"I recall when Mao died," the premier said, gesturing toward the corpse. "September 9, 1976, just after midnight. Ten days the nation mourned. Loudspeakers and radio stations broadcasting somber music. Newspapers proclaimed him the greatest Marxist of the contemporary era and said he will forever illuminate the road of advance of the Chinese people. For three minutes that day the entire country stood in silence." The old man paused, his eyes still locked on the spectacle. "But for what, Minister? Tell me, for what?"

He realized he was being ignored. "I wasn't there. You were. What did you hope to gain from canonizing him?"

The premier faced him. "Do you know what happened after he died?"

Ni shook his head.

"Publicly, Mao had written that he wanted to be cremated. He said, after people die they should not be allowed to occupy any more s.p.a.ce. They should be cremated. He publicly proclaimed that he'd take the lead and be burned to ashes, used for fertilizer. But we all knew that was propaganda. He wanted to be worshiped. The problem came when no one knew about embalming. It's simply not our way. The doctors located a Russian text in the national library and followed its procedure, but they injected so much formaldehyde that the face swelled like a ball and the ears projected at right angles. Can you imagine what a sight that was. Mao's skin turned slimy from the chemicals that oozed out the pores. I was there. I saw it."

Ni had not heard this story before.

"They couldn't drain the excess off, so they used towels and cotton b.a.l.l.s, hoping to ma.s.sage the fluid down into the body. One of them pressed too hard and a hunk of the right cheek broke off. Eventually, they had to slit the jacket and pants just to get the body into the clothes."

He wondered why he was being told this.

"But they were not entirely foolish, Minister. Before injecting the formaldehyde, they made a wax effigy of the entire body." The fingers of the old man's left hand pointed to the sarcophagus. "And that is what you see now."

"It's not Mao?"

He shook his head. "Mao is gone, and has been for a long time. This is but an illusion."

Malone followed Ca.s.siopeia and Pau Wen to the end of the pier, Stephanie walking beside him.

"You realize this is crazy," he said in a low voice.

"Ivan says they slip in all the time. Usually from the sh.o.r.eline to the north. Only difference here is half the flight will be over Vietnam."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

She smiled. "You can handle it."

He pointed at Pau. "Bringing him along is crazy, too."

"He's your guide."

"We're not part of whatever he's after. I doubt he'll be much help."

"Since you know that, be ready."

He shook his head. "I should be selling books."

"How's your hip?"

"Sore."

"I need to make contact before we leave," Ca.s.siopeia called out, stopping at the pier's end. She'd told them that a neighbor of Lev Sokolov's had agreed to act as go-between. All she needed was a laptop, which Stephanie produced, and a satellite connection, which Ivan arranged.

Ca.s.siopeia balanced the computer on the dock's wooden railing, and Malone held it in place. He watched as she typed in an e-mail address, then a message.

I HAVE BEEN READING THE THOUGHTS OF MAO, BUT CANNOT FIND HIS WORDS REGARDING UNITY. COULD YOU HELP ME?.

"That's clever," he said.

He knew the Chinese censored the Internet, restricting access to search engines, blogs, chat rooms, any site that allowed open conversation. They also employed filters that screened all digital content in and out of the country for anything suspicious. They were in the process of creating their own intranet, solely for China, which would be far easier to regulate. He'd read about the venture and its skyrocketing costs and technological challenges.

"I found a copy of the The Little Red Book and worked out a code," she said. "The words of Mao would never arouse suspicion. The neighbors said they would check constantly for any message."

Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong-or, as the West labeled it, The Little Red Book-was the most printed book in history. Nearly seven billion copies. Once, every Chinese was required to carry one, and those editions now were valuable collector's items. Malone had bought one himself a few months ago, at the monthly book auction in Roskilde, for one of his customers.

The laptop dinged with an incoming message.

IT IS THE DUTY OF THE CADRES AND THE PARTY TO SERVE THE PEOPLE. WITHOUT THE PEOPLE'S INTERESTS CONSTANTLY AT HEART, THEIR WORK IS USELESS.

She looked up at him. "That's the wrong response. Which means trouble."

"Can they clarify what's going on?" Stephanie asked.

She shook her head. "Not without compromising themselves."

"She is correct," Pau Wen said. "I, too, use a similar coding method when communicating with friends in China. The government watches cybers.p.a.ce closely."

Malone handed the laptop back. "We need to go. But first I have to do something."

Ivan had been talking on the phone for the past few minutes, standing away from them. Malone walked down the dock and, as the Russian ended his call, asked, "Anything you're willing to tell us?"

"You do not like me much, do you?"

"I don't know. Try a new posture, different clothes, a diet, and a change in att.i.tude and maybe our relationship will improve."

"I have job to do."

"So do I. But you're making it difficult."

"I give you plane and way in."

"Viktor. Where is he? I miss him."

"He is doing job, too."

"I need to know something, and for once tell me the truth."

Ivan stared back at him.

"Is Viktor there to kill Karl Tang?"

"If opportunity arise, this will be good thing."

"And Sokolov? Is he there to kill him, too?"

"Not at all. That one we want back."

"He knows too much? Maybe some things you don't know?"

Ivan only glared at him.

"I thought so. Sokolov must have been busy while in China. Tell me, if it's not possible for Viktor to retrieve Sokolov or, G.o.d forbid, we get our hands on him first, what are his orders?"

Ivan said nothing.

"Just like I thought, too. I'm going to do us all a favor and keep this to myself." He gestured to the end of the dock. "She's not going to let that happen to Sokolov."

"She may have no say. Much better when we thought Sokolov dead. Now it is Viktor's choice."

"We'll make sure he makes the right one."

He headed back toward the others where Ca.s.siopeia was climbing into the plane's cabin, followed by Pau.

"Spry sucker," he whispered to Stephanie.

"Watch him, Cotton."

He pointed at Ivan. "And you watch him."

He climbed inside. Two leather seats rested side by side, Ca.s.siopeia in one, a center bench behind them where Pau sat. The instrument panel did not extend to the pa.s.senger side, which provided Ca.s.siopeia a wide view ahead through the forward windows. He strapped himself in and studied the controls, noticing the top speed to be around 200 kilometers per hour. One fuel tank in the keel, below the cabin door, held 320 liters. Another auxiliary tank in the tail carried 60 liters. He did the math. About a 1,500 kilometer range. Plenty for a one-way trip, as Ivan had said, which he hoped did not have a double meaning.

"I a.s.sume you know what you're doing?" she asked.

"As good a time as any to learn."

She gave him a quizzical look.

"What?" he asked.

"You can fly this, right?" Doubt clouded her tone.

He adjusted the throttle, props, and fuel mixture. He glanced down at the keel plugs and noticed that they were intact. A flick of a switch and the twin engines roared to life. He played with the fuel mixture until the props spun firm. He twisted the cranks for the elevator and rudder trims.

"No problem," he said.

Ca.s.siopeia did not appear to share his confidence.

The plane started to drift, so he grasped the yoke and maneuvered out onto the bay. He turned toward the south so the faint breeze he'd noted on sh.o.r.e would be at their back.

He throttled up the engines to 180 horsepower.

The Twin Bee skimmed across the surface, the controls tightened, and he gripped the yoke.

This would be his first off-water takeoff. He'd always wanted to do it.

Less than five hundred feet was needed before the wings caught air and the plane lifted, slow and steady, as if in an elevator. They found open water beyond the bay. He banked left and adjusted course toward the northwest, heading back over sh.o.r.e. The controls were sluggish, but responsive. Not a P-3 Orion, he reminded himself, or even a Cessna or a Beechcraft. This tank was designed for little more than short water hopping.

"Take a look at that chart," he said to Ca.s.siopeia.

She studied the map.

"We're going to ground-track our way there," he made clear.

"a.s.suming this chart is correct."

"Not to worry," Pau said at his right ear. "I know this part of Vietnam and China well. I can get us there."

Ni watched the premier's face, trying to gauge if this man was friend or foe. He truly had no idea.

"What you see is the wax replica made before the Chairman was embalmed. The body decayed long ago and, in fulfillment of Mao's wishes, was burned to ash."

"Then why keep all this open?"

"An excellent question. One I have asked myself many times. The simplest answer is that the people expect it."

Ni had to say, "I don't think that's the case any longer."

"You may well be correct. That is the sad thing about our heritage. We have no single legacy. Just a succession of dynasties, each rising with its own agenda, opposing the one before it, welcomed by the people, then descending into the same corruption of its predecessor. Why should our future be any different?"

"You sound like Pau."

"I told you that he and I were once close. But there came a time when we deviated. He took one path, I another."

An uncomfortable feeling swept over him. Usually, he was in command of a situation, knowing the questions and the answers. Not here. Others were many steps ahead of him. So he asked what he truly wanted to know. "Why will I lose to Karl Tang?"

"Because you are unaware of the threats around you."

"That's what Pau Wen said, too."

"I want to know something. If I perceive you are lying, or telling me what I want to hear, this will be the last time we will ever speak."

He didn't particularly appreciate being spoken to like a schoolchild, but he recognized that this man had not risen to the top of the political triangle by being a fool. So he decided that he would answer the question honestly.

"What will you do with China if given my job?"

Ever since Pau Wen asked him the same question yesterday he'd thought about its answer. "First, I will separate the Communist Party from the government. That merger is the root of all our corruption. Next, the personnel system must be reformed, a reliance placed on merit, not patronage. The role of the National People's Congress, and the other lower congresses in the provinces, has to be raised. The people must be heard. Finally, the rule of law must be established, which means the judiciary has to become independent and functioning. We have enacted five const.i.tutions since 1949 and ignored every one of them."

"You are correct," the premier said. "The Party's authority has been undermined by irrational policies, corruption, and no vision. At present, and this is the greatest fear I possess, only the military has the ability to rule if we fail. I understand you are of the military, but the nation would not last long as a puppet."

"Of that there is no doubt. Three million active troops, controlled by seven regional commanders, of which I was once one, could not govern. We must locate and promote technical competence, managerial skills, and a business ability in our people. The glacial pace to our decision making does incalculable damage."

"Do you want democracy?"

The question was asked in a whisper.