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A few, though, had been left open.
“I stumbled across one when I found Qin Shi’s library. It bypasses all the traps that the builders set for robbers. Which was probably its purpose. They would have required a way to get inside to inspect the integrity, from time to time, without exposing themselves to danger.”
“Why didn’t they use it to get out once they were trapped inside?” Cassiopeia asked.
“The answer to that question will be obvious once you see the entrance.”
“What about the mercury?” Malone asked, recalling their conversation yesterday at Pau’s residence.
“I allowed the tomb to ventilate for several days before I entered. I also wore a respirator.”
“And what about now?” Cassiopeia asked. “The tomb has been sealed for over twenty years.”
“Preventive measures are in place.”
Not entirely comforting, Malone thought, glancing toward the cockpit and his other problem. Outside the windshield, rain closed in on the sun as threatening clouds approached.
“He saved our lives back there,” Cassiopeia said. “Yours included. He’s our way to Tang.”
“And what would have prevented Tang from already going into Qin’s tomb and taking the oil sample himself? Viktor has known about this for two days.”
“How would he get inside?” Pau said. “The tomb has never been excavated.”
“You don’t know what they’ve done,” he made clear. “We don’t even know if we’re headed toward Xi’an.”
“We are traveling in the right direction,” Pau said.
“And what if someone’s waiting for us when we land?”
“If that were the case,” Pau said, “why not just allow the fighter to shoot us down?”
Good point.
“What’s in the tomb?” Cassiopeia asked Pau.
“Not what you expect.”
Malone said, “Care to elaborate?”
“I’ll let you see for yourself, once we’re inside.”
FIFTY-ONE
2:30 PM
NI STEPPED FROM THE CAR THAT HAD DRIVEN HIM EAST FROM Xi’an into Lintong County and the Museum of Qin Dynasty Terracotta Warriors and Horses. The premier had told him that the helicopter carrying Pau Wen would arrive within the next thirty minutes. He’d also told Ni something that he’d never known, something that only one person left alive knew.
The tomb of Qin Shi, China’s First Emperor, had been opened.
Though the terra-cotta warriors had been dug from the ground and placed on display for the world to see, the tomb itself, a towering treed mound that dominated the otherwise flat, scrubby farmland, had supposedly never been violated. All agreed that the tomb represented one of the greatest archaeological opportunities on the planet. Qin Shi fundamentally changed the way his world was governed, solidifying Legalism, inventing a concept of government that unified China. He became the center of a nation and remained so even in death, taking with him not just a clay retinue, but a complete political system, one that reflected a supreme authority in both life and death. Those who came after him tried to diminish his influence by rewriting history. But entering the tomb, studying its contents, could well provide a way to correct every one of those edits.
Yet the communist government had always said no.
Officially, the reason was that technology and techniques did not, as yet, exist to properly preserve what lay beneath the mound. So it was deemed safer to leave the tomb sealed.
Ni had never, until a few hours ago, questioned that explanation. It was unimportant to his hunt for corruption. He’d only visited the museum once, a few years ago, when a series of thefts occurred in the restoration workshops—local laborers stealing pieces of the excavated warriors to sell on the black market. Now he was back, and the grounds swarmed with crowds, shifting and swaying like seaweed in a gentle current. Millions visited each year, and today—though a low-slung, oppressive gray sky yielded rain—seemed no exception. The car parks were full, an area specially reserved for buses packed tight. He knew a subway was currently under construction from Xi’an, a thirty-kilometer line that would ease traffic, but it was still a few years away from completion.
He’d told no one he was coming, commandeering a Central Committee helicopter that had flown him west. Karl Tang had left Lanzhou three hours ago, headed east, toward Xi’an, which meant his enemy should already be here. On the flight from Beijing he’d taken the time to read what his staff had amassed, studying a subject that he knew little about.
Eunuchs.
Their population had ranged from 3,000 to 100,000, depending on the era. To every Chinese, all naturally occurring forces came in cycles, reaching a peak with the yang, then receding with the yin. Maleness, strength, and virtue had always been associated with yang, while females, eunuchs, and evil were ruled by yin. He’d learned that there may have been a logical explanation for this dichotomy. All Chinese history was written by mandarins, the educated elite, who, as a class, despised palace eunuchs. Mandarins had to qualify for their position, after years of arduous study, by passing exams. Eunuchs acquired their influence without any qualifications. So it was understandable that what written records survived contained little good to say about eunuchs.
Not surprisingly, their mistreatment was common. Each time they encountered a member of the imperial family they were compelled to debase themselves as slaves. They realized early in life that they could never be venerated as scholars or statesmen. The inferiority complex generated from such treatment would breed resentment in anyone. They learned that their ability to survive, once their services were no longer needed, depended on how much wealth they could secretly amass. To acquire it meant to stay in close proximity to authority. So keeping themselves in good graces with their patrons, and keeping their patrons in power, became their primary interest.
There were, though, capable eunuchs who became valued advisers. Several achieved great stature. Tsai Lun, in the 2nd century, invented paper. Ssu-ma Chien became the father of Chinese history. Zheng He rose to be the greatest sailor China ever produced, building a 15th-century fleet that explored the world. Nguyen An, a veritable renaissance man, designed the Forbidden Palace. Feng Bao, during the 17th century, capably managed the affairs of the nation under Emperor Wanli. During that same time Chen Ju helped maintain a working inner court, while the outer court was torn asunder into warring factions. For his service, after his death, he was conferred the title Pure and Loyal.
From his reading, Ni realized that emperors simply came to believe that eunuchs were more reliable than government officials. Eunuchs were never taught lofty ideals or driven to consider the greater good over self. They simply came to represent the personal will of the emperor, while government officials presented the alternative political will of the established bureaucracy.
A classic clash of ideologies.
Which the eunuchs won.
Then lost.
Now they were back.
And their leader was here, in Xi’an, waiting.
TANG STUDIED THE CLOSED-CIRCUIT MONITORS. THE ENTIRE museum site was littered with hundreds of cameras that kept a constant watch on the three pits and their corresponding shelters, the exhibition hall, restaurants, information center, cinema, even the souvenir stalls.
He glanced at the wall clock and realized that a helicopter should be approaching soon. Nothing unusual. Government officials, dignitaries, even some of the country’s new rich routinely flew to the site. The military likewise ferried personnel in and out. Tang had come in the same chopper that waited a kilometer away, just beyond the outer perimeter in a field designated as a landing spot.
Twenty-four separate screens filled the greenish wall before him within a dimly lit, air-conditioned building that sat two kilometers from the tomb mound. The building was part of an administrative complex where scientists, archaeologists, and bureaucrats were headquartered. He’d learned that faulty wiring had been blamed for the fire in Pit 3. A general un
ease permeated the air, since no one wanted to be tagged with responsibility. This was especially true of the administrator. The irritating fool had repeatedly offered his apologies about the catastrophic loss to history. Tang had decided to be more magnanimous than expected and assured the staff that he understood. Mishaps occurred. Conduct an investigation, then file a detailed report.
His gaze raked the television monitors.
An eager, active crowd—pushing, jostling—filled the screens. The rain had started an hour ago. He understood the value of tourist revenue, but the pandering required to secure those moneys irked him.
That, too, would change once he achieved power.
Images on the monitors changed every few seconds, numbers scrolling at the bottom indicating the time and location of each view. His eyes danced across the screens, absorbing the chaos, noticing uniformed guards that appeared from time to time, each in radio communication with the dispatcher to his right.
One display grabbed his attention.
“There,” he ordered, pointing. “Number 45.”
The monitor indicating camera 45 stopped scrolling.
“Where is that?”
“On the west side of the mound, near the tombs of the craftsmen.”
The screen showed a man, dressed in a dark, short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers. He stood at the edge of a wet field, the forested base of the tomb mound in the background. He was facing the camera, rain soaking his body. Tall, slim, black-haired, and though Tang could not see such detail he knew the man possessed brown eyes, a broad nose, and distinctive features.
A murmur of alarm skittered across the room as the face was recognized.
“Minister Ni is on the premises,” he heard one of the men say.
On screen, Ni turned and made a wild scramble across the wet soil, toward a cluster of stone and wooden houses with thatched roofs.
“What is that?” Tang asked.
“Restricted area. Orders from Beijing, Minister. Long ago. That area is off limits.”
“No one enters there?”
