The Emperor's Tomb

FORTY-TWO

BEIJING, CHINA

8:40 AM

NI ENTERED THE TOMB OF MAO ZEDONG.

The granite edifice stood on the southern side of Tiananmen Square, a squat building, lined with columns, erected in a little more than a year after the Chairman died. Seven hundred thousand workers had supposedly participated in its construction, a symbol of the love that the Chinese harbored for their Great Helmsman. But that had all been propaganda. Those “workers” had been bused into the capital every day—ordinary people, each forced to carry a brick to the site. The next day, another busload would remove the same bricks.

Foolishness, but nothing unusual for China.

For the past year the mausoleum had been closed for renovations. In the rush to erect a memorial, little care had been taken on placement. Feng shui had been ignored. Consequently, there had been many structural problems over the years, ones his grandfather easily might have prevented.

On the flight from Belgium, he’d e-mailed a request for an immediate audience with the premier. Staff had responded quickly and said he would be seen as soon as he was in the country. His reporting directly on a pending investigation was nothing unusual, since the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection answered only to the premier. Meeting at Mao’s tomb, though, was different. The explanation had been that the premier was there, making a final inspection before the site reopened in a few days.

In the mausoleum’s vestibule, a massive white marble armchair held a sitting statue of Mao. Behind, a mural featured the geopolitical range of the Chairman’s posthumous rule. Security men ringed the polished floor. He knew the drill. Two of the suited officers approached and he raised his arms, ready for a search.

“No need,” he heard a voice, cracking with age, say.

The premier entered the vestibule, a short, stumpy man with bushy eyebrows that swept up toward his temples. He wore his characteristic dark suit and dark tie and walked while leaning on a red lacquered stick.

“Minister Ni has my trust.” The premier motioned with his cane. “Allow him to pass.”

The security men withdrew, never confiscating the pistol from his shoulder harness. A weapon had been waiting for him when he stepped off the plane. He had thought it wise, under the uncertain circumstances.

“Let us walk,” the premier said.

They drifted deeper inside.

Evidence of renovations was everywhere, including fresh paint and sparkling stone.

“What is so urgent?” the premier asked.

“Tell me about Pau Wen.”

The old man stopped.

Though his breath was short, the voice weak and halting, the hands and fingers bony, Ni realized that there was nothing sluggish about this man’s mind.

“He is a dangerous man.”

“In what way?” he asked.

“He’s a eunuch.”

“And what does that mean?”

The premier smiled. “Now you’re not being honest with me. You know precisely what that means.”

Few lights burned inside and the building’s air-conditioning had chilled the interior to a winter’s feel.

He’d made his move. Now he awaited a response.

“A eunuch cannot be trusted,” the premier said. “They are inherently dishonest. They destroyed dynasty after dynasty with their treachery.”

“I don’t need a history lesson.”

“Perhaps you do. When the First Emperor died, his chief eunuch conspired to have the eldest son, the chosen heir, commit suicide. He then aided the next son in becoming Second Emperor, thinking that he, himself, from behind the throne, would be in actual control. But that reign lasted only four years. Everything Qin Shi fought to create—what millions died to achieve—disappeared within three years of his death. And all because of a eunuch. That pariah is still recalled by history as ‘a man who could confidently describe a deer as a horse.’ ”

He could not care less. “I need to know about Pau Wen and your contacts with him.”

The older man’s eyes narrowed, but no rebuke came. “Pau Wen likewise can confidently describe a deer as a horse.”

He could not argue with that observation.

They continued ahead, a steady click of the lacquered cane off the marble floor accompanied by the shuffle of leather soles.

“Decades ago,” the old man said, “Pau Wen and I were friends. We did much together. We both became disenchanted with Mao.”

The premier stopped, his face contorted, as if trying to assemble a long train of hitherto unconnected thoughts, some of which might be unpleasant.

“The Cultural Revolution was an awful time. The young were encouraged to attack the old, the foreign, the bourgeois. We thought all of it right, all of it necessary. But it was insanity, and it all happened for nothing. In the end, the strong dragon proved no match for the local snake.”

He nodded at the ancient saying.

“China changed,” the premier said. “The people changed. Unfortunately, the government didn’t.”

He had to ask, “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, Minister, I fear you will not win your coming battle with Karl Tang.”