69
X
UN
H
UISHENG HIT
a marvelous note, rich in tone, pitch-perfect, rising in an oblique
ze.
Look, my poor mistress frowns every day
And the young man is sick and skinny.
Despite the punishments imposed by the Old Lady
I, the Little Red Maid, will help their dreams come true.
Voroshenin clapped as the audience below shouted,
“Hao! Hao!
” in approbation of the superb performance.
70
C
OLONEL
Y
U SAT
in his office and worried.
The so-called Michel Guibert had not arrived at the opera, nor was he in his room, and none of the watchers knew his location. All they could say was that they had seen him get into the car outside the Beijing Hotel.
Was he in Voroshenin’s hands?
Or in Kang’s?
Either way it was a desperate situation. Who knew what Kang would make him say? If Mao was ready to make a move against General Liu, this could be the prime moment. “Guibert” would confess to the murder plot against the Russian commissioner, and Kang would make him implicate General Liu.
Escape routes had been set up through the south.
Was it time for the general to flee?
Activate “Southern Wind”?
Perhaps, Yu cursed himself, it had been too bold a move — premature perhaps — for them to have allowed the American plot to move forward. Perhaps they should have tossed Guibert out of the country five seconds after he stepped in. But it had been so tempting to set Stalin and Mao back at each other’s throats. The Russians would move Gao Gang into place prematurely. Mao would respond but lack the strength to succeed. General Liu would move in to fill the power vacuum.
So tempting, so rich with possibilities …
And the idea to kill Voroshenin at the opera was lovely in its irony. Very un-Western, but then again, this “Guibert” …
Should I go and tell the general? Yu asked himself. Actualize the escape plan and demand that he leave immediately? Years of long work would be wasted, hopes squandered, dreams of a truly Communist country indefinitely delayed, perhaps destroyed … But can you take the chance of the general being arrested, tortured, shot?
Where is this man “Guibert”?
71
N
ICHOLAI STRUGGLED
not to vomit.
Chen screamed and screamed, his body tossed against the chains as Kang sawed the wire back and forth through his testicles, all the time offering advice on how to better vocalize.
“Hum
qi,” he coached, using operatic terms. “ ‘Exchange breath’ — slow in, slow out. Now ‘steal breath’ — a sharp intake, please, sudden, fierce. That’s it … very good …”
Nicholai made himself focus on his own breathing. In deep through the nose, force it down into the lower abdomen, hold and store, release … deep through the nose, force it down into the lower abdomen, hold and store, release … hold and store, hold and store, deeply in the abdomen until you can feel it in all your muscles …
He tuned out the sound of Chen’s agony.
“I confess, I confess I confess!” Chen screamed.
But Kang appeared not to hear him and continued “Drawing the Jinghu Bow Across the Strings” until Chen shrieked at a pitch that was scarcely human. He would not stop until Chen demonstrated all the mouth shapes of a proper opera singer:
kaikou
— open mouth;
qichi
— level-teeth;
houkou
— closed mouth; and, finally,
cuochun
— scooped lips.
Kang pulled the wire out and Chen’s neck dropped. His body went limp. Sweat dripped off his skin onto the concrete floor.
“I am a spy,” Chen said between sobs. “I was part of the conspiracy. I helped him every step of the way.”
“To send arms to rebels in Yunnan?”
“Yes.”
“To murder Chairman Mao?”
“Yes.”
“Who gave you your orders?” Kang asked. “Was it General Liu?”
“Yes, it was General Liu.”
Nicholai knew that Chen would say anything now, agree to anything, to prevent Kang from resuming the torture.
And Kang had revealed more of his strategy.
Remain calm —
Kishikawa-sama came to him
— and keep your thoughts as clear as a pool. Breathe and store your
ki.
Liu is the target, he realized, and you are only a string of stones on the way to that target.
Very well.
Kang turned to him and said, “Now, Mr. Hel, it is your turn.”
He held up the wire.
72
“I
T REALLY ISN’T NECESSARY,”
Nicholai said. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Kang smiled. “Admit that you are not ‘Michel Guibert.’ ”
“I admit that I am not Michel Guibert.”
“Admit that you are Nicholai Hel.”
“I admit to being Nicholai Hel.”
“Why did you come to Beijing, Nicholai Hel?”
Nicholai leaned forward in his chair as far as the straps would allow. He looked straight into Kang’s eyes and answered, “I came to Beijing to kill Yuri Voroshenin.”
Kang turned pale.
73
“G
ET THAT PIG
out of here,” Kang ordered. “Wait outside.”
Position on the board changed, Nicholai thought. Not wanting underlings to hear anything that sensitive, Kang has removed those stones for me.
Breathe and store your
ki.
Breathe and store your
ki.
The agents unhooked Chen and dragged him out of the room. When the door closed, Kang asked, “You admit that you came to assassinate Voroshenin?”
“Admit it?” Nicholai said. “I proclaim it.”
“Why?”
Nicholai jutted his chin toward the wire in Kang’s hand. “I wish to spare myself needless pain. And I wish to make a deal.”
“You are in no position to make any deal.”
“How do you know?”
Kang waved the wire in front of his face. “I will make you tell me without any ‘deal.’ ”
“Probably,” Nicholai agreed. “But possibly not. You know that I was raised as a Japanese. What is your experience with Japanese under torture? And what if you make a mistake? What if you miscalculate and I die under your ministrations? Then you will never know.”
This is delightful, Kang thought. Exciting. A different script, a departure from the usual. He asked, “Know what?”
“How you can get power over Voroshenin.”
He saw it in Kang’s eye. It was fleeting, but it was there. Power over Voroshenin was a very desirable prize. Kang was desperate to get out from under the Soviet thumb.
Stone moved.
Breathe and store your
ki.
Breathe and store your
ki.
Kang laughed, but the scoff was unconvincing. “And you can tell me how to get Voroshenin under my power.”
Nicholai nodded.
“How?”
“Put down that wire.”
Kang set the wire down. “How?”
“Blackmail.”
“Specifically?”
Nicholai shook his head. “If I tell you, how do I know I walk out of here alive? How do I know I leave China alive?”
“You’ll have my word.”
“You think me a fool.”
Kang nodded toward the wire. “If you make me perform ‘Drawing the Jinghu Bow Across the Strings,’ I promise that you will tell me. As you said, spare yourself that agony. As for your life …”
Breathe and store your
ki.
Breathe and store your
ki. Do not waste effort negotiating over lies. Lull him now, lure him into overconfidence, draw his stones into the trap.
“Yuri Voroshenin,” Nicholai said, “extorted my mother into handing over a considerable fortune, which he placed into various bank accounts and investments. It was quite some time ago, but interest accrues, and Yuri is now an extremely wealthy man. I am sure that he wouldn’t want Beria to hear of it, much less Uncle Joe. Do you have a tape recorder?”
“Of course.”
“Get it,” Nicholai said. “I will relate the whole story, and Voroshenin will be yours.”
Breathe and store your
ki.
Breathe and store your
ki.
Kang got the tape recorder and Nicholai passed on to him the whole story that his mother had told him about what happened in Petrograd thirty years ago.
74
“H
OW LONG HAS IT BEEN?”
Haverford asked.
“Thirty-one minutes.”
The “traffic” scenario was out. Either Hel had taken off or he was under adverse control.
Give the scramble order, he thought.
Sauve qui peut
— every man for himself.
But if you pull the extraction team and Hel is alive …
75
C
OLONEL
Y
U GOT UP
from his chair, left his office, and walked down the hallway.
The general was at his desk. He heard the door open, looked up from his work and quietly said, “Yes?”
“I’m afraid it’s time, sir.”
“For?”
“Southern Wind.”
He explained the situation. When he had finished, General Liu said, “Make some tea, please.”
“General, I really think that —”
“Make tea,” Liu repeated softly. “And steep it three times.”
76
N
ICHOLAI FINISHED
his speech.
Kang said, “So that is why you wish to kill Voroshenin.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“No,” Kang said. “I hated my mother.”
“I’m sorry.”
Kang shrugged.
“But certainly the Americans didn’t sponsor you to come on a matter of personal revenge,” Kang said. “Why did they send you?”
“To kill Voroshenin,” Nicholai answered.
“Why?”
Nicholai told him all of it — the whole plot to drive a wedge between Beijing and Moscow.
Because it didn’t matter now.
All he needed now was for Kang to make the anticipated move. There was a chance that he wouldn’t, but Nicholai discounted it. A man’s nature is his nature — Kang had revealed his — and he would act according to that nature.
Kang did. “You have told me everything now?”
“Everything.”
“Very well,” Kang said. He picked up the wire. “It is time to resume the opera.”
Breathe and store your
ki.
Breathe and store your
ki. Nicholai allowed fear to seep into his throat as he said, “But why? I told you everything!”
“Exactly.”
“But there is no point now!”
“The point is,” Kang said as he squatted in front of Nicholai, “that I will enjoy it.”
Stones in place.
Nicholai forced all the energy into his legs, felt it course through the veins and muscles as Kang reached up to unbuckle his belt and pull down his trousers.
Store and—
— release.
The energy exploded from Nicholai’s feet and through his legs as he surged upward with all the
ki
he had stored in his body. The chair shattered from its bolts. Kang sprawled back, then got to his feet. Nicholai spun twice to develop momentum and then whirled into him and struck him with the legs of the chair, sending Kang spinning toward the wall. Then Nicholai threw himself into Kang, smashed him into the wall, and heard the air come out of Kang’s lungs.
Nicholai backed off and did it again, then again, then pinned the shocked and rattled Kang against the wall and pressed all his weight against the smaller man, trapping his hands.
Kang still clutched the wire, and Nicholai counted on his next move.
Desperate, Kang pressed the point of the wire to Nicholai’s throat.
Nicholai let it come, felt it bite into his throat, felt the blood start to come and saw Kang smile in triumph.
Then he craned his neck down, grabbed the wire with his teeth, jerked his neck back, and yanked the wire from Kang’s grasp.
Kang’s eyes went wide with surprise.
Nicholai stretched his neck as far back as it would go, then jammed it forward.
The wire went into Kang’s eye. He screamed in agony, wriggled against Nicholai, trying to escape.
Nicholai held the wire just there for a moment … then said, “For Chen.”
He pushed and sent the point through Kang’s eye and into his brain.
Kang stiffened.
Groaned.
And died.
Nicholai let his body crumple to the floor. Then he lowered himself down and started on the buckles of the leather strap with his teeth. It took five long minutes to free one wrist, then he unbuckled his other hand. He took a few deep breaths, gathered his energy, got up, and then took the tape out of the machine and put it in his pocket.
Looking at his watch, he saw that there was still time to go kill Voroshenin.
77
T
HE THREE AGENTS
were tormenting Chen in the outer room.
One looked up in surprise as Nicholai came through the door, the more so as Nicholai killed him with a kick to the head. The second went to pull his gun but was dispatched with an elbow to the throat. The third tried to escape, but Nicholai grabbed him by the back of the neck and slammed his head into the door, crushing his skull against the heavy wood.
All of this took no more than five seconds, and then Nicholai knelt over Chen, who lay quivering on the cold concrete floor.
“Did you kill him?” Chen asked, his voice rattling.
“Painfully,” Nicholai answered. He placed his index and middle fingers on Chen’s neck, along the carotid artery. “Xiao Chen, think of bowls overflowing with pure white pearl rice, and dishes of pork in hot brown sauce. Do you have those things in mind?”
Chen nodded.
“Good,” Nicholai said. He pressed until he felt Chen’s life slip away.
Nicholai found the corpse of the largest agent, took off his coat, slipped it on, and then put on the dead man’s hat. He walked out of the “cave,” through the beautiful garden, and outside, where he saw the glow of a cigarette inside the car. The engine was running, the heater on.
Nicholai walked over and rapped on the window. “Open up.”
The driver rolled down the window. “What do you want? It’s fucking cold, brother.”
“Let me in,” Nicholai said in Chinese. “The bastard wants us to go for some hot noodles and pork.”
The locks unclicked and Nicholai slid in the back.
He pressed the agent’s pistol into the guard’s neck. “Zhengyici Opera House. And I know the route, brother, so don’t fuck me around.”
“Kang will kill me.”
“Actually, he won’t.”
The driver put the car in gear and pulled out.
The drive took twenty minutes.
Nicholai used the time to try to restore his energy. He was exhausted — the exertion it had required to break the chair from the floor had drained his
ki,
and now he was uncertain if he had sufficient energy left to perform the perfect strike required to silently kill Voroshenin, much less make his escape.
He also realized that emotion had sapped his energy. The terror of the torture chamber, the effort to maintain his self-control, the horror of Chen’s agony, the genuine sorrow over the man’s death — all had taken a toll. Over the killing of Kang and his three minions, Nicholai felt not a jot of remorse.
If the Buddhists were right, Kang would spend long ages in
bardo,
the limbo-like stage between death and rebirth, before returning to the earth for a lifetime of suffering.
Now Nicholai concentrated on his breathing, on attempting to recuperate his strength. He felt it slowly coming back, but whether it would be enough, and in time, was a real question.
The car arrived at the opera house.
“Go another block,” Nicholai said.
The driver went up a block and pulled over. Nicholai set the pistol down and then hit the driver with a
shuto
strike to the base of the brain. As the driver fell dead over the steering wheel, Nicholai got out of the backseat and walked to the Zhengyici.
A guard at the front door stopped him.
“My name is Guibert,” Nicholai said. “I am guest of Comrade Voroshenin.”
“The opera is almost over,” the guard complained.
“I was … otherwised engaged,” Nicholai answered, sliding his index finger back and forth through a “V” he made with his other hand.
The guard chuckled. “Go in.”
Nicholai stepped into the lobby, which was almost empty. Recalling the plan of the theater, he quickly found the stairs, bounded up, and walked down the corridor. Two of Voroshenin’s guards leaned against the wall outside his box. They straightened as they saw Nicholai, and one reached his hand inside his jacket.
Now, Nicholai thought, either Voroshenin has played his cards very close to his chest, or I am dead. He strode toward the guards and put his hands up in a “What are you going to do?” shrug.
The guard without the pistol was sullen. He patted Nicholai down from his armpits to his ankles, found nothing, and opened the door to the box.
The encroaching light caused Yuri Voroshenin to turn around.
Even in the dim light, Nicholai could see the surprise in his eyes. That’s right, he thought, I’m supposed to be dead. He edged past the guard standing inside the door and sat down next to Voroshenin.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he whispered.
In Russian.
On the stage below, the
sheng,
lit by a vermilion lamp, his face vertically divided into a white-and-black design, delivered a speech bemoaning the loss of a battle. It was beautifully performed, every syllable perfectly in place.
Before Voroshenin could respond, Nicholai added, “I was unavoidably detained.”