by Tim Maleeny
Part of the island housed an old naval base, shut down after Pentagon budget cuts several years back. The low white buildings remained largely unused while city officials on both sides of the bay argued about what to do with the land. But this week no one was arguing, thankful to have a temporary home for two hundred refugees who had none.
Mitch had asked Cape to meet him inside the main building, a long white rectangle set back from the road by a short lawn of brown grass. Cape heard the undercurrent of human voices as he approached, but once he stepped inside, the din was overwhelming. At least a hundred people inside a single long room with exposed rafters, the floor lined with cots, chairs, and the occasional desk. A corner had been draped off, doctors and nurses milling about on this side of the curtain. Cape assumed they’d taken those needing immediate medical attention to one of the many hospitals around the city, but the white lab coats were on hand in case anything new cropped up on the island.
Men and women wearing a variety of uniforms and suits were scattered around the area, most holding clipboards, a few carrying tape recorders, most of them Asian. The men, women, and children from the ship sat on their cots, on the floor, and stood around in small groups. Cape noticed that the refugees talking with various officials looked very serious, even worried, but those chatting amongst themselves looked happy and relaxed. It was as if they knew their journey was almost over, the promised land just beyond that door, if only the men and women with the clipboards would promise not to send them back.
Before Cape could get his bearings, a tall Chinese man with broad shoulders walked toward him, wearing khaki slacks and a navy blazer with no tie. As he approached, Cape took note of his short black hair, salted gray near the temples, and dark eyes sitting high on an open, friendly face. His wide mouth curved into a smile as he extended his hand.
“Cape Weathers?” The man’s grip was firm, his hand dry and callused.
“Mitch,” said Cape, shaking his hand. “How’d you know who I was?”
Mitch broadened his smile. “Beau said you dressed like you were still in college.” His gaze moved from Cape’s running shoes, past his jeans, and over a black T-shirt covered by an old white dress shirt, unbuttoned and untucked. “Or a reporter,” he added.
Cape shrugged. “Saves on dry cleaning.”
“He also told me your nose was broken,” added Mitch. “Several times.”
Cape touched the bridge of his nose lightly, where it took a slight left turn before resuming its course. “Not for at least a year.”
Mitch nodded, then looked over his shoulder before gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go for a walk.” He took off his jacket and draped it over a chair, rolling up his shirtsleeves. As he turned the cuff of his left sleeve, Cape noticed a dark tattoo at the edge of his wrist, but Mitch had stepped outside before Cape could catch the design.
The view across the water toward San Francisco was distracting, the morning sun having burned through the fog. A few sailboats followed in the wake of a tanker moving slowly under the bridge, close enough to reach with a brisk swim. They walked for a couple of minutes before talking, both men squinting from the glare off the bay. They stopped beside a stone bench but neither sat down.
Mitch said, “You mind my asking, what’s your interest in the ship?”
“I don’t mind you asking,” replied Cape.
“But you’re not gonna tell me,” said Mitch, nodding as if he already knew the answer. “Beau said you were a very private detective.”
Cape shrugged.
“But he said he doesn’t hold that against you,” added Mitch, “and that neither should I.”
“Guess we’re off to a great start.”
“Your client involved in this?”
Cape thought of Sally, realizing he didn’t have a client. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
Mitch nodded, looking out toward the water. After a moment, he seemed to make a decision, gesturing toward the bench. He took a seat on one side.
“You’ll tell me what you find out?”
Cape thought about it before responding. “If I think, it will help the case and not hurt my…client…yeah. I’ll tell you, or Beau.”
“But not the feds?”
Cape shrugged. “I’ll tell anyone I think can help, you want the truth.”
Mitch nodded. “What do you want to know?”
Cape looked over his shoulder toward the main building. “Where did those people come from?”
“Fuzhou,” said Mitch, his intonation shifting as he said the name. “It’s on the northeast coast of Fujian province in China. A lot of human smuggling starts in Fuzhou.”
“Why?”
“That’s where the major smuggling rings are based,” replied Mitch. “Quite a few used to be in Changle City, but there was a brief government crackdown, so they moved.”
“Just like that?”
“You have to understand, smuggling humans is big, big business,” said Mitch. “One of the feds I’m dealing with told me it’s now a billion dollars annually, with some smugglers making as much as thirty mil a year.”
Cape let out a low whistle. “That’s a lot of yuan.”
“That’s right,” nodded Mitch, “especially since it’s almost eight yuan to the dollar these days—so bribing local officials doesn’t break the bank. Neither does moving your base of operations. Plus, there’s prestige involved.”
“Prestige?” Cape wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“If someone makes the journey, then their family back in China gains in stature,” explained Mitch. “And if they can send money back to their family, even better. So these smugglers aren’t necessarily regarded as criminals, at least not by the people they’re smuggling.”
Cape wanted to ask Mitch more about that—about China—but he forced himself to stay on track.
“How’s it work?” he asked.
“Say you make your way to Fuzhou,” said Mitch. “Or you’re from Fuzhou to begin with. You save up sixty bucks for a bus to Guangzhou, where you’re put on a freighter bound for Hong Kong or the U.S. directly. You’re smuggled into the country, then you’re put in a safe house until you can find work or get papers or contact family, depending on the situation.”
“How much?”
“The folks back there,” said Mitch, jerking his chin toward the barracks, “were on the hook for thirty grand.”
Cape almost gasped. “Each?”
“You bet,” said Mitch, adding, “I told you it was big business.”
“How can they possibly come up with that kind of money?”
“One of two ways,” replied Mitch. “Family that’s already here, who borrow against everything they have to bring other family members over, one at a time. That’s option one.”
“And option two?” Cape feared he already knew the answer.
“You become someone’s property.”
“Property,” said Cape, the word as cold and dispassionate as the concept itself.
Mitch chewed his lower lip before giving Cape a cynical smile. “You didn’t think China was the only place with sweatshops, did you?”
“So they work as slaves,” said Cape, “getting room and board, until their debt is paid off?”
Mitch nodded. “Keeps the prices down in Chinatown,” he said sarcastically. “Good for tourism.”
“Why do they do it?” asked Cape. “I thought things were getting better in China.”
“Better is relative,” replied Mitch. “But you’re right, it’s easier to emigrate legally from some cities today, depending on how much guanxi you have.”
“What?”
“Connections,” said Mitch. “You know an official you can bribe, or you’re related to an inspector, then maybe you can get papers. But with no guanxi, the only way to get here is inside the baggage compartment.”
“Do they really know what they’re getting into?”
“No, they don’t,” said Mitch. “And in most cases, the jou
rney isn’t that bad. Refugees are flown by plane to South America, then sail up the coast. And they’re generally treated well, considering. But ships like this, with people crammed in the hold like animals…it still happens.”
Cape stared at the bay, trying to imagine being that desperate, wanting to escape something that badly.
Mitch seemed to read his mind. “You know what they call the United States in China?”
Cape shook his head.
“Meiguo,” replied Mitch. “That’s Mandarin for ‘beautiful country.’ America might have lost sight of the American Dream, but these people are praying for it every night of their lives. You have no idea what life is like over there, even on a good day.”
Cape detected an undercurrent in Mitch’s voice, some subtext to the narrative.
“This is personal for you,” he said simply. “Isn’t it?”
Mitch turned from the water, his right hand raised to block the sun. “Yeah,” he said, meeting Cape’s eyes. “My parents came over on a ship like this one. Lucky for me, they got asylum.”
A long minute passed as Cape held Mitch’s gaze. “What will happen to these people?”
Mitch shrugged. “Depends on who they are, in large part. Things are a little funny with China right now, as you probably noticed in the papers. We’re asking for help with North Korea, trying to play nice. So these people might get asylum, but they also might get sent home.”
Cape cringed at the thought, thinking of the derelict ship, trying to wrap his head around making a voyage like that twice. “But they’ll keep trying, won’t they?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Mitch. “Once you get it in your head you’re leaving, most people find a way. And there’s enough people waiting to help them, or prey upon them, depending on your perspective.”
“You going to find out who’s behind this?”
“Not me,” said Mitch, “though I’d like to. That’s for the feds to figure out. The INS and FBI, mostly. Me, I’m just a narcotics cop who speaks Chinese.”
Cape suspected Mitch was much more than that, but he kept the thought to himself. “What if I wanted to find them?”
Mitch smiled, his mouth a little crooked. “You have to go hunting for the snake.”
“Snake?”
“The person behind this is called a ‘snakehead,’” Mitch replied. “There’s a little snakehead and a big snakehead.”
“What’s the difference?” asked Cape.
“The little snakehead is probably in China. He or she—women are involved sometimes—arrange for the transportation and handle logistics on that end.”
“And the big snakehead?”
“That’s the one you want,” replied Mitch. “He or she is probably here, in the States. The big snakehead is the main investor—the one that fronted the money and the one that gets the big payoff. Without them, none of this would be possible.”
“You think the feds will find them?”
“Not a chance,” said Mitch, his cynicism audible. “They’ll probably find some of the handlers—the middlemen who took the money, set up the safe houses, that sort of thing. But the real power behind it…those guys are almost never caught. Too many layers between them and the actual crimes.”
“What kind of person am I looking for?”
Mitch shrugged. “Could be anybody. An anonymous businessman, a well-connected financier, or some guy you never heard of—working in the shadows. They may not even be Chinese.”
Cape’s surprise must have registered, because Mitch continued.
“The old days of Chinese-only crime are over,” he said. “Now the tongs and their gangs are in bed with the Russians, the Italian Mafia, even the Chinese government. If they can make money, they’ll call you brother—at least until they cut out your liver.”
Cape caught the edge in Mitch’s voice and gestured toward the tattoo on his arm.
“Were you in a gang?”
Mitch smiled, rubbing the back of his hand as he spoke. “Beau said you were smarter than you looked.”
“I’m even smarter than he looks,” replied Cape.
“A long time ago,” said Mitch. “The Flying Dragons in L.A. took me in, along with my younger brother. I got out before it was too late.”
Cape wanted to ask about the brother, but Mitch’s expression made it clear the subject wasn’t open for discussion.
“OK, smart guy,” said Mitch, “what else do you want to know? I should get back inside.”
“Fair enough,” said Cape. “Two more questions?”
“Shoot.”
“If you were looking for a snakehead, where would you start?”
“I’d try to find the tail,” replied Mitch. “Find someone lower on the food chain, and take it from there.”
Cape nodded; no surprise there.
“And the second?” asked Mitch.
“The people who were on the ship—what have they said about what happened onboard?”
“You mean what killed the crew?” asked Mitch.
“Don’t you mean who killed the crew?”
“Not if you ask the people who were onboard,” replied Mitch. “I’ve talked to almost forty men, women, and children, and practically every one says the same thing, with maybe two exceptions.”
“Yeah?”
“They say there were yaomo onboard,” replied Mitch. “That’s what killed the crew.”
Cape raised his eyebrows but remained silent.
“Demons,” replied Mitch. “Evil demons. They told me a demon killed those men.”
Cape frowned. “Is that the Chinese equivalent of ‘officer, I swear I didn’t see anything’?”
“That’s part of it,” Mitch replied. “It’s bad enough they got caught trying to slip into the country—these people do not want to be witnesses in a murder investigation. But remember, a lot of these people come from rural China. They can be very superstitious.”
“You said there were two exceptions,” said Cape.
Mitch nodded. “An older woman and her daughter. I think the daughter might have been raped by the crew.”
“What did they say?”
“That the crew was killed by tianbing,” replied Mitch. “A ‘heavenly soldier.’”
Cape squinted into the sun but said nothing.
“The English equivalent would probably be ‘angel,’” added Mitch, shaking his head. Cape frowned, but Mitch didn’t seem to notice, adding, “So we’re looking for someone who is part demon, part heavenly spirit—sound like anyone you know?”
“No,” said Cape, lying through his teeth for the second time that day.
Chapter Sixteen
Hong Kong, 15 years ago
“You are not thirsty,” Sally muttered to herself.
Summer in Hong Kong was a cauldron, and the girls had been training outside all morning. The noon sun beat down like a hammer, bending the air into visible waves that flowed across the packed earth of the courtyard. Sally squinted and tried to concentrate on what Master Xan was saying, his form distorted by the shimmering air.
“You have all been here five years.” His voice boomed off the walls of the enclosure as he turned and faced the perfectly straight line. Twenty girls ranging in age from nine to fourteen watched as he moved down the line, pausing to make contact with every one of them. “And soon, you must choose a path.”
Sally stuck her tongue out, trying to catch some of the sweat dripping off her brow. As she concentrated on a promising bit of moisture at the end of her nose, her eyes crossed and she momentarily forgot about Xan. The drop smacked dead center on her tongue just as she realized everything had gone very quiet, as if the girls standing next to her had stopped breathing. Looking up she saw Master Xan had reached her spot in the line, only to find Sally crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue.
Sally turned her head slowly to her right, looking to her best friend for guidance, but Jun’s eyes were twice their normal size, her eyebrows so high they practically floated above her head. Whe
ther in shock or fear, she was useless.
Sally took a deep breath and locked eyes with Xan. With a somber expression firmly in place, she bowed her head slightly, keeping her gaze steady. Neither coy nor defiant, just respectful.
Barely eleven and Sally already understood the power in a woman’s eyes.
Xan’s scar seemed to jump even though his face didn’t move, a signal that usually meant he was angry or about to burst out laughing. Sally could never tell the difference. But today Xan merely held her gaze, his eyes boring into Sally as if he could read her mind. After a moment that seemed a lifetime, Xan nodded once and looked away, apparently satisfied with what he had seen. As Xan turned his back on the line of girls, Jun reached out and squeezed Sally’s hand tightly. Sally squeezed back and released the breath she’d been holding.
Xan pointed directly in front of him.
“At the end of this courtyard is an exit.” He gestured toward a small wooden door. “Six months from now, you may leave.”
Sally snorted under breath. And go where? All of the girls were orphans, this school the only family they’d had for five years. Most of them had never known the outside world, even as children, and certainly not the streets of Hong Kong. Sally couldn’t think of a single girl who had talked about leaving.
Xan motioned to the right and the girls turned as one, looking at a massive circular door set into the high stone wall of the inner courtyard. The door was ten feet in diameter, made of red lacquered wood elaborately carved, dragons and tigers intertwined with butterflies and cranes. The carvings became progressively more complex and dense as you neared the center of the circle, creating a sense of movement that bordered on vertigo, as if the door were some sort of vortex pulling you to the other side. At the exact center were two door handles, each one a half-circle painted black. Two Chinese characters had been carved deeply into the wood, one on each handle.
