The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  “And when we find him?”

  “Detain him. I want to interrogate him personally.”

  His eyes shifted up to the giant portrait of Mao over the front gate of the Forbidden City. What an imposing figure. Mao was everything Liang aspired to be—poet, statesman, military leader.

  “And the good news?” he said into the phone.

  “It’s the old scientist. We’ve had excellent results. He decided to forgo any further water treatment and agreed to recant all his previous views.”

  “Really? I thought the old fool was more stubborn than that. What was his statement?”

  “One moment. I have it written down. Recent discoveries of the fossil record prove to this scientist that early Homo sapiens co-evolved with the jelly fishes of North America as depicted in the biblical story of the Garden of Eden.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “No. But I’m not a scientist.”

  “Idiot! He’s playing with you. Resume the water treatment at once and call me when you get real results. I need something I can issue to the news agency. Only then can you set him free.”

  If there was one thing that the new China didn’t need, it was the incompetence of the older generation.

  “And as for Bradley West, I need him found and in my control by next week.”

  “Understood, comrade.”

  Liang slung the phone across the seat. The morning had started out so well with Qian accepting his plan to send the Central Committee on the cruise. Now he had Bradley West on his hands.

  He’d have to postpone his trip to the dam.

  “Take me to the Ministry of National Defense immediately.” He would have to go out of his way to personally oversee border control and step up vigilance for that pesky Bradley West.

  Brad envisioned Mongkok as a warren of alleyways inhabited by washerwomen and triad members. He was pleasantly surprised.

  In fact, all his entire Hong Kong experience that morning had been one big eye-opener. Immigration had been fast and efficient, no frisking or interrogation or armed guards like some barbaric backwater country. Hong Kong might be a part of China, but clearly it was autonomous and living it its own bubble. From the high-ceilinged, high-tech airport to the high-speed light rail train that skipped over islands to Kowloon, he was dazzled by the modernity.

  Okay, the heavy industry and shipping cranes along the coast wouldn’t make the perfect vacation postcard, but Hong Kong only had so much land to work with. The solution to such a scarcity of land seemed to be needle-shaped residential and office towers, narrow one-way roads with double-decker buses, and an efficient subway system that bypassed the cramped and crowded streets.

  He hefted his backpack and got off the subway at the Prince Edward MTR station. His padded legs swished with every step as he climbed up the stairs.

  He had to act natural and exude authority. Walk this way, he imagined himself saying to a group of tourists.

  If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t need talcum powder, he heard Skeeter reply, à la Groucho Marx.

  Was he pathetic? Five minutes in the country, and he was already fondly remembering his old buddy like a homesick puppy.

  The streets of Mongkok were clean, the automobiles fashionable and new. He wasn’t going to find the seedy enterprises that he had expected, shady underworld figures desperate for money and willing to sell him transit papers at any price.

  Instead, he found a thriving street market already in full swing. Metal poles and canvas sheets divided off temporary stalls that bulged with racks of western clothes. The slim women with their crossed arms and furrowed brows were there to sell him T-shirts, Mickey Mouse alarm clocks and house slippers, not illegal paperwork.

  Could he buy the goods with American greenbacks, or did he have to convert to the local cash?

  If it weren’t for his intense pursuit of the transit papers, he might have actually enjoyed perusing the goods and studying the women in their bellbottom jeans and platform shoes.

  In fact, gaping at all the young women made him yearn even more for May. He could still feel her soft hands against his bruised cheeks, her lips crushed against his, her legs locked around his wounded knee.

  Her face had looked prettier than the thousands of Chinese in that busy market. To be sure, they were interesting, but only in the sense that they might be her sister or mother. They lacked those essential traits that defined May, that made her stand out from the 1.3 billion other Chinese.

  He set his backpack on the sidewalk and clumsily plopped down on the curb. His legs stuck out straight like a little boy in an overstuffed snowsuit. He wasn’t getting anywhere. Maybe he should contact the U.S. Consulate and ask them how to get into China. He could even drop Igor Sullivan’s name—well, his surname, anyway—as he sure seemed to have some heavy connections. Naw, on second thought after the colonel’s murder, it might be better to keep a low profile. Best to stay away from all authorities, even American.

  He saw two polished shoes come to a stop in front of him. He looked up to find an urbane, bearded Indian gentleman wearing a business suit and a scarlet turban.

  “You are a lucky man,” the Indian said.

  “How so?”

  The man handed him his business card. “I can tell from the shape of your forehead and the curve of your ears that you are destined for greatness.”

  Brad glanced at Swami Daleep’s card advertising his fortunetelling services. “I appreciate the thought, but you’ve got the wrong guy.”

  The good swami was not so easily dismissed. “Can I interest you in a good Indian restaurant near Tsim Sha Tsui?”

  “What a coincidence,” Brad blurted out. “That’s why I came all the way to China. For a hearty plate of chicken curry.”

  “Ah, sir has a good sense of humor. Perhaps he could use some fine clothes—very cheap—as my brother is a tailor on Lockhart Road in Wanshai.”

  What the hey. Brad had nothing to lose by asking the guy, “Do you have a second cousin who sells student visa transit papers to Beijing?”

  The man squatted beside him, too fastidious to soil the seat of his pants on the gutter. “As a matter of fact, I know of a certain printing press.”

  Brad looked over at him. Maybe this was what he needed after all. Maybe he was a lucky man.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Only blocks away. Follow me.”

  What was he getting himself into?

  Swami Daleep rose and led him past a row of shops with aquariums stocked with tropical fish. Brad stepped over the wet spots in the sidewalk and pumped his bulging legs to keep up with the Indian, who deftly wove around stalls and through throngs of shoppers.

  Then they ducked into one of the many clothing stores. The racks were full of men’s suits. A South Asian salesman smiled at Daleep as they entered, but said nothing.

  Down half a flight of stairs in the rear, Brad entered a hot and noisy little room permeated with the smells of curry and wet ink. An old Indian gentleman with thick glasses and no teeth worked behind an offset press that was churning out four-color flyers. Unable to hold a conversation in the noise, Brad picked up a sample of the man’s workmanship. The flyer advertised a sale on cashmere at a local shop.

  When the run of several hundred sheets was finished, Daleep could speak to the man.

  “This fine gentleman would like papers to enter China.”

  “Hello, and what is your good name?” the old man asked. He extended ink-stained fingers toward Brad.

  “I’d rather ask what this will cost me,” Brad said, but took the hand. The printer’s grip was remarkably strong.

  “Only one thing, young man,” he said through his gums. “Do you have an American passport?”

  Brad hesitated, and Daleep seized the opportunity to make a graceful exit. He patted Brad on the shoulder and bowed to the man on his way out.

  Brad stared at the old guy. “Why do you want my passport? It already has a student visa in it for travel to China. All I need is
documentation, like a letter sponsoring me to a school in Beijing.”

  The man shook his balding head sadly. “We are not doing that, but we can provide Hong Kong residence cards.”

  “I see. You want to make me a Hong Kong resident.”

  “You have hit the head of the nail, my fine young friend. And in the residence card, I can provide a business visa for China.”

  Brad had to think the proposal over. In such a teeming city, how was he ever going to locate someone who could create the exact thing he needed? He might have to take what he could get and go about his business finding May.

  “So you want my passport as payment?”

  “That would be correct, sahib.”

  What would it take to replace his passport? A mere sixty-dollar fee? He could pick one up the next time he walked by an American embassy.

  He plucked the passport out of his shirt pocket.

  This was all infinitely easier than he had expected. It almost felt like a legitimate business transaction.

  He would do well in a place like Hong Kong. Maybe he and May could return to live there. He might need that residence card after all.

  “So congratulations. You are a Hong Kong resident now,” the old man said. He took the passport and set it on his tiny desk. “I will have your card prepared by tomorrow only.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  And they shook hands.

  Chapter 15

  The next morning with his residence card and business visa in hand, Brad was on his way back to Hong Kong’s new airport.

  In a way, he felt naked without his Yankee passport. He relaxed his grip on the residence card in order to take another peek at it. There he was, toothy grin and all. According to the document, he was a permanent resident of Hong Kong. Should he go so far as to assume a British accent?

  Wait a minute. The picture was correct, but the name was wrong. The card had him as “Llewellyn Vandermeulen.” Was this some sort of joke? And wasn’t that a woman’s name?

  And jeez, was he going to have to learn how to spell his name?

  He stepped into the airy departure hall. It was hard to imagine that the former British colony was officially part of Red China. Checking in for a flight seemed as simple as taking a hop from Denver to Chicago.

  Or was it?

  Surely there would be some kind of additional immigration check leaving Hong Kong. And there was.

  In fact, there were two kinds of lines at the immigration windows. One for foreign visitors and the other for Chinese, Macau and Hong Kong residents. That was him. A true blue Hong Konger as of that morning.

  He waited for several Chinese to be cleared in front of him. From the worn appearance of their shoes and misspelled brand name jackets, he figured that they had to be from the Mainland.

  If Hong Kong authorities had any formal connection with the Chinese over visas, they were probably less interested in who left their island than who entered China. Would his business visa work?

  “Ticket, please,” the immigration officer said.

  Brad flipped his ticket and boarding pass for the flight to Beijing onto the high countertop and adjusted his nylons before catching himself.

  The blue-uniformed immigration officer was a substantial-looking woman mid-way through her career, or possibly moonlighting at the airport during off hours at her vegetable stand, for all he knew.

  She signaled another female officer to come over to her booth. Then the two conferred briefly in Cantonese.

  “Step this way, please,” the cohort said.

  If he could step that way, Brad thought, and hesitated. Should he cross the yellow line with his hidden cash and false ID? If so, was he breaking some sort of federal law? Did they perform capital punishment in Hong Kong?

  The second immigration officer smiled at him in a maternal way. It was too late to turn back. He followed her to an interrogation room.

  Once inside, a man with four broad stripes on his shoulder boards asked him to take a seat. His lean Chinese face looked stern, but Brad refused to be intimidated. After all, didn’t the Chinese army wear green uniforms, not the blue he saw before him?

  He set his backpack to one side and tried to sit down as nonchalantly as possible. But the cash in his stockings made a vague, fart-like sound as he bent down.

  “Exsqueeze me. Airport food,” he said. He smiled coyly and took the opportunity to repeat his story to himself. He lived in Hong Kong and was traveling to visit a business partner in Beijing. The female officer remained at the back of the room and closed the door.

  “Are you here to visit Liang?” the man asked almost immediately.

  Jeez! How did they identify him? Somebody must have alerted the Hong Kong authorities that he was on his way. Maybe the same person who got him his Chinese visa. Sullivan? There was something markedly phony about that NTSB affiliation. Then a darker thought entered his mind. Maybe the Chinese Consulate in San Francisco had tipped Liang off. Well, if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life wasting away in a Chinese prison, he’d better act stupid to throw them off.

  It takes a wise man to play the fool.

  “Shut up!” Brad said over his left shoulder.

  “Excuse, please?” the officer said. He checked behind Brad to see whom he thought he was talking to.

  Oh no. He was already in enough trouble.

  “Sorry, low blood sugar,” Brad offered meekly. “You said a ‘Lang?’ No, doesn’t ring a bell, old chap. Unless, of course, you mean Jessica Lange? I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating fish and chips, if you catch my drift, mate, grrrrr,” he growled licentiously.

  The interrogator gave him an inscrutable smile. “No matter. This is a false document,” he said snapping the residence card down on his desk. “Not even well-reproduced.”

  Hey, that had cost him his sixty-dollar passport!

  “Gee, there must be some sort of mistake. I’m Sir Lou Ellyn of Vandermulan, no relation to the animated character.”

  The man’s smile disappeared, but he said nothing.

  “I’ll just be on my way then?” Brad asked hopefully.

  “Of course, we certainly have every wish to grant you entry into China.”

  Brad was puzzled for a moment.

  “Especially such an intelligent and enterprising young Westerner as yourself…”

  Oh, he got it. It was grease the palms time. At least he hoped so, otherwise they were setting him up for bribing an official.

  “I think I have something to help clarify the situation,” he said. He reached casually into the back of his pants, where a wad of bills had uncomfortably lodged itself between his buttocks.

  Unfortunately, it was exceedingly difficult to jam his hand between his belt and the skin-tight nylons. So he stooped forward over the desk and worked diligently for a full minute keeping an inane but happy grin on his face while looking straight at the man. Finally he managed to peel a few fifty-dollar bills off his sweaty derriere and waved the damp notes proudly under the official’s nose. “Know where I could exchange these for some local currency?”

  An embarrassed expression came over the man’s face. “Perhaps I am not communicating very well.” He smiled at the money and refused to take it. “My superiors wish you well in China and hope to expedite your trip in any way.”

  Brad looked back at the other officer in the interrogation room. Then why did they have him cornered like a criminal, when they actually meant to roll out the red carpet? And who exactly did the guy mean when he said superiors?

  He casually shoved the bills down the crotch of his jeans.

  The man handed him his residence card. “We wish you a pleasant trip.”

  Brad scrutinized the small booklet. “Thank you. You’ve been so very kind.” Then, leaning intimately across the table toward the guy, he whispered, “But tell me, in all honesty, will they nick me in China?”

  “You should have no problems.”

  Brad carefully slid the residence card into his wallet
and stepped out of the room.

  “Have a pleasant trip, Mr. Vandermeulen,” the man said, the professional smile having returned to his face.

  “Yes, quite right. It has truly been a most delightfully inexpensive chat.”

  He wandered the long hallways to his gate and couldn’t help wondering if he was just lucky, an idiot, or all of the above.

  Now he could use someone to talk to, even that deranged part of his brain generating that voice. Boy, was that twisted.

  But all he heard was the incomprehensible chatter of a dozen Chinese conversations interspersed with terminal announcements to some of the most exotic-sounding destinations in the world.

  An hour later, Brad was up in the air once more, this time on a direct flight from Hong Kong to Beijing.

  His in-flight magazine lay spread open on his lap. Clearly Chinese authorities were less taken with the eminent Professor Richter than the rest of the world. A photo showed the professor in a particularly unattractive pose. The headline said in bold print “American Hegemony Spreads to Science.” Brad couldn’t agree more.

  Maybe he should appeal for political asylum in Beijing.

  He mused over the countryside, which was mostly obscured by brown haze, and wondered where May was. So what if there were only a billion or so people in the land below him? If he tried hard enough, he could find a needle in a haystack.

  But how does one probe around Chinese military bases? It might be safer to track her down through her father. In his letter, Dr. Yu had implied that he was working on a dig at a location with a peculiar form of limestone on a tributary. If he could only find the tributary in question, he was sure he could spot the aberrant rock formations.

  Looking back on the interrogation room incident, he also couldn’t help but wonder if an unwritten contract had already been signed, sealed, and was being delivered in the form of his very person.