Necropolis

walls that had been painted yellow. The steps were decorated with a black-and-white mosaic, and there were miniature palms growing in neat beds along the side. There were clumps of trees behind the walls. They were still in leaf, filling the sky and blocking out any sight of the shops and apartments. It was like walking through a park. The driver got out of the car and signaled for us to follow him. We grabbed our bags and went about halfway up the stairs, until we came to a metal gate that swung open as we approached.
    It wasn't a park on the other side. It was a private garden with a courtyard, a marble fountain that had been switched off, and, beyond, a really amazing house built in a Spanish style. The house was painted yellow, like the wall, with green shutters on the windows and a balcony on the first floor. It looked a bit like an embassy, somewhere you weren't normally allowed. The house seemed to belong to its own world. It was right in the middle of Macao, and yet somehow it was outside it.
    "Quite a place," Richard said.
    The driver gestured and we went in.
    The front door also opened as we walked toward it. A woman was waiting for us on the other side. She was some sort of servant, dressed in a long, black dress with a gray shirt buttoned up to the neck. She bowed and smiled.

"Welcome to the home of Mr. Shan-tung. I hope you had a good journey. Please, will you come this way? I will take you to your rooms. Mr. Shan-tung invites you to join him for dinner at eight o'clock."
    It was one of the most beautiful houses I had ever seen. Everything was very simple but somehow arranged for maximum effect so that a single vase on a shelf, sitting under a spotlight, let you know that it was Ming or something and probably worth a million pounds. The floors were polished wood, the ceilings double height, the walls clean and white. As we went upstairs, we passed paintings by Chinese artists. They were very simple and clean, and they probably cost a fortune too.
    We all had bedrooms looking out over the garden, on the same floor—Jamie and me sharing, Richard on his own. The beds had already been turned down with sheets that looked brand-new. There was a TV
    and a fridge filled with Coke and fruit juice. It was like being in a five-star hotel, but (as Richard said) hopefully without the bill.
    We were all dirty and tired after so much traveling, and Jamie and I tossed a coin to see who got to shower first. I won and stood naked in a cubicle that would have been big enough to sleep in, with steaming water jetting at me from nine directions. There were robes to put on when we came out. Jamie went next. He was asleep before he was even dry.
    I would have liked to have slept.
    I've been thinking a lot about the library that I visited. Did I make the right decision? I didn't read the book, and I'm beginning to wish I had. Right now I'm just a forty-five-minute journey away from Hong Kong, and I have no idea what I will find there. The book would have told me. It might have warned me not to go.
    But it might also have told me when and how my life will end — and who would want to read that?
    It makes me think of a computer game that I used to play when I was living in Ipswich. It was an adventure, a series of puzzles that took you through a whole set of different worlds. Shortly after I met Kelvin, he showed me how to download a cheat. It gave me all the answers. It took away the mystery.
    Suddenly I knew everything I wanted — but here's the strange thing. I never played the game again. I just wasn't interested.
    Why did the Librarian show it to me? What was the point he was trying to make? And for that matter, who was he? He never even told me his name. When I think about it, the dreamworld really annoys me.
    It's supposed to help us, but all it ever gives us is puzzles and clues. I know that it's important to what's going to happen, that it's there for a reason. One day, perhaps, I'll find out what that reason is.
    I've written enough. It's twenty to eight. Time to wake Jamie and to meet our host. Han Shan-tung.
    Hong Kong is waiting for us. It's out there in the darkness, but I can feel it calling.
    Very soon now, I will arrive.
    TWENTY-FOUR
    Master of the Mountain
    Han Shan-tung was one of the most impressive men Matt had ever seen. He was like a bronze Buddha in a Chinese temple. He had the same presence, the same sense of power. He wasn't exactly fat, but he was very solid, built like a sumo wrestler. You could