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None was more entrenched or threatening to America’s well-being than the triads. These Chinese gangs, what the Cantonese called tongs, had been in this country since the discovery of gold in California. But the traditions—blood oaths and secret rituals—and the organizations—hundreds of which had been established as the Chinese diaspora spread around the world—could literally be traced back for centuries. Like the Italians, the Chinese gangs had healthy international connections. They had glorious access to heroin coming through the Golden Triangle. From new immigrants, they drew a continual supply of foot soldiers to do their dirty work. Looking at the charts that lined his office walls, David could track what he knew of these activities in Los Angeles alone. He had reason to believe—but not enough evidence to make an arrest—that the Rising Phoenix was involved in casinos, bookmaking, loan-sharking, prostitution, extortion, credit-card and food-stamp fraud, illegal immigration, and, of course, heroin smuggling. All of this was supplemental to a wide array of legitimate businesses—restaurants, motels, copy shops.
At around two, the quiet of David’s office was shattered when two FBI agents burst in. Jack Campbell and Noel Gardner had worked the Chinese gang beat with David for two years now. Campbell, the older of the two, was a lanky black man with a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. His partner, Gardner, was short, brawny, and at least twenty years younger. An accountant by training, Gardner was thoughtful and precise, letting the more personable Campbell do most of the talking.
“Last night’s storm was the break we’ve been waiting for,” said Campbell. “The Peony has drifted into U.S. territory. That makes her ours, my friend.”
The China Peony, a freighter, had been languishing for a week just outside U.S. coastal waters, over two hundred miles off the California shoreline. The FBI had been tracking the ship because air surveillance had shown hundreds of Chinese crowded on the deck. After a few inquiries in Chinatown, David had surmised that the Rising Phoenix was behind this shipment of illegal immigrants. Once again, David found himself wishing for that little bit of luck that so far had eluded him. Maybe—out of all the people on board—he would find just one person to make the vital connection to the Rising Phoenix.
“The Coast Guard is sending a cutter out there,” Campbell went on. “But I know we’ll beat them if we go by chopper. So, what we want to know is”—Campbell looked over at his partner and smiled—“do you want to come with us?”
David didn’t have to think about his answer.
Soon David was sitting in the backseat of a helicopter piloted by an FBI agent who gave his name simply as “Jim.” Below, the ocean frothed with whitecaps. David heard the pilot’s voice through the earphones. “We’re going to be hitting some pretty bad air up here. The storm…” The rest faded into static. Within minutes, Jim’s words became a reality as the helicopter trembled and jerked through rough winds. A dark mass of clouds hung on the horizon. Another storm would be coming through tonight.
An hour later, the turbulence had gotten so bad that David was beginning to wish that he’d stayed in his office.
“Hey, Stark, look! There she is,” Campbell suddenly shouted through the earphones.
Peering over Campbell’s shoulder, David saw the China Peony listing in the swells. As the chopper drew closer, he felt a surge of adrenaline. It was unusual for an assistant U.S. attorney to go out on busts, but he had found it useful to see exactly where things had happened and how people reacted when they realized they’d been caught. He’d accompanied Campbell and Gardner to garment factories in Chinatown, high-rise offices in Beverly Hills, and a few mansions in Monterey Park. The agents seemed to appreciate him as a shrewd observer, and there was always the hope that his presence when suspects felt most vulnerable would one day lead them to the top of the triads.
As the rotors slowed to a stop, Campbell and Gardner drew their weapons and stepped onto the Peony’s deck. When no one approached or seemed to offer any resistance, Campbell signaled an all-clear to David and he joined the agents. They cautiously made their way forward, unsure if they might still find a fully armed and combative crew.
Hundreds of Chinese clustered together on this upper deck. Walking along, David could see that the would-be immigrants—most of them men—had cooked over open fires. Small braziers sent up acrid fumes from smoldering coals. Some of the men sat on their haunches talking excitedly among themselves. Others lay stretched out on the deck’s filthy surface, staring listlessly into space. Most of these people seemed beyond caring about what was happening to them. Only a few smiled weakly up at David in relief and gratitude.
“Jesus,” Noel Gardner said. “They look like they haven’t had food or water in quite a while.”
“Find the captain,” David said gruffly to the younger agent, who nodded and set off. “And, Jack, maybe you can call back to shore. These people are going to need showers, f
ood, water, clothes, and beds. This is a big one, and we’re going to have to handle it as diplomatically as possible.” Then, as an afterthought, he called out, “Either of you guys bring Dramamine?”
“I didn’t, but I’ll check with the pilot,” Campbell said.
David watched for a moment as Campbell lurched away, zigzagging along the deck. David grabbed a railing and continued forward. The Peony convulsed with each swell. Metallic groans rose from below as the ship rode the waves. David realized the ship was adrift.
From here on out, he hoped the case would be nuts and bolts. The immigrants would be remanded to the Immigration and Naturalization Service Detention Center at Terminal Island, where they would be interrogated. Rumors and gossip would spread quickly among the immigrants about what they would have to say to stay in America. Their best bets for asylum would be to claim involvement in the Tiananmen Square uprising or persecution stemming from China’s abortion and sterilization policies. Out of the hundreds of Chinese David could see on deck, only a handful would be lucky enough to qualify for asylum. The rest would be deported. He felt sorry for them, but he wouldn’t forget who he worked for.
David felt something pull at his pants leg. He looked down and saw a middle-aged man. “America?” the man asked in heavily accented English. Dehydration had caused his skin to hang slack on the bones of his face. “America?” the man asked again.
“Yes,” David said. “Yes, you’re here.” Then he asked, “You speak English?”
“I speak a little. I am Zhao.”
“How many are on this ship?”
“Five hundred, maybe more.”
David let out a low sigh, then asked, “How long have you been at sea?”
“Almost three weeks,” the man answered.
“Where’s the crew?”
“Crew?”
“The men who work on the ship. Where are they?”
The Chinese man looked away. “They gone. They leave last night.”
“I don’t understand,” David said. “How did they leave? Where’d they go?”
