by Fritz Galt
“You always sleep in the middle of the living room floor with a bucket?” the man asked with deadpan delivery.
“What’s up?” Brad asked innocently enough. “And how’d you know where to find me?”
“Your buddy Earl drew me a map.”
“He would. So, am I under arrest again?”
“I’m not here in any official capacity. And if I were, it wouldn’t be to arrest you for murder.”
The liberating words cut through the fog in his mind. He was off the hook for the colonel’s murder. How about the helicopter crash? “At least I can clear up the nasty little helicopter incident,” Brad said, and fished the detonator cap out of his blue jeans pocket.
“We already know both you and May are innocent.”
Shoot. He had spent the entire day for naught, hunting around the crash site, playing shoot ’em up cowboys at the gas station, and generally frittering away the time while May packed her bags and left. He really had to work on his time management skills.
He stared at the government bureaucrat. So exactly why was the guy there? “Is this just a social call, then?”
“Well, there is the matter of a certain letter,” Sullivan said, and awkwardly assumed a cross-legged position opposite him on the floor.
“Almost forgot about the letter.” What did that little detail have to do with anything? The guy seemed to have his priorities all wrong.
“We know the letter is from May’s father,” Sullivan said.
“Yeah, but Skeeter calls it typical Chinese enigmatic gibberish.” He tried to focus his mental energy on the contents of the inscrutable text. “Aside from some reference to a historical find in a rare type of limestone formation near a large tributary, the rest is little more than dark forces at work, the ‘dragon eats its tail’ kinda stuff.”
“That dragon is the Chinese leadership, we believe.”
“Hey, love to help those dudes out, but I’m not doing so well for myself, case you haven’t noticed.”
“May will be in significant danger in China.”
Brad peered up at the investigator through the pain in his eyes. Was this guy just trying to rub it in? “Don’t give me that. She’s marrying some bigwig jerk. She doesn’t need me.”
“Do you always give up so easily?”
“Give up? I never even got started. Listen, sure I have feelings for May. Heck, I might even love her. But just why would you care?”
Sullivan scratched the back of his head. “Well, true love is a rare commodity, worth a little pain and suffering.” Then he looked around the dump of a living room, his expression nonjudgmental. “Besides, I think you could use a change of scenery.”
The guy untangled his long legs, stood, and made ready to leave. “At least think about it. You never know. Even a young guy like you could be of use somewhere.”
He walked out into the night and closed the door.
Yeah, like Brad could be useful in China. He even had to rely on fate to get himself out of a trumped up murder rap.
The floor was beginning to feel hard under his tailbone. He could use some help getting up. By the way, where were Cheno and the others?
Slowly and dizzily, he made his way toward the sleeper sofa in his bedroom. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the pain in his knee as he lowered himself onto the opened mattress.
He heard a crunch. He was sitting on something. He reached down and pulled out what was yet another envelope. He squinted in the darkness. It bore his name in neat typescript.
Outside, the western horizon had turned a dark sapphire blue. He closed his curtains for privacy and switched on the table lamp. He jabbed a finger at the envelope to tear it open. How many envelopes had he received in the past two days? One from May’s father. A visa from the Chinese Consulate. A load of money from May. He was going to have to buy a safe, then sit down and figure out what it all meant.
At last his finger broke through and an airline ticket fell out.
He picked it up and scrutinized it under the light. It had his name on it. It was a one-way ticket to Hong Kong, via San Francisco.
Well, his guardian angel had certainly done it this time. Out of the fog came a clear sign pointing out the path he must take.
In the past few days, he had tried to visualize a future without a useful college degree. In all his visions of trailer parks and custodial jobs, the image of visiting the Orient had never entered his mind.
Somehow, that image didn’t seem to fit him, a derelict social sponge. Of course, he always knew he was destined for greatness, but what did others see in him? Why did they single him out? Even May showed him more respect than he deserved. Who did they think he was?
And what was he supposed to do in China? All he wanted to do was stop May from marrying Liang. And he didn’t even know where she lived.
He shifted through the envelopes until he got to the Chinese letter. If he first located May’s dad, then he could find her. It seemed a simple enough plan.
And what would he do once he reached her? He’d have to improvise. He hoped that didn’t involve getting on his knees and begging.
And how would he handle Liang? So far, Brad had ended up on the short end of the stick with him. A chill descended over him in the otherwise hot room. For Liang, he’d have to improvise, too. But it would take more than begging.
He looked at the ticket with his future written on it. At least someone had confidence in him. But who?
Then he thought of Sullivan quietly treading out of the house. Was that government type his guardian angel?
Angels come in many forms, the voice whispered.
Chapter 14
China’s President Qian stood on the terrace of his private pavilion overlooking the tree-lined lake called Zhong Nan Hai. Beijing had a chain of such lakes that flowed from the Forbidden City in the center of town northward into a canal that eventually led to the Summer Palace.
The emperor would depart each summer in his or her royal barge for the Summer Palace, leaving from that very lake.
Unlike all the other lakes, this lake was inaccessible to the general public. It was the centerpiece of the Communist Party’s exclusive downtown property. Scattered around the shore were pavilions occupied by former party leaders. At the southern end of the serene lake sat the headquarters of the Communist Party’s Central Committee and Chinese government.
Qian’s pavilion was slightly removed from the offices, but not as far as the retired octogenarians. Maybe it was time for him to turn over the reins of power and join the old mahjongg players for his final, golden years.
He turned around to the young man who sat ramrod straight in an armchair behind him.
“Something troubling you?” Qian asked his grandson.
“Just a little anxious that everything goes well for the opening ceremony,” Liang Jiaxi said.
“Oh, I see.”
The young were so impatient. Having lost his adopted son halfway through the building of the Three Gorges Dam project, President Qian felt sorry that the brunt of the responsibility for the dam had unfairly fallen on the shoulders of the young, though ambitious, Liang.
At first, the youngster was simply content to be a pilot. But after the exhilaration of owning the skies was over, he had to come down to earth. With the Central Committee no younger than Qian, the country’s future lay in the hands of young men from Liang’s generation. Liang might never understand just how far China had come in a mere three generations, but there was nobody better groomed for the job.
“I am proud of your career.” Qian searched for the best way to flatter the young man. “With all those archeologists clamoring for protection of so many antiquities, real and imagined, I think you diverted their criticisms brilliantly, turning their attention to our other vast store of artifacts from other regions, making the Yangtze a mere sideshow in Chinese cultural history. That was indeed masterful.”
“Thank you, grandfather. You are following my career closely.”
; Nevertheless, the young man still seemed dissatisfied.
“You will be a bright star in China’s future,” Qian asserted.
“But Yeye,” Liang said, using the term of respect and affection for a grandfather. “Look at me. I’m already twenty-nine years old. An entire generation of men stands to ascend to the Communist Party Central Committee before me.”
“The patient bull will have his way with all the cows,” Qian said.
“I have no desire to impregnate lazy cows. I’m a pilot, a fighter, a man of action.”
“Tell me, grandson. What would you do if you were in my slippers?”
Liang stood up, squeezing his shoulder muscles together and strode to the railing beside him. “I would like to stop the Americans. They are running too far ahead of us.”
That worried Qian. “Stop them in what way?”
“Grandfather, I have been there and seen America in ways they have never shown you. I have walked anonymously down the streets of New York. I have buzzed the bank towers of Los Angeles. I have visited Lexus showrooms. I have eaten Ben and Jerry’s ice cream in gigantic shopping complexes. Grandfather, I tell you no matter how powerful our economy is becoming, Americans are light-years ahead of us. We can never catch up.”
“That’s why we have a policy of attracting American companies here. They already rely on our labor market. They are beginning to train us. We already hold a quarter of the commercial rights in the United States for technologies patented in the last five years.”
“I’m just saying that we can mimic them, but we can never be them. Their influence is truly global, from the military to popular culture. They hold the levers of power, and we need to remove those levers.”
Qian’s knees were feeling weak. “Power is exactly why your work on the dam is so important. You will light up the south and east of China. We will produce as many watts per capita as the average developed country. You will have the power.”
Liang smiled and shook his head as if the old man would never understand. “I see your mind is still on the dam.” He thought about it for a moment. “Yeye, I’d like to make the opening ceremony of the dam as memorable as our first space flight. Even more so. I want to tap into those levers of power that I was talking about. To that end, I’ve invited the leaders of every government and industry to join us in the opening.”
“I like the way you think. That’s an excellent plan. The grand opening is very soon now, is it not?”
“Next week, on the seventh.”
“That’s 7/7, a very auspicious day. What a wonderful choice.” He really had to hand it to his grandson, who while young already had a sense of timing found in more seasoned government leaders.
“I’d like you to invite Prime Minister Yang Shuping and the entire Central Committee on a final cruise through the Three Gorges,” Liang went on. “Their presence will bring us great honor.”
“It will showcase your efforts,” Qian agreed. Still, the thought of sending all fourteen men on a boat together down that lonely stretch of the Yangtze seemed dangerous. “What kind of security can you provide for them?”
“We have complete control of the entire area, on land, air and sea. I can assure you that they will be left in peace for a tranquil final voyage through the gorge.”
There was no reason to doubt Liang’s word. Liang was a military man who understood the concept of clamping down tight. In fact, the dam itself would be vulnerable to attack by ethnic separatists and foreign terrorists, not to mention the Taiwan authority, had the People’s Liberation Army not assured him of its safety. “Still, I would be more agreeable if I knew what precautions you have made for their security.”
Liang brightened up, as if an idea had just occurred to him. “I will put the country’s most efficient military person in charge of security for the event. It will be someone you know, trust, and love with all your heart.”
Qian wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Who could that be?”
“Your future daughter-in-law, May Hua.”
Oh, the name was like music to his ears. Qian’s heart warmed instantly to the thought. May, if anything, cemented his confidence in Liang. If such a woman could love his grandson, then there was great hope for him. And of her patriotism, there was absolutely no doubt. “In that event, I will send Yang and the committee to the gorge,” he said.
Finally he saw a smile appear on his grandson’s face.
“Now nothing stands between you and your happiness.”
Flying high over Alaska en route to Hong Kong, Brad was still trying to figure out how he would convert all his cash to the local currency.
He was going to need some dough, and his credit card was maxed out. But all those large bills that May had left him would make it look like he was some sort of smuggler. What was the penalty for someone importing cash illegally? They’d probably string him up, cut off his manhood, harvest his organs, and then torture the heck out of him. He’d have to try to avoid that scenario.
Upon Earl’s last-minute advice, he had most of May’s cash carefully stuffed into tiny bundles within women’s nylon stockings that he was wearing. Earl was either a genius, to whom Brad would be eternally indebted, or he was the biggest bullshit artist he had ever come across. Only time would tell.
But for the moment, the stockings made his legs sweat profusely. How would the moisture affect the bills? Maybe he should have used those zip-lock bags. No, that would only make him look more ridiculous when he walked.
Curse Skeeter. He probably did this just to trip him up. He massaged his crotch, trying to move a wad of bills further down his thigh. Once he could finally cross his legs, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Next, he’d have to figure out how to locate May and ensure her safety.
He imagined he’d have to join some package tour in order to travel relatively unnoticed around the tightly controlled Maoist state. From what he understood, many tours began in Beijing, the nation’s historical and current capital. It would serve as the perfect place to start investigating May’s father’s whereabouts and thus find her.
His seatmate was perusing the San Francisco Chronicle. During Brad’s strange seat gyrations, the older Cantonese fellow had given him a few sideways glances. But that didn’t stop Brad from engaging the guy in conversation.
“Do you know anything about joining a tour to Beijing?” Brad asked.
The man smiled in a friendly manner. “Are you a backpacker?”
“Yeah.” That described him pretty well. His whole life was in the overhead compartment.
“Then you want more than a package tour. You don’t want to walk around with the same group of chatting tourists as they follow a pink umbrella up and down the Great Wall of China. Believe me, I’ve suffered through enough of those.”
“Then what do I want?”
The man leaned away and peered at Brad from over his reading glasses. “How well have you prepared for this trip? Have you done your research?”
“Not really. This was a rush job.”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Then you must have a visa.”
“I’ve got one, a student visa.”
“That’s good.” The man studied him carefully. “Then I take it the school that is sponsoring you has sent you transit papers.”
“Papers?”
“If you are a student, the border control authorities will examine your travel documents carefully. You’ll need proof of your travel itinerary, hotel bookings, a return ticket, proof of sufficient funds, letter of acceptance from the Chinese institute. That sort of thing.”
“Transit papers, huh? How do I get them?”
“I understand that all it takes is a little money.”
“I’ve got some.” Suddenly he wondered if the guy was a con artist.
“Well, that will certainly come in handy when you try to obtain your transit papers and grease a few palms,” the man said distantly. He turned back to reading his paper.
Maybe the man didn’t wan
t to get involved. Brad didn’t mean to involve him in anything illegal. In fact, he didn’t want to do anything illegal. So he left the man alone.
But how about those transit papers, and into what sort of slums would he have to go to obtain them?
The flight was just nearing Hong Kong International Airport located on an island named Chek Lap Kok. Brad could see many islands dotting the mouth of the Pearl River. Mostly rocky outcroppings, they had a pristine beauty. Ships and ferries laced their way through the chain of islets, indicating plenty of commerce.
Brad buttonholed his neighbor one last time before they landed.
“Where should I go for those transit papers?” he asked. “I’ll need them right away.”
“How well do you know Hong Kong?” the man asked.
“I know it’s an island.”
“Not only. The real action is on the peninsula, called Kowloon. Take the subway north from Kowloon to Mongkok and start your search there.”
“Mongkok,” Brad repeated. “Thanks.”
Liang left his grandfather behind in his royal pavilion. If all went well, it would be the last time he saw his grandfather alive. The next time he returned to Beijing, it would be as President of China.
But first things first. He had to fly down to the town of Yichang on the bank of the Yangtze and oversee final preparations for the dam’s opening ceremony.
A military chauffeur was driving him out of Party headquarters when he received a cell phone call. He recognized the number on the screen at once. It was General Chen of the Southern Command.
“Yes Comrade General. What is it?”
“Do you want the bad news first?”
“Go ahead.” Liang braced himself.
“We received word from our consulate in San Francisco,” the gruff voice said. “They checked their records and found that they had issued a student visa to Bradley West, an anthropology student, a few days ago.”
Interesting. So Bradley West was coming to China to find his true love. Or was it to find a missing anthropologist? The answer to that question would be easy enough to ascertain. “Have Border Control watch for him at all ports of entry. If he’s traveling on a student visa, he should be easy to spot.”