The Emperor's Tomb

The gates were open, seemingly inviting him inside, so he stepped onto a six-person-wide, stone-paved avenue. Three more elaborate gates gave way to a courtyard surrounded by multistoried buildings and colonnaded porches. Ornamental trees, shrubs, flowers, and the trickle of water through a man-made stream created a feeling of peace.

But he realized this place was anything but untroubled.

A figure of a deity with multiple arms and several faces rose before him. At the far end, up three narrow terraces, past a veranda, a set of doors hung open, guarded by ivory tusks, the space beyond well lit.

He still hadn’t seen anyone.

He kept the gun at his side, finger on the trigger, fighting violent heartbeats and a faint feeling from the thin air. Then he heard a sound. Laughter.

A child.

Speaking in Russian.

He scanned the courtyard and identified the source. To his right, one floor up, through an open window. Sokolov and his son? He had to find out.

CASSIOPEIA CLIMBED THE TRAIL, ZIGZAGGING UPWARD, TOWARD where she and Cotton would have arrived if their river crossing had not been interrupted. Trees provided handholds, their gnarly roots gripping the earth with rigid tentacles.

The exertion restored her body. Viktor led the way but occasionally glanced back, keeping watch on her. He’d held her tight on the river. Too tight. She’d sensed his emotions, knew that he cared, but like herself and Cotton, he kept far more inside than he ever allowed out. The murder of that Chinese pilot seemed to bother him. Unusual. Men like Viktor rarely analyzed their actions or expressed regret. A job was a job, ethics be damned. At least that was the way Viktor had always treated things. She believed him on Sokolov. Stephanie would want the Russian alive. Ivan, though, was another matter. He would want Sokolov silent.

Her wet clothes, stained brown from the silty water, hung heavy, dust from the trail clinging to her as if magnetized. She’d lost her gun in the fall and noticed that Viktor carried only a knife, so they were headed into God-knew-what unarmed.

They found the top of the trail and passed rock carvings and an altar. Around a bend they spotted the purplish mass of the monastery, perched high, overlooking a natural amphitheater of cliffs and valleys.

And heard a gong.

NI EASED HIMSELF CLOSE TO A DISPLAY OF BRONZE SWORDS. THE slim-faceted blades shone in the incandescent lights, their edges and tips sharp.

Do something.

Even if it’s wrong.

Pau turned toward Tang, and Ni used the moment to grip one of the weapons, instantly wrapping his arm around Pau, bringing the blade to the older man’s throat, flat edge to the skin—for the moment.

“This will easily slit your throat,” he said in Pau’s ear.

Tang reacted to the threat by summoning the men outside. Two brothers rushed in and leveled their crossbows.

“Tell them to lay down the bows and leave,” Ni commanded Pau. “It won’t take much to cause you to bleed to death.”

Pau stood still.

“Tell them,” he said again, and to emphasize the point he twisted the sword ninety degrees, bringing the sharp edge to the skin.

“Do as he says,” Pau commanded.

Both brothers laid down their weapons and retreated.

MALONE ENTERED ONE OF THE BUILDINGS THAT LINED THE courtyard and ascended a staircase one level. At the top, he inched his way down a wide corridor to an intersection. Carefully, he peered around the corner and spotted a younger man in a woolen robe standing guard outside a closed door. He estimated that the room would face the courtyard at the location of the open window.

Twenty feet lay between himself and the apparently unarmed guard. He decided a direct approach was best, so he tucked the gun into his back pocket and readied himself.

One.

Two.

He rushed around the corner and charged. Just as he’d assumed, the sudden sight of someone caused a momentary delay in reaction, enough for Malone to coldcock the guard with a fist, slamming the back of the man’s head into the stone wall.

The man collapsed to the floor.

Malone checked to be sure. No weapon. Interesting. Perhaps they weren’t thought necessary behind the impressive fortifications that encased this complex.

He found his own gun, checked behind him—all quiet—and slowly opened the door.

TANG WONDERED WHAT NI HOPED TO GAIN. THERE WAS NOWHERE to go. “You cannot escape.”

“But I can kill your master.”

“I do not fear death,” Pau said.

“Neither do I. Not anymore. In fact, I would rather be dead than live in a China ruled by you two.”

He silently congratulated himself on his forethought. All he had to do was coax Ni back out into the hall.

There, he could end this problem.

MALONE SAW THE LOOK OF RELIEF ON LEV SOKOLOV’S FACE, SAW the boy curled in his lap.

“Malone,” Sokolov muttered. “I wondered what happened to you.”

He crossed the empty bedchamber and stole a quick look out the window. The courtyard remained quiet. “How many men are in this place?”

“Not many,” Sokolov said. “I have seen only a few. Tang is here, though.”

“Where’s Ni?”