The raid on the Park Regent Hotel’s coffee shop went off like clockwork. Li Chou’s men scared the shit out of all eight customers, the two cooks and the young skimpily clad waitress. Li Chou then consulted his laptop and pointed beneath a table at the far side of the restaurant. When he threw back the white tablecloth, the man beneath yelped a complaint.
Chen pried the barrel’s upper ring loose and all the slats fell to the floor, revealing the calmly seated figure of Xi Luan Tu.
Li Chou lifted Shrug and Knock in one angry sweep from beneath the table, then shook him. The electronic button that fell from his coat hit the table then bounced to the floor and rolled into a corner. On Li Chou’s laptop the street map overlay moved ever so slightly to indicate the movement.
Li Chou’s face was hot, angry and naturally, fat.
Fong held out a hand to Xi Luan Tu. The man took it and rose to his full height. Fong locked eyes with him.
“Take your hands off him, Traitor Zhong!”
Fong turned. There in the mouth of the cave stood the younger Beijing man, his gun pointed right at Xi Luan Tu’s head.
Joan took a step in front of Xi Luan Tu.
“Bad move, peasant girl,” said the younger Beijing man, cocked his gun and pulled the trigger.
Fong threw himself at Joan and covered her prone body with his.
The sound of the gunshot in the cave was incredibly loud. Joan let out a small whimper. The echo of the shot slowly faded and faded and faded until all that remained was a profound silence.
One by one, Fong, Joan and Chen lifted their heads, then stared at the mouth of the cave. The younger Beijing man’s body slumped against the wall, a large exit wound in his forehead. Slowly, from the tunnel darkness, the elder Beijing man emerged with a firearm in his hand. He looked at the body of the younger Beijing man then turned to Fong, “We need to talk.”
Twenty minutes later, they were in a safe house just across the Huangpo River. It was the same safe house where the elder Beijing man conducted the counterterrorism seminar on the night that Geoffrey Hyland had been murdered.
“So who goes first?” asked Fong.
“Goes?” the older Beijing man asked.
“Yes. Who explains their actions first?”
“You, Fong,” said the older Beijing man.
“Sure,” said Fong noting there was none of that Traitor Zhong stuff. “I figured out that Geoff had more information.”
“As I hoped you would.”
“Fine. It led me to a cell phone that I was to deliver to a contact that would bring it to Xi Luan Tu. I bugged the phone and followed it.”
“Why?”
Fong lied smoothly, “To find out if any of this bullshit has anything to do with Mr. Hyland’s murder.”
“Ah,” said the older Beijing man.
“Yeah, ah. Your turn now,” said Fong. The older Beijing man nodded. “Start with how you managed to follow me?”
“We knew you were a talent, Detective Zhong. We assumed you would succeed. We put you under surveillance. It took sixteen watchers but was simple really. Does that answer your question?”
Fong didn’t know if that answer was okay or not, but before he could ask another question the older Beijing man turned to Joan, “How about you, young lady? Why are you in Shanghai?”
Joan took a moment, reached up to straighten her hair only to realize that she no longer had enough hair to need straightening and said, “Beijing needs to be kept in check. There is no opposition in this country now that Hong Kong has been taken over. Only Dalong Fada can offer that opposition.”
To Fong’s surprise, the older Beijing man slowly nodded his agreement. Then he sat heavily and began to talk.
Fong usually had little time or sympathy for the views from the past. The mantle of righteousness taken on by the elders of China had deeply soured his response to them. But this was different. This man had clearly crossed the line. And what came out of his mouth was as revolutionary as Fong had heard in some time. The man laid out the need for a countervailing force to the power of Beijing, which was, like Joan, what he saw in Dalong Fada. He then said, “I think the religious side of Dalong Fada is stupid and potentially, like all religious movements, dangerous. But better a Chinese solution than a foreign one because, make no mistake, the West is anxious to put a stop to any recklessness coming out of China. But you must also understand that there will never be democracy in this country.” He looked to Fong, then to Chen, then to Joan and finally to Xi Luan Tu. No one deigned to respond to that. “It’s really quite simple. At base level this is all about survival. We need to assure the steady supply of food for our people. In a city like Shanghai where there are eighteen million people and little or no refrigeration. The very task of getting food, before it spoils, to the people is daunting. Any disruption would cause chaos. And we all know that chaos must be avoided at all cost.” This last met with at least some acceptance in the room.
“So you saved Xi Luan Tu to guarantee a real opposition to the chairman of the Chinese Communist Party?” asked Fong.
The man nodded. “Twenty-five-million followers of Dalong Fada qualify as a real opposition, wouldn’t you say?”
Joan watched the man with the basic wariness that all Hong Kong residents felt toward the powers in Beijing.
“But it’s the only form of democracy we’re ready for in the Middle Kingdom at this time. It’s a crucial small step, like opening some free markets and allowing freedom of movement for most people within the country. Both freedoms are much more widespread than they were only ten years ago, but they aren’t absolute. How could they be and have us avoid chaos? Can you imagine the eighteen million people in this city suddenly all forced to pay for the spaces that they live in? Can you imagine them trying to reshuffle almost sixty years of price control into a completely open market?”
Fong nodded, thinking back to the insider’s offer sheet in his desk in his bedroom.
The elderly Beijing man coughed into his hand then continued, “It would lead to riots and then would come Revolution. And make no mistake, before that Revolution came to a conclusion, millions of Chinese would lose their lives, most from starvation. I needn’t add that outsiders would soon take advantage of our weakness and we would be back where we were at the beginning of the twentieth century with foreigners controlling our country.”
Fong thought that through. He agreed with most of it. “What about Mr. Hyland?”
“What about him?”
“Did you or your younger half have him murdered?”
The older Beijing man shook his head slowly then opened a portfolio that he withdrew from the desk. From the portfolio he removed twelve eight-byten photographs and lined them up on the desk.
They showed Geoff arrested, tried for treason, disgraced in front of a large crowd, then put on an airplane in chains. Once again, the faked photos were expertly done. If Fong hadn’t seen Geoff hanging from that rope he could well believe that this was a real account of what had happened to his old rival. “This was Beijing’s intent. They didn’t care about Mr. Hyland. All they wanted from him was to lead them to Xi Luan Tu. Which is exactly what you did for us, Zhong Fong. But their intent and mine were not the same. I wanted to be led to Xi Luan Tu to tell him that he has much support in high circles, not for his religious practices which, as I mentioned, I find obscene, but for the very practical need for political ballast in the People’s Republic of China. And now you have led me to him and now he has heard what I have to say.”
Xi Luan Tu nodded, as if engaged for the first time in the conversation. Then he got to his feet and headed toward the door.
Joan leapt up and said, “We need to get you out of Shanghai. That’s what the money and the Internet access were for.”
For the first time, Xi Luan Tu spoke, “That’s what they were for, for you Ms. Shui, and I thank you for your efforts. I thank all of you. But I am not leaving Shanghai. I cannot leave Shanghai.” Fong began to protest but Xi Luan Tu cut h
im off, “Do you know a writer named Alan Paton, Zhong Fong?”
Fong shook his head.
“He was a world-renown South African novelist who wrote at great length against the sins of his countrymen and the Apartheid regime. Over and over again, reporters from outside South Africa would ask him why he didn’t leave. Do you know what he answered?” He waited for a response but no one spoke. Finally Xi Luan Tu said, “Mr. Paton said that a man without a country is not a man. All of us in this room know that Shanghai is like a country. In fact, it is bigger than many countries. Shanghai is my country. I will not leave it. Again I thank all of you for your efforts. I really do. But now I must leave you. I have no doubt we will all meet again.”
“Mr. Xi?”
“Yes, Captain Chen?”
“You’d better give me that phone.” Xi Luan Tu gave it to Chen who quickly removed the faceplate and extracted the small electronic bug. For a moment he held it in his hand then dropped it to the floor and stomped on it. The thing flattened without a sound. Then Chen held out the phone to Xi Luan Tu, who took it and headed toward the door. No one made a move to stop him and he did not hesitate in his going.
It left the four of them alone in the safe house – looking at each other. It was Chen who finally broke the silence, “So we are back to a straightforward murder investigation.”
The older Beijing man nodded.
“And you and yours didn’t murder Mr. Hyland?” Fong asked the Beijing man again.
The Beijing man just pointed to the object-lesson photos. “We didn’t want him killed. We wanted him to be an example to foreigners who meddle in the affairs of our country.”
“Why doesn’t Beijing know about you?” Fong asked.
“Beijing runs just like the rest of China – like the rest of humanity. It survives in boxes. Compartments. It’s how we live our lives. Not everything influences everything else. Our work doesn’t necessarily influence our politics. Our politics don’t necessarily influence our home lives . . .” He stopped and looked at Fong, “What?”
“Compartments. Work not necessarily influencing our home lives – or our love lives.”
“What are you talking about, Fong?” asked Joan.
“Are you heading back to Hong Kong right away?”
“I don’t know . . . ”
“I could really use a woman’s eyes to help me on this.” He didn’t wait for her response but turned to Chen. “Remember the woman I arrested in the bar for murdering her boss?”
“You mean for murdering the man she loved?”
Fong looked hard at Chen. “Yes, that is what I mean, Captain Chen. Arrange for Ms. Shui and me to see her – the woman who killed the man she loved.”
“To check on something?”
“Yes, Captain Chen, to check on something I’m pretty sure I overlooked.”
“Zhong Fong.” It was the elderly Beijing man. “I would appreciate the courtesy of you sharing the results of your investigations with me.”
“Why?”
“Politics is just an attempt to understand the workings of the human heart. If your findings increase my knowledge of that, then I can be of more help to our people.”
Fong nodded. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Sheng.”
Sheng was not a name you heard often. It literally meant “in the year of peace.” Fong thought, “What a good name for a man. Yet this man had shot his partner without a word of warning.” Fong took another look at the man. The man stood very still as if he understood Fong’s thoughts. “Peace in a dangerous world at times requires action – complicated action,” Fong said. The man nodded. “Well, where can I find you, Sheng?”
“I’ll be here in this house for at least a week.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DA WEI
Da Wei, Geoff’s homely translator, indicated that Fong and Joan Shui should sit at the small table in the cubicle that passed as her room at the Shanghai Theatre Academy. They did.
Ignoring Joan, Da Wei said, “I’ve been expecting you, Detective Zhong.”
“Have you?”
She stopped and stared at him. “I said as much.”
“You did,” he said nodding. It startled Fong to realize that they were speaking English.
“Your English is very good, Detective Zhong.”
“Thank you, but not nearly as good as yours, Da Wei.”
She nodded and poured tea from a large Thermos into the empty glass jars on the table. The tepid-coloured liquid swirled around the slender languid leaves of the tea that stood on the bottom of the jars, waving like sea plants.
He thanked her. She poured some for herself and sat directly opposite him.
He tasted the dark earthiness of the cha and knew that it was a special treat for Da Wei to serve such an exotic blend. He was about to comment on it when she said, “I was very fond of your wife, Fu Tsong. She was a great, great actress, a true artist. I was honoured to help her prepare her English for . . . ” Her voice ended as if somehow a finger had been placed over a stop.
He looked at her. So she had prepared Fu Tsong’s English for the production she had never gotten to do with Geoff in Vancouver.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “it’s inexcusable of me to mention such things.”
Fong looked away. A futon was folded to one side and a night table stood beside it. On the night table were small mementoes from her life. A set of tiny bells aligned between two wooden poles, an ornamental teapot in the shape of a dragon, three oblong, flat, polished blood stones from the Yangtze River and a round black rubber disk of some sort with a logo of a sporting team on it. Fong couldn’t identify either the disk or the logo. But that didn’t concern him now. Something about the way the objects were arrayed on the table did. It was as if there was a missing item – maybe two small missing items.
He looked at Da Wei then at the walls of the cubicle. Standard-issue pictures of a southern water town, two posters from plays she’d worked on at the theatre academy, a “new school” rendition of a classical pastoral scene executed in watercolours on a hanging scroll.
Again something missing. The visual aesthetic of the room was consistent, consistent, consistent, then absent.
Then he noticed a slight area of brightness peeking out from behind the scroll painting. It was like the section of wall in his room that at one time had been covered by Lily’s antique frescoed sculpture. He got up and moved the scroll painting aside. An eight-byten- inch rectangle showed brighter on the wall than the surrounding area. Da Wei’s cubicle was extremely clean but uncovered walls collected dirt in Shanghai; the pollution is inescapable. So an area that was covered then uncovered would show bright against the rest of the wall.
Fong looked from the eight-by-ten brightness to the round black rubber disk with the logo on Da Wei’s night table.
Then he looked at the theatre posters. “Don’t you have any posters from the shows you worked on with Mr. Hyland?”
“I do. Several.”
“May I see them?”
“They’re in communal storage. You may notice that I have no closet space here.”
Fong nodded and said, “Ah,” then he glanced at the blank brightness on the wall again. He crossed over and picked up the rubber object from Da Wei’s night table. He held it close to read the writing on the logo. “What’s a Canuck?” he asked.
“A hockey player from Vancouver, I believe. That’s called a puck. Do you know about hockey, Detective Zhong?”
No, he didn’t, but he knew about someone who did. He remembered Geoff’s reference on the CDROM and an incident years ago when Geoff was directing in Shanghai and frantically tried to find a newspaper that would tell him who won the Larry Cup – or Gerty Cup – some kind of hockey cup. “So Mr. Hyland gave you the puck as a souvenir?”
She nodded. Then poured herself more tea and hid her face in the mist from her cup.
“Not a particularly romantic gift, wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t
understand you, Detective Zhong.”
“Should we speak in the Common Tongue? Would that help you understand me?”
She was instantly on her feet, no doubt about to demand he leave her room, but before she could speak, Fong pulled down the scroll painting and pointed at the eight-by-ten inch brightness on the wall. “So was this where you kept Mr. Hyland’s picture?” She stared at him. Her mouth was open, revealing cracked teeth. “Did he sign it for you? Maybe with the words: With all my love, Geoff?”
“No,” she said and sat heavily. “Not those words. ‘I couldn’t do it without you, Da Wei’ it said.”
“You cared for him,” Fong said.
She nodded slowly.
“But he didn’t reciprocate your affection? Is reciprocate the right word?”
“You know it is,” she snapped. Then she took a deep breath and let her air out slowly. “No, Detective Zhong, he did not reciprocate. I was not blessed with . . . ” The words failed her. She just shook her head and tears began to well in her round eyes as she contemplated the whole injustice of beauty. “I am not beautiful like your wife or Yue Feng.”
Fong stood very still. “Mr. Hyland was seeing Yue Feng, the actress who plays Ophelia?”
“Now it is I who must ask about word selection. What do you mean by ‘was seeing’?” She reverted to Mandarin. “Do you mean being attracted to – yes. Touching her backstage – yes. Having her in his rooms – yes. Fucking her – that, not having been there, I wouldn’t know.” She smiled wanly. “If you follow my meaning, Detective Zhong.”
The Hamlet Murders Page 18
