“Murderers! Murderers!” The chant rumbled through the crowd, wavering like a fire trying to catch. For five seconds, then ten, the police and the migrants stared at each other, no one quite ready for more violence.
“Order!” the officer with the bullhorn said, and the crowd took a half-step back. “Go on now.” On the ground, Song groaned.
Jordan reached down and at his feet, as if his father had put it there, he found a beer bottle, a big one, broken in half, its glass edges sharp as a steak knife. In one motion, he picked it up and stepped forward and swung at the cop’s neck.
Even before the blood began to spurt, the cops were on Jordan. He fought as hard as he could, though after the first dozen blows he stopped caring. Yu stepped up and the police jumped him too. “Murderers!” the laborers shouted. “Murderers!”
And then nothing could stop the riot.
SWINGING CROWBARS AND BRICKS, the migrants overwhelmed the police and smashed stores and cars across Guangzhou’s city center. Someone — the police never discovered who — set fire to the apartment building that had been the flash point for the riot. With firefighters unable to get to the building, twenty-four people inside died.
By mid- afternoon, the fighting had spread to the giant factories on the outskirts of Guangzhou, where migrants worked for wages that barely covered their meals and rent. More riots broke out in Shenzen, a city of 8 million between Guangzhou and Hong Kong, and Shaoguan, to the north. In all, 142 rioters, 139 civilians, and twenty-three police officers died during two days of fighting, which ended only after the People’s Liberation Army rolled through Guangdong to enforce a province-wide curfew.
The government tried to impose a news blackout on Guangdong, arresting reporters who wrote about the riot. But word spread quickly, carried by cell-phone cameras and Internet postings that popped up as quickly as the censors could pull them down. Beijing downplayed the violence, but the videos were ugly: factories burning, police firing tear gas and rubber bullets, tanks rumbling through Guangzhou’s crowded streets.
As news of the violence spread, China’s other metropolises saw scattered riots. The police in Shanghai arrested 125 people. In Beijing, the party declared a nighttime curfew and closed Tiananmen Square for a week. China hadn’t seen such widespread unrest since the Tiananmen shootings in 1989.
Jordan never knew what he and Song and Yu had begun. He died the first day, his body battered beyond recognition by nightstick blows, not that he had anyone to claim him anyway. He was cremated in the city morgue, and the wind carried his ashes to the ocean.
AS THE RIOTS ENTERED their second day, the Standing Committee called an emergency meeting in Beijing. Li expected that the liberals on the committee would at least be willing to discuss whether their economic policies had fueled the violence. He was wrong.
“These troublemakers, can the Army deal with them?” Zhang asked him.
“Of course the PLA can overcome the rioters,” Li said. “But shouldn’t we consider the reasons for the violence? The economic slowdown?”
“The slowdown is over, Minister Li. Our economy is growing again.” Indeed, Zhang had just presented new statistics that seemed to say that the economy had finally begun to turn. Li didn’t know what to make of the numbers. If the economy was getting better, why was Guangzhou burning?
“Don’t the protests concern you?”
“There are always troublemakers. That’s why we have your men. As long as you do your job, I haven’t any concerns.” Zhang shuffled through his papers. “Do you remember when the Americans had their riots? In California?”
“Of course, Minister.”
“Then you remember that the Americans didn’t change their policies after those criminals tried to burn down Los Angeles. They sent in their army, and in a few weeks everyone had forgotten.”
Whatever doubts Li had about his plan disappeared that day. Zhang and the liberals would never see reason. He needed to take control, and soon, whatever the risks.
Fortunately, his next step was already in place.
19
ON THE BIG FLAT-PANEL TELEVISION, the man rubbed his short black hair. His face showed no emotion but his hands betrayed his nervousness, moving constantly, drumming aimless patterns on the table in front of him. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray before him. He picked it up and dragged deeply, then looked up as an unseen door opened.
“I’m sorry for the delay. We’re ready to begin if you are.”
“I’m ready.”
“The questions may seem obvious, but please answer all of them.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s begin with your name.” The woman asking the questions had a smooth English accent, a voice that reminded Exley of a life she would never have, with hunting dogs, and high tea on a silver caddy. Of course, in reality the woman probably had a farting husband and screaming twins. She probably lived in an undersized two- bedroom apartment in the wrong part of London and rode the Tube to work. Still, she had that voice.
“My name is Wen Shubai,” the man said.
“Age and nationality!”
“Fifty-two.” The man stubbed out his cigarette. The butt joined a half-dozen others in the ashtray. “I’m Chinese. Born in Hubei Province. The People’s Republic.”
“Where do you live now, Mr. Wen?”
“London.” He spoke English carefully, the words proper but heavily accented, the voice of a concierge at a five-star Beijing hotel.
“And where do you work?”
“Until today, the Chinese embassy.”
“What’s your title?”
“Officially, director for trade between China and the United Kingdom.”
“What did you actually do at the embassy?”
“Head of Chinese intelligence service for Western Europe.”
“You were a spy.”
The man extracted a fresh cigarette from a flat red Dunhill box. A manicured woman’s hand, as elegant as the voice asking the questions, held out a silver lighter.
“Senior officer. I oversaw operations all over Europe.”
TYSON PAUSED THE INTERVIEW THERE, catching Wen with a Dunhill between his lips. “This was filmed about thirty-six hours ago at a safe house just west of London. And yes, Mr. Wen Shubai is who he says he is. He shucked his bodyguards late Saturday night at a rest stop on the M1. The Brits were happy to have him.”
“A rest stop on the M1?” This from Shafer.
“Defecting during a state dinner at Buckingham Palace would have been more elegant, but so be it. Anyway, he has a lot to tell us, which is why I’ve asked you to my happy home. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s worth your while.”
Exley, Shafer, and Tyson were in a windowless conference room on the seventh floor of the New Headquarters Building at Langley, next to Tyson’s office and just a few doors down from Duto’s. Wells — who’d gotten back from Afghanistan a few days before, his shoulder banged up but otherwise basically intact — had begged off Tyson’s invitiation, telling Exley only that the mission had been a success, that they’d caught a Russian commando, and that he had to go to New York to “take care of something.” Exley found his coyness irritating, but
