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He told himself to be cautious.
Everything was happening for a reason.
“Minister,” the pilot said in his headphones.
The word jarred him from his thoughts. “What is it?”
“A call from your office.”
He heard a click, then, “Minister, we are fairly confident of Ni Yong’s destination. Yecheng.”
Also known as Kargilik. He’d visited once, admiring for the staterun television cameras its 15th-century mosque and adobe-walled backstreets.
“There is a small airport south of town,” his chief aide said. “The turboprop that Minister Ni commandeered can land there. It is the only available location on their route.”
“Listen to me carefully. This must be done. I will hold you personally responsible if it fails.”
Silence confirmed that his chief aide understood the gravity.
“Locate the municipal police commander in Yecheng. Wake him from his sleep. Tell him I want the occupants of that plane detained. One of them, a Russian, Lev Sokolov, along with Minister Ni, are to be isolated from the others and held until I send for him. Forward by computer or fax a photo of Sokolov so his identity will not be a question. Minister Ni, I assume, he will recognize.”
“It will be done.”
“One other item. I do not want Sokolov or Ni harmed. If they are, tell that policeman that he will pay a heavy price.”
“And the other two?”
“I harbor no protective feelings for them. In fact, if they were to disappear that local commander might find himself rewarded.”
MALONE SNAPPED HIS SEAT BELT INTO PLACE AS ROUGH AIR jostled the plane’s descent.
“We’re going to avoid Kashgar,” Ni said. “I’ve been told that both Tang and the premier flew there. This plane can land much closer to our destination. There is a small airport, about an hour’s drive away from our destination, in Yecheng.”
Ni held a map of the region and explained how Afghanistan, Pakistan, and India, three volatile neighbors, had long claimed the mountains and valleys as their own. The Himalaya, Karakoum, Hindu Kush, and Pamir ranges all merged here, summits noted as high as twenty thousand feet. And though monasteries were common farther east into Tibet, they were relatively rare this far west.
“There is only one locale in the vicinity of what was noted on the silk maps,” Ni said to them. “It’s ancient, in the mountains, inhabited by reclusive monks. I’m told that it is a quiet place, and there have never been any reports of unusual activity.”
“Why would there be?” Malone asked. “The last thing the Ba would want is to attract attention.”
“Getting there could be a challenge. We will have to consult the locals.”
“We’ll need weapons,” Cassiopeia said.
“I brought your guns and spare ammunition.”
“Lot of trust,” Malone said.
Ni seemed to catch the underlying message. “I placed a call before we left Xi’an, to a friend at the American embassy. He checked and said you are a man who can be trusted. He said, if you are here, it must be important.”
“Ever heard of bullshit?”
Ni smiled. “No, Mr. Malone, I think both you and Ms. Vitt are far more ally than enemy.”
For the past hour he’d talked with Ni Yong about China, Ni fielding his questions, delivering straight answers.
“I’m told you could be the next premier,” he’d said.
“Is that what America wants?”
“I don’t work for America.”
Ni grinned. “You’re a bookseller. That’s what my friend at the embassy said. I, too, love books. Unfortunately, China does not feel the same. Did you know that not one book about what happened in Tiananmen Square is allowed in China. All websites and Web pages that even mention the words are filtered. It is as if that event never happened.”
Malone saw the pain in Ni’s eyes. “Were you there?”
Ni nodded. “I can still smell the odor, the stench of feces from a million people. Sanitation workers had tried to clear it in the months before, but they never managed to keep pace. When the people finally fled, only their waste remained. A horrible smell.” Ni paused. “Made worse by death.”
Malone had read about the massacre. Seen the video of the tank columns, trundling down the street, a young man in a white shirt and black pants, shopping bags in each hand, blocking their way. When the tanks swerved around him, he jumped in front. Would they run him over? Would soldiers shoot him? Their duel continued for several tense minutes until he was hustled away.
He’d told Ni what he recalled.
“I was there,” Ni said. “I watched that duel. Many had already died. Many more were going to die. The whole time I kept thinking of the street where it was all occurring—Chang’an, Avenue of Eternal Peace. How ironic.”
Malone agreed.
“It took two days to truck away the bodies,” Ni said, his voice nearly a whisper. “What the West doesn’t know is that the government would not allow the wounded to be treated by hospitals. They were turned away. How many died because of that cruelty, we will never know.”
“Sounds like all that stuck with you.”
“It changed me. Forever.”
Malone could believe that. The pain he’d seen in Ni’s eyes could not be faked. Perhaps this Chinese leader was different?
“Who has my boy?” Sokolov asked.
“Some extremely bad people,” Ni said. “Eunuchs. I thought they no longer existed. And if you had told me this four days ago, I would have said it was impossible. Now I know how wrong I can be.”
“Do we know anything more about the Hall for the Preservation of Harmony?” Cassiopeia asked.
“I’m told,” Ni said, “that it’s not open to the public. But that’s not unusual. We have thousands of sites that are restricted. This region is disputed. We control the ground, while Pakistan and India fight over it. So long as the fight stays on the southern side of the mountains, which generally it does, we do not expend much on its defense.”
Power began to decrease to the engines and they started to lose altitude. Outside was pitch-black.
“What about the premier?” Malone asked.
Ni sat in his seat, staring ahead, seemingly in thought.
The plane continued to descend.
“He landed in Kashgar several hours ago.”
Malone heard the skepticism in his voice. “What is it?”
“I hate being lied to,” Ni said. “Pau and the premier lied to me. I fear I’m being used, by both of them.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Malone said. “So long as you know it.”
“I still don’t like it.”
Malone had to say, “You realize Tang may know where we’re headed. There’s no reason for him not to.” He pointed at Sokolov. “He’ll want him back.”
The Russian bristled at the prospect.
“There can’t be that many landing strips in this area,” Malone added. “Tang has surely checked.”
“What do you have in mind?” Ni asked.
“A little deception of our own.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
MALONE STARED BELOW AT YECHENG. THE TOWN SAT AT THE southern rim of the Taklamakan Desert, mountains just to its south. Ni had explained that it was home to about twenty thousand, blessed with a convergence of roads and rivers. Centuries ago, this was where caravans to India had started. Today it remained only as a market town, and a small airport had been constructed in the 1970s to accommodate commerce.
“Looks like the strip is a few miles from town,” he said.
Not many lights burned, the town virtually blacked out. A lighted highway snaked a path across the flat terrain to a small tower, two oversized hangars, and a runway lit to the night. He wondered what awaited them on the ground, but a preview of what that might be could be seen from headlights speeding their way.
Two vehicles.
At this time of night?
“It appears that we have
a welcoming committee,” he said.
Cassiopeia was close to another of the cabin windows. “I saw them. Coming quick.”
“Minister Tang is predictable,” Ni said.
Sokolov remained silent, but the concern on his face could not be concealed.
“Stay calm,” Malone said to the Russian. “You all know what to do.”
NI’S BODY STIFFENED. THE LANDING HAD BEEN SMOOTH, AND they were now taxiing toward the tower. The tarmac was dimly lit, but the area around the two hangars and tower was brightly illuminated thanks to rooftop floodlights that cast an oily sheen across the black asphalt. The plane rolled to a stop, the engines still running.
Cassiopeia opened the rear door and hopped out.
Ni followed.
They walked about fifty meters, waiting for two vehicles to roar up to where they stood—one a Range Rover, the other a light-colored van, both bearing the insignia of the police. Ni had seen thousands of similar transports all across China, but never had he been the target of one.
He steadied himself.
Now he knew what the subjects of his investigations felt. Never quite sure what was going to happen, on edge, pondering what the other side may or may not know. He quickly concluded that it was definitely better being on the outside of the cage looking in.
The two vehicles screeched to a stop.
From the Range Rover a short, emaciated man with features far more Tibetan than Han Chinese emerged. He was dressed in an official green uniform and sucked deep drags from a cigarette. The driver stayed in the vehicle. No one exited the van.
Malone had explained what he had in mind and Ni had agreed—since, after all, there were few options.
“Minister Ni,” the man said. “I am Liang of the provincial police. We have been instructed to detain you and everyone aboard this plane.”
He stiffened his back. “Who instructed you?”
“Beijing.”
“There are twenty million people in Beijing. Could you narrow that down?”
Liang seemed not to like the rebuke, but quickly recovered his composure and said, “Minister Tang’s office. The orders were clear.”
Cassiopeia lingered to his right, watching. They carried weapons, his concealed beneath a jacket, hers shielded by an exposed shirttail.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked the policeman in Mandarin.
