China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  But this old man was harmless. Just an old Cantonese, with children and grandchildren most likely, a poor fellow running an errand. He didn’t want to kill him.

  “He saw me. Kill him.” Sea Dragon was looking at him. It was an order. No man in his crew could disobey that. And the rest of the crew wouldn’t tolerate anyone who did. Sea Dragon was looking at him, and there was death in his eyes.

  Nio turned and plunged his knife into the old fellow’s body, under the ribs, and twisted it up to strike the heart. He saw one of the men holding the old fellow nod to Sea Dragon. They tossed the old man’s body behind the boards and pushed them back in place.

  And just then Nio glanced up the alley as Shi-Rong entered it. He did not know that he could move so fast. Reaching across, he scooped up the package containing the trusses and, with a single motion, slung it into the shadows of the alleyway.

  “Mandarin,” he hissed. “Bow when he passes.” Then, taking Sea Dragon’s arm, he called out, “Goodnight, my friends,” to the two other men and walked casually towards Shi-Rong with the pirate beside him.

  Shi-Rong was in a hurry. He looked preoccupied. When Nio and Sea Dragon made way for him and bowed, he hardly acknowledged them and scarcely seemed to notice the other two men at all. As soon as Shi-Rong was out of the lane, Nio signaled the other men to bring the package at once and helped Sea Dragon sling it over his back.

  “That was Lin’s secretary,” he explained. “He must be making sure the package was sent.”

  “Good.” Sea Dragon was walking swiftly. “Parker will tell him it’s on the way. Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  —

  There was no problem when they reached Lin’s headquarters. From across the street, Nio watched Sea Dragon speak to the guards at the gate, one of whom went to get instructions and soon returned. “You’re to wait inside,” Nio heard him say.

  So far, so good. The lanterns were being lit in a big teahouse nearby. There were quite a few people about in the street. It was easy enough for Nio and the other two men to wait around without attracting attention.

  Only one thing troubled him. It seemed quite likely that after Shi-Rong had gone to check with Dr. Parker that the delivery was being made, the young mandarin would have finished his work for the day. He’d probably meet friends or go to a teahouse. But what if he returned to Lin’s headquarters? He might know from Parker that the messenger was an old man. If he saw Sea Dragon inside with the package, he’d smell a rat at once. The game would be up. He cursed himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

  What could he do if Shi-Rong appeared? Waylay him in the street? How? Could he kill him? He still had his knife, which he suddenly realized he’d never wiped clean.

  Difficult, in front of the guards at the gate—and certain death for himself as well.

  Should he go back to Hog Lane and try to kill Shi-Rong there? But that would mean deserting his post, when Sea Dragon had told him to wait where he was.

  Nio gazed at the gate and prayed: Let it be soon. Lin had only to call Sea Dragon in. The whole thing could be over in a moment. If the pirate would just appear. Walk safely out through the gate. Turn down the street.

  “Come on,” he whispered to himself. “Just open,” he silently begged the gates.

  And his gaze was so fixed on the gates that he didn’t even notice Shi-Rong until it was too late.

  * * *

  —

  Shi-Rong was running at full tilt. He didn’t notice Nio, though he passed only feet from him.

  “Open the gates! It’s Mr. Jiang!” he shouted as he reached the entrance. They recognized him and opened immediately, and he burst through. “Guards, come with me,” he cried. But he didn’t look back, so he didn’t see that they hesitated. He turned, then ran through the doorway into the inner courtyard and raced across to the main hall.

  Behind a door on the right of the main hall was a small library where Lin liked to work. Shi-Rong was just in time to see the door open, a servant come out, and a figure carrying a package step in. They hadn’t seen him.

  Without a word, he went like the wind past the astonished servant, reached the door just as it was almost closed, and hurled himself at it. With a crash, the door burst open, striking the figure on the other side a vicious blow on the back that sent him and his package flying.

  “Call the guards!” he cried at the astonished commissioner, and launched himself at the intruder.

  The pirate was sprawled on the floor, but he was already reaching for his knife. Even if he’d been carrying a knife himself, Shi-Rong knew that the pirate would have made short work of him, and probably managed to kill the commissioner, too, before anyone could stop him. He threw himself on top of Sea Dragon, wrapped his arms around him, pinning the assassin’s arms to his body, and squeezed with all his strength.

  If the pirate got a hand loose, he was a dead man. He knew it. But even if it cost him his own life, he had to save Lin. And though Sea Dragon kicked and elbowed and butted the back of his head into his face until blood was pouring from his nose and mouth, Shi-Rong held on like a man possessed. It was a full minute and more until four guards and a sergeant had disarmed the pirate and trussed him up with ropes so that he could not move at all. Only then did Shi-Rong, badly bruised and bleeding, let go and stagger to his feet.

  If Lin had been taken by surprise, he quickly recovered. Pointing at the rope-bound figure, he ordered two of the guards: “Lock him up and watch him.” Then, turning to the chief guard: “Close the outer gates, lock them, and double the guard,” he commanded. “But do not raise the alarm,” he added. “There is to be no word of this incident. If other bandits hear I have been attacked, it may encourage them to try.”

  Meanwhile, Shi-Rong had done his best to stop the bleeding from his nose and to wipe his face with a cloth.

  As soon as the library was cleared, Lin turned to him. “You have saved my life,” the commissioner said solemnly. “Are you hurt?”

  “It’s nothing, Excellency.”

  “How did you know?”

  Shi-Rong told him he’d gone to make sure the package was sent, and how he had encountered the messenger.

  “The poor fellow may be dead by now, Excellency. But I couldn’t stay with him. The attack might just have been a robbery, but I feared something worse and had to make sure. So I ran here as fast as I could. Just in time, evidently.”

  Lin nodded thoughtfully. “It seems my assailant knew the messenger was expected here.” He gave Shi-Rong a sharp look. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “No, Excellency.”

  “I would be surprised if Dr. Parker betrayed a confidence, but he may have let something fall, accidentally.”

  “The assailant may have asked the messenger where he was going.”

  “That is possible. But I have a feeling that this attack was planned. Were there accomplices? We shall question Parker and the messenger, if he is still alive.” He nodded. “That leaves the assassin. He surely can tell us everything.” He gave Shi-Rong another careful look. “Interrogation is not a pleasant business, but it has to be done. The governor has a man who knows how to proceed. He will guide you.”

  “Guide me, Excellency?”

  “Yes, Jiang. It is you who will interrogate the assassin.”

  * * *

  —

  The use of torture in the Empire of China was strictly regulated. Only certain procedures were allowed. An official who used a method that was not sanctioned was deemed to have committed a crime and might be prosecuted. Numerous persons were excused from torture, including those who had passed the mandarin examinations, the elderly, and pregnant women.

  Only high officials like Lin could order the harsher forms of torture. And torturing people to extract confessions was frowned upon, since it was well understood that people would confess to anything in ord
er to stop the pain.

  But the case of Sea Dragon admitted no such mitigation. There was no question about his guilt: He’d been caught in the act of trying to assassinate the emperor’s commissioner. It was important to know who his confederates might be and whether they were operating under orders from a third party.

  The torture chamber was an empty white-walled room with a small, high window and an earth floor. There was an upright post set in the middle of the floor. Against one wall stood a bare wooden table on which Shi-Rong noticed a strange-looking object.

  It was made of a dark hardwood and consisted of a handle that was a bit over a foot long, ending in a five-slatted fork, like the fingers of a man’s hand. The ends of the slats were pierced and threaded with two lengths of tough twine, tied off at each end. Two stout little pegs had been placed on the table beside this implement.

  It looked quite innocuous, Shi-Rong thought.

  He’d entered the room with the police sergeant and his assistant, who were both dressed in white cotton tunics and leggings that came to the knee. Their feet were bare.

  The sergeant was maybe forty-five, with a round body and face. He looked as if he ran a prosperous teahouse. His assistant was thin and seemed hardly more than a boy.

  Two guards brought Sea Dragon in. He didn’t look in bad shape. They made him kneel on the floor and tied his pigtail to the post behind him. Then they stood, one on either side of him.

  The sergeant moved forward and told the guards to raise the prisoner’s hands above his head. Then he nodded to his assistant, who picked up the instrument of torture from the table.

  Together, they fitted the prisoner’s fingers between the slats, four fingers from each hand. Pushing the little wooden pegs into the loops at each end made by the tied-off twine, the sergeant began to twist them, tightening the twine, which pulled the wooden slats against the sides of the prisoner’s fingers. When all the fingers were held as though clamped in a vise, the sergeant stepped back, while his assistant held the finger pincher by the handle.

  The sergeant turned to Shi-Rong. “Ask him a question,” he said.

  “What is your name?” Shi-Rong demanded.

  The prisoner stared at the white wall in front of him, but didn’t reply.

  The sergeant came over and twisted one of the pegs sharply. Shi-Rong saw the prisoner wince and realized that the pressure must be directly on his fingers.

  “Ask another question,” said the sergeant as he stepped back again.

  “This time,” Shi-Rong said to the pirate, “you must tell me your name, and the reason you tried to kill the commissioner.”

  Sea Dragon seemed to be studying the ceiling with curiosity. He didn’t answer.

  There was a long silence.

  The assistant stretched out one hand. Gazing at the prisoner with a strange cold curiosity, he turned the other peg a full revolution. Shi-Rong saw the prisoner’s body tense.

  “Just tell me who you are,” said Shi-Rong, “and I’ll stop him.” But the pirate said nothing.

  After another minute had passed, the young assistant twisted and shook the finger pincher by the handle. The prisoner gave a terrible grimace, followed by several gasps.

  The sergeant tightened the finger pincher some more. Then he struck the pincher sharply.

  This time Sea Dragon screamed. He couldn’t help it. And Shi-Rong, who up until now had managed to control himself, felt his fists clench and his whole body tense as he squirmed with anguish at what he was witnessing. He saw the sergeant stare at him and quickly moved out of the prisoner’s sight. After a moment’s pause to collect himself, he spoke again.

  “Say something to me,” he proposed to the pirate gently. “Say anything you like.”

  * * *

  —

  Shi-Rong had already known before they began that unless his accomplices were found, the prisoner was the only person left who could provide the truth about how this business began. The old man he’d found in Hog Lane had died within minutes. Dr. Parker declared, to the best of his recollection, that at the start of the day he’d told the old man he’d need him again in the late afternoon, but that he hadn’t given him his directions until he set off. There was a small chance that Parker’s memory was at fault, but it was unlikely. Nobody imagined he was lying. So that just left the prisoner.

  What might the prisoner actually know? Someone must have told him about the private delivery to Lin. Shi-Rong couldn’t imagine that Fong had told the assassin himself, but the word had spread until it reached him. Did the prisoner have any idea that the leak could be traced through Fong to the very man interrogating him? He might or he might not.

  And here was the irony: The only way to find out was to interrogate him.

  If I succeed in breaking him, he thought, I may be signing my own death warrant.

  Was there any way he could stop him talking? He didn’t see how. Could he kill him? A terrible choice. But not so bad, he thought, as it might seem. After all, if the assassin survived the torture, he was certain to be executed anyway.

  He glanced at the sergeant and his assistant. It looked as if they were going to remain there all the time. No doubt they’d be making their own report to Lin about everything that happened. Indeed, it suddenly occurred to him, their job may be not only to torture the prisoner but to watch me, too.

  Of course. The realization hit him with a terrible coldness. I’m a suspect. I’m still the most obvious person to have leaked the information. For all Lin knows, I could even be part of the plot myself. The fact that I rushed in to save him might have been a ruse; or more likely, I’d set up the assassination and had second thoughts, been overcome by fear or guilt, and rushed to stop it at the last minute. How else could I have guessed, even after meeting the old man, that the assassin would be there just then?

  And the real truth, indeed, was only a hairsbreadth away: That he’d known the word had got out, that it was all his fault, and that he’d been so full of guilt that he was ready to sacrifice his life to save his master.

  And now there was nothing to do except interrogate this man who, if he talked, might destroy him.

  * * *

  —

  “They normally talk,” said the sergeant after a couple of hours. He inspected the prisoner’s fingers and showed Shi-Rong. They were reduced to a bloodied mess. The flesh had come away from the joints, and Shi-Rong was staring at bare bones. “He won’t be using them again,” the sergeant remarked.

  “What do we do now?” Shi-Rong asked.

  “Ankle press,” said the sergeant. “You’ll see.”

  It took a little while for them to bring the ankle press. It was nearly six feet long and also made of wood. They laid it on the floor.

  “It’s big,” said Shi-Rong nervously.

  “Same idea,” said the sergeant. “Only for ankles. This one really breaks ’em up.” Shi-Rong wasn’t sure if he meant the ankles or the victims. Both, probably.

  The base of the ankle press was thick as a prison door. At one end was a board with two holes to hold the victim’s wrists, like a stocks. At the other end, standing vertical to the base, were three boards, like the slats on the finger press, but many times larger and heavier. Instead of rough twine, these were squeezed together near the top by ropes.

  They laid Sea Dragon on the wooden base, facedown, imprisoned his wrists in the stocks, and placed his ankles in the slots between the heavy upright boards.

  The young assistant took a thick rod, like a long truncheon, and began to twist the ropes with it. The press made a creaking sound. He paused, walked around, pushed his narrow face into the prisoner’s to see how he was doing, and returned to his work. The press creaked again as the ropes tightened further and the boards seized the ankle bones in their fiendish grip.

  Shi-Rong saw the prisoner’s mouth clench. Sea Dragon had gone deathl
y pale.

  “Crushes the ankle bones,” remarked the sergeant. “Turns the joints to mush, given time. We can wait now,” he added.

  Shi-Rong did not know it, but he was now as pale as the prisoner. He had never witnessed excruciating agony like this, and it was almost more than he could bear. The minutes passed. Three times, during the next hour, they increased the pressure, and three times he told the prisoner: “Speak and the pain will be less. Just say your name.”

  Nothing. Finally he went over to the sergeant and whispered to him: “You say they always talk?” The sergeant nodded. “How long does it take?”

  “Maybe hours,” said the sergeant. “Maybe more.”

  “What if he still doesn’t talk?”

  “We keep going.”

  At times, the fellow’s torment was so terrible that Shi-Rong almost wished that he would talk—no matter what he said. Anything, just to end the horror.

  The assistant was observing him with just the same expression of cold curiosity that he’d bestowed upon the prisoner. What did he know? What was in his mind? Shi-Rong decided he didn’t care.

  “Why did you want to kill Commissioner Lin?” he demanded.

  Silence. Then, to his surprise, he heard the sergeant murmur, “Stupid question. Half the province wants to kill him.”

  It was true. But it showed the sergeant’s contempt for him that he would dare to say it. He looked at the prisoner to see if he would react. But the prisoner made no response. Surely he must be close to breaking?

  * * *

  —

  They continued all that night, but still the prisoner gave them nothing. And Shi-Rong was feeling completely drained by the morning, when he went to give Commissioner Lin his report.

  Lin was working in the library. He looked up briefly from the papers on his desk. After delivering his report, Shi-Rong wondered if the commissioner would take any pity on the prisoner—or at least give the interrogators some rest. But he said only, “Continue,” and looked down at his work again.