Robert was tempted to laugh but quickly realized that was not such a good idea.
“Okay, give me a hint where to start with this guy. What do you know about the bomber?”
Fong went through the basics of what they knew of Angel Michael. Robert sat impassively listening. Fong finished. Robert didn’t move.
“Does that give you a place to start your search?”
Robert thought about it for a full ten seconds then said, “No. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t.”
Fong swore in Mandarin. Robert got the gist – something about a goat’s testicles. He said nothing. He had nothing to say. He did wonder if Fong was pissed off enough to break something else – maybe him.
There was another very long silence in the room then Fong remembered the words of the American consular official and turned to Robert. Robert took a half-step back. “He’s a Manichaean apparently.”
“A what?”
“A Manichaean.”
Robert smiled then quickly removed the smile from his face. “That may be a place to start, Detective. There have been rumours for years that original Manichaean scrolls had been buried in caves in the desert.”
“Which desert?”
“The Taklamakan. Like everyone else persecuted in the West, the Manichaeans came across the Silk Road seeking sanctuary. The Church followed them. To evade Rome the Manichaeans were said to have buried their sacred texts then disappeared into the Middle Kingdom.”
“China is the ocean that salts all rivers,” Fong quoted quietly.
“What?”
“An old saying, Mr. Cowens. So the Manichaeans headed east for safety just as did your parents – and sister.”
Robert looked at Fong trying to see if there was any sarcasm in the comment. There wasn’t. “Yes. Like my parents and my sister.” He rubbed his chin again and a smile slowly crossed his face. “I could let it be known to my associates that I have in my possession one of those original Manichaean scrolls and want to sell it. If this arsonist is a true believer it may be enough to draw him out.”
“It may.”
Robert nodded. “We have a deal then, Detective Zhong?”
“Write down all the information you have about your parents’ time in Shanghai and whatever else you need to know. I will set my people to it.”
“How long will it take?”
“It could take a while. I’ll contact you when I know something, hopefully by exactly two months from today.”
“Why then?”
“Why not? It’s a friend’s birthday.”
Robert looked at him. Fong returned his stare. Finally Fong said, “How long should it take to get in contact with our Manichaean friend?”
“Hard to tell. But if we’re lucky it could be fast – very fast.”
Fong turned toward the broken window and muttered, “It better be.” Then he turned back to Robert. “What do you need to start this?”
“Let me out of here – that’s a start.”
Fong considered putting an electronic tracking cuff on Robert. But Fong had worn one himself for some time and wouldn’t impose that misery on anyone else. “Give me your passport.”
Robert handed it over.
“Do you have a cell phone, Mr. Cowens?”
Robert produced it from his jacket pocket. Fong jotted down the ten-digit local number then handed it back. As Robert reached for it Fong held his side of the phone so the two of them felt each other’s pressure through the electronic device. “Don’t switch it off. And carry it at all times. I’ll be calling in every two hours. You don’t answer me and I’ll have you arrested and tossed into Ti Lan Chou Prison. You know what that is?”
“The political prison.”
“Right,” Fong said and released his end of the phone.
Robert pocketed the thing. Fong gave Robert his cell number. “Call me if anything and I mean anything begins to happen.” Robert nodded then turned to go.
“Mr. Cowens.”
Robert turned back to face Fong. The small man with the delicate features had his hand out. Robert took a step toward him and took the proffered hand. The two men, so very different, from such different worlds, felt the meeting as their palms touched. Neither would acknowledge it, but this was clearly the meeting of two very lonely men.
Angel Michael used the ID he’d stolen the first time he entered the Hua Shan Hospital to pass by security. It was late and the cleaning crews were reporting for work. He slid on his smock and grabbed a cleaner’s cart. He wheeled past the reception desk and its two guards. They glanced at him then signalled for him to stop. They came over quickly and flipped open the covered area on the floor of the trolley. Astinky wash bucket with dirty bandages greeted their inquiring looks.
“Yow!” one of them said as he threw down the sheet that covered the area. “What a smell.”
“Yeah, but instructions said for all the trolleys to be checked.”
“Can I go, now?” Angel Michael asked.
“Lots of cleaning left to do?”
“Lots,” Angel Michael said as he steered his cart toward the abortion ORs. “So they figured out the trick with the cart,” he thought, “fine I planned for that – that’s what windows are for, after all.” He moved past several ORs and came to the sixth. Only the first and the sixth had windows. He went in and closed the door carefully behind him. Then he wheeled the trolley over to the window. Standing on top of the cart, he nimbly hauled himself up to the window ledge. He slipped on his rock-climbing shoes and with the rosin pouch at his side he started up the outside wall toward the roof. The crumbling masonry gave out beneath his feet twice but his hand strength was considerable; each time he dangled briefly then pulled himself up to another foothold.
On the roof he unearthed the cage with its gruesome contents from a pile of discarded shingle tiles and hooked it on his back. Going down was more complicated but no problem for a world-class rock climber like Angel Michael.
He put the cage down on the ground to the side of the window ledge and slid back into the surgery, standing on the cart. Then he heard the door open. He jumped down, grabbed a rag, and started cleaning the stainless steel surgical table. Four soldiers ran in with arms drawn. Angel Michael stood back and held up his hands. One of the soldiers barked out, “Turn around and put your hands up against the wall.”
As Angel Michael turned he realized that the small window high up the wall was open! But the soldiers were so busy searching him that they never looked up. When they were done they shooed him out of the room with the instruction, “Go clean somewhere else.”
Fong paced back and forth in the rear of the old theatre. Onstage technicians hung, dropped, then re-hung lights. Chinese theatre technicians were not theatre specialists. They were workmen – in this case, electricians – seconded to work on productions in the final days before opening. It was hardly an ideal situation.
Fong had already given the stage manager a note to deliver to Tuan Li. He was anxious to apologize. Insulting Tuan Li had been like insulting his dead wife, Fu Tsong. But just as he took a seat a female voice called his name. He turned. It was not Tuan Li. It was Lily.
And she was furious.
Angel Michael moved away from the surgeries and dragged his cart up the stairs. He didn’t know this part of the hospital but he needed to find a way out to the courtyard to retrieve the cage and RDX explosive he’d left there. He tried the first two offices but they were locked. He reached for the knob on the third door, to the office right above the first OR, and the handle turned. He shut the door behind him and turned on the light. To his surprise this was not a single office but a warren of small labs. With a shock he realized that these were police forensic labs.
Then he saw the photo on the main desk. He’d seen the woman before – and the man – outside the hospital – speaking English. She had been the one who had the antique fresco sent to the hospital that had interrupted his first attempt to plant his bomb at the Hua Shan Hospital. She was the one who upset his schedule so that the American newspapers were now claiming that there had been no second blast – that it was an industrial accident. This woman had cast doubt on his entire enterprise.