He went to call for his beloved father but found himself running.
Running. Wang Jun, his older friend and colleague at his side. It was fifty-four months ago on Shanghai’s waterfront. No, in the Pudong industrial area. Federal troops firing at them. Ting of bullets off brick. Thunk against a car door. Sliding skip of metal jackets against blacktop. A windshield shattering. Then thud. Wang Jun hit and crashing to the ground. Then thwap, thwap, thwap – Fong’s feet on the pavement. Running. Running. Not looking back. Never seeing Wang Jun’s body. Never looking. Just running.
Running – into Fu Tsong’s outstretched arms.
“Be still, Fong, and we’ll get through this.
“This is a dream,” he said.
“Hardly. A nightmare more likely.”
Fong looked up. He was in a theatre, his deceased wife, the famous actress Fu Tsong, at his side.
“But be good Fong and as I’ve said, we’ll get through this.”
The bounce of the stage lights came out into the house just enough to illuminate her beautiful features. Fong held his breath. He didn’t want the illusion to return to drops of mist. He hadn’t been able to dream her for years.
Then she laughed.
Tendrils of joy, the very heart of her life force, spread out through the fetid air of the place. And he gloried in her presence.
Then she reached over and took his hand. Her elegant tapered fingers interlocked with his calloused ones. He caught a hint of her perfume.
He coughed.
For a moment Fong couldn’t figure out what a tire was doing beneath his head.
Then he remembered.
Dust was pouring in through the hole in the wheel well. He rolled away and covered his mouth.
And curled up once more with his memories. A wave of loneliness the likes of which he hadn’t experienced since he entered Ti Lan Chou prison swept over him. For the first time since he had killed the assassin Loa Wei Fen in the construction site in the Pudong, he felt tears coming to his eyes. He blinked them back. He was too old to cry.
The car bounced. Fong’s body rose; the inner tube protected him from the trunk’s ceiling and when he fell the tire protected him from the floor. He wondered where they were taking him. Then he stopped wondering and accepted. The mongoose stopped its pacing and sat at the base of his spine. Where they were going was out of his control. No point wasting energy on that. They’d no doubt get wherever they were going soon enough.
CHAPTER THREE
A bright light pierced Fong’s sleep. He shook his head, trying to stop the glare inside his skull. Then he realized that the light wasn’t coming from within, that it wasn’t part of a dream, but rather it was the beam of a high-powered flashlight. He shrugged off the inner tube and held up his manacled hands to blinker the glare.
Through his fingers he saw the silhouettes of the thug and the politico then they bent over the opened trunk. The light bouncing off his hands lit their faces. The thug scowled. That didn’t bother Fong. But the politico’s knowing nod sent a shiver down his spine. That allunderstanding nod, that I-told-you-so smile, let Fong know that the inner tube and the tire had been provided intentionally. That they had been planted. Prepared. That much forethought had been put into this little excursion.
Fong kicked aside the shredded carpet and struggled to a sitting position. A thought sprouted in his head. This asshole thought putting the tire and inner tube there for him to find proved how powerful he was. Fong knew that it proved the opposite. They put the stuff in the trunk because they didn’t want him too badly hurt. Roughed up, yes – but hurt, no. Because they needed him to do something for them. Lily’s telegram said TONS OVER HEAD GOING DOWN ON YOU SOON. REAL SUCKING TONS, YOU NEED A HAT. Maybe, Lily, maybe. Fong was careful not to smile. But inside he was gleeful. They wanted him scared but basically unharmed. They were concerned that he survive the ride. They must really need him to work on something big.
It was dark. He could smell the deep intensity of manure in the air. They must be in a small village. No doubt still a commune-dominated place that turned out the street lights, perhaps all electricity in the town, at 9 p.m. There was a time when all power went off in Shanghai at 10 p.m. Big daddy government saying, Enough kids – you’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow, go to bed. In Shanghai, all that did was spawn a new business in illicit generators. The Shanghanese loved their pleasures and were not about to be denied them by some Beijing government edict!
The thug lifted Fong from the trunk with shockingly little effort. Fong’s knees gave out when he hit the ground. It was muddy. The politico laughed. “You’ve allowed your physical skills to deteriorate badly, Traitor Zhong. Even a disgusting traitor ought to take care of the vessel of life.”
Fong struggled to his feet and took a good look at this flower-eater. “Vessel of life?” he thought. Has the world changed that much? Or is this guy just too . . . too . . . Fong couldn’t find the right word.
The thug grabbed his upper arm and walked him forward. The smell of the politico’s cigarette caught in Fong’s nostrils. The acrid smoke stung his eyes but he longed for a drag. Just one.
They crossed the deserted street and opened the door of a single-storey concrete-block building. They were met by two young men in federal uniforms. Quickly, papers were signed and Fong was hustled down a corridor of empty cells.
“This evening’s accommodations,” Fong thought. But he was careful to keep his eyes down. No point fighting now. “Fight when there is the possibility of winning. Attack when they assume you are going to defend. Never show the enemy your formation because the outside betrays the inner self. Attack only when you know the enemy.” That advice from Sun Tzu’s book The Art of War popped into Fong’s head. It was the only thing, besides Mao’s little red book, he’d been allowed to read in Ti Lan Chou prison.
The jailer pressed the coded cell lock and the door swung open. Fong sensed more than saw the young man huddled in the back reaches of the cell. “We thought you’d enjoy some company after your lonely trip.” Fong hadn’t noticed that the politico had followed them down the corridor. “Prisoner Tao, this is traitor Zhong. Traitor Zhong, this is prisoner Tao.” He allowed a slight pause then hissed, “Tao’s to be executed for crimes against the state – at sunrise.”
Fong was shoved forward. He tripped as the ankle chain snagged. To his surprise his fall was cushioned by prisoner Tao.
The laugh from the corridor behind him was totally humourless. The door clanged shut and the electronic locking mechanism slammed the bolts into place. Fong nodded his thanks to Tao as they both listened to the retreating footsteps. The footfalls silenced. Prisoner Tao moved to the far corner of the cell. When he turned back, he held out a bowl of half-eaten rice and a set of chopsticks.
Fong nodded and took the food. He positioned the bowl between his raised knees. Chinese handcuffs are joined by a longer chain than their sisters in the West to allow for the use of chopsticks. Fong looked at the rice. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d last eaten. It was one of the many things that had changed in his life. Food was just a matter of refuelling now. So unlike his time in Shanghai.
Fong shook the thought from his head. That was past. Now was right before him. A bowl of rice. A prisoner about to be executed. The need for clarity was obvious.
He tilted the container and scraped a few grains into his mouth. Although the food in the western village had been simple, it had been pure. Here Fong tasted the edges of saltpeter and dust that were so familiar from Ti Lan Chou prison. His gorge rose, rejecting the food, but he stopped it. Saltpeter and dust or piss or shit – it didn’t matter. He needed the sustenance of the rice to keep up his strength or he’d never make it to the end of this. Whatever this was.