The First Excellence: Fa-Ling's Map

by Donna Carrick

  “Do you prefer to speak in Cantonese or English?” she asked.

  “Your Cantonese is perfect,” he said, “but I need to practice my English. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” She sipped coffee, suddenly unsure what to say to him. As long as they were speaking in Cantonese, she could enjoy a sense of being outside of herself, an actress on a stage, seeking adventure without consequence. Once she reverted to English she was forced to recognise the reality of the circumstances, her flirtation with the potentially dangerous detective, and her own youthful desire.

  What was the appropriate etiquette? Was she expected to give Yong-qi some sign she found him attractive? Or was it best to be coy, to let him blunder his way through the mixture of nervousness and lust that filled the space between them?

  Mistaking her silence for disinterest, he decided on what he thought would be a safe topic of conversation.

  “I understand you travelled to Guilin yesterday. How did you enjoy the journey?”

  “It was difficult,” she said. “I had a good driver, so we managed to get there and back without incident.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “It is beautiful country.”

  “Yes, very. Is your partner, Detective Cheng, well?”

  Yong-qi blushed, confused by her obvious change of subject. He had only meant to show interest, but clearly he had tripped upon something that was not his business.

  “Yes,” he said. “Cheng is well.”

  The silence hung between them for an awkward moment. He was unsure how to begin again, and she seemed reluctant to guide him. Finally she smiled, meeting his eyes.

  “Let’s get some breakfast,” she said. “Shall we try the buffet?”

  “Great idea.” There was nothing like food to ease tension. The act of breaking bread together was the best cure for distance.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said when they were seated once again. “Why did someone of your education decide to go into law enforcement?”

  “You are assuming I am educated,” he teased. “What if I’m a lout?”

  “You speak English very well. I have to guess your education was solid. You don’t fit my image of a cop, if you don’t mind my saying so. Your friend Cheng, now he seems like a cop.”

  “I will take that as a compliment, I suppose. Cheng is an excellent ‘cop’, as you put it. I will probably never be as good as him. However, I have my own skills.”

  “I’m certain of it. Did you study in Nanning?”

  “Yes,” he said, suddenly self-conscious, as if she were watching him through a magnifying glass. “I majored in Languages and Criminal Psychology.” He did not mention his passion for literature or the private education he’d been given by his parents, who never abandoned their hopes for his future despite their long imprisonment and subsequent re-education.

  “Are you enjoying this book?” he said, tapping her copy of Crime And Punishment? “It’s an excellent study of the guilty mind.”

  “I agree.” Fa-Ling smiled. Obviously, it was his turn to change the subject.

  What an exercise in awkwardness it was, she thought, this strained effort to get to know a potential lover. Why couldn’t people just cut through the crap? Here she was in Nanning, of all places, on the opposite side of the world from her home. She had the day ahead of her, she had a room. How convenient it would be to just say to Yong-qi “Let’s go upstairs.” That wasn’t the way it was done. She would have to bite her tongue. Hopefully he would get the message.

  Patience.

  Fa-ling did not notice the arrival of Ting-lo and Adrian Harlan, who carried Baby Anna past them to join the Gollucks at a large table near the rear of the restaurant. When Eloise Golluck approached their table on the way to the buffet Fa-ling was taken by surprise.

  “Are you coming with us on the trip today?” Eloise asked. “We’re checking out one of the local temples.”

  “Actually,” Fa-ling said, “Detective Wang has offered to take me on a tour of the city.” She came up with the lie and spoke it easily, without a moment’s hesitation, pausing only after she’d thrown it out there to wonder at her own boldness. “I’ve already agreed to join him.”

  Yong-qi blushed and stammered, murmuring something about showing her the local sites.

  “Wonderful,” Eloise said. “When we get back this evening, perhaps Detective Wang would like to join our group for dinner.”

  “If we’re back in time, that would be great,” Fa-ling said.

  Remembering his manners, Yong-qi stood and bowed his head. “Please call me Yong-qi,” he said.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” In the silence that followed, Eloise recognised her presence was not as welcome as her absence would be. “See you later, then,” she added, and scooted back to her table.

  “So,” Yong-qi said, meeting Fa-ling’s smile with his own, “I take it we will be spending the day together.”

  “Whatever will we do?” she asked.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Sun had a specific operator in mind when he spoke with Master Long, a young woman with an excellent background and keen senses, who also shared some of Shopei’s physical attributes. Betty was the personal assistant of an official employed by the US Consulate. A reserved young woman, she always carried a book with her during her lunch break and had the excellent good fortune of being able to obtain information regarding Chinese Americans who regularly travelled to the Mainland.

  The Underground movement took full advantage of this information, using it to create Visas and passports that were authentic in that they were based on real American citizens, complete with accurate travel histories and expiry dates.

  In addition to being well placed in her career, Betty was also an excellent marks woman, not that she would ever be foolish enough to carry her gun during her daily activities. Her gun was special. Her father had purchased it for her on the black market. It was not one of those pathetic Chinese cannons, but a true-blue American weapon, light enough to be handled by a woman, and deadly.

  Betty kept her weapon hidden in the drawer of her nightstand, under a loose pile of papers and trashy novels. When she got the call from a fellow-operator asking her to visit the State hospital on the West Side of Shanghai, she pulled the gun from its hiding place. She inspected the cartridge and secured a small, modern, British-made silencer to its snout before slipping the weapon into the stylishly small shoulder bag that also held her cell phone and a hairbrush. Because her brown leather wallet was large, the bag was overfull with its new content, so she removed the novel she’d been reading that day and placed it on her pillow.

  She stepped out of her silk skirt and hung it in the closet, pulled on a pair of plain brown trousers and exchanged high heels for loafers. The best defence one had in any situation involving conflict and danger was the ability to run like there was no tomorrow. Betty was a good runner. Few people knew she still trained three times each week, opting to run rather than join the neighbourhood T’Ai Chi exercises.

  Betty took the bus, as she normally did. She had no reason to believe she was under scrutiny, but prudence was always the best policy. The hospital wasn’t far from her apartment and she was there in less than twenty minutes.

  She stood at the hospital entrance, pretending to read a mad splash of posters that warned citizens to exercise good hygiene to avoid the spread of infectious disease. Betty waited until a belligerent old man distracted the woman at the front desk. When the woman’s attention was diverted, Betty hurried past her to another desk at the back of the lobby manned by elderly volunteers. She smiled at a heavy, white haired woman wearing thick glasses.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked.

  “I am looking for a man who was brought in earlier today,” Betty said.

  “His name?”

  “Tan.”

  The woman frowned, the deep creases around her narrow eyes magnified by her glasses. She searched the list, grunting before looking back up at Betty.

 
; Long before the volunteer had located Tan’s name on the list, Betty had already spotted it, though it was upside down, and had determined the room number as well.

  By the time the woman looked up again, Betty was already on her way to the elevator. Snorting at the general rudeness of today’s youth, the volunteer went back to her usual pastime of gossiping with her colleague.

  Betty got off at the fourth floor, where the maternity ward was located. Despite the Republic’s one child policy, the ward was filled with women in various stages of labour. They sat on benches and wheelchairs and leaned against walls, some in the company of their husbands, hoping to be given a bed and proper medical attention before their babies popped into the world unattended.

  She looked at the signs along the corridors, pretending to search for a specific room. Although speed was important, Betty still took pains to appear unhurried. There were several sets of stairs. She chose one at the far end of the building, a healthy distance from the busy elevators. Once she was in the stairwell, she removed the gun from her purse and tucked it into the front of her trousers where it was obscured by her loose silk jacket.

  Betty moved down the stairs, pausing at the door leading to the third floor where the critical patients were housed. The stairwell she chose was not far from Tan’s room. She pressed her ear against the stairwell door, but the only sound she heard on the other side was the swish and clang of a wet mop being pushed rapidly over the floor.

  She waited until the janitor had moved past then slowly opened the door. The third floor corridor was seductively empty, the janitor having already wheeled his bucket around the corner and out of sight. Still she waited. Tan Dahui would be under heavy police guard. With the chronic over crowding of all Shanghai hospitals there should be a few visitors milling around the hallway. She expected to hear the groans of patients coming from the rooms, and was surprised by the eerie silence.

  There was not a nurse in sight. Betty was aware of the faint squeak of her rubber soles on the wet floor. She closed the door to the stairwell and made her way slowly down the hall, her eyes darting from one doorway to another.

  Her mission was to snap a photo of “Tan Dahui” using her cell phone and transmit it to an anonymous party for identification. The recipient would load the image onto a blog, where it could be viewed over the Internet. Sun would notify his contacts once the photo was available. They would be able to confirm whether the patient really was Tan Dahui.

  About half way down the corridor Betty spotted room number 314. With her hand near the gun in her waistband, she slid along the wall and peeked into the room. Tan Dahui was stretched out on a narrow bed. His head was wrapped in gauze and had been elevated. Except for a clear plastic oxygen mask, his face was visible. It should be easy enough to remove the mask for a second and snap the photo.

  The individual patient rooms did not have their own washrooms. That meant there was no chance of an attacker hiding in the toilet. She removed the safety on her weapon, scanning every corner of the room as she entered. She was alone except for the patient, whose hands were in plain view and whose wrist was connected to an IV unit.

  Betty pivoted, keeping her back to the wall and her line of vision open to include both the doorway and the man on the bed. Crab-like, she stepped toward the patient. She transferred her gun to her left hand. At close range she was an adequate shot with either hand, having trained since she was in university. With her right hand she moved the mask and raised her camera phone. She turned her back to the door for only an instant, to allow for a clear shot of the patient. As soon as she had the photo, she turned again to cover the entrance.

  By the time Betty turned, Jiu Kaiyu was already standing in the doorway with his weapon trained on her heart. The ‘patient’ threw off his blanket and wrestled with her for control of her weapon.

  Betty let go of the gun. She raised her hands, the camera phone still in her right palm. Jiu reached out to take the phone, and she offered it to him without resistance.

  But not before she had pressed ‘send’.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Sun slept well as he always did, with Wen beside him in their hotel room bed. He was not given to bouts of nervousness and usually made it through the night without waking.

  He woke early, the sun poking at his eyes from around the edges of the heavy drapes. He glanced at the clock, then at his phone to see if he had missed any calls, but there were no messages.

  Damn, he thought. The photo had been received from Betty late the previous evening. Obviously Betty had managed to get close to the victim. She should have called by now to say she had returned home safely. Her failure to do so could only mean one thing.

  Sun’s concern was for Betty’s safety, of course, but he was also worried about his friend Long and the young woman Shopei. He’d left a message for Shopei to confirm whether the “patient” was indeed her brother, but had not heard back yet.

  “Shopei is missing,” Long said when Sun called him. “She studied the photo last night, but the image was unclear, and she couldn’t be sure whether it was Dahui. She slipped away this morning, probably on her way to the hospital.”

  “Long,” Sun said, “my agent is also missing. I believe she fell into a Ministry trap. If Shopei is on her way to the hospital, then she is in danger.”

  “I know of someone who might be willing to help.”

  “No civilians,” Sun said.

  “He’s not a civilian. He’s a cop from Nanning.”

  “In that case, I’ll trust your judgement, Master Long. Do whatever you can to get our girls back safely.”

  **

  Long studied the cards he’d been given by the two detectives, Wang Yong-qi and Cheng. They were good men. Even when Wang had been lying to them about his identity, Long had still sensed he was honourable.

  Still, Long preferred to work with full-fledged operators, people who had completed the necessary physical and mental training for the work they were doing. All operators were screened meticulously and subjected to rigorous preparations. Even Shopei would undergo this training under his supervision, as her father had before her.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he dialled the number. The call went directly into Wang’s personal voice mail.

  Long hung up without leaving a message. There was no point trying to reach Wang at the station, since he knew both detectives had booked two weeks’ vacation. He turned over the other card, the one that belonged to the big man, Cheng Minsheng. Cheng was more of a mystery, having remained silent during most of their visit. Long knew silence is not always an indication of spiritual or intellectual depth. Sometimes it is a clue an individual may be hiding something.

  “Hello,” Cheng said. There was a clanging of pots and pans in the background. “Hold on a moment.” Cheng put the phone down and lowered the heat on the stove. “Hello,” he said again when he returned.

  “May I speak with Detective Cheng?” Long said.

  “I am Cheng. Who is calling?”

  “I am the doctor you met the other night.” Long did not give his name over the phone.

  “Oh, yes. I remember. What can I do for you?”

  “I have been trying to reach your friend, the other Detective. We have a problem and I am hoping he can help us.”

  “You tried his cell and his home?”

  “Yes, but I was reluctant to leave a message.”

  “Very well. Tell me what the problem is and I will leave a message for him.”

  “Have you heard the news from Shanghai?”

  “I heard it this morning. Is it true there was a survivor?” Cheng asked.

  “We sent a visitor to find out.”

  Cheng’s heart skipped a beat. “Not your granddaughter?”

  “We sent another young woman,” Long said, “and my granddaughter followed her this morning. We believe both girls are in danger.”

  Cheng looked at his mother, who waited patiently at the kitchen table while he botched the fried eggs and bacon. She wo
re a bandage on her forehead above the left eye where a night stick had landed during a skirmish at the park.

  “I’ll try to locate my friend,” he said to Long. “If I reach him, then we will both visit you this afternoon. If not, then I will come alone. Either way, I will help.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” Long said.

  “Thanks are not necessary,” Cheng replied.

  **

  When the desk sergeant had called at 4:20 that morning, Cheng was already awake, sitting in the darkness watching the news on television and waiting for word regarding his mother. That’s how he’d learned about the discovery of the Tan family’s remains inside their Shanghai apartment.

  When the sergeant told him his mother had been arrested, he drove to the station. He signed the necessary papers and led Ma-ma to the car without a word. She seemed to be oblivious to his worry. Still, he kept his criticisms to himself, cleaning her injury and sitting with her until the sun came up.

  Something had to change, and soon.

  Someone, Cheng thought, had to do something.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  After breakfast, Fa-ling and Yong-qi joined the group in the hotel lobby where they waited for the bus to take them to the temple near Nanning.

  “Are you coming with us?” Cynthia asked.

  “Not today,” Fa-ling said. “Yong-qi has promised to show me around the city.”

  “Very well. We should be back here by 5:30. Remember, tomorrow we are flying to Beijing, so please prepare your things.”

  “Where’s Paula?” Eloise asked Guy Kader, who was carrying Mei Mei.

  “She has a headache,” Guy said.

  “She’s probably tired.”

  “Is everyone else here?” Cynthia asked. She counted heads, noting the Kitcheners, the Gollucks, the Harlans and Guy and Mei Mei Kader.

  “Where are Yvanna and Chris?” Eloise asked.

  “Here we are,” Chris said, jogging ahead of Yvanna who followed with Daniel.