TWILIGHT OF THE GODS

By Richard Hornik

THE PROTOCOL OF DEATH IN COMMUNIST regimes has traditionally been as elaborate as those of the empires that preceded them. So when Chen Yun died at 89 last Monday, the citizens of Beijing braced themselves for the usual run of lowered flags, martial music, and long paeans to his revolutionary contributions. After all, Chen ranked second only to Paramount Leader Deng Xiaoping in China's pantheon of post-Mao leaders, and the two were often viewed as fierce rivals.

But in China today these are unusual, discomforting times: Deng himself is rumored to be near death, and the struggle to succeed him is well under way. Despite Chen's prestige, China's official media waited 28 hours to announce his death. By Wednesday it was clear that Chen, an old advocate of central planning who had opposed rapid economic reform, would not be buried with the same pageantry as other members of the revolutionary generation who have previously "gone to meet Marx." By week's end the regime had not even announced a date for lowering flags in Tiananmen Square to half-mast. Says one puzzled Chinese analyst: "It is not the way the government normally does things."

When a senior Chinese leader dies, the order of names of the official pallbearers, the effusiveness of the obituary, the length of the mourning period, all provide signs of the individuals and policies that are in favor. Chen's death was long expected, and the delay in mounting his funeral has intensified fears of confusion and factionalism within the government. Chinese history is replete with episodes of political chaos following the death of an Emperor, and Deng Xiaoping, like Mao Zedong before him, is universally viewed in imperial terms. Official rhetoric has portrayed a new core leadership headed by party secretary Jiang Zemin, ready to step into the shoes of the nonagenarians who joined Mao on the Long March and have have ruled the country since 1949. Jiang is the third would-be Deng successor in nearly 15 years, and most Chinese wonder whether he will be any luckier than Mao's chosen heir, Hua Guofeng.

Jiang is determined to show that he is different. He has assiduously courted important political power centers like the military while putting cronies from Shanghai into top positions. Lately he has also shown a willingness to punish his enemies, real and potential, turning one of the country's periodic anticorruption drives into a purge. "The anticorruption campaign and the succession struggle are intertwined," says James Lilley, former U.S. ambassador to China and now an American Enterprise Institute fellow, "and both are heating up." Many analysts in Beijing see Jiang's hand behind a series of corruption arrests targeted at top officials in the Beijing city government. Thus far the highest victim was a vice mayor, who committed suicide, a development not reported in the domestic Chinese media. Last week the capital was awash with rumors of more arrests and investigations involving top bureaucrats, their children and personal assistants.

However, Jiang has some competition for the mantle of Mr. Clean. Qiao Shi, current chairman of the National People's Congress, said obliquely last January that the anticorruption campaign should be spearheaded by the legislature and not the party's Central Commission for Discipline Inspection. At the end of the annual legislative session last month, Qiao called on parliaments at all levels to perform their duties in strict accordance with the country's constitution. He also seemed ready to flex some political muscle of his own. During the Congress, record numbers of Deputies voted against several of Jiang's candidates, a sign of the Congress's growing independence and Qiao's willingness to make common cause with provincial leaders worried about Jiang Zemin's accumulation of power.

Qiao has another ploy at his disposal. As the former head of China's secret police, he undoubtedly has plenty of evidence of corruption among Jiang's allies. The last thing Jiang can afford when gathering allies for a post-Deng power struggle is the threat that they or their children could become targets. That may be impossible to avoid in today's China. "Everyone is on the take," says an Asian diplomat in Beijing, "from top bureaucrats to doctors and waitresses." "It's been said there are three options," says Lilley. "Shoot the corrupt, let them go free, or muddle through. Their only option is the third."

Even that course has its own risks. Chinese officials remember all too well that corruption was a major issue among the 1989 pro-democracy demonstrators in Tiananmen Square. If a similar public revulsion is building up again, then failing to pursue an anticorruption drive could make the country more difficult to govern, for Jiang or anyone else. The regime certainly seems nervous these days. Police line Beijing's main avenues, on the lookout for any potential unrest. One theory about the low-key treatment of Chen Yun's death is that it may be a trial run for the day Deng dies. Says a Chinese analyst: "If they manage to avoid a funeral for Chen, they might be able to do the same for Deng. More than anything, the government is afraid of gatherings, even for funerals."

--Reported by Sandra Burton/Washington and Jaime A. FlorCruz and Mia Turner/Beijing

With reporting by SANDRA BURTON/WASHINGTON AND JAIME A. FLORCRUZ AND MIA TURNER/BEIJING