Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

Yao seemed to keep talking but Shan could not make out the words. Something like a mist seemed to have settled over Shan. He felt a falling sensation, held onto the table.

“Someone get him some tea,” he heard the American say, in Chinese.

When his eyes found their focus again there was a porcelain cup of steaming green tea by his hand. “He’s not even twenty,” Shan said at last, in a hoarse voice. He lifted the cup and poured the scalding liquid down his throat.

“He needed a father’s care,” Director Ming said, in a voice heavy with sarcasm. “His mother abandoned him. Remarried, moved to the eastern coast, took a new name. She has had no contact with him for years.”

Shan shifted his legs and heard the rattle of the chains on his ankles. “You mean you’re sending me to the coal mine,” he said, looking absently into his cup. It was a thin, delicate piece, a tiny panda painted near the lip.

Yao closed the folder in front of him and stood, carrying his own cup with a little panda as he stepped toward Shan. “Surely you were not always so dense, comrade. We want to bring your son for a visit. Here in Lhadrung.” Yao pulled a small key from his pocket and set it on the table beside Shan.

“Why?” Shan asked, disbelieving.

“As a reward for your undivided attention. An incentive to assure your help. There is an international conspiracy with elements in these mountains. You agree to help us resolve our problem and we will bring your son for a visit.”

Shan stared at the little panda, saying nothing.

Yao shrugged. “So you wait until the end of his fifteen years to see him, assuming you yourself are still a free man. But your son…” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Already he has been punished with severe discipline three times for security violations.” Shan knew all too well what severe discipline meant in lao gai. Beating, doses of electroshock, the application of pliers to small bones in the hands or feet. “I’m afraid,” Yao said in an earnest voice, “your Ko is not going to survive fifteen years.”

There had been a theft in Beijing, Inspector Yao explained as they wandered down the ridge toward the ruins of Zhoka, a theft of vitally important artwork. It was only early afternoon. Tan had wasted no time in arranging for a helicopter to transport them back to the old stone tower. There had been a rushed, silent meal of dumplings and noodle soup, served by Tan’s sullen soldiers, then, as the helicopter arrived to take them to the mountains, a momentary argument between Tan and Yao as the colonel tried unsuccessfully to persuade Yao to bring soldiers with them.

“Art?” Shan asked. “An artifact?” Once Shan had stiffly nodded his head, agreeing to help for the chance of seeing his son, Yao had become enthusiastic, almost cheerful, as if Shan’s assent were a breakthrough in a particularly difficult case. But Shan still understood little of their investigation or why they were in Lhadrung.

“A plaster painting,” Yao said. “A fresco.”

“A Chinese fresco that wasn’t Chinese,” Corbett interjected. His Chinese was fast, almost slurred, as if he learned it in southern China. “It’s about art. People are dying for good art all over the world.” It had the sound of a worn joke.

Shan studied the American investigator. Corbett was older than he had first thought, though his tall, athletic build blurred signs of aging. He was not many years from sixty, Shan decided, seasoned at his business. Perhaps too seasoned. He seemed to have no interest in hiding his emotions. Impatience was often on his face, sometimes anger. “This isn’t the place, Yao. I told you,” Corbett complained as Shan watched him. “We’ve got ten more to check at least. This is just ruins. A deathtrap.” During the brief flight into the mountains the American had watched out a window, repeatedly consulting a map in his hand. They had set down briefly at a camp several miles to the north to unload supplies, where a dozen Chinese, young men and women in their twenties, had been working at the mouth of a cave, clearing away rock debris as a woman with short hair paced up and down, reading from a pilgrim guide on a clipboard about the miracles a pilgrim would discover inside. Yao and Corbett seemed to be looking for a den of thieves hiding in the mountains. But that did not explain why Ming was looking for caves. It did not explain the godkillers, or why the Council of Ministers might be interested in Tibetan miracles.

Yao shrugged and kept going toward the tunnels. The case might involve international elements but it was being investigated on Chinese soil, so there would be no question about who was in charge. “It was nearly two months ago,” the inspector explained, pausing, studying Shan as if interested in his reaction. “In the Forbidden City.”

“But there are guards everywhere,” Shan said “It’s like a fortress. It is a fortress.” The Forbidden City was the centuries-old home of the emperors, a vast compound of temples, residences, and meeting halls. Shan had once known almost every passage, every chamber of the complex, for he had discovered early in his life in Beijing that it offered many calming, quiet refuges from the rest of the city. A high, thick wall surrounded the entire compound. Most public access was through closely watched gates at the northern and southern ends.

“There was a cottage built by the Qian Long Emperor for his retirement, at the northern end of the City.” The Qian Long was one of the longest-serving Manchu emperors, revered for his justice and benevolence. He had left the throne at the end of the eighteenth century after a reign of sixty years.

“I know the place,” Shan said as he watched for signs of Gendun. “Red enamel pillars supporting the roof in front. At the rear a small courtyard with a fountain, with wisteria growing up the walls. I used to go and sit in that courtyard. But the cottage itself was always locked.”

“Locked for decades,” Yao confirmed. “In fact, barely touched since the emperor died. But it was decided to restore the interior, to allow tourists inside. Work crews started going in and out. The emperor had commissioned a beautiful fresco, even had a famous artist from Italy come and live in the Forbidden City to paint it. A crew was restoring the cedar beams of the ceiling in the dining chamber. One morning they were called off for an emergency repair on the opposite side of the compound. When they returned the next day the Italian fresco was gone. A piece of the wall over eight feet long and more than three high, cut out, leaving nothing but the bare wall timbers.”

Shan gazed toward the shadows that marked the passage to the lower level. Was Yao there because a fresco had been stolen from Zhoka as well? But Shan had just explained that theft to him the day before. “So the Council of Ministers is investigating a missing plaster painting?” he asked in a skeptical voice. The game Yao was playing had a familiar rhythm. Never tell a complete story, not even in the final report, never share a complete fact. It was an instinct bred into senior Beijing investigators. Yao would not be working for such high-level political bosses unless he knew to keep shuffling the available facts until he grasped the political truth of his case.

A sound like an amused snort came from Corbett, who had begun to descend the stairs. He had been staring into the shadows below, where he had almost died on his last visit, but turned when he heard Shan’s question. “The Chairman had shown the Qian Long fresco to a delegation from Europe during a state visit,” Corbett explained.

Yao cast a peevish glance at the American, then continued the story. “They decided to dedicate the cottage to friendship between the peoples of Europe and China. The Qian Long fresco was going to be its centerpiece, the perfect symbol of the bonds between east and west. The European governments were going to pay for its restoration and the cottage publicly opened in a ceremony during an upcoming state visit.” Yao stared at Shan with challenge in his eyes, as if daring Shan to say something.