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CHAPTER 15
IT WAS LATE afternoon when we arrived at one of the most notorious prisons in the world. Qincheng is a huge facility located in the Changping District, on the edge of Beijing in a valley 3,000 feet above sea level, making the air thin and the sun powerful. Ten cell blocks were arranged in the outline of a square that dominated the surrounding fields. The main entrance featured a large pagoda surmounting two gatehouses, but we weren’t heading there. Zhang Daiyu steered her H6 SUV along the perimeter road, and we passed beneath some of the highest watch towers I’d ever seen.
“Some people joke that it’s a holiday resort for high-ranking party officials who get caught doing bad things,” she said, “but those people are wrong. It’s an awful place. The walls of the cells are padded to prevent inmates taking their own lives by smashing their heads in. It’s no holiday resort.”
I looked at the high concrete wall beside us and wondered what horrors lay on the other side. Built in the late 1950s, the prison had a fearsome reputation for breaking political prisoners and dissidents. The very existence of such a place was an affront to America’s core ideal of freedom of expression. Independence of thought had made the US an economic and military powerhouse but China had taken a different route, governing through a single party, prizing social order and cohesion above all else, subjugating individual rights to the needs of the community. Qincheng was the embodiment of this difference in approach.
I couldn’t help but wonder who Zhang Daiyu had been talking to when I’d been reviewing the case files back at the office. She must have some powerful connections. I hoped they were trustworthy.
We pulled into a small parking lot near the south-eastern corner of the prison complex. A guard in a gatehouse waved her on and she took one of the few empty spaces.
We got out and crossed the perimeter road, heading for a solid steel door.
“If anyone asks, you’re FBI,” she said, and I shot her a surprised glance.
“Why?” I asked.
“Just trust me. You’re with the Bureau, here on an international exchange,” she remarked, pressing a buzzer beside the door.
She looked into a video camera beside the buzzer and spoke in Mandarin. A moment later, the huge four-inch-thick steel door slid open on rollers and I followed her inside.
A pair of young corrections officers sat behind a twenty-foot-long bullet-proof glass window that gave them a commanding view of the staff entrance. I couldn’t understand a single word they said to Zhang Daiyu, but I didn’t need to. They were stern and officious, clearly making her jump through hoops. I smiled blankly and looked around the lobby, which was as wide as the bullet-proof window and about twice as long. There was another smaller steel door in the south wall, opposite the entrance, and near it a custody officer in black pants and white shirt stood beside a walk-through metal detector while a colleague sat by an X-ray machine. The room was painted battleship gray, the drab shade successfully conveying some of the misery and hopelessness that the inmates of this penal institution must feel.
Zhang Daiyu’s voice rose and suddenly took on an imperious edge. She barked at the men behind the thick glass, and whatever she said had the desired effect. One of them responded meekly and waved us toward the south door.
“What did you say?” I asked as we headed for the metal detector.
“I reminded them my uncle doesn’t tolerate inefficiency,” she replied.
“Who’s your uncle?”
“The deputy governor of this prison,” she revealed casually, and I felt a surge of relief at the revelation.
She deposited her keys, purse, and phone in a tray and pushed it into the X-ray machine. I put my wallet, phone, and passport into another and pushed them into the machine, beforefollowing her through the metal detector. The corrections officer put on a fresh pair of latex gloves for each of us and conducted a fingertip search inside our mouths. He then removed his gloves and patted us down. If Zhang Daiyu objected to being touched by a man, she didn’t show it. The surveillance and search protocols made Qincheng one of the most secure places I’d ever visited.
Finally satisfied we didn’t pose a risk, the officer waved us on, and we gathered our effects from the X-ray machine.
The south door buzzed and swung open automatically as we approached.
“Your uncle is deputy governor?” I asked.
“It’s not something we ever talk about in our family. People would seek to exploit the connection for good or bad,” she replied. “There he is.”
We stepped into a long corridor secured at both ends by large metal doors, each of which was monitored by three video cameras. A tall slim man in a black suit stood waiting for us.
“Uncle Yuhang,” Zhang Daiyu said, as he stepped forward. “This is my boss Jack Morgan. Jack, this is my uncle Ma Yuhang.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan,” he said, shaking my hand. “We must be quick. There is a shift change in ten minutes. You must be out before guards who are less loyal to me take their posts.”
Zhang Daiyu nodded and Ma Yuhang led us toward the steel door at the eastern end of the corridor. He used a key card to open it and rapidly led us through a network of corridors. It was a bleak place, and even though I only caught glimpses ofdead-eyed prisoners and grim-faced corrections officers, I knew life here was hard, and could understand why the cell walls might be padded.
Zhang Daiyu and Yuhang talked quietly until we reached our destination, a short corridor with five doors either side. Nine of these stood open and I could see into small unoccupied interview rooms. The tenth door was closed and there were two corrections officers standing guard outside it.
Ma Yuhang issued an instruction and the officer nearest to us opened the door and allowed Zhang Daiyu and me inside.
David Zhou, the man I’d seen in the surveillance footage from the night of the murders, the man who’d almost got away from me at Meihui’s apartment, was seated at a table in the center of the interview room. His arms and legs were shackled and the chain that linked them had been secured to a metal loop anchored to the floor. He wore a blue boilersuit and a defeated expression. He glanced up at us as we entered and shook his head wearily. I saw fresh bruises on his face.
Zhang Daiyu spoke in Mandarin as she sat down opposite him. I recognized the word “Private” and saw a flash of recognition on Zhou’s face. I remained silent and leant against the wall while I scrutinized him. He’d fallen a long way from the luxurious lifestyle of only a few days ago.
