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Malone studied them. Both young, unsure, and jittery. How many times had they been in this situation before? Not many, he guessed.
The commander motioned again.
He noticed that the steel door, which opened to the outside, contained no knob-operated latch, just a handle and a lock that engaged, once closed, in a steel catch, which required a key to release.
“I don’t think these people understand English,” he muttered to Cassiopeia.
The head man was impatient with their chatter but did not seem to know what they were saying. Malone smiled and said in a calm voice, never breaking his smile, “You smell like a pig.”
The commander stared back with no reaction to the insult, offering only another gesture with the gun for them to leave.
He turned and said to her, “He knows no English. Ladies first. Be ready to move.”
She stepped through the doorway.
He watched as the chief dropped back to give him room to leave, exactly what he thought the man might do. That way he could counter if they tried anything funny, the distance between them adding protection.
Except for one thing.
As Malone exited, he swung his right foot up and slammed the door shut, trapping the policeman inside. At the same time, his left elbow burrowed into the man nearest him, sending the guard careening back.
Cassiopeia pounced, attacking the man closest to her with a kick to his chest.
Both guards had been caught unawares.
Malone lunged forward and planted a fist into his man’s face. The guard tried to retaliate while also keeping a grip on the rifle—bad idea—and Malone gave him no time to think. Three more right jabs and the man went down. He relieved him of the weapon, along with a pistol from a waist holster.
He turned to see Cassiopeia having a little difficulty:
“Hurry up,” he said.
Two thrusts of the other man’s fists missed as she dodged. The guard had already lost his weapon, which lay on the floor. Cassiopeia lashed out, but the blow just grazed her opponent’s throat. She then spun and jumped, her right leg swinging in an arc that landed with full force in his chest. Another leg jab smashed him into the wall, and she finished with two thrusts to the throat, which sent the guard slinking to the floor.
“Took you long enough,” he said.
“You could have helped.”
“As if you needed it.”
She stole the man’s pistol from his holster and retrieved the rifle. The chief was no threat, locked away inside a steel room, banging on the door, screaming something in muffled Chinese.
“There were two more earlier,” she said, “with rifles. Plus the two drivers.”
He’d already done the math. “I suggest we move with caution.”
He slipped close to one of the windows and glanced out, spotting the Range Rover parked fifty yards away. The van was nowhere in sight.
Which worried him.
“Let’s hope the keys are in that Rover,” he said.
They found the door and cautiously inched it open. Night still loomed thick and heavy, the landing field quiet.
“They were either taking us somewhere to kill us or were going to kill us here,” he said. “Either way, they’d need that van.”
He saw she was thinking the same thing.
“No sense waiting around.”
She stepped out, her assault rifle leading the way.
He followed.
A hundred and fifty feet lay between them and the Rover. His gaze raked the darkness. Pools of light from the rooftop floods lit the way. They were halfway to their objective when the roar of an engine disturbed the silence and the van motored its way past one of the hangars, heading their way.
He saw an arm extend from the passenger side holding a pistol.
Cassiopeia did not hesitate, spraying the windshield with a barrage from the automatic rifle. The bullets caused the gun in the window to disappear and the van wheeled right, careening up on two wheels as it executed too sharp a turn, spinning out of control, sliding on its side, slamming into one of the hangars.
They raced to the Range Rover and hopped inside, Malone at the wheel. Keys hung from the ignition.
“Finally, something went right.”
He gunned the engine and they fled the fenced enclosure.
“There is one thing,” Cassiopeia said.
He’d been waiting.
“How do we get there? We certainly can’t stop and ask directions.”
“Not a problem.”
He reached into his back pocket and produced a folded bundle. “I kept the map Ni used on the plane. Thought we might need it.”
SEVENTY-ONE
BATANG
7:00 AM
TANG STOOD AT THE WINDOW AND SHADED HIS EYES FROM A bar of golden sun cresting over the eastern peaks. He nursed a cup of sweet black tea, scented with cardamom. He half expected to hear the romantic wail of a conch shell, its rising tone like a foghorn, echoing off the cliffs. A brother had once, each day at dawn, blown that siren from the monastery walls.
He glanced down at the street.
Batang was coming alive, a trickle of people slowly becoming a stream. Most wore wool gowns with red waistbands and saffron caps, ankle-length with high collars, which offered protection from a wind that leaned into the building and rattled the wooden walls. He knew the weather here was fickle, particularly this time of year. Though high in altitude, the late-spring air would be surprisingly warm, heated by UV rays that the thin atmosphere did little to negate.
Viktor was downstairs eating. Two hours ago he’d received word through his satellite phone that Ni and Sokolov had left Yecheng, in custody. He’d ordered the chopper to deliver his prisoners then come for him at seven thirty. He’d been pleased to hear that Malone and Vitt had been captured and, he assumed, were now dead.
All of the elements were finally dropping into place.
He breathed in the warm air, redolent with the smell of oily butter lamps. Outside the panes, the dull crystal ting of bells could be heard.
The door opened.
He turned and said to Viktor, “It’s time for me to leave. The helicopter will return shortly.”
On the bed lay equipment that Viktor had brought with him earlier. Some rope, a backpack, flashlight, knife, and fleece-lined jacket.
“The walk up to the hall is a little over an hour,” Tang said. “The trail starts west of town and winds upward. The hall lies on the other side of the ridge, just past a suspension bridge. Buddhas carved into the rock, beyond the bridge, mark the way. It is not hard to find.”
“What happened in Yecheng?”
“It’s not important.”
Viktor Tomas was apparently still concerned about Cassiopeia Vitt. Strange. To him, women were nothing but a distraction. Men like Viktor should feel the same way. Odd that he didn’t.
Viktor gathered up his gear, slipping on a leather jacket.
“Take that trail,” Tang said. “Make sure no one from here follows. Arrive at the hall unnoticed and enter with caution. I’m told there are few there, so you should be able to gain entrance easily. The main gates are left open.”
“I’ll cover your back,” Viktor said. “But, Minister, you have a
more immediate problem.”
He didn’t like the words or the tone. “Why do you say that?”
“Because Malone and Cassiopeia Vitt just drove into town.”
CASSIOPEIA ADMIRED BATANG. WHITEWASHED ADOBE WALLS, red moon and sun designs above the doors, firewood and dung bricks piled on the roofs—all typical for the area. A mixture of Mongols, Chinese, Arabs, and Tibetans who, unlike the populations of their respective countries, had learned to live together. They’d just driven nearly two hours through a skeletal landscape, stripped to its rocky bones, across a rough road.
“My gut is still reeling from those rations,” Malone said as they stepped from the Rover.
Along the way they’d found some food in the vehicle, rock-hard bars of cookie crumbs and milk powder mixed with what she thought was lard. Tasted like sweet cardboard. Her stomach was also upset from the bars and the jostling. Strange she’d get motion sick—one of those weaknesses she did not like to display or discuss—but firm ground felt good.
“Ni said the monastery is west of town,” she said. “We’re going to have to ask its location.”
Guarded faces watched both her and Malone. Glancing up, she spotted two ravens tumbling over each other in the morning sky. The air had definitely thinned and to compensate she’d found herself breathing faster, but she told herself to stop, as that would solve nothing.
“Asking doesn’t seem like a good idea,” Malone said as he stood near the hood.
She agreed. “I don’t think they get a lot of foreigners like us here.”
TANG KEPT AWAY FROM THE GRIMY WINDOW, LOOSE IN ITS frame.
“Seems you were right about Malone,” he said to Viktor. “He is a man to be respected.”
“So is she.”
He faced Viktor. “As you keep reminding me.”
