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“And what does that mean?”
The premier smiled. “Now you’re not being honest with me. You know precisely what that means.”
Few lights burned inside and the building’s air-conditioning had chilled the interior to a winter’s feel.
He’d made his move. Now he awaited a response.
“A eunuch cannot be trusted,” the premier said. “They are inherently dishonest. They destroyed dynasty after dynasty with their treachery.”
“I don’t need a history lesson.”
“Perhaps you do. When the First Emperor died, his chief eunuch conspired to have the eldest son, the chosen heir, commit suicide. He then aided the next son in becoming Second Emperor, thinking that he, himself, from behind the throne, would be in actual control. But that reign lasted only four years. Everything Qin Shi fought to create—what millions died to achieve—disappeared within three years of his death. And all because of a eunuch. That pariah is still recalled by history as ‘a man who could confidently describe a deer as a horse.’ ”
He could not care less. “I need to know about Pau Wen and your contacts with him.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed, but no rebuke came. “Pau Wen likewise can confidently describe a deer as a horse.”
He could not argue with that observation.
They continued ahead, a steady click of the lacquered cane off the marble floor accompanied by the shuffle of leather soles.
“Decades ago,” the old man said, “Pau Wen and I were friends. We did much together. We both became disenchanted with Mao.”
The premier stopped, his face contorted, as if trying to assemble a long train of hitherto unconnected thoughts, some of which might be unpleasant.
“The Cultural Revolution was an awful time. The young were encouraged to attack the old, the foreign, the bourgeois. We thought all of it right, all of it necessary. But it was insanity, and it all happened for nothing. In the end, the strong dragon proved no match for the local snake.”
He nodded at the ancient saying.
“China changed,” the premier said. “The people changed. Unfortunately, the government didn’t.”
He had to ask, “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because, Minister, I fear you will not win your coming battle with Karl Tang.”
FORTY-THREE
HALONG BAY
MALONE SHOOK HIS HEAD AT THE UP-WING TWIN-ENGINE amphibian, a Twin Bee, built like a tank with rivets, hefty struts, and thick walls of sheet metal painted red and white. Its hull rested in the calm water like a boat.
“Your way into China,” Ivan said.
“You can’t be serious,” Cassiopeia said. “They’ll blow us out of the sky.”
The Russian shook his head. “It never happens before.”
Ivan unfolded a map, laid it across the dock’s wooden railing, and rested a pudgy finger with dirty nails atop Halong Bay. He then traced a line to the northwest, straight across northern Vietnam, passing the border with China, ending at the city of Kunming, in Yunnan province, 500 miles away.
“You have clear passage from here to border,” Ivan said.
“Apparently you and the Vietnamese are asshole buddies.”
Ivan shrugged. “They have no choice.”
Malone smiled.
“Lakes everywhere, south of Kunming. Dian Chi is the best one. Forty kilometers long. Plenty of places to land unnoticed.”
“And what do we do once we’re there?” Malone asked.
“We can take the train north to Xi’an,” Pau said. “A few hours. From there we can bus out to the terra-cotta warrior site.”
Malone wasn’t impressed. “This isn’t some jaunt across Europe. You’re talking about flying 500 miles into a closed country, with a massive air force, unannounced. Somebody could easily get the wrong idea.”
“I will provide pilot,” Ivan said, “who can handle controls.”
“I can fly the damn thing,” he said. “I just want to be alive to land.”
Ivan waved off his worries. “Yunnan province is friendly.”
Pau nodded. “It has always been a renegade. Remote location, harsh terrain, diverse population. One-third of all the Chinese minorities live there.”
“We have friends,” Ivan said, “who help us. The route will be clear. Take this chart, which I mark. I assume you navigate?”
Cassiopeia snatched the map away. “I’ll handle that chore.”
“Fully gassed?” Malone asked Ivan about the plane.
“Enough to get there. But understand, it is one-way trip.”
NI WOULD NOT ALLOW THE NEGATIVE OBSERVATION ABOUT himself to spark a response. He knew better. So he returned to his original question. “Tell me about Pau Wen.”
“I do not answer to interrogation. I am not one of your investigations.”
“Perhaps you should be.”
“Because of Pau Wen? You give that man far too much credit.”
“In Belgium, Karl Tang sent men to kill me. Pau Wen prevented that. He also told me things about Tang and you. Spoke of conversations between you and him. He said you even spoke of me. I want to know about those talks.”
They stood at the entrance to the crypt. Mao’s body lay in the center, sheathed by a crystalline sarcophagus.
“I had him brought from below,” the premier said. “I wanted to see him in all his glory.”
Ni knew that like so many others in Beijing, Mao traveled to work each day. The body was raised and lowered from an earthquake-proof chamber deep underground, sealed inside a transparent cocoon, surrounded by pure nitrogen. Halogen lights cast the corpse in a golden glow.
“You think Pau, Tang, and I are co-conspirators?” the premier finally asked.
“I don’t know what to think. I’m simply asking a question. Tell me about your conversations with Pau Wen.”
“I recall when Mao died,” the premier said, gesturing toward the corpse. “September 9, 1976, just after midnight. Ten days the nation mourned. Loudspeakers and radio stations broadcasting somber music. Newspapers proclaimed him the greatest Marxist of the contemporary era and said he will forever illuminate the road of advance of the Chinese people. For three minutes that day the entire count
ry stood in silence.” The old man paused, his eyes still locked on the spectacle. “But for what, Minister? Tell me, for what?”
He realized he was being ignored. “I wasn’t there. You were. What did you hope to gain from canonizing him?”
The premier faced him. “Do you know what happened after he died?”
Ni shook his head.
“Publicly, Mao had written that he wanted to be cremated. He said, after people die they should not be allowed to occupy any more space. They should be cremated. He publicly proclaimed that he’d take the lead and be burned to ashes, used for fertilizer. But we all knew that was propaganda. He wanted to be worshiped. The problem came when no one knew about embalming. It’s simply not our way. The doctors located a Russian text in the national library and followed its procedure, but they injected so much formaldehyde that the face swelled like a ball and the ears projected at right angles. Can you imagine what a sight that was. Mao’s skin turned slimy from the chemicals that oozed out the pores. I was there. I saw it.”
Ni had not heard this story before.
“They couldn’t drain the excess off, so they used towels and cotton balls, hoping to massage the fluid down into the body. One of them pressed too hard and a hunk of the right cheek broke off. Eventually, they had to slit the jacket and pants just to get the body into the clothes.”
He wondered why he was being told this.
“But they were not entirely foolish, Minister. Before injecting the formaldehyde, they made a wax effigy of the entire body.” The fingers of the old man’s left hand pointed to the sarcophagus. “And that is what you see now.”
“It’s not Mao?”
He shook his head. “Mao is gone, and has been for a long time. This is but an illusion.”
MALONE FOLLOWED CASSIOPEIA AND PAU WEN TO THE END OF the pier, Stephanie walking beside him.
“You realize this is crazy,” he said in a low voice.
“Ivan says they slip in all the time. Usually from the shoreline to the north. Only difference here is half the flight will be over Vietnam.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”
