The Emperor's Tomb (32 page)

Good point.

"What's in the tomb?" Cassiopeia asked Pau.

"Not what you expect."

Malone said, "Care to elaborate?"

"I'll let you see for yourself, once we're inside."

Chapter
Fifty-One.

2:30 PM

NI STEPPED FROM THE CAR THAT HAD DRIVEN HIM EAST FROM Xi'an into Lintong County and the Museum of Qin Dynasty Terracotta Warriors and Horses. The premier had told him that the helicopter carrying Pau Wen would arrive within the next thirty minutes. He'd also told Ni something that he'd never known, something that only one person left alive knew.

The tomb of Qin Shi, China's First Emperor, had been opened.

Though the terra-cotta warriors had been dug from the ground and placed on display for the world to see, the tomb itself, a towering treed mound that dominated the otherwise flat, scrubby farmland, had supposedly never been violated. All agreed that the tomb represented one of the greatest archaeological opportunities on the planet. Qin Shi fundamentally changed the way his world was governed, solidifying Legalism, inventing a concept of government that unified China. He became the center of a nation and remained so even in death, taking with him not just a clay retinue, but a complete political system, one that reflected a supreme authority in both life and death. Those who came after him tried to diminish his influence by rewriting history. But entering the tomb, studying its contents, could well provide a way to correct every one of those edits.

Yet the communist government had always said no.

Officially, the reason was that technology and techniques did not, as yet, exist to properly preserve what lay beneath the mound. So it was deemed safer to leave the tomb sealed.

Ni had never, until a few hours ago, questioned that explanation. It was unimportant to his hunt for corruption. He'd only visited the museum once, a few years ago, when a series of thefts occurred in the restoration workshops--local laborers stealing pieces of the excavated warriors to sell on the black market. Now he was back, and the grounds swarmed with crowds, shifting and swaying like seaweed in a gentle current. Millions visited each year, and today--though a low-slung, oppressive gray sky yielded rain--seemed no exception. The car parks were full, an area specially reserved for buses packed tight. He knew a subway was currently under construction from Xi'an, a thirty-kilometer line that would ease traffic, but it was still a few years away from completion.

He'd told no one he was coming, commandeering a Central Committee helicopter that had flown him west. Karl Tang had left Lanzhou three hours ago, headed east, toward Xi'an, which meant his enemy should already be here. On the flight from Beijing he'd taken the time to read what his staff had amassed, studying a subject that he knew little about.

Eunuchs.

Their population had ranged from 3,000 to 100,000, depending on the era. To every Chinese, all naturally occurring forces came in cycles, reaching a peak with the yang, then receding with the yin. Maleness, strength, and virtue had always been associated with yang, while females, eunuchs, and evil were ruled by yin. He'd learned that there may have been a logical explanation for this dichotomy. All Chinese history was written by mandarins, the educated elite, who, as a class, despised palace eunuchs. Mandarins had to qualify for their position, after years of arduous study, by passing exams. Eunuchs acquired their influence without any qualifications. So it was understandable that what written records survived contained little good to say about eunuchs.

Not surprisingly, their mistreatment was common. Each time they encountered a member of the imperial family they were compelled to debase themselves as slaves. They realized early in life that they could never be venerated as scholars or statesmen. The inferiority complex generated from such treatment would breed resentment in anyone. They learned that their ability to survive, once their services were no longer needed, depended on how much wealth they could secretly amass. To acquire it meant to stay in close proximity to authority. So keeping themselves in good graces with their patrons, and keeping their patrons in power, became their primary interest.

There were, though, capable eunuchs who became valued advisers. Several achieved great stature. Tsai Lun, in the 2nd century, invented paper. Ssu-ma Chien became the father of Chinese history. Zheng He rose to be the greatest sailor China ever produced, building a 15th-century fleet that explored the world. Nguyen An, a veritable renaissance man, designed the Forbidden Palace. Feng Bao, during the 17th century, capably managed the affairs of the nation under Emperor Wanli. During that same time Chen Ju helped maintain a working inner court, while the outer court was torn asunder into warring factions. For his service, after his death, he was conferred the title Pure and Loyal.

From his reading, Ni realized that emperors simply came to believe that eunuchs were more reliable than government officials. Eunuchs were never taught lofty ideals or driven to consider the greater good over self. They simply came to represent the personal will of the emperor, while government officials presented the alternative political will of the established bureaucracy.

A classic clash of ideologies.

Which the eunuchs won.

Then lost.

Now they were back.

And their leader was here, in Xi'an, waiting.

TANG STUDIED THE CLOSED-CIRCUIT MONITORS. THE ENTIRE museum site was littered with hundreds of cameras that kept a constant watch on the three pits and their corresponding shelters, the exhibition hall, restaurants, information center, cinema, even the souvenir stalls.

He glanced at the wall clock and realized that a helicopter should be approaching soon. Nothing unusual. Government officials, dignitaries, even some of the country's new rich routinely flew to the site. The military likewise ferried personnel in and out. Tang had come in the same chopper that waited a kilometer away, just beyond the outer perimeter in a field designated as a landing spot.

Twenty-four separate screens filled the greenish wall before him within a dimly lit, air-conditioned building that sat two kilometers from the tomb mound. The building was part of an administrative complex where scientists, archaeologists, and bureaucrats were headquartered. He'd learned that faulty wiring had been blamed for the fire in Pit 3. A general unease permeated the air, since no one wanted to be tagged with responsibility. This was especially true of the administrator. The irritating fool had repeatedly offered his apologies about the catastrophic loss to history. Tang had decided to be more magnanimous than expected and assured the staff that he understood. Mishaps occurred. Conduct an investigation, then file a detailed report.

His gaze raked the television monitors.

An eager, active crowd--pushing, jostling--filled the screens. The rain had started an hour ago. He understood the value of tourist revenue, but the pandering required to secure those moneys irked him.

That, too, would change once he achieved power.

Images on the monitors changed every few seconds, numbers scrolling at the bottom indicating the time and location of each view. His eyes danced across the screens, absorbing the chaos, noticing uniformed guards that appeared from time to time, each in radio communication with the dispatcher to his right.

One display grabbed his attention.

"There," he ordered, pointing. "Number 45."

The monitor indicating camera 45 stopped scrolling.

"Where is that?"

"On the west side of the mound, near the tombs of the craftsmen."

The screen showed a man, dressed in a dark, short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers. He stood at the edge of a wet field, the forested base of the tomb mound in the background. He was facing the camera, rain soaking his body. Tall, slim, black-haired, and though Tang could not see such detail he knew the man possessed brown eyes, a broad nose, and distinctive features.

A murmur of alarm skittered across the room as the face was recognized.

"Minister Ni is on the premises," he heard one of the men say.

On screen, Ni turned and made a wild scramble across the wet soil, toward a cluster of stone and wooden houses with thatched roofs.

"What is that?" Tang asked.

"Restricted area. Orders from Beijing, Minister. Long ago. That area is off limits."

"No one enters there?"

The man shook his head. "Never. We monitor the fence, but do not go inside."

He understood the effect that an order from Beijing created. It was not questioned, only obeyed, until another directive from Beijing countermanded the first.

On the screen, as Ni hustled away, Tang noticed something protruding from the back pocket of his pants.

"Focus on what he is carrying," he immediately ordered.

The camera's focus zoomed as Ni continued to walk away, and the object became clear.

A flashlight.

He tapped one of the security men on the shoulder and motioned to his holstered weapon. "Give me your gun."

The man handed over the weapon.

He checked the magazine. Fully loaded.

"Take me to that area."

NI HAD PURPOSEFULLY STOPPED AND FACED THE CAMERA. IF Karl Tang was watching, which the premier had assured him would be the case, then he wanted him to know he was here.

Now to see if his enemy had taken the bait.

Chapter
Fifty-Two.

MALONE STARED DOWN THROUGH A WINDOW SMEARED BY RAIN at the tomb of Qin Shi. The green-forested mound rose like a boil from the flat brown landscape. He'd read about the site many times, a complex of underground vaults spread over twenty square miles, most of them unexplored. He'd even visited the terra-cotta warrior exhibition in London last year, but he'd never imagined that he might one day enter the tomb itself.

The helicopter approached from the south, swooping in over dun-colored hills at around a thousand feet. A steady downpour drenched the ground. More mountains rose to the west, the Wei River flowing to the north. About a mile away he caught a glimpse of the towering halls and other buildings that made up the museum site and a multitude of people with umbrellas, braving the rain.

"We'll land north," Viktor said through the headphones. "I'm told there's a spot reserved for helicopters there."

Malone preferred to carry a weapon and hoped that a locker he'd spotted earlier was accessible. When the latch opened he was instantly suspicious. Inside, four pistols were secured by clamps. He removed one and, remembering the last time he'd been inside a helicopter, with Viktor Tomas at the controls, he checked the magazine.

Fully loaded. Twenty rounds.

He removed a few of the bullets and examined them. No blanks.

He replaced the ammunition and handed Cassiopeia a weapon. He did not offer a gun to Pau Wen, nor did the older man ask.

He slid the semi-automatic pistol beneath his shirt. Cassiopeia did the same.

The rotors eased, and they gradually lost altitude.

TANG LEFT THE SECURITY BUILDING AND WAS HEADED FOR A waiting car when he spotted a military helicopter swooping in from the south. He wanted to go after Ni Yong, but he knew better.

"Keep the car ready," he ordered.

Then he headed back inside.

NI STOPPED AT THE RUSTED FENCE THAT ENCLOSED A CLUSTER of dilapidated buildings. The premier had told him that the cottage-like structures beyond had been hastily built in the 1980s. To the premier's knowledge, no one had been inside the enclosure for twenty years--and from the tall grass and vegetation that consumed everything, and gaping holes that dotted the thatched roofs, he could believe that claim. The buildings stood maybe a hundred meters from the base of the mound within the perimeter of an ancient wall that no longer existed.

He stared with a blend of fascination and wonder.

The premier had also advised him that Pau Wen was most likely headed inside the tomb of Qin Shi.

"How is that possible?" he'd asked.

"There are two ways inside. Pau Wen knows one. I know the other."

CASSIOPEIA JUMPED FROM THE HELICOPTER ONTO THE SOGGY ground, followed by Cotton and Pau. As the blades wound to a stop, Viktor emerged from the cabin and asked, "You find the guns, Malone?"

"And this time they actually have bullets."

"You're big on grudges, aren't you?"

No one had approached the chopper, and there was no vehicle in sight. They were probably a mile from the mound and half that distance to the museum complex. Another helicopter rested a hundred yards away.

"Friends of yours?" Malone asked

Viktor shrugged. "I have no idea."

"Security is a little lax," Malone said.

"And we're foreigners," Cassiopeia pointed out.

"But you came in a PLA chopper," Viktor said. "And that's what matters."

The rain fell in a steady pulse, resoaking Malone's still-damp clothes. But at least the air was warm.

Pau Wen pointed toward the museum. "We have to go. The exhibits will soon close for the day."

TANG STUDIED THE MONITOR, PLEASED THAT VIKTOR TOMAS had delivered Pau Wen, Cotton Malone, and Cassiopeia Vitt, exactly as promised. He was dividing his attention between the northern landing field and what Ni Yong was doing on the west side of the mound. His vantage point offered him the perfect perch, and he ordered the men working the cameras to not lose sight of either scene.