Eliot Pattison - Beautiful Ghosts

“It’s all there is on the theft,” Yao explained. “The police reports, interviews with the staff here, background on the stolen fresco, even reports by art experts on how the fresco was removed and the precautions needed to transport it. You’ve got two, maybe three hours.”

Shan looked up with questions in his eyes.

Yao hesitated, glancing toward the young policeman who stood at the entrance and a new figure in a grey uniform who seemed to be waiting for him, then stepped closer.

“I lied,” he said in voice heavy with apology. He seemed unable to look Shan in the eyes. “We didn’t bring you from Tibet just to help in Beijing. You’re going to be arrested. Corbett is getting papers. He is making preparations. He will-” The figure in grey appeared in the door closest to the front hall. The guard called Yao’s name. Yao frowned as he departed. “Read the files. If only you could find something.”

Shan’s throat was suddenly bone dry. Arrested. How could he have been so wrong? Abruptly, it was over. Everything was over. It made no sense but nothing ever did in dealing with those who hated Shan, who had finally reached out across the span of years to snare him one last time. He looked about the chamber again, feeling in his last hours of freedom, a strange connection with the Qian Long emperor. Somehow it felt as though the Qian Long had taken a hand in Shan’s destiny. In his doom.

But then one of the guards appeared at his side, extending a folded paper toward Shan. “Excuse me. Inspector Yao said give this to you. Sir.”

It was a hastily scrawled note. You are going to America with Corbett as a material witness. The flight is this evening.

Shan read the note twice, turned it over, read it again. It was impossible. With every hour he wanted more to be back in Lhadrung, where he could do some good. But Yao and Corbett were conspiring to take him to the other side of the planet. Gradually he became aware of his fingers. They had formed a mudra, the diamond of the mind. He stared at it a long time. Then he began to read the files.

When Yao returned two hours later Shan had finished with the files. “There really isn’t a question that Ming arranged the theft,” Shan said.

“Only a question of proof. I’m still no closer to recovering the fresco.” Yao walked along the hole in the wall, leaning close to the exposed laths, pausing at the small ten-inch square in the lathwork, running his fingers around its edges. “I thought this was just some defect in the construction. But it’s where Ming got the letters, the ones he encrypted, the ones that changed everything.”

Shan stared at the photograph of the stolen fresco he had found in the files. It was beautiful, a scene of water with reeds and bamboo, and huge cranes that looked as if they were about to fly out of the wall. The wisteria vines that grew along the border were so lifelike they seemed to tremble in the wind. “Did you ever see the letter,” he asked Yao. “The one he reported to the Chairman, the one that suggested the emperor owed tribute to Lhadrung?”

“A photocopy.”

“How did the police lose it?”

“He had a courier from the museum deliver it in an envelope. The envelope was found but it was opened, and empty. Why do you ask?”

“Because Ming’s biggest offense wasn’t taking the fresco, it was lying to the Chairman. You know he fabricated that letter.”

Yao nodded slowly. “But still there is no proof.” He placed a hand on the file. “Ming’s museum was in charge of the restoration of the cottage,” Yao said, reciting the evidence. “Crews from the museum were working here almost every day, here and at two of the small halls on the far side of the complex. Ming approved the assignment of workers, even the schedules, even frequently visited the projects. I checked the full roster of workers cleared by Ming. The last two were added two weeks before the theft. Lu and Khan. No effort was made to hide their identities. They had worked with Ming before, on two expeditions.

“Every worker on duty confirmed that no work crew was assigned here the day of the theft. Khan and Lu were interviewed, said they saw nothing. Ming confirmed Khan and Lu were on the opposite side of the compound. The area was closed off to the public, with no guards except those stationed a hundred yards away. No witness could be found who saw any activity here. A police investigator said the thieves were invisible, that they had not passed through any of the security barriers. They looked for tunnels, for signs of secret egress over the walls, even checked the records of all helicopter flights that day. Ming gave a public statement about how disappointed he was in law enforcement.”

Shan turned and put his hand on the file. “There are interviews of only half a dozen of the maintenance staff. There are more than a half a dozen that work in this quarter.”

“The others confirmed they saw nothing.”

“To you?”

“To policemen.”

“And the ones who gave the statements, how old were they?”

“What could it matter?”

“How old?” Shan pressed.

“I don’t know,” Yao admitted, staring in confusion as Shan rose from the table and gestured him toward the door.

It had been years since Shan had visited the imperial servants’ chambers, which he had discovered during his first wanderings through the complex nearly two decades before. The rooms, converted to crude sleeping quarters for some of the maintenance staff, were dim and dustladen, accessed through an arched gateway overgrown with wisteria. Shan told Yao to wait near the gate while he probed the interior.

An old man with a crooked back was in one of the chambers at the end of the long corridor, sitting cross-legged by a pallet, heating a tin mug of water over a cluster of three candles. He looked up but seemed to have difficulty seeing his visitor.

“My name is Shan,” Shan said softly. “I used to sit in the small gardens. Sometimes I would play checkers with you and your friend, the one called the professor. You both taught at the university once.”

The old man’s smile revealed several missing teeth. He motioned Shan to sit beside him. “I have only the one cup,” he said, and offered the sooty, dented mug to Shan, who declined it. “That was years ago,” the janitor said. “What happened to you?”

“I had to go away. I live in Tibet now,” Shan said in a slow, conversational tone. “You used to sit in the shade of the wisteria and throw your sticks to recite the Tao te Ching, or sometimes read a book of poetry.”

The old man nodded. “Your father was a professor, too, I recall.”

“A long time ago,” Shan said.

There was a movement in the shadows. Yao appeared, and stood behind Shan.

“I am permitted to live here,” the janitor said, gazing apprehensively at Yao.

Shan gestured for Yao to sit. “You are fortunate,” Shan said, and realized the room was like a meditation chamber, its walls and ceilings lined with wood.

The old man stared at the candle flame, his lips quivering, fear in his eyes.

“We are trying to understand what happened that day the fresco was stolen,” Shan said in a soft voice. “I think there are many secrets in the Qian Long cottage. I think the thieves were surprised at something they found, something other than the fresco. Something in that box in the wall.”

“On National Day,” the old man suddenly said in a hoarse voice, “Professor Jiang likes to go out on the square and sing patriotic songs with the crowds. He brings me back a bag of roasted pumpkin seeds then chides me for not doing my duty.”

Shan could read the glance Yao shot him. They should leave. The old man was crazy, was wasting their time.

“In the night we would sit in the dark and hear the voices of those who used to live in the rooms, from the emperor’s court. Some mornings we would tell each other we were going to work in some official duty in the emperor’s court, and at night speak about how those duties had gone. One of the good emperors.”