by Nova McBee
That’s it, I think. It’s over. Just when I opened up to him at the beach and finally understood he wanted to be a friend I make it impossible to be one.
…
Over the weekend the smack from Kai’s dashboard developed into a dark blueish-green bulge covering most of my forehead. It looked like my head got stuck in an elevator and smacked every floor on the way up. As if things couldn’t get worse, Chan called me in for an urgent meeting on the day it looks its worst. I wonder what he’ll think of my bruise. More importantly, I wonder what he wants to talk about.
The last time he called me in unexpectedly, he drily informed me that he’d hired a new accountant. He didn’t need to spell out that I’d been right that first day in his office about the missing funds in the C-suite, or the chain store and insurance. He never said thank you, but he stopped questioning me. That day, I held a smile on my face for an hour and thirty-seven minutes.
I walk into his immaculate office. Chan is leaning down smelling one of the potted moli flowers on the ground, lost in thought. I clear my throat.
“Ah, Phoenix.” His eyes lock onto the huge lump on my forehead immediately. Just what he needs to confirm his suspicions of me.
“Missed the game-fights, did you?” he asks, his finger unconsciously rising to touch the part of his nose I broke.
I shrug. “Just carelessness.” Is he laughing at me?
He raises an eyebrow at me, not believing a word. Thankfully, Kai agreed to keep the secret between us. I won’t be the one to explain our get away from King’s warehouse.
“Well, are you okay?” he grunts, changing to a more serious tone. “Anything else hurt?”
My head snaps up. Did I hear that right? Is Chan looking out for me? Chan sees the shock on my face.
“I don’t care how smart you are,” he says, “you’re still just a girl. No parents. No past. No one to look out for you.”
So what he’s really saying is, I’m one hell of a messed-up orphan. “I’m fine.” Thankfully, he’s in a hurry and drops the subject.
“Well, I can’t complain,” he says, jumping into business. “All of my accounts are rising as you promised, but…” He grabs a file from his desk. “Did you hear the news?”
I shake my head.
He rubs his forehead slightly. “Other companies are not doing so well.” He clears his throat again. Whatever he has to say is not coming easily. “I asked the Asia Bank Council to investigate the numbers. Their experts agree there’s something wrong.”
“What did they find?”
“I want you to ensure the future of my company,” he says. “And there’s a meeting tomorrow with the World Bank. I want you to come…”
“What did they identify, Chan?” I repeat.
Most people, after having been told they are crazy, or foolish for believing something, enjoy gloating when the facts come to light. This is not one of those times.
Please don’t say it, I think, as I calculate what’s next on his lips. But he does anyway.
“You were right, Phoenix,” he says slowly. “About everything.”
You’d think that after the Asia Bank Council agreed that a crash is coming, Chan would listen to my plan but he’s more pig-headed than a mule. He still doesn’t understand that governments or banks won’t help China stay above water, and neither can I. Even if I manage to make a fourth of the money that Chan has, Asia Bank—the only operation large enough to handle distribution, won’t just let me walk in and take over.
On top of that, the Expo is in less than three weeks and I still don’t have the records or schedule or any buyer information. I don’t even know if I’m brave enough to go through with the Expo. Each plan I devise to extract the girls doesn’t check out mathematically.
Then there’s the boy problem. Kai is spying on me for Chan. At least it feels like it. How else can I explain his odd behavior since the incident in Song Valley? He checks on me regularly—even though he doesn’t really say a word. He’s snoopy, but his gaze lingers on me longer than it should for a person he despises.
As if on cue, Kai pushes through the door—the second time today—with a cup of tea. He sets it down slowly, stealing glances around my office and at my computer. His cold kindness complies with cultural pressure to maintain harmony but he’s up to something.
“Here’s some hot bitterroot tea,” he says, his voice not nearly as warm as the liquid steaming in the cup. “Try not to get in trouble in the next hour, huh? We’ve got a meeting soon.”
After a week of this, I snap. “Look, Kai, I know your father told you that I’m ‘trouble’. I proved that to you—so why bother coming around me at all? Unless you’re trying to find more evidence for your father, I suggest you leave me alone.”
He looks up at the ceiling, letting out a deep breath. I feel bad for snapping at him. Wasn’t I the one who did something wrong?
“You’re right,” he says, jetting to the door. “You are trouble. I just thought maybe it was the good kind.”
He leaves silently, his steps so swift he could be a ghost.
A gaping hole emerges in my chest. I wish that day on the beach never happened. That I never told him those things about me. Maybe that pestering feeling that I lost something would go away. Still, I can’t deny admitting those things about my past felt good.
I push thoughts of Kai to another part of my brain, which is crowded, because they bump into Rafael, wearing that suit. Pushing away that thought is easier than thoughts of Kai. I’ve had practice forgetting Rafael.
So, in hopes Kai will forget the incident at the warehouse and forget me, I decline his offers of a ride into work. I hole up in my small office, with my eyes glued to the computer. Then after work I visit the factory. I’ve been slowly filling it with things I’ll need—computers, surveillance, nerdy tech-tools like the ones we had at PSS, medical supplies, even blankets and clothes. I’ve also cleaned up inches of thick dust, but it only proves to me what an impossible task all of this really is.
I can’t reasonably work for Chan and create a super bond—that may never see the light of day—and bring justice to King and Madame. Stress is adding up. I’m running out of time and here I am wasting time analyzing Kai’s behavior!
Red would have retreated to his room already, commanding me to focus. Stress from a boy is the least of my worries.
Focus! I check off the next target on my list: Golden Global Shipping. I couldn’t hack into it, so I decided to control it from within—Chan is now the main shareholder. With greater access, I should be able to reroute the shipments to a port of my choice. Not only will shipments arrive to King at the Port, but his payment will too—first into my pocket, then into the super bond.
Theoretically, if the bond works, in a few years, whoever controls it, could be the most powerful person on the planet, which is why I’ve come to another irrational decision. Apart from helping the girls, my cut will forever loop in the endless cycle I created until the economy evens out. I’ll keep nothing.
The word nothing has a bad reputation, but actually it’s not that bad. I’ve lived with nothing and lived with everything. One thing is for sure—money can’t guarantee happiness.
Behind this action there’s another motive. My vow to Red—to right all the wrong I’ve helped create. I want to beat the odds; to test it all and see if it comes back to me. If there’s more out there, like that path with higher rules of which Red spoke, I want to walk on it. I believe, now, there is—so I have to try.
I take out a piece of paper and write one of Red’s poems on it. I tape it to the wall. As I stare at it, I remember all he gave to me. If he were in my place, he’d do the same thing. The thought makes me smile.
I wonder what my dad would think of all this. Would he be like Chan or Red? I jump online and do something I promised myself I wouldn’t do. Even as I’m opening a new window, I’m not sure what will happen if I bring him up from the dead. But my fingers can’t help punching in the name J-J R-i-v-e-r-s.
An old picture of him at iVision pops up. I scroll through articles about his investigation and the dissipation of iVision shortly after my abduction. I locate our house in Seattle. The address is under new ownership. I shouldn’t be surprised. There’s nothing recent about my family. I can’t even find the article about their death anymore. It’s dead information. Like them.
I processed my anger with Red in the Pratt. “I forgive your betrayal. Your love of money.” I let the past go, didn’t I? But could I return home and start again? Seeing these pictures stings, not of bitterness or anger, but grief. I want to believe they would have loved me no matter who I was or what I did. I’ll never get that chance. Death doesn’t give us second chances. So I settle, closing the computer.
I catch Red’s poem in my peripheral vision. I stop to recite it, like he used to make me do.
“White sun leans on the mountain then vanishes. Yellow river flows into the sea. If your eyes desire to see a thousand miles, go up one more floor.”
Red referred to this poem 86 times when talking to me about my destiny. Basically, it means “aim high” and “if you want to reach your goal, you have to climb that extra floor. Work hard, persist.”
Chinese always play games with words and their sounds. Many Chinese words sound the same but have different meanings. Red never wanted to play that game with this poem. I do it now, not sure why.
In the first line the word jin, meaning ‘vanish’, stands out. It sounds like the word for gold. I read the sentence again. “White sun reveals a mountain of gold.” In the second line, the word liu for ‘flow’ sounds like the number 6 and the river could represent water, making it “water of six”. Then in both the third and the fourth line I exchange more words that sound like numbers, namely, 1000 and 1. For the first time, I see this poem in a completely new light. I erupt in laughter.
White sun reveals a mountain of gold.
Across the river in six.
A thousand tunnels.
Go up one floor.
Red was a genius. All along, from day one, he was telling me where King hides his stash. It’s in the old lighthouse, building six across the stream.
26
Present: Phoenix
SHANGHAI TOWER, SHANGHAI, CHINA
No matter how I calculate it, there’s no safe way to get into the Pratt and loot the lighthouse. That is why I have recorded the last instructions for the bond and other loans as simply as I can. Now, if something happens to me at the Pratt, the warehouse, or at the Expo, even a middle school student could follow my detailed plan for stabilizing the economy.
As I think about a name for the super bond, my father comes to mind. He always named his investment projects after their inspiration. I type out a name or two and delete them immediately. Nothing seems to fit.
To distract myself, I take out another sheet of paper with a small map of the Pratt. I trace the tunnels with delight. Taking King’s treasure will be a stab to his very heart and a generous donation to China’s economy. After all, someone has to keep him accountable.
After hours of work with my head down, my neck begins to hurt. Chan’s secretary buzzes me. “Someone on line one asking for you.”
I perk up, alert. This is the first time I’ve received a call that’s not Kai or Chan within the office. No one knows me. No one should be calling. My first week in the office, I told Chan to let people know I didn’t want questions or visitors.
“Who is it, Secretary Lin?” I ask, looking out my window, shaking off a chill.
“The reception isn’t clear. She didn’t give a name. Just said it was urgent and that you’d be happy to hear from her.”
She?
My mind does flips. That’s impossible. Madame thinks I’m dead. King thinks I’m dead. Jo is dead. I’m Phoenix now, and no one knows her save three people. It’s not her. The line beeps again.
I pick up and use a Sichuan dialect to disguise myself. “Who are you?” I ask sharply.
“It’s better not to say now. We need to meet in person.” The voice is soft, not Madame’s. Still, I don’t recognize it. “I have been meaning to contact you. I need to deliver something to you.”
Trap. Lies. Do not fall for this again. “Not interested.”
I’m about to hang up when she says, “Wait – it’s very precious cargo.”
The word cargo traps me like a net. I can’t hang up. Possibilities stream through my head. It could mean anything. Don’t trust her.
“Make an appointment with China Generation,” I say in Chinese. “Send details of the cargo to this address.”
“I can’t do that. I’m to deliver it to you alone, Phoenix, in person,” the woman says. “The cargo is extremely exotic, expensive, marked with an X.”
Marked with an X? If it’s what I think it is, that’s impossible. But there’s no other explanation.
“Tell me something that will make me trust you.”
“Ah,” she says, “he said trust would be a problem.”
“Who said that?”
“Your grandfather.”
My heart leaps back into my cell. I’m Double-Eight again and Red’s there, whispering, “You can trust me.”
If she knows Red, there’s an eighty percent chance she’s telling the truth. But that’s not what’s moving me towards my decision. In this instance, I feel like it’s going to be okay.
“All right,” I say, taking an unaccustomed leap of faith. “Meet me at High Street, gate 34. Eight pm.” If it is cargo, we need to take it there.
I hang up and relax my shoulders. Did I just trust a stranger? I hope my gut is right.
I slip out of work early because I don’t want to be questioned or delayed. There are a few things I need to do before I meet the mysterious caller. In the lobby, I apply red lipstick, as dark as Madame’s. Slide on a pair of sunglasses and a long dress coat that hides my frame.
I head for the main door. In my head I write a shopping list—food, medicine, pillows. If her cargo is what I think it is, I want to be ready.
Doorman Yu Tai swings open the door. He’s not in his work clothes. I remember Mr. Yu’s moonlighting offer and I jump on the chance to use his services as a driver.
“Have time to take me somewhere?” Again, I’m surprised. Seriously, trusting two strangers in under twenty-four hours?
“Sure.”
We agree on a place and price. When Mr. Yu picks me up, we load everything into the car. The drive will be no more than twenty minutes. This is sufficient time to understand the man who opens the office door.
I start with his eyes. A mere glance, straight on, confirms my suspicions. He doesn’t look away and is not afraid of what I might see. He’s born with an extremely high aptitude of social skills and when he’s around Kai and Chan or other businessmen, he acts like he belongs.
“What did you do before you worked as a doorman?” I ask. “You strike me as a white-collar man.”
This surprises him. He acts as if there’s something caught in his throat. He itches his nose and cracks his neck. He’s taken off guard.
“What did you do before you worked here?” he responds. “You strike me as being too young and obscure to be Chan’s assistant of finance.”
Good point. We both stay silent. He has been noticing me, as I notice him. Interesting. The silence stretches. Another point in common—neither of us wants to confess first.
“Guess we’re at a stalemate,” he says.
“Guess so.”
“Let’s just say I had it all and all was lost,” he says. “So here I am.”
“Working at Shanghai Tower was your idea?” I ask.
“Actually, it was your boss’s. He gave me the job,” he says. “He knew my father.”
Guanxi. I was right. Chan gave him the job.
“If you haven’t noticed, Chan has a practice of hiring guys like me,” he says. “Why do you think everyone loves him?”
People love Chan? It’s so mind-blowing I want to ask more, but I
only have a limited number of minutes for my already-planned questions.
“So, you’re from Shanghai?”
“No.”
The way he says it so absolutely, I know our conversation is over so I can’t ask him where, but I have an idea on how to get my answer.
A minute later, we arrive at our destination, a small shop two blocks from the factory. Yu Tai hurries to open my door and unloads the boxes. As I pay him, I thank him in Red’s home dialect.
He immediately returns the appropriate response in the same dialect, then hops in the van and drives off. Only someone who grew up there could respond so naturally. He’s from Song Valley, just like Red. Just like King. Just like I suspected.
I hail a petty cab for the remaining two blocks. While calculating my backup plan in case things go wrong, I clean the upper rooms, set up the beds, and load food into the fridge.
An hour later, three females—one older and two younger—stand outside the gate. Cargo—girls. I knew it.
I approach the gate without opening it, calculating their movements. They have no tension in their bodies to suggest a trap. The two younger girls—with long black hair and beautifully symmetrical faces, drape their arms around their bellies, shaking. They look at me, terrified. I’m female, but that does not make me safe. I should know.
The two girls recoil after noticing me inspect them. Although they are dressed in thick jackets and baggy pants, they fold their arms across their chest to hide themselves, a sign of insecurity, yet their eyes remain empty. They have been broken. God knows how long it’ll take to put them back together.
The ‘X’ is not hard to spot on their necks. No paper trail, but Madame loves to claim her work. Leaving a mark is the downfall of her pride. The scar on my neck will always be a reminder of that. I open the gate.
The older woman gathers the girls like a hen with her chicks. They stay very close to her as they approach.
When I come eye to eye with the older lady, I see a ghost.
“Phoenix. Nice to finally meet you,” she says, sweeping in for an unexpected embrace. Her gentle touch on my back throws me off but helps me understand why the two girls huddle around her like chicks. I haven’t felt a touch like that since my mother. I quickly back off and usher them through the gate.