To Conquer Heaven

By Felix Long

The lost Tomb of the First Emperor of China is about to be found.
But this powerful Taoist sorceror is not ... quite ... dead.

Love Indiana Jones? Love Jack Burton? Then you will love this.

Jeremy Wang is still smarting from being academically disgraced by his room mate, Brett East. But now Jeremy needs to enlist Brett’s help - because he’s found something ... a clue.

A clue to unravel one of history's greatest mysteries.

Where is the Tomb of the First Emperor of China?

A fiend so foul, he slaughtered entire civilisations in his insane quest to conquer the known world and form the mighty empire that bears his name to this day. 

To discover the Elixir of Life and defeat Death herself.

To rise again and conquer Heaven.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily for Emphasis
• Release date: Sep 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9780995353725

Felix Long

By day, Felix Long is a Technical Writer who specialises in bringing scientific research to as wide an audience as possible by breaking complex concepts into their constituent components and reassembling them in a more pleasing form.  By night, Felix dons mask and cape to write fiction based on solid fact and plausible conjecture. 

Book preview

Prologue

Silence.

Silence so profound it deadened the senses. Silence so heavy one might never hear again.

This was not the silence of peace. An air of expectation hung heavy over the mighty grey monoliths. Enormous rectangular menhirs, as ancient as creation and yet as smooth and slick as the exterior of a modern skyscraper.

They stood shoulder to shoulder forming a giant wall shielding the edge of an island. Set so close together a piece of paper could not be placed between them.

Forty–four in total, each mighty block set exactly at the auspicious angle of 8° from its neighbour. Set into the base of each eleventh stone was a triangular aperture punched through a thickness of stone wider than the embrace of Leonardo DaVinci's Vitruvian Man.

An evolution from henge to monumental fortification, the smooth faces of the monoliths marched away from sight, left and right, like giant dominos. The sight was perfectly reflected in the surrounding pool of shining silver extending outward further than the eye could see.

Above the silent sentinels rose rooftops, all framed in curved points. Black ridged and glistening, the roofs marched upward like the branches of an ancient, sombre and perfectly symmetrical tree.

The reflection was disturbed by a hexagonal tile tumbling from above. The piece of rubble hit the top of the wall and spun out across the silver pool in a gravity defying arc twinned by the reflection below. The tile hit the surface of the metallic pool. There was no splash. The surface plucked inward and swallowed the stone snowflake with a snap leaving the silver surface once again as taut as the skin of a balloon.

A faint rumble broke the perfect silence. A vibration shook the vast pool leaving a visible hum dancing across the surface like a thumped drum skin. Only for a moment. The vibration ceased. The distortion cleared. The reflection of the mighty citadel was restored.

— Rat —

The tao that can be described is not the eternal Tao.

The name that can be spoken is not the eternal Name.

The nameless is the boundary of Heaven and Earth.

The named is the Mother of Creation.

Freed from desire, you can see the hidden mystery.

By having desire, you can only see what is visibly real.

Yet mystery and reality emerge from the same source.

This source is called Darkness.

Darkness born from darkness.

The beginning of all understanding.

— Tao te Ching —

☯

Jeremy Wang alighted from the 19:45 Hong Kong–Macau ferry looking for Luck. If his find was genuine, he was going to need it.

He walked along the pier through the warm dead air contemplating the extraordinary anomaly that is Macau. The first European colony established in Asia, founded by the long–faded empire of Portugal in the sixteenth century and the last to be returned to China in the twentieth.

Built on the booming spice trade and surrounded by the most treacherous pirate–infested waters in the world, Macau had always turned risk into reward or ruin.

It seemed a natural progression to Jeremy that this hub of commerce and piracy should transform into the ultimate Asian gambling hub.

His keen black eyes caught his own sardonic grin reflected in the darkened window of a closed dockside restaurant. Smooth, handsome features, hair bronzed and cut in a popular style, clothes smart yet conservative. He looked as though he ought to blend right in with the bustling crowd of unknown but familiar faces. Yet, as always, he didn't. He changed his point of focus from his reflection to the dusty sign in the window of the failed restaurant; Re–opening soon.

Jeremy joined the flow of chattering pedestrians. To his left, over a row of parked buses, was his first glimpse of Macau. The grim skyscrapers and apartment blocks shrouded in smog and illuminated by flashing neon signs in red and gold didn't look much different from those he had left behind. As he walked on, the ferry terminal receded and the press of humanity lessened.

Most in the crowd were carefree, some were laughing. All seemed immune to the maddening stillness of the hot heavy air. Although the evening was getting late, the humidity sealed his shirt to his back with a thin film of sweat.

As Fisherman's Wharf hove into view Jeremy was struck by an urge to remark to an imaginary dog that they weren't in Hong Kong any more. A theme park filled with enormous follies dominated the wharf. Locals and tourists alike competed with each other to take the most exuberant or outlandish selfie in front of a replica of Rome's Colosseum, striking body builder poses and affecting kung–fu moves. Jeremy marvelled at how the natural reserve of his countrymen evaporated completely in front of a camera.

A false volcano towered forty meters above the replica ruin occasionally belching a half–hearted pyrotechnic display. Broad stairways ran up either side to a pair of entrances. One was open for business, admitting a steady stream of youths and emitting the sounds of electronic amusements. The other was dark and boarded up. Signs said Closed in three languages.

Jeremy wandered past Fisherman's Wharf into the city proper. The architecture slowly changed from shiny to grimy. Every city block held its own casino. Some were bright and flashy, modern and Western; signposted in English, French and Portuguese. Others were little more than grim non–descript doorways, guarded by a watchful doorkeeper.

Without realising it, he had turned off the main promenade and into steep sided back streets. He picked his way around small piles of rubbish and the occasional stray dog. Three street kids shrieked, laughed and jeered as they threw glass bottles at rats. A smell of stone dust hung in the air while the rumble of construction or destruction echoed along the alleyway chasm.

Chinese New Year was more than a month ago, yet faded red banners hung limp in the heavy air wishing good luck and prosperity.

Good luck. Boy could I use some of that, Jeremy thought, squinting at the characters. Hang on, is that right? He stopped to concentrate on the faded banner. Despite his parents' best efforts, his Mandarin literacy was quite poor. The characters read Increased Fortune; a steady improvement of one's prospects, not Good Luck; a single moment of serendipity. And in this context, there was a double entendre; Increased Fortune could also be read as Reversal of Fate.

The smashes of breaking bottles and squeals of harassed rats stopped. Hai Mista! The kids had spotted him. Cheap shoes flapped across the street as they ran up behind him.

How had a western upbringing marked him as a stranger? What subtle change to the deepest core of his being was visible to these three kids such that they addressed him in English? Was it his stance, his bearing or quiet confidence? What marked him as a foreigner in this strange familiar land?

Jeremy's eyes darted warily across the three kids as he jammed his fists into his pockets. The tallest boy waved a handful of tatty postcards at him gesticulating flamboyantly with a wide grin like a salesman displaying his finest wares. His smaller friend was moving in closer grinning all the while. The smallest of the trio was a thin ragged girl with the eyes of a kicked dog.

Jeremy ignored the older boy's obvious distraction glaring at the younger lad, warning him off. The youngster pressed in closer, smiling and chattering in a magpie–like stream of English sounding syllables. Jeremy felt a light touch on his unguarded back pocket. He kicked backward like a mule and heard a wail of pain. Jeremy withdrew his left fist from his pocket and flung a handful of coins behind the two boys. They pounced on the tiny shiny circles squabbling like seagulls over a discarded dinner.

The rumbled pickpocket lay on the curb behind him. She wore a tattered I ♥ NY t–shirt as a dress leaving her bony legs bare. Although she was small, she was older than she looked. The beginnings of breasts were budding through the thin cloth. Her eyes were wide with fright.

Ni er le ma? Are you hungry? Jeremy asked.

She nodded in surprise, either at his Mandarin or his mercy. The girl took his extended hand and got up, eying him warily.

Checking over his shoulder that the two boys were still eagerly gathering up the coins from the gutter, Jeremy took a banknote from his right pocket and offered it to her. She held out both hands in the shape of a begging bowl and accepted the money with a smile and a grateful nod. Finger shaped bruises were visible on her upper arms. Someone had shaken her roughly and recently.

Why would someone do that to a girl, even if they were wretched and starving? He sighed. She's probably not earning enough.

His inner cynic replied, Well, she'll be earning more soon enough.

Jeremy strode away from the kids, silently wishing them the dual blessing of increased fortune and reversal of fate lauded by the banner.

At a major intersection, Jeremy looked about for some signage while trying not to appear lost. The few signs he could see without slowing his stride were in Mandarin and he only recognised half the characters. Again he wished he had studied his native language a bit harder in his youth. He consoled himself with the thought that Mandarin, as the language of bureaucracy, was intentionally difficult to read.

He stepped out of the narrow alley into a wider, better lit street and marvelled afresh at how the world had changed, simply by turning a corner.

After passing the entrances of several inviting casinos, Jeremy stopped at a classic Macau fusion of Art Deco glamour and Asian glitz. The exterior was a cross between a London West End theatre and the office of the Daily Planet. He passed through the tall glass doors into a blessed wall of cool air. A lifetime in Canada had set his personal thermostat much lower than his ancestral land allowed.

A fractal pattern of golden palm fronds spread across the lobby floor. He made a quick sweep of the room. A reception desk and three brass fronted elevators lay to his left. The far end of the lobby was dominated by a sweeping white and grey marble staircase with brass bannisters leading to the upper floors. A wall of thick smoked glass with a large pair of brass handled doors lay to his right.

His entrance was observed by a greeter; a well–groomed non–descript muscular type wearing an earpiece. The greeter gave him a curt nod that was both a courteous greeting and permission to proceed.

Jeremy passed through the politely opened door, regretting for a moment his decision to throw his change at the street kids leaving him unable to tip the greeter. The doors opened into an antechamber containing an observation lounge from which one could see the main gaming pit below through a clear glass wall. The wall was a probably a one way mirror.

On the rear wall of the antechamber behind Jeremy was a bar staffed by an indifferent barmaid and stocked with a few hunch shouldered patrons. He approached the glass wall, grateful for the opportunity to discreetly observe the action without having to suffer the cacophony within.

Luck, luck, luck, thought Jeremy, watching delighted faces throw dice and blank faces ply cards. Where are you?

Jeremy scanned the room as methodically as a farmer works a field. Even at this late hour the tables were well patronised. He started at the Pai Gow tables bottom left, worked upward to the blackjack tables, across to Sic Bo, along the roulette and across to the next bank of tables where the game was poker. With a gaze firm enough to plough a furrow, his keen black eyes flicked over the face of every gambler in a montage of success and failure, exuberance and indifference. He finished at the slot machines on the far wall where a bank of elderly gamblers diligently plied their machines with coins like factory workers on an assembly line.

Smooth, almost uniformly well–dressed business men of many ethnicities rubbed shoulders with elderly tourists in garish souvenir shirts. All were watched with cool cunning by several prostitutes dotted about the pit. Jeremy noted each lavishly presented lady and the precise divisions of territory along the tables. A young apprentice was under the watchful eye of a madam posing as a gambler. In touting her wares the young woman stuck out her modest cleavage so far she was risking dislocation.

After ten minutes, Jeremy sighed in disappointment. He idly twirled the smooth tungsten ring on his right hand. He ran the ridges of his fingertips along the black engraved Greek letters. Σ φ Α. Sigma Phi Alpha. He turned to leave.

The flick and click of a Zippo at the bar caught Jeremy's attention. A small flame illuminated two faces. One, a very drunk Chinese man, lit a cigarette from the offered lighter and thanked the generous owner. The other face ought to be sporting a Stetson. Big chinned, good natured and homely with warm grey eyes topped with untidy sandy hair that looked two weeks overdue for a haircut. The silver Zippo was held in an enormous hand sporting an identical tungsten ring.

And there he was. Mister Lucky himself; Brett East. Often listed as 'B. East' and thus known to most as Beast; a misnomer as a character trait but apt as a physical description. Tall, rugged and not overly handsome, he was the only child of a Texan millionaire oilman; part good ole boy, part gentrified roughneck. He was usually an easy man to spot due to his impressive height of 6 foot 5 inches and a line backer physique.

Brett snapped the lid shut on his Zippo and placed it in his breast pocket. He returned to contemplating his glass of scotch.

Jeremy wandered up, slowly and obviously. Brett looked around. With a perfect double take, his face lit up and then dropped as Jeremy failed to reciprocate. Brett extended his hand and Jeremy shook it with a faint clink.

Jeremy, what a surprise! How did you find me? Brett's deep voice boomed into the still antechamber, ruffling the other patrons' cocoons of isolation.

I just followed the trail of broken hearts and status updates.

Well, it's good to see you bro. Brett caught the attention of the bored barmaid, pointed at his own drink and then at Jeremy waving off Jeremy's polite objection. The drunk Chinese smoker got up unsteadily, smiled at Jeremy and staggered, almost diagonally, to the lobby door where he was taken in hand by the greeter. Jeremy took a seat on the vacated stool next to Brett.

Good to see you too, Beast. So ... Jeremy paused. He had rehearsed his pitch in the mirror so many times. Now that the moment had come, his confidence fled. How's the action?

Great. Too great. Brett ran his thick fingers through his untidy sandy hair. I got banned. Again.

Bummer.

Yeah, well I'm thirty grand up, so ... I dunno. Monaco next, I guess. Brett gave a deep sigh. Behind the bravado, the sound of weariness and loneliness escaped from his lungs.

So I guess you paid your dad back. Jeremy instantly regretted the comment. Brett's congenial face clouded over. There was a long pause, during which Jeremy's drink arrived. Brett paid with a $50 chip and a 'keep the change' gesture. Even that didn't raise a smile from the glum waitress.

I'm hoping to do the same, said Jeremy.

Brett looked across at him, now curious, and raised his glass. Well, here's to college roomies reunited.

Jeremy smiled and returned the toast, To increased fortunes. As they sculled, the alternative translation whispered through his mind. And reversal of Fate. He manfully managed to keep the drink down for a second and then exploded in a fit of coughs. Jeremy's embarrassment brought great mirth to his old friend.

Brett gave him a few slaps on the back. Still can't hold your liquor, huh?

Brett ordered another round. They sat together in a moment of mutual remembrance at their shared predicament. Allocated as first year roommates by blind ballot they had got on surprisingly well despite being polar opposites. Brett took instantly to his quiet studious new friend, recognising his potential as both tutor and designated driver.

Together they had pledged to the Sigma Phi Alpha fraternity. Brett embraced his role as the brawn of the duo, employing his ox–like strength to shoulder the brunt of the drinking challenges, stupid dares and physical trials surrounding admission. Jeremy had kept his half of the unspoken bargain, checking Brett's written work before submission, insisting on library visits and saving Brett from the worst of his drunken antics.

It had all been going so well.

So Jeremy, said Brett, where have you been these last three years?

London, mostly. Jeremy scratched at his left back pocket nervously.

Travelling?

"Working. To restore my father's faith in me.

Brett held up his hands, Okay, I can hear the same old lecture coming.

No, no, replied Jeremy, I accept that I was complicit in my own downfall.

Your downfall? Brett took a big gulp of scotch. Shit, you'd think we were talking high treason here, not some college road trip.

On the weekend before final exams, Jeremy insisted.

You were a total joy vacuum. It was about time you had some fun.

To Las Vegas! Jeremy grinned despite himself, at the sheer stupidity of what had seemed like a great idea at the time.

Brett grinned back and continued, conciliatory but unapologetic. Look, you poor Chinese kids are ridden so hard from the moment you're potty trained to bring wealth and honour to your ancestors it's amazing you don't just spontaneously combust. It's like some Euripedean tragedy.

Wow, you did learn something at college, said Jeremy.

Brett shrugged turning his glass slowly between his huge hands, Sooo ... whatcha working on?

Ah. That's why I'm here.

Ooh. Brett waggled his fingers and raised his eyebrows. Mysterious. I like that.

Jeremy smiled, but held his peace. Brett took the hint. They finished their drinks and left.

After some drunken meanderings involving the discovery of an open liquor store and a drawn out transaction with a taxi driver unfortunately named Ernest Ho, they found Brett's hotel room.

Jeremy closed the door and leaned against it, arms crossed, left hand pinching the bridge of his nose, gathering his thoughts and wondering where to begin.

Brett sloshed liquor into two glasses. Jer! Enough wind–up. Make your pitch.

Okay. After you dropped out, cashed in your college fund before your dad could find out, and began drinking, whoring and gambling in earnest, I re sat my exams at my own expense, got a shit job and a loan and finished my degree. Jeremy walked over to Brett, picked up one of the glasses and took a slug. Then I got another loan and got my higher degree. After that, I got a visiting fellowship at Oxford and another shit job and another loan. So I've spent five years studying full time and working eight hours a night, waiting tables on minimum wage taking racist abuse from jumped up bully boy banker types who then drop a fifty quid tip on me. Not as an apology, but as an insult. Jeremy's voice rose from calm to storm. Brett listened impassively gulping his scotch.

And this is my fault for dragging you off to Vegas five years ago? Brett took another slug. Where you woke up with your first hangover and your first tattoo after your first lay?

My father hasn't spoken to me since. Jeremy sagged like a leaking balloon. An awkward silence fell between the two men; a pair of prodigal sons.

Look, said Jeremy, I know this isn't a lot to go on, but I've found something. Something big. And I need your help.

Sounds like you need my money.

That too, Jeremy conceded. I'm flying to Beijing tomorrow morning.

Why?

To talk to a man about a horse.

Ahh... Brett thumped down heavily on the bed. He misjudged by a few inches and slid onto the floor. Jeremy guffawed and went to help him up. Quick as a flash, Brett grabbed his wrist and pulled him over. They wrestled about on the floor, kicking chairs and knocking over lamps. Brett's natural advantage of size and strength was impaired by his inebriation but he had the upper hand. He put Jeremy into a headlock and rubbed his knuckles into Jeremy's scalp with a throaty chuckle. At that point, Jeremy managed to get one foot underneath him, grabbed Brett by the scruff of the neck and with a mighty heave, threw Brett's bulk over his shoulder onto the floor with a crash. Brett lay there giggling and wincing.

We're not frat boys anymore, said Jeremy.

Brett's giggling faded as he got up. He gave Jeremy a quick shove. Okay. I'm in.

What! I haven't told you anything!

Brett smiled at Jeremy's astonishment. You've found something interesting in London. He began counting on his fingers. It's got potential. You're convinced enough to bring me in. I owe you one. And it'll be fun. He grabbed the bottle and brandished it aloft as though it were Excalibur freshly drawn from the stone.

To adventure! he took a swig, handed it to Jeremy, fell down on the bed and passed out.

Jeremy felt the tide of his ill luck turning.

To adventure. He raised the bottle of scotch in salute and took a sip to seal the toast. He settled in an armchair and rolled his eyes as Brett started snoring like a hibernating bear.

— Ox —

Humanity follows the earth.

Earth follows Heaven.

Heaven follows the Tao.

The Tao follows only itself.

— Tao te Ching —

☯

It was sunrise over Beijing. Brett looked out his airplane window at the world's largest building below.

Twice the size of the Pentagon, completed in a record breaking time of four years for the opening of the Olympic Games, under budget and without a hitch... The cute little air hostess was merrily lecturing the passengers with the sort of patriotic zeal that would have made Chairman Mao proud.

The new Beijing Airport Terminal Three building is feng shui compliant and essential in progressing the expansion of China's trade and cultural prominence...

Brett tuned out pondering on the phrase 'feng shui compliant'. Like most westerners he only had a rudimentary grasp of the ancient Chinese system of geomancy. A set of odd superstitious rules governing the placement and layout of buildings. Feng shui must be to building codes what kosher is to food; a series of common sense principles given importance by repetition and mysticism. How is something authorised as 'feng shui compliant' he wondered. Is there a Chinese Ministry of Magic?

Settling back in his seat, Brett closed his eyes to lessen the throb in his temples. He weighed the irritation of fetching the Aspirin bottle from the overhead compartment against the relief it would bring and decided not to bother. His constitution would soon conquer his hangover. It always did.

What am I doing? He vaguely remembered a drunken pact to help Jeremy do something important with something interesting he had found somewhere. Brett was too proud to ask about the details and too honourable to try to wriggle out of it. Whatever it was, it obviously had something to do with the brown leather cylindrical case slung over Jeremy's shoulder and across his chest.

Since collecting it from a hotel safe, Jeremy would not take it off or put it down. The case was about as round as a man's two handed grasp and just over a metre long. A leather strap secured both ends. Jeremy cradled it in his arms as tenderly as though it were his first born child.

Jeremy wasn't being deliberately coy; he was bursting with the strain of keeping a delicious secret. Each time Brett had managed to tease a clue from him, the proximity of other people had forced discretion. So far, Brett had managed to glean that the case held an artefact, probably a map, containing information Jeremy considered to be valuable. However, there was a catch. Jeremy couldn't read it. The writing was in a dead language more than two thousand years old. Only a handful of people in the world could read it and Jeremy had arranged a meeting with one of them in Beijing.

It's a magical mystery tour. Brett sighed and opened his eyes to see Jeremy leaning across him staring out the window, his black eyes reflecting the lights of the mighty metropolis below.

Haven't you ever been to Beijing before? asked Brett.

No. A smile of excitement played about his lips. Brett started to get up, indicating to Jeremy that he was yielding the window seat. Jeremy declined by putting up his hands. Brett persisted with his offer until the whole, rather embarrassing, dance was brought to an end by the ding of the Fasten Seatbelts sign.

Brett exhaled at the quick scud as the plane kissed the runway.

The plane taxied to the terminal building. The Fasten Seatbelts light switched off with another ding which the three hundred occupants took as a starting pistol. In the ensuing hustle Brett stood head and shoulders above the crowd and did his best not to abuse this advantage. He handed down Jeremy's flight bag from the overhead luggage compartment and then retrieved his own. He also fetched a neighbouring bag for a tiny old lady only to be nearly flattened by its tremendous weight. She placed her right fist into her left hand in a gesture of thanks, bowed and hefted the bag onto her shoulder. Brett could only blink in astonishment.

The scale of the terminal was breathtaking. Brett's eyes travelled upward, ever upward to the dizzying height of the flattened dome ceiling. The shining white arcs of the roof supports marched ahead, dwindling away into the distance like the gills and spine of a gigantic sea creature as seen from within.

Someone brushed past him breaking the spell. Brett had stopped dead in the middle of the busy causeway. With his mouth open. Feeling like a slack jawed yokel, he looked about for Jeremy and found him a few feet away in an identical pose.

Brett extended his arms and spun on his heel in a full circle of awe. His hands passed harmlessly over the heads of the crowd. He felt like Jonah, inside the belly of the whale. The chaotically driven baggage trains worming their way through the crowd did little to dispel the mental image.

They found their luggage carousel and waited toward the back of the courteously quarrelling crowd.

Is this where we're meeting him? asked Brett through a stifled yawn.

Hmm? Jeremy was lost in thought.

Brett spotted his suitcase through a small gap in the crowd. He retrieved it with the deft accuracy born of his days as a line backer.

The guy. The doctor. Brett affected a Hoboken accent. Yah know, the dachtah? The man wid tha plan?

I'm the man with the plan, scowled Jeremy, Professor Shen is just helping us out with some details.

You're the man with the map. A map you can't read. You have no plan. Admit it.

Jeremy scowled and returned his attention to the baggage carousel.

Wow, who's Lady Marmalade? murmured Brett gesturing toward an attractive lady wearing khaki linens and a tasteful scarf. She was carrying a backpack and pulling a trolley bag. Jeremy brushed past her as he made an inelegant lunge for his bag as it cleared a gaggle of grannies.

She was Middle Eastern or possibly North African in appearance. She had a wide squarish face, with prominent cheekbones, and a shoulder length tumble of tight black curls pushed back from a widow's peak and secured with a silver hair comb. Her smooth skin was a dark olive shade, her full lips neither smiled nor pouted. She carried herself with an aristocratic dignity, yet as her deep green eyes swept the faces in the crowd around them, she did not seem at all haughty.

Growwl. Mocha Chocolatay Yah Yahs. Brett held up his hands making a 'honk honk' gesture as Jeremy joined him lugging his bag.

Beast! That is enough. We are in my homeland and you will be considered my guest. Stop behaving like a heathen.

Brett leered at the arse of 'Lady Marmalade' as she moved ahead of them. Voulez vous couche avec moi? He stifled a yelp as Jeremy swiftly kicked him in the ankle. Brett grinned, pleased at taunting a reaction from his serious friend. Say Jeremy, you speak French, what does that actually mean?

Would you like to sleep with me? The voice that answered spoke in well–educated English with no discernible accent. 'Lady Marmalade' had turned around and was regarding them with cool amusement.

Doctor Wang? She placed a questioning emphasis on the word 'Doctor'. Jeremy extended his hand, Yes, I'm Jeremy Wang. I'm still working on the Doctor part. Hello. As she shook Jeremy's hand, Brett saw a tattoo on her inner wrist.

I'm Doctor Saffiyah Halcyone, Professor Shen's research assistant. And this is? She glared across at Brett.

Oh, this is Brett East. My err...

Sidekick. Brett grinned and offered his hand.

Saffiyah paused for a moment before shaking it. She gave a cool smile. Of course.

Her sharp green eyes flicked down to the leather cylinder case across Jeremy's chest. She gave Jeremy an 'Is that it?' look. Jeremy closed his arms over it protectively and gave a nod.

Brett broke the awkward pause by clapping his hands together and rubbing them. Well we look like drug smugglers or terrorists. Let's get out of here before someone fetches the rubber gloves. Brett took Saffiyah's bag noting from the tag that she had just flown in from Xi'an.

I'm parched. Where's the bar? Brett set off with the purposeful tread of a man in search of a drink. They found an airport bar within fifty paces and settled at a table. Jeremy placed his back to the wall, removed his jacket and slid his precious burden between his shoulder blades like a quiver of arrows.

A waiter came over. He addressed the lady first in excellent English. May I take your order?

Kai bing shui, she replied.

Oh, you speak Mandarin? Jeremy said holding up his right forefinger and thumb to the waiter.

Yeeees... the rest of the statement, 'Don't you?' was clearly written on her face.

He's Canadian, said Brett. His French is better than his Mandarin. He turned to the waiter. Scotch on the rocks please. Despite the early hour, the waiter took the