The final report dealt with Viktor Tomas.

Beyond their direct contact, Malone knew little about the man. Their first encounter last year, in Central Asia, had been brief. Viktor had once worked with the Croatian security forces and, not wanting to be tried for war crimes, he'd switched sides and helped American intelligence as a random a.s.set. Last year, when it was learned that Viktor had managed to position himself close to the head of the Central Asian Federation, pressure had been applied on him to exact his cooperation. On the plane, earlier, while the others slept, he'd asked Stephanie, "Is he Bosnian?"

She'd shook her head. "His father was American. He was raised partly in Bosnia, some in California."

Which explained the lack of any European accent and his proficient use of slang.

"He's helpful, Cotton."

"He's a random a.s.set. Nothing but a wh.o.r.e. Where is he now?"

"Back with Tang. In China."

"So what is it? Is he with the Russians? The Chinese? What's his mission?"

She said nothing.

"We're placing our a.s.ses right back in his hands," he said. "And I don't like it."

Stephanie had still not commented-which spoke volumes.

But he meant what he'd said about random a.s.sets. No loyalty, usually reckless as h.e.l.l. He knew that not only from Viktor, but from others he'd once encountered as a Magellan Billet agent. The mission may or may not be critical to them. Results didn't matter. Surviving and getting paid, that's what counted.

Malone watched as Ivan continued to study Halong Bay. The sun, the temperature, and the morning mist had all quickly risen.

"It's a UNESCO World Heritage Site," Stephanie said.

He caught the twinkle in her eye. "How much damage could I do to this bay?"

"I'm sure you could find a way."

"There," Ivan said. "Finally."

He saw what had grabbed the Russian's attention. A plane, dropping from the sky, out over open water, making its way toward them.

FORTY-TWO.

BEIJING, CHINA.

8:40 AM.

Ni entered the tomb of Mao Zedong.

The granite edifice stood on the southern side of Tiananmen Square, a squat building, lined with columns, erected in a little more than a year after the Chairman died. Seven hundred thousand workers had supposedly partic.i.p.ated in its construction, a symbol of the love that the Chinese harbored for their Great Helmsman. But that had all been propaganda. Those "workers" had been bused into the capital every day-ordinary people, each forced to carry a brick to the site. The next day, another busload would remove the same bricks.

Foolishness, but nothing unusual for China.

For the past year the mausoleum had been closed for renovations. In the rush to erect a memorial, little care had been taken on placement. Feng shui had been ignored. Consequently, there had been many structural problems over the years, ones his grandfather easily might have prevented.

On the flight from Belgium, he'd e-mailed a request for an immediate audience with the premier. Staff had responded quickly and said he would be seen as soon as he was in the country. His reporting directly on a pending investigation was nothing unusual, since the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection answered only to the premier. Meeting at Mao's tomb, though, was different. The explanation had been that the premier was there, making a final inspection before the site reopened in a few days.

In the mausoleum's vestibule, a ma.s.sive white marble armchair held a sitting statue of Mao. Behind, a mural featured the geopolitical range of the Chairman's posthumous rule. Security men ringed the polished floor. He knew the drill. Two of the suited officers approached and he raised his arms, ready for a search.

"No need," he heard a voice, cracking with age, say.

The premier entered the vestibule, a short, stumpy man with bushy eyebrows that swept up toward his temples. He wore his characteristic dark suit and dark tie and walked while leaning on a red lacquered stick.

"Minister Ni has my trust." The premier motioned with his cane. "Allow him to pa.s.s."

The security men withdrew, never confiscating the pistol from his shoulder harness. A weapon had been waiting for him when he stepped off the plane. He had thought it wise, under the uncertain circ.u.mstances.

"Let us walk," the premier said.

They drifted deeper inside.

Evidence of renovations was everywhere, including fresh paint and sparkling stone.

"What is so urgent?" the premier asked.

"Tell me about Pau Wen."

The old man stopped.

Though his breath was short, the voice weak and halting, the hands and fingers bony, Ni realized that there was nothing sluggish about this man's mind.

"He is a dangerous man."

"In what way?" he asked.

"He's a eunuch."

"And what does that mean?"

The premier smiled. "Now you're not being honest with me. You know precisely what that means."

Few lights burned inside and the building's air-conditioning had chilled the interior to a winter's feel.

He'd made his move. Now he awaited a response.

"A eunuch cannot be trusted," the premier said. "They are inherently dishonest. They destroyed dynasty after dynasty with their treachery."

"I don't need a history lesson."

"Perhaps you do. When the First Emperor died, his chief eunuch conspired to have the eldest son, the chosen heir, commit suicide. He then aided the next son in becoming Second Emperor, thinking that he, himself, from behind the throne, would be in actual control. But that reign lasted only four years. Everything Qin Shi fought to create-what millions died to achieve-disappeared within three years of his death. And all because of a eunuch. That pariah is still recalled by history as 'a man who could confidently describe a deer as a horse.' "

He could not care less. "I need to know about Pau Wen and your contacts with him."

The older man's eyes narrowed, but no rebuke came. "Pau Wen likewise can confidently describe a deer as a horse."

He could not argue with that observation.

They continued ahead, a steady click of the lacquered cane off the marble floor accompanied by the shuffle of leather soles.

"Decades ago," the old man said, "Pau Wen and I were friends. We did much together. We both became disenchanted with Mao."

The premier stopped, his face contorted, as if trying to a.s.semble a long train of hitherto unconnected thoughts, some of which might be unpleasant.

"The Cultural Revolution was an awful time. The young were encouraged to attack the old, the foreign, the bourgeois. We thought all of it right, all of it necessary. But it was insanity, and it all happened for nothing. In the end, the strong dragon proved no match for the local snake."

He nodded at the ancient saying.

"China changed," the premier said. "The people changed. Unfortunately, the government didn't."

He had to ask, "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because, Minister, I fear you will not win your coming battle with Karl Tang."

FORTY-THREE.

HALONG BAY.

Malone shook his head at the up-wing twin-engine amphibian, a Twin Bee, built like a tank with rivets, hefty struts, and thick walls of sheet metal painted red and white. Its hull rested in the calm water like a boat.

"Your way into China," Ivan said.

"You can't be serious," Ca.s.siopeia said. "They'll blow us out of the sky."

The Russian shook his head. "It never happens before."

Ivan unfolded a map, laid it across the dock's wooden railing, and rested a pudgy finger with dirty nails atop Halong Bay. He then traced a line to the northwest, straight across northern Vietnam, pa.s.sing the border with China, ending at the city of Kunming, in Yunnan province, 500 miles away.

"You have clear pa.s.sage from here to border," Ivan said.

"Apparently you and the Vietnamese are a.s.shole buddies."

Ivan shrugged. "They have no choice."

Malone smiled.

"Lakes everywhere, south of Kunming. Dian Chi is the best one. Forty kilometers long. Plenty of places to land unnoticed."

"And what do we do once we're there?" Malone asked.

"We can take the train north to Xi'an," Pau said. "A few hours. From there we can bus out to the terra-cotta warrior site."

Malone wasn't impressed. "This isn't some jaunt across Europe. You're talking about flying 500 miles into a closed country, with a ma.s.sive air force, unannounced. Somebody could easily get the wrong idea."

"I will provide pilot," Ivan said, "who can handle controls."

"I can fly the d.a.m.n thing," he said. "I just want to be alive to land."

Ivan waved off his worries. "Yunnan province is friendly."

Pau nodded. "It has always been a renegade. Remote location, harsh terrain, diverse population. One-third of all the Chinese minorities live there."

"We have friends," Ivan said, "who help us. The route will be clear. Take this chart, which I mark. I a.s.sume you navigate?"

Ca.s.siopeia s.n.a.t.c.hed the map away. "I'll handle that ch.o.r.e."

"Fully ga.s.sed?" Malone asked Ivan about the plane.

"Enough to get there. But understand, it is one-way trip."

Ni would not allow the negative observation about himself to spark a response. He knew better. So he returned to his original question. "Tell me about Pau Wen."

"I do not answer to interrogation. I am not one of your investigations."

"Perhaps you should be."

"Because of Pau Wen? You give that man far too much credit."

"In Belgium, Karl Tang sent men to kill me. Pau Wen prevented that. He also told me things about Tang and you. Spoke of conversations between you and him. He said you even spoke of me. I want to know about those talks."

They stood at the entrance to the crypt. Mao's body lay in the center, sheathed by a crystalline sarcophagus.

"I had him brought from below," the premier said. "I wanted to see him in all his glory."

Ni knew that like so many others in Beijing, Mao traveled to work each day. The body was raised and lowered from an earthquake-proof chamber deep underground, sealed inside a transparent coc.o.o.n, surrounded by pure nitrogen. Halogen lights cast the corpse in a golden glow.

"You think Pau, Tang, and I are co-conspirators?" the premier finally asked.

"I don't know what to think. I'm simply asking a question. Tell me about your conversations with Pau Wen."