When he finally got to the docks of the small city, the man who’d called in the report was disappointed that he had come alone. Chen ignored the snide man’s protests and ordered him to arrange transport out to the boat that was now stuck far out on the lake.
Temperatures continued dropping. The ice pelted down unmercifully. The ride out froze first his skin then his bones. But when they got close enough to see the large flat-bottomed boat, Captain Chen forgot his personal discomfort and stared in amazement.
The ship had run aground on a shoal of rocks. Its running lights were refracting through the two-inchthick coat of ice that was continuing to build on its surface. The whole thing was like a bizarre beacon in the midst of the dark, frigid lake. It was an eerie sight the likes of which the young captain had never seen.
Chen noted the painted 14K Triad markings on the outside of the hull just above the waterline and swore, “Damn Triads – things are getting out of hand. Now not only do they do the deed, they claim it.”
He went aboard.
The harsh emergency lights cast the multiple murders in livid contrast to the intended luxury and pleasure of the place. So much death in a small space.
He did a body count and headed back to shore.
Because the victims were foreigners, he immediately got in touch with the police commissioner of Xian, who told him not to go back to the boat but to stay put at the local police station in Ching. He did what he was told. Seven and a half hours later, as the ice storm abated and the milky sun rose on the morning of December 29, the commissioner’s office ordered him to secure the crime site then get back to Xian.
Exactly how to secure a boat, now totally encased in ice almost three miles offshore, proved challenging. He began by ordering the Ching police to close the city’s docks and all access roads to the lake. Then he had all activities on the water banned until further notice.
It was past noon before he ventured out to the boat a second time. It seemed bigger in the daylight and it glistened beneath its icy skin. On board, the obscenity of seventeen murders had not changed.
Chen and the two local cops he brought with him festooned the boat’s exterior with yellow crime scene tape. It was while taping the vessel that Chen first saw the large black scorch marks underneath the thick coating of ice on the exterior of the starboard side of the ship.
He looked at the markings closely. Fire? Had he noticed indications of fire the first time he’d been on board the ship? He didn’t think so. True, he’d never been anywhere with seventeen corpses so it was possible he’d overlooked things. But still. Fire?
He reached down to the waterline of the pleasure boat. He took off his glove and ran his hand over the largest of the scorch marks. It sat in an indentation of the ice. Not a hole, just a gentle dip in the thick layer of ice. A second large burn stain had punctured the hull but was plugged by the ice. He noted its exact location and headed toward shore.
The locals naturally grumbled about the inconvenience of not being able to use the lake but were, in fact, more curious than annoyed. The fringes of the lake were beginning to freeze. Who could work in this kind of weather except those damned cormorant fishermen anyway?
Death was an accepted part of a rural community like this, but murder – murder of foreigners – murder of many foreigners made for wonderful hours of gossip, speculation and inevitably both colourful and hateful accusations against “those half-wit islanders.”
Because it was Chen’s case he would be the big city specialist’s guide to the crime site. He stamped his feet on the tarmac and swore under his breath at the cold. Then the specialist emerged from the plane.
The old guy looked frail leaning heavily on the arm of a young uniformed soldier as he made his way slowly down the steps from the plane. He hadn’t dyed his hair. It was snowy white – an oddity in China where hairdying was one of the few accepted vanities. As the specialist stepped onto the ice-slick pavement, Chen stepped forward. Before he could speak, the specialist held up a hand and nodded.
For the first hour of the drive the old guy didn’t say a word – it was spooky. Finally, Chen asked, “Are you hungry, sir?”
The man shook his head. Then he reached into his coat and took out a small pad and pencil. He quickly slashed the characters for, “How far to the lake?”
Chen tried not to show his surprise and answered, “It depends on the roads after the ice storm, sir.”
A scowl crossed the old man’s face.
Chen realized that he’d spoken slowly and loudly as if to a hard-of-hearing or slow-witted child. He opened his mouth to apologize, but the older man wasn’t paying any attention. He was staring at the passing fields. Later he breathed on the window to produce a mist on the surface within which he’d etch figures with the long nail of his right baby finger.
The affectation of long fingernails surprised Chen. This old guy was street cop incarnate. It was etched all over his features. Even the distance in his eyes was clear to see. Classic.
“It’s very cold here,” the specialist wrote.
“Yes, sir.” Chen made sure that he was speaking normally.
“How long?” the characters on the pad demanded.
“Two days now. Very cold. It began with a sudden ice storm. Odd for these parts.”
“And the murders were two days ago?”
“Two days and three nights, sir.”
The older man didn’t reply. He just pulled his coat more tightly around himself, folded his arms across his chest and stared out the window.
When they finally got to the lake the wind was howling and the blown snow stung like needles when it hit exposed skin. Pockets of ice were already forming on several sections of open water near the shore. The older man took his pad from his pocket and wrote: “Will the lake freeze?”
“It hasn’t frozen for decades. There are strong currents in the lake and it’s fed from underground hot springs. Only the very old recall it ever being even ice covered. But there’s no telling with this freak cold snap.”
“The boat is still out there?” the specialist wrote.
Chen nodded as he put his gloved hands to his ears trying to shield them from the rising wind. Two Jeeps pulled in behind them. The second had the specialist’s crime site team. The first, the covered one, had the party man. Somewhere farther back would be a truck with the soldiers. The party man was on a cell phone.
On the other end of the phone a silence greeted the party man’s report. Machines whirred, collecting the data from the ether while a tall Han Chinese male stood beside a speaker phone staring out at the beauty of Beijing. At what he and his had built. At what was now foolishly endangered by the doings on a boat in the midst of far-off Lake Ching. He had a long distance look in his eyes and a copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War in his hands. He reread it every three months. He had done that since he had first begun his rise to power. He had read the book many, many, many times.
He depressed the speak button on the phone. “So the boat didn’t sink? That’s not good. Is it?”
“No, sir,” said the party man as he drew a locked metal case from beneath his seat.
“I assume you came prepared for such an eventuality?”
“I did, sir.” The party man in the Jeep opened the case and set the timer.
“Good.”
The party man’s voice began to bleat about bad luck, freak cold spells and ice storms. The man in Beijing walked away from the speaker phone on his desk. He’d review the tapes later.