Fong recognized the growing possibility of real panic taking hold and in a city the size of Shanghai – eighteen million at night, twenty-four million during the day – panic was not an acceptable response to any situation. Fong immediately called in every available man and began issuing orders. “Evacuate the hospital. Cordon off six full square blocks. Anyone acting erratically is to be removed from the area immediately. Block and building wardens are instructed to use whatever force is necessary to keep people indoors.”
Fong ordered the yellow-taping of the entire front lobby and then left four young cops on guard with the strict orders that, “Nothing – but nothing – is to be touched. Get the basics from the man at reception who found the note, then bring him down to my office.” The police officers nodded and Fong headed toward the blast site. He wanted to talk to Wu Fan-zi.
Fong passed by the security cordon and stepped through the blasted-out wall of the surgery. The place still radiated heat in sporadic pulses. The remains of the foam poured on it by the People’s Third Fire Brigade were still very much in evidence. The room was now a shattered twisted thing. Everything pushed upward or outward. Metal shards of expensive machinery thrust deep into the walls and ceiling, glass everywhere, blood, identifiable fragments of human body parts – and amidst the chaos a perfectly formed tiny human fetus wrapped in some kind of metal sheathing inside a metal cage. On the metal sheathing was etched a repeat of the warning – in English: THIS BLASPHEMY MUST STOP.
“What does it say, Fong?”
Fong looked up into the dark, patient eyes of Wu Fan-zi, his head arson investigator – his fireman. Fong searched for a good translation for the word blasphemy in Mandarin. He finally settled on bu gong zheng meaning injustice and gave the whole translation as: Zhe zhong bu gong zheng de xing wei bi xu ting zhi. This injustice must stop. Wu Fan-zi nodded his head several times, then asked, “Which injustice must stop?”
Fong almost laughed but didn’t – nothing remains funny for very long in a place that is beginning to stink of burnt human flesh.
“Crime Site Unit will want to go in first.”
“So what else is new?” Wu Fan-zi lit a cigarette and carefully pocketed the match.
“I’ll see what I can do about getting you in ahead of them.”
Wu Fan-zi shrugged and headed out of the blast zone.
Lily stopped the Tibetan woman in the market. The woman smiled, revealing missing teeth and silver caps. Her dark eyes swam deep within her heavily wrinkled face. But she was not old. In fact, Lily couldn’t tell whether the woman in front of her was older or younger than she.
“So – you back?”
The woman’s Shanghanese was spotty, her breath formidable.
“I have returned as you can see,” said Lily.
The Tibetan looked at Lily, then turned away.
Lily reached out and grabbed the woman’s arm.
The Tibetan whirled quickly, reaching for her swolta blade as she did.
Lily almost screamed.
It was lucky for her that she didn’t. “You back – I see – what want?”
Lily replied carefully, “You gave me photographs of some old statuary the last time.”
“So, you buy or you think buy?” she asked sharply.
Lily wanted to see the pieces in the flesh but almost thought better of it when she saw the sun glint off the sharpness of the woman’s knife.
“You, me follow.”
And Lily did – through three densely packed alleys, then down a long set of steps into the sub-sub-basement of a building off Zhe Jiang Lu. Lily wasn’t all that tall but even she had to lean forward to avoid banging her head against the ceiling in the dank subbasement. The tiny Tibetan didn’t need to bend. She flipped a switch. Three well-armed Tibetan men came to silent life.
“Pick, you,” said the Tibetan woman, pointing to the ground.
Four lintel pieces were on the floor. Some were delicately carved, others had fresco paintings – all were sand-worn – ancient. And totally illegal.
“From the Taklamakan Desert,” the Tibetan said. “Far west.”
Lily knelt to get a better look. The first must have been a facing piece – perhaps the carved figures were family gods. The second was smaller and badly damaged. But there was a prize – a beautifully carved young boy. The third was obviously a vertical piece and seemed to depict a farming scene of some sort. The final one was also vertical. This had the standing figure of the man in ancient Western garb. He faced forward, his head looked slightly to his right, his palms turned upward. There was a beautiful calm to his face and lines of light radiated from his body.
Lily pointed to the fourth piece. Immediately, the Tibetan pulled out a hand calculator and punched in a very high number – what the Shanghanese call the laughing price. When you see that price, you are supposed to laugh. If you don’t, then the merchant laughs – inside, of course.
Lily smiled – bartering was familiar territory. She chortled and then snapped the calculator out of the Tibetan’s hands and punched in a ludicrously low figure – the crying price. The Tibetan shrieked in proper proportion to Lily’s offer.
The bartering lasted twenty minutes. Lily threatened to leave twice, the Tibetan threatened to kill her once – just another day at the market.
Finally, a price was settled upon. Then Lily pressed the Tibetans to deliver the object. “After all, a fine Han Chinese lady like myself cannot be seen parading through the streets with a piece of China’s priceless history on her back.”
A few more dickering moves and the delivery price was set.
Lily gave them the address of her office at the Hua Shan Hospital. They were to wrap the fresco and leave it with the receptionist down the stairs from her lab.
She insisted the object be well concealed and then asked, “When will it arrive?”
The Tibetan raised her shoulders.
“When?” Lily pressed.
“Within the week. We don’t openly move objects of such value in the city. Shanghai’s filled with thieves, you know.” All of a sudden the woman’s Shanghanese was perfect and her sense of irony very strong.
Lily gave them a 10-percent deposit and her very best I’m-a-cop-so-don’t-fuck-with-me look.
As she left the Tibetans and stepped into the brilliant sunshine, she had a slight twinge – she’d just used her best cop look to do something illegal. Then she banished the thought from her head. Fong would love the piece and it would be their first present to Xiao Ming – their first- and only-born – on the occasion of her three-month birthday. It would also be the first of many purchases that were hers and Fong’s – not Fong’s and Fu Tsong’s.
The heat in the operating room was still intense enough to mask the stink of death as Fong watched his “fireman’s” eyes move – no, scan – the blasted-out surgery. Wu Fan-zi was almost half as wide as he was tall but not one ounce of him was fat. What little neck he had was substantially wider than his head. His muscular torso came directly from his Mongolian ancestry. He was basically a small building that had grown legs – and, oh yes, brains. Fong thought of Wu Fan-zi’s expertise as the zen end of policing. He’d worked with Wu Fan-zi several times before his exile west of the Wall and each time he’d found it fascinating.
Wu Fan-zi horked up a wad of phlegm into his mouth but didn’t spit it out. After all, this was a crime scene and there’s no telling what stupid conclusion a CSU guy could come to if he found fresh phlegm on the floor. Wu Fan-zi had little patience with CSU guys – but then he’d been allowed into the crime site first this time – so he’d hold his phlegm. “Well?” Fong ventured.
Wu Fan-zi slowly brought his almost black eyes to meet Fong’s gaze. Then he slid them past Fong and stared at a mass of tangled metal imbedded in the far wall.
“Well?” Fong ventured again.
Wu Fan-zi brought a handkerchief to his mouth and spat into it. “He’s a pro – that’s for sure.”