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“So there’s been no evidence of foul play on Chinese soil?” David asked.
“I’m not saying that. But with the current political tensions—the ballyhoo in the Taiwan Strait last year and Hong Kong this summer—the State Department felt it was important to notify the Chinese government and thus Guang Mingyun as soon as possible. We don’t want it to appear as though the U.S. could be involved in any way.”
“How could we be involved?” David asked. “The body was found rotting on a Chinese freighter, for Christ’s sake!”
“David,” Madeleine cautioned. “Let’s hear him out.”
“We know the body was found on the Peony,” O’Kelly continued. “We know that Guang Henglai has been dead a long time. But how do we prove that to the Chinese? How can we prove that he didn’t die at the hands of an immigration officer—either on the boat or at Terminal Island? With things the way they are right now, the Chinese have every reason not to believe us.”
David shook his head skeptically. “I have to assume that his parents wil
l want the body for burial. Their own experts could tell them how long he’s been dead, and that he certainly wasn’t the victim of a beating or gunshot wound or whatever else they might imagine.”
“Let me throw something else into the mix,” O’Kelly went on. “If the coroner is right that the boy died before he left China, the timing would coincide with the death of the son of Ambassador Watson.”
Jack Campbell’s lips formed for another low whistle.
“You just lost me,” David said.
“Watson’s the ambassador to China,” O’Kelly explained. “His son was found dead in Beijing at the beginning of the year. It was written off as an accident.”
“But it wasn’t?”
O’Kelly shook his head. “As you might expect, relations with China are rather chilly right now. Nevertheless, when we contacted the Ministry of Foreign Affairs—our Chinese counterpart—we were informed of several things. First, the Chinese themselves don’t believe the accident theory.”
“And there’s evidence to support that?”
“I must stress that what we’re talking about here is extremely confidential.”
“Go on.”
“Despite what you may read in the paper, we do have friends in China. A copy of Billy Watson’s autopsy was wired to us. I think you’ll be interested to note several similarities. Both Watson and Guang were the same age. Both Watson and Guang were found in water. And”—O’Kelly paused to get their full attention—“both boys had a mysterious substance in their lungs.”
“What are we talking about here?” Madeleine asked. “A Chinese serial killer?” She looked around the room. “Is there such a thing?”
“It’s too early to draw any conclusions. We need more investigation, and we need to get our own man in that investigation. This is where you come in, Stark. The Chinese have apparently heard what happened on the Peony and they are willing to work with you, whether out of respect, gratitude, or because they want to look you in the eye when you relate the details of finding Guang Henglai’s body. We think…”
“Before we go any further,” David broke in, “I have a couple of questions.”
“Shoot.”
“How did you get access to my case files?”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“I think I do.” David turned to the FBI agent. “Jack?”
“You asked me to make some phone calls and I did,” Campbell reminded him.
“So did I,” Madeleine also admitted.
“We’re all on the same side here,” O’Kelly said. “We want the same thing.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“To find a killer,” said O’Kelly. “I would think you’d be interested not only in finding the murderer but also in getting a conviction for once against the triads.”
Stung, David retorted, “You’ve done your homework.”
