The Emperor's Tomb

“I have no hostility, Minister. You made it quite clear during your last visit that you are in charge, regardless of the fact that this is my facility.”

He ignored her insulting tone. “And how is our patient?”

The First Infectious Disease Hospital, located just outside Chongqing, cared for nearly two thousand people afflicted with either tuberculosis or hepatitis. It was one of eight facilities scattered throughout the country, each a forbidding complex of gray brick surrounded by green fences, places where the contagious could be safely quarantined. But the security these hospitals enjoyed also made them ideal for the housing of any sick prisoners from the Chinese penal system.

Like Jin Zhao, who’d suffered a brain hemorrhage ten months ago.

“He’s lying in his bed, as he’s done since the first day he was brought here,” the doctor said. “He clings to life. The damage is enormous. But—again, per your order—no treatment has been administered.”

He knew she hated his usurpation of her authority. Gone were Mao’s obedient “barefoot doctors,” who, according to the official myth, had willingly lived among the masses and dutifully cared for the sick. And though she was the hospital’s chief administrator, Tang was the national minister of science and technology, a member of the Central Committee, first vice premier of the Chinese Communist Party, and first vice president of the People’s Republic of China—second in power only to the president and premier himself.

“As I made clear last time, Doctor,” he said, “that was not my order, but the directive of the Central Committee, to which I, and you, owe absolute allegiance.”

He voiced the words for the benefit of not only the foolish woman but also the three members of his staff and two captains from the People’s Liberation Army who stood behind him. Each military man wore a crisp green uniform with the red star of the motherland emblazoned on his cap. One of them was surely an informant—reporting most likely to more than one benefactor—so he wanted any account to speak glowingly of him.

“Take us to the patient,” he calmly commanded.

They walked down halls lined with lettuce-green plaster, cracked and lumpy, lighted by weak fluorescent fixtures. The floor was clean but yellowed from endless moppings. Nurses, their faces hidden by surgical masks, tended to patients clad in striped blue-and-white pajamas, some wearing brown robes, looking much like prisoners.

They entered another ward through a set of swinging metal doors. The room beyond was spacious, enough for a dozen or more patients, yet only one lay in a single bed beneath dingy white sheets.

The air stank.

“I see you left the linen alone,” he said.

“You did order me to do so.”

Another mark in his favor for the informant to report. Jin Zhao had been arrested ten months ago, but had suffered a hemorrhage during questioning. He was subsequently charged with treason and espionage, tried in a Beijing court, and convicted, all in absentia since he’d remained here, in a coma.

“He is just as you left him,” the doctor said.

Beijing lay nearly a thousand kilometers to the east and he supposed that distance bolstered this woman’s nerve. You may rob the Three Armies of their commander in chief, but you cannot deprive the humblest peasant of his opinion. More of Confucius’ nonsense. Actually the government could, and this insolent bitch should heed that fact.

He motioned and one of the uniforms led her across the room.

He approached the bed.

The man lying prostrate was in his mid-sixties, his dirty hair long and unkempt, his emaciated frame and sunken cheeks reminiscent of those of a corpse. Bruises splotched his face and chest, while intravenous lines snaked from both arms. A ventilator fed air in and out of his lungs.

“Jin Zhao, you have been found guilty of treason against the People’s Republic of China. You were afforded a trial, from which you lodged an appeal. I regret to inform you that the Supreme People’s Court has approved your execution and denied your appeal.”

“He can’t hear a word you’re saying,” the doctor said from across the room.

He kept his eyes down on the bed. “Perhaps not, but the words must be spoken.” He turned and faced her. “It is the law, and he is entitled to proper process.”

“You tried him without him even being there,” she blurted out. “You never heard a word he had to say.”

“His representative was afforded the opportunity to present evidence.”

The doctor shook her head in disgust, her face pale with hate. “Do you hear yourself? The representative never had the opportunity to even speak with Zhao. What evidence could possibly have been presented?”