Authors: Andy Oakes
The Director ran a fingertip across the fired clay face, between its eyes.
“Look at these Men of Mud, perfection. The beauty of nudity. Far superior to the ten thousand life-sized soldiers from the mausoleum of Qin Shi Huang Di, who had their clothes sculpted and painted onto them and who all looked the same. The Men of Mud were pieced together individually from four moulds, delicately painted, fitted with wooden arms, dressed in silk, equipped with weapons. And the face, look at the face. It speaks, feel its breath against your cheek. Over fifteen different expressions have been identified among the soldiers excavated from the Jing Di site so far. Unique. That is why so many would seek to own a Man of Mud …”
He slid the front of the box down. The smile eclipsed, as if a light had been dimmed in the room.
“… your son was the latest in a long line who have died for the Men of Mud, Madam Hayes. In 1972 archaeologists from this department uncovered a graveyard of an estimated ten thousand prisoners who died building Jing Di’s tomb. Shackles were found attached to the necks and legs of each skeleton.”
Piao’s eyes closed, just an instant, almost a flicker. Back on the river foreshore. When he looked up, Barbara was already at the door, opening it. A hand at her throat as she closed the door behind her, as if she was trying to rip chains away from her own neck.
Barbara walked into the corridor … ten minutes passing before she heard the footsteps on the dark marble, following her to where sunlight broke through the floor to ceiling windows. Footsteps, and knowing instinctively that it was Piao. You make love to someone once, and then you are suddenly able to recognise their footfall.
“I’m sorry, I just had to get out of there …”
She walked to the wall, leaning against it. Its marble facing bringing cool relief to the heat of her skin through her blouse.
“… but at least we can now show that there is a cover-up going on. That Bobby was here in China and that someone high up is covering their arse. We’ve got the inspector that Chieh talked about, the one who saw Bobby twice. He can tell them. We must get a statement from him. And it was Chieh’s department who allowed Bobby to work on the site. There must still be paperwork somewhere. There’s also Bobby’s trainers and the blood from the house at Harbin … the tests you had done already show that they belonged to Bobby …”
In a distant corridor, footsteps. A door opening. A door closing.
“… we must take it to them, take it all. Show them. They’ll understand now.”
Wanting to hold her, but feeling himself back away. A distance, measured in polished marble floor tiles, increasing between them.
“Barbara, it is not possible to use the information that we have heard today …”
The words slipping from his mouth. Words already fed to him. Feeling like a mouthpiece. Nothing more than a message carrier.
“What the hell’s going on here? This is what we’ve been looking for, isn’t it … isn’t it?”
Outside it had clouded over. Grey daylight filling the windows. He said nothing.
“Jesus … tell me that you don’t mean it. Tell me that we can use this evidence?”
Piao talking, as if to himself.
“I was stupid. I should have known. When the Director told me that the report that he gave me did not exist. That you were never at this meeting. That what he was saying was just between him and me. I should have known. He was telling me, but I was not listening. It was killing the chicken to scare the monkey. A warning. All a warning …”
Trying to avoid her eyes.
“… I said the same to Director Chieh as you have said, and then he told me. A directive had ordered him to halt the investigation, recall his team from the snowfields. All material evidence relating to the case is to be sealed and kept in the archives of the department. It has been expressly forbidden for any material to go beyond the gates of the Bureau for the Preservation of Cultural Relics.”
She moved around him roughly.
“Do they know what they’re doing? They’re killing Bobby all over again.”
“Director Chieh tried to trace the origin of the directive. It proved to be impossible. Chieh said that it comes from high up, very high up, the ‘foot of the stairs …’”
Barbara walked toward the doors. The Senior Investigator following, not wanting his footsteps to make any sound. An apology in their silence.
“… he told me about the house in Yanshou. It was directed that it be destroyed. Director Chieh’s team burnt it. There is nothing left. The last thing that he said to me as I was walking out of his room, was for me to send my mother his most honourable regards.”
A single smudge in a white universe. Burnt embers in melted snow. Stupid, stupid … and all that she could think about was Bobby’s other trainer that they had left behind.
They drove, day fading. Taking Barbara back to the hotel. Walking her to her room. Not daring to touch her. Not daring not to. Needing to close the distance between them, but not knowing how to. She opened the door slowly and closed it slowly. She was gone and he walked home … rain falling in a drizzle.
The high cadre’s part is like that of the wind; the smaller man’s part is like that of the grass. When the wind blows, he cannot choose but bend …
Imagine China as a giant flight of stairs. Each single person only knows what is on his or her step. No one sees the whole stairway from the top to the bottom. … it is too vast. The stairs beginning with a labyrinthine system of grades and ranks, into which each occupation has been divided by the Party. The twenty million cadres come first, twenty-four separate grades. On the bottom step of the cadre ranking are the ordinary clerks. Section chiefs, department heads … grades fourteen to eighteen. Bureau Chiefs … grade thirteen. Deputy Ministers … grade eight. The governors of cities and provinces … grades four and five. Above this, the clouds obscure the dizzy summit of the peak.
And salaries, each rank has a corresponding wage tacked to it. Eighty yuan a month for grade twenty-four. Three hundred and eighty yuan a month for a grade thirteen. Five hundred and sixty yuan a month for a grade eight.
In the PSB they have their own system of grades. Look at your boss’s chair, that will tell you instantly what grade he is. A leather swivel chair? Then he must be above a grade thirteen. An upholstered chair, velvet covered? He is an official in the range of grades from thirteen to sixteen. If he is a grade seven cadre, his chair will be wooden with a cushion. Below that, a plain wooden chair without a cushion.
Rank, but not class
… a stage set of shadows.
To prove this point … at an international conference on laser technology held in Beijing, the foreign scientists and Chinese professors of grades four and above, sat in the front six rows of the auditorium. In the back rows, professors of lesser standing along with junior scientists. In front of each place sat an identical white porcelain mug. An appearance of equality. But taste the scalding hot liquid in the white porcelain mugs in the front rows of the conference hall … fine tea. In the back rows … hot water.
He’d rung her for three days now … no answer. On the fourth day her letter had arrived. Holding it to his nose, with its smell of some unnamed foreign and expensive perfume. The report that she had promised him on Ye Yang had CIA over stamped diagonally in red across the type. But it was the handwritten footnote in blue ink that he had read first.
‘… where do we go now? I can’t see any way through this mess, not any more. I’m thinking of going back to the States.’
BARBARA.
Piao’s eyes turned to the parade of type. An urge to run to the Jing Jiang to her. But a glass barrier of duty restraining him. His eyes scanned the list of details, USA Passport Number, Issue Date, Birth Date. Height, Marital Status, Residence, Eyes, Hair, Basic stuff, just basic stuff. A photocopy of a black and white passport picture. Fine grain, high definition. The weave of her tweed collar. Each hair seeming separate. The words on a badge pinned to her lapel … ‘I LOVE N.Y.’ Chinese features, but an American girl. Lips pursed in a serious attempt at a straight face. Dark lipstick, bright red, Piao imagined. He read on …
RECORD ARCHIVES … CAMBRIDGE
UNIVERSITY, ENGLAND.
ENTRY: 2/10/1988 EXIT: 13/7/1992.
Y. YANG … First Class Honours Degree in Chinese
Studies and Archaeology.
Specialisation … the History and Archaeological Relics of the Han Dynasty from 206 BC.
ARCHIVES DEPARTMENT … HARVARD BUSINESS SCHOOL
ENTRY: 25/9/1992 EXIT: 30/8/1994.
Y. YANG … Business Studies Degree in Accountancy and Management.
Specialisation … Offshore Tax Strategies.
Clever girl. A high-flyer. Too high to be found in the mud of a river foreshore. He read on …
DEPARTMENT Z14 … CIA PENTAGON
(Agent A.J. Moore)
FAMILY PROFILE:
YE YANG (Ref No. 20258423 AJM)
FATHER: JIANG YANG. MOTHER: XIAO YANG.
Fled Mainland China February 1966. Arrival in the USA, New York, 7/3/1966.
Granted Refugee Status. Citizenship 22/6/1975 (42346867441)
Current IRS information shows a pre-tax profit for the last financial year on the Yang’s business, as five hundred and seventy two thousand dollars. Assessment of their properties and other assets stands at an estimated figure of two point three million dollars. The profits were generated from the two antique/art galleries that they own in the area of Fifth Avenue, New York. These comprised sales, art assessments and consultancy work. The galleries specialize on the purchase and sale of Japanese, Chinese and Korean artefacts and relics.
Piao lit a cigarette, deep yanks on its bitter smoke. Ash falling across the reports print. Absent-mindedly brushing it away as he read on …
15/7/1992. Supreme Court Hearing
No. 005713556325.
Jiang Yang was charged with the importation into the USA of rare Korean artefacts of great historical importance and cultural significance to the government and people of South Korea. Extradition to South Korea refused on the grounds of ill health. Custodial sentence of two years imprisonment waived due to Jing Jiang’s general health. Died 3/2/1993 … Faith Hospital, Long Island, NY. Control of the business passed to Song Jiang, the only son. Ye Yang’s responsibilities are as a buyer for the two galleries and for several private collectors. For the past two years she has specialised in the purchase and sale of Chinese artefacts. Multiple entries to Mainland China, Hong Kong and Taiwan …
9/6/1993, Beijing, Capital Airport.
15/7/1993, Hong Kong, Kaitak Airport.
30/9/1993, Shanghai, Hongqiao Airport. …
The list of entries went on for another ten lines. The profile of a smuggler.
The Senior Investigator felt the anger tug at his collar. More on this one report than he had received from the whole collection of papers from his own Security, Luxingshe and FITS. Fuck it, why should he have to go to the CIA to find out information that should only have been a punch of a keyboard key away from him? Piao reached into the thick brown paper bag at his elbow.
Guo-tieh
. Fried dumplings stuffed with cabbage and pork. They were a day old, the bag would have more taste. It was his first meal in twenty-four hours. It would do.
“What have you got?”
The Big Man blinked as he stepped into the light of the office. He looked as if he hadn’t slept. He hadn’t.
“What have I got? I’ve got the fucking shits Boss. Didn’t get a wink …”
He grimaced.
“… it’s that fucking stall around the corner, the old mama. They should feed her dumplings to the rats around Suzhou Creek. That would kill the bastards.”
Piao nudged his half-full bag of dumplings into the bin. Hunger is only in the mind, he told himself unconvincingly.
“Have any tapes arrived?”
Yaobang slumped in his wooden chair, two more years and he should be promoted up a few grades. Two more years and he’d get a cushion for his chair.
“Did Mao shit? Of course no more tapes arrived. We’ve only sent the Chief, what, ten letters? Called his iron titted secretary fifteen times.”
Liping was a grade thirteen cadre. His cousin, the Minister Kang Zhu, a grade four or five cadre. High enough to shake any tree. High enough to free a few tapes snarled up in the system. Tapes that could mean anything, or fuck all. There was a block, somewhere. A person. A department. A political score to settle. An arse to cover. The tapes were being held back, not getting to where Piao needed them; Liping the gate, his only way to those tapes. The gate wasn’t opening or not being allowed to open. The Senior Investigator unbuckled his shoulder holster. Placing it in the bottom draw of the cabinet, her words replaying in his inner ear as if they were now his sole motivation …
… where do we go now? I can’t see any way through this mess, not any more. I’m thinking of going back to the States.
He would need a key, a special key, a strong key to unlock a special and strong gate. Piao walked into the incident room, the blackboard in the corner of his eye. Rows of names … a white slash of thick chalk dividing them. Two stories here. One, he was starting to untangle. Smuggling. Heywood, Bobby … the point of the needle. The ones who actually got the shit under their nails. Their fingers in the dirt. Qingde, with his contacts, his street knowledge. The internal travel documents that would be summoned up for him as if by magic. The courier. The local fixer. And Ye Yang, the mover. The one who made it all possible; the link between a run-down farmhouse in the snowfields of Yanshou and the art markets of New York’s Fifth Avenue. Ye Yang, the one who snared the buyers. Ye Yang, the one who snared those with access to the relics that she required. Bringing both together in deals that were made in heaven … but in one that was made in hell. The last deal. And behind it all, a buyer who became a killer, or who had always been one? And confused within all of this, a reason for state involvement.
And the second story, that was still in knots, and tying him in double knots. The four who had been executed at Virtue Forest and then butchered once more before being left to the great sculptress, the Huangpu. Convinced now, more than ever, that these four were not part of the smuggling … that they were part of something else that had bound them in chains, leg to leg, neck to neck, with the others who had been.