The Man From Beijing

by Henning Mankell

  He didn’t like it. He was convinced that Hong Qiu was one of the old-style Communists who were bound to protest at what they would doubtless call a shameful neocolonisation of Africa. As he was one of the keenest supporters of the policy, he wasn’t looking forward to finding himself pitted against his sister. That could stir up trouble and threaten his position of power. If there was one thing the party leaders and those who governed the country disapproved of, it was conflicts between members of the same family in influential posts. Nobody had forgotten the bitter antagonism between Mao and his wife, Jiang Qing.

  San’s diary lay open on Ya Ru’s desk. He still hadn’t filled in the empty white pages. But he knew that Liu Xin had returned from his mission and would soon be face-to-face with him, delivering his report.

  A thermometer on the wall indicated that the temperature was falling.

  Ya Ru smiled and dismissed thoughts about his sister and the cold weather. Instead he thought about how he would very soon be leaving the cold behind as a member of a delegation of politicians and businessmen, visiting four countries in southern and eastern Africa.

  He had never been to Africa before. But now, when the Dark Continent would become increasingly significant for China’s development – perhaps even in the long run a Chinese satellite continent – it was important that he be present when fundamental business contacts were established.

  The next weeks would be intensive, involving a lot of travelling and a lot of meetings. But he had resolved to leave the delegation for a few days before returning to Beijing. He would venture into the bush and hoped to see a leopard.

  Beijing lay before him. One thing he knew about leopards was that they often sought out elevated viewpoints from which they had an overview of the countryside.

  This is my hillock, he thought. My clifftop. From my vantage point up here, nothing escapes my notice.

  27

  In the morning of 7 March 2006, the businessman Shen Weixian had his death sentence confirmed by the People’s Supreme Court of Justice in Beijing. He had already been given a suspended death sentence the previous year. Despite the fact that he had spent the past twelve months expressing his regret for accepting bribes worth millions of yuan, the court was unable to change his sentence to life imprisonment. Popular objections to corrupt businessmen with good connections in the Communist Party had increased dramatically. The party had realised that it was now of vital importance to put the fear of death into people who amassed fortunes through bribery.

  Shen Weixian was fifty-nine when he had his sentence confirmed. He had worked his way up from simple circumstances to become head of a large chain of abattoirs that specialised in pork products. He had been offered bribes to give preference to various suppliers and quite soon started to accept them. At first, in the early 1990s, he had been cautious and only taken small sums, careful not to adopt a lifestyle that was obviously beyond his apparent means. Towards the end of the 1990s, however, when nearly all his colleagues were accepting bribes, he became increasingly careless, demanding bigger and bigger sums as well as making no attempt to disguise his opulent lifestyle.

  He would never have guessed that he would eventually become the scapegoat in order to scare the others. Until his final appearance in the dock he had been sure that his death sentence would be reduced to several years in jail and that he would be released early. When the judge passed the sentence, adding that the execution would be carried out within the next forty-eight hours, he was dumbfounded. Nobody in the courtroom dared look him in the eye. When the police led him away he started protesting, but it was too late. Nobody listened. He was moved immediately onto death row where prisoners were kept under round-the-clock observation before being led out, alone or with others, to a field, made to kneel down, their hands bound, and shot in the back of the head.

  Under normal circumstances, prisoners sentenced to death for murder, rape, robbery or similar crimes were taken directly from court to the place of execution. Until the middle of the 1990s Chinese society had demonstrated its positive support for the death penalty by transporting the condemned prisoners on the back of an open truck. Executions would take place in front of a large crowd that would be given an opportunity to make a last-minute decision on whether a prisoner would in fact be shot, or spared. But the crowds that assembled on such occasions were never in the mood to show mercy. In recent years, such events had been arranged more discreetly. No film-makers or photographers who were not sanctioned by the state were allowed to document the executions. It was only after the sentence had been carried out that the newspapers reported the death. In order to avoid provoking what the political leaders regarded as hypocritical anger abroad, public announcements confirming executions were no longer made. Nobody but the Chinese authorities now knew the exact number carried out. Publicity was only allowed in the case of criminals like Shen Weixian, in order to send warnings to high-ranking officials and businessmen, and at the same time to calm public opinion, which was becoming increasingly critical of a society that made such corruption possible.

  News of the confirmation of Shen Weixian’s death sentence spread very rapidly in Beijing political circles. Hong Qiu heard about it only a couple of hours after the judgement was made. She had met Shen Weixian briefly some years previously at a reception in the French embassy and had taken an instant dislike to him, suspecting intuitively that he was greedy and corrupt. However, Shen Weixian was a close friend of her brother, Ya Ru. Obviously Ya Ru would distance himself from Shen and deny that they had been more than casual acquaintances, but Hong Qiu knew the truth was different.

  Hong Qiu had seen a lot of people die. She had been present at decapitations, hangings, firing-squad executions. Being executed for cheating the state was the most despicable death she could imagine. Who would want to be chucked onto the scrapheap of history with a shot in the back of the head? She shuddered at the thought. But she did not oppose the death penalty. Hong Qiu regarded it as a necessary weapon for the state to use in its defence, and that serious criminals should be deprived of the right to live in a society they had sought to undermine.

  Nevertheless, she decided to visit Shen. She knew the governor, and so thought she stood a chance of seeing the prisoner.

  The car pulled up at the prison gate. Before opening the car door, Hong Qiu checked the pavement through the tinted-glass windows. She saw several people she assumed were journalists or photographers. Then she stepped out of the car and hurried over to the door in the wall next to the tall gate. A warden opened it and let her in.

  It was almost half an hour later when she was ushered by a warden deeper into the labyrinthine prison to the warden Ha Nin, whose office was on the top floor. She hadn’t seen him for many years and was surprised to see how much he had aged.

  ‘Ha Nin,’ she said, stretching out both arms. ‘It’s been so many years!’

  He took her hands and squeezed them hard.

  ‘Hong Qiu. I can see one or two grey hairs on your head, just as you can on mine. Do you remember the last time we met?’

  ‘When Deng gave his speech on the necessity of rationalising our industries.’

  ‘Time passes quickly.’

  ‘It passes more quickly the older you are. I think death is approaching at great speed, so quickly that we perhaps won’t be able to realise what is happening.’

  ‘Like a grenade with the pin pulled? Death will explode in our faces?’

  She withdrew her hands. ‘Like the flight of a bullet from the barrel of a rifle. I’ve come to speak to you about Shen Weixian.’

  Ha Nin did not seem surprised. They sat down at a battered table. Ha Nin lit a cigarette. Hong Qiu came straight to the point. She wanted to see Shen, say goodbye, find out if there was anything she could do for him.

  ‘It’s very strange,’ said Ha Nin. ‘Shen knows your brother. He has begged Ya Ru to try and save his life. But Ya Ru refuses to talk to Shen and says that the death sentence is correct. Then you appear, Ya Ru’s sist
er.’

  ‘A man who deserves to die doesn’t necessarily deserve to have nobody do him a final favour or listen to his last words.’

  ‘I have received permission to let you visit him. If he wants you to.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘I don’t know. At this moment the prison doctor is in his cell, talking to him.’

  Hong Qiu nodded, then turned away from Ha Nin as a signal that she didn’t want to discuss the matter further.

  It was another half-hour before Ha Nin was called out to his anteroom. When he came back Hong Qiu was informed that Shen was prepared to receive her.

  Shen was in the furthest cell, at the very end of the corridor. He normally had thick black hair, but it had been shaved off. He was wearing a blue prison uniform, the trousers too big, the jacket too small. Ha Nin stepped back and instructed one of the guards to unlock the door. When Hong Qiu stepped inside she could feel that the tiny room was steeped in angst and terror. Shen grasped her hand and sank down on his knees.

  ‘I don’t want to die,’ he whispered.

  She helped him to sit down on the bed, where there was a mattress and a blanket. She pulled up a stool and sat down opposite him.

  ‘You must be strong,’ she said. ‘That’s what people will remember. The fact that you died with dignity. You owe that to your family. But nobody can save you. Neither I nor anybody else.’

  Shen stared wide-eyed at her. ‘I only did what everybody else was doing.’

  ‘Not everybody. But a lot of people. You must accept responsibility for what you did, and not degrade yourself further by lying.’

  ‘Why am I the one who has to die?’

  ‘It could have been somebody else. But you were the one. In the end everybody who is incorrigible will come to a similar end.’

  Shen looked at his trembling fingers and shook his head.

  ‘Nobody wants to talk to me. It’s as if I’m not only going to die, but I’m completely alone in the world. Not even my family wants to come here and talk to me. I’m dead already.’

  ‘Ya Ru hasn’t come either.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘It’s really his fault that I’m here.’

  ‘I have no desire to help him.’

  ‘You misunderstand me. Ya Ru doesn’t need any help. He’s keeping his head down and denying that he ever had anything to do with you. Part of your fate is that everybody speaks ill of you. Ya Ru is no exception.’

  ‘Is that really true?’

  ‘I’m telling you the facts. There is just one thing I can do for you. I can help you to get revenge if you tell me about how you worked together with Ya Ru.’

  ‘But he’s your brother.’

  ‘The family bonds were cut through long ago. Ya Ru is dangerous for our country. Chinese society was built on the basis of individual honesty. Socialism cannot work and develop unless citizens are honest and behave decently. The likes of you and Ya Ru corrupt not only themselves, but the whole of society.’

  At last Shen understood the point of Hong Qiu’s visit. It seemed to give him renewed strength and for the moment counteracted the fear that had taken possession of him. Hong Qiu knew that at any moment Shen would relapse and become so paralysed by the fear of death that he would no longer be able to answer her questions. And so she harried him, put him under pressure, as if he were once again undergoing a police interrogation.

  ‘You are locked up in a cell, waiting to die. Ya Ru is sitting in his office in the skyscraper he calls the Dragon’s Mountain. Is that fair?’

  ‘He could easily have been sitting here instead of me.’

  ‘Rumours about him abound. But Ya Ru is clever. Nobody can trace his footprints after he has passed by.’

  Shen leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘Follow the money.’

  ‘Where will that lead?’

  ‘To the people who loaned him large sums so that he could build his castle. Where else could he have got all the millions he needed?’

  ‘From his business investments.’

  ‘In broken-down factories that make plastic ducks for Western children to play with in the bath? In backstreet sweatshops where they make shoes and T-shirts? He wouldn’t even be able to earn money like that from his brick kilns.’

  Hong Qiu frowned. ‘Does Ya Ru have interests in factories making bricks? We have just heard that people are working there as slaves, burned as a punishment for not working hard enough.’

  ‘Ya Ru was warned of what was about to happen. He offloaded all his commitments before the big police raids took place. That’s his strength. He’s always tipped off in advance. He has spies everywhere.’

  Shen suddenly clutched at his stomach, as if he were in acute pain. Hong Qiu could see the anguish in his face and just for a moment was close to feeling sympathy for him. He was only fifty-nine years old, had made a brilliant career for himself, and was now about to lose everything: his money, his comfortable life, the oasis he had built for his family in the midst of all the poverty. When Shen was arrested and charged, the newspapers had been full of shocking but also voluptuous details about how his two daughters used to fly regularly to Tokyo or Los Angeles to buy clothes. Hong Qiu could still recall a headline that had doubtless been thought up by the security services and the Ministry of the Interior: ‘THEY BUY CLOTHES WITH THE SAVINGS OF PIG FARMERS.’ That headline had cropped up over and over again. Letters to the editor had been published – no doubt written by the newspaper itself and checked by high-ranking civil servants with political responsibility for the outcome of Shen’s trial. The letters had suggested that Shen’s body be butchered and fed to the pigs. The only just way of punishing Shen was to turn him into pigswill.

  ‘I can’t save you,’ said Hong Qiu again. ‘But I can give you an opportunity to bring others down alongside you. I was given permission to speak to you for thirty minutes. That time is nearly up. You said that I should follow the money?’

  ‘He’s sometimes called Golden Hands.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Can it mean more than one thing? He is the golden intermediary. He makes black money white; he shifts money out of China; he puts money in accounts without the tax authorities having the slightest idea about what’s going on. He charges fifteen per cent on all the transactions he carries out. Not the least of his activities is laundering the money floating around in Beijing: the houses and arenas and other things that are currently being built for the Olympic Games two years from now.’

  ‘Is it possible to prove any of this?’

  ‘You need two hands,’ said Shen slowly. ‘One hand takes. But there has to be another hand that’s prepared to give. How often are they sentenced to death? The other hand, the one prepared to pay money in order to secure an advantage? Hardly ever. Why is one a bigger crook than the other? That’s why you should track down the sources of the money. Start with Chang and Lu, the building contractors. They are scared, and they’ll talk to protect themselves. They have the most amazing stories to tell.’

  Shen fell silent. Hong Qiu thought about the struggle taking place behind the newspaper headlines between those who wanted to preserve the old residential district in central Beijing and those hoping to see it demolished to make way for the Olympic Games. She belonged to those who passionately defended the old residential area and had often dismissed angrily the accusation that she did so for sentimental reasons. By all means construct new buildings and renovate old ones, but short-term interests such as the Olympic Games should not be allowed to dictate the city’s appearance.

  Hong Qiu could see that the questions she had been asking had managed to make Shen almost completely forget the execution that would soon be his fate. He started talking again.

  ‘Ya Ru is a vindictive person. They say that he never forgets an injustice to which he thinks he’s been subjected, no matter how minor it might have been. He also told me that he regards his family as a unique dynasty whose memory must be preserved a
t all costs. You had better look out and make sure he doesn’t regard you as a defector, betraying the family’s honour.’ Shen looked hard at Hong Qiu. ‘He will kill anybody who crosses him. I know that. Especially people who mock him. He has men he can always call upon when necessary. They crawl out from under stones and disappear again just as quickly. I heard recently that he sent one of his men to the USA. Rumour has it that there were dead bodies lying around when the man returned to Beijing. They say he’s been to Europe as well.’

  ‘The USA? Europe?’

  ‘That’s what rumour suggests.’

  ‘And does rumour tell the truth?’

  ‘Rumour always tells the truth. When lies and exaggerations have been filtered out, there is always a kernel of truth left behind. That’s what you need to look for.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘Power not based on knowledge and a constant flow of information will eventually become impossible to defend.’

  ‘That didn’t help you.’

  Shen didn’t reply. Hong Qiu thought about what he had said. It had surprised her.

  She also thought about what the Swedish judge had said. Hong Qiu had recognised the man in the photograph Birgitta Roslin had shown her. Even if it was blurred, there was no doubt that it was Liu Xin, her brother’s bodyguard. Was there a connection between what Birgitta Roslin had told her and what Shen had just said? Could that be possible?

  The warden reappeared in the corridor. Her time was up. Shen’s face suddenly turned white and he grabbed hold of her arm.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be alone when I die.’

  Hong Qiu released herself from his hands. Shen started screaming. It was as if Hong Qiu was faced with a terrified child. The warden threw him down on the floor. Hong Qiu left the cell and hurried away as quickly as possible. Shen’s desperate cries followed her. They echoed in her ears until she was back in Ha Nin’s office. That was when she made up her mind. She would not leave Shen alone in his final moments.

  Shortly before seven the next morning Hong Qiu turned up at the cordoned-off field used for executions. According to what she had heard, it was the place where the military trained before going on the attack in Tiananmen Square more than a decade earlier. But now there were nine people to be executed. Alongside crying and freezing cold relatives, Hong Qiu took up her position behind a barrier. Young soldiers with rifles in their hands were keeping watch. Hong Qiu observed the young man closest to her. He could hardly be more than nineteen years old.