Chapter 1

Xinjiang Province

         Memettursun Kawul Roshan was born in a weathered, single story mud brick compound in Wugu, the ancient village that sat thirty kilometers north of the Tuoshigan River in China’s Xinjiang Province.  Shadowed in the early afternoon by the Tien Shan’s east face, the small farming village was a dry mix of dirt streets, mud wall compounds and skeletal cotton canes bending in a cold, hard wind.

         Thirty generations of Memettursun Kawul Roshan’s ancestors worshipped Allah and for centuries were tested only by drought and the sixty below blizzards that blew from the Arctic south across Siberia, Mongolia and Kyrgyzstan.   In those tolerant decades, the family Roshan cotton fields left little time and less inclination to attend the faded mosque that rose on a hillside, twenty miles to the north toward Aksu. When the annual twenty-two inches of rain or snow came early the crops withered and the village starved.  Beijing was a thousand miles distant and the bureaucrats who set production, tax and army quotas for Xinjiang were unconcerned when drought, blight or disease devastated the three hundred families living in the narrow valley.

         Historians settled on the fifteenth century when Turkish tribesmen known as Toquz Oghuz, or Gaoche--High Carts migrated east on the Silk Road beneath the Tien Shan Mountains and into the western hills above the Taklimakan Desert.  Somewhere around 1920--the date is vague; the Chinese Bolsheviks began to refer to Ch'an-t'ou immigrants as Uyghurs.  Seventy years passed before the desert’s scattered, inhabited oases were lumped together in what was officially known as the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region.

         It was late November when Memettursun Roshan, stood at his back gate and surveyed his fifty barren acres.  Bad enough that three dry winters devastated yields throughout the Tamrin Basin, but Memettursun had just learned his wife Shoshanna was pregnant for the third time.

         Memmettursun was well aware of Beijing’s National Population and Family Planning Commission decree…one child--no exceptions.  Family Planning Officials held mandatory monthly meetings to instruct Wugu farmers and their wives how to avoid illegal pregnancies. Shoshanna had delivered three daughters.  Their first-born were identical twin girls… gifts from Allah that angered local official but stripped them of any power to act.

         When Shoshanna discovered she was pregnant for a second time, the Uyghur farmer refused to bow to the state mandated abortion.  His twenty-five year old wife remained cloistered inside the poor compound.   When her friends appeared at the front gate, Memmettursun advised them that she was not well, “Bù yánzhòng…Nothing serious,” he insisted.  “A congestion that persists.”  His lie elicited concerned glances as her friends turned to leave.  

          Subsisting on yogurt, potatoes, beans, onions and air-dried goat meat she hid through her first seven months until, late in her eight month, she began to crave the warm sun and the sweet perfume of fresh air and lingered outside the compound where she was seen by a Han neighbor who alerted the Office of National Population.  

         Deputy Magistrate Awat Han appeared at the compound gate two days later.  Flanked by five Aksu policemen, Han wore a National Population uniform.  Dark green, resplendent with gold emblems of rank the uniform marked Han as Chief Investigator for the Aksu Division of National Family Planning.

         Born, raised and educated in Beijing, Deputy Han was prosperous but not exceedingly wealthy.  University Graduate in Statistics, excellent with spread sheets…an inflexible administrator, he was perfectly suited to a position in Beijing’s State Department of Family Planning. His posting to Aksu on China’s dry, western border suited his disposition.  He would, without doubt, be successful in Xinjiang. 

         Prejudices festered whenever Deputy Han was called to discipline the Ch'an-t'ou…turbaned heads, If Awat Han had a say, Uyghurs would be prohibited from having any children.  None…no exceptions.   Borrowing a line from the Báisè èmó…population officers charged with enforcing the quotas believed Uyghurs were China’s burden.  Muslim, lazy, ignorant, rebellious … it was a mystery why the Ch'an-t'ou dared to claim the same reproduction rights as ethnically pure Chinese. 

         A decade had passed since Beijing codified laws that restricted Uyghur couples to one child, no more.  In private, the Chinese Premier believed the BNPFPC’s decision was overly generous and when the Uyghurs revolted, the Central Committee ordered Han troops to arrest the demonstrators.  Fourteen were shot.  Of those, twelve bled to death, when ambulances took hours to arrive.

         Deputy Han hated the daily appearances of pregnant Uyghur couples who begged how a single daughter could hope to support two parents, two grandparents and still care for a husband and child of her own.  Nothing the Uyghurs could say, no excuse or promise would change the law, and Awat Han’s steadfast refusal to offer sympathy or make an exception to the law elicited only praise from his superiors in Beijing.       

         When Deputy Han tried the gate’s steel latch he discovered it was locked. Turning to the Aksu policemen he gestured with his yew stick to a narrow path that led toward the rear of the compound. “They will run. Guard the back gate!”

         The policemen trotted between the high mud walls..

         The National Population and Family Planning Commission decreed that, in a case of national need, Han farmers might be allowed a third, and in rare cases a fourth child.  Beijing placed a high priority on crop yields and tilling the land, planting the seed, irrigating and harvesting the crops required large families.  In this way Deputy Han was able to make exceptions for couples who discovered they were pregnant with a third child. Depending on the circumstances, arrangements could be made for ethnically pure Chinese couples who understood the process was long, the paperwork extensive.  These couple would not expect Awat Han to invest hours on their behalf without compensation.    

         At almost the same second that Deputy Han’s stick struck the front gate, Memmettursun and Shoshanna burst out the back door and stumbled across the rear yard.  The thin farmer kicked open the back gate where he was immediately surrounded by the Aksu police. The deep chested officer’s lacquered clubs quickly drove him back into the compound.  Stepping through the gate into the rear yard,  Awat Han raised his voice to remind Shoshanna Roshan that laws were legislated to be enforced.  It was a phrase she had heard many times in the re-education classes.  Break one without consequence and the system crumbled. “You have exhausted our patience.” He said more to the police who might later serve as witnesses than the woman.

         Following two years as head of Aksu’s Office of Family Population, Deputy Han knew how to judge a woman’s due date. Shoshanna’s heavy coat, her girth and wide stance revealed she was far along.  Possibly her eighth month…. far too late for an abortion.   An eighth month abortion amounted to murder…a charge Awat Han preferred to avoid.   At this point he was legally able to hold her until she gave birth.  The State would then take the child.

         His voice bore as little empathy as the frigid winds gusting from the Tien Shan ridges. “Confess your month!”  He ordered Shoshanna.

         Holding his terrified two-year-olds, Memmettursun stepped in front of his wife. “She will give birth this week, or perhaps next, but not long.”

         “I did not ask you,” Awat Han’s walking stick moved the farmer to one side.  Further interference would be punished, “You…” his stick gestured toward Shoshanna.  He found her an ugly woman.  Too tall, too thin, cursed with brown hair and light eyes, she was indebted to western traders who once navigated the Silk Road.

         “Sir, I am in my ninth moth.”  She struggled to hide her fear.

         Awat Han’s voice was stripped of emotion. “Liar,” he brought the yew stick onto her shoulder. It hit with sufficient force to leave a bruise but not break a bone.

         Shoshanna began to weep. “But Sir…this is my ninth month.”

         Awat Han’s walking stick struck her shoulder for a second time.  It was a heavier blow, but still short of the force he would use on a man.  A pregnant woman’s broken collarbone would require an explanation. 

         “Please Sir . . . “ Shoshanna cried in pain.

         “Once more,” Awat Han ordered.  “Confess your month.”  The yew stick hit her before she had a chance to answer. 

         Memmettursun moved to protect his screaming wife but Awat Han’s stick cut savagely across his right knee.  The leg buckled as the farmer offered his back to shield his daughter from the Population Official’s anger. 

         Turning from Memmettursun, Awat Han grabbed Shoshanna by the arm.   “You are charged with violating China’s National Population Law. Section 23, paragraph 2,” He signaled the Police who, forcing the pregnant mother into the state sedan’s back seat, slammed and locked the door. Memmettursun begged Awat Han to release his wife and when his cries went unheeded, tried to block the car.  The sedan accelerated toward the farmer forcing him to jump to one side.  Holding the screaming twins, he watched the sedan follow the dirt road through the valley.  A cloud of dust rose as it rounded a distant rise and she was gone.

         Shoshanna gave birth to their third daughter two weeks later in a state hospital outside of Aksu. Surrounded by two nurses and a midwife, the young mother was forbidden to touch the infant girl who was taken seconds after the umbilical was cut.  Awat Han committed the child to the Kashgar State Orphanage.  With luck a Hong Kong industrialist who valued her pretty western features might adopt the little girl. Or, perhaps even a childless Chinese couple in San Francisco.  Stranger things had happened.

         The third daughter of a two child family, the un-named infant was a “hēiháizi” or black child.   As such she was not registered in the Chinese National Household Registration System and since no birth certificate was issued, she did not legally exist and would be ineligible for education or health care.  Five months after Awat Han left her at the Kashgar Orphanage, she was found lifeless in her crib.  The cause of death was listed as SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, a convenient acronym for neglect. Orphanage officials quickly destroyed all records of her birth and death.  More than a year passed before a sympathetic Uyghur nurse sadly informed Memmettursun and Shoshanna of her death. 

         It was early February, two months after Shoshanna was released from the state hospital when Memmettursun pulled her to him. Shoshanna feared another pregnancy and yet, while their twins slept in the same bed.   Shoshanna was obedient to her husband who worked to exhaust himself.  Weeping silently in the dark, she found solace in the scripture that described how Muhammad had fathered three boys and four girls.  Memmettursun and Shoshanna joined together six more times that month.  When she missed her lunar cycle, she hoped that, this once, she was simply late.  When she missed the second month and the third, she quietly inquired of her husband, “What shall we do?”

         Memmettursun was unafraid.  “Tawakkul . . .We will trust in God,” he said.

         Shoshanna did not leave the compound for the following eight months.  When the child settled deeper in her hips in preparation for birth, Memmettursun bundled Shoshanna and the twins into his old wagon, hitched the horse to the wooden traces and set out in the bitterly cold desert night for the twenty kilometer journey to his cousin’s compound.

         The frigid night air was hard on Shoshanna and the twins who lay huddled under a felt blanket and silently endured the shock of wooden wheels jolting over rocks.  The sun was rising when, to avoid being seen, Memmettursun entered his cousin’s compound through the rear gate.  As was the custom, he, Shoshanna and the twin girls were welcomed without question.  One look at Shoshanna revealed Shoshanna was shown a bed in the woman’s section of the house where, on the second night, her water broke.  In her twenty-sixth year she labored with a courage that impressed the wife of her husband’s cousin.

         Anwar Roshan was born at 2:00 a.m. on October 13th of 2001 in the Uyghur Autonomous Region of Xinjiang.  The child’s birth was not a cause for celebration.  That night an early season snowstorm blew from Kyrgyzstan’s seven-thousand-meter Hantengri Peak, swept across the frozen desert and wrapped around Anwar’s father’s brother’s son’s house.  Cracks in the wood windows whistled, echoing Shoshanna’s deep breathing in the last minutes of her labor.

         Anwar Roshan was a beautiful baby, long, thin with light eyes that he inherited from European ancestors who followed the Silk Road east through Turkey, Afghanistan and Kyrgyzstan’s high plateau into the Tamir Basin.

         Memmettursun Kawul Roshan repeatedly gave thanks to Allah for his beautiful son and prayed for His help hiding the child.  It was only a matter of time before his cousin’s neighbors betrayed him for a reward.  He was also aware that his cousin could not indefinitely hide his wife, two daughters or new son.  In time, Awat Han would learn of Anwar Roshan and search Memmettursun compound.  Finding it empty, he would first question the neighbors, then farmers who worked with Memmettursun, then childhood friends, then Shoshanna’s family.  It might take a few days, or as long as a week before the National Population Official appeared at Memmettursun cousin’s front gate. 

         Anwar Roshan was a week old when a National Population Sedan followed by two Aksu Police Vans stopped in front of Memmettursun’s cousin’s entry. When repeated demands to open the compound’s cedar gate went unanswered Awat Han ordered the Aksu policemen to break the latch.  The weathered cedar resisted six blows from a steel ram before the rusted bolts gave way and the gate creaked open.  A week post birth, nursing an eight-pound son, Shoshanna Kawul Roshan could not run.  Surrounded in the small central room Memmettursun fought back but was no match for the Han Police who, while the women and children screamed from a corner, clubbed him to the ground.

         Shoshanna tried to protect the infant but Awat Han took her refusal to release her son as a personal affront.  Grasping the baby’s left arm he only intended to separate the mother from her infant but when Shoshanna embraced her son, Awat Han lost his temper and tried to jerk the infant loose.  The baby started to scream--a high wail that further infuriated the official who wrenched the infant’s left arm.  His fury increased until, unable to watch her baby’s arm torn from his body, Shoshanna released him.

          Awat Han glanced at Memmettursun Kawul Roshan prostrate body and reminded himself that the Uyghur farmer had been warned.  Repeatedly warned.  One child!  The farmer had twin daughters!  He had broken the law.  Not once, but twice.  It was not the National Population Official’s fault that Memmettursun Kawul Roshan had ignored warnings.  Awat Han did not care that the Uyghurs valued sons. Uyghurs lacked self control.  State sponsored birth control classes, free contraception, warnings, fines and even jail offered little deterrent. In the absence of harsh, strictly enforced penalties, Uyghurs would over-populate China’s far western border with millions of Muslim rebels.  Whatever the cost, they had to be controlled.

         Dangling the screaming infant by his dislocated left arm, Awat Han might have tossed an eight-pound bag of rice to an Aksu policeman.

          “Did you not learn anything from your months in jail or our offers of contraception?” Awat Han demanded of Shoshanna.  The struggle to wrest the child from its mother had taken his breath.  “My office would have sponsored your abortion in a hospital…if you had only come to me!” He spoke, a beautiful, Mandarin.   “What were you thinking you…?”  He refrained from using the Mandarin word for animal.  Wugu was a small, proud, rebellious community.  It was wise to stop before he triggered yet another riot.  Beijing had grown weary of paying to suppress the demonstrations.

         “You spent two months in jail.  The state confiscated your daughter…what more can I do to make you understand?”

         Fighting to catch her breath, Shoshanna strained toward her son.  ““Sir, please…” she wailed.  “I was six months pregnant! He was kicking…I couldn’t lose him!  Please sir!  My husband and I will pay any fine you require.  Any cost, please return our son.”

         “Did you not learn anything from the loss of your third daughter?” Han was unmoved by her plea.  “You paid no attention to my warnings!  Do you realize what trouble you cost me personally…. and the thousands of Yuan!  Thousands and thousands of Yuan!  You…. yes it was you who forced us to take your daughter.  Now you’ve forced us to take your son.   Do you think I enjoy this?  It pains me!”

         “Sir, let us pay.  Please…” Shoshanna’s plea echoed back a dozen centuries to other mothers who faced equally desperate choices.  Conquering armies, hardened soldiers, beautiful captives, useless children, the choice was little more than an expediency.  Children would be killed.  The mother would be used through the night until the next morning when the army broke camp and continued the march east. 

         The National Population Official could no longer ignore the couple’s continued disobedience.   Ordering the Aksu Police to lift the unconscious Memmettursun, Awat Han said, “The law decrees mandatory sterilization.”  He signaled for the policemen to lead them outside to the van.

          Awat Han transported the infant Anwar Roshan to the Xinjiang State Orphanage in Kashgar.  Known for its ancient Sunday Bazar and for the 15th-Century Idkah Mosque, the two-thousand-year-old city was better known as a stop on the Silk Road. Anwar was nine days old when Han left him at the Kashgar State Orphanage.  

         Underfunded, under staffed…decaying behind a block wall, the Orphanage was a regrettable institution that offered few supplies, learning tools or, other than a few rusted swings and teeter totters, functioning playground structures.  The lack of funding showed in the orphanage’s worn green uniforms that were passed down until they were little better than rags.

         Though Han tried to immobilize Anwar Han’s dislocated arm with a tight blanket, the slightest movement triggered a high-pitched wail.

         Handing the week-old baby to the orphanage physician, Han noted, “It is simply hungry,” He was anxious to expedite the exchange.

         The baby continued to scream. 

         “This infant’s cries are not from hunger!” The physician began to unwrap the blanket.  Once the blanket was free, Anwar Roshan’s left arm swung uselessly at his side. The doctor had never witnessed such a severe dislocation.  The torn ligaments and tendons amounted to abuse.

         “The baby’s arm has been torn from the socket.  How did this happen?” the physician demanded.  The staff were chronically underpaid and over worked--a common condition in Chinese orphanages but they were not without pride, or empathy.

         “Who do you think you’re talking to? Han demanded of the graying physician.  “I’m the Chief Investigator for Xingjian’s National Population and Family Planning Commission.  The orphanage doctor quickly apologized.  He was in no position to interrogate him.    “It may have been injured during childbirth.” The doctor reluctantly agreed.

         Awat Han pressed his advantage.  “This child was born at home.  The labor was difficult.  When he became stuck in the canal, a midwife pulled on the arm to free him.” Han held the doctor’s gaze.  The physician blinked first.

         “The child’s mother has been a recurrent problem.” Awat Han raised his voice. “She had a third daughter who was confiscated and delivered to this orphanage.”

         “What is the child’s name.”
         “She died at five months.” Han said.

         “But her name?”

         “She was never named. This time the mother hid her pregnancy until the boy was born. We questioned her, but she refused to answer.”  Han advised the doctor. “The law is clear. She and the father will be sterilized.”

         The physician knew the mother would not cripple her baby but was powerless to charge Awat Han.  He signed the papers and watched the National Population Official exit through the peeling door.  He had never met one who wasn’t a brute.  Attired in an expensive green jacket, creased pants and shined shoes this cadaverously thin bureaucrat was no different.

         A closer exam revealed the coracohumeral, superior and middle glenohumeral ligaments that bound the newborn’s arm to his shoulder were torn.  The degree of damage would require an MRI, a diagnostic tool found only the State Hospital an hour and a half away. The infant would, in all likelihood, not survive the primary dislocation.  If he did, the joint would require successive surgeries followed by extensive rehabilitation.  The state would not spare the expense.  For now the physician could do little more than reduce the dislocation.

         Turning to his old nurse, he instructed, “Hold the baby!

         Wrapping her hands around the baby’s chest, close to the shoulder she squeezed until his screams faded to a series of tiny gasps.  The physician took the small arm in one hand, pushed against the body then pulled once and twisted.  The boy screams filled the small exam room as the humerous drifted into the glenohumeral joint.  When it failed to snap into place, the physician realized that all the major tendons were torn.  It would take months, possibly as long as a year to determine if any of the tendons or ligaments remained attached. The doctor reminded himself that the child was newborn.  Nature was miraculous.  Perhaps the boy would realize a thirty percent functionality.  Perhaps.

Chapter 2

Anwar Roshan Orphanage, Teacher’s College

         Once Anwar Roshan’s left arm was bound against his body with an elastic bandage, he was delivered to the Kashgar State Orphanage’s infant care unit.  His day was limited to feeding, diapering, the occasional bath and a rough army blanket at night. Like his sister who preceded him into the orphanage, he was a black child, ineligible for even a minimum education.  If his arm healed, he might find work as a laborer in construction or agriculture.  If it didn’t, he would beg.

         For the first year the infant was fed, clothed and bathed.  He cried constantly but miraculously avoided the flus that claimed the ward’s weakest infants.  The nurses were busy and when they had a few moments to cuddle, talk to or play, it was never the crying Uyghur child with the emaciated arm.  As little as a touch would trigger loud wailing and for days he would be left alone, his left arm bound to his torso. 

         His first two years passed with few, if any notes in his file.  A selection: Infant 702 cries when his bandage is removed to bath him.  Infant 702 fails to interact with other children.  Infant 702 is not a promising candidate for adoption.

         Anwar Roshan’s light blue eyes and brown hair contrasted with the black haired and dark almond eyes of Han children.  His long body alluded to malnourishment while, constantly wrapped against his body, his left arm withered to bone, sinew and protruding joints.  None of the nurses wanted to change his bandage and it was only when it was stained from dirt off the orphanage floor that they endured his shrieks while they wrapped and rewrapped his useless limb. All believed the child should either have the arm amputated, or be spared all life saving efforts.  Pneumonia was pandemic in the Kashgar State Orphanage’s wards and Anwar Roshan’s nurses believed it would be a blessing if a fatal bacteria were to follow a bad flu.  The sickly child would struggle to breathe and then quietly slip away.

         Despite all odds, the desperately thin infant survived his first year.  He cried when the staff tried to bathe, feed or far less often, comfort him.  His caretakers dealt with his shrieks by leaning him against a west-facing wall where he quieted, his blue eyes studying the other children at play.

         Despite his withered arm, Anwar Roshan proved to be remarkably strong. His name was Hàomǎ 702, Number 702…simple.   While other infants died around him and he continued to shrink from contact, his first birthday passed without notice.  He was slow to talk but then, other than yelling, “Ānjìng! Tíngzhǐ jiān jiào!  Be Quiet!  Stop screaming!”  None of his caretakers spoke to him.

         Propped against the wall, his blue eyes missed little.  His second year passed much as the first.  He started to walk shortly before his second birthday.  Almost a year late, the lag could be explained by the difficulty pushing himself up with one arm…and the fact that few, if any of his caretakers offered help.  His first steps were along the wall… counter clockwise, bracing himself with his right arm.  During that first week he could not turn around and was forced to follow the wall past doors, beds and cabinets until he returned to his blanket.  A week later he risked a few steps toward the center of the room, tripped, landed heavily on his left shoulder and shrieked in pain.   Accustomed to his crying, the day caretaker dragged him back to his blanket.  From then on he was prevented from walking.  Arm bound to his left ribs, he stood against the wall and watched the children’s games. 

         Anwar Roshan was ignored in his third year.  By then he no longer tried to engage with the other children.  It made no difference.   Han children of roughly the same age ignored him.  He was invisible, a thin three year old, who shrank when any rough housing toddlers ventured too close.  He was late to toilet train and the nurses were slow to change him.  His discomfort further isolated him from the other children until days would pass without meaningful contact. 

         November ninth.  Anwar Roshan was a month past his fourth birthday when Hong Hou came to change his bandage.  The boy could not know that Hong Hou had worked at the orphanage for a decade.  It was a dead end job that traded little pay and few benefits for twelve-hour days.  His name translated to Strong Nobleman.  Part was true for Hong was enormously strong.  His second name, Hou descended from a wealthy seventeenth century landowner whose vast estates were eventually confiscated by Mao Tse Tung and quickly sectioned into state farms.  Forcibly removed from the sprawling compound in a single day Hong’s grandparents were rich one day, destitute the next.  Hong was never allowed to forget the loss and grew up listening to descriptions of the fine carpets, aged furniture, jade, ivory, carved rhino horn cups, the banquets, his family’s prestige… the loss haunted the heavily muscled caregiver, who vented his frustration at the orphanage.

         Because he was born with the size and strength that commanded respect among his classmates, and later coworkers and bosses, Hong hated weakness…especially the constant crying of the crippled Uyghur orphan Anwar. 

         That morning, Anwar’s whimpering enraged, Hong who grabbed him by the left arm. “Tā mā de!!! The caretaker yelled. “Goddmanit!!!” 

         “Qǐng xiānshēng... Qǐng” The boy shrieked the only response he knew. “Please Sir….Please!”

         “Nǐ kěyǐ tánlùn nǐ zhège xiǎo húndàn,” Hong yelled,  “See…you can talk you little bastard,” Grabbing Anwar by his dislocated arm he dragged the boy across the room to a closet used to store cleaning supplies.

         Old scars tore loose, partially attached ligaments separated.  Anwar fainted.  When he woke he was locked in the closet.  “You can sit in the dark until the demons take you! “  He roared.  “I’m not paid to kiss a fucking Uyghur’s ass!!”

         Six hours passed, sheltering his ruined left arm, he tapped on the door.  “Please sir, I will try harder.”

         An hour passed before he knocked again.  “Please, I will not cry.”

         Ripping open the door, the massive caretaker screamed, “Nǐ gèng bèn bǐ wǒ xiǎngxiàng de!” “You are even more stupid than I thought!"         The boy was momentarily blinded by the light.  A second passed before Hong grabbed Anwar by his ruined arm and dragged the boy down the worn stairs and out the door into the playground where he threw him in the mud. “Shàngdì shì shénme luànqībāzāo de!... God what a mess!”

         Children on the playground listened to the huge man scream at the cripple.  Giving Anwar’s left arm a second sharp tug, he kicked the boy “Never, never cry again!” he yelled.  “Nǐ míngbái wǒ shuō de ma! Do you understand me!”

         The boy nearly fainted again.  “Shì de, hóng xiānshēng, wǒ míngbáile.  Yes . . . Mr. Hong . . . I understand.” From that moment on, Anwar Roshan vowed to avoid attention from Hong, or anyone.  Safety, the absence of pain required anonymity.  He would avoid eye contact, eat his meals alone, sleep in his clothes and wash when the other children played outside. 

         He was just shy of his fifth birthday…. the date was approximate, when one of the caretakers gathered a pile of blocks from a play area and dropped them near him.  The Orphans were learning a form of Yānggē the "Rice Sprout Song,” dance. They were required to memorize the steps but, by adulthood, no joy would animate their movements.  The dance would only recall the orphanage.

         The music faded, the dancing stopped and the children were led to lunch.  When Anwar Roshan’s caretaker returned with a bowl of thin, noodle soup she noticed the blocks were arranged by shape.  Triangles, squares, rectangles and circles…. all grouped.  She suspected an older child had amused himself with the blocks but the following day she set Anwar Roshan in front of the blocks and waited.  Using his good right arm the thin boy slowly picked up a block.  He set it on the floor, found its twin and added it to the first.   It took him one minute to arrange the blocks in groups.  Flawlessly.  When he finished he looked up at her with his penetrating blue eyes.

         The following day he built a structure.  Block upon block until it balanced three tiers high.  Pulling one, he watched the structure collapse.  He then built another, more complex than the first.  Over the next week, the caretaker supplied him with more blocks and the towers grew.  Cantilevers, buttresses, pinnacles…. perfection ordered the child’s play. 

         Anwar Roshan was an oddity, an amusing pet that could stack blocks into complex architectural patterns.  His caretaker wondered aloud how he might do with numbers and arranged one through ten in the correct order for him.  He copied them on his first try then rapidly mastered the order from one to a hundred.  The staff demonstrated simple addition.  One plus one equals two.  One plus two equals three.  One plus three equals four.  It took him a day to understand the progression from one through ten to a hundred addition tables.  Multiplication followed on Monday. He learned his times tables in a week.  Eight days for division.  He was now five years old and though still had trouble speaking, raced through elementary math.  Long division, simple algebra, geometry…none presented obstacles.

         While he was effectively mute and show little or interest in other children,  Orphanage Psychologist was mildly impressed by the little boy’s dexterity with blocks and administered a WISC…Wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children.  The Psychologist suspected the boy would score ten out of a hundred—no more  The test opened with “Arithmetic” a series of problems answered orally. Anwar refused to speak and failed. “Block Design” the second section encouraged the young boy to replicate a series of geometric patterns using red and white blocks. He scored 100. “Cancellation” tested how quickly his brain functioned.  Again 100.   “Coding” tested motivation, mental flexibility and attention span. 100. “Letter-Number Sequencing” tested his ability to remember lists of numbers and letters in exact order. 100.  “Matrix Reasoning” where he was asked to finish a partial matrix.  Anwar completed in it in astounding time.  Again 100 with a 25% bonus for speed.  “Similarities” between two words.  Failed.  “Vocabulary,” defining words.  Failed. “Word Reasoning,” identifying a concept that is implied by a number of clues.  Failed. 

         The WISC was designed to prevent perfect scores.  Answering all problems correctly failed to set an upper IQ.  Analyzing Anwar’s scores, the Psychologist realized the boy scored over 160 in the WISC’s nonverbal sections. Returning to the “Arithmetic” section, he wrote numbers on slips of papers, ordered them in the form of a verbal question, then randomly arranged the answers to one side. The boy revealed a fleeting joy.  Working with surprising speed, he completed the test. Again 100.  Based on the first sections, Anwar’s IQ was above 200.  How far above was a guess. The Psychologist was convinced he’d made a mistake. Bobby Fishcher’s IQ was 200, Garry Kasparov’s 190. Both ranked among the world’s highest.  Based on Leonardo da Vinci’s art, sculpture, weapons and architecture, his IQ was close to190.  Sir Isaac Newton was 190, Einstein was a surprisingly low 160.  Failing the verbal skills dragged the boy down to 130.  The Psychologist was tempted to diagnose Anwar as a savant, a highly functioning autistic. 

         No doubt the boy was physically handicapped.  It was also clear that his wasted arm, compounded by five years in the Orphanage, accounted for his minimal verbal skills.  And yet, there was something about his focus--an intensity that surprised the doctor.  He recommended Anwar be transferred from the orphanage to a state hospital.  Re-reading his notes, he deleted the phrase, “for further study.”

         The next morning Anwar’s few belongings were folded into a frayed cardboard suitcase. One of his caretakers led him to the Orphanage’s front door but did not bother to say goodbye.  He was not an overly demanding child, but he did nothing to improve her day and so she regarded his departure with as little notice as any of the children who were transferred to the infirmary and never returned. Later she might learn that the child died.  Pneumonia, SIDS more rarely a appendicitis the cause was noted with a brief, unemotional nod before she returned to her busy schedule.

         Anwar was greeted by a cold, December wind when he was led to the Orphanage steps.

         “Yīshēng jiàng zài zhèlǐ bùjiǔ…The Doctor will be here shortly,” the caretaker said before the cold forced her inside.  A recent winter storm had dumped a foot of snow on Kashgar, the sidewalk had not been shoveled.  It now amounted to a narrow, icy path.  The boy had never ventured outside the concrete building--in truth had no memory of any other home and now, at five years old had not seen ice, was never touched by a hard, frigid wind, or heard the sound of distant diesel buses. His caretakers used his damaged arm as an excuse. The boy did not play well, or at all, with other children and there was no reason to risk his turn on the swing, or ancient, rusted playground equipment.  It was best for both caretakers and children if Anwar Roshan remained inside where he watched the daily calisthenics through a clouded window.  It would later occur to him that the Orphanage simply warehoused future workers…very few of whom were ever intended to serve as more than minimum wage laborers, cooks or fill factory assembly lines. 

         That early January morning, Anwar waited at the top of the stairs outside the front door. He appeared as a light eyed, tangled black hair, leggy five year old with his left arm strapped to his side.  He had learned that schedules were more important than rules and he tensed his useful right arm, protected his left and watched the Psychologist exit a state sedan.  He was a tall gaunt man, older than the orphanage administers, smiling with a kind expression.  Anwar watch him slip on the frozen walk, steady himself then climb the icy stairs and reach for his hand.  Adults who reached for him caused pain and the boy frowned and shrank from contact.   

         “Ān huá bìxū bǎ wǒ de shǒu! Dàolù shì huá,!”  The Psychologist said.  “Anwar, you must take my hand! The path is slippery!”

         The boy crossed his strong arm over his left.  The Psychologist wished to start the journey without conflict.  He wanted the boy to make a good impression and prepared to catch him if he fell. “Wǒ néng zuò shénme?” he shrugged. “What can I do?”

         The boy marveled at how his foot slid on the ice.  He had learned many ways not to fall and bending his knees, tested each step before he moved his other foot. In that way he managed the first three steps. 

         Nodding with relief, the Psychologist said.  “Hǎo ba, wǒmen huì zuò nǐ de fāngshì! Bùyào zài bīng shàng shuāi dǎo de! Xiǎoxīn!.” He took a step closer.  “Ok, we will do it your way!  Be Careful!  Do not fall on the ice!” 

         Hand poised behind Anwar’s back, the Psychologist followed him down the front walk to the state sedan.  The boy had never ventured beyond the orphanage walls, certainly never been in a car, was unacquainted with modern traffic and Kashgar’s chaotic mix of old and new buildings.  He did not cry or beg to be returned to the orphanage, but sat quietly in the back seat until the sedan stopped at the Kashgar Teacher’s College. 

         The Teacher’s College was a rough mix of ancient stone facades and concrete architecture that in the coming years would be replaced by Kashgar University.  As per its name, the College trained teachers from early through advanced levels.  The top ten percent would  be transferred to state schools.  In a continuation of the philosophy that education provides the Enlightened Path to Success, the very brightest, hardest working students would be placed in Xinjiang University in Urumqi.  From there the top quarter of one percent might transfer onto Peking University or Tsinghua University in Beijing or only slightly less prestigious, Fudan University in Shanghai. 

         The Psychologist and Dean Chen of the Teachers College led Anwar to a small dormitory room.  Opening the metal door, the Dean waited for the Psychologist and Anwar to enter then stepped around them and introduced second year student, Cong Zhào.  Despite the tight space Dean Chen turned to Cong and offered a wide, steel filled smile.   “Student Cong Zhào, this is Zhang our State Psychologist specializing in Pediatrics. And this is Anwar…” The Dean struggled with the Uyghur consonants. “Rogan…”

         Cong bowed politely in greeting.

         The Dean got quickly to the point.  “I would be personally grateful if you were to share your room with Anwar…”

         Cong was shocked.  Share his room with a five year old cripple?  How would he complete his class work, or studies? “Sir,” Cong stumbled.

         The Dean smiled as if no other answer but “Dāngrán shì..Yes, Of Course,” was expected…or would be permitted. “Xīnlǐ xué jiā zhāng, rènwéi ān huá yǒngyǒu yī pī zhuóyuè de réncái. Yěxǔ nǐ kěyǐ bāngzhù fāxiàn zhèxiē réncái duō yuǎn de fànwéi.“ He spread both hands in welcome.   “Psychologist Zhang, believes for one so young, Anwar possesses a number of remarkable talents.  Perhaps you could help discover how far these talents range?”

         Zhào was already carrying a double major.  One was in Early Childhood Literacy.  The other, Software Programing, and though he did not have a new computer, or by Western standards a very old one, he had salvaged RAM from an ancient Dell that was dropped onto concrete and a CPU from another that crashed from a hot tea spill.  Over two months he managed to wring maximum performance out of the black desktop positioned on a flat table next to his bed.

         “Anwar,” the Psychologist attempted to lay his hand on the boy’s back. “Wǒ xīwàng nǐ néng mǎnzú cōng zhào. Nǐ huì fēnxiǎng tā de fángjiān.“ “I’d like you to meet Cong Zhào.  You will be sharing his room.”

         The boy shrank from his touch. 

         “Nǐ néng bùnéng dǎ gè zhāohū? ” the Psychologist asked.  “Can you say hello?”

          Avoiding eye contact with both the Psychologist and Cong, the boy whispered. “Nǐ hǎo”

           Nineteen, highly intelligent, Cong ranked second in his class--a standing that would have delighted most of his peers but which caused the second year student enormous distress.  Acceptance to Peking University from Kashgar’s Teacher’s College required nothing less than first place.  Even then a seat was not guaranteed.  Cong could not work any harder…or sleep any less.  Like his name decreed, first in Class…Junjie was handsome and outstanding.  High scores, scholastic awards­­––the attention of young, beautiful classmates…everything came easily to the outstanding student.  Junjie never had to study. Hard work, extra credit….Cong would never surpass him.   

         He half listened to the Dean’s suggestion that he share his room with a five-year-old Uyghur.  The boy was nonverbal, struggled to make eye contact, clearly had separation trauma…failure to bond.  Cong coveted every free minute for study and the crippled, mute boy would require a minimum eight hours per day.  Cong’s chance for acceptance to Peking University evaporated.

         “I will, of course, help in Anwar’s education,” The Psychologist avoided the use of “testing.”  “In all respects, we will strive to educate the boy…just as, hopefully, the boy will help us to understand how his remarkable mind works.”

         Cong struggled to find a proper way to decline.  A simple “No” would not soon be forgotten.  His classes, grades and small, state scholarship would suffer. He thought to reference his studies…the distraction the boy would represent and nearly missed the Dean’s offer. 

         “Kashgar Teacher’s College would be very grateful for your help in guiding Anwar.  He has not had an easy life and he needs the proper direction to ensure he integrates successfully among the students.”

          “But, Sir, I’m working hard to secure an acceptance to a University.”

         “Yes, I’m aware of that.” Dean Chen’s hand drifted toward the boy’s right shoulder. “The Doctor attended Peking Union Medical College.  It’s closely associated with Tsinghua University.  I attended the Beijing Language and Culture University.  I think between us we could guarantee a sympathetic review of your records. In light of your unselfish help with Anwar…” The Dean’s steel filled smile conveyed little warmth.

         Cong Zhào was stunned.  Had he heard correctly? Two personal recommendations to Beijing? He struggled for to convey his gratitude.

         The Dean interpreted Cong’s silence as refusal.  “No” would insult the Psychologist.  “I understand the strain it might place on your academic schedule.  For that reason, Teacher’s College would add a substantial percentage of extra credit to your academic record.”  His steel smile silently asked, “What more could we do?”

         The Psychologist waited until the Dean paused then contributed, “I understand that there will be added expenses for Anwar.  Travel around the city…. to museums, cultural centers, school supplies, food, clothes, perhaps games.  The State would contribute seven thousand Yuan per month toward his upkeep…more if required.  You would keep track of all expenses.  We trust you, and, of course, no audit will be necessary.”

         Cong searched for his voice. Seven thousand Yuan per month was three times what a mechanical engineer made.  A senior airline pilot made less.  Still unable to speak, Cong nodded slightly.

         “Wonderful!” The Dean pressed his hands together.

         The Doctor concluded the meeting.  “Anwar’s best interests are, of course, our primary concern.  You will be spending more time than any of his teachers…or other researchers.  We’ll depend on you to ensure he’s happy…constantly stimulated.  If for any reason, he fails to thrive under our arrangement, we will withdraw our offer of help at Beijing University, the extra credit will be deleted and the money will be terminated.”  His previous, cool smile faded.  “Do we have an understanding Student Zhào?” he inquired.

         “Yes…absolutely Doctor Zhang.”

         Anwar Roshan did not miss a word.  His eyes moved from one man to the other.  Only five years old, he already understood who was in charge.

         Anwar Roshan took the second bed in Cong Zhào’s small room.  The student valued it as a storage area for papers, books and spare computer parts, but when the boy finally succumbed to exhaustion and lay down on the concrete, Cong moved his things and made the bed with one of his two sheets and a worn, synthetic blanket.  Fully clothed the boy did not acknowledge Cong’s kindness.  Instead he curled onto his right side to protect his left arm and fell into a fitful sleep. 

         Neither Cong Zhào nor Anwar Roshan rested that first night.  The boy alternately cried and whispered in his sleep.  Cong listened intently but could make no sense of the dreams.  When he woke at two a.m., the boy was staring at the computer.  As Cong opened his eyes Anwar touched a key.  The computer screen came to life as Cong’s senior software project scrolled onto the screen.  Before he could think, he yelled, “Bù! Bù bùyào qù pèng tā. Jué bù!!” “No! No, don’t touch it.  Never!!”

         The boy had experienced far worse in the Orphanage than a shouted “No”.  Soiling his pants, eating with his bare right hand, refusing to talk, crying…his transgressions were punished daily by screamed threats, withheld food or being locked in a closet when tempers wore thin.

         Having a five-year old share his dormitory room was difficult for Cong.  Anwar spoke so infrequently that Cong feared he was mute.  The boy did not complain when he was hungry, ready for bed or needed to use the bathroom.  He memorized where the kitchen, toilet, shower, medical help were located.

         During the next three weeks, Cong took the boy to the zoo, museums, food stands that catered to children, stores, a theater…none of it elicited a response, joy, excitement or boredom.  The boy’s lone interest was Cong’s computer.  While the student worked into the early morning, Anwar stood off his left shoulder, never talking, simply observing how the keystrokes affected the lines of code. 

         Cong was panicked.   His senior thesis in advanced software required that he write a new program.  By Western standards the program was simple, unsophisticated.  Even so Cong burned three weeks to solve a glitch.  Now he was far behind schedule and had less than a fortnight to finish his thesis--not nearly enough time to edit the entire ten thousand lines of code.  During those days Anwar stood silently to one side watching.  Ten days passed, no progress.  Then one early morning, after Cong had ordered him to go to bed, Anwar reached toward the keyboard and, before the student could react, rapidly touched six keys, hit return and stepped back. 

         “Tā mā de!!! Tā mā de!!! Tā mā de!!! Wǒ gàosù nǐ, cónglái méiyǒu mō wǒ de diànnǎo!...Fuck!!! Fuck!!! Fuck!!! I told you never to touch my computer!” Cong screamed.  “You’ve ruined it you little bastard,” He came out of his chair and lunged for the boy with a closed fist. 

         Anwar had experienced anger in many forms, knew to protect his left arm.  Raising his right arm, he stumbled back into a corner and waited for the pain that would surely follow.  At that moment, the computer screen suddenly displayed a spreadsheet.  Cong’s thesis was running. 

         The student paused, lowered his hand and vaulted into his chair.  His thesis was an Education Program, a verbal multiple choice aimed at the first six years.  The concept was simple.  Start with a word, flower for example.  Chose the best answer.  That answer offers five other choices for the same question, then twenty-five, each choice opening others until the library exhausted all photographic synonyms. The program could be set for age groups with answers scaled for first, or later levels.  If similar programs existed, Cong relied on photos to keep students focused on the exercise. 

         The student didn’t know which sequence of numbers Anwar Roshn had touched.  Or where they were inserted.  He wasn’t sure whether the boy had detected a flaw, or simply touched a random sequence that, in the laws of chance, somehow won a lottery.

         He did not know whether to thank or slap Anwar Roshan but remembering the offers of extra credit, interviews and the seven thousand Yuan that he had barely touched, said, “Bùyào pèng wǒ de diànnǎo! Wǒ bù huì lǐjiě huò wēnhé de xià yīcì…..Do not touch my computer!  Next time, I will not be this understanding or gentle.”

         Dr. Zhang appeared each day to run word and math games that were designed to stress Anwar’s intellect.  As hard as the Psychologist worked to design new challenges, the boy quickly grew bored.  The questions were either not challenging enough or required a verbal response.  His IQ remained stuck at 160. 

         A day short of the first month, Psychologist Zhang led Cong out of the boy’s hearing.  “Cong,” Zhang frowned. “Wǒmen chūxiànle wèntí…We have a problem.”  He hesitated then stated the obvious.  “The boy has grown bored with our tests.  He is more intelligent than I imagined and requires further mental stimulation.  We’re failing to achieve our goals.   Either we obtain a quantifiable response from Anwar, or Beijing will close the study.  It’s all about the Yuan…the Board of Education, “ he stopped before he said something that could ruin his career.  “It’s clear the boy requires greater motivation.”  He paused then added, “Call it inspiration.”

         Cong waited for a pause then confessed, “Wǒmen yǐjīng cānguānle dòngwùyuán, cānguǎn hé wánjù diàn...... Dàn ān wǎ'ěr xiǎnshì qízhōng rènhé xìngqù bù dà.  We’ve visited the zoo, restaurants, and toy stores… but Anwar shows little interest in any of them.” 

         “Wǒ dǒngl.” The Psychologist bit his lip.  “Then you must try harder. The program will cancel for lack of progress.”

         “Wǒ míngbái.” Cong struggled for something that might encourage Dr. Zhang.  Anything to prevent loss of his extra credit, the University of Beijing interview or the thousands of Yuan.  “Sir, he is fascinated by my computer.” Cong grasped for any detail.  “He helped me solve a problem with my senior thesis.”

         The Psychologist suddenly paid very close attention.

Chapter 3

Anwar Roshan Junjie

                  Cong was shocked when, eight days later, a new Apple desktop was delivered to the dorm room.  Details of from where the new computer originated were not revealed.  Cong suspected an employee in Apple’s Chengdu factory found a way to divert the unit out a rear shipping dock where a waiting official for the China Scholarship Council, slipped the box into a state van and disappeared.  The Chengdu plant produced six thousand units in a twenty-four hour period…thirty thousand a week--the multiplication proceed out to hundreds of thousands per quarter.  One, or for that matter, twenty-five desktops would not be missed.  Apple would write the inconsistent accounting to a cost of conducting business in China.

         Cong had researched the Apple but could not believe his amazing good fortune.  Twenty-seven inch screen, four GHz quard core Intel core i7 processor.  Three terra bite fusion drive loaded with educational programs to stimulate Anwar and as a nod to Cong, four software programs, all linked through a wireless router to the University’s main server.  One final concession, ultimately more valuable than the rest, was a discrete internet port.  Only the most trusted administrators were given access to the internet.  Cong knew the uplink wasn’t intended for his benefit.  Time alone would reveal if the State’s faith in Anwar Roshan would return the tens of thousands of Yuan.  

         Cong dared not forget that his future was linked to Anwar’s success.  If the boy progressed, Cong would enter Beijing University.  Grades, tests and scholarships would no longer matter.  Anwar Roshan was the Key and Cong increasingly divided time between his own studies and the boy’s instructional games.

         It took Anwar three days to master the mathematics program.  Addition, subtraction, multiplication, division, algebra, geometry the problems grew more difficult with each correct answer.  When Anwar exhausted disc one, Cong loaded a series of word games.   The boy’s interest lasted an hour before he returned to math, racing through the answers for the time points that allowed him to load the upper level games.  By day’s end he was bored with the math programs and turned to the four programming files intended for Cong.

         Watching Cong type code, Anwar realized he would need his left hand to succeed.  It was on a Wednesday, midmorning when he settled in front of the Apple. “Wǒ xūyào yòng wǒ de zuǒshǒu wán yóuxì.....I need my left hand to touch the proper keys in sequence…” he turned to face Cong who was watching behind him.

         “Zěnme yàng? Nǐ yǒu méiyǒu gǎnjué nǐ de zuǒshǒu!” Cong reminded him. “How? You have no feeling in your hand….”

         “Wǒ néng gǎnjué dào wǒ de shǒuzhǐ,” he brushed his left hand with his right.  “Dàn tāmen shānghài dào yídòng.” He grimaced.  “Yes, they hurt to move.”  “Qǐng…Please.” It was the first time Cong had heard the boy use the word.  ““Bāng wǒ jǔ qǐ wǒ de shǒubì…Help me lift my arm.” He carefully unbuckled the leather strap that bound his arm to his ribs.  Holding his left hand, he looked to Cong.  “Help me place my hand on the keys”

         “It will hurt you.”

         “Be careful,” Tears filled the boy’s eyes as he struggled to move his hand from his body. Focusing on the keyboard, he slowly extended his right hand a centimeter at a time.  When he could not longer tolerate the pain, he looked to Cong.  “Qǐng,” he said.

         Shaking his head, the student took a gentle grip on the boy’s withered left wrist and moved the small hand toward the keyboard.  He could not look at Anwar’s face.  Face lowered onto his chest the boy was silently crying.  “Don’t stop,” he said when Cong paused.  “Put my hand on the keys.” The student continued until Anwar’s fingers lay on the board.

         If Cong hoped for movement, the boy’s withered left hand remained frozen.   

         Anwar willed his index finger to move.  There was no response. He tried harder.  Nothing.  Four days passed before he was rewarded with the faintest touch.  It was enough.  He would try again in the morning.

         The days settled into a routine.  Cong would lead Anwar to the showers, then the large cafeteria for breakfast, followed by an honors class in computer logic.  They would then visit the library for two hours.  By afternoon they would be back in their room where Cong would stretch the boy’s withered arm. Anwar showed no improvement.  Two weeks passed. Tears coursed down his cheeks, brittle joints ground one meniscus past another, dry tendons stretched, ligaments protested, the boy’s breath came in rapid, pained gasps. Cong marveled at Anwar’s determination.  In time the first curve animated the rigid left index finger.  Then the middle finger fluttered.  Another week passed, then a month.

         Anwar had long since moved from math and verbal games to Cong’s computer programs.  Watching lines of code scroll down the screen, the twenty year old had no idea how much, or little the boy understood.  Movement slowly crept into the Anwar’s left hand.  He began to touch the proper left keys.  His right still finished the difficult moves but the left was no longer crippled.  Lines of code scrolled more rapidly down the screen.  The boy’s blue eyes scanned the numbers, commas, dashes that determined whether a program would boot, or not.  At night, Cong would wake to the boy sitting in front of the screen, his right hand moving rapidly across the key, his left dragging faithfully along.  There came a point when Cong realized that Anwar had mastered the theory and was writing his own programs.  Simple at first, they rapidly grew in complexity until Cong could not divine what Anwar’s programs might or might not accomplish. 

         “Ān huá, nǐ zài dǎzì?....Anwar, what are you typing?” he asked. 

         “Méiyǒu….Nothing,” the boy replied.

         “But you just typed ten lines of code.”

         “Only practice for my left hand.” Anwar had become increasingly fluent but only spoke when it suited him. 

         “Yes, Anwar, but there is a progression in your code…I can read it!  What does it do?”

         “Nothing…” The boy’s answer signaled an end to the conversation.

         Cong knew that the boy’s happiness, and far more important, his adjustment to life at the Teacher’s College determined his future.  Deny the child, push him into a silent, rigid depression and the privileges, the promises and security of a place in Beijing would shatter.  Cong might have contested who was older, stronger, better educated…but now he sensed who was in charge.

         Two months had passed when Anwar asked Cong to buy him a discrete hard drive.  By then the boy’s left hand was managing the left side of the keyboard.  It was not as quick as the right, but compensated for an unerring accuracy.  No mistakes.

         “Zài diànnǎo de cúnchúqì TB de, wèishéme nǐ xūyào yīgè dúlì de qūdòngqì….. The computer has terabytes of memory, why do you need a discrete drive,” Cong inquired.

         Rúguǒ yìngpán chūxiàn gùzhàng, wǒmen jiāng shīqù wǒmen suǒyǒu de gōngzuò.” Anwar whispered in reply.  “If the hard drive fails, we will lose our work.”

         Cong started to object about the cost but Anwar read his mind.  “Zhāng yīshēng gěi nǐ de qián, yǐ quèbǎo wǒmen kěyǐ mǎi dào wǒmen xiǎng yào de!” he reminded him.  “Dr. Zhang gives you the money to ensure we can buy what we want.  It must be five terabytes, No less.”

         Cong knew better than object.  It took a week for the drive to be shipped from Beijing.  The day the hard drive arrived Anwar encrypted it with a password that denied Cong access.

         Dr. Zhang appeared two days later with a birthday cake and a brightly wrapped box.  Anwar was sitting in front of the computer when Doctor Zhang knocked and opened the door.  The boy gently lifted his arm from the keyboard, strapped it to his stomach and carefully slid out of the seat. 

         “Cong,” Dr. Zhang nodded to the student who returned the greeting with an eager bow.  Zhang then turned to the boy “Anwar,” he did not try to disguise the pleasure in his voice.  “Nǐ yǐjīng huīfùle yīxiē lìyòng nǐ de zuǒ gēbó ma?....You’ve regained use of your left arm?”

         “Shi,” He replied in a barely audible whisper. “Cong helped me.”

         Zhang was surprised not only by Anwar’s sudden use of his left arm, but the gratitude he expressed toward Cong.   Up to that morning the boy was, effectively, a sociopath.  Faint manners now colored his greeting.  “You received the hard drive?” Zhang inquired

         “Shi,” Cong and Anwar, bowed.

         “Could I inquire why you needed it in addition to the desk top? It has more than enough storage.”

         “To back up files…it was Anwar’s idea,” Cong lowered his voice.

         “I see,” the Psychologist was surprised.  “These must be very important files.  Are you saving your test answers?” he glanced at Cong.

         “Shi,” Cong nodded.  “Anwar has completed all the tests you’ve supplied.”

         “And how did he perform?” Zhang glanced at the Apple monitor.  Lines of code scrolled top to bottom. 

         Anwar noticed the Doctor’s interest, turned and touched a key.  The monitor faded to black.

         “He scored as expected.”  There was no need to state the obvious while the boy was listening.   Anwar had exceeded the maximum possible.   “We were hoping you might supply us with new games.” Cong glanced at the cake.

         “Anwar’s birthday is today.” Dr. Zhang explained.

         The boy who showed no interest in the decorated, white frosting covered steamed cake.  Zhang had purchased it a local bakery, picking one decorated with a car, an airplane and a soccer ball.  Anwar glanced from the decorations to Zhang. “It’s your birthday,” Zhang repeated.  He had hoped the boy would show some excitement.

         Cong placed his hand on Anwar’s left shoulder.  “Dr. Zhang bought this cake with his own Yuan.   Would you like a piece?”

         “Shi,” Anwar nodded without enthusiasm.  He had never celebrated his birthday, did know the month or year and simply wished Doctor Zhang would leave.  He wanted nothing more than to return to his program.  It was a simple algorithm that searched the Apple desktop for duplicate files.  Once found the duplicates would be selectively deleted, freeing storage and allowing the computer to run at twice the previous speed.

         While Western companies offered programs that would accomplish the same functions, Anwar’s crude first design differed on two critical points.  Along with the duplicate files, the program searched for electronic gates through email and dot com addresses.  The program included flags that would have triggered alarms antivirus programs.  The Teacher’s College lacked the west’s sophisticated technology and relied more on fear of expulsion than sophisticated firewalls.

         Cong’s computer was one of four in the Teacher’s College that allowed access to the internet and if Anwar didn’t initially seek access into the Dean Chen of the Teacher’s College files, the boy was well aware of Cong’s obsession with Junjie, the class leader.  Two weeks had passed since Cong and Junjie had rounded a corner in a hall and unable to avoid each other, their conversation was brief. He looked from Cong to Anwar

          “Tīng shuō zhǔxí yuàn cháng wèn nǐ nǎimā zhège, měilì de háizi…. I heard that Chairman Dean Chen asked you to wet nurse this, uh, beautiful child.  Junjie nodded toward Anwar’s withered arm. “Tā shì shénme?...What is it?” His smile displayed white, perfect teeth.  Tǔ'ěrqí, āfùhàn, yīlǎng?  Turk, Afghan? Iranian?’ Slicked close to his head, his black hair was just long enough to touch his collar.  His eyes were perfectly shaped beneath black eyebrows that arched, then tapered to the temples. “Bùyào gàosù wǒ!....Don’t tell me!” Junjie started to laugh.  “Bù wéiwú'ěr? Zhè shì tài hǎole? Wéiwú'ěr?....Not Uyghur? This is too good?  A Uyghur?”

         “Junjie…cruelty to a boy…”

          The handsome student was not listening. 

         “Junjie,” Cong interrupted. “Zìcóng wǒmen shàng cì jiànmiàn nǐ de lǐmào dōu méiyǒu hǎozhuǎn.” “As for Anwar,” he nodded to the boy.   Your manners have not improved.”

         “Tā yǒu yīgè míngzì ma?...It has a name?” He smiled once more.    Lǐyí bìng bùshì chénggōng de bǎozhèng…..Manners do not guarantee success. Certainly not with a Uyghur cripple…or the type of woman who says no…when she really means yes.”

         “Zǎo ān Fenfang!”  Junjie nodded to an exceedingly beautiful girl who smiled in return. “Life begins when you honor your talent and cease to worry about your ranking in the class.  Chon Zhao, you’re still second?  Or has that number changed…Chon Zhao?”  Mispronouncing Cong’s first name was deliberate.  Junjie glanced at the Breitling watch that graced his left wrist.  “I’m late.”  He ended the conversation. “Nísī liáotiān …. Wéiwú'ěr guǎizi… Nice chatting…” He fainted toward Anwar “Uyghur cripple.” The boy moved behind Cong for protection.

         Anwar’s faint experience with firewalls prevented him from hacking into the Dean Chen’s computer…but If the boy at first attempt to access the Dean Chen’s files failed, he discovered a critical code on a gamer site.  It took days of repeated attempts to break down the Dean Chen’s password, until miraculously, one early morning while Cong slept, Anwar touched a key and the Administration files scrolled onto the monitor.

         Junjie’s grades, teacher evaluations, honors classes, extracurricular and activities lay unprotected.  The boy silently set to work.  Grades were incrementally lowered.  He did not fully understand the Professor’s evaluations of Junjie, but deleted complimentary sentences. Scores slipped.  Critical classes were discarded.  When his work was done, Anwar departed as discretely as he entered. None of the electronic records revealed his fingerprints. He replaced the files and closed the electronic door.  His work went un-noticed until the following month when class rankings were announced.  To the surprise of all and joy to many, Junjie had slipped to fifth.  Cong Zhào rose to first.

         Cong Zhào was stunned that the long hours of hard work finally paid off.  Ranked first in the class, with Doctor Zhang and the Dean Chen’s recommendations, Cong was assured entry to Beijing University.  As the weeks passed he noticed the same coed who had cast adoring glances at Junjie, now greeted him in the crowded halls.  He gloried in his success until he woke one night and saw the monitor was filled with files.  Anwar was reading, his lips moving. 

         “Anwar, it’s late, you should be in bed.” Cong said.

         “A minute,” the boy said.  Before he put the screen to sleep, Cong saw the boy was reading records of classes and grades. 

         Junjie knocked on Dean Chen’s office less than an hour after grades were posted. “Good Morning Junjie,” the Dean looked away from his computer monitor.  “What can I do for you?  Though he knew the answer, he waited for the handsome student to speak.

         “Dean Chen,” Junjie started.  “Grades were just posted.”

         “Yes, I am aware of that.”  Chen smiled.

         “There’s been a mistake!” Junjie got to the point.

         “A mistake?” the Dean knew that, upon seeing the change in ranking, the gifted student would protest.  Chen was not surprised that Junjie appeared so quickly after the list was published on the hallway notice board.

         Junjie could barely contain his temper.  “I was ranked number five this semester.”

         “According to your scores, the extra credit and also your professor’s notes, you didn’t score as high as last semester.”

         “No, you’re correct, Dean Chen, I scored much higher than this last semester. My grades and professor reports were all Excellent Plus.”

         Dean Chen was surprised. “How could you know this?”

         Junjie was far too angry to think clearly.  Otherwise he would not have admitted,  “Discussions with my Professors and the graders who marked my final tests, gave me insights into both.”

         Dean Chen thought about the implication of the student’s admission.  He was enormously attractive, both physically and far more important, intellectually.  Chen refused to consider what inducement would compel a professor to open his evaluations…or more disturbing what would combination of bribe or threat would cause a grader to reveal the scores. 

         “Junjie,” Dean Chen, hesitated.  “This is not a conversation we should have.” His steel smile showed the yellow stain from chain smoking Hongta Shancigarettes.  “You need to reconsider what you have just told me.” He continued. “For the record, I have not heard anything and will not convene an investigation.  You are an excellent student.  I have no desire to ruin an extraordinarily promising career.”

         Junjie was not listening and could not restrain his rage that choked.  His anger took the form of an accusation.  “Someone changed Cong’s scores to move him to first.  There is no way he could surpass me without help.” The charismatic student made no effort to soften the accusation. “Someone changed the scores…of that I am sure. Absolutely positive…absolutely.”

         “Junjie… you are wrong.  I know Cong…he would not cheat his way to first.  Of that I am sure.”

         The student could not contain his anger.  “Did you not give Cong Zhào extra credit for chaperoning the Uyghur cripple?”

         “His name is Anwar and he’s a remarkable….”

         “I do not care what he is…did you not give Cong extra credit?”

         The Dean allowed the least exasperation to slip into his tone.  “As part of an incentive to care for the boy.  It was not factored into Cong Zhào’s final score but was intended only to improve his chances for acceptance to a University.  In no way did the extra credit alter his class standing.”

         “You are lying!!”  the student screamed.

         “What did you say?”  Dean Chen slowly rose from his seat

         “I said you are a liar!  Cong is your favorite because…” The student could have survived the accusation. His ranking would never rise as high as first but he could have graduated and continued onto a distinguished graduate program.  But his temper was far out of control and he could never call back what came next. It was a poorly kept secret that Dean Chen had never married.  More than that was left unsaid.  “Tāsuǒ tígōng de fúwù chāochū zhàogù cánfèi!..... He offered you services beyond simply caring for the Cripple.  It is a well known that you are….”   Junjie wisely stopped before he said something he couldn’t recall.

         “Shénme? Nǐ zài ànshì shénme?...What? What are you implying?” Professor Chen’s voice rose.

         “Only what is commonly known.” He paused.  “Why wouldn’t you as a pinyin…a divided peach …” he allowed the inference to hang.  “…prefer the company of Cong and his green eyed, one armed boy?”

         Dean Chen lunged across the deck.  “GET OUT!!!” he screamed, his face flushing a deep red.  A piece of prized Han Porcelain slid off the desk and shattered on the floor.  His photos of past trips to Mongolia, Beijing and Shanghai went flying. 

         The student spun toward the door as Dean Chen circled his desk.  Junjie did not expect the Dean to fight, but he was young and quick and easily deflected the older man’s clumsy first punch.

         Dreading the consequences for what had just occurred, Junjie took a step back. As Dean Chen rushed across the room, it was unfortunate that Junjie pushed the older man.  The Dean lost his balance and, as he fell, his head hit the corner of the desk. The educator’s eyes closed.

         Junjie was not stupid.  Legs and arms akimbo, the Dean lay in a heap on the concrete floor.   It took the student half a minute to pull the gray educator onto his back and slip two books under his head.  By then the dean was regaining consciousness.  When his focus returned, he saw Junjie’s anxious face.  “Dean Chen,” the student struggled to explain.

         The Dean waved his arm, “Get away from me,” He slowly rose to a sitting position and pointed to the door.  “Leave my office!” He refused to make eye contact.

         As Junjie was leaving the administration he was stopped by Kashgar police.  An hour later he was formally charged with assault.  The legal process was lengthy and when it concluded, the student was reprimanded to court guards for a six months sentence in a Kashgar prison.  Eventually, when he was released, the avenue to Beijing University, wealth and power was blocked by his conviction for felony assault.

         Cong Zhào was stunned by Junjie’s sudden, disastrous fall.  Expulsion, trial, prison…what could have triggered the handsome student’s behavior?

         “Junjie is going to jail?” Anwar asked in calm, low tone.  His Mandarin had improved.

         “Yes,” Cong told him.

         Seated in front of the computer, the boy nodded as if he knew as much. Lines of code scrolled top to bottom.  Cong Zhào had no way of knowing what Anwar was programming.

                  Chapter 4

                  Anwar Roshan Accepted to Beijing University

                           Anwar was sixteen, remarkably young for an accredited student in computer science at Beijing University.  Within months of his acceptance to the honors program, he began to hack the emails of students who interested him.  Most were sons and daughters of Government Officials or Shanghai Industrialists….ship builders, real estate developers, parts manufacturers, electronic fabricators.  A few of the poorer students were simply interesting.  Four possessed intellects above one sixty, short of stellar but sufficient to comprehend Anwar’s more accessible lines of code—if he would ever allow them access.  He wouldn’t.

                           The students, stupidly, believed their emails were secure.  And if they weren’t who would want to read endless back and forth about bars, drinking, coeds, cars, travel, pornography and very occasionally something related to classes.  It was the last that Anwar created a search program. It spared him from hours of reading adolescent drivel, and very occasionally yielded a reference that he stored for future use.  It was in this way that Anwar learned of a coming visit to Vancouver’s University of British Columbia from two sons of Beijing super wealthy.  One, the owner of Stella Shoe Company served as a subcontractor for U.S., Nike, Timberland and Kenneth Cole.  The other, a ranking Chinese Official had made a fortune awarding state coal, oil and timber contracts to electrical, gas and enormous construction companies.  China’s upper one percent were well aware that the central planning committee’s economic spring would be short lived.  A decade, perhaps a few years longer would pass before pollution, an increasingly restive work force, rising sea levels and declining oil reserves would shatter economic and civil order. 

                           “Zǒuchū ér gāng kāi de hǎo!....Get out while the getting’s good!” best descripted the rush to export financial accounts and famlies.  The San Francisco Bay Area offered the most attractive port, but US Immigration Law tightened before the election making it more difficult for Mainland Chinese, no matter who wealthy or well connected, to qualify for an EB-5 Visa. 

                           Vancouver was cheaper, more welcoming to Chinese investors who rapidly converted Canadian dollars to homes, businesses and bling…cars, jewelry and expensive watches.  The sons of the Officials and Business owners served as the point guard--a first trickle of a tsunami that would eventually flood Vancouver’s docks and airports.

                           The sons were both in their early twenties….Gang like his name implied was rigid, hard, strong which served a a literal description for the young man’s behavior with women.  The other,  “Yang” alluded to light of the sun and in truth he was a chubby, happy boy who loved a good party. Unchecked wealth, however, offers little incentive for intellectual focus or hard work and during a sophomore tour of France, Gang and Yang, were arrested for drunk and disorderly in a Paris brothel.  When the Gendarmes arrived the boys were drunker than a dozen Mongolians on Yak Beer, running naked after the whores.   Gang and Yang’s fathers shook their heads, albeit with the least pride, quickly paid the fines, made a substantial contribution to the Gendarme retirement fund, and booked two first class seats on the next Air China flight from Orley to Beijing.

                           For the next six months, Gang and Yang traded emails about Parisian whores and the rented BMW they managed to destroy….neither quite remembered how. No one, however, was hurt and once again their father’s discretely covered the cost of shredding the record.  French, Germans, Italians, Chinese…Police, file clerks, secretaries are consistently corruptible. It was simply a matter exporting rituals that had flourished in China for thousands of years.

                           Along with Gang and Jang, Anwar hacked the emails of eight hundred of Beijing’s wealthiest, or most gifted students.  Sons and daughters of corrupt party officials and hyper wealthy industrialists, the freaks like himself who were wired oddly, Anwar understood that after graduation they would find positions in China’s powerful offices, or equally powerful private companies.  Bad behavior, youthful or aged, always included  a future cost.

                           It was from Gang and Yang that Anwar learned of the Vancouver trip.  Their emails described it as a chance to party hard with Canadian born coeds and meet with David Dai founder of the five hundred member Vancouver Dynamic Auto Club.  One critical requirement prior to entry was the car had to cost more than $100,000 Canadian.   Gang reduce it to basics that they both understood..  “Jīngrén de wǔshí wàn rénmínbì jiāng kāi shénme mén…Amazing what doors half a million Yuan will open.”

                           Anwar believed the trip sounded interesting and promptly added his name to the invitation list.  He then created a back ground detailing how his father amassed a fortune drilling for Tamrin Basin deep oil reserves.  An only child, mother ethnic Chinese, grandmother half Uyghur, grandfather decorated in the Second World War fighting the Japanese.  Anwar had little fear that the trip organizers would check his story…but they would discover time, dates and names all checked.  It required some work but he’d learned that the lose thread would hang him.

                           It was inevitable that Anwar would eventually come to the attention of the People’s Liberation Army.  A division of China’s brightest computer programers….in Mandarin, “Hēikè…Hacker” were ordered to search U.S. security systems… DOD, Department of Defense and private companies, Westinghouse Electric, US Steel, Allegheny Technologies and SolarWorld, Bank of America, Ford, Chrysler, General Electric…any major U.S. company that was conducting, or in the process of securing the permits, to conduct business in China for what intellectual property could be stolen.  

                           Six feet, tall powerfully built, smart but not brilliant, General Fan Ma, was a Private First class during the student revolt at Tiananmen Square where he exhibited no hesitation and less remorse when ordered to club, bayonet or in a dozen cases, shoot students. Accepted into the People’s Liberation Army Defense University in Beijing, following four years of studies in tactics, western history and political thought, he had risen in the PLA by dint of courage in peace keeping skirmishes in the Republic of the Congo, South Sudan and the Ivory Coast. By dint of political connections Ma moved vertically through the ranks to Major General. A Beijing Univeristy professor was overheard discoursing on Anwar’s amazing intellect.  A day later the seventeen year old was visited by General Fan Ma,   Tough, shrewd, aided by a ruthless lack of conscience, Ma headed the PLA 61398 Corps. General Ma was, at first, unimpressed by the crippled student.  Tall, Uyghur, barely verbal in Mandarin, other than the Computer Science Professor’s word, General Ma saw little to recommend the ugly teenager. 

                           Anwar whispered when he replied and if the General had asked to see the student’s most recent work, he wouldn’t understand the coding, or its use.  The percentage of college-educated conscripts had increased over previous years, but Ma knew classically educated Computer Science graduates composed a very small percentage of 61398. Equally well represented were gamers, the pale teenagers who ran World at War programs until they dropped from exhaustion.  Ma took Anwar as one of the latter.

                           It was no secrete that the PLA had begun to engage the U.S. Western and Northern Europe, Japan and to a lesser extent Russia in cyber-warfare.  Cyber attacks had increased since 1999.  Crude at first, the scope and sophistication had increased until by early 2016, the attacks exceeded the PLA’s most optimistic expectations.  Working under Ma Two Colonels, Qiao Liang and Wang Xiangsui, wrote a paper a line in which alerted the west to future operations. 

                           Writing in a classified brief that was hacked by the NSA and later released under the Freedom of Information Act, the officers suggested, "Methods that are not characterized by the use of the force of arms, nor by the use of military power, nor even by the presence of casualties and bloodshed, are just as likely to facilitate the successful realization of the war's goals, if not more so.”

                           Five members of the "Comment Crew" a faction of the China's People's Liberation Army also known as Unit 61398 were indicted by a Federal Grand Jury on criminal charges related to cyber attacks on private companies.  Ma was always looking for men, or in this case, a teenager who posses the same exalted intelligence and clarity of goals.  He doubted the misshapen Uyghur standing in front of him was worthy of either the effort, or Yuan.

                           “How old are you?’ Ma refused to waste time.

                           Anwar looked at his feet,  “Seventeen, I think,” he said.

                           Ma dark, unblinking gaze bored into Anwar.  “You think? You do not know?” he raised his voice  “What is your birthdate.”

                           “I do not know it,” the teenager confessed.  Asked for his birthdate many times, he had memorized the proper responses.  “I was delivered to Kashgar Orphanage. No birth certificate exists.

                           “What happened to your parents?”

                           Anwar glanced up from his feet. When he answered it was in an ugly, poorly accented Mandarin. “I do not know. “ He confessed.  “No records survive.”

                           The Professor was clearly mistaken about the crippled teenager.  The General had wasted the morning and took his frustration out on Anwar.   “Handicapped or not, you’re aware you need to fulfill your military obligation”

                           His left arm bound tightly to his side, Anwar risked a furtive glance at the General’s face.  A muscle twitched in Ma’s jaw.  “Military obligation?” he asked. “I am unable to use my left arm.”

                           The ruined arm made no difference to the General. “Your handicap does not excuse you.  Eligible males must serve.”
          “General….” Anwar hoped to appeal the General’s decision..  “Can I not wait until I complete my education?  I have another year before graduation.”

                           “Your graduation holds no value for the State.  You will be transferred to Wuhan University. We have made arrangements.”

                           Anwar realized it was useless to protest.  That night an unmarked van appeared outside his dorm.  Six soldiers took less than ten minutes to move his personal belongings to the van.  From there he was escorted onto a train for the twelve hour journey to Hubei Province. 

                           Straddling the Yangtze River and surrounded by national development zones, scientific and technological development parks, research institutes and hi-tech enterprises, all employing over a half million technicians, Wuhan was an ideal site to locate an national school of computer science.

                           Anwar’s train arrived in the early morning.  He was met by two soldiers who led him to van. Driven through the dark, empty streets, he missed Wuhan’s popular attractions, the East and South Lakes and the blooming cherry, mei and lotus blossoms.  Once surrounded by the University’s monolithic halls, walls and dormitories, he would never visit the Hubei Provincial Museum with its eighth wonder of the world, the 2430 year old, five ton Zeng Hou Yi bell.  He had no interest in the Rock Museum that held a quartz crystal as big as a car nor would he venture into the shopping districts, Chu River or Han Street.  Wushan’s many amusement parks and the beautiful Yellow Crane Tower would not contribute to his educations.

                           Three days after his interview with General Ma, Anwar was enrolled in Wuhan University’s department of Computer Science.  Funded by the Third Department of the People's Liberation Army's General Staff Department--3PLA…the school that had graduated over eight hundred security experts who subsequently controlled government, military and state-run corporations.   3PLA was responsible for intercepting and analyzing communications—where was equally as valuable as what.  No country or institution was off limits: Western Europe, Japan, Australia South America, African and not least, the U.S. 3PLA’s twenty-four hour harvests included embassies, corporations, drug cartels, presidential and senatorial emails, military coded orders…the more secure, the greater resources invested in hacking the servers.

                           It was not as if the West was not aware of the attacks.  Michelle Van Cleave, former National Counterintelligence Executive, had no doubt that China’s extensive intelligence corps engaged in highly coordinated spying operations against U.S. information and computer systems.

                           In an email subsequently released to the public, Van Cleave wrote, “All U.S. national weapons laboratories, Pentagon computers and communications systems, and other sensitive government networks have been targeted by China-based cyber intruders.”

                           Anwar was assigned to the Information Network Attack and Defense Research Center.  Located in a four story, four hundred room concrete building, the halls were filled with students and professors all carrying identical briefcases filled with similar lap top computers.  Those deemed low security were used to convey programs from the Research Center’s main frames back to dormitory.  Computers with high security clearance, those of the professors and engineers who monitored internal traffic, never left the building.

                            Anwar was directed to class 87.  Filled with twenty other students who had been cherry picked diverse Chinese universities, all except Anwar were ethnic Han. Anwar stood out not only for his withered arm, but his Western European features.  None of the other students welcomed him, simply glanced away from their computers as Anwar took a seat at the back of the class.  The students took required disciplines…advanced computer theory and engineering:  programming, fault tree analysis (FTA). Fussell algorithm, monoidal categories, presheaves: Cartesian closure: essential geometric morphisms: Kan extensions. Advanced studies included lamda calculus, second-order algebraic theories, variable binding and meta variables.

                           Though Anwar struggled to understand the nuances of spoken Mandarin, he devoured the mathematics that supported both required courses and advanced studies with a speed that would have amazed both lecturers and fellow students.  If he had contributed to the open discussion.   He had barely been spoken to in the Kashgar Orphanage and now struggled to form more than simple sentences.  Experience in the Kashgar Teacher’s College and the Beijing University had taught him it was best to remain silent until forced to speak.

                           Up to his enrollment in Wushan University, his life had been consumed by computer theory and programming.  Little public information existed about the Key Laboratory of Aerospace Information Security and Trusted Computing—an innocuous tile created to avoid scrutiny from either the west, or the east.  For Anwar it was as if he’d stepped into a white room filled with answers.  Nothing was withheld, there were no limits, access to files was not only encouraged but rewarded. 

                           Students used SimpleISES to practice cyber attacks on both dummy and real networks.   The program was developed by Beijing Simpleware Technology Co., Ltd.  Using SImpleISES, the top three in Class 87 managed to enter, execute the attack, and exit, all without leaving an electronic signature. Number three and two took pride in their ranking.  One was unknown.  Nor would he be discovered. Evidence existed that twenty attacks were made, five succeeded, four were accredited, one was invisible.  The instructor was impressed and asked for the student to raise his hand.  None did.

                           He was given the latest generation Acer Computer. Manufactured in China, the Acer was technologically superior to many western desktops.   Adding a massive hard drive, a cutting edge central processing unit, the ACER would handle almost any task Anwar requested. In this case an exploitable weakness.  Twenty lines of code revealed deficiencies.  The logic did not perfectly follow.  Anwar changed fragments within the lines.  The program’s speed accelerated.  He changed another line, combined two others into one.  That night the program grew faster, more encompassing until all traces of who, or what, might hack a network slowly faded until no evidence remained that might point back to the source of the attack. 

                           When Anwar employed his new program the results were as perfect as he’d planned.  It was clear the network had been devastated, the only question was, by who?  Number two and three left signatures.  Number One…nothing.  Elegant in simplicity, perfectly executed, the attack elicited a comment from the Professor in charge of the  “Information Network Attack and Defense Research Center.” 

                           “Who executed this attack?” he inquired of the Professor charged with Class 87.

                           “No one has claimed responsibility,” the professor told the truth.

                           “Do you have no way of knowing?” The Head of the Network Attack persisted.  “There must be some inducement you could offer.”

                           “I offered excellent as a class score.” He bowed. “Again, with no response.” 

                           “Do we have way of backtracking through the network to the student…programmer or outside hacker.”

                           “Normally yes…but the attack was so articulately executed, it would be a guess.  And an uneducated one at that.”  The professor had a hunch.  Honghui the alert young man in the front row would be his choice.  He had not placed in the top three when his scores dictated he certainly should have.

                           “Any other students come to mind?”

                           “No, no one. ”

                           “A shame.  This is the type of operator we wish to encourage.  Executes his attack, then discretely slips away without leaving electric finger, or footprints.”

                           The mystery of the unknown attacker threw Class 87 into turmoil. Twenty students wondered, first to themselves, then aloud, “Who could have executed such a perfect, anonymous attack?” The majority agreed with the professor that it had to be Honghui in the front row.  Only one student suggested the Uyghur in the last row might be a possibility. 

                           “Crippled Crane,” Number Three singled out Anwar. “Was it you?”

                           Anwar looked up with surprise. “What?” his expression mixed fear and confusion. 

                           “Impossible.” Number two laughed while Anwar looked anxiously around the room.  “Crippled Crane is more stupid than the manure his father spread on fields. 

                           “He never speaks.” Number two contributed.

                           “He can’t speak,” Three reminded him.

                           “That’s not true,” Jian, a student who ranked in the top ten said.  “But no one can understand him. Have you heard his accent?”

                           The other two laughed.   “Crippled Crane,” Number Two flapped his arms in a deft mimic of a crane struggling to become airborne.  “Shuō cūn qián yǒu gè yán yuán yǎn cūn hòu yǒu g4 yán yǎn yuán bù zhī yán yuán yǎn dē yǎn yuánhái shì yán yǎn yuán dē yǎn yuán? …Say, In front of the village there is a Yan Yuanyan. Behind the village there is a Yan Yanyuan. Don't know if Yan Yuanyan's eyes are rounder or Yan Yanyuan's eyes are rounder?”  For a native born Mandarin, the two sentences were impossible tongue twisters.

                           Anwar had no hope of repeating the first words.

                           “Say it!” Number Three ordered.  “Now! I warn you! We’ll punish you!”  The other two stopped laughing.

                           “Cūne qiá yǒ gè …”Anwar mangled the first words. His accent turned words to unintelligible mush. 

                           The class put their hands over their ears.  “Crippled Crane... you failed!”  Number Three covered the distance between to Anwar in three running strides.  Laughing through a crooked grin, he drove his right fist into the sixteen year olds left shoulder. Anwar’s nearly fainted.  Tears jumped to his eyes as his left shoulder, neck and upper back went numb.

                           “Cánfèi qǐzhòngjī, wèi shòushāng. Nǐ shì zhèyàng de bǎobèi….Crippled Crane, that did not hurt.  You’re such a baby.”

                           Anwar forced a smile through his tears, closed his computer, stood and exited the class.  The following morning he was back in his seat, computer open, lines of code streaming down the monitor.  Engrossed in the program he did not hear the professor approach from behind and to his right.  “Ān huá, shénme chéngxù, nǐ yùnxíng? Tā kàn qǐlái bìng bù xiàng SImpleISES...... Anwar, What program are you running?” It does not look like the SImpleISES…” The Professor noted.

                           “It is nothing sir,” The gangly student simultaneously touched a key as he looked up.  The lines faded behind a photo of Wushan’s Yellow Crane Tower.

                           “It looked unusual,” The Professor noted.  “Are you working with Kan Extensions.”

                           Under the best of circumstances, Anwar’s accent was appalling. Now he deliberately butchered his phrasing.  “Not specifically sir,”

                           The Professor appeared confused.   As Anwar intended, the Professor couldn’t understand a word he said.  “Could you send me a copy through the secure server?” It was more order than a request.

                           “Of course,” Anwar’s accent suddenly cleared.

                           Class 87 in the Information Network Attack and Defense Research Center (INADRC) returned to eighteen hour days, six days a week.  Classes started at seven a.m. and lasted until midnight, or later.  Students learned how to hack cross oceanic fiber optic cables, satellite signals, coded radio transmissions and stupidly simple attacks on wifi links and secure passwords.  Programs existed that could break the most passwords—including those that changed on the hour.  Breaking codes was not a problem, closing an electronic door without leaving a trace, however, was almost impossible.  Personal emails, bank, stock, phone and credit cards were little more than trash.  Focus on a politician, a ranking Army, Air Force of Navy Officer…the CEO of a large company that held proprietary information beneficial to China’s security….and the stakes dramatically increased.

                           It was two weeks after the incident to discover Class 87’s Number One, that a devastating technical glitch struck Number Two. He was working on programming a triple blind hack that employed compromised computers in Turkey, India and Malaysia when the keyboard suddenly felt warm.  In seconds it grew too hot to touch and though the student attempted to shut it down, smoke started to pour from the metal case.  Seconds later a flamed snaked from between the keyboard.  Another student quickly dumped a cup of tea on the fire.  His quick thinking extinguished the fire but steamed the hard disk.  Number three was shocked, but did not panic. All emails, photos, book marks, manuscripts as well a dozens of other file headings were saved in the Network Defense Center’s cloud from where they could be easily downloaded onto a new laptop.  It was only when he initiate a search and received the message, “Méiyǒu wénjiàn shìfǒu cúnzài gāi míngchēng. Zàishì yīcì….No Files Exist Under That Name.  Try Again.”

                           A year of eighteen hour, six day weeks had disappeared. Number Three searched through the day, that night and into the next…thirty six hours without sleep for a different source code.  None existed.  As a final, dooms day option, he entreated the Professor to help who, after hours, concluded Number 3’s back up files never existed.  “It doesn’t appear you saved to the server,” the Professor was disgusted by the waste of his time.  “This was a grave error.  You were ordered to save everything at the end of the day.  You clearly did not.   This oversight will cost you dearly.” 

                           “Dànshì xiānshēng, wǒ jiùle wǒ de gōngzuò! Měitiān wǎnshàng…..But Sir, I saved my work.  Every night.”

                           “Yún bù tóngyì nǐ hé yún shì yǒngyuǎn bù huì cuò!... The Cloud disagrees with you and the Cloud is never wrong!”

                           “It had to be compromised.”  Number Three bordered on hysteria.

                           “For your files alone.  Do not flatter yourself.  If you cannot produce your records you will fail the class!”

                           With no record of work completed, Number 3 was dismissed from the program.  Members of Class 87 were not especially sorry to see him leave.  He was a bully and his departure allowed the remaining students to advance one place.

                           The departure of Number Three did not end the problem.  Ten days after Number Three’s computer caught fire, Number 2’s laptop crashed.  Again, no backup files could be accessed.  In lockstep, four other computers suffered the same malady until Acer sent a team to search for the problem.  None could be found.  The final solution was to replace all surviving laptops.  Anwar dutifully handed his over.  When the technicians booted it they discovered it had been stripped.  No files existed, no history or digital shadows files could be resurrected.

                           “You have learned your lessons well,” the Professor nodded.  By then he’d forgotten about the program Anwar had promised to forward.  

                           Anwar’s finals consisted of two days of written exams, oral interviews and a major attack on a U.S. Company.  His written answers were below average, but written essays made little difference. For his cyber attack, Anwar focused on a one point two billion dollar heavy engineering firm that owned International patents on a final drive for GE’s 1.5 Megawatt wind turbine. Bolted to one hundred and sixteen foot blades, the final drive was subjected to enormous stress.  China’s attempt to reverse engineer the drive had been catastrophically unsuccessful.  Skeletal left arm resting on his desk, left hand skimming across the keyboard, the beauty of Anwar’s attack was not that he broke into the company’s engineering files and captured the schematics, metallurgy and comprehensive stress tests that detailed flaws in the main bearing…but that he knew which files were critical and which were not.  The information ensured the success of China’s 1.5 megawatt copy and according to the US’s NSA, would ultimately cost the company five hundred million dollars in lost revenue.  If Anwar had spoken clearer Mandarin he would have been ranked number one in the INADRC but his oral tests were a disaster.  Interviewed by three double PHD’s in Electronic Engineering and Computer Programing, Anwar refused to make eye contact and when he spoke, his examiners struggled to understand a single word.    

                           And yet none could deny the elegance of his attack. His signature was stealth.  No keys, misplaced lines of codes or other evidence of his arrival or departure existed.  A primitive, easily defensible attack would commence with either an innocuous, or extremely interesting email, sent to a high ranking U.S. or Western European company official.  Once opened, an attachment would inject spyware that would allow INADRC hackers entry into critical files. 

                           Anwar was ten thousand times more clandestine. He would first search the company webpage, then PDFs of engineering conferences, social media, as well as a dozen other links for an engineer who had clearance to encrypted files, Once he captured the name, title and responsibilities, he would decode user names, passwords and all potential firewalls that would lock the system and alert malware programs, system security and a chain of contractors charged with company integrity.

                           Anwar final project proved he possessed a rare and immensely valuable talent.  Following his exams, he was transferred to the China Information Technology Security Center (CNITSEC).  First identified in a leaked 2009 State Department cable, CNITSEC held a critical position in certifying Chinese information security products.

                           Anwar worked for the Network Security Technology Company, Ltd., (TOPSEC).  Founded in 1995 and employing over 1000 computer programmers, TOPSEC was a CNITSEC subcontractor that, along with Computer and Network Security, trained military officers from China’s Communications Department’s 3rd Communication Regiment.   Hand picked from the PLA’s Unit 61416, any similarity to the General Officer Corps ended at cropped hair, erect posture and blind obedience.  The officers from Unit 61416 were chosen for intelligence and aptitude.  Hacking skills could be taught, deductive reasoning and intellectual curiosity could not. 

                           Anwar was directed to a tiny cubicle on the 4th Floor of the Huakong Tower on Shangdi East Rd in Beijing’s Haidian District.  A Falcon Northwest Mach V computer with a 5ghz Intel six core Central Processing Unit dominated his desk.  The Mach V ran three Asus 32-inch ultra high definition (UHD)  desktop monitors linked through a 100 Mbps (megabits per second) fiber optic internet link.

                           Anwar worked within a division that focused on international finance.  Specifically the transfer of funds between financial institutions.  It took Anwar two weeks to discover a flaw in SWIFT, the Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication.  Trusted as an ultra secure link between banks that, on the strength of multiple firewalls and secure verification codes, expedited multimillion dollar cash transfers from one account to another, some of the banks were more secure than others. 

                           Simply curious in those first weeks, Anwar probed a number of International banks.  While none initially recognized the attack, each presented a variety of defenses…some far more challenging than others.  He gained entry into the Central Bank of Bangladesh (CBB) computers on his first try.  It did not take long to realize that what security existed was critically flawed.  He opened accounts, inspected the electronic ledgers, then closed the files without leaving a trace of his entry, or exit.  Nothing escaped his attention.  Along with internal communications, he monitored the flow of cash withdrawals and transfers…the most interesting from the New York Federal Reserve.  The Central Bank of Bangladesh’s ten dollar routers and flawed firewalls failed to protect CBB’s Alliance Access entry codes.  An ultra-secure connection to International Banking’s central messaging system, the Alliance Access held the keys to the kingdom.  Once in, CBB’s codes allowed Anwar to transfer tens of millions of dollars.

                           The only question was timing.  When was the optimal moment to send a request for transfer of funds.  Too large and automatic safe guards would lock the system…too small and the access port would be wasted.  And so Anwar waited, until the earth’s rotation separated New York and Bangladesh by twelve hours, dawn to dark—enough time to prevent confirmation of his request.  Anwar depended on bored employees and sloppy accounting to succeed. The majority of world banks dependent on SWIFT.   Some utilized state of the art online security…others such as CBB, relied on a form of electronic crossed fingers.  Anwar, was surprised at how easy it was to conclude the transaction. 

                           It was late Friday in New York, late Saturday in Bangladesh when he submitted the access codes.  The system recognized the CBB codes and returned a confirmation.  By then the CBB had closed for the weekend.  Anwar returned the confirmation along with a request for an eighty-one million dollar transfer to cover holy weekend withdrawals.  The amount did not exceed the CBB’s limits, the total was confirmed, the transfer was executed. 

                           Anwar intercepted the electronic transfer an instant after it entered the bank’s electronic vault.   A millisecond later eighty-one million dollars was transferred to Manila’s City of Dreams gambling casino, where again it lingered for less than a millisecond before it was retransferred to Bahrain, Malaysia, Bermuda, Switzerland changing countries and financial institutions until the electronic labyrinth expanded by a factor of ten thousand and the money simply disappeared. 

                           Only Anwar knew the amount and final destination. TOPSEC’s sixth floor management was delighted when the crippled programmer used the company’s secure network to forward routing and account numbers to a Deutsch Bank deposit for twenty-million dollars.  

                  Chapter 5

                 Anwar Hacks the DNC

         Anwar Roshan’s sense of humor leaned toward the dark side.  Beyond setting student computers on fire, his recent multi-million dollar transfer from the Federal Reserve, to the National Bank of Bangladesh made him laugh, four faint coughs, rising from his chest before it died behind his clenched jaw.  Anwar Roshan was amused as much by the hack’s perfection, as by the NSA’s fumbling attempt to track the transfers.  According to the Washington Post, the funds had hesitated in the NBOB before disappearing into a Philippine Casino.  By the time Federal Reserve traced the funds to the Philippines, the transfer had passed through a dozen portals, each growing more obscure than the last.  Eventually, identifying and retrieving the seventy million dollars proved to be more difficult than locating individual, marked grains of sand on a Thai beach.

          Of greater amusement, and far more valuable, Anwar wrote a program that scanned U.S. Senate emails for markers.  Entry to the emails server was ridiculously easy. A few well timed keystrokes and he was in.  Anwar was not specifically interested in sexual indiscretions but his program revealed an affinity for human weakness.   Anwar never searched specifically for an affair.  He didn’t need to.  When members of Congress weren’t fighting President Obama’s attempts to drag the U.S. Economy out of a ditch, they were texting shots of their privates, kissing staffers, or arranging abortions for wives and mistresses alike.

         Anthony Weiner, the Democratic Representative from New York, sexted photos of his engorged underwear to women.  From there, the list crossed both sides of the isle.  Mark Souder, Republican Representative from Indiana resigned to avoid an investigation into an affair with a staffer. Chris Lee, Republican Representative from New York, flexed for a woman on Craigslist.  Dr. Scott DesJarlais, Republican Representative from Tennessee admitted to six affairs, two with staffers at Grandview Medical Center.  Perhaps more damning were the abortions he arranged two for his wife, one for mistress, while running on a right to life platform.  Vance McAllister, Republican Representative from Louisiana and father of five, was caught on camera kissing a married staffer. 

         U.S. elected officials at first, shocked Anwar.  If he believed the lack of control and depth of corruption could not exist in China, he was wrong.  Vice minister of state security Ma Jain, was targeted by Xi Jinping, the head of the Communist Party and China’s president for keeping mistresses in six villas.

         Zhou Yongkang who served on the Communist Party’s Politburo Standing Committee helped family members, mistresses and friends grow rich through his position in the National Party business connections.  Financial gain proved to be the primary inducement.  The power for sex charges with employees was an afterthought.

         Politburo member and party chief of Chongqing, Bo Xilai’s sexual relations with multiple women including some of China’s famous actresses, paled beside his trial for murder that played out in International papers. 

         Politburo member and party chief of Shanghai Chen Liangyu had multiple mistresses, two long-term, one of whom had three abortions

         Deputy head of the Guangdong Province Land Resource Bureau, Lü Yingming had forty-seven mistresses, sixty-three apartments and accepted two point billion renminbi in bribes.

         Anwar Roshan, however, found the Platinum Standard in Xu Qiyao, Head of the Jiangsu Province Construction Bureau.  Xu supported more than one hundred and forty mistresses including a mother-daughter pair Xu Qiyao nicknamed “one arrow, two birds.”

         Anwar had no interest in women. The rejection he’d experienced since he entered the orphanage colored all his relationships…men and women alike but he sensed the weakness men had for women and instinctively understood, the knowledge of sexual indiscretion conveyed power.  His program discovered both major and minor indiscretions.  Years of a Representative cheating first on a wife, then a mistress, then a second mistress until his lovers stacked up like figures in reflecting mirrors.  Not one but many.  The axiom that absolute power corrupts absolutely cloaked members of both houses 

         Anwar was, at first, amused by eves dropping on the overheated exchanges between a Senator and a scribe.  Coded emails, however, occurred with such frequency that they soon last their novelty…and thus their source of amusement.  He searched higher, first to the Speaker of the House but discovered that Paul Ryan devoted evenings to reading tax code.  Vice President Joe Biden, aside from a fierce loyalty to a Specialist in hair transplants and an occasional glance at an Internet porn site, at the end of the day was devoted to his wife and family… was the most damning evidence Anwar could produce.  The President’s Joint Chiefs of Staff. One or two cultivated future drinking problems but following the Petraeus disaster, the Generals had kept attractive journalists of both sexes at a distance.

         Anwar looked outward from the House, Senate and White House to the Republican and Democratic Presidential Candidate.  Volumes of information existed for Donald Trump.  Affairs, hushed abortions, crooked business deals, questionable friendships with mid-eastern businessmen, sheiks…no terrorists, successes and failures….Trump's abiding strength was he was made of Teflon.  Foreign policy statements, the economy…none of it mattered to Trump.  Anwar couldn’t judge whether Trump would save or destroy the country.  For better or worse, U.S. Voters would decide in the last days before the election.