The Emperor's Tomb by Steve Berry
“It’s the only reason I’m standing here.”
His unspoken message seemed to be received.
Get to the damn point.
“You can overpower me,” Ivan said, nodding. “I am fat, out-of-shape Russian. Stupid, too. All of us, right?”
He caught the sarcasm. “I can take you. But the man standing near the tree, across the way, in the blue jacket, and the other one, near the Round Tower’s entrance? I doubt I’d evade them. They’re not fat and out of shape.”
Ivan chuckled. “I am told you are smart. Two years off job have not changed this.”
“I seem to be busier in retirement than I was working for the government.”
“This bad thing?”
“You need to talk fast, or I may take my chances with your friends.”
“No need to be hero. Vitt is helping man named Lev Sokolov. Ex-Russian, lives in China. Five years ago, Sokolov marries Chinese national and leaves against wishes of Russian government. He slips away and, once in China, little can be done.”
“Sounds like old news,” Malone said.
“We think him dead. Not true.”
“So what else changed?”
“Sokolov has four-year-old son who is recently stolen. He calls Vitt, who comes to find boy.”
“And this worries you? What about the police?”
Ivan shook his head. “Thousands of children go in China every year. It is about having the son. In China this is necessity. Son carries family name. He is child who helps parents in old age. Forget daughters. Son is what matters. Makes no sense to me.”
He kept listening.
“China’s one-child policy is nightmare,” Ivan said. “Parents must have the birth permit. If not, there is fine that is more than Chinese man makes in the year. How can he be sure to get son in one try?” The Russian snapped his pudgy fingers. “Buy one.”
Malone had read about the problem. Female fetuses were either aborted or abandoned, and decades of the one-child policy had caused a national shortage of women.
“Problem for Sokolov,” Ivan said, “is that he fights criminal network.” He gestured with his short arms. “Is worse than Russia.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
“Is illegal to abandon, steal, or sell child in China, but is legal to buy one. Young boy costs 900 dollar, U.S. Lot of money when worker earns in year 1,700 dollar, U.S. Sokolov has no chance.”
“So Cassiopeia went to help. So what. Why are you concerned?”
“Four days ago she travels to Antwerp,” Ivan said.
“To find the kid there?”
“No. To find boy she must find something else first.”
Now he understood. “Something you obviously want?”
Ivan shrugged.
Malone’s mind envisioned the torture video. “Who has Cassiopeia?”
“Bad people.”
He didn’t like the sound of that.
“Ever deal with eunuchs?”
NI DID NOT KNOW WHETHER TO BE AMAZED OR REPELLED BY what Pau Wen had revealed about himself. “You are a eunuch?”
“I was subjected to the same ceremony you just witnessed, nearly forty years ago.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
“It was what I wanted to do with my life.”
Ni had flown to Belgium thinking Pau Wen might have the answers he sought. But a whole host of new, disturbing questions had been raised.
Pau motioned for them to leave the exhibit hall and retreat to the courtyard. The midday air had warmed, the sun bright in a cloudless sky. More bees seemed to have joined in the assault on the spring blossoms. The two men stopped beside a glass jar, maybe a meter wide, containing bright-hued goldfish.
“Minister,” Pau said, “in my time, China was in total upheaval. Before and after Mao died, the government was visionless, stumbling from one failed program to another. No one dared challenge anything. Instead a precious few made reckless decisions that affected millions. When Deng Xiaoping finally opened the country to the world, that was a daring move. I thought perhaps we might have a chance at success. But change was not to be. The sight of that lone student confronting a tank in Tiananmen Square has been etched into the world’s consciousness. One of the defining images of the 20th century. Which you well know.”
Yes, he did.
He was there that day—June 4, 1989—when the government’s tolerance ran out.
“And what did Deng do after?” Pau asked. “He pretended like it never happened, moving ahead with more foolishness.”
He had to say, “Strange talk from a man who helped forge some of those policies.”
“I forged nothing,” Pau said, anger creeping, for the first time, into his voice. “I spent my time in the provinces.”
“Stealing.”
“Preserving.”
He was still bothered by the video. “Why was that man emasculated?”
“He joined a brotherhood. That initiation occurred three months ago. He is now healed, working with his brothers. He would not have been permitted to drink anything for three days after surgery. You saw how the attendant plugged the man’s urethra before wrapping the wound with wet paper. On the fourth day, after the plug was removed, when urine flowed the operation was considered a success. If not, the initiate would have died an agonizing death.”
He could not believe anyone would willingly submit to such an atrocity. But he knew Pau was right. Hundreds of thousands throughout Chinese history had done just that. When the Ming dynasty fell in the mid-17th century, more than 100,000 eunuchs had been forced from the capital. The decline of Han, Tang, and Ming rule were all attributed to eunuchs. The Chinese Communist Party had long used them as examples of unrestrained greed.
“Interestingly,” Pau said, “of the hundreds of thousands who have been castrated, only a tiny percentage died. Another of our Chinese innovations. We are quite good at creating eunuchs.”
“What brotherhood?” he wanted to know, irritation in his voice.
“They are called the Ba.”
He’d never heard of such a group. Should he have? His job was to safeguard the government, and the people, from all forms of corruption. In order to accomplish that goal he enjoyed an autonomy no other public official was extended, reporting directly to the Central Committee and the premier himself. Not even Karl Tang, as first vice premier, could interfere, though he’d tried. Ni had created the elite investigative unit himself, on orders from the Central Committee, and had spent the last decade building a reputation of honesty.
But never had there been any Ba.
“What is that?” he asked.
“With all the resources at your command you can surely learn more about them. Now that you know where to look.”
He resented the condescending tone. “Where?”
“All around you.”
He shook his head. “You are not only a thief, but a liar.”
“I’m simply an old man who knows more than you do—on a great many subjects. What I lack is time. You, though, are a person with an abundance of that commodity.”
“You know nothing of me.”
“On the contrary. I know a great deal. You rose from squad leader to platoon captain to commander of the Beijing military area—a great honor bestowed only on those in whom the government has much trust. You were a member of the esteemed Central Military Commission when the premier himself chose you to head the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection.”
“Am I to be impressed that you know my official history? It’s posted on the Internet for the world to see.”
Pau shrugged. “I know much more, Minister. You are a subject that has interested me for some time. The premier made a difficult decision, but I do have to say he chose well in you.”
He knew about the opposition that had existed at the time of his appointment. Many did not want a military man in the position to investigate anyone at will. They worried that it might lead to the military gaining more power.
But he’d proven the pundits wrong.
“How would you know about any difficult decision?”
“Because the premier and I have spoken at length about you.”
TEN
SHAANXI PROVINCE, CHINA
TANG TOLD THE DIRECTOR TO REMAIN WITHIN THE PIT 3 building and stand guard at ground level, ensuring that he was not disturbed. Not that he would expect to be. He was the second most powerful man in China—though, irritatingly, others had begun elevating Ni Yong to that same plateau.
He’d been against Ni’s appointment, but the premier had nixed all objections, saying Ni Yong was a man of character, a person who could temper power with reason, and from all reports, that was precisely what Ni had done.
But Ni was a Confucian.
Of that there was no doubt.
Tang was a Legalist.
Those two labels had defined Chinese politics for nearly 3,000 years. Every emperor had been labeled one or the other. Mao had claimed to eliminate the dichotomy, insisting that the People’s Revolution was not about labels, yet nothing really changed. The Party, like emperors before it, preached Confucian humanity while wielding the unrelenting power of a Legalist.
Labels.
They were problematic.
But they could also prove useful.
He hoped the next few minutes might help decide which end of that spectrum would factor into his coming battle with Ni Yong.
He stepped through the makeshift portal.
The dank room beyond had been dug from the earth and sealed centuries ago with clay and stone. Artificial lights had been brought in to illuminate the roughly five-meter-square chamber. The silence, decrepitude, and layers of soot made him feel like an interloper trespassing in a grave of things long dead.
“It is remarkable,” the man inside said to him.
Tang required a proper assessment and this wiry and short-jawed academician could be trusted to provide just that.
Three stone tables dusted with thick layers of dirt supported what looked like brittle, brown leaves stacked on top of one another.
He knew what they were.
A treasure trove of silk sheets, each bearing barely discernible characters and drawings.
In other piles lay strips of bamboo, bound together, columns of letters lining each one. Paper had not existed when these thoughts had been memorialized—and China never used papyrus, only silk and wood, which proved fortuitous since both lasted for centuries.
“Is it Qin Shi’s lost library?” Tang asked.
The other man nodded. “I would say so. There are hundreds of manuscripts. They deal with everything. Philosophy, politics, medicine, astronomy, engineering, military strategy, mathematics, cartography, music, even archery and horsemanship. This could well be the greatest concentration of firsthand knowledge ever found on the First Emperor’s time.”
He knew what that claim meant. In 1975 more than a thousand Qin dynasty bamboo strips had been discovered. Historians had proclaimed those the greatest find, but later examinations had cast doubt on their authenticity. Eventually, it was determined that most of them came from a time after Qin Shi, when later dynasties refashioned reality. This cache, though, had lain for centuries within a kilometer of the First Emperor’s tomb, part of his grand mausoleum, guarded by his eternal army.
“The amazing thing is I can read them,” his expert said.
Tang knew the importance of that ability. The fall of a ruling dynasty was always regarded as a withdrawal of Heaven’s mandate. To avoid any curse, each new dynasty became critical of the one before. So complete was the subsequent purge that the system of writing would even be altered, making any later deciphering of what came before that much more difficult. Only in the past few decades had scholars, like the expert with him tonight, learned to read those lost scripts.
“Are they here?” Tang asked.
“Let me show you what I found.”
The expert lifted one of the fragile silks.
Wisps of dust swirled in the air like angry ghosts.
Qin Shi himself had assured that none of the writings from his time would survive his reign when he ordered all manuscripts, except those dealing with medicine, agriculture, or divination be burned. The idea was to “make the people ignorant,” and prevent the “use of the past to discredit the present.” Only the emperor would be trusted to have a library, and knowledge would be an imperial monopoly. Scholars who challenged that decree were executed. Particularly, any- and everything written by Confucius was subject to immediate destruction, since those teachings directly contradicted the First Emperor’s philosophy.
“Listen to this,” his expert said. “Long ago Confucius died and the subtle words were lost. His seventy disciples perished and the great truth was perverted. Therefore the Annals split into five versions, the Odes into four, and the Changes was transmitted in variant traditions. Diplomats and persuaders argued over what was true and false, and the words of the master became a jumbled chaos. This disturbed the emperor so he burned the writings in order to make idiots of the common people. He retained, though, the master’s original thoughts, stored in the palace and they accompanied him in death.”
That meant all six of the great Confucian manuscripts should be here.
The Book of Changes, a manual on divination. The Book of History, concerned with the speeches and deeds of the legendary sage-kings of antiquity. The Book of Poetry, containing more than three hundred verses laced with hidden meanings. The Spring and Autumn Annals, a complete history of Confucius’ home state. The Book of Ritual, which explained the proper behavior of everyone from peasant to ruler. And finally, the Book of Music, its content unknown, as no copy existed.
Tang knew that the Hans, who had succeeded the First Emperor with a 425-year dynasty of their own, tried to repair the damage Qin Shi inflected by reassembling many of the Confucian texts. But no one knew if those later editions accurately reflected the originals. Finding a complete set of texts, untouched, could be monumental.
“How many manuscripts are actually here?” Tang quietly asked.
“I’ve counted over two hundred separate texts.” The expert paused. “But none is by Confucius.”
His fears were growing.
Confucius was the Roman label given by 17th-century Jesuits to a sage whom disciples knew in the 5th century BCE as Kong Fu-Zi. His ideas had survived in the form of sayings, and his central belief seemed to be that man should seek to live in a good way, always behaving with humanity and courtesy, working diligently, honoring family and government. He emphasized “the way of the former kings,” encouraging the present to draw strength and wisdom from the past. He championed a highly ordered society, but the means of accomplishing that order was not by force, rather through compassion and respect.
Qin Shi was no Confucian.
Instead, the First Emperor embraced Legalism.
That counter-philosophy believed naked force and raw terror were the only legitimate bases for power. Absolute monarchy, centralized bureaucracy, state domination over society, law as a penal tool, surveillance, informers, dissident persecution, and political coercion were its fundamental tools.
Both philosophies desired a unified state, a powerful sovereign, and a population in absolute submission, but while Legalists knocked heads, Confucians taught respect—the willing obedience of the people. When the Legalist First Empire fell in the 3rd century BCE, Confucianism became its replacement, and remained so, in one form or another, until the 20th century, when the communists brought a return of Legalism.
Confucian thought, though, was once again popular. The people identified with its peaceful tenets, especially after sixty years of harsh oppression. Even more disturbing was the rise of democracy, a philosophy more troubling than Confucianism.
“There is some good news,” the expert said. “I found some further confirmation on the other matter.”
He followed the man to another of the stone tables.
??
Tang knew that the ancient Chinese maintained detailed records of almost everything, especially natural phenomena. Within his specialty, geology, they classified rocks into ore, nonmetals, and clays. They noted hardness, color, and luster, as well as shape. They even isolated which substances were formed deep within the earth and determined how they could be found reliably.
“There are accounts here of drilling exploration,” the expert said. “Quite specific.”
He’d already spotted other silks. Maps. “Is our site noted?”
The man nodded. “The general area is shown. But without geographic reference points it’s impossible to know for sure.”
Though the ancients developed the compass and cartography, they lacked latitude and longitude, one of the few revolutionary concepts the Chinese did not first develop.
“Remove and preserve the maps, and anything else that directly relates to our search.”
His expert nodded.
“The rest are unimportant. Now, to the other problem. Show me.”
The man reached into his coat pocket and handed him a silver object, shiny in the light.
A watch.
Industrial looking, with a face and digits that glowed in the dark. A winding screw protruded from one side, and the word SHANGHAI indicated its place of manufacture.
“This is decades old,” he said.
“It was found inside when they broke through. This, even more than the manuscripts, is what the museum’s archaeologists became excited about.”
He now understood the gravity of the director’s containment problem. “Somebody has been in here before?”
The expert nodded. “Clearly. There were no watches in Qin Shi’s day. Turn it over.”
Engraved on the back were a series of Chinese characters. He stepped closer to the light and read the script.
SERVE THE PEOPLE.
1968
He’d seen a watch with the same inscription before. They were given to select Party members on the occasion of Mao Zedong’s seventy-fifth birthday. Nothing pretentious or expensive, just a simple remembrance of a grand occasion.