Книга - Forbidden City

Forbidden City
Alex Archer


A stunning artifact holds the key to an untapped power of global destruction…While working on a dig in the California wilderness, archaeologist-adventurer Annja Creed uncovers evidence of a tragedy that's linked to Chinese miners during the days of the Gold Rush. A sudden attack on the site by shadow figures drives Annja to find the connection to a mysterious buried city in China. Lured by legends of gold, betrayal and the vengeance of a Han Dynasty overlord, Annja travels on the Orient Express, battling avaricious treasure hunters and a modern-day descendant of an ancient league of assassins. Her adversaries will stop at nothing to stake their claim on the fabled lost city, where a Han leader's dark past promises doom for those who dare to reveal its evil power.








Rogue Angel







Forbidden City

Alex Archer





www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)




THE LEGEND


…THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn….




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38



Epilogue




Prologue


Loulan City, China

184 A.D .

Everyone in the city hated Emperor Ling’s tax collectors. Times were hard. Spring floods had ruined crops and dwellings. Families struggled to make ends meet while still having enough left over to fill the imperial coffers. The Han Dynasty, though, remained unsympathetic to the needs of its citizens. Rebellions had begun around the kingdom.

Occasionally, when angry men grew tired of the heavy tax burden, they killed the royal collectors and took back their taxes. The emperor then had to employ more warriors to protect the tax collectors, and that raised the taxes again.

Of all the emperor’s tax collectors, Tsui Zedong was the most hated.

Fat and arrogant, Zedong enjoyed throwing around the emperor’s power. It was said that were he not able to add sums so quickly in his head he would have been executed for being a thief.

Dressed in brocade robes, he traveled the countryside inside an opulent carriage. Six armed warriors on horses escorted him and protected the emperor’s gold from bandits. All of the warriors were experienced and scarred from many battles.

When the carriage slowed that late spring morning, Zedong slid the rice paper shade from the carriage window and peered out. Loulan City was small, filled mostly with farmers who barely eked out an existence. But there were a few skilled artisans and craftsmen. Most of them had shops on the street he presently traveled.

The driver pulled the carriage to a stop, then got down and opened the door.

Holding his robes together, Zedong heaved his bulk up from the padded seat and got out to do the emperor’s collecting. Zedong smelled food in the air. When he stepped down from the carriage, he saw a tavern three shops down. The carcasses of ducks and geese hung from a rope out front, ready for purchase by those who worked inside the city and didn’t raise their own livestock.

All of the shops ran in straight lines on either side of the street. Most of them had existed for years, put together by families and trained carpenters. A well in the center of the square provided water for travelers. Several shopkeepers stopped their work and came out to look at the carriage. Most of them wore looks of dread.

The warriors, bristling with swords and bows, tied their horses to the back of the carriage. They took the chest from inside the carriage. Two of them carried it between them.

Several murmured curses echoed along the street. The shopkeepers knew what was about to occur.

Unrolling the scroll the emperor’s tax keepers had prepared listing the shopkeepers and the amounts they were to pay, Zedong reviewed the listing for the jeweler he planned to visit first. Zedong rolled the scroll back and entered the small shop.

The jeweler’s establishment was small and tidy. On the surface, he appeared to be a poor man, but Zedong knew from years of collecting that many shopkeepers and tradesmen disguised their wealth.

An old woman sat in a chair holding a fat cat in her lap.

“I have come to collect the taxes for the emperor,” Zedong announced.

The old jeweler looked nervous. His back was bent from years of hunching over his tools, creating settings and pulling thin gold wire. With a trembling hand, he handed Zedong a cloth bag that clinked.

Zedong knew from the feel of the bag that it didn’t contain enough gold. He could have told the shopkeeper that without opening the bag, but he opened it anyway and spilled the contents across his hand.

“There is not enough,” Zedong accused.

“It is all we have,” the jeweler whispered.

“Nonsense. You have a fat cat. If you have enough to keep your cat fat, then you have enough to pay the emperor his taxes.”

“No, I swear to you,” the old man said. “It is all we have.”

Zedong dropped the bag into the emperor’s chest. Then he looked around the shop. “You have gold ingots and jewels.”

“Please,” the old man begged. “We do not have many of those. Hardly enough to stay in business. If you take those, we cannot make items to sell. Then the emperor’s new taxes won’t be met.”

“If you don’t meet the taxes,” Zedong promised, “things will go badly for you.” He turned to the warriors. “Seize the gold and gems.”

The warriors went about their assignment. Screaming in outrage and pain, the old jeweler grabbed one of the warriors by the arm and yanked. Without hesitating, the warrior shoved the old man away and thrust a dagger through his throat.

The jeweler fell and his blood stained the wooden floor. He clasped his throat and kicked helplessly as his life ebbed.

Wailing, his aged wife abandoned her chair and rushed to her stricken husband. She called on the gods and for help from anyone, but no one came. No one dared.

The old woman’s pain didn’t touch Zedong. He’d ordered the deaths of many others. This one had been easy because he didn’t have to think about it. Furthermore, with one man dead, the other shopkeepers would readily pay.

As her husband died, the old woman turned to Zedong. “May the gods curse you,” she moaned. “May your life end soon and in painful agony. May you throw up your own entrails and take days to die.”

Zedong knew he couldn’t afford to allow such an affront. He was the emperor’s tax collector. An insult to him was like an insult to the emperor. If he did not avenge it, the emperor would have him executed.

“Kill her,” Zedong ordered.

The nearest warrior drew his sword instantly, then slashed down into the old woman, cleaving her from shoulder to heart. With a last gasp of pain, she fell across her husband.

Zedong looked at her and hated her even in death. He kicked her three times, getting madder each time because she wasn’t alive to feel pain.

He wished he’d killed her before she’d cursed him. Curses were powerful things.

At his order, the warriors looted the shop. Zedong stood and watched. The fat cat stared at him with its unblinking green gaze. Zedong walked toward it, slipping a dagger from inside his sleeve. When he was close enough, he struck.

But the feline moved at the last moment, leaping over Zedong’s knife, landing on his arm and leaping up again. The cat’s claws struck Zedong’s face above his right eye. Blood dripped onto his cheek and fire stung his flesh. He swung the knife again, but the cat vaulted through a window and vanished.

Zedong wiped the blood from his face and kicked the dead woman again. He didn’t think she had the power to properly curse him. The cat was merely bad luck.

Still, he wished he knew for sure.



T HAT EVENING , AFTER FULL DARK had finally draped Loulan City and all the shopkeepers had paid, Zedong left town. With two people dead, Loulan City wasn’t safe for him. He wouldn’t have admitted that to the emperor, though.

Eating roast duck from the large basket of food he had seized from the vendor, Zedong listened to the emperor’s gold clinking in the trunk at the back of the carriage. He relished the spicy meat enough to lick the flavor from his fingers.

The carriage took a sudden hard turn to the right. Zedong cursed the driver as he reached into the basket for one of the pastries he’d claimed.

The carriage dodged again.

Cursing more, Zedong slid the window shade aside and took a deep breath to better yell at the incompetent driver. Likely the man had gone to sleep. He had complained of fatigue for himself and the animals when ordered to leave town.

Before Zedong could remember the man’s name, the driver’s corpse suddenly sprawled over the side of the carriage. The man’s dead face slapped against the window. Only the long arrow through his throat kept his head from entering the carriage. A fearful look was frozen on his face.

In a moment he was gone, dropping to the road beneath the whirring wheels of the carriage. The vehicle rose sharply for an instant as it rolled over the dead driver.

Zedong grew afraid. The horses ran faster, thundering over the road as fear filled them.

“Help!” Zedong called out. “Help me!”

Inside the carriage, he bounced vigorously, slamming against the walls and the cushioned seats. He fumbled the door open and gazed outside, thinking of trying to climb up to the driver’s seat.

Twenty feet ahead, one of the warriors toppled from his mount with an arrow deep between his shoulder blades. Only then did Zedong see two other riderless horses running after the carriage.

One of the warriors in front of the carriage wheeled his mount around and spurred the animal to speed. “Get back inside the carriage!” the man yelled.

Zedong wanted to retreat to safety, but he wished to know what was happening. Gazing behind the carriage, he spotted a slim rider dressed in black. The rider drew back an arrow and let fly.

The warrior who’d gone to engage the enemy gazed down at the arrow that suddenly jutted from his chest. While he still seemed lost in his astonishment, he slid from the saddle. His right foot didn’t clear the saddle straps and his body was dragged across the broken terrain.

The surviving two warriors approached more carefully, riding low over their horses. They closed on the rider in black.

Ignoring them, the rider urged his mount on. He slid the bow over one shoulder and pushed himself into a crouch on the horse’s bare back, balanced one foot in front of the other.

Before Zedong realized what the rider was doing, he’d vaulted from his mount to the top of the carriage. Zedong screamed shrilly and dodged back inside the carriage. Glancing through the back window, he watched helplessly as the final two riders went down to arrows.

Seconds later, while Zedong quivered in fear, the carriage came to a stop.

The rider was at the side of the carriage. He held a sword in his hand as he opened the door.

“Out,” the rider demanded.

Certain that he’d been held up by one of the many thieves that made travel so dangerous in the area, Zedong obeyed. He tripped on the step and fell to his hands and knees. Before he could stand, a blade was pressed to his throat.

The clouds cleared the face of the full moon in that moment. Surprise filled Zedong when he realized that the thief was a woman. A fox mask covered her facial features.

“Who are you?” Zedong demanded, using the imperious voice that he employed whenever he was on the emperor’s business.

She didn’t answer. The sword never moved.

“I represent the emperor,” Zedong threatened. “Your life is forfeit for killing the imperial guardsmen.”

“One more life,” the fox-faced woman said, “won’t matter, then, will it?”

Zedong had time to think only briefly of the curse the old woman had called down on him. It took a moment more to realize that the woman before him might not have been wearing a mask at all and might have been one of the legendary fox spirit women who drained men of their lives.

His throat was cut before he knew it. Then blackness filled his vision.



1900 A.D .



Huddled beneath a thick wool blanket that stank of wet donkeys, Dr. Heinrich Lehmann, a university professor at Berlin University, cursed in the four languages he knew.

“Steady on, Lehmann,” one of the older men at the dig site advised, shouting to be heard over the roar of the storm. “We’ll be out of this shortly.”

Lehmann ignored the man. He hadn’t cared for any of the men Dr. Hedin had employed for the dig. All of them were coarse and vulgar, nothing like the educated men he’d gone to school with.

The windstorm howled and dirt thudded against his blanket.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Lehmann asked.

“Every now and again,” the man yelled. He was American, thick and swarthy from equatorial digs. He spat on the ground at their feet. “It’s worse in Egypt.”

Long minutes later, the windstorm passed.

Lehmann threw the heavy weight of the blanket off. Dust obscured his spectacles. He removed them and cleaned them with his handkerchief. Tall and lean, he was in his twenties, his body stripped of any spare flesh by hard work. He wore jodhpurs, boots and a khaki shirt that was wet with sweat.

Only a few feet away, Hedin doffed his own blanket and looked around. With his glasses and hair in disarray, coated in dust, the Stockholm professor looked like some kind of rodent burrowing out of the dry lands.

“Look!” Hedin pointed.

Staring off to the left where the professor was pointing, Lehmann was amazed. Where piles of loose earth had been, the broken remnants of a city stabbed up at the dusty sky.

“I knew it was here.” Hedin’s voice barely contained the excitement that filled him.

Lehmann couldn’t believe it. Even though Hedin had already achieved several finds in China, in fact had been one of the few Western archaeologists to be allowed into the area, Lehmann had begun to think that Loulan City was nothing more than a fictional reference.

But that would have meant the gold was fictional as well. Lehmann couldn’t accept that. He knew about the City of Thieves. Hedin didn’t. The Swedish professor had been assigned to map out Asia and to trace the history of the Silk Road, the trade route used for centuries to ferry silk out of China and import Western goods.

“I see it, Dr. Hedin.” Lehmann smiled in acknowledgement. The Stockholm professor was only in his midthirties, not much older than Lehmann.

Gazing into the sky, Hedin shook his head. “We need to move quickly. In case Mother Nature decides to take back what she’s so freely given.”

Lehmann reached for his pack and shovel. Dust and grit rubbed his skin under his clothes, promising yet another uncomfortable day. He pushed the discomfort from his mind, remembering only the legend of the gold and the fox spirit that had stolen the emperor’s gold nearly two thousand years before.




1


“Do you do this often, Miss Creed?”

Taking her eyes from the thick expanse of the Eldorado National Forest ahead of her, Annja Creed glanced at her hiking companion. “Not often,” she admitted. “Generally only when someone has piqued my curiosity.”

“And I have done that?”

Annja Creed smiled. “You have.” She’d only known the man for a handful of hours. They’d met briefly in nearby Georgetown, California, to arrange for the hiking trip. Before that they’d had conversations online for almost three weeks.

Genealogy wasn’t Annja’s field of study. When Huangfu Cao had first approached her about trying to find the final resting place of his ancestor, Annja had decided to turn the man down. As a result of the cable network show she co-hosted, she often received cards, letters, and e-mail requests to help strangers track down family legends. The death of Huangfu’s ancestor—though a brutal and interesting story—was too recent to warrant her attention or expertise.

At least, that was what she’d thought until Huangfu had sent descriptions of that ancestor’s prized possessions. One of them had caught her eye enough to draw her to California on a cold day in March to go traipsing down old roads that had once led to gold mining towns long gone bust.

Huangfu Cao looked like he was in his early thirties, but Annja didn’t bother to guess. She was wrong more often than not. He was five feet ten inches tall, matching Annja in height. But he was thin and angular, contrasting with her full-figured curves. His khaki pants held crisp creases. He wore a dark blue poly-fill jacket against the wind and dark sunglasses to offset the bright afternoon sunlight.

Dressed in a favorite pair of faded Levis tucked into calf-high hiking boots and a black long-sleeved knit shirt under a fleece-lined corduroy jacket, Annja was comfortable in spite of the March chill that hung in the afternoon air. She wore her chestnut-colored hair under a baby blue North Carolina Tar Heels cap she’d fallen in love with at one of the airports she’d passed through in her recent travels. Blue-tinted aviator sunglasses took the glare out of the day. Her aluminum frame backpack carried numerous supplies, as well as her notebook computer, but it was well-balanced and she hardly noticed the weight.

“I’m glad you were interested,” Huangfu said.

“Let’s just hope we get lucky,” Annja said as she scanned the forest before her, barely able to make out the old mining trail they followed.

A century and a half earlier, wagons had carved deep ruts in the land and left scars that would last generations.

“You’re in very good shape.” Huangfu adjusted his backpack. When he spoke, his breath was gray in the cool air for just a moment until the breeze tore it away.

Huangfu was in good shape, as well. Annja knew that because the pace she’d set had been an aggressive one. The man hadn’t complained or fallen behind. When she’d realized what she was doing and that she should have been going more slowly, she’d expected to find him out of breath and struggling to keep up. Instead, he’d been fine.

“I have to be in good shape in my profession.” Annja rethought that. “Actually, I don’t have to be, but I want to be. It comes in handy.” Especially when someone’s trying to kill me. That had occurred far too much lately. Ever since she’d found the last piece of Joan of Arc’s sword in France.

Before that, before Roux and Garin had entered her life, Annja had never once considered the possibility that she might ever have been connected to Joan of Arc. The sword, or maybe it was Annja herself these days, seemed to draw trouble like a magnet.

That was the downside, however. The upside was that whatever karma she presently lived under was taking her places she’d only dreamed of.

“I didn’t think television people actually needed to exercise. Only that they look so.” Huangfu smiled, showing that he meant no disrespect.

“Television isn’t exactly my profession.” Even though she’d been hosting spots on Chasing History’s Monsters for a while now, Annja still felt embarrassed. But doing the show allowed her to go more places than she would have been able to on her own as an archaeologist. Television shows tended to be better funded than the universities that would have hired her as a professor.

Likewise, the show had given Annja more international recognition than the hundreds of articles, monographs, and couple of books she’d written. She knew many of those publishers wouldn’t have considered her work if she hadn’t had the large underground fan base Chasing History’s Monsters had provided. And more of those published pieces had been for laymen than for professionals.

Unfortunately, the recognition was a double-edged sword. Many people tended to think of her as a television personality first and an archaeologist second. Annja never thought of herself that way. What she often gained in access she lost in credibility.

“It wasn’t the television personality I asked to help me—it was the archaeologist,” Huangfu said.

Annja smiled a little. She still wasn’t sure if Huangfu was flirting with her or simply being disarming. She was wrong about that more often than not, too. “Thank you,” she finally said.

They walked for a time. Annja took out the GPS device in her coat pocket and checked their location.

“Do you get many offers to do something like this?” Huangfu opened his canteen and took a sip of water.

“To go looking for someone’s ancestors?” Annja replaced the location device and uncapped her own canteen. “I do get a number of offers.”

“Do you answer them all?”

“No. I wouldn’t have time,” Annja replied.

Huangfu smiled. “Then what was it about my offer that interested you?”

“The family heirloom you’re looking for. That interested me.”

“Because it is a—” Huangfu paused, reflecting. English was not his native language, and he wasn’t as skilled as Annja had expected for someone who worked in international trade circles. He shrugged and shook his head. “I can’t remember what you called it.”

“I was fascinated because of the Scythian art,” she said as she started walking again.

“Yes. You said the Scythians were a nomadic people.”

“They were. In all probability, they were Iranian, but they were known by different names. The Assyrians knew them as the Ishkuzai. The Greek historian Herodotus of Halicarnassus described them as a tribe called the Kimmerioi, which was expelled by the Ishkuzai. The Kimmerioi were also known as Cimmerians, Gimirru in the histories left by the Assyrians.” Annja smiled. “Some people think Robert E. Howard borrowed the Cimmerian culture for his hero, Conan the Barbarian.”

Huangfu shook his head. “I don’t know those names. My ancestors were Chinese.” The words came sharply, edged with barely concealed rebuke.

Evidently Huangfu was, if not somewhat prejudicial, somewhat race conscious. Annja was aware that a number of Asian cultures looked down on each other. Regionalism divided civilization as surely as skin color, religion, and wealth.

“I didn’t mean to infer that they weren’t,” she said.

For just a moment Annja wished she’d passed on the offer to act as guide for Huangfu. She’d spoken the truth when she’d said she regularly got offers to investigate all sorts of esoterica people thought might end up as an episode of Chasing History’s Monsters.

If it hadn’t been for the Scythian art, she’d have passed on this. Looking for dead ancestors didn’t make her Top Ten List.

“The Scythian people traded with the Chinese beginning in the eighth century,” Annja went on. “Probably before that. But archaeologists and historians have been able to track the gold trade to that time period. All I was suggesting was that the design you found in your ancestor’s journals might be older than you think it is.”

Huangfu nodded, mollified to a degree. “Ah, I see. You think helping me find my ancestor might give you more information about the Scythian people.”

“I hope so. It would be a coup if I do. I hope I don’t sound insensitive.”

“Nonsense. I’m here for a man I’ve never met. If it weren’t for my grandfather, I might not be here at all. Are these people you hope to discover more about important?”

The grade went down for a while and became a minefield of broken rock and low brush. “There is a lot we don’t know about the Scythians. Located as they were in Central Asia, trading with China, Greece, what is now Eastern Europe, Pakistan and Kazakhstan—probably other nations, as well—there’s a wealth of history that archaeologists, historians, and linguists are missing.”

Annja took another GPS reading, then corrected their course. She’d confirmed the directions she’d gotten over the Internet with the local Ranger station and with the people in Georgetown, which was a small town only a few miles to the west.

“What do you hope to find?” Huangfu asked.

“The same thing that you do. Some proof that your ancestor was—” Annja stopped herself from saying murdered in Volcanoville just in time “—here.”

Annja followed a small stream through the fringe of the Eldorado National Forest. According to her map, they weren’t far from Otter Creek. Paymaster Mine Road was supposed to be only a short distance ahead.

Tall pines mixed with assorted fir trees. All of them filled the air with strong scents. Sunlight painted narrow slits on the ground. Powdered snow covered patches of the ground. Squirrels and birds met the spring’s challenge, foraging for food in the trees, as well as on the ground.

“He is here.” Huangfu’s face looked cold and solemn. “I intend to bring my ancestor’s bones home, if I am able, and see him properly laid to rest. It is my grandfather’s wish to gather all of our family that we may find.”

Scanning through the forest, Annja found the trail she thought they wanted. The trail rose again with the land.

Everything is uphill out here, she thought.

The park rangers she’d talked to over breakfast in Georgetown had assured Annja the path she planned to trace was an arduous one. Only hikers, horses and bicycles were allowed into the protected areas.

The muddy land was sloughing away under the melting snow. Rainfall for days had turned the ground soft in places. They’d have struggled on bikes and Huangfu had said he wasn’t a horseman so Annja had elected to walk to the location.

“Are we close?” Huangfu asked.

“I believe so. Another mile or so should put us there.” Annja kept walking.



V OLCANOVILLE WAS ONE of the hundreds of towns and mining camps that had sprung up in California after James W. Marshall, an employee of John Sutter’s lumber mill, discovered gold flecks in the tail race in January of 1848. By the end of that year, word had spread and hundreds of thousands of people from around the world had flocked to the most recent member of the United States.

The mining camps and towns had risen up like dandelions, springing full-born almost overnight, then dying in the same quick fashion when the gold ran out or was never found. Hell Roaring Diggings, Whiskey Flat, Loafer’s Hollow, and others had each left behind something of a history in the area. But separating the true stories from those that had been embroidered later, or from the lies they’d been mixed with from the beginning, was almost impossible. As with any history, murder, betrayal, success and failure were all part of the tapestry.

Huangfu gazed at the ramshackle buildings that stood under a thick canopy of trees. Many of the trees showed signs of repeated lightning strikes. Broken limbs, shattered trunks, and places bare of bark were scattered around the site.

Not exactly a place to inspire hope, Annja thought as she turned to Huangfu. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

The man offered her a faint smile. “That’s good. Because at the moment it looks impossible.”

“If we were just going off the journal you found, maybe it would be. Fortunately the California Historical Society, as well as dozens of other branches and genealogists in the area, collected stories, journals, and newspapers.”

“I trust your expertise in this matter.” Huangfu smiled. “That’s why I hoped you would help me.”

Annja slid out of her backpack and placed it beside the nearest building. The wind picked up and caused the branches to rattle against the roof. No trace of paint remained on the weathered boards. It was possible the exterior of the building had never been painted.

Working quickly, she paced off the dimensions of the buildings. Most of them appeared to have been constructed roughly the same. She guessed that the building she was searching for would be similar. When she finished, she returned to the backpack.

Huangfu didn’t say a word.

Crouching, her back against the building, she took a bound journal from the backpack, as well as two energy bars, offering one of them to Huangfu. The man took the snack and crouched beside her.

“What’s that?” He pointed at the book.

“A journal I made for the search we’re going to conduct here.”

The journal contained hand-drawn maps Annja had created from topographical surveys she’d found of the Volcanoville area, as well as ones she’d found in newspapers and letters collected in the historical societies she’d visited. Tabs separated sections on known facts, rumors, and stories she’d gleaned from her research. All of the notes were handwritten, and she’d made the sketches, as well.

“You have maps?” Huangfu sounded doubtful.

“I made them, based on geological surveys of the area, as well as stories I found. The forest and the stream, they’re there in the right places. The map of the town is purely guesswork.”

“I thought you’d arrived in Georgetown only this morning.”

“I did.” Annja smiled at him. “The Internet is a wonderful tool.”

“You do this for all of your projects?”

“When I can. I like to have an idea of what I’m getting into before I arrive. Usually time at dig sites is limited. You have to know what you’re looking for and where to look for it. Not all nations welcome archaeologists with open arms.” Annja flipped through the maps she’d created. “A lot of that has to do with the fact that in the early twentieth century a number of archaeologists served as spies for the Western world.”

Huangfu laughed. “Have you ever been a spy, Miss Creed?”

“No,” Annja said flatly.

“Would you be one if you were asked?”

“I guess it would depend on the circumstances. That’s not what I’m about. I’m an archaeologist.” Annja looked around at the buildings, trying to see through the present into the past that had existed over a hundred years ago.

Huangfu drank water from his canteen and sat silently. From the man’s relaxed posture, Annja believed he could have sat that way for hours. She hadn’t yet gotten a fix on him and that left her feeling a little unsettled.

When she’d first connected with Huangfu over the Internet and then the phone, Annja had guessed he was a corporate worker. But from the money involved in his quest—and the fact that he’d generously arranged her flight out and her bed-and-breakfast accommodations in Georgetown—she’d figured he was near the top tier. A background check on him had confirmed that Huangfu Cao worked for Ngai Enterprises, a Shanghai-based international pharmaceutical company.

Bart McGilley, the New York homicide detective who was one of Annja’s closest friends and who had done the background check on Huangfu, had wanted to dig deeper. But Bart tended to be overly protective where Annja was concerned. She hadn’t wanted to wait any longer. Huangfu had volunteered to pay her expenses, and he’d said he only had the next few days to attempt to locate his ancestor’s remains. She’d assumed he’d taken leave to attend to the matter.

Annja was all too aware that her own free time turned on a dime and was often gone before she knew it. She’d already turned down a Chasing History’s Monsters assignment to track down the legend of a vampire living in Cleveland. Vampires were perennial ratings winners on the television show, and her producer, Doug Morrell, had a special interest in them that she hadn’t quite figured out. Given her options, she’d jumped at the free trip to California.

Within minutes, Annja found the few remaining landmarks she’d identified from the stories and the geographical maps. Once she was oriented, she grabbed the straps of her backpack, hoisting it to one shoulder.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Huangfu fell into step beside her. “Do you know where the building we’re looking for is located?”

“I think so.” Annja pointed. “Chinatown was up on that ridgeline. Mining towns were usually segregated by race. Chinese immigrants poured into California in the 1850s and 1860s.”

“For the promise of gold. I know.”

“Not just for the promise of gold.” Annja started up the incline, grabbing an exposed tree root as she leaned into the ascent. “They were also escaping the Taiping Rebellion that occurred after the British defeated the Chinese in both Opium Wars to force British trade.”

“I’ll take your word for that, Miss Creed.”

Annja was surprised that Huangfu wouldn’t know that. Those times had been hard on the Chinese people. The British had usurped the emperor’s control and spread opium throughout Shanghai and other provinces through gunboat diplomacy.

The Chinese had invented gunpowder for fireworks, and had even used it somewhat for cannon and flamethrowers, but they had never mounted cannons on ships for use in war. The British had done that with success unmatched by any other nation.

Reaching the summit of the rise, Annja looked down, orienting herself again. She tried to imagine what the town had been like when it had been booming with the promise of gold. In San Francisco, which had been in its infancy when the Gold Rush had started, sailors had abandoned ships and left them sitting crewless in the harbor, chasing after the elusive promise of sudden wealth. Only later, after some of the prospectors had struck it rich and others had returned looking for work, had San Francisco grown into a huge port city.

Men had lived and fought, chased possibilities, drowned sorrows and died in a microcosm fuelled by dreams. Annja felt the history almost come alive around her.

She relished opportunities to go places and see them for herself. She’d never been to an abandoned mining town before. Even though it was only a hundred and fifty years old, not centuries or a millennia as many of her studies were, the history of the place touched her more than she thought it would.

She let go of the city and focused on the man she’d come there to find. She turned to face Huangfu.

“Your ancestor, Ban Zexu, arrived in San Francisco in 1872. I confirmed your research with my own. Most of the Gold Rush was over by 1855, but several strikes kept happening. Some of them took place here in Volcanoville.” Annja walked west along the ridgeline, seeing the layout of the buildings in her mind’s eye.

Huangfu followed her.

“He lived up here in Chinatown, overlooking Volcanoville proper. The Chinese immigrants weren’t allowed to mix with the white population.”

“But the shopkeepers took their gold for things they needed,” Huangfu said.

Annja nodded. “All of these towns were violent. Too many men were looking for too little gold, which had gotten harder and harder to find. In 1874, Chinese miners found a ten-ounce nugget at the Cooley Mine. Drunken miners locked over a dozen Chinese in the cabin at the mine and burned it to the ground with them inside. The men who escaped the fire were gunned down.”

“Was that where my ancestor was murdered?”

“No.” Annja walked along, studying the ground. “Ban Zexu was killed here. A few of the buildings in Volcanoville had root cellars where they kept potatoes and other perishable goods. Fewer still of the Chinese structures up here did. Your ancestor died in a house two houses down from one of the houses that had a root cellar made of rock according to the information I was able to find.”

Dropping her backpack to one side, Annja reached inside and took out an Army surplus trenching tool that snapped together and a metal rod with a handle. She pulled on a pair of leather work gloves.

“First we’ll find the stone foundation of the root cellar, then we’ll find the house where Ban Zexu died.”

She thrust the metal into the thick loam and got started, searching for stone. Thankfully, the early spring thaw had left the ground soft and easy to work. She only hoped the root cellar had truly been made of stone and wasn’t too deep to reach with the tools she was using.



I T TOOK LESS THAN AN HOUR to find the root cellar. Stepping off the measurements of the house, assuming that the cellar was under the center of the building and was entered from the back, Annja quickly located the area where she believed the building Ban Zexu had been murdered in had once stood.

She had stripped off her fleece-lined coat, finding it too hot to work in. Huangfu had divested himself of his jacket.

“Make sure you get plenty of water.” Annja uncapped her canteen and drank. “Cold will leave you as dehydrated as heat.”

Huangfu nodded and drank. Despite his exertions, he didn’t look any the worse for wear. One of his shirt sleeves crept up and revealed the red, yellow and blue ink of a large tattoo. It had scales, so Annja guessed that it was a dragon or a fish. Self-consciously, he pulled his sleeve back down, looking at Annja.

She acted as if she hadn’t seen the tattoo, but dark suspicions formed in her thoughts. She suddenly didn’t feel as comfortable and confident as she had.

“Here?” Huangfu pointed at the ground in front of her.

Annja nodded, capped her canteen, and picked up her trenching tool.

“How deep, do you think?” Huangfu shoveled like a machine.

“A foot or two at least. This far into the forest, foliage and dead trees are going to compost and add to the humus layer. If you leave anything on the ground long enough, nature has a tendency to pull it deep and cover it over.”

They dug rhythmically. The shovel blades bit into the earth and turned it easily.

Ban Zexu had suffered a harsh death that had mirrored the men who’d worked the Cooley Mine. Jealousy, fired by desperation, had turned the white miners against everyone else. Chinese and Mexican miners had become targets.

In 1875, little less than a year after the murder of the Cooley Mine workers, Ban Zexu and his small group of miners had been burned out, as well. The stories varied. Some said it was over a slight made by one of the Chinese miners, and others insisted it was over a woman. There was even a story that Ban Zexu and his friends had struck it rich, though no gold had ever turned up. Locked inside the building they’d lived in while working different claims, the Chinese miners had had no chance when the building had been torched.

As Annja worked, she tried not to think about that horrible death. Or about the tattoo she’d seen on Huangfu’s arm. She still wasn’t sure what that meant; only that Huangfu was more than he seemed, and that waiting for Bart to conduct a deeper background check might have been a good idea.



L ATE INTO THE DAY and almost three feet down, the light was fading fast and Annja’s certainty about her calculations was ebbing away as the dirt piled higher and higher. Suddenly her shovel struck burned wood. She saw the black coals stark against the lighter colored dirt.

Rotting wood would have been absorbed back into the earth. But the burned wood had been carbonized and would take longer to leach back into the soil and break down.

“Huangfu,” Annja said.

He looked at her. Although he hadn’t said anything, Annja had felt the wave of exasperation coming from him. He wasn’t a man used to failure.

“We’ve found it.” Annja pointed at the coals left from the fire over one hundred and thirty earlier. “We must go slowly now.”

Huangfu nodded. “What about the belt plaque I showed you?”

Is that what this is really about? Annja knew she couldn’t ask, but she was certain that retrieving the bones of his ancestor wasn’t the man’s real goal.

“If it’s jade or steatite, it’ll break easily. Just go slow.”

Huangfu looked at the sky. “I would like to finish tonight.”

So would I, Annja thought. “If it’s possible, we will. But hurrying and ruining everything we might find isn’t the answer.”

Reluctantly, Huangfu nodded.

“Shovelful by shovelful. Feel your way into the ground, then shake it out so you can see anything you might have found. When we reach a body, we’ll work with our hands.” Annja showed him, slowly scooping up the earth and spreading it out across the hill she’d created.

Huangfu did as she directed, and they continued digging.



F ORTY MINUTES LATER , Huangfu found a body. “Here,” he said. Excitement tightened his voice.

Tossing her shovel onto the dirt hill beside the hole she’d dug, Annja joined him. Enough light remained that they didn’t need flashlights, but they would soon. The air was turning colder and their breath showed constantly.

Dropping to her knees, Annja looked at the rib cage Huangfu had uncovered. Carrion beetles had stripped the bones of flesh before the earth had claimed the body. Soot still stained the ivory.

Removing her digital camera from her backpack, Annja took several pictures. Huangfu stood by impatiently.

“We’ll take pictures as we go,” Annja explained as she replaced the camera in the backpack. “We can search through them later. They might help us discover if we missed anything.”

Annja slipped her gloved hands around the bones and gently began disinterring them. She placed them carefully beside the hole, keeping them together as she found them.

Huangfu watched her. “Do these bones belong only to one man?”

“So far.” Finding the pelvis, Annja headed in the other direction, searching for the skull. More bones created a skeleton on the ground.

“I can help.”

“Keep the bones in order as we find them.” Annja handed over the collarbone.

“Why?”

“We’ll learn more if we do. How many people were in here. Maybe who they were. If we post this on the Internet, we might find others who are looking for lost family members. Information works best if it’s keep neat and arranged.”

Annja found the skull and lifted it free of the earth. “Your ancestor might have escaped that night.”

“According to the journal that came into my possession that did not happen. Ban Zexu died here.”

“Judging from the roundness of this skull, and the arched profile, and widely spaced round eye sockets, this person was of Mongoloid decent.”

“Chinese?”

“That’s one possibility. Pathology isn’t an exact science when it comes to race. We can identify the three different racial characteristics of Caucasian, Mongoloid, and Negroid.”

Annja handed Huangfu the skull, noting that the man took it without hesitation. That wasn’t a normal reaction for most people when they were confronted with such a situation. She knew beginner archaeologists who took years to get over the queasiness of handling dead bones fresh from a dig.

Huangfu placed the skull at the top of the skeleton they were building.

Annja continued digging, going back toward the pelvis now. Noting the narrowness of the pelvis and the sciatic notch that allowed the sciatic nerve and others to go on through to the leg, she also knew the remains were male. Pathology was more exact about sex and age.

Below the pelvis there was a leather bag that hadn’t yet rotted away. But her attention was riveted on the rectangular shape she’d spotted. Even with the gloves and though the rectangular shape looked more like a clod or a rock, she knew what it was.

Excitement filled her as always. Every discovery she’d made affected her the same way. She hoped that would never change.

“Is that the plaque?” Huangfu asked.

“I think so.” Annja breathed out and started brushing dirt from the piece. With the shadows in the hole they’d dug, she couldn’t clearly see the piece, but she saw enough of it to note the stylized tiger poised with its ears flattened to its head and one clawed paw raised to strike. Scythian art stylings, picked up by some of the people they traded with—including the Chinese, often showed fierce animals.

“Let me see,” her client said.

Annja was loath to let go of the prize. The memory of the tattoo hidden on Huangfu’s arm disturbed her thoughts and took away some of the joy of discovery.

The unmistakable ratcheting of a rifle bolt seating a round in the chamber caused Annja and Huangfu to freeze. Glancing up toward the sound, Annja saw three armed men emerge from the gathering darkness.




2


All three of the men looked scruffy. Patched jeans, hoodies, dirty boots and coats clothed them and lent them the sameness of a predatory pack. They were young, barely into their twenties.

But old enough to point a gun at you, Annja thought as she remained frozen. Looking into their eyes, she noticed how red and glassy they were. It wasn’t a huge leap of logic to guess that they were under the influence of something. In the thin cold air, she smelled the acrid odor of marijuana and the cloying stink of horse sweat.

Beside her, Huangfu shifted slightly, just enough to get his footing and redistribute his weight. The three young men didn’t notice.

“I told you I saw somebody out here, Dylan.” The speaker was the thickest of the three. He carried the extra weight around his middle, looking like a football player gone to seed.

Dylan was bearded and had kinky black hair that looked like he hadn’t brushed it since he was a teenager. He aimed the rifle in his arms with grim authority, pointing it at Huangfu.

“Shut up, Beef,” Dylan said. “I can see them. I got eyes.”

“Do you think they’ve been out to the patch?” the third young man asked.

“Shut up, Neville,” Dylan ordered, then spat foul curses. “I swear, neither one of you has any sense.”

Annja looked at the semiautomatic Beef carried and the revolver Neville held. She’d been in similar situations of late. She was afraid she was starting to get used to life-threatening situations.

“What’re you doing out here?” Dylan demanded.

“We’re archaeologists.” Annja gestured to the bones gathered at the side of the hole. “We were sent here to find these bodies.”

Beef walked away from the other two, closing in on the bones. He kicked the skull with the toe of his boot and sent it rolling a few feet away.

“Cool.” Beef grinned and went after the skull. “Think I’ll put this in my room. Get some black light action going on this. Candles for the eyes. It’ll look awesome.”

“Why are you out here looking for skeletons?” Dylan asked.

Beef picked up the skull, hooking his fingers through the eye sockets and his thumb through the mouth. He mimed swinging it like a bowling ball, then laughed uproariously.

Annja kept her voice calm and soft. “These people were Chinese. Their families found out they were murdered here and want them back.” She felt another slight shift in Huangfu’s stance, aware of it only because she’d been involved in martial arts for years.

“That’s all you’re doing out here?” Dylan asked.

“Yes.”

“You aren’t, like, police?” Neville looked suspicious.

“No.”

“That was a dumb question.” Beef snorted derisively.

Neville looked irritated. “Why? All I asked was if they were police.”

“Well, for one, they could lie to you.”

“Uh-uh. Police have got to tell the truth.”

Beef cursed and juggled the skull in one hand. “Dude, I don’t know what planet you’re from, but my brother is a cop, and they can lie to everybody. Ain’t no law against lying for police.”

Neville shook his head. “That don’t seem right. I mean, a police guy has gotta tell you he’s a police guy.”

“And two,” Beef went on, “now they know we got a reason to worry about police up here.” He looked at Dylan. “We gotta kill ’em now, dude. They’ve seen our faces. Anybody finds out we’re growing pot up here, we’re gonna go to prison this time.”

Dylan didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he shrugged. “They already dug the hole, I guess. Kill the guy first.” The rifle shifted to center over Huangfu’s chest.

Unable to stand by while the man was killed, Annja surged up from the hole. Controlling the fear that vibrated within her, she stayed low, diving toward Dylan because she believed the other two would fire their weapons after he did. Catching Dylan around the waist in a flying tackle, she spilled to the ground with the young man in a tangle of arms and legs as the rifle went off.

Three other reports cracked almost simultaneously, all of them different timbers.

Rolling, Annja came up in a crouch, taking in the scene before her in disbelief. Beef collapsed only a few feet away, his face covered in blood. Huangfu, low to the ground and in motion, held a small black pistol in his fist. The weapon cracked, spitting fire twice more.

Neville staggered back, gazing down at his chest in astonishment. Two tiny flowers blossomed bloodred over his heart. “Very uncool, dude.” Then he dropped, sprawling across the ground.

Stunned, Annja didn’t notice Dylan’s kick until his foot was only inches from her face. By then it was too late to avoid the blow. She twisted her head in an effort to deflect the impact and succeeded, but the side of her face suddenly felt like it was on fire and her vision turned blurry for a moment.

Dylan was cursing and scrabbling for a pistol in the waistband of his pants when Huangfu took aim and fired again. Two bullets caught Dylan in the chest, staggering him but not knocking him down. He brought his pistol up in both hands and fired.

The bullet sheared a tree branch only inches from Huangfu’s head. The loud detonation filled the ridge for a moment, but it relented when Huangfu fired three times in a rapid string of explosions.

Huangfu pointed the pistol at Annja as Dylan’s knees buckled and he fell face first onto the ground.

Time slowed for Annja as she tried to assess what had happened. Huangfu had acted only to save them. Having the gun he’d obviously carried on his person might offer some legal challenges, but it wasn’t anything that a good lawyer couldn’t work out. If the young men had been worried about further criminal charges putting them in prison, that meant they had a criminal history of some sort. And there was no denying the weapons they’d brought. But Annja knew she was in grave danger.

She moved, trusting her instincts and not trying to reason through the improbable situation. Huangfu had killed the three young men and he was going to kill her, as well. She dodged behind the nearest tree. A bullet tore bark from the trunk and spewed splinters across her cheek.

She didn’t break stride, plunging deeper into the forest surrounding Volcanoville. The sun was setting to the west, steeping the forest in darkness. She headed in that direction, knowing the long shadows and the loss of depth perception against the fading brightness would make her a harder target.

More shots rang out behind her. Bullets cut through the trees, ricocheting from thick limbs and trunks, and cutting small branches free.

Taking brief respite in a hollow between two large fir trees dug in tight against the hillside, Annja realized she was still holding the items from the dig site. She shoved the belt plaque into the leather pouch, then tied the pouch to her belt. Metal clicked inside and she guessed that some of the contents were coins. The cold ate into her, but she knew the adrenaline and fear coiling through her increased her vulnerability to it.

The forest continued to darken and the shadows deepened.

Annja listened for footsteps but didn’t hear any. Either Huangfu wasn’t moving, or—

The man suddenly appeared out of the darkness with the pistol in his hand.

Annja made herself stay put and trust the shadows. Any movement would make her visible.

Huangfu stopped beside a tree. His breath puffed out in front of him. He lifted his left hand and Annja saw that he was holding a satellite phone. He pressed a number.

I’ll bet that’s not 911. A sinking sensation coiled through Annja’s stomach. She was a long way from help.

After finishing a short conversation in which he did all the talking, Huangfu put the phone away. “Miss Creed.” His call echoed in the forest.

Annja let her breath out, knowing she had to keep breathing in order to keep from hyperventilating. Her fight or flight instinct surged madly, but she kept it in check.

“Miss Creed, you should come out.” Huangfu started walking again. “There’s been a mistake. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Annja watched the man moving carefully through the forest. He took advantage of cover and stayed within the shadows. She thought he moved like a military special forces soldier. She hadn’t been around those men often in her life, but there had been occasion at some dig sites to talk to them. Many ex-soldiers had moved into security work.

“I panicked,” Huangfu said. Three more steps and he vanished into the trees.

Annja didn’t feel comforted by his disappearance. At least while she could still see him she knew where he was. She listened intently, but Huangfu was more silent than the wind blowing through the budding tree limbs and the fir trees.

Taking a moment, remembering the bodies of the three young men back at the dig site, Annja reached for her sword. She felt the grip against her palm, then pulled it from the otherwhere.

Annja had found the last piece of the sword while in France, but she hadn’t known what it was then. Roux, who claimed to be over five hundred years old, had spent those years tracking down the pieces of Joan of Arc’s sword. He’d stolen the last piece from Annja in France, but it hadn’t been until she had touched all the pieces that it once again became whole.

Roux claimed that the sword brought a legacy with it, unfinished business that Joan was supposed to have been given the chance to do. Annja didn’t know if she believed that, but she did know that her life had changed after the sword had come into her possession.

In the stillness of the night, she considered her options. People knew she and Huangfu had come out to Volcanoville—park rangers and a handful of Georgetown residents. But they might not think anything was amiss until morning. Perhaps not even then.

You’re going to have to save yourself, she resolved. She hated the thought of leaving her backpack behind. Her notebook computer had a lot of information—pictures, as well as writing she’d done—that she hadn’t yet backed up.

Nearly all of the information on Ban Zexu was on the notebook computer. All of the recent information was, as well as pictures of Huangfu. Bart had a couple, but those might not be enough to help find the man if he succeeded in killing her.

She had a satellite phone in her backpack. All she had to do was grab the backpack—at least the phone—and stay hidden in the forest long enough to call for help.

She took a quick breath, concentrating on the sure weight of the sword in her hand.

Annja moved out of her hiding spot reluctantly, then headed back up the hillside. She stayed within the brush, using every available scrap of it for cover. Her eyes swept her surroundings for Huangfu.

Thankfully, her backpack was out of the way, at the edge of the tree line. In the brush only a few feet from the backpack, she squatted to survey the ground.

Huangfu wasn’t anywhere to be seen. The three dead men remained where they’d fallen.

In the failing light, Annja searched the ground for their weapons and knew at once that Huangfu had come back that way. All of the weapons were missing.

Easing forward, Annja stayed low. When she reached the tree line, she stretched and grabbed one of her backpack’s straps. Suddenly, she felt someone’s eyes on her. Her senses and instincts seemed to have sharpened since she found Joan’s sword. Or maybe dodging killers had sharpened them.

Either way, she knew Huangfu had her in his sights.

Annja jerked sideways, getting ready to run. A bright yellow muzzle-flash broke the darkness hovering over the grave. In the next instant, Huangfu rose up from the grave and opened fire.

Bullets slapped the trees over Annja’s head and tore divots from the ground in front of her. She spun and slung the backpack across her shoulders, managing to get only one arm through a strap. Running down the incline, she pushed off the trees with her free hand and blocked brush and small branches from her face.

In the distance, a horse snuffled and stamped its feet. Immediately, the horse smell lingering on the three young men came to her mind.

Shifting directions, Annja headed toward the sound of the horses. She overran her vision in her haste, catching an exposed tree root and tripping. Out of habit, she pulled the backpack to her and rolled, landing on her side and cushioning the impact.

She surged to her feet again. Four long strides later, she realized she was holding the backpack with both hands. The sword had disappeared on its own. She quickly stuffed the leather bag from the dig into a cushioned pocket of her pack.

Bullets ricocheted from a tree trunk to her left, leaving white scars behind. She turned right and vanished behind a wall of pine trees that grew closely together. More bullets hammered the trees and broke branches.

In the distance but coming closer, she heard the sound of helicopter rotors. She hoped it was park rangers, but immediately dismissed that. Park rangers didn’t fly around in helicopters unless there was an emergency, and they probably couldn’t get one on such short notice.

There was a small airfield in Georgetown, though. It wouldn’t have been a problem to put a private craft there and have it on call. Her mind suddenly filled with nasty suspicions about Huangfu’s phone call.

Only a short distance away, horses snorted again and stamped nervously.

Annja ran, weaving through trees, staying so close to them at times that she collected an assortment of abrasions and bruises from glancing contact. Her breath whistled in the back of her throat. Timing her strides, she managed to sling the backpack across her shoulders. With her hands free, she could pump her arms and lengthen her stride.

The helicopter came into view through the trees. It was a sleek corporate aircraft, black-gray against the starry sky under the pallor of the three-quarter moon. The helicopter coasted over the tops of the trees less than a hundred feet away. The trees bent under the assault from the rotorwash, and the noise drowned out all other sounds.

Two men hung out the sides of the helicopter. Both of them had assault rifles.

This isn’t just about where Ban Zexu was buried, Annja thought.

Cutting around a wall of brush growing through the tangled remains of a fallen tree, Annja found three horses standing in a small clearing. All of them were saddled. The bridle reins were tied to the branches of the fir tree in front of them.

The horses flattened their ears and pulled at the reins in an effort to get free. The helicopter had them spooked.

When Annja ran up to the closest one, the horse reared up to defend itself. The front hooves kicked the air.

“Easy. Easy, boy.” Annja caught hold of the bridle halter and held on to the horse’s head, guiding it back down onto all fours. She knew the animal probably couldn’t hear her over the noise of the helicopter, but she kept talking to it anyway.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the helicopter swing around and start a pass back in her direction. She untied the reins and prepared to pull herself onto the saddle. The horse reared again, twisting violently to the left and shying away from her.

Suddenly, bright light lanced through the darkness and stripped the shadows away. When it fell across Annja, she knew the bullets wouldn’t be far behind. The horse continued pulling away from her, and that helped save her life.

Huangfu stepped from the trees with both hands on his small pistol. “I don’t want to have to kill you, Miss Creed.” He shouted to be heard over the noise of the drifting helicopter. “I will, though. All I want is the—”

Annja shouted at the horse, letting slack into the reins. Muscles bunching, the animal sprinted away from the helicopter sound and straight toward Huangfu. The sharp hooves cut divots from the ground.

Sprinting alongside the horse, staying close while she gripped the pommel and the rear of the saddle, Annja lifted both feet and swung them into Huangfu as he fired at her. She felt the bullet’s impact vibrate through the saddle pommel inches from her head, then her hiking boots collided with Huangfu’s chest and knocked the man from his feet.

Dropping to the ground again, Annja took three strides, got her rhythm, and heaved herself atop the horse. She had to duck immediately to avoid a low-hanging limb that scraped painfully along her back.

The men aboard the helicopter opened fire. Every third round was a purple tracer. They were wide of her and behind the horse, but she knew they’d quickly correct their aim.

She kicked the horse’s sides, urging it to faster speed, though she knew it was foolhardy in the darkness. But she was out of time to be careful about her escape. The horse rolled beneath her, shifting as it read the terrain and dodged trees.

Abruptly, the men in the helicopter stopped firing. The aircraft dipped. Too late, Annja realized that she was about to run out of tree cover. She tried to alter the horse’s direction, but the animal was crazed with fear.

Riding braced in the stirrups, her weight balanced on her feet instead of sitting in the saddle, Annja reached for the sword again. She’d no more than thought about it, wished she was holding it, when she had it gripped in her hand.

The helicopter pilot flew in very low. Glancing over her shoulder, Annja saw the man on the right side of the helicopter swing out wide, depending on the umbilical that connected him to the aircraft as he kept his feet on the skids.

She ducked beneath him as he tried to grab her.

The helicopter cruised by like a shark. But only a short distance ahead, it swung around in a full one-eighty. The man hung farther outside the aircraft.

Annja didn’t try to dodge the helicopter. Instead, at the last possible minute, Annja lifted high in the stirrups and swung the sword up and across the man’s midsection.

The sharp blade cut through flesh with ease. She got a glimpse of the man’s surprised face, then she was past him. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him suddenly dangle from the line that kept him tied to the helicopter. The aircraft jerked a little as the pilot corrected for the sudden deadweight.

Annja stayed low over the saddle and the horse’s neck. The animal stumbled over loose rock and almost went down.

Stay on your feet, Annja thought fiercely.

Twisting in the saddle for a moment, she saw the helicopter hovering above the treetops. The body at the end of the line jerked and flailed its limbs as someone hauled it back into the helicopter.

The horse’s hooves drummed the ground in a rapid staccato. Annja adjusted herself in the saddle, keeping her weight distributed and as low to the horse as she could to help the animal better handle her weight.

She thought she was headed west, back toward Georgetown, but she didn’t want to check her compass yet. The horse was handling the terrain, but she knew that could change at any moment.

The helicopter rotorwash sounded louder again. Looking back, she saw that it was coming in her direction.

Annja willed the sword away. Steering the horse toward a thick copse of trees, she waited until the animal slowed to navigate the thick press of brush, then leapt off.

The horse kept going.

Annja hit the ground and rolled. Brush and tall grass slapped at her, leaving stinging lacerations in their wake. She protected her backpack as much as she could. Then she was up on her feet, pushing and shoving her way through the forest at a ninety-degree angle to the path the horse had taken.

Controlling the panic within her, feeling her breath hot and dry in her throat, Annja kept running even after the helicopter passed by in pursuit of the horse. When she couldn’t run anymore, she dropped to her knees and laced her hands over her head to open her lungs.

As she watched the helicopter sailing above the treetops with a finger of illumination reaching down from a searchlight, Annja hoped the horse was just hitting its stride and wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. Then she reached into her pack for her phone.




3


Standing in the darkness, Huangfu Cao watched the helicopter speed over the treetops. He held his phone close to his face, listening to the helicopter communications officer. The man monitored not only the cell phone connection but also the emergency band communication in the area.

“She’s called the park rangers, sir,” Lin said.

Anger roiled within Huangfu. He had badly underestimated the woman. But no one could have expected her to react as quickly as she had to the shifting situation.

It was true that he hadn’t liked the idea of killing her. He liked her. She was competent and knowledgeable. More than that, she had come looking for his “ancestor’s” body for reasons of her own, not just to do a good thing. He liked that.

But he hadn’t hesitated when the time came. He’d shot as quickly and as accurately as he always did. Somehow, though, he had missed.

Not only that, she’d surprised him with the horse. His chest and abdomen still hurt from the impact.

And now she had managed to call the park rangers.

“Sir?” Lin prompted.

“Stay with her. She has what we came for.” If the three young men hadn’t stumbled onto them, Huangfu would have the artifact his employer had sent him for.

The helicopter dipped quickly, gliding through the treetops.

“Do the rangers have aerial support?” Huangfu stared into the night. His eyes burned with the effort.

“No. They took the phone call and sent ground forces out,” Lin replied.

“How many?”

“Three rangers and some of the local emergency response people. Their number is unconfirmed.”

Huangfu knew there wasn’t much in the way of a police force at Georgetown. The park rangers were another matter. In this part of California, the rangers went armed not only for illegal marijuana growers but also predators. None of them would be as well trained as his people, but he’d been ordered not to leave a mess behind.

And there were already three dead bodies.

If things hadn’t gotten out of hand, he’d planned on dropping those into the hole he and Annja Creed had dug. That wouldn’t have been a problem. Even if the bodies had been found later, they couldn’t have been tied to him. His cover was complete. Any search into his background would lead only to elaborate lies.

“Even though these initial forces don’t have aerial support,” Lin said, “they will get it as soon as the situation escalates.”

“Let me worry about that.” Huangfu watched the helicopter flying low to the ground. “Get the woman.” Feeling tense, he continued watching.

In the next instant, the helicopter broke pursuit and lifted into the air.

“There’s a problem.” Lin’s voice was calm and precise.

“What problem?” Huangfu asked.

“The woman isn’t with the horse.”

Huangfu cursed, knowing that Annja Creed had evaded them again. “Turn the helicopter around. Search the forest again. Now!”

Looking out over the forest, Huangfu knew the effort was going to be wasted. They’d underestimated Annja Creed again.



H OOFBEATS WOKE A NNJA . As uncomfortable and keyed up as she was, she hadn’t expected to fall asleep.

For a moment she thought maybe the horse she’d freed had found her again, and perhaps even led Huangfu and his allies to her. She opened her eyes but didn’t move. Motion attracted predators, and the men hunting her were definitely predators.

After she’d placed her call to the park ranger’s office and asked for help, she’d climbed one of the fir trees and hidden on a thick branch twenty feet above the ground. Using leather straps she carried in her backpack, she’d fashioned a crude nest to keep her from falling out of the tree. She’d spent the night in trees in a similar manner on digs. It was never truly restful, but she’d learned to sleep.

Shifting, she peered through the darkness and gathered her feet under her on the thick branch. She felt through the otherwhere, touching the sword’s hilt and drawing it to her.

Less than a hundred yards away, two riders on horseback approached. Both of them had flashlights that strobed the woods. They also carried rifles canted on their thighs. A third horse trailed behind them.

Tense, Annja waited, trying in vain to see through the darkness. Her phone vibrated in her jacket. Cautiously, she took it from her pocket, shielded the glow of the screen from the riders inside her jacket, and saw the call was from a New York area code.

“Hello.” She kept her voice low, watching as the riders veered slightly away from her.

“Annja?” The tense voice of Bart McGilley greeted her.

“Yes.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“Is something wrong with this connection?”

“I can’t really talk now.” Annja watched the riders as they slowed. They wore tactical gear, combat harnesses festooned with equipment.

“Are you in trouble?”

“Maybe a little.”

“In California?”

“Yes.”

“I flagged Huangfu Cao’s file after you asked me to background him. I didn’t expect the Department of Natural Resources to call to check on you.”

“I called them in.”

“They said someone was killed.”

“This is so not the time to talk about this, Bart.”

“You’re all right?”

“For the moment.” The fact that Bart was worried about her made Annja feel good. She hadn’t made a lot of lasting friends with her unusual lifestyle. But Bart was one of the best. “I’m going to need a favor,” she whispered.

“You didn’t kill anyone, did you?” Bart asked.

“Actually, I think I did.” Annja thought about the sword slicing through the man hanging from the helicopter. She didn’t want to kill anyone, but when it came to preserving her life or the lives of others, she’d learned to accept that sometimes there was no other way. “But I think Huangfu’s men picked up the body.”

“What’s going on?”

The two riders milled around for a moment. They talked and moved their flashlight beams around.

“I don’t know,” Annja answered. “About that favor…”

“If I can.”

“I’m going to need an introduction to the local police departments.”

“They’ll probably know you from your television show.” Bart wasn’t a big fan of the series.

“Not that kind of introduction. The kind more along the lines of me not being a homicidal maniac introduction.”

“Why?”

“Three local guys are dead.”

“Did you kill them?”

“No.”

“Your buddy, Huangfu Cao, did.”

Irritation flared through Annja. She didn’t like making mistakes. “As it turns out, he wasn’t my buddy after all.”

“I told you to watch out for that guy.”

I really don’t need an “I told you so” while I’m up in a tree, she thought. “I was watching out for him. That’s why I’m not dead right now.”

Bart sighed. “Sorry. I just worry about you, you know?”

“I know.” Annja also knew that Bart was engaged to be married. No date had been set and the engagement was relatively new. If things had been different, if she didn’t want to see the world as much as she did, if she were more certain that Bart wouldn’t want someone who was home every night, their friendship might have explored more of the attraction that put them in each others’ lives. But they were what they were.

“Do you have this number?” Bart asked.

“Yes,” Annja replied.

“Okay. Whoever you end up talking to, put him or her in touch with me. I’ll vouch for you.”

“Thanks, Bart.” Annja’s phone vibrated again. “I’ve got to go.”

“Call me when you can. And stay safe.”

Annja said she would, then picked up the incoming call. It was a local area code. “Annja Creed,” she whispered.

“Miss Creed,” a no-nonsense voice said, “this is Captain Andrews of the Eldorado National Park Ranger Station.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’ve got men out searching for you. Two of them are at the GPS coordinates you sent when you called. You’re not there. If this is some kind of prank, you’re going to be prosecuted in federal court—”

“I moved since that last call.” Annja looked at the two men. “Have your men wave their flashlights.”

“What?” The ranger captain sounded exasperated.

“The men that were looking for me have already killed three people.” Annja spoke plainly. “I want to know these are your rangers.”

“Wait just a minute.”

An owl passed by, momentarily obscuring the moon. A feral cat cried out in the distance. Frogs in the nearby stream croaked.

The two men with flashlights waved them in the air.

Annja took her flashlight from her backpack and switched it on. “Tell your men to look north of their position. I’m in the trees.” Even though she was talking to the ranger captain, she still felt nervous. One misstep or a bit of bad luck could get her killed.

“All right,” Andrews growled in displeasure, “they see you. Climb out of the tree and stand with your hands over your head where they can see you.”

“It’ll take just a second to get my gear.”

“Leave your gear where—”

Annja broke the connection and slid the phone into her pocket. It vibrated as she recovered her rope and shoved it into the backpack. By the time she was climbing down, her flashlight held by Velcro straps on her backpack, the rangers had pulled their horses to a stop under the tree.

Both of them were young. One was clean-shaven and the other had a short beard and long hair. They introduced themselves as Dobbs and Carew. Neither of them put their lever-action rifles away.

Carew, the long-haired ranger, stepped down and separated Annja from her backpack. Then he asked for identification.

Annja complied, but the whole time she was distinctly aware that Huangfu or his men could have been only a short distance away with a sniper rifle. You’ve been reading way too many thrillers, she told herself ruefully. But the truth of the matter was that lately she’d been living a life not far off from those fictional heroes.

“Are you okay, Miss Creed?” Carew handed her identification back. He spoke in a pleasant baritone.

“Yes.”

“You’re not hurt?”

Annja shook her head. She wished she was back in her loft in Brooklyn. Before she’d left she’d just got the third season of Gilmore Girls on DVD and was looking forward to watching it. A bath, a glass of white wine, and an episode or two of the show and she could have slept like a baby.

Instead, her mind was filled with questions. She’d explored the belt plaque by touch but she still hadn’t gotten a good look at the piece.

“You said there was a helicopter?” Carew looked at her.

Annja met the ranger’s gaze. “There was. It left the area about ten minutes after I called you.”

Carew nodded. “You said the bodies of the three men this Huangfu fella killed were up near Volcanoville?”

“Yes.” Annja dreaded the next few hours. In her experience any time she dealt with law enforcement agencies she had to tell the same story over and over and over again.

“We’ve got a team over there looking into that. In the meantime, let’s get you out of here.” Carew held the stirrup out for her to mount the extra horse.

With easy grace, Annja pulled herself into the saddle and leaned down to gather the reins. She was glad to be going, but she knew her ordeal was far from over.




4


Darkly tinted windows in the conference room blunted the sun. Ngai Kuan-Yin stood in front of the windows and gazed out over the Bund. The early afternoon tourist crowd was making its way through the stores and shops along Zhongshan Road.

The wharves and docks just beyond them were also full. Among the historic buildings, the bones of the old walled city of Shanghai—which had been the international settlement area where the English and French had lived in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—remained visible if someone knew where to look.

Normally such a sight would have brought peaceful thoughts to Ngai. He owned many of the shops along Zhongshan Road and had an interest in several others. Many of the fishing boats were among his holdings, as well. Ngai’s family had been in Shanghai for generations.

But Ngai wasn’t happy. He was in a murderous rage, though his calm demeanor didn’t allow it to show.

“Mr. Ngai, what do you wish to do?” The voice was soft and offered no threat or rebuke, though he knew the question had been offered because he hadn’t responded when he’d been asked minutes ago.

Slowly, Ngai turned to face the ten men seated at the long conference table. For the past twenty years, the men at that table had helped him build an empire of his father’s pharmaceutical company. He owed all of them something. They, in turn, owed him their lives. Without him, they would have been nothing.

To a man, they wore dark business suits that looked neat and professional. All of them were lean, hard men. Much like Huangfu Cao.

Ngai courted that image. His tailored black suit fit him like a glove. He was in his early forties and still followed the discipline of the sword and the warrior. Silver threaded his black hair. His face, unlined and cruel, had graced the covers of international magazines about wealth and business.

Calmly, Ngai sat at the head of the table and turned his attention to the matter at hand. “I have been informed by Huangfu Cao that he has lost the belt plaque he went to recover. The woman archaeologist, Annja Creed, has escaped with it.”

“Does the woman know that we—” Hong stopped himself “—that you are involved?”

Hong was in his eighties and grew more frail with each passing day. When Ngai had been younger, Hong had taught him in all subjects. Whenever Ngai thought of his old teacher, he remembered him as a strong young man, clever and fearless. Times had changed as age had robbed him of his strength and confidence.

“No.” Ngai barely kept himself from exploding. He was no longer young and no longer foolish. “I have not been compromised.” He glared at the old man in warning.

Hong cleared his throat, then spoke softly. “Perhaps it would be better if you were to let this go.”

Ngai tried to restrain himself and couldn’t. All of his life while his father had railed at him to get his education and to keep his imagination from running away with him, Ngai had thought only of the treasure that might one day be his—if he was smart enough and daring enough.

Ngai glared at the old man. “I will not give this up. The treasure is out there. That is why the government has sent in their archaeological teams.”

“Those teams,” Hong said, “have been sent in to discover what secrets Loulan might hold.”

Ignoring the old man for the moment, Ngai switched his attention to Yuan. “You have spoken with Suen Shikai?”

“On several occasions, sir. I have made every offer to him that you suggested.”

“He still refuses to sell it?”

“He does.”

Ngai leaned back in his chair. “Then we will take it from him.”

Silence was heavy in the room.

“Do you hear yourself?” Hong asked.

“It is the only way,” Ngai stated.

“Suen Shikai was a friend of your father’s.”

“He’s not a friend of mine.”

Sorrow touched the old man’s features. “He has been a friend to me also.”

“Can you convince him to give me the map?” Ngai knew the old man had tried.

“You know I was not successful.”

“I do. Today you will have to choose between friendships.”

Hong frowned. “Is Huangfu still in California?”

Reluctantly, Ngai nodded.

“Then there may yet be another chance to get the object from the American archaeologist. If you’re patient.”

“If I am patient,” Ngai said forcefully, “then I am only giving our government more time to discover the treasure that rightfully belongs to my family.”

Hong’s lips tightened in disapproval.

“Suen Shikai will be a bad enemy to make,” Yuan said.

“Then I will not make him an enemy,” Ngai said. “I will make him a corpse.” He glared at Yuan. “See that it is done. Today.”

After only the briefest hesitation, Yuan bowed his head. “It will be as you say.”

“You’re dismissed.”

Without a word, nine of the men left the room. Only Hong remained when the conference room door closed.

“Well,” Ngai said angrily, “you might as well say what’s on your mind.”

“This course of action you’ve chosen for yourself isn’t good,” Hong said.

“It suits me perfectly.” Ngai glared at the old man. “I’ve always been aggressive.”

“You call your actions aggressive. I say that they’re impetuous.”

Ngai narrowed his eyes. “And I say that you’re flirting dangerously with insubordination.”

“Perhaps you inherited your willful ways from me.”

“My father always insisted he was to blame.”

“Your father only provided your bloodline,” Hong said. “I trained your mind. In my youth, I, too, was weak.”

“Do you mean the wine and women you chased after?”

“No.” A faint smile twisted Hong’s withered lips. “Those are follies of a young man. I pursued them with no less zeal than your father. And you.”

Ngai nodded.

“I was weak because I accepted your father’s offer to educate you rather than remain with the university.”

“If you had remained with the university, you would have been living in the streets by now.”

“Or maybe I would have been living with a son or grandson of my own who loved me.” Hong’s eyes were sad. “Your father’s appointment afforded me a lavish living that I couldn’t have gotten anywhere else. I chose to live that life alone so that I could spend it all on myself. Now I have neither sons nor grandsons.”

“Having regrets?”

“Pointing out the downside of a life lived selfishly.”

“I would rather live my life selfishly and have all that I might rather than give it away.” Ngai smiled. “Perhaps you are responsible for this after all.”

“Me?” Hong lifted his eyebrows in surprise.

“You were the one who told me all those old stories of the Three Kingdoms, of Cao Cao’s treasure that was lost to the City of Thieves.”

“The City of Thieves is a myth.”

Ngai hated hearing the old man say such a thing. When he had been a boy, Hong had filled his head with dozens of stories of the thieves who struck along the caravan roads, including the Silk Road, and made off with incredible treasures. He’d imagined streets paved in gold and jewel-encrusted houses. As he’d grown, he scaled the visions of treasure back, but he still believed there were hidden rooms filled with gold, silver and fantastic gems.

Ngai had spent a small fortune ferreting out information about the City of Thieves. It was also sometimes referred to as the City of Assassins for the men emperors and warlords had hired to kill their enemies. For a time in the second and third century, while all the turmoil of the Yellow Turbans was taking place and the Han Dynasty was collapsing, the thieves had struck hard and fast, claiming vast treasures.

Then—they’d disappeared. And no one knew the reason why. Hong had said that the thieves had gathered enough gold to set themselves up as kings in Africa or the Middle East.

Ngai didn’t believe that. He had hired historians to track the tales he’d been able to find. Although the history of those periods was spotty at best, there’d been no mention of the thieves leaving China.

“Even if the stories of the City of Thieves are true,” Hong said, “have you forgotten the curse?”

“I choose not to believe in the curse.” Ngai knew the story well. There had been an emperor’s tax collector who had killed an old man and his wife. Before the old woman had died, she had cursed the tax collector. He and the emperor’s gold had disappeared. One of the guards had survived long enough to talk about the fox spirit that had descended upon the carriage and killed all the guards.

According to legend, the emperor’s greed had summoned vengeance from the celestial plane. Divine retribution for the old woman’s death had come in the form of the fox spirit. The stories told that the fox spirit had grown aware of the City of Thieves and had destroyed it.

“You can’t simply choose to believe whatever you wish.” Hong sounded put out.

“How many fox spirits have you seen?” Ngai asked the question in a mocking tone.

“None,” Hong assured him. “I have been fortunate.”

Ngai made himself a drink. “Spirits don’t exist. They are myth only.”

“How are they any less believable than the City of Thieves?”

Ngai turned to face the old man. “In the studies that I have undertaken, and paid others to do on my behalf, I became aware of two objects that could lead me to the City of Thieves. One of them is Ban Zexu’s belt plaque. The other is the map that Suen Shikai has.”

“If either man knew where the City of Thieves lay, don’t you think they would have gone there?”

“A man has to be strong enough to hold on to his treasure. Doubtless, these men were not. Neither were their fathers before them.”

“Unless their fathers spent what little gold there was before they were born,” Hong said.

“No!” Ngai spoke more sharply than he wanted to. Emotion was weakness, and he hated to let the old man know how much what he said bothered him. “They were not strong enough to get the gold. It’s still there.”

“And if it’s not?”

Ngai didn’t reply. He couldn’t fathom the gold not being hidden somewhere near the archaeological dig sites around the old city of Loulan.

“If it’s not there,” Hong spoke softly, “then you will have killed your father’s friend for no reason.”

“He defied me,” Ngai replied. “That’s reason enough.”



“S HIKAI , DO YOU HAVE ANY good fish?”

Suen Shikai pulled his small fishing boat onto the shore of the Huangpu River, then looked up at the woman standing on dry land. He was wet from the waist down from walking the boat to shore.

“I do have good fish, Mai.” Suen took a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and mopped his face. The weather was particularly humid along the river.

Mai was overweight and in her forties. She had a husband and three children to care for, and that took all of the hours of her day. She lived in a tenement building not far from where he kept his fishing boat. Whenever he went fishing she came out to offer to buy fish.

Mai’s efforts to buy fish amused Suen. She knew he taught music at the university, but she looked at the simple life he chose and felt certain that he wasn’t making enough money to feed himself. Mai blamed his state of disrepair on Suen’s generosity toward his daughter, Kelly, who had gone to school in the United States. The woman believed that Suen gave all his money to an ungrateful daughter who was ashamed of her father’s poor ways.

But he also knew that Mai figured she could buy fish from him more cheaply than she could anyone else on the river or in the local markets. She had never matched market prices, and Suen had never expected it. She had a hungry family to feed.

“I would like two fish.” Mai cautiously opened her worn purse and reached inside for coins.

Suen smiled at her. He liked her. In the mornings, sometimes she would bring him a cup of tea and rice cakes when she came to buy fish and they would talk for a time. She liked his stories about people he had met and of the places he’d seen. He’d been to the United States nine times.

“You’re in luck. I caught four.” Suen reached into the boat and brought out a stringer of fish. He loved fishing and spent hours at it when he could. While he was out on the water, he listened to the sounds of the city all around him.

Some days he read books of poetry or he would reread some of his favorite letters from his daughter. Mostly, though, he took his guitar and practiced his music. He was currently going through what he called his Bob Dylan phase. Kelly laughed at him when they talked over the phone whenever he mentioned that.

Mai examined the fish, then frowned in disapproval. “You were unlucky. These are small.”

“Not too small to eat.” Suen didn’t take affront at the comment. Mai was always trying to find ways to defray the cost of the fish.

“Not too small to eat, but two will no longer do. I must have three.”

Suen shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can only let you have two.”

“You’re going to eat the other two?” Mai looked at him suspiciously.

“Yes.”

Frowning again, Mai said, “You’re going to get fat.”

Suen didn’t think there was a chance of that. He was not quite six feet tall and had always been thin. His hair and beard had gone solid gray ten years or more ago.

“I’m not going to be eating them by myself,” Suen said.

Suspicion and resentment knitted Mai’s eyebrows. “Oh, then you have a girlfriend?”

“No.” Since his wife had died four years earlier, there hadn’t been anyone that Suen had been interested in like that. He had his teaching job and he had his music. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been enough for someone else, but for him it fit perfectly. “My daughter is going to join me tonight.”

“Ah,” Mai sniffed. “This is the one who went to live in America?”

“Yes.” Suen only had one child.

“Why is she coming here?”

“To visit.”

“Hmmph. She doesn’t do that very often.”

Suen shrugged. “She comes when she can. Her work keeps her busy.”

“A good daughter would find a way to visit her father more often. There is no excuse. She should be here. To take care of you in your final years.”

Suen smiled. “Truly, Mai, I hope that I am not in my final years.”

“You’re not getting any younger.”

“I suppose not.”

Mai offered to buy the two fattest fish, and Suen agreed to let her. The two smaller fish would make a fine dinner for him and his daughter.

He left his boat, knowing that no one would bother it, and walked up the embankment following the crooked steps with his guitar hanging over his shoulder. The walkways were made crooked because everyone knew that ghosts could only walk in straight lines.

Suen didn’t believe in ghosts, but he appreciated the craftsmanship that went into the building. As he trudged along, carrying the fish in the basket he’d brought, he looked out over the city. He was sixty-two years old. His daughter had come to him late in life, and she’d truly been a gift from the gods. But even in his lifetime, Shanghai had changed. He loved the history of the city, the good and the bad, and he hoped that it was never truly lost.

At the top of the hill, the Bund began in earnest. Shops and merchants’ pushcarts filled the thoroughfare. Voices carried an undercurrent of pleading and feigned insult, haggling and desire.

Suen lived a few blocks away. He was looking forward to his daughter’s visit. It had been almost two years. The last time she’d come, he’d had to nurse her back to health. Her work had nearly gotten her killed. He had asked her then to step away from it, but she hadn’t been able to.

Though he had never told her, he thought maybe her work was the result of the curse that had been put upon his family. It was the only thing that made sense to him. He had wanted to tell her about the curse, but he didn’t think she would believe him. More than that, the story had been passed through generations of his family. It was time for it to die.

Since that visit, there had been several phone calls and e-mail. Neither of them mentioned her work.

Suen was lost in thought when a van screeched to a halt on Zhongshan Road. He paid no heed because he knew he was safely out of the street.

Footsteps slapped the pavement, coming close to him. Suen turned, but by then it was too late.

Two men took Suen by the arms and lifted him from his feet. He tried to escape, but they were stronger than he was. Then a third man pointed a pistol at him.

“What are you doing?” Suen demanded. “I’ve done nothing to—”

The man shot him. Sharp pain spread out from Suen’s stomach, just below his breastbone. He looked down and spotted the small feathered dart jutting out from his body. Looking at the men, young and dressed in American clothes, Suen thought of Ngai Kuan-Yin and the document the man had wanted.

Suen tried to speak, but he was quickly sucked into a whirlpool of blackness.




5


“Why did you go up to Volcanoville, Miss Creed?”

Annja sat in the interview room at the ranger station.

“I’ve already told the ranger captain.” Annja sat across a Formica-topped table from the sheriff. Squeeze bottle condiments on the table reminded everyone that the room was more for socializing than interrogation. Topographical maps of the area were mounted under protective plastic on the walls. A lone bookcase was filled with pamphlets and novels ranging from Louis L’Amour westerns to Jeffrey Deaver thrillers.

“Maybe you could tell me again.” Sheriff Barfield was in his early forties and kept in shape. His tailored uniform was carefully pressed and the star on his chest gleamed in the light. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly clipped. “All Captain Andrews has to do is keep the park and countryside clean. I’ve got to explain to three sets of parents why their kids aren’t coming home ever again.”

Annja nodded. She’d had a hard time resisting the impulse to open her notebook computer and research the belt plaque. But she knew if she showed an interest in it the piece would have been confiscated. She was sure she could do more toward solving the riddle it proposed than the park rangers or the sheriff’s department.

“Could you answer a couple questions for me first?” Annja picked up the bottle of water she had been given and took a sip.

Sheriff Barfield sat in the straight-backed wooden chair across from her. His cologne was fragrant, Old Spice or something like it.

“Sure.” Barfield nodded. “If I can.”

“Have you found Huangfu?”

“No.”

“What about the helicopter?”

The sheriff hesitated for a moment, as if flipping a mental coin. “We located it outside of Sacramento. It had been abandoned.”

“Do you think the men left California?”

Barfield’s eyes were steady. “You know more about them than I do, Miss Creed. Do you think they left California?”

“I don’t know.”

Taking out a small notebook, Barfield glanced through pages of notes written in a clear, concise hand. “I talked with a New York Police Department detective named McGilley. He said he looked into Huangfu Cao for you.”

“He did.”

“McGilley also says he told you he thought you should stay away from Huangfu because he couldn’t find out much information about him.”

“I’m an archaeologist, Sheriff. Sometimes I don’t get to pick and choose who I deal with. Archaeologists have been dealing with grave robbers since the field of study began.”

“Is that what you think Huangfu went there to do? To rob a grave?”

“I don’t know. Right after we found the remains of the miners, we were held at gunpoint by those three men.”

“Do you think he’s a criminal?”

“Based on the skill and lack of qualms he showed in killing those men—and while trying to kill me— I’d have to think that, wouldn’t I?”

“Are you in the habit of dealing with criminals, Miss Creed?” Barfield’s voice was low and neutral.

“Not if I know they’re criminals. I didn’t know Huangfu was a criminal until he killed those three men. And tried to kill me.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to find his ancestor’s grave.”

“To rob it?”

“He said it was so he could take the bones home to be interred in a family graveyard.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?”

“Different cultures practice different beliefs, Sheriff. I’ve got friends in New York who believe that everyone in California is involved in some kind of environmental protection group or practice strange religion.”

A faint grin tweaked Barfield’s lips. “Do you help people find their lost ancestors very often?”

“No.”

“But you did this time. Why?”

“Because of the story involved.” That was partially the truth.

“What story?”

“Ghost towns are always interesting.”

Barfield rubbed his chin. “Volcanoville isn’t really known as a ghost town in the area. It’s just another failed gold mining operation.”

“One person’s failed gold mining operation is another person’s ghost town.” Annja glanced pointedly at her watch. It was 2:18 a.m. With the three-hour time zone deficit, she was running on fumes.

“Did you know you were going to find Huangfu’s ancestor?”

“If he was out here, I was going to try.”

“What do you mean ‘if’?”

Annja folded her arms and regarded the sheriff. “Stories don’t always have truth in them. Huangfu had the diary of a family member that said Ban Zexu was murdered in Volcanoville.”

The sheriff made notes and asked how to spell Ban Zexu’s name. “Did you see the book?”

“I saw copies of the book.”

“The book could have been faked.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know, Miss Creed. I’m still trying to figure out why three men are dead tonight.”

“They’re dead because they tried to kill us.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because they were high and paranoid about us stumbling across their marijuana crop.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

“That they were high?”

“Yes.” Annja started to grow more irritated. She’d known she was going to face repeated and redundant questions, but this was stretching her patience beyond the breaking point.

“I’ve seen people under the influence of drugs before, Sheriff. I don’t need a medical degree to know what it looks like.”

“Where did you get experience like that?”

“I travel frequently. Some of the cultures I’ve been involved with in my field of study use drugs regularly in religious ceremonies.”

The sheriff flipped another couple of pages. “Do you ever do drugs yourself?”

Irritation turned to anger. “Frankly, that’s none of your business, Sheriff. But the answer is no.”

Annja stood. “This interview is over. I’ve been patient and I’ve been considerate, especially in light of the fact that I very nearly ended up dead myself.”

“I’ve got three murders that I have to explain.” Barfield stared hard at her. “You can’t just walk out of here.”

“I can unless you want to arrest me. I know my rights. I didn’t have to talk to you at all. But I did. Now I’m leaving.”

“And if I arrest you?”

“Then I’m going to call my attorney, arrange bail, and get out of here a little later than I intended.”

Barfield sighed and stood up. “Forgive me, Miss Creed. I’m a little testy tonight. Those boys out there—and I know they’re old enough to be called young men, but they weren’t much more than boys—didn’t deserve what happened to them.”

“They were going to kill us,” Annja said.

“They’ve never killed anyone before.”

“You’re right. I should have given them the benefit of the doubt,” Annja said sarcastically.

“That’s not what I meant. What I meant was that maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t come here.”

“And maybe if you look out there and find their marijuana field you’ll find a missing hiker or two.” Annja reached for her backpack and slung it across her shoulders. She walked to the front of the ranger station.

A handful of cars were parked out front. Most of them were sheriff’s department vehicles, but there were also a couple from local news stations. Two reporters started forward at once, flanked by camcorder operators.

“You’ve got a fan club.” Barfield stood beside Annja. “Once they found out you were involved with television, they had to come.”

Terrific, Annja thought sourly.

“Let me arrange a car to take you back to Georgetown. You’re staying at the bed-and-breakfast there, right?”

Annja nodded. “If you can have someone take me back to my rental car, that would be great.”

Barfield spoke briefly on his radio, telling one of his deputies to meet them in back of the ranger station. He walked her back.

“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Miss Creed,” Barfield said. “I’m not a bad guy, and I don’t think you’re a criminal. But I do get the sense that you’re not telling me everything you know.”

“Sheriff, I can’t tell you any more about Huangfu Cao than I already have. If I never see him again, that will be fine.”

“He may not feel the same way about you. He had a helicopter standing by in Georgetown, and they hunted for you before you were able to get a call for help out.”

“I know.”

“If he tried to have you killed because you were a potential witness, you may not have seen the last of him.” Barfield held the door open and looked at her. “But if there’s something more to this, some other reason that he and his men chased you, then you may be in serious trouble.”

A deputy braked to a stop in front of Annja. A news team on foot brought up the rear.

“I appreciate your concern.” Annja meant it. She knew that Barfield didn’t want to see her end up dead. Even if she was omitting some of the truth. He seemed like a good man just trying to do his job. That made her feel bad. Don’t go there. Whatever Huangfu was looking for, it’s best left to you, she told herself.

She guessed that they would have taken the belt plaque into custody, then spent weeks or months hanging on to it before calling her back to analyze it.

And there’s the possibility that you’ll learn nothing from the belt plaque anyway. That thought was disheartening. But even if she never learned any more about why Huangfu wanted the piece, she knew she might have an authentic Scythian piece that was museum worthy. She needed to find out some of the history on it.

Barfield walked her to the deputy’s car and opened the door, holding it braced against the cold wind.

Annja sat in the front seat beside the deputy. “Thank you,” she said.

Smiling, Barfield touched his hat brim. “You’re welcome.” He glanced at the driver. “Take her to her car. Follow her back to Georgetown to make sure she gets there safely.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff.”

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Barfield took out a business card and handed it to Annja. “If something comes up, give me a call.”

Annja took the card and shoved it into a pocket of her backpack. “I will.”

By that time, the news crew had caught up. “Miss Creed,” the reporter called, “is Chasing History’s Monsters doing a story in Volcanoville? Do the murders have anything to do with the Weeping Ghost that’s said to walk through the forest in that area?”

Annja looked at the deputy. “Let’s go.”



A NNJA WAS A LITTLE SURPRISED to find the rented SUV still sitting in the parking lot where she’d left it. Then again, Huangfu hadn’t had much time to do anything to it while making his escape.

The deputy put his hand lightly on Annja’s shoulder. “Gimme a minute to have a look.”

Annja nodded.

Leaning down, the deputy slid a rack out from under the seat and took out a pump-action shotgun. He racked the slide and fed another round into the gate to fill the ammo tube to capacity.

“Be right back.” The deputy got out but left the car running. He took a quick look at the SUV and the parking lot, and even looked under the vehicle. He returned, looking a little relieved. “Looks good.”

Annja stepped from the car. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” The deputy slid behind the wheel again. “I’ll follow you into Georgetown. Make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“I appreciate that.” Walking to the SUV, Annja unlocked the door and got in. Everything looked fine and the deputy had checked the car out, but she was still hesitant about turning the ignition over.

“Huangfu wouldn’t risk blowing up the belt plaque,” she said to herself. She hoped that was true. Then she twisted the key, letting out a tense breath as the engine caught. She let it warm up just a moment then put the car in gear and started driving.



W HEN HER PHONE RANG with half the trip to Georgetown still ahead of her and woods on either side, Annja thought for a moment that it would be Huangfu. But it wasn’t. The New York number belonged to Doug Morrell, her producer on Chasing History’s Monsters.

“Annja, what do you think you’re doing?” Doug Morrell’s voice was excited and exasperated at the same time. He was twenty-two years old. Excitement and exasperation were two of the things he did best.

“I guess it’s a slow news night if this hit CNN,” Annja said.

“It didn’t hit CNN, thank God. I’ve got a fact checker in L.A. who was on her toes and caught the story when it broke on the local stations. Hopefully the story won’t go any further.”

Despite everything that had happened earlier, Annja had to smile at that. Chasing History’s Monsters didn’t have fact checkers. The only pieces that carried factual history and geography were hers, and that was only because she fought for accuracy and managed to have a look at the final cut pre-air. If she hadn’t delivered good stories—and looked good on television, Doug had reminded her on several occasions—she would have been cut from the show for being so strict about facts.

Annja felt certain the “fact checkers” Doug and the other producers on the syndicated show relied on were conspiracy theorists who read underground newspapers and Web sites for the weirdest stories they could find.

“I mean,” Doug went on, breathing hard enough to let her know he’d strapped on his phone headset and was pacing his apartment, “you’ve got to remember that you’re part of a big television success story at a time when television success stories are as rare as…as…well, they’re pretty rare.”

“Thanks, Doug. I’m fine. Really. Three people were killed in front of me, and I was nearly killed. But at least it wasn’t anyone I knew personally.” Annja drove through the night. She yawned so big it hurt.

“Oh. Wow. I didn’t think about that. All Amy said was that the show was getting linked to three murders over there.”

“ I didn’t kill them.”

“I know, but some of the other stuff you’ve gotten involved with lately, it hasn’t gone so well for the show. I mean, you have to admit some of it’s been pretty weird.”

“Weirder than trying to find a Wendigo in Colorado last month?”

“Hey, we were following up sightings.” Doug sounded defensive.

“I think I remember hearing that Kristie wanted a skiing vacation.”

Doug coughed to buy himself time. It was one of his lamest tactics. “There were stories about a Wendigo.”

“There was Kristie on skis.”

“Kristie skiing down the mountainside escaping an evil Wendigo,” Doug exclaimed.

“That’s funny. I don’t remember seeing the Wendigo.”

“We’re not here to talk about Kristie. I don’t produce her. I produce you. I have to report to people on what you do. If you get involved in something that reflects in a negative fashion on the show—”

Annja cut Doug off. “As I recall during the meeting last month, the ratings were up, advertising was up, and we had more accounts lining up to do business with us than we had spots to give.”

Doug fell silent for a moment. “Yeah, well, all that’s true, and I just want to keep it that way. We don’t need any adverse publicity.”

“In fact,” Annja went on, deciding to unleash a full salvo and put an end to the debate, “I think this is the perfect time to discuss renegotiating my contract.”

“You already have a contract in place.” The exasperation was back in Doug’s voice.

“The contract we put into place was based on numbers that have almost doubled since we inked that deal.”

“You know, you sound really tired.” Doug suddenly sounded nervous. “I just wanted to call and make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine, Doug.” Annja decided to let him off the hook. She liked Doug and she knew how to work him to get what she needed. Maybe she didn’t negotiate skiing vacations, but she often got the show to pay for international trips to places she wanted to go to do legitimate archaeological assignments.

“So we’re cool?”

“We’re cool.”

“Are you in any kind of trouble?”

“No.”

“The police don’t think you killed anybody, do they? I mean, you’ve killed people before.”

“Only when I had to.” Annja didn’t like talking about that.

“I know. Man, look at the time. I should really let you get some sleep. If you need anything, give me a call.”

“I will.” Annja broke the connection. Her eyes felt heavy. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw the deputy only a short distance behind.

She took a deep breath and tried to relax, but she knew it wasn’t over. Not as long as she had the belt plaque and Huangfu wanted it.



F ROM THE VERY BEGINNING , Huangfu had hated Georgetown. The population consisted of a thousand citizens, more or less, and the community was tightly knit. Even though it was a tourist town, strangers stood out.

The way things had unfolded in Volcanoville, he knew he couldn’t return to the room he’d taken in the bed-and-breakfast. In fact, those premises had already been invaded by the sheriff’s office. But he’d been careful. Their crime scene investigators would find no fingerprints in the room, and the things he’d left behind would lead nowhere.

He’d ordered one of his men to dump the helicopter near Sacramento to lay down a false trail and lead the police to think they’d fled the area. The other four men remained with him in the hills overlooking Georgetown.

His men were, like him, well trained at hiding in plain sight. The countryside provided ample cover.

He hunkered down beside a tree and used digital binoculars capable of high magnification. He was dressed in black camouflage, complete with a Neoprene mask that left only his grease-paint covered face open.

The man next to Huangfu tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the western road. Shifting the binoculars, Huangfu spotted Annja Creed’s rented SUV entering the town.





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