The Emperor's Tomb Part 2

The air stank.

"I see you left the linen alone," he said.

"You did order me to do so."

Another mark in his favor for the informant to report. Jin Zhao had been arrested ten months ago, but had suffered a hemorrhage during questioning. He was subsequently charged with treason and espionage, tried in a Beijing court, and convicted, all in absentia since he'd remained here, in a coma.

"He is just as you left him," the doctor said.

Beijing lay nearly a thousand kilometers to the east and he supposed that distance bolstered this woman's nerve. You may rob the Three Armies of their commander in chief, but you cannot deprive the humblest peasant of his opinion. More of Confucius' nonsense. Actually the government could, and this insolent b.i.t.c.h should heed that fact.

He motioned and one of the uniforms led her across the room.

He approached the bed.

The man lying prostrate was in his mid-sixties, his dirty hair long and unkempt, his emaciated frame and sunken cheeks reminiscent of those of a corpse. Bruises splotched his face and chest, while intravenous lines snaked from both arms. A ventilator fed air in and out of his lungs.

"Jin Zhao, you have been found guilty of treason against the People's Republic of China. You were afforded a trial, from which you lodged an appeal. I regret to inform you that the Supreme People's Court has approved your execution and denied your appeal."

"He can't hear a word you're saying," the doctor said from across the room.

He kept his eyes down on the bed. "Perhaps not, but the words must be spoken." He turned and faced her. "It is the law, and he is ent.i.tled to proper process."

"You tried him without him even being there," she blurted out. "You never heard a word he had to say."

"His representative was afforded the opportunity to present evidence."

The doctor shook her head in disgust, her face pale with hate. "Do you hear yourself? The representative never had the opportunity to even speak with Zhao. What evidence could possibly have been presented?"

He couldn't decide if the informant's eyes and ears belonged to one of his staff or one of the army captains. Hard to know anything for sure anymore. All he knew was that his report to the Central Committee would not be the only retelling, so he decided to make clear, "Are you sure? Not once has Zhao communicated anything?"

"He was beaten senseless. His brain is destroyed. He will never awaken from the coma. We keep him alive simply because you-no, excuse me, the Central Committee-ordered it."

He caught the disgust in the woman's eyes, something else he'd seen more and more of lately. Especially from women. Nearly the entire hospital staff-doctors and nurses-were women. They'd made great strides since Mao's Revolution, yet Tang still adhered to the adage his father had taught him. A man does not talk about affairs inside the home, and a woman does not talk about affairs outside.

This insignificant doctor, employed at a minor state-run hospital, was incapable of understanding the enormity of his challenge. Beijing ruled a land that stretched five thousand kilometers east to west and more than three thousand north to south. Much was uninhabitable mountains and desert, some of the most desolate regions in the world, only 10% of the country arable. Nearly one and a half billion people-more than America, Russia, and Europe combined. But only 60,000,000 were members of the Chinese Communist Party-less than 3% of the total. The doctor was a Party member, and had been for more than a decade. He'd checked. No way she could have risen to such a high managerial position otherwise. Only Party-membered, Han Chinese achieved such status. Hans were a huge majority of the population, the remaining small percentage spread across fifty-six minorities. The doctor's father was a prominent official in the local provincial government, a loyal Party member who'd partic.i.p.ated in the 1949 Revolution and personally known both Mao and Deng Xiaoping.

Still, Tang needed to make clear, "Jin Zhao owed his loyalty to the People's government. He decided to aid our enemies-"

"What could a sixty-three-year-old geochemist have done to harm the People's government? Tell me, Minister. I want to know. What could he possibly do to us now?"

He checked his watch. A helicopter was waiting to fly him north.

"He was no spy," she said. "No traitor. What did he really do, Minister? What justifies beating a man until his brain bleeds?"

He had not the time to debate what had already been decided. The informant would seal this woman's fate. In a month she'd receive a transfer-despite her father's privileges-most likely sent thousands of kilometers west to the outer reaches, where problems were hidden away.

He turned toward the other uniform and motioned.

The captain removed his holstered sidearm, approached the bed, and fired one shot through Jin Zhao's forehead.

The body lurched, then went still.

The respirator continued to force air into dead lungs.

"Sentence has been carried out," Tang declared. "Duly witnessed by representatives of the People's government, the military ... and this facility's chief administrator."

He indicated that it was time to leave. The mess would be the doctor's to clean up.

He walked toward the doors.

"You just shot a helpless man," the doctor screamed. "Is this what our government has become?"

"You should be grateful," he said.

"For what?"

"That the government does not debit this facility's operating budget for the cost of the bullet."

And he left.

THREE.

COPENHAGEN.

1:20 PM.

Malone left his bookshop and stepped out into Hjbro Plads. The afternoon sky was cloudless, the Danish air comfortable. The Strget-a chain of traffic-free streets, most lined with shops, cafes, restaurants, and museums-surged with commerce.

He'd solved the problem of what to bring by simply grabbing the first book off one of the shelves and stuffing it into an envelope. Ca.s.siopeia had apparently opted to buy herself time by involving him. Not a bad play, except the ruse could only be stretched so far. He wished he knew what she was doing. Since last Christmas, between them, there'd been visits, a few meals here and there, phone calls, and e-mails. Most dealing with Thorvaldsen's death, which seemed to have hurt them both. He still couldn't believe his best friend was gone. Every day he expected the cagey old Dane to walk into the bookstore, ready for some lively conversation. He still harbored a deep regret that his friend had died thinking he'd been betrayed.

"You did what you had to in Paris," Ca.s.siopeia told him. "I would have done the same."

"Henrik didn't see it that way."

"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 Strget and crossed a boulevard clogged with the gleaming metal of cars, buses, and bicycles. He hustled through the Rdhuspladsen, 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 Billetissued 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," Ca.s.siopeia 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 d.a.m.n thing you can do about it."

She was right.

But he still could not shake the feeling.

He'd seen Ca.s.siopeia both at her best and when circ.u.mstances had stripped her of all confidence-when she was vulnerable, p.r.o.ne 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 Ca.s.siopeia 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 j.a.panese invasion. Now it was a mix of old and new-mosques, Daoist temples, Christian churches, communist landmarks-a hot, humid, wretched place where skysc.r.a.pers 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 s.h.i.+p 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.

He fled the main entrance and followed a flora-bordered central avenue. Bulb gardens, roses, lilacs, as well as hundreds of lime, chestnut, cherry, and evergreen trees grew in an ingenious plan that, to him, always seemed bigger than a mere twenty-one acres. Scents of popcorn and cotton candy wafted in the air, along with the sounds of a Vienna waltz and big-band tunes. He knew that Tivoli's creator had justified the excess by advising Denmark's Christian VIII that when the people are amusing themselves, they do not think about politics.

He was familiar with the Chinese paG.o.da. Within a leafy bower it stood four stories tall and faced a lake. More than a hundred years old, its Asiatic image adorned nearly every brochure that advertised Tivoli.

A cadre of young boys, smartly dressed in red jackets, bandoliers, and bushy bearskin hats marched down an adjacent lane. The Garden Guard, Tivoli's marching band. People lined the route and watched the parade. All of the attractions were unusually crowded, given it was a Tuesday in May, the summer season beginning only last week.

He caught sight of the paG.o.da, three vertical repet.i.tions of its base in diminis.h.i.+ng proportions, each story with a projecting roofline and upturned eaves. People streamed in and out of the paG.o.da's ground-floor restaurant. More revelers occupied benches beneath the trees.

Just before 2 PM.

He was on time.

Wandering ducks from the lake mingled with the crowd, showing little fear. He could not say the same about himself. His nerves were alert, his mind thinking like the Justice Department agent he'd been for twelve risky years. The idea had been to retire early and flee the danger, becoming a Danish bookseller, but the past two years had been anything but quiet.

Think. Pay attention.

The computerized voice had said that once he was here he'd be contacted. Apparently, Ca.s.siopeia's captors knew exactly what he looked like.

"Mr. Malone."

He turned.

A woman, her thin face more long than round, stood beside him. Her black hair hung straight, and long-lashed brown eyes added a mysterious quality. Truth be known, he had a weakness for Oriental beauty. She was smartly dressed in clothes cut to flatter her contours, which included a Burberry skirt wrapping her tiny waist.

"I came for the package," she said.

He motioned with the envelope he held. "This?"

She nodded.

She was in her late twenties, casual in her movements, seemingly unconcerned about the situation. His suspicions were rapidly being confirmed.

"Care to stay and have a late lunch?" he asked.

She smiled. "Another time."

"Sounds promising. How would I find you?"

"I know where your bookshop is."

He grinned. "How stupid of me."

She pointed at the envelope. "I need to be leaving."