Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

Yao scrolled through several pages in silence, then looked up and shrugged. It seemed nothing more than a record of Beijing’s process for coronation of a new people’s saint. Such heroes were discovered once or twice a year. A book or two would be written, party officials were to include references in speeches, a statue of the new hero might be commissioned, passages written to be inserted in school curricula. “It’s nothing,” Yao said. “Eventually they dropped the amban in favor of a new hero, better suited to a new political theme.”

“Except that even though he was not on the task group Ming suddenly decided to assemble all the files, even the secret files. Two months ago.” Shan pointed to a date at the bottom of the file. “Three days after the robbery.”

Yao stared at the screen in silence. “There’s no sense in it. Maybe he does buy forgeries from Lodi, and sell the originals to people like Dolan. It’s got no connection to the amban.”

“The connection,” Shan said, “is the Qian Long emperor.”

The next disc did not display text in a computer font but the image of an old document that had been scanned, a letter on what looked like a rolled parchment elegant Chinese ideograms. Yao began to read out loud.

“Son of heaven,” he began, “esteemed of all peoples.” Yao muttered a syllable of frustration as he stumbled over the old ideograms, then scrolled down. At the bottom of the page was a museum inventory number. It was a document from Ming’s archives in Beijing. Another letter followed, and another with the same flowery salutation. Ten letters in all, each with the bright smear of vermilion that was the sign of a wax seal.

The next four documents held more letters, numbering forty in all, all in the same elegant script, all with the same greeting, all with museum inventory numbers. Each of the letters had been processed into a computer font on the next four discs. They seemed to follow a similar format, opening with the same stiff formal language, offering news of troop movements, rumors about foreign agents, harvests, caravans, and weather. Most closed with an expression of affection, some with poetry, some with small ink sketches: A line of ceremonial hats used in Buddhist ritual. A yak in profile. The Potala Palace in Lhasa. The front line of the Himalayas, viewed from the north. An old wrinkled hand, holding a string of prayer beads. They were primitive drawings, but done with a simple grace.

Suddenly Yao gave a small exhalation of surprise. Shan stepped to his side and followed his finger to a legend where the museum registration number had appeared on the other letters. This one had a more complete explanation. Imperial Ching Collection, it said, personal correspondence of the Qian Long emperor. Ming had been secretly examining letters sent by the nephew of the Qian Long to his uncle the emperor in Beijing, over two hundred years earlier.

“We have to read the letters,” Shan insisted. “They may hold the answer, the missing link.”

“There’s no time,” Yao protested. His fingers tapped a single key, calling up more letters, until he reached the last, scanned onto the disc only three weeks before. Yao muttered a low curse. The last document, but only the last, was encrypted. They could not read it.

Shan darted to the cabinet at the rear of the room, quickly searching its drawers. From the third drawer he extracted a disc, lying loose among pencils and paper clips, extracted the disc in the computer, putting it in his pocket and placing the new disc into Ming’s case.

Yao’s notepad appeared in his hand. As the inspector began writing, Shan went to a second computer, connected a phone line, and began typing. In less than a minute he was staring uneasily at a new screen, displaying text under a red, white, and blue emblem.

“What have you done!” Yao gasped behind him.

“Corbett gave me his access code. He wanted me to send some questions to his team.” Bold letters appeared on the screen: The Federal Bureau of Investigation. He was inside the internal network of the agency.

“About what?” Yao asked in a sharp voice.

“About Lodi. About Dolan.”

“It’s a crime for you to do so.”

“Not a Chinese crime.”

“He could be fired.”

“Which means he considered the questions important.” Shan entered another code and the mail account of Corbett appeared.

“What questions?” Yao demanded.

Shan did not need to look at the list the American had given him. He had it memorized. He entered the name Bailey, as Dolan had instructed, and began typing: When had Dolan visited China during the past ten years? What is Dolan’s relationship to Director Ming of the Museum of Antiquities and to William Lodi? Where did Dolan go on an expedition with Ming in China? Was there a business connection between Dolan and Elizabeth McDowell, citizen of the United Kingdom?

“Dolan was the victim of the crime.” Yao observed.

Shan paused to study Yao. “Dolan,” he said slowly, “is a friend of Ming’s and McDowell’s.” He showed Yao the photographs he had found in Lodi’s belongings.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because by telling you I compromise you.”

“Ridiculous. I work for the Council of Ministers.”

“What if Dolan had discovered Ming and Lodi arranged the theft of his collection? What if he told the Council to send you to Lhadrung, to put pressure on Ming and Lodi?”

“Impossible.”

“Dolan is an important benefactor to Chinese cultural activities. And a significant foreign investor.”

Yao’s glare softened, and he looked back at Ming’s box of discs.

Shan continued typing-a new set of questions, not on Corbett’s list: Inquire whether Elizabeth McDowell traveled on same flights as William Lodi from Seattle. Was Lodi’s flight from Beijing to Lhasa reserved in advance? Do a media search and try to obtain published photographs of Dolan’s Tibetan art collection. Find out purpose of Ming’s museum expeditions to Inner Mongolia.

Suddenly he became aware of Yao looking over his shoulder again. “Confirm what contributions Dolan has made to Ming’s museum in Beijing,” Yao added in a solemn voice. “Provide a list of any calls between Dolan and Beijing during the past six months. Send passport records of-”

Yao was cut off by the abrupt opening of the door. Director Ming was suddenly staring at them. “We missed you,” Ming said. “You would have learned something about your thieves.”

Shan finished typing, hit the send button, and shut down the computer.

“I am sorry, Comrade Director,” Yao said impassively. “It sounded like a history lesson.”

Ming circled the table, pausing in front of the now blank computer screen. “I need you on the teams going into the mountains tomorrow, Inspector. The army has developed search quadrants.”

“I came to find thieves,” Yao declared.

“Exactly. The thief was taking the stolen art into the mountains and was killed by Tibetan reactionaries who took the art treasures to one of the old hidden shrines.”

“You revised your theory,” Yao pointed out.

“We must adapt to circumstances.”

“It could be dangerous to send your-” Yao searched for a word-“scholars into the mountains. It would be safer to wait.”

Ming silently returned Yao’s stare for a long moment, then shrugged and smiled. “We can wait no longer. It is urgent now. We have discovered there is a long tradition in Lhadrung of stealing art, of killing people for their art.” He stepped toward the door, paused and turned. “It’s one of the reasons the army is assisting. You have been assigned to a team. Both of you.” He grew silent and stepped to the door, turning just before he disappeared. “Be prepared for great things,” he said.