“You hate Xian?”
Cuthbert poured the brandy and shook his head. “I would like to, but it’s difficult to hate a primal force. To hate Xian would be like hating typhoons or volcanic activity. He’s simply a fact of life. A fact of life, moreover, that the Western democracies prefer not to think about. Their awakening from deep liberal sleep is going to be interesting.”
“I don’t understand.”
Cuthbert handed him a glass. Chan lit a Benson. “Oh, I think you do. You must have noticed how the West is complacently convinced that human evolution will eventually produce worldwide democracy, a mirror of itself, in other words. They have no idea. Modern China is hardly twenty years old, if you count the Cultural Revolution as the moment when the old China was destroyed forever. That was also the moment when they destroyed old Peking-because it was beautiful. As a policeman you must know what animal finds beauty intolerable: the human mutant. The Beast. If the West had any sense, it would shiver in fear.”
“I would like to understand you.” Cuthbert looked at Chan in surprise. Spoken in Cantonese, the sentence indicated respect and genuine interest.
“You would? It’s not difficult. Just assume the West is one hundred and eighty degrees wrong in its assumptions. Suppose China is not the past but the future. Suppose that over the border they murder their female babies for a reason, oh, not a thought-out reason but a collective psychological reaction to a situation humanity was never designed to endure. See?”
“Too many people?”
“One point six billion at the last count. Have you any idea of the sheer administrative will required to feed such numbers? You’ve been to Beijing; you know that you need a measure of ruthlessness just to get on or off a bus. And by the year 2000 eighty percent of them will be male. Young and male.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that freedom, democracy, liberalism, these are quaint nineteenth-century concepts that have passed their sell-by date. In the very near future all such luxuries will be swept away by monsters who have been spawned by monsters to govern monsters. What will be required will be an extreme of callousness that will make the West faint. And there’s not a force on earth that will be able to contain the problem in China. I’m saying, my friend, that Xian is not a mere thug or warlord. He’s a visionary. He is the future.”
“And this is why he needs an atom bomb? Because there are too many people?”
Cuthbert shrugged. “I doubt that he’s bothered to think it through. It’s a fact, though, if lebensraum is what you’re after, nothing clears a space like nuclear radiation.”
“I still don’t understand. This monster, this beast who destroyed the woman you loved, you’ve spent much of your career doing as he tells you?”
Cuthbert fumbled with his cigarette case. His speech was becoming slurred. “I lick his arse.” He raised the unlit cigarette in one hand and moved his weight with a slight lurch from one foot to another. The black bow tie still lay across his dress shirt; he stared at Chan. His eyes were windows to incredulity. “I lick his arse.”
56
Chan’s second rehabilitation came in the form of a circular issued by Commissioner Tsui: In the Emily Ping investigation there had been serious contamination of evidence. It was now clear that Chief Inspector Chan’s fingerprints had not, after all, been lifted from the belt that had been found around her neck.
To give his colleagues time to absorb the latest change in his fortunes, Chan took a day off. He was rereading 1984 when Aston called. One of the people who worked in the building where the vat had first been found had telephoned to report suspicious circumstances. When asked what exactly he found suspicious, the caller had replied, “I’m not too clear,” and hung up. Determined to cover his back, Chan telephoned Riley and Cuthbert and arranged to meet them at the warehouse with Aston.
They were waiting for him on the ground floor and followed him into the lift. The police barriers were still in place, although someone had painted a red star over the “Royal” in “Royal Hong Kong Police Force.” Heavy sweetness penetrated the corridor as they approached the wide industrial door, from behind which something droned. When Chan pushed the door open, the odor worsened and the drone increased to a thunder of buzzing. He was gagging as he switched on the light.
He turned on a heel and with an open hand thrust Aston’s face back against the door. At the same time he pulled at Riley’s shirtsleeve. Aston had started a high-pitched scream.
“Better get the boy out of here, sir. I said better get the boy out of here, sir.” When Riley’s eyes started to roll, Chan slapped him across the face. The chief superintendent shook himself like a dog; blood trickled from a nostril. In a sudden lunge Riley put a long arm around Aston.
“Come on, Dick, I never could take the really rough stuff either. Let’s get out of here.” He maneuvered Aston out of the warehouse and toward the lift lobby while the young inspector started into another scream.
Turning back, Chan exchanged a glance with Cuthbert.
Cuthbert’s eyes ran the length of the warehouse. “Told you.”
Saliver Kan’s head and torso emerged in a black halo of flies from the nearest mincer while mince from the lower part of his body oozed into a steel tray. He had bitten through most of his tongue, which hung from his mouth by a thread. Extreme pain had wrenched his jaw to one side and twisted it. Next to him Joker Liu sprouted at an angle from the second machine. To the right of Saliver Kan identical mincers held what remained of High-Rise Lam, Four-Finger Bosco and Fat Boy Wong-all members of the Sun Yee On Triad Society. Nor had the 14K been spared. Chan recognized foot soldiers and more senior officers as he walked slowly, hounded by flies, down a gallery of agony. With military precision the mincers had been placed in a perfect diagonal from one corner of the warehouse to the other.
Terminal suffering expressed itself differently on every face. Pausing before each image of death, he counted thirty-one members of the 14K and twelve members of the Sun Yee On, each with a mincer to himself. Metal trays had been placed under every outlet and were overflowing with rust-colored and black larvae that covered most of the floor. The ceiling was black and moving.
At the end of the row the only nontriad was silently laughing. With no nerves in his legs, Wheelchair Lee must have serenely bled until he expired. Lee would have known the price to be paid for taunting Genghis Khan. Perhaps he had even volunteered to be at the mincing of the 14K; death would have been a small price to pay for a ringside seat. It must have been eerie, even for hardened killers of the PLA, to watch a man laugh while a machine ate his legs. In a corner by a pillar Chan saw an empty wheelchair.
He rejoined Cuthbert, who ground his teeth. “Impressive,” he said eventually, covering his mouth and speaking through his hand, “if one considers the logistics.”
Outside, Riley walked Aston up and down and talked into his ear. “Chelsea won three nil that time, but it was many years ago. I was a kid and Jimmy Greaves was playing.”
“He’s a manager now,” Aston said. When he turned, Chan saw his struggle with horror.
“How many were there?”
“Forty-four,” Chan said.
Aston doubled over in a cough, then straightened up. “Forty-four. The number for death twice. Would be, wouldn’t it?”
“One might have wished for greater subtlety,” Cuthbert said.
Aston brushed at the front of his shirt and tried to function while his teeth chattered. “Shall I call a van, start taking video shots, sketch the positions, get some blokes to interview the occupants on other floors of the building?”