Eliot Pattison - The Lord of Death

He pulled his legs under him, in the meditation position, clenching his teeth against the pain, and stared at a little oblong window with wire-reinforced glass near the top of the back wall. Stars made their transit across the window. He dipped his finger into the nearest pool of blood and drew a circle on the wall, then a circle within a circle, then patterns within the circles. As he worked on the mandala, his mind clearing, the hairs on his neck began to rise. He turned to see the glow of a cigarette from an open cell at the end of the dark corridor. Someone was sitting on a cot, watching him.

Shan twisted, grabbed another bar, and with an effort that sent stabs of pain through his shoulders pulled himself around to squarely face the corridor. He stared back at the moving ember of the man who watched, until a new tide of pain surged within, lighting a fire at the back of his head that left him writhing on the floor. He faded in and out of consciousness, his mind churning with memories and visions, his body rioting in pain, leaving him unable to discern what was real and what was not. The bodies of the escaped monks were stacked like firewood, with a knob officer pouring gas on them. His father, the professor, recited Shakespeare in short, gasping syllables as he was tortured with burning sticks. Shan stood at the summit of Mount Chomolungma with Tenzin and the blond woman, then the wind seized them and threw all three into a shaft where they floated with the bodies of dead climbers.

He became aware of dim light filtering through the small window. Hours had passed. He was lying on the floor again, sprawled in his own filth. A man paced along the front of the cell, his black officer’s boots glistening as they passed a pool of sunlight. The man paused, spoke to someone. A moment later someone threw a bucket of frigid water over Shan.

He did not react. Someone cursed. Someone murmured new orders. A metal door opened and shut, then opened and shut again. Shan watched through a fog of pain as the officer began emptying a plastic bottle into the bucket.

With the first acrid sting of the odor Shan struggled upward, clenching his jaw in agony, pushing himself forward, reaching for the bars. He knew from experience that some knobs liked to throw ammonia on prisoners.

“Risen from your nap at last,” the officer observed in a slow, refined voice with an accent that sent a chill down Shan’s back. He had been trained in Beijing, probably was from one of the anonymous disposal units that cleaned up embarrassments for the Party elite. New foreboding rose within him. Why would such a man be sent to deal with Shan?

Shan gripped the bars, his eyes drifting in and out of focus. Blood trickled down one leg. He could not take a deep breath without wincing from the pain. He closed his eyes, centering himself a moment, then fixed the officer with a steady gaze. “I need some tea,” he declared in a hoarse voice.

Though the officer’s eyes were still in shadow Shan could not miss his bloodless grin. He turned with quick, whispered orders and a jailer hastened down the corridor.

No one spoke again until Shan was ushered to the metal table in the center of the corridor and chained to a chair, a mug of tea in front of him. He held the mug to his nose before drinking, letting the steam burn away the cloud inside his head, then drained nearly half the near-scalding liquid in one gulp.

“My name is Major Cao,” the officer announced as he filled another mug from a tea thermos. “We will be working together to resolve things.”

“Traditionally,” Shan said in a ragged voice as the officer settled into a chair across from him, “interrogation begins before the torture. It might be-” he searched for a word- “counterproductive to incapacitate a prisoner before seeing if he is going to cooperate.”

“You misunderstand,” Cao replied. “What they did to you was just a going-away present. Every Public Security officer in this district, every soldier of that detail, has been reassigned because of what you did. Most to desert outposts where they won’t be heard of for years. They felt an urge to express their true feelings to you before they left.”

Shan watched in chilled silence as the officer opened a tattered, stained yellow file on the table with familiar characters inscribed boldly across the front. The man was a master of his craft. It would not have been difficult to ascertain Shan’s identity from the prison registration number tattooed on his arm, but he had thought his file had been buried so deep no one would ever find it. With a new, desperate realization he looked up. “What day is it?” It would have taken at least forty-eight hours to retrieve the file from distant Lhadrung.

Cao ignored him. “Reads like one of those operas written for the Party,” the officer observed dryly as he leafed through the file. “Tragic misjudgments lead a reliable cadre down an antisocial path, at each stage sinking him deeper among the criminal element until, in a last gasp of self-hate, he commits an assassination. His subconscious longing to be executed finally finds voice.” He spoke looking toward the empty cells as if to an audience before turning to Shan. “If the Party doesn’t decide to muzzle it your execution will make headlines all over China.”

Shan clenched his abdomen, resisting the threats in Cao’s words, finally piercing the chaos of pain and fear that welled within. “She was an official then? The one shot in the belly?”

“His rage was so blind it affected his memory,” the officer continued toward the cells before turning back to Shan. “You destroyed a paragon of society, severed the head of Beijing’s favored monument. You, Comrade Shan, assassinated the Minister of Tourism.”

Shan stared into the shadows, a new kind of pain surging through his body. Images returned, of the dead Chinese woman, of the blond woman who had died in his arms, her final mysterious words sounding like a question to the mountain. Finally he gestured to his mug and Cao refilled it with another icy grin. “What day is it?” Shan asked again, in a voice that quivered. “Is it Thursday yet?”

Major Cao produced a pencil and a blank sheet of paper from a drawer in the table and carefully drew seven blocks joined together, crossed off the first two, and shoved it across to Shan. “For the rest of your life this is all the calendar you will ever need,” he declared.

A wave of nausea swept over Shan. He bent over the steam of his mug again, closing his eyes. “A crime so important will require a real investigation,” he said when he looked up, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Forensic work.”

“You were found clutching one of your victims, soaked in blood. You had the name of the minister’s hotel in your pocket.” With new fear Shan’s hand shot toward his now empty pocket. He had forgotten the paper, could not afford to have Cao know why he had it. “The only other evidence we need,” Cao said, with a gesture toward the file, “is the pathetic story of your life.”

For the first time Shan gazed into the officer’s eyes. “No,” he said, his voice steadier now. “Otherwise they would not have sent for you.”

Cao sighed, as if already fatigued from his work. “A hundred million. That’s what the climbing trade is worth in one year. Beijing asked us to be certain it wasn’t Tibetan separatists or something else that might threaten this vital segment of the economy. An abundance of caution, you might say.”

“So it’s not about murder, it’s about foreign exchange.”

The major stared at Shan as though for the first time, with cool curiosity. “As you are well aware, Inspector Shan, we prefer the subjects of our executions to be conscious, so they can express their remorse in their final moments. But you can be strapped to a chair and still recite your sins. Do you know how many bones and nerves there are in the feet and ankles?”