The First Excellence: Fa-Ling's Map

by Donna Carrick

  **

  Once they were out of Dong’s sight, Randy tore the cell-phone/camera from his ear.

  “Where to?” he asked, then seeing Sun’s confused grin, he repeated the question in atrocious Cantonese.

  Sun still did not understand, but guessed Randy needed instructions for their next destination. Therefore he resumed his earlier task of waving his hands and giving orders to the younger man in badly spoken but charming English.

  They eventually arrived at the hotel where Sun was staying with his cheerful wife. Wen was one of those happily indulged modern wives that were common to well-placed men in China. She was no great beauty, being slightly overweight and not tall, but it was easy to imagine she had once been captivating, with her sparkling eyes and easy laughter. She also spoke English much better than Sun did, so Randy was able to talk with her about the events of the afternoon.

  “You cannot travel under your own name,” she said. “The State is watching for you.” Then she said to Sun in Cantonese, “Husband, take this boy down to the shops and dress him in some new clothes. By the time you get back, his papers will be ready and we can all go for dinner.”

  “Excellent, my dear,” Sun said.

  “Go with my husband, Randy. You will need clothes for the next phase of your journey. From here, we are headed to Beijing. There is a workhouse there you must see.”

  “But my papers — I cannot fly to Beijing.”

  “Do not be concerned, my friend,” she said. “You happen to be in the presence of an artist.”

  Indeed, she was true to her word. By the time Randy and Sun returned from the hotel shops with several bags full of jeans and t-shirts, Wen had completed a brand new Visa and passport for Randy, professing him to be their beloved American nephew who was in China for a two-week visit.

  Hungry, Randy joined the couple for dinner in the hotel restaurant. They were joined by Sun’s childhood friend Mr. Lee, a minor local official who was travelling with the couple. Although their friend spoke no English at all, the four diners managed to have an exceptional time, thanks largely to the good-natured conversation of the Minister and his wife.

  **

  Fa-ling thanked Quan for taking her safely to Guilin and back. It was past midnight. Remembering Cynthia’s warning to take special care of the girl, the driver walked with her to the front desk of the Golden Lion Hotel, where he turned her over to Heng-ri before taking his leave.

  She was dirty and tired. She did not want to think any more. She wanted a warm shower and a rich lather to wash away the confusion of the past day.

  “Miss Li,” the concierge said, holding a finger up to tell her to wait a moment. “There is a message for you. Please let me get it before I walk you to your room.”

  “You don’t need to walk me to my room, Henry.”

  “Yes, I do,” Heng-ri said, remembering his cousin Cynthia’s stern cautions. “Wait a moment, here it is.” He trotted out from behind the desk, carrying an ivory coloured envelope bearing the hotel’s logo on which her name had been written in shaky European script: Miss Li Fa-ling.

  She tore open the envelope and removed a sheet, also on hotel letterhead, which read: Dear Miss Li, I would like very much to see you. May we meet for breakfast tomorrow at 7:30? Your servant, Wang Yong-qi.

  Fa-ling smiled despite herself. She folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. In a few short days she would be leaving Nanning to travel with the group to Beijing, where the adoptions would be formalised. There was little to be gained by developing a friendship with the good-looking Detective.

  Still, he was good-looking….

  FIFTY

  Junior Agent Ho Lon-Yi strutted past the news hounds, careful to maintain an authoritative manner for cameras of the State-run news agency. As the only nephew of the high-level bureaucrat, Ho Lon-shi, and the agent who had come up with this brilliant idea, Yi was granted the privilege of having his face splashed all over the Republic’s newspapers and televisions.

  Yi was dressed in full uniform for the event, complete with a gold and red bar on his shoulder. Only his lapel pin was missing. He could have replaced it with one of a half-dozen brass pins he owned, but any of them would look cheap compared to the fine gold pin his uncle had bought for him when he’d joined the department. His woollen lapel was discoloured around the spot where the pin usually sat. He hadn’t noticed the mark until he’d stepped into the sunlight. It was too late now to change his jacket. He brushed at the mark with his hand.

  Jiu Kaiyu smiled, lurking at the edge of the growing crowd. In his line of work it was best to keep a low profile. Unlike Yi, Jiu had no aspirations toward a career in management. In Jiu’s opinion, the best place for someone as self-serving and stupid as Yi was with others of his kind, at the highest levels of government. Once firmly ensconced in a position of power, they could be counted on to behave in a predictable manner. One could manage to keep one’s job at the lower levels, so long as one did nothing to disrupt the comfortable lives of Ho Lon-Yi, his uncle and their cronies.

  Two ambulances were parked at the front of the building. The bodies of Tan Lim and his wife Sui were brought out one at a time, wheeled conveniently past the cameras that were fixed on Yi. Meanwhile, Yi gave his statement to a perky female reporter.

  Naturally, every word of Yi’s statement had been scripted by Jiu.

  “The elder male,” Yi said, “was killed in his bed with a single shot to the head. Neighbours say he was bedridden due to a recent accident. We suspect he was killed to eliminate him as a witness to the drug deal.”

  “And the others?” Jan Jian, the News Agency’s golden girl, asked. “We have been told there were also a middle aged woman and a young man in the apartment.”

  “That’s correct,” Yi said. “Our forensics team have not yet completed their work, but we can confirm this triple homicide was drug-related. A substantial amount of an illegal substance was found on the scene. It’s unclear whether the senior members of the family were involved, or whether they were only trying to save their son. We have three deceased on the scene, one woman and two men, all believed to be members of the Tan family.”

  Jan Jian smiled sweetly, the way reporters do when they are about to ask something that may not be politically correct. She was a sparky woman with great, round eyes and a smile that brightened her face. Her enthusiasm and good looks made her a popular feature on the six-o’clock news, and perhaps lent her a false sense of security when it came to pressing the wrong official ‘buttons’.

  “Special Agent Ho,” she began, “given the nature of this crime, I’m sure many viewers will be curious as to why the Ministry of State Security has stepped into the investigation. Can you tell us why your department is involved in this case?”

  Yi adopted his most serious expression.

  “We have reason to believe,” he said, “there is an International element to this situation. These murders may be related to a drug ring from America that has been operating in Shanghai for the past year. We are currently reviewing correspondence that took place between one of the victims and a person or persons from America to determine whether there is a connection.”

  There was a sudden disturbance near the entrance of the building as the third and final victim was wheeled out. The cameraman noticed it first, turning his lens away from Jan Jian and toward the lobby door. The ‘paramedics’, who were really Ministry agents, paused as they had been coached to do, allowing the throng to digest the fact the third body was, in fact, not quite dead. The so-called ‘third victim’ on the gurney was really a Ministry rookie in disguise, his face carefully covered with fake bruises and dried blood and partially obscured by the bedclothes.

  The agents quickly wheeled the young man toward the second ambulance and tucked him safely inside. Earlier, before the news crews had arrived on the scene, the body of the real Tan Dahui had been spirited out the rear door of the building by ministry agents.

  “What’s gong on?” the reporter said, as
sirens were activated and the vehicle pulled away from the building. “Agent Ho, can you tell us what is happening?”

  “I’ll find out,” Yi said. He strode toward the fake medical crew, conferring momentarily with a ‘paramedic’. He returned just as the reporter was guiding her cameraman toward him, trying to get her microphone close enough to overhear the conversation.

  “It seems,” he said, “one of the victims of this crime, the younger male, has survived. Our first assessment showed no vital signs, but soon afterward we realised he was only weak from loss of blood and trauma, having taken a bullet to the head. Once medics discovered he was alive, they took immediate steps to revive him. At the moment, I have been told the youngest victim, believed to be Tan Dahui, is in critical but stable condition. It is hoped we have arrived on the scene in time to save his life.”

  “Has he spoken, Agent Ho? Can he identify his family’s killer?”

  “I have no more information at this time,” Yi said. “Please excuse me.” Yi turned away, mentally taking a bow for what he was certain had been an award-winning performance. In fact, it was most unfortunate he did not have an uncle in the movie business, Yi thought.

  “Agent Ho, wait!” the reporter said, following him.

  “No further comment,” Yi said, climbing into the backseat of the polished black sedan beside his Uncle Ho Lon-shi. Before the cameraman could get a clear shot of either man, the car door was shut, hiding their faces behind the dark tinted glass of its window.

  Frustrated, reporter Jan Jian fixed her expression and turned toward the camera. She could smell a set-up, and this was about the most obvious one she had ever encountered. Nevertheless, true or not, it was a great story. It would give her headlines for days, especially if she could convince young Agent Ho Lon-Yi to join her for a little ‘off-the-record’ conversation.

  Meanwhile, there was plenty of activity at the front of the building, where the other ambulance containing the two dead bodies was still parked. The crowd had not yet begun to thin around a handful of minor officials. Jan motioned for her cameraman to follow and made her way into the thick of the action. If a girl was persistent, there was always someone who was conceited or stupid enough to spout off in front of a news camera.

  **

  Jiu climbed into the car and motioned for Ng-zhi to start the engine. He was pleased with the way his production had unfolded. It didn’t matter in the least that he would never be given credit for the idea. Everyone knew full well it was Jiu, not Yi, who had formulated the plan.

  Nothing had been left to chance. Every medic, every driver, every official on the scene was a plant, an agent from the Ministry. There would be no ‘loose lips’ to worry about, no unrehearsed comments for the press.

  To stick around any longer, especially as the crowd began to disperse, would put Jiu and Ng-zhi at risk of being caught by the camera. The remaining ‘medics’ would feed the essential information to Jan Jian of the State News Agency — Tan Dahui’s shaky but positive prognosis for recovery, and the name and location of the hospital where he would be treated.

  It was only a matter of time, Jiu thought, before Tan Shopei climbed out of whatever woodpile she was currently hiding in. No sister could resist visiting a brother who was in Dahui’s ‘condition’.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Reaching Sun by telephone was not an easy task. There could be no traceable ties between the high level official and the Underground operation. In fact, although Long was one of only a few individuals in the operation who knew the Minister personally, he had never been given a contact number for Sun, and would not have been able to quote one to save his own life.

  When he needed to reach Minister Sun, he called a third-party number, which set in motion a chain of contacts that eventually made its way to the bureaucrat’s cell phone. The process normally took around thirty minutes, depending upon Sun’s availability.

  When Sun received the message, its coded content would tell him which operator needed to speak with him. Then he would make his way to a public phone and place his call from there.

  Minister Sun was enjoying dinner with his wife, their friend Lee the minor official, and their new acquaintance Randy Chan, when the cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He excused himself from the table to take the call. On learning it was a message from Master Long, Sun thought the old man must be calling to secure travel documents for Tan Shopei. He was surprised to learn the real reason for Long’s call.

  “It’s all over the news,” Long said. “They are saying Lim’s son Dahui is still alive. Shopei is beginning to doubt her previous judgement. I reminded her she was there, that she had seen for herself Dahui was dead, but now she is no longer sure.”

  “That’s understandable,” Sun said. “It’s natural to hope for the best. Have you reasoned with her?”

  “I’ve told her the chances that Dahui survived such an attack are slim. Apparently the Ministry of State Security is involved in the investigation, which is in itself evidence of duplicity. They are claiming to be in pursuit of an International drug ring. When we were watching the news on my kitchen television, the reporter, Jan Jian, was interviewing an Agent by the name of Ho Lon-Yi. Shopei is not certain, but she may recognise Agent Ho as one of the men who left Tan’s apartment that day.”

  “I’ve seen your tiny black and white TV, my friend. I’m surprised Shopei could tell the agent was a man, much less recognise him. When will you let me bring you a real TV? Maybe one of the new big screen plasma jobs?”

  “Sun, you are kind, but you know my policy.”

  “Only too well: Own nothing of value, and no one will ever wish to rob you. A wise policy, Master Long, especially in our line of work.”

  “It would not do for a burglar to happen upon one of our patients, would it?”

  Sun did not reply. The answer was obvious.

  “What course of action is Shopei considering?” Sun asked.

  “She is most anxious to see for herself whether her brother is alive,” Long said. “I convinced her to wait until we heard from you before rushing off to the hospital.”

  “We will have to send an operator in. I’ll call one of our best. If she is apprehended, she can claim to be a friend of the family. She can establish for us whether the ‘survivor’ is really Dahui, and whether a rescue attempt is warranted.”

  “I anticipated your suggestion and spoke with Shopei. She is reluctant to send a third party into a dangerous situation. She says her life is no more valuable than anyone else’s. She argues she can go to the hospital herself, as our operator.”

  “While her intentions are noble,” Sun said, “her offer is not feasible. She lacks the experience to deal with Ministry agents. It is settled. I will arrange for one of our people to go to the hospital immediately. I will call you in the morning with a report.”

  “Thank you, my friend.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  Fa-ling opened her eyes. She was still tired, having crawled into bed late after returning from Guilin. Sleep had been slow in arriving, between the effects of jet lag and the disturbing memories stirred up by her visit to the Sunshine Rooster Home for Orphaned Children. Before she reached full consciousness, she was aware of a raw ache in her psyche and tension in her jaw. She’d been grinding her teeth in her sleep again, something she hadn’t done in years.

  She rubbed her left arm briskly. Then she rolled over and looked at the time.

  Seven o’clock! She was due to meet Detective Wang Yong-qi in the hotel restaurant in half an hour. She barely had time to shower and dress, and would have to skip her morning T’Ai Chi ritual altogether.

  This might be her only opportunity to spend time with the detective. The group had one more day of sightseeing planned, and would leave for Beijing at the end of the week.

  Fa-ling had no use for games. When she liked a man, she was honest about her feelings. She expected to receive the same candour in return.

  Fa-ling hoped Detective Wang might be worth getting to know. />
  She leapt out of bed and rushed through her shower. The day was still young and fresh. She opted to wear her hair loose, allowing it to fall down her back. She could always pull it into a ponytail later, when the temperature began to rise.

  She scrubbed her teeth and pulled on her jeans, choosing an ivory coloured peasant blouse with tiny roses her mother had embroidered onto the neckline. The sheer cotton fabric had rumpled in her suitcase, but Fa-ling gave it a shake and decided it was acceptable. The casual, elegant effect was exotic against her golden skin.

  She arrived at the restaurant only five minutes late. The Kitchener family was seated at their usual table. Fa-ling hastily chose a table for two on the other side of the room. She ordered coffee and settled herself with a book, hoping to ward off potential invitations from any of her fellow travellers.

  She tried to focus on Crime And Punishment, but the crafted sentences swam in front of her face. Feeling like a fool, she resolved to stop watching for Wang, plunging into the angst-filled narrative.

  Two paragraphs into the chapter, she became aware of a presence approaching. Don’t look up, she told herself. It isn’t him.

  But it was Wang, and she looked up from her book to find him standing at the table, hands in the pockets of his blue jeans, trying to look cool. He was betrayed, though, by his wide smile.

  “Good morning, Detective Wang,” she said in Cantonese.

  “Please, call me Yong-qi.”

  “Very well, Yong-qi. You must call me Fa-ling. Would you care to join me?”

  “I think I will,” he said, motioning to the waitress to bring a second cup of coffee.