Kao turned to stuff the toy back into its box but Ming had leapt down from his mother’s lap and run across the room. Snatching up the panda, he held it out at arm’s length, whispering questions and answers back and forth between the bear and himself in an imaginary introductory conversation.
“Surely there’s no need to throw the toy away,” said I-ping gently. “Ming seems to like it.”
Kao watched his son playing with the toy bear for a second or two; then reluctantly he nodded. Picking up his briefcase from the chair where he had dropped it, he glanced at the watch on his wrist.
“I have to get back immediately,” he said apologetically. “Don’t worry if I’m late returning home.”
He ruffled his son’s hair fondly with one hand and hurried out into the sweltering dusk, There was no breeze and because the heavy, saturated air was making the interiors of the houses stifling, Kao had to pick his way carefully among the children and families who had come out to squat and wash themselves on the dusty pavements. Several times he passed People’s Liberation Army soldiers patrolling the streets in pairs, the bayonets on their rifles glinting ominously in the glow of the streetlights. The presence of the troops lent an extra dimension of tension to the steamy night and whenever they appeared, families moved aside to let them pass.
Halfway along the street Kao turned in through the gates of a small school and strode quickly to a corner of the dusty playground where a flight of railed concrete steps led downward into the earth. Taking a key from his pocket he unlocked a steel door at the bottom and stepped into a cement-lined shaft containing a further flight of steps. After locking the door carefully behind him, he descended twenty-five feet into the vast interconnecting network of underground passages which stretched for hundreds of miles beneath Peking.
Walking comfortably upright in a tunnel eight feet high and five feet wide, Kao passed under the moat and the crenellated walls of the Forbidden City and hurried on beneath the foundations of the ancient imperial palaces toward Chung Nan Hai. The air in the tunnels was much cooler than the humid night outside and his way was lit by naked light bulbs which were suspended from the tunnel roof at ten-yard intervals. As he walked he passed entrances to kitchens, grain stores, armories, ammunition dumps, and chambers housing generators and air purification plants. Occasionally he had to stop to open one of the blast-proof doors which separated the tunnel sections, and every few minutes a soldier loomed out of a shadowy niche to inspect his pass. The whole network had been excavated in the eight years since Chinese and Russian troops had clashed on the Ussuri River at the height of the Cultural Revolution; each section had been laboriously dug out by the people who lived or worked above it. Since the labyrinth had been designed both for fighting a defensive guerrilla war and evacuating the capital’s population of four million safely to the countryside, machine-gun embrasures had been built into each junction to provide a line of fire in all directions.
Another thirty feet below Kao’s feet, a second tunnel system had been constructed to provide bunkers for troops and militiamen. All the passages were linked to a subterranean road network that led to exit points in the hills far beyond Peking’s outskirts. Signs on the walls of the maze of tunnels indicated the street names they shadowed above ground, and every large store and shop had its own entrance to the network for its employees. A separate, secure underground road broad enough for cars and trucks linked the walled Chung Nan Hai compound with the Great Hall of the People, so that Party leaders and their aides never needed to show their faces in the streets when going to and from meetings. With suspicion and mistrust increasingly rife, Kao had fallen into the habit of using that passageway and other parts of the underground complex almost daily.
But as he hurried on through the tunnels he suddenly remembered the growing list of freakish natural phenomena that were being reported to the Seismology Bureau and he looked up apprehensively at the low roof close above his head. At that moment the normally protective atmosphere of the tunnels became ominous and oppressive, and Kao broke into a run toward the checkpoint where a whole company of specially trained 8341 Security Unit soldiers stood guard around elevators that would take him up to Chiang Ch’ing’s quarters in the heart of Chung Nan Hai.
10
In the Great Hall of the People, Marshal Lu Chiao glanced around the large polished table at which half a dozen of China’s top military leaders were gathered. All wore badgeless People’s Liberation Army uniforms of olive green cotton but their gray heads distinguished them clearly as the most senior officers in the land. Only one man among them, a round-jowled man in his mid-fifties, wore a civilian cadre’s tunic: obviously ill at ease among the uniformed military officers, he puffed nervously at a cigarette and repeatedly shuffled papers on the table in front of him as he listened to what was being said.
“Criminal bank robberies, industrial strikes, and lawlessness in the streets are phenomena we’ve rarely experienced in the People’s Republic of China,” Chiao was saying. “These are all very clear signs that our country is gripped by a feeling of crisis — and more evidence of unrest in the cities and in the countryside is arriving daily. What’s more, in the last twenty-four hours, comrades, there have been indications that we might soon be threatened by a natural disaster of massive proportions.” Chiao paused and glanced at a sheet of paper before him. “The Seismology Bureau attached to the Academy of Sciences has begun receiving a spate of reports from all over the northeast which suggest that a major earthquake might be imminent. These reports concern the unnatural behavior of wild and domestic animals, and such traditional methods of predicting earthquakes have proved reliable over hundreds of years. . . . Swarms of bees are stinging cattle to death, pigs are jumping from their sties and running amok, farm fowl are flying off into the forests Chiao paused and looked around the table. “Clearly, comrades, action needs to be taken swiftly in many directions. But the bad relations which exist between certain sections of the Party leadership are having a paralyzing effect on the government’s will. That’s why all of us at this table have felt justified in calling this informal meeting.” Chiao paused again and glanced pointedly toward the sole civilian. “Consequently, Comrade Vice Chairman, we’re very grateful that you’ve consented to attend and hear what’s in the minds of your leading generals at this time.”
Hua Kuo-feng nodded a formal acknowledgment, still without raising his eyes, and Chiao waited deferentially to see if the man who had unexpectedly been appointed vice chairman of the Communist Party and premier of the State Council in April wished to volunteer any remark. When it was obvious that he chose to remain silent, Chiao continued in the same deliberately respectful tone.
“Since one issue is crucial to all other considerations, Comrade Vice Chairman, perhaps you’d care to give us some precise information about the health of Chairman Mao Tse-tung. Then we might be able to define our feelings more clearly.”
When Hua Kuo-feng looked up at last, his expression was strained. Before speaking he glanced nervously toward the two armed sentries who stood on guard inside the locked door of the small anteroom, then looked quickly around the table at the array of grim-faced marshals and generals. Their ranks no longer included the venerated Red Army commander Chu Teh, who had died three weeks earlier, and Hua was aware that in past crises Marshal Chu had often maneuvered the military leadership to support Chairman Mao. Chu’s absence heightened the atmosphere of uncertainty which now bedeviled all high-level discussion, and consequently, when Hua finally spoke, he directed his words at the empty center of the table, as though anxious to give the impression that he sought no personal involvement with any of those present.
“Chairman Mao is deeply fatigued with old age, comrades,” said Hua. “As you all must know, he’s been suffering for some years from a wasting disease of the nervous system. This has now worsened considerably and he’s partially paralyzed on one side of his body. His speech is impaired and no longer intelligible. For long periods he appears to slip into
a coma and he takes only the smallest amounts of nourishment
Hua paused and looked up to scan the table once more; his own expression was troubled and he could see the same unspoken question in every face. Staring at Hua from the other end of the table, Chiao found himself wondering if the new vice chairman would have risen so far toward the pinnacle of supreme power if he had not been head of the local Communist Party organization in Mao’s home county when the chairman made a nostalgic visit to Hunan in the late 195os. Hua’s promotion to the Central Committee and his later appointment as minister of agriculture had come as a surprise, although he had since proved himself an able administrator. He had an amiable, industrious face but his manner was bureaucratic and uninspiring. Because Hua appeared to lack the fundamental strength of character that Chiao sensed the growing crisis would demand in the coming days and weeks, he felt his own apprehension grow.
“Doctors attending the chairman believe that life cannot be sustained much longer,” continued Hua in a low voice. “But they’ve thought that for some weeks. Although he’s scarcely conscious, in keeping with his courageous character Chairman Mao is fighting fiercely to the last.”
A deep hush fell over the room as Hua finished speaking. The somber news had reminded the dwindling band of grizzled Long March commanders only too clearly of their own mortality and for some moments they remained silent, lost in their own thoughts.
“We want to emphasize in the strongest possible terms, Comrade Vice Chairman, that no individual at this table has the slightest ambition to succeed to the highest office himself,” said Chiao, looking steadily at the man who already effectively held the reins of power in his hands. “But as Chairman Mao has so memorably said, ‘Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.’ And we wouldn’t hesitate to use the power of the People’s Liberation Army if confusion were to cloud the vital question of who is to lead China in Chairman Mao’s place.”
“But there’s no confusion.” Hua smiled anxiously and searched his papers until he found a single sheet, which he passed hurriedly across the table to Chiao. “You all heard weeks ago that Chairman Mao had declared to me, ‘With you in charge, I am at ease.’ In fact, he wrote that sentiment in his own distinctive calligraphy as a mark of confidence and gave it to me.”
Chiao scrutinized the single sentence scrawled untidily across the white page with a felt-tipped pen. Mao Tse-tung’s calligraphy was nationally recognizable from published facsimiles of his poems and other commemorative writings, and although the scrawl was much more erratic than usual the message, which included Hua’s full name, had clearly been written in Mao’s hand. After studying it carefully, Chiao handed the sheet of paper to his neighbor and in silence the army leaders passed it from one to another, watched by an eagerly smiling Hua.
“There’s no doubt that this constitutes Chairman Mao’s seal of approval, Comrade Vice Chairman,” said Chiao at last, returning the paper to Hua. “And we are all aware of the sacred significance which the people of China are accustomed to attach to the written and spoken words of a great leader. But once the chairman is dead, it will take more than a piece of paper to protect you against the rabid ambitions of the chairman’s wife and her ultra-left supporters.”
Hua stared down the length of the table with a frown of puzzlement crinkling his big face. “What do you mean, Comrade Marshal?”
“An attempt has already been made to persuade the commander of the Peking Regional Garrison to arrest you!” The Peking commander was sitting at Chiao’s elbow and he nodded silently in affirmation as Chiao spoke. “Fortunately the commander reported the approach to me — and I ordered him to do nothing until we’d had a chance to consult with you.”
Hua’s eyes widened in alarm and he swallowed hard, saying nothing.
“In April similar plans were laid by the ultra-leftists to arrest Comrade Teng Hsiao-ping after he was removed from all his offices. But some of us around this table gave him the necessary military assistance to fly to a safe hiding place in the south.”
As the significance of what the People’s Liberation Army leaders were saying to Hua began to sink in, the face of the Party vice chairman clouded with anxiety. Avoiding the eyes of the men around him, he busied himself lighting another cigarette and drew several deep drafts of smoke into his lungs in quick succession.
“To avoid civil war and bloodshed, we believe it will almost certainly be necessary to act decisively after the chairman dies.” Chiao spoke in a firm, clear voice, leaning forward on the table. “If the ultra-leftists continue their efforts to seize the leadership, we are firmly agreed that they should all be arrested without delay. You’ll have our full support if you decide to do this — and the loyalty and backing of all the major army commands
“The people are no longer prepared to volunteer for unpaid work in the name of the revolution as the ultra-leftists wish,” said another marshal in a quiet voice. “They want the bonuses that should already have been paid to them in May under Comrade Teng’s policies. If they don’t get them, the strikes and the unrest will continue.”
“I’m not sure how to respond, comrades,” said Hua hesitantly, scrutinizing each of the expressionless faces around him in turn.
“All you need do, Comrade Vice Chairman, is tell us if you would refuse to make the arrests in the imaginary circumstances we’ve outlined,” said Chiao, and he paused significantly. “If that were the case, we would have to withdraw our support from you.”
For a long moment the vice chairman stared at Chiao; then, with his hands shaking slightly, he gathered his papers together, fitted them carefully into a slim briefcase, and stood up. ”l would not want you or your colleagues to withdraw your support from me under any circumstances, Comrade Marshal,” he said in a subdued tone. “I hope that is very clear.”
Chiao smiled down the table for the first time. “Thank you, Comrade Vice Chairman. It is very clear. And that’s all that needs to be said for the present.”
The military leaders rose formally as a mark of respect when Hua Kuo-feng hurried toward the door. The sentries, however, did not move aside immediately; instead they looked questioningly at Chiao and only when the marshal nodded slightly in their direction did they unlock the door and allow him to leave.
As he went out, a junior aide hurried to Chiao’s side and told him in a low voice that somebody had just arrived, asking to see him at once about an urgent, personal matter.
Chiao excused himself and outside in the corridor he recognized one of the male nurses from the Peking Number 7 Mental Health Center. The man’s face was agitated and covered in perspiration, as if he had run a long way through the sweltering night, and he shifted impatiently from one foot to the other as Chiao approached.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you here, Comrade Marshal,” gasped the man. “But it’s about your sister.”
Chiao’s face stiffened in concern. “What about her?”
“She’s suddenly become very wild in her behavior. We can’t restrain her. And she seems to be calling for you.”
Chiao gazed at the man in astonishment. “But she’s said nothing and barely moved at all in ten years!”
“Yes — but suddenly tonight she’s become very restless. She began to moan and run around in her room. She tried to escape through a barred window. She calls your name over and over again. Nothing we can do will stop her. We gave her sedatives but it has made no difference at all.” The nurse was holding a grimy cap in his hands and he wrung it constantly as he spoke. “Because she’s calling for you all the time, we thought we had better fetch you. She’s behaving like a wild animal.”
“Please return to her at once,” said Chiao quickly. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”
11
Chiang Ch’ing’s dark eyes glittered angrily behind her half-rimmed spectacles as she looked up at Kao from her desk. She had been in the act of replacing the telephone as Kao entered her study in the modern brick-built house where she lived and worked in a secluded corner
of the Chung Nan Hai compound, and it was clear even before she spoke that what she had just learned had infuriated her.
“The heroic marshals have held a secret meeting with our incompetent Party vice chairman,” she said with great bitterness. “And he’s been flourishing the chairman’s little piece of calligraphic nonsense at them.”
Kao said nothing; he had entered from one of the outer offices, where he had a permanent desk, carrying a new batch of reports from the Seismology Bureau. Although it was after two o’clock in the morning, the volume of information reaching the bureau from half a dozen provinces in the north and northeast hadn’t slackened, and Kao’s own sense of alarm was increasing. The windows of Chiang Ch’ing’s study were open and from the darkness beyond the fine gauze screens the high-pitched, metallic whine of hundreds of cicadas in the surrounding trees added an extra dimension of unease to the sweltering night.
“Do you suppose, Comrade Kao, that Hua the Incompetent is attempting to strike a deal with the army leaders? Is the ‘peasants’ friend’ learning the habits of a Street fighter late in his life?”
The once-beautiful former film actress, who for nearly forty years had been the wife of Mao Tse-tung, tapped a pencil impatiently on her desktop as she waited for Kao to answer. Slender and fine-boned, she radiated a nervous, excitable energy, but in her early sixties the lovely face that had first captivated her husband in Yenan had taken on a peevish look. Behind the thick lenses of her spectacles her eyes had grown small and pinched and their expression suggested she was ever ready to take, and give, offense.
“It’s more likely the marshals were seeking information, I’d say,” replied Kao guardedly. “Could the meeting have been called at the initiative of the officers?”
“That will be for you to find out,” snapped Chiang irritably. “And please do it soon.” Unlocking one of the desk drawers, she took out a file, peered into it, then looked up calculatingly at Kao. “Whatever took place at the meeting, Comrade Kao, it’s clear that the chairman won’t live much longer. The struggle for his inheritance has begun in earnest. You’ve been unswerving in your loyalty to the revolutionary line of Chairman Mao for ten years and it would be interesting for me to hear now from your own lips whether your loyalty to myself and other leading comrades who support me is unchanged.”
Anthony Grey Page 73