She ran her hand around the rear fender. Unfortunately she could not find a lip to hold the tracking device securely. The back bumper, though, proved useful, possessing a moulded shape that scooped inward and upward at the bottom. She plucked the gum from her mouth, fixing it to the back of the device and stuck the works onto the inner ridge of the bumper.
She was tempted to lurk in the parking lot to watch the men leave, but that would be foolish. Instead she found the hospital coffee shop and chose a small corner table facing the lot.
For more than an hour the car sat unattended. Shopei was conscious of the curious stares of the cafeteria staff. They must be accustomed to seeing people sit for long periods, waiting for loved ones to recover within these walls. Still, Shopei was a striking girl. She made a strange sight staring through the glass the way a cat might watch a hole in the wall, lost to every other factor and focused only on that one spot and on that one hope: that a mouse might at any moment poke its unsuspecting head around the broken plaster.
After an hour, Shopei realised she was becoming too noticeable. She would have to abandon her table and find another safe place from which to watch the car.
She gathered her teacup and the wrapping from her sandwich and piled them neatly on the tray for disposal. She took one last look at the plain brown sedan. From where she sat she could not make out the dream catcher, in fact, the car itself was mostly obscured by an SUV parked beside it.
SIXTY-ONE
Wang Yong-qi and Cheng flagged a taxi as soon as their plane landed in Shanghai. They did not speak other than to give directions to the driver. At the hospital, Cheng inquired about the room number while Wang waited in the lobby. They did not make eye contact or acknowledge they were together. Once he had the information they needed, Cheng made his way down the hospital corridors and found a quiet stairwell. He knew Wang was watching, and that he would be close behind.
Even in the stairwell the men still did not speak. Government agents would have access to the security office and might, at this moment, be watching them on video screens. Cheng put one hand behind his back as he led the way up the stairs, holding out three fingers, then one, then four to let Wang know they were going to room 314.
By the second floor, Cheng began to wheeze, and before they had reached the third floor he was stopped in his tracks by a deep, phlegmy cough that rendered him helpless. Gasping for breath, he waved at Wang to continue. Yong-qi passed him reluctantly, one hand wrapped around the gun in his jacket pocket as he made his way upward.
He looked back at his partner who gripped the banister with one hand as he struggled to discharge a wad of thick mucous into the other. Until Cheng had regained his composure, he would be no use to Wang, and it didn’t look as though he would recover any time soon. Cheng slid downward, sitting on the stairs and leaning forward in an attempt to loosen the stubborn mucous.
Wang opened the door and stepped into the third floor hallway. He soon realised he was in the wrong wing. The room where Tan Dahui was being treated was nowhere to be seen.
Yong-qi proceeded to where the corridor branched off and spotted the nurses’ station. Wanting to avoid notice, he kept walking. He hoped he would be mistaken for any other visitor.
The signs on the wall told him the room he was seeking lay down a long deserted hallway. Given the chronic overcrowding of all Chinese medical facilities and the overwhelming population of the city of Shanghai, it was inconceivable the critical care wing should be so deserted. In one room Wang saw a patient resting on a narrow bed. The patient did not move and made no sound. It was as if he had been drugged. There was little doubt this was a Ministry trap.
Near the end of the hall not far from another stairwell Yong-qi spied room 314. He left his gun in his pocket and entered the room aimlessly, hoping to appear as though he had wandered there by accident.
He immediately saw the ‘patient’ on the bed, his wrist connected to an IV unit that hung from a mobile stand. Then he saw a girl slumped in a wheelchair in the corner of the room. She had a blanket over her legs. Despite this sloppy disguise, it was obvious she had been drugged and dumped in the chair for convenience. Wang was certain she was the missing operator. Her glasses were askew on her nose, held in place loosely and threatening to fall.
Realising his predicament, Yong-qi pulled the gun from his jacket and turned to cover both the bed and the door, coming face to face with Special Agent Jiu Kaiyu.
Wang had not heard Jiu enter, and he was caught off guard. Cheng, he knew, would not have made such a stupid mistake. Before he could recover, the ‘patient’ had risen on the bed and was holding a gun.
“Drop your weapon,” Jiu said. “We are government agents. My people are everywhere. You won’t get out of this hospital alive.”
Wang hesitated for a moment. His mind was fighting to resolve a puzzle. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, setting it on the bed rather than on the floor, in the hopes he might still be able to reach it if the opportunity presented itself.
“Not there,” Jiu said. “Put it on the floor.”
Wang’s eyes widened in surprise at the familiar voice. Of course — it was the man from the park, the one who approached him near the fountain and showed him a picture of Randy Chan. He hoped the agent did not recognise him.
Carefully, Wang reached for his gun, keeping his hand extended as he lowered it to the floor. Then he tapped it with the toe of his shoe and watched it slide toward the agent.
A third man entered the room. He was larger than the other two. He walked across the floor deliberately, adjusting the sleeping woman’s body in the wheelchair and tucking the blanket more firmly around her legs. Then he pushed her chair toward the doorway.
Yi moved on the hospital bed and tossed his covers aside, revealing the dress uniform he had worn earlier for his interview with the media.
Jiu pointed toward Wang.
“He’s a cop,” he said.
Wang did not bother to deny it.
“Give us five minutes to get out of here,” Jiu said to Yi, “then deal with this guy. Don’t screw up. We’ll meet you back at the shop.”
The smaller man nodded, training his weapon on Yong-qi’s chest. Wang studied Jiu. It was obvious from his tone the senior agent had no affection for his subordinate.
One could never tell when the most insignificant piece of information might become important. Knowing the senior agent resented his junior may well prove useful at some point. Maybe Wang could make conversation with the young man and distract him with sympathy.
Ng-zhi wheeled the woman’s chair out of the room, with Jiu close behind. Wang found himself alone with Yi. He studied the young man’s face.
“I saw you on television,” Wang said.
Yi did not reply, but Wang knew he had touched the younger man’s vanity.
“Is Tan Dahui still alive?” Wang asked.
“I’ll ask the questions,” Yi said. He stood and motioned with his gun for Wang to sit on the bed. Wang complied.
“Smoke?” Yi asked.
“No thanks.”
Yi tapped his pack and used his teeth to pull a cigarette free. Holding his gun in his right hand, he used his left to replace the package in his pocket. Then he retrieved a matchbook and using one hand he twisted a match stem so he could scratch it against the flint strip. He sucked on the cigarette and smiled, extinguishing the flame.
“The corners are torn,” Wang noted aloud.
“What are you talking about?”
“On your matchbook cover. The corners are torn.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Yi glanced at the matchbook before slipping it back into his pocket. “What about it?”
“Nothing. I just noticed.”
“What else do you notice, Hawkeye?”
“You have a military bearing,” Wang said quietly.
Yi straightened himself at the compliment.
“Are you ‘Ministry’?” Wang asked.
“That’s not your concern.”
“On television they said you were a Ministry agent,” Wang continued. “You must have a very high rank to be giving public statements.”
“My team was first on the scene,” Yi explained, attempting to give the false impression he was a team leader.
“You’re still wearing your bars.” Wang pointed at the gold and red bar on Yi’s shoulder. “Where is your pin?”
Yi’s left hand instinctively reached for his lapel. He caught himself and scratched his chin instead.
“You have a lot to say, cop,” Yi said. “I think it’s time for you to shut your mouth.”
Wang agreed. He could see he had hit a nerve with the young agent, who was suddenly agitated. It wasn’t a good idea to stir up a puppy holding a gun. Some of these young fellows had a good deal more ‘impulse’ than ‘control’.
He did notice, however, there was a discoloured patch in the shape of a circle on the agent’s lapel. Wang was fairly certain the gold and red pin that was tucked in a baggie in his pocket would feel at home on that jacket. He was also quite sure the torn matchbook cover in the agent’s pocket would match the tiny wedge of cardboard in his own.
Here is a boy, Wang thought, who has torched a man and watched him scream for help as he died. Wang had known many men who found it difficult to control their anger. In his experience, men who possess both vanity and poor temperament are often easily manipulated.
Wang did not get the chance to try his theory. At that moment, Cheng Minsheng appeared in the doorway, his gun drawn. It took only a fraction of a second for Cheng’s keen eyes to make sense of the scene. In that instant, his finger was already moving on the trigger, offering Yi no time to react.
Wang heard only the muffled ping of the silenced barrel as it discharged its bullet. Then the young Ministry of Security Agent dropped his gun and clutched his right elbow.
Yong-qi picked up the gun and tucked it neatly into his pocket. The rookie agent would have trouble explaining the loss of his weapon to his superiors. For the moment, though, there was still a chance Wang and Cheng could catch the other two men and rescue Betty.
“Where did they take her?” Wang asked.
“I don’t know,” Yi said. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he hugged his injured arm, but to his credit, his voice remained defiant.
Cheng grabbed a handful of the young agent’s hair and forced him to his knees.
“My friend asked you a question,” he said.
“Please. I really don’t know.”
“He really doesn’t know,” Cheng said.
“So I see,” Wang agreed.
As if on a signal, both men tore out of the room. They disappeared into the nearest stairwell.
**
Shopei was about to give up on watching the sedan in the hospital parking lot when a new group of nurses headed toward the picnic tables. A few were smoking, and several were carrying food or tea.
Suddenly the group of nurses fell apart as two men burst through the exit and down the walkway. One of the men pushed a wheelchair carrying a woman.
That in itself would not be an uncommon sight. After all, this was a hospital. However, there was something about the way the men were walking that appeared unnatural. They were moving too fast. They did not seem to be concerned about the comfort of the person in the chair.
The big man turned around to look at the door they had just exited through. The instant she saw his face, Shopei knew for certain these were the men. When the other also turned, the additional jolt of recognition was anticlimactic.
Shopei did not have a clear view of the person in the chair. The woman’s head lolled about awkwardly. The men made no attempt to re-position her.
Shopei watched the men wheel the woman toward the car. They lifted the sleeping patient into the back seat and tucked the folded wheelchair into the trunk. Then they drove away, unaware Shopei was once again watching them, and this time she possessed the means to track their movements.
Wang ran ahead of Cheng through the lobby, aware his partner was still having difficulty breathing. He arrived in the hospital parking lot just in time to see a brown car pull away, its tires squealing on the hot asphalt.
He stood on the walkway straining to make out the licence plate number, but was not able. A moment later Cheng joined him and the two men sat at one of the shaded picnic tables while Cheng recovered from his exertion.
They were about to leave when, to his surprise, Cheng spotted none other than Tan Shopei hurrying toward them across the grass.
SIXTY-TWO
Beijing was a treasure chest of surprises. On their first day, Cynthia arranged for a bus to take them to the Summer Palace outside of the city proper. This was where the infamous Empress Dowager and her court had once vacationed during the long, warm season, when the north was dressed in green and decorated with flowers of every colour.
Fa-ling had not slept well, tossing and thinking of Yong-qi. She had no way of knowing when he would join her, but she trusted he would come as soon as he was able. She watched the families follow Cynthia, pushing their babies in strollers through the spectacular grounds. When they arrived at the scenic gardens, Cynthia led the families up the hill to view the exotic display of colour that seemed to stretch into forever.
Fa-ling decided to pass on touring the gardens with the rest of the group. She wanted to conserve her energy for the Long Corridor, the Dowager’s covered wooden boardwalk, every inch of which was said to be decorated with original mural paintings that told the story of China’s long and eventful history.
She watched the families wind their way up the hill. The breeze was pleasant, but it could not quite blow away the overwhelming heat of the sun. She spied a long bench that had one remaining seat available in the shade. She parked herself on the bench, grateful for a break from the sun’s glare.
She used her hand to fan herself, looking around at the milling crowd of tourists. Many, like her group, were here to adopt China’s orphaned daughters. At the hotel, there had been groups from the US, Spain and Denmark. There was even another Canadian group from Montreal.
A middle aged Chinese man stood baking in the sun, fanning his face with his hat and mopping his brow. He looked at the bench, but seeing there was not much room left in the shade, he opted to take a seat several feet from her in the sunlight. Fa-ling considered offering to slide down the bench and make room for him, but at the moment he was enjoying a non-verbal communication with a white woman who was pushing a stroller that held a Chinese toddler.
The woman was around forty years old, slightly overweight and having the time of her life. She bent to adjust her daughter’s hat, smiling at the Chinese man who returned her good cheer genially.
Fa-ling would have trouble describing the beauty of this place to her friends at home. They would not understand — how could blue sky, white clouds, green trees and an endless sea of flowers be anything but beautiful? There was a quality, though, to her surroundings that went beyond the surface beauty of colour and composition. This was truly a golden experience, and a golden country.
How could she explain the feel of this place, which was as if she had landed on another planet? The unfamiliar languages, the fragrance of fresh-cut grass that was unlike the smell of grass at home, the relentless scorch of a strange sun…
… and the signs! They were everywhere, auspiciously designed with a heightened eye for aesthetics, gilded and elegant and displayed in both Chinese and English, in preparation for the flood of tourists that would soon flock to Beijing for the 2008 Olympics!
Fa-ling had read reports in the Toronto newspapers, stylishly critical stories that poked gentle fun at those ‘Chinglish’ signs, as they were being called. The questionable English translations offered a wealth of necessary instructions, such as “Persons to enjoy the royal grass and not to spit on the natural majesty” and “All people should know that to anticipate the loveliness in single order is preferred”.
Fa-ling could only guess the messages were meant to b
e: “No spitting allowed” and “Please wait your turn”, a reminder to the notoriously ill-mannered Beijing residents to be on their best behaviour when the world came to visit.
She smiled, for once feeling at peace with herself and her surroundings. Even her T’Ai Chi discipline usually failed to give her the sense of ‘oneness’ she deeply longed for. For whatever reason, this indescribable day at the Summer Palace allowed her troubled spirit to rest.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again the white woman was waving goodbye to the Chinese man. Once she was gone, Fa-ling leaned over and tapped him on the elbow, greeting him in Mandarin.
He answered her in Cantonese and she surprised him by addressing him again in her native tongue. He nodded gratefully when she made room for him.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Fa-ling said, indicating the grounds with a sweep of her hand.
“Yes, it is beautiful,” he agreed.
Before Fa-ling could think of anything else to say, she spotted her group approaching. They had finished their tour of the scenic gardens and were ready to make the trek down the Long Corridor to the Stone Boat, that great marble monument to ‘Chinese stability’ the Empress Dowager had squandered her entire naval budget to commission. Of course, given the current political reality, the Stone Boat was now believed to be more of a monument to the infinite frivolity of the royal class.
From there, they were led onto a dragon boat, which carried them across the lake to the Seventeen Arch Bridge. Cynthia was watchful of the group, and was not her usual informative self, neglecting to explain the significance of the seventeen arches. Fa-ling knew enough of her Chinese history to understand the bridge was built for optimal prestige, with its midpoint centring at that always preferred number ‘nine’, the most revered number in Chinese culture.
On their second day in Beijing, Cynthia booked the group for a tour of Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City, located in the heart of the Capital. The bus was not allowed to park near the square. Instead the driver found a place in a public lot nearly a block away. The group was forced to run the gauntlet through an underpass to the opposite street corner, where they were confronted by an army of vendors who chased them and cried out, desperate to sell their wares.
The First Excellence: Fa-Ling's Map Page 26
