Kang had dressed for the occasion – a black jacket with black brocade over black silk pajamas and black slippers. He had slicked his hair back carefully, trimmed his eyebrows, and applied the most subtle, indistinguishable layer of rouge on his cheeks.
He looked forward to matching the rhythms of the mental torture along with the physical – show Hel the agony that was inevitable, then offer to rescind the sentence, and then apply it anyway. Draw the strings back and forth between despair and hope, terror and relief, anguish and cessation, building to a climax in which there was only pain.
As in any worthy opera, the music would be punctuated by passages of speech, as Hel recited his monologues. Yes, he was an American agent, yes he had been sent to pull the strings of the puppet, the traitor Liu, yes they conspired to deliver guns to antirevolutionary elements in Yunnan, yes, they hoped to murder Chairman Mao.
He heard car doors close, and then footsteps on the pebbled walkway.
The opera was about to begin.
66
THE LIGHTS IN THE HOUSE dimmed as the stage lamps came up.
Voroshenin, comfortable in his private box, leaned forward and looked down at the black square stage, traditionally placed to the north of the audience. He loved this old theater, with its red gilded columns framing the stage, its old wooden floor, the vendors milling around selling peanuts and steamy hot towels, the chatter, the laughter.
The chair beside him was empty.
Hel had not arrived.
Voroshenin knew that the foolish young man was attending an opera of his own, one in which he would unwillingly sing the lead role.
After a moment of anticipatory silence, the orchestra struck its first notes, and the audience hushed as Xun Huisheng stepped onto the stage. Dressed as a huadan – a saucy young woman – Xun wore a long scarlet Ming-era robe with flowers brocaded on the shoulders and wide “water” sleeves. He stood center stage and gave his shangching, the opening speech, identifying himself as the Red Maid.
Then, waving his hand with a grace born from decades of practice, he produced a scroll from the sleeve, paused, and began the famous first aria.
This letter is the evidence of the affair.
Commanded by my lady, I am on my way to the West Chamber.
In the early morning silence reigns supreme.
Let me, the Red Maid, have a little cough to warn him.
Voroshenin was delighted.
67
“GO PLAYER IS off the radar.”
Haverford felt his blood go cold and his stomach flip. “What?”
“He didn’t arrive at Point Zero.”
“Didn’t or hasn’t?” Haverford asked.
The young agent shrugged. A few seconds later he asked, “Do you want to give the scramble code?”
A scramble code would do just that – send the extraction team in the Niujie Mosque scrambling for cover before they could be rounded up, send the Monk, the Hui agents, all of them, running for the border.
He considered the possibilities:
The mundane – Hel was simply delayed, tied up in traffic.
The treacherous – Hel had chickened out and was running on his own.
The catastrophic-Hel was in Kang Sheng’s hands.
The last scenario would definitely trigger a scramble code.
“No,” Haverford said. “Let’s give it a while longer.”
Where are you, Nicholai?
68
THREE POLICE AGENTS hauled Nicholai from the car, pushed him over the hood, and handcuffed him behind his back.
He didn’t resist. This wasn’t the moment.
They straightened him back up, and an agent held him by either elbow.
“Spy!” Chen yelled at him, his eyes begging forgiveness. Flicks of spit hit Nicholai in the face as Chen screamed, “Now you will feel the people’s righteous fury! Now you will know the anger of the workers and peasants!
Chen turned to get back into the car, but the driver was out of the car, pulled a pistol, and held it at Chen’s head. “Li Ar Chen, I arrest you for treason against the People’s Republic.”
The third policeman grabbed his arms, twisted them behind him, and cuffed him.
“No!” Chen yelled. “Not me! Him! Not me! I did everything you said!”
The driver holstered his pistol, slapped him hard across the face, then ordered, “Take him.”
The policeman pushed Chen in front of Nicholai.
Without a word, they frog-marched him through a stone garden to what looked improbably like a cave. One of the cops knocked on the thick wooden door and a moment later Nicholai heard a muffled, “Come.”
The door opened and the agents pushed Nicholai inside.
It was indeed a cave, or at least an effort to replicate one in concrete. Communists, Nicholai thought, they do love their concrete. The ceilings were curved and the walls painted with streaks to imitate geological striations.
This “cave” was beautifully furnished with rosewood tables and chairs, a lounging sofa, and the machinery of torture. There was a bench of sorts, obviously used for beatings and perhaps sodomy, a staggering variety of whips and flails hung neatly from assigned hooks, and two straight-backed chairs, the seats of which had been removed, bolted to the floor.
The cops shoved Nicholai down onto one of the chairs, removed the cuffs, and used heavy leather straps to tightly fasten his wrists to the arms of the chair. Nicholai watched as they took Chen, roughly stripped off his clothes, and then hung him by the handcuffs from a steel rail that ran across the ceiling. Then they tied his ankles down to bolts in the floor, so that he was spread-eagled.
His chin on his chest, Chen hung, quietly weeping.
An interior door opened and Kang Sheng made his entrance.
Nicholai had to admit that it was dramatic – the lighting perfect, the moment correct, and he held an ominous prop that glistened in the lamplight.
A wire, perhaps a foot long, needle-sharp on one end.
“Good evening, Mr. Hel, I believe it is?”
“Guibert.”
“If you insist.” Kang smiled.
Nicholai fought the terror that he felt rising in his throat and forced himself to keep his mind clear. Kang has already made the first mistake, he thought. He has shown his opening position on the board by revealing his knowledge of my real identity.
“Perhaps,” Kang said, “when I have shown you what I have planned for you, you might decide to be more cooperative.”
“There’s always that chance,” Nicholai answered.
“There is always that chance,” Kang agreed pleasantly. Hel’s bravado was delightful, so very sheng. And how thoughtful of him to play his role so beautifully – the fall of a falcon is so much more dramatic than the fall of a sparrow. He turned his attention to Chen, who would play the perfect chou, the clown. “Counterrevolutionary dog.”
“No,” Chen blubbered. “I’m a loyal -”
“Liar!” Kang screamed. “You were part of this conspiracy! You helped him every step of the way!”
“No.”
“Yes!” Kang yelled. “You took him to the church, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but -”
Nicholai said, “He had nothing to do with -”
“Be quiet,” Kang snapped. “It will be your turn soon enough, I promise you that. Just now it is the fat pig’s. How many yuan do you eat a day, pang ju? Is that why you like entertaining foreign guests, so that you can fatten yourself on the backs of the people?”
“No…”
“No, it is because you are a spy.”
“No!”
“ ‘No,’ “Kang said. “I will give you one chance to confess.”
This was the boring part of the play. The shangching, the preamble. Prisoners never confessed at this point, knowing that they would be signing their own death warrants. They knew the pain they were about to suffer, knew that they would eventually confess to the capital charge, but human nature is such that they must first struggle to survive.