The Emperor's Tomb

Ni Yong and Sokolov.

Find them.

TANG ENTERED THE WINDOWLESS CHAMBER, ITS SPACE DIVIDED into four rooms. Pau Wen had stepped inside first, followed by Ni Yong. Two brothers waited outside, each carrying a crossbow.

Soft lights illuminated rose-red walls, the ceiling a deep blue and dotted with golden stars. The center chamber was dominated by a bronze plinth upon which lay a jade burial suit.

He was stunned by the sight, and now understood why the First Emperor’s tomb had been bare.

“I rescued Qin Shi,” Pau said. “Unfortunately, the jade altar upon which he lay was too large to transport. It obviously had been constructed within the mound. But this I could retrieve.” Pau pointed to the artifact. “The head and face masks, jacket, sleeves, gloves, pants, and foot coverings were tailored for the occupant. Which meant Qin Shi was no more than a hundred seventy-five centimeters tall and quite thin. So different from the image of a towering, portly man history has created.” Pau hesitated, as if to allow his words to sink in. “Two thousand and seven pieces of jade, sewn together with golden thread.”

“You counted them?” Ni asked.

“This is the most important archaeological find in all Chinese history. The body of our First Emperor, encased in jade. It deserves careful study. We estimate about a kilogram of golden thread was utilized to bind the stone. This suit would have taken artisans about a decade to produce.”

Tang wanted to know, “You plundered the entire site?”

“Every object. Here it all rests, in safety, inside a makeshift dixia gongdian. Not quite a traditional underground palace, but sufficient.”

The remaining three chambers brimmed with funerary objects. Bronze sculptures, copper vessels, lacquered wood, and bamboo ware. Objects of gold, silver, and jade. Musical instruments, pottery, and porcelain. Swords, spearheads, and arrows.

“Two thousand one hundred and sixty-five items,” Pau said. “Even the bones of the builders and the concubines. I made a complete photographic record of the tomb. The exact location of everything is precisely documented.”

“How gracious of you,” Ni said. “I’m sure historians will one day appreciate your diligence.”

“Does sarcasm make you feel superior?”

“What am I supposed to be? Impressed? You are a liar and a thief, just like I said the first time we met. Along with being a murderer.”

“Do you realize what Mao would have done with this?” Pau asked, motioning to the jade suit. “And the incompetents who ruled after him. None of it would have survived.”

“The terra-cotta warriors have,” Ni said.

“True. But for how long? The site is deteriorating by the day. And what is being done? Nothing. The communists care nothing for our past.”

“And you do?”

“Minister, my methods may have been unconventional, but the results are clear.”

Ni stepped close to the plinth.

Tang kept back, himself drawn to the surreal image—like a robot lying there, stiff, unbending. But he was growing impatient. He wanted to know why Pau had killed the four men in Belgium and allowed Ni to survive. Why had the master lied to him about the oil lamps in Qin Shi’s tomb?

“Did you open the suit?” Ni asked.

Pau shook his head. “That did not seem right. Qin deserves our respect, even in death.”

“How many hundreds of thousands died so he could rule?” Ni asked.

“That was necessary in his time,” Pau said.

“And it still is,” Tang felt compelled to add.

“No,” Ni said. “Fear and oppression are no longer viable mechanisms. Surely, you can see that we have progressed beyond that. Two-thirds of the world practices democracy, yet we cannot embrace even a few of its qualities?”

“Not while I am in charge,” Tang declared.

Ni shook his head. “You will find, as our communist forefathers learned, that force is only a short-term solution. For a government to survive, it must have the willing support of the people.” Ni’s face tightened. “Has either of you ever visited the petition office in Beijing?”

“Never,” Tang said.

“Every day hundreds of people from all over the country are there, waiting in line, to register complaints. Nearly all of them have been victimized. Their son was beaten by a local official. Their land was taken by a developer, with the local government’s help. Their child was stolen.”

Ni hesitated, and Tang knew he was allowing that charge to hang in the air.

“They are angry at local officials and are convinced that if only someone in the capital hears their case, then their wrongs will be addressed. You and I know they are sadly mistaken. Nothing will ever be done. But those people understand basic democracy. They want the ability to address their government directly. How long do you think we can continue to ignore them?”

Tang knew the answer.

“Forever.”

SEVENTY-SEVEN