Fong looked at Charles in amazement. As if the younger man had read his mind.
“You are a dangerous man, Mr. Roeg.”
“No more so than you, Mr. Zhong.”
Fong turned to the window and looked at the moon. “Can you really tell when a person lies, Mr. Roeg?”
“Charles – you can call me Charles.”
“Thank you, Charles.” Fong struggled to get the “rl” sound in Charles to work for him and was only partially successful. “Can you tell when a person is lying?”
After a beat, Charles said, “Yes, but when I agree to do so, I get paid handsomely. But I’m careful when I use that talent. Besides it’s not why I’m out here in Vancouver.”
“You are here to direct that silly play with the lawyers?”
“That’s a favour I do. Something I return to the community that has been very good to me. I’m actually out here because I have a new girlfriend – she’s a features writer for the Vancouver Sun – the West’s national newspaper.”
“I see,” said Fong. “So have I been lying, Mr. Roeg?”
“You are inclined to lie, Mr. Zhong. Sins of omission are not strictly speaking lies. But you have committed many sins of omission. Who sent you to me? Don’t lie . . . I’ll know if you do, and if you do, I won’t play my magic trick for you.”
“Robert Cowens.”
“The Toronto lawyer? How’s his health?” Fong shrugged. “Sorry to hear that.”
Fong nodded. “Mr. Cowens says you have reviewed final interviews with executives for high positions and offered your opinion as to whether they are truthfully answering the questions they are asked.”
Fong watched the younger man get defensive, “Yeah, I’ve done that before.”
“So there is a person who . . .”
“. . . who you need me to tell you if he is a liar or not. Right?”
Fong felt ridiculous but that was exactly what he wanted – and after a bit of hemming and hawing said as much.
The restaurant that Robert Cowens sat in was terribly expensive and Allen Barton, of Henderson, Millet, Cavender and Barton, Attorneys at Law, was late. He arrived and ordered a single malt scotch before he even sat. Quickly he launched into the details of business dealings with the Chiang family who controlled the blood trade out of China.
Robert expertly guided the conversation to the silent partner.
Fong and Charles sat listening to the conversation from a small speaker in the back of Charles’s girlfriend’s beat-up Corolla. Fong was about to speak but Charles held up a hand. The conversation between the two lawyers continued for another ten minutes, then Charles reached over and turned off the speaker. “I’ve heard enough.”
“So?”
“You want my opinion as to whether Mr. Barton was lying, is that right?”
“Yes, if you would.”
Charles laughed, “I don’t do this for just anyone.”
“Poor people in Anhui Province are dying from AIDS brought about by the money that a silent partner supplies. These are desperately poor people who cannot protect themselves. You are not doing this for me. You are doing this for them.” Fong took a moment to compose himself. “So is this lawyer lying?”
“About not knowing who the silent partner is?”
“Yes, about that!”
“No, Inspector Zhong, he’s telling the truth about that. About other things he’s lying: his belief that Robert is representing a syndicate of money from the East, his pleasure in seeing Robert again, his upcoming meeting – fuck, even his love of single malt scotch is a lie. But not knowing the silent partner – that’s the truth.” He looked at Fong’s face. “Sorry. I assume it’s not what you wanted to hear?”
But Fong wasn’t listening. He was running towards the restaurant.
Fong charged into the restaurant the moment the lawyer left. Robert was momentarily stunned at his arrival. “Do you believe him?” Fong shouted.
“Sit down, Fong. This is what is known in this part of the world as a fancy restaurant and they don’t think kindly of either shouting or standing.”
Fong grabbed a chair, pulled it out and sat. “I’m sitting.”
“Good.” Robert pushed his plate away. “What did Charles say?”
“Never mind about that. I want to know what you think. You were sitting across from him, so was this man telling you the truth or not?”
“I think he was.”
“Telling the truth?”
“You know that’s what I meant. Yes, Fong, I think Mr. Allen Barton was telling me the truth when he claimed that he didn’t know who the silent partner was.”
“So he doesn’t know who the money is behind the Chiang operation in Anhui Province?”
“Are you asking me or just pissed off that we did all this work for nothing?”
“Asking you.”
“So, yes, that’s what I believe. That Barton doesn’t know who supplies the money for the blood-trading operation.” Robert shook his head. “What did Charles say?”
“He agrees with you that this lawyer wasn’t lying.”
“Now what?” asked Robert.
Fong stood and looked at the table. Two untouched pastries sat on a plate. Pointing to them he asked, “You don’t like sweets, Robert?”
“No. They upset my stomach.” He reached in his pocket and then swallowed two pills each about the size of a pencil stub.
Fong looked at Robert, awaiting an explanation for the pills. When it became clear that Robert wasn’t going to supply one, Fong turned to go. Over his shoulder he heard Robert say, “Where to now?”
Fong turned, about to say something about speaking loudly in fancy restaurants when he saw Robert smiling broadly. As he approached Fong, he said – loudly – “I always hated pretentious places like this. Why do lawyers always want to take meetings in these beer joints?” Fong smiled. Robert turned to a matronly woman with a shocked look on her face and the tiniest dab of horseradish mixed with roast beef juice on her pointy chin and said, “Enjoy your dinner, Agatha.”
As Robert and Fong drew every eye in the restaurant, an elderly Chinese man dabbed his lips with a linen napkin and rose from his seat. Passing Robert’s table, he nimbly slipped one of the sweet pastries into his coat pocket then continued out of the restaurant, careful to keep his distance, but also careful not to lose sight of Robert Cowens and Zhong Fong.
Fong hailed a cab and shoved Robert into the back seat. “Go to your hotel. Rest. I’ll call you.” Robert resisted, but only for a moment. Then he sat back and closed his eyes.
Alone on the dark streets again, Fong re-envisioned the columns on the desktop back in his Shanghai office and mentally swept the column headed by LAWYER into the garbage can. He had actually thought it was their best chance. But now that it was gone he turned his attention to the second column, the one headed with the family name, CHIANG.
Gelati-eating couples passed by him as he leaned against a building, pulled out his cell phone and pressed #9 on his speed dialer. Once again the eighteen numbers were dialed and the young Shanghanese cop with Special Investigations answered.
“Wei.”
“Is everything ready?” Fong asked.
“Yes, sir.” The young cop’s voice had a waver in it. Fong thought about that, considered cancelling his plans, then thought of AIDS in Anhui and said aloud, “Fuck it.”
“Sir?”
“Start the plan we discussed. Now. This very moment.”
Fong hung up.
Within twenty minutes of Fong’s call the wheels of his plan were set spinning. By the end of the day the streets of Shanghai literally ran with blood and blood products that had been ransacked from warehouses by incensed Chinese mobs shouting, “Chinese blood for the Chinese people.” At the same time a massive sweep of blood heads began in Anhui Province. Hundreds were arrested, dozens of officials publicly shamed – many were badly beaten. Within twenty-four hours China was alive with protest and the blood business was in a shambles.
>
Fong knew this would not last long but he hoped it would be enough to force the Chiangs’ hand.
Fong was alone on the streets of Vancouver and the night was deepening – and, although he couldn’t see anyone else, he knew he was not alone. He turned – and began to run.
Back in Shanghai, the four Anhui peasants were flushed with excitement. “The Middle Kingdom is rising – rising to revenge our shame!”
CHAPTER TWELVE
MEETINGS AND PURITY
“Sit down, Suzanne.” Old Chiang’s voice was hoarse. He tightened the plastic oxygen mask on his face and breathed deeply. The Chiang sons stood to one side as Suzanne sat down at the fifties-style Formicatopped kitchen table across from their father, her grandfather.
“I read the articles too, Grandfather. But will the Beijing government really pass laws against the blood trade? Many peasants make their living by giving blood. To say nothing of all the government officials who have bought new Lexuses with their share of our business.”
Old Chiang thought about trading Chinese blood for Japanese cars. “Suzanne, you must remember that we are now talking about taking blood from our people and bringing it to the Golden Mountain.” His voice sounded thin through the plastic. “This is about blood. It is about the black-haired people.” He took a deep breath then took off the mask and inserted the plastic clip into his nose. “There are already mobs on the streets of Chengdu and Nanjing and Shanghai. Two of our warehouses have been destroyed and some nuts are running around jabbing stupid Round Eyes with needles.”
“It won’t last.”
“Don’t be too sure.” The Chiang patriarch was referring not only to the mobs but also to the ominous articles in opposition to the blood trade that had begun to appear in Chinese newspapers. He had no way of knowing that Fong had planted the newspaper articles before he left Shanghai.
Fong’s timing this time had been impeccable. The first newspaper articles had come out just before the ship arrived and then at least one had been in the paper every day since.
“What do we do, Grandfather?”
Old Chiang allowed the sounds in the room to come into his consciousness. He knew he was at a crossroads. He looked at his beautiful granddaughter and knew that the path he took would determine her future as well as his. He turned to his sons, “Leave us.”
Slowly, with open malice, the boys left their father.
“Was that wise, Grandfather?”
He spoke slowly, “Family and business do not always mix well. Remember that.” He winced and readjusted his breathing tube. “Now, we have lost some money.”
“Yes.”
“But our partners lost significantly more than we did.”
She nodded. She always knew that there were silent partners but she never knew who exactly they were. Was he going to tell her now?
“And who would these new Chinese laws against the blood trade hurt most?”
“Depends how much of our business is our money and how much belongs to the silent partner or partners.”
“Partner, Suzanne – partner.”
That surprised her.
“Ninety/ten split,” he said flatly.
She held her breath. Ninety percent from us or ninety percent from them?
“You must learn not to wear your questions on your forehead, Suzanne. You have known me a long time. Would I really put up ninety percent of any investment in the Middle Kingdom?”
Slowly she shook her head, “Of course not.”
“Suzanne, we are Chiangs. We supply infrastructure and expertise. Skills, connections and our family’s history. We are middlemen. We get paid both coming and going. Only fools put forward their money to make money. Fools and harlots. Your brain and your abilities and the family’s historic contacts allow you to make money – not investment capital.” The last words were spat out like a curse.
She paused for a moment then asked, “So how much did we lose in this shipment, Grandfather?”
He smiled. For the barest moment, the handsome young man he had been returned to his face. “Nothing. I sold our percentage long ago to a broker.”
“Then we have no problem since we lost nothing,” she said.
“Not true, Suzanne. We lost nothing but our partner lost much.”
“But surely that’s their concern.”
“They are our partners and have been for generations. We can work here because of them and they can work in the Middle Kingdom because of us. If they are hurt, we are hurt.”
“I see.”
He didn’t look at her. Was it possible that whoever was behind all this was trying to hurt his silent partner? He didn’t know. But he knew he still needed the family’s historic Long Nose partner. Then he took his first step down the new path by saying, “I think it’s time you met our partner in this business.” After a moment of silence he asked her, as if it were the natural next question, “Do you ever read the Vancouver Sun?”
“No, Grandfather.”
“Well I do. Every day. The personal ads are most interesting.”
For a moment she didn’t follow him, then she smiled, “Is that how you contact our silent partner?”
“It is. If I want a meeting I place an ad with the words ‘Gold, Desire and Mountain.’ If our partner wants a meeting the ad always includes the words ‘Gold, Purity and Illness.’ The meeting always takes place at noon on the following day. I grant it is clumsy but it is also secure. Everything that promotes speed permits unwanted intervention. It is a trade-off.”
“You have already placed the ad, haven’t you, Grandfather?
“Naturally, one must consider the feelings of one’s silent partner.”
“He did what?” Fong demanded so loudly that the warehouse echoed momentarily then returned to its dirty silence. All eyes turned to him.
The Tong guy stiffened at the rebuke. Not for the first time, Fong questioned the wisdom of using these thugs. But what choice did he have?
“Like I said, the old guy placed a personal ad in the Vancouver Sun.”
“That’s all he did?”
“You heard me. He placed a personal ad. Then his granddaughter, the icicle princess, came to his place in the British Properties.”
“And there’s been no more phone activity since then?”
“None.”
Fong thought about that. Personal ads to communicate? Finally he said, “Is it still the Cold War here?”
“Chiang’s been around a long time.”
That was true. Fong also knew that personal ads although slow were usually a secure way of communicating. “You don’t have anyone on the newspaper . . .” He didn’t bother completing the question.
“So what do we do?” Matthew asked.
“We wait,” Fong said, “and increase our surveillance. Their mutual business interests are going up in flames. They’ll have to meet and we have to follow them. It may be our last chance of getting to the silent partner.”
The Dalong Fada men looked at each other, then sat. Matthew and his men did the same. The Tong guys ordered food and drink. Then they all waited.
The guild assassin watched the shadows moving in the warehouse windows, then pried open a rusted door hinge and slipped in. Soundlessly, he climbed a metal ladder into the overhead I-beam superstructure. He checked to make sure his cell-phone ringer was off then he curled up on a large cross-span and watched the men below him – like a snake in a tree eyeing its prey.
The air in the warehouse was stale and stunk of unwashed men and cigarette smoke – and more of that damnable General Tso and his stupid chicken. After more than thirty hours in the room, the phone finally rang. The Tong leader grabbed it, listened for a moment, then put his hands over the mouth piece, “They’re moving.”
Midday traffic in Vancouver is not as bad as in Shanghai, but it was challenging to get from the warehouse upriver near Deep Cove to the Gastown area of Vancouver with any speed at that hour. But they barged and honked and shouted their way there.
<
br /> Outside the forty-storey building they were met with another surprise.
Police officers everywhere.
The building was cordoned off. The head of the Tong surveillance team raced over to his boss, “The cops arrived moments before Chiang and his folks entered the building.”
The Tong leader swore. “Did you at least see where Chiang was going?”
“We tried, but the cops kept us outside and they kicked out our guys who were already positioned when they cleared the lobby. One of them did manage to see Chiang and his people get on an elevator. That’s all he saw before he was thrown out. The cops claim there’s a sequence from Star Gate being shot in the lobby.”
Fong sneaked a peek. There were cameras set up in the lobby and officious-looking technicians making as if they were important walking around. Fong approached Matthew. “Would there be hair and makeup people there?”
Matthew nodded.
Fong raised his shoulders and said, “So what are you waiting for?”
“Not all hair and makeup people are gay!”
“Oh, please, this is hardly the time for correct politicalness or whatever you people call that! Is there anyone in there that could help us?” Fong shouted.
The silent partner was thinking about purity. The silent partner often thought about purity – actually, about the price of purity – whenever they had to meet face to slant-eyed face with the family’s traditional Asian business partners. At least fewer of them smoked now – but it still remained a room of rotted teeth, rice-paper dry hands, toad-belly skin and . . . them. True, the old man brought along the granddaughter this time. Pretty thing. A no-doubt frigid MBA from somewhere expensive. But it made no difference. You always felt as if you had to swallow a large soapy facecloth inch by sodden slimy inch when dealing with them – while protecting the purity of this ungrateful land.
The Golden Mountain Murders Page 19
