The Emperor's Tomb полностью

“I recall when Mao died,” the premier said, gesturing toward the corpse. “September 9, 1976, just after midnight. Ten days the nation mourned. Loudspeakers and radio stations broadcasting somber music. Newspapers proclaimed him the greatest Marxist of the contemporary era and said he will forever illuminate the road of advance of the Chinese people. For three minutes that day the entire country stood in silence.” The old man paused, his eyes still locked on the spectacle. “But for what, Minister? Tell me, for what?”

He realized he was being ignored. “I wasn’t there. You were. What did you hope to gain from canonizing him?”

The premier faced him. “Do you know what happened after he died?”

Ni shook his head.

“Publicly, Mao had written that he wanted to be cremated. He said, after people die they should not be allowed to occupy any more space. They should be cremated. He publicly proclaimed that he’d take the lead and be burned to ashes, used for fertilizer. But we all knew that was propaganda. He wanted to be worshiped. The problem came when no one knew about embalming. It’s simply not our way. The doctors located a Russian text in the national library and followed its procedure, but they injected so much formaldehyde that the face swelled like a ball and the ears projected at right angles. Can you imagine what a sight that was. Mao’s skin turned slimy from the chemicals that oozed out the pores. I was there. I saw it.”

Ni had not heard this story before.

“They couldn’t drain the excess off, so they used towels and cotton balls, hoping to massage the fluid down into the body. One of them pressed too hard and a hunk of the right cheek broke off. Eventually, they had to slit the jacket and pants just to get the body into the clothes.”

He wondered why he was being told this.

“But they were not entirely foolish, Minister. Before injecting the formaldehyde, they made a wax effigy of the entire body.” The fingers of the old man’s left hand pointed to the sarcophagus. “And that is what you see now.”

“It’s not Mao?”

He shook his head. “Mao is gone, and has been for a long time. This is but an illusion.”

MALONE FOLLOWED CASSIOPEIA AND PAU WEN TO THE END OF the pier, Stephanie walking beside him.

“You realize this is crazy,” he said in a low voice.

“Ivan says they slip in all the time. Usually from the shoreline to the north. Only difference here is half the flight will be over Vietnam.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

She smiled. “You can handle it.”

He pointed at Pau. “Bringing him along is crazy, too.”

“He’s your guide.”

“We’re not part of whatever he’s after. I doubt he’ll be much help.”

“Since you know that, be ready.”

He shook his head. “I should be selling books.”

“How’s your hip?”

“Sore.”

“I need to make contact before we leave,” Cassiopeia called out, stopping at the pier’s end. She’d told them that a neighbor of Lev Sokolov’s had agreed to act as go-between. All she needed was a laptop, which Stephanie produced, and a satellite connection, which Ivan arranged.

Cassiopeia balanced the computer on the dock’s wooden railing, and Malone held it in place. He watched as she typed in an e-mail address, then a message.

I HAVE BEEN READING THE THOUGHTS OF MAO, BUT CANNOT FIND HIS WORDS REGARDING UNITY. COULD YOU HELP ME?

“That’s clever,” he said.

He knew the Chinese censored the Internet, restricting access to search engines, blogs, chat rooms, any site that allowed open conversation. They also employed filters that screened all digital content in and out of the country for anything suspicious. They were in the process of creating their own intranet, solely for China, which would be far easier to regulate. He’d read about the venture and its skyrocketing costs and technological challenges.

“I found a copy of the The Little Red Book and worked out a code,” she said. “The words of Mao would never arouse suspicion. The neighbors said they would check constantly for any message.”

Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong—or, as the West labeled it, The Little Red Book—was the most printed book in history. Nearly seven billion copies. Once, every Chinese was required to carry one, and those editions now were valuable collector’s items. Malone had bought one himself a few months ago, at the monthly book auction in Roskilde, for one of his customers.

The laptop dinged with an incoming message.

IT IS THE DUTY OF THE CADRES AND THE PARTY TO SERVE THE PEOPLE. WITHOUT THE PEOPLE’S INTERESTS CONSTANTLY AT HEART, THEIR WORK IS USELESS.

She looked up at him. “That’s the wrong response. Which means trouble.”

“Can they clarify what’s going on?” Stephanie asked.

She shook her head. “Not without compromising themselves.”

“She is correct,” Pau Wen said. “I, too, use a similar coding method when communicating with friends in China. The government watches cyberspace closely.”