by Fritz Galt
He tottered on his rigid legs while the men talked it over through filtered air vents. The wind pelted and buffeted him, but the gun remained firmly pressed against his head.
How could he be so stupid? He had walked right into May-lin’s trap.
Reluctantly, the men turned around and passed through the tennis court gate. There they stopped to look at the crumbled hotel. They’d have to search through it for the geologist and engineer.
When the thugs finally staggered out of view, the pistol’s business end dropped.
Alec spun around and faced his captor. “What the hell’s going on here? Are you rescuing me or kidnapping me?”
“A little of both,” she said, without elaborating. She tucked the pistol into the back pocket of her pink shorts. “They will be angry when they find us gone.”
“Okay. So where are we going?”
She squinted at several palm trees in the distance. Wind bowed them all the way to the black volcanic soil. “We will go to the town. To the underground.”
She grabbed him and pushed him out the gate.
“Come on. Ivan is angry.”
Harvey Talbot rode up an elevator to the 45th floor of the Hong Kong-Shanghai Bank. He looked out-of-place in his bulky, brown suit jacket and tan slacks. But he didn’t care.
He was there to see a friend.
He was adjusting his comb-over hair when the elevator let him out, directly in front of the bank’s head office.
He stepped up to the receptionist and asked to see Mr. Tsai, vice president of the bank.
The young Asian woman looked him over carefully, then asked him to take a seat.
Slightly overweight, Harvey happily sat down and took a load off his feet.
He took the opportunity to look down at the busy junction of Queen’s Road Central and Des Voeux Road, a short but hot walk from the American consulate.
Then he grabbed a local newspaper and glanced at the headline. He compared that headline with the headlines of other Hong Kong rags. They all covered preparations for Hong Kong’s impending reunification with China. Media types were being shot, land speculators were found hoarding vacant apartments in an otherwise overcrowded city, and public schools were closing in droves.
Harvey was fluent in Mandarin Chinese having served a two-year tour in Beijing and a two-year stint in Shanghai. Since Cantonese characters were consistent with Mandarin Chinese, he had no trouble reading the newspapers. The difficult leap from Mandarin to Cantonese was in speaking and understanding the language. It had seven vocal tones, whereas Mandarin had only four. But he was making progress.
The Chinese orientation of the Hong Kong bank was a natural starting point to head off Taiwan’s illegal stock transaction. Furthermore, the bank’s other arm was in Shanghai, where Eli had said the transaction would take place.
Bank Vice President Tsai strode into the waiting room with quick, efficient motions and greeted Harvey with a warm, Western handshake.
“You want to talk business or pleasure?” Tsai asked, taking in his business casual attire.
As a commercial officer in Shanghai, Harvey had become endeared to the Shanghainese, their dialect and their brusque but astute business culture. He had also met and befriended Mr. Tsai there.
That was seven years ago when they were carefree young bachelors. They had shared many a fish and vegetable dish soaked in rapeseed oil. Now they occasionally enjoyed the same meals in Hong Kong with their young families.
“I’m afraid it’s business today.”
“Then we’ll talk in my office.”
It was an office with a view. Windows faced out to Victoria Harbour, with Kowloon and China beyond.
Tsai took a seat at his desk and Harvey found a comfortable chair facing him.
Tsai seemed ready to listen to all he had to say, but Harvey wouldn’t paint the full picture. Instead, he described how he was trying to impede a foreigner from buying Shanghai Class A stocks through a Hong Kong broker, and the Chinese government’s plan to prop up the market in order for the foreigner to make a killing. He didn’t want to let on that members of Taiwan’s military were opening themselves up for blackmail.
Tsai seemed unprepared for such an unusual request.
“Harvey, as you know, no foreigners can own Class A stocks in Shanghai. If, however, foreign capital did enter the market, or the mere rumor of foreign investment began to circulate, stock values would skyrocket. The Beijing government wouldn’t need to elevate prices.”
“Assume,” Harvey said, “that since this party wishes to remain anonymous, they’d have to count on the government’s collusion to make the killing.”
“The broker would have to hide the source of the funds quite well to fool the Shanghai Securities Exchange. The stock market is a small bourse operating out of the Astor House Hotel ballroom, for heaven’s sake, and everyone knows exactly who has bought and sold what. Whenever a large transaction is recorded, the exchange commission makes immediate inquiries.”
“Can they reject a transaction?”
“It’s never happened before. I suppose, if one broker defaults on his payment… Remember that the market is more than five years old. They’ve seen every trick ever pulled, and the commission has yet to intercede.”
“All right. I’m going to have to be more specific here,” Harvey said. “We believe Mr. Johnny Ouyang’s company will be selling New Taiwan dollars and buying renminbi. The money will go to purchase the Class A stocks. Is there anywhere in this process that we can stop the transaction?”
He watched Tsai’s reaction to the name Ouyang. Who didn’t know of the flamboyant wheeler-dealer who spent money freely on Chinese soil? The tiny man had already poisoned the Chinese market for Western investors by never hesitating to offer a bribe. It came as no surprise when the Chinese had placed Ouyang at the top of their list of potential new executives of the post-handover Hong Kong Special Administrative Region.
Tsai spun away from his desk in thought. Harvey stared beyond him over the narrow Victoria Harbour toward the hazy hills of the Chinese frontier.
A streamlined cruise ship as spacious as a hotel slipped into a berth by China Hong Kong City Terminal. A Star Ferry intrepidly plied the rolling waves on her fifteen-minute trip threading through the cross-traffic of barges, floating construction derricks, family owned sampans and large fishing boats.
So many goods, so many people and such vast amounts of money communicated in and out of the port that to track a single transaction seemed not only hopeless, but trivial.
“So this is truly important,” Tsai said.
“A government could topple.”
A military helicopter was descending briskly and settled on the helipad at the Naval Dockyard just below them. Nearby, a stiff breeze rippled the American flag on a U.S. naval destroyer.
Tsai stood up and straightened his European-cut suit. “Then this is how it will work.”
He walked around his office describing how wire transfers sent money in and out of Hong Kong banks.
“Money might be here for the blink of an eye and poof, it’s gone again.”
They could safely assume that the money had already passed through Ouyang’s brokerage and been transferred to a broker in China.
The first step was to track down the money within China. That was where Tsai’s contacts would come in handy. He nodded to the PRC’s Bank of China Tower just a stone’s throw down Queen’s Road.
The magnificent I.M. Pei building’s hard steel edge glinted against the afternoon sky.
Harvey smiled. He had come to the right man. As an American, Harvey would always be treated as an outsider by the Chinese bank. But Tsai was welcome at the Bank of China.
Harvey had only entered the PRC bank on two occasions. Once he had poked his head in the lobby and was shocked to see that the sharp diagonals of the exterior were not represented within. Rather, a round black marble reception desk and curved archways predominated.
On the second occasion,
he had accompanied an economic officer on a routine courtesy call. Meeting a Chinese investment banker was akin to meeting a fellow diplomat. He was shaking hands with a government employee first and a businessman second. The man’s bureaucratic role gave him a gray demeanor, even though his investment portfolio would overwhelm the most experienced investment banker. The man had the income of over one billion Chinese to invest.
Tsai’s voice snapped him back to the present.
“I’ll contact a friend over there,” Tsai said. “She’ll trace the money and stop the transaction. Only, I’ll owe her an appropriate debt of gratitude.”
“Of course.”
Harvey knew the system. He reached in his pocket and pulled out his American consulate business card.
“Visas ’R Us.”
Chapter 25
It was raining hard, but Nan-an’s limousine’s windows were shut tight. Mick watched the old man’s glasses steam up as he concentrated to hear the military radio station.
Taiwan’s National Anthem played for a full two minutes. Then a martial voice came on the air with a grave announcement. “China’s invasion of Taiwan is imminent. Supreme Commander Li has declared martial law.”
“At last,” Nan-an said with relief. He wiped his glasses with the tail of his suit jacket.
Mick tried to absorb the news. Maybe China wasn’t bluffing. Maybe, like Taiwan’s military, he should take the words of China’s president “to introduce our forces to the Province of Taiwan” at face value.
Then the voice on the radio read a seemingly endless list of seizures by the military. The airports, trains and train stations, buses, bridges, all port facilities, newspapers, radio and television stations, schools and universities, banks, utility companies, power stations, telephone switchboards, even sports and cultural organizations were now subject to the military government’s direct control.
The functions of city and county governments around the island would be reviewed and subject to military supervision. Provincial and national deliberative bodies were officially disbanded. All provincial and national executive and judicial organs were immediately placed under the supreme commander of the republic’s armed forces. No airplane or ship could leave the island. Rationing and banking policies would be announced within two days.
Nan-an wiped the tears from his eyes.
Mick looked helplessly at the shriveled old man who now held absolute power. It felt like an immense, immovable rock had just sealed off Taiwan’s only passage to freedom.
“May I try your telephone?” Mick asked.
The old man pushed it across a small, collapsible executive desk.
Mick switched on the power and heard the swishing of different frequencies. He tried the institute’s phone. Dead.
Either the phone lines were down or the institute no longer existed.
A sudden feeling of dread came over him. Where was Natalie? Was she safe? And what could he do without her?
“Where to?” the chauffeur asked over his shoulder.
Mick contemplated his options. If he wanted to stop the invasion in its tracks, he could start with Nan-an. The old man was within inches of him, and Mick would have his neck broken within seconds.
But where would that leave him? Was the old man more useful alive than dead?
Only Nan-an’s commands could make General Li rescind martial law. And only Nan-an’s testimony could reveal the role he played in taking power.
Mick had never come so close to wanting to kill a man. And never had the opportunity presented itself so easily.
His fingers trembled with the urge to get it all over with. But his mind screamed, no. For only Nan-an could ultimately ensure the peace.
Mick turned to using his hands to wipe steam off his window. The parking lot looked like a jumble of toy cars, but his car remained unharmed.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Nan-an asked.
Of course, there was plenty.
“No, thanks. I have my own car.”
But there was one piece of information Mick still needed to know.
“Before I go, let me ask you a question.”
“Yes?” Nan-an said. “Hurry up.”
“Who is funding your election?”
“Impudent question.”
“No. Just answer me. I carried you this great distance on my back. The least you can do is answer a simple question. Who is funding your election?”
The man’s thin eyebrows popped up over his thick rims. “It does not matter to me who funds my candidacy. I don’t look into such questions.”
“Would it matter if the PRC funded you?”
“So much the better for Taiwan.”
“But why would the PRC fund you? It’s a question that I’ve been asking myself. What’s their motive?”
“If the lips are gone, the teeth will feel cold. The PRC and the ROC governments need each other.”
Whoa.
Stunned, Mick stepped out of the Lincoln Continental and into the drilling rain.
The cross-strait feud wasn’t a battle of wills. Rather, it was government-sponsored fear-mongering on the part of China’s Communists and Taiwan’s Nationalists. The two countries weren’t fighting for survival. Their two political parties were struggling to retain power.
Remove the country’s external threats, and the ruling parties would lose their grip on power.
Nan-an’s limo careened out of the parking lot, bounced through mud holes and left a trail of mud across Mick’s pants.
Okay, so Nan-an was a jerk. But his explanation seemed a trifle simplistic.
For example, if the PRC were truly behind Nan-an’s election campaign, why would they also invade?
In Beijing, Eli Shaw slid his briefcase and travel suitcase out of his office and was just about to turn off the light when he remembered his trenchcoat. Typhoon Ivan would hit Shanghai about the time he arrived.
The staff was just leaving for the day. He followed them outside and signaled an official car, a black Ford.
“Airport,” he said.
He jumped in and headed for Beijing Capital International Airport.
Harvey Talbot’s somewhat relieved voice still rang in his ear. “The investigation is moving onto your turf. It’s out of Hong Kong’s reach. Hope you can track down the money in Shanghai before the Chinese figure out whose it is.”
The Chinese would figure it out soon enough.
China had people stationed all over the country looking out for suspicious activity. And he wasn’t merely being paranoid.
The Chinese assigned all the staff to the American embassy. His driver would report his trip. Surely a country of 1.2 billion people with such a tight security apparatus in place, both domestically and abroad, would notice members of Taiwan’s military investing in Chinese companies.
Nobody could meddle in China unseen.
He looked down the block and studied a line of stiff, green-uniformed soldiers, each before a different diplomatic compound. They stood holding rifles on round pedestals and watching all passers-by. They weren’t there to defend embassies. Everyone knew their real job was to keep an eye on embassy activities and prevent Chinese citizens from defecting.
At the center of a vast, chaotic intersection, Eli’s car passed another soldier standing at attention. He wasn’t there to direct traffic, rather to remind the public that someone was watching.
Groups of young men strolled in uniform through the nation’s capital taking pictures of each other.
Who was calling him paranoid, anyway?
On closer inspection, he could see that the army was threadbare. It supplied uniforms, but each soldier provided his own cloth slippers, tennis shoes or flip-flops. Only officers were issued military boots. He could spot an off-duty officer anywhere in the country by his white calves.
He no longer bothered to check whether the plainclothesman packing a gun in a tote bag was still following him. He knew that he was always under tight surveillance.
&n
bsp; On the highway, they sped past wooden statues of police officers set there to appear like they were monitoring their speed. At what point did one stop seeing the reality and begin to believe the myth?
The driver finally braked just short of the airport and flashed him a smile. They could wait for the traffic jam at the terminal to clear, or Eli could walk the rest of the way.
No point in being uncivil. He thanked the man, grabbed his luggage and jumped into the honking, start and stop traffic.
By design, he had barely enough time to make his flight. The diplomatic line would be short, and it would be difficult for anyone to follow him.
In the dimly lit departure terminal, he raced up to the diplomatic security gate. He was third in line.
The linoleum tile floor, loose round door handles, flickering fluorescent lights and painted fiberboard booths reminded him of his 7th grade chemistry class.
Beside him, dapper but anxious foreigners pressed forward, afraid of missing their flight. Meanwhile, Chinese businessmen in scuffed shoes and lived-in suits chatted urbanely in small groups.
An international airport distilled the essence of a society.
Finally clearing the visa check and metal detector, he trotted past a lace and porcelain gift shop.
A woman from ground personnel took his boarding pass, ripped it in two and slammed the metal door shut behind him. Daintiness was not a trait of Chinese workingwomen.
He took the last remaining seat on the plane and collapsed into it. A flight attendant shut the exit door.
No one had followed him aboard.
The plane moved at once.
Within minutes, the wheels lifted off the worn concrete runway. The Tupolov was designed for military purposes to take off from short runways and quickly gain altitude in case of surrounding mountains or gunfire. It launched into a nearly vertical ascent.
Eli closed his eyes and tried to imagine Stephanie waiting for him with her blonde hair spilling onto her shoulders. Acceleration and gravity pressed him tight against the seat.
For the hour and a half he was airborne, he was a free man.