“Words are like pearls: rare and precious. You talk too much, boy. Calm down or what may happen in the short term is that my men will... how do you say it... riddle you with bullets.”
Mule’s face turned purple and he started to move, but Mila grabbed his wrist. After all, they were there to reach an agreement.
The old man started to talk again.
“I am not particularly affected by the news that you've taken my nephew. I knew in my heart that that silly boy was never going to get anywhere. He is not aware of his traditions, of his history. Just like you, you don’t know anything about your people and have forgotten everything. This betrayal of your people’s memory is the first sign of your impending defeat.”
Mule puffed out his shoulders. The Chinaman was speaking like a book and he – a die-hard fan of Bonelli’s action comic books and sensational declamations – felt a little lost. He was in a position of power, but the Chinaman didn’t seem to realise it or, worse still, had no intention of acknowledging the fact.
Guo nodded towards his men.
The three henchmen extracted their guns. Semiautomatic Glock .17s loaded with 9mm Parabellum bullets.
“Sir, madam, please tell me your names and then we’ll sit and have a drink. I’ll tell you a story, even if you don’t want to listen. Because, you see, what you will hear is not only the best possible explanation for my behaviour, but also a most effective warning for the future.”
This further taunt from the Chinaman made Mule roll his eyes. He couldn’t cope with it, he was not prepared to cope with a talkative, pompous Asian. He hated people who thought they were God Almighty, and this one could be the honorary president of the Association of Asian Windbags. But, summoning all his patience, he managed to avoid an outburst and spit out the reply Guo was waiting for.
“You can call me Mule, and this is already more than you need to know. I’ll have a Zacapa rum, if you have some.”
“Mila. No drinks for me,” added his companion.
Old Guo called the waiter and ordered the Zacapa rum for Mule and some rice grappa for himself. The three henchmen put their Glocks away, ready to draw them again if either of the guests so much as yawned.
Mila and Mule sat at the two ends of a comfortable couch decorated in blue designs that matched the carpet.
Guo nestled on a plain leather chair and started talking.
“The story I want to tell you is about the country I come from: China. And explains why we see things a certain way. But let’s start from the beginning. I’ll tell you about the origins of the great secret society: the Triad. Its name is inspired by the basic idea of traditional Chinese philosophy: Sky, Earth and Man. History tells us that the last Emperor of the Ming dynasty, Chongzhen, took his own life. He hanged himself to avoid being taken by the Manchurian Qing, barbaric people who in 1644 invaded the Empire and overthrew the most radiant dynasty in China, silencing it. But the Ming were not dead like the invaders from Manchu in the north had thought. And in the late seventeenth century a bloody uprising reddened the Chinese lands once more, thanks to a group of warrior monks, the Shaolin Tigers: a hundred and twenty-eight martial arts masters who led the rebellion against their bitter rivals. The Tigers were based in a monastery built many centuries before in Henan, on the north face of Mount Songshan. But the Qing army was too big and too well organised to be defeated by those heroes. So, still according to legend, in 1736 they razed the monastery and massacred the Shaolin Tigers. But not all of them died. Five survived and fled, settling in different areas of China. From there they started teaching the five Shaolin Wushu animal plays: leopard, tiger, snake, crane and dragon. The first of them, called bao quan, is practiced to develop physical strength. The second, hu quan, makes bones, thighs and waist stronger. A constant training of all the joints makes the body sturdier and sturdier. The third, she quan, is focused on developing vital energy and inner strength, or qi, to give the body the flexibility and rhythmic stamina that characterise snakes. The fourth, he quan, improves harmony, self-control and inner peace, all very important in defeating an enemy. And finally long quan, the dragon, which strengthens the spirit. One who masters those five techniques will be an undefeatable warrior. Now, back to the legend of the birth of the Triad, it is important to remember that those monks, besides the techniques I just described, spread the idea of rebellion against the Qing, and from that the first secret societies – and, later, the Triad – were born.”
“You ever going to get to the punchline, you old bastard?” asked Mule who felt impelled to interrupt that river of words.
Guo smiled.
Mila kept staring at the old man like a child hanging onto every word from her grandfather’s lips while he tells her a story.
“Patience. Keep listening and hear what happened. And learn something, if you can. Amongst all the secret societies that were created in those days one rose above the others in importance: Hong, from the name of the first Ming Emperor – Hong Hui. The society picked as its symbol a triangle, or Triad, representing the elements of Sky, Earth and Man. To quote Laozi, ‘The way generates One, One generates Two, Two generates the Triad, and the Triad generates everything’. Years later, in 1912, Sun Yat-sen’s revolution put an end to the Manchurian government of the Qing. Hong was the main financial supporter of the revolution and finally reached its goal, in remembrance of which every prospective member of the Triad still needs to repeat the motto ‘Destroy the Qing to restore the Ming’.”
“Seems like just a stupid tongue-twister to me,” joked Mule, “and I still don’t understand why you're keeping us here listening to all this bullshit.”
“I see that your manners are not improving, Mr Mule. I doubt that you will learn anything from what I said. Maybe Miss Mila will show better judgement and understand the meaning of this story. Anyway, I'm tired of your rudeness.”
Guo looked at the man standing behind his guests.
The man walked around Mule and hit him on the mouth with the butt of his gun.
“Aargh!” screamed Mule while the Chinaman added a left jab to the face.
Pagnan’s right hand man was struggling to breathe, blood flowing from his nose and lips.
“Give Mr Mule a handkerchief, I don’t want the floor to get stained.”
Mila stared at the old patriarch, eyes full of respect. She started to understand why these people had managed to impose themselves on the social fabric of wherever they settled down: they felt they belonged to a bigger picture, and because of that they had been able to create an efficient and ruthless organisation that could destroy all obstacles. That was exactly what was happening in Veneto. Anyway, she remained silent, waiting for Guo to finish his story, completely ignoring Mule.
“When Communism arrived, Hong, which had meanwhile spawned many more Triads including the American Tong, moved to Hong Kong island.” Guo continued after swallowing a couple of sips of his rice grappa, “From that day onwards it became the real fatherland of Chinese secret societies. Each Triad is a complex structure split into several ranks, from its leader, the Dragon Head or San Fu, to an immense army of foot soldiers. To each rank is assigned a number divisible by three, and each new member needs to prove they know the thirty-six strategies and the thirty-six oaths. In the past an initiation ceremony could take several hours. But nowadays it's reduced to drawing some blood from a finger of the new member and reading the thirty-six oaths and the key motto of the Triad: ‘Destroy the Qing to restore the Ming’. The biggest Triad is 14K, which was born and flourished in Hong Kong along with what used to be its eight sisters. In 1944, in Hong Kong, there were nine main Triads: Wo, Rung, Tung, Chuen, Shing, Fuk Yee Hing, Yee On, 14K and Luen. 14K was the most violent, merciless and terrible, but it was because of this that, despite being persecuted and hunted down, it was the one that grew the most, and now has tens of thousands of members all over the world.”
Guo took one more break. Drank some more rice grappa then fixed his ice-cold stare on Mila and then, for a longe
r time, on Mule.
“See, 14K is the Triad I belong to, and this is why – besides being proud of it and of my brothers – I am not afraid of you. The history of 14K is legendary and it doesn’t matter if a bunch of Veneto farmers start cutting the heads off my men. Of course this doesn’t mean I'm not interested in having my nephew back, as he might be stupid but he's also blood of my blood. Anyway, his ignorance and your bravado won’t be able to put a dent in the great tradition of 14K.”
Mule stared at the old man with eyes full of hate, but after the treatment he'd received earlier he decided to remain quietly sitting on the couch.
Mila spoke.
“Mr Guo,” she said, “we thank you for this valuable lesson. You're right: if we locals were more aware of where we came from, maybe it would be easier for us to band together. To band together to uphold certain values, maybe, or simply against your people.”
Guo nodded with a smile.
“Still, Mule and I are here for a specific reason, besides making you aware of the enormous sadness Mr Rossano Pagnan feels for the death of his two accountants. The reason we're here is to propose a meeting with Mr Pagnan in order to find a satisfactory agreement on the division of territory between your two organisations so you can both go about your activities unhindered.”
“You speak with care and respect for your interlocutor, Mila. I congratulate you,” said Guo.
“I speak the way I speak. Anyway, that doesn’t change anything. We know for certain that you're a White Paper Fan for 14K, which means you're in charge of financial and administrative matters for the Triad. We also know that you're here to develop the network of the Talking Daggers – a gang that's nothing more than your personal plaything, even if it is formally affiliated to 14K. Exploitation of illegal immigrants, money laundering, drug dealing, currency smuggling, counterfeit goods: those are only a few of the activities in your small criminal empire. Don’t think we don’t know.”
“Edzactly!” added Mule.
“And we are perfectly aware of how important your nephew Zhang is to you. And, by the way, you just confirmed it. Your blood relation is as important as your entrepreneurial – so to speak – interests. I'm not a Triad member but I have an idea of how much blood matters in Chinese society. You'll never admit it in front of us, but the truth is you can’t wait to be told how and where to meet Pagnan so you can reach an agreement and get your nephew back.”
“Edzactly,” confirmed Mule, like a broken record.
“I like you, Mila,” said Guo pompously, “and I don’t deny that it would be interesting for me to consider having you as my right-hand person.”
“Aah, eben the old man is droking your ego now, eh Mila?” said Mule.
“Don’t bother, Mr Mule,” continued Guo. “Anyway, Mila, I agree that a meeting would be worth considering. Where do you plan to hold it?”
“In the Badda,” interrupted Mule.
“Where?”
“I think he means the Bassa, the lowland territory in the south of the Province.”
“Yed.”
“The Bassa?”
“Yed, yed!”
“Where exactly? You see, my friends, I know perfectly what the Bassa is. Knowing your territory and everything about it and yourselves, of course, is vital in enabling me to cause you trouble, but I’d need a slightly more precise location.”
“On the road to Badia Polesine,” said Mila. “Leave the A13 at the Rovigo exit, and from there follow the signs to Lendinara. Then follow road number 88 and, when you get to the sign welcoming you to Badia Polesine, take a dirt road on the right, through the fields. Drive on past an old abandoned furnace until you reach the yard of an old farmhouse. There you’ll find Pagnan’s car waiting for you.”
“Fine, Mila.”
“Tomorrow evening, 5 sharp.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good. So will Rossano Pagnan.”
“I hope so. And I also hope that my nephew will be there. Otherwise, please be warned: my response will be quite terrifying.”
“Frankly, Mr Guo, I don’t think you're in the position to threaten Rossano Pagnan. Anyway, please keep in mind that the return of your nephew will require you to give something back to Rossano Pagnan.”
“What do you mean?” asked Guo.
“Your activities. It's not worth discussing now. But let's be clear: Pagnan will not give Zhang back to you without something in exchange. He is expecting a certain reciprocity on your part.”
“Otherwise?”
“Otherwise we all go back to where we came from, no deal,” said Mila.
“So Pagnan will be there in person?”
“Yed, yed, you slant-eyed mudderfucker,” Mule managed to mumble.
“What about my nephew?”
“He'll be there too.”
“So I’m positive that we'll reach an agreement that gives some advantage to both of us. Ah, Mule, I see that you can almost speak normally again, but your manners have not improved.”
“Fuck off.”
“See you tomorrow, Mila. Mule, it has been a pleasure.”
10.
Zou Kai smiled.
Tonk looked at him and started slowly shaking his head.
He was beginning to realise that when Zou Kai had suggested they kill themselves, he'd been serious. Deadly serious. The look in his friend’s eyes confirmed his fears.
The child, standing still in the doorway of his house, had tears in his eyes, tears that contrasted with the grin on his face. The night air was chilling. The garden looked like an icy wonderland, sculpted by the wind. The dogs were waiting, hungry predators desperate for something to eat. White drool dripped from their ravenous mouths.
“Destroy the Qing to restore the Ming,” said Zou Kai. He looked at Tonk one last time. A shadow of fierce resignation crossed his face, a flash of dark lightning that made his intention clearer than a thousand words.
“No!” shouted Tonk. “Zou, don’t do it!”
But his friend had made up his mind. He put the .357 Magnum in his mouth and fired.
A dull roar, muffled by the silencer.
A red explosion that destroyed his head.
The smell of burned meat filling the air.
Tonk managed to turn towards the back seat and throw up his fear and his pain.
He didn’t think Zou Kai was going to go through with it. But, he realised now, it was well and truly over. This last adventure was the final tragedy of their lives.
They had been through a lot together. They grew up in Wenzou, both cared for by their grandparents after their parents left for Italy. They'd lived a very comfortable life for several years thanks to Mum and Dad sending a monthly allowance far in excess of the average salary of a Chinese factory worker. It was a time of happiness, of joy. After leaving school, though, their parents sent for them to come to Italy. The impact of that new country was immense. They'd ended up in Padua, Tonk working in his parents’ minimarket in Corso del Popolo and Zou Kai in the bar across the road. They worked insane shifts, up to sixteen hours per day.
Little by little they grew up to be men and became friends with others in their circle. Finally they ended up in the Talking Daggers. They pledged allegiance, swore a blood oath and became killers together. They obeyed an inflexible, bloodthirsty master who could use them in whatever way he wanted, force them to do anything, no matter how bad.
And now everything was going to end here, in the garden of this blood-filled villa.
No, they didn’t deserve to die like this.
A choked, hysterical scream escaped from his mouth. He started banging his fists on the bulletproof windows of the car. Rage and frustration made him shout meaningless words against the glass, spraying it with his spit.
The dogs howled. Wolves waiting for their pound of flesh. Catching the scent of Zou Kai’s blood, they tried to dig their claws into the door of the Seat Leon.
The child called them back.
“Grau, Teufel, come here,”
he said in a small voice that nonetheless didn’t leave room for a reply. “Come on, Daddy will feed you soon,” he told the two animals who now looked like tame pets under the caress of his tiny hand. As he spoke, the child sat on a white swing on the grass and the Rottweilers crouched at his feet.
Rossano Pagnan saw immediately that there was something wrong.
There was a silver-grey Mercedes B 190 in front of his gate. It shouldn’t have been there.
The Schiavon brothers, his family’s bodyguards, were two lifeless lumps of lead-filled beef lying in the garden, left there to rot under the starry sky.
Pagnan couldn’t understand it. Or maybe he was afraid he understood it only too well.
The front door was wide open, his eight year-old son on the white swing, a tartan rug around his shoulders, Grau and Teufel wagging their tails at his feet. Giacomo should be in bed at this time. Or at least not in the garden, in the freezing cold, wearing a tartan rug. But there he was, petting the dogs with a strange expression on his face, an expression his father had never seen, one that made him look ten years older.
It looked like an anteater had sneezed a noseful of blood in his wife’s Seat Leon. A Chinaman was staring at him from inside, a terrified look in his eyes.
Polenta pulled up in front of the house.
Pagnan jumped out of the car and hurried towards the little fella in his striped shirt and pyjama trousers. A tiny shaman, now running towards him, his arms open, his eyes suddenly full of tears.
“Daddy... Daddy...” he managed to say between the sobs that were shaking his body.
“Don’t be afraid, Giacomo. Daddy's here now, don’t worry.”
“Oh Daddy, Daddy...”
“Giacomo, it’s me, what’s wrong, baby?” While he tried to console his son, Pagnan felt fear filling his mouth. A shovelful of wet earth binding his words together.
The Ballad of Mila Page 9
