That was the way of the world, Rip knew. Certainly the way of China. The past — good or bad — was soon forgotten. There was always today to be lived through and tomorrow to prepare for. Venerable ancestors were, of course, worthy and honorable and all that, but, alas, they were quite dead.
It was that Chinese focus on the now that intrigued Rip Buckingham. For the Chinese, he thought, all things were possible. Coolies and peasants from the rice paddies had built this modern city, were constantly transforming it, and in turn were transformed by it. It was an extraordinary metamorphosis.
Today not a single building remained from the nineteenth century. The commercial buildings were fifty-story-plus avant-garde statements in steel and glass. Mile after mile of high-rise apartment buildings housed more than six million people. The thought of living in one was a daunting prospect for Westerners, but the fact remains, six million people were decently housed.
As he rode the Harley through traffic and tried to ignore the drizzle and road spray, Rip Buckingham marveled again at the raw power of this great city. Chinese signs were freely intermingled with the logos of international corporations and brand names. Rip thought this mixture symbolic of Hong Kong, where East and West met, transforming both.
Hong Kong was a vast human stew, and by choice Rip was right in the middle of it.
He inched his way up the narrow, twisty roads that grooved the northern face of Victoria Peak, then guided the motorcycle into a driveway and triggered a radio-controlled garage-door opener in a house glued to the side of the peak. Buckingham News actually owned the place, which was a good thing since Rip could never have paid for it on his salary.
As he was getting off the machine inside the garage his wife came through the door.
“You’re soaked,” she said.
“Doesn’t matter. I stunk from jail.”
She kissed him.
He hit the button to close the outside door, then led her up the stairs to the living room. A large window looked out on the Central District and Kowloon across the strait. As Rip told his wife about jail and the governor, he automatically glanced outside. Kowloon was almost hidden in the rain and mist.
“I called your father.”
“What did he say?”
“Just that you should call when you could. I asked him if I should hire Albert Cheung, and he said yes.”
Rip stretched and nodded. “I need to take a shower, put on some dry clothes. I’ll call him later.”
“What are we going to do, Rip?”
“I don’t know,” he said, meaning it. “This place is our life. Sun Siu Ki just took it from us.”
“They won’t let you keep publishing the Post.”
“I know.”
“Things are changing.”
“I know. I know! You told me. The police told me. Albert Cheung told me. I know, I know, and goddamn, I resent it.”
“Mother won’t leave without my brother.”
Rip took his wife’s hand. “I know that, too,” he said gently and kissed her.
An hour later, after he had a long, hot shower and put on fresh clothes, Rip called his father’s office in Sydney. Soon Rich’s voice boomed through the instrument.
Rip told him about the cease publication order and the demands of Sun Siu Ki.
“Dad, I don’t think we should run the paper under these conditions. It’s censorship. Knuckling under to the Communists will cost Buckingham News its standing in the international community, and that ultimately will mean loss of ad revenue all over the globe.”
“That paper is worth a hundred million,” Richard Buckingham thundered into the telephone.
Rip had to hold the instrument away from his ear. The old man sounded like he was in the next room.
“Bloody Chinks! A hundred million!” Rich ripped off a couple oaths, but the volume was going down. “All the bloody lies they’ve told the last fifteen or twenty years, about how great it was going to be in Hong Kong when they took over… Makes me want to puke!”
“Yessir,” Rip agreed.
“And the bloody Brits.” Richard added them to his list. “Believing those lies…”
“Maybe it’s time to pack it in,” Rip said reluctantly, trying to get back to the business at hand. “Maybe in a few years the government here will see the benefits of a free press.”
“They don’t really have a choice,” Richard rumbled. “The world has outgrown censorship. But you’re right — we can’t buck the bastards head-on. Pay off the Post employees. Send me the names and qualifications of everyone who wants to work for another Buckingham paper and is willing to move. We’ll see what we can do.” There was a second of dead sound, then he added, “Move at their own expense, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to see you and Sue Lin. Come on home.”
“In a few weeks. We have to wrap up some things here.”
“Righto, mate.”
“And Dad? Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For seeing this my way.”
“See you in a few weeks.”
Richard Buckingham hung up the telephone and sat staring out the window at the artsy-fartsy roof of the Sydney Opera House. He called in Billy Kidd, who had been his number two since Richard was the publisher, editor, and sports writer of the Wangeroo Gazette.
“The Commies have shut down the Post in Hong Kong,” he began. After Richard told Billy what he knew, he added, “I want a story about the shutdown and I want it on the front page of every paper I own. Call Rip at home and have him write it. Use a file photo of him.”
“Righto.”
“Top of the front page, Billy.” Richard picked up a legal pad and pencil from his desk and handed it to Billy, who could take a hint. He began taking notes.
“Billy, someday those Commie bastards are going to regret screwing with me. Bad press is the only lever I have, and by God, I’m going to use it.”
Richard Buckingham got out of his chair and paced the office. “Put the one-baby story on the telly chat shows again. More Falun Gong persecution stories. Bang the drum every day. And I mean every day, Billy. A new, different, bad slant each and every day.”
“Whatever you want, Richard. But I don’t think that—”
“And I want something about those hundred million migrants roaming around China that the Commies are cracking down on. I’m tired of reading about these lawless vagrants threatening the economic prosperity of the new China. The corrupt, venal Communist regime is threatening the economic prosperity of the new China. They are prosecuting the harmless kooks in the Falun Gong movement, jailing people whose only crime is to want a little bit of life’s sweetness. Massive pollution, sweatshops, child labor — China’s the last big sewer left on earth, and that’s the way we’ll write it from now on. Fax it to the managing editor of every paper.”
Billy finished taking notes and asked sourly, “Anything else?” He had been with Richard Buckingham too long to cower.
“Communism is as dead as Lenin. The Buckingham newspapers and television networks are going to trumpet that news loud and clear. Find a politico to write it, somebody important or somebody who wants to be important.”
“You—”
“And why does the free world tolerate the crimes against humanity that the Chinese government perpetrates on those who can’t defend themselves? Maybe an article, ‘Tiananmen Square Revisited.’ ”
Billy scribbled furiously. “You’re the boss,” he said.
“You’re damn right I am,” Richard roared. “Those bloody Chinks didn’t like the coverage they got from the China Post—they’re going to shit when they see the press they’re getting from now on. When anybody anywhere says anything bad about Red China, I want to read it in the papers and hear about it on the telly news shows. From this day forward Buckingham News is the world’s foremost voice urging the overthrow of the Communists in Beijing.”