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Liu sank to the floor. His skin had gone pale.
“Your neighbors already had him in the hutong,” Zai said.
“For four days?” Hulan asked. Her training didn’t allow her to believe that simple answer.
For the first time since Zai’s arrival, Liu spoke directly to his daughter. “No, I was not in the hutong the whole time.”
“You were with Secretary Sung,” she guessed.
He shook his head. “I had already tired of her. There was another woman, a tea girl from the ministry.” He looked directly at Hulan now. His eyes were tormented. “And what you said in the hutong…”
“All that you heard—every word Hulan spoke—was a lie designed to save your life,” Zai said. “But more than that, I wanted the gossip to travel back to the Ministry of Culture. The people took pity on Jinli, and I was able to call for an ambulance. I sent her to Russia, where her money could buy her decent medical care and safety. I sent Hulan into exile—away from her family, away from her homeland. The rest you know.”
“Everything she did…” Liu’s body began to shake, and he couldn’t complete the sentence.
“Your daughter was like the Liu Hulan of legend,” Zai finished for him. “She martyred herself to save you and her mother.”
Liu uttered a low guttural sound. Then he moved quickly, scrambling across the floor to the gun Hulan had dropped. He picked it up and stood.
“Put it down,” Zai said, his aim still steady.
Liu wasn’t listening. He stared at his daughter. “I’m sorry,” he said. He tried to say something more but couldn’t. Before anyone could move to stop him, he raised the gun to his head and fired.
25
FEBRUARY 14–MARCH 14
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For David, several days went by in a blur of pain and narcotics. He was admitted to a Western-style hospital in Chengdu, where he endured lengthy surgery to remove the bullet and reconstruct the bones in his arm. David had lost a lot of blood, but the doctor assured Hulan that he would recover completely. The best thing he could do now was stay in bed and rest.
On that first day in the hospital, Hulan was sitting on the edge of David’s bed, waiting for him to regain consciousness and watching a local newscast when she heard about Ambassador Watson. “Despondent over his son’s death, the United States ambassador to China committed suicide this morning at the official residence,” the reporter announced as on the screen Watson’s body was wheeled from the official residence. This was followed by shots of Elizabeth Watson getting into the back of a limo and Phil Firestone making a statement lamenting the loss to America and China of such a fine man.
Hulan put through a call to Zai, who, after the events at the bear farm, had ordered men to the embassy to arrest Ambassador Watson—they would worry about diplomatic immunity later—but they were too late. After leaving the farm, Watson had driven back to Chengdu and taken a flight back to Beijing, where his wife confronted him about Billy’s death. Unable to accept her husband’s lies, she killed him. Zai himself had flown up to meet with her, but the murder had occurred on embassy grounds, making it an American problem. Knowing this and wanting to protect his boss even in death, Phil Firestone acted swiftly, arranging for Mrs. Watson to accompany her husband’s body to Washington, where he would be buried with full honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Hulan had relayed all this to David as soon as he awoke.
David began to heal. Hulan came to the hospital every day with tin containers of soup. Together they watched the story unfold
on television. On the International Hour on CNN, David and Hulan watched the president eulogize his old friend, then go on to make a broad policy statement about the continuing conflicts with China. He hoped that these would be resolved, but if they couldn’t, he—like Big Bill Watson, who throughout his life had stood up to bullies domestically and internationally—would take a tough stance.
“Turn it off,” David said.
Unlike the U.S. government, Chinese officials chose to use the case as an object lesson. Ironically, it was unlikely that the Chinese people would believe the account of Liu’s actual suicide, having heard so many political falsehoods in the past. Still, one quarter of the world’s population watched as the iron triangle closed around other couriers found at the Black Earth Inn, the young woman who worked at the Panda Brand souvenir shop, as well as several others who’d been involved in the packaging, sale, and transportation of the bile.
For Liu’s official eulogy, a document written by committee that would define how he and his family would be perceived for the next fifty years or so, the government dredged up all manner of unsavory revelations from the decadent lifestyle of his grandparents through Liu’s corruption at the Ministry of Culture, and ending with the murders and smuggling. In accordance with tradition, Liu’s descendants were also examined. While on a personal level Hulan might never get over the events at the bear farm, her role there protected her from disgrace now. In fact, there had already been a brief flurry of stories in the media recalling the brave deeds of the revolutionary martyr Liu Hulan and drawing parallels between her life and the inspector’s.
“To have two suicides of such prominent people should attract someone’s attention,” Hulan said one day after reading a particularly florid account in the People’s Daily.
“Yes, if anyone’s paying attention,” David had responded. But no one was.
On the morning of February twentieth, any chance that the full story might emerge was lost as another story of far greater significance was announced. Hulan came to the hospital and turned on the television to see a simple black-and-white photograph against a blue background with the characters for “Comrade Deng Xiaoping Is Immortal” displayed beneath it. (Later, they discovered that Deng had died the previous morning. The government, Hulan explained, had postponed the announcement to curtail spontaneous public demonstrations.) China entered a period of mourning. Word came down that the Lantern Festival, the final festival of Chinese New Year, should be downplayed this year.
On February twenty-third, doctors pronounced David well enough to fly to Beijing, but procuring seats proved difficult. Deng was from Sichuan Province, and many people from his village had been invited to the memorial in the capital. Hulan used the combined clout of the MPS and her status as a member of one of the Hundred Families to obtain airline tickets.
On February twenty-fourth, Deng’s family and a few top officials met for a private funeral. Deng Xiaoping had always said he wanted a frugal and private service. His wishes were observed up to a point. His wife, children, and grandchildren cried over his body. Hulan—like hundreds of millions of others—watched in television close-up as Deng’s daughter kissed her father’s waxen cheek one last time. Later his body was driven by Toyota minivan past thousands of Beijing’s citizens along the Avenue of Perpetual Peace past the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square to Babaoshan, the cemetery reserved for revolutionary heroes, where he was cremated. Deng had also said he wanted to live to see China regain sovereignty over Hong Kong. This wish, too, could only be partially fulfilled; some of his ashes would be sprinkled in Hong Kong Harbor.
Hulan’s recent notoriety won her an invitation to the memorial service attended by ten thousand people—an auspicious number to the Chinese—in the Great Hall of the People. At 10 A.M. on February twenty-fifth, whistles and horns on cars, trains, boats, factories, and schools sounded all across China for three minutes to mark the beginning of the service. Hulan took her place with other Red Princes and Princesses on the ground floor of the Great Hall. A few rows ahead of her, she saw Nixon Chen and Madame Yee. A few rows in front of them, she glimpsed Bo Yun and a couple of others she’d seen at Rumours.
Everyone stood to listen to President Jiang Zemin read the eulogy. Like Hulan’s father’s, it was a carefully worded document, one that would be studied for years to come. In it, Deng was remembered for surviving three purges and for creating the market socialism that had brought so much change to China. The Cultural Revolution, when Deng had suffered so, was proclaimed a “grave mistake.” The bloody massacre at Tiananmen Square, for which Deng proudly accepted responsibility, was mentioned, but Jiang’s words were cautious.
