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"And your . . ." Her voice faded.
Sung understood. "My children? They're at home in Fujian. They're living with my parents."
The medic was standing near his patient, unhappy that he kept lifting off the mask. But Sachs had her job to do too. "Dr. Sung, do you have any idea where the Ghost might be going? Does he have a house or apartment here in this country? A company? Any friends?"
"No. He never talked to us. He never had anything to do with us. He treated us like animals."
"How about the other immigrants? Do you know where they might've gone?"
Sung shook his head. "No, I'm sorry. We were going to houses somewhere in New York but they never told us where." His eyes strayed back to the water. "We thought maybe the Coast Guard shot us with a cannon. But then we realized he sank the ship himself." His voice was astonished. "He locked the door in our hold and blew the boat up. With everyone on board."
A man in a suit--an INS agent Sachs remembered meeting in Port Jefferson--stepped out of the black car, which had just joined the rescue vehicle on the sand. He pulled on a windbreaker and crunched through the sand toward them. Sachs handed him Sung's wallet. He read through it and crouched down. "Dr. Sung, I'm with the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service. Do you have a valid passport and entry visa?"
Sachs thought the question was absurd, if not provocative, but she supposed this was one of the formalities that needed to be performed.
"No, sir," Sung replied.
"Then I'm afraid we're going to have to detain you for illegally entering United States territory."
"I'm seeking political asylum."
"That's fine," the agent said wearily. "But we're still going to have to detain you until the bond hearing."
"I understand," Sung said.
The agent asked the medic, "How is he?"
"He'll be all right. But we need to get him to a trauma center. Where's he being processed?"
Sachs interrupted to ask the INS agent, "Can he go to your Manhattan detention center? He's a witness in the case and we've got a task force working there."
The INS agent shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me. I'll do the paperwork."
Sachs rocked from one leg to the other and winced as the pain shot through her knee and hip. Still absently clutching the amulet around his neck, Sung studied her and said in a low, heartfelt voice, "Thank you, miss."
"For what?"
"You saved my life."
She nodded, holding his dark eyes for a moment. Then the medic replaced the oxygen mask.
A flash of white from nearby caught her eye and Amelia Sachs looked up to see that she'd left the door of the Camaro open and that the wind was blowing her notes on the crime scene out to sea. Wincing, she trotted back to her car.
II
The Beautiful Country
Tuesday, the Hour of the Dragon, 8 A.M., to the Hour of the Rooster, 6:30 P.M.
The battle is won by the player who sees the furthest--the one, that is, who can see through his opponent's move, can guess his plan and counter it, and who, when attacking, anticipates all the defensive moves of his opponent.
--The Game of Wei-Chi
Chapter Nine
The life of a tollbooth operator guarding the portals to New York City is not particularly glamorous.
Occasionally there's a little excitement--like the time a thief stuck up a toll taker and netted a clean $312, the only problem being that the robber struck at the entrance to the Triborough Bridge, at the other end of which a dozen bemused cops were waiting for him at the only possible exit he could take.
