“Seriously, you can’t go?” Anton asks.
“Anton, I swear this is really bad timing.”
“What else is brewing that will give us an excuse to ignore news from a widely held company that’s worth 100 billion?” Anton asks, reinforcing his point with the precision of his Swiss-German accent.
There’s no way to argue with market capitalization. If Anton has got wind of this event, the other foreign financial wires might also know. It might just be a matter of minutes before the competition starts filing headlines from Beijing about Boeing.
“Yep,” Jake says through clenched teeth. “You’re right. I better get over there. I’ll call you when I arrive.”
The Boeing presser would keep Jake busy for the next three hours. He’ll need to get there and find out what’s being disclosed to the Chinese media. He’ll need to file some headlines and a short first take to Anton. Then, he’ll need to write a longer version of the story, possibly with commentary from analysts in the region. And then he’ll need to get the full story through the editing gamut. All of which means he’ll never make the appointed time with Diane and Ben.
Jake reaches for the untraceable SIM card in the small, front pocket on his backpack. He opens the SIM port on his cell phone to switch the cards but gets distracted by two of the newsroom’s television screens. GlobeCast and BBC. They’ve cut to black again. They must be doing a follow-up on the Hu Yaobang death story which seems to be gaining momentum. Jake hasn’t yet figured out how much this new development will complicate their effort. He hasn’t had time to discuss it with Diane. There’s no point in dwelling on this now. It’s happened. The more immediate concern is the new task at hand: the cursor blinking on the exchange between him and Anton. The burning cursor that’s produced an exchange that has obligated Jake to cover a press conference that will produce news of no value except for traders and the wealthy investors they work for. Just the kind of people who don’t care about who’s stuck in a dark room, wondering what their fate will be for nothing other than a film project meant to start a conversation. It’s all about capital.
Jake pushes the SIM card port shut and dials Ben’s number.
“Hello,” Ben says tentatively, in a distant tone that confuses Jake.
“Ben, it’s me Jake.”
“Umm…”
The inarticulate tone conflicts with Ben’s usual snappy delivery but Jake brushes this aside.
“Look,” Jake says, standing up. “The good news is that I’ve confirmed a bunch of connections to the money from Beijing. The bad news is…”
“Um…” Ben says again, cutting Jake off.
“Ben, I don’t have a lot of time. The bad news is that I need to run out for a press event, so I won’t be able to meet up with you and Diane until…”
“Hello,” Ben says. “Perhaps you have the wrong number?”
“Wrong number? You’re Ben, right?”
The SIM card, Jake realizes. He pulled the unregistered card out and opened the SIM port on the phone before the dropped TV feeds distracted him. He remembers closing the port but did he switch the cards? How could he have forgotten that? Jake looks down and sees the unregistered card is still sitting on his desk, meaning the PSB is probably listening to every word he’s just said. Whoever’s monitoring will know the three of them are collaborating on something.
Jake hears Ben sigh.
“Let’s talk later,” Ben says before cutting the line. “Di nomor lain ada instruksi.”
Jake places his cell phone on the desk, sits and puts his hands on his forehead trying to stop the sensation of falling.
Di nomor lain ada instruksi. That’s Indonesian. The other number has instructions.
Why?
The surge of anger at himself makes it difficult to think this through. Jake wants to pick up the phone on his desk, this block of solid plastic, and bash it against his forehead. He needs a concussion right now to take him away from everything he faces, to somehow erase the blundering error he’s just made. To send himself spinning into the Land of Oz, away from shadowy PSB officers and censors, in the bowels of government buildings, listening to phone conversations and monitoring cable television feeds.
Except that a concussive exit would be cowardly. Jake’s stomach growls audibly with hunger and dread. The PSB now has Ben’s unregistered number. Jake lacerates himself with this thought. Stupid. How can I be so fucking stupid? The question bounces around in his head like an echo locked in a giant steel chamber. They’ll be able to pull phone records on that number to see where the calls come from and they’ll find that most of the calls come from the unregistered numbers Jake and Diane have been using. The pieces will fall into place.
They’ll know that Ben, Diane and Jake are communicating through covert channels, which will prompt them to step up scrutiny. Perhaps worse. This might give the authorities pretext to detain all three of them for questioning before Ben can transmit the report that will embarrass Beijing.
Jake must get his data over to Ben and Diane immediately. He’ll need to scrap the Boeing presser. That means he’ll ignore direct orders. Desertion. Once the other foreign wires get the story, Jake will need an answer for why Toeler News doesn’t have it. He can dwell on this or save Qiang.
As this stripped-down reality makes itself clear, Jake remembers the last thing Ben said to him on the phone call.
“Nomor lain ada instruksi.” The other number has instructions.
Jake fishes the unregistered SIM card out of the front pocket of his backpack. He inserts it into his phone and waits for the signal. Three bars emerge and the phone buzzes with a text message.
Diane did some laundry at your place. Please pick it up before you come to see us this afternoon.
Jake realizes they’ve moved somewhere safer than Qiang’s apartment. If it’s this obvious to him, it’s probably just as obvious to whoever is monitoring them.
Indonesian? Jakes figures out that Ben used this language to buy a bit of extra time. It’s not likely that the monitors listening in would know the language. They would need some time to find someone to figure out which language it is, a language that kind of looks and sounds like Spanish. Jake and Ben being American, and one of them living in California, it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that’s their code. The effort to pull a Spanish speaker into the investigation would take just a few minutes. Another few to figure out the error and find someone who would know what language they’re using and to translate. This whole process would probably buy five or ten minutes. That’s all the time Jake needs to get to his place, if he runs.
12:26 p.m.
Holding the USB key with the data he’s compiled, Jake exits the China World Tower II wondering whether to jump in a cab, head to the subway entrance just a few metres away or just make a run for it. About a mile away, Jake’s apartment complex may as well be in another city when stuck in weekday traffic, even outside of rush hour. He’s at the intersection of a jammed Jianguo Road and the equally slow East Third Ring, a major axis that routes traffic from China World through a gamut of u-turns and merge lanes. Jake knows how tense he’ll feel every second he’s sitting in the back of the cab, not moving.
He runs to the subway entrance and hesitates as he looks down the escalator. He then looks east, toward his apartment complex. The subway may take longer, especially if the doors shut, as they always seem to do, as soon as he makes it to the platform. Besides, the subway doesn’t run frequently enough at midday and there’s no cell phone signal. He remembers the last time the lack of a signal foiled him. That day a few weeks ago, when he didn’t manage to get the address of the interview from which Qiang never returned.
Jake tightens the straps of his backpack so it won’t jostle too much and begins running down Jianguo Road, heading east to get whatever instructions were left in his laundry.
The sun beats down as he tries to figure out whether to wait for the light to cross to the south side of the avenue or climb the pedestrian flyover about
halfway between the China World intersection and his apartment building. His palms are sweaty so he puts the USB key into a small pocket on the side of his backpack. He then wipes his brow and continues running down the north side of Jianguo Road, making better time than the vehicles which are inching along.
Construction workers on the new buildings along the north side of Jianguo Road weld shiny steel window grids into place. Ahead, there’s a crew jackhammering the sidewalk around the flyover. As Jake gets closer, he sees they’ve fashioned a makeshift footbridge of wooden planks flanked by orange construction netting over a gaping hole, in which workers clamour around pipes and new cables. Closer still, he sees they’ve blocked the stairs to the pedestrian flyover. The entire structure is for renovations. This throws Jake’s calculations right off. He’ll need to run to the next intersection, cross Jianguo Road and double back to his apartment building, adding another five minutes.
Jake looks at the traffic inching along in short bursts of acceleration followed by idling and impatient honking, four lanes going each direction separated by a fence topped with planters overflowing with red and yellow flowers. He takes a deep breath and steps onto the outside westbound lane, prompting a bout of honks from annoyed motorists. He dekes several cars and then runs toward the front of a long container truck which starts moving ahead. Jake stops and waits for the truck to pass so he can make it to the fence that divides the road. The honking horns get longer and louder as rear-view mirrors come within millimetres of Jake’s waist.
Once at the fence, Jake finds an opening between the planters and wedges himself inside. Ignoring the honks and the occasional swearing from passing motorists, Jake works his way up so that he’s sitting on the fence with one foot in a planter on each side, crushing some of the begonias. They’ve been watered recently, which has softened the soil so much his feet sink into the warm organic mush. He then swings his foot on the north side around so that he’s facing south, wedged between two planters, a small space he uses as a safe spot from which to plot a path through the eastbound traffic.
He’s dodged his last car on the south side of Jianguo Road and Jake begins sprinting to his apartment complex, leaving a wake of honks and curses.
“Qing rang yi xia!” “Please make way,” he yells ahead to pedestrians walking several astride, taking up the width of the walkway.
12:40 p.m.
Zhihong’s desk phone rings as he chews the last morsel of pork from the lunch that Yue Tao prepared. The display shows Changxing’s name.
“Hey, just wanted to let you know that your guy, the itinerant Chen Dawei, isn’t involved at all in the documentary business,” Changxing says. “We got more transcripts in from the PSB.”
“I see,” Zhihong says.
This isn’t the information he needs. He knows Dawei wouldn’t have been involved in documentaries about 1989.
“Hey Changxing, any idea what he’s doing with this American?”
“Um,” he begins. Changxing seems uncertain at first about divulging anything further.
An instant later, though, he blurts out more details as if he’s too busy for obfuscation and figures it will be easier to lob a few more details out.
“Something about a lost screenplay. He left it with the American a few years ago and wants it back. He’s getting very aggressive about it. He might end up in trouble if he keeps pestering that American. The PSB don’t want some other, unrelated situation getting in the way of a clean resolution to their problem.”
Stunned, Zhihong stands quietly.
“Zhihong?”
“Um…yes, I’m here. Thanks,” Zhihong says.
He places the receiver back in its cradle. The horror of what he’s done hits him like a slap. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he gave Dawei so many false expectations and then pushed him away with a few hundred kuai bills that were meant to get him back to Macau, back to the steaming sink in the kitchen of that smelly restaurant.
Zhihong picks up the receiver and dials Changxing’s extension.
“Yes?”
“Changxing, I need the address of the American journalist.”
“Why? What is your interest in this?”
Zhihong searches his imagination for something plausible. Say anything.
“You know, many of these foreign journalists live close to each other. If you’re looking for connections between Hong Kong producers and foreign journalists living in China, we need to know where they’re located.”
Zhihong creates this flimsy rationale out of nothing. He needs to make it work, though, so he forges ahead without a filter, the words uttered as they’re conceived, as though he’s a medium channeling the spirit of a con artist.
“These journalists know they’re under surveillance, right?” Zhihong continues. “If they’re collaborating with Hong Kong producers, they’ll be meeting in the bars or coffee shops in their neighbourhoods and not communicating through phones or email.”
“Seems kind of a tenuous path to follow,” Changxing says.
“You’re probably right but it wouldn’t hurt to know where the foreign journalists are spending time. If we have any suspicions about producers from Hong Kong or producers from anywhere…”
“You’re proposing some kind of broader surveillance effort,” Changxing says, cutting Zhihong off. “The PSB are just asking for assistance in this particular case,” Changxing says dismissively.
“Ok. Look, just get me the American journalist’s address,” Zhihong says in a demanding tone that, he realizes, may be crossing a line. He softens his tone to keep Changxing engaged. “This is something I can take on as a side project. I won’t need to spend much time on it. We may discover nothing. But maybe we’ll discover something. At least we’ll appear supportive. At least we’ll look like we’re taking some initiative.”
“I’ll see if I can get the address,” Changxing says. “Just don’t spend a lot of time on this. This is not our business.”
12:42 p.m.
Sitting on the curb outside of Jake’s apartment complex, Dawei is half asleep with his forehead resting on his knees, his arms wrapped around his shins.
“Qing rang yi xia” he hears someone yell in a foreign accent. Please make way.
He looks back and sees Jake running through the entry gate. Here’s Jake in the middle of the day when he should be at work. This is odd. Maybe it’s a sign, a gift from the heavens, he thinks. This is a sign that he must not give up. This is where his anguish must end. The American has eluded him too many times. He’s given too many excuses. He has almost certainly looked at the screenplay and seen the name of the writer. Autumn Truce is playing everywhere. The writer’s name is everywhere. Jie-ke must know how valuable the screenplay is now.
Dawei swings his backpack on and stands up, looking at the entry gate. The timing is good. There are many people walking through. The guard is paying only scant attention to each individual passing by.
12:44 p.m.
Jake finds the note under the first garment in a pile of freshly laundered clothes his housekeeper left on his bed.
The authorities are closing in. We need to put the report together and send it ASAP. Come to the China World Hotel, room 712, but don’t come directly. Go to your office first. Wait 30 minutes. Make sure no one is following you. Then go down to the lower concourse, remove the battery from your phone and make your way over to the hotel. Make sure you have the data.
As he repeats the number several times, Jake makes up a memory association for the numbers. Seven equals lucky. Twelve equals his age when he saw the film Alien. Jake then tears the note into dozens of pieces, throws it into the toilet and flushes.
Jake swings his backpack around one shoulder and heads for the door. As he turns the handle, he feels the door open toward him, automatically, and realizes someone on the other side is pushing it forcefully. Dawei emerges from the other side and is now facing him silently, scowling.
First, the unexpected news of the Boeing presser and now t
his. There must be, he thinks, some sadistic higher force determined to throw every obstacle possible at him.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Jake says in English.
He doesn’t have the split second it will take to translate the command in his head before saying it. His tone will make the meaning clear. Dawei pushes him aside and heads toward the dining room table. He begins rifling through the papers laid out not so neatly in stacks. Conference schedules, receipts he needs for expenses, research reports that he brings home to read even though he rarely gets to them.
“You’re crazy,” Jake says in Mandarin as he drops his backpack. “You’re completely crazy.”
Ignoring him, Dawei abandons the papers on the dining table and steps into the living room, his eyes locked on several stacks on the coffee table. As Dawei bends down to look through each document, Jake lunges for him and wraps his arms around Dawei’s arms, just above the elbows. He clasps his fingers and tightens his embrace with all of his strength to immobilize the intruder.
“It’s in here. I know it’s in here,” Dawei shouts. “You know it’s valuable and you’re keeping it from me.”
Dawei drops down into a crouch, taking Jake off his balance, and twists suddenly. Once free, he turns to face Jake and delivers a punch to his stomach, taking the wind out of Jake.
“All of these papers and documents you have here,” Dawei says as though the disorganization is as responsible as Jake for the loss of the screenplay. “Look at them. You’re just too lazy to look through them. You have no idea how important this is to me. You want to keep it? You might as well take my life. I’m not going to let you do that.”
Remembering that Diane and Ben are waiting for him, Jake straightens up. He’s breathing heavily as he looks at Dawei, who’s now even more of a threat to him, and to Qiang’s survival, as any of the PSB officers or anyone else in the shadowy apparatus that decided Qiang is a threat to the state.
This isn’t worth it, Jake thinks as he regains his breath. Let this psycho tear the place apart. Why should this delay him any further? Jake’s already abandoned his post at work, heading down a path littered with consequences.
The Wounded Muse Page 26
