Three Gorges Dam

by Thomas V. Harris

  Brannigan straightens his legs and stands up. He’s ready to see Kylie. Then again, he isn’t. She may no longer be the girl he knows and loves.

  A British receptionist is working the front desk. She winces when she sees his misshapen face. Ignoring her reaction, he writes his name on the sign-in sheet. She pulls the form back and barks, “Wrong one.”

  Things went the same way yesterday. He spoke with Bryce Ryan on the phone. It was an unproductive conversation. Ryan didn’t volunteer any information about Kylie’s health. Calling the hospital was more of the same. The director of nursing wouldn’t even confirm she was a patient. Brannigan found out later that Ryan conditioned Kylie’s admission on strict adherence to Australia’s National Privacy Principles.

  “Can I sign the correct one?” he asks.

  “Not yet. Picture ID, please. If you don’t have your passport, I’ll need two pieces of identification. Preferably one from a local bank or agency.”

  Brannigan had expected a high level of scrutiny and brought his passport. He turns to the photo page and lays it on her desk. After she studies his picture, she lifts a document from the drawer and hands it to him. “Make sure I can read your handwriting.”

  He scans the other names but doesn’t recognize them. Some appear multiple times. The abbreviations suggest the signers are doctors. He’s surprised they agreed to comply with such a time-wasting procedure.

  The receptionist grabs the sign-in sheet as soon as Brannigan dots his second “i.”

  “That’s enough. I’ll enter the date and time.”

  She completes the form and calls Kylie’s room.

  “A Mister Brannigan is here to visit your daughter.” She ends the conversation with, “Yes, sir. I’ll inform him you’ll be right down.”

  He doesn’t need her to repeat the rigmarole. He heads to the waiting area before he says something he’ll regret. There aren’t many open seats. He finds one near the front doors, sits down, and opens HK magazine. He has almost finished the first article when he looks up and sees a tall Caucasian heading his way. He has a clear view of the man’s face, bespoke gray suit, and regimental tie. There’s no confusing him with anyone else. It’s Bryce Ryan.

  He and Ryan interacted in Urumqi.

  But they didn’t socialize, and their conversations—they only had a few—were formal and guarded. Until his arrival in Hong Kong, all Brannigan knew about Kylie’s father was the negative history she provided. Yesterday he checked the Internet and made some phone calls. An Australian banker told him the most.

  “Ryan is a blue blood.”

  “Aristocracy?”

  “Nouveau.”

  “How far back?”

  “Two generations. But you would’ve thought it was longer the way the grandfather flaunted his money. He made sure Ryan got a proper education. His parents sent him to Eton when he was in middle school. Then he was off to Brasenose College, Oxford. He graduated with first-class honors.”

  “Impressive,” Brannigan replied.

  “He thinks so.”

  “You don’t like Ryan.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Are you friends?”

  “I didn’t say that either.”

  “What else can you can tell me?”

  “He got a Harvard MBA and worked at Goldman Sachs before returning to Sydney. Ryan reached the top in record time. He’s been the big kahuna at S&R ever since I can remember. Old man Sykes was a figurehead.”

  “I don’t follow financial companies.” Brannigan didn’t mention that he holds all of them in low esteem. “Is Sykes & Ryan active in China?”

  “Ryan leaves the rest of us in the dust. S&R generates tombstones on most of the deals between the Chinese and our large companies.”

  The banker laughed when Brannigan said, “He must be worth a couple bucks.”

  “Ryan took the company public ten years ago. He pocketed three quarters of a billion dollars.”

  “What kind of guy is he?”

  “Smooth as silk. But he rules with an iron fist. Some people call him ruthless. Others have worse things to say.”

  “Good to know. Thanks for taking my call.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking—”

  “I’m meeting with him tomorrow.”

  “If it’s a business deal, hold on to your wallet.” Brannigan was about to hang up when the banker added, “We never had this phone call.”

  “Small shark tank?”

  “Exceedingly.”

  Brannigan realized last night—after too many beers—that he has to know the answer to a critical question, right away, and without asking. Does Bryce know he and Kylie are lovers? If he doesn’t, Brannigan will portray himself as her colleague and nothing more.

  Ryan covered a lot of ground with his long strides.

  Brannigan regrets not getting up sooner. He’s stiff as a board and can’t unkink his back. The father looks fit enough to be a world-class athlete. He’s a photogenic guy, has an engaging smile, and exudes confidence. As for family resemblance, Brannigan doesn’t see much of Kylie in Ryan’s suntanned face. The Aussie offers his hand. They shake before greeting each other.

  “Hello, Bryce.”

  “Good to see you again, Michael. Thanks for flying down.”

  The father’s manners remind Brannigan of something that appeared in his online bio. Ryan is a member of the Bullingdon Club, Oxford’s most prestigious secret society. That persona quickly disappears. He chokes up saying, “I told you this in Urumqi. But I need to repeat it. I’m indebted to you for saving Kylie’s life.”

  “I appreciate the kind words. But you’re the reason she survived.”

  They walk to the elevator without saying anything else. The two tallest passengers in the crowded lift remain speechless. Brannigan doesn’t feel awkward about their silence. Dealing with the Chinese has obviously shaped both of them. When the doors open, Kylie’s father gets out first. He directs Brannigan toward a waiting area. Once they sit down, Ryan’s eyes narrow and his voice loses all its warmth.

  “We need to talk before you see my daughter.”

  CHAPTER 14

  THE DOOR BUCKLED but didn’t come off its hinges.

  The sergeant is ready to ram it again. He gets a running start, lowers his shoulder, and launches himself. A naked girl opens the door from the inside. The undercover op hits nothing but air and lands awkwardly on the floor.

  He bounces right up and clenches his fists. His hands uncurl after he sees the child. He tries to walk around her. But she stands in his way and won’t let him pass. He slides his hands under her arms. She seems to think he’s play-acting when he deposits her on a chair. The girl giggles as he walks by and jumps on his back. “Don’t be angry, baby. I’ll do anything you want.”

  He disentangles himself and marches deeper into the musky chamber. He tells the preteen and two older prostitutes, “Take a hike, ladies. Don’t bother getting dressed.”

  The sergeant closes the door when the hookers leave. He walks toward the ultra-king-size bed at the far end of the room. He stops at the footboard and confronts its unclothed occupant. “Stand up, grease ball.”

  The pimp’s blanket and nightclothes are at the far edge of the mattress. He lays a pillow over his genitals while looking for something more substantial. Mumbling, “What the hell,” he reaches for the decanter on his night table. He twists off the stopper and swigs a mouthful of vodka. His tone is more aggressive after a second belt. “Get the hell out of my bedroom.”

  The sergeant’s baritone deepens to bass. “I’m giving the orders.”

  He underscores his point by throwing an empty liquor bottle at the pimp’s head. It misses high and hits the wall. Shattered glass speckles the pimp’s hair and custom-made sheets. He blusters, “Damn street people,” as he plucks the larger slivers off his chest and head.

  “Sorry about my wardrobe, your majesty.”

  The sergeant is one of General Jiang’s ethnic-Tibetan ops. His grimy
clothes are de rigueur in the capital’s mushrooming slums. The down-and-outers in East Lhasa treat him like one of their own.

  “Don’t get smart with me,” the pimp snorts.

  “That would be a waste of time.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Official business.”

  “For the goddamn Chinese?”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “Show me your ID.”

  “I must’ve forgotten it, meathead.”

  The pimp is chomping on his foul-smelling cigar. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care about, the brownish saliva dribbling down his chin. He talks as if he’s in control.

  “Cut to the chase, tough guy. What do you want?”

  “For openers, slide your limp dick out of bed.”

  “Then what?”

  “Toss the stogie.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  The sergeant whisks his coat behind his back. He holds it there and taps his shoulder holster. “Do you still want identification?”

  “Yeah. Let me see your shield.”

  The sergeant draws his 9mm pistol and rubs the muzzle against the pimp’s lips. “This will have to do. Open up, pervert.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “To save your teeth.”

  The pimp gags. “What are you doing?”

  “Jamming the barrel into your lungs.”

  The front sight is touching his palate. The pimp jerks his head back until the Ruger slides out of his mouth. He ho-hums, “I was getting up anyway,” as he rolls off the mattress and parks his cigar.

  “Why were you still in bed?”

  “It’s a late-night business.”

  “For the ladies—not for your sorry ass.” The sergeant is staring at the pimp’s nightshirt. He waves his gun at the lettering. “Have you been there, scumbag?”

  “Where’s there?”

  The sergeant points his gun at the pimp’s head. “Man, you need to focus.”

  “Why do you have a blue gun?”

  “I asked first.”

  “Have I been to Hooters Bangkok?”

  “Now we’re communicating.”

  “I’ve been there. So what?”

  “Your shirt says, ‘Daddy’s Little Girl.’ What does that mean?”

  “My tweener will show you for twelve hundred yuan.”

  “Put on your clothes, dipshit.”

  The pimp opens his wallet and pulls out a wad of bills.

  “Is this what you want?”

  The sergeant knocks the cash to the floor. “Save it for your VD treatment. I’m not here for a payoff.”

  “That’s a first. A cop who doesn’t want money or a girl.”

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “You no-good son of a bitch.” The pimp punctuates his response with a belch. “That’s why you invaded my bedroom?”

  “It’s important.”

  “Not to me. Get out—”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “My goons will pay you a visit.”

  “That’ll trim your payroll.”

  “What makes you think I know this guy?”

  “Who said it was a guy?”

  “You did.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  They’re less than an arm’s length apart when the sergeant cuts the distance in half. The pimp retreats without looking behind him. His heel lands on a pornographic dish—and the remnants of last night’s momos and chutney—and he falls to the floor. He sees a frilly bra to his right. He swipes it across his foot and cleans off most of the slop.

  “That was quite a performance.”

  The pimp gets up and leans against his dresser.

  “Why are you busting my balls?”

  “Whoever cracks this case gets a promotion.”

  “So you are working for the Chinese.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Why should I help them?”

  “Because of what’ll happen if you don’t.”

  “Can I ask a personal question?”

  The sergeant reholsters his Ruger.

  “This should be entertaining. Go for it.”

  “Why’s a Tibetan boy working for those devils?”

  “Last week another guy asked the same thing. Do you want to know my answer—or his reward for asking?”

  The pimp downshifts his tone. “Neither. Who are you after?”

  “A twenty-something Tibetan.”

  “That isn’t much of a description.”

  “He has a tuft under his lip.”

  “A soul patch.”

  “You know the guy.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  The sergeant crowds the pimp. “Yes you did.”

  “Why are you after him?”

  “He’s making the rounds with a photograph.”

  “What makes you think I saw it?”

  “You’re his target audience.”

  “Let me guess. You want him to share his picture.”

  “He shouldn’t object to that.”

  “It sounds reasonable.”

  “I’m glad you agree.”

  “Refresh me about the photo.”

  “It’s a picture of a young girl.”

  “That’s a relative term.”

  “Careful, dirtbag—or I’ll forget why I’m here.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “The guy’s name and address.”

  “I can’t—” The sergeant kicks the pimp in the groin and hauls him to the stairs. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a soundproof room.”

  “I haven’t broken the law.” The sergeant responds with an over-hand right. It knocks the pimp on his back. He blubbers, “What are the charges?”

  “There aren’t any.”

  “Then release me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You don’t have a warrant.”

  “That’s why I like working for the Chinese. No paperwork.”

  General Jiang has patrolled Old Town. But not recently.

  He went out in street clothes when he first arrived. That gave him a feel for the operation. Since then he rarely leaves the building. He sleeps in a windowless storage room and has the PLA barracks deliver his meals.

  Jiang is seated at his desk, staring at the wall calendar, tormented by his inability to solve the suicide mystery. He circled the date he has to report to the president. It’s a constant reminder that he’s running out of time. This isn’t the way he wanted to begin his new job. He isn’t any closer to identifying the dead girl than when he left Beijing.

  Overconfidence isn’t the reason. He knew this assignment would be difficult. But it’s been tougher than finding an honest man in the Politburo. Field ops are strong-arming pimps, and his IT nerds are bugging thousands of phone calls. Nothing has worked. Jiang hasn’t found a single person who admits knowing the dead girl.

  The general uncrosses his legs, leans back, and stretches the stiffness out of his shoulders. He reflects on his biggest obstacle. Trafficking in children has reached epidemic proportions in the Tibetan capital. During his earlier posting, Jiang found that most uneducated females have only two choices when entering the city. The first is joining a local nunnery. The second is getting swept up in Lhasa’s ever-expanding sex trade. Few girls have the opportunity to enter a convent. The Chinese have placed strict limits on the number of Buddhist nuns, and women seldom leave the convent voluntarily.

  Jiang is virtually certain the girl wasn’t a nun or novitiate. The general hates the word “surmise,” but that’s all he can do. His working assumption is that the teenager was a prostitute. He would have thought that unlikely before his first TAR deployment. Buddhism forbids selling one’s body for carnal pleasure, and the government denies that it happens. His first weekend in Old Town, Jiang learned that was a blatant lie. His men spent most of their free time in the city’s red-light district.

  Last night he read a WHO study
that estimated Lhasa has over a thousand brothels. He thinks the World Health number understates the magnitude of the problem. He has seen sex workers offering their services in beauty salons, foot massage parlors, and hotels throughout Old Town. This morning a hooker was peddling her wares on a rickshaw outside Jokhang Temple.

  The general has gone virtually sleepless since he arrived in Tibet. When he isn’t drinking tea or coffee, he’s downing 5-hour energy drinks. He opens another bottle of extra-strength caffeine and swallows the lemon-lime kicker in one gulp. He tosses the container into the wastebasket and checks his phone for messages. None are related to the dead girl.

  Jiang has been having trouble controlling his emotions. He slams his fist against the desk when he finishes reading another worthless field report. The sudden whump frightens his IT manager. She lets out a high-pitched yelp, lurches backward, and falls off her chair.

  “It’s time to concentrate—while you still can.”

  Norgay converted his half to a full nelson.

  The pimp grunted, “You’re hurting me.”

  “Good. Do you need to see it again?” Norgay had already returned the Drepung monk’s photo to his shirt pocket.

  “It won’t help if I look at it ten times.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I already told you. She isn’t one of mine.” When Norgay pressed harder on his neck, the pimp yelled, “Killing me won’t improve my memory.”

  “Getting close will.”

  “Why do you think I know her?”

  “You specialize in young girls.”

  “I’m not the only one.”

  “The others said I should see you.”

  “They didn’t recognize her?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Maybe she’s not a whore.”

  Norgay had already visited Lhasa’s orphanages. He showed the administrators the photo. They didn’t recognize her and none had missing children. Since then, he limited his search to East Lhasa’s brothels. He had lived on the streets as a teenager and presumed the dead girl was no different than the other runaways pouring into the capital. She had no skills and a single asset. Her working as a prostitute would also explain why she hadn’t contacted her cousin.