Citizen One (47 page)

“Calm yourself, Deputy.”

“We have to act swiftly,
tong zhi
, or it will be too late.”

“Deputy, these words do not mean that they intend to kill your Senior Investigator.”

“
Tong zhi
, the fucking PLA princeling sent an email back to Righteous Mountain. ‘He is yours, Pasechnik. Use your imagination with his death, but leave no evidence. Not a bone’.”

Only now moving out of lands of unconsciousness, of soft, cloying shadow-lands. Aware of shouting, but not the words that made it up, and of hands upon him, hauling, lifting. Of a lightness to his head, heart, limbs … as if flying.

Light over light, splintering, and a noise invading, metal rotors slicing, clapping the air. Turning his head, opening his eyes and seeing through the open door the night on fire. Sky, the colour of a
yeh-ji’s
painted lips, with fields and storage buildings on fire.

Above him the Big Man’s face. Water dribbling to his lips from the tin mug in the Deputy’s hand.

“Drink, Boss.”

Unable to speak, just see, in detached glimpses. Hurdle of barrack buildings shooting past. Head-lit gleam of razor-wire in quicksilver dash. Olive green, chased by black; another helicopter, unmarked, peeling away in a sharp arc. And then scrubland, wasteland, beyond Righteous Mountain’s grasp, as if they had reached the very edge of the world.

Unable to speak, just hear, in chaotic snatches.

“Only just managed to get you out in time, Boss.”

Metal door hauled to. Air, sound, decapitated. A navigator shouting figures, directions as numbers.

“What happened?”

“You were snatched, Special Forces, Boss, the Immediate Action Unit. You’re on one of their helicopters.”

“Where to?”

“We’re heading north. It’s all been fucking arranged.”

A map being unfolded, out of focus above his face.

“We cross here, Lake Xingkai, Heilongjiang Province. Re-fuel here and here. And end up here.”

Red line of a flight path intercepting the black mass of a major centre of population.

“Safe, Boss. An old comrade of Citizen One. A clinic and a
zhau-dai-suo
…”

More water, sweeter than any he had ever tasted.

“They’ll get you well, Boss. Fit and fucking well.”

Answering the question in the Senior Investigator’s eyes.

“And Citizen One says you must be out of Shanghai, a long way out. He says that a hundred flowers are about to bloom, and that you would know what he fucking means.”

A hundred flowers – a hundred blood red roses. Yes, he knew.

“It’s up to him now, Boss. All up to Citizen One.”

“Pasechnik?”

“IAU were supposed to snatch the Russian as well, Boss, but no sign of him. Looks like he left in a fucking hurry.”

Piao agitated. Attempting to sit. So many words queuing, half-formed across his tongue.

“Tell. Tell him …”

“Who, Boss?”

“Citizen One. Tell him …”

Reaching for the water with blind hands. The Big Man holding the cup to his trembling lips.

“Tell him what, Boss?”

“Low building. Low building. Tell him, the low building. Shame, our greatest shame …”

Helicopter rotors thudding through darkness. A sickening turn. Heading latitude 45 North, longitude 132 25´ East. The snow entrenched wasteland borders.

“I don’t understand, what do you mean, Boss, ‘our greatest shame’?”

Unconsciousness as black water swirling, reigning, pulling Piao in.

“Tell him Zhong Ma. Another Zhong Ma.”

Kill One to Warn a Hundred.

A Hundred, to Warn Ten Thousand …

Nothing in writing. No words on telephones, even prefix ‘
39
’ numbers. No emails. No faxes. No use of intermediaries. Just words. Mouth to ear. Whispers in dark wood-panelled committee rooms. Words as instructions, as sentences. Words as daggers to hearts.

*

Their footsteps in harsh unison, through corridors leading to corridors. Exactly knowing where to go. In a warren of committee rooms. Executive offices. Party chambers. Knowing exactly where to go.

Ten medium to high ranking
cadre
names on Colonel Qi’s email, transferred to a neatly typed list. Ten
cadre
, their feet in the fetid waters of ‘the olds’. Ten
cadre
, their sell-by dates long past.

Ten offices simultaneously entered. Ten identical sets of ink-stamped documents presented. No introductions. No need. A scenario that every citizen of the People’s Republic had woken to, sweating, in the dreams that pepper the anonymous hours of the night.

Eight of the ten accused in the dock. Justice for the other two less formal. Sixteen minutes the trial lasting. Two minutes allotted for each of the accused. Each minute carefully rehearsed. Outcomes determined at the very highest levels of the Party hierarchy.

The Judge of the Supreme People’s Court standing. His words, few, a good bottle of full-bodied
Cunxian
rice wine from Jiang Su, and an open-legged mistress waiting.

“
Lao gai
for a period of not less than twenty-five years. May the education through labour that
lao gai
affords, forge new and worthwhile comrades of you.”

At the back of the court, a comrade moving out of shadow, through the doors and down the corridor. An old comrade, the heavy double doors of the Supreme People’s Court held open for him. Pulling up his collar. Chilled, although the weather was warm. A curse of old age, to be out of step with all around you.

Smiling. By this time next week, there would not be a high-ranking
cadre
within the People’s Republic who did not have knowledge of the ten. Who did not fear the knock on his own door. Who did not fantasize about such a shadow falling across his own life. Although the charges were read out in secret, each word of them would be the currency of gossip. Each word of them, in travel down the
xiao-dao xiao-xi
, ‘little road news’.

By this time next week there would not be a high-ranking
cadre
in the People’s Republic who would not be scrabbling to sell his stake in a karaoke sex bar or hostess club. Who would not be re-visiting his false expenses claims, or his plans to siphon monies from a building contract cheap materials’ scam. By this time next week, there would not be a high-ranking
cadre
in the People’s Republic whose ambitions would not have been blunted, or whose attentions had not been diverted towards the proletariat, rather than the purchase of a second
zhau-dai-suo
.

The chauffeur opened the Red Flag’s door and helped Citizen One into its moody, leather interior. The
Hong-qi’s
door closing. Streets,
long
, passing by in silence. Lives reflected in a thousand shop windows.

Smiling. An old lesson once more put to the test.

‘For a threat to threaten, do not shout it, whisper it.’

There is a belief that old fishermen have, rarely spoken and dwelt over at one’s peril. They will tell you, as the smoke from cheroots casts riddles over their faces and as fingers go to scars from the fishing line’s snag, burn and tear. They will tell you that in the end the plundered sea takes back, in kind, what has been stolen from it. Kilo by kilo, metre by metre, soul by soul.

That is the belief that old fishermen have.

*

Big and Little Yangshan Islands, Hangzhou Bay
.

Silence fractured. Curses. Pleadings. Bribes. Screams.

It took six officers to carry each of the PLA
tai zis
from the cargo hold to the deck. A torturous procession. Two officers, in a cradle of linked arms, supporting each body. Four officers, gloved hands, to each of the large concrete ‘shoes’ that encased each comrade’s legs.

At the bow of the Shining Path, a Dayang class support and rescue ship, the handrail had already been slid back upon itself. Beyond, uncontained darkness. At the edge of the iron scarred abyss, the comrades set down in sharply sheared shadows. Leggy sunflowers set in black razored pots. An officer of higher rank stepping forward. Once more checking through the two comrades’ pockets. Meticulously. First the PLA princeling, Ang. Promises, threats, supplications, all ignored. The officer caught in the mesh of the cold ritual. Mindset only on that. Re-checking the officer’s clothing; that all identifying marks and labels had been removed. Moving on to the next
tai zi
, Tsung. The sewer’s smell, still upon him. The same process. The same ritual. The princeling silent, only his eyes speaking. Looking east, back to the distant bracelet-lit coast. Wife, children … loss. An un-stitchable gash of sadness.

The senior officer fading into deeper shadow. Many seconds before the other officers, gloved hands, moved forward. Dropping to their knees. Through cheap trouser material, skin chilled by the iron deck. Pushing, with all of their strength, the concrete blocks skidding over the bleeding rust. Then a point, a razor’s edge of balance, between iron and life, and air and death. The princelings frozen in a different version of time. Still, perfectly so … as if their very calmness would halt violence’s last shunt.

From deep shadow, a barked order. Gloved hands on the concrete. Concrete pushed over the iron deck. Falling, accelerating, weighted feet whipping torsos upright, snapping arms, head, straight. Accelerating. Blunt arrows falling into darkness and into the water. Falling silently in ink. Lost cries. Falling. Slowly, flailing arms calmed. The concrete meeting the sand seabed at fifty metres. Gently, arms falling to sides. Heads resting, chins to their chests. And in gritty baptism the sand falling back on itself as permanent night.

‘Apnea’, from the Greek meaning, ‘want of breath’
.

The mouth of the giant opening. In an arc-light blaze, smudges firming to form, an arrowhead of guards meeting the Red Flag. Many seconds before the PLA princeling, Qi, left the limousine, persuaded by the pushing of rough hands. Hands underneath his armpits propelling him from the compound and through the corridors of puddled concrete, to Virtue Forest’s lowest depths, with its skinned knuckle stone cells smelling of the earth and of lives left to rot. Rough hands on fine material, into the small of the back, pushing the PLA, Qi, towards Gongdelin’s deepest cell. Unforgiving hinges, the door wrenched open. Standing at its very centre, a rigid backed man, a Senior Colonel in the People’s Liberation Army, in full uniform. Qi, smiling, relieved.

“Father, it is good to see you. I knew that you would come for me. I can explain everything.”

No words. No sense of recognition.

“They have told lies about me, father. I am your son, you know that I am not what they say.”

The Senior Colonel moving forward. One by one, and with great care, undoing the buttons of his son’s tunic. Removing it. Carefully folding it.

“Comrade Senior Colonel, Sir, what is this?”

A gentle father’s fingers removing the PLA’s belt, undoing the PLA’s uniform trousers, removing them, precisely folding them, laying them on top of the jacket.

“Father. Father. I do not understand? I have done nothing.”

Taking the PLA’s hand. A single tear down the old man’s cheek. Letting the tear fall to his chin.

“Father, what are you doing?”

His fingers to the bulky watch encircling Qi’s wrist. Resisting, the PLA. Guards holding him firm.

“No. No, father. You cannot mean to do this. Not this. Not you …”

A double strap. A double catch. Slowly. Carefully undoing them.

“You know what this will do to me. Father, you know.”

The watch into the Senior Colonel’s hand. A life given, a life taken back.

The Senior Colonel, his fingers, rock cold, across his child’s face. Across his child’s eyes in a chilled farewell.

“Father? Father?”

Across his forearm, the uniform. In his pocket, the watch. The Senior Colonel moving to the cell door. Moving into the corridor, not hearing his child’s pleading words.

The cell door slamming. Senior Colonel Gu Qi, commanding officer of the
Shanghai Kan Shou Jingbei Si Ling Bu
, not looking back. A lesson learnt long ago, in more difficult times. An urgent march down the corridor, putting distance, as quickly as possible, between himself and such intense sorrow. Dropping the watch to the rock floor, his booted feet trampling it in a final act of destruction.

*

‘Sleep well at night, citizens of the People’s Republic.

Sleep well, knowing that a rough man is walking the night, prepared to do violence in your name.’

The
Hong-qi
was parked in Gongdelin’s compound, its engine already running. Within a second of Senior Colonel Gu Qi seating himself within its moody exterior, Virtue Forest’s gates rising and the Red Flag taking silently to the night.

Citizen One forcing a heavy crystal glass of
Dukang
into the Senior Colonel’s hand.

“It is done, Comrade Qi?”

Drinking deeply the PLA. Its fire cauterising the pain.

“It is done.”

The
tong zhi
, a hand on the PLA’s shoulder.

“There was no choice, Comrade. Imagine a show trial? The loss of face for you and your family. A stain on your Party record forever and such an exemplary record, such fine communist bloodstock.”

Drawing the Red Flag’s curtains.

“As it is, Comrade Senior Colonel, no one will ever know. You have kept to your part of the arrangement and I will, of course, keep to mine. As we speak, PLA and Party press releases are being circulated simultaneously.”

Re-filling the PLA’s glass.

“We have just received news of a terrible accident in the area of the Big and Little Yangshan Islands, Hangzhou Bay. Our esteemed People’s Liberation Army was involved in complex manoeuvres in training for the defence of our glorious People’s Republic. Several high-ranking officers who insisted on taking an active part in the most demanding and dangerous of these operations were lost at sea. Their bodies have not yet been recovered.”