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December 26, 1968.
Precious few of those first-generation leaders remained alive. Though they held a special status in the communist pantheon, many fell victim to Mao’s purges. Others died from old age. One, though, remained active in the government.
The premier, who’d occasionally displayed his gift from the former Chairman.
Tang needed to know for sure. “There are no Confucian texts here? You are sure?”
The expert shook his head. “This room has been purged of every one of them. They should be here, but they are gone.”
Challenges to his plans seemed to come from all fronts. Jin Zhao. Lev Sokolov. Ni Yong.
Now this.
He stared at what he held.
And knew exactly who the watch had once belonged to.
ELEVEN
CASSIOPEIA STEPPED AWAY FROM THE MAN LYING STILL ON THE floor and approached the doorway. Finally, she was on the offensive, and she’d shoot anyone who came between herself and freedom.
Carefully, she peered into the narrow hall. Two meters away the door for the bathroom hung half open. Another door, a meter or so past on the other side, was closed. The corridor ended in what looked like a brightly lit entrance hall.
She stepped out.
The walls were a dingy rose, the plaster ceiling in need of painting. Definitely a house. Some rental. Surely out of the way, with a convenient windowless room beneath a staircase.
She wore the same jeans and shirt from two days ago. Her jacket had been taken the first day. Interestingly, she still carried her wallet and passport. Everything smelled of sweat and she could use a hot shower, though the thought of more water flowing across her face made her stomach uneasy.
She was careful with her steps, each one pressed lightly, the gun at her side, finger on the trigger.
At the hall’s end she moved toward the front door, but the sound of a murmured voice halted her exit.
She stopped and listened.
Somebody was talking. Then silence. More speaking. As if on a telephone. She kept listening and confirmed only one voice. She decided that she owed that SOB, too. She’d already vented her anger on the man lying back in her cell, so why not finish things.
She identified the location down another short corridor that ended at a partially shut door. Before venturing that way she eased over to one of the windows and glanced out, spotting nothing but trees and pasture. They were somewhere in the countryside. She’d been transported here tied in the trunk of a car, blindfolded. She’d estimated about half an hour’s driving time, which given Antwerp’s location could place her anywhere in Belgium, Holland, or France.
A dark-colored Toyota was parked out front. She wondered if the keys were in the ignition or with one of her captors.
The muffled voice continued to speak on the telephone.
Might as well take advantage of the privacy they’d so conveniently arranged. She needed to find out who these people worked for. They could help lead her to Lev Sokolov’s missing son. Finding him was her only concern. Thank goodness she’d thought ahead and done what she did, involving Cotton.
Otherwise, she’d be dead and the boy lost forever.
She stopped outside the door, keeping her gaze locked on the vertical strip of bright light escaping from the room on the other side.
Something about the voice tugged at her memory.
She had no idea how many people were waiting in the next room, but she didn’t give a damn. Her nerves were frayed. Her patience exhausted.
She was tired, dirty, hungry, and pissed off.
She gripped the gun, planted her left foot on the floor, and slammed her right heel into the wood.
The door swung inward, smashing into the wall.
She lunged forward and immediately spotted only one man, talking on a cell phone.
He showed not the slightest surprise at her entrance.
Instead, he merely closed the phone and said, “About time.”
She stared at the face, as if she’d seen a ghost.
And in some ways, she had.
MALONE HAD NEVER ACTUALLY HEARD THE WORD EUNUCH USED in a conversation before.
“As in castrated male?” he asked.
“There is other kind?” Ivan said. “These are nasty people.” He spread out his short arms. “They lay down, open legs wide, snip, snip, everything gone.” He raised one finger. “And do not make sound. Not peep from the lips.”
“And the reason they do that?” he asked.
“Honor. They beg for this. You know what they do with the parts cut off? They call them pao, treasure, place them in jars on the high shelf. The kao sheng. High position. Symbolic of attaining high position. Whole thing is madness.”
He agreed.
“But they do it, all the time. Now eunuchs are prepared to take China.”
“Come again?”
“This southern slang? I understand you from American South. This where name Cotton comes from.”
“Get to the damn point.”
Ivan seemed to like for his audience to think him stupid, but this burly Russian was anything but.
“The Ba. Secret Chinese organization. Goes back two thousand years. The modern version is no better than original. They intend the play for power. Not good for my country or yours. These are bad people.”
“What does that have to do with Cassiopeia?”
“I do not know exactly. But there is the connection.”
Now he knew the man was lying. “You’re full of crap.”
Ivan chuckled. “I like you, Malone. But you do not like me. Lots of negativity.”
“Those two back on the street aren’t feeling much positivity.”
“No worry about them. Killing rids world of two problems.”
“Lucky for all of us you were here, on the job.”
“Malone, this problem we have is serious.”
He lunged forward, grabbed Ivan by his lapels and slammed him into the bricks behind them. He brought his face inches away. “I’d say that was true. Where the hell is Cassiopeia?”
He knew the backups were most likely reacting. He was prepared to whirl around and deal with them both. Of course, that was assuming they didn’t decide to shoot first.
“We need this anger,” Ivan quietly said, his breath stale.
“Who is we?”
“Me, Cotton.”
The words came from his right. A new voice. Female. Familiar.
He should have known.
He released his grip and turned.
Ten feet away stood Stephanie Nelle.
CASSIOPEIA COCKED THE GUN’S HAMMER AND AIMED THE weapon straight at Viktor Tomas. “You sorry, no-good mother—”
“Don’t say things you’ll regret.”
The room seemed some sort of gathering place, as there was one chair that held Viktor, three empty chairs, and a few tables and lamps. Windows opened to the front of the house through which she saw the Toyota.
“You tortured me.”
He shrugged. “Would you rather it not have been me? I made sure the experience was at least bearable.”
She fired into the base of the upholstered chair, aiming for a point between his legs. “Is that what you call it? Bearable?”
He never flinched, his eyes owlish and inexpressive. “Got that out of your system?”
The last time she’d seen this man was a year ago. He’d been serving a Central Asian dictator. Apparently, he’d found new employment.
