by Alan Carter
‘Yeah thanks,’ said Sharon. ‘Two-thirty okay for you?’ It was, but it earned her a dangerous look from Phoebe.
As Li and his daughter left, Driscoll returned. He too looked like he was struggling with his composure. ‘Whose idea was it?’
‘Mine,’ they both said.
He shook his head at both of them. ‘Do you realise how difficult you’ve made my job, now?’
‘Tell me,’ said Lara.
‘I’m combing this city looking for your mate. I’m gradually getting people to talk. Suddenly it’s all over the radio, the internet, the newspapers. Bingo. They clam up again. Meanwhile I’ve got the top brass here, in Beijing, and Canberra all wanting to know what the fuck’s going on and why they are being asked to comment to the media on something they’ve never heard about.’
‘Hmmm,’ said Lara.
‘You know this could sign his death warrant?’ said Driscoll.
Wang showed him the piece of paper. ‘It flushed somebody out. Li gave us this.’
Driscoll studied it. ‘Interesting,’ he said.
‘So do we get a SWAT team in?’ said Wang.
A call came through on Driscoll’s mobile. ‘Wei?’ He listened for a few moments then spoke some Mandarin to the caller. He put the phone to his chest. ‘This guy here reckons he’s Yu Guangming and he knows where our man is.’
‘So tell us,’ said Lara, trying to stay cool.
More Mandarin. ‘I’ll put him on speakerphone, he reckons he’s okay with English.’
‘Hello?’ said the man who called himself Yu Guangming.
‘You have some information for us, Mr Yu?’ said Driscoll.
‘Yes, I know where your colleague is. He is safe and unharmed.’
‘So release him,’ said Lara.
‘Who are you, lady?’ said the voice.
Lara now recognised it, the same voice that told her to fuck off home as he scrubbed James Maloney’s bloody fingers in her face. Those eyes above the mask, the same ones from the file photo of Yu Guangming. ‘Lara Sumich, Western Australian police.’
‘Okay, this is what must happen now. You, Miss Lara, and your colleague must leave Shanghai, then Mr Kwong will be free.’
Driscoll muted the speakerphone and looked at Lara. ‘Not a huge ask,’ he said. ‘And less dangerous for Kwong than a Chinese SWAT team, believe me.’
‘What’s wrong with Chinese SWAT teams?’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Driscoll. ‘They’re great, very efficient, invariably get the job done. It’s just that they operate under the political principle of the individual subsuming their needs to those of the greater good.’
‘Meaning?’
‘If the hostage survives that’s a bonus.’
‘No,’ said Lara. ‘We leave together or not at all.’
Driscoll unmuted the phone and reiterated Lara’s view. There was a torrent of angry Mandarin. Driscoll picked up the phone and tried to calm Yu, stepping away into a corner and lowering his voice soothingly. Lara and Sharon exchanged a glance. Another nail in Cato’s coffin?
‘I have an idea,’ said Driscoll after a moment. ‘How about I go to where this guy is, vouch for Kwong’s wellbeing, and when you’re checked in at the airport I confirm that to Yu. Then I escort our boy out of there. You all catch the same plane and Yu gets what he wants. Deal?’
‘Will he buy it?’ said Lara, not wanting to push her luck.
‘He already did,’ said Driscoll with a grin.
A few details were finessed and the call concluded. Lara was uneasy. ‘You’re putting yourself into some danger there.’
‘We’ll still have a SWAT team nearby as back-up,’ Driscoll reassured her.
‘That’s all he wants? Us gone?’
‘Face. Never underestimate its potency.’ He pulled up a chair and turned to Sharon Wang. ‘You need to call your boss in Beijing. He’d like a word.’
‘What about?’
Driscoll shrugged. ‘Probably wants to know how much super, holiday pay and long-service you have owing and how soon you can clear your desk.’
Cato had been allowed a shower and provided with a change of clothes. Something bought from a nearby market: a pair of jeans that were a size too small and a Union Jack emblazoned T-shirt with the logo ‘London Cool Boy’.
‘Deadly threads,’ said Driscoll with a grin. ‘I know a few clubs where you could make yourself a dollar dressed like that.’
Everything still hurt but being clean was a bonus. It was early evening, already dark, and more afternoon storms had rolled in. Driscoll had outlined the plan and filled in some of the missing pieces. Cato hadn’t been aware of Richard Chan’s death or James Blond’s disfigurement.
‘What was the point of it all?’ asked Cato.
‘To get you guys to stop flashing Yu’s picture around and asking nosy questions. It creates too many difficulties for him locally. He just wanted you gone. You were the leverage to make sure it happened.’
All of that was mind-blowing enough – the level of violence inflicted to achieve that aim. But Cato’s main concern right now was Driscoll.
‘I don’t trust you,’ he said.
‘Don’t blame you, mate. I’m a shifty bugger at the best of times, goes with the job.’
Cato nodded towards the doorway into an adjoining room, Yu Guangming, pacing nervously in the background and sucking on a cigarette. ‘The two of you are in this together. You’ve got something up your sleeve.’
‘You’re not really in a position to trust or not trust. It’s irrelevant, just do what you’re told.’
Cato tried a different tack, playing with what little knowledge he had to see if he could unsettle Driscoll. ‘If Yu and Li aren’t working together, why did Yu arrange for Richard Chan to be killed? What’s in it for him?’
‘Yu doesn’t have to be an employee or partner of Li’s to do him favours. You’ve heard of guanxi by now? Connections, mutual obligations. Li now owes him one.’
‘What about you and your guanxi?’ said Cato. ‘Who do you owe favours to?’
Driscoll sighed. ‘Okay, in simple terms, Yu is our inside man on some major meth and people trafficking operations into Australia. He delivers good information which has helped us significantly frustrate their efforts.’
Cato recalled one of James Blond’s outbursts. ‘Is Li involved?’
‘Nah, not directly anyway. Maybe ten arms lengths away he might have invested some petty cash in the occasional consignment but really he’s playing for much bigger and far more legitimate stakes: land, property, minerals, industry. Drugs and prossies are so tacky.’
‘But the ACC don’t think so. They have Li flagged.’
‘The ACC is wrong on this one.’
‘Still Yu gets to make trouble for his rivals?’ said Cato.
‘It’s called containment,’ said Driscoll. ‘Even small-town cops do it with the local brothels in Woop-Woop. Hardly rocket science.’
‘And he gets away with rape and murder across the Asia-Pacific.’
‘Yes, that has been morally unsettling at times but we try to keep our eyes on the big picture.’
‘Big picture?’ said Cato. ‘The man is an animal. Give me a break.’
A call came through. The others were at the airport and checked in.
They were seated at a Starbuck’s in the Departures hall: Lara, Sharon, and two Shanghai police minders. James had been wheeled straight through and on to the plane, heavily sedated, blitzed on painkillers, arm and hand swathed in bandages. A doctor and a paramedic would be flying with him, just in case. They were in Business Class which was a bonus. All they needed now was Cato and they’d just heard that he was free, safe and well, and on his way.
‘Thanks for all you’ve done, Sharon,’ said Lara. ‘I hope I haven’t completely stuffed up your career.’
Wang smiled and they clinked paper cups. ‘All my own doing. Don’t worry about it.’
Lara grinned wickedly. ‘I reckon you’d be good for
Cato. He needs a more regular seeing-to. Might cheer him up.’
They lifted their cups again. ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Sharon with a wink. She nodded towards Lara’s stomach. ‘When’s it due?’
So she’d seen the ultrasound results at the hospital. Lara instinctively caressed her belly. ‘End of February. It’s a girl. Haven’t thought of a name yet.’ A mischievous smile. ‘For a while there I was thinking “Sharon” but I decided no fucking chance.’
‘Bitch. The dad a good bloke?’
‘Yes,’ said Lara. ‘He is. I’m looking forward to getting back to him.’
‘You look happy,’ said Sharon.
‘Yes I am.’ Lara stood. ‘Anyone seen a loo?’
Sharon pointed in the direction and Lara headed that way. There was a sudden surge of crowd, a big family send-off by the look of it. Lara edged her way through the throng. Somebody punched her hard in the chest. Lara gasped. ‘Shit, watch where you’re going!’
The crowd scattered, staring at her fearfully. She looked down, feeling wet, hearing splashes. There was a knife in her chest and blood pumping down her shirt.
‘Oh no.’ She slipped to the floor. ‘Please, no.’
Sharon was beside her, trying to stem the flow. ‘Somebody get help.’ She repeated the cry in Mandarin. ‘Ambulance! Now!’
Lara spoke in a small voice, clutching her stomach, cold spreading through her body. ‘It won’t stop, Sharon.’
Sharon was pressing on the wound but the blood kept coming. ‘Help, somebody help, for fuck’s sake!’
A long way off, Lara heard two shots somewhere down the terminal. The police minders had found their man and dealt with him. She looked at the blood draining from her body and at Sharon’s pale, scared face. Not now. Not like this. Oh god, she thought. My baby.
They were in Driscoll’s car on the elevated expressway to the airport when they heard. Lara was dead.
‘Shit,’ said Driscoll, turning off his speaker phone.
Cato had his eyes closed, head back against the seat rest; this was a nightmare.
‘What do you want to do?’ said Driscoll. ‘We can keep heading to the airport and you can be with her.’
‘Or?’
‘Or we can go back and kill the fucker.’
Yu Guangming. It had to be.
Cato opened his eyes and stared straight ahead, unable to look Driscoll in the face. ‘Let’s go and find him.’
Driscoll took the next exit and headed back the way they came. ‘I’m so sorry, mate.’
‘Don’t,’ said Cato, grimly.
Yu Guangming wasn’t at the address they’d vacated but some of his associates were. Driscoll stayed relaxed and chatty, so did Yu’s men. They were either good actors or very cold, or they weren’t in on Yu’s plans to doublecross. Apparently he’d only just left about five minutes earlier. Heading on foot for the Bund, to his favourite bar.
They caught up with him at Waibaidu Bridge, a steel span structure perhaps fifty metres long, the last bridge before Suzhou Creek joined up with the main Huangpu River.
They parked up on a footpath twenty metres ahead and walked back.
‘Waibaidu,’ Driscoll informed him, ‘means foreign white crossing, more or less.’
On the other side of the bridge was an old large white building flying the Russian flag. Their consulate, assumed Cato. Yu was leaning on the railings halfway across, smoking and gazing into the creek. Driscoll greeted him in Mandarin. He turned, puzzled, saw Cato and realised something was wrong. Driscoll produced a gun, put his arm around Cato’s neck and poked the barrel into his ear. He continued speaking to Yu in Mandarin. Cato was no longer sure which side Driscoll was on. Was this part of the plan or was it the final betrayal?
‘What’s happening, Driscoll?’
‘Shut up,’ he said.
He edged Cato towards the railings, leant him over, poking the gun now into the back of his head. Passers-by were suddenly aware of something untoward. They were scattering, raising their voices in alarm. Two Chinese army guards from the Russian consulate had stepped away from their sentry posts to see what the fuss was about. They unslung their machine guns and edged towards them. Cato found himself staring at the black eddying waters of Suzhou Creek, the final resting place of Big-eared Du’s victims. Shit, he thought, they’re going to find me floating face down in the river wearing this crap London Cool Boy T-shirt. Driscoll was still speaking Mandarin, a note of urgency creeping into his voice. Yu must have decided everything was okay, he jogged up to them.
Driscoll turned and shot Yu at point-blank range. He hefted the body and dropped it over the railings into Suzhou Creek. It floated gently towards the Huangpu where the bright lights of Pudong beckoned. Then he threw his gun on the ground, knelt and put his hands behind his head, gesturing for Cato to do the same. All the time, keeping up a reassuring stream of Mandarin for the approaching twitchy consulate sentries.
‘What are you saying?’ said Cato.
‘I’m dropping the name of a well-known PLA General who’ll chop their balls off if they harm us.’
‘You really know him?’
‘Sure, we’re friends on Facebook. We’ve done some joint ventures together.’
Yu’s corpse was still visible bobbing on the tide. ‘You could have let me kill the bastard,’ said Cato.
‘Too much paperwork, mate. And it’s not your style. You strike me as the type that would find it morally unsettling over the longer term.’
19
Tuesday, August 20th.
The next morning Cato parked himself at a spare desk at the Australian Consulate and dealt with a blizzard of emails, paperwork and phone calls to and from Perth, Canberra and Beijing. James Blond had been sent out on the same flight last night as intended. His medical condition was too fragile not to. There was an autopsy to be performed on Lara, her body to be repatriated, reports to be filed, questions to be answered. The bureaucracy and logistics were a welcome distraction for Cato. Sharon Wang cast the occasional concerned glance across the top of her computer. Her eyes were red and puffy, whether from grief or sleeplessness he didn’t know. Probably both – maybe he looked the same. Wang had told him about Lara’s pregnancy, about how happy she was, ready to settle down and build a family with the man he knew as Farmer John. That glow, the smiles, the engagement ring: all dust.
Driscoll was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was keeping a low profile, maybe he was putting out more spot fires. How culpable was he in all this? Very. He’d allowed Yu Guangming too long a leash. The bastard should have been garrotted long ago. Cato copied DI Hutchens in on one of his summary reports and pressed send. His mobile buzzed. He didn’t recognise the number.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Kwong?’ It was Thomas Li. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about what happened to your colleague.’
‘Thanks.’
‘If there’s anything I can do …’
‘I don’t think so. Goodbye, Mr Li.’
‘I feel I owe you …’
‘Forget it,’ growled Cato.
‘Don’t you want to know who killed the Tans?’
‘This isn’t the time for games.’
‘No games. There’s something I think you should see.’ Li told Cato what he needed to do. ‘I’ll send a car to pick you up. Is one hour from now okay?’
If they really wanted the authentic English town centre feel, thought Cato, a bit of graffiti and half of last night’s kebab on the footpath would have done the trick. Li’s chauffeur had just taken him on a drive-by tour of Thames Town – an enclave in Songjiang, south-west of Shanghai central. Songjiang, he recalled, was where the Zhous lived before they were brutally evicted from their home. Thames Town was a bizarre, slightly eerie interpretation of what a typical English village might look like. There were mock Tudor facades, red telephone and postboxes, and quaint Pommie names for the streets: ‘Church Lane’ and such – which unsurprisingly led to a cute little village-style church. If he’d known, he could ha
ve worn his London Cool Boy T-shirt. There was even a murky narrow river supposedly representing the Thames itself. It gave off an acrid aroma as if some sewerage had been added for Dickensian authenticity. Maybe the architect was a descendant of Samuel Coleridge, a bit too heavy-handed with the opium pipe, concocting his own little twisted Pommie Xanadu a few generations too late. The place was empty. Not a soul around. No Postman Pat. No twittering birds. Completely weird. But if you needed some peace and quiet away from the madding crowds of Shanghai, this was the spot.
Thomas Li was waiting for him on a park bench overlooking the Chinese Thames. Two ducks, real ones, quacked at his feet while he fed them some broken-up bread. Li looked up and greeted Cato, sweeping his arm to encompass the strange little ghost town. ‘Build it and they will come.’
‘So what happened here?’ said Cato.
Li shrugged. ‘Poor marketing, bad management, cynical speculators – who knows? There are homes here for ten thousand people just sitting empty. You’ll find several thousand developments such as these all over China, some as big as a suburb, others are as big as Shanghai itself, ghost cities stretching from here to Mongolia. Meanwhile people sleep rough on the streets of Shanghai and Beijing. A terrible shame, don’t you think?’
The scale might have been different but Cato could have said the same for Perth, Melbourne, Sydney, Port Hedland and Karratha. There was an oversupply of vacant homes for the haves, and blankets in doorways for the have-nots. It all depended which side of the boom you were on.
‘And you want to go and build more, just over there.’ Cato took a guess and pointed at the building site on the far side of the mock Thames. ‘Where Mr Zhou and his family used to live?’
‘Ah, Mr Zhou. You think I am responsible for his tragedy?’
‘Aren’t you?’
Li shook his head. ‘The local government and their enforcement officers are responsible for rehousing and compensation of existing residents. All I do is buy land from willing city authorities and develop it for the good of all.’
‘The good of all obviously doesn’t include Zhou. It’s a fine legalistic and semantic point you make but it doesn’t absolve you, in my view.’
