Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man from Beijing

‘I can’t save you,’ said Hong Qiu again. ‘But I can give you an opportunity to bring others down alongside you. I was given permission to speak to you for thirty minutes. That time is nearly up. You said that I should follow the money?’

‘He’s sometimes called Golden Hands.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Can it mean more than one thing? He is the golden intermediary. He makes black money white; he shifts money out of China; he puts money in accounts without the tax authorities having the slightest idea about what’s going on. He charges fifteen per cent on all the transactions he carries out. Not the least of his activities is laundering the money floating around in Beijing: the houses and arenas and other things that are currently being built for the Olympic Games two years from now.’

‘Is it possible to prove any of this?’

‘You need two hands,’ said Shen slowly. ‘One hand takes. But there has to be another hand that’s prepared to give. How often are they sentenced to death? The other hand, the one prepared to pay money in order to secure an advantage? Hardly ever. Why is one a bigger crook than the other? That’s why you should track down the sources of the money. Start with Chang and Lu, the building contractors. They are scared, and they’ll talk to protect themselves. They have the most amazing stories to tell.’

Shen fell silent. Hong Qiu thought about the struggle taking place behind the newspaper headlines between those who wanted to preserve the old residential district in central Beijing and those hoping to see it demolished to make way for the Olympic Games. She belonged to those who passionately defended the old residential area and had often dismissed angrily the accusation that she did so for sentimental reasons. By all means construct new buildings and renovate old ones, but short-term interests such as the Olympic Games should not be allowed to dictate the city’s appearance.

Hong Qiu could see that the questions she had been asking had managed to make Shen almost completely forget the execution that would soon be his fate. He started talking again.

‘Ya Ru is a vindictive person. They say that he never forgets an injustice to which he thinks he’s been subjected, no matter how minor it might have been. He also told me that he regards his family as a unique dynasty whose memory must be preserved at all costs. You had better look out and make sure he doesn’t regard you as a defector, betraying the family’s honour.’ Shen looked hard at Hong Qiu. ‘He will kill anybody who crosses him. I know that. Especially people who mock him. He has men he can always call upon when necessary. They crawl out from under stones and disappear again just as quickly. I heard recently that he sent one of his men to the USA. Rumour has it that there were dead bodies lying around when the man returned to Beijing. They say he’s been to Europe as well.’

‘The USA? Europe?’

‘That’s what rumour suggests.’

‘And does rumour tell the truth?’

‘Rumour always tells the truth. When lies and exaggerations have been filtered out, there is always a kernel of truth left behind. That’s what you need to look for.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Power not based on knowledge and a constant flow of information will eventually become impossible to defend.’

‘That didn’t help you.’

Shen didn’t reply. Hong Qiu thought about what he had said. It had surprised her.

She also thought about what the Swedish judge had said. Hong Qiu had recognised the man in the photograph Birgitta Roslin had shown her. Even if it was blurred, there was no doubt that it was Liu Xin, her brother’s bodyguard. Was there a connection between what Birgitta Roslin had told her and what Shen had just said? Could that be possible?

The warden reappeared in the corridor. Her time was up. Shen’s face suddenly turned white and he grabbed hold of her arm.

‘Don’t leave me,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be alone when I die.’

Hong Qiu released herself from his hands. Shen started screaming. It was as if Hong Qiu was faced with a terrified child. The warden threw him down on the floor. Hong Qiu left the cell and hurried away as quickly as possible. Shen’s desperate cries followed her. They echoed in her ears until she was back in Ha Nin’s office. That was when she made up her mind. She would not leave Shen alone in his final moments.

Shortly before seven the next morning Hong Qiu turned up at the cordoned-off field used for executions. According to what she had heard, it was the place where the military trained before going on the attack in Tiananmen Square more than a decade earlier. But now there were nine people to be executed. Alongside crying and freezing cold relatives, Hong Qiu took up her position behind a barrier. Young soldiers with rifles in their hands were keeping watch. Hong Qiu observed the young man closest to her. He could hardly be more than nineteen years old.

She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking. He was about the same age as her own son.

A covered truck rumbled into the field. The nine condemned prisoners were taken down from the back by impatient soldiers. Hong Qiu had always been surprised by how fast everything went on such occasions. There was no dignity in dying in this cold, wet field. She saw Shen fall over when he was pushed down from the back of the truck — he made no sound, but she could see tears rolling down his cheeks. One of the women was screaming. One of the soldiers barked an order at her, but she carried on screaming until an officer stepped forward and hit her hard in the face with a pistol butt. She fell silent and was dragged to her place in the row. All were forced to kneel down. Soldiers with rifles stood behind each of the prisoners. The gun barrels were barely a foot away from the backs of their heads. Then it all happened in a flash. An officer gave an order, shots were fired and the prisoners fell forward with their faces buried in the wet mud. When the officer walked along the row and gave each of them the coup de grâce , Hong Qiu looked away. Now she didn’t need to see any more. The next of kin of the dead would be billed for the cost of the two bullets. They would have to pay for the death of their relatives.

Over the next few days she thought about what Shen had told her. His words about Ya Ru’s vindictiveness echoed around her head. She knew that in the past he hadn’t hesitated to resort to violence. Brutally, almost sadistically. She sometimes thought her brother was a psychopath at heart. Thanks to Shen, who was now dead, she might get some insight into who he really was, this brother of hers.

Now the time was ripe. She would talk to one of the prosecutors who devoted themselves exclusively to accusations of corruption.

She didn’t hesitate. Shen had spoken the truth.

Three days later, late in the evening, Hong Qiu arrived at a military airfield outside Beijing. Two of Air China’s biggest passenger jets were standing there, bathed in light, waiting for the delegation of nearly four hundred people who were going to visit Zimbabwe.

Hong Qiu’s role was to conduct discussions about closer cooperation between the Zimbabwean and Chinese security services — the Chinese would pass on knowledge and techniques to their African colleagues.

As a privileged passenger, she was allocated a place at the front end of the aircraft, where the seats were bigger and more comfortable. Hong Qiu fell asleep soon after the meal was served and the lights had been dimmed.

She was woken up by somebody sitting down on the empty seat beside her. When she opened her eyes, she found herself looking into Ya Ru’s smiling face.

‘Surprised, my dear sister? You couldn’t find my name on the list of participants for the simple reason that not everybody on board is included on it. I knew you would be here, of course.’