The Emperor's Tomb Part 8

The expert lifted one of the fragile silks.

Wisps of dust swirled in the air like angry ghosts.

Qin s.h.i.+ himself had a.s.sured that none of the writings from his time would survive his reign when he ordered all ma.n.u.scripts, except those dealing with medicine, agriculture, or divination be burned. The idea was to "make the people ignorant," and prevent the "use of the past to discredit the present." Only the emperor would be trusted to have a library, and knowledge would be an imperial monopoly. Scholars who challenged that decree were executed. Particularly, any- and everything written by Confucius was subject to immediate destruction, since those teachings directly contradicted the First Emperor's philosophy.

"Listen to this," his expert said. "Long ago Confucius died and the subtle words were lost. His seventy disciples perished and the great truth was perverted. Therefore the Annals split into five versions, the Odes into four, and the Changes was transmitted in variant traditions. Diplomats and persuaders argued over what was true and false, and the words of the master became a jumbled chaos. This disturbed the emperor so he burned the writings in order to make idiots of the common people. He retained, though, the master's original thoughts, stored in the palace and they accompanied him in death."

That meant all six of the great Confucian ma.n.u.scripts should be here.

The Book of Changes, a manual on divination. The Book of History, concerned with the speeches and deeds of the legendary sage-kings of antiquity. The Book of Poetry, containing more than three hundred verses laced with hidden meanings. The Spring and Autumn Annals, a complete history of Confucius' home state. The Book of Ritual, which explained the proper behavior of everyone from peasant to ruler. And finally, the Book of Music, its content unknown, as no copy existed.

Tang knew that the Hans, who had succeeded the First Emperor with a 425-year dynasty of their own, tried to repair the damage Qin s.h.i.+ inflected by rea.s.sembling many of the Confucian texts. But no one knew if those later editions accurately reflected the originals. Finding a complete set of texts, untouched, could be monumental.

"How many ma.n.u.scripts are actually here?" Tang quietly asked.

"I've counted over two hundred separate texts." The expert paused. "But none is by Confucius."

His fears were growing.

Confucius was the Roman label given by 17th-century Jesuits to a sage whom disciples knew in the 5th century BCE as Kong Fu-Zi. His ideas had survived in the form of sayings, and his central belief seemed to be that man should seek to live in a good way, always behaving with humanity and courtesy, working diligently, honoring family and government. He emphasized "the way of the former kings," encouraging the present to draw strength and wisdom from the past. He championed a highly ordered society, but the means of accomplis.h.i.+ng that order was not by force, rather through compa.s.sion and respect.

Qin s.h.i.+ was no Confucian.

Instead, the First Emperor embraced Legalism.

That counter-philosophy believed naked force and raw terror were the only legitimate bases for power. Absolute monarchy, centralized bureaucracy, state domination over society, law as a penal tool, surveillance, informers, dissident persecution, and political coercion were its fundamental tools.

Both philosophies desired a unified state, a powerful sovereign, and a population in absolute submission, but while Legalists knocked heads, Confucians taught respect-the willing obedience of the people. When the Legalist First Empire fell in the 3rd century BCE, Confucianism became its replacement, and remained so, in one form or another, until the 20th century, when the communists brought a return of Legalism.

Confucian thought, though, was once again popular. The people identified with its peaceful tenets, especially after sixty years of harsh oppression. Even more disturbing was the rise of democracy, a philosophy more troubling than Confucianism.

"There is some good news," the expert said. "I found some further confirmation on the other matter."

He followed the man to another of the stone tables.

"These bamboo scrolls are like annual reports of the First Empire."

Tang knew that the ancient Chinese maintained detailed records of almost everything, especially natural phenomena. Within his specialty, geology, they cla.s.sified rocks into ore, nonmetals, and clays. They noted hardness, color, and l.u.s.ter, as well as shape. They even isolated which substances were formed deep within the earth and determined how they could be found reliably.

"There are accounts here of drilling exploration," the expert said. "Quite specific."

He'd already spotted other silks. Maps. "Is our site noted?"

The man nodded. "The general area is shown. But without geographic reference points it's impossible to know for sure."

Though the ancients developed the compa.s.s and cartography, they lacked lat.i.tude and longitude, one of the few revolutionary concepts the Chinese did not first develop.

"Remove and preserve the maps, and anything else that directly relates to our search."

His expert nodded.

"The rest are unimportant. Now, to the other problem. Show me."

The man reached into his coat pocket and handed him a silver object, s.h.i.+ny in the light.

A watch.

Industrial looking, with a face and digits that glowed in the dark. A winding screw protruded from one side, and the word SHANGHAI indicated its place of manufacture.

"This is decades old," he said.

"It was found inside when they broke through. This, even more than the ma.n.u.scripts, is what the museum's archaeologists became excited about."

He now understood the gravity of the director's containment problem. "Somebody has been in here before?"

The expert nodded. "Clearly. There were no watches in Qin s.h.i.+'s day. Turn it over."

Engraved on the back were a series of Chinese characters. He stepped closer to the light and read the script.

SERVE THE PEOPLE.

1968.

He'd seen a watch with the same inscription before. They were given to select Party members on the occasion of Mao Zedong's seventy-fifth birthday. Nothing pretentious or expensive, just a simple remembrance of a grand occasion.

December 26, 1968.

Precious few of those first-generation leaders remained alive. Though they held a special status in the communist pantheon, many fell victim to Mao's purges. Others died from old age. One, though, remained active in the government.

The premier, who'd occasionally displayed his gift from the former Chairman.

Tang needed to know for sure. "There are no Confucian texts here? You are sure?"

The expert shook his head. "This room has been purged of every one of them. They should be here, but they are gone."

Challenges to his plans seemed to come from all fronts. Jin Zhao. Lev Sokolov. Ni Yong.

Now this.

He stared at what he held.

And knew exactly who the watch had once belonged to.

ELEVEN.

Ca.s.siopeia stepped away from the man lying still on the floor and approached the doorway. Finally, she was on the offensive, and she'd shoot anyone who came between herself and freedom.

Carefully, she peered into the narrow hall. Two meters away the door for the bathroom hung half open. Another door, a meter or so past on the other side, was closed. The corridor ended in what looked like a brightly lit entrance hall.

She stepped out.

The walls were a dingy rose, the plaster ceiling in need of painting. Definitely a house. Some rental. Surely out of the way, with a convenient windowless room beneath a staircase.

She wore the same jeans and s.h.i.+rt from two days ago. Her jacket had been taken the first day. Interestingly, she still carried her wallet and pa.s.sport. Everything smelled of sweat and she could use a hot shower, though the thought of more water flowing across her face made her stomach uneasy.

She was careful with her steps, each one pressed lightly, the gun at her side, finger on the trigger.

At the hall's end she moved toward the front door, but the sound of a murmured voice halted her exit.

She stopped and listened.

Somebody was talking. Then silence. More speaking. As if on a telephone. She kept listening and confirmed only one voice. She decided that she owed that SOB, too. She'd already vented her anger on the man lying back in her cell, so why not finish things.

She identified the location down another short corridor that ended at a partially shut door. Before venturing that way she eased over to one of the windows and glanced out, spotting nothing but trees and pasture. They were somewhere in the countryside. She'd been transported here tied in the trunk of a car, blindfolded. She'd estimated about half an hour's driving time, which given Antwerp's location could place her anywhere in Belgium, Holland, or France.

A dark-colored Toyota was parked out front. She wondered if the keys were in the ignition or with one of her captors.

The m.u.f.fled voice continued to speak on the telephone.

Might as well take advantage of the privacy they'd so conveniently arranged. She needed to find out who these people worked for. They could help lead her to Lev Sokolov's missing son. Finding him was her only concern. Thank goodness she'd thought ahead and done what she did, involving Cotton.

Otherwise, she'd be dead and the boy lost forever.

She stopped outside the door, keeping her gaze locked on the vertical strip of bright light escaping from the room on the other side.

Something about the voice tugged at her memory.

She had no idea how many people were waiting in the next room, but she didn't give a d.a.m.n. Her nerves were frayed. Her patience exhausted.

She was tired, dirty, hungry, and p.i.s.sed off.

She gripped the gun, planted her left foot on the floor, and slammed her right heel into the wood.

The door swung inward, smas.h.i.+ng into the wall.

She lunged forward and immediately spotted only one man, talking on a cell phone.

He showed not the slightest surprise at her entrance.

Instead, he merely closed the phone and said, "About time."

She stared at the face, as if she'd seen a ghost.

And in some ways, she had.

Malone had never actually heard the word eunuch used in a conversation before.

"As in castrated male?" he asked.

"There is other kind?" Ivan said. "These are nasty people." He spread out his short arms. "They lay down, open legs wide, snip, snip, everything gone." He raised one finger. "And do not make sound. Not peep from the lips."

"And the reason they do that?" he asked.

"Honor. They beg for this. You know what they do with the parts cut off? They call them pao, treasure, place them in jars on the high shelf. The kao sheng. High position. Symbolic of attaining high position. Whole thing is madness."

He agreed.

"But they do it, all the time. Now eunuchs are prepared to take China."

"Come again?"

"This southern slang? I understand you from American South. This where name Cotton comes from."

"Get to the d.a.m.n point."

Ivan seemed to like for his audience to think him stupid, but this burly Russian was anything but.

"The Ba. Secret Chinese organization. Goes back two thousand years. The modern version is no better than original. They intend the play for power. Not good for my country or yours. These are bad people."

"What does that have to do with Ca.s.siopeia?"

"I do not know exactly. But there is the connection."

Now he knew the man was lying. "You're full of c.r.a.p."

Ivan chuckled. "I like you, Malone. But you do not like me. Lots of negativity."

"Those two back on the street aren't feeling much positivity."

"No worry about them. Killing rids world of two problems."

"Lucky for all of us you were here, on the job."