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They handled him roughly. Grey uniforms all over
him like dung flies. A blow to the ribs, a boot in the groin, but
Chang An Lo did not retaliate. Only when they thudded a rifle butt
down on his damaged hand did he spit, but that was all. The
headquarters was in a new concrete blockhouse on the edge of old
Junchow, tucked into the shadow of the great stone walls, its
entrance guarded by two fresh-faced young Chinese officers eager to
impress their superiors. When Chang suddenly appeared before them
out of the morning mist, their eyes widened in surprise. They
stamped their boots and raised their rifles, expecting trouble, but
when none came they led him quickly into their captain’s
office.
‘You are the Communist dog we have been hunting,’
the Kuomintang officer said with relish. ‘I am Captain Wah.’
He removed his cap, tossed it to one side, and
rummaged through the chaotic piles of paper on his desk. After a
moment’s confusion, he pounced on a sheet that he held up at arm’s
length to inspect. It was an indistinct portrait of Chang’s face,
skilfully sketched, obviously sent out to all Chinese troop centres
and police stations. Chang wondered bitterly which of his friends
had obliged and for how much.
Captain Wah stared at Chang with cool, sad eyes and
lit himself a thin cigar. ‘You will be interrogated first, gutter
rat, and then a magistrate will order your execution. All you
Communists are cowards who slither on your bellies, like worms
under our feet. Your execution is certain, so do not add to the
pain of China by worthless loyalty to a cause that is doomed. By
great Buddha, we shall rid our country of you vermin.’
Even with wrists handcuffed and the fever in his
blood, Chang knew he could kick this man’s teeth down his throat
before the soldier at the door could draw his gun. It was tempting.
But what good would he be to Lydia with a bullet in his
brain?
‘Honourable Captain,’ he said with a humble bow, ‘I
have information to give, as you so wisely suspect, but I will give
it only to one man.’
Captain Wah’s mouth narrowed with annoyance. ‘You
would be wise to give it to me,’ he said in a sharp tone. He rose
to his feet, tall and rangy in his dusty grey uniform, and leaned
forward threateningly over his desk. ‘Do as I order, or you will
die slowly.’
‘One man,’ Chang said quietly. ‘The Russian. The
one whose words the Kuomintang listen to.’
A change came over the officer. His cheeks sucked
in, he rubbed a hand across his pockmarked chin, and his eyes grew
more thoughtful. He bit the end off his cigar and spat it at the
floor.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘I will execute you right
now.’
‘If you do, I promise you the Russian will have you
whipped to the bone,’ Chang murmured with a bow.