That would be the end of their marriage. Elizabeth would never understand it, and she would never forgive him for it. He, of all people, had given Tang the information. But who else should he have turned to for advice? Her? He would have liked to, but she had never wanted to know anything about the business. Michael had been on the verge of destroying a partnership that worked fantastically well. He had not wanted to listen to his father’s advice. And it wasn’t just advice. It was still Richard’s company, after all. So strictly speaking his son had ignored his boss’s orders, had defied the requests, instructions, and orders from Wisconsin every day, negotiating contracts in the family’s name with people Richard didn’t even know. Who should he have placed his trust in and who should he have turned to for advice? He trusted Victor. He was not just a clever and respectable businessman who was good with figures, but he was also quick and decisive when he wanted to get something done. Richard saw in him the same fire that had motivated him before. He confided in Victor as a precautionary measure. He had wanted to protect Michael from a mistake with grave consequences.
Mr. Tang, who murdered my son?
Why did she have to provoke Victor so? There was a murder suspect, more than a suspect, to be precise. Whatever Leibovitz claimed about forced confessions in Chinese jails, Richard Owen simply could not imagine someone going against his better judgment and signing his own death sentence, for that was what Victor had explained it amounted to. A murder confession in China was equivalent to an execution. No judge would ask how the confession had arisen, whether alcohol or drugs had played a role or whether the murderer had been abused as a child or suffered from racism or discrimination or other so-called mitigating circumstances. In our country, Victor had said, a murder is a murder and it is punishable by death, just like in America. The ridiculous investigating by Leibovitz and his friend could not bring their son back to life again anyway. Elizabeth should let the case take its course.
Victor had spoken to him the day before Michael disappeared. They had talked about how to prevent Michael from conducting further negotiations and whether it would make sense to give him a clear warning. Richard had agreed without asking for details of what Tang meant by that. In the end, all this was in Michael’s interests, even though he saw it as the opposite. Tang would never have gone so far as to inflict bodily harm on Michael. That was simply unthinkable. If the murderer had really not been arrested yet and if the story about the alibi was really true then the murder must have been the result of robbery, an accident, or mistaken identity.
XXVII
Ask Mr. Leibovitz if you don’t believe me. He and his friend from the homicide division . . .
Paul had closed his eyes for a minute and hoped he had misheard. How could she have done that? Had he not told her in the hotel in Hong Kong that she would have to be patient that evening, that she must not, under any circumstances, mention the alibi and Zhang, or she would put the lives of his friend and the suspect’s wife in danger? She had looked absently across the lobby when he had said that, but she had been listening to him, and she had promised to say nothing, not just once, but twice. He had trusted her. But she kept talking and talking as though the danger she was placing others in did not interest her in the least.
Is that correct, Mr. Leibovitz? Am I right?
When all eyes were suddenly on him, Paul’s legs buckled a little, as though someone had pushed the backs of his knees. He tightened his leg muscles, tried to stand up straight, and hoped the others had not noticed.
Mr. Leibovitz! For God’s sake, say something. I’m only repeating what you told me yesterday.
Paul had ignored Elizabeth Owen because otherwise he would have shouted at her: Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear a single word more, do you understand? Not a word more, in the name of your son. If you carry on talking like this, an innocent man will be sentenced to death. If you don’t stop talking immediately we will get nothing out of this—nothing at all.
Instead of saying anything he looked past her as if he did not hear what she was saying at all. He could not have helped her, even if he had wanted to. They were not going to find out a thing from Tang that way.
He heard Victor Tang reply in a voice that seemed muffled even though he was standing right next to him. My dear Mrs. Owen . . . how terribly sorry I am . . . the suspect . . . an alibi . . . will all be established by the court . . . the way it is in America. Mr. Leibovitz will surely be able to confirm that, won’t he?
Paul sank his head into his chest and nodded. He did not have the strength to look at the others. He had rarely felt so ashamed in his life. Elizabeth Owen left him no choice. If this evening was to have any purpose at all then he had to let Victor Tang make an accomplice of him; he had to agree with him, whatever he said.
He had watched Elizabeth storm out of the house, followed by her husband and Victor Tang, who had called for his driver.
From one second to another, the room was silent. Paul thought he could hear the quiet sound of a television somewhere, but perhaps he was wrong.
The sudden peace did him good. He watched the two servers, who had observed the quarrel without changing their expressions, and were standing motionless in a corner like mannequins. He signaled to them to bring him another glass of champagne and sat down on one of the couches in front of the fireplace. He had not hesitated to accept Tang’s invitation to stay for dinner without the Owens. Zhang’s warning about a trap crossed his mind, but listening hard to his feelings, he could detect no fear in himself. Victor Tang was an impressive phenomenon, but he did not intimidate him, and the absence of the Owens actually made things easier.
Paul looked around. Next to him were the precious Ming vases and the two servers in their Chinese silk suits. Through the window he could see the yellow Ferrari in the driveway. He thought about the prostitutes in the building Zhang lived in and their two dozen or so pink panties, which they hung out to dry on the roof terrace every day. The shameless flouting of laws in front of the police reminded him of the shamelessness with which Victor Tang was displaying his wealth. If anything disturbed him, it was this lack of shame. He had encountered prostitutes in China before, but they had always conducted their business discreetly. What he found so surprising about where Zhang lived was how openly the law was broken in the face of official propaganda. No one bothered in the slightest to preserve even the appearance of observing the law. He had asked Zhang who the party secretary of his area was and why the police did nothing, but he had only smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He asked himself the same questions now, sitting in this living room. The Ferrari, the Mercedes 500, the gold golf clubs in the hall, this ostentatious neo-Baroque villa, the champagne—they were all carefully chosen symbols, gestures, and markers to make every guest immediately understand Victor Tang’s place in the hierarchy of China today. But their symbolism went far beyond that, for this was all ill-begotten wealth, and every Chinese visitor to this house knew that. Paul too would never have believed that Tang had accumulated his wealth purely through legal means. He knew China too well for that. What kind of society was it where the robbers did not hide their loot but flaunted it with pride?
Paul heard car doors slamming and the crunch of the gravel path as the car rolled over it. But a few minutes passed before Victor Tang came back into the house.
“Excuse me for having left you to wait so long, Mr. Leibovitz. I was trying to calm them both a little.”
“Did you succeed?” Paul asked.
“I’m afraid not. Mrs. Owen was very upset. But that is more than understandable after everything that’s happened.” Tang sat down on the couch opposite and beckoned at a server, who immediately brought him a glass of champagne and who also topped off Paul’s glass. “May I ask if you’re American?”
“Yes. I was born in Germany but grew up in America.”
“Where?”
“New York City.”
“Wo
nderful. Amazing city. I went there often when I was at Harvard. Do you know the Chongqing Grill in Chinatown, by any chance?”
“No.”
“It’s on Mott Street. The corner of Bayard, if I remember correctly.”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“They make the best hot pot outside of Sichuan. Incredible. Or that dim sum restaurant on East Broadway, what was it called?” Tang tapped his fingers on the arm of the couch and stared at the ceiling as though the name of the restaurant would appear there any moment.
Paul had no idea what his host was up to. This man was not one of those people who simply talked away; he weighed up every sentence. An American would have started cross-examining him long ago, would have wanted to know who this friend in the homicide division was and why they presumed to conduct their own investigations. What did Tang want from him? To confuse him? Distract him? Make him nervous? Or was he merely applying some ancient Chinese strategy to avoid confrontation as long as possible and only address the key issue just before the conversation ended, almost as an aside?
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t remember it now. Here’s to you,” Tang said, raising his glass.
“Thank you. And here’s to you.”
They sipped their champagne and were silent for a moment.
“The Owens told me how helpful you were to them in Hong Kong, Mr. Leibovitz. I want to thank you for that. But I know very little about you. I don’t even know what you do in Hong Kong.”
Paul thought for an instant. He had told the Owens almost nothing about himself, so Tang really could hardly know anything about him. “I manage two China investment funds. Hutch & Hutch and Go Global,” he said.
“How interesting. What kinds of investments?”
“Venture capital for Chinese start-ups.”
“In which industries?”
“Various industries. We’re very diversified.”
“Any specialties?”
“Yes, lie detectors.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re financing the development of a completely new type of lie detector, which a Chinese company in Shenyang is working on.” Paul could see clearly from Victor Tang’s otherwise poised expression that he was disconcerted by this. He had often experienced that in conversation with Chinese people. Many of them found it as difficult to guess his age as to understand his sense of humor. They never knew exactly when he was joking and when he was being serious, and Victor Tang also had this problem. He stared at Paul, nodding uncertainly.
“We’ve invested a lot of money in a joint venture, the Truth and Trust World Wide Cooperation, TTWW for short,” Paul continued in a serious tone. He had to muster all his self-control to suppress a smile. He could guess what would happen next. Tang could not admit that he was unnerved. If Paul was having him on, it would be the same as losing face so he would have to find out the truth in the course of the conversation.
“Lie detectors?” Tang asked, as if he had misheard.
“Yes, lie detectors,” Paul said.
“But they already exist. What is new about your machine?”
“A revolutionary technology. We don’t measure the electrical currents in the brain but the heart rate. The heart reacts to a lie much more quickly than the brain.”
“The heart?”
“Yes, you can’t fool the heart. It’s amazing, I wouldn’t have believed it before but our tests prove it. The method is absolutely reliable. The machine will be small and portable, not too expensive and easy to operate. The first domestic lie detector, so to speak.”
“For use at home?” Tang’s voice sounded more and more perplexed.
“Of course not just for the home. It will work on a wireless basis up to a distance of twenty meters. So you can use it in the office or at presentations or press conferences without wiring anyone up to it. We think there’ll be a big market for it. Especially in these times. Don’t you think so?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Which markets do you have in mind?”
“China, Europe, America. Everywhere lies are told.”
Tang said nothing and gave him a considered look. It was not a look intended to intimidate; he had a questioning, searching expression on his face and Paul was surprised to realize that this man was not as unlikeable as he had thought he would be. How would he react now? Admit that he did not know what was going on? Paul was eager to hear his reply.
“Advantage Leibovitz,” Tang finally said. “I like you. I still can’t tell if you’re kidding or not.”
Instead of saying anything right away Paul allowed himself a grin that spread right across his face for a second. “We’re still looking,” he said, again perfectly seriously, “for a suitable name for the product. What do you think about iLie?”
Now Tang laughed out loud. “You’re doing that very well. You’re an incredibly good actor.” He shook his head in disbelief and, after a brief pause, asked, “Are you hungry? Shall we have something to eat?”
“I’d like that.”
Tang got up, still shaking his head in wonder, and led the way into the dining room, a large hall with high ceilings, blank white walls, and a dark wooden floor. An impressive chandelier hung in the center of the room, with white candles burning in it instead of lightbulbs, and there was an oval table below it, made of dark-brown rosewood, long and wide enough to seat a large group of people. Now it was set for only two. Tang and Paul were to sit opposite each other in the middle of the table with more than a dozen dishes, big and small, of cold appetizers in front of them. The two servers stood behind the chairs waiting for Tang and his guest to take their seats.
Paul could not remember if he had ever seen candlelight in a Chinese dining room. They were usually lit with harsh fluorescent light. The flickering candlelight gave this room a festive atmosphere that seemed almost ghostly to Paul because it was so unusual.
“I told my cook to prepare a menu of Sichuan dishes. I hope you won’t find them too spicy?”
“I like spicy food.”
“Then you must try the chicken in chili oil and Sichuan pepper sauce. It’s one of my cook’s specialties.”
Paul picked up a slice of cold chicken with his ivory chopsticks and dipped it in the sauce. Tang had not been exaggerating. The meat was tender and the sauce was wonderful—spicy but not too spicy. He tasted the typically earthy aroma of the Sichuan pepper, which left a slight numbness on the tongue. He tried the cucumber in mustard sauce, the tea-smoked pigeon, and the cold pork with garlic sauce.
“Delicious. Your cook is a genius.”
“Thank you. I ate at his restaurant in Chengdu a year ago and employed him the same evening. Try the bang-bang chicken. It’s unique.”
Paul was familiar with this specialty from Zhang’s kitchen, and he loved the bizarre combination of different tastes: sweet and sour and then spicy and salty in turn and with a nutty undertone too. It was almost as good as his friend’s. Paul nodded approvingly.
“Your idea of the lie detector was not only very amusing,” Tang said. “The longer I think about it, the more interesting I find it. Assuming that this machine was about to be launched on the market, do you think it would have a chance?”
“Why not?”
“Don’t we all like to be lied to now and then?”
“You might, perhaps. Not I,” Paul replied, with his mouth half full, instantly startled by his own reply. He had meant to speak lightly, as if he was making a joke, but his voice sounded entirely humorless and free of irony; he had sounded brusque, almost aggressive. But he did not want to have a confrontation. Not yet.
“Let’s assume you have this machine with you now. What would you ask me?” Tang responded in a friendly manner, as though he had not heard the undertone in Paul’s voice.
Paul thought for a moment. “What did you argue with Michael Owen about before his deat
h?”
“Who told you we had an argument?”
“I found a letter addressed to you on Michael’s computer.”
“We disagreed about the future direction of our company.”
“Why were you so insulting and abusive to him?”
“Was I?”
“Michael set you an ultimatum, asking you to apologize.”
“It’s possible,” Tang replied curtly.
The conversation was getting more serious at every turn.
“What did you know about Michael’s negotiations with Lotus Metal and his talks with Wang Ming?”
Tang replied with a question. “Who are you working for?”
“For no one.”
“Did the Owens employ you?” he asked in a sharper, more demanding tone. Paul could hear that this man was not used to encountering opposition.
“No,” he said, in as relaxed a manner as he could manage.
“Who is paying you?”
“I’m not getting paid.”
“What are you after, then?”
“The truth,” Paul replied, hoping that this did not sound too pathetic.
Victor Tang moved his head from side to side, picked up a slice of chicken, dipped it gently in the chili sauce once, and put it into his mouth. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and lifted his glass. “To the truth,” he said, sounding once again as jovial, almost playful, as he had been at the beginning of their conversation. Paul had never met anyone who could change the atmosphere so quickly and disconcertingly.
“Are you sure that you really want to know the truth?” Tang asked, after he had drunk from his glass.
Paul thought about this. He did not want to let himself be intimidated by Tang, so he took his time before he replied. No cheating, Daddy. Tell the truth. “I think so.”
“You think so?” Tang repeated, looking a little disappointed. “You should be very certain about such an important matter.”
“You’re right. I take that back and give you a clear yes.”