Part 13 (1/2)

The sea lapped at the hull of the junk as it always had; the stars, hidden behind the rain clouds, continued to wink down, cold enigmatic signals. The universe continued, uncaring, used to human suffering.

Jake s.h.i.+vered. He was cold, sitting in the darkness. The rain beat against him, drumming along the deck, and though he was aboard his uncle's junk in Aberdeen Harbor he knew that he was on that legendary mountainside that Zilin had spoken of.

Father! Oh, Father! There had been so little time!

He was weeping now, his tears mingling with the chill rain. He bent over Bliss's insensate form, rocking her, but also rocking himself.

Shan, he thought. It rose black and forbidding in the symbolic geography of his mind.

The mountain.

Summer 1945-Winter 1949 Chunking/Yenan/Peking There was a time when all things were possible.

Like a fable come to lifean eerily twisted Far East Arthurian mythosthere was an era in China when great dragons roamed the mountainsides, when thunder cracked the sky, when rivers ran red with blood. It was a time for heroes and villains.

And it was the time when Zilin returned to lifeand also where the seeds of his death were sown. And all because of a girl.

On the face of it, it seems impossible. And yet, though it occurred in modern times, this was a period in which not only heroes but an ancient form of magic manifested itselfperhaps at the behest of the celestial guardians of China.

Nowadays Chongqing, sitting at the confluence of the Yangtze and Jialing rivers, is a modern, bustling town of wide streets, indifferent architecture, the rocky promontory on which it was built angling steeply into the waters filled with sampans and produce-bearing junks.

In those days of dragons and lightning, when the town was still known as Chungking, it was built on stilts, and composed of tiny, cream-colored houses with slate-gray tiled roofs. Bowed-backed women in straw hats carried f.a.ggots of wood or open baskets filled with raw tea up narrow lanes.

Then as now the summers in Chungking were stifling, and people not used to such weather sought the sanctuary of the lower reaches of the shade-shrouded Jinyun Shanthe Red Silk Mountain.

On a day late in August 1945, Mao Zedong and his circle were settled at Number 50 Zengjiayan. They had made the journeyMao's first by planeto meet with Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek and the amba.s.sador from President Roosevelt, Major General Patrick J. Hurley. They were meeting to hammer out a compromise between the two Chinese factions.

Roosevelt had been outspoken against a resumption of the civil war that had been put on hold only by the larger global struggle. But privately, Roosevelt feared Mao and the ideology he espoused.

Mao, too, was inclined toward a compromise with Chiang. He was well aware of how war had depleted China of its natural resources. His own fear was for the future of his country. He knew that China desperately needed to industrialize if it was to compete in the postwar international arena. To do this, he knew, China would require foreign capital.

But the wily Chiang was already ahead of Mao on this score. Only days before, he had signed the Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friends.h.i.+p and Alliance. In addition, playing upon the well-diagnosed American phobia against Communism, Chiang had made alliances with the United States as well.

In Zilin's mind, at least, Chiang had made a grave error. ”His feet straddle two divergent paths,” Zilin had told Mao on the flight south, ”and this could prove disastrous for China, should he continue to represent the country.”

”In a coalition such as the one I have in mind,” Mao said, ”he could at least be controlled.”

”I seriously doubt that, Mao tong zhi. He who controls the army, Chiang has often said, rules the nation. As long as he believes that, he will be intractable.

”American military advisers have been at Chiang's elbow, whispering their expertise into his ear. At the other elbow stand Stalin and Molotov. The Russians are already sweeping through Manchuria. They destroy our common foe, the j.a.panese, yes, but do they not also have another, more sinister reason for invading Manchuria? They covet that territory, Mao tong zhi,”

Mao had been silent for a long time. Ever since the incident in the mountains of Yunnan two years ago, when Zilin's military strategy had defeated the arm of the Nationalist army Chiang had sent to destroy the then rebel leader and his upstart peasant army, Mao had kept his eye on Zilin, a most remarkable man.

It was Mao who gave the orders; thus, it became Mao's strategy, the victory his, and because of it, Mao's renown had spread through the southern provinces like wildfire. Even Mao could not say how many men had been recruited into the army because of that one victory. He only knew that in 1936, his forces were hovering around the eighty-thousand mark. Now the regular army numbered almost one million, and the militia was over double that figure.

Zilin had never asked to be known as the decision-maker; he had never even asked for recompense of any sort. In fact, when Mao wanted to elevate him in ministerial rank Zilin had refused.

”I thank you, Mao tong zhi,” Zilin had said, ”but the humility of a lowly station is useful. It serves to remind me of our place in the world.” He bowed his head. ”If, on occasion, you and I speak and the product of our thoughts is constructive then that is sufficient.” He smiled and Mao was to get one of his few glimpses into the workings of the inner man. ”Besides, I think you will agree that you have enough public advisers as it is. I believe that I can be more useful to you and to the cause if I remain hidden in the shadows, unknown and unnamed.”

Mao sighed now, gazing down at the landscape of his beloved China.

”We are in an untenable position,” he said to Zilin. ”We need outside help. The Soviets fear us. As you know, both Stalin and Molotov have called us *margarine' Communists because I have not strictly followed Moscow's directives. Besides, they argue, a true Communist revolution comes about through the proletariat, not the peasants.”

He grunted. ”Our only hope is America. They are already here; they love to stick their noses into the internal affairs of other countries. I believe that our postwar industrialization should come about through free enterprise. They'll like that. They have money, far more than the Soviets a if we maneuver them properly I think we can get our capital from them. Toward that end I want you to spend time with this amba.s.sador's aide of theirs, Ross Davies. He was a major once and, from what I hear, a good one. Speak to him of Sun Tzu. Maybe, though he is a foreign devil, he will recognize a kindred spirit through the Art of War.

”I understand Amba.s.sador Hurley tells him everything. I want to know what President Roosevelt is thinking. I want to know whether he will back us.”

Zilin held out no such hope for American aid. He knew that the Americans were very cleverly using Chiang as their cat's-paw in China simply because they could control him. They had no such illusions about Mao. ”And what,” Zilin said with this in mind, ”will he do if a fire starts in China?”

”Let us set our minds,” Mao said, ”that there will be no fire.”

But even if Mao had not had a specific mission for Zilin to accomplish he would not have wanted him at the bargaining table when he met with Chiang. Zilin's first wife, Mai, had been a.s.sistant to Sun ZhongshanDr. Sun Yat-sen. When, in 1925, Generalissimo Chiang broke with Sun's Guomindang, his strongarm men had returned to Shanghai, then the Guomindang's main base, and had destroyed them all.

Chiang's men had come for Mai in the night and had taken her away. Fearing for her safety, Zilin and Hu Hanmin had run after her and, confronting her abductors, Zilin had shot them down. But not before Mai herself had been killed.

Perhaps after all this time Chiang had forgotten the incident and the manhunt that had ensued. Mao did not know. But he was certain that he could not take the chance of the two coming face to face. He had, in fact, debated whether to take Zilin along with him at all. But in the end his need for the younger man outweighed the possible danger.

Zilin's first encounter with Ross Davies occurred early one morning. Zilin was in the midst of tai chi chuan. The air was very still. Although the sun had not yet crept above the rooftops, the air was already heavy with the day's moisture. Below, the river shone blue-white. Already sampans plied its currents. Somewhere down the narrow lane a c.o.c.k crowed.

Davies had awoken in a cold sweat. Sitting up in bed he had tried to get oxygen into his lungs. He looked around. It was dawn but it was not cool. He had been in China for some time but he had been unable to grow accustomed to the climate. Summer was the worst for him; he sweated through his clothes even at night.

He rose and, dressing hurriedly, went outdoors. His tiny room seemed to be closing in on him. Wiping the sweat from his face, he heard the c.o.c.k crowing and, in a moment, he became aware of Zilin at his exercises.

Davies had taken the book on Roman war tactics with him, intending to calm himself by reading beneath the shade of a tree. Now he stood in the dappled sunlight watching Zilin at his morning rituals.

It could not have been the first time that Davies had seen tai chi demonstrated but it was certainly the first time that he had seen it performed with such liquid, weightless grace.

This man was the only one of Mao's retinue on whom Hurley had not been able to get a military dossier. In fact, almost nothing was known about the man. Even his function within the Communist hierarchy and his relations.h.i.+p to Mao were unclear.

In the relative cool of the shade, Davies was sweating. He was a large man with an athlete's body that had not run to middle-age fat as many of his contemporaries' had, simply because Davies worked at it. He did forty-five minutes of strenuous calisthenics twice daily. Except during the summer in China when he found it too hot to do much of anything.

As he watched Zilin, he marveled. It was as if he had never seen the slow ritualized movements before. The man had no trouble breathing though he was in direct sunlight; Davies could discern not a bead of sweat anywhere on his exposed flesh.

At length, Zilin was done. He held the last position for what seemed to Davies an eternity. In the courtyard a breeze caught an eddy of dust, lifting it in a tiny devil at Zilin's feet. It was the only movement in the vicinity.

A dog barked and Zilin came out of what might have been a trance. He saw Davies standing on the doorstep, book in hand, and smiled.

”Good morning,” Zilin said.

Davies nodded, somewhat embarra.s.sed. He wondered whether he had transgressed. Two-and-a-half years in China and he was still unsure about customs. ”I was struck by your early morning exercises. I hope you don't mind.”

”Not at all.” Zilin came across the courtyard to where Davies stood. ”I don't mind company.” He smiled as he had learned the foreign devil did. It put them at ease somehow, like animal signals. Zilin had read an account of the habits of the mountain gorillas of Africa. One approached them with eyes downcast and a neutral expression, to show that no aggressive intent was meant. Baring one's teeth on the other hand would surely bring instant attack.

Faan gwai loh, Zilin thought, foreign devilthey were much like gorillas: powerful and dangerous and primitive, and in dealing with them one had to make certain of their motivation if one were to make use of them.

”You speak English very well,” Davies said, unaware of the condescension in his tone.

It is he who thinks of me as the monkey, Zilin thought. Ah, well, the civilized man must put up with all manner of boorishness in order to gain his ends with barbarian devils.

”I learned many years ago in Shanghai,” Zilin said, as if nothing were amiss. ”A friend from Virginia was good enough to be my patient teacher.” A white lie but an excusable one under the circ.u.mstances. Davies's eyes lit up. ”I'm from Virginia,” he said. Which Zilin knew very well. ”My family has a farm outside Roanoke. My father raises horses. Race horses. What is your friend's name?”