The Interior - Страница 79

Also, as suspected, the Knight records showing that women who'd suffered injuries of one sort or another and had chosen to "go back home" proved false. Using the doctored files, Chinese investigators had contacted local Public Security Bureaus across China and ascertained that those women had never returned home. No wonder Xiao Yang had screamed so when Aaron had carried her off the factory floor. No wonder she'd been found dead not long after.

But had this murder been too hasty, a matter of convenience on a day that was busy? Or had it been part of the plot to keep pushing Henry in one direction so he wouldn't look in another? Had Jimmy thrown Xiao Yang off the roof? Had he run down Keith? The record showed that he'd been in Los Angeles on the date in question. Was he the one who'd killed Pearl and Guy? The answers to these queries would help address a major underlying question: How much of a monster had Douglas Knight been? But Jimmy Smith wasn't talking. David pleaded. Henry begged.

Obviously the local police had tried persuasion of another sort, all to no avail. Whatever Jimmy knew would die with him.

David and Henry were dealing with a bureaucracy, and for their next meeting they were asked to move to another room. The pitiful room that passed for a visiting area was filthy and stiflingly hot. Amy Gao, who ten days ago had looked so snappy in her suit at the banquet at the Beijing Hotel, now wore a dirty prison uniform. She had not been allowed to bathe, wash her hair, or brush her teeth since her confinement.

Like Jimmy, she kept quiet at first. But as David peppered her with questions, he could see her mind begin to work. David, a prosecutor, had seen that look a hundred times before. If Amy gave them information, what could she get in return?

"What do you want?" David asked when Amy finally revealed her thoughts.

"What do you think they'd be willing to give?"

"In China, as it is in the U.S., a lot depends on what you tell us…"

It was the thinnest shred of hope, but the desperation with which Amy grabbed hold of it made him realize just how young and inexperienced she was. He almost felt sorry for her, almost, that is, until she opened her mouth. With no promises written or otherwise, she plunged into her story.

Jimmy had not driven the SUV that killed Keith. Doug had been at the wheel; Amy had fired the warning shots. That David had been with Keith that evening was just an unlucky coincidence. The other women who'd disappeared from the factory had fallen under Jimmy Smith's job description. What he did with them, Amy didn't know. Pearl and Guy? She smiled when their names came up. "That was your son's genius at work, Mr. Knight," she said. They didn't ask for more details. Had Sandy Newheart been a part of the conspiracy? No. "We were always working around him," Amy explained. "He had his paperwork. We had ours." Why had he been killed? Amy sighed. "That last day things got a little out of hand," she admitted. Sandy Newheart simply had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Who pulled the trigger?" Henry Knight asked.

"Let's just say that someone didn't think that through," Amy said. Her remark, so boastful really, placed blame squarely on Doug.

"Did you get what you wanted?" David asked. "Obviously not." She smiled wistfully. "But I think you're really asking me if the ends justified the means." "If that's how you want to put it."

"You in America and the West want us to be like you," she said. "You believe that we should have democracy in your form. You believe we should be able to make money and spend it on consumer goods-your consumer goods. For centuries the West has wanted a piece of us. Sometimes you've gotten it. To me it comes down to exploitation. In the last century the British intoxicated us with opium, forced us to open our ports, and very nearly destroyed us. Now you want to come in here- into the very heart of China -and force your will upon us. You're allowed to do your very worst, and your people look the other way."

"I think you have it backwards," David cut in. "What you were doing was criminal-"

"No, it was purely American."

David looked at her aghast. This woman was either deluded or crazy. "Can you show me one thing that we did that wasn't done somewhere along the line in America 's rise to prominence?" she asked. "Look back at your history. Your growth was accomplished on the backs of slaves. You were able to finish your westward migration because of the work my countrymen did building the railroad. And you didn't limit yourselves to people of-how do you so euphemistically call it?-people of color. No, you sent women and children into factories and into mines." "All that was a long time ago."

"But today, looking back from a position of world domination and tremendous prosperity, wouldn't you have to say that the ends justified the means?"

"And what were you going to get out of it?"

Amy sneered. "You still don't see it? With Henry and Sun out of the way, we could do anything. I helped Doug, he helped me. Doug wanted your company," she said, acknowledging Henry. "I wanted the governorship."

Amy's confession, for what it was worth, gained her little but some soap, toothpaste, the promise of bottled water, and a towel.

One day when Hulan's mother and her nurse had gone to see Dr. Du and David was on a trip to Los Angeles, Hulan heard a ring at the front gate. She padded out through the courtyards and opened the door. Though it was the middle of the day, the alley had been cleared of all people except for a man who announced that her presence was required elsewhere and she should get in the car please. She obeyed, knowing that if she didn't come back, no one would ever know what had happened to her.

The driver took her through the narrow alleys of the hutong, then popped out on the opposite shore of Shisha Lake from Hulan's home. Here the driver's progress stopped while he waited for a flock of Secrets of the Hutongs Special Tourist Agency pedicabs, each loaded with one or two Westerners, to pass. This tour was a new fad in Hulan's neighborhood, and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about it. On the one hand, she didn't like to see so many foreigners in this little enclave; on the other, the success of the state-owned agency might help to keep the neighborhood from being razed. As the sweating pedicab drivers slowly pedaled out of the way, Hulan stared out across the lake. Old men with fishing poles dotted the shore. Just outside her window, three skinny boys took turns jumping into the water. Their hollers, hoots, and squeals came to her on a soft breeze.

The sedan began to move again, and a few minutes later the driver pulled up to a gated compound. Like any traditional compound, the exterior walls were unpainted and gave no indication of hidden wealth. A guard ticked their names off a list, and the driver pulled inside.

Hulan had come here many times as a child and expected the compound to look smaller and less impressive. In fact, she had just the opposite sensation. The grounds were more beautiful than she remembered from those long-ago days. Gingko, camphor, and willow trees created a shadowed oasis. A stream-and Hulan remembered this vividly from playing out there with the other children of high-ranking cadres-meandered along the inside perimeter of the compound. Sponge rocks jutted from the sides of the stream. Stands of bamboo sheltered pavilions and summer houses. Birds chirped and twittered and cooed in the walls of greenery, reminding Hulan that there'd once been a dovecote behind the main house. She wondered if it was still there.

She followed the driver up the steps and into the foyer, which smelled of mothballs and mildew. They passed several formal parlors where the furniture was draped in dingy sheets, then traveled up a back staircase and down a hall with high ceilings. The driver tapped on a heavy door, slowly opened it, and motioned for Hulan to enter. As soon as she did, the door closed behind her. Five men, not one younger than seventy, sat in overstuffed chairs in a semicircle facing her. Each face was as familiar to her as if it had been her father's. Behind these five men sat two others, Hulan realized as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. One was Vice Minister Zai; the other was Governor Sun.

"Please sit, Inspector Liu Hulan," the man in the middle said, gesturing gracefully to a straight-back chair. When she hesitated, he added, "Don't rely on tradition. We know you are still weak. Sit."

Hulan sat, folded her hands in her lap, and waited. A matronly woman appeared out of the shadows along the wall, poured tea, then backed away again.

"How is your health, Liu Hulan?" "Very well, sir." "And your mother?" "She is happy to be home."

"Yes, we have heard this as well. It makes us all so…" The old politician groped for the appropriate word and failed.

Another man said, "So many traditions, eh, Xiao Hulan?" She started. She hadn't been called Little Hulan since before she'd gone to the Red Soil Farm. "They tell us how to be loyal, how to conduct conversations, how to negotiate, how to meet as husband and wife. They can be so tiresome, don't you think?"

Hulan didn't know how to respond.

"I say, we are old friends here," this second man went on. "We are not family, but I can remember when you called me uncle."

Hulan's eyes stung with tears at these words. This compound with its memories. These men-the most powerful in her country-old now, dredging up times that were perhaps better left forgotten.