The Emperor's Tomb

“But they are tasty. Danes are good at fish.”

“Is this now a full-scale Billet operation?” he asked Stephanie.

She nodded. “Big time.”

“What do you want me to do?” He pointed at Ivan. “Sergeant Schultz here knows nothing, sees nothing, hears nothing.”

“Who says this? I never say this. I know plenty. And I love Hogan’s Heroes.”

“You’re just a dumb Russian.”

The stout man grinned. “Oh, I see. You want to anger me. Aggravate, yes? Big, stupid man will lose temper and say more than he should.” He waggled a stubby finger. “You watch too many CSI on television. Or NCIS. I love that show. Mark Harmon is the tough guy.”

He decided to try a different tack. “What was to happen when Cassiopeia found the lamp?”

“She gives to Tang, who returns boy.”

“You don’t really believe that.”

“Me? No. Karl Tang is not honest. That boy is gone. I know that. You know that—”

“Cassiopeia knows that,” Stephanie finished.

“Exactly,” Malone said. “So she hedged her bets and hid the lamp away. They grabbed her. She told them I had it, bargaining for time.”

“I know little of her,” Ivan said. “She is smart?”

Maybe not smart enough, considering. “Ivan here tells me that eunuchs are going to take over China. The Ba, he called them.”

Stephanie nodded. “They’re a radical faction. They have big plans, none of which is good for us, or anyone else. The State Department thought them improbable, but they were wrong. That’s another reason why I’m here, Cotton.”

He caught her quandary. Russians or Chinese? A headache or an upset stomach? But he sensed something else. More than she wanted to discuss at the moment.

The server brought the five fish, smelling as if they’d just been caught.

“Ah,” Ivan said. “Wonderful. You are sure you do not want any?”

He and Stephanie shook their heads.

Ivan chomped down on one of the corpses. “I will say this concerns big things. Important. Things we do not want the Chinese to know.”

“How about the Americans?” he asked.

“You either.”

“And Sokolov told the Chinese?”

Ivan chewed his fish. “I not know. This is why we need to know about the lamp.”

Malone glanced outside. His shop stood across the sunny square. People streamed in and out the front door, more swarming the busy square like bees around their honeycombs. He should be selling books. He liked what he did. He employed four locals who did a good job keeping the shelves stocked. He was proud of his business. Quite a few Danes now regularly bought their collectible editions from him. Over the past three years he’d gained a reputation as a man who could deliver what they wanted. Similar to the dozen years when he was one of Stephanie Nelle’s agents.

At the moment, Cassiopeia needed him to deliver.

“I’m going to Antwerp,” he said.

Ivan was devouring another fish. “And what to do when you get there? You know where to look?”

“Do you?”

Ivan stopped eating and smiled.

Bits of flesh had lodged between his brown teeth.

“I know where Vitt is.”

FOURTEEN

CASSIOPEIA ASSESSED WHAT VIKTOR HAD SAID ABOUT LEV Sokolov’s missing child. Again she asked, “Who do you work for?”

“When I left the Central Asian Federation, I headed east and ended up in China. I found lots of employment opportunities there.”

“Especially for a lying, double-dealing SOB like you.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe you feel that way. What I did in Central Asia was my job. And I did it well. The mission objectives were all met.”

“And I was almost killed. Twice.”

“That’s the operative word. Almost. Again, I did my job.”

She knew he was avoiding the question. “Who do you work for?”

“I’m telling the truth. Karl Tang.”

“A bit of a drop for you. From the supreme president of the Central Asian Federation to China’s second in command.”

“He pays well, there’s health and dental and three weeks’ paid vacation. He’s starting a retirement plan next year.”

His humor did not interest her. “You sent those men after me two days ago?”

Viktor nodded. “We couldn’t let you leave Belgium with that lamp.”

“Why? Tang wanted it.”

“He has no intention of returning Sokolov’s boy. So he decided to take control of the lamp here.”

“Why not just go to Pau Wen himself? Or send you? Why me?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

She kept the gun leveled. “Honestly? Now there’s a word not in your vocabulary.” Her gaze zeroed in. “You tortured me.”

“I made sure you weren’t tortured.”

“Not from my perspective.”

The features on his face softened. “Would you rather have been waterboarded by someone who really meant it?”

He’d changed from a year ago. Though still short and burly, his shocks of then-unkempt hair had been replaced with a neat trim above the ears. The wide nose and deep-set eyes, from some Slavic influence, remained, but the skin was swarthier than in Central Asia. He was early forties, no older, and had shed baggy clothes, which had then concealed shoulders and arms obviously accustomed to exercise, for more stylish, and snugly fitting, trousers and a designer shirt.

“Where’s the boy?” she asked.