tomb

“Do you know who I am?” he asked the policeman in Mandarin.

“I am aware of your position.” The last of the cigarette was flicked away.

“And you still want to detain me?”

“Is there a Russian aboard the plane? A man named Sokolov?”

Ni saw that Cassiopeia caught the name, so he said to her in English, “He wants to know if there is a man named Sokolov with us.”

She shrugged and shook her head.

He faced Liang. “Not that we are aware of.”

“I must search that plane. Instruct the pilot to switch off the engines.”

“As you wish.”

Ni turned, faced the cockpit, and waved his arms in a crossing fashion, sending a message.

Nothing happened.

He turned back. “Would you like me to have the two other men on the plane come off?”

“That would be excellent. Please.”

He faced Cassiopeia and said, “Get them.”

MALONE WATCHED WHAT WAS HAPPENING FROM A HUNDRED feet away. He’d correctly surmised that whoever Tang sent to greet them would expect four people so, when only two left the plane, at some point they would want to see two more.

And Cassiopeia was returning to get them.

NI WAITED AS CASSIOPEIA TROTTED TO THE OPEN CABIN DOOR and gestured.

Two men leaped down, and they all headed toward where he stood with the police chief.

Liang reached into his pocket and removed a folded sheet.

He was afraid of this.

Liang unfolded the page and Ni spotted a black-and-white photo, the face unmistakable.

Sokolov.

“Neither of these men is the Russian,” Liang said. “The other man should be American. These men are Chinese.”

MALONE COULD SEE THAT THINGS WERE NOT GOING WELL.

After the wheels had touched ground and they were taxiing to the terminal, he and Sokolov had switched places with the pilots, who’d been unwilling to argue with orders from Ni Yong.

He saw Ni signal with his arms again, apparently wanting him to kill the engines. The police had not been fooled.

“What are you going to do?” Sokolov asked.

“Not what they expect.”

CASSIOPEIA HEARD THE PLANE’S MOTORS REV, THE PROPELLERS spinning faster, the fuselage turning left and inching forward, toward them. The policeman spoke to Ni in an excited voice, and she did not require an interpreter to know what was being said.

The policeman pointed and Ni casually turned and watched as the plane kept coming, faster now.

Forty meters.

The two pilots panicked and ran toward the tower. The policeman let them go, clearly knowing they were not the men he sought.

The propellers’ wash churned the dry air. It felt good. She’d been wearing the same clothes since yesterday, bathed in Chinese lake water, then dusted with the earth of a 2,200-year-old tomb.

The plane straightened its path.

Thirty meters.

Cotton was making an entrance.

Grand, as usual.

SIXTY-EIGHT

NI WAS SHOCKED BY MALONE’S MOVE. THE AMERICAN HAD told him that if the ruse didn’t work he’d cover their backs, but he had not explained how. He knew little about Cotton Malone besides the bits his staff had located, which indicated he’d been a highly respected American agent, capable and intelligent.

The twin rotors of the plane were less that twenty meters away.

“Tell him to stop,” Liang yelled over the roar. “Where is he going?”

He casually glanced at the policeman. “Apparently here.”

Lights on the wings and tail strobed the night red and green. He wondered how far Malone intended to go, but he was determined to hold his ground and see if the plane or the policeman yielded first.

MALONE TIMED HIS APPROACH, WAITING FOR THE RIGHT MOMENT before turning the wheel, swinging the fuselage around, using the left wing and propeller as a weapon.

The policeman reacted, diving to the pavement, as did Ni and Cassiopeia.

All three disappeared beneath the undercarriage. The two pilots were long gone. The driver of the Range Rover rolled from the car just as the wing swung past, the propeller only a foot or so away.

Panic reigned, which was the whole idea.

Except for one problem.

As the driver emerged and lunged for the tarmac, Malone saw a gun in his hand.

CASSIOPEIA ROLLED, THE SMELL OF COOLING ASPHALT FILLING her nostrils, the propeller’s roar deafening. She’d seen Ni and the policeman flatten themselves to the pavement, as well as the driver of the Range Rover, who’d emerged holding a pistol.

She found her weapon, straightened, and fired. Her bullet found the car door, which the driver was using for cover.

Unfortunately, she was exposed.

No place to hide.

NI HEARD THE SHOT AND SAW THAT HE AND CASSIOPEIA WERE vulnerable. No protection from sure retaliation. Except—

He unholstered his gun and jammed the barrel into Liang’s neck, keeping him pinned to the pavement, one hand on Liang’s spine, the other pressing the gun into the nape of the neck.

The plane was completing a full circle, the propellers now facing away, the tail swinging left as the nose came back around.

“Tell your man to stand down,” Ni yelled, applying more pressure with the weapon.

The driver was taking aim, seemingly unsure of what to do. This situation had grown out of control, more so than the crew of this provincial police department routinely faced.