Chapter 15
Vivien zoomed in on the map of Shaanxi.
Tighter. Tighter. Until only one city remained.
Xi’an.
The city had been great once. But time had passed it by.
Its population left to scratch out a living from pomegranates and sweet persimmons and coal.
That is, until a few decades ago when a farmer digging a well made one of the most remarkable discoveries in the world.
One that had changed the destiny of the city. And young Vivien Li.
She pushed herself out of her desk chair and took two books off the shelves.
Sitting back down, she placed a veined hand on the top one. It was a long, slender volume he’d given her before he was her husband. When they were in that first blush of young love. Students in a valiant, romantic, but hopeless battle.
He hadn’t just given her the book, he’d made it. Drawn the pictures, then bound it. For her. With his own hands. As though in doing so, he was also binding them together.
Now, decades later, she felt the soft cover under her palm, half expecting to feel a heartbeat.
His. Hers.
There were, of course, much better publications documenting what that farmer had stumbled upon on March 29, 1974. Historians, archaeologists, scientists from all over the world had gone to Xi’an to study the thousands of clay figures.
The Terracotta Army had been hidden, in hiding. Buried beside another discovery. The undisturbed tomb of Emperor Qin Shi Huang. The First Emperor. The man who’d united China. Built the Great Wall. And created this immortal army to guard his necropolis.
When they were still students, Liu had taken her to meet his family in Xi’an.
Even after the end of the Cultural Revolution and its terrible excesses, people were still informing on relatives, friends, neighbors. In exchange for favor from the local regime.
It was during that visit that Liu had taken her to see the warriors, a find as yet unpublicized. She’d stood on the edge of the pit and stared. Not believing her eyes.
Who could conceive of such a thing?
Though they knew the answer to that. Qin Shi Huang. A brilliant tyrant, a genius, and a lunatic. A visionary and a brute.
It seemed to young Vivien a sort of miracle, as though this mighty army had emerged just when China needed the reminder of the glory that once was. Vivien had stared at it, clinging to Liu’s hand. Feeling herself falling in love with both the man and the sight.
This was, Vivien recognized immediately, not just rows of clay figures. This was an idea. And like most ideas, it was immortal and powerful. She was looking at what had once been and could be again.
Though it was impossible to resurrect the army, she could, she thought, breathe new life into the idea. Of a China risen from the dirt and corruption and brutality of recent decades.
What she and Liu created that day would be not just dissent but defiance.
Like the emperor who’d had the Great Wall built, who’d built this Terracotta Army over generations, their own project would require a similar patience.
Fortunately, they were young and had time.
Lifting her veined hand off the book and setting it aside, she opened the other book.
And once again studied the image of Pangu, the god of creation and destruction.
Then Vivien Li got up, put on her suit of armor in the form of the Shanghai Tang jacket, and left her study.
It was time.
Wang Lai emerged from his stupor and looked around.
He was in his office. How he got there, he didn’t know. These spells were getting more and more frequent. His confusion more pronounced. What he did know, though, was that his old friend was set to replace him as head of the MSS.
But under his stewardship, the MSS had built an AI factory that was creating confusion with its masterful illusions masquerading as reality. This cognitive hacking was one of Double Dragon’s, one of his, greatest successes.
Because of him, the Chinese government was in places people didn’t know existed. Places even Chen Jiayang didn’t know existed.
Wang was the architect of it all. He’d be damned if he’d give it all up now.
He looked at the black-and-white photo next to his dirty coffee mug. The little girl holding the embroidery. And once again, his mind drifted off.
The door opened and Chen’s private secretary walked in and whispered, “The American ambassador is at Xinhua Gate and is refusing to leave. She’s demanding to see you.”
“他妈的,” Chen muttered under his breath. Fuck. He waved him away without an answer.
“The Chinese ambassador is here, sir.”
“Show him in and let me know when everyone’s assembled for the meeting.” He chose not to call it a crisis meeting, though that’s what it was. He paused. “Any word?”
“I’m monitoring. Firefighters are there. They’ll have him out soon.”
Pardington heaved a sigh and nodded to his Chief of Staff. “Show him in.”
Normally, as a power move and slight humiliation, Pardington would have made the ambassador pay for what his country was doing by having him cool his heels in the outer office. But not this time.
The older dignified man, a renowned scholar, was shown into the Oval Office. He’d been his country’s most senior representative in the West for many years and was a close confidant of President Chen.
Pardington was not fooled by the extreme politesse or the dignity of the man. Here was someone who’d once led a Red Guard brigade.
Stopping a few feet from the President, who’d remained seated, the ambassador gave a deep bow and remained there. Waiting.
Waiting.
President Pardington finally stood and greeted the man. “Mr. Ambassador.”
“Mr. President. I hope you know, sir, that China is not responsible for this outrage.”
He clearly knew why he’d been summarily summoned.
“Then perhaps you can explain why we have proof that the signal to stop all the elevators came from within your country. From Shaanxi province, to be exact.”
It was a lie, of course. At the very least a ploy. They had no actual proof. No hard evidence. But Pardington felt he had no choice, and ample reason to believe time would prove him right.
“I have not heard that. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”
The two stood facing each other; the more polite they were, the greater the tension.
“What I would like to do is speak to President Chen. I suspect he can enlighten us both.”
“I’m afraid he’s indisposed.”
“Not on an elevator, I hope.”
The ambassador gave a tiny involuntary smile. “As do I.”
Once again, Kathleen appeared and whispered in the President’s ear. Then stepped away.
“We have confirmation,” President Pardington said to the ambassador. “The signal not only originated in Shaanxi, but we’ve narrowed it down.”
The ambassador raised a brow, very slightly. “Is that so.”
He did not seem surprised, nor did he appear to believe the President. Probably, thought Pardington, the ambassador knew perfectly well the signal came from China. He just didn’t believe they had proof.
“Méicuò. Tā láizì Xi’an, Shaanxi.” Yes, that is so, the President had said. Naming the province, Shaanxi. And even the city, Xi’an.
“Your Mandarin is very good, Mr. President.”
“But your artifice is slipping, Mr. Ambassador.”
The elderly man drew himself up. “I must have misunderstood you just now. Perhaps my English is not as good as your Mandarin.”
“Then let me repeat what I just said, in Mandarin.” Which he did, watching the seasoned diplomat. Never in his decades on the job smoothing the way for his political bosses had the ambassador been spoken to so baldly.
“I believe all that is left for me to say is that you are wrong. My government is not to blame for what is happening. Good day, Mr. President.”
“But I’m not finished. I know that your elevators have stopped too. I also know about Pangu.”
The Chinese ambassador did not break his step, though his back had stiffened as though a sharp object had found its mark.
As he reached the door, it suddenly opened and an assistant appeared, a look of horror on his face that could only mean one thing.
“The elevators in Türkiye have fallen.”
Chen rose to his feet.
A junior administrator had barged in, bowed quickly, then announced the news.
The elevators in Türkiye had fallen.