The Prince of Risk

53

Magnus Lee stood on the balcony of his private office, hands on his hips like a conquering field marshal, marveling at the Eiffel Tower. The original structure had been built more than a century earlier, yet its design remained contemporary and its engineering continued to astound. It was a masterpiece.

Lee looked down upon the Champ de Mars, the wide grass field that led from the Invalides to the Eiffel Tower. Apartments built in the Haussmann style ran for four city blocks on either side. The detail was exact, down to the mansard roofs blue with verdigris, shutters that actually closed, and molded cast iron railings on every balcony. Inside, the apartments boasted hardwood floors, Poggenpohl kitchens, and Sonichi express elevators that opened to the foyers.

Magnus Lee knew this because it was he who had built the apartments and the Eiffel Tower. Like all government officials, he had a second career, one dedicated to making as much money as humanly possible. His salary at the China Investment Corporation was the equivalent of $5,000 a year. His salary running a real estate development company ran to $5 million. Or rather, it had until recently.

Still, it was not his sudden drop in salary that troubled him. It was something else. Magnus Lee had not used his own money to fund his building projects. If he had, he would not be in such a bind. He had used money entrusted to him.

Lee had built other developments, too. The developments had names like St. Mark’s, Belgravia, and even St. Tropez. Like Paris, they resembled the architecture of their namesakes. Of late, however, the market for single-family homes and apartments had not been faring well. In fact, it had been in the shitter.

Lee returned to his desk and fell into his chair, contemplating his fate.

At that moment there was a commotion in the outer office. Miss May’s high voice could be heard uttering supplications. Lee’s door swung open, and a frail old man shuffled into his office. He was not wearing a Western business suit but traditional silk trousers and a high-collared jacket and soft shoes. He was bald and stooped, and his skin had the texture of rice paper.

“Elder Chen,” said Lee, catapulting to his feet. “As always, a great pleasure.”

“Do not get up on my account,” said the old man.

“Come in. Come in. Your presence brightens my day.”

Elder Chen, whose full name was Chen Ka-Ting and whose age Lee could only guess at, stopped on a dime. “Does it need brightening?” he asked sternly. Before Lee could respond, Chen broke into an avuncular grin. “It is enjoyable for a worthless old man to tease such a famous financial genius.”

Lee smiled, too. “You are too kind. I am certainly no genius.”

“Yes, yes,” said Elder Chen, patting Lee on the arm. “Why else would the wise men in Beijing allow you to invest the country’s funds? We were wise to elect you Big Mountain and entrust you with the society’s funds.”

Magnus Lee’s rise in finance was matched only by his ascendance in the Purple Dragon, Beijing’s most revered triad. Triads were secret societies founded in the last century to help support and protect communities from the tyrannies and injustices of government. They provided financing to local businessmen, helped ensure that police or petty government officials did not interfere with their activities, and engaged in other, less proper businesses, such as prostitution, drug trafficking, and extortion. In the end, a triad was a business, and like all businesses, it was required to earn a profit.

The head man in a triad was called Mountain Master. The member in charge of finances was Big Mountain.

Lee’s cheeks ached from smiling. The purpose of the visit was clear. No one had ever accused Elder Chen of being subtle. “Thank you, Elder Chen. May I offer you tea-or coffee, perhaps?”

“Coffee, yuck! Never! A Western calamity. Tea. Red Lip, if by chance you happen to have some in your cupboard. My liver is troubling me.”

“Of course.” Lee wrapped an arm around his visitor and guided him to a chair. “But first you must sit.”

The rumor was that Elder Chen was suffering from cancer and ate only two-turtle soup. When you looked at him, it was hard to determine whether he was healthy or ill. He weighed little more than 100 pounds and his walk was so unsteady that a child’s whisper might blow him over.

Lee called in Miss May and relayed the order for tea. Elder Chen insisted on taking her hand and stroking it for far too long, all the while complimenting her on her beauty. Miss May was a smart, tireless worker, but she possessed the face of a pug. Poor girl, thought Magnus Lee. It wasn’t two-turtle soup that kept the old devil alive. It was the mighty blue pill.

Miss May freed herself and returned with hot tea. The two men drank in silence. Abruptly, Elder Chen set down his cup and stood. “It is a lovely day. Let us walk.”

Lee glanced out the window. The sky was a dense cloud of putrid yellow, no trace of blue to be seen. Emissions from the region’s factories lay trapped beneath a strong inversion layer, blanketing the city with a noxious sulfur monoxide cloud. “A fine idea. It is always nice to get outside.”

The two men left the building and walked along the Champ de Mars. Elder Chen’s bodyguards followed ten steps behind.

“Your work is marvelous,” said Chen, waving an arm in admiration at the buildings on either side of them. “I feel like I really am in Paris.”

“You are. Paris, Beijing prefecture. I officially adopted the name. Buyers appreciate authenticity.” Lee stooped to pick a flower. “See? French tulips imported from Grasse, in the South of France.”

They walked in silence until they reached the base of the Eiffel Tower. Lee’s model was one-quarter the size of the original, approximately 100 feet tall. This morning the smog was so thick he was unable to see the French tricolor waving from the tower’s summit.

“Stunning,” said Chen.

“We even built a restaurant on the mezzanine level. Three stars. It is called the Jules Verne.”

“After the famous chef?” inquired Elder Chen.

“Ah,” said Magnus Lee, wagging a finger at the old man. “It is you who is clever, Elder Chen.”

“Ayee-yah,” said Elder Chen. “Has something died?” Chen gazed down upon the River Seine. The riverbed was dry except for a trickle of raw sewage snaking down its center. The smell provoked an immediate desire to vomit. Lee noticed that the bodyguards had put handkerchiefs to their noses.

“A problem with the water authority,” he explained. “A flaw in the local pumping station.”

Chen turned and started back toward the office. “It is all very impressive, Big Mountain. I am pleased. I’m certain that I may pass along news to the society that you have sold all the apartments.”

“Not yet.”

“Ninety percent?”

“Soon, Elder Chen.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Two percent?”

“Two units. A bit less than one percent.”

Elder Chen showed no reaction. “And the society’s investment?”

“It is safe, as you can see.”

Chen turned, his ugly face contorted with anger. “I see buildings with no occupants. Streets without automobiles. A river that smells like beetle dung. I see a city with no citizens. What do you see?”

“All will change when I get to Beijing and assume the vice premiership.”

“If you get to Beijing.”

“The leaders know my policies. They know I advocate for a more competitive yuan. That is why they have summoned me.”

“And those who wish to keep our currency strong?”

“They are capitalist puppets and will be exposed as such.”

“But the American influence is considerable. They wish us to buy their products and to develop a middle class. They have many allies in the party.”

“In due time we shall follow their example. But not now. Not when factories are closing and people are without work and food. Not when our banks are facing mountainous debts from unsold buildings. Not when people save their last pennies out of fear for the future.”

“You speak wisely, but-”

“As soon as we act, the economy will improve. Our exports will become cheaper. Our businesses will thrive. People will not be afraid to spend. Trust me, Elder Chen.”

“I trust you. You have always been like a son to me. Others I cannot vouch for. They are worried about the society’s money.”

“Silly.”

“One billion dollars is not silly.”

“In time we will have four times that amount. I have taken measures.”

Elder Chen had been a criminal for too long to miss the conspiracy in Lee’s words. “Oh?”

“Something will happen soon that will give our country all the power it needs to resist the Americans.”

Chen smiled a toothless smile. “May I inquire what?”

“Patience, Elder Chen. I can tell you one thing. When it does happen, you will not miss it. Nor will anyone in the world. Especially our American friends.”

“I will relay your message. In the meantime, may I tell them that you will at least be able to repay their investment in your company?”

“You may assure them that their money is safe.”

The men had reached Chen’s Rolls-Royce. A bodyguard held a door open. Miss May sat in the back seat, eyes wide. Lee could see that she was trembling. Elder Chen slid into the car with the ease of a man half his age and placed himself close to the young woman. He looked at Lee.

“One billion dollars, Vice Premier Lee. Shall I tell them Monday?”