The Emperor's Tomb (26 page)

"You have clear passage from here to border," Ivan said.

"Apparently you and the Vietnamese are asshole buddies."

Ivan shrugged. "They have no choice."

Malone smiled.

"Lakes everywhere, south of Kunming. Dian Chi is the best one. Forty kilometers long. Plenty of places to land unnoticed."

"And what do we do once we're there?" Malone asked.

"We can take the train north to Xi'an," Pau said. "A few hours. From there we can bus out to the terra-cotta warrior site."

Malone wasn't impressed. "This isn't some jaunt across Europe. You're talking about flying 500 miles into a closed country, with a massive air force, unannounced. Somebody could easily get the wrong idea."

"I will provide pilot," Ivan said, "who can handle controls."

"I can fly the damn thing," he said. "I just want to be alive to land."

Ivan waved off his worries. "Yunnan province is friendly."

Pau nodded. "It has always been a renegade. Remote location, harsh terrain, diverse population. One-third of all the Chinese minorities live there."

"We have friends," Ivan said, "who help us. The route will be clear. Take this chart, which I mark. I assume you navigate?"

Cassiopeia snatched the map away. "I'll handle that chore."

"Fully gassed?" Malone asked Ivan about the plane.

"Enough to get there. But understand, it is one-way trip."

NI WOULD NOT ALLOW THE NEGATIVE OBSERVATION ABOUT himself to spark a response. He knew better. So he returned to his original question. "Tell me about Pau Wen."

"I do not answer to interrogation. I am not one of your investigations."

"Perhaps you should be."

"Because of Pau Wen? You give that man far too much credit."

"In Belgium, Karl Tang sent men to kill me. Pau Wen prevented that. He also told me things about Tang and you. Spoke of conversations between you and him. He said you even spoke of me. I want to know about those talks."

They stood at the entrance to the crypt. Mao's body lay in the center, sheathed by a crystalline sarcophagus.

"I had him brought from below," the premier said. "I wanted to see him in all his glory."

Ni knew that like so many others in Beijing, Mao traveled to work each day. The body was raised and lowered from an earthquake-proof chamber deep underground, sealed inside a transparent cocoon, surrounded by pure nitrogen. Halogen lights cast the corpse in a golden glow.

"You think Pau, Tang, and I are co-conspirators?" the premier finally asked.

"I don't know what to think. I'm simply asking a question. Tell me about your conversations with Pau Wen."

"I recall when Mao died," the premier said, gesturing toward the corpse. "September 9, 1976, just after midnight. Ten days the nation mourned. Loudspeakers and radio stations broadcasting somber music. Newspapers proclaimed him the greatest Marxist of the contemporary era and said he will forever illuminate the road of advance of the Chinese people. For three minutes that day the entire country stood in silence." The old man paused, his eyes still locked on the spectacle. "But for what, Minister? Tell me, for what?"

He realized he was being ignored. "I wasn't there. You were. What did you hope to gain from canonizing him?"

The premier faced him. "Do you know what happened after he died?"

Ni shook his head.

"Publicly, Mao had written that he wanted to be cremated. He said, after people die they should not be allowed to occupy any more space. They should be cremated. He publicly proclaimed that he'd take the lead and be burned to ashes, used for fertilizer. But we all knew that was propaganda. He wanted to be worshiped. The problem came when no one knew about embalming. It's simply not our way. The doctors located a Russian text in the national library and followed its procedure, but they injected so much formaldehyde that the face swelled like a ball and the ears projected at right angles. Can you imagine what a sight that was. Mao's skin turned slimy from the chemicals that oozed out the pores. I was there. I saw it."

Ni had not heard this story before.

"They couldn't drain the excess off, so they used towels and cotton balls, hoping to massage the fluid down into the body. One of them pressed too hard and a hunk of the right cheek broke off. Eventually, they had to slit the jacket and pants just to get the body into the clothes."

He wondered why he was being told this.

"But they were not entirely foolish, Minister. Before injecting the formaldehyde, they made a wax effigy of the entire body." The fingers of the old man's left hand pointed to the sarcophagus. "And that is what you see now."

"It's not Mao?"

He shook his head. "Mao is gone, and has been for a long time. This is but an illusion."

MALONE FOLLOWED CASSIOPEIA AND PAU WEN TO THE END OF the pier, Stephanie walking beside him.

"You realize this is crazy," he said in a low voice.

"Ivan says they slip in all the time. Usually from the shoreline to the north. Only difference here is half the flight will be over Vietnam."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

She smiled. "You can handle it."

He pointed at Pau. "Bringing him along is crazy, too."

"He's your guide."

"We're not part of whatever he's after. I doubt he'll be much help."

"Since you know that, be ready."

He shook his head. "I should be selling books."

"How's your hip?"

"Sore."

"I need to make contact before we leave," Cassiopeia called out, stopping at the pier's end. She'd told them that a neighbor of Lev Sokolov's had agreed to act as go-between. All she needed was a laptop, which Stephanie produced, and a satellite connection, which Ivan arranged.

Cassiopeia balanced the computer on the dock's wooden railing, and Malone held it in place. He watched as she typed in an e-mail address, then a message.

I HAVE BEEN READING THE THOUGHTS OF MAO, BUT CANNOT FIND HIS WORDS REGARDING UNITY. COULD YOU HELP ME?

"That's clever," he said.

He knew the Chinese censored the Internet, restricting access to search engines, blogs, chat rooms, any site that allowed open conversation. They also employed filters that screened all digital content in and out of the country for anything suspicious. They were in the process of creating their own intranet, solely for China, which would be far easier to regulate. He'd read about the venture and its skyrocketing costs and technological challenges.

"I found a copy of the The Little Red Book and worked out a code," she said. "The words of Mao would never arouse suspicion. The neighbors said they would check constantly for any message."

Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong--or, as the West labeled it, The Little Red Book--was the most printed book in history. Nearly seven billion copies. Once, every Chinese was required to carry one, and those editions now were valuable collector's items. Malone had bought one himself a few months ago, at the monthly book auction in Roskilde, for one of his customers.

The laptop dinged with an incoming message.

IT IS THE DUTY OF THE CADRES AND THE PARTY TO SERVE THE PEOPLE. WITHOUT THE PEOPLE'S INTERESTS CONSTANTLY AT HEART, THEIR WORK IS USELESS.

She looked up at him. "That's the wrong response. Which means trouble."

"Can they clarify what's going on?" Stephanie asked.

She shook her head. "Not without compromising themselves."

"She is correct," Pau Wen said. "I, too, use a similar coding method when communicating with friends in China. The government watches cyberspace closely."

Malone handed the laptop back. "We need to go. But first I have to do something."

Ivan had been talking on the phone for the past few minutes, standing away from them. Malone walked down the dock and, as the Russian ended his call, asked, "Anything you're willing to tell us?"

"You do not like me much, do you?"

"I don't know. Try a new posture, different clothes, a diet, and a change in attitude and maybe our relationship will improve."

"I have job to do."

"So do I. But you're making it difficult."

"I give you plane and way in."

"Viktor. Where is he? I miss him."

"He is doing job, too."

"I need to know something, and for once tell me the truth."

Ivan stared back at him.

"Is Viktor there to kill Karl Tang?"

"If opportunity arise, this will be good thing."

"And Sokolov? Is he there to kill him, too?"

"Not at all. That one we want back."

"He knows too much? Maybe some things you don't know?"

Ivan only glared at him.

"I thought so. Sokolov must have been busy while in China. Tell me, if it's not possible for Viktor to retrieve Sokolov or, God forbid, we get our hands on him first, what are his orders?"

Ivan said nothing.

"Just like I thought, too. I'm going to do us all a favor and keep this to myself." He gestured to the end of the dock. "She's not going to let that happen to Sokolov."

"She may have no say. Much better when we thought Sokolov dead. Now it is Viktor's choice."

"We'll make sure he makes the right one."

He headed back toward the others where Cassiopeia was climbing into the plane's cabin, followed by Pau.

"Spry sucker," he whispered to Stephanie.

"Watch him, Cotton."

He pointed at Ivan. "And you watch him."

He climbed inside. Two leather seats rested side by side, Cassiopeia in one, a center bench behind them where Pau sat. The instrument panel did not extend to the passenger side, which provided Cassiopeia a wide view ahead through the forward windows. He strapped himself in and studied the controls, noticing the top speed to be around 200 kilometers per hour. One fuel tank in the keel, below the cabin door, held 320 liters. Another auxiliary tank in the tail carried 60 liters. He did the math. About a 1,500 kilometer range. Plenty for a one-way trip, as Ivan had said, which he hoped did not have a double meaning.

"I assume you know what you're doing?" she asked.

"As good a time as any to learn."

She gave him a quizzical look.

"What?" he asked.

"You can fly this, right?" Doubt clouded her tone.

He adjusted the throttle, props, and fuel mixture. He glanced down at the keel plugs and noticed that they were intact. A flick of a switch and the twin engines roared to life. He played with the fuel mixture until the props spun firm. He twisted the cranks for the elevator and rudder trims.

"No problem," he said.

Cassiopeia did not appear to share his confidence.

The plane started to drift, so he grasped the yoke and maneuvered out onto the bay. He turned toward the south so the faint breeze he'd noted on shore would be at their back.

He throttled up the engines to 180 horsepower.

The Twin Bee skimmed across the surface, the controls tightened, and he gripped the yoke.

This would be his first off-water takeoff. He'd always wanted to do it.

Less than five hundred feet was needed before the wings caught air and the plane lifted, slow and steady, as if in an elevator. They found open water beyond the bay. He banked left and adjusted course toward the northwest, heading back over shore. The controls were sluggish, but responsive. Not a P-3 Orion, he reminded himself, or even a Cessna or a Beechcraft. This tank was designed for little more than short water hopping.

"Take a look at that chart," he said to Cassiopeia.

She studied the map.

"We're going to ground-track our way there," he made clear.

"Assuming this chart is correct."

"Not to worry," Pau said at his right ear. "I know this part of Vietnam and China well. I can get us there."

NI WATCHED THE PREMIER'S FACE, TRYING TO GAUGE IF THIS man was friend or foe. He truly had no idea.

"What you see is the wax replica made before the Chairman was embalmed. The body decayed long ago and, in fulfillment of Mao's wishes, was burned to ash."

"Then why keep all this open?"

"An excellent question. One I have asked myself many times. The simplest answer is that the people expect it."

Ni had to say, "I don't think that's the case any longer."

"You may well be correct. That is the sad thing about our heritage. We have no single legacy. Just a succession of dynasties, each rising with its own agenda, opposing the one before it, welcomed by the people, then descending into the same corruption of its predecessor. Why should our future be any different?"

"You sound like Pau."

"I told you that he and I were once close. But there came a time when we deviated. He took one path, I another."

An uncomfortable feeling swept over him. Usually, he was in command of a situation, knowing the questions and the answers. Not here. Others were many steps ahead of him. So he asked what he truly wanted to know. "Why will I lose to Karl Tang?"