Donovans 02 - Jade Island

sure?” Kyle asked.
    “As sure as I can be without metallurgical tests,” Lianne said. “Gold doesn’t discolor, doesn’t tarnish, doesn’t corrode. It’s immortal, like the dead princes and emperors wished to be. But some of these threads are darkened by corrosion. Look here, where the thread has broken.”
    Kyle started for the stage.
    So did Farmer.
    “Sir,” Mary Margaret said, “your call.”
    “Reschedule it.”
    “But—yes, sir.”
    “Again,” Lianne continued, ignoring Farmer’s rush to the stage, “I would have to examine this more closely, but it appears that threads of copper or some metal were mixed in with the gold. Perhaps it’s simply an inferior alloy, such as ten carat gold, or even eight. Which raises questions about the validity of the suit as a whole. Gold was rare in China, but not so rare that the imperial family had to skimp on its burial goods.”
    “I agree,” April said. She twirled a twist of metal thread between her fingers, then dropped it on top of the stone suit. “If this is a modern fraud, whoever made it would be concerned about the quantity of pure gold required to sew the plaques together, not to mention the trim itself. The cost of gold would be considerable, particularly in China, where gold isn’t common.”
    Lianne took a small, high-powered magnifying glass from her purse and bent over the stone shroud. She studied several plaques closely, paying special attention to the holes that had been drilled so that metal thread could bind the pieces of serpentine together.
    “Machine-made,” she said, “not handmade. Every hole is the same size and the same distance from its neighbor. Machine-polished, too. The marks are quite clear.”
    For the first time, Lianne looked at April. “I’ll bet this shroud isn’t old enough to vote. What do you think?”
    “I agree.” April turned to Sun and spoke rapidly. The jade expert answered just as rapidly.
    Farmer didn’t say a word, but if the red on his cheekbones was any indication, he wasn’t a happy man.
    “What are they saying?” Kyle asked Lianne.
    “Sun Ming is reluctant to give up the idea of a genuine Han artifact,” she said calmly, “but he will, no matter how much his government enjoys yanking Uncle Sam’s chain. The visual evidence is compelling: the suit is fraudulent. With lab tests, it will be overwhelming.” She glanced away from the shroud and appeared to notice Farmer for the first time. “This is very difficult, Mr. Farmer. Nothing is harder than telling a collector that some particularly prized item is, um, less than it seems.”
    Farmer stared at Lianne as if she had just farted. Then he turned back to watch the argument between April and Sun. Even not understanding a single word of Chinese, he knew that the jade expert was going to give up before Sun did.
    With a hissing oath, Farmer turned and strode out of the theater. He didn’t bother to say good-bye to his guests.
     
    Wen sat in the Tang vault, arthritic hands resting on the carved jade dragon that crowned his walking stick. In his lap lay the magnificent Neolithic blade that Kyle had bought at auction and returned to its rightful owner, Wen Zhi Tang.
    Even Wen’s carefully tailored gray suit couldn’t conceal the increasing frailty of his body. Next to him, within reach of his gnarled hands, the jade suit gleamed in shades of immortal green. Pure gold stitched through the shroud like sunlight. Wen couldn’t see the colors, nor could his fingers discern the nuances of hand-polished jade. Yet the presence of the imperial burial suit comforted him, reminding him that the best of humanity transcended the worst.
    Lianne watched Wen with concern darkening her eyes. Kyle and Archer watched him with impassive faces. The past several days had been eventful for thefamily of Tang. The painful unraveling of the jade shroud’s odyssey showed in the strain and weariness on Joe Tang’s face.
    “First Son, is everyone here?” Wen asked in Chinese. His voice was a quiet rustling, like wind through dry grass.
    “Johnny stands at your left,” Joe said.
    As Lianne translated in a low voice for the Donovans, Kyle flicked a glance over the thinning white hair and fretful face of Number One Son. The handmade suit Joe wore was the same color as his father’s. The son’s frame was almost as slight, almost as stooped.
    “Daniel is at your right,” Joe continued. “I am in front of you. Lianne is behind me. Donald Donovan’s First and