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So much difficulty around them.
He wanted to blame someone: Mao, the Chinese Communist Party, the People's Liberation Army soldiers . . . .
But the reason for their present hardship and danger seemed to lie in only one place, where William had assigned it: at Chang's own feet.
Regret would serve no purpose, though. All he could now do was pray that the stories about life here were true, and not myths--that the Beautiful Country was indeed a land of miracles, where evil was brought to light and purged, where the most pernicious flaws within our bodies could quickly be made right, and where generous liberty fulfilled its promise that troubled hearts would be troubled no more.
Chapter Seventeen
At 1:30 that afternoon the Ghost was walking quickly through Chinatown, head down, worried as always about being recognized.
To most Westerners, of course, he was invisible, his features blending together into one generic Asian man. White Americans could rarely tell the difference between a Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese or Korean. Among the Chinese, though, his features would be distinct and he was determined to remain anonymous. He'd once bribed a traffic magistrate in Hong Kong $10,000 one-color cash to avoid being arrested in a minor brawl some years ago so there would be no picture of him in criminal records. Even Interpol's Automated Search and Archives section and the Analytical Criminal Intelligence Unit didn't have any reliable surveillance photos of him (he knew this because he'd used a hacker in Fuzhou to break into Interpol's database through its supposedly secure X400 email system).
So he now strode quickly, keeping his head down--most of the time.
But not always.
He would lift his eyes to study women, the pretty and young ones, the voluptuous ones, the svelte ones, the coy and flirtatious and the timid. The clerks, the teenage girls, the wives, the businesswomen, the tourists. Eastern or Western made no difference to him. He wanted a body lying beneath him, whimpering--in pleasure or pain (that made no difference either), as he pulsed up and down on top of her, gripping her head tightly between his palms.
A woman with light brown hair passed by, a Western woman. He slowed and let himself be touched by the veil of her perfume. He hungered--though he realized too that his lust wasn't for her but for his Yindao.
He had no time for his fantasies, though; he'd come to the merchants association, where the Turks awaited him. He spat on the sidewalk, found the back entrance, which they'd left open, and stepped inside. He made his way up to the top floor. It was time to conduct some important business.
Inside the large office, he found Yusuf and the two other Turks. It hadn't taken much--a few phone calls, a threat and a bribe--to find the name of the man who was sitting, nervous to the point of tears, in a chair in front of his own desk.
Jimmy Mah's eyes fell to the floor when the Ghost walked into the room. The snakehead pulled up a chair and sat beside him. The Ghost took Mah's hand casually--a gesture not unusual among Chinese men--and he felt the trembling of muscles and the pulsing of a frightened heart.
"I didn't know they came in on the Dragon. They didn't tell me! I swear that. They lied to me. When they were here I hadn't even heard about the ship. I didn't watch the news this morning."
The Ghost continued to hold the man's hand, adding slight pressure to his grip but saying nothing.
"Are you going to kill me?" Mah asked the question in such a whisper that he repeated it though the Ghost had heard perfectly.
"The Changs and the Wus. Where are they?" The Ghost squeezed the man's hand slightly harder and received a pleasant whimper for his effort. "Where are they?"
Mah's eyes glanced at the Turks. He'd be wondering what kind of terrible weapons they'd have on them, knives or garrotes or guns.
But in the end it was simply the faint pressure of the Ghost's palm against poor Jimmy Mah's that loosened his tongue.
"Two different places, sir. Wu Qichen is in an apartment in Chinatown. A broker I use set him up with a place."
"The address?"
"I don't know. I swear! But the broker knows. He'll tell you."
"Where is this broker?"
Mah quickly recited the name and address. The Ghost memorized it.
"And the others?"
"Sam Chang took his family to Queens."
"Queens?" the Ghost asked. "Where?" A particularly delicate squeeze of the hand. He imagined momentarily that he was touching Yindao's breast.
Mah nodded toward the desk. "There! It's on that piece of paper."
The Ghost picked it up, glanced at the address and then pocketed the note. He released the tong leader's hand and slowly rubbed his thumb in the sweat that had poured from Mah's palm. "You won't tell anyone I asked about this," the Ghost murmured.
