The Snakeheads

by Mary Moylum

  In 1994, Sun’s investor immigrant application had been approved by the embassy in Hong Kong. That would have been Keiler. Nick consulted the computer records: Keiler’s visa officers had approved the applications and visas of 2,609 people that year.

  Sun had travelled in a circuit from Hong Kong to Taipei, Jakarta, and Moscow and back to Hong Kong. Taipei and Jakarta Nick could understand. But what the hell was he doing in Moscow? Was there a Communist link in this? His itinerary was a good question to put to him in the hearing room. From the Russian border stamps, he noted that Sun had been in the country for a total of twenty-eight days in 1995. A long stay for a man travelling on business. Most businessmen are in such a time crunch, they’re in and out without having seen anything of the country they’re in. But what kind of business would have taken him to Moscow? People smuggling? Drug smuggling? Looking for sex workers?

  He went back and forth on several of the pages, studying the dates and entry stamps. The border stamps told him that Sun left Hong Kong on February 12, 1994, but didn’t arrive in Canada until April 4. He stopped in London for several days, and flew to Peru. Why? He stayed in Lima for almost two weeks, then it was Argentina and Chile, no more than three days in each locale. Afterwards, he flew to Panama.

  He turned the pages. In 1995 and 1996, after he had received landed immigrant status, he flew back to Latin America. Mexico, Argentina, Columbia and Panama again. Once to Costa Rica and Venezuela. Why? The only reason Nick could think of was that Sun was buying visas and passports from those countries. It was a common enough practice among people smugglers.

  Nick counted all the trips. Sun had even taken a trip to the Congo. And had been back in China several times. That information certainly affected his asylum claim. He claimed he had trouble with the Chinese authorities, but if that was the case, why go back to China? And five times at that.

  He set the passport down and took a breather, grabbing a pop from the machine in the basement cafeteria. On his way back up to his office, he guzzled down half the can and thought about Sun’s passport. How much time had Sun actually spent in Canada? Then, as the elevator rose slowly, with its usual ominous wheezes, it hit him. Of course it would be in the fucking dates and places! He ran back to his office, grabbed his notes and did some quick mental arithmetic, then banged his fist on the desktop in triumph. This might be a strategy to defeat Sun’s asylum claim. The evidence had been staring at him in the face all the time. According to the residency requirements of the Citizenship Act, an applicant must have spent at least three years in Canada before applying for citizenship in the fourth year. According to Sun’s passport, he had spent a mere total of 136 days in the country during the three-year period. In his department, an appellant could be turned down for citizenship on the ground that he had failed to meet the country’s residency requirement. But Sun had to apply in order to be turned down. However, the evidence of his non-residence could affect his asylum claim, as a man seeking Canada’s protection. Nick’s momentary elation was fading. But at this juncture, anything was worth a try.

  He looked at his watch. It was Monday in Hong Kong. He dialled the embassy in Hong Kong and left a message for Jon Keiler.

  “Jon, call me ASAP when you get in tomorrow. Need you to run a couple of checks. Also, got your package of docs, but where is the security certificate on Sun? Need to know what level of security checks you conducted on applicants fleeing the colony right up to the Communist handover. Reason I’m asking is, the applicant has more than a whiff of triad activity attached to his name. Does the Flying Dragons triad set off any alarm bells? What about people smuggling activities?”

  He didn’t want to accuse Keiler of not doing his job. But in the past twelve months, his officers had come across a large number of applicants who had been approved at overseas missions but had failed to pass security checks. And that raised one big fat question mark.

  On his way out, he left instructions for Rocco to pull up entry and exit dates for the dead snakeheads, Gee Tung and Shaupan Chau. He was looking for a match or link to Sun’s travel itinerary. It might help to prove membership in a criminal organization such as the Flying Dragons.

  He called Kappolis before shutting off the lights. After bailing out of his office, he grabbed the eastbound subway for the Danforth, where the detective lived.

  The Danforth was once home to a large enclave of Greek immigrants. Over the years it had changed to something resembling Yuppieville though the Crete Café was still a male hangout of retired Greek freedom fighters escaping their stay-at-home wives. The place was usually smoky and packed. But they always managed to find a table for Nick, thanks largely to his acquaintanceship with Kappolis’s father, who now lived on memories and his veteran’s pension.

  Nick walked through the dining room to the pool hall at the back. Kappolis was already having a game with several regulars, who were knocking back ouzo and retsina. Nick joined in.

  “Called you on the weekend. Where were ya?”

  “In Montreal. Checking up on Li Mann’s landlord.”

  The detective threw him a quizzical look. “Since when does the boss leave town for two days to do legwork?”

  “I killed two birds with one stone. Had a date.”

  “Ahh. Now the truth comes out,” the detective smiled knowingly. “With who?”

  “Old girlfriend. Grace. Remember her?”

  “Ahh, shit, man!”

  Kappolis was not a fan of lawyers and judges, but now was the time to come clean.

  “I’m seeing her again.”

  “Shit, Nick!” Kappolis said again, and pointed at the balls and the old geezers grinning at him across the pool table. “See what you made me do? You made me lose!” he tossed Nick a stick. “Play.”

  As he cued up the balls, Nick said, “You think I’m consorting with the enemy.”

  “What do you see in her? Apart from good sex.”

  The last thing Nick wanted was to choose between a woman and an old chum. Changing the subject, he said, “I went through Sun’s file. We know he was born in China and he was never given British citizenship in Hong Kong. At least there’s no record of it that I can find.”

  “I thought that Patten, when he was governor of Hong Kong, made British citizens of the créme de la créme of Hong Kong society. Maybe you can’t find it because the government records are a mess. They’re disorganized, chaotic, they lose information, misplace it, misfile it — you name it! It’s the same all over. Down at Metro Division, we even lose things in the evidence room. Bulky computer equipment. Can ya believe it?”

  Nick eyed his friend. “I’m not sure if he was made a British citizen or not. What I’m saying is, if Sun lost his asylum case and he had British citizenship, then we could either deport him back to Britain or Hong Kong. Right now, I have two files of Chinese criminals in Vancouver detention that China is refusing to accept. China says their jails are bursting with their own criminals. They don’t need any more.”

  “You’re in a fine fix, my friend.”

  “You know what?” said Nick, cueing up his balls. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it. All I’m doing right now is building a case to make sure Sun loses his asylum claim.”

  “Attaboy, Nick! Now play.”

  chapter twenty

  Grace had a late breakfast. The view from her kitchen windows was a dark, overcast sky. Remembering what Wa Sing had told her about Sun Sui, she dragged her feet in picking up the file. He was abusing the system, pulling out all the stops to keep from getting deported. That made her angry. She procrastinated as long as she could, cleaning her kitchen and doing laundry. Finally, she sat at the dining room table and began to read Sun Sui’s narrative:

  I was born into a family of land-owners. In the 1950s all of my grandparents’ land was confiscated by the Communists. In the 1960s, during the Cultural Revolution, my parents were accused of being Rightists, and were subsequently persecuted by the Communists. They were sentenced to life in a labour camp.


  In 1986, I enrolled in the engineering program at Beijing University. There, I came to know another world. The world of democracy. To satisfy my curiosity, I joined the Beijing Universities’ Student Movement. On June 4, 1989, I participated in the democracy demonstrations. I was arrested and held for several months and accused of sedition against the government. After my release, the Public Security Bureau regularly dropped by my house to harass and remind me that they were monitoring my democracy activities.

  I wanted a son badly. In 1990, my wife became pregnant again. My son was born in December of that year. In January 1991, the PSB discovered that I had two children, and arrested me for violating China’s one-child policy. I was found guilty and fined 100,000 yuan. On the day of sentencing, the court official said the state had just found out who my parents were. Given their political backgrounds, the state wanted to make an example out of me for my democracy activities and breaking the one-child law. Instead of being fined or doing time, I was to be executed for my crimes. I was then handcuffed and jailed.

  A week later, in my incarceration, I was taken down to the jail administration office. Outside the office I was very surprised to see Captain Lei, the administration deputy. I knew him: our fathers were friends. He told me that the order for my execution had been signed. Captain Lei suggested to me that I should ask to have my execution take place in Ningxia instead of Beijing. I didn’t ask why because I knew he was trying to help me. Besides, there were soldiers in the room. Captain Lei said that the transfer would have to be done by proper procedures and that this would cost me money.

  Later that day I was escorted by a guard to an interview room with a telephone. Captain Lei told the guard to wait outside. The transfer to Ningxia had been arranged, but someone else would have to be involved and bought off. Lei arranged on the phone with my father to pay two million yuan for my prison transfer. That night, he came to my cell and told me that I would travel by bus, under armed guard, at the end of the week. He reminded me that I was facing execution. I took this to be his indirect way of telling me that if I tried anything en route I had nothing to lose, as I was going to die anyway.

  The next day, Jiang and my children came to visit me. I told her about my execution and prison transfer. I explained to her that I would be travelling by bus to Ningxia. Since Jiang didn’t know how to drive, I asked her to find a driver, preferably a total stranger who could accompany her on this trip. Together, they were to follow the bus.

  Grace wondered, who exactly were his parents? What had they done? Or hadn’t done? She poured herself another cup of coffee and wondered about the extent of the truthfulness of his narrative. This coincidence or stroke of luck in running into Captain Lei, was it plausible? And what exactly was the nature of the relationship between Captain Lei and his father? Two men who appear to be on the opposite ends of the politically correct spectrum. Under what circumstances had they met? And why would Captain Lei risk jail or execution to help a man facing execution?

  The story didn’t have the ring of truth. But that didn’t surprise her. From her years on the bench, she knew that every claimant embellished his story. The truth and lies were woven together. Over the years, she had dealt with too many champion liars in the witness box.

  She continued reading:

  On the day of my transfer, I was accompanied by two armed Revolutionary Guards. I was handcuffed to one of them. As we left the prison, I saw Jiang standing next to a car with the driver she had hired.

  On the way to Ningxia, I made a point of being well-behaved during the six and a half hour trip, I kept thinking, how was I going to overpower two armed guards and make a run for it? When we stopped at a roadside restaurant for dinner, I asked the guard I was handcuffed to if I could use the washroom. He accompanied me into the washroom and removed my handcuffs so I could use the stall. When I closed the door behind me, I immediately saw my escape route. Above the toilet tank was a broken window covered over with a piece of plastic. I tore the plastic, opened the window and climbed through it. Then I ran around the side of the restaurant. Jiang and the driver were parked at the far end of the parking lot. I raced towards them, climbed into the car, and we drove off.

  I don’t know whether the Revolutionary Guard purposely allowed me to escape or not. Possibly, Captain Lei had instructed these men to be lax in guarding me. Again, I don’t know. Nor did I ask Jiang where she found the driver. However, he was astute enough to put the car in the opposite direction from Ningxia, using a different route than the one taken by the bus. We drove to a town called Xiam, approximately two and half hours away from the restaurant.

  At Xiam, I asked Jiang to return to Beijing. She left me a bag containing money and clothes. I then asked the driver to go to Henan, where I hid in the house of my third cousin.

  I learned through Jiang on the phone, shortly after her return to Beijing, that the Revolutionary Guards and the District Public Security were making numerous visits to my parents’ house to interrogate them about my escape. Later they arrested my father at his workplace. However, they couldn’t break him because he had no idea where I was hiding. Only Jiang knew, but for some reason, she was never questioned about my escape. Maybe the PSB took pity on her as a single mother with two children. I knew she kept a very low profile, rarely going out, spending most of her time in the home of her parents, and looking after our children. A year later she moved to Fujian and stayed in her brother’s house.

  I lived in Henan without incident for several months. The driver who had assisted my escape stayed with me in Henan. It was he who found a fisherman who took us to Hong Kong in his boat.

  Grace snorted as she put the file down. Was his claim of persecution pure fabrication? Or was he a master of weaving the truth with the lies? Too many thorny questions were raised. Like how had Sun’s family gotten their hands on two million yuan so quickly? Then there was the relationship with the driver who assisted in his escape. What happened to him? Why had he jeopardized his safety to help a complete stranger? And how had Jiang found him? Want ads? Word of mouth? Sun said his wife was never questioned or targeted by the PSB, though his aging parents were. In the hearing room, she would have to tear it apart, lie by lie. As for the dozen or so affidavits attesting to Sun’s moral character and sharp business acumen, that was pure bullshit, in her opinion.

  She didn’t want to burn up any more energy thinking about his case. After all, the burden of proof rested squarely on his doorstep. Sun would have to support his narrative with documentary or other proof. Grace stared at the bankers’ boxes sitting on her dining room floor. Sun’s hearing was one huge paper chase: affidavits, letters, financial statements, government documents from Nick’s office, police reports and court records of his deportation hearing. The total ran over 15,000 pages.

  If his entire claim was fraudulent, then this was his strategy. He was burying them in paper.

  Enough of that nonsense.

  She slipped into her running shoes and went for a three-kilometre run. On her return, she showered and made a jug of sangria to quench her thirst. Through her kitchen windows, the sky was clearing, and the sun was filtering through the leaves in brilliant shafts of light. Glass in hand, she sat down on the deck and began to read from where she left off.

  An hour later, she couldn’t take it anymore. She stood up and stretched her legs. “Where does the truth end and the lies begin?” she screamed.

  Assuming that the story of political persecution was true, then he fled China like a common criminal, arrived in Hong Kong with nothing but the shirt on his back, but somehow he managed to start a nightclub. Where the hell did he get the money to do that? Did he borrow it? Did he obtain it through criminal activities? Or was he merely in the right place at the right time? And if he made his money honestly as all those affidavits seem to attest, then the puzzle was, why would he throw it all away by becoming involved in the Flying Dragons triad and people smuggling activities? Good questions to put to him in his hearing.

 
Pouring another glass of sangria, she composed her thoughts. Even if she were to give him the benefit of the doubt, the claimant’s background wasn’t all that dissimilar from her mother’s. Surely he would share some of her mother’s cultural neuroses. One’s good name should never be tarnished. Reputation was all-important. When you had millions, why take the risk of chasing after a few more million through crime? Simple greed? She shook her head. His narrative was pure fiction. Like one of his movie scripts. Maybe it was a movie script he had adapted for his refugee claim.

  Still, she had no choice but to go through the charade of hearing his claim. Sitting in her dining room, she switched on her laptop and created a file, then spent the next hour banging out notes to herself and all the questions from his claim that jumped out at her. When the battery died, she called it quits and grabbed a late lunch of Digby smoke herring and crackers.

  Wanting to finish the job, she drove into work. It was ten to three. She noted that her secretary had already left for the day. In fact, half the office was empty. So much for manning the borders. Sitting at her desk, she logged on and tapped into several databases where she cross-referenced historic dates and places with Sun’s narrative. As she reviewed some of the documentary evidence, she had to admit that some of it paralleled the history of her own family. In the early 1940s, her mother’s relatives had known that their country was going to fall into the hands of the Communists. Her great-uncles and aunts had even bought air tickets out of the country. At the last minute, her grandfather had cashed in his plane ticket and decided to stay. According to her mother, her grandfather’s reasoning had been, they had survived Nanking and the evils of the Japanese occupation. How could his own people, even if they were Communists, be worse than the Japs? But when the Communists marched in, he was immediately arrested, along with his wife, his daughter, Kim, and scores of relatives. They were all sentenced to life in labour camps.