Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 140, No. 6. Whole No. 856, December 2012

Golden Chance by S. J. Rozan

S.J. Rozan has won nearly all of crime fiction’s notable awards, including the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony, and Macavity. She’s best known for her Lydia Chin/Bill Smith private eye novels, the most recent of which, Ghost Hero (2011), won the Dilys Award, made the best-of-the-year lists for NPR and the Sun-Sentinal, and was called “another coup” by Marilyn Stasio of the New York Times. The New York author returns to EQMM with a story full of twists, set in Western China.

“Ah, my friend.” Mustafa Sadiq smiled beneath his thick moustache as the shop door opened and then closed on the midday brightness. He reached to switch on the electric kettle, watching the disheveled lump of a man the door had admitted peer into the dimness, carefully choose his route, and lumber through the cool shadows between the spice boxes.

“Quiet, your neighbors will hear you,” Lo Pen-wei grunted, reaching the rear of the shop where Sadiq sat. A small wooden chair creaked in complaint as Lo dropped his bulk on it. He drew out his handkerchief to mop the sweat from his brow, his face, his neck, and the backs of his hands. Holding the cloth at arm’s length, he creased his round face in disgust. “Where can I wring this out?”

“You’re in the desert, my friend, you’d best save it, you might need the water.”

“When I’m dying of thirst because you didn’t give me tea?” Lo scowled and shoved the soggy handkerchief back in his pocket.

Lo spoke, as had Sadiq, in the Uighur language. Detective Lo Pen-wei had been one of the few officers of the Public Security Bureau to study that language upon learning, four years ago, that he would be detailed to Turpan. His fellows’ position was that as all Chinese citizens, which included the Uighurs no matter what the Uighurs thought of that, were required to know Mandarin, there was no need to bother. Lo conceded that was true enough, and for official interviews and instructions Mandarin would suffice; but other conversations — for example, those he would be most interested in overhearing in the streets — would not be held in Mandarin.

“If such a small hospitality on my part can save the life of my friend, I am most blessed.” Sadiq spooned tea into a brass pot and poured in steaming water from the kettle.

“I’ve warned you about calling me ‘friend.’ ” Lo leaned heavily back in his chair. “Your neighbors will start to distrust you as much as they distrust me.”

“My neighbors know my politics. If they hear me call you ‘friend’ they’ll think I’m merely kissing your hand.”

“My hand?”

“All right, I meant your ass, but I was trying to be discreet. The tea will be ready in a moment. I was not expecting you quite so soon. My friend.”

“I’m trying to learn a new habit. To be more—” Lo stopped, then switched to Mandarin. “Your language doesn’t even have a word for ‘punctual,’ does it?”

Sadiq shook his head, answering also in Mandarin. “We have other virtues.”

“Yes, you do,” Lo agreed. “Many Uighur shopkeepers are hard-working and industrious. You, for one, keep long hours. In fact, lately you appear quite haggard, Sadiq.”

“I have three daughters, Detective Lo. The eldest, Qolpan, is already being courted, by a young student of minerology at the University in Urumqi.”

“A university student, that is excellent, Sadiq.”

Sadiq sighed. “It would be, if I could afford to make a wedding for them. I hope to find worthy husbands for all my daughters, but they have no dowries but what my labor affords them. I cannot be like a policeman, taking my ease in teahouses.”

“That is unfortunate. In a teahouse, in the shade of a grape arbor, one can play many fine games of Xiangqi. Though for a Han policeman,” Lo added wistfully, “it’s not as easy as one might wish to find a willing opponent.”

As Lo spoke, Sadiq was unlatching an inlaid wooden box. From it he removed the white linen Xiangqi board with its black lines and marked intersections, which he unfolded on the low table between them. Lo continued thoughtfully, “Of course, you Uighurs do have vices as well.”

“Have we?” Sadiq poured golden liquid from the pot into delicate porcelain cups. The tea’s astringent aroma threaded through the scents of cinnamon and cardamon already in the air.

Lo cradled his teacup and, eyes shut, concentrated on sniffing and then sipping the tea. With a satisfied smile he opened his eyes again and went on, returning to Sadiq’s language to say, “On the virtue side, one could count your tea. On the side of vices, I would list hotheadedness. I would submit as evidence the fact that a mob of young Uighurs vandalized an office of the Housing Commission overnight.”

“Did they?” Wooden Xiangqi discs clacked as Sadiq arranged them on the board. “The miscreants were caught, then? Identified?”

“No, of course they weren’t.”

“Then perhaps they were not Uighurs.”

“No, perhaps not. Or perhaps they were not young. Or not a mob. Ah! It was a lone Han auntie who broke the windows, scattered papers about, and spray-painted the walls. With slogans in your language extolling the eternal glory of Aliqqi the Hero.” Lo, who was playing red today and therefore opening, moved his right-side cannon to the second column. “I was called to the scene of the crime,” he continued. “Possibly because I’m able to read the slogans.”

“They didn’t say, ‘Long life to our glorious Chinese Communist Party’?”

“They did not.”

“Well, then, your logic cannot be faulted,” Sadiq admitted. He stroked his moustache in thought, then replied to Lo’s move in the classic way, by advancing the horse on the same flank. “Perhaps, being a man of such clear reasoning, you could make an argument to Commissioner Wu that would convince the Housing Commission to abandon its plans for the destruction of Aliqqi the Hero’s ancestral home.”

“I’m only a simple policeman.” Lo slid a chariot forward. “The housing commissioner doesn’t listen to me.”

“The housing commissioner appears to listen to no one. This is at the center of our complaint. The destruction of Uighur homes and streets—”

“—where everyone’s water comes from a single rusty pump—”

“—forcing us into high-rises—”

“—of three stories at most—”

“—disrupting our traditional family units—”

“—whose young women, as children, are betrothed to their cousins—”

“—all this we will accept because we must.”

“And because it comes with electricity, a housing allowance, and flush toilets.” Lo took another sip of tea.

“We are an ancient culture,” Sadiq shrugged, “experienced at taking the good with the bad.” He moved his advisor along the diagonal. “But in condemning the home of Aliqqi the Hero, Commissioner Wu has gone too far. This is a knife in the heart of my nation. The house of Aliqqi is the birthright of every Uighur. It is—”

“—a pilgrimage spot for young Uighur men and an important cultural symbol of Uighur pride. I know, I read that daily in your Uighur newspapers.”

“Do you also read that it stands barely within the city’s borders, on land of no possible use for new housing? Your water, your electricity, they don’t come near it. The Turpan Historical Preservation and Restoration Commission — on which, as you know, sit both Uighurs and Han — stated publicly just yesterday that it considers the condemnation of this property nothing more than wanton cultural destruction. Random viciousness on the part of the Housing Commission.”

“Commissioner Wu,” Lo replied, “is not a random man.”

“But he is a vicious one. What other explanation can there be for this cruelty?”

“Well, of course I’m just a policeman. The ways of power are mysterious to me, as to you, Sadiq. But you understand, in the course of my daily work I come into contact with many who know more than I. I’ve heard it said — just a rumor, mind you — that though the land where the home of Aliqqi the Hero stands may be worthless for housing, it could be valuable for the building of a road.”

“A road.” Sadiq looked up from the board. “The new road into the mountains? For the convenience of the mining companies?”

Lo nodded. “The same. But you don’t sound pleased, Sadiq. Are the Uighurs not rejoicing at the efforts of the mining companies? Do your people not stand to profit handsomely? At least, those who own land in the mountains?”

“Every Uighur family in Turpan owns land in the mountains. We’ve lived here since before the time of Genghis. If some fools from Beijing believe there is more in the mountains than the Uighurs know, why should we not profit from their arrogance?”

“You, also, Sadiq? Are you a landowner?”

“My land is along the south slopes.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course. But I haven’t visited it in years. It’s useless: too dry for grazing, too cold for melons.”

“The mining companies might disagree. I assume that, like other families, you’ve granted one or another of them permission to prospect there?”

“They paid a few yuan for the privilege. There’s nothing to be found. They will eventually get bored and go elsewhere, and I’ll have a few yuan I didn’t have formerly.”

“To add to your daughters’ dowries.” The detective brightened. “Then perhaps you’ll be able to take more leisure.”

“If only it were enough for that. No, from the mining companies, there’s little to be had. A man of my station can only work and grow haggard, I’m afraid.” He shook his head. “But speaking about that road, Detective Lo. That road is planned for the other side of the ravine.”

“That’s true. But consider: If the road is built on the other side of the ravine, the Roads Commission will be obliged to purchase the land from Uighur families. Beyond the city’s borders, none of the commissioners’ powers of condemnation apply. But,” he reached to the board and advanced a soldier, “if the Housing Commission condemns the home of Aliqqi the Hero, and the Roads Commission changes the route of the road...” Lo trailed off, eyes fixed on the board as if in thought.

“Ah!” Sadiq drew the syllable out, and continued slowly, “Then the Roads Commission will be in a position to purchase the land it needs not from Uighurs but from the Housing Commission. Am I correct?”

Without looking up, Lo nodded.

“And no doubt Housing Commissioner Wu will then express, in a tangible way, his appreciation for Roads Commissioner Ying’s flexibility.”

“Mustafa Sadiq!” Now Lo glanced up from the chessboard. “You cannot be accusing Commissioner Wu and Commissioner Ying of corruption? You cannot think the commissioners would line their own pockets at the cost of a cultural landmark of your people? Of the Uighurs, the largest of China’s treasured cultural minorities?”

Lo looked over his teacup at Sadiq. Sadiq returned his gaze, and they drank. Replacing his cup, Sadiq said, “It does not matter what I think. But perhaps you can understand why our young men’s hearts are aflame.”

“Young men’s hearts are always aflame.”

“That may be so. But more than hearts may be aflame in Turpan, if the home of Aliqqi the Hero is lost.” Sadiq’s hand moved to the chessboard, where it hovered over an elephant but didn’t touch it.

“I have heard this said, Sadiq. You are a man of wisdom and experience. Do you really believe it?”

“I do. I believe serious trouble cannot but result, if Commissioner Wu is not stopped.” Both men were silent for a time, considering Sadiq’s words. Sadiq sighed. “If only the housing commissioner were not beloved of the mayor, perhaps he could be stopped.”

“He is not beloved,” Lo corrected Sadiq.

“Excuse me, Detective, but how can that be? The home of Aliqqi the Hero is owned by the city. Mayor Din could simply refuse the condemnation proceedings, and yet he has not.”

Lo took a contemplative sip of tea. “Mayor Din is a political man, with great ambition. He does not dare refuse Commissioner Wu. The commissioner’s connections among the provincial bureaus are too strong. But I have heard it said — in the course of my daily work, you understand — that Mayor Din would not mind if the commissioner were, in fact, stopped.”

“Would he not?” Sadiq blinked.

“The Mayor would prefer — so it is said — that the civil servants in Turpan, persons such as myself, understand they have one master only.”

“As long as that master is himself.”

“Of course.” Lo watched Sadiq finally move the elephant. “To the list of Uighur virtues I would add respect for elders. A virtue among my people, also. The fiery young men of Turpan respect you, Sadiq.”

“If they do, I am honored.”

“If the fire in these young men’s hearts flares in the streets of Turpan, the Public Security Bureau will be forced to respond. It would be a shame if these young men’s futures, and possibly their lives, went up in that same smoke.”

“It would indeed.”

“Also, speaking personally, you understand, I should be sorry to see the streets of Turpan suffer any such damage. Despite the heat, I’ve grown to quite like it here. Perhaps it’s the tea.” He held out his cup, and nodded his thanks as Sadiq refilled it. “The, as you call them, miscreants who caused last night’s damage,” Lo said. “I think perhaps I should speak with them.”

Sadiq replaced the teapot on its stand. “Is that why you’re here, Detective Lo?”

“I’m here, Mustafa Sadiq, to play Xiangqi.”

“Of course. Yet I know you to be a man who plans carefully. There is little you do without looking ahead.”

“True enough,” Lo admitted.

“In that case, let me ask you something. Why, when we play Xiangqi, do I always win?”

“Ah.” Lo shook his head. “For that, I can see only two possible explanations. One: Perhaps my plans, though carefully made, do not always succeed.”

“And the other?”

Lo looked up, smiling. “Perhaps,” he said as he advanced a second soldier to the river, “it is part of my plan that you should win.”

Out of the respect they bore Mustafa Sadiq, seven young Uighur men drifted into the spice shop later that evening. They were given tea and dried apricots by Sadiq, and, by Detective Lo of the Public Security Bureau, a calm but compelling explanation of why the path they were on would have no effect on the Housing Commission’s plans for the destruction of the home of Aliqqi the Hero, but might well have implications for the destruction of themselves. Detective Lo suggested other possible paths for such promising youths. The fire in the young men’s hearts glittered in their dark eyes and glowed on the tips of their cigarettes as they sprawled in sullen and insolent postures. Their leader, addressed directly by Lo on one or two occasions, nodded and grunted to indicate he had understood the policeman’s point. Aside from that, they did not speak.

At the conclusion of Detective Lo’s lecture, the young men filed out, mumbling thanks to Mustafa Sadiq for his hospitality and avoiding the eyes of Detective Lo. When they were gone, Sadiq, looking at the door, spoke to the policeman. “I wonder what the result of your words will be.”

“I do also.”

“I hope it is enough.” Sadiq sighed. “Such a wicked world. Really, I’m just a poor shopkeeper. What is one small man to do?”

“Yes,” Lo responded. “Or a detective. Just two small men, in a wicked world. What are they to do?”

Two days later the door to Sadiq’s shop once again opened to admit the damp Detective Lo, who paused occasionally to sniff the contents of a brass box or burlap bag as he made his way to the counter, where Mustafa Sadiq was serving a customer. The old Uighur woman, spying the Han policeman, snatched up her purchase, glowered at him, and scurried away. Lo wiped his handkerchief along the back of his neck and watched her go.

“Very wise,” he said to Sadiq. “Not to call me ‘friend’ in her presence.”

“On a day when that one is angry at the Prophet, I would not call him friend,” Sadiq replied. “Is this another step in your acquisition of new habits? Last time you came before I was expecting you, and now you come when I’m not expecting you at all.” He reached for the kettle.

“I haven’t come for a game, or for tea, Sadiq. I have news that I thought I might share.”

“Oh?”

“The office of one of the mining companies was vandalized last night.”

“Was it really?”

“Windows broken, papers scattered about, and the walls spray-painted.”

“With slogans to the glory of Aliqqi the Hero?”

“Indeed.”

“You were sent for?”

“I was.”

Sadiq nodded. “And the miscreants? Were they caught?”

“No, my friend,” Lo replied. “They were not. However, there is no question in my mind as to who committed this outrage.”

“Is that so?” Sadiq murmured. “Well, your logic is usually faultless. I suppose you will proceed, then, as you must?”

“Yes,” Lo confirmed. “Exactly.”

The following morning, Detective Lo presented himself at the office of Housing Commissioner Wu. Unlike Public Security Bureau Headquarters and the satellite police buildings, the Housing Commission’s suite of offices had powerful air conditioning. The sweat gluing Lo’s shirt to his wide back turned icy, causing him to shiver as though in the presence of a ghost.

Commissioner Wu, small and dapper in a well-made suit, wrinkled his nose at the slovenly, perspiring policeman.

“I apologize for my appearance,” Lo said, sitting though he had not been offered a seat. With his handkerchief he blotted up sweat from his face. “It is very hot today.”

“This is the desert,” Wu retorted. “Each of us, until his wishes are granted and he is finally posted back to civilization, will have to put up with the unpleasant conditions of this forsaken place. Really, though, Detective Lo, isn’t it possible for you to put yourself together better?”

“This is why I was promoted to detective,” Lo said ruefully. “So that I could work in plainclothes. I was a disgrace to the uniform.”

“No doubt.” The commissioner sat back in his chair and frowned. “Detective Lo, I must tell you, your reputation precedes you. To hear you were a disgrace does not altogether surprise me. It is my information that you spend a good deal of time among the Uighurs. I understand you’ve made it your business to be fluent in their language. You play Xiangqi in teahouses and visit with shopkeepers. It could all make one question where your loyalties lie.”

Lo stopped in mid blot. “I’m surprised to hear that the activities of a policeman hold any interest for the housing commissioner. I suppose, on reflection, I’m flattered, though I’m saddened to hear the opinion you express, sir. The actions you describe are my poor attempts to stay close to the events of the city. They seem valuable to me, in my work, you understand, but perhaps I’m wrong.”

The commissioner sighed impatiently. “That is for your superiors, Detective. I understand you’ve come here because you have information you believe will interest me. If you do, please proceed.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.” Lo folded his handkerchief carefully and tucked it into his pocket, seemingly oblivious to the commissioner’s mounting irritation. Crossing his legs and settling into the chair, which, being as substantial as he was, did not complain, he said, “I think you may have heard that the offices of the Golden Chance Mining and Minerals Company were vandalized two nights ago?”

“No, I had not. I’m too busy to involve myself in problems that are not mine, Detective Lo. I would have thought vandalism was routine police business.”

“It is,” Lo agreed. “The Public Security Bureau was alerted by a concerned citizen, and I was sent to the scene. Rousted, in fact, from my bed.” He shook his head with a small smile. “Because, you see, I’m able to read the slogans that were sprayed on the walls. At times like these I, like you, question my decision to study the Uighur language. In any case, I did read the slogans. They were to the glory of Aliqqi the Hero.”

“Aliqqi.” The commissioner snorted. “An illiterate thug who centuries ago routed some other ragged tribe and stole their sheep. Good luck to him and his glory.”

“As you say. In any case, after I surveyed the situation and ascertained there was no useful evidence to be found, I sent the uniformed officers into the streets to search for the, um, miscreants.”

“Did they find them?”

“Unfortunately, they did not. There was no evidence left behind that could identify them, you understand. I’m certain that in time, however, we will track them down. In any case, I took it upon myself to remain, keeping the premises secure until officials of the Golden Chance company could make their way there.”

“All proper procedure, no doubt, and I’m sure you’re to be commended. Detective Lo, I’m a busy man. Why are you here?”

“Yes, of course, sir. I’m sorry.” Leaning forward, Lo produced two folded, wilting sheets of paper from his shirt pocket. With the palms of his pudgy hands he ironed them out on the commissioner’s desk.

Commissioner Wu inched back, as though to keep a distance between himself and anything that had been in such close proximity to the sweaty policeman. “What’s this?”

Lo gestured to the letterhead of the Golden Chance Mining and Minerals Company. “While I was waiting in the office, I thought to gather up some of the scattered papers. The mining company officials were already going to form an unfortunate impression of Turpan, based upon this offense against their property. I didn’t want them to come upon a public servant in the midst of such chaos, just standing there.”

“How civic-minded,” the commissioner muttered.

“One tries to do the right thing. In collecting the papers, though, I found myself glancing at them. Unavoidable, if unplanned; a career’s worth of curiosity, I’m afraid I can’t control it.” He gave a small shake of his head. “Now, I’m just a policeman, you understand, sir, and much of this is beyond my comprehension. However, unless I’m mistaken — always a possibility — I believe this report indicates the presence of, shall we say, unanticipated resources in an unexpected place?”

Commissioner Wu gazed at Lo a moment longer, then lowered his eyes to the papers. Skeptically at first, then more intently, he read through them, gingerly pinching the first sheet at its edge to lift it so he could study the second. When he had finished, he began again, reading with great care. Finally the commissioner looked up at the detective. “There is gold on land owned by the shopkeeper, Mustafa Sadiq.”

Lo nodded. “That was my conclusion also. I’m glad to see it confirmed by a man of your erudition.”

The commissioner frowned. “I had understood the companies prospecting in the mountains to be after copper. Bauxite. Iron, perhaps.”

“Yes, sir. Until this discovery — made, as it seems, within the week — the mountains near Turpan were not thought to have reserves of gold.” Lo hesitated. “Sir?”

“Yes, what is it?”

“Well, I don’t expect that a man with your heavy responsibilities and busy schedule concerns himself with what amounts to hearsay about circumstances outside his purview.”

“Of course I don’t.”

“Then possibly you’re not aware of Golden Chance Company’s reputation. They’re known to be a reliable but conservative firm. They’re extremely unlikely to act on information of this sort until it’s been corroborated.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, of course, mining protocol is unfamiliar to me, but it’s my understanding that they’ll have ordered more exploratory investigations, before proceeding in any other way.”

Commissioner Wu tapped the paper before him. “It’s possible, then, that this finding will turn out to be — what do the medical people call it, a false positive?”

Lo shook his head. “Judging from the figures there, I don’t see how.” To the commissioner’s raised eyebrows he said, “I studied a bit of minerology myself, sir, before it became clear to me that academic effort was not in my line. I can still read a simple assay. There is no question as to the meaning of this. But since Golden Chance will be offering the owner a large sum for title to his property, it’s procedure for them to make doubly sure. Before they approach him.”

Commissioner Wu was silent for a moment. “You’re saying Mustafa Sadiq hasn’t been told about this yet?”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, you’re correct. He has not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mustafa Sadiq is known to me. He’s one of the Uighur shopkeepers with whom I’ve developed a certain relationship, over the years. During a—” Lo gave a shamefaced smile “—a Xiangqi game recently, he and I happened to touch on the subject of land in the mountains. As I’m sure you know, there are few conversations in Turpan these days that do not include mention of mining, and the mining companies. Sadiq told me his family owns land in the mountains, that he has not visited it in years, and that he has granted one of the mining companies permission to explore it. He said nothing more, nor did he appear to be holding anything back.”

“Did he not?”

“No, sir. Though of course I could be wrong; I speak only as a policeman, with a certain amount of practice at observing people trying not to tell me things.” Lo paused again. “Also...”

“Detective! What is it?”

“Sir, the damage done by the vandals at the Golden Chance offices was extensive. I imagine it will be some time, possibly a week or more, until an inventory is completed, repairs are made, and the routine operations of the firm can return to normal.”

The commissioner sat back in his chair. “They don’t know this report is missing.”

“I’m not sure, of course, sir. But considering the disordered state of their offices and files, I’d be very surprised if they did.”

“So.” Commissioner Wu looked steadily at Detective Lo. “An enterprising man could make something of this.”

“I think that’s true.” Lo returned his gaze.

“Detective Lo,” Wu said. “I have to ask why you’ve brought this... opportunity... to my attention. You and I have never worked together, nor even met. You’re not under my authority. Why haven’t you gone directly to Mustafa Sadiq, with whom you’re so obviously on friendly terms, and offered to relieve him of this worthless land? Why involve anyone, and why, particularly, myself?”

“Well, as to that, Mustafa Sadiq is not a fool. What use has a policeman for land in the mountains? Especially land he’s recently been told is worthless? Sadiq would understand immediately that something was afoot, and of course he will recall signing an agreement with the Golden Chance company allowing them to prospect on his land.”

“You’re saying, if you make an offer, Sadiq will know immediately the land is valuable.”

“Yes.”

“And why would it be different if I make the offer? I, a commissioner, whom he does not know and has no reason to trust? Unlike a friend,” Wu added sardonically.

“It would not be different.”

“Then what is the point of this exercise? Do you expect me to use Housing Commission funds to speculate, buying this land from Sadiq for whatever outrageous sum he demands, in hopes Golden Chance will pay more?” The commissioner stopped and frowned. “Or perhaps you expect me to condemn it. You are a policeman, so I suppose you don’t understand these things, but my powers of condemnation end at the city limits.”

“Yes, sir, I did know that. I agree with you: Condemning the land is not possible, and underpaying Sadiq is not practical.”

“Then why are you wasting my time?” Commissioner Wu’s bark caused the detective to start in his chair.

“That is not my intention, Commissioner, I assure you. Just, as I considered the use an enterprising man, as you say, might make of this information, it came to me that you, sir, are in a unique position.”

“What position would that be?” the commissioner hissed through clenched teeth.

“Well, of course, it’s only an idea, possibly a poor one, but perhaps, sir, at no cost to yourself or the Commission, but in your official capacity, you may be in a position to offer Mustafa Sadiq something in trade for his land. Something he wants very much.”

Later that afternoon, the spice-shop owner, Mustafa Sadiq, found himself summoned to the office of the housing commissioner. Sadiq could, of course, have refused to go, as his neighbors urged him to do. The housing commissioner, for all his despotic behavior, was not the police. He could not compel Sadiq to appear.

But Sadiq shrugged. “I’m curious,” he said. “Why does the housing commissioner even know my name? Why should he want to see a shopkeeper?” His neighbors had no answer. Sadiq changed his shirt, put on a fresh white cap with the embroidery and four-cornered shape of his tribe, and locked up his shop. Heading to the center of the city, where the government buildings squatted, he walked slowly, as the day was very hot.

Housing Commissioner Wu was not the police, but when Mustafa Sadiq was shown into the commissioner’s office, he found the police there, in the person of Detective Lo Pen-wei. He raised his eyebrows at the sight. “Detective Lo,” he said, speaking in Mandarin for the benefit of the commissioner, who sat frowning behind his desk. “Is the reason I’ve been called here a police matter, then?”

“Sit down,” Commissioner Wu ordered Sadiq, before Lo could speak. “Detective Lo is not here in his official capacity — though I expect you to respect his rank — but to serve as a translator. We will be covering some fairly subtle points, and it may be that your Mandarin is not up to the task.”

“The Housing Commission has no translators of its own? How fortunate that the Public Security Bureau is so generous with its officers, then,” Sadiq murmured. He seated himself, eyes on Lo.

“Mustafa Sadiq,” the commissioner said. The shopkeeper shifted his gaze to meet the commissioner’s. “I’ve brought you here because I’m interested in land in the mountains.”

“The land in the mountains is interesting,” Sadiq said agreeably. “The rock formations, the streams — they are unique in all East Turkestan. But I’m a poor shopkeeper, hardly an expert. I suggest—”

“Sadiq!” The commissioner gestured irritably at Lo, who spoke to Sadiq in the Uighur language.

“He means your land in the mountains, Sadiq.”

Sadiq blinked. To the commissioner he said, in Mandarin, “My land in the mountains is no more interesting than another man’s.”

“You’re wrong. Sadiq, I won’t insult you by playing games. Golden Chance Company has found gold on your land. I’ve brought you here because I want to buy it from you.”

Detective Lo began to translate, but Sadiq waved him silent.

“There is gold on my land?”

“I have information.”

Sadiq’s brow furrowed. “Why is it you have such information and I do not?”

“That’s neither here nor there, Sadiq. I’m a government official, privy to much that does not reach shopkeepers.”

Sadiq nodded. “I suppose that’s true. Is it a great deal of gold?”

The commissioner blew out a breath. “Would I have brought you here otherwise? I don’t have time to waste, Sadiq.”

“No.” Sadiq pursed his lips. “Please, you’ll forgive me, Commissioner, but this is all new to me. I must try to understand. My ancient ancestors’ worthless land has suddenly become valuable.” He shook his head. “Keslenqük yilan bolmighi ming yilqilik.”

The commissioner, alarmed, turned to the detective.

“It is a Uighur proverb,” Detective Lo told him. “ ‘It takes a thousand years for a lizard to become a snake.’ ”

“Yes,” said Sadiq. He smiled. “But look! Finally, it does.”

The commissioner snorted. “I don’t know what the meaning of that is supposed to be. We are not discussing lizards, Sadiq. I’m offering to buy your land.”

Sadiq nodded, suppressing the smile and rearranging his features into a serious aspect. “Yes, of course, Commissioner.” He smoothed his moustache, as though in an effort to keep the smile under strict control. After a few moments, however, the smile broke through the moustache barricade. Sadiq said, “Well, thinking of it, I don’t believe this is quite the right time to sell that land. You can appreciate, I have not had much time to consider the varying benefits of the paths open to me, but my inclination is to wait and see what arrangement Golden Chance Company suggests. If you’d like to discuss the situation after that, sir, I’d be happy to visit again.”

The commissioner replied, “Mustafa Sadiq, I think you’ll find my offer more satisfactory than any that Golden Chance Company will make.”

“Possibly. Once I know what they intend—”

“No, Sadiq. Now.”

“But, sir, if I don’t—”

“This is my offer: You will convey your land to me. I will convey to the Turpan Historical Preservation and Restoration Commission the home of Aliqqi the Hero.”

Sadiq stared, open-mouthed, at the commissioner. He turned to Detective Lo, who repeated the commissioner’s words in the Uighur language.

“Well.” Sadiq shook his head, as if to clear it. “That was what I thought I heard.” He hesitated; then, resuming speaking in Mandarin, he said to the commissioner, “It is a generous offer, sir. I appreciate the Housing Commission’s acknowledgment of the value to my nation of the home of Aliqqi the Hero. But...”

Commissioner Wu glanced at Detective Lo, and back to Sadiq. “But what? It is, as you yourself have said, a generous offer. Land where the worth is yet to be proven, in exchange for something of known and inestimable value to your people.”

“Sir,” Sadiq said, “what you say about the value of the home of Aliqqi the Hero to my people is true. It is an irreplaceable monument in our hearts. But I have three daughters. They will have husbands soon — the eldest, Qolpan, is already being courted — and they will have children. The land in the mountains is their birthright. It is not my place to give it away, even in exchange for such a cultural treasure.”

“Sadiq,” said Detective Lo, before the commissioner could respond. “Did you not tell me the home of Aliqqi the Hero is the birthright of every Uighur?”

“Yes.” Sadiq swallowed. “That is what makes this a difficult decision. One birthright for another. But I don’t see how I can agree to this.”

“Sadiq, you yourself will be a hero to your people if you do,” the commissioner said. “Our arrangement, of course, will remain private. But I will make it widely known that I was persuaded not to demolish the home of Aliqqi the Hero, but to convey it to the Preservation Society instead, by the silver tongue of the shopkeeper Mustafa Sadiq.”

Sadiq looked very sad. “Oh, that would be satisfying indeed! But I do not think—”

“On the other hand, if you do not agree, I will make it known equally widely that Mustafa Sadiq had the opportunity to save the home of Aliqqi the Hero, but chose not to, for reasons of his own greed.”

Now it was Sadiq who looked alarmed. “But no! That is not—”

“Is it not? You refuse my offer, in hopes that the Golden Chance company will make a better one — but what can they offer you, Sadiq, except money? So you are trading the home of Aliqqi the Hero for money. There is no other way to look at it.”

“But the home of Aliqqi is not mine to trade.”

“It is, Sadiq. Right now, the fate of your hero’s home is in your hands.”

From alarmed, Sadiq’s features paled to stricken.

“And your neighbors will know,” the commissioner finished. “They will all know.”

“No,” Sadiq whispered. “You cannot. My neighbors will never forgive me.”

“Nor should they, Sadiq, if you let this opportunity pass.”

“But my daughters... No, you must see, if I command the respect of all my nation but yet my daughters must marry beneath themselves because they have no dowries, what have I gained?”

“Beneath themselves? Sadiq, you’re a shopkeeper!”

“Commissioner!” Sadiq drew himself up. “Perhaps in your exalted world—”

“Sir?” Detective Lo, inserting himself in the conversation, addressed the commissioner. “If I might make a suggestion?”

“What is it?” the commissioner asked irritably. Sadiq turned narrowed eyes to the detective also.

“Well, it is this. Mustafa Sadiq: If there were not gold on this land in the mountains — if your daughters’ dowries consisted entirely of the grazing and melon-growing potential of this land — what would you ask for it?”

“But there is gold.”

“Sadiq.” Detective Lo, with only the slightest shift of posture and expression, suddenly appeared much changed: looming, volcanic. Both Sadiq and the housing commissioner stilled and stared. “Sadiq.” Lo seemed to rumble rather than speak. “If there were not.”

“I...” Sadiq was silent for some moments, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on Lo. Finally he whispered, “Seventy thousand renminbi.”

Detective Lo nodded and, saying nothing, turned to the housing commissioner.

“Detective?” the commissioner said. “Are you suggesting I buy this land?”

“I am,” Lo affirmed.

“That I give this man money? In addition to a cultural treasure?”

“Seventy thousand RMB is not so much money,” Lo said soothingly, “even to a policeman. Divided among Sadiq’s three daughters, it will give each a small nest egg, just enough that self-respecting Uighur men will be willing to court them. If, Sadiq, this were to occur, would you agree to the arrangement?”

“I... but the gold...”

“No one will know.” Lo relaxed in his chair, and the volcano vanished, replaced by the chubby policeman. “You will sell your land to Housing Commissioner Wu, who enjoys, from time to time, a rustic retreat, and who, happily settling in here in Turpan, wishes for mountain land of his own where he can wander through the splendor of your rocks and streams. You will also take the opportunity of a business relationship with the commissioner to importune him on the subject of the home of Aliqqi the Hero.

“Commissioner Wu,” Lo turned his attention across the desk, “you will enter into a simple business transaction with Mustafa Sadiq, which you will have no reason to keep hidden. In the course of it, you will be so moved by, as you say, Sadiq’s silver tongue — and by his reasonable price and lack of avarice in your business dealings — that you will agree that the home of Aliqqi the Hero must be preserved, and you will convey it to the Turpan Historical Preservation and Restoration Commission. When, weeks or possibly months from now, the Golden Chance Minerals and Mining Company seeks the owner of this land to make an offer on it, no one will be more surprised than Commissioner Wu. You, Mustafa Sadiq, will shrug philosophically when that happens. Possibly for a time you’ll face some ridicule from your neighbors, but that will be muted and good-natured, as you will be known throughout Turpan as the Uighur who saved the home of Aliqqi the Hero. Your daughters will have small dowries and a heroic father, and your people will have their cultural treasure. A most satisfactory ending.”

Detective Lo, from the effort of such a long speech, found himself perspiring even in the chill of the Housing Commission office. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, folded it, and replaced it in his pocket. As he did so, the room was silent. Finally, Commissioner Wu said to Mustafa Sadiq, “Do you agree to this?”

Sadiq stroked his moustache for some time. In the end, after a long look at Detective Lo, he turned to the housing commissioner and said, “Yes. I do.”

Another week passed before Mustafa Sadiq looked up from the counter to find the round form of Detective Lo Pen-wei occupying the doorway of his shop.

“Step inside,” Sadiq finally called. “You’re blocking all the sunlight anyway.”

“I needed to make sure the shop could accommodate me,” the policeman said, pulling the door shut behind himself. “I’ve tried half a dozen times in the past week to come see you, Sadiq, but the crowds of grateful well-wishers were too thick.”

“My neighbors have been generous in their gratitude.”

“You’ve done your people a great service,” Lo said. “Why shouldn’t they acknowledge it?” He threaded his way carefully through the shop, wiping his brow with his handkerchief. When he reached the counter he folded the cloth and replaced it in his pocket, asking Sadiq, “And your daughters? They’re well, I hope?”

“They are, thank you, Detective. The eldest, Qolpan, informs me she will take the small dowry that has recently come her way and, rather than plan a wedding, will enroll in the University in Urumqi. She intends to study minerology, as her fiancé’s knowledge of the subject has proven so valuable of late.”

“Yes,” Lo agreed, “a subject of much practical use. I myself understand not a word of it, of course, but I’m just a policeman. Well, congratulations, Sadiq.”

Sadiq shrugged and reached for the kettle. Lo raised his hand. “Wait. I came to ask: Now that you’re celebrated among your neighbors, and your daughters are provided for, are you permitting yourself some moments of leisure? If so, perhaps you would care to accompany me to a teahouse, where we can sit in the shade of the grape arbor.”

Sadiq regarded him. “And where a Han policeman can shine in the reflected glory of a heroic Uighur shopkeeper?”

“I cannot deny that being seen with you, given who you have become, could be useful to me, Sadiq. In my work, you understand.”

“Well, then. I suppose under the circumstances I cannot turn this invitation down?”

“No, I don’t think you can.”

Sadiq nodded. “I see. And am I to bring the Xiangqi set?”

“You are.”

Sadiq put on his white hat and went about the business of closing the shop while Lo waited. There was little to it and they soon found themselves on the dusty streets of Turpan under the bright hot sun.

“Is the housing commissioner well?” Mustafa Sadiq asked as they walked.

“I couldn’t say. I haven’t seen the commissioner since you and I were together in his office last week. Barring, of course, the public announcement the following day.”

“You were in People’s Square?”

“It was my duty, as a guardian of the public security. Though, considering Commissioner Wu’s lack of popularity among your people, there was surprisingly little rancor in the crowd. Possibly the substance of the announcement had been rumored; the people were in a jovial mood. The commissioner spoke well of you, Sadiq.”

“Yes, I was flattered. But,” Sadiq said, “though you have not seen him, I think you have heard from him?”

“Briefly, yes.”

“He expressed his gratitude for your help in — our mutual situation?”

“He did.”

“In a tangible form?”

“It’s a custom among my people,” Lo said. “The giving of small gifts.”

They continued in silence, Sadiq acknowledging gravely the greetings of people they passed, blushing once as someone yelled, “The Hero’s hero!” and a small group burst into cheers. Even the presence of the hulking Han policeman at his side did not seem to dampen people’s enthusiasm for Mustafa Sadiq.

The teahouse Detective Lo had chosen was very popular in Turpan, situated as it was around a tiled fountain in a courtyard where a grape arbor twined overhead. The water whispered and so did the Uighurs seated all about, as the shopkeeper and the policeman chose a table. Many people smiled and nodded to Mustafa Sadiq, calling their thanks, giving the thumbs-up sign, but, possibly because of his companion, no one approached. Sadiq acknowledged their tributes, and spoke to the proprietor, who promptly brought them tea and a plate of sweet biscuits, for which he refused payment.

From the inlaid box he had carried under his arm, Sadiq lifted out the white chessboard. Lo took the wooden disks from their embroidered cloth bag and set them in their rows.

“Detective Lo,” Sadiq said, as Lo prepared the board. “Since you are a man who thinks ahead, let me ask you: What do you anticipate the reaction of the housing commissioner will be when he discovers there is no gold on my land in the mountains?”

“His land in the mountains,” Lo corrected, waiting for Sadiq, who was playing red today, to make the first move. “Well, as to that. First, I imagine he’ll be incensed at the incompetence of the Golden Chance company, as time passes and no one contacts him. He’ll find himself with an internal struggle, whether to reveal his possession of the pirated report.”

He waited while Mustafa Sadiq moved his right-rank cannon to a position in front of his general, an unconventional opening.

“And do you think he will?” Sadiq asked. He poured tea from a hammered copper pot into clear small glasses with silver handles.

“Oh, yes. He’ll finally grow impatient and make the contact himself. When Golden Chance admits to mystification as to the report’s contents, and produces the actual assay of your former land, the commissioner’s anger will know no bounds.” Lo responded to Sadiq’s move with an unusual move of his own, shifting his left-side horse also toward the center ranks.

“You will be sent for?” Sadiq asked, stroking his moustache.

“Undoubtedly.” Lo watched as Sadiq moved his right-rank horse. “My outrage will match the commissioner’s own. That the miscreants of Turpan should have the subtlety to sow forged reports among the debris in a vandalized office — this new escalation is shocking, contemptible, and a serious threat to the public security.” Lo advanced a soldier. “I’ll vow redoubled efforts to capture these criminals. Unfortunately, they left us no evidence as to their identities. However, I will reassure the commissioner that, with time, the Public Security Bureau will no doubt bring them to justice.”

“As the first to believe the fabricated report, and as the one who brought it to the commissioner, I’m afraid you’ll be left looking a bit of a fool, Detective Lo.”

Lo shrugged. “A condition I’ve grown used to.”

“And you’ll have made an enemy of the housing commissioner. Even if he harbors no suspicions, he’ll need someone to blame.” Sadiq slid his chariot along the horizontal.

“The housing commissioner,” replied Detective Lo, “will not, I suspect, be much longer in Turpan. Corruption is a serious crime in today’s China. Agents of the Public Security Bureau, such as myself, have recently begun making contact with the mining companies, warning them against unscrupulous officials who might try to take advantage of their high offices for personal gain. The companies have been warned to be particularly alert to forgery and false documents. If such a thing were to be reported, the Public Security Bureau would not be able to turn a blind eye.”

Lo reached out a hand for his cannon, but a voice over his shoulder said, “I wouldn’t do that.” Lo turned to see a broad-backed Uighur man in a gray tribal cap. “I don’t mean to interfere, of course,” the man went on. “But Mustafa Sadiq has just played his chariot. In this opening, you must respond with your chariot also.”

Detective Lo looked to Sadiq, then back to the other man. “I’m Ahmet Erxidin,” the new man said. “I’m honored that a Han policeman enjoys our ancient game.”

“Xiangqi is ancient among my people too, Ahmet Erxidin, and many enjoy it. I’m Lo Pen-wei of the Public Security Bureau. I appreciate your advice.”

“Ahmet Erxidin is renowned for his skill at Xiangqi,” Sadiq told Lo. To Erxidin he said, “My friend, will you have tea?”

“Thank you, I will.” The gray-capped man moved a chair and sat. “Mustafa Sadiq is too kind,” he said to Lo. “My skill is only what it is, but I do spend a great deal of time at the Xiangqi board. I’m always seeking new opponents. Perhaps, if Mustafa Sadiq is not available, you would consider giving me a game? I can be found in this teahouse most days.”

Lo beamed. “I would be honored. To sit in a teahouse playing Xiangqi is one of the joys of life in Turpan.”

The proprietor brought a third silver-handled tea glass. Mustafa Sadiq poured tea for the newcomer, and for himself and Detective Lo. All lifted their glasses, and before they drank, Sadiq said, “I offer this toast: To my friends.”

“To my friends,” they each said, and drank.

Copyright © 2012 by S.J. Rozan