The Emperor's Tomb Part 63

"Are you always so depressing?"

He shook his head. "Not anymore. I am free. I know you to be a capable woman when I first see you. I am glad you do not shoot me back there."

"How did you know that I might?"

"Not hard to realize. But you are good person. You don't pull a trigger unless necessary."

"How would you know that?"

He pointed to her face. "It is there. I take a chance with you. Much better than trusting Russians."

She smiled. "I a.s.sume that's a compliment?"

He gave her a slight bow. "Most respectful."

This man had saved her life. She owed him. "Thanks," she said. "For everything."

He pointed to what she thought was west. "Village is not far. You can make it there on foot and find your way back to Sofia. I go this way." He pointed south. "My wife waits for me."

"You must love her so much."

"I do. She is with child. My child. I hope it is a son."

He extended a hand, which she shook.

"Too bad about tomb," he said. "Probably destroyed."

She shrugged. "Not necessarily. It's been there a long time. We'll come back and dig it out."

He nodded. "Good-bye. Take care."

She watched as he trotted off toward a thick stand of trees. She couldn't just let him leave. "Comrade Sokolov."

He stopped and turned.

"I can get you out of the country," she said. "You'll need some money. I can make it easier."

He shook his head. "Getting away from those men inside mountain. That was what I need your help for. I am okay. We both get what we want."

That they did.

"You take care, too," she said to him.

He smiled. "Who knows? Maybe one day you return favor."

Maybe so, she thought.

For Fran Downing, Frank Green, Lenore Hart,

David Poyer, Nancy Pridgen,

Clyde Rogers, and Daiva Woodworth

Teachers extraordinaire

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

To the folks at Random House: Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Cindy Murray, Kim Hovey, Katie O'Callaghan, Beck Stvan, Carole Lowenstein, Rachel Kind, and all those in promotions and sales. Once again, thanks.

To Mark Tavani, thanks for being a persistent editor.

To Pam Ahearn I offer a ninth bow of grat.i.tude and my continued appreciation.

To Simon Lipskar, I deeply appreciate your wisdom and guidance.

A few special mentions: Charlie Smith, who performed some much-appreciated reconnoitering in China; Grant Blackwood, a superb thriller writer who saved me from falling in Denver; Els Wouters, who provided, on short notice, vital on-site research in Antwerp; Esther Levine for opening doors at the terra-cotta warrior exhibit; Bob and Jane Stine, who stimulated my imagination over lunch and connected me with "Julia" Xiaohui Zhu; James Rollins for once again helping save the day; Michele and Joe Finder, who offered some sage advice; Meryl Moss and her wonderful staff; Melisse Shapiro, who is more helpful than she could ever realize; and Esther Garver and Jessica Johns who keep History Matters and Steve Berry Enterprises running.

I also want to say thank you to every one of my readers around the world. I appreciate your loyal support, insightful comments, infectious enthusiasm, and, yes, even your criticisms. You are what keeps me writing every day.

And there's Elizabeth-critic, cheerleader, editor, wife, muse. The whole package.

Finally, this book is dedicated to Fran Downing, Frank Green, Lenore Hart, David Poyer, Nancy Pridgen, Clyde Rogers, and Daiva Woodworth. Together, they showed me how to teach myself to be a writer.

Whether I succeeded is still a matter of debate.

One thing, though, is clear.

Without their influence, nothing ever would have been printed.

Read on for an excerpt from THE.

COLUMBUS.

AFFAIR.

by STEVE BERRY.

Published by Ballantine Books

ONE.

Tom Sagan gripped the gun. He'd thought about this moment for the past year, debating the pros and cons, finally deciding that one pro outweighed all cons.

He simply did not want to live any longer.

He'd once been an investigative reporter for the Los Angeles Times, knocking down a high six-figure salary, his byline generating one front-page, above-the-fold story after another. He'd worked all over the world-Sarajevo, Beirut, Jerusalem, Beijing, Belgrade, Moscow. His confidential files had been filled with sources who'd willingly fed him leads, knowing that he'd protect them at all costs. He'd once proved that when he spent eleven days in a D.C. jail for refusing to reveal his source on a story about a corrupt Pennsylvania congressman.

The congressman went to prison.

Sagan received his third Pulitzer nomination.

There were twenty-one awarded categories. One was for distinguished investigative reporting by an individual or team, reported as a single newspaper article or a series. Winners received a certificate, $10,000, and the ability to add three precious words-Pulitzer Prize winner-to their name.

He won his.

But they took it back.

Which seemed the story of his life.

Everything had been taken back.

His career, his reputation, his credibility, even his self-respect. In the end he came to see himself as a failure in each of his roles-reporter, husband, father, son. A few weeks ago he'd charted that spiral on a pad, identifying that it all started when he was twenty-five, fresh out of the University of Florida, top third in his cla.s.s, with a journalism degree.

And his father disowned him.

Abiram Sagan had been unrelenting. "We all make choices. Good. Bad. Indifferent. You're a grown man and made yours. Now I have to make mine."

And that he had.

On that same pad he'd jotted down the highs and lows that came after. His rise from a news a.s.sistant to staff reporter to senior international correspondent. The awards. Accolades. The respect from his peers. How had one observer described his style? Wide-ranging and prescient reporting conducted at great personal risk.

Then, his divorce.

The estrangement from his only child. Poor investment decisions. Even poorer life decisions.

Finally, his firing.

Eight years ago.

And since then-nothing.

Most of his friends had abandoned him, but that was as much his fault as theirs. As his depression deepened, he'd withdrawn into himself. Amazingly, he hadn't turned to alcohol or drugs, but neither had ever appealed to him. Self-pity was his intoxicant.

He stared around at the house's interior. He'd decided to die here, in his parents' home. Fitting, in some morbid way. Thick layers of dust and a musty smell evidenced the three years the rooms had sat empty. He'd kept the utilities on, paid the meager taxes, and had the lawn tended just enough so the neighbors wouldn't complain. Earlier, he'd noticed that the sprawling mulberry tree out front needed tr.i.m.m.i.n.g and the picket fence painting. But he'd long ignored both ch.o.r.es, as he had the entire interior of the house, keeping it exactly as he'd found it, visiting only a few times.

He hated it here.

Too many ghosts.

He walked the rooms, conjuring a few childhood memories. In the kitchen he could still see jars of his mother's fruit and jam that once lined the windowsill. He should write a note, explain himself, blame somebody or something. But to whom? And for what? n.o.body would believe him if he told them the truth.

And would anyone care when he was gone?

Certainly not his daughter. He'd not spoken to her in two years. His literary agent? Maybe. She'd made a lot of money off him. Ghostwriting novels paid big-time. What had one critic said at the time of his downfall? Sagan seems to have a promising career ahead of him writing fiction.

a.s.shole.

But he'd actually taken the advice.

He wondered-how does one explain taking his own life? It's, by definition, an irrational act, which, by definition, defies rational explanation. Hopefully, somebody would bury him. He had plenty of money in the bank, more than enough for a respectable funeral.

What would it be like to be dead?

Are you aware? Can you hear? See? Smell? Or is it simply an eternal blackness? No thoughts. No feeling. Nothing at all.

He walked back toward the front of the house.

Outside was a glorious March day, the noontime sun bright. He stopped in the open archway and stared at the parlor. That was what his mother had always called the room. Here was where his parents had gathered on Shabbat. Where Abiram read from the Torah. The place where Yom Kippur and Holy Days had been celebrated. He stared at the pewter menorah on the far table and recalled it burning many times. His parents had been devout Jews. After his bar mitzvah he, too, had first read from the Torah, standing before the room's twelve-paned windows, framed by damask curtains his mother had taken months to sew. She'd been talented with her hands. What a lovely woman. He missed her. She died six years before Abiram, who'd now been gone for three.