Flower Net

by Lisa See

  “But what if it did?”

  “Then we would have heard about it from Bo Yun or Li Nan, even Nixon Chen.”

  “Okay, all right,” he agreed, “but I still don’t think Billy and Henglai were interested in the girls. Those boys were liars and connivers. They wanted something from those cowboys just like they wanted something from Henglai’s uncle. The connection—and don’t ask me what it is because I don’t know—has to be the product.”

  “If we’re lucky, we’ll find it at the airport tomorrow.” She put a hand on his knee, then slowly let it glide up to his crotch. “Come on, there’s nothing more we can do today. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  It was the most brilliant suggestion he’d ever heard.

  14

  FEBRUARY 4

  Los Angeles International Airport

  The next morning, an hour before the United flight from Beijing via Tokyo was scheduled to arrive, the whole group—minus Noel Gardner, who was orchestrating the surveillance on Zhao—met Melba Mitchell at the U.S. Customs Service desk on the passenger departure floor of the Bradley Terminal at Los Angeles International Airport. Melba, a middle-aged black woman, was a liaison for Customs.

  As the group made their way across the terminal floor, Melba briefed them on the role of Customs in the airport. “We enforce six hundred laws for sixty different agencies. This means we’re looking for everything—gems, narcotics, cash, child pornography, computer chips. I’d say that seventy-five, maybe eighty-five percent of the people who come through are honest. But the rest—either knowingly or unknowingly—are trying to bring in illegal goods.”

  As they rode the elevator to the lower level, David asked, “How do you know what to look for? Do you have a profile of the typical smuggler?”

  Melba opened a door marked SECURITY. “If you mean, do we look at every bag belonging to a person of Mexican descent, the answer is no.” She frowned. “We don’t search people on ethnic, gender, or age grounds.”

  “Then what are you looking for?”

  “Let me show you,” Melba said. By this time they were in the Customs area. The liaison pulled back a couple of ribboned barriers, and the group walked to one of the carousels, where travelers waited for their luggage from a Paris flight. “As I was saying, we don’t have a specific profile for smugglers because we know that they’re trying to blend in. So we look at where travelers originated. Did someone start out in Bogotá and switch planes in Guadalajara? We consider the time of year, especially for narcotics. Obviously, we’re more vigilant during the periods after the harvest seasons for marijuana and opium poppies. We look at trends in other ports around the world. Handbags. Pharmaceuticals. Diamonds. And we’re always looking for products manufactured in embargoed countries. In other words, we’re looking for anything made in Iran, Iraq, or Cuba.”

  “You just do random inspections?”

  Melba Mitchell laughed. “Hardly.” She pointed to a man and woman wearing uniforms and carrying walkie-talkies. “Those two inspectors wait with the passengers. They’re looking for people who look nervous or fidgety, if they’re sweating, if they just got off an Air France flight like this one and have a whole new set of Louis Vuitton luggage, if they’re wearing clothes that are inappropriate.”

  “Like?”

  “Like an overcoat on a flight from Cabo San Lucas.” Melba watched the passengers silently for a moment. “We also look for people who don’t look like international travelers. I’m talking poor people. We often catch folks who earn maybe two hundred dollars a year but have been asked to carry something for seven hundred. But what you see right now is only part of it. We also have agents out there in plainclothes who appear to be waiting for bags. They mingle, look around, and usually find things for us before the passenger even gets up to the inspection area.”

  “Are you getting many Chinese immigrants in here with forged passports?” David asked, changing the subject.

  “Actually that’s an INS function, but we’re all together down here and do a lot of our work jointly.” Melba looked nervously at the Chinese delegation.

  To put Melba at ease, Hulan said, “We know that a lot of Chinese are caught at Kennedy airport in New York.”

  “We made several arrests out here a few years ago. But again, it’s a trend. The immigrants—rather the snake heads who run them—realized it wouldn’t work in Los Angeles. But I will say that we’re preparing for a big rush later this year. You know, people wanting to get out of Hong Kong.”

  Peter looked grim. “How will you catch them?”

  “Immigration has a great computer system,” Melba explained. “They keep track of names, entry, and exit dates, how much money people are traveling with, how long they’ll be here.”

  “We have dates of entry and exit for Guang and Cao,” Hulan said. “Could you do a search checking those dates for other people following the same pattern?”

  “That information would be protected by the Freedom of Information Act,” Melba said.

  “Don’t you work with the Department of Justice and FBI?” David asked.

  “Yes,” the woman from Customs answered. “But…”

  “You’re worried about our visitors,” David acknowledged. “Let me assure you, they are here on business that affects our country and they are here as our guests.”

  When the liaison still seemed reluctant, Jack Campbell said, “I’ll vouch for them, and if you don’t want to take my word for it, I’ve got a couple of names you can call to get clearance.”

  Melba passed on the phone calls and took them over to the immigration area along the back wall. She stopped at one of the booths, where an INS officer was just about to take a break. She explained the situation and they began their search. The officer typed in the dates, then waited for the information to come up on the screen.

  “Look at that!” David put his finger on the screen where the name William Watson appeared sandwiched between Wang and Wong. “Can it be our Billy Watson? Do you have more information?”

  The officer typed in the name and a new screen popped up, showing the data collected on William Watson, twenty-one; born Butte, Montana; permanent address, Beijing, China.

  “How many times did he travel back and forth to China?” Hulan asked, her voice echoing David’s excitement. Together they counted. Billy Watson had made the trans-Pacific journey once a month for eighteen months before his death.

  “Can we go back to the previous screen?”

  The officer hit a couple of keys and the earlier screen appeared. The list contained fourteen names, including those of Watson, Guang, and Cao. Of these, some had made the trip only once, others had made it as many as ten. None of them had stayed in Los Angeles—assuming that was the final destination—for longer than seventy-two hours. None had been detained for further questioning when they passed through Immigration or Customs.

  “Your flight’s arrived,” Melba announced. “The passengers should be down here in about five minutes.”

  “Is there a way you can highlight these names and let the other Immigration people know we’re looking for these individuals?”

  “You bet. I’ll put it through on everyone’s computer right now. As soon as an officer types in the name from the passport, the data will come up.”

  “Do it. And thanks!”

  “Do you want us to make an arrest?” Melba asked.

  David looked at Hulan. “What do you think?”

  “We don’t even know if any of these people will be coming through today. If one or more does, then let’s keep an eye on them. See what they do.”

  Campbell cut in. “And there’s nothing to say that it will be someone from this list. It looks like they—whoever they are—were relying on variety, on new faces.”

  “I’ll alert our plainclothes officers,” Melba said, “but maybe you’ll want to circulate with the passengers as well.”

  Their five minutes were up, and the first-and business-class passengers were already scrambling to be fir
st in line for passport control. David, Hulan, Campbell, and Peter drifted apart and into the center of the room. Peter, trying to look inconspicuous, wandered off to see what carousel the Beijing baggage would come in on.

  Gradually the travelers passed through the passport line and into the baggage area. The first-class passengers looked remarkably refreshed after their full night’s sleep. The rest looked as if they hadn’t slept in a year. Melba came by once, whispering that Hu Qichen, one of the people who had appeared three times on the list, had indeed arrived. She discreetly pointed him out to David, then went to notify the others. David kept a safe distance from the man. Hu Qichen wore a gray polyester suit and a navy knit vest. His face was full and his hair was a thick black mop. Like many of the other travelers, Hu Qichen was loaded down with a carry-on bag, a coat, and a plastic shopping bag filled with gifts.

  David surveyed the crowd, looking for Hulan. He spotted her on the other side of the carousel standing next to a Chinese man who had two plastic bags wedged between his feet. Hulan walked by the man, circled back to him, leaned in and said something.

  Then everything seemed to happen at once. The Chinese man quickly looked from side to side. When he saw one of the uniformed officers take a few steps toward him, he suddenly bolted, almost tripping over his bags, and shoved through the other passengers. “Stop him!” Hulan called out. Some of the passengers ducked instinctively, others pushed out of the way. David saw two officers grab Hu Qichen. As the other man ran back toward the passport-control area, David took off after him.

  The Chinese man knocked over a woman in a yellow pantsuit standing at one of the Immigration booths. David leaped over her sprawled body and shouted, “Get help, for Christ’s sake!” But everyone seemed too dazed to move. The fugitive ran down a corridor and up a flight of stairs. Just as David seemed to be closing in on the man, he pushed through a set of double doors and disappeared from view. David pushed through after him and suddenly found himself on the tarmac beneath the belly of a 747. The engine noise was deafening.

  He stopped for a moment to get his bearings, desperately looking for the runaway or security guards. David saw a fuel truck pulling away and several baggage handlers throwing luggage onto a conveyor belt leading into the giant plane. With his hands clapped over his ears, he took a few tentative steps forward. One of the handlers saw him and started shouting, but David couldn’t hear a word. He jogged to just past the plane where he could see several gates at once. The Chinese man was running down the pavement between two of the terminal’s wings. David broke into a run. Finally he was just able to reach the man’s shoulder, and as he did so, they both lost their balance. They tumbled to the tarmac. For a moment they both lay still, panting, trying to catch their breath. Then the man began struggling. David had never hit another person and didn’t want to start now, so he tried to pin the man’s arms down.

  David heard a voice say, “Hold it right there!” Then another yelled in Mandarin. The man beneath David went limp. David slowly released his grip, edged back, and stood on unsteady legs.

  “Not bad, Stark,” Campbell said. The FBI agent had his gun aimed at the Chinese passenger, as did three uniformed men. “Inspector Liu,” Campbell said, “can you please tell this fellow to stand up real slow, put his hands on his head, and not try any more funny stuff?”

  Hulan barked out these commands. As soon as the man stood, one of the other officers grabbed his hands and handcuffed him.

  The two Chinese passengers were put in separate holding rooms. Inspectors were brought out to find their bags and carry-ons and bring them to their owners. Melba bustled about with computer printouts of the information that both men had given as they passed through Immigration. Both said they lived in Beijing. Hu Qichen reported that he had $2,000 in his possession, while Wang Yujen, the man who had attempted the foolhardy escape, carried just $50. Both said they were in Los Angeles for pleasure and would return to their native country in three days. Both said they would be staying with relatives and not in a hotel.

  In one room, Jack Campbell, Peter, and a couple of other officials did their best to question Hu Qichen. His responses were circumspect. He was in town for a family visit. (But he wouldn’t give an address or a name to go with that family.) He had brought in a few gifts, all under the acceptable allowance. (But he wouldn’t say who they were for.) When asked about his frequent short trips to Los Angeles, he jutted his chin noncommittally. (So that’s how the Chinese shrug, Campbell thought.)

  What Hu Qichen lacked in answers he more than made up for in arrogance. “Go ahead,” he said. “Search my bags. You will find nothing. But if you detain me, I promise I will make a full complaint to our embassy.” Two Customs agents did search his bags and found only clothes, a few tourist curios, a rice cooker, and a tea thermos. This activity prompted more vociferous complaints from Hu Qichen. Investigator Sun shut him up with a powerful punch to the jaw, which caused all manner of consternation among the American law enforcement officials.

  In the other room, a first-aid kit had been brought in. David’s hands had been scraped on the asphalt and Hulan dabbed at the raw spots with Mercurochrome. She then bandaged the knees and elbows of Wang Yujen, who seemed dazed and disoriented.

  “Maybe he’s in shock,” David said.

  “I don’t care what he is,” Hulan said unsympathetically. “He needs to answer some questions.” She turned her attention back to the man and spoke to him in Mandarin. She was breaking every personal code she valued, but like David in China, she felt off kilter, not herself. “Who do you work for?” she demanded. “Do you know Guang Henglai? Do you know Billy Watson? Are you a member of the Rising Phoenix? How were you going to stay in Los Angeles for three days with only fifty dollars? Who were you going to meet? If you really have family here, as you reported to the inspector, who are they? Where do they live?” When Wang Yujen didn’t respond, Hulan shouted at him, “Answer my questions!”

  Wang Yujen shivered uncontrollably.

  “Hulan, I can’t let you do this,” David said.

  “Then step out of the room!”

  “You know I can’t and won’t do that.”

  Jack Campbell poked his head in the door. “Is everything all right in here?” Hulan glared at him, but Campbell went on. “We’ve gotten all we can from next door. Can we come in and search Wang’s bags?”

  Campbell and the other inspectors entered the room. They opened the suitcase and found a couple of folded white shirts, an extra suit, some underwear, and toiletries. Then the inspectors started on the plastic shopping bags that Wang had abandoned when he ran away. They found a bottle of whiskey and a carton of Marlboros bought in the duty-free shop in Tokyo, half a dozen sandalwood fans, a rice steamer, and a thermos. At these last two, Campbell said, “Wait a minute. The other guy also had these.”

  “We get those all the time through here,” Melba said. “They like to bring them as gifts to their families here in the U.S.”

  “This man has no family here,” Hulan said.

  Melba glanced at her computer printout. “He says he does.”

  “He lied.”

  “Look, ladies, let’s not argue. Let’s think instead about these two items.” Campbell picked up the box that held the rice steamer, weighing it in his hands, giving it a gentle shake. He pulled the appliance out of the box. It looked like any other rice steamer—a metal cylinder inside, a clear lid, a plastic exterior decorated in a floral motif. “I don’t see anything strange about this. Let’s see that thermos.” It looked normal as well.

  As Campbell did the inspection, David watched Wang Yujen. The man’s shaking increased and beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. When Campbell shook the steamer, a low whimper escaped from Wang.

  Keeping his eyes on the Chinese man, David reached over and picked up the steamer again. He lifted the lid, pulled out the plug, shook the steamer. He looked closely at how it was put together, then asked, “Does anyone have a Phillips head screwdriver?” A couple of minu
tes later, David unscrewed the appliance. The inner cylinder came loose, and David lifted it out. Taped to the sides in the empty space between the outer shell and the cylinder were small glass vials.

  “What the fuck?” Campbell said.

  As David peeled off the tape, Campbell picked up the thermos and worked at it until it too came apart. At the bottom of the thermos’s cavity was a Baggie filled with a brown crystalline powder.

  “Does anyone know what we’re looking at here?”

  Peter picked up a vial. It looked like an amber-colored test tube topped with a cork stopper covered in red wax. Inside appeared to be more of the brown powder. A narrow sticker of gold and red was glued to the glass. The design showed a panda and several Chinese characters. “Xiong dan,” Peter said, and Hulan nodded.

  Melba Mitchell said, “We know what it is. We just haven’t seen it brought in this way before. We’ve seen this stuff brought in coated in chocolate, floating in jars of honey, hidden in boxes of cookies, but this is a new one.” When she saw the Americans’ looks of incomprehension, she said, “It’s dried bear bile.”

  David glanced over at Campbell. The FBI agent looked as confused as David felt. Melba repeated the words, then Campbell asked her to spell them out. “That’s what I thought you said.”

  “So what’s bear bile?” David asked.

  Melba gestured with her head at the Chinese. “They use it as medicine. You know, Chinese herbal medicine?”

  “Like ginseng?”

  “Ginseng is common, but they also use all sorts of exotic ingredients like Siberian tiger penis, rhinoceros horn, and bear bile.”

  “So?”

  “So, it’s illegal to import or export that stuff in any form—pills, powders, shampoos, teas, creams, plasters, tonics, whole organs. These animals are endangered species and are protected by international treaty—the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species of Wild Fauna and Flora, or CITES for short. And I have to tell you something: This bear bile you’re looking at has a street value higher than heroin.”