She, like thousands of others, had been promised a better life, modern, with conveniences the tiny brick homes could never boast. The minds of the city planners had danced with grandiose visions of a transformed society. But like the ‘great leap forward’ of the sixties and seventies, their dreams had been truncated by the continued realities of over-crowding and corruption. Even the grand edifices they had envisioned for themselves had become rather unpretentious concrete buildings, crowded and dreary, like the so called ‘com-bloc’ apartment blocks in the Soviet Union, Eastern Europe and elsewhere.
There was, however, an unexpected blessing that had sprung from the sheer magnitude of the endeavor of relocating thousands upon thousands of people: the thread that bound them to the bureaucracy had in some cases been severed. Like the family memories buried by the bulldozers, many official personal histories had failed to survive the transformation intact. The bureaucracy had simply been overwhelmed by the size of a task compounded by wildly unrealistic time estimates.
Those entrusted with the continuity of the census, with maintaining the long tentacles of government, realized that it had become a futile endeavor. Unwilling to risk the penalties associated with failing to complete their work, they had simply adapted as best they could, fudging, even inventing when they had to. And, occasionally, deleting. So the official past of the petite lady who walked by the old brick houses each day, along with many others, had simply vanished.
She soon learned that there were certain advantages to this.
She had arrived home just after dark. After a simple meal of rice and vegetables in the stark enclosure that was her kitchen, she set out to visit a friend. While her past thread linked to the bureaucracy had terminated, the bureaucracy itself had certainly not. Whereas before there had been a person on each block whose job it was to keep an eye on the others, now on every floor of every apartment building in this great forest of almost identical buildings, one person, usually an older woman, had been selected to ‘help.’
These minders kept an eye on everyone. They knew when to expect the menstrual cycle of every young woman on their floor and were alert to make sure it was not skipped lest a prohibited child be born. They knew when their charges were ill and did not make it to their jobs. They were vigilant for the slightest vestige of an illicit romance. In short, they were most ‘helpful.’
But there are always ways to skirt a bureaucracy, provided that one is careful and alert. Getting caught was universally dreaded. Scarcely a resident in any of these buildings did not know at least a relative of someone who had made a careless mistake. The penalty could be quite severe, particularly in this city.
Ping smiled as she passed the open door of the one who watched, lest a frown or unhappy sigh elicit further attention. People smiled whenever they neared a minder; it was an old joke that a smile didn’t necessarily convey the happiness in your breast, only the heartbeat in your chest. The petite lady continued on her way to visit an old friend, one whose family had also lived in one of the crude brick houses about to be demolished. A elevator with peeling paint lowered her to a cheerless lobby where another minder sat watching who came and went.
Three buildings down, the process was reversed. When she reached the door of her friend, she knocked lightly. The door was opened by a smiling woman in her sixties. She motioned her visitor into the tiny apartment. Her husband raised his hand in greeting. He was seated on the couch watching a small television. He turned up the volume before they all sat down together over tea, the better to keep the conversation private. They spoke quietly for some time, reviewing what had transpired since they last met.
Then they asked about her news. She had already related to them a most unusual event. She told them more about the amazing development as they listened raptly. Finally, she reached into a carefully concealed pocket that she had sewn into her coat. Producing a neatly folded piece of tinfoil, she handed it to her friend’s husband. There was a certain solemnity as she held her hand forth, conveying not only the importance of the object but, more subtly, the danger.
The conspiracy the three shared was not to be taken lightly. They and the others involved knew that discovery surely meant death and in this city, death held a special dread. Her friend’s husband said that he would be sure that it reached the person who knew what to do and how to do it. They chatted for some time. It was getting late by the time she left.
On the way back to her apartment, she felt happier than she could remember. Perhaps now at last she could avenge the wrong that had broken her heart forever. Again she passed the open door of her minder. The one who watches didn’t bother to look up. All she noticed were the familiar pink canvas shoes padding quietly by.
******
When she reached her apartment, Ping fixed tea and sat in her kitchen thinking over what had just happened. The young American woman was now aware that there exists a group that is trying to help her. That knowledge constitutes a danger to the group. Her mental fabric has been stretched to the limit since her abduction. She had experienced the depths of despair. Now Ping had given her hope. The look on her face mirrored that. But if in her exhilaration at the prospect of being rescued, she were to let something slip, if the change in her emotions were to become too obvious, if that change were to be noticed, she could jeopardize everyone.
Ping sat contemplating her next move. This was about far more than a single American woman, it was about the struggle to bring true freedom to China. The plan was not only to rescue the American, it was to use her. The group intended that her story ignite outrage, both in China and abroad, outrage that it was hoped would bring about change. Ping decided that it was time to place another note in the sink. She went to the closet and pulled a small, tattered suitcase off the upper shelf. In it was a well worn school book of English studies. It had belonged to her only child, a son she would never see again. With its help, she carefully penned another note:
Dear Friend,
We want help you escape. You must help us. Do not show your feelings. You must look blank like you have no hope. There are eyes everywhere.
Be calm and still and we will come for you when we are ready.
She sat thinking for several minutes, debating whether or not to pen the next line. Finally she decided that what it would reveal would give her hope, and hope would strengthen her for what was to come.
The one you love is alive too, and will join you.
36
The commentator from one of the few news organizations not pandering shamelessly to the administration posed the first question of the interview:
“Senator, do you have any idea who may have been responsible for the tragic murder of your housekeeper?”
“Bill, I can’t stand here today and give you a name, but two facts might lead one to investigate further: One, I had just exposed the unprovoked sinking by China of a Philippine ship. Two, I have openly and frequently opposed the unprecedented expansion of government that is bankrupting this county.”
“Senator, are you implying that either Beijing or the Democrats may be involved?”
“No I am not,” replied Baines. “I merely stated that certain events would provide obvious avenues for further exploration. It would be premature to draw any conclusions or make any allegations whatsoever this early in the investigation.”
“Beijing has loudly and vehemently denied the accusation that one of their submarines sank the Philippine vessel, even going so far as to demand your censure by the Senate. Do you have any comment on that?”
“The guilty cry loudest.”
“How reliable is the information that you have regarding the sinking?” asked the commentator.
“Bill, I am not in the habit of spreading scurrilous allegations. I would not have stood before the American people on the basis of mere rumor.”
“Senator, you have often pointed to a connection between continued borrowing from China to fund the expansion and a quid pro quo on the part of this administration. Do y
ou have any facts to back that up?”
“The fact of this administration’s silence regarding China’s claim of sovereignty over 1.4 million miles of ocean, under which lie enormous reserves of oil and gas speaks loudly. Furthermore, the claim that waters more than twelve hundred miles from China’s coast somehow belong to the People’s Republic is one of the most preposterous things I have ever heard. Yet this administration cowers meekly, hoping to not be cut off from the investments they so desperately need in their quest to turn our nation into the largest debtor nation of all time.”
“Those are powerful words,” Senator.
“Truth is always the most powerful weapon against deceit and lies,” replied Baines.
“Senator, I have to ask you about the woman whom it has been said narrowly escaped death in your home on the day the housekeeper was murdered. Can you tell who she is?”
“At this time, for her protection, I would prefer not to reveal any more about the circumstances of that day.”
“You realize, of course, that some are saying that the murder was the result of a love triangle involving you and the woman. Other stories have alleged that she is a high-priced call girl.”
“I can tell you in complete truth, I have never had an intimate relationship with the woman, and I assure you I am not playing on words like a certain recent president. Bill, in my own preliminary investigation into the circumstances surrounding the murder, I have come into possession of some fascinating evidence. I hope to soon have compelling proof to back it up, but until that time, I will not be revealing any further details,” said the senator.
“That sounds like you’re tantalizing us, Senator,” said the commentator.
“Tantalizing implies something appealing, like a delicious meal, Bill. I can assure you that there was nothing tantalizing about the circumstances of the death of my housekeeper. If my suspicions are confirmed by the facts, one of the most despicable acts in this nation’s history will be revealed to the American people.”
As the big Lincoln crawled through traffic on the way back from the interview, Baines knew that he had just thrown fuel onto the fire. But he had not acted randomly; he had chosen his words very carefully, hoping to hold the administration’s feet to the fire and smoke out whoever had murdered his housekeeper.
He was also well aware that pointing out what China was trying to get away with would further inflame many Americans who rightly view China as no friend of America. Exposing the administration’s secret deals was the most powerful weapon he had in his fight to return his country to the people to whom it rightfully belongs. He also knew that he had just upped the stakes in the biggest gamble of his life. He would have to remain alert for the administration’s or China’s next move. His arm rested comfortably on the console where his Sig-Sauer lay.
He activated the car phone and dialed Clifford Storm’s number. There was no answer. He had expected to have heard from his old friend by now.
37
Brewer had called Rawles three times already. It wasn’t that he was looking forward to talking to him, he didn’t have much choice. Shumer had been leaning on him to see if they could still make the video thing work. Rawles said it was just a glitch and the broad had hit it off with the senator. So it seemed reasonable to think that she might still be able to get the job done.
But after the third call and not even an answering machine, Brewer decided to drive over to Rawles house. He lived in Argyle, which was a thirty-five minute drive if it wasn’t rush hour, so he had plenty of time to think. Several reporters had asked Baines about the broad, and it sounded like he was covering for her. That was good; it made it more likely that she had gotten close to him and would have another opportunity.
The thing that puzzled him, not to mention a few other people, was what had happened at the senator’s house. Who the hell had blown away the cleaning lady away? And why? And where was the broad during all this? To hear the senator talk, it was like aunt Mabel or somebody just happened to be visiting at the time. Nothing made sense. If Shumer hadn’t been leaning on him so hard, he would have just left things alone. Something didn’t smell right.
He pulled up in front of Rawles house, a three bedroom brick rancher. It was a decent house. Brewer knew that ‘cause he’d paid for most of it. There was no car in the drive. He rang the bell three times. Then he walked over to the living room window and, shading his eyes with his hand, peered in. Nothing. He made his way around the entire house, looking in all the windows he could. Nobody. Then he remembered what Rawles had said before he stormed out. He was a hot head, but he’d never done anything like that before. He tried Rawles home phone; he could hear it ringing inside. Then the cell phone one more time, still no answer.
It was already pretty late when he got back downtown, so he’d decided to call it a day and head home. He called his wife from the expressway and told her he’d be home for dinner for a change. She prepared a nice meal and as they ate, she was telling him about a problem his son was having.
“Lanny, are you listening to me?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m listening,” he replied.
“It doesn’t look like it,” she said.
She continued, seamlessly moving from one part of her day to the next as he pretended to pay attention. He knew he was going to have to come up with something to tell Shumer, who didn’t want to hear any more excuses. The problem was that he didn’t even know who the broad was. He always tried to keep these projects at arms length, the better to deny if things turned south. Rawles knew the people who did the jobs, and he was MIA.
After dinner he went to his desk to firm up what he was going to tell Shumer. It was then that he noticed a small metallic disk sitting in the middle of his desk.
“Dear, do you know anything about this thing on my desk?” he called to his wife who was still cleaning up in the kitchen.
“What?” she said.
“This little round thing on my desk, did you put it here?”
“Lanny,” she said. “I knew you weren’t listening. I mentioned it at dinner and you didn’t even look up.”
“Sorry, dear, but I’m a little preoccupied. What is it anyway?”
“Well, if you had been listening you would know that it came from your jacket pocket. I found it when I was putting the dry cleaning together. I have no idea what it is.”
Brewer looked more closely. Then he opened his desk drawer and pulled out a magnifier.
“Shit!” he said so loudly that his wife scolded him for swearing for the millionth time. He picked up the phone.
“Stuart. Lanny. I need to see you,” he said quietly into the phone. “I need to see you now.”
“Christ, Lanny! It’s almost 9:00. You obviously know I’m at home. Can it wait till morning?” said Shumer.
“OK, but first thing,” replied Brewer.
3 8
He pitched his suitcase onto a bed whose cover was threadbare in places. His backpack landed on a desk of Formica and pressboard with chipped edges. The bathroom would make a sixties’ Holliday Inn look luxurious. The people he’d seen in the lobby appeared to be mostly Chinese and Indian businessmen whose expense accounts compelled them to stay in a hotel that went for around US$50 a night.
It was definitely not the part of Hong Kong where most tourists stayed, but it had what the other hotel couldn’t provide, a view of the pier. Having to peer through a narrow corridor between two other buildings couldn’t exactly be described as a good view, but he was able to see the pier and part of the approach to it.
Richard had first returned to his original perch to observe the junk and related cruise office, but remaining in one spot looking through a camera with a long telephoto lens called attention to him. Several people had already noticed and sooner or later they would inform others.
It had occurred to him that those involved with the junk’s operation might logically suspend their activities until things cooled down. Brett had left no doubt that at least one American fami
ly knew what was going on. But the junk cruise location was all he had to go on. At this point his only hope was that by watching the pier he might learn something.
Brett and Maggie were sitting in a Hong Kong jail; there was little he could do about that for now. Commander Moore had assisted in ensuring that they received a visit from the Consulate and were afforded an attorney. It was likely that Maggie would be released soon, but severely beating a seaman was a serious charge with the potential of a hefty prison sentence for Brett. Exposing what was going on was the only thing that could save him.
On the second day spent watching the dock, the suspicion that the operation had been suspended weighed heavily. He had spent many hours in a cramped room looking through a telephoto lens while Ray and Holly’s clock ticked. That Commander Moore had seemed a bit evasive during his last visit troubled him too. US China relations were at a low point and those manning the Consulate no doubt felt they had to proceed cautiously. Had it not been for Brett’s recording, they might not have helped at all.
He had just returned to his room with carryout; there was no room service here, when a police car pulled up to the dock. Two uniformed police officers got out and walked over to the junk. A seaman doing maintenance work topside appeared to call to someone below decks who emerged and approached the police officers. They spoke for some time as the captain photographed them. The officers then entered the cruise office, where they remained for approximately ten minutes. The captain photographed them entering and leaving.
Two Peasants and a President Page 14