The Emperor's Tomb

She studied the map.

“We’re going to ground-track our way there,” he made clear.

“Assuming this chart is correct.”

“Not to worry,” Pau said at his right ear. “I know this part of Vietnam and China well. I can get us there.”

NI WATCHED THE PREMIER’S FACE, TRYING TO GAUGE IF THIS man was friend or foe. He truly had no idea.

“What you see is the wax replica made before the Chairman was embalmed. The body decayed long ago and, in fulfillment of Mao’s wishes, was burned to ash.”

“Then why keep all this open?”

“An excellent question. One I have asked myself many times. The simplest answer is that the people expect it.”

Ni had to say, “I don’t think that’s the case any longer.”

“You may well be correct. That is the sad thing about our heritage. We have no single legacy. Just a succession of dynasties, each rising with its own agenda, opposing the one before it, welcomed by the people, then descending into the same corruption of its predecessor. Why should our future be any different?”

“You sound like Pau.”

“I told you that he and I were once close. But there came a time when we deviated. He took one path, I another.”

An uncomfortable feeling swept over him. Usually, he was in command of a situation, knowing the questions and the answers. Not here. Others were many steps ahead of him. So he asked what he truly wanted to know. “Why will I lose to Karl Tang?”

“Because you are unaware of the threats around you.”

“That’s what Pau Wen said, too.”

“I want to know something. If I perceive you are lying, or telling me what I want to hear, this will be the last time we will ever speak.”

He didn’t particularly appreciate being spoken to like a schoolchild, but he recognized that this man had not risen to the top of the political triangle by being a fool. So he decided that he would answer the question honestly.

“What will you do with China if given my job?”

Ever since Pau Wen asked him the same question yesterday he’d thought about its answer. “First, I will separate the Communist Party from the government. That merger is the root of all our corruption. Next, the personnel system must be reformed, a reliance placed on merit, not patronage. The role of the National People’s Congress, and the other lower congresses in the provinces, has to be raised. The people must be heard. Finally, the rule of law must be established, which means the judiciary has to become independent and functioning. We have enacted five constitutions since 1949 and ignored every one of them.”

“You are correct,” the premier said. “The Party’s authority has been undermined by irrational policies, corruption, and no vision. At present, and this is the greatest fear I possess, only the military has the ability to rule if we fail. I understand you are of the military, but the nation would not last long as a puppet.”

“Of that there is no doubt. Three million active troops, controlled by seven regional commanders, of which I was once one, could not govern. We must locate and promote technical competence, managerial skills, and a business ability in our people. The glacial pace to our decision making does incalculable damage.”

“Do you want democracy?”

The question was asked in a whisper.

“It is inevitable. In some form. Not like the West, but elements of it cannot be avoided. A new middle class has emerged. They are smart. They listen to not only the government but also one another. They are compliant for now, but that is changing. Guanxi must be abolished. It is the root of all our corruption problems.”

The principle of “not what you knew, but who you knew” compelled dishonesty. Guanxi relied on connections, forcing entrepreneurs to bond with government and Party officials who could approve their requests and grant them favors. The system, ingrained so deeply that it was literally a part of the government’s fabric, allowed money and power to meld seamlessly, with no resistance from morality.

The premier nodded. “That system must be dismantled. I have no way to make that happen. But youth is gaining power. The individual is emerging. Mao’s philosophy is gone.” A pause. “Thank goodness.”

“In an age of instant texting, Internet access, and cell phones one small incident of corruption could become a riot,” Ni said. “I’ve seen that nearly happen several times. The people’s tolerance level for corruption is dropping by the day.”

“The days of blind allegiance are over. I recall once when I was young. We all wanted to show our love for Mao, so we went to the river. We were told how Mao swam across the Yangtze, so we wanted to do that as well. Thousands jumped in. So many there was no room to swim. You couldn’t move your arms. The river was like a soup, our heads like dumplings.” The old man paused. “Hundreds drowned that day. My wife was one of those.”

He did not know what to say. He’d long noticed that many of the former generation refused to openly speak about the three decades between the 1949 Revolution and Mao’s death. It was as if they were too overwhelmed by what happened to discuss its pain, the resentment, so they mentioned it casually, as they would the weather, or in a whisper, as if no one was listening.

He harbored his own share of bitter memories. Pau Wen had reminded him of Tiananmen Square—June 4, 1989—apparently knowing that Ni had been there.

He often thought about that day, when his life changed.

“Where is my son?” the woman asked.

Ni could offer her no answer. He was guarding one segment of the massive square, his division charged with making sure that Tiananmen’s perimeter remained secured.

The cleanout had started yesterday, most of the protestors now gone, but the air still stank of their waste and death. Every day, since April, people had appeared until more than a million eventually occupied the pavement. Students had started the rebellion, but unemployed workers had eventually formed the bulk of the crowd, decrying double-digit inflation and public corruption. For the past week he’d been here, sent by his commander to watch the agitators, but he’d found himself doing far more listening.

“You must leave,” he said to her.

“My son was here. I have to find him.”

She was middle-aged, a good twenty years older than him. Her eyes cast a sadness that only a mother could know. His own mother would have risked everything for him. Both his parents had defied the one-child policy and birthed four children, which brought an enormous burden to their family. He’d been the third, something of a disappointment, hating school, performing poorly, staying in trouble. When he failed the national high school entrance exam, his future became clear.

The military.

There he had found a home and a purpose, defending Mao, serving the motherland.

He’d thought his life had finally defined itself.

Until the past two days.

He’d watched as the bulk of the crowd had been peacefully dispersed by the army’s 27th and 28th divisions, brought in from the outer provinces because Beijing had thought local divisions might be sympathetic. The soldiers, nearly all of them unarmed, had moved in on foot and dispersed the people with tear gas, and most of the demonstrators fled peacefully.

A core group of about 5,000 had remained.

They attacked the soldiers with rocks and bricks, using burned-out buses as barricades. Tanks were called in and the protestors attacked them, too, one of them catching fire, killing two occupants.