The Thought Cathedral

by Nathan Williams

  “Don’t be too disappointed,” Wang said. “Never know when his curiosity will get the better of him.”

  “I’m not disappointed,” Lee said, though it was a lie.

  Wang grinned. “Yes you are.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “It’s a cool picture, but it’s not that cool.”

  To relieve stress, Lee had fallen into a habit of rising from her chair and gazing absent-mindedly at the panda picture for a few seconds, only to walk back to her chair again. She hadn’t realized she was doing it.

  “I really like that picture,” she said.

  Wang smiled. “Go home and get some sleep. I’ll call you just as soon as something happens.”

  Shanghai, China

  Tuesday, March 4, 12:29 p.m. CST

  The FBI had put Phong up in a modest hotel in south central Shanghai, just a few blocks from Shanghai International Airport. It had been a short shuttle ride from the airport, itself located at the southeast perimeter of Shanghai, just a stone’s throw from the East China Sea. Phong, already frustrated that he had been forced to take the trip on such short notice, had only grown more frustrated as his contact in Shanghai was overseas and unavailable until further notice. So Phong had spent four days meandering around Shanghai, figuring out how to set up a video chat with his wife, and otherwise doing his best to idle the time away. Finally, four days later, he had received word from the FBI the contact was ready to meet with him.

  Following a set of instructions he’d been forced to memorize, Phong went on a lengthy hike which took him in a northwesterly direction through the dense glass and steel jungle of modern Shanghai. He visited a series of merchants, where he pretended to shop while relying on some hastily applied FBI instruction in counter-surveillance techniques to try and ferret out anyone who may have been following him along his route. His hike was done solely for counter-surveillance purposes, but he did purchase a black beanie from one merchant to keep his ears warm. The weather was unseasonably cold, and a biting north wind blew like a vortex between the skyscrapers.

  He meandered in a seemingly haphazard route for two hours until he reached Old Shanghai, with its run-down, traditional architecture. Dodging the throngs of Shanghainese pushing their way along the crowded walkway, he ambled around until he found the entrance to a narrow, unmarked lane with a small, wooden rectangular structure painted over with aging white paint and an aqua-colored cupola on top. Inside, a woman cooked fresh fish brought in from the sea.

  Phong turned northward, into the lane, and walked for a few more minutes, passing crowds of people dressed in clothing which, collectively, reflected Shanghai’s heightened sense of fashion. The formal wear was more high-end and extravagant, while the casual clothing was more colorful and more brash and outlandish, than what he had seen in Beijing. Though his time in Beijing had been relatively short, he couldn’t recall the people of Beijing ever having the awareness of fashion as did the people of Shanghai. In a general sense, Shanghai was more westernized than Beijing.

  This section of Old Shanghai contained dual-level shops crammed next to each other all along the length of the city block. They had been constructed in the traditional Chinese style with the steeply sloped, beveled roofs constructed with the use of dougong bracket systems. They were built so that they jutted out from the second level on up so that they hung out over the sidewalk on which he was walking.

  Phong continued northbound until he reached a section with decorative pumpkin-sized spheres hanging from underneath the overhang. The spheres glowed a hue of deep orange. He found the café he had been directed to, and entered into the narrow, dimly lit room where two waitresses, their hair tight against their skulls and parted along the side, were busy tending to their patrons. Phong took a seat at the rear of the café, where he sat sipping a water and waiting for his contact. He declined to order any food as he did not know when he would be leaving, nor with what urgency.

  Phong sipped at a small glass of water, and ordered another as he probed the patrons, an anonymous collection of Chinese families and others of all ages. Three elderly gentlemen and a middle-aged woman were playing a board game on a small table outside on the sidewalk. He sipped water for another few minutes before the crowds began to swell, hungry for their meal. Having developed a backache from his long flight, he raised his arms and twisted his torso to his left and groaned as the tightness in his back dissipated.

  He did not see her until she was in front of him. He had been scanning a cluster of boisterous young patrons as they’d made their way into the café when he pivoted in his chair and found himself staring into the tranquil eyes of a young girl, the serenity in her facial expression a contrast to the angst of the bustling crowd. She wore a yellow blouse and a winter scarf that was white with a multicolored checkered design. Her long hair was tied behind her. She had managed to slide fully into her seat before he had realized her presence. She exhibited no trace of strain from her movements—no heavy breathing, no wiping of her brow.

  “Who are you?” a startled Phong asked. The girl paused, a sanguine expression settling across her face.

  “I have a message from Mr. Tuniyaz.”

  Phong responded in Mandarin. “What message?”

  “Follow me,” she said.

  Phong rose from his seat and he saw as he followed her through a narrow passageway leading to the rear of the store that her hair had been tied in a knot behind her head. As she led him into a small alley behind the café to a vintage gray European two-door sedan, she pulled the scarf over her head.

  “Get in, Mr. Phong,” she said as she opened the driver-side door and climbed in. Phong glanced to one end of the alley, and then the other. Not another soul in sight. Reluctantly, he opened the passenger door and slid in.

  Phong had not even settled into the passenger seat when she threw the sedan into drive and accelerated forward through the alleyway and into a narrow lane. She tore through a maze of similar lanes and roads until they entered a five-lane highway. From the road signs and the vertically inclined architecture, Phong recognized that they were proceeding westbound on the Huyu Expressway, one of the main thoroughfares through the city.

  The ride was a flat one, given Shanghai’s location on the alluvial plain of the Yangtze River’s delta. The girl took no notice of him as she drove the sedan, but Phong felt this had less to do with her impressions of him and everything to do with the insanity of the Shanghai traffic. The girl’s singular focus on the road was exacerbated by the shortness of the girl and the straining required of her in order to see above the steering column. Her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, a clear manifestation of her singular focus, was matched and perhaps exceeded by Phong’s grip on the armrests.

  A few minutes later, the girl exited the expressway onto Highway S225, which ran north and south, and followed S225 until it became Zhuxi Road. They had entered into a residential area of Shanghai. As the girl slowed the sedan, Phong sensed they had entered a poorer area of the city, and one in which the streets and alleys ran in less geometrically structured ways. They followed a female cyclist along a narrow lane surrounded on both sides by shanties constructed of bricks and cement in the traditional Chinese architectural style. They rode until their path became a dead-end, obstructed by another line of dual-level shanties, which seemed to stretch perpendicularly to their current path in an east-west orientation.

  The girl killed the engine. “Follow me, please,” she said as she slid out of the car. Phong followed her as she bounded into a narrow pathway between two run-down shanties, following a trail of mud and dirt until it came to an abrupt end. It took only a moment for Phong to realize why: the shanties had been built up along and against a water canal. As Phong could now see as he pulled up beside the girl, the rear of the shanties had been built quite literally to the water’s edge. Looking up and down the winding canal, he could see a handful of small sampan-like boats with small benches, approximately the width of two persons, covered by han
dcrafted wooden canopies. One of them, in fact, had floated near to the girl and him. A lithe Chinese figure wearing rags for clothes and a wide, circular straw hat stood at the rear of the little boat with an arm extended, beckoning them to come down.

  When Phong turned to glance at the girl, she had already disappeared down a wooden ladder built into what could have been considered either the foundation of the shanty or a portion of the levee keeping the water at bay. From below, Phong heard a muffled “Come down.” He followed the girl down the ladder to a small platform and then leapt onto the boat. The man pointed to the canopied bench and said, “Please, have a seat.”

  “Where are we going?” Phong asked, as the man used a pole to set the sampan in motion back toward the middle of the canal.

  “You’ll see,” the girl said. “We are almost there.”

  He slid into the seat next to the girl. They floated for a few minutes northward, back toward the East China Sea where they had come from. The canal was encased on both sides by the dual-level shanties, which were similar in architectural style to those in Old Shanghai, where he’d met the girl. “This part of Shanghai is called Zhujiajiao,” the girl said, and Phong pondered why she had felt compelled to offer this information. It occurred to him she may be a tour guide somewhere, wearily answering the next overtly obvious question before the hapless traveler has a chance to ask it. If she was playing this role with him, Phong thought, she was right to anticipate that he would ask about this part of Shanghai. With its homes snuggled right up against the intricate system of canals, Phong wondered how he’d lived in China for so long without ever having heard of the place. Its layout made it seem the Chinese version of Venice, Italy.

  Soon after they rounded a bend, heading into an S-curve, the sampan veered sharply right, and Phong realized they had reached their destination. The man coaxed the boat near one of the shanties and, turning, tapped on the bench seat with his pole. “Time to go,” the girl said. She rose quickly, scampered to the forward edge of the boat, and leapt onto a small landing, Phong following closely behind. They turned briefly to the man on the boat, who wordlessly pushed it back out into the water.

  A cursory study of his immediate surroundings clued Phong in to the fact that he had stepped from the boat into a private residence. An oil lamp in the corner of the room radiated soft light, which exposed a dark brown bear skin rug, an electric fireplace stove, a walnut colored bookcase filled with books, a cloth recliner, and a pair of wintry-themed paintings.

  “Where are we?” Phong asked.

  Before the girl could answer, Phong heard a rattling and squeaking. A door opening, he thought. Moments later, an old man materialized from a set of stairs descending from above. The man, who had an Asian appearance, wore a traditional-looking gray cloth robe with a zinfandel red geometrical design, which extended down to his knees, thick black cotton slacks, and black boots with wool lining.

  With a raspy voice, the man said, “You are?”

  Phong cleared his throat. “Phong, sir. Terry Phong.”

  The man extended his hand and they shook hands western-style. His hands were thick, callused; his handshake was very firm.

  “Who are you?” Phong asked.

  “You may call me Tersun. Tersun Tuniyaz. May I get you anything to drink?”

  “A coffee would be good, thanks,” Phong said, as he sank into the cushioning of the chair.

  The man glanced at the girl. “Tara, can you please grab two coffees? Well, make that three. Make one for yourself, if you wish.”

  Without a word, the girl moved silently across the room and disappeared up the stairs.

  Phong studied him in the flickering light of the lantern, as Tuniyaz sat on the recliner. Tuniyaz was heavyset, yet moved lightly on his feet. Like a boxer, his shoulders were slumped and his nose was flat. His eyebrows were thin and seemed to melt into darkened patches in his face created by the shadows. The old man had high cheekbones and the top half of his tear-drop eyes were arched more than most so that the crease was very thin along the lateral corners of his eyes. Here, the top part of his eye almost seemed to fold over into the lower part. His long, haphazard salt-and-pepper hair was parted down the middle, and his skin was dark and weathered with crags and a few pockmarks running across his cheeks and forehead.

  “Welcome to Shangri La,” the old man said, with no small amount of sarcasm in his tone.

  “This is your residence?” Phong asked. Tuniyaz pulled a pipe and a carton of tobacco from a hidden pocket in his robe. Phong glanced again at the walls of the room as Tuniyaz loaded his pipe. He noticed two large photos, in particular, which were both depictions of winter settings. The first was that of a young man and older woman standing side-by-side dressed in winter outdoor clothing. The young man had coils of a long rope wrapped diagonally around his torso, while the woman held a black whip. Behind them sat a sled and two wheel dogs. Phong assumed the remaining dogs making up the team extended outside the parameters of the photo. The second photo appeared to be of the same young man, except he appeared to be in an alpine clearing tossing a horseshoe.

  Tuniyaz lit the pipe, took a draw, and replied, “No, this is a safe house, Mr. Phong.”

  “Then that’s not you in the photos?”

  “No, not me.” Tuniyaz took another draw on his pipe and pivoted in his seat in order to re-examine the photo with the dogs. “But it may as well have been.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Tuniyaz started to answer, but was interrupted by Tara who had reappeared, her hands holding the coffee. She passed the cups off to the two men, before drifting back up the stairs.

  “I cannot go into too much of my personal life, Mr. Phong, for professional reasons. I will say, however, that the activity of my youth resembled much of what you see in those photos.”

  Phong again looked at the boy standing in front of the sled and dogs. “The dog sledding is in Alaska, I think?” Phong shaped it as a question, because he wasn’t certain it would be correct if left as a statement.

  The old man subtly nodded in the affirmative, but said nothing. He sighed wearily and gestured with his hands so as to dismiss the current topic of conversation. “We must move on to business matters.”

  Phong straightened to exude a sense of attentiveness. “Yes, sir. I was told you’re familiar with the FBI’s investigation of a human trafficking ring originating from Shanghai. I’ve come on behalf of the New York office, seeking assistance.”

  “What sort of assistance?”

  Phong gave him the abbreviated version of his impromptu search for “the deity.”

  “We feel like this individual may be involved in the current ongoing situation in New York.”

  Tuniyaz rose from the recliner and shuffled to a knotted desk of birchwood. He pulled open a drawer, and lifted a three-ring binder out of it. “Here is some information on the organization, but you’ll need to read through it now. It can’t leave this room. Careful you don’t let the contents slide out onto the floor,” Tuniyez said as he stepped to Phong. He placed it on a small stool sitting at the foot of the chair Phong was sitting on before making the brief pilgrimage back to the recliner. Phong took the binder up in both hands, placed it on his lap, and lifted it open. He pulled out a thin stack of documents and photos.

  “I remember the ‘deity’ moniker as it was related to the case,” Tuniyaz said. “We’d never heard of it until we were already a few months into the investigation. But if you are looking for his identity, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “We gathered as much,” Phong said. “We’re looking for him, too. But we just need a place to start—a contact.”

  “And what do you plan on doing with this contact?”

  “I’m going to introduce myself.”

  Tuniyaz sprung up from the recliner and drifted for a moment toward the heat of the stove. “Introduce yourself as what?”

  Phong remained silent.

  “I will not provide any assistance, whatsoever, until
I know who you are and what you’re up to, Mr. Phong.”

  Phong rose from his chair. “I have no intention of identifying myself with the CIA or to the U.S. government in any way,” Phong said. “Surely you realize, Mr. Tuniyaz, that doing so would only be disadvantageous for me.”

  “What is your intention in Shanghai, Mr. Phong?”

  Phong recounted the general details of Operation Crimson Shield, though he felt reasonably certain Tuniyaz had already been given the information. He also offered his account of how he had used a web search to stumble onto the existence of a high-level financier, one who was connected to the activity in both New York and Shanghai. “We know he exists,” Phong said. “Now we need to identify him.” Tuniyaz remained silent. Phong said, “And we need your help.”

  In his gruff voice, Tuniyez said, “I’ve been asked by your superiors to point you toward a contact—someone we know is connected within the criminal organization we’ve been tracking all of this time. I’m willing, out of professional courtesy, to help you in your endeavor on one condition.”

  “Sir?”

  “That you don’t do anything that will compromise our investigation. Our officers understand that discretion is not merely a catchphrase but, rather, an all-encompassing skill that requires development over a period of time—a period of time that, I understand, you do not have. It is often not so easy to be discrete. I hope and trust that you are a quick study, Mr. Phong.”

  Phong nodded curtly. “Sir.”

  “Pei Yaping may be who you’re looking for.” The old man walked over to Phong, settling behind him while still standing. “Pei’s information is in the yellow folder if you want to pull that out.” Phong pulled it out and opened it. “He’s a manager for the Port of Shanghai. Specifically, his employer is Shanghai International Port, which is a publicly traded company that manages the port. He’s fairly young, in his early thirties. We know he’s been assisting the trafficking by securing vessels and submitting false paperwork. We believe he’s been paying off the inspections teams of the Chinese customs officials in order to get the victims into the boats and out to sea. Here’s a photo of him here.”