The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

by David Rotenberg

  “Yep, and just imagine what CNN will pay for it.”

  Fong took a breath. The pure, unadulterated, unapologetic greed of capitalists sometimes took his breath away. “I can confiscate that camera, sir.”

  “I told you, Cyril, this is a Communist technocracy. They can do what they want. Call the embassy now.”

  “No need.” Fong crossed to the door and opened it. A slender grey-suited Caucasian male stood there. Everything about him said State Department. He introduced himself as the head of the US consulate in Shanghai.

  “We’ll make a copy of your tape folks and you can keep the original. Inspector Zhong only wants to look at it.” Several men entered with a second video camera and a set of cables. Cyril gave over the camera and the technicians quickly began to make a copy.

  “Okay, I guess, but I want your copy destroyed as soon as you’re finished using it. I don’t want a second Zabruter tape floating around. That poor fella had the devil’s own time getting his due.”

  After the technician finished making the dub he gave it to Fong who took it and headed toward the door. At the door he stopped and turned to Cyril. “Were there any other Caucasians in the crowd outside the hospital?”

  “Caucasians? Oh, you mean whites?”

  “Yes, I guess I do. Were there any whites besides yourself and your wife outside the hospital?”

  “No. Just a sea-full of Chinamen – and women – Chinawomen, well Chinapeople, I mean.”

  * * *

  Waiting for the elevator, Fong thanked the consular man for his help.

  “No problem. We want this arson at the abortion clinics stopped as much as you do.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes, Inspector Zhong, I’m sure about that. America is a big country. We do not all wear white shoes and vinyl belts.”

  “No, I know you don’t.”

  The embassy man looked at Fong. “Something else you want from me, Inspector Zhong?”

  Fong wanted to ask about Amanda Pitman with whom he’d spent five days and nights in Shanghai almost seven years ago. She’d written a book that had a lot to do with his release from Ti Lan Chou Prison. But asking would reveal his past to this tall white man. “No, nothing,” Fong said.

  The man nodded his head once then scratched his chin. “Couldn’t be about that lady writer, could it?”

  Fong was shocked that he knew. But then of course the Americans would have known. They had been part of it, after all. The two men stood in the hotel corridor waiting for the elevator. The door opened and they stepped in. As soon as the elevator began to move, the consular official pulled the auto stop button on the panel. Fong looked at him.

  “The American anti-abortion movement must be seen in context,” said the American consular official.

  “Why is it, do you think,” asked Fong, “that American misdeeds must be seen in context while what you perceive as Chinese misdeeds must be seen as absolute wrongs? Evils, even?”

  The American consular man acknowledged the asymmetry with a lift of his hands and a nod of his head. Both men knew that those with the most guns wrote the rules of engagement.

  Fong shook his head. “So in what context should I understand the American anti-abortion movement?”

  “Contexts, not context.”

  “Fine, contexts – in what contexts should I understand the American anti-abortion movement?”

  “First as a manifestation of the fourth great religious revival in America. This one is led by Evangelical Christians and sits on several tenets: all life is sacred from the moment of conception; everyone must take Jesus as their own personal savior if they are to be saved; and life without faith is like a beautiful pen without any ink.”

  Fong looked hard at the man. Could he really believe this last bit of drivel? Fong was tempted to toss the man a lead pencil and suggest there was really no need for ink or pens, no matter how elegant they might be. But he didn’t. He’d dealt with Americans before and found them whimsical on several levels.

  “The second context,” the man continued, “that ultimately supports the first is not religious at all.”

  “Well, we can both be thankful for that surely.”

  The man shook his head. “I doubt that. The second context is terribly pragmatic and very political.”

  “Great,” Fong thought. “That’s what we need, politics on top of superstition – the great soup of confusion.”

  The man took a breath then said, “We have a serious problem in America.” He paused, evidently hoping that Fong would ask him what that problem was. Fong chose not to be helpful and kept his mouth shut. Finally the man gave up waiting for Fong’s prompt and said, “We have way too many children giving birth to children. Both the child mother and the child itself often quickly become wards of the state. At first the numbers were small but by the middle eighties the statistics became frightening. All our efforts to promote abstinence, to offer free birth control and yes, free abortion, did not stem the tide of kids giving birth to kids. It also became very clear that the children of children also tended to give birth to kids while still being children themselves. The inevitability of exponential math was about to break the bank – then along comes the religious right with its message of salvation to young women if they keep their knees tight together. And, it worked. Everything else, all rational pleas had failed but the terror of hell stemmed the tide.” He smiled sheepishly and raised his hands then added, “And as you well know the American government backs winners.”

  Fong stared at the man. “Are you telling me that the bombings in my city are backed by the American government?”

  “Not directly, no.”

  “But indirectly?”

  “There are large sums of money sent to support evangelical movements – yes – and some of that money could have been used in these bombings.” He paused then said, “I’m sorry. The American government is sorry . . .”

  “. . . and no doubt the American people themselves.”

  The consular man looked at Fong but was unable to discern if Fong was being sarcastic. “We’ve found the cell the bomber works for.”

  “Where?”

  “In Virginia.”

  “So, who is this man?”

  “He’s referred to as Angel Michael in his chat room contacts.”

  “Yes, but who is he?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Do you have any . . .?”

  “Nothing. No picture, no passport number – nothing.”

  “What does the name mean – Angel Michael?” Fong asked.

  “It’s a biblical reference.”

  “Everything with you people comes from that most questionable of books.”

  The consular man let the slight pass. “When Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden, Angel Michael was placed at the entrance with a flaming sword to prevent them from coming back. He is closest to the Greek deity Prometheus who stole fire from the gods . . .”

  “. . . and brought it to man.”

  “Yes.”

  “So have you arrested the group in Virginia?”

  “No.”

  “Why not – no, let me guess – it’s political?”

  The consular man nodded then said, “Not something you, as a Chinese official, wouldn’t understand.”

  Fong turned to the man ready to fight but the man was taking out a piece of paper from his briefcase and handing it to Fong. “A man named Larry Allen reported the group’s activities to us at the consul in Shanghai. He also told us of the last contact they had with Angel Michael before you closed down the Shanghai servers. Here it is.”

  Fong looked at the document: “One more should bring the light to this dark place. One more could release the light. Just one more and the light will be free at last.”

  “Is this some sort of evangelical talk?”

  “Our experts say no. This Larry Allen confirmed that his group is at a loss as to what this means.”

  “What do yo
ur experts say?”

  The consular man took a deep breath then said, “They think it’s Manichaean.”

  “What?” he said, but his mind wandered back to his conversation with the bishop of Shanghai.

  “Manichaean. It’s a famous heretical sect of Christianity that the Catholic Church has tried to stomp out for years.”

  “And it uses an equilateral crucifix,” he thought. But he said, “Where is this Larry Allen now?”

  “We don’t know. He disappeared with his daughter the day before yesterday. Right after he contacted our consulate here.”

  “Great.”

  “We’re trying to find them.”

  “Are you really?” said Fong as he pushed in the auto stop button and the elevator continued downward.

  Twenty minutes later, Fong, Captain Chen, Lily, and Wu Fan-zi were back in Fong’s office watching the amateur video. Chen slowed down the image every time the camera panned the crowd.

  “He has to be there,” Fong said leaning for support against the large plate-glass window that overlooked the Bund promenade.

  “Go back again, Chen,” said Fong. “There has to be a Caucasian in the crowd.”

  They went over and over it, but every face, no matter how blown up or zoomed in on, was clearly Asian.

  Fong began to pace. “There was phosphorus at the second blast site wasn’t there, Wu Fan-zi?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anything else important?”

  “Hard to tell. But basically it was the same as the first. A cage. A fetus. This time the warning said “Zai yi ci bao zha jiang gie zhe ge hei an de di fang dai lai guang ming, zai yi ci bao zha jiang shi fang guang ming zhi yao zai lai yi ci bao zha, guang ming jiang zui zhong de dao shi fang.” Fong sat at his desk, his head in his hands. Wu Fan-zi continued, “But no other real leads to follow. If there were more clues at the site we didn’t see them before the fire forced us out and that section of the building collapsed.”

  “Great,” said Fong. Then without lifting his head he shouted, “Run the tape again, Chen. But slower this time. He has to be there. He has to.”

  Halfway through Chen stopped the video. “What about the guy with the camera, himself?”

  “Thought about it, Chen. He arrived by JAL six hours after the bombing at the People’s Twenty-Second Hospital.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Chen. It’s good thinking. But now help me find a fucking white guy in that crowd of people outside the hospital.”

  “Are you sure he was there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be . . .?”

  “Because this turned up in the sector search outside the hospital that Chen conducted,” said Fong placing a transparent evidence bag on the table. Through the plastic everyone could see the note that Angel Michael had dropped.

  “What does it say, Fong?”

  “THIS BLASPHEMY MUST STOP. THE LIGHT WILL COME,” said Fong.

  Wu Fan-zi muttered, “Same fucking words we found etched in the sheathing.”

  Fong nodded. “Play the tape again, Chen, he has to be there.”

  But no matter how slowly Chen went – the faces stayed Asian.

  “Asians,” said Fong standing and moving toward the plate-glass window. The new Pudong Industrial District shone hard and bright across the Huangpo River. “All Asians. But he’s an American. All Asians. No Caucasians and how would a Caucasian get in and out of the hospitals without drawing attention to himself anyway?”

  “He could have Chinese working for him,” Lily answered.

  Fong touched the glass. “No he couldn’t,” Fong thought. He caught his reflection in the window. He was beginning to look like an old man. Maybe it was just the exhaustion. Or maybe it was the fear that he was nowhere with this case. “And this guy’s going to strike again – and soon,” he whispered to the window. “One more should bring the light to this dark place. One more could release the light. Just one more and the light will be free at last.”

  “Fong?” Lily prompted.

  Suddenly Fong lashed out at his image in the plate-glass window. The thick pane shattered from the impact of his fist. Lily shrieked. Wu Fan-zi ran to his old friend but Fong pushed him aside. “Don’t you all understand! We have a mad man on the streets of our city and we have nothing – not a single fucking clue who he is.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  DEVIL ROBERT TWO

  Robert peeled off another 1,000-yuan note and put it on the dirty tablecloth. Across from him the small man eyed the money with the kind of disdain that Robert had come to expect. On the far side of the restaurant, an aging beauty was showing a new girl how to properly deliver a drink to a table. Much attention was given to turning the body so that the customer would be looking directly at the young waitress’s chest.

  Why did his informants always want to meet in cheesy places like this? Well, better than the new “high concept” restaurants that were all the thing in Shanghai. The newest and most successful of these was an eatery called Cool Chains that was a mock-up of a Chinese federal prison. Diners ate in their own cells, receiving their food through a metal slot. Ridiculous.

  The man across the table cleared his throat. “Go ahead, spit. It doesn’t bother me,” Robert thought.

  At first, bribing people for information about the fate of his sister Rivkah had been difficult for him. But over his three years of inquiry he had acquired an appreciation for the finer points of the art. In fact, he had of late, gained a genuine taste for it. Just as he had for the gelatinous Shanghanese dishes that made most Westerners’ gorges rise.

  The man across the table extended a pinky finger with a long buffed nail and poked at the money as if he were not sure whether it was alive or dead. The finger retracted. Robert added another 1,000-yuan note to the pile. The man smiled. Robert had done this little dance many times and knew he was now close to getting answers to his questions.

  His investigations had taken him down two paths. The first had to do with the events leading up to and the eventual period of the Jewish ghetto in Shanghai. It was relatively easy to find this information and not all that expensive. But the second path of investigation, into the life of the infamous Iraqi Jew Silas Darfun, had taxed both his ingenuity and the bankroll he had amassed from his illegal trading in antiquities.

  Silas Darfun had somehow, even in death, erected tall thick walls around his secrets. Robert hoped the man across the table might just show him a way over those walls.

  “And you would like to know what precisely about Mr. Darfun?”

  “You were his gardener?”

  “One of his gardeners. It was a big place. It needed many gardeners.”

  “And you were with him during the war?”

  The man cocked his head and gave a crooked smile. “And what war is it that you refer to? The war of liberation?”

  Robert hadn’t met this form of resistance before. The man knew perfectly well which war he was talking about but Robert didn’t know the name the Chinese used for the Second World War. While doing work in the American South Robert had been astonished to hear the American Civil War referred to by Southerners as the war between the states or the war of northern aggression. He’d quickly learned that south of the Mason/Dixon line referring to the conflict by anything but those two terms led to an intense silence. So he feared not being able to come up with the Chinese name for WW II would silence this gardener.

  “The time of Japanese occupation.”

  “Yes, I was there throughout that time.”

  Fine, that hurdle was behind him. “Were you there when Mr. Darfun took in the children?”

  The man pulled out a cigarette, a Snake Charmer, and struck a match against the table. Robert controlled his impulse to pull away from the flame. Abitter cloud of smoke escaped the man’s lips, then he began to cough. The cough shook him like a strong wind does a piece of laundry satayed out an apartment window on a bamboo pole. The shaking subsided and he picked a tiny brown flak
e off his tongue as if that bit of tobacco had caused the coughing fit.

  “Which children would that be?”

  Robert knew that Silas had gained intense notoriety in both Shanghai’s Chinese and Jewish communities when he married his Chinese mistress. He had also ruffled many feathers when he and his wife took in forty street children and raised them as their own. Robert looked at the man.

  The man smiled thinly and let out another bitter cloud of smoke, “Ah, you don’t mean the street children – you mean the Jew brats?” Robert’s shocked look seemed to please him. “You have been asking questions about Mr. Darfun for almost three years now. Surely you don’t think you have been able to keep such inquiries secret.”

  He had. In fact he’d never really considered that the Chinese men and women he had bribed for information would even admit to having talked to him. Why should they? He looked at the man. How little he understood these people. Then he smiled. How little they understood him.

  Fine.

  “Yeah, the Jew brats.”

  “I was there then.”

  “Did Silas keep a record of their names?”

  “Of course.”

  Robert waited but the man said nothing. He stared at the 1,000-yuan note. Robert put three more 1,000-yuan notes beside them. The man reached over and folded the bills together, then pocketed them. “Are these the proceeds from sales of the priceless cave frescos, books, and statues from my country’s glorious past?”

  Again Robert found himself surprised. Odd that a gardener would be so well informed. He put on his best “fuck you” smile and said, “You wouldn’t be suggesting that I am involved in smuggling antiquities, would you?”

  The man met Robert’s fuck-you smile with one of his own. “No – not suggesting – knowing.”

  “Knowing what?”

  “That you are a smuggler, Mr. Robert Cowens.”

  A smuggler. Not a usual occupation for a nice Jewish boy. But then again Robert wasn’t all that nice and he wasn’t Jewish in the sense of being religious. In fact, he enjoyed referring to himself as an active and committed agnostic. Despite that, he was definitely a Jew – a card-carrying, yeah-but-is-it-good-for-Jews kind of tribal member.