The Flower Net (36 page)

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or David, several days went by in a blur of pain and narcotics. He was admitted to a Western-style hospital in Chengdu, where he endured lengthy surgery to remove the bullet and reconstruct the bones in his arm. David had lost a lot of blood, but the doctor assured Hulan that he would recover completely. The best thing he could do now was stay in bed and rest.

On that first day in the hospital, Hulan was sitting on the edge of David’s bed, waiting for him to regain consciousness and watching a local newscast when she heard about Ambassador Watson. “Despondent over his son’s death, the United States ambassador to China committed suicide this morning at the official residence,” the reporter announced as on the screen Watson’s body was wheeled from the official residence. This was followed by shots of Elizabeth Watson getting into the back of a limo and Phil Firestone making a statement lamenting the loss to America and China of such a fine man.

Hulan put through a call to Zai, who, after the events at the bear farm, had ordered men to the embassy to arrest Ambassador Watson—they would worry about diplomatic immunity later—but they were too late. After leaving the farm, Watson had driven back to Chengdu and taken a flight back to Beijing, where his wife confronted him about Billy’s death. Unable to accept her husband’s lies, she killed him. Zai himself had flown up to meet with her, but the murder had occurred on embassy grounds, making it an American problem. Knowing this and wanting to protect his boss even in death, Phil Firestone acted swiftly, arranging for Mrs. Watson to accompany her husband’s body to Washington, where he would be buried with full honors in Arlington National Cemetery. Hulan had relayed all this to David as soon as he awoke.

David began to heal. Hulan came to the hospital every day with tin containers of soup. Together they watched the story unfold on television. On the International Hour on CNN, David and Hulan watched the president eulogize his old friend, then go on to make a broad policy statement about the continuing conflicts with China. He hoped that these would be resolved, but if they couldn’t, he—like Big Bill Watson, who throughout his life had stood up to bullies domestically and internationally—would take a tough stance.

“Turn it off,” David said.

Unlike the U.S. government, Chinese officials chose to use the case as an object lesson. Ironically, it was unlikely that the Chinese people would believe the account of Liu’s actual suicide, having heard so many political falsehoods in the past. Still, one quarter of the world’s population watched as the iron triangle closed around other couriers found at the Black Earth Inn, the young woman who worked at the Panda Brand souvenir shop, as well as several others who’d been involved in the packaging, sale, and transportation of the bile.

For Liu’s official eulogy, a document written by committee that would define how he and his family would be perceived for the next fifty years or so, the government dredged up all manner of unsavory revelations from the decadent lifestyle of his grandparents through Liu’s corruption at the Ministry of Culture, and ending with the murders and smuggling. In accordance with tradition, Liu’s descendants were also examined. While on a personal level Hulan might never get over the events at the bear farm, her role there protected her from disgrace now. In fact, there had already been a brief flurry of stories in the media recalling the brave deeds of the revolutionary martyr Liu Hulan and drawing parallels between her life and the inspector’s.

“To have two suicides of such prominent people should attract someone’s attention,” Hulan said one day after reading a particularly florid account in the
People’s Daily
.

“Yes, if anyone’s paying attention,” David had responded. But no one was.

On the morning of February twentieth, any chance that the full story might emerge was lost as another story of far greater significance was announced. Hulan came to the hospital and turned on the television to see a simple black-and-white photograph against a blue background with the characters for “Comrade Deng Xiaoping Is Immortal” displayed beneath it. (Later, they discovered that Deng had died the previous morning. The government, Hulan explained, had postponed the announcement to curtail spontaneous public demonstrations.) China entered a period of mourning. Word came down that the Lantern Festival, the final festival of Chinese New Year, should be downplayed this year.

On February twenty-third, doctors pronounced David well enough to fly to Beijing, but procuring seats proved difficult. Deng was from Sichuan Province, and many people from his village had been invited to the memorial in the capital. Hulan used the combined clout of the MPS and her status as a member of one of the Hundred Families to obtain airline tickets.

On February twenty-fourth, Deng’s family and a few top officials met for a private funeral. Deng Xiaoping had always said he wanted a frugal and private service. His wishes were observed up to a point. His wife, children, and grandchildren cried over his body. Hulan—like hundreds of millions of others—watched in television close-up as Deng’s daughter kissed her father’s waxen cheek one last time. Later his body was driven by Toyota minivan past thousands of Beijing’s citizens along the Avenue of Perpetual Peace past the Forbidden City and Tiananmen Square to Babaoshan, the cemetery reserved for revolutionary heroes, where he was cremated. Deng had also said he wanted to live to see China regain sovereignty over Hong Kong. This wish, too, could only be partially fulfilled; some of his ashes would be sprinkled in Hong Kong Harbor.

Hulan’s recent notoriety won her an invitation to the memorial service attended by ten thousand people—an auspicious number to the Chinese—in the Great Hall of the People. At 10
A.M.
on February twenty-fifth, whistles and horns on cars, trains, boats, factories, and schools sounded all across China for three minutes to mark the beginning of the service. Hulan took her place with other Red Princes and Princesses on the ground floor of the Great Hall. A few rows ahead of her, she saw Nixon Chen and Madame Yee. A few rows in front of them, she glimpsed Bo Yun and a couple of others she’d seen at Rumours.

Everyone stood to listen to President Jiang Zemin read the eulogy. Like Hulan’s father’s, it was a carefully worded document, one that would be studied for years to come. In it, Deng was remembered for surviving three purges and for creating the market socialism that had brought so much change to China. The Cultural Revolution, when Deng had suffered so, was proclaimed a “grave mistake.” The bloody massacre at Tiananmen Square, for which Deng proudly accepted responsibility, was mentioned, but Jiang’s words were cautious.

As Hulan listened, she couldn’t help but wonder about President Jiang’s future. On the street, people sometimes referred to him as “Flowerpot,” because he had become as common as a flowerpot at ribbon cuttings and other photo opportunities. He also had a penchant for singing American movie tunes and reciting passages from the Gettysburg Address to entertain visiting dignitaries. Were these the actions of a “paramount leader”? Did he qualify as the “first among equals”? Would there be a power struggle during this fall’s Fifteenth Communist Party Congress or would it take a year or two for his detractors to get organized? Jiang was the commander in chief of the world’s largest army, but did he have the support of the generals? No one knew the answers yet, but like a Chinese opera there were still many acts to come.

Hulan was still not quite sure why she had come there. She supposed it was seeing Deng’s daughter tearfully kissing her father on television the day before. For all of his political accomplishments—and failures—Deng must have been a good father. He must have loved his children very much to elicit such a public show of emotion from them. After a lifetime of wishing and trying, Hulan had been unable to forge a similar bond. So she stood in the Great Hall of the People mourning less for Deng than for the absence of love from her own father.

David would have liked to stay in Beijing, but he had a lot of unfinished business in Los Angeles. Before he left, he and Hulan had one last dinner with Zai, who’d just been appointed vice minister. Despite his new title, he looked much the same. His jacket was worn and his shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs. He spoke haltingly about Hulan’s father. He knew his friend’s history of corruption but had seen no reason to be suspicious until their trip to Tianjin. After Liu assigned his daughter to the Watson case, Zai concluded that his friend had to be involved. “After Cao Hua’s death, my main concern was for your safety,” Zai told Hulan. “I wanted you out of the country. I hoped you wouldn’t return.”

Hulan began to mist up, and they decided to drop the subject, but later in the evening when Zai excused himself to go to the men’s room, David followed. “Hulan’s father talked about people high up who ordered him to reopen the case. They—whoever
they
are—must have known about him. Who told them? Was it you? Was it
your
opportunity to get revenge on Liu?”

Zai looked very tired. “He was my oldest friend. Where he was concerned, I followed a one-eye-open, one-eye-closed policy almost my entire life. Even after everything that had happened in the past, I would have done nothing to harm him, until I believed that Hulan was in danger. That I could not stand.”

“Then how did they know?” David asked. Zai just shook his head.

On March first, sixteen days after the events at the bear farm, David—with his arm in a sling—was back at Beijing airport in a private waiting room. Vice Minister Zai, as yet unaccustomed to dealing with the media, trudged through a speech for the benefit of the local press. His words were translated into English for a few stringers by a young woman from the Language Institute of Beijing. David scanned the faces of Zai, Guang Mingyun, and others from the Ministry of Public Security who had turned out for this official farewell. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beth Madsen walk by the window that separated this room from the rest of the terminal. She was either leaving Beijing or coming in on another of her business trips. If she was departing, then they’d probably be on the same flight. At his side, holding his hand, was Hulan. They had said their most intimate farewells at her home, knowing that at the airport their behavior would be circumscribed by formalities.

Vice Minister Zai ended his remarks. The assembled crowd applauded. Then he stepped forward and presented David with a plaque showing the Great Hall of the People with gold characters etched on each side. The two men shook hands. Then it was Guang Mingyun’s turn. “I am grateful for what you did, even though the outcome has reflected badly on my son’s memory.” He handed David a package wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string. “This is just a small token. Please do not embarrass me by opening it now.” They, too, shook hands, then Guang Mingyun faded into the crowd.

Zai cleared his throat and said a few last words in Chinese. The others nodded and drifted away so that only Zai, David, and Hulan remained. “Again, we are thankful for your help,” the older man said. “China is a good country, but sometimes we make mistakes.”

“As do we,” David acceded.

“Yes, none of us can avoid human nature. In these events neither China nor America was completely clean or completely dirty. People died who did not have to. I think particularly of Investigator Sun and Special Agent Gardner. We should honor their memories by remembering our ultimate success. I hope we can work together in the future to stop corruption and other types of crime. I have much still to do here, and I’m afraid you will be going home to many hard tasks. But I believe we have made a good start.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank
you
.” Zai looked around. “I will keep the others away.” With that, Zai left the waiting room and stood outside the door, leaving David and Hulan alone.

“This won’t be for long,” he said.

“I know.”

“You’ll come soon.”

“I will.”

“You promise.”

“Absolutely.”

“If you don’t, I’ll be back for you.”

She smiled. “I’m counting on that.”

When it was time to board, David had a hard time letting her go. As he walked down the jetway, he paused and turned to look at her one last time. She was standing—dry-eyed—by herself. Nearby, an old woman swept the floor. A few young men in army uniforms rushed by eager to begin their furloughs. A handful of businessmen scuttled past, talking on cellular phones. David waved to Hulan and turned away.

After takeoff, David opened the package Guang Mingyun had given him. David didn’t know what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t a computer disk. He held it thoughtfully for a couple of minutes, balancing it in his hand. Once the pilot turned off the seat-belt sign, David got up and walked to where Beth Madsen was working on her laptop. The seat next to her was vacant.

“May I?” he asked.