The Emperor's Tomb

“He wasn’t perfect, Cotton. He sent himself into a spiral. He wasn’t thinking and wouldn’t listen. There was more at stake there than just his revenge. You had no choice.”

“I let him down.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Tell you what. If I’m ever in big trouble, let me down the same way.”

He kept walking, hearing her words in his head.

Now it was happening again.

He left the Strøget and crossed a boulevard clogged with the gleaming metal of cars, buses, and bicycles. He hustled through the Rådhuspladsen, another of Copenhagen’s many public squares, this one stretching out before the city’s town hall. He spotted the bronze trumpeters atop, soundlessly blowing their ancient lurs. Above them stood the copper statue of Bishop Absalon who, in 1167, expanded a tiny fishing village into a walled fortress.

On the plaza’s far side, beyond another traffic-choked boulevard, he spotted Tivoli.

He gripped the envelope in one hand, his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta tucked beneath a jacket. He’d retrieved the weapon from under his bed, where it stayed inside a knapsack with other reminders of his former life.

“I think you’re a little nervous,” Cassiopeia said to him.

They stood outside his bookshop in chilly March weather. She was right. He was nervous. “I’m not much of a romantic.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have known. Lucky for you, I am.”

She looked great. Tall, lean, skin the color of pale mahogany. Thick auburn hair brushed her shoulders, framing a striking face highlighted by thin brows and firm cheeks.

“Don’t beat yourself up, Cotton.”

Interesting that she’d known he was actually thinking about Thorvaldsen.

“You’re a good man. Henrik knew that.”

“I was two minutes too late.”

“And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

She was right.

But he still could not shake the feeling.

He’d seen Cassiopeia both at her best and when circumstances had stripped her of all confidence—when she was vulnerable, prone to mistakes, emotional. Luckily, he’d been there to compensate, as she’d been for him when the roles reversed. She was an amazing blend of femininity and strength, but everyone, even she, occasionally stepped too far.

A vision of Cassiopeia tied to plywood, a towel over her face, flashed through his mind.

Why her?

Why not him?

KARL TANG STEPPED ONTO THE HELICOPTER AND SETTLED HIMSELF in the rear compartment. His business in Chongqing was at an end.

He hated the place.

Thirty million people consumed every square meter of the hills surrounding the confluence of the Jialing and Yangtze rivers. Under Mongol, Han, and Manchu rule it had been the empire’s center. A hundred years ago it became a wartime capital during the Japanese invasion. Now it was a mix of old and new—mosques, Daoist temples, Christian churches, communist landmarks—a hot, humid, wretched place where skyscrapers broke the horizon.

The chopper rose into a carbon-laced fog and vectored toward the northwest.

He’d dismissed his aides and the captains.

No spies would come on this part of the journey.

This he must do himself.

MALONE PAID HIS ADMISSION AND ENTERED TIVOLI. PART amusement park, part cultural icon, the treed and flowered wonderland had entertained Danes since 1843. A national treasure, where old-style Ferris wheels, pantomime theaters, and a pirate ship blended with more modern gravity-defying rides. Even the Germans had spared it during World War II. Malone liked visiting—easy to see how it inspired both Walt Disney and Hans Christian Andersen.