Flags of Sin (8 page)

“So is
half of Beijing,” said Li.

“Such
pessimism. It is beneath you, Li.”

Li
raised his eyebrows and scratched behind his ear. “I call it realism.”

“Perhaps
today we will get lucky,” smiled Superintendent Hong, and with a swat on Li’s
back, he walked away.

“Lucky?
How does he expect us to get lucky?”

Li shook
his head. “Our only hope is to comb the cameras, and see what we find. The
story will eventually go public, and then we’ll be able to begin coordinating
our efforts with the other investigations. Hopefully then we’ll find
something.”

But
for now we’re fighting not only a murderer, but a government more concerned
with appearances, than safety.

Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China

March 28, 1875

Li Mei stirred as the cart they were in stopped and the baby made a
noise. She felt a hand on her shoulder. A now familiar hand. Jun. It had been
almost three months of travel. She was exhausted. He was exhausted. And the
baby was exhausted. But thankfully healthy, and visibly bigger than when they
had started the ordeal.

The
journey had been long, and slow, far slower than the news that had spread out
before them. It was scant at first, and terrifying. The few particulars that
made it into each town and village before them were incomplete, and mostly
incorrect. As they fled farther away from Beijing, the news firmed up, became
more complete, more certain in the minds of those who delivered it.

But it
was all lies.

The
claim was that the Emperor had died from smallpox after a two week battle with
the horrendous disease. No mention was made of the son they now ferried to
safety. It was as if he had never existed. Jun had even inquired on several
occasions, “What of the son?” to which the reply was always some variation of,
“What son? The Emperor had no son!”

After
weeks of this being repeated, the news reached them that a new Emperor had been
appointed, and once more the Empress Dowager Cixi was essentially in control
again. It had been devastating news, but there was a blessing hidden amongst
the lies.

Nobody
was looking for them.

At least
not publicly.

But they
couldn’t rely on that. If the Empress Dowager feared the true heir to the
throne, she would send out her spies to seek them out, which is what had led to
their fateful decision, one that had sent her heart aflutter. Last week they
had married in secret, and decided to claim the baby as their own, so they
might have some chance of surviving.

She
squeezed the hand that now rested on her shoulder, then tilted her head so she
could feel his skin on hers. “What is it, my love?”

His hand
left her shoulder.

“Look, I
think we’re here.”

Large
lettering filled a sign at the entrance to a town she had long forgotten.

Shaoshan.

Her
heart began to pound a little faster as the cart they were on resumed its
journey, taking them deeper into the town. She recognized nothing, it having
been almost five years since she left, and when she had, she had only been ten.

But then
she saw the farmers’ market, in the center square, and her heart leapt. It was
something she recognized. She elbowed Jun.

“What is
it?”

“See
that man, selling the cabbage?”

Jun nodded.

“I
remember him. Ask him if he knows where my family’s farm is.”

Jun
jumped down and ran over to the man as the driver continued through the market,
toward his own destination. The vendor pointed to their left and Jun bowed,
running back to the cart.

“We must
get off now,” he said to the driver.

The cart
and its lumbering oxen stopped and Jun helped Mei to the ground.

“Thank
you!” called Jun as the man flicked the reigns and the decrepit vehicle moved
on.

Jun took
Mei by the arm and they hurried through the various stalls, and eventually into
a wide boulevard she immediately recognized.

“What of
my parents?”

Jun turned
and smiled at her. “They are well, and still on your farm.”

Tears
welled in Mei’s eyes as she looked down at the baby who was now awake and examining
his surroundings.

“This
will be your home, little one. What do you think?”

The baby
looked up at her, eyes wide in wonder.

“I think
he likes it,” said Jun.

Mei
wiped her eyes dry with the back of her hand and nodded.

“I think
so too.”

“The man
in the market said the farm was—”

Mei cut
him off.

“I know
exactly where it is.”

And she
did. With each step forward, the memories flooded back. Her childhood of
running up and down these streets as she performed chores for her parents replayed
themselves in her mind, like a favorite dream remembered.

They
soon left the town, and were on an old dirt road, well-worn, the ruts of
generations of carts etched down the center. She found herself almost running,
Jun carrying their meager possessions behind him as he followed, continually
begging her to slow down for the baby’s sake.

She
couldn’t, but when she rounded a hedge of trees, she stopped, Jun nearly
running into her. Tears poured freely down her cheeks, the smile spread across
them interrupting the flow, as she saw the home she had grown up in, still
standing there, still as humble as she remembered, perhaps a little more so.

A figure
brushed snow off the porch with an old broom, a broom she had held a hundred times
before, a figure whose stooped form she could never forget.

“Mama!”
she cried, handing the baby over to Jun then rushing headlong across the field
in front of the house, the snow soaking the cloths that wrapped her sandals to
keep the cold out.

But she
didn’t care.

The
stooped form straightened, looking in her direction, then began to cry out
herself, yelling for everyone to come outside.

“My baby
is home!” cried the now unmistakable form of her mother as she hobbled down the
steps and rushed toward her, arms stretched out wide.

Mei
pushed through the last of the snow and onto the cleared path and rushed into
the arms of her mother, sobbing in happiness like she had never before. They
both held each other tight, crying and saying things in between gasps that
neither could understand. She looked over her mother’s shoulder and saw her father
standing on the porch, his face as unemotional as ever, his embarrassment over
his poor teeth having stopped him from smiling years ago.

But the
tears that poured down his cheeks at the sight of her told her all she needed.

She
broke free of her mother and ran up the steps, hugging her father as hard as
she could, and her heart melted as she felt the arms she had thought she’d
never feel again, envelope her in their protective barrier, and for the first
time in months, she finally felt safe.

Other
excited voices surrounded her, and she felt hands slapping her back in welcome,
as her brothers joined them.

She
pushed gently away from her father and began hugging the rest of the family,
when she gasped.

“Oh no!
I forgot!”

She
looked at the road for Jun and found him walking up the path, baby in hand, a
smile on his face.

Mei
rushed down the steps and escorted Jun forward.

“Mother,
Father. I would like you to meet my husband, Mao Jun.” Her mother gasped, the
smile on her face threatening to crack her worn façade. Mei took a deep breath,
hating to lie to the ones she loved. “And this is our son, Mao Shun-sheng.”

Jun bowed
deeply, as did her parents and siblings. Finally, the introductions complete,
her mother urged them inside to examine the baby, her daughter, and her new
son-in-law.

And once
inside amongst the familiar surroundings, Mei knew they would be safe.

Beijing National Stadium, Beijing, China

One week ago

Inspector Hu Ping jumped forward with one foot, stomping it on the
ground. Li Meng looked at his junior partner with a smile as this was her third
attempt to trap the elusive piece of paper. Why she wanted it, he had no clue,
but doubted it was her strong belief in civic duty and a requirement to pick up
litter.

Finally
successful, she reached down and picked up the paper, smiling in triumph at Li
as she waved it in the air.

Then he
saw the words emblazoned on the paper and realized why she had picked it up.

“Foreigners
Out!” it screamed in bold red characters.

“Let me
see that,” he said, holding out his hand as she quickly read the contents.
Finished, she handed it over.

“I think
we have our first break,” she said, her smile now gone.

Li took
the paper and read the brief diatribe.

Foreigners Out!

Foreigners are destroying the
purity of China, destroying our heritage. Our leaders are consumed by greed,
hungrily devouring foreign money to feed their decadent ways. It is time to
take our country back. It is time to take it back from the foreigners.

Remember the Boxer Rebellion!

Remember the Revolution!

Remember The June Fourth Incident!

Li’s
eyebrows shot up at the last line. He of course understood the first two
references. The Boxer Rebellion of 1898 to 1901 had been an attempt to force
the foreigners of the Eight-Nation Alliance out of the country, to free China
from their influence, and restore the true power of the Emperor.

But it
had failed.

Tens of
thousands had died on both sides, and it had been a humiliation that the
country never recovered from.

Until
the revolution.

When Mao
Zedong fought the regime of old, its complicity with foreign powers before,
during and after the war, had threatened the Chinese way of life. He and the
communists had won, and established a new country under a new flag, and forced
the foreigners out so the country could be rebuilt in the Chinese image, with
everyone prospering as equally as possible, through state ownership and
control.

Yes,
through communism.

It had
been a glorious time, though it was before Li’s generation. But as with all
things, good or bad, they must evolve, or die. And China had evolved. The Party
was as strong as ever, but it was slowly giving the people rights.

Li was
the first to admit that the new found freedoms were most likely not for the
people’s benefit. No, they were most likely for the benefit of the Party
loyalists so they could legally enjoy the new Western ways made available to
them with the lowering of barriers previously foisted against anything foreign.
The people of his parents’ generation were having a hard time adjusting to the
new ways. His generation had adapted, though at times he wondered how far
things would go, and if they would be for the best.

It was
Ping’s generation that he feared for the most. They never knew the old times,
and as they clamored for more and more freedoms, they might just get what they
wanted.

And that
was the one thing Li feared.

If
China’s new freedoms went too far, too fast, someone, somewhere, would decide
things had indeed gone too far.

And hit
the Reset button.

And that
could be disastrous for all. He feared the day when the Party turned hardline
and decided the Western capitalist values that had been embraced over the past
decades must be suppressed. A population of over one billion, hundreds of
millions of whom were born into a society far freer than he had been, would
suddenly find themselves back in the dark ages of communism, where there was no
freedom, no Western movies, music, television. No Internet, controlled or
otherwise. No cellphone networks or text messaging, as those could be used to
subvert the State.

He
feared what would happen.

Civil
war.

It was
the only logical outcome.

Who
would win?

Of that,
he had no clue. He tended to lean toward the adage that no one would be a
winner.

But what
would trigger it? What would cause China to spiral back in time?

He
looked at the paper.

This.

Had a
nationalist movement begun again? Were these shootings actually not hate
crimes, but targeted killings designed to trigger an end-goal? Start killing
foreigners randomly, heinously, and Westerners would stop coming. Eventually
businesses might pull out, and worse, the Western populations begin to boycott
Chinese made goods.

Economic
collapse.

The West
would label China a communist pariah, and push for democratic reforms. The
population would demand these reforms in order to get the way of life they were
accustomed to, back. There would be protests. Tiananmen would be repeated but
on an even bolder scale, since this generation had actually tasted some of the freedom
the previous had fought for.

And the
Party would fight back.

He
looked at Ping, and he felt his chest tighten as he pictured her crushed under
the treads of a tank, fighting for a cause he knew she would support.

And he
wondered just what side he would take.

“What
have you got there?”

It was his
boss, Hong, only inches away.

Li
sometimes wondered if the new Chinese stealth fighter he had been hearing about
was simply an old Shenyang J-8 fighter with Hong strapped to the nosecone.

“We
found it on the ground,” replied Ping.

Hong
snatched it from Li’s hand and crumpled it into a ball.

“What
are you doing?” exclaimed Li, immediately regretting his tone. He lowered his
voice, bowing slightly. “I beg forgiveness, sir, but isn’t that evidence?”