by Neil Russell
The shriek leaking around the pads made me wince where I was standing. I could only imagine what it sounded like inside Major’s head. He bucked like he was strapped into Old Sparky, and I had to put my foot on the chair to keep it from dancing across the room. I gave him thirty seconds, turned it off for thirty and repeated. When I stopped the second time, he seemed to want to say something, but he only thought he was ready.
I positioned myself so he could watch me strip the female ends of three electrical cords I’d removed from a row of Sony flatscreens. After plugging the good ends into a power strip switched to the off position, I tore away Major’s T-shirt and clamped one frayed lead into each armpit, then ran more tape around his upper torso to secure them. He was sweating like a rutting boar, so I expected a good connection.
When I picked up the third cord and unbuckled his pants, I was surprised at how loud he was able to scream through the tape. I ran the wire down his front but purposely didn’t push it all the way to Johnsonville.
I wanted him to appreciate what was coming, so I found a Coke in a small refrigerator, opened it and took a long swallow. Then I sat down at the desk and started writing on a legal pad I found there.
When I finally hit the power-strip button with my foot, I didn’t know what to expect. I’d selected the highest rated unit, but electronics are assembled in sweatshops, so I couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t explode. It didn’t. The lights in the office hummed and dimmed, and I heard popping coming from Major, then smoke appeared, and the unmistakable smell of burning flesh permeated the room. His pants also caught fire.
I switched off the strip and doused the flames with what was left of my Coke. When I took stock, Major was conscious, but foaming through his nose. I gave him another shot of the radio to bring him back to the present and waited.
When he stopped convulsing, I showed him the legal pad. It said:
I’m going to take the tape out,
And you’re going to tell me where Marlene is.
If you stutter, I plug everything back in and leave.
Understand?
I gave him a moment to get that processed, and when he nodded, I took the pad and added:
And IN THAT CASE, the cord in your pants
will be touching what it’s supposed to.
Five minutes later, I had my answer and was in my car. As for Major . . . maybe he’d get lucky, and the circuit breaker would trip.
* * * *
40
Fragrant Harbors and Butterfly Gates
The polished cowlings of the 747’s four engines shimmered in the triple-digit afternoon as Singapore Airlines Flight 11 swooped smoothly across the harbor before dropping into final approach in steamy Hong Kong. Framed against the distant mountains, a long row of international flags flapped in a stiff ground wind, which reached the plane, buffeted it and forced the pilot to jog slightly left. Our descent, however, remained gentle and unhurried.
I looked north, to where the vast expanse of the world’s most populous nation lay in quiet, green repose. A thousand years ago, China was unknown to the West. Today, it touches the life of everyone on the planet. And it is still unknown.
Even its vaunted wealth is a myth. The Chinese have money, but it is other people’s debt, not their own capital. The only way to sustain a long-term-growth economy is by manufacturing goods to which you add value, then exporting more than you import. If every Chinese trademark in existence—financial, industrial, consumer—were to disappear tomorrow, no one would notice. They create nothing and produce no must-have product. They have no significant assets in the ground, grow less than it takes to feed their population and possess limited gold reserves. What they do have is a large, inexpensive labor pool that, instead of adding value, shaves it from each item produced, an unsustainable economic foundation.
Worse for them, that labor pool is rapidly pricing itself off the world stage. That is why the Chinese are tightening their influence over the emerging economies of Southeast Asia and why they permit North Korea to remain starving and ruled by Daffy Duck. Beijing needs all the subsistence workers it can lay its hands on.
They would love to add the multitudes of India to their stable, but the Indians are too smart to let that happen. And the Pakistanis are saddled with Islam, which the Chinese won’t let near those extra billion people they have sitting around. They couldn’t even abide the Tibetans, and they’re pacifists.
Russia scares the shit out of them because Russians are immune to both reason and the bludgeon. The only thing you can do with a Russian is give him what he wants or kill him. Unfortunately, even if you give him what he wants, sooner or later, you’re probably going to have to kill him anyway.
But contrary to popular opinion, China has no ambition toward the United States. Our financial markets are the only method they have of monetizing anything. Plus, like everyone else, they’re fans of Coke, Levis and Hollywood movies.
What the Chinese want is Africa. Plain and simple. There are more natural resources there than anywhere else on earth, few organized governments and a perpetually hungry populace that can be bought with a barrel of flour. More Chinese businessmen, diplomats and military advisors go to bed each night on the Continent of the Exploited than in the rest of the world combined. Someday, somebody’s going to notice. As the wise man once said, “Keep your powder dry, my friends.”
In decades past, landing on old Kai Tak Airport’s short Runway 13 was something the uninitiated never forgot and produced sweaty palms on even the most hardened flyer. It was nice to see air operations had finally caught up with the century.
Things had changed for the better inside the SIA cabin as well. Gone was the old first class, replaced by private seating pods that, once I figured out the buttons, were more than comfortable for someone my size. The food remained exceptional, and the flight attendants, the most beautiful in the world.
This was my first commercial flight in seven years, but Fat Cat and Coggan needed two days to assemble the team, so I left the BBJ with them and flew on ahead. I was also impatient. I had no idea where Birdy might be, and none of the possibilities were pleasant to contemplate.
As the Boeing touched down, first-time visitors craned their necks for a look at the Orient, but mostly what they saw was the controlled chaos of too many airport vehicles on too little land. Flight 11 turned off the runway and began the two-mile trek to the terminal, but halfway there, we made an unexpected right turn and came to a bouncing stop on a concrete apron between two taxiways.
Moments later, the engines shut down, and the pilot came on the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. In a few minutes, airport security will approach the aircraft. There is no danger, and we should be on our way soon. Thank you for your patience.”
A murmur ran through the cabin, and I saw people looking over the tops of their pods. Seconds later, a middle-aged businessman with a Brooklyn accent and a severe case of don’t-you-know-who-I-am, stood up in the aisle. “This is bullshit,” he bellowed.
I couldn’t have agreed more, but I decided to let him go it alone. Two well-proportioned Asian men in 1950s’ suits approached Mr. Indignant. I’d seen them boarding during our refueling stop in Singapore. “Sit down,” one grunted.
But he was a New Yorker. “Hey, fuck you, Commie. My company does a billion bucks’ worth of business in this country. When I’m done, you assholes will be lucky to have jobs.”
Without warning, the second man clipped a handcuff around the man’s wrist, snapped the other ring to his own arm and pushed him back into his pod, disappearing with him. I heard a couple of thumps and a groan, then the remaining suit said in a loud voice, “We are officers of the People’s Armed Police, and this man is now under arrest for failing to follow an order. Any further disturbance will require a quarantine of the aircraft.”
Welcome to the new China.
Fifteen very quiet minutes later, the outside door opened, and sunlight and humidity streamed in. I heard a lift mot
or, and soon, a smartly dressed Asian woman stepped into the cabin and came down the aisle, obviously looking for someone. When she saw me, she broke into a broad smile. “Mr. Black?”
I purposely hadn’t told my Hong Kong office that I was coming. I didn’t need anything from them. This was a personal mission. More importantly, I was hoping to avoid anyone’s radar. I’m sure my annoyance showed. “And you would be ... ?”
“Miss Lou. Regina Lou. Black Group’s security liaison. Do you have a carry-on?”
I stood and took my beat-up Orvis duffel out of the overhead, conscious of the caustic stares from my fellow passengers. Miss Lou tried to take the bag from me, but I shook my head. “What you can do,” I said, nodding in the direction of the Chinese cops, “is go up there and tell Stan and Laurel to cut that guy a break. That a problem?”
She hesitated.
“Otherwise, I’m not getting off.”
That, she understood. She huddled with the People’s Police, during which a lot of words were spoken and some arms waved, but in the end, they pulled the cuffs off the newly docile American and deplaned with us.
A black Mercedes flanked by two airport SUVs waited on the tarmac. “Do you have additional luggage?” Miss Lou asked. “If so, I’ll send someone for it.”
I shook my head, and we got into the backseat. As our driver fell in between the escort vehicles, I gave Miss Lou a less-than-warm stare. “Whose idea was this?”
“Mr. Fleetwood told me to get it done and to not be subtle.”
“Put yourself in for the bonus. You succeeded.”
* * * *
Brice Fleetwood was waiting at Black House, the Black Group’s residence in the Central District. Sitting just off the water, the three-story colonnaded home with recessed porticos on the second and third floors is one of the last standing nineteenth-century mansions built by the British lords of commerce during the colony’s glory years. Hong Kong traffic being what it is, we justify its extraordinary expense by its proximity to our offices in a larger, adjacent mansion plus the ever-escalating value of the real estate. Fortunately, we’re a private company and don’t have to try that logic on stockholders.
As irritated as I had been, I had calmed considerably on the ride into town and was now actually pleased at the prospect of being comfortable. If I’ve got a beef with Far East accommodations, it’s that the majority of hotels look the same inside—minimalist decor with impossible furniture. When you’re my size, you want to sink down in an overstuffed chair every now and then and sleep in a bed that doesn’t end at your shins. What’s interesting is that the Chinese are as big as Westerners, but they don’t build accordingly. Black House is furnished for use, not how it photographs for a Web site.
Miss Lou had said very little, probably in an effort not to ruffle my feathers further. I let her stew so I could ride in silence and remember a place that held so many wonderful memories of my father. A place I hadn’t seen since the handover in ‘97.
As it always had, Hong Kong still felt more like a London borough than a Chinese city, and all indications were that it was still the most civilized place in Asia. I find no coincidence in that where the British colonized, economic, political and legal stability followed. In the reverse of the rest of the great sea powers, my forebears were traders first and acquisitors second. The French, Belgians, Dutch, Germans. Portuguese and Spanish enslaved. The British ruled.
And despite the efforts of the Nobel committee and Hollywood to convince us otherwise, the results are in. The greatest loss to freedom in the world was the fall of the British Empire. Anyone needing further proof can check the GNP of her former territories—and the quality of the justice they left behind-
When the schoolteacher who rails to his captive students about the evils of English-speaking people finds his own liberty—or life—at stake in some distant land, he still runs headlong past every other embassy to the one flying the Union Jack. My American citizenship notwithstanding, I wear my British heart on my sleeve. And given a free vote, Hongkongers would race back into the arms of the Crown.
My silver-haired Hong Kong managing director greeted me with a smile and a handshake that wasn’t as firm as I remembered. I also noticed that he swayed slightly as he stood. I suggested we sit while we talked, and he quickly accepted. Pimm’s in hand, we made ourselves comfortable in the brocaded study in front of a window looking over the harbor.
“It’s been a long time,” he said.
“Too long. It seems each time I’m in London, you’ve either just left or won’t be arriving until I’m gone. I was beginning to think it was me.”
He chuckled, and his blue eyes had the same twinkle they always had. “If you haven’t heard, I’m retiring at the end of the year. Molly insists, or she’s sworn to leave me. Fifty-two years is enough for any man, she says, and this time I think she’s right.
I touched his glass with mine. “It’s been an honor to have worked with you.”
“My last act will be to stand with you at your investiture as the new Lord Black. I did the same for your father, and it would be an honor to pay homage to his very worthy successor. That is, of course, if you’ll have me.”
I hadn’t thought about the knighthood since Lord Rittenhouse’s surprise visit. “Don’t book your flight just yet. As for retirement, I hope you’ll stay on as an advisor.”
“If you think I can be of service.”
“My father would insist.”
“My God, how I miss him. Every single day when I walk by that big portrait in the boardroom, I feel a chill.”
I was moved. “I miss him too. There will be no more like him—or you. That time has passed.”
He turned serious, “Your father is the reason I had Regina meet your plane. One of the last things I promised him was that I would look after you.”
“I detect the fine hand of Mallory.”
He nodded. “Don’t blame him. Your father gave several of us the same charge.”
“I gave up trying to manage Mallory years ago, but he can be a bit of an old lady.”
“Hazard of the job. Monitoring the reckless young.”
“So what do I need protecting from?”
“I have no idea why you’re here. That’s your business unless you decide to confide in me. But we have been advised by our contacts in the government that your name has surfaced as a kidnapping target, which in Hong Kong simply means you will die somewhere other than on the street.”
“Did they tell you who?”
“They claimed not to know, but of course they do. The problem since Beijing took over is that the people investigating the crimes often have offices next to the ones committing them.”
“Why should Hong Kong be any different?”
He shook his head. “Time was, it was. Another reason to retire.”
“I appreciate it, Brice. I’ll take precautions.”
“Regina can be helpful. She’s young but connected—and motivated. Her parents disappeared into the Chinese gulag, and she knows she’ll never see them again.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Now, how about you and Molly joining me for dinner?”
“I’ll ring her up. She’s probably already dressed and sitting by the door.”
* * * *
The next morning was overcast, and the clouds had dropped the temperature to where it was almost comfortable. Heeding Brice’s words, I ignored the row of taxis parked along the street in front of the residence, turned the corner and walked two blocks until I saw an empty one sitting in front of a McDonald’s. The driver was gnawing on the Hong Kong version of a Big Mac, which is identical to the one in the States except that it costs the same as a car. He tried to wave me off, but I got in before he could lock the doors. The unfailing politeness of Asia isn’t quite as universal as Tony Bourdain would have you believe.
Initially, he tried to ignore me, but when he realized I was prepared to wait him out, he mumbled something I didn’t catch and made angry eye contact in the mir
ror.
“The Peak,” I said.
“No English,” he threw back.
I waited.
“Address?” he finally barked with disgust.
“I’ll tell you when we get there.”
This didn’t make him any happier, so he dropped the hammer and began a hair-raising dash through the heavy traffic. For a few minutes we rode like a couple of clowns. Me, trying to keep from sliding around in the back; him, head snapping from side to side, one wrist casually over the wheel, while he finished his meal. If this were a kidnapping, he was owed an Oscar for deception.
Victoria Peak is Beverly Hills, Greenwich and Coral Gables, rolled into one. The locals brag that it’s the most expensive real estate in the world, and at a recent price of $200 million for an unimproved acre, no one’s come forward to challenge the claim. The narrow, winding road to the top is also one of the most dangerous, but the views are so breathtaking, many brave the heart-in-your-throat drive for the photo op. What the travel brochures don’t tell you is that distracted gawkers sometimes wander into the wrong lane or over the side, and more than one tourist has closed out his vacation watching the sights go by at terminal velocity.