The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Few people in the People’s Republic of China could enter Fong’s office without being announced. Fewer still could cause Fong to grow cold with both anger and fear. But then again there is only one head of the Communist Party in Shanghai and at that moment he was standing in the doorway of Fong’s office and Fong was doing his best not to either strike out or beg.

The man was tall. A Northerner. His Shanghanese was poor. He may well have lived in Shanghai for years but he had never bothered to pick up the local dialect. Typical. For fifty years Beijing had allowed Shanghai to rot. According to Maoist thinking, Shanghai had been infected by its contacts with the West and the Shanghanese were thus not to be trusted. So there were few if any Shanghanese admitted to the high corridors of power.

But Beijing announced its change in attitude toward Shanghai when Chou En-lai pronounced the famous words, “Black cat, white cat, what’s the difference.” This was taken to mean money from the East, money from the West – money is money. And the race was on. All of a sudden Shanghai’s historical contact with the West was an advantage. Overnight, Shanghai was central to Beijing’s plans. But they never really trusted Shanghai up there in Beijing so men like the one standing in Fong’s doorway were put in positions of power just to be sure those uppity Shanghanese never forgot who really runs the Middle Kingdom.

“Good evening, Traitor Zhong,” the man began. His voice was heavy. A worker’s voice. His clothes, although of good fabric, hung awkwardly on his thick shoulders and almost non-existent neck. His eyes were coal black. His hands were rough as if they had spent years wielding a pickaxe in a mine, which they may well have done.

Fong nodded and almost said, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company on this fine evening?” but decided the man probably had no sense of humour. The man strode into Fong’s office and placed three American newspapers on Fong’s desk. “My people tell me that these papers claim the explosion at the People’s Fourteenth Hospital was nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”

Fong glanced at the papers. “They’re wrong.”

The man bristled at Fong’s refusal to use his title. “And you know this how, Traitor Zhong?”

“Our head arson investigator was in the building before sections of it collapsed. He saw the cage. He saw the message on the cage.”

Still no “sir.”

“Your man was in the fire? Perhaps he set the fire?”

“Perhaps he didn’t.”

The moment of dead air between the two men was filled with challenge.

“I’m going to lift the embargo against the city.”

“Don’t!”

The man stared at Fong.

“Sir. Please don’t, sir! We are making progress. I swear it, sir.”

“One more day, Traitor Zhong. One more day and you’d better have results for me.” The man was about to leave when he stopped himself and stared at the office. “This is much too fine an office for a traitor.”

Fong looked at the man.

“Don’t you think, Traitor Zhong?”

The man waited. Slowly Fong nodded. “In case you haven’t noticed, your window is broken.” The man smiled. “One more day, Traitor Zhong. One more day.” Then he turned and left, slamming the door behind him, as if his point needed any further emphasis. Fong took a moment to collect himself then opened the door. Several of his detectives were standing there with their mouths open.

“What? Never seen a party hack before? Come on, we’ve got work to do. Everyone in place?” They were coming back to Earth. “Everyone in place?” Fong repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Give me ten minutes then put Mr. Cowens in my office.”

Robert was surprised by the spaciousness of Fong’s office. He looked out the broken window at the spectacular view of the radio tower, the world’s tallest freestanding building, in the Pudong Industrial Region across the Huangpo River. He said the name Huangpo a second time. He liked the sound. The bruise on his face hurt but he did his best to ignore it. Something about all this actually felt right. Or perhaps inevitable.

Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind he’d always wondered if he’d end up incarcerated. On some level he believed it was his just end – on another level he knew he’d always been, in some sense, behind bars. He looked at the desk. There was a picture of a thin-faced younger woman carrying a newborn child. He’d only had a brief glance at this Detective Zhong but he seemed a bit old to be with this young creature. Certainly a little long in the tooth to be starting a family. Robert noted the arrangement of the articles on Fong’s desk. Not symmetrical but somehow ordered, as if planned – like a Japanese flower arrangement. Then Robert dismissed the thought. This was a Chinese cop. Just one step up from a thug or one down from a party man. He set his face, rolled his shoulders to relieve the tension, and stood very still, waiting.

In a small, empty side office, Fong quickly read through his notes. They had been tracking Mr. Cowens’ activities for quite some time. They knew his devil and his deeds but as Fong leafed through the papers for the third time he felt sure that their investigation had missed something. Something important.

Mr. Cowens’ salary from his law firm in Toronto was far greater than the money he made buying and selling antiquities. He also didn’t demand top dollar for a lot of his finds. Everyone they’d interviewed agreed that he was a tough and extremely knowledgeable negotiator but he never seemed to go for the kill in his trading, as if getting just enough money was the goal – but just enough for what? They knew he was dealing solely in cash but he always seemed to leave Shanghai with his pockets pretty much empty of both yuan and US dollars. He had no bank accounts in Shanghai or the rest of the mainland; he’d been body searched several times leaving the country and they’d found nothing. There were only a few small transactions converting yuan to US dollars on record and almost no bank transfers either to or from overseas. The whole thing just didn’t add up. Like a restaurant menu missing a page.

Fong put aside the report on Robert Cowens and opened his folder on Tuan Li. He re-read the famous actress’s statement. She was waiting in the adjoining interrogation room, the one the cops called the “Hilton” because it had a couch, a chair that had all four legs, and it was cleaned at least once a year.

Tuan Li rose from the sofa the moment Fong entered the room and the smile on her face said that she was extremely happy to see him. “This is a great pleasure,” she said.

“For myself as well, but I’m afraid this is a police matter.”

“Ah, am I under suspicion of some dastardly crime?” Her smile was luminous.

“No, but you have been consorting with foreigners.”

“Consorting is a complicated word,” she replied slowly and sat back down.

“Would you mind telling me what you were doing in the company of Mr. Robert Cowens?”

She thought about the question for a second. She certainly minded but she decided to answer. “I was assessing whether he was worthy of falling in love with.”

Fong looked hard at her.

“You heard correctly, Detective Zhong,” she said icily.

It hurt him that she used his formal title and she knew it. “And did he live up to your no doubt high standards?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He had no faith.”

“What?”

“Faith. He had no faith – no faith, Detective Zhong, no love. May I go now?” She stood. She was taller than him.

Fong stepped aside and she headed toward the door. “My wife would have admired your acting.”

“That’s not fair, Detective Zhong. You can’t insult me then offer me such high praise. It is unwise to use the affections of the departed for personal gain. It should be beneath you. It is no doubt beneath the memory of the great Fu Tsong.”

He looked at her. The simple elegance of the line of her momentarily transfixed him. Her words echoed in his head – they were true and he knew it. He said nothing.

She shook her head. “You disappoint me, Detective Zhong.” What could the great Fu Tsong have seen in this man, she wondered – clearly he had no faith either.

After Tuan Li left, Robert Cowens’ translator was ushered into the interrogation room. Her round face and French haircut surprised Fong. He glanced down at his data sheet. She had a man’s name. He asked her about that.

“My father wanted a boy – he got me.”

Fong nodded. That happened. “How long have you worked for Mr. Cowens?”

“Three years now.”

“How good is his Mandarin?”

“He thinks it’s better than it is.”

“They all do, don’t they?” She nodded slightly. “Are you present for most of his business dealings?”

“Most but not all.”

“He illegally trades in antiquities.”

After a slight hesitation she said, “I have confirmed that in my statement.”

“You could go to jail for aiding and abetting his illegal activities.”

“I could go to jail for other reasons too.” She stared straight at him. Not so much a challenge as a weariness of fighting.

“Where does the money go?”

“What money?”

“The money he gets from selling the antiquities?”

“Some goes into the buying of other antiquities that he sells later.”

“And the rest?”

She paused and brought a hand up to her face. He noticed that her teeth weren’t good and although her clothes were clean and attractive they were excessively modest. Modest to his eyes, he reminded himself. She brushed her hand over the front of her skirt and said, more to her hand, than to Fong, “To government officials at first and later to older men and women.”

“What did he want from the government officials?”

“Access to information about Jews in Shanghai during the war.”

“He’s a Jew?”

She nodded.

“Did he get the information he was after?”

“I believe so. His family was here, in Shanghai, during the Japanese occupation and was forced into the ghetto.”

“As were many.”

Again she nodded.

“But now he’s moved on from greasing government officials to buying information from older men and women, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Which older men and women exactly?”

“Those who had worked for Silas Darfun.”

Fong looked at her as if she were mad. “Silas Darfun? The rich Long Nose who raised the orphans and had the Chinese wife?”

She nodded and turned her head to one side. “His house is up by the Hua Shan Hospital. It’s now the Children’s Palace.”

Fong knew that, but it had never had any relevance to him before. He knew that the mansion at Nanjing Lu and Yan’an Lu, now a training centre for artistic children, had originally been owned by a wealthy man with the unlikely name of Silas Darfun.

Fong thanked the translator for her help but as she got up to go he said, “I think it best that you leave your passport here.”

She reached into her handbag and placed her passport on his desk.

He was about to apologize and explain that it was just standard procedure then he remembered the smell of burnt bodies and decided to pass up the niceties.

Chen was at the door as the translator left.

“I hope this is good news, Captain Chen. With your face it’s hard to tell.”

“I’ve been told that, sir.”

“So?”

“We’ve been able to eliminate two of the five men. They were the husbands of women waiting for their wives to have . . . you know.”

“Abortions. It’s time that we all learned to say that word without flinching. So who’s left?”

Chen put three photos on the desk. Two were of middle-aged hard-faced men. One wore worker’s clothes and looked like he had some Uzbek blood in him. The other was well dressed and well groomed. The third man was younger. Much younger. He wore quality but not showy clothing. He carried a briefcase.

“A guess, sir?”

Fong didn’t know. It could be any of these guys or for that matter any of thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of others. “What about the unidentified women?”

“Would a woman do this, sir?”

Fong didn’t know that either. He thought not. But this blasphemy “stuff” was really beyond his comprehension. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “I can’t think about that now.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t be, Chen. You’re a terrific cop.” And Fong thought but did not say, “And a very fine man.”

Robert turned quickly when Fong entered the office.

“Sit,” Fong said in English.

Robert didn’t for a moment then did. “Who broke your window?”

“I did,” Fong answered.

“Why?” Robert said trying to be upbeat.

“Something pissed me off,” said Fong matter of factly. “Right now, you piss me off, Mr. Cowens.”

“Do I?”

“You do.” Fong flipped open a folio. “You have been illegally trading in antiquities in Shanghai for the better part of three years. Why?”

“To make money.”

“You make much more money from your law practice in Toronto.”

“There’s quite a large Chinese population in Toronto.”

“Is there?” replied Fong wondering what this had to do with anything.

“The largest in North America – mainly Cantonese, though.”

“Is that so?”

“I believe it is.”

“Are you finished with this?”

“This?” Robert queried.

“This stupid diversion. Are you finished with this?”

Robert nodded.

“Good. So why do you bother making pennies trading in antiquities in Shanghai when you make a fortune in your law practice?”

Robert smiled.

“Don’t smile Mr. Cowens, you are in very serious trouble.”

Robert’s smile went away but he was strangely not sad or even frightened. “I trade in antiquities to be able to find information about a family member of mine who spent the war in Shanghai?”

Fong nodded.

“My parents and their daughter Rivkah were in the Shanghai ghetto.”

Fong signalled him to go on.

“I believe my sister was left behind. I’ve been trying to find her or information about her. But it costs money. More money than I am allowed to bring into the People’s Republic of China so I go ‘antiquing’ to raise the money I need.”

So that was the missing data from Mr. Cowens’ file. It linked so many of the pieces together and, more importantly, removed any possibility that Robert might have something to do with the bombings. Of course that conclusion rested on the idea that Robert was telling Fong the truth. Fong would have it checked out but he doubted Robert was lying to him. It was writ large all over the man’s face. For a lawyer he was remarkably bad at keeping his feelings under wraps. “And have you found the information you seek?”

Robert allowed his hands to come up into the air and then flutter down. “No.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

Robert couldn’t believe his ears. Then he heard the edge in Fong’s voice. “And what do I have to do to gain your help in this matter?”

“You are a lawyer, Mr. Cowens.”

“It shows?”

Fong nodded but didn’t smile. He made a decision.

Robert spread his arms in submission then repeated his question, “What do I have to do to gain your help in this matter?”

“Help me find the man who is setting bombs in our hospitals.”

Robert was astounded by the request. “And how would I do that?”

“We believe he ‘antiques’ just as you do to raise his capital.”

Robert thought about that for a moment then rubbed his chin.

“Did you hurt yourself when you stumbled and fell to the pavement?”

Robert didn’t miss the use of the word stumbled in “stumbled and fell to the pavement” and realized his acceptance of that version of the story was part of the deal. Naturally – this was China, after all. “Yeah, a bit,” he said.

“Believe me, Mr. Cowens, that pain is nothing compared to what I can inflict upon you if you don’t help us find this killer.”

“That’s a very persuasive argument. Not elegant but persuasive.”

“I would have thought that helping you find information about your lost sister would have been incentive enough.”

“It is.”

“Good. I have no love of violence, Mr. Cowens.”

“Really! Do you carry a gun?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m an awful shot.”

Robert was tempted to laugh but quickly realized that was not such a good idea.

“Okay, give me a hint where to start with this guy. What do you know about the bomber?”

Fong went through the basics of what they knew of Angel Michael. Robert sat impassively listening. Fong finished. Robert didn’t move.

“Does that give you a place to start your search?”

Robert thought about it for a full ten seconds then said, “No. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t.”

Fong swore in Mandarin. Robert got the gist – something about a goat’s testicles. He said nothing. He had nothing to say. He did wonder if Fong was pissed off enough to break something else – maybe him.

There was another very long silence in the room then Fong remembered the words of the American consular official and turned to Robert. Robert took a half-step back. “He’s a Manichaean apparently.”

“A what?”

“A Manichaean.”

Robert smiled then quickly removed the smile from his face. “That may be a place to start, Detective. There have been rumours for years that original Manichaean scrolls had been buried in caves in the desert.”

“Which desert?”

“The Taklamakan. Like everyone else persecuted in the West, the Manichaeans came across the Silk Road seeking sanctuary. The Church followed them. To evade Rome the Manichaeans were said to have buried their sacred texts then disappeared into the Middle Kingdom.”

“China is the ocean that salts all rivers,” Fong quoted quietly.

“What?”

“An old saying, Mr. Cowens. So the Manichaeans headed east for safety just as did your parents – and sister.”

Robert looked at Fong trying to see if there was any sarcasm in the comment. There wasn’t. “Yes. Like my parents and my sister.” He rubbed his chin again and a smile slowly crossed his face. “I could let it be known to my associates that I have in my possession one of those original Manichaean scrolls and want to sell it. If this arsonist is a true believer it may be enough to draw him out.”

“It may.”

Robert nodded. “We have a deal then, Detective Zhong?”

“Write down all the information you have about your parents’ time in Shanghai and whatever else you need to know. I will set my people to it.”

“How long will it take?”

“It could take a while. I’ll contact you when I know something, hopefully by exactly two months from today.”

“Why then?”

“Why not? It’s a friend’s birthday.”

Robert looked at him. Fong returned his stare. Finally Fong said, “How long should it take to get in contact with our Manichaean friend?”

“Hard to tell. But if we’re lucky it could be fast – very fast.”

Fong turned toward the broken window and muttered, “It better be.” Then he turned back to Robert. “What do you need to start this?”

“Let me out of here – that’s a start.”

Fong considered putting an electronic tracking cuff on Robert. But Fong had worn one himself for some time and wouldn’t impose that misery on anyone else. “Give me your passport.”

Robert handed it over.

“Do you have a cell phone, Mr. Cowens?”

Robert produced it from his jacket pocket. Fong jotted down the ten-digit local number then handed it back. As Robert reached for it Fong held his side of the phone so the two of them felt each other’s pressure through the electronic device. “Don’t switch it off. And carry it at all times. I’ll be calling in every two hours. You don’t answer me and I’ll have you arrested and tossed into Ti Lan Chou Prison. You know what that is?”

“The political prison.”

“Right,” Fong said and released his end of the phone.

Robert pocketed the thing. Fong gave Robert his cell number. “Call me if anything and I mean anything begins to happen.” Robert nodded then turned to go.

“Mr. Cowens.”

Robert turned back to face Fong. The small man with the delicate features had his hand out. Robert took a step toward him and took the proffered hand. The two men, so very different, from such different worlds, felt the meeting as their palms touched. Neither would acknowledge it, but this was clearly the meeting of two very lonely men.

Angel Michael used the ID he’d stolen the first time he entered the Hua Shan Hospital to pass by security. It was late and the cleaning crews were reporting for work. He slid on his smock and grabbed a cleaner’s cart. He wheeled past the reception desk and its two guards. They glanced at him then signalled for him to stop. They came over quickly and flipped open the covered area on the floor of the trolley. Astinky wash bucket with dirty bandages greeted their inquiring looks.

“Yow!” one of them said as he threw down the sheet that covered the area. “What a smell.”

“Yeah, but instructions said for all the trolleys to be checked.”

“Can I go, now?” Angel Michael asked.

“Lots of cleaning left to do?”

“Lots,” Angel Michael said as he steered his cart toward the abortion ORs. “So they figured out the trick with the cart,” he thought, “fine I planned for that – that’s what windows are for, after all.” He moved past several ORs and came to the sixth. Only the first and the sixth had windows. He went in and closed the door carefully behind him. Then he wheeled the trolley over to the window. Standing on top of the cart, he nimbly hauled himself up to the window ledge. He slipped on his rock-climbing shoes and with the rosin pouch at his side he started up the outside wall toward the roof. The crumbling masonry gave out beneath his feet twice but his hand strength was considerable; each time he dangled briefly then pulled himself up to another foothold.

On the roof he unearthed the cage with its gruesome contents from a pile of discarded shingle tiles and hooked it on his back. Going down was more complicated but no problem for a world-class rock climber like Angel Michael.

He put the cage down on the ground to the side of the window ledge and slid back into the surgery, standing on the cart. Then he heard the door open. He jumped down, grabbed a rag, and started cleaning the stainless steel surgical table. Four soldiers ran in with arms drawn. Angel Michael stood back and held up his hands. One of the soldiers barked out, “Turn around and put your hands up against the wall.”

As Angel Michael turned he realized that the small window high up the wall was open! But the soldiers were so busy searching him that they never looked up. When they were done they shooed him out of the room with the instruction, “Go clean somewhere else.”

Fong paced back and forth in the rear of the old theatre. Onstage technicians hung, dropped, then re-hung lights. Chinese theatre technicians were not theatre specialists. They were workmen – in this case, electricians – seconded to work on productions in the final days before opening. It was hardly an ideal situation.

Fong had already given the stage manager a note to deliver to Tuan Li. He was anxious to apologize. Insulting Tuan Li had been like insulting his dead wife, Fu Tsong. But just as he took a seat a female voice called his name. He turned. It was not Tuan Li. It was Lily.

And she was furious.

Angel Michael moved away from the surgeries and dragged his cart up the stairs. He didn’t know this part of the hospital but he needed to find a way out to the courtyard to retrieve the cage and RDX explosive he’d left there. He tried the first two offices but they were locked. He reached for the knob on the third door, to the office right above the first OR, and the handle turned. He shut the door behind him and turned on the light. To his surprise this was not a single office but a warren of small labs. With a shock he realized that these were police forensic labs.

Then he saw the photo on the main desk. He’d seen the woman before – and the man – outside the hospital – speaking English. She had been the one who had the antique fresco sent to the hospital that had interrupted his first attempt to plant his bomb at the Hua Shan Hospital. She was the one who upset his schedule so that the American newspapers were now claiming that there had been no second blast – that it was an industrial accident. This woman had cast doubt on his entire enterprise.

He picked up the photo. The two adults were huddled around a small creature – a baby. He pocketed the photo then hunted for an address. It didn’t take him long to find it. To his delight it was a simple walk away – to the Shanghai Theatre Academy. Mani had said “a believer must fight those who would keep the light from the world.”

And as Angel Michael made his way to the theatre academy that was precisely what he was planning to do.

Fong’s cell phone rang as he and Lily entered their apartment. Lily looked at him – well not really looked, no, dared would be a more accurate description. She dared him to answer his cell phone. So he didn’t. It continued to ring. Xiao Ming began to cry.

“Xiao Ming’s crying,” Fong said.

“I’m not deaf, Fong,” snapped Lily and folded her arms across her chest. Fong’s cell phone stopped ringing. There was a moment where the only sound in the room was Xiao Ming’s sobbing. Fong looked at the fresco on the wall beside the window. The Western man seemed to radiate light and serenity. “We could use a bit of both of those in here, now,” he thought. He reached over and turned on the overhead light.

“Turn that off.”

He did.

“What are you smiling at, Fong. There’s nothing funny here.”

Xiao Ming’s crying became more emphatic. Fong’s cell phone rang again. “Lily, can this wait?”

“For what?”

“A better time. A time when . . .”

“When you can think of a good explanation for your behaviour? No. I don’t think this can wait. And turn off that cell phone.”

He did – mid-ring. Xiao Ming stopped crying instantly. The silence in the apartment was thick with possibilities. Lily bit her lip and turned away from Fong. Finally he said, “I don’t deserve you.”

“No. You don’t.”

A long silence.

“Well, at least we agree on that.”

“This is not funny, Fong. Not funny. We are married. You are married to me. We have a baby. Fu Tsong is dead. I never asked you how or why she died. But she is dead. She must not come between us now.” Suddenly she was crying. Through her tears she barked out, “I can’t compete with a famous actress. Especially a famous dead actress.” Then she stomped her foot and screamed, “Not fair. This is not fair.”

Instantly, Xiao Ming began to wail. Fong’s cell phone didn’t ring because its ringer was turned off but he felt it vibrate in his pocket.

“Lily, listen to me. Lily.”

“I’m listening.”

“I do things. They sometimes hurt people. I don’t mean to hurt people but sometimes I do.”

“What things do you do that hurt people? Why do you hurt people? Why do you hurt me? Why were you in that theatre just now? What is happening between us?”

He took a deep breath. He felt as if he were in the middle of a swinging bridge over a vast gorge. He and Lily were somehow there together and he had set alight the rope cables on either end. The bridge was swinging and he had no idea who, if anyone, would make it back alive.

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

He took another deep breath. “I have always been alone Lily. With people, but alone. Fu Tsong helped me with that but only a little.”

“And me? Do I help you with that? I’d prefer that you don’t say her name in our home again, Fong.”

That stunned him. “She was part of me.”

“But not part of me or of us, Fong. You and me and Xiao Ming. Not part of us.” She leaned against the wall.

“Okay.”

“So answer the question.”

Fong sensed that the rope cable on their swinging bridge was beginning to fray, “Do you help? That question?”

“That question, Fong.”

The bridge began to rock violently, “No, I’m sorry but you don’t help with that, Lily.”

It was as if the cable snapped. Lily gave way and slid down the wall she was leaning against so that she was on the floor with her knees up by her shoulders. She began to cry. Xiao Ming joined in.

Another cable snapped. Fong plummeted toward the roiling water of the gorge beneath.

Fong went into their bedroom and picked up Xiao Ming. When he came back into the living room, Lily was on her feet drying her tears. Without saying a word she took Xiao Ming from his arms and headed toward the door.

As she reached for the door handle Fong knew he should ask, “Where are you going?” but he didn’t. When she threw open the door both of them were surprised to see Captain Chen.

“Sorry. Am I interrupting something, Miss Lily?”

“Lily, not Miss Lily and no you are not, Captain Chen. Xiao Ming and I were just on our way to my mother’s place. We thought we’d spend some time there. Perhaps a decade or two.” She pushed past Captain Chen who looked in at Fong. “Sorry, sir, but you didn’t answer your cell phone.”

Fong looked at the young man. “Have you found something?”

“About the cage, yes. I think I found who made them.”

As Fong and Chen raced out they passed right by a beautiful young Chinese man – a man whose photograph they had drawn from a VHS tape – Angel Michael. The man watched Fong and Captain Chen go and then turned in the other direction and followed Lily and Xiao Ming. Mani was clearly guiding him now. Mani had divided the family for him. A plan was coming into clear focus. The pathway to return the light was opening before him.

The ancient man sat waiting for Fong to speak. If, as Chen suspected, he had learned his metallurgy during the Great Leap Forward the man could well be in his eighties. Fong noted the man’s fingers. Long. Tapered. Supple. “What was it with artists and beautiful hands?” Fong wondered.

Fong sat opposite the man. He identified himself and began to explain why he was there.

The man stopped him. “Your companion, Captain Chen, has already explained the circumstances of your visit.”

There was a sharpness in the man’s voice and a confidence – as if he’d been interrogated many times before.

Fong thought he knew why. “Did you have a hard time of it during the Cultural Revolution?”

“I am an artist. The Red Guards hated artists.”

Simple. Straightforward. Clearly true.

“But why?” Fong found himself asking.

“We can see the beauty. They cannot.”

Again simple. Again true.

“Do you know the use your cages have been put to?”

The man nodded, his face neutral.

“Who bought the cages?”

“A man.”

“Which man?”

“He was very careful when we met. He contacted me and had me meet him at a restaurant in the Pudong.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know its name but it was set up like an American restaurant, a diner, I believe they are called. I was instructed to sit in the farthest booth from the door and face the back of the restaurant. He sat in the booth just forward of me and ordered me not to look back at him. My eyes are not very good. I’m old. I don’t see well at night and the lights in that place were turned down very low. He explained what he wanted and handed me plans.”

“How many times did you meet him?”

“Just that once.”

“How did he pick up the cages?”

“I left them for him in a locker at the North Train Station. He’d given me the key.”

“Was he old, young?” Fong reined in his growing frustration and continued, “Please think, we need your help.”

The old man digested that and pulled himself up to his full height. He spoke softly. “It was hard for me to tell.”

Chen spread out the three photos on the table. “One of these men, perhaps, Grandpa?”

The old artist looked at the three photographs. He put aside the two middle-aged men and stared at the young man with the briefcase. Then he opened a desk drawer and drew out a magnifying glass. He put it close to the photograph. Fong saw that he was looking at the man’s hands. Of course, the man had handed over the plans. The old man would have seen the hands!

The old artist began to nod and held the pictures.

Fong stared at the photograph. The image there was so young. So clear. So free of doubt. So . . . luminous. Without looking at the old artist Fong said, “Him.”

The old artist nodded.

“Do you think he saw the beauty, sir?” Chen asked the cage maker.

The old man thought about that for a moment then said, “No. But I believe he saw something else.”

“What?” asked Fong.

“Something . . .” his voice faltered. Then he tried again, “Something, somehow, entirely different, foreign.”

Fong thought about that for a moment but could make no sense of it. He took the photo and strode toward the door. With his hand on the doorknob he stopped and turned back to the older man. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Make the cages for him. Surely you knew there was something odd about his request.”

“Something odd?” the old man murmured as a small smile creased his face. “Yes, Detective, I guess there was something odd in his request. There was also two thousand American dollars. Enough to buy me all the materials I will need till my passing.” Then he abruptly spat on the ground and his voice turned hard, “I did nothing illegal. What I made harmed no one. This is not the Cultural Revolution. You are not Red Guards. Now go away.”

“How many cages did you make for him?” Chen asked.

“Four,” the man replied.

“Has he picked them all up?” Chen asked.

“Days ago.”

Fong strode back to the table. “This man covers his tracks. He killed the nurse who helped him. He’ll kill you too.”

“Only if he finds me, Detective.”

“We found you.”

“No. Your ugly friend found me. How did you manage that, Captain Chen?”

“People tell me things they often will not tell others.”

“Ah,” the man smiled. “An advantage of a modest appearance.” Then he quoted, “We are all granted a boon, although sometimes that specialness is hard, at first, to see.”