The Emperor's Tomb

He couldn’t decide if the informant’s eyes and ears belonged to one of his staff or one of the army captains. Hard to know anything for sure anymore. All he knew was that his report to the Central Committee would not be the only retelling, so he decided to make clear, “Are you sure? Not once has Zhao communicated anything?”

“He was beaten senseless. His brain is destroyed. He will never awaken from the coma. We keep him alive simply because you—no, excuse me, the Central Committee—ordered it.”

He caught the disgust in the woman’s eyes, something else he’d seen more and more of lately. Especially from women. Nearly the entire hospital staff—doctors and nurses—were women. They’d made great strides since Mao’s Revolution, yet Tang still adhered to the adage his father had taught him. A man does not talk about affairs inside the home, and a woman does not talk about affairs outside.

This insignificant doctor, employed at a minor state-run hospital, was incapable of understanding the enormity of his challenge. Beijing ruled a land that stretched five thousand kilometers east to west and more than three thousand north to south. Much was uninhabitable mountains and desert, some of the most desolate regions in the world, only 10% of the country arable. Nearly one and a half billion people—more than America, Russia, and Europe combined. But only 60,000,000 were members of the Chinese Communist Party—less than 3% of the total. The doctor was a Party member, and had been for more than a decade. He’d checked. No way she could have risen to such a high managerial position otherwise. Only Party-membered, Han Chinese achieved such status. Hans were a huge majority of the population, the remaining small percentage spread across fifty-six minorities. The doctor’s father was a prominent official in the local provincial government, a loyal Party member who’d participated in the 1949 Revolution and personally known both Mao and Deng Xiaoping.

Still, Tang needed to make clear, “Jin Zhao owed his loyalty to the People’s government. He decided to aid our enemies—”

“What could a sixty-three-year-old geochemist have done to harm the People’s government? Tell me, Minister. I want to know. What could he possibly do to us now?”

He checked his watch. A helicopter was waiting to fly him north.

“He was no spy,” she said. “No traitor. What did he really do, Minister? What justifies beating a man until his brain bleeds?”

He had not the time to debate what had already been decided. The informant would seal this woman’s fate. In a month she’d receive a transfer—despite her father’s privileges—most likely sent thousands of kilometers west to the outer reaches, where problems were hidden away.

He turned toward the other uniform and motioned.

The captain removed his holstered sidearm, approached the bed, and fired one shot through Jin Zhao’s forehead.

The body lurched, then went still.

The respirator continued to force air into dead lungs.

“Sentence has been carried out,” Tang declared. “Duly witnessed by representatives of the People’s government, the military … and this facility’s chief administrator.”

He indicated that it was time to leave. The mess would be the doctor’s to clean up.

He walked toward the doors.

“You just shot a helpless man,” the doctor screamed. “Is this what our government has become?”

“You should be grateful,” he said.

“For what?”

“That the government does not debit this facility’s operating budget for the cost of the bullet.”

And he left.

THREE

COPENHAGEN

1:20 PM

MALONE LEFT HIS BOOKSHOP AND STEPPED OUT INTO HØJBRO Plads. The afternoon sky was cloudless, the Danish air comfortable. The Strøget—a chain of traffic-free streets, most lined with shops, cafés, restaurants, and museums—surged with commerce.

He’d solved the problem of what to bring by simply grabbing the first book off one of the shelves and stuffing it into an envelope. Cassiopeia had apparently opted to buy herself time by involving him. Not a bad play, except the ruse could only be stretched so far. He wished he knew what she was doing. Since last Christmas, between them, there’d been visits, a few meals here and there, phone calls, and e-mails. Most dealing with Thorvaldsen’s death, which seemed to have hurt them both. He still couldn’t believe his best friend was gone. Every day he expected the cagey old Dane to walk into the bookstore, ready for some lively conversation. He still harbored a deep regret that his friend had died thinking he’d been betrayed.

“You did what you had to in Paris,” Cassiopeia told him. “I would have done the same.”

“Henrik didn’t see it that way.”