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Malone shook his head. “Really bad idea. What do you think you can learn? Cassiopeia’s been there. She owes him. We have a reason to show up.”
“I do not like that plan. Look what happen last time I listen to you.”
“He probably is thinking himself clever at the moment,” Cassiopeia said. “One of those people down the street watching this spectacle is surely working for Pau. So he knows I’m alive.”
He caught what she hadn’t voiced.
And one of his men isn’t.
“I want to know all about Pau Wen,” Malone said to Stephanie. “Before we go. You think you can get us some quick background?”
She nodded.
He stared at Ivan. “We’ll find out what we need to know.”
The burly Russian nodded. “Okay. Give try.”
“I have to leave,” Viktor said.
Malone motioned with his arms. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
Cassiopeia blocked Viktor’s path. “Not before you tell me where Sokolov’s child is. You told me you knew.”
“I lied, so you’d take me with you.”
“Where is the child?” she asked, the plea in her voice clear.
But Viktor seemed unmoved. “I really don’t know.” He faced Ivan. “Tang will want to hear from me. Of course, his men are dead and I don’t have the lamp. That’s not going to make him happy.”
“Get back to him,” Ivan said. “Do what you do best.”
“Lie.” Malone couldn’t resist.
“I can handle Tang,” Viktor said. “But there’s something you people should know.”
Malone was listening.
“Tang ordered a strike on Pau Wen. He may not even be alive.”
“And you’re just now mentioning this?” Malone asked.
“You know, Malone, I’ve only been around you a few minutes, but I’ve already had enough.”
“You’re welcome to take your best shot.”
“Settle this later,” Stephanie said. “Right now, I’m concerned about this Pau Wen. Cotton, you and Cassiopeia check him out. I’ll get what you need, and Ivan and I will wait to hear from you. Viktor, go do what you have to do.”
“Who die and make you in charge?” Ivan asked.
“We don’t have time to argue.”
And he saw that Ivan agreed.
Malone watched as Viktor hustled off among the parked cars.
“You could have been a little easier on him,” Cassiopeia said. “He’s in a tough spot.”
Malone could not care less. “He didn’t save my life. Twice.”
THIRTY-SIX
LANZHOU, CHINA
7:20 AM
TANG DISLIKED LANZHOU NEARLY AS MUCH AS HE DID CHONGQING. The town hugged the banks of the Yellow River, crammed into a narrow valley and hemmed by steep mountains. Hundreds of brickyards and smoking kilns dotted its outskirts, everything cast in the same shade of clay as the landscape. Once it had served as the gateway to China, the last place to change horses and buy provisions before heading west into the harsh desert. Now it was the capital of Gansu province—skyscrapers, shopping centers, and a convergence of railway lines stimulating commerce. No trees, but plenty of chimneys, minarets, and power lines, its overall impression one of bleakness.
He stepped from the car that had driven him from the airport. He’d been informed that Lev Sokolov was now in custody, his men having entered the house where Sokolov had hidden.
He approached the apartment building, passing a fountain that contained nothing but dirt and dead mice. An overhead mist thinned with the rising sun, revealing a sky tinted the color of ash. The odor of fresh cement mixed with the smoggy exhaust of cars and buses. A labyrinth of alleys and lanes radiated in all directions, bisecting blocks of more ramshackle housing. A mad tangle of pushcarts, peddlers, bicycles, and farmers selling produce engulfed him. The faces mainly Arab and Tibetan. Everyone wore variations of gray, the only bright colors coming from displays in some of the shops. He’d changed clothes, discarding his tailored suit for trousers, an untucked shirt, running shoes, and hat.
He stopped before the granite-faced building, a flight of wooden steps leading to the upper floors. He’d been told it contained housing for midlevel managers at the nearby petrochemical refinery. He climbed, the stairway musty and dim, the landings piled with boxes, baskets, and more bicycles. On the second floor he found the pocked wooden door, a man waiting outside.
“There were men watching us,” the man reported.
He stopped at the door and waited.
“They work for Minister Ni.”
“How many?”
“Five. We dealt with them.”
“Quietly?”
The man nodded.
He acknowledged his praise with a smile and a slight nod of the head. The leak within his office was worse than he believed. Ni Yong had sent men straight here. That would have to be corrected.
But first.
He stepped inside.
The single room held a few chairs and a low table, the kitchenette along one wall littered with filthy utensils, food wrappers, plates, and rotting food. On a Naugahyde sofa sat Lev Sokolov, his hands and feet bound, a strip of black tape across his mouth, his shirt soaked with sweat. The Russian’s eyes went wide when he spotted Tang.
He nodded and pointed. “You should be afraid. You’ve put me through a great deal of trouble.”
He spoke in Chinese, knowing that Sokolov understood every word.
Tang removed his hat. Two more of his men flanked the sofa at each end. He gestured for them to wait outside, and they left.
He glanced around at walls painted beige, low-wattage bulbs doing little to brighten the gloom. Green fungus sprouted near the ceiling.
“Not much of a hiding place. Unfortunately for you, we assumed you never left Lanzhou, so we concentrated our efforts here.”
Sokolov watched him with eyes alight with fear.
A cacophony of grinders, power drills, and air jacks, along with the chatter of people, could be heard out a window no bigger than a baking sheet.
Sokolov was tall, broad-shouldered, with a narrow waist and thin hips. A short, straight nose with a slight bump protruded above the tape sealing his mouth, while a dark mop of black hair, long and uncut, dropped to his ears. The beginnings of a beard dusted his cheeks and neck. Tang knew this foreigner was brilliant. Perhaps one of the world’s greatest theorists on oil geology. Together he and Jin Zhao may well have proven a theory that could forever change the planet.
“I have you,” Tang said. “And I have your son. I offered you a way to have your son back, but you chose another path. Know that Cassiopeia Vitt failed. She is most likely dead by now. She did not obtain the lamp. In fact, its oil is gone.”
Terror filled Sokolov’s eyes.
“That’s right,” he said. “What use are you any longer? And what of your son? What will happen to him? Wouldn’t it be fitting that he be reunited with his mother? At least he’ll have one parent.”
Sokolov shook his head in a furious attempt to block out the harsh reality.
“That’s right, Comrade Sokolov. You will die. Just as Zhao died.”
The head shaking stopped, the eyes bright with a question.
“His appeal was denied. We executed him yesterday.”
Sokolov stared in horror, his body trembling.
Tang reminded himself that he needed Sokolov alive, but he also wanted this man to know terror. Months ago, he’d ordered a complete profile. From that he’d learned of the Russian’s devotion to his son. That was not always the case. Tang
knew many men who cared little for their children. Money, advancement, even mistresses were more important. Not so with Sokolov. Which was, in a way, admirable. Not that he could sympathize.
Something else from the profile came to mind.
A small item that only last night had become important.
He stepped to the door, opened it, and motioned for one of the men to draw close.
“In the car below there are a few items,” he said in a low voice. “Retrieve them. Then,” he paused, “find me a few rats.”
MALONE DROVE WHILE CASSIOPEIA SAT SILENT IN THE PASSENGER seat. His hip still hurt, but his pride was more deeply wounded. He should have kept his cool with Viktor. But he had neither the time nor the patience to deal with any distractions, and that man bore constant watching. Perhaps, though, he was more bothered by Cassiopeia’s defense of Viktor.
“I meant it,” she said. “I appreciate you coming.”
“What else would I have done?”
“Sell books.”
He smiled. “I don’t get to do that as much as I thought I would. Video links from friends getting waterboarded keep getting in the way.”
“I had to do this, Cotton.” He wanted to understand.
“Five years ago, I was involved with something in Bulgaria that went bad. I met Sokolov there. He worked for the Russians. When trouble hit, Sokolov got me out of there. He took a big chance.”
“Why?”
“He hated Moscow and loved his new wife. A Chinese. Who was pregnant at the time.”
Now he understood. The same child now at risk.
“What were you doing in the Balkans? That’s a tough place to roam around.”
“I was after some Thracian gold. A favor to Henrik that turned ugly.”
Things with Henrik Thorvaldsen could go that way. “You find it?”
She nodded her head. “Sure did. But, I barely made it out. With no gold. Cotton, Sokolov didn’t have to do what he did, but I would never have made it out of there, but for him. After, he found me on the Internet. We’d communicate from time to time. He’s an interesting man.”
“So you owe him.”
She nodded. “And I’ve screwed the whole thing up.”
