Typhoon (2008) Read online

“Name?” he said to Celil. He was looking directly into his eyes.

  “Tunyaz,” Celil replied. It was the fake name on the shen fen zheng.

  “Where were you born?”

  “Qorak.”

  Very slowly, he turned his gaze to the two men beside Celil and asked them the same questions. Name? Where were you born? He asked to be shown into the rear of the truck, with the clear implication that the men might have stolen items from the barracks. Celil duly stepped down and opened the rear door of the vehicle. The soldier stepped inside. The truck was full of boxes, blankets, empty plastic bottles and discarded packets of cigarettes. It was soon twenty-past seven. No other vehicles had pulled up behind the truck, so there was no need for the soldier to hurry.

  Just after half-past seven, a blacked-out Oldsmobile, driven by a uniformed chauffeur, was waved through the barrier ahead of them. The soldier went into his hutch. Celil knew now that he should have set the timer for half-past eight or even nine o’clock. He had learned, by listening carefully to the conversations of his friends, that dinner was served in the catering block at precisely eight o’clock. He had wanted to ensure maximum carnage in the dining area, but now he feared that the truck would still be parked outside at the gate when the bomb exploded.

  Finally, with only fifteen minutes remaining, the soldier emerged from the hutch and opened the barrier. Celil had switched off the engine, and he waited to be instructed to turn it back on. You could never be too careful. The game was humiliation. The game was threat and this might be a trap. The soldier was just waiting for him to make the wrong move. Finally, a gesture towards the road. They were waved through.

  “Have a good night,” Celil told him as he pulled out into the evening traffic. “See you again in the morning.”

  The bomb tore through the thin prefabricated walls of the storeroom, the force of the detonation driven upwards and collapsing a large central section of the catering building. Eight Han soldiers and four staff —among them a young Uighur woman—were killed instantly by the blast. Dozens more were injured and several nearby buildings wrecked.

  Ablimit Celil dropped his Uighur colleagues at their homes at 8:05 p.m. Later that night, they were arrested. Celil himself drove to the prearranged point at Toksun, where he abandoned the truck and boarded a night bus for Hami.

  11

  TIANANMEN

  “May I ask you something, Mr. Richards?”

  Wang had broken off the conversation in order to use the bathroom and he posed the question as he came back into the room, rubbing his eyes before settling down in his chair. Joe noticed that he betrayed no signs of physical injury or discomfort.

  “Of course.”

  “At what point were you recruited as a spy by British intelligence?”

  Joe had been trained to deflect accusations of this kind but he was momentarily stunned. It was the first time in his career that anybody had directly questioned his cover. Wang seemed to detect his disquiet and looked pleased, as if he had gained face at Joe’s expense.

  “I can assure you, professor, I am no more a spy than Lance Corporal Anderson. Believe me, when you talk to me you are talking directly to Government House. What is it that you want to tell us?”

  The lie was met with a blank, indifferent stare. “Fine.” Wang rubbed the palm of his left hand vigorously across the near-stubble of his close-cropped hair and leaned forward. Joe, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, finally capitulated to his desire for a cigarette.

  “You spoke of Tiananmen,” Wang said. “You asked me to explain what has happened in my country since the massacre of 1989, what has happened while the world’s back has been turned. I will tell you. While America and France and Germany and England have fixated on the Chinese economic boom, dreaming of their yachts and profits, young men have had their fingernails torn out in Chinese prisons, their testicles burned by electric pipes, their bodies broken by torture.”

  Joe did not light his cigarette.

  “Two months before the Tiananmen massacre there was a demonstration in Urumqi. A sit-in by students, partly in support of their comrades in Beijing, but also as a religious protest at the depiction of Muslim sexual customs in a book circulated throughout the country. This demonstration became a riot, Mr. Richards, a riot in which Communist Party headquarters in the capital was attacked and more than two hundred police injured. We now look back on it as a mistake, because it confirmed in Beijing their worst fears about the separatist movement.” Joe noted the “we” here, the inference that Wang had been directly involved. “As the Soviet Union broke up, as the Islamic border nations began to assert their authority once more after years of oppression under communism, the Chinese government reverted to its hardline stance on Xinjiang. Islam was once again viewed as a threat to the Republic. Mosques that had only recently been rebuilt were destroyed. Those who attended study meetings to learn more about the Koran were arrested and thrown into prison. The Arabic language was once again banned. Matters became so serious that one of my students, Yasin, told me that his father, who worked in a government office in Karamay, had been warned that he would lose his job if he attended daily prayers. During Ramadan, the police actually spied on certain individuals in the Uighur community to ensure that they were prevented from observing the fast. Can you imagine such a humiliation? How would the good citizens of Iowa, or of Liverpool, feel if they were forbidden to practise their faith? In some areas, women were punished for wearing headscarves. Even devout Muslims who denied themselves alcohol in observance of sacred custom were forced to drink maotai by Communist Party officials. This has been the reality of China in the last decade, Mr. Richards. This has been the reality of the country to which you will soon hand over your precious Hong Kong.”

  “And what has been your role during this period?” Joe was still trying to do his job, still trying to suck out the secret.

  “Do you know what a meshrep is?” Wang asked, apparently evading the question. Joe said that he did not. “A meshrep is a traditional form of gathering for young people in Xinjiang. These youth groups existed for positive reasons. To revive Islamic traditions, for young men to recite poems, to sing music and so on. You would think of them in the West perhaps as a community or social project, where problems of alcohol or drug abuse within the population are openly discussed with a view to improving the lifestyles and conditions of all young Muslims throughout the region. The first of these meshreps was revived in the city of Gulja, in Ili Prefecture, a city known to the Han as Yining. Within a few years there were dozens of them throughout Xinjiang, perhaps as many as four hundred, and all established with the strict agreement of the provincial government. Because what could be wrong with this? Young Uighur people trying to solve their own problems and, at the same time, revive their traditions in a sensible fashion.”

  “But the authorities cracked down?”

  “Absolutely.” A sheen of sweat had appeared on Wang’s forehead, which glistened in the low light of the room. “In 1995 it was declared that the meshreps were cover organizations for separatist radicals seeking to undermine the Motherland. They must be closed down, their leaders arrested. This was the paranoid state of our government in Beijing, who cannot sleep in their beds for fear of an uprising, for fear of an Eastern Turkestan. Four students from a meshrep in Kashgar were subsequently arrested in that year for allegedly discussing political and human rights issues at a birthday picnic. A picnic. Beijing has informers at every level of Chinese society and they had mistakenly trusted one of their own friends, who had reported them. These young men were then accused of being counter-revolutionaries and sentenced to fifteen years in prison. When one of them appealed to the People’s High Court, his sentence was actually increased by the judge, who accused him of wasting the court’s time. It is a situation that Kafka would recognize, no?”

  Joe remained still.

  “All of these many issues have come to a head in the last two years. The Uighur people were tired of racial abuse, tired of dis
crimination from the state, tired of sending their children to schools where they were obliged to write sitting on the floor because of a lack of desks and chairs. Unemployment is running so high among Uighurs in Xinjiang that the sons and daughters of proud Muslims have been obliged to turn to crime, even to prostitution, in order to provide for their families. Of course this only deteriorates their image in the eyes of the Han men who use up these women for sex and then discard them like old bones.” Joe noticed that Wang’s voice was gradually growing louder, his rhetoric increasing to a politician’s intensity. “Let me now tell you that when thousands of Uighurs gathered in Yining in February of this year to make a peaceful protest, to demand better jobs, better working conditions, they were gunned down by armed police.”

  Joe started forward. “Gunned down? What do you mean?”

  “I mean what I say.” Wang looked angry, as if Joe had questioned his integrity. “I mean that the police beat them with sticks, they used tear gas, they attacked them with dogs. Those with cameras or recording equipment who attempted to witness what was happening had these items confiscated. And as the people saw what was happening, the riot exploded.”

  “And this is when the shooting began? This was in Yining two months ago?” Finally Joe had sight of the product, another Tiananmen that all of his veteran colleagues appeared to have missed.

  “That is correct. We estimate that four hundred people were killed, thousands more arrested. The jails became so full that prisoners were taken to a sports stadium on the outskirts of the city, where they were obliged to live for days without shelter in the snow. The police hosed them with water cannons to make their situation worse. Some froze as a result. Many lost hands and fingers through frostbite.”

  “None of this has been reported in the West,” Joe said, a statement which he believed to be true. Had they all been so wrapped up in the handover, in Patten’s demo cratic reforms, that they had ignored mass slaughter in China? He was witnessing, more or less for the first time in his career, the operational limitations of Western intelligence. With all their money, all their resources and know-how, SIS and the CIA had been blindsided by a massacre in China. Joe thought that he should be seen to write something down, to give Wang the impression, however false, that the safe house was not wired for sound. But the professor was in the sweat of a sustained revelation, apparently paying little attention to how Joe was behaving.

  “A curfew was imposed,” he said. “You must have learned of this. All airports and railway stations in Xinjiang were shut down for weeks. All foreign journalists were expelled from the region. The entire area was sealed. This is what they do in China when they have a problem. Nobody comes in, nobody gets out. In the wake of the Yining riot, house-to-house searches were conducted and another five thousand arrests made. Five thousand. And at the end of this, thirty-five of the so-called ringleaders were sentenced to death. They were taken to the outskirts of the city and simply shot through the back of the head.” Wang joined two fingers on his right hand and stabbed them into the base of his neck. Bang. “Of course these bodies were never returned to their families, just as the parents and relatives of the thousands of Uighur men and women who have been illegally imprisoned on false charges in the past several years have no idea where their loved ones are being held. And after the executions, as if to taunt the other prisoners, to make a spectacle of them, other so-called ringleaders were then paraded through the streets of Yining at a mass sentencing rally, already so drugged and physically damaged by their brief experience of prison that many of them, exposed in open trucks, were unable to stand or even to communicate with the crowd. I saw this with my own eyes, Mr. Richards, because I happened to be in Yining for a conference. I saw that their hands and feet were bound by wire as they knelt in the trucks. Many of the prisoners had been forced to wear placards around their necks, proclaiming their crimes, their sins, like something from medieval times. When one of the prisoners found his strength and shouted a slogan against the Communist Party, in full view of the crowd he was forced to the ground and beaten around the head by two policemen. I saw this with my own eyes.” Wang’s voice briefly tightened to an enraged pitch. “A gag was then forced into his mouth to prevent him from shouting further. When certain supporters in the crowd complained about this, they too were arrested by plain-clothes officials who had surrounded them.”

  “And you were among these people?”

  “No.” The professor looked exhausted. “I was first held after a different disturbance, in 1995. I was accused of discussing a riot in Xinjiang in class. One of my students was a spy and he reported me. I know who this was. Luckily I had said very little. Luckily my activities have never properly been exposed. I was treated badly in captivity, I was beaten and kicked, but as nothing compared to others. I am, after all, a Han.” Joe experienced a strange, sadistic desire to see the scars on Wang’s body and hid his shame in a cigarette. He offered one to Wang, who refused. “I also have influential colleagues who were able to pay for my release and clear my name. I was soon back at work. Others were not so lucky. One Han doctor was arrested recently for treating the wounds of an alleged separatist following a riot in Kashgar. Three Yining shopkeepers who discussed the demonstration I have described with a foreign journalist were sentenced to fifteen years in the gulag. For a single conversation. In Xinjiang now, even to think about separatism is to be jailed.”

  “You mentioned a second riot in Kashgar,” Joe said, and realized that either Lee or Sadha was moving around in the kitchen. How long had they been there? He heard a pan being filled with water, then the closing of the bedroom door as privacy was restored.

  “Mr. Richards, there are riots all the time in China. Surely you are aware of this? They simply go unreported. What I am here to tell you today is the intensity, the frequency of these riots in Xinjiang. The people are ready for revolution.”

  “And that’s why you’ve come?”

  “That is one reason I have come, yes.” Creases appeared at the edge of Wang’s eyes. “Perhaps Governor Patten’s staff will be interested in the political implications of revolution in north-western China, yes?” The tone of the question seemed deliberately to mock Joe’s denials that he was involved in intelligence work. Wang now took the cigarette he had been offered and drew out the silence as he lit it with Sadha’s plastic lighter. “But it is of course primarily because of what has happened in the prisons that I have come to see Governor Patten.”

  “What has happened in the prisons?”

  Wang inhaled very deeply. He was now entering the final phase of his long exhortation. “Two men were released,” he replied. “They came to me, because I am known in the underground as a safe outlet, a haven. Once I see Governor Patten I can explain more about this.”

  Joe was aware of contradictions emerging in Wang’s story. He had earlier said that he was a political undesirable, that he had been jailed alongside his fellow students for inciting revolution, then stripped of his chair at the university. But where was the evidence of this? “Who are these men?” he asked.

  “Their names are Ansary Tursun and Abdul Bary. Ansary had been arrested for ‘reading a newspaper,’ Abdul for swearing at his Chinese boss.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That is all. And like the others they received no trial, no habeas corpus, no lawyer. Instead they were sent to the Lucaogu prison in Urumqi by a judge who presided over—what do you call it in English?—a kangaroo court. Before his escape, Ansary was locked up in a cell with eight other men, Abdul with seven. The cell was so crowded that the prisoners had to take it in turns sleeping. You see there was not enough space for everybody to lie down. All of the men told Ansary that they had been beaten and kicked by the guards, just as I was two years before. At some point Ansary was taken into what he believes was the basement of the prison. His left arm and his left leg were handcuffed to a bar in a room of solitary confinement. He was left to hang like this for more than twenty-four hours. He had no food, no wat
er. Remember that his crime was only to read a newspaper. Perhaps you look at me and think that this is not so bad, that these sorts of violations are acceptable. Perhaps your own government abuses human rights and tortures prisoners from time to time. When they have problems with the Irish, for example.”

  Joe wondered what had caused Wang to become more aggressive. Had he failed to look suitably distraught? “Let me reassure you,” he said, “that the British government takes the greatest possible-“

  The professor held up his hand to stall his predictable rebuttal.

  “Fine, fine,” he said. “But let me reassure you about what happened to my friends. Then you can decide if the treatment of prisoners in China is compatible with Western values. Because Abdul Bary was also taken into solitary confinement, and the largest toenail of his right foot removed by a pair of pliers held in the grip of a guard who laughed as he did this, who was so drunk on the power and the humiliation of what he was doing that he found it funny.”

  “I am so sorry,” Joe said.

  “Other prisoners, we later learned, had been attacked by dogs, burned with electric batons.” Wang’s cigarette was shaking as he spoke. “Another had horse’s hair, that is the hard, brittle hair of an animal, inserted into his penis. And through all this, do you know what they were forced to wear on their heads, Mr. Richards? Metal helmets. Helmets that covered their eyes. And why? To create disorientation? To weigh them down? No. Ansary later learned from another prisoner that there had been an instance when an inmate had been so badly tortured, had been in so much pain, that he had actually beaten his own head against a radiator in an attempt to take his own life. This is the extent of what they had done to him. This is the extent of human rights abuses in so-called reformist, capitalist China. When I had finished protecting these two men, I knew that I had to come to Hong Kong. When I heard this I knew that our only salvation lay in England.”