Dragon Day

by Lisa Brackmann

  I see an available cab pulling away from the restaurant and raise my hand.

  He stops in front of me. I get into the backseat.

  “Qu nar?” he asks. Where to?

  It occurs to me that I have no freaking clue.

  I have him take me to Haidian, near Beida. I know the area pretty well, and it’s a place where being a foreigner doesn’t attract much attention, what with all the colleges around here. Plus, there’s a Number 4 subway stop near the east gate of the university, and that line goes all the way to the Beijing South Railway Station.

  Because yeah, my first instinct, as usual, is to get out of town. But I’m trying to be smart, trying to think things through, and I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.

  Won’t running make me look guilty? Another black mark against me for Inspector Zou? Has John even talked to him? I’ve got to find out.

  And then there’s Uncle Yang. How far does his influence go? How many guys can he afford to have running around keeping an eye out for me? Or … I don’t know, electronic surveillance stuff, is he tied in to that? I can still buy train tickets without showing my passport—they’ll start requiring that in a couple of months, I’ve heard—and I can avoid using my yikatong card on the subways and just pay cash, but there are surveillance cameras everywhere in Beijing.

  Who is actually watching?

  First things first. I need to get a new SIM card and minutes for my old iPhone. Try to get in touch with John, find out if that was his bug or Uncle Yang’s. Ask him if he’s talked to Inspector Zou.

  After that … I don’t know.

  I have friends. People I can ask for help. My ex-boss, British John, lives not too far from here.

  But there’s the other side of that, what happens to the people who help me. British John got enough shit because of me a year ago. Do I really want to drag him into something again?

  Then there’s Harrison. If anybody’s got the juice to help me out, it’s him. Though Harrison told me that he’s no match for the Caos.

  The Caos. Shit. I can’t keep avoiding Sidney. Eventually he’s going to catch up to me, and when he does …

  I don’t know exactly how deep the connection between Sidney and Uncle Yang goes, but they’re both from Anhui, and Sidney’s son is married to Yang’s niece, and someone’s got to be greasing the wheels for Sidney high up in the government, and someone’s got to be supplying Uncle Yang with those really expensive suits, so … yeah.

  Pretty deep.

  If Uncle Yang’s unhappy, I have to figure Sidney’s pretty unhappy, too.

  Which brings me back to calling the embassy. They won’t necessarily help me if I’m in trouble with the police here, but they might be interested in intel about high-level politics and murdered girls. And then there’s Carter, who’d be the guy to broker that kind of deal.

  But am I ready to take that step? Because once I do … well, there are all kinds of consequences. Like probably closing the door on my life here.

  Am I ready for that?

  What kind of life will I have if I do?

  There’s nothing for me in the States. No job. No marriage. No future. Just a shitty disability pension that won’t cover my rent, plus all the psych meds and Percocet I want.

  But going up against Uncle Yang and the Caos … If nobody I know has the guanxi for that, what makes me think I can handle it?

  I’m messing with tigers here. With dragons.

  I buy a new SIM card and minutes at a newspaper vendor and fire up my phone.

  It’s a new number, so no new messages, except for a few spam texts that appear almost immediately. I’m going to have to go someplace with Wi-Fi and get onto my laptop to see who’s been trying to reach me. God knows how many emails Vicky Huang’s left me by now.

  First thing I do is call “Zhou Zheng’an” at “Bright Spring Enterprises.”

  No answer. Voice mail with a woman’s voice saying, “You’ve reached Bright Spring Enterprises” and to please leave a message. Very slick.

  I hang up.

  I’m not too surprised that John isn’t answering his phone. Uncle Yang has this number, and you can track someone on a cell phone, right?

  Maybe they can hack the voice mail, too.

  I switch off my phone.

  Email.

  I walk down the tree-lined street, past university walls and gates, until I come to a smaller lane with little shops and cafés.

  First thing I do is buy another SIM card. I’ll use the first one to call numbers that might be tapped.

  Second thing, I find a little café/bar advertising free Wi-Fi and grab a table.

  Another typical Beijing joint: small, wooden tables, a couple fake plants, some random decorations—in this case the top half of a male mannequin wearing a Mao cap and a Rolling Stones T-shirt—specials written in English and Chinese on a board with Day-Glo chalk, selling some form of pizza and burgers and sandwiches.

  I order a Yanjing Beer and one of the pizzas, because by now it’s almost 6:00 P.M. and I can’t remember if I’ve had anything to eat today. I don’t think I have. When the pizza comes, it’s pretty bad—canned tomato sauce and plastic cheese—but I wolf it down. Get out my laptop, start up my VPN, and close my eyes so I don’t see the emails coming in. I’m not ready for Vicky Huang, or the Caos, or the Beijing PD, or my mom.

  When I open my eyes, I launch a browser and go to the Yahoo! account that’s not linked to my real name—at least I hope it’s not. And I type John’s email in the address box. Not the Bright Spring email. The other one he gave me: “Jinhuli.”

  Cinderfox.

  On the subject line, I type, “From Little Mountain Tiger.” And then I write, “Either you or Uncle left something in my bag. I couldn’t wait to find out who.”

  I stop. Take another slug of beer. I don’t know what to say. There’s too much in my head: Did you talk to Inspector Zou? Did you find out anything about Celine? Are you going to fix this shit? Save my ass?

  Because I’m all alone, and I don’t know what to do, and I’m scared.

  I don’t type any of that.

  “Write me back. Leave me a number where I can reach you. We need to talk.”

  After that I take a big gulp of the Yanjing and start reading email.

  Five messages from Vicky Huang. The first few are variations on Mr. Cao is interested in your report. When can you meet? The last one says, You must contact Mr. Cao right away. He urgently needs to speak to you.

  Here’s one from Meimei: Did you know your phone isn’t working? J If you have a problem, maybe I can help. Call me or write.

  And here’s one I didn’t expect at all. From Marsh Brody:

  Hey. Well, you really know how to liven up a dinner. What’s the deal with your friend? I bet he’s even more fun at parties. Tiantian and me are heading south to Movie Universe to do some shooting on our film. Why don’t you join us? He’s actually really interested in this museum thing. Here’s the info.

  Movie Universe. I’ve read about this place. Huge outdoor sets with reproductions of the Forbidden City and the streets of old Hong Kong, and it’s out in the middle of nowhere, someplace south of Shanghai.

  And what do you know, here’s an email from Tiantian:

  Dear Ellie, I think you have a misunderstanding recently of the situation with our family. I would not like you to have a bad impression of us. Perhaps we can meet to discuss. I think your museum proposal has merit. Please call me to schedule.

  Weird. It’s like all the Cao kids want to make nice with me. I have my doubts that this is actually the case.

  So what do I do? Keep avoiding Sidney or call him? If I call him, what do I say? Hi, one of your kids, or maybe your political patron, is a murderer?

  Maybe the killer is Marsh. That would be so much more convenient.

  I’m thinking about this, and another email comes in.

  The subject line is “Letters from the Deep Yellow Sea—My Decision.”

  I feel a prickling
along the back of my neck, up and down my spine. She’s dead. Celine’s dead. So what the fuck is this?

  I have written things for a while now that I do not publish. Because I know they could cause me trouble and I am scared. I am also selfish. I like the life I have, even when it seems very silly. But now after what I saw I must speak the truth. When you read this I will be gone from Beijing. Maybe from this world. That’s okay. I think there are better worlds we can’t see. This one sometimes is so ugly.

  Okay, I tell myself, okay. I subscribed to her blog feed. She set this up to autopublish. Simple enough.

  Everyone knows the rich move their money overseas. So they can send their kids to some fancy American university. Buy their winery in France. Everyone knows about this. But it is not just the rich. It is our leaders. They set up phony companies overseas to hide their money. You know this, too, but I can prove it.

  I have this sudden flash, of Celine offering me one of her Panda cigarettes with her little half smile.

  They do this in ways that maybe aren’t against the law, but they still don’t want the people to know about it. Regardless, they can use the law any way they want. For you and for me, the laws have different meanings.

  No one took her seriously, I’m thinking. I know I didn’t. All the while she was there, in the middle of all that wealth and power, taking notes.

  But sometimes their money is just dirty, and then they must clean it. They have all kinds of ways to do this. For example, I know one leader who has a friend who invests in art.

  Well, shit. I have a pretty good guess where this is going.

  It is so simple with art. Another friend in a foreign country buys the art for you. You pay him too high a price. The friend gets some of this money and gives you back the rest. The other money goes into a bank account overseas. The money is now clean. So simple! No one knows how much this art is really worth.

  I’d be surprised if Sidney hadn’t been doing something like this. Is there a rich Chinese person who doesn’t have money stashed overseas?

  The big question is, does Uncle Yang? Because the whole trend of high-level officials and their families getting super rich and taking their money out of the country is really pissing off the laobaixing, the common people.

  But that is just a small thing compared to the other things. There is so much more I can say. How the leaders help the rich get richer. How the rich give money back to the leaders.

  I can tell you about companies overseas. These companies are just fakes. Ways to open bank accounts. Places to hide money. This is how the leaders and the rich help each other. The leaders relax the laws so that the rich can move their money to these places. The rich give the leaders money. Help their relatives and children become rich. Even the foreign companies help. Paying money to relatives of leaders, for ‘consulting’ and things of that nature. It is just to try to gain influence. Everybody knows this.

  Here is a company you should know about, in the British Virgin Islands: Favorable Wave LTD. If you can find out who really owns this company, I think it is very interesting.

  I’m sweating now. This is not shit that I want to know. I don’t need to know it. So Uncle Yang and the Caos are corrupt—this is news? But the details—those can get you killed.

  What do I do with it?

  I can send it to John. Maybe it will give him the kind of ammo he needs to get us out of this mess.

  Or maybe it will just be more fuel for his vendetta.

  And if I completely throw in with John, if this blows up my relationship with the Caos … is that smart?

  I forward the email to another address, the one I used to write John aka Cinderfox. Then I delete it from my inbox and sent mail. I know it’s not gone, not really. The best I can do is hope that no one decides to look.

  And now I have to decide. What do I do next?

  I can’t go back to my apartment.

  I can’t go to any hotels, because I’d have to show my passport.

  I might be able to get out of town on a train or a bus if Uncle Yang isn’t watching. But then what? Where would it make sense for me to go?

  Maybe it’s time to call my old pal Carter and see if he can fix things for me with the American embassy so they’ll protect me. I’ve got two dead girls and an offshore company to trade. That should be enough.

  But then there’s my mom. And Andy. What happens to them if I pull the plug on my life here? Can I bargain to take them with me? Would they want to go?

  What would any of us do?

  If it was just me, I swear to God, I’d get my ass out of here and go hide someplace where the living’s cheap and I could just … I don’t know, just be.

  Where is that place anyway? I don’t have a clue. Does it even exist?

  And it’s not just me. It’s my mom. It’s Andy. It’s people I work with, like Lucy Wu, like Harrison Wang.

  Okay, well, maybe not Harrison. He’s got the resources to take care of himself.

  But there’s Lao Zhang, who says he’s coming back to Beijing.

  Plus, there’s Creepy John. If I bail and his bosses find out he’s been protecting me …

  If I bail, are they all going to look guilty?

  On the other hand, if I stay and end up going down, will they be any better off?

  In the back of my mind, it’s like there’s this worm turning over, whispering in my ear: if I’d never met Lao Zhang, I wouldn’t be in this mess.

  But what kind of life would I have? The way I’d been going before I got involved with Lao Zhang was nowhere but down.

  There’s no time for what-ifs, I tell myself. Not now.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter. I pick up my phone and dial Vicky Huang.

  I don’t know what I’m going to say to her. Depends on what she says to me. Just try to stall, I guess. Give John a chance to do what he’s going to do. Maybe I can hide out at Harrison’s place in the meantime. You can’t beat the coffee.

  Vicky doesn’t pick up, which surprises me until I remember that I’m calling from a number she doesn’t know. Instead I hear a loud burst of a cheesy orchestral arrangement of “My Heart Will Go On” (of course) and a beep.

  “Hello, Vicky, it’s Ellie. Ellie McEnroe. Sorry for the delay in calling you. I … uh, had some phone problems. Anyway, you can reach me at this number.”

  I disconnect. Drain the rest of my Yanjing and lift my hand to have the waitress bring me another. Maybe I’ll pop for the Rogue Ale instead, even though it will most likely be stale. I’m already so nervous my hands are sweating, and I nearly drop my pint glass.

  It takes all of a minute for Vicky Huang to call me back.

  “Where have you been?” she demands. “Why do you always have this trouble with your phone? Maybe you need new one.”

  “Yeah. Well. This time I dropped it on the subway tracks. So I definitely needed a new—”

  She cuts me off. “Mr. Cao is very anxious to talk to you about your findings. Very anxious.”

  “Right, well, we’re still meeting to discuss—”

  “Mr. Cao wants to talk to you now.”

  And with that she hangs up.

  I’m just taking my first sip of Rogue Ale when the phone starts playing System of a Down’s “Hypnotize,” the default I use for an unknown caller. Blocked. Sidney’s private number, presumably.

  “Hello, Ellie!” He sounds unexpectedly cheery.

  “Hi, Sidney. Uh, sorry for the delay in getting back to you. Stuff has been—”

  “I am hearing strange things. Some very strange things.”

  “Yeah. Well. It’s …”

  What do I say?

  “Kind of a mess.”

  “Yang Junmin is asking me what I think about you. I tell him you help me with getting the Zhang Jianli artwork, and I ask you for some help with family business. He doesn’t like this very much.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, which is a stupid thing to say, but it’s about all I’ve got right now.

  “I tell him
of course I don’t know everything about you. So maybe there is some problem I don’t know about.”

  Oh, like the ones where the DSD is on my ass and the PSB has me as a murder suspect?

  “The problem is, your son Tiantian had a party, your other kids and Marsh and Uncle Yang and Dao Ming were guests, and a waitress ended up dead.”

  Because fuck it. What else can I say at this point? Either he already knows or he’s going to find out.

  There is a long silence on Sidney’s end.

  “I see,” he finally says. “So who has killed her?”

  And I can’t tell if this is the first time he’s heard it or if he already knew.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you have an idea.”

  “No. I really don’t. It could have been anybody. Anybody who was there.”

  “Then you can help find out.”

  I did not just hear this.

  “What?”

  “Of course, if the killer has no connection to my children, then it does not matter. You don’t have to worry.”

  “You want me to find out who killed her? Sidney, this is …”

  Crazy.

  Slow down. Remember, you’re dealing with a billionaire who can swat you like you’re a crippled little ant.

  “Sidney … I’m not a detective. I don’t know how to do what you’re asking me to do.”

  “Of course you can!” He sounds like one of those amped-up motivational speakers you see on late-night infomercials. “Just continue to do what you do before.”

  “Which is … what? I mean … what do you mean?”

  “You can just spend some time with my children. They all like you very much.”

  I don’t even know where to start with this.

  Stall, I tell myself. Just stall. Then, when you get off the phone, bug out to Harrison’s place, hole up, and wait for John to get in touch.

  Assuming that he does.

  “Okay,” I say. “Sure. I can do that. It might take me a day or two to deal with things here, but—”

  “I think you must act quickly. You must … strike while the iron is hot.” He sounds very proud of himself for coming up with this phrase.

  “Okay,” I say. “Will do.”

  I have this vivid picture in my head of Harrison’s penthouse, of his very comfortable guest room, of packaged silk pajamas, good meals, fine wine, awesome coffee, and beautiful art. Just get there, I think. Hide.