This site had been specifically selected eleven months ago, not by geologists but by historians. An area had been cleared and leveled, then an access road cut through the nearby forest. A 2,200-year-old map, discovered in northwest Gansu, had been the source. The map, drawn on four identical pine plates, depicted the administrative division, geography, and economics of this region during the time of Qin Shi. Eighty-two locales were denoted by name, along with rivers, mountains, and forests. One of those rivers still flowed five hundred meters away. Even the distances of the imperial roadways were clearly specified. Lacking longitude and latitude coordinates, transposing those locales to reality had proven difficult, but it had been done.
By Jin Zhao.
Before he was arrested, before his hemorrhage, before his trial, conviction, and execution, Zhao had found this site.
“We hit the depth three days ago,” his superintendent reported. “I waited to call you until I was sure.” He saw the smile on the man’s face. “You were right.”
“Show me.”
He was led to the drilling platform, where workers were busy. He’d intentionally kept this crew to a minimum.
“We hit oil sand five days ago,” the superintendent told him above the intense noise.
He knew what that meant. When cuttings from the mud being drawn up revealed oily sand, oil was not much farther.
“We lowered sensors into the hole. Checked the pressures and extracted core samples. It all looked good. So we started to seal off.”
Tang knew what had been done next. Small explosive charges would have been lowered down to blast holes in the newly installed plug. Then tubing would have been snaked through the holes and any leaks sealed. At the top of the tubing, multivalves would have been cemented into place. Oil gushing from a well, in a massive blowout, was the last thing anyone wanted. “Taming the crude” with a measured flow, was far better.
“We’ve been pumping acid,” the superintendent said, “since yesterday. I stopped a few hours ago to wait for your arrival.”
Acid was used to dissolve the last remaining centimeters of limestone between the capped well and the oil. Once that was gone, the pressurized oil would flow upward, controlled by the valves.
“Unfortunately, I stopped the acid a little too late. An hour ago this happened.”
He watched as the superintendent twisted a valve and black crude drained out into a barrel.
He immediately noticed the pressure. “That’s strong.”
The man nodded. “There’s a lot of oil down there. Especially for a field that went dry two hundred years ago.”
He stepped back from the drill hole, remaining beneath the red-and-white derrick. He started thinking more like a scientist and less like a politician, considering the implications.
Incredible.
Jin Zhao had been right.
TWENTY
BELGIUM
NI GRIPPED THE GLOCK AND ADVANCED TOWARD THE FRONT of the house. He entered the vestibule, its walls gray brick with what he assumed was artificial bamboo fronting one section. Steps led down to the main entrance, where a stone fountain gurgled. A clear view of the oak doors was blocked by a green silk screen. He’d not seen Pau’s four minions since they had disappeared from the courtyard. Pau had told him to cover the main entrance, then vanished, too.
Four
Gunfire.
He wasn’t interested in joining the melee, but Pau’s words rang in his ears.
More shots. Closer this time.
His gaze locked on the doors.
Bullets thudded against the thick wood from the outside, then tore through, pinging off the walls and floor. He dove for cover behind a polished timber that held the roof aloft.
The front doors smashed open.
Two men burst inside with automatic rifles.
He crouched in a defensive posture, aimed, and sent a round their way.
The men scattered.
He was a couple of meters above them, but they carried heavy-duty assault rifles and he wielded only a pistol.
Where was Pau? And his men?
A spurt of automatic fire splintered the timber shielding him. He decided that a retreat was in order, so he rushed deeper into the house.
He passed a tall wooden cabinet, which offered momentary protection.
A slug whistled past his ear.
Sunlight from a sky well illuminated the hall, but there was no way to reach the opening, at least ten meters high. To his right, past swinging lattice door panels, several of which hung open, he spied movement in a courtyard. Another man wielding an automatic rifle and not wearing a gray jumpsuit.
His options were rapidly diminishing. It did seem as if these four were after him, not Pau. He glimpsed the squatting form in the courtyard and spotted a glint of metal as the gunman took aim through the lattice doors. He flattened himself on the floor, scrambling across the varnished wood, as bullets exploded through the wooden slats and cut a path barely a meter above him.
His mind throbbed.
