The Wardens of Punyu (The Handover Mysteries, Volume I)

by D. L. Kung

  As Claire shifted onto the pleather-upholstered banquette, she saw that Nancy had discarded her cheap leather ‘designer’ wear for a burgundy linen blazer bearing the insignia of a newly-opened Mongkok hotel. A plastic name badge hung crookedly over the blazer pocket.

  ‘You’re working at the Everglory?’

  ‘Night reception desk.’

  ‘You know the police are trying to find you at the old flat and the old job? What happened to the insurance job?’

  Nancy ordered fried dumplings and the wide yellow noodles of Shanghai. Pouring herself a cup of green tea, Claire thought of her last Shanghainese meal—with Chen Jiafang, that maimed cosmopolite marginalized in the industrializing boondocks of Punyu.

  ‘Did the police follow you here?’ asked Nancy.

  ‘No, but you can bet on Slaughter. He’ll run you to ground sooner or later.’

  ‘I told you already. I had to leave the insurance office,’ explained Nancy. ‘I knew the police were following me. I don’t want any more ma fann.’

  Claire knew ‘hassle’ or interference from authorities was even more worrying to the refugee mentality of locals like Nancy than an affront to any dignity. In Nancy’s position, she would have done the same thing; lie low, use another variation of her name, stay with a girlfriend, and get a new job on the far side of the colony.

  ‘It was no problem, mo men tai. I don’t owe the insurance company anything. I use my sister’s ID card to get a job at this hotel. She and I are the same face. Don’t say anything to the police. The hotel owner is a Taipei man. He doesn’t care about local problems. He just want somebody speaks English.’

  Or something vaguely similar to English.

  ‘You said I can help you,’ Claire began. ‘We have to get a few things straight. I didn’t put the police onto you. I just want to find Vic. Somebody attacked me two days ago in Vic’s apartment in Cheung Chau. You saw that person behind the door. I want to know who.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ said Nancy, tending her noodles intently.

  ‘Of course, you do! You were there! You didn’t run out that fast for no reason! Look, Nancy, we can’t help each other unless you stop lying and keeping secrets. One of us is going to be next, and I still don’t even know why.’

  Nancy shrugged and lifted the bowl to her lips and slurped her noodles with the appetite of someone who wasn’t eating regular meals.

  ‘Nancy, listen to me. I think you do know. If I’m going to end up as some shark’s lunch in Sai Kung, I think I have a right to ask a few questions. You saw who attacked me. If it was someone you know, so how can you be sure he won’t go after you? He knocked me out in order to escape without my discovering him. But he was watching you, wasn’t he? You know who it was, don’t you? And maybe you were both there for the same reason.’

  Nancy shook her head, “no,” and ate her noodles. Her noisy eating was torture, but Claire treaded patiently.

  Finally Nancy looked up. ‘I want to give you something. And I want help.’

  There was a long pause. Nancy stared down at her bowl. Claire waited, her head throbbing with pain and impatience. Finally Nancy spoke.

  ‘Vic wanted to marry me. We wanted go to America. He wanted a visa for me. My brother could come with us.’

  ‘Nancy, you’re better off not dragging your brother into your affairs. You already have a lot of trouble. I’m not sure Lo-man is such a big help.’

  ‘Listen. You don’t know,’ said Nancy, who had to almost shout now to be heard over the din.

  ‘My father died in big fire in a plastic-flower factory in Hung Hom when I was little. After that, my brother took over and has a really, really sad life. He was trading with China when English and Americans couldn’t do so much business. He was very young, and there were many big chances and many dangers. He had no money, just buying and selling, buying, selling. Wah. Then the Communists arrested him. Call him a spy. Put him in jail in Guangdong for two year. My mother got very sick, she so worried about him. Finally he came home and started a new business. All the time he was the only man in our family. He gave me money for my school.’

  ‘So you want to help him for raising you after your father died?’ Claire asked.

  ‘You don’t know. Wait. I explain to you. My brother is on the list. If he is in trouble once, we all in trouble.’

  Nancy looked at Claire while sucking noodles into her mouth.

  ‘What list?’ Claire asked.

  ‘The watch list the Communists keep for 1997. The list of bad-attitude people to put in jail or kill. Everybody in Hong Kong knows this list. We heard on TVB news and we read in Sing Tao newspaper. My brother was already in jail in Guangdong. Don’t you understand?’

  The Communist officials at the New China News Agency had denied a blacklist existed but in the current atmosphere, denials did no good. The leak in a Hong Kong newspaper that a list was being drawn up had caused a panic among locals—from Christian schoolteachers to left-leaning pro-democracy politicians. Until this instant, Claire hadn’t realized how seriously people took the story.

  She looked right through the hapless Nancy’s heavy face powder and read naked fear. Who would wait around to see whether such a list existed?

  Nancy and her brother were desperate to get out of Hong Kong and poor infatuated Vic had been the ticket—not just for Nancy, but more urgently for Lo-man. Nancy’s brother had given Vic some story idea as a way of ingratiating himself. Nancy had said as much at the consulate. And Vic had lent Lo-man money to win over Nancy’s loyalty, if not her love, towards him.

  What a tangled web of hopes and favors the three had woven.

  Now Nancy and her brother saw their chances disappearing with Vic. Life for them was a series of pathetic little doors of opportunity opening and closing. Why blame Nancy for making friends with Hager when Vic had split? Or for distancing herself from Hager’s troubles the minute she saw herself suffering for them?

  Nancy was pouring herself yet more tea. Nothing interfered with the Chinese appetite, thought Claire. Blacklists, drug dealing, Green Cards—all made way for noodles.

  ‘Did you know Hager was delivering drugs?’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Did he tell you what he was doing in Hong Kong?’

  ‘Yes. I told Lo-man. And maybe I heard some phone calls. I don’t know.’ Nancy looked wary.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police?’

  ‘You crazy? Of course we don’t tell police. I don’t want trouble. Craig was holding drugs for pick up, and then was supposed to deliver the money to somebody. He so afraid of taking the drugs in one big package. So he was taking the drugs, bag by bag, one by one, to the pickup place.’

  ‘What happened to the payoff? To the money he had to carry back to Bangkok?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nancy, avoiding Claire’s eyes. ‘Maybe he never got it.’

  Was she lying? Hager might have received the money and been killed for it. Perhaps he had been killed before he was able to collect it. Perhaps he had successfully passed it on.

  ‘Did you tell Lo-man about the money?’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, it was too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’ Claire demanded. But Nancy wouldn’t answer that one, as if she hadn’t heard that question over the deafening pitch of waiters shouting and dishes being flung back and forth.

  ‘I’m going now,’ said Nancy. ‘Now you help us with Green Cards, maybe?’ Without much more warning, Nancy was squeezing herself off the narrow bench and past other tables to the door. Claire grabbed her elbow and said, ‘Wait. What about Vic? Where is this Cha Ling place? I think you know. You do.’

  Claire was holding the girl tightly around the cuff of her polyester uniform. All around, diners were absorbed in their food, yelling for the two harried waiters. She gripped the girl more tightly, but Nancy just shook her head.

  ‘Give up. Vic won’t come back. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know where Cha Ling is, exactly, or why
he went there. But Lo-man says forget him and don’t ask questions. Lo-man says he can’t come back. We are making a new plan. Just leave us alone.’

  ‘And you wanted to give me something?’

  ‘Under the table. Keep it for me. I don’t want it now. Right now you need it more than me.’

  Nancy was blocking a waiter pushing past their table. She wrenched free of Claire’s grasp and Claire fell back in surrender. If Nancy wanted to be found, she’d stay at the Everglory. If she wanted to disappear again, there was no way Claire could locate her.

  Claire paid the bill and glanced under the table. Nancy had left a battered shopping bag, something treasured from a purchase at the very expensive Swank Shop in Central. She saw inside a rolled-up hotel towel with green embroidery spelling, ‘Everglory Hotel.’

  The downpour had slowed to a mist, leaving Wan Chai full of messy gutters strewn with lunch debris floating in fresh puddles. Claire hopped the tram as far as the Hilton Hotel and walked from there up Garden Road to the entrance of the Hong Kong Park. The Swank bag was strangely heavy.

  As far as she could tell, no one was following her.

  Her sinister friend hadn’t caught up with her today. She entered the park and strode past the children’s swings and slides toward the aviary. She settled near the birds’ cage on a wet wooden bench in the drizzle.

  She was alone. She waited ten minutes to make sure, watched her back, and strolled around a bit before returning to the bench.

  She put the bag at her feet and nonchalantly bent down to reach inside, unrolling the towel without removing it from bag. Instinct told her Nancy would not have been so sly if the bag didn’t mean trouble.

  She froze. There was no mistaking the shape—of the long metal barrel, the handle and trigger. Nestled comfortably at the bottom of the bag was a pistol with ridges on the side and a circle with a five-pointed star on the grip.

  Nothing you bought at the Swank Shop.

  Chapter Thirteen

  —Saturday afternoon—

  The shopping bag lay in the back of her closet. She’d examined the gun and found two bullets left in the magazine. She’d felt its loaded presence wherever she went in the apartment. Xavier would have told her to pass the gun to Slaughter immediately, but Xavier must have landed in Tokyo by now.

  The weapon might have been radioactive, she was so uncomfortable with it, but it was also reassuring. Since she had walked into a trap on Cheung Chau, she could no longer delude herself that the events of the last two weeks had not finished their course. Someone had killed Hager. And maybe Vic. There was someone out there watching her too.

  Claire placed little trust in the protection of the doddering mahjong addicts that passed for security guards in her apartment building. Despite what she’d told Nancy, she had only slightly more faith in the attentions of the British-trained local police. Thanks to Hong Kong’s current political uncertainties, fewer young men were making law enforcement a career. Those thinning ranks that remained were rushed onto the streets with a minimum of skills.

  Claire pulled on her jeans and a white shirt and tossed a cotton pullover over her head. She brushed her hair, wincing as the bristles passed over the bruise at the back, and pinned her curls down to fit underneath a blue cotton ‘poor boy’ cap. The phone rang and she headed for her study. Damn, it was probably McDermott calling to nag her about the New Asian Order cover story. Were the stringers assigned? What were her suggestions for cover language? Who would do the main piece and the sidebars? Did they need an editorial? Need graphics? Photographers lined up? Should backup fly in from Tokyo?

  She’d done as much as she could on the new package but there were still loose ends to tie up. She prayed it was Cecilia calling instead, home safe and sound or better yet, at the office sorting through the neglected messages of this week’s cycle. Instead, she heard a middle-aged woman.

  ‘Claire Raymond? This Mrs Chao, Cecilia’s mother. Do you get a message from her last night?’ Mrs Chao’s voice was shaky.

  Claire’s heart dropped as she sank slowly into her chair. She switched into Mandarin to make the conversation more comfortable for Mrs Chao.

  ‘Hello, Mrs. Chao. How are you? Cecilia telephoned me. I told her to come home. I expect her in the office Monday morning.’

  ‘She isn’t home yet. I called Punyu. My family says she didn’t come back to their house.’

  ‘Please don’t worry. Cecilia told me there were security people making inquiries at your relatives’ house. Perhaps . . . she’s just trying to avoid them.’

  ‘They told me they weren’t sure who was looking for her. Maybe it was policemen, but they didn’t show any documents.’ Mrs Chao started to cry.

  Claire disguised her own anxiety as best she could. ‘It might be a man called Chen Jiafang. He runs a company, a joint venture with an American based here in Hong Kong. Please, don’t worry. I’ll call you back as soon as we hear from her. Bye, zai jian.’

  She replaced the receiver, her hands shaking. How could she have let Cecilia go? It had been stupid, stupid, stupid. It took only seconds for the unreal to become true, for Claire to recognize that the past considerations, priorities carefully weighed a few weeks before, were now irrelevant: the reputation of the magazine with the Chinese mainland authorities, the demand of copy flow to New York and most of all, her trust placed in so-called professionals. All of that was flimsy and foolhardy weighed against Cecilia’s safety.

  Claire booted up her computer, their agreed backup channel in case Cecilia couldn’t phone for some reason. She might have telexed into the system from a hotel or cable office. The modem took an exasperating number of minutes to access her e-mail. There were more than a dozen messages piled up since she had cleaned out her mailbox.

  None from Cecilia.

  Claire dialed MacDermott in New York, where it was still Friday night. She got a bouncy, recorded version of his voice. ‘Hi. I’m not home right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’ An answering machine was just as well. It didn’t override her judgment.

  ‘It’s Claire Raymond in Hong Kong. Forget my filing this cycle. Vic’s not back. Now my assistant Cecilia is in trouble in China. I’m going to Cha Ling in Guangdong. Don’t bother looking for it on the map, because even I don’t know where it is yet.’

  She called Harris at the consulate. He was in a meeting ‘til lunch, said his secretary. Then he was taking his visitors to the Eagle’s Nest at the Hilton. She’d pass on Claire’s message but couldn’t make any promises. Why not call Monday morning?

  Claire called Father Fresnay. There was no answer at the Tai Long village getaway, nor at the Mosque Junction apartment. No answer. She tried his research office number. A hesitant, parched voice answered the call—one of Fresnay’s fellow monks scanning some obscure Chinese newspaper by the light of a dim desk lamp in the dark outer office.

  ‘Father Fresnay is working in our reference storeroom across the street. He will return to the office at the Catholic Centre after Mass tomorrow morning,’ he rasped.

  Claire slowly phrased her message in standard Mandarin, which the Chinese acknowledged in the unmistakable western slur of Sichuan. Claire repeated the message three times so that there was no misunderstanding.

  ‘Cecilia Chau is missing. I’m going to Guangdong, looking for Cha Ling.’ Claire carefully gave him the characters for ‘Tea Mountain.’ ‘Tell him I need help desperately. It’s an emergency. I’ll call him from Punyu. I’m not coming back until I find Cha Ling.’

  Xavier was very busy in Tokyo. What was the point of leaving a message at his hotel? She needed him now, but he couldn’t help her at all, although he had said, ‘He was there.’

  She tried to think like Jim. He’d worked alone, always undercover. Well, she would too. The memory of his single-minded professionalism was a sort of good-bye gift. And she realized finally, in that memory of Jim’s patient lessons and advice, that he was, indeed, finally gone, that he wasn’t ever return
ing, even though he said his assignment would keep him incommunicado for a week or two.

  As long as she had missed him, she had blinded herself to his kind deceit. Now it felt all right. Yes, it even made her feel stronger to be freed of that teeny hidden hope he would suddenly turn up.

  Working with the speed of someone possessed, she packed in minutes, checking her passport, putting all the cash she had for emergency departures in her wallet, a mix of American dollars, unused travelers’ checks, Chinese yuan, and five thousand Hong Kong dollars. She’d use her credit card in a big Guangzhou hotel business center if she ran out of cash. A toothbrush, soap, and a package of tissues . . . a flashlight . . . a small Swiss Army knife from Xavier, a small hand towel, an extra cotton pullover, some underwear. She went to the study and ripped the map of Lin Hua Shan and Punyu right out of her atlas and folded it into her bag.

  This time she wasn’t returning without Cecilia and Vic. The Chinese authorities might pick her up as soon as she ventured past the permitted tourist areas and started asking too many questions. It was a race, her against them, before they arrested her. She might be blacklisted from the mainland, forbidden to re-enter. That would disqualify her from covering China—for keeping her job.

  She just wouldn’t think about that now.

  She switched off the dehumidifier and dribbled some of its water onto the struggling avocado plants along her kitchen windowsill. She closed the lid over the piano keys and put the book of Hanon back on the yellowed pile of music. She turned off the water heater switch outside the bathroom door. It was two in the afternoon and would take her about four hours to get to Lin Hua Shan, with luck.

  She had no idea when she would return.

  She went to the front door, swinging the pack onto her back and stopped. The seconds she took to consider the situation felt like a luxury.

  Would she? She decided.

  She fetched the Swank bag. Gingerly, she lifted out the Red Star and checked it. It was loaded, but the safety catch was on. Trembling, she wrapped it carefully back into the towel and positioned it in the center of her belongings, nestling it safely. Claire was not afraid of guns. Many years ago, her grandfather in northern California had measured her growth against the length of his hunting guns and much more recently, Jim had given her a rudimentary course in gun safety with an automatic ‘unofficially’ issued to ‘unarmed diplomats’ residing in the colony.