Poseidon's Arrow

32

ZHOU XING HAD THE FACE OF A PEASANT. HIS EYES were set close together, his chin was almost nonexistent, and his nose listed to starboard from a long-ago fracture. A pair of jug ears and a pauper’s haircut completed the rural simpleton appearance. It was a countenance perfectly suited to the undercover intelligence agent. Aside from allowing Zhou to fit into almost any field situation, it habitually caused his superiors in the Chinese Ministry of State Security to underestimate his guile and ability.

At the moment he was counting on the same effect for a less sophisticated crowd. Wearing the worn and dusty clothes of an unskilled laborer, he looked like most of the inhabitants of Bayan Obo, a company town in Inner Mongolia that was itself worn and dusty. Zhou crossed a paved street bustling with trucks and buses and made his way to a small drinking establishment. Even from the street he could hear the voices inside. He took a deep breath, then pulled open a wooden door emblazoned with a faded red boar.

The scent of cheap tobacco and stale beer filled Zhou’s nostrils as he stepped through the door and scanned the confines with a practiced eye. A dozen tables filled the narrow room, occupied by a coarse and rugged assortment of miners off duty from the town’s open-pit mine. A fat, one-eyed barkeep poured shots behind an elevated platform lined with hard-drinking locals. The bar’s only decoration was its namesake, a stuffed and mounted boar’s head that was missing several tufts of fur.

Zhou ordered a baijiu, a grain alcohol that was the locals’ favorite, and slid onto a corner chair to study the clientele. Cloistered in groups of two or three, most were well on their way to numbing themselves from the day’s labor. He scanned from face to hardened face, searching for a suitable target. He found one a few tables away, a brash, loudmouthed young man, talking the ears off his silent, towering partner.

Zhou waited until the talker had nearly drained his shot glass before approaching the table. Pretending to stagger, he flung an elbow against the talker’s glass, sending it flying.

“Hey! My drink.”

“A thousand pardons, my friend,” Zhou said, slurring his words. “Please, come to the bar with me and I shall purchase you another.”

The young miner, realizing he had just scored a free round, rose quickly, if unsteadily, to his feet. “Yes, another drink.”

With a full ceramic bottle of baijiu in hand, Zhou was welcomed back to the table.

“I am Wen,” the man said, “and my quiet friend here is Yao.”

“I am Tsen,” Zhou replied. “You both work at the mine?”

“Of course.” Wen flexed his biceps. “We didn’t build this strength by plucking chickens.”

“What is your job at the mine?”

“Why, we are the crushers,” Wen said with a laugh. “We feed the mined ore into the primary rockcrushers. They’re as big as a house and can mash a boulder the size of a dog down to this.” He balled his fist in front of Zhou.

“I come from Baotou,” Zhou said, “and am in need of work. Are there any jobs available at the mine?”

Wen reached over and squeezed Zhou’s arm. “A man like you? You are too scrawny to work in the mines.” He laughed, spraying a shower of saliva across the table. Then noting a sad look on Zhou’s face, he felt a touch of pity. “Men get injured, so they occasionally bring on replacements. But there will probably be a long line ahead of you.”

“I understand,” Zhou said. “More baijiu?”

He didn’t wait for an answer and refilled their glasses. The silent miner, Yao, peered at him through listless eyes and nodded. Wen raised his glass and downed a shot.

“Tell me,” Zhou said as he sipped at his drink. “I hear there is a black market mining operation at Bayan Obo.”

Yao tensed and looked at Zhou suspiciously.

“No, it all comes from the same place.” Wen wiped his mouth with a sleeve.

“It is not safe to speak of,” Yao said, breaking his silence with an earthy bellow.

Wen shrugged. “It all takes place beyond us.”

“What do you mean?” Zhou asked.

“The blasting, the digging, the crushing, that is all performed by the state operation that pays Yao and me,” he said. “It’s only after the crushing that other hands start dipping into the pot.”

“What hands are those?”

Yao slammed his glass down on the table. “You ask a lot of questions, Tsen.”

Zhou bowed slightly to Yao. “I’m just trying to find myself a job.”

“Yao’s just touchy because his cousin drives a truck for the operation.”

“How do they operate?”

“I guess they’re paying off some of the mine’s truck drivers,” Wen said. “At night, some of the trucks that haul the raw diggings to the crusher pick up a load of crushed ore and deposit it at a remote part of the mine. Then Jiang and his private fleet of trucks come in and haul it away. Hey, there he is now.” Wen waved over a squat, grit-faced man who had just stepped into the bar. The man moved with a determined swagger.

“Jiang, I was just telling my friend how you haul hot rocks from the mine.”

Jiang flung an open hand against the side of Wen’s head, nearly knocking him out of his chair. “You need to quit your babbling, Wen, or you’ll lose your tongue. You’re worse than an old woman.” He sized Zhou up, then regarded his cousin Yao. The big man faintly shook his head.

Jiang eased around the table and stood close to Zhou. He suddenly reached down, grabbed Zhou’s collar, and jerked the agent to his feet.

Zhou kept his arms at his sides and smiled harmlessly.

“Who are you?” Jiang said, his face millimeters from Zhou’s.

“My name is Tsen. I am a farmer from Baotou. Now, you tell me your name?”

Jiang’s eyes flared at his boldness. “Listen to me, farmer.” He held Zhou’s collar tightly. “If you ever want to tread the soil of Bayan Obo again, then I suggest that you pretend you never came here. You saw no one and talked to no one. Do you understand?”

Jiang’s breath reeked of smoke and garlic, but Zhou never flinched. With a pleasant grin, he nodded at Jiang. “Of course. But if I was never here, then I didn’t spend eighty yuan on drinks with your friends.” He held out an open palm as if waiting for reimbursement.

Jiang’s face turned red. “Don’t ever enter this bar again. Now, get out.”

He freed his grip on Zhou’s collar so he could punctuate the threat with his fist, but he was too close to throw a punch and he took a step back.

Zhou anticipated the move and scissored his foot behind Jiang’s, catching the back of the truck driver’s ankle. Jiang stumbled, but still unleashed a hard right as he fell back. Zhou moved left, absorbing the punch to his shoulder, then countered by shoving Jiang’s torso. Jiang lost his footing and fell backward, out of control.

Zhou kept a grip on him, driving him toward the table, where Jiang’s head smashed against the lip. He collapsed to the floor like a felled redwood, knocked out cold.

At the sight of his cousin’s takedown, Yao leaped up and tried to grab Zhou in a bear hug.

The smaller and more sober Zhou easily spun away, then launched a sharp kick to Yao’s knee. The big man buckled, allowing Zhou to deliver several lightning strikes to the head. A final blow struck his throat. Yao turned and fell to his knees, clutching his throat while overcome by a false sense of suffocation.

The bar fell silent, and all eyes turned to Zhou. Drawing attention to himself was foolish, but there were times he couldn’t help himself.

“No fighting!” the bartender shouted. But he was too busy pouring drinks to bother throwing out any of the culprits.

Zhou nodded at him, then casually picked up his glass of baijiu from the table and took a swig. The other patrons returned to their drinks and jokes, ignoring the two men on the floor.

Wen had watched the brief fight in a stupor, not moving from his chair. “You have quick hands for a farmer,” he stuttered.

“Lots of hoeing.” Zhou swung his hands up and down. “What do you say our friend Jiang buys us a drink?” he asked.

“Sure,” Wen slurred.

Zhou reached into the unconscious man’s pocket and took out his wallet. Finding his resident identity card, he memorized Jiang’s full name and address. He replaced the wallet, but not before retrieving a twenty-yuan banknote, which he handed to Wen. “You drink for me,” Zhou said. “It is late, and I must go.”

“Yes, my friend Tsen, if you say so.” Wen raised himself in his chair with some difficulty.

“See you at the mine,” Zhou said.

“The mine?” Wen asked. He looked up in puzzlement, but the little farmer from Baotou was already gone.