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The man shook his head. “Never. We monitor the fence, but do not go inside.”
He understood the effect that an order from Beijing created. It was not questioned, only obeyed, until another directive from Beijing countermanded the first.
On the screen, as Ni hustled away, Tang noticed something protruding from the back pocket of his pants.
“Focus on what he is carrying,” he immediately ordered.
The camera’s focus zoomed as Ni continued to walk away, and the object became clear.
A flashlight.
He tapped one of the security men on the shoulder and motioned to his holstered weapon. “Give me your gun.”
The man handed over the weapon.
He checked the magazine. Fully loaded.
“Take me to that area.”
NI HAD PURPOSEFULLY STOPPED AND FACED THE CAMERA. IF Karl Tang was watching, which the premier had assured him would be the case, then he wanted him to know he was here.
Now to see if his enemy had taken the bait.
FIFTY-TWO
MALONE STARED DOWN THROUGH A WINDOW SMEARED BY RAIN at the tomb of Qin Shi. The green-forested mound rose like a boil from the flat brown landscape. He’d read about the site many times, a complex of underground vaults spread over twenty square miles, most of them unexplored. He’d even visited the terra-cotta warrior exhibition in London last year, but he’d never imagined that he might one day enter the tomb itself.
The helicopter approached from the south, swooping in over dun-colored hills at around a thousand feet. A steady downpour drenched the ground. More mountains rose to the west, the Wei River flowing to the north. About a mile away he caught a glimpse of the towering halls and other buildings that made up the museum site and a multitude of people with umbrellas, braving the rain.
“We’ll land north,” Viktor said through the headphones. “I’m told there’s a spot reserved for helicopters there.”
Malone preferred to carry a weapon and hoped that a locker he’d spotted earlier was accessible. When the latch opened he was instantly suspicious. Inside, four pistols were secured by clamps. He removed one and, remembering the last time he’d been inside a helicopter, with Viktor Tomas at the controls, he checked the magazine.
Fully loaded. Twenty rounds.
He removed a few of the bullets and examined them. No blanks.
He replaced the ammunition and handed Cassiopeia a weapon. He did not offer a gun to Pau Wen, nor did the older man ask.
He slid the semi-automatic pistol beneath his shirt. Cassiopeia did the same.
The rotors eased, and they gradually lost altitude.
TANG LEFT THE SECURITY BUILDING AND WAS HEADED FOR A waiting car when he spotted a military helicopter swooping in from the south. He wanted to go after Ni Yong, but he knew better.
“Keep the car ready,” he ordered.
Then he headed back inside.
NI STOPPED AT THE RUSTED FENCE THAT ENCLOSED A CLUSTER of dilapidated buildings. The premier had told him that the cottage-like structures beyond had been hastily built in the 1980s. To the premier’s knowledge, no one had been inside the enclosure for twenty years—and from the tall grass and vegetation that consumed everything, and gaping holes that dotted the thatched roofs, he could believe that claim. The buildings stood maybe a hundred meters from the base of the mound within the perimeter of an ancient wall that no longer existed.
He stared with a blend of fascination and wonder.
The premier had also advised him that Pau Wen was most likely headed inside the tomb of Qin Shi.
“How is that possible?” he’d asked.
“There are two ways inside. Pau Wen knows one. I know the other.”
CASSIOPEIA JUMPED FROM THE HELICOPTER ONTO THE SOGGY ground, followed by Cotton and Pau. As the blades wound to a stop, Viktor emerged from the cabin and asked, “You find the guns, Malone?”
“And this time they actually have bullets.”
“You’re big on grudges, aren’t you?”
No one had approached the chopper, and there was no vehicle in sight. They were probably a mile from the mound and half that distance to the museum complex. Another helicopter rested a hundred yards away.
“Friends of yours?” Malone asked
Viktor shrugged. “I have no idea.”
“Security is a little lax,” Malone said.
“And we’re foreigners,” Cassiopeia pointed out.
“But you came in a PLA chopper,” Viktor said. “And that’s what matters.”
The rain fell in a steady pulse, resoaking Malone’s still-damp clothes. But at least the air was warm.
Pau Wen pointed toward the museum. “We have to go. The exhibits will soon close for the day.”
TANG STUDIED THE MONITOR, PLEASED THAT VIKTOR TOMAS had delivered Pau Wen, Cotton Malone, and Cassiopeia Vitt, exactly as promised. He was dividing his attention between the northern landing field and what Ni Yong was doing on the west side of the mound. His vantage point offered him the perfect perch, and he ordered the men working the cameras to not lose sight of either scene.
He’d assumed command of the museum security force knowing that no one would question his authority. Nor would anyone contact Beijing. The only person who could give him orders was the premier himself, and that was highly unlikely. The old man rarely concerned himself with politics any longer, and Tang had stopped paying attention to the premier’s daily activities. They simply did not matter.
Ni Yong and Pau Wen.
They mattered.
And he now had both men directly within his sight.
His gaze switched back to the screen with Ni Yong. He watched as Ni scaled a rickety steel fence and dropped to the other side. He needed to head that way and see what was attracting his nemesis’ attention. He’d been told there was nothing there, just a deserted storage area, yet that “nothing” was fenced, watched, and shielded by an order from the capital.
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On the monitor he saw Pau and his three companions walk through the rain toward the Pit 3 hall. The same one where the imperial library chamber had been located. Where the watch had been found.
Interesting.
FIFTY-THREE
MALONE WAS AMAZED BY PIT 3. IT WAS THE SMALLEST OF THE three excavated sites, and a placard noted in English that this was the underground army’s command center, complete with high-ranking officers, an imperial guard, and a chariot. Visitors filled a catwalk that encircled the excavations fifteen feet below. Weak sodium-vapor lights cast the surreal scene in a harsh, yellowish green glow. The air was moist and humid, the rain tapping on the ceiling high overhead in a constant drumbeat. A rich, earthy scent filled his nostrils. The lack of climate control was surprising considering that, surely, the whole idea of enclosing the pit would have been to keep moisture at bay.
Pau led them to the railing as a tour group moved farther along the walk. “This pit is unique in size and composition.”
Malone assessed the layout. Many of the terra-cotta figures stood without their heads. On the paved floor below, shattered pieces of other figures lay in piles, like a puzzle poured from its box.
“Only 68 warriors were found here,” Pau said. “Many thousands fill the other two pits. Here we found the underground army’s imperial guards, its generals, the elite.”
Malone studied the chariot, which sat at the center of the pit, at the base of a partially excavated ramp that led up to ground level.
“I was here in 1979 when this pit was first located,” Pau said, “but it was not fully explored until the mid-1980s, at about the time I left China. So I have only seen photographs. Notice anything?”
Eight soldiers stood to the left of the center chariot, none to the right. All of the remaining soldiers filled two recesses on either side of the U-shaped pit.
“Why is there nobody on the right side of the chariot?” Malone asked.
