Lost By The River

by David Moynihan

  “Ah, Mr. Drake,” JD said in clipped English, grip of a firm tennis player. “Your unique services are of interest to us.”

  “Nice to meet ya. Didn't think I merited a dossier.”

  “Oh, so much of the political institutions, their secondary nature, fascinates me. But you know of course I am a financier—”

  “He is, he is!” Fang cut in. “JD, you must tell this American about your greatest moment.”

  “Oh, now—it's hardly a matter for dinner conversation.”

  “Of course it is. And, no doubt, he'd appreciate the way you 'kept cool.'”

  JD looked down at Fang. Tiny guy, that one.

  “Oh, well. It was nothing. I was in London then. Have you ever been to the UK, Mr. Drake?”

  “Passed through a few times.”

  “Well, yes. The central government sent me there to learn more of the Western ways of finance. I was a trader then.”

  “A spectacular trader,” said Fang.

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, of course it wasn't my money I was trading,” laughed JD. “First thing I learned in Western finance.”

  “Right. You played with the house dough. So what happened?”

  “Well, it was back in the early '80s. This was some time ago. And I was fresh out of school. We heard rumors, Reagan was shot.

  “Yeah. Little before my time. Heard about him. Bad movies.”

  “Is that how you put it? Of course, it's not so significant now. But you see, people were panicking then. He was... a strong man.”

  “Right.”

  “And what did you do, JD?” asked Fang.

  “I bought gold. At the first rumor, I bought gold. And lots of it.”

  “He did. Immediately.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “It went up,” answered JD.

  “So?”

  “It went up a lot,” said Fang. “Why, it made the division very profitable. The central government was quite pleased. And they knew they had a star on their hands.”

  JD smiled modestly.

  “After we got word that Reagan would be all right, well, I sold the gold. All of it. It dropped back in price quickly.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. It was all of a moment. I owe much of my success to that early incident. A mere blip. Odd how it happens.”

  “Yeah. Things happen. Good on ya.”

  “Good on him indeed!” exclaimed Fang.

  “Shall we eat, Mr. Drake?” said JD. I walked to the far end of a set table. “No, no, next to me,” insisted the big man, waving Fang to the side. “I'm sure Director would like to meet again the acquaintance of Zhu Wei,” boss added, indicating my laundry friend.

  Seated, a drink got passed in my direction. Fruity colored liquid of indeterminate origin. Expectant glances followed the beverage so I slammed it. Applause followed, Fang rushed over with a huge jug of fermented wine. JD laughed, said “oh, it's very strong. Another?”

  I gulped it as well. Reckoned the thing was 40 proof, before dilute. Twenty or thirty more glasses and I'd be toast. Rest of the crowd dove in, formality being abandoned for that odd Chinese method of gathering — pluck food at will, up and down the banquet table, serve sideways and frontwards, and keep the foreigner from mixing too much between host and help.

  It amused to see the jugs of booze going down. Always funny to see red on Chinese faces when they were at play.

  After three or four glasses of the fruity liqueur, they didn't try to keep the chatter in English. I did feel the booze, like a gentle breeze blowing kisses at my liver. They settled down in a mellow buzz, while all around the peculiar tones of Mandarin conversation ranged. I laughed along with a few particularly good jokes, not understanding a word of it but hopeful they weren't speaking 'bout me.

  JD at one point leaned over, apologized to me for the low quality of the shark's fin soup, and Zhu Wei, the gal in my room, came by smiling when I passed on my dessert of Swallow's nest—a white-looking substance of indeterminate content and texture. After some time an Italian ice was unearthed for the benefit of the gweilo. Folks separated, smokers to the back porch, JD indicating we'd have a conversation shortly.

  He trundled off to the hallway and cellphone, while I took a stroll out to the porch, where Fang and two other gents discussed their golf swings animatedly. I tried to make friends, but translation issues caused my studied conversation skills to falter, so I just stood and smoked.

  Zhu Wei materialized beside me.

  “Howdy.”

  “Hello.”

  “Come here often?”

  She looked puzzled. That officially works on women of no ethnicity whatsoever. She arched her body toward the golfers.

  “Wait,” I stopped her. “Something I wanted to ask you.”

  “What is that?”

  “How long in Washington? Where are you coming from? Do you like American food?”

  “You... forgot to ask how old I am.”

  “Figured that was impolite. But anyway, why you hanging with this crowd? Don't know too much about you, but it doesn't seem your speed.”

  “It is... the group.

  “JD or Fang?”

  “Fang?” Laughing. “I went to school with JD in China. The same University. He... got further.”

  “You?”

  “I have a master's degree.”

  “And?”

  “Sometimes I wear Chipau for guests...”

  “Well, sounds like China's getting a Western economy.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long you worked here?”

  “I... don't work here.”

  “You do this for friends?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “The group.”

  “Oh. Yeah. So, known Fang long?

  “Yes. I went to school with him, and JD. I came here for JD. I no come when JD not here.” She looked at Fang in the corner, shuddering involuntarily.

  “Must be a great guy.”

  “He is. But... he's married.”

  “It happens. How 'bout you?”

  “I... no married.”

  “Fang isn't either, right?”

  “He—no.”

  “That hurt his career?”

  “I no... yes. They want him to come back to China now. Work for government there.”

  “Hey, he can get a job with the Olympics.”

  “He—yes. Foreign relations job.”

  “And you?”

  “I work... travel company.”

  “Cool. Send folks to the mainland.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Anywhere special? If I have to go?”

  “I send people... to Hainan Island.”

  “What's that?”

  “Big island. Biggest in China—second biggest, after Taiwan. Many foreigners go there.”

  “You have a special resort?”

  “Yes. Special. That where I send everyone.”

  “What's special? Nice beach view?”

  “I—no. Special... has many doctors. Excuse me. JD is waiting for you.” She walked away quickly.

  I turned to face the great man himself, with Fang close by.

  “Excuse us,” said JD to the hanger-on. Fang, sadly, left us alone. JD took me aside. Surreptitious confidences with a rich man. I remembered it wasn't his money. Most of it. But then again, he probably had some squirreled away...

  “Yeah?”

  “I'm sorry to have kept you so long, Mr. Drake.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And of course, there have been several unfortunate misunderstandings today.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And... we are both looking for the same thing.”

  “What's that?”

  “Please, Mr. Drake. This lack of intelligence is... unbecoming. You have been employed to discover the location of one Dr. Ansbach. My firm is also very interested in locating this man.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “So.�
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  “So, Mr. Drake. My firm, and the one representing you... these are not the only ones looking for the good doctor. He is a very brilliant man. He is also... erratic?”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I am a man of vices, Mr. Drake.” JD looked over meaningfully at one of the young women who'd been sitting discretely away from him during our meal. “But controlled ones. There is an amount of wine that gives, after all, good ideas. As you know, Dr. Ansbach had a different standard of restraint.”

  “So people keep telling me.”

  “It is unfortunate. Often those with his best interests find themselves full of conflict.”

  “Yeah. Well, I've never met the man. I don't know what his best interests are. Sounds like he's following them at the moment.”

  “Yes. But, Mr. Drake—and I find your discretion... admirable, but it is quite possible that there are those looking for our doctor who have plans for him... plans that he would not approve of.”

  “Like how?”

  “You've seen the other officers of his company.”

  “Yeah. Suits. Money talks. They can't be a problem.”

  “It is... a complicated matter.

  “And you ain't gonna share it with me, but you're willing to have me picked up and smacked around.

  “I believe you've been informed, Mr. Drake, that I had nothing to do with that decision, and the man involved has been disciplined. Aside from which, I believe the phrase is, 'you started it.'”

  I looked at him for a minute, considered sticking out my tongue, running to the other side of the room and throwing cups in his direction, but that had never worked on my sister. Instead I changed the subject.

  “So where the hell do you think Ansbach is?”

  “I'd like very much to find out.”

  “Why?”

  “He is important to us.”

  “Now that CEO boy's gone?”

  “He was important to us as well.”

  “Was?”

  “You can't know so little, Mr. Drake.”

  “Only what I read in the papers.”

  “I see. Well, yes, Mr. Drake, given my firm's stated intentions, both Dr. Ansbach and his superior were extremely necessary, and you'll find I want them alive, well, and prepared to conclude our arrangement. I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time today, if you'd like to go, another assistant of mine will see you home. Fang!” he added, leaving me behind and moving swiftly towards the door.

  A virus hit the air just then, causing the remaining guests to forget how to speak English, or that staring was impolite. I let it slide. Sick of the place anyway, and now stuck with a phone call or two to make. Silently I waited, and Zhu Wei appeared at my side, quietly but firmly leading me to the door. She dropped an envelope in my hands, then turned swiftly, disappearing behind a reinforced oak door. Beyond the gate, a cab appeared.

  I got in, demanded a MoCo address. Driver, Algerian by his license, said “expensive,” and took me along. Inside the envelope was five grand and another of J.D.'s cards. I could afford the ride.

  TEN

  My car lay slotted in the Dragon's parking zone, at risk of tow but still on scene. I took it out, past the still-open beer shops, and grabbed an enormous soda from the local Sleven before heading home. I had work to do.

  Needing a closer look at JD, I pulled his stats down off the web. Few profiles, but China didn't have much use for stars. He was a regular guy, undergraduate at Fudan University, then the London School of Economics, and first stint in banking across the pond where he hit gold. Home and a quick marriage, VP-trail, and lo the hangers-on.

  Nothing said military about his background, and my knowledge of the trading universe was things were tough—but not so tough you brought your posse with you on business deals... better to bribe then bludgeon, as the thick envelope in my pocket showed.

  Hainan Island is, yeah, a pretty big island. Once upon a time they made the 'oddly enoughs' heads for spending their entire foreign exchange allotments on imported cars. I wondered who I could talk to about getting my own foreign exchange allotment, and if I could to spend some of that on domestics. Anyway, it was a burb with hotels, beaches, fishing, office buildings and factories... but there were other tourist sites in the area, places with reputations for sand, fun, centuries-old sex trades, etc., so it wasn't clear Hainan would make it in that arena.

  But I gave a rat's. They were pitching medical tourism. Transplants in the sun; poolside nose jobs, etc. Just like casinos in Vegas, building up newer, bigger hotels to keep the suckers coming, hot new medical discoveries, with PR bunnies and on-screen hacks playing greater gullible might bring the trade in. A chick I'd known once said she was gonna hit the Shanghai dentist scene when trekking back home, and I went, OK, but they're not all the way here yet on appliances, so maybe your face should pay retail. Never heard from her after she got back; guess things went well.

  Didn't recommend me to the practice. But if a 9-hour flight could treat my big C, and I could spend my days eating grade-A dumplings. Yeah. I'd make the trip.

  Still you get the feeling, in big organizations on a losing streak, that they're blowing it all out of prop on an obsession, going all in with bad car designs, unpopular toys, useless web designs and man-hating ad campaigns. The firm couldn't pull out of the spiral, and it would get worse. I figured whenever I found out who was most desperate, I'd know who'd happened to the Agate CEO.

  Whatever. The job was Ansbach, and time now to get to it. Earnestly, diligently, thoroughly. After beer, I'd find just where he was.

  Eventually, I hit the road, victim of technical difficulties in the home office. You find those new LCD monitors won't work especially well, at least not after you plunge the latest in wireless routers through their ecologically-sound, eyestrain-averting screens.

  Four-something in the AM. Too early to replenish beer, too late for a decent meal, and at the grocery store they turned off the automated checkouts so I might have to talk to a human or uniformed semi-ambulatory facsimile. Nothing good would come of that.

  I was out of hookers. And every dull piece of information on Ansbach and Agate was just that. Dull. I had lipids and chicken eggs and hatching modifieds on the brain, but a closer look revealed... more words that I understood even less. I needed a geek. A quiet one. Who feared me.

  To your suburban homeless, all-night office supply chains make for the especially restful night. There's not the extra change and ready quantities of food you'd find in a convenience store, nor the informal employment opportunities of a bus station, but fewer cops, better class of patron, and the chance on slow evenings to get a solid, warm rest. I gave a nod to sentry at a 24-copy on 355, and went to the countergal.

  Irene was a success story. For years, she'd been the ragged-clothed patron there all night. But her knowledge and insights into ink replacement and paperjam recovery led the way to a new career. I met her previous trying to cover for an athlete whose girlfriend laid the smackdown on him in a parking lot. The agent had called, but it was all over sports radio. On scene I'd kept the conversation gentle. Irene was the only witness, and we struck up a friendship. You can make friends easy if you're willing to listen to stories of airplane stalking.

  Later I worked out she'd been a high-powered biochemist with research grants and parchments on the wall displaying cursive letters in unusual combinations. There'd been some kind of artificial intelligence research, then odd moments in the lab, an explosion or two, and Irene vanished from the scene for a few years.

  She was definitely the gal you went to when the copies had to get made, but out of leads, I was after other skills now.

  “Drake!” she smiled happily. Eyes agog behind cartoonish lenses. “What are you here for?”

  “I've got to print some stuff out. Think you can handle it?”

  She looked at me, hurt. About to launch into a spiel on how the staff behind her stocked the papers wrong, laid ink sideways, tried to stack 30% recycled paper in the 10
% tray, and don't even ask what the hell had gone down with margins on the new pizza delivery boxes. I smiled to take away the pain and acknowledge her professionalism.

  “What is it?” She asked after a moment.

  “Just a bunch of documents, biotech stuff. I'm looking for things, but screen's fried my brain.”

  “Mm. That can happen. You know, the screens you get—you're not buying them from the chain stores, are you, Drake? Better be from somebody you trust. Or used. Used can be good. If you know who's selling them to you. You can see whether it's had any effect.”

  “Yeah. It's a good screen. But I've used it too much.”

  “That's the sign. That's really the sign. Oh, you—oh. Drake. I'm worried.”

  “Yeah. Well, if you print those for me, Irene, I won't have to stare at a screen for a while.” I thought about adding what had happened to my monitor back home, but that would just get her excited, and I needed her focused.

  “Sure. OK.”

  “So, if you can just knock those out for me, I'll head next door for coffee.”

  “Coffee, oh, Drake—no. Don't get the coffee there. I—you don't know the people...”

  But I was out the door.

  Thirty-five minutes and two cups later, my plate of pastry half-eaten, she raced in, carrying a hand-woven satchel and some neatly-boxed papers. Staff of the donut hut looked at Irene oddly. I wiped a few sprinkles off my cheek, waited for Irene to catch her breath. Behind me, the waiter groaned loudly, turned and without so much as an “anything else” went back to the break room. As the scent of burning herb and post-adolescent job dissatisfaction reached us, Irene spoke.

  “Drake, where did you get those?”

  “Client.”

  “I—Drake, those documents are so important.” She reached to her side for the file, neatly packed and organized.

  “How?”

  “Drake, it's—they might have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “The cure, Drake. The cure. I—we're so at risk here. Every day. All around us. The air.” Irene broke off, reached into her purse, pulled some sanitizing lotion, began rubbing it over her hands and arms.

  “What about the air?”

  “There's so many bad things in it, Drake.” She was rubbing faster now. “So many bad things that can hurt you. Don't you see?”