Five-Ring Circus

by Jon Cleary

  Malone and Clements got out of the police car and Gail Lee and Sheryl Dallen came towards them with Fadiman, the site manager. In the background, in the shadow of the tall building, over a hundred workers in their hard hats stood in a group, like a small field of tall toadstools. Outside the door of the site office stood the three partners and General Wang-Te, as unmoving as statuary. Beyond the gates, peering in beside the cement truck, a few passers-by had paused and looked in inquisitively: another strike? These bloody constructions workers were always demanding something . . . The clerks and the pensioners looked in sourly at the kings in their white crowns.

  “Where’s Miss Li?” Malone demanded.

  Gail pointed up towards the towering building. “Somewhere up there. With a gun, Mr. Fadiman says.”

  Then Roley Bremner detached himself from his co-workers and came towards them. “She’s up on the fourth floor, Scobie. Who let her loose? She’s running around like a cut cat, yelling for Tong.”

  “Where’s he?”

  “Christ knows. If he’s got any sense, he’s going nowhere near her. Get her outa there, mate, so’s we can get back to work.”

  “Did she threaten you with the gun?” Clements asked Fadiman.

  The site manager shook his head. “No. I didn’t know she had one till one of the guys rang down on his mobile, said there was a dame on the fourth floor waving a gun and yelling for Tong Haifeng.”

  Malone looked across at the crop of hard hats. “Is everyone down?”

  “Everyone except the guys right at the top, on the framework. She’s not going to go up there.”

  “What about Mr. Tong?”

  “He’s up there somewhere—dodging her, I’d say.”

  Malone looked upwards. “What’s the lay-out up there?”

  “All the outer walls and inner walls are in place up to the twenty-third floor. No windows or doors. Above that it’s all framework and floors laid as far as the fortieth floor. Above that just steel-and-concrete framework. Don’t go up there, not unless you’ve got a head for heights.”

  Malone continued to look upwards, then he lowered his gaze, eased the crick in his neck and looked at Clements. The latter said, “Looks like we’ll need the SPG.”

  “SPG?” said Fadiman.

  “The State Protection Group.”

  “The guys with shotguns and flak jackets and Christ knows what. Holy shit!”

  Malone stood stiffly, emotion flooding through him, crumbling the dykes he had built against disappointment. There had been disappointments in the past; he had seen murderers walk away free, their crimes hung round their necks like medals. But this was major; he had wanted to tie this one up himself. The threat to his family and himself had made it a personal vendetta: something no policeman should ever consider. But what the rules said and what the heart said too often ran on separate tracks. But he knew now that the rules were going to win.

  “Get the SPG here, Gail.”

  He left Clements and the women and Fadiman and walked across to the small group outside the site office. The crowd of workers had begun to disperse, clotting together in smaller groups as they looked for places to sit, to smoke, to drink tea or coffee and wonder again at the jinxes on this site.

  “We’re bringing in the State Protection Group,” Malone said.

  “Men with guns?” said Madame Tzu.

  “We all carry guns, Madame Tzu. But this situation needs specialists.”

  “Don’t cock it up like last time,” said Aldwych, and Malone looked at him pained. He waved a hand. “I’m not being sarcastic, Scobie. This time they said the girl’s got a gun of her own.”

  “You think she’s going to use it?” said Les Chung.

  “She’s already used it,” said Malone.

  Madame Tzu had been looking up at the building, but now she turned her head quickly and looked at Malone. “Used it? You mean she shot someone?”

  “We think so.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll hear that when we make the charges. First, we’ve got to bring her down from up there.” He nodded upwards. “Her and Tong Haifeng.”

  Then Wang-Te spoke. “I do not think I should be here. This has nothing to do with my government.”

  “I think it has, General,” said Malone. “Your government wants her taken back to China. That’s why she’s gone berserk. I’m guessing, but we think she wanted her boyfriend Guo to help her get away—I dunno where she thought they’d go. We’ve got Guo in custody, so I guess she’s now looking for Tong to help her out. We want him, too.”

  “What’s he done?” said Aldwych.

  “I’ll let you know when we charge him, Jack.”

  “I think I can guess. Jesus, I shouldn’t of retired—I had less corpses when I was in the game.” Then he looked at Chung. “We owe someone an apology.”

  “Never apologize,” said Chung with a thin smile, “never regret.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” said Aldwych, smile even thinner.

  Madame Tzu said nothing, but her look was expressive; she knew who was entitled to the apology. Well, well, thought Malone, maybe I owe her an apology too. But he knew none would be offered.

  Clements came across towards them. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. We just stand around and wait.” His tone was bitter, even though it was he who had suggested the SPG should be brought in. “It’s an anti-climax, right?”

  “It always is, isn’t it?” said Sheryl; she and Gail had come across behind Clements. “Whenever they’re brought in.”

  “Don’t knock ‘em,” said Malone but automatically. He had the same sentiments.

  Then there was a shot. All activity on the building had ceased; there had been comparative silence. In the usual clamour a gunshot would have gone unnoticed, mistaken for no more than that of a ram-gun. But there was no mistaking this sound. Then, as if for emphasis, there was a second shot.

  “Two?” said Clements, head turned upwards. “She’s done Tong Haifeng?”

  “Or one in him and the other in herself.” Malone took off his jacket, handed it to Gail Lee, took out his gun. “I’m going up.”

  Clements was taking off his own jacket, said to Gail, “Send the SPG guys up soon’s they come. But tell ‘em to look out for us—we don’t want them to potshot us.”

  The helmeted workers had all risen to their feet, were congealing again into larger groups. The tension in the yard spread; Madame Tzu put her hand to her throat. Chung and Aldwych looked at each other and the latter shook his head. The jinx was back.

  Gail Lee said, “You want me to come with you, boss? To interpret, just in case she’s still alive . . .?”

  “No, Gail, stay here.” He was breaking the rule, endangering his own and Clements’ lives; he wasn’t going to compound the rebellion. “Where do you reckon those shots came from, Mr. Fadiman?”

  “Hard to tell. Maybe the fourth or fifth floors. Go up on the work-lift, not up the stairs.”

  Malone and Clements crossed to the lift, got in, slammed the gate and Clements pressed the start button. As they rose he said, “We’re doing the right thing, but how are you gunna explain it to Greg Random?”

  “Let’s get this solved first. Then I’ll think of an explanation.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that when—” But Clements didn’t finish, just looked out and down at the upturned faces, pale daisies in the mud of the yard, and the traffic crawling past in the street outside, their drivers oblivious of what was happening here on the Olympic Tower site. He was a fatalistic man, not afraid of dying, but all at once he reached towards the button, to stop the lift and then reverse it.

  But the lift stopped of its own accord, at the fourth level. Malone flung up the gate and stepped out on to a narrow gangwalk. Clements hesitated, then followed him. They edged through a glassless window opening, moving quickly so they wouldn’t be silhouetted against the light and flattening themselves against the inner walls. Their shoes crunched on grit and rubble on the concrete floor;
they were in a wide corridor that stretched ahead of them into the gloom; there was a blank wall at the far end. They were on the eastern side of the building, but the sun had long gone from the window opening. Doorless rooms were open on either side of them as they moved cautiously down the corridor; another year and it would cost three or four hundred dollars a night to walk into the rooms. Graffiti were scrawled on the walls. Join Allied Trades said one message; the answer was on the opposite wall: Fuck Off! Small heaps of debris littered the floor; a white hard hat looked like an albino tortoise. Soft-drink bottles were scattered round like landmines waiting for unwary feet to tread on them; a stale sandwich was curled like a seashell. There was a cold smell, of something still to come alive.

  They had arrived at two doorways opposite each other; beyond them were stairwells, dark as pits. Malone edged round the opening, gun at the ready, shouted into the stairwell: “Miss Li! Police! Inspector Malone!”

  His voice boomed in the narrow shaft, died away as a whisper far above and below him. Then he heard footsteps coming up out of the darkness; he stepped through the doorway and on to the landing, pointed his gun downwards.

  Then Madame Tzu, one hand on the wall as she felt her way, emerged slowly out of the darkness, as if coming up out of an invisible pool of water. A dozen steps below Malone she paused, breathing heavily; she was not accustomed to this sort of exercise. Leaning against the wall she looked to her right; there was no railing there, a misjudged step and she would have plunged four floors, perhaps even right through to the basement. She shook her head, then looked up at Malone, her face still as expressionless as a plate.

  “I—I came to help—”

  “Who let you in?” He was angry at this unwanted intrusion, this further complication.

  “I slipped in—they couldn’t stop me—” She climbed the remaining stairs, stood on the landing with Malone and Clements. She was still struggling for breath: “I—I can help—Ping will listen to me—”

  “Not if she’s dead.” He looked upwards. “We’re going up to the next floor. You keep behind us. And don’t go wandering off on your own, understand?”

  Now she was here she all at once looked uncertain; she didn’t bridle at all at being told what she had to do. “I’ll keep close. It’s so dark—”

  They went up cautiously, hugging the wall. They reached the floor above and Malone stepped through the open doorway into the dim corridor. He looked towards the far end, towards the oblong of light that was the window opening, saw the heap of debris in the middle of the corridor. Stepped a few paces towards it and saw that the heap was Tong Haifeng.

  He kneeled down, peered closely, saw the large bloodstain on the back of the white shirt and the shattered back of the skull. He felt for the neck pulse, then looked back at Clements.

  “Two bullets, both from the back. He’s dead.”

  Madame Tzu said something in Mandarin: it sounded like a curse.

  “So she’s still alive and somewhere around,” said Clements; then yelled, “Miss Li!”

  There was no answer but the echo of his voice. Then Madame Tzu shouted something in Mandarin. There was no reply for a moment, then there came a faint voice from a room at the far end of the corridor.

  “What did she say?” said Malone.

  “She told us to go away. She’ll shoot if we don’t—”

  Malone faced down the corridor, pushed Madame Tzu flat against the wall and pressed himself against it. Clements had retreated into a doorway opposite.

  “Miss Li! This is Inspector Malone—let me talk to you!” His voice echoed in the long empty corridor.

  There was no immediate answer; then: “Go away! I am not going back to China!”

  “Miss Li—” Argument at a distance and with her hidden from his view was not easy. “We are State Police—we’re not going to send you back to China. Why did you shoot Tong Haifeng? Was he threatening you?” He knew that wasn’t on the cards; but anything to keep her talking . . . “Was it he who killed General Huang?”

  A moment; then softly, difficult to hear: “Yes.”

  “Liar,” said Madame Tzu just as softly.

  “So you shot him to avenge your father?” He was glad this interrogation was not being taped. She gave no answer and he said, louder this time, “Were you paying him back for shooting your father?”

  Another long pause; then: “Yes.”

  “Liar,” said Madame Tzu again and Malone motioned to her to be quiet.

  “Then put down your gun, Miss Li. Come on out—you won’t be sent back to China—”

  “How can I trust you?” Her voice was stronger this time.

  “You’ll have to trust me, Miss Li. There’s no one else.”

  Clements had come out of the doorway and begun edging along the wall, gun held out in front of him with two hands. He passed another doorway and suddenly something hit him on the shoulder; a bird careered off him, went flapping down the corridor as if on a broken wing, its shrieking bouncing off the walls. Li Ping stepped out of the far doorway, was silhouetted against the oblong of light behind her. The bird hit her squarely in the chest, she fell backwards, her gun went off. Two bullets zinged down the corridor; cement dust flew off the walls. She sat up, aimed the gun and fired; the bullet struck a chip off the wall above Clements’ head. He dropped to one knee, took aim and fired. Li Ping, now on her knees, shuddered, then fell sideways.

  Malone sprinted down the corridor past Clements, dropped to one knee and grabbed the gun from Li Ping’s hand. She looked up at him almost sadly, shook her head, then died.

  Malone got to his feet as Clements and Madame Tzu came up behind him. “She’s gone.”

  “Stupid girl,” said Madame Tzu, but her voice had more pity in it than criticism.

  “Did you know she was behind the murders?” said Malone.

  But Madame Tzu was not stupid; she recognized a leading question. “No.”

  “Liar,” said Malone.

  But said no more as the first of the SPG men came up out of the stairwell.

  III

  The Premier had never previously met Jack Aldwych or Leslie Chung. But he had known crooks, even criminals (if not sentenced) in his own party and that of the Opposition and he felt neither uncomfortable nor endangered. He had also not met Madame Tzu and General Wang-Te and he did feel somewhat uncomfortable with them. As he had said to Ladbroke, who arranged the meeting, “The trouble with the Chinese is that they think they know everything but tell you nothing.”

  Then you should feel right at home with them. But Ladbroke didn’t voice the thought.

  The Dutchman looked at his other guests. There were Sports Minister Agaroff, Lord Mayor Amberton, Councillor Brode and Police Commissioner Zanuch. They sat apart from the other group, like relatives of the bride and groom at a wedding. But then this was a marriage, of sorts. Everyone intent on keeping the name of the Games above reproach.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’ve got you all here. None of you has said anything to the media about it?” He glared at them, inviting them to be executed.

  “Stuff the media,” said Raymond Brode, moderate in his language this time.

  “Eight o’clock in the morning,” said Rupert Amberton, hair flat on his head as if still in its night-net. “What sort of time is that for a meeting?”

  “I haven’t been up this early since I was in jail,” said Aldwych, and grinned at the Premier. He knew a gang boss when he saw one. He also knew, or thought he knew, why they were here.

  “I’ve been in touch with Canberra,” said Vanderberg, sounding as if he had been in touch with Hell or one of its suburbs.

  “Who needs them?” said Amberton, and Brode, for once, nodded in agreement.

  “We all do,” said Madame Tzu unexpectedly, and everyone looked at her, especially General Wang-Te. “Am I right, Mr. Premier, in thinking you have made a deal with Canberra?”

  Ladbroke waited. How much is he, who knows everything, going to tell them? The phone conversat
ions last night had gone on till midnight.

  The Dutchman evaded the question for the moment by turning his attention to Zanuch. “The Federal Police have gone back to their cubbyhole. The murders are all yours now.”

  “They were all along.” Though Zanuch’s chair was only a foot or so from that of Agaroff, he gave the impression of being well apart. Perhaps it was that he was the only one wearing a uniform, but the real separation from them, even from the Premier, was in his face.

  Vanderberg transferred his gaze back to General Wang-Te. “Have you been in touch with Beijing since yesterday?”

  “Yes.” Wang-Te was playing his cards close to his chest, aware that he was in a poker game where the cards, none of his, were marked.

  “For Crissakes,” said Brode, exploding at last, “what the fuck’s going on?”

  The Premier ran his eye over all of them; his smile had all the satisfaction of a vulture that had just eaten a buffalo. He held them all in the hollow of his claw: a politician could wish for no more. “The young Chinese Guo Yi will be charged with the murders of Mr. Shan, Mr. Sun and Mr. Feng. He—”

  Madame Tzu interrupted. “Mr. Shan? General Huang’s name will not be mentioned?”

  Vanderberg glanced sideways at Ladbroke and the latter said, “Oh, it will be mentioned, all right. The media will find out and it will mention it in headlines. But we’ll deny any knowledge of it and it will be a three-day wonder. Beijing will also deny it, General?”

  “Oh yes.” Wang-Te had his hands folded on his chest, as if hiding his cards.

  “Canberra are gunna deny it?” asked Aldwych.

  “Yes,” said Ladbroke. “Foreign Affairs are very good at the cover-up. It’s called diplomacy.”

  “He’s so cynical,” said the Premier, and nodded in approval.

  “So what happens next?” Up till now Les Chung had sat silent. He was out of his depth, but not neck-deep. “What happens about the money Huang sent out to those two bank accounts?”

  Vanderberg looked at Wang-Te. “You going to tell ‘em, General, or shall I?”

  Wang-Te took his hands away from his chest; the cards had to be played. “My government in Beijing has agreed that the fifty-one million dollars that were in the young people’s accounts can remain here in Australia—”