The Emperor's Tomb

“Our dynasties have fallen with an almost eerie predictability,” Pau said. “Often early leaders are masterful, while later ones are feeble, unmotivated, or mere puppets. Inevitably, corruption combines power and money, without the benefit of the law to prevent abuse. An absence of clear rules on political succession generates chaos. Rebellions eventually ferment, as the military weakens. The government then isolates itself and weakens. The end is never in doubt.” Pau went silent a moment. “That has been the fate of every Chinese dynasty for 6,000 years. Now it’s the communists’ turn.”

He could not argue with that conclusion. He recalled a trip to the south a few months ago during another investigation. A local official, an old friend, had driven him from the airport. Along the way they’d passed billboards advertising new apartments with swimming pools, gardens, and modern kitchens.

“The people are tired of Cultural Revolutions and wars,” his friend had said. “They like material things.”

“And you?” he’d asked.

“I like them, too. I want a comfortable life.”

That comment had stuck with him. It spoke volumes about China’s current state, where the government merely mended or patched problems, making do. Mao had preached a pride in poverty. Trouble was, nobody believed that anymore.

Pau bent down and, in the garden sand, sketched two characters.

Ni knew what they meant. “Revolution.”

Pau stood. “More accurately, ‘withdrawal of the mandate.’ Every Chinese dynasty justified its rise with that phrase. When the Qing dynasty fell in 1912, and the last emperor was forcibly removed, this was how we referred to that historic event. In 1949 Mao stole Chiang Kaishek’s mandate to build a post-Qing republic. It is time for another withdrawal of the mandate. The question is who will lead that effort.”

He stared at the older man, his head spinning with suspicions. The investigator within him had retreated. Now he was thinking like the politician—the leader—he wanted to be.

“Communism has outlived its historical role,” Pau said. “Unchecked economic growth and raw nationalism can no longer support it. There simply is nothing connecting the current Chinese form of government to its people. The demise of the Soviets proved that flaw clearly. Now it’s happening again. Unemployment within China is out of control. Hundreds of millions are affected. Beijing’s condescension, like Moscow’s decades ago, is inexcusable. Minister, you must realize that the same nationalism that comforts the Party today could well hurl China into fascism tomorrow.”

“Why do you think I am fighting for power?” he spit out. “Do you think I want that? Do you think the people who support me want that?”

“But you have discovered a problem, haven’t you?”

How did this sage, whom he’d met only today, know all that troubled him?

“Moscow’s collapse frightens you,” Pau said. “How could it not? But we are different. We are better suited to living with contradictions. Our rulers have long proclaimed themselves Confucians, then ruled as Legalists, yet no one ever questioned that dichotomy. And unlike Russians, most Chinese do not lack for the necessities of life, or a few gadgets in their home. Our Party is not ignorant. Even with all of our flaws, we will not commit political suicide. So your dilemma is clear. How do you persuade a billion and a half people to discard the norm and follow you to the unknown?”

He waited for the answer to that question.

“Pride, Minister. Such a simple thing. But appealing to that could well be your answer.”

THIRTEEN

COPENHAGEN

MALONE SAT AT THE TABLE IN THE CAFÉ NORDEN, NESTLED close to an open second-story window. Outside, Højbro Plads vibrated with people. Stephanie Nelle and Ivan had also found chairs. Ivan’s two minders were downstairs, at one of the exterior tables.

“The tomato bisque soup is great here,” he told them both.

Ivan rubbed his belly. “Tomatoes give me the gas.”

“Then by all means, let’s avoid that,” Stephanie said.

Malone had known Stephanie a long time, having worked as one of her original twelve agents at the Magellan Billet. She’d created the Justice Department unit, personally recruiting twelve men and women, each bringing to the table a special skill. Malone’s had been a career in the navy, where he rose to commander, capable of flying planes and handling himself in dangerous situations. His law degree from Georgetown, and ability in a courtroom, only added to his résumé. Stephanie’s presence here, on this beautiful day in Denmark, signaled nothing but trouble. Her association with Ivan compounded the situation. He knew her attitude on working with the Russians.

Only when necessary.

And he agreed.

The café tables were crowded, people drifting up and down from a corner staircase, many toting shopping bags. He wondered why they were talking in public, but figured Stephanie knew what she was doing.

“What’s going on here?” he asked his former boss.