The Tiger Warrior (42 page)

“That was something else that dawned on my uncle too late,” Katya said. “And I fear he may even have entered into negotiations with the Maoist rebels. It would have been an act of desperation, but there may have been nobody else to turn to with the government about to draw up a contract with INTACON and the Kóya people powerless to resist. It would have been suicidal for him, but then he knew he was under a death sentence anyway. And I know he had rejected the Brotherhood. He saw the creed moving from the First Emperor to Shang Yong himself, as if Shang were seeing himself as emperor, as
Shihuangdi
, born again.”

“So where is Shang Yong based?” Jack asked.

“In the Taklamakan Desert, on the other side of the Tien Shan Mountains,” Katya replied. “A hundred thousand square kilometers of shifting sands and utter desolation, scarred by ferocious winds. For travelers going east on the Silk Road, the Taklamakan was the last great obstacle before dropping down into central China and reaching the end of the road at Xian, source of the silk and site of the First Emperor’s tomb. Anyone who strayed into the desert risked being lost forever, and anyone who controlled the desert strongholds could prey at will on the caravans skirting its fringes. The desert remains one of the last great lawless tracts on earth. Even the communists couldn’t control it. There are many ruined fortresses half-buried in sand, built beside oases long ago swallowed up. Shang Yong set himself up in one of these, hundreds of kilometers from the nearest road. He’s built an airstrip and begun to convert the place into his own fantasy world. For the Brotherhood, the Taklamakan has always had huge symbolic significance, a bastion against the world outside, a place where they could seem to uphold the emperor’s claim that there was nothing beyond. For Shang Yong, the desert is also a perfect headquarters for INTACON’s mining enterprises in central Asia, in the Tien Shan and Karakoram Mountains. And my uncle knew more. INTACON prospectors have found evidence of huge oil reserves under the desert itself. The Taklamakan has become Shang’s fiefdom. And it’s no longer inward-looking. Shang threatens to control the whole of the western part of China, and to exert a frightening influence on the world outside.”

“So that’s what your uncle was really onto,” Jack murmured.

“What do you mean about a fantasy world?” Costas said.

Katya paused. “That’s where the real significance of the jewel, the real danger, comes into play. For the last meeting of the Brotherhood that my uncle ever attended, he was flown to the desert headquarters. In the center of the ruins lay a domed structure, a former Nestorian church. He was ushered down a ramped passage and through great bronze doors. He sat in near darkness at a low table with the other eleven, Shang Yong at the head. What my uncle saw inside stunned and horrified him. It was instantly recognizable from the
Records of the Grand Historian
. Shang Yong had re-created the First Emperor’s tomb inside the church. For the old Brotherhood, that would have been unimaginable heresy. Above them was the dome of the heavens, and on either side were rivers and mountains and palaces. Beyond that were images of the terracotta warriors. He said it was like sitting in a planetarium, with the latest CGI and holographic technology, even the sounds of water and wind, the baying of horses. Over the days he was there he realized that Shang Yong was spending more and more time alone in the chamber. My uncle had worried about Shang as a boy. He had been addicted to computer games, to the world of instant gratification and utter certainty, a world where morality and humanity are irrelevant. My uncle realized that Shang Yong had moved from being a player in front of a screen to being inside the game itself, part of it.”

“Computer whiz kids who barely know reality from fantasy,” Costas murmured. “Who grow up and make fortunes and think they can take that extra step the boy in the basement can’t, and walk into the screen, into a world they think they can control completely in a way they can never control reality.”

Katya nodded. “Exactly. In Shang Yong’s mind, it was an extension of the concept of
wu di
, the com mingling of the worlds of the living and the dead that would come with the age of light, with the celestial jewel. But it was as if he had already found a portal to that other world. My uncle knew that the powers of the jewel might prove no more than a figment of myth, but for Shang Yong it could still have terrifying potency. If he believed that the jewel was the final key to his apotheosis, to some kind of melding with the First Emperor, then it might propel him into a terrifying megalomania. That’s what frightened my uncle the most. That’s when he determined to keep his research secret from others in the Brotherhood and try to discover the jewel himself.”

“But Shang Yong already knew,” Jack replied. “Your uncle would survive only as long as it took him to find the place where he thought the jewel was hidden.”

“So who’s the guy you think is shadowing us?” Costas said.

Katya stared at him. “You told me what the Kóya had seen in the jungle,” she replied. “Seven men from INTACON went in, one came out, armed with a scoped rifle. He was the initiate. The murder of my uncle was his test. He has now become one of the Brotherhood. By tradition, when one of the Brotherhood strayed, he and his immediate family were eliminated. His replacement in the twelve came from another family in the same clan, chosen for their martial prowess by the other eleven in the Brotherhood.”

“And this new one is the tiger warrior,” Jack said quietly.

“A twisted version. A psychopath. And he has a particular speciality. His grandmother was a Kazakh Red Army sniper during the Second World War, one of those who chalked up hundreds of kills. He learned everything from her. He’s a professional, and honed his art in Bosnia, Chechnya, Africa. His count may even exceed hers by now. He uses her old Mosin-Nagant rifle.”

“A sniper’s rifle is like an artist’s favorite brush,” Jack murmured. “An old Soviet bolt-action can kill as well as the latest Barrett.”

“One question,” Costas said. “Your family’s been part of this since the time of the First Emperor. Sixty-six generations. How do we know you’re not one of the bad guys?”

Katya cast him a baleful look. “Because they murdered my uncle. Because there are no others in my family. Because of a pledge my ancestors made more than two thousand years ago. And because the creed of Shang Yong has nothing to do with that history. It’s an abomination. And because he will try to kill me—and all of us—as soon as we lead him to the jewel. It’s as simple as that.”

“So this valley we’re heading to,” Costas said, looking at Jack. “Sounds like sniper alley. Do we get any ISAF protection?”

“You could have a battalion of special forces up there combing the slopes, rangers, SAS, and they still wouldn’t see a sniper that good,” Jack replied.

Pradesh had been listening quietly, and glanced at Costas. “Jack and I have talked about this. If we want ISAF help to hunt one man and a rifle, that’s a no go. Up here some of the local warlords are strong enough to confront the Taliban themselves. The ISAF commanders know that’s the way forward. Let the warlords get on with it themselves, and don’t make yourself their enemy too. The Taliban murdered and raped their way through here when they were in power, and Afghans have long memories. So we’ll only get limited reactive assistance or medevac. Once we pass through the air-base at Feyzabad, we’re on our own until we meet this former mujahideen chap Altamaty knows, the local warlord. Then we have to run the gauntlet of a couple of villages where there might be Taliban infiltrators, and there’s always the possibility of IEDs, suicide bombers. But if Altamaty really can get the warlord on our side, that’s a big step forward.”

“What’s our cover story?” Costas asked. “Aren’t they going to assume we’re CIA or something?”

“Film crew,” Jack said. “We’re following the exploration of John Wood in 1836 in search of the source of the river Oxus. We’ve even got the battered old book for authenticity.”

“Sounds like a dream project of yours, Jack,” Katya said.

“One day.” Jack flashed her a smile. “I’d love to. When the fighting’s over.”

Costas peered at the map. “What’s the place with the mines called again?”

“The Koran Valley,” Jack said.

The aircraft banked to port, and they heard the rumble of the undercarriage lowering. Altamaty had been staring out of the window, but turned as Jack spoke, hearing the word. He looked at Katya, and spoke softly:

“Agur janub doshukh na-kham buro
Zinaar Murrow ba janub tungee Koran”

Costas turned to her. “Meaning?”

She gave him a steely look. “It’s Pashtun. Something Altamaty learned when he was captured by the mujahideen up here.
If you wish not to go to destruction, avoid the narrow valley of Koran”

The plane bounced on the runway. “Perfect,” Costas grumbled. “Another choice holiday hot spot.”

Afghanistan, 22 September 1908

T
HE TWO MEN BOUNCED AND TUMBLED DOWN THE
pile of rock chippings that half filled the entrance to the mine, desperately scrabbling for handholds and kicking against the scree to find some kind of purchase. They came to a halt side-by-side, lying near the bottom of the pile. They could still see the mine entrance, the gray sky outside, a slit of light at the top of the mound about a pistol shot away. Beyond them the shaft continued into pitch darkness. At more than twelve thousand feet of altitude the air was thin, and they panted and coughed in the pall of dust they had raised as they slid down the slope. John Howard turned his head toward the figure beside him, then blinked hard and peered at the wall of the mineshaft. He could see pick marks, all over the rock. A shaft of light from the entrance lit up the ceiling. There was no doubting it. Streaks of blue, speckled with gold. He began to laugh, or cry, he hardly knew which, then coughed painfully. “Robert,” he whispered. “Have you seen? It’s lazurite.”

“I’ve just collected a specimen.” Howard felt relief to hear Wauchope’s voice, the Irish accent with its American twang still strong despite all his years in British service. In the desperate fight outside, Howard had wondered whether he would ever hear it again. He blinked hard, and tried to take stock. He was lying on his front, limbs splayed out, hands forward, his right hand still holding the old Colt revolver, a wisp of smoke coming from the chamber he had fired a few moments before. His left hand was clasped tight around the ancient tube of bamboo, ten inches long, blackened and shiny with age. They had taken it out to read the papyrus inside just before they were attacked, after they had stowed their bags on the valley floor, and he had clutched it close to him through the desperate climb to this place, seeking paths that the horse of their pursuer could not negotiate.

Wauchope rolled onto his back beside him. Howard watched him break open his Webley revolver, eject the spent cartridges and reload from a pouch on his belt, glancing up at the tunnel entrance as he did so. He put down the revolver and picked up something in his left hand. It was a fragment of blue rock. He fumbled with his other hand for a little leather pouch hanging from his neck, raising himself on one elbow, wincing as it bit into the rock. He took out a scratched old monocle from the bag, placed it over his left eye and then craned his neck forward, inspecting the fragment closely. “When Lieutenant Wood came to this place seventy years ago, he said there were three grades.” Wauchope peered again. “This is the superior grade. That sparkle of gold is iron pyrites. It’s the
nielo
, just as Licinius described it.” He took off the monocle and slumped back. For a moment all Howard could hear was the sound of his own breathing, sharp, rasping. He watched his exhalation crystallize in the cold mountain air. Wauchope rolled his head over and looked at him. “You know what this means.”

“It means,” Howard said, “that by some act of divine providence those ghouls chased us into the right mine-shaft. Wood said there was only one shaft that produced the superior grade. And look at those pick marks on the rock above us—and the soot from fires used to crack the rock. This shaft has been mined for thousands of years.”

Howard closed his eyes. The rock chips he was lying on were jagged and unforgiving, but he seemed hardly to feel them at all. It was strange. He opened his eyes and peered at Wauchope. The two men were scarcely recognizable from three months before, when they had left Quetta one night and made their way toward the border, disappearing into the wilds of Afghanistan. And now here they were, thirty years after their escape from the jungle shrine, their faces sun-scorched and craggy like the mountain valleys, weather-beaten old men with matted gray beards. They both wore turbans, impregnated with dust, and heavy Afghan sheepskin overcoats tied around the middle, the matted wool turned inward as protection against the bitter cold that had begun to course through the mountains in their final treacherous approach to the mines. Beneath Wauchope’s upturned collar, Howard could see the leather Sam Browne belt and khaki of his uniform, the colonel’s pips and crown visible on one shoulder. They were both officially retired, but they knew they would be treated as spies by the Afghans if they went without uniform and would suffer a fate worse than death. It had been their profession for thirty-five years, as officers of the Corps of Royal Engineers, and it seemed the most natural thing to wear the uniforms they had worn all their adult lives, on their last and greatest adventure together.