cell was a Chinese girl, lying on the cement floor, a vacant drug-induced grin on her face. An overweight man in a sweatsuit slept in the next. The remaining cells were empty, except for the last, its door open, where another guard lay on a bunk, snoring. Then Shan saw the metal door at the end of the cell block and realized his mistake. As new prisoners, Yangke and Hostene would still be in the interrogation rooms. He opened the door and shut it behind him, leaning against it for a moment, gathering himself, bracing for the inevitable scents of urine, antiseptics, singed hair, and vomit.
Six more metal doors awaited him, three on each side of the corridor, each with small squares of wire- strengthened glass at eye level. The first two were open and empty. Shan flicked on the lights in the second, revealing a metal table, three metal chairs, and a large metal bucket. On the table were a pair of needle-nosed pliers, dental probes, a ball-peen hammer, and leather straps used for binding prisoners to chairs. In the air was a new odor, the faintest scent of cloves. The knot in his stomach tightened. It was an old trick from the gulag, one he had nearly forgotten. Pull out a tooth and offer oil of cloves to deaden the pain. Then pull out another and withhold the oil.
The next room was locked but lit, its sole occupant a man sitting on the floor in the shadows of the far corner, beating his head against the cement wall.
He found his friends in the last room. The door was open. Yangke stood behind Hostene, who sat at a table opposite a young uniformed knob officer. There were paper and pencils on the table on which were written half a dozen simple words in the Roman alphabet. Hostene was teaching the man English. As Shan eased the door shut, Yangke awkwardly gestured toward a table bearing two large thermoses and mugs with domed porcelain caps. “There’s tea.”
His friends were unharmed. A dozen questions sprang to Shan’s tongue but he choked them down, uncertain of the role he was to act in their little play. Strangely, he was more certain of how to address the knob officer. “Are you with the Lhasa team?” he asked.
The officer turned the papers over, then stood and retrieved his uniform hat. “Major Ren? Of course not. Those red-banner men are. . He only comes when. .” The young officer could not finish his thought.
“We have to go,” Shan ventured.
“I haven’t received instructions,” the officer replied. Shan studied him. He had a careful, educated air about him. He relied on instructions, not orders. On his collar was a small brass star in a circle, an emblem unfamiliar to Shan.
Another knob entered the cell, glaring at the younger officer, gesturing to someone in the corridor. A man in manacles, wearing a prisoner’s hood, appeared, followed by an officer in his forties, who gave the prisoner an unnecessary shove. Without thinking Shan went to Hostene’s side.
This officer had a cold, sleek countenance, his hair oiled and combed back, his thin, pockmarked face like a hatchet. Around his arm was a band of red and black. One side of his mouth curled upward as he examined first Yangke, then Hostene, and finally Shan.
“Where is he?” the officer snarled.
“Not-not here, Major,” the younger officer stammered.
The notorious Ren finally had a face.
Blood leaked from the bottom of the prisoner’s hood. The knob jerked the hood off. Hostene’s head shot up. Yangke gasped. It was Hubei.
“You fool!” the major snapped at the young officer. “Don’t you have sense enough to keep prisoners separate? Each man to his own interrogation room-now! No food or drink until I-” His words faded as he saw Hostene gaze over his shoulder.
“Surely,” came a refined voice, “you would not deny a meal to my colleagues?” Gao glided into the room, an expression of studied ease on his face. Behind him came one of the guards, carrying a tray of bowls heaped with rice, which he set on the table before scurrying away.
“This is not Beijing,” the major growled. “Nor one of your sacred research reservations. Here we are governed by the rules of Public Security.”
Gao calmly went to the tea table and then extended a steaming cup to Shan. “It has been a long day for us, Major. There have been unforeseen logistical difficulties requiring us to stop over in Tashtul and pursue different tasks. But now”-he indicated Hostene and Yangke with a sweep of his free hand-“now with the help of Public Security we have been reunited.”
Ren’s eyes narrowed. “Public Security?” he growled. “You mean with the help of these sniveling, ignorant babysitters?”
Shan gazed at Gao with new respect. There were indeed separate units of the Public Security Bureau assigned to protect and assist special people with special secrets. Given the many secret installations in the area, a post of such officers in Tashtul, wearing brass stars in circles, was to be expected. He remembered Gao’s worried reaction when he had seen the red banner that morning. He had known Yangke and Hostene would have no chance against Ren’s visiting squad, so had called in a preemptive strike. Never trust reality, Gao had warned on the park bench.
“Some aspects of security, Major Ren, require more subtlety than a gun and a baton.”
Ren seemed unconvinced. He gestured with one hand. His men sprang into action, stepping to either side of Hubei, dragging him to the end of the table and pushing him into a chair. In another few seconds they had produced leather straps and secured his arms to those of the chair.
Ren turned to Gao. “This man was found lurking about outside the bus station with a knife. He tried to flee when my men approached him. He can’t decide who he is. We know he’s a former prisoner from his tattoo. But he says he is a shepherd. Then, later, he said he arrived with your party. Imagine my surprise, a shepherd who knows of Gao. Your driver also paid three farmers to provide him with intelligence about a person coming from the mountains. One recognized his civic duty and came forward to confess. He waits in the next room. He has already spoken of mysterious caravans that head into the mountains in the spring.”
“We have had this conversation before, Major Ren,” Gao said, barely stifling his impatience.
“What were these men bringing to you?” Ren demanded.
Gao did not reply right away. He made a show of bringing tea for Yangke and Hostene before replying, “Your job is to protect state secrets, not to know them,” he finally said.
Ren made another gesture. One of his men produced a black box with a small rod extending from it, one of Public Security’s favorite imports from the West, a cattle prod.
Shan had to admire Hubei’s grit. Other than clenching his jaw, he showed no reaction to the first jab of the device onto his bared forearm. Behind his back the officer adjusted the output and thrust the rod between the rails of the chair, into Hubei’s spine. Hubei gasped, arching his back, lifting the chair off the ground.
“I have never seen this man before,” Gao said.
Ren extracted a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his tunic. “This is your shopping list,” he said to Hubei. “Medicine. A long bead necklace. A cardboard mailing box at least twelve inches long by ten inches. Small plastic sheeting in which to wrap the contents. Fifty renminbi postage.” He looked up with a surprised expression, as if reading it for the first time. “A lot of postage. With it one could send something heavy to the other side of the world. You
The miner, twitching, spittle hanging from his jaw, finally yielded. “I came on an errand,” he said with a groan. “I was sent on an errand, that’s all.”
“What kind of medicine?” Ren repeated.
“Painkillers. And stomach medicine.”
“Your big mistake, Gao,” Ren declared, “was not claiming this man to be one of your own. Now he is mine.”
Shan’s protest started as a hoarse whisper but grew louder as he met Ren’s gaze. “But he
“Making a false statement to me is a crime in itself. He said he was a shepherd. Was he lying?”
“We would be foolish not to have a cover story for all of our workers. More than foolish. Unpatriotic.”
“Unpatriotic?” The word seemed to catch Ren off guard.
“Tell me, Major,” Shan continued, “can you imagine a project more important to the people of China than sending a rocket to the moon?”
