The Emperor's Tomb

No 20th-century Chinese leader had captured the people’s devotion like Mao. He became emperor-like, and not a single pact that Beijing later made with the people could compare to the “destiny of Heaven” that emperors like Mao enjoyed.

But Mao’s day was over.

Give allegiance to political solutions proposed centuries ago by long-dead scholars. That’s what Confucius had advised as the way to understanding. That seemed impossible.

A second hare would not die at the same stump.

He wholeheartedly agreed with Mao’s Cultural Revolution. In deference to it, that was when he’d stopped using the traditional form of his name—Tang Karl, his family name first. Instead he chose the modern incarnation Karl Tang. He recalled when the Red Guards rampaged across the country, shutting down schools, imprisoning intellectuals, restricting publications, disbanding monasteries and temples. Every physical reminder of China’s feudal and capitalistic past had been destroyed—old customs, old habits, old culture, and old thinking were all eliminated.

Millions had died, millions more had been affected.

Yet Mao emerged more loved than ever, the state stronger than ever.

He checked his watch, then sucked more breaths of the clean air.

A smile formed on his lips.

Let it begin.

TWENTY-FIVE

ANTWERP

CASSIOPEIA APPROACHED THE MUSEUM, HEADING FOR THE same rear entrance she’d scouted two days ago. She’d stumbled across the Dries Van Egmond in a hotel brochure while trying to decide where best to hide the lamp. Its rooms held a collection of Dutch, French, and Flemish objets d’art. But its Chinese boudoir, on the third level, was what really caught her attention.

She hoped the lamp had gone unnoticed.

She’d passed couples homeward-bound and walkers self-absorbed, but no one dodging into a doorway or dogging her footsteps. Advertisements plastered on plate-glass windows shouted from closed shops. But she’d ignored all distractions. She needed to retrieve the lamp, then make contact with Sokolov, that connection facilitated through a couple who shared Sokolov’s agony of losing a child—who’d agreed to forward any coded e-mail messages sent from Belgium.

She wondered what had happened with Malone. Viktor had told her that he hadn’t heard anything from Copenhagen, but that meant nothing coming from him. Perhaps she’d head for Denmark once this errand was completed. Cotton could help her decide what to do next.

A train would be best.

No security checks.

And she could sleep.

MALONE SPOTTED THE MUSEUM, SQUEEZED INTO A ROW OF buildings that alternated old and new. Its façade revealed details that suggested an Italian motif. Little traffic filled Antwerp’s streets, only lights over empty sidewalks, the city dozing off for the night. He studied the building’s sculpted window frames, stacked one atop the other in varying squares, circles, and rectangles. None glowed with life.

He’d parked two blocks away and approached with slow steps. He wasn’t sure what was about to happen. How was Cassiopeia planning on entering? Breaking in? Certainly not from here. The main entrance was protected by a locked iron gate, the windows barred. Stephanie had called and said that she’d arranged for the alarm system to be disabled, as Europol and the police were working with her. Local cooperation usually meant folks many pay grades higher than Stephanie were calling the shots. Which only reemphasized that this involved far more than a missing four-year-old boy.

He hugged the side of a building and kept to the shadows, avoiding the burst of a nearby streetlight. He peered around the corner, hoping he might spot Cassiopeia.

But all he saw were three men emerging from a parked car.

No light came on when the doors opened, which caught his interest.

They were beyond the museum entrance, a good fifty yards away from where he stood, hidden by the night.

The tight cluster of dark figures stepped onto the sidewalk, walked without a sound to the museum entrance, and tested the iron gate.

“Around back,” he heard one of them say in English. “She’s definitely here. Get the stuff, just in case.”

Two of the men retreated to the car, where each removed an oversized canister. Together the three headed to the nearest corner and turned right. Malone figured there must be another way into the building—from the rear, the next block over. So he crossed the street and decided to approach from the opposite direction.

NI STOOD IN THE DARKNESS, BEYOND THE GARDEN OF THE DRIES Van Egmond Museum, Pau Wen beside him. They’d made the journey from the countryside to Antwerp, parking several blocks away and assessing the building from the rear. Pau had brought one of his men, who’d just reconnoitered the darkness.

The man reappeared and whispered his report. “A woman is near the building, about to break inside. Three men are approaching from the far end of the street.”

Pau considered the information, then mouthed, Watch the men.