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He ignored her insulting tone. “And how is our patient?”
The First Infectious Disease Hospital, located just outside Chongqing, cared for nearly two thousand people afflicted with either tuberculosis or hepatitis. It was one of eight facilities scattered throughout the country, each a forbidding complex of gray brick surrounded by green fences, places where the contagious could be safely quarantined. But the security these hospitals enjoyed also made them ideal for the housing of any sick prisoners from the Chinese penal system.
Like Jin Zhao, who’d suffered a brain hemorrhage ten months ago.
“He’s lying in his bed, as he’s done since the first day he was brought here,” the doctor said. “He clings to life. The damage is enormous. But—again, per your order—no treatment has been administered.”
He knew she hated his usurpation of her a
uthority. Gone were Mao’s obedient “barefoot doctors,” who, according to the official myth, had willingly lived among the masses and dutifully cared for the sick. And though she was the hospital’s chief administrator, Tang was the national minister of science and technology, a member of the Central Committee, first vice premier of the Chinese Communist Party, and first vice president of the People’s Republic of China—second in power only to the president and premier himself.
“As I made clear last time, Doctor,” he said, “that was not my order, but the directive of the Central Committee, to which I, and you, owe absolute allegiance.”
He voiced the words for the benefit of not only the foolish woman but also the three members of his staff and two captains from the People’s Liberation Army who stood behind him. Each military man wore a crisp green uniform with the red star of the motherland emblazoned on his cap. One of them was surely an informant—reporting most likely to more than one benefactor—so he wanted any account to speak glowingly of him.
“Take us to the patient,” he calmly commanded.
They walked down halls lined with lettuce-green plaster, cracked and lumpy, lighted by weak fluorescent fixtures. The floor was clean but yellowed from endless moppings. Nurses, their faces hidden by surgical masks, tended to patients clad in striped blue-and-white pajamas, some wearing brown robes, looking much like prisoners.
They entered another ward through a set of swinging metal doors. The room beyond was spacious, enough for a dozen or more patients, yet only one lay in a single bed beneath dingy white sheets.
The air stank.
“I see you left the linen alone,” he said.
“You did order me to do so.”
Another mark in his favor for the informant to report. Jin Zhao had been arrested ten months ago, but had suffered a hemorrhage during questioning. He was subsequently charged with treason and espionage, tried in a Beijing court, and convicted, all in absentia since he’d remained here, in a coma.
“He is just as you left him,” the doctor said.
Beijing lay nearly a thousand kilometers to the east and he supposed that distance bolstered this woman’s nerve. You may rob the Three Armies of their commander in chief, but you cannot deprive the humblest peasant of his opinion. More of Confucius’ nonsense. Actually the government could, and this insolent bitch should heed that fact.
He motioned and one of the uniforms led her across the room.
He approached the bed.
The man lying prostrate was in his mid-sixties, his dirty hair long and unkempt, his emaciated frame and sunken cheeks reminiscent of those of a corpse. Bruises splotched his face and chest, while intravenous lines snaked from both arms. A ventilator fed air in and out of his lungs.
“Jin Zhao, you have been found guilty of treason against the People’s Republic of China. You were afforded a trial, from which you lodged an appeal. I regret to inform you that the Supreme People’s Court has approved your execution and denied your appeal.”
“He can’t hear a word you’re saying,” the doctor said from across the room.
He kept his eyes down on the bed. “Perhaps not, but the words must be spoken.” He turned and faced her. “It is the law, and he is entitled to proper process.”
“You tried him without him even being there,” she blurted out. “You never heard a word he had to say.”
“His representative was afforded the opportunity to present evidence.”
The doctor shook her head in disgust, her face pale with hate. “Do you hear yourself? The representative never had the opportunity to even speak with Zhao. What evidence could possibly have been presented?”
He couldn’t decide if the informant’s eyes and ears belonged to one of his staff or one of the army captains. Hard to know anything for sure anymore. All he knew was that his report to the Central Committee would not be the only retelling, so he decided to make clear, “Are you sure? Not once has Zhao communicated anything?”
“He was beaten senseless. His brain is destroyed. He will never awaken from the coma. We keep him alive simply because you—no, excuse me, the Central Committee—ordered it.”
He caught the disgust in the woman’s eyes, something else he’d seen more and more of lately. Especially from women. Nearly the entire hospital staff—doctors and nurses—were women. They’d made great strides since Mao’s Revolution, yet Tang still adhered to the adage his father had taught him. A man does not talk about affairs inside the home, and a woman does not talk about affairs outside.
This insignificant doctor, employed at a minor state-run hospital, was incapable of understanding the enormity of his challenge. Beijing ruled a land that stretched five thousand kilometers east to west and more than three thousand north to south. Much was uninhabitable mountains and desert, some of the most desolate regions in the world, only 10% of the country arable. Nearly one and a half billion people—more than America, Russia, and Europe combined. But only 60,000,000 were members of the Chinese Communist Party—less than 3% of the total. The doctor was a Party member, and had been for more than a decade. He’d checked. No way she could have risen to such a high managerial position otherwise. Only Party-membered, Han Chinese achieved such status. Hans were a huge majority of the population, the remaining small percentage spread across fifty-six minorities. The doctor’s father was a prominent official in the local provincial government, a loyal Party member who’d participated in the 1949 Revolution and personally known both Mao and Deng Xiaoping.
Still, Tang needed to make clear, “Jin Zhao owed his loyalty to the People’s government. He decided to aid our enemies—”
“What could a sixty-three-year-old geochemist have done to harm the People’s government? Tell me, Minister. I want to know. What could he possibly do to us now?”
He checked his watch. A helicopter was waiting to fly him north.
“He was no spy,” she said. “No traitor. What did he really do, Minister? What justifies beating a man until his brain bleeds?”
He had not the time to debate what had already been decided. The informant would seal this woman’s fate. In a month she’d receive a transfer—despite her father’s privileges—most likely sent thousands of kilometers west to the outer reaches, where problems were hidden away.
He turned toward the other uniform and motioned.
The captain removed his holstered sidearm, approached the bed, and fired one shot through Jin Zhao’s forehead.
The body lurched, then went still.
The respirator continued to force air into dead lungs.
“Sentence has been carried out,” Tang declared. “Duly witnessed by representatives of the People’s government, the military … and this facility’s chief administrator.”
He indicated that it was time to leave. The mess would be the doctor’s to clean up.
He walked toward the doors.
“You just shot a helpless man,” the doctor screamed. “Is this what our government has become?”
“You should be grateful,” he said.
“For what?”
“That the government does not debit this facility’s operating budget for the cost of the bullet.”
And he left.
THREE
COPENHAGEN
1:20 PM
MALONE LEFT HIS BOOKSHOP AND STEPPED OUT INTO HØJBRO Plads. The afternoon sky was cloudless, the Danish air comfortable. The Strøget—a chain of traffic-free streets, most lined with shops, cafés, restaurants, and museums—surged with commerce.
He’d solved the problem of what to bring by simply grabbing the first book off one of the shelves and stuffing it into an envelope. Cassiopeia had apparently opted to buy herself time by involving him. Not a bad play, except the ruse could only be stretched so far. He wished he knew what she was doing. Since last Christmas, between them, there’d been visits, a few meals here and there, phone calls, and e-mails. Most dealing with Thorvaldsen’s death, which seemed to have hurt them both. He still couldn’t beli
eve his best friend was gone. Every day he expected the cagey old Dane to walk into the bookstore, ready for some lively conversation. He still harbored a deep regret that his friend had died thinking he’d been betrayed.
“You did what you had to in Paris,” Cassiopeia told him. “I would have done the same.”
“Henrik didn’t see it that way.”
“He wasn’t perfect, Cotton. He sent himself into a spiral. He wasn’t thinking and wouldn’t listen. There was more at stake there than just his revenge. You had no choice.”
“I let him down.”
She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Tell you what. If I’m ever in big trouble, let me down the same way.”
He kept walking, hearing her words in his head.
Now it was happening again.
He left the Strøget and crossed a boulevard clogged with the gleaming metal of cars, buses, and bicycles. He hustled through the Rådhuspladsen, another of Copenhagen’s many public squares, this one stretching out before the city’s town hall. He spotted the bronze trumpeters atop, soundlessly blowing their ancient lurs. Above them stood the copper statue of Bishop Absalon who, in 1167, expanded a tiny fishing village into a walled fortress.
On the plaza’s far side, beyond another traffic-choked boulevard, he spotted Tivoli.
He gripped the envelope in one hand, his Magellan Billet–issued Beretta tucked beneath a jacket. He’d retrieved the weapon from under his bed, where it stayed inside a knapsack with other reminders of his former life.
“I think you’re a little nervous,” Cassiopeia said to him.
They stood outside his bookshop in chilly March weather. She was right. He was nervous. “I’m not much of a romantic.”
“Really? I wouldn’t have known. Lucky for you, I am.”
She looked great. Tall, lean, skin the color of pale mahogany. Thick auburn hair brushed her shoulders, framing a striking face highlighted by thin brows and firm cheeks.
“Don’t beat yourself up, Cotton.”
Interesting that she’d known he was actually thinking about Thorvaldsen.
