Beautiful Ghosts (17 page)

“Why?” Shan asked, disbelieving.

“As a reward for your undivided attention. An incentive to assure your help. There is an international conspiracy with elements in these mountains. You agree to help us resolve our problem and we will bring your son for a visit.”

Shan stared at the little panda, saying nothing.

Yao shrugged. “So you wait until the end of his fifteen years to see him, assuming you yourself are still a free man. But your son…” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Already he has been punished with severe discipline three times for security violations.” Shan knew all too well what severe discipline meant in lao gai. Beating, doses of electroshock, the application of pliers to small bones in the hands or feet. “I’m afraid,” Yao said in an earnest voice, “your Ko is not going to survive fifteen years.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

There had been a theft in Beijing, Inspector Yao explained as they wandered down the ridge toward the ruins of Zhoka, a theft of vitally important artwork. It was only early afternoon. Tan had wasted no time in arranging for a helicopter to transport them back to the old stone tower. There had been a rushed, silent meal of dumplings and noodle soup, served by Tan’s sullen soldiers, then, as the helicopter arrived to take them to the mountains, a momentary argument between Tan and Yao as the colonel tried unsuccessfully to persuade Yao to bring soldiers with them.

“Art?” Shan asked. “An artifact?” Once Shan had stiffly nodded his head, agreeing to help for the chance of seeing his son, Yao had become enthusiastic, almost cheerful, as if Shan’s assent were a breakthrough in a particularly difficult case. But Shan still understood little of their investigation or why they were in Lhadrung.

“A plaster painting,” Yao said. “A fresco.”

“A Chinese fresco that wasn’t Chinese,” Corbett interjected. His Chinese was fast, almost slurred, as if he learned it in southern China. “It’s about art. People are dying for good art all over the world.” It had the sound of a worn joke.

Shan studied the American investigator. Corbett was older than he had first thought, though his tall, athletic build blurred signs of aging. He was not many years from sixty, Shan decided, seasoned at his business. Perhaps too seasoned. He seemed to have no interest in hiding his emotions. Impatience was often on his face, sometimes anger. “This isn’t the place, Yao. I told you,” Corbett complained as Shan watched him. “We’ve got ten more to check at least. This is just ruins. A deathtrap.” During the brief flight into the mountains the American had watched out a window, repeatedly consulting a map in his hand. They had set down briefly at a camp several miles to the north to unload supplies, where a dozen Chinese, young men and women in their twenties, had been working at the mouth of a cave, clearing away rock debris as a woman with short hair paced up and down, reading from a pilgrim guide on a clipboard about the miracles a pilgrim would discover inside. Yao and Corbett seemed to be looking for a den of thieves hiding in the mountains. But that did not explain why Ming was looking for caves. It did not explain the godkillers, or why the Council of Ministers might be interested in Tibetan miracles.

Yao shrugged and kept going toward the tunnels. The case might involve international elements but it was being investigated on Chinese soil, so there would be no question about who was in charge. “It was nearly two months ago,” the inspector explained, pausing, studying Shan as if interested in his reaction. “In the Forbidden City.”

“But there are guards everywhere,” Shan said “It’s like a fortress. It is a fortress.” The Forbidden City was the centuries-old home of the emperors, a vast compound of temples, residences, and meeting halls. Shan had once known almost every passage, every chamber of the complex, for he had discovered early in his life in Beijing that it offered many calming, quiet refuges from the rest of the city. A high, thick wall surrounded the entire compound. Most public access was through closely watched gates at the northern and southern ends.

“There was a cottage built by the Qian Long Emperor for his retirement, at the northern end of the City.” The Qian Long was one of the longest-serving Manchu emperors, revered for his justice and benevolence. He had left the throne at the end of the eighteenth century after a reign of sixty years.

“I know the place,” Shan said as he watched for signs of Gendun. “Red enamel pillars supporting the roof in front. At the rear a small courtyard with a fountain, with wisteria growing up the walls. I used to go and sit in that courtyard. But the cottage itself was always locked.”

“Locked for decades,” Yao confirmed. “In fact, barely touched since the emperor died. But it was decided to restore the interior, to allow tourists inside. Work crews started going in and out. The emperor had commissioned a beautiful fresco, even had a famous artist from Italy come and live in the Forbidden City to paint it. A crew was restoring the cedar beams of the ceiling in the dining chamber. One morning they were called off for an emergency repair on the opposite side of the compound. When they returned the next day the Italian fresco was gone. A piece of the wall over eight feet long and more than three high, cut out, leaving nothing but the bare wall timbers.”

Shan gazed toward the shadows that marked the passage to the lower level. Was Yao there because a fresco had been stolen from Zhoka as well? But Shan had just explained that theft to him the day before. “So the Council of Ministers is investigating a missing plaster painting?” he asked in a skeptical voice. The game Yao was playing had a familiar rhythm. Never tell a complete story, not even in the final report, never share a complete fact. It was an instinct bred into senior Beijing investigators. Yao would not be working for such high-level political bosses unless he knew to keep shuffling the available facts until he grasped the political truth of his case.

A sound like an amused snort came from Corbett, who had begun to descend the stairs. He had been staring into the shadows below, where he had almost died on his last visit, but turned when he heard Shan’s question. “The Chairman had shown the Qian Long fresco to a delegation from Europe during a state visit,” Corbett explained.

Yao cast a peevish glance at the American, then continued the story. “They decided to dedicate the cottage to friendship between the peoples of Europe and China. The Qian Long fresco was going to be its centerpiece, the perfect symbol of the bonds between east and west. The European governments were going to pay for its restoration and the cottage publicly opened in a ceremony during an upcoming state visit.” Yao stared at Shan with challenge in his eyes, as if daring Shan to say something.

Shan returned Yao’s stare. He had been gone from Beijing five years but nothing had changed about how the assignments of senior investigators were chosen. Yao wasn’t involved because of the theft but because of the political embarrassment.

“The Qian Long had a special attachment to Tibet,” Shan recalled. “Tibetan lamas were members of his court. The emperor probably had Tibetan art in his cottage,” he ventured.

“He did. It was not touched.”

“So you’re in Tibet because they stole a European painting,” Shan goaded.

“The Chairman was furious. He considered the theft a personal affront. He sent very specific instructions to my office.”

“And to Director Ming?” Shan asked.

“Ming offered the full resources of his institution. He has much experience with such things, was already involved in the restoration of the cottage and planning of the new hall. He pointed out that the people we are dealing with are no amateurs.” Yao directed a sour expression toward Shan. “You have no right to ask questions. You are here to help us with the Tibetans, nothing more.”

But Yao had not explained why he thought Tibetans were involved, or why he was in Lhadrung. Shan turned his gaze to the American. “And no doubt the FBI just has an interest in preserving art?”

“You are not here to interrogate us,” Yao growled.

Corbett let the inspector step ahead of them then turned to Shan. “There’s a new FBI office in the embassy in Beijing. Everyone’s looking for opportunities for U.S.–Chinese cooperation in law enforcement. Mostly it’s work on investigations of terrorists.”

“You’re stationed in Beijing?”

“Seattle. In the American northwest. When that fresco was stolen in Beijing there was also a theft in Seattle. At the same time. From a man named Dolan, one of the wealthiest citizens in a city of wealthy citizens. One of those computer billionaires.” He reached into his pocket and produced half a dozen small photographs, handing them to Shan. They were all of display cases containing Tibetan artifacts: exquisite, very old pieces, jeweled gaus, an ornate silver butter lamp, ceremonial masks, an elaborate costume, and several delicate deity statues. “Reported to be the best private collection of Tibetan art in the world. Took Dolan fifteen years to collect. Over fifty pieces, the whole collection, was stolen. Insurance value of over ten million.” The last photograph was an aerial shot of a sprawling brick building with multiple levels that wandered across a hillside, above what appeared to be the ocean. “Came in the night. Broke through a state-of-the-art security system. Left without a trace. No fingerprints. Video surveillance disrupted. All they left was a dead girl.”

Shan paused. “A girl was killed?”

Corbett looked ahead of them, as if making sure Yao was out of earshot. “Twenty-three years old. One of three part-time governesses, an art student hired because she could give the children art lessons.” The American’s face clouded, though Shan could not be sure if it was because of the dead girl or because of the darkness looming ahead of them.

“Look,” Corbett said, stopping, touching Shan’s arm. “You need to know the rules. Finding the artifacts, and the girl’s killer, that’s why I’m here. This is an American investigation. We’re doing it American style. You understand?”

“No,” Shan admitted.

“I don’t pick suspects according to political favorites. I don’t devise a theory and select facts to fit it. I build facts by relying on science and sense. I believe only in facts. The evidence is everything. I have no motive but justice, and no one has ever been too big to get in my way.”

“Part George Washington, part Sherlock Holmes.”

The words clearly startled Corbett. “Who the hell are you, Shan?”

“Someone who also wants justice,” he said somberly.

“Fine. I have never not solved a case,” Corbett added.

“How many times have you given that speech?” Shan asked as the American continued down the tunnel.

Corbett glanced in Yao’s direction. “Just once before,” he said with a slow grin.

Yao had brought a duffle bag stuffed with a dozen electric lanterns borrowed from the army. He lit one and laid it at the base of the stairs, then as they reached him opened the bag for the American and Shan each to take a lantern. They soon had the corridor lit with lanterns placed every ten feet. Yao stepped into the room where he had discovered Shan on their prior visit.

As Corbett began to follow, Shan turned to the American. “What did you mean the crimes happened at the same time?”

“It was the middle of the night in Seattle, midday in Beijing. I think the thieves walked out with their artwork in Beijing and Seattle at the same hour.”

“Surely a coincidence.”

Corbett shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

“But you haven’t explained why you came here. To Lhadrung.”

“We searched. God how we searched. Dolan, he was furious. A founder of one of the big software companies. Major political supporter of the president. Head of one of the biggest foundations in America. We had a forensic team there for days. No real clues at the scene. We checked the whereabouts of known art thieves. We put photos of the artifacts at every airport security checkpoint in America, posted them on the Internet. We began checking stores in the region that handled that sort of thing, showed them the photos, asked about anything unusual coming in. After a week of dead ends, most of the team moved on to fresher crimes and I got the file. Because I am the chief investigator for art theft west of the Mississippi.”

“But why Lhadrung?”

“There was only me and the two junior agents assigned to me, my boys. We digested every report, studied all the interview notes. We found that four different antique art stores within fifty miles of Seattle reported recent inquiries by young women asking about the value of Tibetan beads. Some fellow had met each of them at a bar, bought each drinks, charmed them with his exotic style, and gave each a rare old bead to bring them good luck. On two different nights.” Corbett pulled a familiar-looking bead from his pocket, an inch and a half long, half an inch wide, tapered at the ends. “I bought one.” It was agate, in shades of red and green, etched with white stripes.

“It’s called a
dzi
bead,” Shan explained, “they are thought by Tibetans to attract protector deities.” He looked up from the bead. “He was at the bars the night of the theft?”

Corbett nodded. “And the night before.”

“We located two of the women, because they had left their beads on consignment for sale. They had never met him before. Spent a couple hours talking and dancing. Innocent fun, they said. Exotic accent, one said. Kind of British but not exactly. He was thirty, maybe thirty-five. Black hair, moustache, deep blue eyes. They loved his eyes. He traveled a lot, he said, so he couldn’t give them a home address, but he took theirs, like he would be back again, said he was leaving for Asia. They had met him at two different bars. Between the bars was a big hotel. We checked their guest records against flights the day after the theft. Twenty-seven men traveling to Asia close enough to the description to check further, six who stayed at the hotel. Took almost a week to get copies of the six passport photos. The two women identified his photo in an instant, no question. British citizen. William Lodi. Flew Seattle to Beijing, then caught the next flight to Lhasa. We called our Beijing office, which asked for assistance from Public Security. Public Security reported that on his landing card he gave his address as a hotel in Beijing, even paid in advance for one night there, but the hotel never saw him. So Public Security did a broader search of records. They discovered he had flown on to Lhasa, that he had an export license for shipments from a craft shop in a little town no one ever heard of. A part owner of the shop, in fact.”