by Rob Wood
“Nice work,” said Purdy.
“I had that in mind as soon as I saw the firecrackers,” Cochrane said. “Your driving made the execution a little bit difficult.”
“You should have told me ahead of time.”
“Right. Like I can read your mind, noodle-man!”
“Let’s ditch this thing and head for a bus station and a ticket to Harbin.”
21
THAT WAS MY HOME
Lily Zhang bent her right shoulder toward the ground, emphasizing the effort needed to push her cart toward the gate. She wheezed. She shuffled through the dust. She summoned a tear that traced a meandering path across the silicone prosthetic wrinkles of her cheek.
The pounding footsteps grew closer and louder like a drum roll. Two figures burst through the gate, practically running her over. Their energy collided with her infirmity. Someone restrained the lead figure, braking his headlong dash.
Lily saw the tears on his face and the anguish in his eyes. And she saw that the man holding him back was Raj.
“Loulan!” whimpered the first man. “They are all dead! My mother. My brothers and sisters. All dead or worse!”
Lily looked to Raj. “Were you followed?” she asked him quietly.
“No.”
“What’s this about then?” The age and infirmity had been shucked aside. Her voice was strong and authoritative.
Raj handed her a paper. “According to Chinese government sources, seven members of the Uighur ethnic minority group were killed while illegally trying to cross China’s western border. Another four were injured and interrogated.”
Lily glanced at the paper.
“Read that as ‘four were tortured and killed,” said Raj. “That includes children.”
Lily blanched. “The children!” She shook her head.
“You know what they can do to them,” said Raj. “Already there are reports that some of them were butchered.”
“Why? Because they wouldn’t incriminate their parents?”
Raj shrugged. The Uighur dragged his fingernails from forehead to chin, leaving bloody tracks on his cheeks. The blood mixed with tears.
“They were herders—my family. They didn’t try to escape!” sobbed the man, collapsing now into Raj’s arms.
“Xinhua puts it this way,” said Raj. “Quote—a group of violent terrorists kidnapped two villagers in the remote mountainous areas of Xinjiang.”
“No kidnap!” sobbed the man.
“The two people,” Raj continued, “were to be held as hostages to ensure their escape. Police opened fire as the kidnappers resisted arrest. More than 30 Uighur villagers have reportedly been detained, including many members of the extended families of those involved.”
“Not true. Not true!” the man sobbed into Raj’s shoulder.
“Of course not,” Lily’s voice was soothing. She took the man’s hand in hers and pressed it to her cheek. The man reacted like an acolyte receiving sacrament. He murmured thanks. He stood silently, holding his hand.
“Is there anything to be done?” Lily asked Raj.
“Not now,” he said simply.
“In the future then. Where did this take place?”
This time the young man spoke. He spoke quietly. His voice trembled only slightly. “Xinjiang,” he said. “Pishan County. Hotan prefecture.”
Lily looked at Raj. “That was my home.”
“And my home,” said the young man. “Why would they do this?”
“Spite, I think,” said Lily. “Maybe I should have just given him the money.”
Raj peered at her over his glasses. “Cao Kai?”
“Yes. I underestimated him.”
22
FRIENDS AND FAMILY
“Stay here,” said Purdy. “I’ll go get the tickets.”
They were on a busy street corner. A policeman, whistle in his mouth, military cap pulled down over his eyes, stood on a small turret in the center of the intersection. Cars, trucks, pedicabs and bicycles poured past. He was supposed to be watching traffic, but what if he was looking at them?
“If I’m alone, that’ll be some help if watchful eyes are on the lookout for the two of us,” said Purdy.
Cochrane nodded and watched him saunter off toward the long queues of people at the ticket office. It wasn’t long before he returned, with a man, woman, and little boy in tow.
“This is Yang Gaofeng, his wife Xiong Yili, and their son Wenlee. They’re our family.”
“Family?” gasped Cochrane.
“Yeah, I thought we would be even less conspicuous in the company of Chinese nationals. They’re returning to Harbin, and I suggested that we share the train. It’s more expensive than the bus, but I said I’d make up the difference in ticket prices if they would be our human guidebook on the ride up. We’re Australian visitors, you see. Until we get to Harbin—when we become Russian.”
“You’re a fast operator, Purdy. I was a single white chick from Virginia a few days ago. Now, I’m both Aussie and Russkie, with a new set of in-laws, and we all speak Chinese!”
“Welcome to the global village,” Purdy winked at her. “Seriously, sharing a soft sleeper to Harbin means we are away from prying eyes.”
The Yangs saw the whole thing as an adventure, and they were happy to give up a hard seat on a bus for the infinitely posher ride on the train. Just as soon as they arrived at the Beijing Rail station, the Yangs jumped into their tour guide roles.
“There are 3-4 entrances, which can become crazy-chaotic,” cautioned Gaofeng. “Follow me. Take care with your backpacks in the x-ray room. There are thieves everywhere. Sometimes these opportunists take luggage and disappear.”
Inside the cavernous main hall, Gaofeng pointed to an electronic screen hanging above a crowd of about a hundred upturned faces. “No announcements are made in English,” he said, “but the train numbers and platforms appear on the notice board 30 minutes before departure.”
“Notice anything funny about the train tracks?” Purdy asked.
“Yeah, “ Cochrane responded. “They’re not like our creosote-soaked railway ties back home. These are concrete. Despite planting trees along every street and highway, there’s a big shortage of lumber here.”
“Didn’t you say ‘trees’ was one of Lily Zhang’s investments?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s sharp. Warren Buffet would love her.”
Their sleeper had four beds, two up and two down. It was a study in white. White linen antimacassars lined the walls where you might rest your head while sitting on the bed. A tiny fold-up table under the compartment window sported an equally doll-size tablecloth, cosseting a vase holding dual chrysanthemums.
The Yangs were bringing their son back from a violin audition in Beijing. They felt he had promise as a musician, but there weren’t as many opportunities for him in Harbin as they would like. In Beijing there were impressive, government-sponsored opportunities for gifted kids.
The Yangs had been born in Harbin and were happy to talk about its history and many attractions.
“Harbin has one of the coldest climates in Asia. That makes it unusual. It also looks European—and visitors come to see its Russian-influenced architecture,” Gaofeng told them.
“During the mid 1800s, Russia annexed parts of this province, and in the late 1890s its influence was further strengthened when Russian workers began the construction of a railway line to link Harbin with Vladivostok. Following the Russian Revolution, many Tsarists and upper-class White Russians fled here.”
“You must walk along the river front in the Daoliqu district or on the cobblestones of Dongdazhi Jie,” said Xiong Yili. “The area is made for pedestrians. And,” she added, “shoppers!”
“Oh, I like the sound of that,” laughed Cochrane.
“You’ll want to see the church of St. Sophia, a Russian Orthodox Church—complete with onion domes, spires and minarets—built in 1907,” said Gaofeng.
“But the coolest thing,” piped up Wenlee in a youthful
squeak, “is Unit 731.”
“What’s that?” asked Purdy, leaning toward the boy in a confidential way.
“It’s a museum. It shows how the Japs cut up people and sewed their arms on again backwards. The bastards!”
“Wenlee!” his mother scolded him.
“What?” stammered Purdy.
“Archival photos, grim sculptures, videotaped interviews—all recount the horrors of what happened here,” said Gaofeng.
“It’s all true,” said Cochrane. “Unit 731 was where the Japanese studied biochem weapons, the effects of ordinance at close range. . . even bizarre stuff like injecting victims’ kidneys with horse urine.”
“This is a museum? You knew about this?”
“I know about Asia,” said Cochrane.
“And I thought I knew about war,” said Purdy.
“It’s widely known here.” Cochrane told him. “It’s almost a cultural given. You remember how Lily Zhang was quick to think the hot rocks were part of a Nanjing-style atrocity perpetrated by the Japanese? Many Chinese do not like the Japanese. There’s a reason for this.
“And remember, too,” Cochrane said. “Lily Zhang warned us that we would not like it if Cao got hold of us. There are rumors that some of this stuff still goes on. The Chinese learned a lot from this experience.”
“This is not going to make for pleasant dreams,” Purdy said.
23
NO ONE DOES THAT!
When they debarked in Harbin, Gaofeng gave Purdy his cellphone number.
“Call me. I can be your guide. I can direct you if you’re lost. I am at your disposal.”
“Thanks, Gaofeng, but the background and history of Harbin you gave us was just what the doctor ordered. My girlfriend and I will knock about on our own. Where, however, do you recommend we stay the night?”
“I would recommend the Luxor-Gloria on Songhuajiang Jie. It’s inexpensive—and it’s interesting. It’s an old party headquarters building they turned into a hotel.”
There were hugs and handshakes all round. Wenlee offered Purdy some White Rabbit candy.
“Do we set off for check-in at the Luxor-Gloria?” asked Cochrane.
“No. Anywhere but there. That was just defensive name-dropping. In fact, I have misgivings about hotel check-in period. It’s likely Cao has alerted hotels to our description. . . and we’d have to surrender passports.”
“Well, I have an idea. Let’s go shopping!”
Purdy rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe you’re really like this,” he said.
“Of course, I’m not. I just like giving you a hard time. But now that we are in Harbin, we become Russian. I think some new clothes would do us both good. And I want a couple of towels that will bulk up the waist and hips.”
Purdy gave her figure an appreciative glance. “Well, that would be an artistic loss, but it makes sense. Let’s do it.”
“There are some Sino-Russian trade marts and the big Qiulin department store around Zhongyang Dajie,” said Cochrane. “And like the Yangs said, that area is likely to be crowded with folks like us—hopefully like us.”
The pedestrian square afforded a good look at the Russian inspired architecture: a rusticated and raised first story here, arched windows there, and a corner where classical statuary nestled in a niche. At the same time, there were towering steel and glass buildings, with fur-clad manikins in the windows.
The gaping entrances to these buildings were hung with heavy plastic, with vertical slits a foot apart. This was an effort to easily admit patrons while, at the same time, containing the forced air heat that blasted away inside. Purdy and Cochrane entered and enjoyed a leisurely stroll past boutiques selling everything from jams, jellies, Russian rye bread and Harbin sausages, to designer label chic, fine leather and tons of fur.
Purdy bought a leather cap, a change of clothes and a leather coat. Cochrane left for the ladies’ room where she artfully ran blond highlights through her hair and changed her colored contacts.
Next step: towels, belts, and a larger dress size. In addition, Cochrane draped a Pavlovsky Posad shawl over her shoulders. When she had finished, Cochrane looked like an older, stouter, Slavic version of herself—still close to the passport photographs, but very different than the whip-thin young academic that had walked through the store entrance.
They ate a late dinner in a Russian pectopah below street level, marveling at the really good bread, smoked fish, and vodka.
“Purdy, I do believe you’re a foodie,” smiled Cochrane.
“Probably. I think I told you I’ve spent my adult life running away from memories of meat loaf. And sometimes, it seems like any meal might be a last supper—so why not enjoy?”
“I thought Navy dark ops types specialized in getting by on beetles, bark and stone lichens?”
Purdy stopped, a fork full of smoked fish halfway to his lips, and looked at her hard. “Been there. Done that,” he said.
“You’ve got many sides to you, Jim,” Cochrane said, trying out his first name for what suddenly seemed like the first time ever.
“As do you,” he replied. “In fact, I think it’s fair to say that you are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.” He felt like a schoolboy saying that.
“Maybe you kinda like me a little, huh?”
“More than a little,” he said.
“Enough to go to bed with me?” she winked.
“What?” he stammered.
“I’ve been giving some thought to where we can spend the night.”
“And. . . ?”
“Come with me.”
They left a pile of Chinese bills on the table and made for the exit.
“Where are you taking me, lady of the evening?” Purdy teased her.
They headed back to the department store on Zhongyang Dajie. “Here,” said Cochrane, darting through the plastic door sheets. “It’s open ‘til midnight and reopens at 8 a.m. In between, it’s big, dark, and vacant.”
“No way. There are floor walkers. . . or whatever they call security here.”
Cochrane was already on the escalator and moving up to beds and bedding. Purdy hung back two steps, his heart definitely not in this adventure.
“There!” Cochrane said pointing to an elaborate, king-size bed with a headboard to delight the Tsar.
“Are you crazy? We can’t just get into bed here!” Purdy wailed.
“Not into it—under it,” Cochrane said, somewhat proud of yourself.
“It’s little more than a foot off the ground. We’d never fit.”
“Twelve inches is more than enough for most men, Purdy.”
“I am not hiding under a bed!”
“We’ve been hiding for days now. Why hesitate because it’s a bed? “
He shook his head vehemently. “No one does that!”
“Precisely. You’re arguing my case. Listen to the rationale, Purdy. We’re here; we’re good to go. No lazy low-wage floor walker is going to poke a flashlight under the bed at 2 a.m. There will be no surrendering of passports. No hotel clerk will eyeball us. Unless you snore like a freight train—which you don’t—this is an opportunity.”
“It’s too far out.”
“Far out? Someday maybe I’ll show you far out!”
So, they spooned all night under the bed—in retrospect, a much more pleasant night than Purdy had imagined. Morning? Not so much. They stirred at the sound of voices. It was past 8:00 and early morning shoppers were filtering in.
“Purdy,” Cochrane whispered. “I did not foresee this.”
“What?” he asked alarmed.
“I have some major league wrinkles in this dress.”
She rolled out from under the bed, shaking the wrinkles out of her dress, straightening her hair. Purdy rolled out just afterwards to come face to face with a floor walker.
The man’s wrinkled old face broke into a jagged-tooth smile. He slapped his thigh and said, “Where I come from, we do it on the bed!”
Cochrane took her p
urse and slammed it into Purdy’s shoulder. “On the bed! I told you, you Russian pervert! On the bed!”
She chased Purdy who was covering his head with his hands all the way down the escalator and out the door.
“I call that a pretty good getaway, Purdy.”
“Are you nuts, Cochrane?” winced Purdy, rubbing his shoulder. “He’s going to rat on us to his boss, to his coworkers, to anyone who will listen.”
“Right. And with each re-telling, I bet that bed bounces higher and higher. ‘It was like an earthquake hit,’” Cochrane said imitating the old man. “The floor shook so I could hardly walk. The Russkie woman panted and moaned like a golden monkey!”
“What are you so pleased about, Cochrane?”
“I’m pleased because it’s a whale of a great cover story. The two intel analysts from the Vinson are home free. I mean, I don’t know about Russians, but you and I—conventional and middle class—would never make love under a bed.”
24
OUT TO SEA
Twenty kopeks bought them a cab ride from the train station to the top of Eagle’s Nest Hill, the highest point in Vladivostok. From here, Purdy and Cochrane could see the panorama of Golden Horn, Amursky and Ussuriisky Bays, as well as Russian Island. When the hills, blanketed with multi-story apartment buildings, dropped away to the sea, you ran smack dab into the commercial port, fishing port, and sea terminals of what is one of the largest concentrations of maritime industry in the Pacific.
Giant fish processing plants—a mass of concrete, smoking equipment, and their hundreds of workers (mostly women)—were stationed just back from the docks. Thickets of steel cranes hauled boxcar size containers from the holds of cargo ships. Warships, some Russian, some from others of the Commonwealth of Independent States, nestled side by side with yachts, cruise ships, and fishing trawlers. After all, it was everybody’s ocean.
There were plenty of Chinese about, as well as knots of Russian men fishing off some of the piers. Cochrane thought they looked remarkably like Purdy in their leather caps, leather jackets, and three-day stubble.