"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 Ca.s.siopeia 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," Ca.s.siopeia 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-skysc.r.a.pers, 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, pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sumed 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 b.u.mp 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 Ca.s.siopeia 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 Ca.s.siopeia sat silent in the pa.s.senger 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 Ca.s.siopeia'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."

"I think I had a little to do with that, too."

She motioned to the intersection approaching in the headlights and told him to turn east.

"You had no idea about the oil in the lamp," she said. "You were flying blind." She paused. "Sokolov's wife is destroyed. That boy was her world. I met her last week. I don't think she can survive knowing he's gone forever."

"We're not done yet," he said.

She turned her head and looked at him. He glanced across the darkness and caught sight of her face. She looked tired, frustrated, angry.

And beautiful.

"How's your hip?" she asked.

Not exactly what he wanted her to ask, but he knew she was as skittish as he was about emotions.

"I'll live."

She reached across and laid a hand on his arm. He recalled another time they'd touched, just after Henrik's funeral, on the walk back from the grave, through trees bare to winter, across ground dusted with snow, holding hands in silence. No need to speak. The touch had said it all.

Like now.

A phone rang. His. Lying on the console between them.

She withdrew her hand and answered. "It's Stephanie. She has the info on Pau Wen."

"Put it on speaker."

Ca.s.siopeia digested the information Stephanie related on Pau Wen. Her mind drifted back to a few hours ago when she thought she was about to die. She'd regretted things, lamented on how she would miss Cotton. She'd caught his irritation when she'd defended Viktor, though it really wasn't a defense since she still believed that Viktor knew far more about Sokolov's son than he was willing to admit. Viktor was obviously playing another dangerous game. The Russians against the Chinese, the Americans against them both.

Not an easy thing.

Stephanie continued with her information.

Cotton was listening, his eidetic memory surely filing away every detail. What a blessing that could be, but also a curse. There was so much she'd prefer not to recall.

One thing, though, she clearly remembered.

In the face of death, staring at the archer, his arrow aimed straight at her, then again when Viktor's gun had pointed her way, she'd desperately wished for one more opportunity with Cotton.

And received it.

THIRTY-SEVEN.

BELGIUM.

Malone stared at the man. Though it was after midnight, black as soot outside, and the entrance bore evidence of gunfire, the older man who'd opened the doors-short-legged, thin-chested, with red-rimmed eyes, bleary but alert-seemed unfazed.

A faint smile came to his lips. Malone recognized the face.

From the museum, with two others, one of whom had carried a bow and arrows.