by Chen Qiufan
“Boss!” The goons he had left outside the door called for him anxiously. Luo rushed out of the ward and saw that policemen armed with automatic weapons filled the hallway about ten meters away. He raised his hands and slowly stepped between the two sides in the tense standoff.
“This is just a misunderstanding.” He gave a friendly smile and twisted his head to indicate that his underlings should drop their knives. They fell crisply against the tiled floor.
The captain in charge of the policemen seemed to recognize Luo Jincheng. He gave an order and all the guns swung as one to point at the ground. The captain also smiled and stepped forward, enthusiastically shaking hands with Luo Jincheng, who a second ago had been the leader of the suspects. The situation changed so rapidly that Chen Kaizong was utterly stunned.
“Boss Luo, what happened here? We received a report that some violent criminals had broken into the hospital to take hostages. Director Lin is personally involved. He’s going to be here in a minute.”
Luo’s face spasmed uncomfortably. He was not yet ready to directly confront the Lin clan. “You know how rash young people can be. It’s just a small conflict. We’ll leave immediately.”
“Um … that might put me in a difficult position.” The police captain put on an embarrassed look. “I’ve got to take a few of these people in for a report. Please help me out?”
“Of course! We’ll cooperate fully.” Luo Jincheng nodded and a few of his minions obediently stepped forward and allowed themselves to be cuffed with high-strength plastic and left with the police. Luo Jincheng nodded at Chen Kaizong, who was still in the ICU, as if saying farewell, and also, I’ll be back.
He took only three steps before he seemed to hear someone call his name. He stopped and turned to look at the stunned Chen Kaizong, standing next to the hospital bed.
It wasn’t sound, at least not any sound that human ears could detect. It came through the floor underneath his feet, an unsettling tremor like the foehn wind in the Alps spilling out of the ICU. His chest seemed to be compressed by some great pressure, and he had difficulty catching his breath. His heart leapt wildly as though some hand were reaching inside his body to stir the organs about, casually mixing up their positions. The veins above his temples stood out and he felt countless steel nails being driven into his skull. Nausea, fear, dizziness overwhelmed him, and he collapsed to the ground on his knees, dry-heaving violently.
The world seemed to tremble before his eyes. The edges of everything grew blurry and gave off a rainbowlike sheen. He realized that it was his own eyeballs that were shaking uncontrollably, but the vibrations were not in synchrony with the tremors of the reflection in the glass window before him. The small angle of polarization in the window gave the reflected sky and clouds in the window some sense of depth, and the frequency of the tremors accelerated. A black bird flew through the image in the mirror, and the glass exploded outward from the ICU, as though broken by the passing bird, and pearl-like fragments spewed into the sky before scattering all over the floor.
Luo Jincheng saw a growing pool of blood on the ground—the source was his own mouth and nose. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw that the policemen were struggling painfully in strange poses. Their figures became blurry and slow, like wild ghosts and wandering souls.
He realized that he was going to die like this: a pointless, absurd, cruel death, like his disappeared cousin and his family in the Philippines, like his son trapped in a coma. His clan seemed to be entwined with some evil force that endowed them with wealth, power, and opportunity, but also cursed their genes, a Faustian deal.
I guess this is karma working out in the present life. Images of the men he had killed and the evil deeds he had done flashed through Luo Jincheng’s mind like a train passing through a tunnel, and the still images painted on the walls came to life in the rapid flashes—the jerky, stop-motion animation replayed his turbulent life, and the train rushed toward the distant but bright and warm exit, the farther shore.
See you in the next life. He silently bid his farewell to the world.
The quaking abruptly ceased, and everything returned to normal. His consciousness landed back in the solid, real world.
Luo Jincheng lifted his head and forced his eyes to focus. He looked through the broken windows and the open door and saw Kaizong, unharmed, half kneeling at the head of the bed, looking to be in a trance. Between him and Luo, the medical equipment in the room stood like a line of guards; they pulled the wires still attached to Mimi and the power cords plugged into the wall as taut as the cables on a suspension bridge. The soft screen on the multifunction monitor was broken, and the long-suffering waveforms slid across the broken glass, lost among the white noise. The panel over the respirator and the defibrillator swayed a few times under momentum, came loose, and tumbled to the ground.
“… it’s an infrasonic attack … damn it…” Some screamed; others moaned.
“Backup requested! Backup requested!” Piercing feedback came out of the walkie-talkies and seemed to stab right through Luo Jincheng’s pain-racked skull.
The figures of the injured policemen gradually solidified and their outlines came into focus: some were comatose; some had blood coming out of their noses and ears; some, still panicking, were looking for places to hide; some were trying to get help—the whole scene resembled some illogical farce.
Luo Jincheng brushed off the glass fragments in his hair and over his body and wiped away the blood on his face; swaying unsteadily, he got up and reentered the ward as the LED-lit ICU sign above the door fell and dangled from its wire, the green light flickering. He was going to confirm an almost absurd guess.
He stopped before the defensive barrier formed by the medical equipment, as if afraid that these lifeless machines could awaken at any moment and leap at him, jaws open. However, nothing happened; they stood still, flashing their broken lights and emitting the irregular whirrs associated with malfunction. Kaizong had been standing in a location that seemed to have been spared the effects of the standing wave and he was unharmed, but he appeared overwhelmed by the events of the last few minutes. Apparently unsure what to do, his expression was wooden, although he’d unconsciously positioned himself to shield Mimi’s supine body in the hospital bed.
“It’s her,” Luo Jincheng said.
Kaizong stared at him, his body frozen in place but fear creeping into his face. His terror wasn’t just due to the ambivalent declaration by Luo, but also because of the immense space behind those words for imagination to roam. Logic and intuition warred for dominance in his mind. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Luo Jincheng took a tentative step forward, followed by another. Nothing happened. Just as he was about to penetrate the line of medical equipment, there were a few crisp cracks, and all the tubes and wires attached to Mimi’s body and the mask on her face snapped off and, propelled by the elastic energy, swung at Luo like multiple whips, whipping through the air loudly.
Luo was prepared and ducked out of the way. The wires, tubes, and mask fell harmlessly to the floor like limp tentacles. He looked at Kaizong, a complex expression on his face, but he dared not come any closer to the bed.
Abruptly, Kaizong leapt up as if shocked and retreated some distance away from the bed.
The young woman’s body, which a moment ago had been as still as a corpse, trembled slightly. Chen Kaizong and Luo Jincheng, a pair who a minute ago had been mortal enemies, now shared the same expression: a mixture of terror, suspicion, and hope. It was possible that at this moment, they had reached some subtle understanding: the waste girl who was once called Mimi had long surpassed their, and perhaps even all humankind’s, ken or imagination.
Mimi’s pale and scarred face convulsed and the right corner of her mouth lifted, like a mysterious and dangerous smile that, ripple-like, disappeared momentarily. Her eyes trembled under their lids, as if at any moment she might open her eyes to gaze upon this cruel and incomprehensible world. Kaizong waited, his han
ds balled into fists, the palms sweaty. The trembling continued for tens of seconds, or maybe a few minutes, but for these two men in the room, it seemed to last an eternity.
The trembling stopped, and the translucent lids rested over the eyeballs like pink petals. Kaizong and Luo Jincheng let out a held breath almost at the same moment.
Three seconds later, the trembling started again.
9
Scott ducked out of the taxi, pulled the zipper on his North Face waterproof jacket all the way up, and tugged down the brim of his hat to hide his attention-grabbing Caucasian face. He quickly strode onto the early morning wharf, avoided the vendors hawking the daily catch and their accompanying fishy stench, and searched for something among the dense, shuttling schools of fishing boats and sampans.
He located his target in a moment: an old speedboat that had just docked to unload. The boat’s paint was patchy, revealing mottled rust, like the body of some aging great white that had survived numerous fights. The boatman was shouting at the longshoremen in topolect, and the empty hull was riding high in the water, swaying gently in the surf over the trash-strewn surface.
Scott jumped onto the ship, thudding against the deck. The boatman stared at him angrily; but just as he was about to let Scott have a piece of his mind, he choked back his curses at the sight of the bundle of cash thrust under his nose.
“Do you have enough fuel?” Scott asked in his broken Mandarin. He had to repeat himself a few times before the boatman got used to his strange accent.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Out to the sea. Just roam about a bit.” Scott put on a carefree expression. He looked around casually; no one was paying attention to them.
“I can’t go too far. I’ve got to get home for breakfast.” The boatman turned on the engine, and the deafening roar was accompanied by torrents of white foam thrown up at the stern.
The speedboat left the busy harbor and headed for the open sea, dragging behind it a fading white trail.
The temperature, which had been close to forty degrees Celsius a few days ago, had dropped precipitously due to the tropical squall. Carried on the cold sea breeze, droplets struck Scott’s bared face and it was hard to tell whether they were from the rain or sea spray. Looking at the GPS on his phone, Scott struggled to direct the boatman to adjust his course with gestures. Land had disappeared from the view, and only occasional reef islands stuck out of the ocean like dog’s teeth.
“Any farther and we won’t have enough fuel to get back.” The boatman seemed to regret his decision. He slowed down the boat, tense and alert against the foreigner at his back.
“Over there.” Scott glanced down at the map on the phone and pointed to the empty sea before them. The boatman muttered something in the local topolect and reluctantly guided the boat over.
“No more.” The engine noise ebbed and then shut off. The boat glided forward a bit under its momentum and then heaved up and down between the sky and the sea.
The boatman stared at Scott with a guarded expression, as if ready to pick up the crowbar on the deck at any moment, even though the foreigner was at least a head taller.
Scott grinned at him. He patted his pockets but couldn’t find any cigarettes to offer as a friendly gesture. He shrugged and spread his hands, hoping to calm the man. It’s time. He squinted and surveyed the sea, but the surface remained awkwardly empty.
The boatman with the rough, dark skin seemed to have reached the end of his patience—at any moment now he was going to chase Scott off the boat with the iron bar and head back for the safety of the har bor. The soft sound of another engine came from behind them: a light double-decked passenger and cargo diesel boat was coming at them from a distance, its waterline painted an outdated green. They couldn’t see anyone on board.
Scott grinned at the boatman again to demonstrate his trustworthiness.
The diesel boat stopped next to the speedboat, and the surging wake made the deck under their feet sway more violently. The side of the cabin slid open and a Southeast Asian face appeared. “Mr. Scott Brandle?” he asked in heavily accented English.
“That’s me.” Scott held out his hand, hoping for a handshake or, better yet, being pulled over to the bigger boat.
He got handed a satellite phone instead.
“I don’t understand.” Annoyance showed on Scott’s face. “Where’s your boss?”
“Phone.” The man illustrated his answer with a mimed gesture.
“I don’t think so.” Scott forced a smile. “This is not how you do business in good faith. I have to see your boss, do you understand? Otherwise, the deal is off!”
“Phone.” The man smiled back. “You … look … she.”
The space shuttle-shaped satellite phone rang in Scott’s hand, a rather unusual series of Jamaican-style electronic beeps. Only now did Scott realize that he was holding a video phone. Helpless, he looked around, took a deep breath, and pressed the Accept key.
“I do apologize for meeting you under such circumstances. This is the only method that would guarantee security, both yours and mine. The commercial satellite channel is heavily encrypted, and my boat has the equipment to produce interference waves—anyone trying to listen in or record will only get white noise.”
On the screen appeared an Asian woman about thirty-five years of age. She spoke in fluent British-accented English and her hairstyle was short, efficient, complementing her copper-toned skin. She seemed used to such meetings: her expression was confident, calm, and she held Scott’s gaze steadily.
“I’m very happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Scott Brandle.” The woman inclined her head in a respectful greeting suggestive of a Japanese geisha. “I’m Sug-Yi Chiu Ho, commander-in-chief for this operation.”
Scott nodded. He got right to the point. “Ms. Chiu Ho, a man under your command tried to steal confidential business information from my computer. Was that pursuant to your orders?”
Surprise flitted across Sug-Yi’s face, but she quickly adjusted and answered without guile: “Indeed. I take full responsibility for that. However, I’d like to ask you to reserve judgment until you’ve heard the whole story.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Two months ago, we—that is, Coltsfoot Blossom—received an internal intelligence report that cargo containers from New Jersey bound for Silicon Isle by way of Kwai Tsing were adulterated with prosthesis waste infected with highly dangerous viruses, believed to be part of SBT’s spring recycling program. Through the IoT RFID tags, we tracked the movement of the containers, hoping to intercept the shipment before the ship entered the wharves at Kwai Tsing and reveal the truth to the world.
“However, due to an accident, we were forced to break off the operation. Long Prosperity’s cargo, after unloading, was distributed to various locations in the Chinese interior, and we could no longer track them. However, we have reason to believe that the virus-infected waste is in Silicon Isle right now.
“You, Mr. Brandle, are our reason.”
Scott raised his eyebrows and gave no immediate reaction. The young man in the interrogation room had been clear that Coltsfoot Blossom had somehow managed to figure out his real identity. “Scott Brandle” was nothing more than one of his many pseudonyms. His profession was often given the sensational moniker of “economic hit man.” He didn’t care much for the media’s scaremongering and exaggerations, but he couldn’t deny that killing was often a professional necessity.
Salvation requires sacrifices—always has.
He had convinced himself with this article of faith. He played the roles of energy expert, high-level financial analyst, environmental re searcher, or infrastructure engineer, and, employed by giant chaebols or famous multinational conglomerates, he wandered the vast interiors of third-world countries like a hungry hunter. From the rain forests of the Amazon to the prairies of Mozambique, from the hellish slums of southern India to the resource-abundant waters of Southeast Asia, he and men like him painted lovely futu
res for local governments: double-digit economic growth and numerous jobs plus what the governments cared about the most—social stability. They brought the local populations industrial parks, power plants, clean water, and airports, bought their trust with pretenses, until they crowded into the factories and began to slave away like robots stuck with repetitive, mechanical tasks, toiling long hours in exchange for wages lower than what their parents had been able to earn.
It’s how the world functions. Scott recalled the truth spoken by that young man, his hand cuffed to the chair in the interrogation room.
Economic hit men tossed out sweet lures like advanced technology, easy credit, and favorable purchasing terms, and, in the name of “progress” and “joint development,” enticed the local governments to sign agreements that required them to construct massive engineering projects, take up heavy debt, and then offer up precious, irreplaceable resources like oil fields, minerals, and the genes of endangered animals.
The hit men walked away with their fee, the officials counted their bribes, and the people were left with the job of paying off the debt, as well as a polluted and ruined homeland.
“I fail to see the connection,” Scott said innocently.
“Perhaps you should consider a change in career to acting.” Sug-Yi gave a kind a smile meant to disarm. “Scott—may I call you Scott?—among the shareholders of both TerraGreen Recycling and SBT, there is an institution called the Arashio Foundation, of which no public information is available.”
Scott said nothing.
“It is also a shareholder of all your previous employers.” Sug-Yi tossed out this tidbit carelessly. A bargaining chip.
“Is this an attempt at blackmail?” Scott couldn’t help himself.
“Consider this an offer to help you wash away the blood on your hands.”
“Thanks, but I prefer soap.”
“Scott, this is your last chance. Silicon Isle might turn into a second Ahmedabad: do you really want to see such a tragedy repeated?”