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She forced herself not to think of that right now. Instead she turned her attention back to the television crew. They had a good vantage point on the steps of the Great Hall of the People, from which they could survey the entire square. Hulan recognized one of the reporters—a woman with a shrill voice who for many years had been the eager mouthpiece of the government. Her words carried on the humid air like rotting garbage, insisting that the government was not instigating a crackdown against the All-Patriotic Society but showing its tolerance by letting the group meet here today.
Hulan sighed. She would need to take extra care as she moved through the crowd, because she didn’t want to be noticed by the camera crew. Still, Liu Hulan was easy to spot amid the other Beijingers here this morning. It wasn’t that she dressed in a colorful way, for these days Beijing’s residents embraced the most vibrant colors they could find. It wasn’t that she wore designer clothes, although she certainly could afford to shop at any of the foreign-designer boutiques now in the city. Rather, she dressed in the most exquisite clothes of the finest silks, all of which had once belonged to her mother, her grandmother, or her other colorful ancestors. Hulan’s outfits spoke to the people about her money, taste, social position, and culture; not only did she work for the Ministry of Public Security—perhaps the most feared of China’s law enforcement agencies—but she also had to be a Red Princess, the wealthy daughter or granddaughter of someone who had gone on the Long March with Mao Zedong.
Hulan had been born in Beijing and had the happy and privileged upbringing befitting the child of two of China’s most esteemed personages. At the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution, when Hulan was twelve, she’d been sent to the countryside to “learn from the peasants.” She had been brought back to Beijing two years later to denounce her father as part of an ill-conceived effort to save her mother’s life. Hulan’s father had been sent to labor camp, and Hulan, at age fourteen, had been sent abroad to the United States. After boarding school, college, and law school, Hulan had become an associate at Phillips & MacKenzie, where she met David. They’d fallen in love, had lived together, and then twelve years
ago she’d come back to China. Seven years later, Hulan and David had been brought together here in Beijing to work on two difficult and heartbreaking cases. In the first, Hulan’s father—who had been fully rehabilitated and had become a high-ranking cadre—had died and the nation had held her responsible. The second was the Knight International case, which had begun as an investigation into suspicious working conditions and had ended in the deadly conflagration. Hulan herself had nearly died that day, and for a long time there was great concern for the well-being of her unborn child. The men across the lake successfully controlled the story of Hulan’s role in that case. But although Hulan had been spared another round of public criticism, she’d blamed herself for the many deaths. She had been named for a martyr of the revolution, she told David at the time. She should have done more.
Now Hulan paced along the edges of the crowd, searching for the faces of known troublemakers who could be rounded up later. At one point she caught sight of Neighborhood Committee Director Zhang, the old woman who kept track of all the comings and goings in Hulan’s hutong neighborhood. Madame Zhang had to know that this group was banned, but she was here now with her eyes closed and her wizened face rapt with spiritual feeling. Hulan should have suspected she might show up. Madame Zhang, who had been on the cutting edge of the yang ge dance craze a few years ago, would have to be up to the minute with the All-Patriotic Society and its appealingly accessible rituals.
In a country where aphorisms and slogans had forever been used to teach, influence, and coerce, the members of the All-Patriotic Society assembled here today were already well-versed in a variety of seemingly innocuous phrases, which they began chanting. “Be reverent,” they intoned again and again before they switched to “The river brings us life.” No one seemed frightened or anxious. Why should they be? They were not members of the Falun Gong, which was not permitted to use the square under any circumstances. They were reverent, and as such they felt righteous and safe.
Hulan circulated until she spotted a woman with a little girl about four years old. They looked poor—perhaps the woman had come from the countryside to the capital to look for work. If so, her presence in the city was against the law, which may have accounted for the anxious way she kept looking around. But there was something else about her that was troubling. Her hair was unkempt, and not only were her clothes dirty but the buttons on her blouse were all off by one. Still, the daughter was impeccably clean and beautifully turned out given their circumstances. The woman squatted on the ground so that she was eye-level with her daughter. Her hands worried over every inch of the girl, tweaking the neckline of her T-shirt, pulling at the hems of her shorts, and retying her red tennis shoes. All the while the little girl—her cheeks shiny and pink— chattered nonstop about nothing important, just Mama this and Mama that. A bag lay next to them. Hulan imagined what was inside—perhaps an orange for the girl, maybe another change of clothes, a toy if they had enough money. An ache began in Hulan’s chest, and she looked away.
At 6:15, a man jumped up on a small wooden platform and held up his hands for silence. He looked to be about thirty, but he could have been much older. He was ruggedly handsome, and his hair was a bit longer than the custom. As the crowd quieted, he dropped one hand and held himself in a posture reminiscent of Mao as a young revolutionary. “I am Tang Wenting, a lieutenant of the All-Patriotic Society.”
Hulan could have arrested him right then, but she wanted to hear what he had to say. She’d use his speech against him later, during interrogations.
“We meet in the light of Xiao Da’s grace,” Tang Wenting announced.
“Xiao Da, Xiao Da, Xiao Da,” the followers murmured, and the sound echoed beautifully through the square.
As the lieutenant let the name wash over him, Hulan wondered not for the first time about the mysterious Xiao Da, the self-proclaimed leader of the All-Patriotic Society, who’d pulled off a semi-miracle in keeping his true identity a secret in a nation where there were no secrets. The fact that Xiao Da had been able to move through the countryside holding underground meetings for the last three years not only increased his legend but also exasperated the government. Numerous arrests had been made and many people sentenced to labor camp. On several occasions Hulan had tried to negotiate lesser sentences in exchange for the identity of Xiao Da, knowing that once he was gone the group would collapse. But either no one knew Xiao Da’s identity or they weren’t yet ready to give him up. It was all very annoying. Even his name irritated Hulan. Xiao Da—Little Big—what was that supposed to mean anyway?
Hulan’s eyes sought out the little girl she’d seen before. The mother was holding her daughter tightly by the waist, forcing her to watch the lieutenant. The woman had her lips to one of the girl’s ears and was whispering intensely. The child’s eyes were wide not with excitement but with fear, though Hulan couldn’t understand why. The girl stayed quiet, refusing to say a word against the whispered barrage and remaining still within her mother’s grip, which seemed to tighten as the All-Patriotic Society lieutenant droned on. It occurred to Hulan that maybe the woman wasn’t a country bumpkin or even a true Society follower at all, just a mother who had lost her connection to the real world.
“Our political leaders tell us to give up the old ways,” Tang Wenting lectured. “They tell us, ‘To get rich is glorious!’ But Xiao Da says we must say no to these new ways. We must repudiate technology and social progress, and go back to honoring old traditions and old values.….”
Fifteen minutes later, the sun broke across the square and Hulan could see its instantaneous effect on the religious adherents. Beijing languished in the midst of Fu Tian, that debilitating period of Give-Up Weather between July and August, when the heat and humidity were at their most ominous and oppressive. Unprotected as it was, Tiananmen was not a place to be during the heat of the day. It was time to head home or to work.
The lieutenant caught the subtle change in the crowd. “Before you go, I have a few words from Xiao Da’s own lips that he asked me to impart to you. Soon Xiao Da will step out of the darkness and into the light. When he does, he will bring with him an object that will unite all of the Chinese people. With it in his hand, evil will be punished. Those who are reverent will triumph. Together we will follow Xiao Da.”
This kind of rhetoric was exactly why the government perceived the All-Patriotic Society to be a threat.
The young man bent his head piously as voices throughout the square sang out, “Xiao Da, Xiao Da, Xiao Da.”
He looked up and said, “Now is the time to remember our tributes. Nine Virtues, Nine Grades, Nine Tributes.”
The All-Patriotic Society had grown quickly in three years. Although the group counted fewer members than the Falun Gong, the Ministry of Public Security had internal estimates of 20 million followers, nearly all of whom lived in the countryside. Once initiated, they donated their hard-earned salaries and sometimes their savings to the sect, based on a secret tithing scale involving nine grades. A lot of money was ending up in Xiao Da’s pocket, and Hulan didn’t want that custom to take hold in Beijing. She turned to signal to the policemen to round up anyone holding a collection basket.
Suddenly she heard a woman’s voice scream, “For Xiao Da!”
Hulan spun around. The mother who moments before had been whispering into her daughter’s ear now stood fully erect, her neck stretched so she could see above the crowd to the lieutenant. In one hand she held on to the back of her daughter’s T-shirt; in the other she held a cleaver, which she must have brought with her in her bag. The blade was a good ten centimeters wide.
Everyone here was Chinese; all knew from experience when something bad was going to happen. People started to edge away and push each other to get out of there. For a moment Hulan lost sight of the mother and daughter altogether. She heard Tang Wenting’s voice shout out: “Be calm! Xiao Da would want you all to be calm!”
Miraculously, the crowd responded to his words, slowing down, quieting.
“We need to help our sister,” he went on. “Tell me, sister! What do you want to tell Xiao Da? Have you come to renounce alcohol, tobacco, and fornication? We are all with you!”
“I have come to punish this girl,” the woman called back to him.
Hulan pulled out her weapon and held it lowered in front of her. “Put the knife down!” she yelled.
People scattered out of the way, then, like frightened animals, scrambled right back into her line of fire.
“All children are innocent.” Tang Wenting maintained his facade of serenity. As much as Hulan distrusted the group and all it stood for, she was grateful that the lieutenant seemed to understand the gravity of the situation.
“This one is bad,” the mother answered. “The evil needs to be cut out.”
