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“I’m sorry,” he said. Then, “But you saved the girl.”
She looked at him as though she was trying to decipher the meaning of his words. For a single instant he saw a shadow of vulnerability, then she rearranged her features into a reassuring smile. He’d come to think of that look as her survival mask.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “That means a lot to me.” After a beat, she added, “But you should get to your office. Miss Quo will be worrying about you by now. And of course I need to clean up, then get to the MPS.” A trace of uncertainty crept back into her voice, and she averted her eyes again. “There will be things I need to do.….”
“Is there any way I can help?”
Her determined smile gelled again, and he could see just how hard she was trying. “We could have dinner together. I’d like that.” Then she held out her bloodstained hands for him to see. “I really need a shower.” With that she walked past him and into the next courtyard.
They had managed to get through the conversation without mentioning the one thing that was on both of their minds. The little girl who’d lost her mother only an hour ago was the same age that David and Hulan’s daughter would have been.
IT WAS STILL ONLY NINE IN THE MORNING WHEN HULAN LEFT HER room and walked to an adjacent building to pay a quick visit to her mother and her mother’s nurse. Hulan’s mother had been confined to a wheelchair since the Cultural Revolution. Her mind was “delicate,” which meant that her rare moments of lucidity were often swamped by weeks or even months of no words, gestures, or acknowledgments of any sort. This morning, Hulan’s mother stared into the distance, and the visit was short.
Hulan then left the compound and got into the backseat of a black Mercedes. Investigator Lo, her longtime driver, didn’t speak—it had already been a long day for both of them—and he quickly drove her to the Ministry of Public Security compound on Chang An Boulevard. As soon as Hulan reached her office, a tea girl brought in a thermos and a porcelain cup, then quietly left the room. There would be an inquiry about the events this morning, and Hulan would need to write a full report, but before she started that she needed to finish up with her informant. Hulan opened his file and began making notations for the prosecutor. It was a simple case. Mr. Wong, a teller, had used his bank’s official chop to move funds from several private accounts into one held by the All-Patriotic Society. Hulan had five other files with similar stories that had come across her desk in the last month. The difference between those and the case of Mr. Wong was that he was willing to trade what he knew so that he might not be sent to labor camp.
Unfortunately, stealing funds was not the only problem that Hulan had been able to link to the All-Patriotic Society. During the last few months, there’d been several cases of sabotage by workers who suddenly disapproved of the merchandise they produced in factories in the countryside and in Special Economic Zones. Equipment had been destroyed and defective parts inserted into products. There’d even been a couple of explosions in factories that manufactured high-tech components. The Chinese government took the position that the All-Patriotic Society was an extremist religious cult engaged in “domestic terrorism” and responded accordingly. Naturally, international human rights groups took a very dim view of China’s zero-tolerance policy.
Having spent much of her life in the States, Hulan should have agreed, but she hated the All-Patriotic Society. She hated the way they preyed on the powerless, the old, and the poor. She hated the way people gave their money to Xiao Da. She knew from personal experience that fanaticism could be harmful to the state and to society as a whole. America might let religious cults gain power over the weak; China wouldn’t. She told herself what others in the ministry told her: every time a file crossed her desk or she made another arrest she was protecting the masses and ensuring the stability of the government. Besides, she was grateful for the tasks assigned her. They kept her focused.
She knew that David didn’t understand her obsession, but there was a lot she didn’t understand about him anymore either. When he was at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, he had labored to right terrible wrongs. He had followed a strict code of ethics and had a great belief in public service. He carried those ideals with him into private practice, where he’d had twenty or more other lawyers working on his matters, which often dealt with grave social or political issues. After David and Hulan reconnected, his law firm let him open a small office in Beijing. He was now a one-man show with a thriving practice. His days were busy and his clients paid him lots of money, but none of his cases was a great intellectual stretch for him or would make any real difference in the larger world. From her perspective, he now got through his straightforward business matters by occupying his mind with word puzzles and questions of culture. It was as if David were waiting for something to happen but it never came. The way things were between them now, she couldn’t ask him about his choices, and she was grateful he didn’t question her too much about hers.
When the tea girl returned after just a few minutes, Hulan looked up. “Yes?”
“Vice Minister Zai would like to see you, Inspector.”
Hulan closed the folder and left the room. Hurrying down the hall and up the stairs, she felt confident that she could answer any questions he might have about this morning. When she stepped into the anteroom of Zai’s office, his secretary stood, knocked gently on the office door, and opened it for Hulan.
“Good morning, Vice Minister,” Hulan said as she entered.
“Good morning, Inspector Liu.”
Their words were formal, but she was closer to this man than she’d been to her own father.
“Please sit,” he said, motioning to the chair in front of his desk. She did as she was told and waited as he finished writing on a notepad. They were comfortable enough with each other that he could complete his task with her sitting across from him rather than have her wait in the anteroom as a way of showing his more powerful position. In these q
uiet minutes, Hulan looked around the room. It looked the same as when her father had held the job. Heavy crimson drapes covered the windows. Official seals and plaques decorated the walls. Nothing spoke of the personal nature of the man who sat behind the desk.
At last the vice minister looked up. She’d known him her entire life, so she could easily read the concern in his eyes.
“I am sorry about what happened today,” she began.
“No need for apologies, Inspector. The woman’s death was an accident, and the press will report it that way beginning now.” He hesitated, then added, “It was a mistake to give the Central Broadcasting Bureau the ability to air the event live.”
Yes, Hulan thought, we had an arrangement. Why had things changed so suddenly and without any discussion? She had to approach the subject carefully. “A mistake or was it—”
He quickly cut her off. “There was no way to predict that a deranged woman would try to hurt her child.”
“If she was crazy….”
He frowned. “The Falun Gong and the All-Patriotic Society are not the same.”
What did he mean? That the self-immolations Falun Gong members had done were not the same as a woman trying to cut off her daughter’s hand? That the accusations—mostly in the foreign press—that the Chinese government had hired people to set themselves on fire in public as a means to discredit the Falun Gong were true? That using “deranged” people for this end was unpredictable? What Hulan did know was that Zai had easily distracted her from her real concern. What was that camera crew doing there at all?
The vice minister looked at a sheet of paper. “I see that Tang Wenting was not arrested.”
“He slipped away—”
“While you were tending to that child. This is not your job.”
