‘Barbaric.’
‘Was this really any worse than some of the things practised in your country? Hanging, drawing and quartering?’
He ran a finger along the text beside the picture.
‘Your missionaries were terrible journalists. They had a vested interest in making us seem like savages.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘But I’m happy to fill the stereotype. If we go for lingchi as reported by Friar Martin, then we should start with the eyes, prise out those lovely round eyeballs of yours.’
‘Spherical,’ she said. Even native English speakers confused two- and three-dimensional words. Round instead of spherical, spiral instead of helical, square instead of cuboid.
‘Pardon?’
Perhaps now was not the time to correct him. ‘Nothing,’ she muttered.
Yan Bing stared at her with such loathing, it was almost solid in the air between them.
Play for time. ‘Please continue. All this history is very absorbing.’
He was back in the flow again. Perhaps he had excelled at amateur dramatics at Durham. He was certainly full of himself. Wordy thugs were the worst. It was one thing to have grown up hopeless, helpless, fighting for survival, but anyone who had benefited from further education should know better.
‘I imagine the enucleation will hurt, though not enough to kill you, unless the knife slips, of course. You must stay still and listen – the noises will be so entertaining.’
He inserted a finger into his mouth and made a slurping, popping sound.
‘As will the fact that you can’t see what’s coming next. Which should add to the entertainment.’
‘I never took you for a coward,’ Jaq remarked. ‘Only a craven weakling would think it necessary to blind their enemy.’
‘Oh, you’re not my enemy, Jaq. You are my friend. You’re going to tell me everything. Tell me where Wang is.’
‘I don’t know where Wang is, and I don’t care.’ If she never heard the name Wang again, it would be too soon. All she wanted was to find Dan, safe and sound.
‘Why is it that I don’t believe you?’
He steepled his hands. ‘You are clever, I’ll give you that. And calm. Perhaps because you don’t believe that I will do what I say.’
‘Let me out of here.’
‘And you are quite right. I don’t practise lingchi myself.’
Jaq narrowed her eyes.
‘I have an assistant who is much more experienced than I am. It takes a special sort of skill to maximise the pain while delaying death.’
She looked around for a way to escape. Keep him talking.
‘How did your assistant learn this skill?’
‘It’s an interesting story.’ He beamed. ‘Her mother owned a butcher’s shop in Yulin, her father ran a restaurant. She worked in both, gained early experience. Her family were brutally slaughtered during a Lychee Festival riot – their daughter was the only survivor.’
He stopped and stared at her, judging her reaction.
‘How terrible, but—’
‘After she decapitated the daughter of her foster-family, the police reopened their investigation into the festival murders.’
Yan Bing let out a long, low cackle.
‘Too young to be tried as an adult, she was sent to a special school. Where I sought her out. I take a keen interest in admissions to juvenile detention. You never know where you will find your next protégée.’
‘She follows your orders?’
‘Indeed. We usually start with some little cuts, places with the highest concentration of nerves. A slice from the pad of the finger, the ball of the foot, maybe a few fingers and toes,’ Yan Bing laughed and broke into song, affecting a childish falsetto, ‘and eyes and ears and chin and mouth and nose.’ He cackled. ‘They taught us that in language school, y’know.’
‘What else did they teach you, Yan Bing? That it’s wrong to hurt people?’
He came closer, little flecks of spittle from his mouth dampening her cheek. ‘After the little slivers, she’ll take some chunks of flesh, go deeper with the slices. But don’t worry, she won’t let you bleed too much, not at first. We have until the Spring Festival, all the time in the world. You don’t have to worry about dying any time soon. Although you will die eventually. Only a thousand cuts to go.’
‘You don’t want to do this.’
‘In a way, you are right. My ancestors didn’t do it. It was all a foul rumour. Yes, people were executed. In my country as well as yours. A stab to the heart. The thousand-cut mutilation came post-mortem. But your sort always told lies, terrible lies. They were the real barbarians.’
‘I agree,’ Jaq said.
He reeled back in exaggerated surprise. ‘You agree?’
‘Yes.’ Jaq sighed. ‘The British introduced opium to China. A deliberate enslavement. We couldn’t live without your tea, your silk, so we made addicts of you.’
Yan Bing nodded. ‘You were too weak to fight, you had little else of value, so you chose the drug trade, the lowest, most underhand form of commerce. And then you stole the tea plants and the silkworms and introduced them to India.’
‘Stealing technology. Something you Chinese have excelled at ever since. Learning from the masters.’
Yan Bing studied the picture. ‘Maybe she’ll start with the tongue. So we can work in silence.’
‘Then how will I tell you what you want to know, Yan Bing?’
‘I thought you said you didn’t know anything.’
‘We could help one another.’
‘So, you are looking for Wang.’
‘I don’t care about the vanishing factory or its mysterious boss.’
‘Then what are you doing here? In Banqiao?’
‘Looking for my student, Ning Dan.’
‘And what makes you think he is here?’
‘Something he said.’ True strength – yielding, not breaking. The danger of letting the pressure build up. ‘The year 1975.’
‘What happened in 1975?’
How was it possible that he didn’t know? ‘Haven’t you seen the memorial to the disaster?’
‘What disaster?’
‘The great flood of 1975, when the Banqiao Dam burst.’
Yan Bing shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
Exactly why Dan had got away with the coded exchange.
‘Go now. Go and see it. The block of granite below the dam. Walk round to the back. Read what it says.’ A life lesson.
‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m offering you a fair exchange. You help me find Dan, I’ll find Wang for you and leave China.’ And never come back.
‘Why do you care so much about a student? A student is nothing.’
‘Why do you care so much about Wang?’
‘Wang is everything.’ The policeman advanced. ‘Wang has the wedding cup.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Mr Bernard Ashley-Cooper. He told us who bought the wedding cup at auction.’ He laughed sourly. ‘Just before he died.’
‘Then why did you kill Professor Tench?’
He didn’t deny it.
‘To err is human, to forgive, divine.’ He shrugged. ‘We went after the seller, the last one to leave the auction.’ He laughed. ‘Turns out the old man was not the last. Someone else remained behind.’
‘Ever thought your interrogation methods might be part of the problem?’
‘Where is Wang?’
She locked her gaze with his, so tightly that a knock at the door made them both jump. A shouted exchange through the door made Yan Bing put the sharpened knife down.
‘Are you a dog or a cat person, Dr Silver?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Preparation. My assistant finds it helpful to warm up, to provide a little demonstration. We find it concentrates the mind.’
Bernard Ashley-Cooper’s cat, Professor Tench’s dog. Jaq swallowed hard.
‘You see, I supervised my assistant’s education, gave her all
the anatomy books she wanted, the dogs and cats she needed for practice. Of course, she came to me with extraordinary natural talent, but I like to think I played some part in shaping the woman she is today.’
‘I don’t approve of cruelty to animals.’
‘Oh, nor do I. You are forcing my hand. Think about what I said. If you tell me what I need to know, we might be merciful.’
He moved towards the stairs.
‘We might kill you faster.’
Shanghai, China, 2000
Before the flood, Wang Ru had several friends. The fisherman’s boy who sometimes lent them a boat. The teacher at her school who had once been a doctor. And her grandfather who, although wrinkly and stern, was the only family she’d ever known. Sometimes, when they were fishing by the reservoir, he would talk wistfully about her mother, Nina, although it made him cry to talk about the old days. After recoiling from a blast of anger, she learned not to mention her father, the man who had tricked and abandoned them all. Others in the village taunted her about her green eyes, told her they were a curse bestowed on her by a bad man from far, far away.
But the flood changed everything.
After the flood, Ru found a new friend. What had started out as a necessity grew to an interest, matured into a passion and flipped over into obsession.
At first it was the coin that provided food to eat, firewood to keep warm, bribes for the gangmaster in return for work for the crew. Coins trickled through calloused hands back into a clay pot for safekeeping. After the stabbing, when Ru took over the management of the night girls, the notes came, too, soft and torn, crumpled and sticky from all the hands that had fondled and groped and held on tight until the transaction was completed. The filthy notes were invested, multiplied and came back crisp and glossy. No longer just security against cold and hunger, but a source of power, buying protection against rivals and thieves who might steal the hard-earned wealth.
Then it was numbers glowing on a computer screen. Share prices, bonds, equities, gilts, spreadsheets, double entry. Counting the money every night before sleep was as close as Ru ever got to lovemaking. Less messy. As a lover, money was often fickle – a tumble in the stock market, a project that was stillborn, a business venture that had to be terminated like a baby girl.
Ru was tenacious, making money by working at it. Day and night. Night and day. Nothing else mattered. And careful with it, mean even, never spending it unless forced to. Accepting risk, taking bold decisions, picking investments shunned by others with better education and deeper prejudice, spotting an opportunity and moving swiftly. Competition was there to be eliminated, and all was fair in love and war. Ru became ruthless.
Ru was fundamentally honest. If a street thug was paid to deter a competitor, then the outcome hinged on how much money changed hands. The sum would determine whether he received a fright, a beating or a fast track to the afterlife. It was an honest transaction when the compact was clear, and no one pretended otherwise.
Ru was fundamentally corrupt. If you pay low wages to public officials in positions of power, then they will supplement their wages. It may start out with favours, small gifts. The Jianli on the construction site will find a pot of rice wine in his dormitory after he approves the concrete mix. He will find a bed full of dead rats on the occasion he stops the substitution of structural steel with stolen railway track. He learns quickly. If he uses his authority just enough, he will be able to eat and send money home to his family in inland China. If he fails to accommodate the needs of the contractor, his wife and son will receive news of a tragic accident.
The officials who signed the permits – land, utilities, design, construction, fire protection, export – they became experts in balancing the huge potential for wealth against the risk of one day being made an example of. The wise avoided flashy cars, large apartments, but few could resist private schooling for their sons.
Ru understood the business environment, how to get what was needed without giving away too much.
Until the day she met Xe Lin.
Suiping, Henan Province, China
A patrol boat bobbed on the grey, silk-smooth waters of the Banqiao reservoir, tied to a jetty with long orange ropes. Two uniformed policemen stood guard. Both men wore dark glasses, blue shirts, black belts and holsters with sidearm, grey trousers over black boots. One leaned against a post on the wooden pier and smoked a cigarette. The other sat on the foredeck and gazed out over the tranquil water, whistling a tuneless dirge. The patrol boat, around forty feet long, fast and powerful, was equipped with a main cabin, small galley and makeshift torture cell with adjoining heads, a small bathroom which was securely locked from the inside.
Jaq had no idea how much time she had before Yan Bing returned. And whether his fantasy of slow slicing was about to become a reality. Neither of the two options he had presented – tortured to death or murdered quickly – were exactly appealing. And the second option wasn’t even open to her, given that she had no information to trade. No clue where the mysterious Wang might be.
It hadn’t taken her long to get out of the handcuffs – what else are earrings for? The first ratchet mechanism was tricky to hook, but as soon as one hand was free, the others were easy. Thank heavens for good-quality jewellery.
Barricading herself in the bathroom was a futile gesture, the lock mechanism so flimsy it would not withstand any determined assault. But it gave her the illusion of separation, a haven to facilitate a few moments of thinking time.
Yan Bing claimed responsibility for the torture of the auctioneer and metallurgist, murdered along with their pets. Was that just to frighten her? Would he really use those knives? Who was the assistant that he had gone to collect? Best not hang around to find out.
Jaq sat on the edge of the bathtub. She could hear the banter of men outside, incomprehensible words. At least two guards. Possibly more. Even if she got through the cabin door, she wouldn’t get any further without overpowering them.
So how to escape?
The heads contained a marine toilet, sink and a three-quarters bathtub. There was little in the way of fixtures: a mirror above the sink, a twelve-volt light fitting above the mirror, a rubber-headed plunger and a gas-fired water heater fixed to the wall. She traced the flexible supply line from the heater as it coiled and disappeared through the wall. There must be a gas bottle in a locker somewhere beyond. Propane. Assume a nine-kilogram propane cylinder. And there were probably two cylinders piped in parallel. No one wanted to run out of hot water mid-shower. More than enough.
It looked as if another New Year’s resolution was about to be broken.
Once she’d formulated the plan, Jaq didn’t hesitate. She pulled off the rubber dome from the plunger and fashioned a crude plug before turning on the cold tap. As the small bath filled with water, she carefully dismantled the light fitting, stripping back the positive and negative wires to bare metal. She tied the positive wire to the wooden shaft of the denuded plunger, so that the bare metal protruded from the end like a snake’s forked tongue. She looped the negative end round the sink tap so that it dangled just below the bath. She adjusted the position until it was within easy reach of the bath. When one wire touched the other, it made a satisfying spark.
Jaq took a deep breath before disconnecting the gas supply from the heater. It had to be detached upstream of the safety shut-off, the valve that stopped the flow of gas if the pilot light went out. This was no CORGI installation; the gas hose screwed into the water heater with a simple brass olive, quickly loosened. Thank heavens for shoddy plumbing. The escaping gas hissed as she dropped the open end of the hose to the floor.
One and two and . . .
Holding the makeshift igniter, Jaq slid into the bath, careful not to let any water slop over the sides, and counted.
Ten and eleven and . . .
Propane, C3H8, forms an explosive mixture in air at concentrations between 2.4% and 9.5%. The bathroom was no more than two metres wide by two metres high and one metre deep.
Four cubic metres. If the propane behaved as a perfect gas, 44 grams would occupy 22.4 litres and 9 kilograms would more than fill the room, displacing the air Jaq needed to breathe. Too rich a mixture, no ignition and she would suffocate. Too lean a mixture, no ignition and Yan Bing would kill her. Just the right amount, a successful ignition and the explosion might still prove fatal. But it was her best chance. Assuming a pressure in the cylinder of 40 bars with a standard regulator, it wasn’t hard to estimate the flow. Timing was everything. One hundred seconds.
Fifty and fifty-one and . . .
The chances of the explosion killing her were pretty good.
The primary shock wave might perforate her eardrums, collapse her lungs, lacerate her intestines and cause her brain to haemorrhage.
Sixty and sixty-one and . . .
Then there were injuries from flying fragments, missiles shaken free and launched at speed, penetrating her skin and entering the soft tissue, shattering bones.
Seventy and seventy-one and . . .
Or she might be lifted by the blast and slammed into a wall, impaled on protruding objects like taps, the door handle or coat peg.
Eighty and eighty-one and . . .
And finally, there were the flash burns and smoke inhalation, not to mention being crushed as the structure collapsed around and on top of her.
Ninety-eight and ninety-nine and . . .
And every possibility of drowning if the boat sank while she was trapped.
It still sounded preferable to death by a thousand cuts.
Jaq took a deep breath and slipped underwater. She brought the pole down against the metal sink and waited.
Nothing.
She resurfaced. The smell of gas was strong, choking. She looked for the wire – it had moved round the tap. She would have to bring the pole lower. One last chance.
She slipped under the water and tried again.
Silence.
Merda. Why hadn’t she made a snorkel? She could have wrenched one of the water hoses free, threaded it into the bathroom vent and breathed through the other end. Too late now.
The Chemical Reaction Page 31