31
A LARGE CROWD had formed in Tiananmen Square.
Traffic stopped, and Nicholai looked out his window to see a military caravan – Soviet trucks and American Jeeps – come past as the crowd hooted and jeered.
Nicholai spotted the objects of their derision.
Two men, one Western and one Asian, stood in the back of an open Jeep, propped up by PLA soldiers holding their legs, their arms bound to their sides by ropes. In an open truck behind them, a squad of soldiers sat, their rifles held barrel up. Members of the mob threw garbage and old vegetables, shouted insults, rushed at the Jeep and spat at the prisoners.
“Spies,” Chen explained, watching for Nicholai’s reaction. “An Italian and a Japanese. They were plotting to assassinate the Chairman.”
“Truly?”
“They confessed.”
Chen’s car fell in behind the military caravan as it slowly made its way past Tiananmen Square toward the Temple of Heaven. The parade halted at the Bridge of Heaven and the crowd swarmed around it like an amoeba. Soldiers jumped out of the truck and roughly pulled the prisoners from the Jeep and shoved them to an open space at the base of the bridge. Other soldiers used the rifles to push people back, as an officer formed other soldiers into a file.
“You execute them in public?” Nicholai asked.
“It teaches a lesson.”
In a reversal of ethnic stereotypes, the Italian stood silent and stoic while the Japanese prisoner’s legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, sobbing. A soldier yanked him back and then Nicholai saw a man dressed in a long black coat and black hat emerge from the back of a car and walk toward the prisoners.
He held sheaves of paper in his left hand.
“Kang Sheng,” said Chen, a tremor of fear in his voice.
Nicholai watched Kang strut in front of the crowd, stand beside the prisoners, and shout the proclamation that recited their crimes and condemned them to the people’s righteous rage. The Chairman in his mercy had allowed them to be shot instead of strangled, beheaded, or simply beaten to death by the mob.
Kang finished the speech, posed for a moment, and then stepped offstage.
The officer shouted an order and the rifles were lifted with a metallic clatter that echoed through the crisp air. The Italian braced himself, but Nicholai could see the stain of urine darken his trousers. The crowd saw it too, and made much fun of it.
“Look! He pisses himself!”
“He drank too much wine last night!”
The Japanese dropped to his knees again. A soldier started for him, but the annoyed officer shook his head, barked another order, and three soldiers adjusted their aim. The officer had a feel for the moment, and he lifted his arm but paused for dramatic effect until the crowd quieted.
There was a moment of silence, and then the officer dropped his hand and shouted. The rifles roared and Nicholai saw the two prisoners crumple to the ground.
The Temple of Heaven, its famous blue-tiled roof glistening in the sun, loomed over them.
“Spies,” Chen concluded.
32
NICHOLAI’S MESSAGE was relayed five times before it reached Haverford in Tokyo. Still, it arrived accurately, and Haverford decoded it instantly.
The staff at the CIA station in Tokyo rushed into action. Within minutes, Haverford had a map of Beijing and several aerial photographs in front of him, and he drew a red circle around the Zhengyici Opera House.
Minutes after that, a Chinese refugee, a Beijing native, was in the room and identified the building as being in the Xuanwu District, southwest of the Old City, not far from the Temple of Heaven. One of the oldest parts of the city, it was a rabbit warren of narrow
Haverford thanked and dismissed him, then got on a secure line to Bill Benton, chief of station Beijing, now working out of Macau.
“I need photos and plans of something called the Zhengyici Opera House,” Haverford said, “and an asset check in the Xuanwu District.”
Normally a request like this would take weeks, if it was answered at all, but Benton had been told in no uncertain terms that Haverford had Immediate Access Status. The requested pics and plans were on the wire within fifteen minutes, and an hour later Benton was back on the horn.
“What do we have in Xuanwu?” Haverford asked.
“You’re in luck. The Temple of the Green Truth is right down the street.”
“And what, pray tell, is the Temple of the Green Truth?” Haverford said as he scanned for it and then found the building on the map.
“The oldest mosque in Beijing,” Benton answered.
A photo of the temple appeared under Haverford’s nose. It looked like any old Chinese temple – Buddhist or Daoist – with blue-and-red columns and a sloping roof. But then Haverford noticed that the roof tiles were not the usual blue, but green. “The Commies left it standing?”
“No choice – it’s in the middle of a Hui neighborhood.”
Haverford knew that Benton was playing the “I know more than you know” game. But it was typical of the old China hands, always defensive about the fact that they “lost” the country to the Communists, and ever resentful at now being subordinate to the Asia Desk and Johnny-come-latelies like Haverford. But he was sympathetic – most of their assets had been rolled up, and now an entirely new network had to be built, slowly and painfully.
“Chinese-speaking Muslim minority,” Benton explained. “Been in Beijing for a thousand years. They call their brand of Islam
“Do we own a few of these Huis?” Haverford asked.
“More than a few,” Benton answered. “They hate the fucking Reds, see them as godless infidels trying to suppress their religion. Also, they’re hooked into the Muslim minority out in Xinjiang who are looking to secede.”
It has possibilities, Haverford thought. “I’ll need an extraction team.”
“We can do that.”
“And a dead drop location for an asset in Beijing,” Haverford added.
“Can you toss a few guns to Xinjiang?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll get back to you with details,” Benton said.
“I’ll come to Hong Kong to work out the details.” He didn’t want Benton fucking this up and he didn’t have much time to finalize a plan and get it to Hel.
33
THE WEAPON LOOKED as ugly as it was lethal.
There is no honor and hence no beauty in it, Nicholai thought. A sword is beautiful for the care and craft that
