The Emperor's Tomb Read online

  ALSO BY STEVE BERRY

  NOVELS

  The Amber Room

  The Romanov Prophecy

  The Third Secret

  The Templar Legacy

  The Alexandria Link

  The Venetian Betrayal

  The Charlemagne Pursuit

  The Paris Vendetta

  E-BOOKS

  “The Balkan Escape”

  The Emperor’s Tomb is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Steve Berry

  Map copyright © 2010 by David Lindroth, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Berry, Steve.

  The emperor’s tomb : a novel / Steve Berry.

  p. cm.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52314-3

  1. Malone, Cotton (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Booksellers and bookselling—Fiction. 3. Antiquarian booksellers—Fiction. 4. Kidnapping—Fiction. 5. Ransom—Fiction. 6. Denmark—Fiction. 7. Pakistan—Fiction. 8. China—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.E764E46 2010 813′.6—dc22 2010019168

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  For Fran Downing, Frank Green, Lenore Hart,

  David Poyer, Nancy Pridgen,

  Clyde Rogers, and Daiva Woodworth

  Teachers extraordinaire

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To the folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Cindy Murray, Kim Hovey, Katie O’Callaghan, Beck Stvan, Carole Lowenstein, Rachel Kind, and all those in promotions and sales. Once again, thanks.

  To Mark Tavani, thanks for being a persistent editor.

  To Pam Ahearn I offer a ninth bow of gratitude and my continued appreciation.

  To Simon Lipskar, I deeply appreciate your wisdom and guidance.

  A few special mentions: Charlie Smith, who performed some much-appreciated reconnoitering in China; Grant Blackwood, a superb thriller writer who saved me from falling in Denver; Els Wouters, who provided, on short notice, vital on-site research in Antwerp; Esther Levine for opening doors at the terra-cotta warrior exhibit; Bob and Jane Stine, who stimulated my imagination over lunch and connected me with “Julia” Xiaohui Zhu; James Rollins for once again helping save the day; Michele and Joe Finder, who offered some sage advice; Meryl Moss and her wonderful staff; Melisse Shapiro, who is more helpful than she could ever realize; and Esther Garver and Jessica Johns who keep History Matters and Steve Berry Enterprises running.

  I also want to say thank you to every one of my readers around the world. I appreciate your loyal support, insightful comments, infectious enthusiasm, and, yes, even your criticisms. You are what keeps me writing every day.

  And there’s Elizabeth—critic, cheerleader, editor, wife, muse. The whole package.

  Finally, this book is dedicated to Fran Downing, Frank Green, Lenore Hart, David Poyer, Nancy Pridgen, Clyde Rogers, and Daiva Woodworth. Together, they showed me how to teach myself to be a writer.

  Whether I succeeded is still a matter of debate.

  One thing, though, is clear.

  Without their influence, nothing ever would have been printed.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Map

  Timeline of Relevant Events of Chinese History

  Prologue

  Part 1 - Three Days Earlier

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part 2

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Part 3

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Part 4

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Writer’s Note

  About the Author

  Study the past if you would define the future.

  —CONFUCIUS

  History is a maiden, and you can dress her however you wish.

  —CHINESE PROVERB

  All countries large and small suffer one defect in common: the surrounding of the ruler with unworthy personnel. Those who would control rulers, first discover their secret fears and wishes.

  —HAN FEI TZU, 3rd century BCE

  TIMELINE OF RELEVANT

  EVENTS OF CHINESE HISTORY

  1765–1027 BCE Shang Dynasty (earliest known)

  770–481 BCE Spring and Autumn Period

  551–479 BCE Confucius lives

  535 BCE Origin of the eunuch system

  481–221 BCE Warring States Period and emergence of Legalism

  200 BCE Chinese first drill for oil

  221 BCE Qin Shi unifies the warring states into China and becomes First Emperor

  210 BCE Qin Shi dies; terra-cotta army is completed and interred with First Emp
eror in Imperial tomb mound

  146 BCE–67 CE Eunuch system expands into a political force

  89 BCE Sima Qian completes Records of the Historian (Shiji)

  202 CE–1912 CE Dynastic rule of China flourishes

  1912 CE Last emperor is forced from throne; dynastic rule ends; eunuch system is abolished; Republic of China is formed

  1949 CE Communist Revolution; People’s Republic of China is formed

  1974 CE Terracotta army is rediscovered

  1976 CE Mao Zedong dies

  PROLOGUE

  NORTHERN AREAS, PAKISTAN

  FRIDAY, MAY 18

  8:10 AM

  A BULLET ZIPPED PAST COTTON MALONE. HE DOVE TO THE rocky ground and sought what cover the sparse poplars offered. Cassiopeia Vitt did the same and they belly-crawled across sharp gravel, finding a boulder large enough to provide the two of them protection.

  More shots came their way.

  “This is getting serious,” Cassiopeia said.

  “You think?”

  Their trek had, so far, been uneventful. The greatest congregation of towering peaks on the planet surrounded them. The roof of the world, two thousand miles from Beijing, in the extreme southwestern corner of China’s Xinjiang Autonomous Region—or the Northern Areas of Pakistan, depending on whom you asked—smack up against a hotly disputed border.

  Which explained the soldiers.

  “They’re not Chinese,” she said. “I caught a glimpse. Definitely Pakistanis.”

  Jagged, snowy summits as high as twenty thousand feet shielded glaciers, patches of green-black forest, and lush valleys. The Himalaya, Karakoum, Hindu Kush, and Pamir ranges all merged here. This was the land of black wolves and blue poppies, ibex and snow leopards. Where fairies congregated, Malone recalled one ancient observer noting. Possibly even the inspiration behind James Hilton’s Shangri-la. A paradise for trekkers, climbers, rafters, and skiers. Unfortunately, India and Pakistan both claimed sovereignty, China retained possession, and all three governments had fought over the desolate region for decades.

  “They seem to know where we’re headed,” she said.

  “That thought occurred to me, too.” So he had to add, “I told you he was trouble.”

  They were dressed in leather jackets, jeans, and boots. Though they were more than eight thousand feet above sea level, the air was surprisingly mild. Maybe sixty degrees, he estimated. Luckily, both of them carried Chinese semi-automatic weapons and a few spare magazines.

  “We have to go that way.” He pointed behind them. “And those soldiers are close enough to do some damage.”

  He searched his eidetic brain for what they needed. Yesterday, he’d studied the local geography and noted that this slice of earth, which wasn’t much larger than New Jersey, was once called Hunza, a princely state for over nine hundred years, whose independence finally evaporated in the 1970s. The fair-skinned and light-eyed locals claimed to be descendants of soldiers in Alexander the Great’s army, from when Greeks invaded two millennia ago. Who knew? The land had remained isolated for centuries, until the 1980s, when the Karakoram Highway passed through and connected China to Pakistan.

  “We have to trust that he’ll handle it,” she finally said.

  “That was your call, not mine. You go first. I’ll cover.”

  He gripped the Chinese double-action pistol. Not a bad weapon. Fifteen rounds, fairly accurate. Cassiopeia prepared herself, too. He liked that about her—ready for any situation. They made a good team, and this striking Spanish Arab definitely intrigued him.

  She scampered off toward a stand of junipers.

  He aimed the pistol across the boulder and readied himself to react at the slightest movement. To his right, in the tomb-like illumination that filtered through the spring foliage, he caught the glimmer of a rifle barrel being aimed around a tree trunk.

  He fired.

  The barrel disappeared.

  He decided to use the moment and followed Cassiopeia, keeping the boulder between himself and their pursuers.

  He reached her and they both raced forward, using more trees as cover.

  Sharp bursts of rifle fire echoed. Bullets pinged around them.

  The trail twisted out of the trees and rose in a steep but climbable slope, held to a rocky bluff by retaining walls of loose boulders. Not much cover here, but they had no choice. Beyond the trail, he spied canyons so deep and sheer that light could enter only at high noon. A gorge dropped away to their right, and they ran along its edge. Bright sun blazed on the far side, dulled by black mountain slate. A hundred feet below water rushed and tumbled, gray with sand, tossing foamy spray high into the air.

  They clambered up the steep embankment.

  He spotted the bridge.

  Exactly where they’d been told.

  Not much of a span, just shaky poles wedged upright between boulders on each end, horizontal timbers fastened on top, connected by thick hemp. A footwalk of boards dangled over the river.

  Cassiopeia reached the top of the trail. “We have to cross.”

  He didn’t like that prospect, but she was right. Their destination was on the far side.

  Gunfire echoed in the distance and he glanced behind them.

  No soldiers.

  Which bothered him.

  “Maybe he’s leading them away,” she said.

  His distrust made him defensive, but there was no time to analyze the situation. He stuffed the gun into his pocket. Cassiopeia did the same, then stepped onto the bridge.

  He followed.

  The boards vibrated from the rush of water below. He estimated less than a hundred feet to the other side, but they’d be suspended in open air with zero cover, moving from shadows to sunlight. Another trail could be seen on the far side, leading across loose gravel into more trees. He spotted a figure, maybe fifteen feet high, carved in the rock face beyond the trail—a Buddhist image, just as they’d been told.

  Cassiopeia turned back toward him, Eastern eyes peering from her Western face. “This bridge has seen better days.”

  “I hope it has at least one more left.”

  She gripped the twisted ropes that held the span aloft.

  He tightened his fingers around the coarse strands, too, then decided, “I’ll go first.”

  “And the reason for that?”

  “I’m heavier. If they hold me, they’ll hold you.”

  “Since I can’t argue with that logic”—she stepped aside—“be my guest.”

  He assumed the lead, his feet attuned to the steady vibrations.

  No sign of any pursuers.

  He decided a brisk pace would be better, not giving the boards time to react. Cassiopeia followed.

  A new sound rose over the rushing water.

  Deep bass tones. Far off, but growing louder.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  He whipped his head to the right and caught the first glimpse of a shadow on a rock wall, maybe a mile away, where the gorge they were negotiating met another running perpendicular.

  At the halfway point it seemed the bridge was holding, though the moldy boards gave like a sponge. His palms loosely gripped the rough hemp, ready to apply a death lock if the bottom fell out beneath him.

  The distant shadow grew in size, then was replaced with the distinct shape of an AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter.

  American-made, but this was no salvation.

  Pakistan operated them, too, provided by Washington to help a supposed ally with the war on terrorism.

  The Cobra powered straight toward them. Twin-bladed, dual-engined, it carried 20mm guns, anti-tank missiles, and aerial rockets. Fast as a bumblebee, and equally maneuverable.

  “That’s not here to help,” he heard Cassiopeia say.

  He agreed, but there was no need to voice that he’d been right all along. They’d been herded to this spot, for this precise purpose.

  Damn that son of a bitch—

  The Cobra started firing.

  A steady procession of
pops sent 20mm rounds their way.

  He dove belly-first to the bridge boards and rolled, staring past his feet as Cassiopeia did the same. The Cobra roared toward them, its turboshafts sucking through the dry, limpid air. Rounds found the bridge, ripping wood and rope with a savage fury.

  Another burst arrived.

  Concentrated on the ten feet between him and Cassiopeia.

  He spied fury in her eyes and watched as she found her gun, came to her knees and fired at the copter’s canopy. But he knew that armor plating and an aircraft moving at more than 170 miles an hour reduced the chances of causing damage to zero.

  “Get the hell down,” he yelled.

  Another burst of cannon fire annihilated the bridge between him and Cassiopeia. One moment the wood-and-rope construction existed, the next it was gone in a cloud of debris.

  He sprang to his feet and realized the entire span was about to collapse. He could not go back, so he ran ahead, the final twenty feet, clinging to the ropes as the bridge dropped away.

  The Cobra flew past, toward the opposite end of the gorge.

  He held tight to the ropes and, as the bridge divided, each half swinging back toward opposite sides of the gorge, he flew through the air.

  He slammed into rock, rebounded, then settled.

  He did not give himself time to be terrified. Slowly, he pulled himself upward, scaling the remaining few feet to the top. Rushing water and the thump of chopper blades filled his ears. He focused across the gorge, searching for Cassiopeia, hoping she’d managed to make it up to the other side.

  His heart sank when he saw her clinging with both hands to the other half of the bridge as it dangled against the sheer cliff face. He wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do. She was a hundred feet away. Only air between them.

  The Cobra executed a tight turn within the gorge, arching upward, then began another run their way.

  “Can you climb?” he screamed over the noise.

  Her head shook.

  “Do it,” he yelled.

  She craned her neck his way. “Get out of here.”

  “Not without you.”

  The Cobra was less than a mile away. Its cannon would start firing any second.

  “Climb,” he screamed.

  One hand reached up.

  Then she fell fifty feet into the rushing river.