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The corridor was burning.
Malone was somewhere at its far end, beyond the Chinese room. No sense being subtle now.
“Cotton,” she called out.
No reply, and his silence was as intolerable as the heat.
To her left dropped the main staircase, fronted by a narrow landing. The corridor’s wood flooring, oak from centuries ago, burned with vigor, and the wall plaster was about to join the party.
She needed to leave.
But not without Cotton.
She knew there was another way down, the staircase she’d used to climb, but flames blocked any path in that direction. She still held the lamp and the gun and decided to see if perhaps Cotton had made his way forward, through the connected rooms on the hallway’s opposite side.
No sign of the three men.
She turned and spotted the source of the problem. Two metal canisters overturned on the floor, both aflame.
She came to the end of the hall, where a marble balustrade opened to the main staircase that right-angled downward toward the second floor. No more corridor extended past where the stairs began, and she confronted a stone wall. Carefully she peered out and saw no movement in the fire’s glow. Something cracked behind her, then crashed and she saw the hall’s ceiling give way, the old house quickly surrendering. Perhaps the three men had fled? No need to hang around, except that they would want the lamp. But they could wait outside and confront her there.
The stairway began five meters away.
She dashed forward.
As she reached the end of the balustrade and started to turn for the stairs, something slammed shoulder-first into the back of her knees. Arms wrapped her legs. She fell forward, smashing into the marble wall.
A man had tackled her.
She thrashed her legs, twisting her body, banging the gun into his head. He was wiry and strong, but she managed to fling him away, sending herself sliding.
The lamp and gun flew from her grasp.
A kick sent her weapon flying toward the balustrade, where it disappeared between thick spindles over the side.
She sprang to her feet.
Her attacker was dressed in black, his face hooded by a wool mask. He was maybe thirty pounds heavier. She lunged, jamming her shoulder into his chest, ramming him back into the wall.
MALONE HEARD CASSIOPEIA CALL HIS NAME BUT CHOSE NOT TO reply. He’d spotted three forms rushing through the darkness, all headed toward the main staircase. He’d managed to creep closer, through rooms that opened one into another, careful with his approach among the warm mass of dark shapes. Smoke gathered, which made both breathing and seeing difficult.
He heard fighting and saw something slide across the burning floor, into the flames. He raced to the doorway and spotted the object. Small. A foot long and half that tall.
A dragon’s head on a tiger’s body with wings.
The lamp?
He reached down to retrieve it but his fingers reeled back. Its bronze exterior was hot. He used his shoe and slid it away from the burning floorboards into the room where he stood, three walls of which had now joined the blaze.
He needed to leave.
He glanced out into the corridor, toward the top of the staircase, and saw Cassiopeia and a man clad in black.
Fighting.
NI WATCHED THE DRIES VAN EGMOND MUSEUM BURN. THE top two floors were now on fire, flames roaring through the roof, licking the night. Windows shattered from heat and pressure, spewing glass into the garden.
“The Chinese were much better glass producers,” Pau said. “Much higher quality than anything Europe produced.”
Ni wondered about the history lesson, considering what they were witnessing.
“Did you know that at the terra-cotta warrior pit, we discovered that the weapons the figures carried—their swords and knives, which emerged from the ground sharp, shiny, and untarnished—were made of materials that actually prevented rust. We ultimately discovered that it was a copper–tin alloy combined with eleven other metals such as cobalt, nickel, chrome, and magnesium. Can you imagine? Over two millennia ago and our ancestors understood how to protect metal.”
“And we slaughtered ourselves,” Ni said, “with that technology.”
Pau’s gaze stayed on the fire. “You’re not much for violence, are you?”
“It never achieves long-range goals.”
“An effective state employs seven punishments to three rewards. A weak state employs five punishments to five rewards. That is a proven fact.”
“If a person’s life has no value, then the society that shapes that life has no value. How could anyone believe otherwise?”
“Empires, by nature, are repressive.”
“Aren’t you concerned that people may be dying in that fire? Your man one of them.”
“He must protect himself, that is his duty.”
“And you bear no responsibility?”
“Of course. I bear the burden of his failure.”
He could not, and would not, ever allow himself to have so little regard for other people’s lives. Ordering men to their deaths should never be taken lightly. Though he did not know the man inside, he cared about his safety.
All leaders should feel that way.
Shouldn’t they?
“You are an odd man,” he said to Pau Wen.
“That I am. But isn’t it fortuitous that you met me.”
THIRTY
CASSIOPEIA SHOVED HERSELF AWAY FROM HER ASSAILANT AND rose to her knees. The heat from the fire, raging only a few meters away, had grown in intensity, flames edging their way toward the landing. Luckily, the walls and floor here were marble. Smoke was building, making each breath a challenge. She needed to find the lamp, but there was the matter of the black-clad man who deftly came to his feet, ready for more. Her heart pounded, a heavy throbbing that rattled her ribs. Her muscles were watery with fatigue. Two days of torture and no food had taken a toll.
The man lunged.
She dodged, grabbed his arm and forced it back, twisting his body, trying to take him down. His wild kicking threatened her grasp and he managed to reverse the hold and drive her forward into the balustrade. Over the thick railing, she caught a view of a ten-meter drop below.
She was rolled so that her spine faced downward.
The back of the man’s hand slapped her face. He then tried to force her over the side. She tasted the acrid tang of blood. Adrenaline rushed through her as she swung her right leg up and planted the heel of her boot into his groin.
He doubled forward, both hands reaching for the pain.
She jammed her knee into his face and sent him staggering back.
Advancing, she balled her fist.
MALONE USED HIS SHIRTTAIL TO CRADLE THE LAMP, ITS EXTERIOR still warm from the roasting. It seemed solid, the only opening at the dragon’s head. In the flickering light he spotted bits of melted wax that had sealed the mouth clinging to the bronze. He caught a familiar smell and brought the lamp close.
Oil.
He jostled the vessel. It seemed about half full.
He spotted Chinese characters carved into the exterior and surmised that maybe the writing could be what made the thing so important. He’d seen that before—messages from the past, still relevant today. But whatever it was, he needed to get the hell out of this burning inferno while the getting was good.
He turned.
One of the men stood a few feet away, blocking the only exit. He held a gun waist-high, aimed straight ahead.
“Got to be hot in that wool mask,” Malone said.
“Give me the lamp.”
He motioned with the artifact. “This? I just found it in the fire. Nothing special.”
“Give me the lamp.”
He detected an Asian accent in the English. Fire burned all around where they stood, not raging, but spreading, using the furniture as fuel. Fresh, hot fingers ignited along the wood floor between him and the other man.
He stepped clo
ser.
The gun was lifted higher. “The lamp. Toss it to me.”
“I don’t think that would be—”
“Toss it.”
Malone stared down at the dragon head and the bits of wax that dripped from the mouth. He could still smell the oil and decided that if the man wanted the lamp, then that’s what he was going to get.
He arced the vessel into the air but, as he released his grasp, a flick of his wrist twisted the lamp. He was careful to provide only enough velocity so that it would fall short and his assailant would have to step forward to catch his prize.
He watched as the dragon’s head angled downward and spotted the first glimpse of liquid spilling from the mouth. The droplets met the heat below with a hiss and a flash, as the fire enjoyed what was surely a satisfying meal.
Oil spewed out as the armed man stepped forward and caught the lamp between its wings, upside down, the head pointed toward the floor.
Fresh flames ignited on the floor as the oil vaporized.
The fire searched upward for more.
When it found the lamp, a ball of heat and light erupted in the man’s hands.
A scream pierced the boiling air as the man’s clothes caught fire. He dropped the lamp and the gun, his arms flailing as his clothes disintegrated.
Malone found his Beretta on the floor and fired two shots into the man’s chest.
The burning body dropped to the floor.
He stepped close and planted one last shot in the head.
“More than you would have done for me,” he muttered.
