The Emperor's Tomb

Jagged, snowy summits as high as twenty thousand feet shielded glaciers, patches of green-black forest, and lush valleys. The Himalaya, Karakoum, Hindu Kush, and Pamir ranges all merged here. This was the land of black wolves and blue poppies, ibex and snow leopards. Where fairies congregated, Malone recalled one ancient observer noting. Possibly even the inspiration behind James Hilton’s Shangri-la. A paradise for trekkers, climbers, rafters, and skiers. Unfortunately, India and Pakistan both claimed sovereignty, China retained possession, and all three governments had fought over the desolate region for decades.

“They seem to know where we’re headed,” she said.

“That thought occurred to me, too.” So he had to add, “I told you he was trouble.”

They were dressed in leather jackets, jeans, and boots. Though they were more than eight thousand feet above sea level, the air was surprisingly mild. Maybe sixty degrees, he estimated. Luckily, both of them carried Chinese semi-automatic weapons and a few spare magazines.

“We have to go that way.” He pointed behind them. “And those soldiers are close enough to do some damage.”

He searched his eidetic brain for what they needed. Yesterday, he’d studied the local geography and noted that this slice of earth, which wasn’t much larger than New Jersey, was once called Hunza, a princely state for over nine hundred years, whose independence finally evaporated in the 1970s. The fair-skinned and light-eyed locals claimed to be descendants of soldiers in Alexander the Great’s army, from when Greeks invaded two millennia ago. Who knew? The land had remained isolated for centuries, until the 1980s, when the Karakoram Highway passed through and connected China to Pakistan.

“We have to trust that he’ll handle it,” she finally said.

“That was your call, not mine. You go first. I’ll cover.”

He gripped the Chinese double-action pistol. Not a bad weapon. Fifteen rounds, fairly accurate. Cassiopeia prepared herself, too. He liked that about her—ready for any situation. They made a good team, and this striking Spanish Arab definitely intrigued him.

She scampered off toward a stand of junipers.

He aimed the pistol across the boulder and readied himself to react at the slightest movement. To his right, in the tomb-like illumination that filtered through the spring foliage, he caught the glimmer of a rifle barrel being aimed around a tree trunk.

He fired.

The barrel disappeared.

He decided to use the moment and followed Cassiopeia, keeping the boulder between himself and their pursuers.

He reached her and they both raced forward, using more trees as cover.

Sharp bursts of rifle fire echoed. Bullets pinged around them.

The trail twisted out of the trees and rose in a steep but climbable slope, held to a rocky bluff by retaining walls of loose boulders. Not much cover here, but they had no choice. Beyond the trail, he spied canyons so deep and sheer that light could enter only at high noon. A gorge dropped away to their right, and they ran along its edge. Bright sun blazed on the far side, dulled by black mountain slate. A hundred feet below water rushed and tumbled, gray with sand, tossing foamy spray high into the air.

They clambered up the steep embankment.

He spotted the bridge.

Exactly where they’d been told.

Not much of a span, just shaky poles wedged upright between boulders on each end, horizontal timbers fastened on top, connected by thick hemp. A footwalk of boards dangled over the river.

Cassiopeia reached the top of the trail. “We have to cross.”

He didn’t like that prospect, but she was right. Their destination was on the far side.

Gunfire echoed in the distance and he glanced behind them.

No soldiers.

Which bothered him.

“Maybe he’s leading them away,” she said.

His distrust made him defensive, but there was no time to analyze the situation. He stuffed the gun into his pocket. Cassiopeia did the same, then stepped onto the bridge.

He followed.

The boards vibrated from the rush of water below. He estimated less than a hundred feet to the other side, but they’d be suspended in open air with zero cover, moving from shadows to sunlight. Another trail could be seen on the far side, leading across loose gravel into more trees. He spotted a figure, maybe fifteen feet high, carved in the rock face beyond the trail—a Buddhist image, just as they’d been told.

Cassiopeia turned back toward him, Eastern eyes peering from her Western face. “This bridge has seen better days.”

“I hope it has at least one more left.”

She gripped the twisted ropes that held the span aloft.

He tightened his fingers around the coarse strands, too, then decided, “I’ll go first.”

“And the reason for that?”

“I’m heavier. If they hold me, they’ll hold you.”

“Since I can’t argue with that logic”—she stepped aside—“be my guest.”

He assumed the lead, his feet attuned to the steady vibrations.

No sign of any pursuers.

He decided a brisk pace would be better, not giving the boards time to react. Cassiopeia followed.