‘You are locked up in a cell, waiting to die. Ya Ru is sitting in his office in the skyscraper he calls the Dragon’s Mountain. Is that fair?’
‘He could easily have been sitting here instead of me.’
‘Rumours about him abound. But Ya Ru is clever. Nobody can trace his footprints after he has passed by.’
Shen leaned towards her and lowered his voice. ‘Follow the money.’
‘Where will that lead?’
‘To the people who loaned him large sums so that he could build his castle. Where else could he have got all the millions he needed?’
‘From his business investments.’
‘In broken-down factories that make plastic ducks for Western children to play with in the bath? In backstreet sweatshops where they make shoes and T-shirts? He wouldn’t even be able to earn money like that from his brick kilns.’
Hong Qiu frowned. ‘Does Ya Ru have interests in factories making bricks? We have just heard that people are working there as slaves, burned as a punishment for not working hard enough.’
‘Ya Ru was warned of what was about to happen. He offloaded all his commitments before the big police raids took place. That’s his strength. He’s always tipped off in advance. He has spies everywhere.’
Shen suddenly clutched at his stomach, as if he were in acute pain. Hong Qiu could see the anguish in his face and just for a moment was close to feeling sympathy for him. He was only fifty-nine years old, had made a brilliant career for himself, and was now about to lose everything: his money, his comfortable life, the oasis he had built for his family in the midst of all the poverty. When Shen was arrested and charged, the newspapers had been full of shocking but also voluptuous details about how his two daughters used to fly regularly to Tokyo or Los Angeles to buy clothes. Hong Qiu could still recall a headline that had doubtless been thought up by the security services and the Ministry of the Interior: ‘THEY BUY CLOTHES WITH THE SAVINGS OF PIG FARMERS.’ That headline had cropped up over and over again. Letters to the editor had been published — no doubt written by the newspaper itself and checked by high-ranking civil servants with political responsibility for the outcome of Shen’s trial. The letters had suggested that Shen’s body be butchered and fed to the pigs. The only just way of punishing Shen was to turn him into pigswill.
‘I can’t save you,’ said Hong Qiu again. ‘But I can give you an opportunity to bring others down alongside you. I was given permission to speak to you for thirty minutes. That time is nearly up. You said that I should follow the money?’
‘He’s sometimes called Golden Hands.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Can it mean more than one thing? He is the golden intermediary. He makes black money white; he shifts money out of China; he puts money in accounts without the tax authorities having the slightest idea about what’s going on. He charges fifteen per cent on all the transactions he carries out. Not the least of his activities is laundering the money floating around in Beijing: the houses and arenas and other things that are currently being built for the Olympic Games two years from now.’
‘Is it possible to prove any of this?’
‘You need two hands,’ said Shen slowly. ‘One hand takes. But there has to be another hand that’s prepared to give. How often are they sentenced to death? The other hand, the one prepared to pay money in order to secure an advantage? Hardly ever. Why is one a bigger crook than the other? That’s why you should track down the sources of the money. Start with Chang and Lu, the building contractors. They are scared, and they’ll talk to protect themselves. They have the most amazing stories to tell.’
Shen fell silent. Hong Qiu thought about the struggle taking place behind the newspaper headlines between those who wanted to preserve the old residential district in central Beijing and those hoping to see it demolished to make way for the Olympic Games. She belonged to those who passionately defended the old residential area and had often dismissed angrily the accusation that she did so for sentimental reasons. By all means construct new buildings and renovate old ones, but short-term interests such as the Olympic Games should not be allowed to dictate the city’s appearance.
Hong Qiu could see that the questions she had been asking had managed to make Shen almost completely forget the execution that would soon be his fate. He started talking again.
‘Ya Ru is a vindictive person. They say that he never forgets an injustice to which he thinks he’s been subjected, no matter how minor it might have been. He also told me that he regards his family as a unique dynasty whose memory must be preserved at all costs. You had better look out and make sure he doesn’t regard you as a defector, betraying the family’s honour.’ Shen looked hard at Hong Qiu. ‘He will kill anybody who crosses him. I know that. Especially people who mock him. He has men he can always call upon when necessary. They crawl out from under stones and disappear again just as quickly. I heard recently that he sent one of his men to the USA. Rumour has it that there were dead bodies lying around when the man returned to Beijing. They say he’s been to Europe as well.’
‘The USA? Europe?’
‘That’s what rumour suggests.’
‘And does rumour tell the truth?’
‘Rumour always tells the truth. When lies and exaggerations have been filtered out, there is always a kernel of truth left behind. That’s what you need to look for.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Power not based on knowledge and a constant flow of information will eventually become impossible to defend.’
‘That didn’t help you.’
Shen didn’t reply. Hong Qiu thought about what he had said. It had surprised her.
She also thought about what the Swedish judge had said. Hong Qiu had recognised the man in the photograph Birgitta Roslin had shown her. Even if it was blurred, there was no doubt that it was Liu Xin, her brother’s bodyguard. Was there a connection between what Birgitta Roslin had told her and what Shen had just said? Could that be possible?
The warden reappeared in the corridor. Her time was up. Shen’s face suddenly turned white and he grabbed hold of her arm.
‘Don’t leave me,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be alone when I die.’
Hong Qiu released herself from his hands. Shen started screaming. It was as if Hong Qiu was faced with a terrified child. The warden threw him down on the floor. Hong Qiu left the cell and hurried away as quickly as possible. Shen’s desperate cries followed her. They echoed in her ears until she was back in Ha Nin’s office. That was when she made up her mind. She would not leave Shen alone in his final moments.
Shortly before seven the next morning Hong Qiu turned up at the cordoned-off field used for executions. According to what she had heard, it was the place where the military trained before going on the attack in Tiananmen Square more than a decade earlier. But now there were nine people to be executed. Alongside crying and freezing cold relatives, Hong Qiu took up her position behind a barrier. Young soldiers with rifles in their hands were keeping watch. Hong Qiu observed the young man closest to her. He could hardly be more than nineteen years old.
She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking. He was about the same age as her own son.
A covered truck rumbled into the field. The nine condemned prisoners were taken down from the back by impatient soldiers. Hong Qiu had always been surprised by how fast everything went on such occasions. There was no dignity in dying in this cold, wet field. She saw Shen fall over when he was pushed down from the back of the truck — he made no sound, but she could see tears rolling down his cheeks. One of the women was screaming. One of the soldiers barked an order at her, but she carried on screaming until an officer stepped forward and hit her hard in the face with a pistol butt. She fell silent and was dragged to her place in the row. All were forced to kneel down. Soldiers with rifles stood behind each of the prisoners. The gun barrels were barely a foot away from the backs of their heads. Then it all happened in a flash. An officer gave an order, shots were fired and the prisoners fell forward with their faces buried in the wet mud. When the officer walked along the row and gave each of them the coup de grâce, Hong Qiu looked away. Now she didn’t need to see any more. The next of kin of the dead would be billed for the cost of the two bullets. They would have to pay for the death of their relatives.