COPENHAGEN

MALONE STARED AT HIS KIDNAPPER. THEY'D ABANDONED THE street just as the police arrived, rounding a corner and plunging back into the Stroget.

"You have a name?" he asked.

"Call me Ivan."

The English laced with a Russian accent made the label appropriate, as did the man's appearance--short, heavy-chested, with grayish black hair. A splotchy, reddened skink of a face was dominated by a broad Slavic nose and shadowed by a day-old beard that shone with perspiration. He wore an ill-fitting suit. The gun had been tucked away and they now stood in a small plaza, within the shadow of the Round Tower, a 17th-century structure that offered commanding views from its hundred-foot summit. The dull roar of traffic was not audible this deep into the Stroget, only the clack of heels to cobbles and the laughter of children. They stood beneath a covered walk that faced the tower, a brick wall to their backs.

"Your people kill those two back there?" Malone asked.

"They think we come to whisk them away."

"Care to tell me how you know about Cassiopeia Vitt?"

"Quite the woman. If I am younger, a hundred pounds lighter." Ivan paused. "But you do not want to hear this. Vitt is into something she does not understand. I hope you, ex-American-agent, appreciate the problem better."

"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."

Chapter 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.

"These bamboo scrolls are like annual reports of the First Empire."

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.

December 26, 1968.

Precious few of those first-generation leaders remained alive. Though they held a special status in the communist pantheon, many fell victim to Mao's purges. Others died from old age. One, though, remained active in the government.

The premier, who'd occasionally displayed his gift from the former Chairman.

Tang needed to know for sure. "There are no Confucian texts here? You are sure?"

The expert shook his head. "This room has been purged of every one of them. They should be here, but they are gone."

Challenges to his plans seemed to come from all fronts. Jin Zhao. Lev Sokolov. Ni Yong.

Now this.

He stared at what he held.

And knew exactly who the watch had once belonged to.

Chapter Eleven.

CASSIOPEIA STEPPED AWAY FROM THE MAN LYING STILL ON THE floor and approached the doorway. Finally, she was on the offensive, and she'd shoot anyone who came between herself and freedom.

Carefully, she peered into the narrow hall. Two meters away the door for the bathroom hung half open. Another door, a meter or so past on the other side, was closed. The corridor ended in what looked like a brightly lit entrance hall.

She stepped out.

The walls were a dingy rose, the plaster ceiling in need of painting. Definitely a house. Some rental. Surely out of the way, with a convenient windowless room beneath a staircase.

She wore the same jeans and shirt from two days ago. Her jacket had been taken the first day. Interestingly, she still carried her wallet and passport. Everything smelled of sweat and she could use a hot shower, though the thought of more water flowing across her face made her stomach uneasy.

She was careful with her steps, each one pressed lightly, the gun at her side, finger on the trigger.

At the hall's end she moved toward the front door, but the sound of a murmured voice halted her exit.

She stopped and listened.

Somebody was talking. Then silence. More speaking. As if on a telephone. She kept listening and confirmed only one voice. She decided that she owed that SOB, too. She'd already vented her anger on the man lying back in her cell, so why not finish things.

She identified the location down another short corridor that ended at a partially shut door. Before venturing that way she eased over to one of the windows and glanced out, spotting nothing but trees and pasture. They were somewhere in the countryside. She'd been transported here tied in the trunk of a car, blindfolded. She'd estimated about half an hour's driving time, which given Antwerp's location could place her anywhere in Belgium, Holland, or France.

A dark-colored Toyota was parked out front. She wondered if the keys were in the ignition or with one of her captors.

The muffled voice continued to speak on the telephone.

Might as well take advantage of the privacy they'd so conveniently arranged. She needed to find out who these people worked for. They could help lead her to Lev Sokolov's missing son. Finding him was her only concern. Thank goodness she'd thought ahead and done what she did, involving Cotton.

Otherwise, she'd be dead and the boy lost forever.

She stopped outside the door, keeping her gaze locked on the vertical strip of bright light escaping from the room on the other side.

Something about the voice tugged at her memory.

She had no idea how many people were waiting in the next room, but she didn't give a damn. Her nerves were frayed. Her patience exhausted.

She was tired, dirty, hungry, and pissed off.

She gripped the gun, planted her left foot on the floor, and slammed her right heel into the wood.

The door swung inward, smashing into the wall.

She lunged forward and immediately spotted only one man, talking on a cell phone.

He showed not the slightest surprise at her entrance.

Instead, he merely closed the phone and said, "About time."

She stared at the face, as if she'd seen a ghost.

And in some ways, she had.

MALONE HAD NEVER ACTUALLY HEARD THE WORD EUNUCH USED in a conversation before.

"As in castrated male?" he asked.

"There is other kind?" Ivan said. "These are nasty people." He spread out his short arms. "They lay down, open legs wide, snip, snip, everything gone." He raised one finger. "And do not make sound. Not peep from the lips."

"And the reason they do that?" he asked.

"Honor. They beg for this. You know what they do with the parts cut off? They call them pao, treasure, place them in jars on the high shelf. The kao sheng. High position. Symbolic of attaining high position. Whole thing is madness."

He agreed.

"But they do it, all the time. Now eunuchs are prepared to take China."

"Come again?"

"This southern slang? I understand you from American South. This where name Cotton comes from."

"Get to the damn point."

Ivan seemed to like for his audience to think him stupid, but this burly Russian was anything but.

"The Ba. Secret Chinese organization. Goes back two thousand years. The modern version is no better than original. They intend the play for power. Not good for my country or yours. These are bad people."

"What does that have to do with Cassiopeia?"

"I do not know exactly. But there is the connection."

Now he knew the man was lying. "You're full of crap."

Ivan chuckled. "I like you, Malone. But you do not like me. Lots of negativity."

"Those two back on the street aren't feeling much positivity."

"No worry about them. Killing rids world of two problems."

"Lucky for all of us you were here, on the job."

"Malone, this problem we have is serious."

He lunged forward, grabbed Ivan by his lapels and slammed him into the bricks behind them. He brought his face inches away. "I'd say that was true. Where the hell is Cassiopeia?"

He knew the backups were most likely reacting. He was prepared to whirl around and deal with them both. Of course, that was assuming they didn't decide to shoot first.

"We need this anger," Ivan quietly said, his breath stale.

"Who is we?"

"Me, Cotton."

The words came from his right. A new voice. Female. Familiar.

He should have known.

He released his grip and turned.

Ten feet away stood Stephanie Nelle.

CASSIOPEIA COCKED THE GUN'S HAMMER AND AIMED THE weapon straight at Viktor Tomas. "You sorry, no-good mother--"

"Don't say things you'll regret."

The room seemed some sort of gathering place, as there was one chair that held Viktor, three empty chairs, and a few tables and lamps. Windows opened to the front of the house through which she saw the Toyota.

"You tortured me."

He shrugged. "Would you rather it not have been me? I made sure the experience was at least bearable."

She fired into the base of the upholstered chair, aiming for a point between his legs. "Is that what you call it? Bearable?"

He never flinched, his eyes owlish and inexpressive. "Got that out of your system?"

The last time she'd seen this man was a year ago. He'd been serving a Central Asian dictator. Apparently, he'd found new employment.

"Who are you working for?"

He stood from the chair. "Chinese first vice premier Karl Tang."

A renewed burst of anger surged through her. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you dead."

"How about that I know where Lev Sokolov's son is being held."

Chapter Twelve.

NI WAS ASTONISHED. "YOU AND THE PREMIER HAVE SPOKEN about me?"

Pau nodded. "Many times. We also talk of the nation."

"And why would he talk to you about that?"

"A long time ago, he and I shared much together. He is not the impotent imbecile many think him to be."

Ni knew that most of the Central Committee no longer cared what the premier thought. He was nearing eighty, sickly, and held the position simply because no one had, as yet, emerged with enough support to seize control.

Pau was right.

A division existed within the Chinese Communist Party. Similar to when Mao lay dying in 1976, and Mao's wife and three others formed the infamous Gang of Four. The then-premier and Deng Xiaoping allied to oppose the gang, ultimately winning political control in another ideological battle--Legalism versus Confucianism--the conflict settled outside the public eye, within the Party hierarchy, just as the current conflict would be.

"What is it the premier is working for?"

"Trying to determine what is best for China."

That told him nothing.

"Minister, you may think you enjoy widespread political support, and perhaps you do. But that support would evaporate in an instant if the Ba were to seize control. They have always been Legalists. Their every act geared to oppressive, single-minded domination. They would have no tolerance for you."

"What could I have to fear from a group of eunuchs?"

Pau motioned at the open doorway across the courtyard that led back into the exhibit hall. "I have many great manuscripts from our past stored there. Fascinating texts, but there is no Magna Carta. No great forums or halls of independence. Minister, despotism is our inheritance. Chinese history is dominated by warlords, emperors, and communists. Legalists, one and all."

"As if I do not know that. You worked for them once."

"Tell me, what makes you think your future will be any different? What would you have for China? If given the premiership, what would you do?"

Privately, he'd considered that question many times. The nation teetered literally on the brink of collapse. The current national system was simply incapable of generating enough wealth and technology to both compete with the world and effectively contain a billion and a half people. Following Mao's beliefs, concentrating all economic resources in the hands of the state, had failed. But so had Deng's subsequent policies of encouraging unregulated foreign investment.

That had led to exploitation.

Governing China seemed like flying a kite on a windless day. You could adjust the tail, change the design, run faster, but without a breeze to sweep the thing skyward nothing would happen. For decades Chinese leaders had ignored that there was simply no breeze. Instead they tinkered and tinkered, trying to force the kite upward, always failing.

"I want to change everything," he quietly said, surprised he'd voiced the words.

But Pau had finally coaxed them from him.

How did this old man know so much about him?

"Minister, there once was a time when the superiority of Chinese life, with its advanced agriculture, written language, and highly developed arts, was so attractive that those we conquered, or those who conquered us, willingly sought assimilation. They came to admire us, and wanted to be part of our society. That desire was complemented by an application of humane Confucian ritual--which stressed harmony, hierarchy, and discipline. There are countless ancient texts that reference peoples who, centuries ago, ceased to exist as separate ethnic groups, so complete was their assimilation. What happened? What changed us into something to be avoided?"

"We destroyed ourselves," he said.

China had indeed gone through successive cycles of unification and fragmentation--and each time something was lost. Something irretrievable. A part of the collective conscience. A part of China.

"Now you understand why I left," Pau quietly said.

No, he actually still didn't.

"Our dynasties have fallen with an almost eerie predictability," Pau said. "Often early leaders are masterful, while later ones are feeble, unmotivated, or mere puppets. Inevitably, corruption combines power and money, without the benefit of the law to prevent abuse. An absence of clear rules on political succession generates chaos. Rebellions eventually ferment, as the military weakens. The government then isolates itself and weakens. The end is never in doubt." Pau went silent a moment. "That has been the fate of every Chinese dynasty for 6,000 years. Now it's the communists' turn."

He could not argue with that conclusion. He recalled a trip to the south a few months ago during another investigation. A local official, an old friend, had driven him from the airport. Along the way they'd passed billboards advertising new apartments with swimming pools, gardens, and modern kitchens.

"The people are tired of Cultural Revolutions and wars," his friend had said. "They like material things."

"And you?" he'd asked.

"I like them, too. I want a comfortable life."

That comment had stuck with him. It spoke volumes about China's current state, where the government merely mended or patched problems, making do. Mao had preached a pride in poverty. Trouble was, nobody believed that anymore.

Pau bent down and, in the garden sand, sketched two characters.

Ni knew what they meant. "Revolution."

Pau stood. "More accurately, 'withdrawal of the mandate.' Every Chinese dynasty justified its rise with that phrase. When the Qing dynasty fell in 1912, and the last emperor was forcibly removed, this was how we referred to that historic event. In 1949 Mao stole Chiang Kaishek's mandate to build a post-Qing republic. It is time for another withdrawal of the mandate. The question is who will lead that effort."

He stared at the older man, his head spinning with suspicions. The investigator within him had retreated. Now he was thinking like the politician--the leader--he wanted to be.

"Communism has outlived its historical role," Pau said. "Unchecked economic growth and raw nationalism can no longer support it. There simply is nothing connecting the current Chinese form of government to its people. The demise of the Soviets proved that flaw clearly. Now it's happening again. Unemployment within China is out of control. Hundreds of millions are affected. Beijing's condescension, like Moscow's decades ago, is inexcusable. Minister, you must realize that the same nationalism that comforts the Party today could well hurl China into fascism tomorrow."

"Why do you think I am fighting for power?" he spit out. "Do you think I want that? Do you think the people who support me want that?"

"But you have discovered a problem, haven't you?"

How did this sage, whom he'd met only today, know all that troubled him?

"Moscow's collapse frightens you," Pau said. "How could it not? But we are different. We are better suited to living with contradictions. Our rulers have long proclaimed themselves Confucians, then ruled as Legalists, yet no one ever questioned that dichotomy. And unlike Russians, most Chinese do not lack for the necessities of life, or a few gadgets in their home. Our Party is not ignorant. Even with all of our flaws, we will not commit political suicide. So your dilemma is clear. How do you persuade a billion and a half people to discard the norm and follow you to the unknown?"

He waited for the answer to that question.

"Pride, Minister. Such a simple thing. But appealing to that could well be your answer."

Chapter Thirteen.