BEIJING

NI REALIZED THAT THE PREMIER EXPRESSED HIMSELF IN A SUBTLE manner devised to keep his listener on edge. Before, a desk had always stood between them, his investigative reports received with only a flicker of interest and little comment. But this talk was different.

"I remember," the old man said, "when every bus window was plastered with slogans and pictures of Mao. Store windows the same. Radios only broadcast revolutionary music, Mao's thoughts, or state news. Movie houses showed only Mao greeting Red Guards. Even the opera and ballet performed only revolutionary works. We all carried our book of quotations since you never knew when you would be called upon to cite a section."

The premier's voice was quiet, rough, as if the memories were bitterly painful.

"Serve the People. That was Mao's message. In reality, we all simply served him. This building is proof we still do."

Ni began to understand why they were here.

"Hegemony is our weakness," the premier said. "That unwillingness within us to work with any foreign power, even when there is no threat. Hegemony is a natural expression of our totalitarianism, just as peaceful relations are to democracy. We have always believed ourselves to be the geographic and geopolitical center of the world. For centuries, and especially since 1949, the sole goal of our foreign policy has been to dominate our neighbors and then, eventually, the remainder of the world."

"That is totally beyond our grasp."

"You and I know that, but does the remainder of the world know? I recall when Kissinger came in 1971, on a secret mission to lay the groundwork for renewed contact between the United States and China. The use of the word hegemony baffled the American translators. They could not adequately convey its meaning. The concept was literally unknown to them." The premier pointed to the crypt. "Mao said then, China has stood up. He was telling the world that no outsiders would ever control us again. I'm afraid, though, no one was listening."

"We have always been ignored," he said. "Thought of as backward, unmodernized. Even worse, repressive and dictatorial."

"Which is our own fault. We never have done much to counter that perception. We seem to actually revel in a negative light."

Ni was puzzled. "Why are you so cynical?"

"I'm simply speaking the truth--which, I suspect, you well know. Democracy is the nemesis of hegemony. Dispersing power among elected officials, instead of concentrating it in the hands of the ruler, empowering rather than subjugating the people--those concepts are beyond our comprehension."

"But they cannot remain so any longer."

"I recall the 1950s, when Mao was at the height of his power. Maps were drawn showing our borders extending far to the north, south, and west, into lands we did not then control. These were distributed to officials solely to motivate them to think in such grandiose terms. And it worked. We eventually intervened in Korea, invaded Tibet, bombarded Quemoy, attacked India, and aided Vietnam, all with the intent to dominate those lands." The premier paused. "Only Tibet remains within our control today, and our hold there is fragile, relying on force."

He recalled what Pau had said. "Are you saying that we should not then, or now, have national pride?"

"It seems all we have is pride. We are the longest-existing culture on this planet, yet look at us. We have little to show for our efforts, beyond a multitude of insurmountable problems. I'm afraid hosting the Olympics had a similar effect as those maps once did. They are motivating the ambitious within the government to do foolish things." For the first time the voice bristled with anger, and the eyes flashed hot with rage. "We remain conscious of slights that occurred decades, even centuries, ago. Given any pretext we will avenge those, no matter how trivial. It is ludicrous, and that nonsense will be our downfall."

"Not all of us think that way," he said.

The premier nodded. "I know. Only old men. But there are many of us still, and there are young men ready to exploit our fears."

He knew exactly to whom that comment was directed.

"Mao lies there," the premier said, "for us to worship. A wax imitation of a failed leader. An illusion. Yet a billion and a half Chinese still adore him."

"I don't." He felt empowered to make the declaration.

"Don't. Ever."

He said nothing.

"Men like Karl Tang are a danger to us all," the premier said. "They will advocate the forcible reclaiming of Taiwan, then the entire South China Sea region. They will want Vietnam, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, Myanmar, even Korea. Our lost greatness, found again."

For the first time the gravity of the coming battle began to take hold. He said, "And in the process they will destroy us. The world will not stand idle while all that happens."

"I have kept things in order," the premier said. "I knew I could not change anything, only hold what was there until my successor arrived. That man would be in a better position to exact change. Are you ready, Minister, to be that person?"

Asked the same question three days ago, he would have answered that he was. Now he wasn't so sure, and something in his eyes must have betrayed his doubt.

The older man nodded and said, "It's okay to be afraid. Fear keeps you humble, and humility makes you wise. That is what Karl Tang lacks. It is his weakness."

A few moments of silence passed between them. An inner voice cautioned him to be careful with his words, as another thought of Mao's came to mind.

The Hundred Flowers Campaign.

A time in the 1950s when criticism of the government had been encouraged, new solutions and ideas encouraged, and millions of letters poured in. Eventually, posters appeared on campuses, rallies were held, articles published, all advocating a shift toward democracy.

But it had been a political trap, a clever way to ferret out dissidents. More than half a million were imprisoned, tortured, or killed.

"You know of the eunuchs?" the premier asked, catching him unawares.

He nodded.

"Pau Wen and I both trained for the Ba. We engaged in the required two years of meditation and instruction, preparing ourselves for initiation. Both of us stripped naked and had our abdomens wrapped with bandages, our bodies bathed with hot pepper water. I held Pau while he was castrated, felt the tremble in his legs, saw the anguish on his face, watched as he accepted mutilation with honor." The voice had dropped to a mere whisper. "Yet when my time came and the Tao asked if I would regret what was about to happen, I said yes."

Ni stared in disbelief.

"I was afraid. When faced with the prospect of what was about to happen, something told me the knife was not my destiny."

"And that voice was right."

A tired look flooded the aged face. "Perhaps so. But know that men who can face the knife, and never utter a sound, possess a strength you and I cannot fathom."

He would not forget that.

"The official Party line, then and now, is that Mao was 70 percent right and 30 percent wrong. But we never identify which part of his thought is right or wrong." A chuckle seeped from the premier's thin lips. "What fools we are."

The old man motioned toward Mao's body.

"He supposedly lies upon a black stone from Tai Shan as a reminder of what Sima Qian wrote in Shiji. One's life can be weightier than Mount Tai or lighter than a goose feather. You must decide, Minister. Which will yours be?"

MALONE KEPT THE PLANE'S ALTITUDE AT AROUND 5,000 FEET. Never had he thought that he'd be leisurely cruising across Vietnamese airspace. Below stretched a panorama of jagged mountains and sloping hills, many striated by terraced rice farms, towering over lush green valleys shrouded in mist.

"We're approaching the border," Cassiopeia said to him. She'd been studying the chart Ivan had provided.

"The local officials in Yunnan province," Pau said, "have good relations with their neighbors. They front not only Vietnam, but also Laos and Myanmar. Beijing is a long way away, so their allegiance has always been more local."

"I hope that's still true," Malone said. "We're not carrying much in the way of armament."

"During Mao's purges, many fled to Yunnan. Its remoteness offered refuge. The terrain north of here, in China, is similar to what is below us now."

Ivan had told them to follow the Kunming-Hekou railway, a line the French built in the early part of the 20th century through Vietnam, into China, past the heavily populated cities of Gejiu and Kaiyuan.

"You work with the Russians often?" Pau asked him.

"Not usually."

"What is their interest here?"

"Like we're going to tell you," Cassiopeia said, turning around and facing Pau. "How about this? You tell us why you've come home and we'll tell you why the Russians are here."

"I'm returning to stop a revolution."

"More likely to start one," she said.

"Are you always so aggressive?"

"Are you always so deceitful?"

"You apparently have no knowledge of guanxi."

"Enlighten me."

"Throughout our history, to weather tough times, the Chinese have relied on friends and family. People who may be in a position to help. It is called zou hou men. 'Through the back door.' Of course, if a favor is offered and taken, the receiver is obligated to return it. This keeps the guanxi in balance."

"And what keeps you from leading us straight into a disaster," she asked.

"I am not the enemy. Karl Tang has that distinction."

"I see the border," Malone said.

Cassiopeia returned her attention out the windows.

The railway line snaked northward, crossing a highway that Ivan had said now connected China and Vietnam. The roadway veered west, the rail line north. A bridge spanned the Red River, clogged with cars stopped at a checkpoint.

Malone dropped to just above 1,000 feet.

"Here we go."

Chapter Forty-Six.

NI STORMED INTO THE OFFICES OF THE CENTRAL COMMISSION for Discipline Inspection, located purposefully away from the walled Zhongnanhai, Beijing's complex of palaces, pavilions, and lakes that served as headquarters for both the Party and the government. His visit with the premier had been troubling. Nothing made sense. Everything seemed inverted. He was torn with doubt, engulfed by a roiling cloud of unfamiliar emotions, and haunted by the premier's inquiry.

What would be the measure of his life?

Strength or weakness?

He'd called from the car and ordered his entire staff to assemble in the conference room. He required allies, not traitors, and it was time to find out where each one of them stood.

Fourteen people waited. Nine men, five women. He calmed the flurry of excitement with a raised hand and immediately excused the women. Then he said to the men, "Drop your trousers."

They all stared at him in disbelief.

He removed his gun and pointed it straight at them. "I won't say it again."

CASSIOPEIA STARED OUT THE WINDOW AT THE MOUNTAINOUS landscape. Sunshine warmed the thin air. They'd been flying inside Chinese airspace for more than an hour with no problems. Glancing over, she was glad she was flying with Malone. Though Viktor Tomas had twice saved her life, she trusted Cotton.

Implicitly.

He'd come to Belgium when she needed him, and that meant something.

She'd allowed only a few men close. Keeping emotions to herself had always proven the best course. She'd read once that women with strong fathers gravitated to strong men, and Malone definitely reminded her of her father. He'd been a giant in business, a self-made billionaire who'd commanded the attention of Europe and Africa. A lot like Henrik Thorvaldsen, whom she'd admired more than she'd ever realized until he was gone. Death seemed to claim everyone she loved. The thought of her own demise, which the experiences in the museum had so vividly illustrated, remained fresh in her mind. Such a confusion of feelings. What a defining moment. Soon enough she'd be forty years old. She had no husband, no children, no one with whom to share herself. She lived alone in an ancient French manor, her life devoted to helping others.

And ignoring her own needs?

Maybe it was time to change all that.

She always looked forward to seeing Cotton, and regretted when they parted. Was she trying to find a replacement for her father, the one man in her life whom she'd never defied? No. That was too simple an explanation. Her mother would have said that men were like fields--they required careful cultivation and daily attention, all in the hope that one day they might prove productive. A somewhat cynical approach.

Not one that worked for her.

Here she was, flying across southern China, headed for who-knew-what. Was it worth it? If she found Lev Sokolov's son, then yes.

If not?

She didn't want to think about failure.

So she comforted her anxiety with thoughts of Cotton and that perhaps she may have actually found something for herself.

Something she wanted.

Finally.

NI WAS SATISFIED THAT NONE OF HIS CLOSE STAFF WERE TRAITORS. He recalled what Pau Wen had told him about modern pharmaceuticals and their masking effects on castration, so he'd pursued the only investigative course that guaranteed results. He also ordered his chief aide to conduct an immediate physical inspection of every male in the building. While that was occurring, he reviewed what information his staff had accumulated since yesterday.

There was absolutely no reference to any organization called the Ba in any security files. Those records would have included prisoner interrogations, witness statements, incident reports, news accounts, anything and everything that did not mandate a STATE SECRET stamp. The archives contained millions of documents, many of which had been digitalized, making a reasonably quick search possible. Historically, his staff uncovered much of what Pau Wen had already told him about how the Ba grew out of an ancient Legalist movement, supposedly disappearing around the 17th century.

Nothing indicated that the organization still existed.

He'd also ordered a vetting of Pau Wen, but no official record revealed any connections among Pau, the premier, and Karl Tang.

Yet these clearly existed, by their own admissions.

A tap on his office door disturbed his thoughts.

His chief aide entered. "Everyone has been examined. No eunuchs, Minister."

"You think I'm insane, don't you?"

"I would never presume to judge you."

He liked this man, honorable and above reproach, which was why he'd selected him as first assistant.

"I was unable to tell you before," his aide said, "while the others were here. But we found something last night."

His attention piqued.

"An overseas call came to Minister Tang's satellite phone. I ordered his lines monitored weeks ago. He utilizes several phones, with numbers that change weekly. It has been a challenge to stay ahead of him. We don't tap every conversation, but we find enough." His aide handed him a flash drive. "A recording."

Ni inserted the drive into his computer and listened, immediately recognizing the voices of Tang and Pau. He heard the tension and conflict. Sensed the challenge these two men presented to the other. Tang's betrayal, then his pronouncement to Pau, There is no legal way for you to reenter China. No visa will be issued. On that, I have absolute control. The few brothers you have at your disposal there will be barred from returning, too.

"Is this the proof we seek?" his aide said.

He shook his head. "Not enough."

But at least he knew the whole thing wasn't fiction.

Chapter Forty-Seven.

MALONE SPIED THE GREEN EXPANSE OF A HIGHLAND LAKE, ITS surface shining with ripples and dotted with junks.

Lake Dian.

Mountains bordered the west shore, the lush slopes sheathed in trees, the eastern side mostly plains of ocher-colored farmland. Smoke belched from chimneys in a fishing hamlet a few miles away.

He dropped the plane's altitude to 500 feet.

Cassiopeia released her harness and moved forward, gazing down through the forward windows. He'd noticed on the chart that the mountains to the west were called Xi Shan. Carved into the cliff faces he spotted paths and stairways linking a succession of temples, their towering pagodas, with curved tile roofs and painted eaves, reminding him of Tivoli and home.

"The undulating contours of the hills," Pau Wen said, "resemble a reclining woman with tresses of hair flowing to the water. So they are called Sleeping Beauty."

He noticed that the label seemed apt.

"The temples are from the Yuan, Ming, and Qing dynasties. There, where the chairlift stretches to the summit, in the 18th century a Daoist monk chipped a long corridor up the face of the mountain. Legend says the tip of his chisel broke as he neared the end. In despair, he threw himself into the lake. Fifty years later his followers reached the goal, which is now called Dragon Gate."

"Sounds like something for the tourists," Cassiopeia said.

"Actually, the tale is reasonably close to the truth."

Ivan had said that the lake stretched forty kilometers north to south, and Malone could believe that claim seeing nothing but water toward the horizon.

"Let's see what's down there before we land."

He eased the yoke forward and reduced airspeed.

The flight northward across Yunnan province had been quiet, the skies clear of traffic. He'd grown accustomed to the smooth journey but, suddenly, the Twin Bee's wings skipped air.

Engines sputtered, then quickly refired.

Projectiles pierced the hull and rocketed through the cabin.

Air rushed in through holes.

The right wing sheared further from more impacts and the ailerons went loose. The plane arched left as the starboard side failed to respond to commands.

"What was that?" Cassiopeia said.

The answer came as a jet roared passed overhead, its afterburners flaming in the late-morning sky.

"Cannon fire," he said.

The fighter's delta-winged triangle disappeared in the distance, but a vapor trail indicated a turn for another approach.

"That's a People's Liberation Army fighter," he said. "And it ain't here by accident. The Chinese knew we were coming."

He worked the rudder and used airspeed to regain some semblance of control. He'd been annoyed the entire flight by the lack of synchronization in the two engines. Pitch was a pilot's best warning, but the Twin Bee's engines screamed at each other like an arguing soprano and baritone.

"What can I do?" Cassiopeia asked.

"Tell me where that jet is."

"He's coming straight toward us, from behind," Pau calmly reported.

They were plowing through thick air, only a few hundred feet above the lake. He added altitude and rose to 1,000 feet. The Twin Bee was little match for modern avionics, cannons, and radar-guided missiles.

There was, though, one weapon they did possess.

"How far away?"

"Hard to say," she said. "Several miles."

He'd been around enough fighter pilots to know how they thought, no matter the nationality. Hell, he'd wanted to be one himself. This was easy prey, a hawk challenging a pigeon. The pilot would wait until he was close before firing.

He checked his airspeed.

A little under 110 kilometers.

He recalled what his instructor had taught him.

Nobody ever collided with the sky. Altitude is your friend.

"He'll be here in a few seconds," Cassiopeia said.

He hoped the Twin Bee could handle what he was about to do. The starboard control surfaces were damaged, but the port side and tail rudder seemed okay. Most important, the engines were working. He waited another two seconds, then slammed the throttle wide open and pulled back on the yoke. The amphibian rose in a steep climb, prying upward with a groan from her hull. Tracer rounds rocketed past as their altitude increased.

2,000 feet.

2,500.