The man was tall. A Northerner. His Shanghanese was poor. He may well have lived in Shanghai for years but he had never bothered to pick up the local dialect. Typical. For fifty years Beijing had allowed Shanghai to rot. According to Maoist thinking, Shanghai had been infected by its contacts with the West and the Shanghanese were thus not to be trusted. So there were few if any Shanghanese admitted to the high corridors of power.
But Beijing announced its change in attitude toward Shanghai when Chou En-lai pronounced the famous words, “Black cat, white cat, what’s the difference.” This was taken to mean money from the East, money from the West – money is money. And the race was on. All of a sudden Shanghai’s historical contact with the West was an advantage. Overnight, Shanghai was central to Beijing’s plans. But they never really trusted Shanghai up there in Beijing so men like the one standing in Fong’s doorway were put in positions of power just to be sure those uppity Shanghanese never forgot who really runs the Middle Kingdom.
“Good evening, Traitor Zhong,” the man began. His voice was heavy. A worker’s voice. His clothes, although of good fabric, hung awkwardly on his thick shoulders and almost non-existent neck. His eyes were coal black. His hands were rough as if they had spent years wielding a pickaxe in a mine, which they may well have done.
Fong nodded and almost said, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine evening?” but decided the man probably had no sense of humour. The man strode into Fong’s office and placed three American newspapers on Fong’s desk. “My people tell me that these papers claim the explosion at the People’s Fourteenth Hospital was nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”
Fong glanced at the papers. “They’re wrong.”
The man bristled at Fong’s refusal to use his title. “And you know this how, Traitor Zhong?”
“Our head arson investigator was in the building before sections of it collapsed. He saw the cage. He saw the message on the cage.”
Still no “sir.”
“Your man was in the fire? Perhaps he set the fire?”
“Perhaps he didn’t.”
The moment of dead air between the two men was filled with challenge.
“I’m going to lift the embargo against the city.”
“Don’t!”
The man stared at Fong.
“Sir. Please don’t, sir! We are making progress. I swear it, sir.”
“One more day, Traitor Zhong. One more day and you’d better have results for me.” The man was about to leave when he stopped himself and stared at the office. “This is much too fine an office for a traitor.”
Fong looked at the man.
“Don’t you think, Traitor Zhong?”
The man waited. Slowly Fong nodded. “In case you haven’t noticed, your window is broken.” The man smiled. “One more day, Traitor Zhong. One more day.” Then he turned and left, slamming the door behind him, as if his point needed any further emphasis. Fong took a moment to collect himself then opened the door. Several of his detectives were standing there with their mouths open.
“What? Never seen a party hack before? Come on, we’ve got work to do. Everyone in place?” They were coming back to Earth. “Everyone in place?” Fong repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Give me ten minutes then put Mr. Cowens in my office.”
Robert was surprised by the spaciousness of Fong’s office. He looked out the broken window at the spectacular view of the radio tower, the world’s tallest freestanding building, in the Pudong Industrial Region across the Huangpo River. He said the name Huangpo a second time. He liked the sound. The bruise on his face hurt but he did his best to ignore it. Something about all this actually felt right. Or perhaps inevitable.
Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he’d always wondered if he’d end up incarcerated. On some level he believed it was his just end – on another level he knew he’d always been, in some sense, behind bars. He looked at the desk. There was a picture of a thin-faced younger woman carrying a newborn child. He’d only had a brief glance at this Detective Zhong but he seemed a bit old to be with this young creature. Certainly a little long in the tooth to be starting a family. Robert noted the arrangement of the articles on Fong’s desk. Not symmetrical but somehow ordered, as if planned – like a Japanese flower arrangement. Then Robert dismissed the thought. This was a Chinese cop. Just one step up from a thug or one down from a party man. He set his face, rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension, and stood very still, waiting.
In a small, empty side office, Fong quickly read through his notes. They had been tracking Mr. Cowens’ activities for quite some time. They knew his devil and his deeds but as Fong leafed through the papers for the third time he felt sure that their investigation had missed something. Something important.
Mr. Cowens’ salary from his law firm in Toronto was far greater than the money he made buying and selling antiquities. He also didn’t demand top dollar for a lot of his finds. Everyone they’d interviewed agreed that he was a tough and extremely knowledgeable negotiator but he never seemed to go for the kill in his trading, as if getting just enough money was the goal – but just enough for what? They knew he was dealing solely in cash but he always seemed to leave Shanghai with his pockets pretty much empty of both yuan and US dollars. He had no bank accounts in Shanghai or the rest of the mainland; he’d been body searched several times leaving the country and they’d found nothing. There were only a few small transactions converting yuan to US dollars on record and almost no bank transfers either to or from overseas. The whole thing just didn’t add up. Like a restaurant menu missing a page.
Fong put aside the report on Robert Cowens and opened his folder on Tuan Li. He re-read the famous actress’s statement. She was waiting in the adjoining interrogation room, the one the cops called the “Hilton” because it had a couch, a chair that had all four legs, and it was cleaned at least once a year.
Tuan Li rose from the sofa the moment Fong entered the room and the smile on her face said that she was extremely happy to see him. “This is a great pleasure,” she said.
“For myself as well, but I’m afraid this is a police matter.”
“Ah, am I under suspicion of some dastardly crime?” Her smile was luminous.
“No, but you have been consorting with foreigners.”
“Consorting is a complicated word,” she replied slowly and sat back down.
“Would you mind telling me what you were doing in the company of Mr. Robert Cowens?”
She thought about the question for a second. She certainly minded but she decided to answer. “I was assessing whether he was worthy of falling in love with.”
Fong looked hard at her.
“You heard correctly, Detective Zhong,” she said icily.
It hurt him that she used his formal title and she knew it. “And did he live up to your no doubt high standards?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He had no faith.”
“What?”
“Faith. He had no faith – no faith, Detective Zhong, no love. May I go now?” She stood. She was taller than him.
Fong stepped aside and she headed toward the door. “My wife would have admired your acting.”
“That’s not fair, Detective Zhong. You can’t insult me then offer me such high praise. It is unwise to use the affections of the departed for personal gain. It should be beneath you. It is no doubt beneath the memory of the great Fu Tsong.”
He looked at her. The simple elegance of the line of her momentarily transfixed him. Her words echoed in his head – they were true and he knew it. He said nothing.
She shook her head. “You disappoint me, Detective Zhong.” What could the great Fu Tsong have seen in this man, she wondered – clearly he had no faith either.
After Tuan Li left, Robert Cowens’ translator was ushered into the interrogation room. Her round face and French haircut surprised Fong. He glanced down at his data sheet. She had a man’s name. He asked her about that.