by Peter May
It was another forty-five minutes before they were ready to go for a take. Hu Bo and the peasant Wang Qifa had run through their lines several times, going through the actions of removing the first brick without actually doing so. Sound recordist, camera operators, lighting director, all seemed happy to go for it.
‘OK, Dave,’ Chuck said. ‘When you’re ready …’
Dave, a burly young man with long red hair beneath his baseball cap, gave a thumbs-up to camera and ducked out of shot. Then Margaret heard him on foldback. ‘OK everyone, quiet please. Roll VT. Very still. And … action!’
Wang Qifa, clutching a trowel, climbed the ladder to join Hu Bo. ‘What are you doing?’ Hu Bo asked.
‘I thought we might remove the first bricks together,’ Wang Qifa replied.
‘Ah, but there might be hidden weapons,’ Hu Bo replied. ‘And chickens’ blood is not always foolproof. You’d better wait at the foot of the ladder and I’ll hand down the bricks. That way only one of us will get killed.’
That was enough to send Wang Qifa back down the ladder. It was deathly silent as Hu began scraping with his trowel to remove the first brick. The overhead camera caught, in close up, the concentration on his upturned face. The brick slowly came loose and, using both hands, he pushed and pulled it from side to side until finally it came free of the wall. There was a loud pop and a sucking sound like the rushing of air. A voice shouted, ‘Poisonous gas!’ And almost immediately a thick black mist came belching out of the opening, accompanied by a noise like the growling of an animal.
Hu put his hand to his mouth, dropping the brick, and slid down the ladder, choking and coughing. The peasants had all thrown themselves to the ground as the mist descended and engulfed them. The air was filled with the sound of choking.
Then Margaret saw, on the third monitor, a figure emerging from the mist, incongruous in white shirt and jeans. On some signal she couldn’t see, the coughing stopped and the set became quiet. Michael addressed himself to the camera in an eerie silence while still walking towards it, the black mist billowing around his legs. ‘But it wasn’t poison gas. It was simply an accumulation of rotten organic materials released by the inrush of air after nearly three hundred and forty years of decay. Vile and unpleasant, but not toxic. And if there were hidden weapons within, they were still to be encountered.’
‘Cut!’ Chuck shouted. ‘Brilliant! Check it. Sound, do you need a wild track?’
A voice came back from somewhere. ‘Yeah. Lots more coughing and choking.’
‘OK, we’ll do it after we’ve checked tape. Dave, kisses all round. Tell Design I owe them a very large drink.’
*
It was cold in the Underground Palace, and damp, and Margaret shivered. Michael put his jacket over her shoulders, covering her thin cotton blouse. And she wasn’t sure whether it was the cold or his touch that raised goosebumps on her forearms. She shrugged the thought aside and looked around the vast chambers with their arched roofs and shook her head in amazement. ‘I had no idea this would be so big.’
‘Built from giant stone blocks, each one hand-cut and polished,’ Michael said. ‘The cost of building the tomb nearly bankrupted the country.’
‘And there were no hidden weapons after all?’ Margaret was disappointed.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well, isn’t that a bit of a cheat? Building your audience up to think there were?’
‘No,’ Michael said earnestly. ‘I want the audience to experience the same sense of the unknown, of hidden dangers, as Hu Bo and the others. So the tomb wasn’t booby-trapped, but they weren’t to know that. And then once they were inside they had other problems. They couldn’t open the huge marble doors to any of these chambers, including the door to the central vault.’
Margaret looked at the doors. They were massive studded affairs that must each have weighed several tons.
‘They were locked, apparently from the inside,’ Michael said.
‘You mean people locked them and then stayed in here to die?’ Margaret was shocked.
Michael smiled. ‘For a while they thought that might be the case. Then Hu discovered the secret of a hook-shaped key that could be slipped between the doors to move a stone buttress on the other side, and one by one they managed to open all the doors. To find the chambers empty.’
‘Empty?’ Margaret was surprised. ‘So the emperor wasn’t buried here after all?’
‘For a time they thought perhaps the tomb had already been robbed. They found three white marble thrones, one for the emperor and one for each of his empresses. There were various sacrificial objects, but no coffins. Until,’ he said, ‘they opened the very last chamber at the far end.’ And he led her past the marble thrones to the end chamber. ‘And there, on a raised dais, each on its own golden well, sat the coffins of the emperor and his two empresses, surrounded by twenty-six red lacquered wooden chests.’
Three huge red lacquered boxes sat on the dais before them, surrounded by the twenty-six chests.
‘And that’s them?’ Margaret asked.
Michael shook his head. ‘Reproductions.’ He sighed. ‘You must remember when it was that these tombs were being opened up. The late fifties in China was a time of political purges and great social upheaval. The director put in charge here was a political appointee. He knew nothing about the history of the place, and couldn’t care less about the contents of the tomb. The original coffins had deteriorated with age, and reproductions were made to go on public show. So the director ordered the originals to be thrown away.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Margaret was appalled. ‘They didn’t, did they?’
‘When the archaeologists objected, the director ordered some soldiers to throw them over the outer wall where they were smashed on the rocks below.’
In spite of herself, and to her great surprise, Margaret found herself full of furious indignation. ‘But these things were hundreds of years old, priceless historical relics.’
Michael looked sombre. ‘Unfortunately, much worse was to happen to the contents of the coffins. Wonderful, irreplaceable artefacts.’ He put his arm around her shoulder, and she felt his warmth, even through his jacket and her blouse. ‘But you’re cold down here. And the rest of the story can wait. I think we should go and get some lunch.’
It required the fifteen minutes it took them to walk the full length of the paved walkway, down to the parking lot, for the warmth of the sun finally to reach and banish the chill that seemed to have set in Margaret’s bones.
On the walk she asked him, ‘Why are you so fascinated by this Hu Bo?’
He smiled, a little sadly. ‘Because all his life he was a victim. Of circumstance, and of history. And every time fate knocked him down he got up and hit right back.’ His hand clamped itself around her upper arm. ‘Think about it, Margaret. At the age of ten he was sold by his father. Sold to work in the camp of a Swedish explorer, Sven Hedin, who was just setting off on an exploration of the remote western regions of China. A disaster for a young boy, forced to become what was little more than a slave. He suffered great hardship, trekking across the western deserts, crossing uncharted mountain ranges. He lost three fingers to frostbite. But he also learned tailoring, and cooking, and barbering, how to bake bread, how to ride and shoot, how to collect samples of ancient relics in the field. He became familiar with the methods of survey, and the essential principles of excavation. He developed the skills needed to restore and preserve disinterred relics.’ Michael’s eyes were shining with wonder and admiration. ‘He took a disastrous sequence of events, and turned them to his advantage. By the age of twenty, a peasant boy from nowhere, he was studying archaeology at the university in Beijing.’
He became aware that he was gripping her arm and let go immediately. ‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled. ‘I get carried away sometimes.’
Margaret looked at the light in his eyes. His enthusiasm was boyish, verging on the immature. But it was also infectious, and quite compelling. She rubbed her ar
m, smiling ruefully. ‘I’ll be all bruised tonight.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, suddenly self-conscious.
They walked in silence for a few moments. Behind them, the mountains shimmered in a blue haze, and the double roof of the stele pavilion rose above the blue-green needles of the spruce trees. Ahead of them the parking lot was crowded, and crew and cast and extras clustered around the catering wagon. Out of the blue he said, ‘Have you been to Xi’an to see the Terracotta Warriors?’
She laughed. ‘I’ve hardly been out of Beijing.’
He said, ‘But you must see them. You can’t come to China and not see the Eighth Wonder of the World.’
‘A bunch of ceramic figures?’
He gasped in frustration. ‘Margaret, they are awe-inspiring! Thousands of ancient warriors, my height and bigger. Each one individually cast and hand finished. Every face unique. Made by craftsmen two thousand, two hundred years ago. Just to stand among them, to feel their presence, to touch them, is to be touched by history in a way I can’t even begin to describe.’
That infectious enthusiasm again. She smiled and shook her head. ‘Michael, you’re wasting your time with me. I’m a cultural cretin.’
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I have to be in Xi’an tomorrow. We’re arranging for the shipment of more than five dozen warriors to the United States as part of an exhibition I’ve organised to coincide with the broadcast of my latest documentary series. It’s called The Art of War, and it’s going to be the biggest exhibition of Terracotta Warriors ever seen outside of China.’ He paused. ‘Come with me.’
‘What?’ She was completely taken aback.
But there was no restraining his alacrity. ‘I’m travelling down on the sleeper tonight. I’m there all day tomorrow and tomorrow night, then fly back first thing the next morning. I can’t afford to be away from the production for any longer.’
‘I couldn’t possibly,’ Margaret laughed. ‘I’m involved in a murder investigation here.’
‘One day, that’s all you’d be away.’ He stopped and took both her hands in his. ‘My production office will book your travel and accommodation. And I can get you right down there among the warriors, touching them, brushing away the earth of two thousand years. Something only a handful of people will ever experience.’ He stopped for breath. ‘Say yes. Don’t even think about it. Life’s too short for that. Just say yes.’
For a moment she looked into his eyes, felt his hands, big and strong, enveloping hers, and was aware of something both painful and pleasurable stirring deep inside her.
II
Blood, and headless bodies, and disembodied heads, and hands tied with silk cord, swam in front of his eyes. Photographs were spread across his desk like the pieces of a jigsaw that were all the same size and gave no clue as to where or how to begin piecing them together. Li had spent the morning sifting through reports and pictures, interviews and statements, all the while distracted by unrelated thoughts that crowded his mind and blurred his focus. You’re just going to have to learn how to separate your personal from your professional life, Chen had told him last night. But Li was finding it impossible.
During his early morning jian bing stop at the Dongzhimennei corner, he had told Mei Yuan about his sister and her intentions. Mei Yuan had listened with grave intensity, making no comment, offering no advice. She understood that all he needed to do was talk. She expressed her sympathy for his troubles with no more than a slight squeeze of his arm. Somehow, even that had been reassuring, and he had remembered her words of the previous evening. Anytime you need me. It was not until he had reached his office that he realised she had forgotten to ask him about the thirty yuan riddle. It was just as well, for he had given it little thought and had no answer.
He had left Xiao Ling, first thing, preparing for her appointment later that morning at the clinic where they would perform the ultra-sound scan. Xinxin, still sleepy and puffy-eyed as she woke from her slumbers, had forgotten that she was being strange with her uncle, and had given Li a hug and a kiss before he left. His sister, huffy and alienated by his disapproval, had not. Neither of them had slept as Xinxin had. And now Li found himself almost afraid to return home tonight, for whatever the result of the scan, his sister’s response to it would be unthinkable.
He screwed up his eyes to try to banish the thought from his mind, and found a picture of Margaret there, staring at him with that knowing, challenging look of hers. How was he going to be able to deal with her in a professional capacity without being affected by his personal feelings? You’re just going to have to learn how to separate your personal from your professional life. How? How is it done? he wanted to ask Chen. And who, he wanted to ask Margaret, was the man she’d been with at the Sanwei the night before?
He opened his eyes and found four victims staring up at him from his desk, almost accusingly. Why had he not found their killer?
A secretary from downstairs knocked on his door and came in with a large brown envelope. ‘That’s the translations of the autopsy reports you requested,’ she said. ‘And copy prints of the crime scene pics.’ She set it down on his desk.
‘Don’t put it there,’ he barked uncharacteristically, and she jumped. ‘They’re for Dr Margaret Campbell at the American Embassy. Get them sent over straight away by dispatch rider.’
‘Yes,’ she said timidly, her face flushing. And she backed out as Zhao came in.
‘What is it, Zhao?’ Li was terse and impatient.
Zhao said, ‘I’ve only been able to track down one teacher who was at No. 29 Middle School back in the early sixties, boss. He’s nearly eighty.’
‘What about the others?’
Zhao shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Some of them are probably dead by now. A lot of the school records were destroyed during the Cultural Revolution, so getting information of any kind hasn’t been easy. It’s the same thing trying to get anything on Yuan’s family.’
‘What about Qian? Is he making any progress?’
Zhao said, ‘He’s having the same problem, boss. We’re having to go by word of mouth. But he’s got the names of some of the victims’ classmates, so it should only be a matter of time before we manage to track down the rest.’
‘Time,’ Li said, ‘is something we don’t necessarily have a lot of, Zhao. The timescale between each of these killings is anywhere between three and fifteen days. And if there are another two victims out there, then we want to find them before the killer does.’
‘You want me to set up interviews?’
Li thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But let’s do them at the school. Tomorrow morning. Ask the headmaster to give us a couple of rooms. I’d like to get a feel for the place.’
Wu’s voice called from the detectives’ office. ‘Boss? You got a moment?’
Zhao stepped aside as Li went to the door. ‘What is it, Wu?’
Wu was at his desk, holding his hand over the telephone receiver. ‘That’s the forensics boys out at Yuan Tao’s embassy apartment. There’s some stuff they think you should have a look at.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You want to go?’
Li nodded. ‘You’d better sign out a car.’
Wu said into the telephone, ‘We’ll be right there.’
Li went back to his desk. At least something was moving.
Qian came in, almost at his back. He had a sheet of paper in his hand, and his eyes were alive with anticipation. ‘Just in, boss. Fax from the Evidence Determination Centre. The result of those tests that Dr Campbell suggested we do on the signature of the murder weapon …’
Li snatched the sheet and ran his eyes over the tightly printed characters of the report. He felt the skin tighten across his scalp.
*
The diplomatic compound where Yuan Tao had been allocated an apartment was set just behind the Friendship Store on Jianguomenwei Avenue. Wu parked their dark blue Beijing Jeep in the cycle lane at the front, and he and Li got out on to the sidewalk and looked up at the relatively new ap
artments. A long-haired beggar with no legs sat on the pavement, leaning against the wall of the compound. A straggling beard grew on his dark, gaunt face and he looked up at them appealingly and rattled a tin cup he held in his hand. Beside him, his tricycle had been fitted with an elaborate mechanism that allowed him to drive the wheels by hand-turning a crank handle. His skin was streaked and dirty, his clothes and hair matted. His face was a mask of disappointment when he saw that they, too, were Chinese.
A few yards further along, propped against a tree, a blind woman with a withered hand called out to them for money. There were others spread out along the length of the sidewalk. Li felt sick to see poor souls like this on the streets.
Wu looked at them with undisguised disgust. ‘What are they doing here?’ he asked, looking along the sidewalk. ‘There must be half a dozen of them.’
Li took out a ten-yuan note and stuffed it in the cup of the beggar with no legs. ‘Foreigners,’ he said, nodding towards the diplomatic compound. ‘Embassy staff and tourists. The guilt of the “haves” when faced with the “have-nots”. It’s fertile ground.’
Wu looked in horror at the note Li had given the beggar. ‘In the name of the sky, boss, what did you do that for?’
‘Because life has no guarantees, Wu,’ he said. ‘One day that could be me. Or you. And that’s not guilt. Just fear.’ He headed off towards the entrance to the compound.
At the gate a po-faced guard of the armed police stood sentinel. ‘Who are you looking for?’ he asked unceremoniously.
‘CID. Section One,’ Wu said, and pushed his ID in the guard’s face.
‘You know this guy?’ Li showed him the picture of Yuan Tao that had come with his file.
‘Sure,’ the guard said, and he pulled a gob of phlegm into his mouth and spat it out. ‘Yuan Tao. Second floor. He’s the guy that got himself murdered.’ He jerked his head towards the building. ‘Some of your people are in there just now.’ A grey forensics van was parked in the forecourt.