A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [129]
Russian dolls, he thought dully, a game of Russian dolls—one inside the other.
“What is it?” Stratton murmured again.
The gleam of Wang Bin’s smile was visible in the darkness. “It is beauty, Professor—or can you no longer recognize it? It is beauty. It is history. It is mine.”
Inside the coffin that was never meant for David Wang lay another coffin, cushioned by green quilts and chocked with fresh-cut wood.
The small coffin was exquisite, a masterpiece of latticework gold studded with gems—diamonds, rubies, pearls—that sparkled even in the sallow lantern light. It was like nothing Stratton had ever seen. Beauty and majesty unsurpassed.
“I know what it is,” Stratton marveled. So this was the deputy minister’s private excavation at Xian. No wonder David had raged. A crime against humanity, he had called it.
Indeed, it was more than that.
“Open it.” The eyes of the old man flashed in triumph. The voice was placid, confident. “Open it, Stratton. There are latches on the side.”
Stratton opened it.
He looked, then spun away and retched into the grave.
“Huang di,” Wang Bin said. “Son of Heaven. Ruler of the Middle Kingdom. Beloved ancestor.”
It was the Emperor Qin.
He lay serenely as when his vassals had placed him at the heart of his colossal tomb, protected by his army of ceramic soldiers. Twenty-two hundred years ago.
The ultimate artifact.
Thomas Stratton had never imagined anything so macabre. It was hideous, a loathsome caricature of life, a rotted monster that did not belong on this verdant hillside, David’s place.
No one would ever know what secrets the emperor’s alchemists had employed to prepare him for eternal reign. But they had failed. They had not cheated time, but perverted it. A mummy can have dignity, like a man marking his own grave. Wang Bin’s emperor had none. It was a green-tinged parody of empty sockets, spore-covered bones, shreds of dusty silk and a rictus grin.
For this abomination men had died. David had died. Stratton would die.
Drenched, fatigued, bleary, Stratton looked up at Wang Bin. “Why?” he asked feebly.
“Think, Professor. As a student of history, as an observer of mankind.” He held the rope and the gun where Stratton could see them. “You know what it is, Professor. It is the most cherished archaeological treasure in all China. Its value is both symbolic and very real. It is—truly—priceless. My government—” Wang Bin caught himself, smiled self-consciously. “Excuse me, my former government will do anything to recover this artifact. It will do anything, in fact, to conceal the circumstances of the theft. You see, Stratton, in China the scandal would be more of a calamity than the actual crime. There is no limit to what my former colleagues might do to prevent such a thing.”
“So you’re a blackmailer, too,” Stratton said derisively.
Wang Bin stiffened. “I am not familiar with that term,” he replied, testing the rope with a sharp twitch. “However, I do intend to seek what is due to me after a lifetime of devotion.”
“The soldiers weren’t enough?”
“Think, Stratton. There are seven thousand celestial soldiers. There is only one imperial casket. There is only one …” His voice trailed off in the night. His eyes fell to the grave, gazing at the withered creature within.
Stratton watched the gun and waited.
“By now they know,” Wang Bin said smugly. “The comrades know of my achievement. They know what they must do, for I left precise instructions. The men who would have purged me are the same men who will beseech me for this treasure. They will pay enormously for my future comfort, and for my silence. And, in return, I will give them back their precious little corpse.”
“And then disappear?”
Wang Bin nodded. “I disappear from history. My name will never again be mentioned in Peking. Those who worked with me … I cannot say what will become of them. The comrades who pursued me, however, will certainly suffer. They were too slow and much too stupid. Their defeat and humiliation is my vindication, Stratton.