The Stone Monkey

by Jeffery Deaver

  The house of the Ghost's father in an elegant part of Fuzhou was one of the first targets of the rampaging young men who took to the streets, practically shivering with idealism, on the orders of the Great Helmsman.

  "You are part of the old," the leader raged. "Do you repent? Do you confess to clinging to the old values?"

  Kwan Baba had met them in his living room, which had shrunk to the size of a prison cell due to the number of shouting youths surrounding the family, and had gazed at them not only in fear but in bewilderment too; he honestly hadn't been able to see the evil in what he'd done.

  "Confess and seek reeducation and we will spare you!" another cried.

  "You are guilty of old thought, old values, old culture . . . . "

  "You have built a lackey's empire on the backs of the people!"

  In fact, the students had no idea what Kwan Baba did for a living or whether the cooperative he headed was based on the purest principles of J. P. Morgan capitalism or Marxist-Leninist-Maoist communism. They knew only that his house was nicer than theirs and that he could afford to buy art from an abhorred "old" era--art that did nothing to inform the people's struggle against the oppressive forces of the West.

  Kwan and his wife, along with the twelve-year-old Ang and his older brother, stood speechless before the seething crowd.

  "You are part of the old . . . "

  Much of that night was a terrible, confused blur to young Ang.

  But one part was permanently branded into his memory and he thought of it now, standing in his luxurious high-rise overlooking the harbor, awaiting the Changs' betrayer.

  The tall student leader of the cadre stood in the middle of the living room, wearing black-rimmed glasses, lenses slightly askew because they'd been made at one of the local collectives. Spittle flying from his mouth, he engaged in a furious dialectic with young Kwan Ang, who hovered meekly beside the kidney-shaped coffee table on which his father had taught him to use the abacus years before.

  "You are part of the old," the student raged into the boy's face. "Do you repent?" For emphasis, with every line he spoke he swung the thick baton--heavy as a cricket bat--to the floor between them; it landed with a loud thud.

  "Yes, I repent," the boy said calmly. "I ask the people to forgive me."

  "You will reform your decadent ways."

  Thud.

  "Yes, I will reform my ways," he said, though he didn't know what "decadent" meant. "The old ways are a threat to the collective good of the people."

  "You will die if you retain your old beliefs!"

  Thud.

  "Then I will reject them."

  Thud, thud, thud . . .

  So it continued for endless minutes--until the blows the student rained down finally stole the life from what the student had been striking with the iron-tipped baton: the Ghost's parents, who lay bound and gagged on the floor at their feet.

  The boy gave not a single glance at the bloody forms as he recited the catechism the students thirstily sought to hear. "I repent my ways. I reject the old. I regret that I have been seduced by unbeneficial and decadent thought."

  He was spared, but not his older brother, who fled to the gardener's shed and returned with a rake--the only weapon the foolish boy could find. Within minutes the students reduced him to a third bloody pile on the carpet, as lifeless as his parents.

  The fervent youngsters took loyal Kwan Ang with them, welcoming the young boy into the heart of the Glorious Red Banner Fuzhou Youth Brigade, as they spent the rest of the night ferreting out more of the pernicious old.

  None of the students noticed that the next morning Ang slipped away from their impromptu headquarters. It seemed that with so much reform to perpetrate none of them even remembered him.

  He, however, remembered them. His short time as an old-despising Maoist revolutionary--no more than a few hours--had been spent quite productively: memorizing the names of the youths in the cadre and planning their deaths.

  Still, he bided his time.

  Naixin . . .

  The boy's sense of survival was strong and he escaped into one of his father's junkyards near Fuzhou. He lived there for months. He would prowl through the huge place, hunting rats and dogs for food, tracking them through the skeletons of machinery and mounds of trash with a homemade spear and a club--a rusty shock absorber from a wrecked Russian truck.

  When he grew more confident and learned that the cadres were not searching for him he began making forays into town to steal food from trash bins behind Fuzhounese restaurants.

  Because of their seafaring history and extensive contact with the rest of the world the Fuzhounese have always been among the most independent of Chinese. Teenage Kwan Ang found that the Communist Party and the Maoist cadres steered clear of the waterfront and docks, where snakeheads and smugglers didn't give a shit about downtrodden masses, and spouting ideology was a sure way to get yourself killed. The boy was informally adopted by several of these men and began running errands for them, earning their trust, eventually being allowed to head up some of their smaller schemes, like thefts from the docks and extorting protection money from businesses in town.

  He killed his first man at thirteen--a Vietnamese drug dealer who had robbed the snakehead Ang was working for. And at fourteen he finally tracked down, tortured and killed the students who'd robbed him of his family.

  Young Ang was not a fool; he looked around him and realized that the thugs he worked with tended to rise only so far--largely because of their poor education. He knew that he needed to master business, accounting and English--the coming language of international crime. He would sneak into the state schools in Fuzhou, which were so crowded that the teachers never knew that one of the students was not officially enrolled.

  The boy worked hard amassing money, learning which crimes to avoid (stealing from the state and importing drugs, each of which would assure that you were the headline act at the well-attended Tuesday morning executions in the local football stadium) and which crimes were acceptable: stealing from the foreign businesses that were stumbling obliviously into the Chinese market, dealing in guns and human smuggling.

  His experience on the waterfronts had given him an expertise in smuggling, extortion and money laundering, and these were the areas in which he made his money, first in Fuzhou then in Hong Kong and expanding throughout China and the Far East. He made a fetish of staying out of the limelight, of never being photographed, of going to desperate lengths never to be spotted, much less arrested. He was thrilled when he learned that some local public security bureau officer had dubbed him Gui, the Ghost. He immediately adopted the nickname.

  He was successful because the money itself was not what excited him. Rather it was the challenge itself. To lose was to be shamed. To win was glorious. The driving force in his life was the hunt. In gambling dens, for instance, he would play only games of skill. He was contemptuous of the fools who would pay money for a chance at a wheel of fortune or a lottery.

  Challenges . . .

  Like finding the Wus and the Changs.

  He wasn't displeased with how the hunt was going. The Ghost had learned from his sources that the Wus were in a special safehouse--not an INS one but a facility run by the NYPD--which he never would have expected. Yusuf had talked to a colleague who would check out the place, see what the security was like and perhaps even kill the Wus if he had an opportunity.

  As for the Changs--they'd be dead by nightfall, betrayed by their own friend, this Tan fellow, whom the Ghost would, of course, kill after the man revealed the family's address.

  He was also pleased to hear from his source that the police weren't having much success tracking him down. The FBI side of the case was stalling and most of the case had fallen to the city police department. His luck was changing.

  These meditations were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  The betrayer had arrived.

  The Ghost nodded toward a Uighur, who pulled his gun out of his waistband. He opened
the door slowly, pointing his pistol toward the visitor.

  The man in the hallway said, "I am Tan. I am here to see the man who is called the Ghost. Kwan is his real name. We have a business matter. It's about the Changs."

  "Come in," the Ghost said, stepping forward. "Do you want some tea?"

  "No," the old man replied, hobbling inside, looking around. "I won't be here long."

  Chapter Thirty-two

  With his still eyes, beneath drooping lids, Chang Jiechi surveyed the men in the room: the Ghost himself, then two men from some Chinese minority--Uighurs or Kazahks. Like many older Han Chinese, Chang Jiechi thought of them by the word "barbarians."

  The old man continued farther into the room, thinking: What a journey it had been to come here to this place that would be the site of his death. Thinking too about his son, Sam Chang, who, he hoped, was still unconscious from the tea Chang Jiechi had given him, generously laced with some of the old man's morphine.

  "What is the only reason that a man would do something like you are about to do--something foolhardy and dangerous?"

  "For the sake of his children."

  No father, of course, would willingly let a son go to his death. Chang Jiechi had decided as soon as Sam had returned from Chinatown last night that he himself would drug his son and come here in his stead. Sam had half a life span ahead of him here in the Beautiful Country. He had his sons to raise and now--miraculously--the daughter that Mei-Mei had always wanted. Here was freedom, here was peace, here was a chance for success. He would not let his son miss out on these things.

  As the drugged tea had taken effect and his son's lids fell heavily and the cup dropped from his hand Mei-Mei had risen, alarmed. But Chang Jiechi had told her about the morphine and what he intended to do. She tried to stop him but she was a woman and she was his daughter-in-law; she acquiesced to his wishes. Chang Jiechi had taken the gun and some money and, embracing Mei-Mei and touching his son's forehead one last time, left the apartment, with instructions not to wake William under any circumstances. He'd found a taxi and used the church van map to show the driver where he wished to go.

  Now he walked stiffly into the Ghost's elegant apartment. The barbarian with the gun hovered close and Chang Jiechi understood that he would have to put the men at ease before he would have a chance to pull out his own pistol and put a bullet into the heart of the snakehead.

  "Do I know you?" the Ghost asked, eyeing him curiously.

  "Perhaps," Chang Jiechi replied, making up something he believed was reasonable and would make the Ghost less suspicious. "I'm involved in the tongs here in Chinatown."

  "Ah." The Ghost sipped his tea.

  The barbarian remained nearby, looking suspiciously at the old man. The other young man, dark and brooding, sat down in the back of the apartment.

  As soon as the thug that was closest turned his attention away, Chang Jiechi would shoot the Ghost.

  "Sit down, old man," the Ghost said.

  "Thank you. My feet aren't well. Dampness and heat in my bones."

  "And you know where the Changs are?"

  "Yes."

  "How do I know I can trust you?"

  Chang Jiechi laughed. "Regarding trust, I think I have more to worry about than you do."

  Please, he prayed to the spirit of his own father, a man gone from this earth for forty-six years and the primary god in Chang Jiechi's pantheon, higher even than the Buddha: Father, make that man put his gun away and give me five seconds. Let me save my family. Give me the chance for one bullet--that's all I ask. I'm only three meters away, I cannot miss.

  "How do you know the Changs?" the Ghost asked.

  "Through a relative in Fuzhou."

  "You know I wish them harm. What reason do you have to betray them?"

  "I need the money for my son. He is not well. He needs doctors."

  The Ghost shrugged and said to the barbarian, "Search him. Let me see any papers he has on him."

  No! thought Chang Jiechi in alarm.

  The barbarian stepped forward, blocking his view--and aim--of the Ghost.

  Chang Jiechi held up a hand and stopped the barbarian. "Please. I am an old man. I deserve your respect. Don't touch me. I will give you my papers myself."

  The barbarian glanced back at the Ghost with a raised eyebrow. And when he did, Chang Jiechi drew the pistol from his pocket and, without hesitation, shot the barbarian in the side of the head. He dropped hard and lay motionless, sprawled on a footstool.

  But the Ghost reacted immediately and leapt behind a heavy couch as Chang Jiechi fired again. The bullet snapped through the leather but he had no idea whether or not he'd hit the snakehead. He turned toward the second barbarian in the back of the apartment but the man had already raised his gun and was aiming it. Chang Jiechi heard a shot and felt a huge fist strike his thigh as the heavy bullet spun him around and he landed on his back on the floor. The barbarian hurried toward him. The old man might have fired at the man and possibly hit him. Instead, he turned to the couch and repeatedly fired his gun toward where the Ghost was hiding.

  Then he realized that the weapon had stopped firing.

  He was out of bullets.

  Had he hit the Ghost?

  Oh, please, Guan Yin, goddess of mercy . . . Please!

  But a shadow grew on the wall. The Ghost rose from behind the couch, unhurt, his own pistol in his hand. Breathing heavily, he pointed the black muzzle toward Chang Jiechi and walked around the furniture. A glance at the dead barbarian.

  "You're Chang's father."

  "Yes, and you're the devil who's on his way back to hell."

  "But not," the Ghost said, "on your ticket."

  The other barbarian, moaning and whispering hysterically in a language that Chang Jiechi did not understand, hovered over the body of his countryman. He then rose and started toward the old man, pointing the gun at him.

  "No, Yusuf," the Ghost said impatiently, waving him back. "He'll tell us where the rest of them are."

  "Never" was the defiant response.

  The Ghost said to his confederate, "We don't have much time. Somebody will have heard the shots. We'll have to leave. Use the stairs. Not the elevator. Have the van waiting by the back door."

  The agitated man continued to stare at Chang Jiechi with wide eyes, hands shaking in rage.

  "Did you hear me?" the Ghost raged.

  "Yes."

  "Then go. I'll join you in a minute. Go!"

  Chang Jiechi began to crawl desperately toward the closest doorway, which led to a dim bedroom. He glanced back. The Ghost was in the kitchen, taking a long filleting knife from a drawer.

  *

  Just ahead of Amelia Sachs, driving her bee-yellow Camaro at seventy miles an hour, was the building that contained the Ghost's safehouse apartment. The structure was huge, though, many stories tall and wide. Finding which apartment was the Ghost's would be a chore.

  A sharp crackle in her Motorola speaker.

  "Be advised, all RMP units in the vicinity of Battery Park City, we have a ten-thirty-four, reports of shots fired. Standby . . . . All units, further to that ten-thirty-four. Have a location. Eight-oh-five Patrick Henry Street. All units in area respond."

  The very building she was now bearing down on. The Ghost's. Was it a coincidence? She doubted it, though. What had happened? Did he have the Changs inside the building? Had he lured them there? The families, the children . . . She pushed the accelerator farther down and depressed the button of her mike, pinned to her windbreaker. "Crime Scene Five Eight Eight Five to Central. Approaching scene of that ten-thirty-four. Anything further, K?"

  "Nothing further, Five Eight Eight Five."

  "No apartment number, K?"

  "Negative."

  "K."

  A few seconds later, Sachs's Camaro was up on the curb, leaving room for the ambulances and other emergency vehicles, which would soon be converging on the building.

  As she ran inside, minding the slick, rosy marble floors, she noted that
the flower beds near the front door overflowed with mulch, which was scattered on the sidewalks--undoubtedly the source of the trace that they'd found at the earlier scene.

  There was no security guard or doorman station in the building but several people were standing in the lobby, looking uneasily at the elevators.

  Sachs asked a middle-aged man, wearing workout clothing, "Did you report the shots?"

  "I heard something. I don't know where from, though."

  "Anybody?" Sachs asked, glancing at the other tenants.

  "I think it was west," an elderly woman said. "High up, but I'm not sure where."

  Two other responding RMPs pulled up out front and the uniformed officers ran inside. Sellitto, Li and Alan Coe were behind them. An ambulance appeared and then two Emergency Services Unit trucks.

  "We heard the ten-thirty-four," Sellitto said. "This's his building, right? The Ghost's?"

  "Yep," Sachs confirmed.

  "Jesus," the homicide detective muttered. "There've gotta be three hundred units here."

  "Two hundred seventy-four," the elderly woman said.

  Sellitto and Sachs conferred. The name on the apartment directory would be fake, of course. The only way to find the Ghost would be a dangerous, door-to-door search.

  Crewcut Bo Haumann strode into the lobby with more ESU officers. "We've sealed all the exits," he said.

  Sachs nodded. "What floor?" she asked the elderly woman.

  "I was on nineteen. West wing. They seemed awfully close."

  A young man in a business suit had joined them. "No, no, no," he said. "I'm sure they were from fifteen. South. Not west."

  "You sure?" Haumann asked.

  "Absolutely."

  "I don't think so," the woman offered in gentle disagreement. "They were higher. And it was definitely the west wing of the building."

  "Great," Haumann muttered. "Well, we've gotta move. We could have injureds. We'll search everywhere."

  Sachs's Motorola clattered again. "Central to Crime Scene Five Eight Eight Five."

  "Go ahead, Central."

  "Landline patch."

  "Go ahead, K."

  "Sachs, are you there?" Lincoln Rhyme's voice said.

  "Yeah, go ahead. I'm here with Lon and Bo and ESU."

  "Listen," the criminalist said, "I've been talking to dispatch and correlating the reports from the people in the building who called nine-one-one. It looks like the shots came from either the eighteenth or nineteenth floors, somewhere in the middle of the west side of the building."