The Emperor's Tomb

He fled the main entrance and followed a flora-bordered central avenue. Bulb gardens, roses, lilacs, as well as hundreds of lime, chestnut, cherry, and evergreen trees grew in an ingenious plan that, to him, always seemed bigger than a mere twenty-one acres. Scents of popcorn and cotton candy wafted in the air, along with the sounds of a Vienna waltz and big-band tunes. He knew that Tivoli’s creator had justified the excess by advising Denmark’s Christian VIII that when the people are amusing themselves, they do not think about politics.

He was familiar with the Chinese pagoda. Within a leafy bower it stood four stories tall and faced a lake. More than a hundred years old, its Asiatic image adorned nearly every brochure that advertised Tivoli.

A cadre of young boys, smartly dressed in red jackets, bandoliers, and bushy bearskin hats marched down an adjacent lane. The Garden Guard, Tivoli’s marching band. People lined the route and watched the parade. All of the attractions were unusually crowded, given it was a Tuesday in May, the summer season beginning only last week.

He caught sight of the pagoda, three vertical repetitions of its base in diminishing proportions, each story with a projecting roofline and upturned eaves. People streamed in and out of the pagoda’s ground-floor restaurant. More revelers occupied benches beneath the trees.

Just before 2 PM.

He was on time.

Wandering ducks from the lake mingled with the crowd, showing little fear. He could not say the same about himself. His nerves were alert, his mind thinking like the Justice Department agent he’d been for twelve risky years. The idea had been to retire early and flee the danger, becoming a Danish bookseller, but the past two years had been anything but quiet.

Think. Pay attention.

The computerized voice had said that once he was here he’d be contacted. Apparently, Cassiopeia’s captors knew exactly what he looked like.

“Mr. Malone.”

He turned.

A woman, her thin face more long than round, stood beside him. Her black hair hung straight, and long-lashed brown eyes added a mysterious quality. Truth be known, he had a weakness for Oriental beauty. She was smartly dressed in clothes cut to flatter her contours, which included a Burberry skirt wrapping her tiny waist.

“I came for the package,” she said.

He motioned with the envelope he held. “This?”

She nodded.

She was in her late twenties, casual in her movements, seemingly unconcerned about the situation. His suspicions were rapidly being confirmed.

“Care to stay and have a late lunch?” he asked.

She smiled. “Another time.”

“Sounds promising. How would I find you?”

“I know where your bookshop is.”

He grinned. “How stupid of me.”

She pointed at the envelope. “I need to be leaving.”

He handed her the package.

“Maybe I’ll drop by your shop again,” she said, adding a smile.

“You do that.”

He watched as she sauntered off, merging with the crowd, walking leisurely, not a care in the world.

TANG CLOSED HIS EYES AND ALLOWED THE DRONE OF THE HELICOPTER’S turbine to calm his nerves.

He checked his watch.

9:05 PM here meant 2:05 PM in Antwerp.

So much was happening. His entire future was being determined by a collision of circumstances, all of which had to be tightly controlled.

At least the problem of Jin Zhao had been resolved.

All was finally assuming its assigned place. Thirty years of dedication about to be rewarded. Every threat had either been eliminated or contained.

Only Ni Yong remained.

FOUR

ANTWERP, BELGIUM

2:05 PM

NI YONG SETTLED INTO THE BLACK LACQUERED CHAIR, A QING-PERIOD reproduction. He was familiar with the elegant lines and beautiful curves, this one an excellent example of pre–18th century Chinese craftsmanship, the quality and accuracy of its joinery so precise that nails and glue were unnecessary.

His austere-looking host rested in a cane armchair, his face longer than most Chinese, eyes rounder, forehead high, the sparse hair slightly curled. Pau Wen wore a jade-colored silk jacket and white trousers.

“Your home is elegant,” Ni said in their native language.

Pau nodded at the compliment, accepting the praise with the humility expected of a man nearing seventy. Too young to have been with Mao in 1949 when the People’s Revolution swept Chiang Kai-shek and his Nationalists onto Taiwan, Ni knew that Pau’s role grew during the 1960s and remained important even after Mao died in 1976.

Then, ten years later, Pau left China.

Ending up here, in Belgium of all places.

“I wanted my residence,” Pau said, “to remind me of home.”