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

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    Evelyn, shocked and disappointed, said, “Roger! What on earth is the meaning of this?”
    O’Connell said nothing, way ahead of his wife, for once.
    Wilson, with a smile that was almost as dead as General Yang’s eyes, pointed the weapon their way and said, “You have General Yang to thank for your son’s success. He’s the one who financed Alex’s dig. We’re all in this together, cheek by jowl.”
    Wilson edged over to Yang and handed him the Eye.
    “So you set us up, huh, Roger?” O’Connell said. “With friends like you, who needs betraying bastards?”
    “Now, Richard,” Wilson said. “We’re neither one of us angels.”
    “You may be soon,” O’Connell said, “but I wouldn’t count on it. You’ll likely be going in the opposite direction.”
    With a nod at O’Connell, Yang instructed Wilson, “Search him. He’s not the kind of man who goes anywhere unarmed.”
    Yang and the lovely, scarred colonel held their own sidearms on O’Connell as Wilson gave his old comrade a frisk. The result of the search was two .38 Smith & Wessons, from under either armpit, the curator tossing the guns across the marble floor, sending them skittering. But O’Connell noted where they’d gone . . .
    “The Eye of Shambhala,” Evelyn said, “belongs to the people of China. You can’t do this, Roger. You’ll die in disgrace.”
    Wilson said nothing, continuing his frisking of his former friend, finding a set of brass knuckles in O’Connell’s right-hand pocket, and plucking a butterfly knife from his waistband.
    Wilson said drily, “When you dress formally, Richard, you really go all out.”
    “Enjoy yourself, Roger. This won’t last long. So how much are Yin and Yang here paying you? What are the services of a snake running these days?”
    Wilson had just discovered a snub-nosed pistol strapped to O’Connell’s ankle. “Enough for me to pull some strings at the Foreign Office, and make sure you and your lovely wife were the ones chosen to deliver the Eye.”
    “Why us, Roger?”
    But it was Yang who answered: “For one thing, Mr. O’Connell, we trusted your wife’s expertise in handling such a precious artifact, and yours in protecting it. The Eye of Shangri-la, as some call it, contains the Elixir of Eternal Life. Mrs. O’Connell, I must impose upon you to open it.”
    Evy turned as white as her fur. Her eyes went to the sarcophagus and then back to the general in horrified realization. Taking a step back, she said, “My God, no. You . . . you mean to use it to awaken the Emperor, don’t you?”
    This time Wilson answered for the general: “Yes, indeed. But not just Er Shi Huangdi—his entire terra-cotta army.” Wilson shrugged as if they were discussing the weather. “That’s the general idea, at least.”
    O’Connell’s stomach was churning. “You people don’t know what you’re dealing with— we do. You do not want to unleash this kind of thing on the world. We, all of us, narrowly escaped when Imhotep returned, twice —and now you want to raise the most evil Emperor of them all from the dead?”
    “In a word,” Yang said, “yes.”
    “Raising one mummy is crazy—raising an army of them is bloody insane.”
    O’Connell lurched toward Yang and got the barrel of Wilson’s pistol across the back of his head for the trouble. While this was going on, Evy used the moment to go for the knife in the sheath on her thigh—no one had bothered to frisk her—but the big scar-faced beauty in the gray uniform was suddenly behind her, wresting the blade from Evy’s grasp.
    Yang shoved the groggy O’Connell toward the steps of the scaffolding.
    Wilson said, “Easy there, Richard. Time to open up the sarcophagus and wake our sleeping friend.”
    Yang had moved close to Evy and now held the precious gem with its golden-snakes setting out to her; on the golden oval base from which the snakes arose were etched letters in ancient Mandarin.
    “Read it,” the general demanded.