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“I know, but her take on the story is over. She’s written her last piece. Now that Keith is dead, the investigation is over.”
There was a lot of information and misinformation in this last exchange. There had never been a government investigation, but Miles didn’t know that, and Pearl’s story was far from over. If anything, this gave David a shred of hope. Maybe Pearl—as unpleasant and untrustworthy as she was—would come to the truth of the story on her own. If she exposed it, he’d be absolved of any professional misdoing in regards to Sun. As far as Tartan’s acquisition of Knight, he could always say he was new to the matter and hadn’t yet come across any malfeasance. Or, if worse came to worst, he could fall back on Miles’s warped plan: David had been stressed personally and professionally. This, coupled with culture shock and jet lag, had resulted in a momentary lapse. He’d taken all the evidence—the financial reports, the governmental forms, even the modified tour of the factory—at face value, assuming that the work had been done correctly by Keith and the firm. He’d been as swindled as the public.
All of these thoughts flashed through David’s mind in a second. With his cards played close to his chest, he tried to get more information from Miles.
“You’ve known all along about this stuff with Knight, haven’t you?” David asked.
“You’re just like Keith, flying off the handle with these crazy allegations,” Miles chided. “I guess the added stress of being back in China has triggered a lot for you. Of course, that’s the exact reason that no one would blame you if you quit, although I doubt you will. Still, the stress has been terrible, really beyond what any normal person should be expected to endure.”
As Miles spoke, David realized that his partner had stayed only with his own game. He hadn’t anticipated David’s question nor had he played out any scripts other than his original David-will-take-the-fall-and-be-blamed-or-not-blamed-for-reasons-of-post-traumatic-stress-or-some-other-bullshit scenario. David quietly allowed his optimism to rise.
A waitress set the bill on the table. Miles signed the check and gently closed the leather cover.
David doubted he’d get a straight answer, but he asked his question anyway. “Is this just about money?”
Miles laughed. “Everything’s about money, David.”
“Should I consider that a confession?”
“You can call it whatever you like,” Miles said, “and you can think whatever you want.” He leaned forward confidentially. “But you don’t have one scrap of proof.” Then, “Better yet, no one will ever believe you—not in the firm, not in the U.S. Attorney’s Office, not even in the press.” Miles pushed back his chair and stood. “Now, I need to get upstairs and call Randall Craig and tell him he has nothing to worry about.” He took a couple of steps, looked back, and said, “Oh, and see you at the banquet.”
At about the same time that David was sitting down with Miles, Hulan was on her Flying Pigeon, pedaling to the Ministry of Public Security compound. It had been many weeks since she’d had the luxury of being alone this way. Around her, young women were stripped down to mini-skirts and pullover tops that daringly showed their belly buttons. Men wore baggy shorts and sleeveless T-shirts. Street vendors sold ice sticks, cold drinks, and slices of watermelon. The air was hot, humid, and smoggy. As she passed Tiananmen Square, she saw heat shimmering off the concrete expanse and several busloads of foreign tourists looking dejected.
Since this was Sunday, the MPS bicycle park was nearly empty and no one was playing basketball in the courtyard. Her shoes echoed on the stone floor of the lobby, and she saw no one as she climbed the back stairs and went down the hall to the computer room. One after the other she tapped in the names of several Americans: Henry Knight, Douglas Knight, Sandy Newheart, Aaron Rodgers, and Keith Baxter. Almost as an afterthought she added Pearl Jenner, Randall Craig, and Miles Stout. She wished she could add Jimmy, the Australian guard, to the list but she didn’t know his last name. She waited while the computer processed the names, then visa and passport numbers appeared on the screen. Once she had these, she had no difficulty in accessing dates for entry and exit from China. She printed out the information on separate sheets of paper, then repeated the same process, only this time typing in the names for Governor Sun Gan, Guy Lin, Amy Gao, and, finally, Quo Xuesheng, David’s assistant.
Hulan studied the sheets of the Americans first. Henry’s official record began in February 1990, although she knew he’d first come to China during the war. (There was nothing peculiar about this. Many records had been lost during the formation of the People’s Republic, and besides, Henry had been a member of the U.S. military.) By the end of the summer of 1990 he’d established a regular pattern—a trip each month with a one-week stay. She guessed that this was the period during which he negotiated for the land and set up the venture. Then there was a long absence, which reflected Henry’s convalescence. Since the factory opened, his visits had been limited to two or three per year. This last year he’d only come out twice, and only one of those times did the record show a visit to Taiyuan. Just at the time that Henry’s visits dropped off, Doug Knight had increased his. Sandy Newheart’s travel plans centered on the Christmas holiday, when he flew home for a month. She skimmed the dates for Miles and Keith and saw that the frequency of their visits had increased as the sale to Tartan approached. Randall Craig had come to China numerous times, beginning back in 1979, but Tartan had several factories in Shenzhen so this too was predictable. The real surprise was Pearl Jenner. The reporter—who’d said that this was her first trip to China—had lied. The record showed that she had been here ten times during the last fifteen years.
Hulan shuffled through the papers until she found the information on her compatriots. Guy Lin had traveled abroad only once, just as he’d said. Miss Quo, the young Red Princess, had seen more of the world than most Chinese. During the four-year period from 1988 to 1992 she had returned to China only twice, both times in December. Hulan recalled that Miss Quo had been educated at Barnard, and like Sandy Newheart had only come home for Christmas vacations. After her return to China in 1992, she had gone on several trips—to Switzerland, to Singapore, to France, even to Brazil. But none of this seemed out of line. As a Red Princess, Quo Xuesheng was by definition a jet-setter.
Finally Hulan turned her attention to Sun Gan, who had traveled back and forth to the U.S. quite frequently, often staying for long periods of time. His assistant, Amy Gao, had accompanied him on several of these excursions. What surprised Hulan was not so much the frequency of these trips—of course he’d travel to Los Angeles, San Francisco, Detroit, New York, and Trenton to drum up business for his province—but the duration of those stays. Government officials were always looking for trips abroad. They enjoyed going to Disneyland and seeing the other exotic sights of America. But they also had to be careful how those visits were perceived back in China. Power and ideology were fluid here. What might be considered beneficial to the country today could be deemed harmful tomorrow. Many times during the last fifty years, people—especially Party officials—had gone too far to one side, had bought one too many suits in Hong Kong, returned with one too many UCLA sweatshirts, or had held one too many parties with western rock ‘n’ roll, and were suddenly mocked, denounced, jailed, or eliminated. As a result, most cadres now kept their visits abroad short and to the point. They also traveled in the company of others. No one in government was immune from this. Even Hulan had had a watcher during her last trip to America. In turn it had been Hulan’s unspoken responsibility to watch her watcher. The government wanted to make sure that no one defected, that secrets weren’t told, and that any acts of impropriety would be recorded and stored away in the government’s secret personal files for future use.
Hulan gathered up the papers, knowing that she would have to look at them more closely later, and left the computer room. She walked up a flight of stairs to Vice Minister Zai’s office, hoping that even though it was Sunday he’d be there. He was. He looked up from his paperwork, and she couldn’t help but see the subtle look of triumph that passed over his features. It was as though he had said aloud, I told her to come back and she obeyed. But then, seeing the expression on her face, his eyes narrowed and he asked her to sit.
“I’m afraid you’re going to tell me you haven’t finished with your personal investigation,” he said.
“You’re correct, Vice Minister.”
He waited for her to speak again. When she didn’t, he drummed his knuckles on the table, thinking, then stood. “It is hot in here today, Investigator Liu. Come, let us get some fresh air.”
They left the compound and walked around the corner to Tiananmen Square. Despite the fact that this place was important to the government, it was really quite barren. The Forbidden City anchored one end, Mao’s mausoleum sat at the other. The Great Hall of the People and the Museum of the Chinese Revolution flanked the other two sides of the square. The concrete square spread out vast and hot under the unrelenting sun. If Hulan and her superior kept to themselves, strolling through the middle, their conversation would be private.
Zai stopped finally, gazed about at the impressive buildings, and said, “You want me to do something.” When she nodded, he sighed and said, “Only with you would a suicide turn into something more.”
“I’m sorry, uncle. I didn’t choose this outcome.”
He sighed again, more deeply this time. This was going to be worse than he thought. “What do you have?”
“Has Investigator Lo spoken to you yet?”
Zai frowned at the woman before him. How like her to confront him with the person he’d assigned to watch her. Zai said, “Lo is with your David this morning. He has been disappointingly secretive in his reports the last few days. As you can imagine, this gives me even greater cause for concern.”
“Your Lo is a good man.”
“You say that today because he is obeying you. Tomorrow he may once again return his loyalties to me…or someone else. Don’t trust him too completely.”
“Him or anyone else,” Hulan agreed, echoing a lesson that Zai had hammered into her since she was a child. But all this was almost pro forma banter to keep them away from what they both knew had to be a dangerous subject. As an inspector, she didn’t have to observe the rigors of privileged information that David adhered to. In fact, in China she had an obligation to expose what she knew or suspected. On the other hand, David was her lover and the father of her child. While the Chinese law was vague about what he could and could not say about his client’s activities, she didn’t want to do anything that would harm his career or reputation.
She began by telling Zai how she’d infiltrated the factory. She spoke of the harsh working conditions and showed him her hands. But Zai, who’d spent many years at hard labor, was not terribly impressed. “Don’t be so naïve,” he said. “You haven’t worked with your hands in more than twenty years. Of course you would have blisters and scratches.”
