“I have never been able to argue with you,” she admitted.
Zai ignored her comment.
“You have been very lucky. You have had many opportunities. You have always had connections. You have had friends who looked out for your safety. But this is a different situation. A wrong move and you could lose your residency permit. You could have a note put in your personal file. You could be sent to the countryside. You could be lost to the world and spend the rest of your days as a peasant. You could die a stooped old woman at the age of fifty—without a husband, without children, without any family at all.”
Zai took a last sip of tea and stood. He put a hand on her shoulder. “As you travel, I hope you will remember this conversation. Good-bye, Hulan.”
11
FEBRUARY 2
Los Angeles
Four days after he arrived in China, David was back at Beijing International Airport. Four days, and David’s senses still had not adjusted to the strangeness that the terminal presented. The lighting remained portentously dim. The rooms—painted a dull green—were characteristically cold, and the smell of wet diapers and noodles filled the air. In the area for outgoing travelers, little kiosks offered magazines, candy, cigarettes, and last-minute curios—stuffed panda bears, cheap jade chopsticks, silk scarves. Everywhere he looked, as it seemed everywhere he’d looked throughout Beijing, he could see soldiers—some on leave, others serving as guards.
Typically, David was not allowed to explore the airport. He waited instead with his delegation in one of the lounges. The group was led by Section Chief Zai, who spoke about the duty of his comrades as they traveled to the United States. “Today we are proud of you, Investigator Sun, for accompanying Inspector Liu Hulan to a faraway land. We are confident that you will find triumph there. Your families anticipate your victorious return.” Then for two hours they waited—Zai and Peter chain-smoking Red Pagoda cigarettes—for the fog to clear.
On the plane, David and Hulan sat together. Peter sat across the aisle. He was exuberant, smiling, chattering happily to his seat companion.
MPS agents never went abroad alone, Hulan explained. They usually traveled in threes and fours. But since she had returned from the United States before, the MPS had assigned only Peter to watch her. So it seemed that once again David and Hulan were to have no privacy.
For the first five hours, as they flew to Tokyo, David and Hulan spoke in hushed voices of casual matters, always aware of Peter just across the aisle. In Tokyo, Peter wanted to go to the duty-free shop and left David and Hulan to watch the coats and carry-on bags. As soon as he disappeared into the crowd, David took Hulan’s hand. They sat with their eyes focused on the door to the duty-free shop.
During the second leg of the flight, David bought Peter a beer. The young investigator picked at his meal, then settled back to watch the first movie. By the time Peter dozed off, Hulan’s head had tipped onto David’s shoulder. He could smell her hair. He could feel the warmth of her arm and thigh radiating through her clothes, then his clothes, onto his skin. He felt the swell and release of her body against his as she breathed. It was exquisite, forbidden, and completely comfortable. He, too, closed his eyes and drifted off. In this way, they crossed the Pacific Ocean and the international date line.
Several hours later, David woke up, sensing that someone was staring at him. He looked across the aisle and met Peter’s grim eyes. David pushed gently with his shoulder and Hulan shifted away from him, her head falling to the other side. Peter nodded expressionlessly, then turned back to the screen at the front of the cabin.
The familiarity of his surroundings began to have an effect on David. Now, flying above the ocean, with the credits for the second American movie rolling, the American flight attendants quietly passing down the aisle inquiring if anyone needed anything, and the fatigued American passengers stretched out or nestled together in their seats, David was suddenly able to see things much more clearly. He knew that finding Hulan again after so many years had impaired his judgment. As a result, he hadn’t paid enough attention. When he’d walked down the streets in Beijing, distracted by the smells and bustle, it was as though he had forgotten how to observe, how to analyze, how to zero in on deceit.
“What are you thinking?” Hulan asked.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“I was.” Her groggy look melted into pleasant surprise. “I think I felt you wake up.” He took her hand again under the blanket. “So what were you thinking?”
“How much I feel like I’ve—we’ve—not been in control of this case.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re assigned to the murder of Billy,” he began. “Two weeks later, I find the body of Henglai. A coincidence, right?”
“Right.”
“But after that everything seems so planned. This guy, Patrick O’Kelly from the State Department, comes to the office and tells me that the Chinese have requested my presence. He gives me a diplomatic invitation signed by Section Chief Zai. But once in China, as you pointed out, there was no official reception, no sense that anyone actually wanted my help.”
“No one wanted my help either,” Hulan reminded him.
“But you can see that our governments are saying one thing, but their intent is very different.”
“I think that’s a stretch.”
“I have more. I didn’t react well to discovering Guang Henglai. Well, who would? But I think that knowledge—like so much other information—was passed on, so that the murderer or murderers knew to go out of their way to create the gruesome spectacle of Cao Hua. Someone somewhere wanted to throw me, and it worked.” He paused, thinking how to broach his next concern. Finally he said, “How do you explain the fact that we were assigned to work together?”
“It was a coincidence. You found Henglai…”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t shake the feeling that our meeting was strategized as meticulously as a move in a chess game. Someone reckoned on my brain being fogged by the sight of you, by your physical proximity, by the feel of your head on my shoulder as you sleep on this plane.”
“I’m sure people know about us. We both work for government entities. It’s their job to know our private lives.”
He watched her face as he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me that Vice Minister Liu was your father?” He was not surprised to see a hooded look come over her features.
“I thought you knew,” she said evenly. “We share the same last name after all.”
“Hulan…”
“I think you’re right about being watched,” she continued, ignoring him. “Of course I told you that”—she lowered her voice—“Peter was watching us. I hope you believe that now. But do you think you were being observed in L.A.?”
David deliberated. He could push her or let her have her way for now. He decided on the latter course.
“I think I’ve been watched since I boarded the helicopter to fly out to the Peony. How? Zhao, one of the immigrants on the ship, implied that the crew knew that the Coast Guard and the FBI were coming. But consider this. It’s not just Peter watching us. The killer knew we were going to visit Cao Hua.”
“Do you think we’ve met the killer during our interviews?”
“Maybe. Or maybe he has an informant.”
“We’ve spoken to a lot of people.” Hulan weighed the possibilities. “It could be anyone from Rumours or the Black Earth Inn.”
“Or Peter.”
Hulan glanced over David’s shoulder to her subordinate. Peter? Could he be that corrupt?
“What was it you said?” David asked. “That there are no secrets in China? All I’m saying is that everyone we talked to seemed to know we were coming. So of course the killer—or killers—would know we’d show up at Cao’s apartment when we did.” He sighed. “All this leads back to the ultimate question: Who? Everywhere we look seems to take us further away from the triads, but I still think that everything that’s happened has been orchestrated by the Rising
Phoenix.”
When Hulan shook her head, David said, “I know you have a lot of resistance to their involvement, but only they would have enough eyes and ears to get so much information and to be in so many places at once.”
“Anyone could pay for those things. All it takes is money.”
“It keeps coming back to that, doesn’t it?”
Hulan nodded. He squeezed her hand and smiled. For the first time in days, David felt he was regaining his equilibrium, and it felt good.
Given the time change, they arrived in Los Angeles on the same morning they had left China. Jack Campbell and Noel Gardner waited for David and the Chinese delegation at the top of the ramp leading from the Customs area to the public terminal. Introductions were made all around, then the FBI agents hustled them through the terminal to the curb, where they piled into a van.
When they left Beijing that morning, the day’s high was expected to be eighteen degrees. Now, as they prepared to live February second over again, the weather promised to be a perfect seventy-five degrees. A mild Santa Ana had blown away the winter storms. The sun shone. The sky was cloudless, the air clear. Technically it was still winter, but this far south spring was in full bloom. Bright shocks of magenta, pink, red, and orange bougainvillea covered trellises on houses and office buildings. The wild purple of morning glory spread across the occasional garage or vacant lot.
As the van sped north on the San Diego Freeway, Peter gawked at the variety and quantity of cars sweeping—without honking or abrupt swerves—along the wide, clean stretch of asphalt. The young investigator pointed out billboards that flanked the freeway. David himself looked at these as though he were seeing them for the first time and was struck by the voluptuousness of the female models, the tanned brawn of the men, the perfect smiles of both sexes.
Jack Campbell seemed in fine spirits, instantly establishing a rapport with Peter. “Well, Investigator Sun, this is what we call a freeway. You know those car chases in the movies? This is where they film them. See those trees over there? Palm trees. You have those in your country?”
Without waiting for an answer, Campbell continued. “The FBI doesn’t often get visits from Chinese law enforcement officers, so, in addition to our work, we’ve planned some activities. Disneyland. Universal Studios. That sort of thing.”
“We don’t think you’ll want to put in a full day today,” added Gardner. “It’s Sunday after all, and you must have jet lag.”
“Right,” Campbell concurred. “I figure—if it’s okay with you, Stark—we’ll go down to your office. Madeleine Prentice and Rob Butler have arranged to be there to meet our Chinese friends. Then we’ll take some time to talk. We have a lot of catching up to do. Hey!” he asked suddenly, looking in the rearview mirror to Peter. “You following me? Federal courthouse. Meet the boss. Talk about the case. Got it? Good! Then tonight Special Agent Gardner and I have made reservations for dinner. Not the kind of place we would usually go, but it will give you a feel for local color. Then we’ll take you back to your hotel. Tomorrow, what do you say we go kick some ass?”
After parking in the underground garage across the street from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, Campbell continued to play the host with enthusiasm. As they rode up the escalator to the plaza, he asked Peter if he’d ever seen an underground garage before (he hadn’t), if he’d ever been on an escalator (he had), if he liked fast food (he enjoyed McDonald’s).
In the elevator, Campbell asked if the Chinese cops had a lot of security in their headquarters, but at this Peter clammed up. He wasn’t supposed to answer questions that might be construed as giving away state secrets to the FBI, which was exactly what Campbell had been trying to ascertain through his good-natured chatter. Instead, Peter spoke softly to Hulan. Campbell gamely asked Hulan what they were talking about. She gave him a cryptic look. “Investigator Sun says you talk a lot for a black ghost.”
As they got off the elevator and David unlocked the security door, he reflected that Campbell’s interrogation technique—be friendly, ask lots of innocuous questions, then slip in a lulu every once in a while—was exactly by the book. Peter, in turn, was doing what David had learned in the last few days the Chinese did best—never answer a direct question unless the answer was meaningless.
Jack led them down the hall to Madeleine’s office. Here again David saw the hallway, the few attorneys getting ready for tomorrow’s court appearances, even Madeleine’s office, through fresh eyes. How different this was from the Ministry of Public Security with its drafty corridors, its usually dark and austere furnishings, and the sense among its denizens that others were watching and listening all the time. What had always seemed to David utilitarian and bland now appeared light and fresh. Open doorways suggested a convivial atmosphere; there were no secrets between these colleagues.
Madeleine and Rob greeted them. Handshakes all around, more platitudes about the two countries working together, then an exchange of gifts. David was surprised at how well prepared Madeleine, Rob, and the Chinese were for this visit. Here were Rob and Madeleine giving Department of Justice T-shirts, Jack and Noel handing out FBI lapel pins and baseball caps, and the Chinese presenting red and gold plaques for all. More handshakes. More nodding. More smiles and pats on the back. Then they were swept away to a conference room.
The FBI agents had done a miraculous job getting things ready. David’s charts balanced on easels. New pieces of chalk lay in the blackboard’s well. Two computer terminals sat at opposite ends of the long table. A tray of sandwiches, soft drinks, and a basket filled with assorted chips occupied the top of a credenza. “I hope you don’t mind, Stark, but I took the liberty of setting things up in here,” Campbell explained sheepishly. “We’ll have more room to spread out and we can eat lunch while we work.”
There was nothing to do but plunge in. For Campbell and Gardner, David gave a brief recap of his trip to China, ending with the visit to Dr. Du. As soon as he finished, Campbell said, “We’ve got every high-tech forensics computer in the world back in Washington. If those kids were killed with Spanish fly, our boys will find it.”
David then moved to the easels. He looked at Hulan and Peter. “We’ve talked to a lot of people, but I’m still convinced this is all going to tie back to the triads. I don’t know how much you know about them—”
“We know a lot,” Hulan immediately interrupted. “The history of the secret societies, as we call them, began two thousand years ago with a group called the Red Eyebrows. In the mid-1300s, the White Lotus helped to position the rulers of the Ming dynasty. But what we consider the first modern triads date to 1644, when the Mongols invaded China, overthrew the Mings, and established the Manchu dynasty.”
“In the south, where I am from, the people did not want to kowtow to the Manchu rulers,” Peter said in his lightly accented English. As he spoke, David understood that both Peter and Hulan would not be passive observers on this trip. They had information and they wanted to share it. “Imperial warriors went to a monastery to kill the last of the monks, who were brave in martial arts and fierce in battle. They were loyal members of what seemed to be the last remaining secret society and were dedicated to overthrowing the corrupt Manchus. After the attack, only five monks were left alive. These men went on to establish the Heaven and Earth Society. Today all triads—hundreds of them around the world—trace their beginnings to those five monks.”
“We know you want to speak to us about the evil ways of the secret societies,” Hulan said, “but I hope you will understand that these groups have been important to the history of China, Hong Kong, even Taiwan.”
“People had a hard time living under the Manchus,” Peter continued. “The people looked to the triads for justice against criminals, to settle disputes, to loan money.”
“And in the United States,” Hulan picked it up again, “if you know your history, the triads—tongs, as they were called here—helped the Chinese immigrants who came to work on your railroad. I’m sure you’ve heard them
called hatchet men, and yes, they used hatchets as weapons when they fought over territory and possessions. But the triads also fed immigrants when they were too poor to buy food. They helped men when they got in trouble with the law. When a sojourner died, they sent his bones home to China for a proper burial.”
But Peter was impatient to tell his part of the story. “Once the Manchus fell, Dr. Sun Yat-sen—you have heard of him?—fled to the United States. He was a member of different secret societies from the time he was a teenager. By the time he returned to China to become the president of the Republic, he was a senior in the Chung Wo Tong Society and the Kwok On Wui Society of Honolulu and Chicago.”
“But we have no affection for the triads,” Hulan clarified. “Sun Yat-sen and his successor, Chiang Kai-shek, allowed the triads to do as they wished. They extorted money from the poor, put women into prostitution, and sold drugs to the people. They were gangsters who did their best to kill Communist leaders. Eventually, as you know, Chiang and his criminal friends fled to Taiwan.”
Though they did indeed know much of this history, the three Americans kept quiet; Campbell and Gardner because they were still sizing up the Chinese, and David because he was intrigued by the mixture of awe and disdain these Chinese agents had for the triads. Did Hulan really consider the Kuomintang and Taiwanese to be criminals, or was she saying that for Peter’s benefit?
But there was something else as well. These people were changing before David’s eyes. Peter was having a good time sharing his expertise, and the reserve that had appeared to shroud Hulan permanently was now falling away from her shoulders and face. She no longer averted her eyes from his in front of others; she no longer held back.
David refocused on Hulan as she said, “Even today the triads pose a threat to China. At the MPS, we have determined that the greatest threats to domestic tranquillity are terrorism, narcotics, corruption, and illegal emigration. The triads are involved in all of these activities. But this is not all.”