the value of those payments paled beside the political advantages of joining with someone who could bring you down. If he helped me, things would go much easier if his blackmail were discovered. What he didn’t realize was that you would use the same excuse-namely, my memos-to take him into custody and kill him.”
“Absurd,” Wu Liang said to the wall, but his cheeks were flushed.
“Authenticity?” said Feng Yi. “We’re basing most of this on a letter found on a dead woman. Has Sun Bingjun verified that it was, in fact, written by Bo Gaoli?”
Sun Bingjun said, “His fingerprints were found on the first and last pages.”
“Not the ones in between?” asked Yang Qing-Nian, perhaps remembering that he was here to protect his mentor.
“Perhaps he was wearing gloves,” Feng Yi said, stupidly.
Silence followed, until Wu Liang finally turned from the wall. “Is this really all you have?”
Zhu shook his head. “We could go back again to the list of compromised material. All of it is material you had access to.”
“And you, Xin Zhu. You had access to the same material.”
“As did we all,” Sun Bingjun interrupted, “but none of us have a dead man’s letter with our names on it. Nor did Bo Gaoli die while in our care. Nor, I have to add, did any of us try to spearhead a campaign to crush Xin Zhu’s investigation into the identity of an American mole.”
“Which brings us back,” Wu Liang went on, “to some very basic questions about the Americans. If, as you say, I am a mole-if, indeed, any of us are working for the Americans-then why are they sending agents to China to find out simple answers about Xin Zhu’s private life? Why are they meeting with Turkestan zealots right under our noses? There’s something happening here, and none of our finger-pointing has shed any light on it. Go ahead and arrest me, if you think it’s necessary, but don’t imagine that we’ve answered any significant questions here. What are the Americans up to, and how are they using Xin Zhu for their ends?”
“Would you like an answer?” Zhu asked him directly.
“Oh? So you have an answer?”
“By now I think I do, and this afternoon I hope to have verification. For a while, we’ve known that the Americans were playing an elaborate game of obfuscation. They are drawing our gazes elsewhere, playing on our fears, both to distract us and to discredit me. Our mistake has been the assumption that they were distracting us from a planned attack. We can call it my mistake, if you like. The truth, I now suspect, is that all of this effort has been a simple effort to lay cover for their agent in our midst. For you, Wu Liang. With us distracted by what they’re up to, they are keeping you temporarily safe until… until what? Tell us, do you have an escape plan already in motion? Have they already bought you a nice house on the California coast? Will Chu Liawa be joining you, or has she outlived her political utility?”
“You’re making this up as you go along, Xin Zhu. You’re the one who’s the master of distraction.”
Zhu didn’t bother answering. Wu Liang was sinking before his eyes. Even Yang Qing-Nian was unwilling to speak, for his mentor was too dangerous to defend. Zhang Guo caught Zhu’s eye and gave an approving nod. Sun Bingjun’s face expressed nothing except the emptiness that could defend you against an entire regime; then he said, “Wu Liang, don’t think that any of this is settled. However, I believe that placing you in custody is the only path to take. Is there any disagreement?”
No one said a word.
Slowly, Sun Bingjun pushed himself up from his chair and walked to the door. He opened it and stood a moment talking to the guard posted outside. The guard left, and Sun Bingjun came back in, closing the door behind himself. As he returned to his chair, he said, “Wu Liang, shall we call Yang Qing-Nian your assistant in this case? I don’t want you to be completely cut off in your cell, as Bo Gaoli was. He can represent your interests on the outside.”
“If it’s agreeable to Yang Qing-Nian,” said Wu Liang. His face was red now, from his chin to his eyes. Zhu feared he was going to pass out.
Yang Qing-Nian nodded, looking less resolved than obliged.
When the guard arrived with two more men, Wu Liang allowed himself to be escorted out without any resistance or, really, any sign that he knew the rest of the world existed. Yang Qing-Nian followed him out. Feng Yi shook Sun Bingjun’s hand, while Zhang Guo walked over to Zhu and whispered, “I’m honestly impressed. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Zhu said, though as soon as he said it he felt uncomfortable. He wasn’t supposed to be congratulated for doing his job. That hadn’t been Zhang Guo’s meaning-he was congratulating Zhu for pummeling a political enemy.
“You’re expecting something soon on the other front? The Americans?”
“I’ve had two of them in custody since last night. I didn’t want to talk to them until this had been taken care of. Would you like to join the conversation?”
Zhang Guo laughed aloud, shaking his head. “My stomach couldn’t take it!”
They shook hands; then Zhang Guo left with Feng Yi.
Sun Bingjun placed his folder under his arm and approached Zhu. They were alone now. “So how do you feel?” the old man asked.
“Feel?”
“You must feel something.”
“I don’t feel good, if that’s what you mean. I’ve always known that Wu Liang is a self-serving cretin, but the world is full of men like him. To be honest, I’m still stunned that he was working for the Americans.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“I believe evidence. The evidence is there.”
“Yes, and you found the letter yourself. Unless, of course, you fabricated it. Did you?” Sun Bingjun said, very seriously.
“No,” Zhu said.
“Good. Then I haven’t placed my trust in the wrong man.”
7
He woke to a whitewashed, damp cell, cold and sick from the hangover of whatever had been in that needle.
He didn’t know what time it was. Sleep had come on the airplane, the vibrations lulling him into a false sense of peace, and he’d woken here with urine-soaked pants, his arms aching. Someone had taken the laces from his shoes.
At some point, a slot in his low steel door squeaked open, and a tray was pushed through. Tepid tea. Flavorless rice and slices of salty chicken. He drank the tea and ate the rice but left the chicken untouched, not knowing when or if they would bring more tea.
He had nothing to do but think, yet the only thought that mattered had been settled. They were safe. That did not absolve Alan Drummond, though, for it was he who had put them in danger in the first place. More importantly, Alan’s shoddy plan to kidnap Tina and Stephanie had led to the murder of his father. No, Alan was absolved of nothing.
The door finally opened and, from the floor, he looked up at an enormously fat man following the guard inside.
“You are awake,” said that by now familiar voice. “How’s your head?”
Milo pushed himself back to the wall and got to his feet. His head was in terrible shape. “You look very pleased with yourself.”
Xin Zhu grinned. “Do I? Maybe, but it’s got nothing to do with you. More important things have gone my way.”
“Congratulations.”
Xin Zhu spoke briefly to the guard, who stepped outside but left the door open. The corridor, Milo saw, was made of rough-hewn stone. This was a basement. The guard returned with two low wooden stools and placed them
