The Stone Monkey

by Jeffery Deaver

  Jostling his way through the mass of commuters, Li bought a token from the clerk. This too was expensive but he'd given up comparing costs between the two countries. He dropped the token in the turnstile, walked through the device and waited on the platform. He had a bad moment when a man began shouting at him. Li thought the man might be deranged, even though he was wearing an expensive suit. In a moment he realized what the man was saying. Apparently, it was illegal to smoke on the subway.

  Li thought this was madness. He couldn't believe it. But he didn't want to make a scene so he stubbed out his cigarette and put it in his pocket, muttering under his breath another assessment: "One crazy fuck country."

  A few minutes later the train roared into the station and Sonny Li got on board as if he'd been doing it all his life, looking around attentively--though not for security officers but simply to see if anyone else was smoking so that he could light up again. To his dismay, no one was.

  At Canal Street Li stepped out of the car and climbed up the stairs into the bustling, early morning city. The rain had stopped and he lit the snuffed cigarette then slipped into the crowd. Many of the people around him were speaking Cantonese, the dialect of the south, but aside from the language, this neighborhood was just like portions of his town, Liu Guoyuan--or any small city in China: movie theaters showing Chinese action and love films, the young men with long slicked-back hair or pompadours and challenging sneers, the young girls walking with their arms around their mothers or grandmothers, businessmen in suits buttoned snugly, the ice-filled boxes of fresh fish, the bakeries selling tea buns and rice pastries, the smoked ducks hanging by their necks in the greasy windows of restaurants, herbalists and acupuncturists, Chinese doctors, shop windows filled with ginseng roots twisted like deformed human bodies.

  And somewhere near here, he was hoping, would be something else he was very familiar with.

  It took Li ten minutes to find what he sought. He noticed the telltale sign--the guard, a young man with a cell phone, smoking and examining passersby as he lounged in front of a basement apartment whose windows were painted black. It was a twenty-four-hour gambling hall.

  He walked up and asked in English, "What they play here? Fan tai? Poker? Maybe thirteen points?"

  The man looked at Li's clothes and ignored him.

  "I want play," Li said.

  "Fuck off," the young man spat out.

  "I have money," Li shouted angrily. "Let me inside!"

  "You Fujianese. I hear your accent. You not welcome here. Get outta here or you get hurt."

  Li raged, "My dollar good as fuck Cantonese dollar. You boss, he want you turn away customers?"

  "Get outta here, little man. I'm not going to tell you again."

  And he pulled aside his nice black jacket, revealing the butt of an automatic pistol.

  Excellent! This is what Li had been hoping for.

  Appearing frightened, he started to turn away then spun back with his arm outstretched. He caught the young man in the chest with his fist, knocking the wind out of him. The boy staggered back and Li struck him in the nose with his open palm. He cried out and fell hard to the pavement. The guard lay there, gasping frantically for breath, blood pouring from his nose, while Li delivered a kick to his side.

  Taking the gun, an extra clip of ammunition and the man's cigarettes, Li looked up and down the street. Two young women, walking arm in arm, pretended that they hadn't seen. Aside from them the street was empty. He bent down to the miserable man again and took his wristwatch too and about three hundred dollars in cash.

  "If you tell anyone I did this," Li said to the guard, speaking in Putonghua, "I'll find you and kill you."

  The man nodded and sopped up the blood with his sleeve.

  Li started to walk away then he glanced back and returned. The man cringed. "Take your shoes off," Li snapped.

  "I--"

  "Shoes. Take them off."

  He undid the black lace-up Kenneth Coles and pushed them toward Li.

  "Socks too."

  The expensive black silk socks joined the shoes.

  Li took off his own shoes and socks, gritty with sand and still wet, and flung them away. He put on the new ones.

  Heaven, he thought happily.

  Li hurried back to one of the crowded commercial streets. There he found a cheap clothing store and bought a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and a thin Nike windbreaker. He changed in the back of the store, paid for his purchases and tossed his old clothes into a trash bin. Li then went into a Chinese restaurant and ordered tea and a bowl of noodles. As he ate he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his wallet, the sheet that he'd stolen from Hongse's car at the beach.

  August 8

  From: Harold C. Peabody,

  Assistant Director of Enforcement, U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service

  To: Det. Capt. Lincoln Rhyme (Ret.)

  Re: Joint INS/FBI/NYPD Task Force in the matter of Kwan Ang, AKA Gui, AKA The Ghost

  This confirms our meeting at ten a.m. tomorrow to discuss the plans for the apprehension of the above-referenced suspect. Please see attached material for background.

  Stapled to the memo was a business card, which read:

  Lincoln Rhyme

  345 Central Park West

  New York, NY 10022

  He flagged down the waitress and asked her a question.

  Something about Li seemed to scare her and warn that she shouldn't help this man. But a second glance at his face must've told her that it would be worse to say no to him. She nodded and, eyes down, gave him what Li thought were excellent directions to the street known as Central Park West.

  Chapter Twelve

  "You look better," Amelia Sachs said. "How are you feeling?"

  John Sung motioned her into the apartment. "Very sore," he said, and closing the door, joined her in the living room. He walked slowly and winced occasionally. An understandable consequence of having been shot, she supposed.

  The apartment that his immigration lawyer had arranged for him to stay in was a dingy place on the Bowery, two dark rooms, containing mismatched, damaged furniture. Directly below, on the first floor, was a Chinese restaurant. The smell of sour oil and garlic permeated the place.

  A compact man, with a few stray gray hairs, Sung walked hunched over from the wound. Watching his unsteady gait, she felt a poignant sympathy for him. In his life in China, as a doctor, presumably he would have enjoyed some respect from his patients and--even though he was a dissident--may have had some prestige. But here Sung had nothing. She wondered what he was going to do for a living--drive a taxi, work in a restaurant?

  "I'll make tea," he said.

  "No, that's all right," she said. "I can't stay long."

  "I'm making some for myself anyway." There was no separate kitchen but a stove, a half-size refrigerator and a rust-stained sink lined one wall of the living room. He put a cheap kettle on the sputtering flame and took a box of Lipton from the cabinet over the sink. He smelled it and gave a curious smile.

  "Not what you're used to?" she asked.

  "I'll go shopping later," he said ruefully.

  Sachs asked, "The INS let you out on bond?"

  Sung nodded. "I've formally petitioned for asylum. My lawyer tells me that most people try for it but don't qualify. But I spent two years in a reeducation camp. And I've published articles attacking Beijing for human rights violations. We downloaded some as evidence. The examining officer wouldn't guarantee anything but he said there's a good case for asylum."

  "When's the hearing?" she asked.

  "Next month."

  Sachs watched his hands as he took two cups from the cupboard and carefully washed, dried and arranged them on a tray. There was something ceremonial about the way he did this. He tore open the bags of tea and put them in a ceramic pot and poured the hot water over them then whisked the brew with a spoon.

  All for a cup of mass-market Lipton . . .

  He carried the pot and cups into the living r
oom, sat stiffly. He poured two cups and offered one to her. She rose to help him. She took the cup from his hands, which she found to be soft but very strong.

  "Is there any word on the others?" he asked.

  "They're in Manhattan somewhere, we think. We found a truck they stole abandoned not far from here. I'd like to ask you about them."

  "Of course. What can I tell you?"

  "Anything that you know. Names, descriptions . . .anything."

  Sung brought the tea to his lips and took a very small sip. "There were two families--the Changs and the Wus--and a few other people who escaped. I don't remember their names. Some crewmen got off the ship too. Chang tried to save them--he was steering our raft--but the Ghost shot them."

  Sachs tried her tea. It seemed to taste very different from the grocery-store beverage she was used to. My imagination, she told herself.

  Sung continued. "The crew was decent to us. Before we left I heard bad rumors about the crews on the smuggling ships. But on the Dragon they treated us okay, gave us fresh water and food."

  "Have you remembered anything about where the Changs or the Wus might've gone?"

  "Nothing other than what I told you on the beach. All we heard was that we were going to be dropped at a beach on Long Island. And then trucks were going to take us to someplace in New York."

  "And the Ghost? Can you tell me anything that might help us find him?"

  He shook his head. "The little snakeheads in China--they were the Ghost's representatives--said that once we landed, we'd never see him again. And they warned us not to try to contact him."

  "We think he had an assistant on board, pretending to be one of the immigrants," Sachs said. "The Ghost generally does that. Do you know who that might've been?"

  "No," Sung replied. "There were several men in the hold who stayed by themselves. They didn't say much to anyone. It might've been one of them. But I never paid any attention. I don't know their names."

  "Did the crew say anything about what the Ghost would do when he got to the country?"

  Sung grew grave and seemed to be considering something. He said, "Nothing specific--they were afraid of him too, I think. But one thing . . . I don't know if it will help you but it's something I heard. The captain of the ship was talking about the Ghost and used the expression 'Po fu chen zhou' about him. It translates literally as 'break the cauldrons and sink the boats.' You'd say, I suppose, 'There is no turning back.' It refers to a warrior from the Qin dynasty. After his troops had crossed a river to attack some enemy, that's what he ordered his men to do--break the cauldrons and sink the boats. So there'd be no possibility of either encamping or retreating. If they wanted to survive, they had to push forward and destroy the other side. The Ghost is that kind of enemy."

  So he won't stop until he finds and kills the families, Sachs reflected uneasily.

  Silence fell between them, interrupted by the grating sounds of traffic on Canal Street. On impulse Sachs asked, "Your wife is in China?"

  Sung looked into her eyes and said evenly, "She died last year."

  "I'm sorry."

  "In a reeducation camp. The officials said that she got sick. But they never told me what her illness was. And there was no autopsy. I hope that she did get sick, though. Rather that, than to think she was tortured to death."

  Sachs felt a chill surge through her at these words. "She was a dissident too?"

  He nodded. "That's how we met. At a protest in Beijing ten years ago. On the anniversary of Tiananmen Square. Over the years she became more outspoken than me. Before she was arrested we were going to come here together, with the children . . . . " Sung's voice faded and he let the ellipses following his words explain the essential sorrow of his present life.

  Finally he said, "I decided I couldn't stay in the country any longer. Politically it was dangerous, of course. But more than that, there were too many associations with my wife. I decided to come here, apply for asylum and then send for my children." A faint smile. "After my mourning is over I'll find a woman here to be the mother to my children." He shrugged and sipped tea. "But that will be in the future."

  His hand went to the amulet he wore. Her eyes followed it. He noticed and took it off his neck and handed it to her.

  "My good-luck charm. Maybe it works," he laughed. "It brought you to me when I was drowning."

  "What is it?" she asked, holding the carving close.

  "It's a carving from Qingtian, south of Fuzhou. The soapstone there is very famous. It was a present from my wife."

  "It's broken," she observed, rubbing the fracture with her nail. Some of the soft stone flaked off.

  "It got chipped on the rock I was holding on to when you saved me."

  The design was of a monkey, sitting on his haunches. The creature seemed humanlike. Wily and shrewd. Sung explained, "He is a famous character in Chinese mythology. The Monkey King."

  She handed the amulet back to him. He replaced it and the charm dropped back against his muscular, hairless chest. The bandages from the Ghost's gunshot wound were just visible under the blue work shirt. Suddenly she was keenly aware of Sung's presence, inches away from her. She could smell disinfectant soap and harsh laundry detergent from his clothes. She felt an inexplicable comfort coming from him--this man who was virtually a stranger.

  She told him, "We're leaving a patrol car outside your apartment."

  "To protect me?"

  "Yes."

  This amused Sung. "The public security bureau officers in China wouldn't do that--they'd only park outside your door to spy or intimidate you."

  "You're not in Kansas anymore, John."

  "Kansas?"

  "An expression. I have to get back to Lincoln."

  "To--?"

  "The man I work with. Lincoln Rhyme."

  She rose, felt a stab of pain in her knee.

  "Wait," Sung said. He took her hand. She felt a serene power radiating from his touch. He said, "Open your mouth."

  "What?" She laughed.

  "Lean forward. Open your mouth."

  "Why?"

  "I'm a doctor. I want to look at your tongue."

  Amused, she did and he examined her mouth quickly. "You have arthritis," he said, releasing her hand and sitting back.

  "Chronic," she said. "How did you know that?"

  "As I said, I'm a doctor. Come back and I will treat you."

  She laughed. "I've been to dozens of doctors."

  "Western medicine, Western doctors, they have their place. Chinese medicine is best for curing chronic pains and discomfort--problems that seem to arise for no apparent reason. There always is a reason, though. There are things I can do that will help. I'm indebted to you. You saved my life. I would be shamed if I didn't repay that."

  "That was two big guys in black rubber suits."

  "No, no, if not for you I would have drowned. I know that. So, please, you will come back and let me help you?"

  She hesitated for a moment.

  But then, as if prodding her to act, a bolt of pain shot through her knee. She gave no outward reaction to the twinge but kept a placid face as she took out her pen and gave Sung her cell phone number.

  *

  Standing on Central Park West, Sonny Li was confused.

  What was with the public security bureau here? Hongse drove that fast yellow car, bang, bang, like a TV cop, and now, it seemed, the officers were hunting the Ghost from a building as luxurious as this? No PSB officer in China could afford such an apartment, even the most corrupt (and there were some pretty damn corrupt public security officers).

  Li tossed his cigarette away, spat on the grass and then, with his head down, walked quickly across the street into the alley that led to the back of the building. Even the alley was spotless! In Li's home of Liu Guoyuan--which was richer than most towns in China--an alley like this would have been piled high with trash and discarded appliances. He paused, looked around the corner and found the back door of the building open. A young man, with perfectly tri
mmed blond hair, wearing dark slacks, a light shirt and a flowery tie, stepped out. He carted two green plastic trash bags with him, which he carried to a large blue metal container and tossed inside. The man glanced around the alley, picked up a few stray pieces of paper and threw those out too. He brushed his hands together then returned inside, pulling the door closed. It didn't, however, latch.

  Thank you, sir.

  Sonny Li slipped into the basement, smelling the powerful musty scent of the place, listening for sounds. The young man's footsteps ascended the stairs. Li waited behind a stack of large cartons for him to return but the man had apparently gone on to other chores. There were creaks from upstairs and the sound of running water. Li glanced into cardboard boxes on the floor. Some were filled with clothes, others seemed to be memorabilia. Plaques, awards, degrees from schools. University of Illy-noise, Li pronounced the English to himself. The American Institute of Forensic Science Achievement Award, a Federal Bureau of Investigation Letter of Commendation signed by the director himself. Dozens of others.

  The recipient of all of these commendations was Lincoln Rhyme.

  The blond man was apparently not bringing any more trash downstairs and Li left his hiding place. Up a flight of stairs, walking slowly. The wood was old and he stepped carefully to avoid creaks. He paused behind the door at the top and pushed it open slightly.

  Then loud footsteps came toward him, several people, it seemed like. Li pressed himself back against the wall, beside some mops and brooms.

  Voices calling: "We'll be back in a couple of hours, Linc. We'll have forensics call . . . " Some other things that Li couldn't understand.

  The footsteps stopped and Li heard another man ask, "Hey, Lincoln, you want one of us to stay?"

  Another voice, irritated, responded. "Stay? Why would I want somebody to stay? I want to get some work done. And I don't want any interruptions!"

  "I'm just saying it might be better to have somebody with a weapon. The Ghost's fucking vanished. His assistant too. You said yourself to watch our backs."