From his reading, Ni realized that emperors simply came to believe that eunuchs were more reliable than government officials. Eunuchs were never taught lofty ideals or driven to consider the greater good over self. They simply came to represent the personal will of the emperor, while government officials presented the alternative political will of the established bureaucracy.
A classic clash of ideologies.
Which the eunuchs won.
Then lost.
Now they were back.
And their leader was here, in Xi’an, waiting.
TANG STUDIED THE CLOSED-CIRCUIT MONITORS. THE ENTIRE museum site was littered with hundreds of cameras that kept a constant watch on the three pits and their corresponding shelters, the exhibition hall, restaurants, information center, cinema, even the souvenir stalls.
He glanced at the wall clock and realized that a helicopter should be approaching soon. Nothing unusual. Government officials, dignitaries, even some of the country’s new rich routinely flew to the site. The military likewise ferried personnel in and out. Tang had come in the same chopper that waited a kilometer away, just beyond the outer perimeter in a field designated as a landing spot.
Twenty-four separate screens filled the greenish wall before him within a dimly lit, air-conditioned building that sat two kilometers from the tomb mound. The building was part of an administrative complex where scientists, archaeologists, and bureaucrats were headquartered. He’d learned that faulty wiring had been blamed for the fire in Pit 3. A general unease permeated the air, since no one wanted to be tagged with responsibility. This was especially true of the administrator. The irritating fool had repeatedly offered his apologies about the
His gaze raked the television monitors.
An eager, active crowd—pushing, jostling—filled the screens. The rain had started an hour ago. He understood the value of tourist revenue, but the pandering required to secure those moneys irked him.
That, too, would change once he achieved power.
Images on the monitors changed every few seconds, numbers scrolling at the bottom indicating the time and location of each view. His eyes danced across the screens, absorbing the chaos, noticing uniformed guards that appeared from time to time, each in radio communication with the dispatcher to his right.
One display grabbed his attention.
“There,” he ordered, pointing. “Number 45.”
The monitor indicating camera 45 stopped scrolling.
“Where is that?”
“On the west side of the mound, near the tombs of the craftsmen.”
The screen showed a man, dressed in a dark, short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers. He stood at the edge of a wet field, the forested base of the tomb mound in the background. He was facing the camera, rain soaking his body. Tall, slim, black-haired, and though Tang could not see such detail he knew the man possessed brown eyes, a broad nose, and distinctive features.
A murmur of alarm skittered across the room as the face was recognized.
“Minister Ni is on the premises,” he heard one of the men say.
On screen, Ni turned and made a wild scramble across the wet soil, toward a cluster of stone and wooden houses with thatched roofs.
“What is that?” Tang asked.
“Restricted area. Orders from Beijing, Minister. Long ago. That area is off limits.”
“No one enters there?”
The man shook his head. “Never. We monitor the fence, but do not go inside.”
He understood the effect that an order from Beijing created. It was not questioned, only obeyed, until another directive from Beijing countermanded the first.
On the screen, as Ni hustled away, Tang noticed something protruding from the back pocket of his pants.
“Focus on what he is carrying,” he immediately ordered.
The camera’s focus zoomed as Ni continued to walk away, and the object became clear.
A flashlight.
He tapped one of the security men on the shoulder and motioned to his holstered weapon. “Give me your gun.”
The man handed over the weapon.
He checked the magazine. Fully loaded.
“Take me to that area.”
NI HAD PURPOSEFULLY STOPPED AND FACED THE CAMERA. IF Karl Tang was watching, which the premier had assured him would be the case, then he wanted him to know he was here.
Now to see if his enemy had taken the bait.
FIFTY-TWO
MALONE STARED DOWN THROUGH A WINDOW SMEARED BY RAIN at the tomb of Qin Shi. The green-forested mound rose like a boil from the flat brown landscape. He’d read about the site many times, a complex of underground vaults spread over twenty square miles, most of them unexplored. He’d even visited the terra-cotta warrior exhibition in London last year, but he’d never imagined that he might one day enter the tomb itself.
