The Mummy Tomb of the Dragon Emperor by Max Allan Collins Page A

turned quickly, but saw nothing. Something familiar tickled his nostrils. A scent . . . what was that? Perfume? Where might he have smelled it before?
    He shrugged and moved on.
    He had not seen the shadowy form duck back into an alcove as he walked by, unaware he had passed the catlike female adversary with whom he’d tangled at the tomb of Er Shi Huangdi.
    Back in the rotunda, O’Connell had removed the Eye of Shambhala from its box and was presently idly bouncing the precious chunk of blue diamond in its oversized gold-snake setting in his palm as if the priceless artifact were a baseball. He was studying Evy as she studied the monument admiringly. Again, her pride in her son was evident; but so was her interest as an archaeologist and curator.
    Something else was evident: his wife was ravishingly beautiful tonight, in the slinky backless satin gown and the white furs. Funny how a guy could lose track of things like that . . .
    He said, “You know, you have a special glow tonight. I haven’t seen you light up like this for a long time.”
    She blushed—actually blushed! He felt good that he still could have that kind of effect on her.
    She said, “I guess maybe mummies bring out the young girl in me.”
    Their eyes met and their hands did, too, but the moment was interrupted by a voice from behind them: “Did you two take a wrong turn at Cairo?”
    They spun to see their old friend Roger Wilson, looking distinguished in a dark suit and bow tie; what little was left of his white hair was brushed back. To O’Connell, seeing his old friend all gussied up seemed quite at odds with his memory of the dusty, disheveled figure who had worked at his side on numerous digs.
    “Roger,” Evelyn said warmly.
    “Wilson,” O’Connell said, with a little edge, since this was after all the bad influence who had wooed Alex away from Harvard.
    “Sorry to interrupt, Richard, Evelyn,” Wilson said with a smile.
    “When Alex told me you’d gone legit,” O’Connell said, “I could hardly believe it. What’s this ‘Professor’ stuff, anyway?”
    Wilson shrugged. “Eminently respectable, that’s me—still pillaging tombs, only now in the name of preservation. I’m curator here, and a visiting lecturer at any number of colleges and universities.”
    O’Connell smirked. “Don’t remind me.”
    Evy gestured to the sarcophagus on the chariot and said, “Congratulations on your latest discovery.”
    Wilson waved a hand. “Alex deserves the lion’s share of credit. Hell of a lad you have there, Richard. He’s like the son I never had.”
    “Well,” O’Connell said, hands on hips, “he’s also the only son we ever had, so the next time you want to go globe-trotting with him, give us a heads-up first, okay?”
    “Of course.” Wilson folded his hands before a fairly ample middle mound. “Now, I believe you have something that belongs to the museum.”
    O’Connell hefted the Eye playfully, then handed it over to the curator. Wilson did not bounce the Eye of Shangri-la in his palm, rather held it there like the priceless treasure it was.
    “I knew I could count on you two,” he said.
    O’Connell frowned. Now it was Wilson who had an edge in his voice, and that odd tingling was back . . .
    From the shadows emerged two figures in gray military garb, both with blouses bearing odd three-headed-dragon insignias: a tall woman, lovely but with one cheek scarred, and a slender, dead-eyed, slightly shorter individual who carried himself with cold confidence.
    With the hand that did not bear the Eye, Wilson gestured presentationally. “Rick, Evelyn—I’d like you to meet my good friends—General Yang and Colonel Choi.”
    “A pleasure to meet such celebrated adventurers,” Yang said, with the tiniest of bows. “But I’m afraid your work, Mr. O’Connell, Mrs. O’Connell . . . is not quite done.”
    Both O’Connells wheeled toward their old friend, who produced a Colt 1911 as magically as Bugs Bunny does a