The Secret Cardinal (21 page)

“No, thank you,” Liu replied with a hint of boredom at the obligatory pleasantries. In situations like these, he envied the directness of Americans.

“How may I be of service to you?” Zhong asked.

Liu opened his briefcase and extracted from it the thin packet of documents he received from Minister Tian. “The Supreme People's Court has ordered that the death sentence on one of your prisoners be implemented without further delay.”

Zhong appeared mildly surprised by Liu's statement. Execution orders were normally routed internally by the Ministry of Justice, not hand delivered by representatives of the Ministry of State Security. He accepted the documents and quickly read through them. Most contained familiar legal boilerplate authorizing the execution. The signatures, rendered in crisp clear strokes, came from the court's most senior jurists.

“Is the prisoner to be executed by lethal injection or—”

“He is to be shot,” Liu replied without waiting for the rest of the question.

Zhong deliberately avoided reading the name of the condemned man until the end, in a small way granting a few extra moments of life to someone who would soon be dead. It was a small act, but one that created the personal illusion of compassion for a man who otherwise had none. As he read the name, Zhong's right eyebrow arched up like the back of an angry cat.

“Is there a problem?” Liu asked.

“We execute a number of prisoners each year,” the warden replied, “but never the same one twice.”

Liu's gaze tightened on the man. “Explain.”

“This is the second time today that I have received an order to execute Yin Daoming.”

“Show me,” Liu demanded.

Zhong went to his desk and retrieved a file from a gray metal tray. He handed it to Liu. The documents from the People's Supreme Court were virtually identical to the ones Liu brought from Beijing, including the signatures.

“Have your men carried out this order?” Liu asked.

Zhong shook his head. “The officer who delivered the order, a Captain Jiao, and her men are handling the executions. My men are observing, of course.”

“Executions? Someone in addition to Yin is to be executed?”

“Yes. A foreigner. He was brought in late last night pending a final decision from the court on his sentence. A diplomatic issue, I believe. I received the execution orders this morning—both prisoners were being escorted from their cells when you arrived,” Zhong explained. “Normally, I would be present in my official capacity to observe the implementation of a death sentence, which I expect has just been carried out.”

“I would like to speak with this captain,” Liu said, his steely tone tinged with suspicion. “Take me to her—now.”

THE RAW SCENT of burned gunpowder lingered in Jiao's nostrils, the pistol still warm in her hand. Kilkenny's body lay near her feet, blood seeping through the porous black fabric of the hood onto the ground. Nearby, flies were already hovering over the equally lifeless form of Yin Daoming. Jiao slipped the pistol back into her hip holster, secured the flap, and motioned for one of the prison guards to come forward. The man held a folder of execution paperwork, and she quickly worked through the forms, affixing her signature as the officer in charge of carrying out the death sentence on the two prisoners.

“Will there be anyone to collect the bodies,” the guard asked, “or are we to dispose of them?”

“The answer to both questions is no,” Jiao replied without looking up as she completed the last form. “My orders are to transport the remains to Beijing. What happens to them afterward is not my concern.”

Jiao returned the folder to the guard and dismissed him, then turned to the men who accompanied her into the prison. “Load them on the truck.”

The soldiers laid a pair of black rectangular body bags on the ground next to the prisoners and unzipped the long oval top flaps. They removed the restraints from Yin's wrists and ankles and rolled the body onto its back. Mindful of the blood still dripping from Yin's hooded head, one soldier carefully gripped the arms. The other stood ready at the ankles. On the count of three, they heaved their load up and into the open body bag with the same reverence one would give a sack of manure. The soldier at Yin's feet laid the flap over the body and zipped the bag closed. They did the same with Kilkenny's body, then loaded the cargo into the rear of the truck.

 

 

THE WARDEN LED LIU on the most direct route from his office to the hardscrabble yard near the motor pool where prisoners were executed. Both men squinted as they stepped outdoors, the sun bathing the space with a harsh light that rendered shadows black in sharp detail. The captain in charge of the executions watched as a pair of her men loaded a second body bag into the back of a truck.

“Captain Jiao,” the warden called out. “May we have a word with you?”

Liu studied the captain as she strode toward him. The woman moved with the confidence that comes with command, and with each stride Liu detected hints of a lithe body beneath the unflattering uniform. Her peaked cap sat low on her forehead, the visor cloaking her eyes in shadow.

“Captain,” the warden began, “this is Mister Liu from the Ministry of State Security.”

Liu presented his ID, and Jiao nodded after reading the card.

“I am honored,” Jiao said with a crisp bow.

“When did you get authorization for these executions?” Liu asked.

“I received my orders early this morning. Is there a problem?”

“It appears that we both received orders to execute Yin Daoming.”

Jiao laughed. “Someone must really want this prisoner dead.”

“Perhaps. I would like to see the body, just the same.”

“Of course.”

Jiao led Liu and the warden to the truck. Liu noted that only three of the captain's cadres were now visible. The fourth he assumed was inside the truck given the eruptions of diesel exhaust belching from the idling engine. Though they appeared relaxed, Liu noted a clear difference between Jiao's men and the prison guards.

The guards stood clustered together, arms folded or hands thrust in coat pockets, taking a cigarette break. All were armed with pistols, and a few carried Type-79 submachine guns, which dangled from straps against their backs. Jiao's cadres stood apart, each surveying a different area of the yard, and their positioning seemed to Liu more deliberate than random. All three were armed with pistols and Type- 85 submachine guns that they cradled in the crook of one arm.

“At ease,” Jiao ordered as her men snapped to attention.

Jiao's men are professional soldiers
, Liu noted, wondering if that explained their attitude. Men on duty in the presence of a superior officer are unlikely to relax. Chifeng's warden clearly didn't inspire his guards in quite the same way.

The lift gate on the truck was still down, and the two body bags
were clearly visible on the ribbed metal bed. Jiao motioned to the closest soldier, who clambered up into the truck.

“Open the bags,” she ordered.

The soldier hesitated for an instant, and Liu caught the brief glance he shot at Jiao. Her response was a barely perceptible nod. He unzipped the upper half of the lozenge-shaped openings and turned down the flaps. Yin and Kilkenny lay on their backs, their faces still covered with black hoods. A freckled arm covered with red hair crossed the abdomen of the body on the right, a body as tall as his own, and Liu immediately knew which one was the foreigner.

“I executed each of these two criminals with a single shot to the back of the head,” Jiao reported.

“I see,” Liu replied.

Liu leaned into the truck and grabbed the hood covering Yin's head. The fabric resisted at first, the coagulating blood sticking to the saturated cloth and cooling flesh. He gave a sharp tug to pull the hood free. Yin's head lurched up with the tug before falling back into the body bag with a hollow thump, the thin layer of plastic offering no cushion atop the truck's metal deck. The bishop's jaw dropped open exposing a mouthful of long, crooked teeth. Despite the streaks of congealing blood on the face, Liu immediately recognized the man he took to Beijing in August.

The weight of the hood in Liu's hand surprised him. It seemed to be simple cloth, yet the hood felt unusually heavy. He held it up and pressed his palm flat against the fabric where faint contours of Yin's face still wrinkled the coarse weave. Something flat and stiff lined the interior of the hood.

Liu turned the hood around and found the charred perimeter of the entry hole. A thin trail of blood slowly dripped from the opening, and Liu stuck his finger through it and discovered the smooth interior of a plastic bladder. Liu pulled out his finger, the digit stained with bright fluid that against his skin looked too red to be real.

The dull thump of an explosion interrupted Liu's thoughts. A small plume of smoke and dust roiled up from behind the concrete wall at the far end of the yard.

Roxanne Tao dropped her guise as Captain Jiao and struck as Liu reflexively turned toward the source of the sound. She snapped three kicks in rapid succession—the first to Liu's right knee, the second a punishing shot to his kidney, and the third a sweeping roundhouse that caught the side of his head.

The last blow stunned Liu and sent him sprawling atop the body bags into the bed of the truck. Jostled, Yin's head rolled to the side facing away from Liu. The pain clouding Liu's vision quickly faded and his awareness returned. Inches from his eyes, he saw a smooth curved surface of alabaster covered with thin strands of matted white hair. The back of Yin Daoming's head bore no sign of violence, no hint of injury—the skin taut and perfectly intact.

Staccato bursts of gunfire filled the air, brief and precise. Liu felt a pair of hands run roughly over his body, expertly stripping him of his pistol and the balisong knife strapped just above his ankle. Both weapons clattered to the ground some distance away, the pistol in pieces. Several pairs of hands then hoisted Liu from the truck bed and tossed him to the ground in a heap.

Blurred vision returned as waves of pain pulsed from Liu's bruised kidney. He heard the distant thump of several more explosions and the roar of an engine as the truck fled the yard. The air around the prison filled with sounds of shouting and the high-pitched wail of an alarm.

29

A cloud of gray dust swirled around Liu as he hauled himself up from the ground. He coughed, the gritty particles coating his mouth and nose with a dry, chalky residue. The truck carrying Yin and the foreigner disappeared around a building, heading toward the main gate.

Liu moved as quickly as he could toward a heap of bodies on the ground nearby. The three guards were clearly dead; entry wounds marked their chests and heads—expertly placed kill shots. The warden moaned on the ground a few feet away from the guards and clutched his leg, the shattered limb bent unnaturally at midthigh.

A squad of guards in riot gear rushed into the yard, their assault rifles carried shoulder-high, ready to fire. Liu made no sudden moves and kept his hands in plain sight.

“They are gone!” he called out to the point man. “The warden is injured and requires medical attention.”

The guard approached warily, his eyes and weapon trained on Liu. The men behind him swept the fields of view to right and left, searching for threats in every direction. A corpsman moved up from the middle of the group to deal with the warden's injuries.

“Report,” the point man growled into a throat mike.

One by one, the members of the assault team sounded the all-clear for the yard and motor pool.

“Check the others,” the point man ordered the men behind him, his Type-85 still drawing a bead on Liu's forehead.

“Your comrades are all dead,” Liu said icily. “Anyone with a weapon was killed.”

“Your papers, slowly.”

Liu pulled open the left side of his blazer, revealing both the interior pockets and an empty holster. With everything in clear view, he reached into his breast pocket and extracted a thin black leather wallet
containing his ministry photo ID card. He held the wallet open, which let the soldier see it without having to take a hand off his weapon. A simple gesture, but one that helped to build trust and establish rank.

“Sir,” the guard said, lowering his weapon.

Liu put away the wallet and buttoned his blazer. Nearby, the corpsman injected Zhong with morphine.

“Who is the warden's second in command?” Liu asked.

“Mister Tang, manager of brickyard operations. He is being escorted to the security command center.”

“Please inform Tang that I am commandeering vehicles from the prison motor pool and that you and your men are accompanying me in pursuit of the fugitives.”

Liu recovered his weapons and moved as quickly as the pain in his back and leg allowed, alternating between a jog and a brisk walk with the prison strike team following his lead. The corpsman remained with the injured warden awaiting an ambulance for transport to Chifeng City Hospital No. 3.

The chief of the motor pool, still shaken by the outbreak of gunfire, offered no argument and quickly provided Liu with a pair of heavy trucks and drivers. Unlike their chief, the two young drivers found the excitement a welcome change from their normally tedious routine.

The officer in charge of the strike team sat up front in the lead truck. Liu positioned himself in the second vehicle. With the soldiers aboard, the drivers wasted no time starting the pursuit. The two trucks raced across the yard, following the same route to the main gate taken by their quarry.

 

 

“POSSE'S HEADING OUT,” Gene Chun reported silently, the vibrations of his vocal cords amplified by the throat mike.