Read Online The Emperor's Tomb by Steve Berry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Berry
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Antiquarian booksellers, china, Kidnapping, Pakistan, Denmark, ransom, Malone; Cotton (Fictitious character), Booksellers and bookselling
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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
"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
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