Li frowned and patted his stomach. “I missed lunch.”
“I told you to eat when you had the chance. Instead you decided to make phone calls.” Ping pulled off another of the fried snacks.
“Important phone calls.”
“That told us nothing,” she mumbled in mid-chew.
“Actually, I think they told us a lot, without telling us anything.”
Ping stopped chewing. “Huh?”
“As I said to you earlier, it’s my opinion that there are other murders happening.”
“Well that’s obvious. What I want to know is how long they think they can cover this up? The thing about tourists is that somebody is always expecting them to come back home. When they don’t show up…” She shrugged her shoulders and grabbed the last of her snack off the skewer.
“People start to ask questions,” finished Li. And that was what puzzled him. He could understand why they would keep this from the press. The last thing the government wanted was to have panic amongst the foreign tourists—they stood to lose billions of yuans in revenue. But what did they hope to gain? Eventually it would have to come out.
Ping walked over to a nearby garbage can and tossed her skewer inside, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Maybe they hope we’ll solve it before they have to tell anyone?”
Li nodded. “That’s my guess as well. But how do they expect us to solve it?”
“With hard, honest police work, of course.”
Li jumped as did Ping.
“Sir, I’m getting old. If you keep sneaking up on me like that, Ping will be looking for a new partner.”
Superintendent Hong laughed.
“A good shock to the heart is healthy for you. Think of it as a workout squeezed into a tiny space of time. Your heart beat harder than a moment before, therefore I have just made you exercise!” He laughed hard at his own joke.
Li and Ping chuckled politely.
“So, what have we got?”
“Same as last week. Looks like the same or similar weapon. Two foreign tourists, husband and wife. We’re looking for the casings now.”
“Any other clues?”
“Nothing yet. Just like last week, I don’t expect to find anything. They probably policed their brass, and left no fingerprints or fiber evidence.”
“But we do have the shooter on camera.”
Li nodded. “Yes, we do, but we can’t see their face, and we lost them once they got on a bus.”
Ping pulled out her notebook. “All we know is that they are most likely male, one hundred-forty-five centimeters tall, approximately fifty-five to sixty-five kilograms.”
“So is half of Beijing,” said Li.
“Such pessimism. It is beneath you, Li.”
Li raised his eyebrows and scratched behind his ear. “I call it realism.”
“Perhaps today we will get lucky,” smiled Superintendent Hong, and with a swat on Li’s back, he walked away.
“Lucky? How does he expect us to get lucky?”
Li shook his head. “Our only hope is to comb the cameras, and see what we find. The story will eventually go public, and then we’ll be able to begin coordinating our efforts with the other investigations. Hopefully then we’ll find something.”
But for now we’re fighting not only a murderer, but a government more concerned with appearances, than safety.
Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China
March 28, 1875
Li Mei stirred as the cart they were in stopped and the baby made a noise. She felt a hand on her shoulder. A now familiar hand. Jun. It had been almost three months of travel. She was exhausted. He was exhausted. And the baby was exhausted. But thankfully healthy, and visibly bigger than when they had started the ordeal.
The journey had been long, and slow, far slower than the news that had spread out before them. It was scant at first, and terrifying. The few particulars that made it into each town and village before them were incomplete, and mostly incorrect. As they fled farther away from Beijing, the news firmed up, became more complete, more certain in the minds of those who delivered it.
But it was all lies.
The claim was that the Emperor had died from smallpox after a two week battle with the horrendous disease. No mention was made of the son they now ferried to safety. It was as if he had never existed. Jun had even inquired on several occasions, “What of the son?” to which the reply was always some variation of, “What son? The Emperor had no son!”
After weeks of this being repeated, the news reached them that a new Emperor had been appointed, and once more the Empress Dowager Cixi was essentially in control again. It had been devastating news, but there was a blessing hidden amongst the lies.
Nobody was looking for them.
At least not publicly.
But they couldn’t rely on that. If the Empress Dowager feared the true heir to the throne, she would send out her spies to seek them out, which is what had led to their fateful decision, one that had sent her heart aflutter. Last week they had married in secret, and decided to claim the baby as their own, so they might have some chance of surviving.
She squeezed the hand that now rested on her shoulder, then tilted her head so she could feel his skin on hers. “What is it, my love?”
His hand left her shoulder.
“Look, I think we’re here.”
Large lettering filled a sign at the entrance to a town she had long forgotten.
Shaoshan.
Her heart began to pound a little faster as the cart they were on resumed its journey, taking them deeper into the town. She recognized nothing, it having been almost five years since she left, and when she had, she had only been ten.
But then she saw the farmers’ market, in the center square, and her heart leapt. It was something she recognized. She elbowed Jun.
“What is it?”
“See that man, selling the cabbage?”
Jun nodded.
“I remember him. Ask him if he knows where my family’s farm is.”
Jun jumped down and ran over to the man as the driver continued through the market, toward his own destination. The vendor pointed to their left and Jun bowed, running back to the cart.
“We must get off now,” he said to the driver.
The cart and its lumbering oxen stopped and Jun helped Mei to the ground.
“Thank you!” called Jun as the man flicked the reigns and the decrepit vehicle moved on.
Jun took Mei by the arm and they hurried through the various stalls, and eventually into a wide boulevard she immediately recognized.
“What of my parents?”
Jun turned and smiled at her. “They are well, and still on your farm.”
Tears welled in Mei’s eyes as she looked down at the baby who was now awake and examining his surroundings.
“This will be your home, little one. What do you think?”
The baby looked up at her, eyes wide in wonder.
“I think he likes it,” said Jun.
Mei wiped her eyes dry with the back of her hand and nodded.
“I think so too.”
“The man in the market said the farm was—”
Mei cut him off.
“I know exactly where it is.”
And she did. With each step forward, the memories flooded back. Her childhood of running up and down these streets as she performed chores for her parents replayed themselves in her mind, like a favorite dream remembered.
They soon left the town, and were on an old dirt road, well-worn, the ruts of generations of carts etched down the center. She found herself almost running, Jun carrying their meager possessions behind him as he followed, continually begging her to slow down for the baby’s sake.
She couldn’t, but when she rounded a hedge of trees, she stopped, Jun nearly running into her. Tears poured freely down her cheeks, the smile spread across them interrupting the flow, as she saw the home she had grown up in, still standing there, still as humble as she reme
mbered, perhaps a little more so.
A figure brushed snow off the porch with an old broom, a broom she had held a hundred times before, a figure whose stooped form she could never forget.
“Mama!” she cried, handing the baby over to Jun then rushing headlong across the field in front of the house, the snow soaking the cloths that wrapped her sandals to keep the cold out.
But she didn’t care.
The stooped form straightened, looking in her direction, then began to cry out herself, yelling for everyone to come outside.
“My baby is home!” cried the now unmistakable form of her mother as she hobbled down the steps and rushed toward her, arms stretched out wide.
Mei pushed through the last of the snow and onto the cleared path and rushed into the arms of her mother, sobbing in happiness like she had never before. They both held each other tight, crying and saying things in between gasps that neither could understand. She looked over her mother’s shoulder and saw her father standing on the porch, his face as unemotional as ever, his embarrassment over his poor teeth having stopped him from smiling years ago.
But the tears that poured down his cheeks at the sight of her told her all she needed.
She broke free of her mother and ran up the steps, hugging her father as hard as she could, and her heart melted as she felt the arms she had thought she’d never feel again, envelope her in their protective barrier, and for the first time in months, she finally felt safe.
Other excited voices surrounded her, and she felt hands slapping her back in welcome, as her brothers joined them.
She pushed gently away from her father and began hugging the rest of the family, when she gasped.
“Oh no! I forgot!”
She looked at the road for Jun and found him walking up the path, baby in hand, a smile on his face.
Mei rushed down the steps and escorted Jun forward.
“Mother, Father. I would like you to meet my husband, Mao Jun.” Her mother gasped, the smile on her face threatening to crack her worn façade. Mei took a deep breath, hating to lie to the ones she loved. “And this is our son, Mao Shun-sheng.”
Jun bowed deeply, as did her parents and siblings. Finally, the introductions complete, her mother urged them inside to examine the baby, her daughter, and her new son-in-law.
And once inside amongst the familiar surroundings, Mei knew they would be safe.
Beijing National Stadium, Beijing, China
One week ago
Inspector Hu Ping jumped forward with one foot, stomping it on the ground. Li Meng looked at his junior partner with a smile as this was her third attempt to trap the elusive piece of paper. Why she wanted it, he had no clue, but doubted it was her strong belief in civic duty and a requirement to pick up litter.
Finally successful, she reached down and picked up the paper, smiling in triumph at Li as she waved it in the air.
Then he saw the words emblazoned on the paper and realized why she had picked it up.
“Foreigners Out!” it screamed in bold red characters.
“Let me see that,” he said, holding out his hand as she quickly read the contents. Finished, she handed it over.
“I think we have our first break,” she said, her smile now gone.
Li took the paper and read the brief diatribe.
Foreigners Out!
Foreigners are destroying the purity of China, destroying our heritage. Our leaders are consumed by greed, hungrily devouring foreign money to feed their decadent ways. It is time to take our country back. It is time to take it back from the foreigners.
Remember the Boxer Rebellion!
Remember the Revolution!
Remember The June Fourth Incident!
Li’s eyebrows shot up at the last line. He of course understood the first two references. The Boxer Rebellion of 1898 to 1901 had been an attempt to force the foreigners of the Eight-Nation Alliance out of the country, to free China from their influence, and restore the true power of the Emperor.
But it had failed.
Tens of thousands had died on both sides, and it had been a humiliation that the country never recovered from.
Until the revolution.
When Mao Zedong fought the regime of old, its complicity with foreign powers before, during and after the war, had threatened the Chinese way of life. He and the communists had won, and established a new country under a new flag, and forced the foreigners out so the country could be rebuilt in the Chinese image, with everyone prospering as equally as possible, through state ownership and control.
Yes, through communism.
It had been a glorious time, though it was before Li’s generation. But as with all things, good or bad, they must evolve, or die. And China had evolved. The Party was as strong as ever, but it was slowly giving the people rights.
Li was the first to admit that the new found freedoms were most likely not for the people’s benefit. No, they were most likely for the benefit of the Party loyalists so they could legally enjoy the new Western ways made available to them with the lowering of barriers previously foisted against anything foreign. The people of his parents’ generation were having a hard time adjusting to the new ways. His generation had adapted, though at times he wondered how far things would go, and if they would be for the best.
It was Ping’s generation that he feared for the most. They never knew the old times, and as they clamored for more and more freedoms, they might just get what they wanted.
And that was the one thing Li feared.
If China’s new freedoms went too far, too fast, someone, somewhere, would decide things had indeed gone too far.
And hit the Reset button.
And that could be disastrous for all. He feared the day when the Party turned hardline and decided the Western capitalist values that had been embraced over the past decades must be suppressed. A population of over one billion, hundreds of millions of whom were born into a society far freer than he had been, would suddenly find themselves back in the dark ages of communism, where there was no freedom, no Western movies, music, television. No Internet, controlled or otherwise. No cellphone networks or text messaging, as those could be used to subvert the State.
He feared what would happen.
Civil war.
It was the only logical outcome.
Who would win?
Of that, he had no clue. He tended to lean toward the adage that no one would be a winner.
But what would trigger it? What would cause China to spiral back in time?
He looked at the paper.
This.
Had a nationalist movement begun again? Were these shootings actually not hate crimes, but targeted killings designed to trigger an end-goal? Start killing foreigners randomly, heinously, and Westerners would stop coming. Eventually businesses might pull out, and worse, the Western populations begin to boycott Chinese made goods.
Economic collapse.
The West would label China a communist pariah, and push for democratic reforms. The population would demand these reforms in order to get the way of life they were accustomed to, back. There would be protests. Tiananmen would be repeated but on an even bolder scale, since this generation had actually tasted some of the freedom the previous had fought for.
And the Party would fight back.
He looked at Ping, and he felt his chest tighten as he pictured her crushed under the treads of a tank, fighting for a cause he knew she would support.
And he wondered just what side he would take.
“What have you got there?”
It was his boss, Hong, only inches away.
Li sometimes wondered if the new Chinese stealth fighter he had been hearing about was simply an old Shenyang J-8 fighter with Hong strapped to the nosecone.
“We found it on the ground,” replied Ping.
Hong snatched it from Li’s hand and crumpled it into a ball.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Li, immediately regretting his tone. He lowered hi
s voice, bowing slightly. “I beg forgiveness, sir, but isn’t that evidence?”
“Evidence of what?”
“Perhaps if you read it?” suggested Li.
Hong leaned in even closer, lowering his voice.
“Forget you ever saw this.”
He spun around and marched off, leaving Li and Ping agape.
“What the hell was that all about?” hissed Ping.
But Li knew what it was about.
It was what he had feared.
These killings are organized, with a political purpose, and the State knows.
And they’re covering it up.
Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China
December 26, 1893
Li Mei held her adopted son’s hand as they waited outside the bedroom. Screams sliced through the calm every minute or so, each time sending her son, her Little Emperor, Shun-sheng, to his feet. And each time Mei would take him by the hand and pull him back into his seat.
She was about to be a grandmother.
She smiled at the thought, but a pang of regret shot through her chest as she thought of her beloved Jun, and how he was missing the birth of their first grandchild.
Oh Jun!
He had died of a fever just last winter, and she knew this winter would be hard without him. Her son, Shun-sheng, whom she silently still called Little Emperor, had taken it hard. He had been close to his father, and it was a regret she had always carried that she had never told him the truth.
He had had such a happy childhood, surrounded by her family, and by his own siblings as they had been born, seven in all, for his own safety, her and Jun had agreed the secret must die with them. There was no hope of him ever regaining the throne, therefore there was no need for him to know the truth about his past.
Another cry from behind the door, another jump from the chair, Shun-sheng pacing far enough away now that she would have to get up to settle him. She began to push herself from her seat when he waved her off and returned on his own.
A smack and a cry, and they both looked at each other with smiles on their faces.
The door opened, and the mid-wife appeared, holding the baby, swaddled tightly. She handed him to Shun-sheng and bowed.
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