The Emperor's Tomb

He peered into the gloomy cavern and saw ceilings of enamel and carved wood. To his left opened a wainscoted room lined with walls that appeared to be leather. He could still smell the roses, lilacs, and hawthorn outside the terrace doors. He was crouched behind a high-backed upholstered chair, waiting for the three to head farther inside.

To his left, movement drew his attention.

Three more men entered through the terrace door.

He stayed low and used the darkness to his advantage.

Two of the newcomers stood tall. One moved with the slowness of age, and in the tiny bursts of light that came from outside, he caught the face. Definitely an older man.

One of the men toted a bow and a quiver of arrows slung across his shoulder.

Don’t see that every day.

All three crept in silence, then stopped, the older man directing the one with the bow, who quickly disappeared into the mansion. The remaining two hesitated, then advanced.

Malone fled the room through a second portal, away from where the others had gone, and headed toward the front, finding the main entrance.

Behind a small writing desk, which seemed to act as the admission table, opened a gift shop. He stepped inside, careful to keep his attention on what might be happening behind him, but he heard nothing.

He spotted a booklet that described the mansion in several languages, one of which was English. He grabbed it and stepped to a window. On the inside rear cover was a map of the four floors. He noted three staircases and many rooms. On the third level was a space labeled CHINESE BOUDOIR. No other room carried a similar designation.

Was that where Cassiopeia had hidden the lamp?

He grabbed his bearings and decided to use one of the secondary staircases.

CASSIOPEIA CAME TO THE TOP OF THE STAIRS AND QUICKLY made her way toward the Chinese boudoir. Gilt-edged mirrors lined the walls and a rich parquet sheathed the floor. Oriental porcelain sat atop carved chests. It had been one of those, a red lacquered cabinet with a refined finish, that had solved her problem. Surely, she’d reasoned, the cabinets weren’t inspected on a regular basis. From all she’d been able to learn this was a minor museum, of little consequence, something that merely preserved the formality and taste of a once-wealthy owner, which at least for a few days could provide a convenient hiding place.

Quickly she reentered the boudoir, stepped to the cabinet and opened the doors. The lamp lay exactly where she’d placed it. She had nothing to carry it in. She’d find a bag later, she figured, and taking a train directly to Copenhagen was beginning to sound like a good idea. Once there, she could decide on her next move.

She lifted out the lamp.

A dragon’s head, on a tiger’s body, with wings. She’d noticed at Pau Wen’s residence that the lamp contained some sort of liquid, its mouth sealed with wax.

A noise rose from behind.

She whirled.

Everything in the darkness seemed frozen.

Three meters away two forms appeared in the archway that led out to the hall. A third form materialized and blocked the other exit to her right.

Silhouettes of guns materialized, pointed her way.

“Lay the lamp down,” one of the two men said in English.

She considered shooting her way out, then decided that was foolishness.

She could not evade all three.

“The gun, too,” the voice said.

TWENTY-EIGHT

MALONE HEARD A VOICE JUST AS HE FOUND THE TOP OF THE stairs—a man talking about a lamp and a gun. Apparently, some of the six individuals who were inside had found Cassiopeia. He recalled from the map that the Chinese boudoir lay to his left, through a portrait gallery with a collection of miniatures, then one door down the hall.

He passed through the gallery, threading his way around dark shapes, careful not to bump anything. At a doorway leading out, a quick look confirmed that two men stood in the hall, facing into another room.

Both held weapons.

Elaborate paintings inside thick frames dotted the wide corridor. He noticed that the flooring was parquetry, which meant, unlike the marble he’d traversed so far, it would announce his presence. Since he needed to do something and there was no time for subtlety, he decided the direct approach would be best.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Both men whirled.

One of the men raised his gun and fired.

NI STOOD DOWNSTAIRS WITH PAU WEN. HE DID NOT LIKE ANYTHING about this situation. He was a high-ranking official in the Chinese government—a man beyond reproach, whose reputation meant everything—yet here he was inside a Belgian museum that had just been burglarized.

He heard a voice from up the main staircase.

Then another.

And a shot.

Pau said something to the third man—who’d returned a moment ago—then, with a flick of his wrist, dismissed him.

The acolyte darted up the staircase.

“This could escalate,” Pau said. “I confess that I thought no one would be here. Apparently, I was wrong. We must leave.”

More shots rang out.

“There’s quite a fight happening up there,” Ni said.