The Emperor's Tomb

He never saw what hit him, but it was solid and delivered square across his spine. Pain doubled him over, his knees buckling. Another blow to his shoulders drove him forward, and he hit the pavement, then rolled, Viktor on top, grabbing two handfuls of his jacket, yanking him up.

“STOP,” CASSIOPEIA YELLED.

She’d watched as Viktor had grabbed a shovel propped beside one of the shop doors and blindsided a retreating Malone. Then he’d followed the blow with another. Now he straddled a clearly woozy Cotton, ready to slam the back of his head into the pavement.

“Let him go,” she said, staring hard into Viktor’s angry eyes.

His breaths came quick and hard.

“Let him go,” she said again, her voice lower.

“I told you next time it would be different,” Viktor muttered as he released his hold and climbed off.

The spectators drifted off. Fight over. No police were in sight. She doubted this town employed any. Viktor moved toward his backpack, reshouldered it, then looped his left arm through the rope coil.

Cotton was reaching for his spine, still on the ground.

“Tang has ordered an attack on you,” Viktor said. “From the Pakistanis. The border is up there on the route to the monastery. There are soldiers, waiting.”

“You realize that he’s probably ordered that attack for you, too,” she said.

“The thought occurred to me. That’s why I’m going up first. I’d prefer that neither one of you follow, but you’re not going to listen to me, are you?”

“You’re going to need some help.”

“Malone was right. I risked your life too many times.”

“And you also saved it.”

“I’m not doing it again.”

“Risking? Or saving?”

“Neither one, and since I know you won’t stay here, the trail west of town leads to a suspension bridge. Beyond are some carvings that point the way to the hall. Wait an hour. That should give me time to do something. Maybe I can lead them off.” Viktor pointed at Cotton. “He’s not going to be ready to go till then anyway.”

He started to leave.

She grabbed his arm and felt him shudder. “What are you going to do?”

“Why do you care?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He gestured with his head toward Cotton.

“Why didn’t you just tell me in Belgium that you were working for Stephanie?”

“It’s not my way.”

“Torturing me is?”

“Don’t think I enjoyed that. I had no choice.”

She saw the pain in his eyes and wanted to know, “Are you loyal to anything?”

“Myself.”

But she wasn’t fooled. “There’s more to you than you want anyone to know.”

He gestured again. “A lot like him.”

Then she realized. “You wanted a fight here, didn’t you?”

“I had to delay your departure. Tell him I regret the cheap shot, but it seemed the only way to slow you down.”

“Are you here to kill Tang?”

“There are a lot of people who would be pleased with that. I had the chance, just a short while ago, to shoot him down.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Too soon. I need to know what’s up there in those mountains. Ni is up there. I have to get him out.”

“What are you going to do with Sokolov?”

He did not answer her.

“You going to kill him?”

More silence.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice rising.

“You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“I do.”

“Then we’ll be fine.”

And he left.

SEVENTY-THREE

NI ADMIRED HIS PRISON. THE BEDCHAMBER WAS SPECTACULAR. Marble columns sprouted upward toward a coffered ceiling, bas-relief dragons twisting from bottom to top. Frescoes on the walls depicted an emperor’s journey, one wall showing him leaving his palace, the procession unfolding through the mountains along two more, and ending on the fourth at a cluster of buildings streaked with purple, gray, and shades of ocher, rising from the shoulder of the mountain.

Here. This exact place.

As depicted by the artist, and as Ni had seen flying in on the helicopter, glaciers brooding above a barren valley.

He and Sokolov had been flown straight from Yecheng. They’d been treated well, escorted from a landing pad outside the walls by two younger men adorned in woolen robes, their hair wound on top, secured with red tassels, red woven sashes wrapping their waists.

A butter lamp the size of a washbasin and fashioned of beaten copper burned in one corner, scenting the room. Windows hung open, cool air seeping inside, mellowing the flame’s hypnotic influence. Occasionally, the distant bellow of a yak could be heard. He realized there was no danger of him escaping since the windows opened into a courtyard within the outer walls.

Sokolov sat in one of several lacquered chairs, the furniture exquisite in both detail and design. Expensive rugs cushioned the marble floor. Apparently, the Ba believed in living comfortably.

The door opened.

He turned to see Pau Wen.

“I was told that you had returned to China,” Ni said to the older man.

Pau wore a golden-yellow robe, an interesting choice in color since Ni knew it symbolized the throne. Two more younger men stood behind Pau, each carrying a loaded crossbow, held ready.

“Minister Tang is on his way,” Pau said.

“For me?” Sokolov asked.

Pau nodded. “Your revolutionary discovery is vital to what he has planned.”

“How do you know of my discovery?”