by Reece Hirsch
The soldiers advanced on the scrum from several directions, knocking workers to the concrete, clubbing them, stomping them. If the battle had been fought on open ground, Chris was certain that the troops would have quickly neutralized the situation, but the factory equipment and assembly lines blocked their access. What was astounding was the scale of the scene, like some Cecil B. DeMille epic run amok. While hundreds of workers were fighting, thousands of PLA soldiers were attempting to suppress the incident, a display of crushing force and an indication that the government viewed this as something that might grow into a far larger revolt.
It was hard to tell what was going on in the chaos. Workers were hurling tools, electronic devices, and whatever else came to hand. To an outsider, the incident seemed like nothing so much as a free-for-all brawl.
A young woman in a green Commsen polo shirt hurried unsteadily past Chris, bleeding from a gash on her forehead. Two male workers throwing punches at each other fell sideways into Chris, sending him staggering. He tried to make his way to a quiet place at the edge of the factory floor away from the melee.
He found a spot away from the fighting near the administrative offices that ringed one side of the factory and called out to anyone in earshot, “Does anyone here speak English?” He didn’t trust his Mandarin under these deafening conditions.
The cubicle-level administrative workers simply ignored Chris, too engrossed in observing the riot.
“I need to find someone here. Please, can anyone help me?”
A small, pudgy man with dark bangs that fell nearly into his eyes finally responded. “All right, okay. Who are you trying to find?” Chris recognized the man’s type on sight—the reluctantly competent office drone.
“Her last name is Owyang, and she works on tablet computers. Something to do with signal strength.”
The man scuttled back into his cubbyhole office like a hermit crab and perched behind his monitor. “Let’s see,” he said as his hands flew over the keyboard. “Owyang. Tablets. Signal strength.” He moved his face in close to the monitor to scrutinize the results. “Got it.”
“Where is she?”
“Well, her workstation is over there,” he said, pointing to an area about fifty yards away near another assembly line. “But I doubt that you’ll find her there now. As you can see, we have a bit of a work stoppage here.”
“What’s her first name?”
“Mei-Hua.”
“Do you have a photo?”
“Yeah, I’ve got her personnel file up on my screen. Take a look. But I thought you knew her.”
“I know her brother.”
“You’re with one of the US client companies, right?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Chris said, a statement that had the virtue of being true. Zapper used Commsen to manufacture its tablet computers.
“I thought so. I hope you’ll remember that I helped you when you speak to my bosses. I’m Fengge.”
Chris furrowed his brow to indicate that he was making a mental note, which he promptly tossed into his mental wastebasket.
Encouraged, Fengge added, “Let me help you get out of here. That girl you’re looking for won’t be there, and some of my coworkers aren’t too crazy about Americans.”
“I’m going to take a look just the same,” Chris said. “Thanks.”
He made his way across the factory floor toward Mei-Hua Owyang’s workstation, trying to stay as far away from the rioters as possible.
The crowd suddenly surged in his direction, and a PLA riot squad baton struck his shoulder. If the blow had landed on his skull, he might have been knocked unconscious.
The PLA troops secured their gas masks, and then he heard the whump and clatter of tear gas canisters being fired. Chris stuck his mouth and nose into the elbow of his shirtsleeve and kept moving.
It was then that he saw her. Mei-Hua was crouched beneath a conveyor belt, trying to shield herself behind some cardboard boxes. She was wearing a white smock instead of the standard-issue Commsen green polo, which probably indicated technical expertise.
Between them a PLA soldier smashed a riot shield into two workers and struck at them with his baton. She was trapped there until the struggle stopped, but she was also being enveloped by the tear gas, which was billowing across the factory floor like dry ice smoke at a heavy metal show.
Chris stepped around behind the PLA soldier, then lowered his shoulder and barreled into his back. He managed to shove the soldier and the two struggling workers forward about five yards. No one even turned around to look at him as they fought on. It was enough for Chris to reach under the conveyor belt and extend a hand to Mei-Hua.
There was a look of panic on her face, but she took his hand. What choice did she have with the clouds of tear gas growing thicker by the minute? He grabbed Mei-Hua’s arm and pulled her to her feet. They headed for the nearest exit, both of them coughing and crying.
“Do I know you?” she asked in Mandarin.
“No, but I’m going to get you out of here,” he replied, also in Mandarin.
She nodded, recognizing that this was not the time for questions. “Okay,” she replied in English, a swift accommodation to his crude Mandarin.
The exit was now jammed with workers, tears streaming down their faces. Fortunately, the PLA troops were not pressing their advantage, concentrating on those who were still fighting in the middle of the factory.
At last they made it through the double doors and into the smoggy sunshine. They spent a few moments with their hands on their knees, filling their lungs and dabbing at their stinging eyes.
“Why did you help me?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know really. I guess because I could. What was happening in there?”
“There are always a few malcontents that cause trouble. The vast majority of the workers are happy with their jobs at Commsen.”
She was giving him the party line, and why wouldn’t she? She didn’t know who he was.
“I have nothing to do with your bosses. You can tell me what actually happened. I won’t tell anyone. I’m just curious.”
She squinted at him through bloodshot eyes. “Gangs from two neighboring districts have never gotten along. It probably dates back centuries. It started as a fistfight between two guys from those factions, and it just blew up. Of course, things were already at the breaking point in there.”
“Your English is very good.”
“Thanks. My parents would be pleased.” Like the other hackers working at Datong Road, Li Owyang was undoubtedly fluent in English. It figured that his sister was also proficient.
“How bad is it in there, in the factory?”
“Well, there are worse places to work, but it’s not good. The work is so intense and precise, and they expect you to do it so quickly. It was bad when the sales of smartphones and tablets were booming, but it’s worse now that the market has leveled off.”
“Wouldn’t that be a good thing from your perspective?”
“You’d think so, but now the US tech companies have started spreading the work around to other manufacturers. A more limited supply of work means that we end up being forced to work even harder so that Commsen can compete.” She paused. “So who are you, and why all the questions?”
“As it happens I’m an attorney from the US. My client is deciding whether to give some manufacturing work to Commsen or one of its competitors.”
“We didn’t make a very good first impression, did we?”
“No. But don’t worry. I won’t get you in trouble.”
“You’d better not. If my bosses found out I said anything, I’d get a lot more than a slap on the wrist. I really have to be going. Thanks again for getting me out of there.”
Mei-Hua turned and walked away toward the dormitories. Before he lost her in the crowds emerging from the factory, Chris set
out, following her. If the two hackers were still staying in her apartment, then she should lead him right to them.
10
Chris followed Mei-Hua through the crowds, who were all trying to get as far away from the factory violence as possible. She hurried through the plaza across from the factory and past the dormitories that housed the Commsen workers.
People poured out of the shoddy, prefabricated apartment buildings, buzzing about the riot and attending to the wounded, many of whom had severe head lacerations. Some of the male workers seemed to be threatening to return to the factory and make a stand against the PLA, but even Chris could tell that was bluster. The government had dispatched what seemed to be an entire army to suppress the eruption, and opposing such an overwhelming show of force would have been suicidal.
Beyond the dormitories were more drab apartment buildings. Mei-Hua ducked inside the vestibule of a two-story concrete building that seemed to consist of two units, one on the ground floor and one above. Chris took up a position on a bench in a children’s playground carpeted in brown grass a block away. He had his smartphone ready to photograph anyone who emerged from the building.
After about twenty minutes, Mei-Hua emerged from the apartment and walked off down the street. Chris decided that it was best not to continue following her. He was betting that this was where she lived and where the two hackers were staying.
Chris considered what he would do if he actually did come face-to-face with Owyang and Ma. There was not much point to trying to retrieve the stolen algorithms. They had undoubtedly already been shared with PLA representatives or whatever Chinese entrepreneurs intended to exploit them to create some new, doppelgänger, PRC version of Zapper. If he could obtain a copy of the algorithms, it would be useful only as evidence of who had perpetrated the hack. Chris figured that the best he could do would be to get photos of Li Owyang and Bingwen Ma. If he could gain access to their apartment, he might be able to obtain evidence proving their links to the PLA and the Datong Road operation. But attempting some sort of break-in seemed too risky.
He sat on the bench for an hour, but no one else emerged from the apartment building. He began to wonder if there might be a rear exit. In any event, Chris couldn’t spend all night occupying the bench in this deserted playground. He was suspicious-looking enough as it was.
Footsteps crunched on the dead grass behind him. Probably a parent and child making use of the playground slide before it grew dark. But before he could turn around to check, Chris felt something nudge his back.
“That’s a gun,” said a male voice behind him in Mandarin. “Just stand up slowly. Don’t turn around. We’re going to cross the street and go inside that apartment you’re so interested in.”
11
Like all risk takers, Chris desperately wished that he had folded his hand a few minutes sooner. He had promised himself not to put his life on the line for this assignment, but that was exactly what he had done.
As Chris was marched across the street and up the stairs of the apartment building by the man with the gun, he cursed his poor judgment and struggled to suppress a rising panic. It would be so easy to disappear in a place like this. If he went missing, Zoey, his law firm partners, and Paul Saperstein and Zapper would make inquiries through all of the official channels, but the trail of clues would soon go cold, and he would simply vanish into the vast expanse of China.
When Chris faced the door of the top-floor unit, the man reached past him and knocked, all the while keeping the gun on Chris. A young man with soft features and shoulder-length hair answered the door. Chris saw the shock register on his face when he saw Chris had been brought there at gunpoint.
“What’s going on? Who is this?” he said in Mandarin.
“I don’t know yet. Are you going to let us in, or are we going to have to do this in the hallway?”
The young, doughy-faced hacker opened the door, and the man with the gun gave Chris a hard shove, sending him stumbling into the center of the room.
“Turn around.”
Chris faced the man with the gun for the first time. He was in his mid- to late forties, with a hard, lined face. He was wearing a blue, short-sleeve silk shirt that showed his sinewy forearms.
“Bingwen!” called the hacker. “Get in here, man!” Clearly, the doughy-faced kid with the wispy moustache was Li Owyang, Mei-Hua’s brother. He was wearing a black T-shirt with the word “Metadata” printed on it in the style of Metallica’s logo.
The apartment was littered with fast-food containers and beer cans. A second young man appeared from one of the bedrooms at the rear of the apartment, long limbed and skinny, with a pale, acne-pocked face. Bingwen Ma.
“Put that gun away, will you?” Ma said.
The man with the gun ignored him and addressed Chris. “Why were you watching the apartment?”
“I was just sitting in the park. Can we speak in English? My Mandarin’s rusty.”
“No one sits in that park,” Owyang said in English.
“I was just getting my bearings. After the riot at the factory.”
“What were you doing at the factory?” the gunman asked, also in English.
Chris decided that it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. “I’m a lawyer with a US law firm. My client sent me here to examine the Commsen factory, because they’re trying to decide whether to use it for a manufacturing project. They had heard some disturbing stories about the facility.”
“That sounds plausible,” Ma said.
“I’ll decide what’s plausible,” the gunman said. “You didn’t see the way that he was staring at this place. Hand over your wallet.”
Chris slowly removed his wallet. Slowly, because he was doing an inventory of what was in there that might indicate his true objective.
The gunman rifled through the contents of the wallet and removed Chris’s business card. He handed it to Owyang. “Zapper him.”
Owyang went to a laptop and began reading the search results. Chris felt sick because he knew what they would find.
“This guy’s a privacy and security expert. There are articles about how he hunts down hackers.”
Chris decided that there was no point in trying to carry on with the lie. “I represent Zapper. They know that you all were involved in the theft of their intellectual property.”
Ma and Owyang exchanged startled looks that pretty much confirmed the accuracy of that statement.
“You’ve been misinformed,” said the gunman.
“I don’t think so.”
“Who told you to come here?”
“That’s privileged.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“How does he know about us?” Owyang asked.
“Shut up!” said the gunman.
“That kind of sounded like a confession to me,” Chris said. “Look, my colleagues in the US know where I am right now. They know everything that I know about the Zapper intrusion. The smart thing to do would be to put away that gun and just let me walk out of here.”
“I don’t think anyone knows you’re here,” said the gunman. “But we’re going to know all of the details soon enough. What you know, what you don’t know. Who knows you’re here. We’re going to know everything that we could possibly want to know about you—because you’re going to tell us.”
While he was saying this, the gunman was searching the kitchen for something. Items rattled and clanged as he combed through the drawers.
“What are you looking for?” Owyang asked, sounding anxious.
“I’ll know it when I see it,” the gunman said.
“Shouldn’t you be calling this in to your bosses?” Ma added.
“I’ll get to that after I’ve completed my interview,” the gunman said. “I’d like the opportunity to handle this part myself.” Finally, he smiled and lifted a rolling pin from the drawe
r. “I didn’t expect to find one of these here,” he said.
“I bake,” Owyang said. “It relaxes me.”
The gunman measured the heft of the rolling pin, smacking it into his palm. Chris couldn’t help but follow each motion with his eyes.
“I know who you are—Li Owyang and Bingwen Ma,” Chris said. “You’re both going to be held accountable for anything that happens here.”
“How about me? Do you know who I am?” asked the gunman, swinging the rolling pin at his side like a batter in the on-deck circle.
“No, I don’t.”
“That’s too bad. Because I’m the one you really need to worry about.”
The gunman tucked the pistol into the small of his back underneath his shirt and advanced on Chris.
“You don’t have to do this,” Owyang said.
“No, you’re right. I don’t. I could start putting bullets in him—in his foot, his hand, his knee.” To Chris, he added, “Bet you’d prefer the rolling pin to that.”
“These are the choices?” Chris asked.
The gunman gave a humorless smile and then swung at Chris. Chris raised his right forearm to block the blow and felt the rolling pin crunch bone.
Reflexively, he pulled his damaged arm down and cradled it with the left arm, the pain obliterating all reason. That gave the gunman a clear shot for his next blow, which struck the base of Chris’s skull. A searing flash exploded behind his eyes. He went down hard and fast next to a low coffee table, a corner grazing his forehead and drawing blood.
Ma said, “You should give me the gun while you do this, Park.”
“Are you kidding?” the gunman said. “You’ve never fired a gun in your life.”
Another blow struck Chris’s ribs, and the air went out of him. Chris was barely conscious, and his vision was blurred. One more blow to the head and he would be unconscious or dead.
Park’s face swam into view as he bent down to take stock of the damage.
“Now we can have a proper conversation. Who knows that you’re here?”