Fire And Ice

by Paul Garrison

  "The great changes have taken place in Shanghai," said William Sit as the taxi left the shabby dockyards behind and crossed Suzhou Creek. The rain had lifted again, and from the arching bridge they could see in every direction hundreds of office towers under construction—steel and concrete girders soaring inside cocoons of bamboo scaffolding—and hundreds more completed buildings standing dark. He searched the piers for the Dallas Belle, but saw only passenger liners and excursion boats.

  "Shanghai is not the same as the old Shanghai, but perhaps soon we will overtake Hong Kong."

  Stone had heard that talk around the Pacific for years. Only first they'd have to wire the city for modern communications; improve the port by inventing some way to deepen the mouth of the Huangpu so ships wouldn't have to offload half their cargo at sea; permit a freely convertible currency; establish a legal system to solve business disputes; and eliminate the grim, damp winters.

  "The traffic has been being improved," said William Sit. And in the park beside the river, he told Stone, he could watch tai chi at dawn. Stone had already spotted a landing where the boat could pick him up.

  The Peace Hotel, a huge old structure, lowered over the park and the river. Faded grandeur—gloomy coffered ceilings, dark woodwork, and shoddy new partitions—was enlivened by a clientele of Hong Kong salesmen on the make.

  Check-in went smoothly. An English-speaking assistant manager plucked Stone from the line and registered him personally. Again, it felt too easy, and he worried about the ultimate price.

  Somewhere between Hong Kong and Shanghai he had begun a transition from fugitive sailor to the city man he had been for the many years he and Katherine had lived in New York. Taking stock of the hotel lobby, he realized he almost felt comfortable. It seemed that the ground had stopped rolling underfoot, and his senses had refocused on a more human, warier scale than sailing alone with his wife and daughter required.

  "One message, sir. Shall I translate?"

  William Sit, who had hovered so deferentially, snatched the paper from the assistant manager's hand. "I will translate. . . . You are invited to breakfast at Huxingting Teahouse." He puffed with pride. "Dim sum. Mr. Wang will drive us."

  "Who invited me?"

  "Mr. Yu. Consultant to Fuxing Islet container terminal.

  Mr. Yu would know many sites for your marina." "I don't have time. I have to get to the boat." "This message says boat not ready."

  Stone's jaw tightened. Less invitation than command. "Okay, let's go."

  "You no want see room?" asked the manager.

  "Later." Stone picked up his backpack and headed for the street. William Sit scampered after him. Stone asked, "Is Mr. Yu a Triad?"

  William Sit's mouth dropped. He laughed, covering his lips. "Why ask such a question?"

  "Where I come from, waterfront 'consultants' are gangsters."

  Sit gave Mr. Wang their destination and climbed in beside Stone, clearly upset.

  Stone asked him, "How'd you get the job translating for me?"

  "Friend of wife's cousin," Sit answered, his English suddenly clumsy. There was an elegance about him which suggested he came from an educated family that would have suffered terribly during Liberation, Great Leaps, and Mao's Cultural Revolution. Now, in boom times, a teacher hard-pressed by inflation would seize any opportunity for extra income.

  Wang drove them up the Bund and stopped in the narrow streets of the Old Town. They walked to the Yu Garden. Just inside the gate, Sit led Stone across a pool on a zigzagged bridge into a two-story wooden teahouse with dragon-decorated roofs. The tables were crowded with older Chinese and a sprinkling of Western tourists.

  Middle-aged waitresses carried trays of dim sum around the restaurant.

  "Your President Richard Nixon drink tea here," said William Sit.

  "Terrific. Is that Mr. Yu?"

  At a window table by the pool sat a beefy Shanghainese in a business suit. He had the hard eyes and battered face of a man who won street fights, and was pretty much what Stone had expected: an Asian version of a bad-tempered Irish or Italian mobster on the Brooklyn waterfront. His companion, seated with his flashily draped back to the door, jumped up and crossed the room, hand extended.

  "Welcome to Shanghai, sailorman."

  "Who's your pal, Ronald?"

  "My new 'old friend' Mr. Yu. Mr. Yu no speak English. I no speak Wu. William Sit translate."

  Stone did not believe for one minute that a "consultant" to as rich a source of bribes and kickbacks as the Fuxing Islet container terminal did not speak the universal tongue of international shipping. "Let me tell you something, Ronald. That guy speaks English as good as you or me. Why don't we talk face-to-face and save a little time?"

  Ronald flashed a look at William Sit, and the translator backed out of hearing. The Triad spoke softly. "Sailorman, we on land, now. On land, we no say every little thing we know. Maybe, you, me, we get leg up on Mr. Yu."

  "Sorry. Okay."

  "Shanghai his town. He think he pull wool on stupid Hongkonger and dumb-ass barbarian. Let him."

  "I got it."

  They sat with Mr. Yu, who waded impatiently through the introductions, then spoke at length.

  William Sit translated: "Mr. Yu welcomes you to Shanghai and wishes you lucky in your quest to locate a yachtsman marina. He is sure that Shanghai offers many such places and that you will be overwhelmed in choosing the best. He has suggestions, which he has conveyed to your boatman, and letters of introduction to show the patrols . . . "

  Tea was poured and baskets of translucent dumplings spread on the table.

  Yu picked up chopsticks, snared a dumpling, and spoke again.

  "Mr. Yu further says that the Fuxing container terminal, while unable to offer river frontage for a yachtsman marina, would be pleased to invest in such an enterprise—"

  Mr. Yu stirred, ominously.

  William Sit faltered. "Perhaps, I. use the wrong word. By invest, I mean Fuxing would make proper introductions for land your company could rent."

  "Words confusing," Ronald said affably.

  Stone cut in, "Tell Mr. Yu he's too kind, and that the sooner I board the boat he has so kindly arranged, the sooner I can bring him a profitable deal. Tell him I thank him for his letters, his boat, and this delicious breakfast, and now it's time to go to work."

  William Sit translated. Yu grunted.

  Stone started to rise. "Could you ask Mr. Yu one more thing?"

  "Yes?"

  "Tell him it is obvious he is an expert with deep knowledge of the port of Shanghai.

  Could he tell me which of the electric power plants burn natural gas?"

  Sit asked. Yu growled in reply.

  "There are none."

  "None?" What the hell . . . "Are you sure he said none?"

  "He said they don't allow such dangerous storage facilities in the port itself."

  "None?" Stone echoed, stunned. •

  Ronald leaned in with an ingratiating smile. "Please could you explain to Mr. Wu that we are very ignorant of Shanghai and could there be such a power plant nearby?"

  William Sit's elegant features gathered in a grimace that suggested he would rather not question the consultant too closely, and he asked Ronald, "What does gas have to do with marinas?"

  Stone saw that Ronald was caught off guard by the translator's unexpected temerity. He stepped in quickly,

  shrugging at Yu as he told William, "Ask him. All I know is the bankers want to know."

  Yu's answer was, "Electricity plants bum natural gas on the Hang-chou Bay. Thirty miles from here."

  "At Jianshan?" The Sailing Directions cited a tanker terminal there.

  "He say, Yes. Little north of terminal."

  Their good-byes were perfunctory, and moments later Stone and Ronald, trailed by Sit at a respectful distance, were zigzagging quickly across the reflecting pool. "Nice go, sailorman. You fast read."

  "What happens when new 'old friend' Yu figures out this whole scam is cover to find
the gas ship?"

  "What scam? Cover super idea."

  "You want to build a marina?"

  "With foreign money on state land? You bet, sailorman. Beside, I get private place to load boats."

  "But the letterhead you printed for me is a fake." "No, no. Mr. Chang make it real company. East-West

  Yacht Marina, Ltd. Registered Hong Kong. You vice-

  president site procurer."

  "So you don't want the ship?"

  "I no say that. I want ship real bad. Bad as you. But thanks to cover story, I not so thin on Shanghai ground—That remind me, Katherine stay till you find ship. Bodyguard your back. Watch for Brit."

  "Here?"

  "I'm here. You here. Why not Brit?"

  "What do they want from me?"

  "Looks like they want your life, sailorman."

  "But why? All I want is Sarah and Ronnie."

  "Relax. Wang take you to boat."

  "I don't get it," said Stone. "What in hell are they up to?" But Ronald had already slid into the crowds converging on the Yu Garden gate and disappeared.

  William Sit caught up at the car.

  "Ask Mr. Wang for a map of the area around the city," Stone requested. When Wang obliged, Stone studied the large-scale map and pointed to a road that ran along the coast of Hang-chou Bay. "How long?"

  "One hour."

  "Fast as he can."

  Chinese newspapers had come aboard the ship, and when Sarah and Ronnie joined Mr.

  Jack for his late breakfast, they found the old man ranting about the Japanese. He rattled the paper and spread it over the plates. "Look at that."

  In among the long columns of characters was a photograph from the New China News Service of a warship flying the Japanese Rising Sun. "The sons of bitches are rearming.

  Just launched themselves a new helicopter carrier. So much for your 'most peaceable people on the planet,' Doc." He glared up at Sarah. "What do you suppose they need an attack carrier for?"

  "Aren't helicopters used primarily for rescue?"

  "Sure thing, Doc. Handy too for attacking the capital

  cities of their former colonies in southeast Asia." "That sounds a bit farfetched, Mr. Jack."

  "Then what do they need it for?"

  "I guess it's inevitable, with the United States Navy cutting back its presence."

  "Yellow bastards."

  Sarah touched the newspaper. "What," she asked, "do the Chinese say about it?"

  Mr. Jack gave her a look. "Yeah, I read Chinese—don't push, Doc. I warned you not to get out of line. That includes curiosity."

  Ronnie cringed beside her, frightened by his tone. Sarah apologized, trying to smooth it over. "I'm sorry. I was merely curious how the Chinese feel about it."

  Mr. Jack gave her another probing look. Then he said, "Says here the Japs' actions are, quote, 'provocative and threaten to unsettle the balance of power in Asia.' "

  He stood, walked painfully to the window, and picked up his walkie-talkie. "Captain, where the hell are those tugs?"

  The captain responded immediately. "Radar just picked them up out on the bay. They're heading this way, Mr. Jack."

  "Tell 'em to step on it. Cloud's breaking up. The sooner we're under cover the better."

  "Sir, you've got some more visitors just coming on the pier."

  "Send 'em up. Tell 'ern we're sailing, but they can get off on the pilot boat. And tell those tugs to get the lead out."

  Stone's taxi driver knew shortcuts out of the massively congested city. And as the Old Town was relatively near the western suburbs, they were, within twenty minutes of crossing the river, heading briskly through diked farmland which was lively with new construction despite the gray day and the muddy winter fields.

  "Rich peasants," explained William Sit. "Now farmers build their huts of brick." Wang gunned the taxi around what looked to Stone like old-fashioned three-wheeled Gravely lawn tractors pulling trailers heaped high with construction materials.

  Ahead, on a flat horizon broken by leafless trees standing like feathers on the dikes, he saw high-tension power lines. When they reached where the power lines crossed the road, Stone motioned for Wang to take the gravel road that ran beside the pylons.

  "No," said William Sit.

  "It'll run straight to the power plant."

  Wang and Sit both shook their heads, and the translator pointed at the large Chinese characters on a sign hanging from the nearest pylon.

  "Restricted area. It is not allowed."

  Wang spoke and Sit said, "Is safer on coast road."

  In another twenty minutes they attained the coast road and headed south beside a broad alluvial plain that spread to the indistinct shore of the bay. For the second time that day, Stone had the eerie impression of sailing on dry land. He was reminded of Holland on an enormous, bleak scale. Road traffic was sparse and the bay, though dotted with small craft, was devoid of ships.

  "There!" said Stone.

  Four immensely tall and remarkably narrow chimneys had materialized as a rain shower thinned to mist. Closer, and he could see the outline of a squat generator building and then to the left, on the water's edge, a tank farm

  sparkling like aluminum cookware in the thin light. He took out the binoculars he had liberated from Ronald's yacht and traced the piping that served the tanks to a pier that jutted far into the bay. The end of the pier was lost in a rain squall.

  Far ahead, the road dipped under a massive pipeline that carried fuel from the tanks to the power plant. When they were two hundred yards from the pipeline, the squall blew aside. The pier was empty.

  Stone told Wang to stop. The driver and the translator exchanged glances.

  "Stop, dammit!"

  He jumped out, focusing the glasses on the water beyond the pier. He felt drawn to the murky, indistinct middle distance and kept fine-tuning the superb glasses, trying to pierce it. His senses seemed unusually alive. He felt the cold damp wind and had a feeling of being watched. William Sit hurried up behind him, whispering, "Soldiers. On the pipe."

  There was a catwalk atop the pipeline and, on it, uniformed militia stared in their direction. "Not good," said Sit. "Not good. Thank you for coming. We go now."

  Stone lingered. He looked at the chimneys. Burning natural gas, the power plant emitted invisible smoke, visible only as heat waves dancing on the chimney tops. Why did he smell coal smoke?

  He shifted the glasses back to the water. A squarish shape, less a shape than a hint of presence, seemed to hang in the distance. A ship in a squall?

  Wang called urgently, and Sit's voice grew shrill as he pleaded, "We must go, sir."

  Wang did not wait for agreement. He shot the taxi ahead, and turned it around in the middle of the road, his gaze locked on the soldiers who had started down a stairway from the catwalk.

  The squalls merged, a mile offshore, obscuring behind a bank of hard, dark rain whatever it was that Stone had sensed was out there.

  "We go!"

  "Okay, okay. Tell Mr. Wang, back to Shanghai. To the boat."

  Wang gripped the wheel with both hands as they raced down the coast, then inland through the farms, weaving among bicycles and tractors, dodging pedestrians, trucks, pigs. William Sit cowered, hands folded in his lap, as if not daring to look up for fear they would be flagged down by the People's Liberation Army. Stone, who was urging Wang to go faster, doubted either man would work for him tomorrow.

  He tried to collect his own spirit. He couldn't afford to panic, couldn't lose focus wondering whether the Dallas Belle had come and gone; or if the crew was heading out to scuttle her, having sold her cargo; or if Sarah and Ronnie's lives had ended days ago.

  He had to search the port of Shanghai as if he were convinced that the Dallas Belle was moored to one of its many piers. Experience offshore had taught him that it was almost impossible to see what you didn't believe existed. A boat, even a ship, remained stubbornly invisible until the observer accepted the possibility it was there; an unexpected
landfall appeared with shocking suddenness.

  He looked at his watch. It was still early—a gift—just one o'clock. He took out his chart, spread it on the back-seat. "Ask Mr. Wang where the boat is."

  Sit asked, then turned around and, puzzling over the chart, finally pointed to a coal yard on the near bank of the river, two miles upstream from the Bund. The taxi was already within the suburbs, and he said, "We will arrive in twenty minutes."

  Wang made it in fifteen, through the gates of a vast, drab coal yard, steering between gray-black mountains of soft coal to the wharfs. Hundreds of sampans were tied to the offloading docks and, rafted to each other, jutted ten deep into the river. The coal was being unloaded from the sampans by shovel and primitive conveyor belts.

  Mr. Wang got out of the car with a brusque gesture to follow, ending any doubts that he worked for the Triad and had recruited his friend William Sit instead of the other way around. The schoolteacher lingered by the taxi.

  Stone reached to take William's arm, then remembered that the Chinese did not like to be touched by strangers.

  He said, "William, I'm very grateful for your help. I'd be lost without you."

  "No, no. My English is improved already. It is I who is helped."

  "I'm sure it was frightening, earlier, with the soldiers. I appreciate your sticking by me."

  William looked trapped, which is what Stone had intended, in case the poor guy was thinking of ducking out. Mr. Wang called impatiently.

  "Shall we?" asked Stone.

  William nodded, reluctantly, and they hurried after the driver. Wang led them along the wharf, past the unloading operation, to a slip where an empty coal sampan was tied. The crew, a middle-aged man and wife and three teenaged children, were sluicing coal dust from the deck with buckets of river water.

  Wang jumped down into the waist of the boat and gestured Stone and William aboard.

  Stone surveyed the sampan. It was about sixty feet long, with a squat wheelhouse aft and a capacious, open coal hold. Perfect: he much preferred concealment to using his letters of introduction. The grimy wooden boat looked identical to thousands plying the river, while the wheelhouse would hide a bearded American who was bound to draw the attention of the PLA navy boats patrolling the river.