06.25.2008 / EP. 17
China Underground
A tangle of basement corridors fronts Solidarity Street in east Beijing. Few know of it. For one thing, the property is government owned and therefore shrouded in secrecy. For another, it is old and extraordinarily difficult to access. A jungle of false entrances and damp, half passages twist around each other, concealed at ground level by food stalls and underneath by ramshackle storage bins. Noisy barkers maintain a perpetual din. And apparently lazy policemen stand here and there, picking their teeth to deter the idle tourist. The police insouciance is belied by the machine pistols they carry, loaded with safeties off, and their burly fitness. It is only the initiated who pass easily – and stealthily – to and fro.
Among those initiated was Rao Guang-Jun, who sat slouched, drifting among shadows and daydreams, on a cushion his mother had made. Rao’s mother who knitted constantly. Not everyone in the Chinese secret service owned sweaters and vests and, as he looked down at it now, a cushion with a flying stork on it. His daydream had involved a female officer, and he tried in vain to recall the point which this fantasy adventure had reached. Rao had been on the job today – he checked his sports watch – ten hours already. Boredom creates torpor and lassitude, which lead to boredom, he thought. A vicious circle. And boredom is the natural child of state service. A beep interrupted this reverie. Rao sat up straight. An in-bound call. When Milly picked up the phone, Rao heard the voice as clearly as she did. Rao didn’t have to press a transcribe button. All calls to that line were automatically recorded.
“What’s the burglary about?” the voice asked. Rao made notes: no preamble, known to female, gravelly texture (smoker?), male, rough (blue collar?), heavy accent, Vietnamese or Laotian. Man’s voice electronically distorted or throat scarred. Fire, napalm?
Rao knew the woman’s name from precious calls. Milly Troie. It was her telephone. The woman told what she knew about a burglary. She was concise and businesslike. Rao’s notes were the same. They marched across the page like soldiers, each character squared with the rest.
Woman: Carrie gave me the information.
The voice paused: I don’t like it. Do what Carrie says, investigate. Pretend to go along with their plan. It’s risky, I agree, but I want to know why the pot’s being stirred. On a related subject, somebody has been in your house and that citadel of yours, the dolls’ room. That could threaten our mutual business.
“I’m always careful,” said the woman.
“Then explain the intrusion.”
“I can’t.”
“Perfidy? A friend who spoke out of turn?”
“I really have no idea.”
“Then I tell you what,” said the voice. It seemed noticeably unimpressed. “Let’s tempt our adversaries into the open. Up your sales by ten percent.”
“And that would?”
“Increase your frantic pace. Make you a bigger player.”
“Make me a juicier target.”
“If you’re the target at all.”
Rao heard the woman protest. She listed her problems: her resources were stretched; she had a demanding day job; the Governor would need more and more effort through to the election.
The man abruptly terminated the call.
