The Emperor's Tomb Part 30

"It is inevitable. In some form. Not like the West, but elements of it cannot be avoided. A new middle cla.s.s has emerged. They are smart. They listen to not only the government but also one another. They are compliant for now, but that is changing. Guanxi must be abolished. It is the root of all our corruption problems."

The principle of "not what you knew, but who you knew" compelled dishonesty. Guanxi relied on connections, forcing entrepreneurs to bond with government and Party officials who could approve their requests and grant them favors. The system, ingrained so deeply that it was literally a part of the government's fabric, allowed money and power to meld seamlessly, with no resistance from morality.

The premier nodded. "That system must be dismantled. I have no way to make that happen. But youth is gaining power. The individual is emerging. Mao's philosophy is gone." A pause. "Thank goodness."

"In an age of instant texting, Internet access, and cell phones one small incident of corruption could become a riot," Ni said. "I've seen that nearly happen several times. The people's tolerance level for corruption is dropping by the day."

"The days of blind allegiance are over. I recall once when I was young. We all wanted to show our love for Mao, so we went to the river. We were told how Mao swam across the Yangtze, so we wanted to do that as well. Thousands jumped in. So many there was no room to swim. You couldn't move your arms. The river was like a soup, our heads like dumplings." The old man paused. "Hundreds drowned that day. My wife was one of those."

He did not know what to say. He'd long noticed that many of the former generation refused to openly speak about the three decades between the 1949 Revolution and Mao's death. It was as if they were too overwhelmed by what happened to discuss its pain, the resentment, so they mentioned it casually, as they would the weather, or in a whisper, as if no one was listening.

He harbored his own share of bitter memories. Pau Wen had reminded him of Tiananmen Square-June 4, 1989-apparently knowing that Ni had been there.

He often thought about that day, when his life changed.

"Where is my son?" the woman asked.

Ni could offer her no answer. He was guarding one segment of the ma.s.sive square, his division charged with making sure that Tiananmen's perimeter remained secured.

The cleanout had started yesterday, most of the protestors now gone, but the air still stank of their waste and death. Every day, since April, people had appeared until more than a million eventually occupied the pavement. Students had started the rebellion, but unemployed workers had eventually formed the bulk of the crowd, decrying double-digit inflation and public corruption. For the past week he'd been here, sent by his commander to watch the agitators, but he'd found himself doing far more listening.

"You must leave," he said to her.

"My son was here. I have to find him."

She was middle-aged, a good twenty years older than him. Her eyes cast a sadness that only a mother could know. His own mother would have risked everything for him. Both his parents had defied the one-child policy and birthed four children, which brought an enormous burden to their family. He'd been the third, something of a disappointment, hating school, performing poorly, staying in trouble. When he failed the national high school entrance exam, his future became clear.

The military.

There he had found a home and a purpose, defending Mao, serving the motherland.

He'd thought his life had finally defined itself.

Until the past two days.

He'd watched as the bulk of the crowd had been peacefully dispersed by the army's 27th and 28th divisions, brought in from the outer provinces because Beijing had thought local divisions might be sympathetic. The soldiers, nearly all of them unarmed, had moved in on foot and dispersed the people with tear gas, and most of the demonstrators fled peacefully.

A core group of about 5,000 had remained.

They attacked the soldiers with rocks and bricks, using burned-out buses as barricades. Tanks were called in and the protestors attacked them, too, one of them catching fire, killing two occupants.

That's when everything changed.

Last night the army had returned with rifles, bayonets, and more tanks. The shooting raged for several hours. Soldiers and demonstrators alike died. He'd been there, on the fringes, charged with protecting the outer boundaries while more of the 27th and 28th divisions exacted revenge.

All previous orders not to shoot had been rescinded.

Rickshaws and bicyclists had darted through the melee, rescuing the wounded, trying to transport them to hospitals. People had been beaten, stabbed, and shot. Tanks crushed both bodies and vehicles.

He'd seen too many die to count.

The mothers and fathers had started arriving a few hours ago, pushing their way closer to the now empty square. All had been warned off, told to leave, and most had. But a few, like the mother he now confronted, refused.

"You must leave this area," he told her again, his voice gentle.

She studied his uniform. "Captain, my son would be about your age. He has been here since the beginning. When I heard what was happening I had to come. Surely, you understand. Let me look for him."

"The square is empty," he said. "He is not here."

"There are bodies," she said in a voice cracking with emotion.

And there were. Stacked like wood, out of sight, a mere hundred meters away. One reason his men had been ordered here was to keep everyone away from them. They would be discarded after dark, taken away and buried in a common pit so no one could count the dead.

"You must leave," he ordered again.

She thrust out an arm and shoved him aside, walking ahead, past the point that he'd ordered his men to defend. She reminded him so much of his own mother, who'd taught him how to swim, to roller-skate, to drive a truck. A loving soul who cared only that her four children grow old.

Before he could stop the woman, another soldier, a captain, like him, leveled his rifle and fired.

The bullet thudded into the mother's spine.

Her body lurched forward, then slammed face-first to the pavement.

Anger surged through him. Ni aimed his rifle at the soldier.

"You warned her not to advance. I heard you. She ignored you. I was following orders."

The captain stared down the gun, not a hint of fear in his eyes.

"We don't kill unarmed women," Ni slowly declared.

"We do what we must."

That captain had been right.

The People's Liberation Army did whatever it had to, including killing unarmed men and women. To this day no one knew how many had died in Tiananmen Square, or in the days and weeks after. Several hundred? Thousands? Tens of thousands?

All he knew for sure was that one woman had lost her life.

A mother.

"We were foolish," the premier said. "So many stupid things we did for Mao."

FORTY-FOUR.

LANZHOU, CHINA.

Tang was pleased that the facility had been secured. He'd ordered his men to take charge of the petrochemical laboratory, sending home all non-essential personnel and otherwise restricting access. Luckily, just a dozen people worked in the building, mostly clerks and a.s.sistants, and only one of the lab's two research scientists was still alive.

Lev Sokolov.

The Russian expatriate had been brought from the city yesterday, after a doctor had tended to his wounds. The rats had left their mark, both physically and mentally. Killing Sokolov was not out of the question, but not before Tang learned what he needed to know. Jin Zhao had been unable to reveal anything except that Lev Sokolov had found the proof.

But what was it?

Sokolov stood with one arm wrapping his gut, guarding the bandages that Tang knew were there. Tang motioned to the stainless-steel table and the sealed container that rested on top. "That is a sample of oil extracted yesterday from a well in western Gansu. I had it drilled at a spot where the ancients drilled in the time of the First Emperor." He caught recognition in Sokolov's face. "Just as Jin Zhao instructed. I a.s.sumed you knew. Now tell me what you found. Zhao said you located a marker."

Sokolov nodded. "A way to know for sure."

Excellent.

"The world has been aggressively extracting oil from the ground for a little over 200 years," Sokolov said, his voice in a low monotone. "Biotic oil, fossil fuel, waits not far beneath the surface. It's easy to get, and we have taken all of it."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I've tested a sample from every well on the planet. There is a repository in Europe where those are stored. None of those samples contains fossil fuels."

"You still haven't said how you know that to be true."

"Abiotic oil looks, smells, and acts the same as biotic oil. The only difference is that you have to drill deep to get it. But I'm not sure that even matters anymore. Where's my boy? I want him back."

"And you'll get him. When I get what I want."

"You're a liar."

He shrugged. "I'm the only path to your son. Right now, he's just one of thousands of young boys who disappear each year. Officially, the problem doesn't even exist. Do you understand? Your son doesn't even exist."

He saw the utter hopelessness in the Russian's face.

"Biotic oil is gone," Sokolov quietly continued. "It once was plentiful. Formed from decomposing organic matter, shallow in the earth, and easy to get. But as we pumped fossil fuels from the ground, the earth replenished some of those reserves with oil created deeper in the crust. Not all wells replenish. Some are biotic with no way for the deeper, abiotic oil, to filter upward. So they go dry. Others lie over fissures where oil can seep up from below."

Questions formed in his brain. 2,200 years ago, oil had first been found in Gansu. 200 years ago, that same field went dry. He'd studied the subterranean geography and knew that the fissures there ran deep-earthen channels through which pressurized oil could easily move upward. Jin Zhao had theorized that abiotic oil might have seeped up from below and restored the Gansu field. "How do we know that the site in Gansu simply did not contain more oil than was known?"

Sokolov appeared to be in pain. His breathing was labored, his attention more on the floor than on Tang.

"Your only chance to see your son again is to cooperate with me," he made clear.

The Russian shook his head. "I will tell you nothing more."

Tang reached into his pocket, found his phone, and dialed the number. When the call was answered, he asked, "Is the boy there?"

"I can get him."

"Do it."

He stared straight at Sokolov.

"He's here," the voice said in his ear.

"Put him on the phone."

He handed the unit to Sokolov, who did not accept the offer.

"Your son wants to speak with you," he said.

Defiant lines faded from the Russian's face. A hand slowly came up to grip the phone.

Tang shook his head, then pressed the SPEAKER b.u.t.ton.

An excited voice-young, high-pitched-started talking, asking if his father was there. Clearly, Sokolov recognized the voice and opened his mouth to speak, but Tang muted the mouthpiece with another press of a b.u.t.ton and said, "No."

He brought the unit back to his own ear and unmuted the call.

"Stay on the line," he directed the man on the other side. "If Comrade Sokolov does not tell me exactly what I want to know in the next minute, I want you to kill the boy."

"You can't," Sokolov screamed. "Why?"

"I tried persuasion, then torture, and I thought we had made progress. But you remain defiant. So I will kill your son and find out what I need to know elsewhere."

"There is no elsewhere. I'm the only one who knows the procedure."

"You've recorded it somewhere."

Sokolov shook his head. "I have it solely in my head."

"I have no more time to deal with your lack of cooperation. Other matters require my attention. Make a decision."

An iron ceiling fan slowly rotated overhead, barely stirring the lab's warm air. Defeat filled the geochemist's face as his head nodded.

"Keep the boy there," he said into the phone. "I may call back in a few moments."

He ended the call and waited for Sokolov to speak.

"If that sample on the table contains the marker," the scientist said, "then it's proof that the oil is from an abiotic source."

"What marker?"

"Diamondoids."

He'd never heard the term before.