White Tiger

CHAPTER 6

Tiburon, Marin County, California

“Lin Yubo, the police are here.” His manservant stood by the study door, waiting, and quite motionless. Han’s almost deathly stillness had been known to unnerve some of the younger servants. James Lin-when in the U.S., he took on his American persona, including a Westernized name-closed his laptop screen lid, allowing the machine to hibernate automatically. He was about to ask Han what police? when his desk telephone rang. The caller display screen told him it was his daughter-in-law. He experienced a brief spark of irritation. What did she want now? To complain once again that her fickle husband was abusing her, if not physically then by sinking his engorged yang into the steaming hot ying of every whore on the Western seaboard? She should have learned to accept it long ago. Didn’t she have a luxurious home that was the envy of her circle of ma jiang-playing wives and elder mothers? Didn’t she have everything that money could buy, except for a monogamous husband? Many wives would gladly trade their right arms to be in her position and situation. Let it ring, he decided, taking his hand away from the receiver. She should also learn that he was not at her beck and call. He’d talk to her later, at a more relaxing hour of the late evening, by which time, with luck, his younger son-no, his only son now-would have returned to the marital home and consoled his distraught wife.

“If it’s another ticket, take care of it,” he told Han, rubbing his fingers together to signify a small bribe.

“They insist upon speaking with you personally, Lin Yubo. A gweizi and a lost soul. They are detectives, not uniformed traffic policemen.” Han paused, then added, “They are San Francisco policemen.”

Lin almost smiled. A “lost soul” was Han’s nickname for any Chinese who had joined the police force. It was absolutely not a compliment. Han believed that after opium addicts, lost souls were the lowest form of life on the planet, preying upon their own kind. Lin was inclined to agree with him although he knew they also had their uses, as informants and occasionally as agents.

But Lin lived in Tiburon, across the Golden Gate Bridge from the city of San Francisco. What brought city police detectives to his residence?

The phone stopped ringing. Did his daughter-in-law also have his cell phone number? Lin hoped not. “Do you know them?” he asked, dismissing Wu Qing from his thoughts for the moment.

“The gweizi’s name is Ryker. Six months ago he tried to embarrass Lin Dan,” Han said. “The unfortunate incident with the gweizi opium whore.” Han’s encyclopedic memory for faces and events easily matched Lin’s own. Lin remembered the enormous bribe that had changed hands to ensure that all charges against Lin Dan were dropped and the actress who had died after injecting poorly cut heroin was forgotten about. Lin had bought her family’s silence through an agent posing as an insurance claims officer, who had warned that any attempt to publicize the incident would result in court action and a reclaiming of the “insurance settlement.” Only one of Shannon Young’s cousins, perhaps more suspicious than the rest, certainly less intelligent, had refused to keep silent and threatened to take the matter further. What remained of the cousin lay at the bottom of San Francisco Bay, weighed down by iron chains. Lin didn’t even have to give the order; Alexsey had known what must be done to protect the family name.

“Since then he has not intruded into our sphere,” Han went on. “The lost soul is Fong Chee Wei. Overtures were made but rejected some time ago. His family owns a restaurant in Chinatown. He is their only son.”

Their only son. Lin closed his eyes, focusing on that phrase. He drew air deep into his lungs, held it for a count of five, then released in a slow sigh. His tension levels dropped; his sadness at Lin Jong’s death remained. Lin Dan’s older and infinitely more capable brother had been gone a month now but every day Lin still expected him to call from Shanghai to discuss business matters, or even to walk in the door, paying his father a surprise visit.

Lin focused on the present. The past was too painful to contemplate. “I will see them in the conservatory,” he said. Han nodded and left the study. Lin tapped his fingernails on his desk, a calming rhythm. What did the S.F.P.D. want? Impossible that their visit could be in any way connected with Shanghai and Lin Jong. He closed his eyes again and prayed to the gods who watched over his ancestors that Lin Dan had not once again shamed himself with some white whore eager to prove her utter worthlessness by allowing strangers to fill her mouth, cunt and anus with their semen, and her veins with drugs.

He left his study and made his way to the conservatory, a place of peace, filled with exotic plants including the rare orchids whose cultivation were his private pleasure. There he checked temperature and humidity levels, and adjusted both fractionally even though he knew automatic sensors would have done the same in a short while, compensating for the ever-changing external daytime temperature.

Han stepped through the door that connected to the entrance via a short hallway that acted as an airlock to protect the precious flora. Two men followed him inside, the tall gweizi, Ryker, and the Chinese policeman, Fong, young and quick-witted, his clever eyes taking everything in. Han closed the door behind them and led the visitors into the middle of the room. They stood there for a moment, looking uncertain, until Lin stepped out from behind the curtain of fronds that had concealed him from their gaze. He enjoyed seeing their surprise.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I am James Lin. You told my manservant you wished to speak with me personally.”

The gweizi said, “Mr. Lin, I’m-” But Lin held up his hand, stopping him.

“I know who you are. Let’s stop wasting time. State your business, Detective Sergeant Ryker, and then leave. You are not welcome here.”

Ryker’s spark of anger, clumsily hidden, did not escape Lin’s notice. He stared at the American’s soft face, disliking it intensely. The eyes were all wrong, the nose too big and protruding. The corners of his lips bore deep creases as if damaged from being frozen in a cynical smile too long. Lin estimated his physical age to be in the late-thirties although he could easily pass for someone much older. Ryker said, “All right. Have it your own way. Has anyone spoken to you about events that took place last night at the Mandarin Oriental?”

Mention of the hotel made Lin think immediately of Lin Dan who thought nothing of hiring an entire suite to impress his “lady friends.” Once and only once Lin Dan had paid the bill using his corporate charge account. Lin had punished that outrageous impertinence by sending Lin Dan to India for three months to nominally assist in setting up an international call center for end customer technical support. To add insult to injury he made Lin Dan report his daily progress via the Indian general manager, which had resulted in enormous loss of face. The mistake had not been repeated.

But now Lin felt the first stirrings of uneasiness in his stomach. What was this gweizi trying to say? Han’s expression remained impassive but his eyes radiated concern. Lost Soul Fong made an art out of studying the surrounding flora. Lin might have expected Ryker, a Westerner and an American at that, to maintain embarrassing eye contact but he, too, seemed to find many things to interest him in the conservatory, allowing Lin a moment to deal with his fluttering emotions. He reined them in, brought them under tight control, and said, “What has happened to my son? Tell me.”

Ryker said, “Mr. Lin, your son, Lin Dan, was murdered last night.”

Perhaps it was because he’d recently had practice at receiving such news, but it didn’t seem to hurt as much. Or perhaps it was because Lin Dan had never been his favorite, which fact wounded Lin more grievously than his actual death. Both my sons are dead. Lin focused on this incredible thought and examined it from every possible angle. Of course, that was why Lin Dan’s wife had been trying to talk to him. The police must have gone to her first. That brought into question the matter of timing. If Ryker and Fong had visited his daughter-in-law to convey the news and, obviously, to study its effect upon her, and then came here directly, why had it taken her so long to call? Because she had entrusted them to break the news to Lin rather than undertake this arduous task herself. He knew he should view this as a weakness of character but he took into account the fact she had revised her position and found the strength to call him, for which he was grateful, even if he had made the mistake of not picking up the phone.

Both my sons are dead.

“Murdered, how?” he said, surprised his voice still worked. “And by whom?”

Ryker’s gaze held steady but his stance, his passive body language, suggested he was trying to be as compassionate and understanding as possible. Lin wanted to slap him. He neither wanted nor needed any sympathy from a gweizi and certainly not from a policeman. To Lin’s surprise Ryker’s eyes widened a fraction. So, the gweizi had sensed his mounting aggression. Perhaps he was more intelligent than he looked.

“Mr. Lin, maybe you should sit down. Is there anywhere we can-?”

“Tell me what I wish to know, detective sergeant, or I will pick up the phone and make a single call that will ruin your career.”

Ryker flinched. His compassion drained, to be replaced by cold anger; Lin could deal with that. “Your son was stabbed through the heart,” he said. “Before this, he was ritually dismembered. We believe he would probably have bled to death if not for the fatal stab wound.”

Lin forced his tongue, teeth and lips to form the word: “Dismembered?”

“We believe that the same person who stabbed your son through the heart also severed his penis.”

“What have you done to apprehend the person responsible for Lin Dan’s death?” Han said, causing them to look at him and thus giving Lin a precious moment in which to think. He centered his chi by breathing deeply while he assimilated this unexpected and staggering news. The Shanghai police were still investigating Lin Jong’s murder but were no closer to defining a suspect let alone making an arrest. The method of Lin Jong’s death had baffled them, and Lin too. He had jealous rivals and enemies aplenty but none, in his opinion, was responsible for Lin Jong’s bizarre execution. What message was it supposed to send? Lin knew all the traditional ways-had employed them himself on many occasions during his long and bloody climb to his present exalted position. Sometimes an entire conversation might be conveyed by the way a man died, and by how long it took him to die. Such dramas often forced both sides to stop and rethink their positions, and might lead to truce and peaceful settlement of differences or renegotiation of territory, rather than a long and costly war. But he’d encountered nothing quite like this before, not in the business sense. Which suggested the arrival of a new enemy, unfamiliar with the old ways but wishing to make a statement. Or so Lin had assumed until this pivotal moment, when layers of fog evaporated to reveal the truth. This was not some play for power on the streets of Shanghai, or punishment meted to Lin Jong for some offense he’d committed against a rival, knowingly or unknowingly. This was personal. This was aimed at James Lin, chairman of Lin Industries and head of the Lin clan.

Ryker said, “Forensic evidence is being examined. Hotel staff have been questioned. We’re anxious to speak to the woman who was with him last night. At the moment she’s our prime suspect.”

Han took a half step toward Ryker. Seventy and frail looking, he nonetheless projected an intimidating physical presence. “Who is she? What is her name?”

“If I knew, maybe I’d tell you.”

“If you know, you will tell us!”

Lost Soul Fong said, “How about giving us some space here, grandpa? Getting a little crowded.” He put his hands on his hips, casually opening his jacket to reveal his gun in a hip holster and his detective’s badge clipped to his belt, a less than subtle warning. Lin knew that Han could easily snatch them both before either policeman had a chance to react. Now that would conjure an interesting situation. Han came down off his toes, stepped back to his former position and gave an apologetic half-bow, acknowledging his unforgivable lapse of manners.

“Where is my son now?” Lin asked.

“The coroner has him,” Ryker said. “As soon as they complete their examination they’ll release his body to your family.” He opened his wallet, took out a card and was about to offer this to Lin-but instead turned and offered this to Han, who took it and inclined his head. “The number’s on there. I’d give them until mid-afternoon. Lin Dan will be given priority but he isn’t their only client. We talked to his wife before we came here.”

“Yes, I know. Thank you for that. And for your courtesy. Of course I will inform her when the body becomes available. If there is nothing else, detective sergeant, my manservant will show you out.”

Han gestured to the door, after you, but Ryker said, “Perhaps you’ll permit me to ask a couple of questions, Mr. Lin.”

“What questions?” Lin regretted not taking up the gweizi’s suggestion to go somewhere where he might sit down. There were no chairs in the conservatory. A muscle above his right knee had begun to twitch uncontrollably and the weakness was spreading.

“You’ll appreciate we don’t get many incidents like this. Oh, they appear from time to time. You may remember the Bobbitt case? Wife attacked her husband with a knife after he beat her. He survived, and surgeons were able to make him whole again once they found his piece. But that was Virginia. We’re a little more civilized here; at least I like to think so. That’s why I was wondering, what with your family coming from China, whether the method of his…execution…was something you recognized? I mean no insult and I apologize if I offend you. But you’ll appreciate we’re investigating a murder. Your answer might give us a significant clue.”

Lin shook his head. It took tremendous effort. “I am neither insulted nor offended, detective sergeant. China is a country of many facets. Not all are pleasing to the eye. But the answer is no. I have not encountered such a thing before.” He had no wish to discuss Lin Jong’s death with these strangers. Enough that he had to answer questions from the Shanghai police who were even more insufferable than their Western counterparts.

Lost Soul Fong said, “You ever hear of Lin Yuk-sang?”

“I don’t know that name,” Lin said, although he did know it.

“It’s a pretty famous incident. Happened in Hong Kong, 1986 or ‘87. Lin Yuk-sang’s wife cut off his penis with a pair of scissors when she found out about his mistress. She flushed it down the john. I guess you’re not related.”

“My family is from Shanghai, not Hong Kong,” Lin said, hating him.

“Sorry for bothering you, Mr. Lin,” Ryker said. “I hope you understand the necessity of our intrusion. Please accept our condolences.”

“Maybe Mr. Lin knows what the message means,” Lost Soul Fong said, stopping Ryker as he turned away. A look passed between them and Lin seized its meaning at once: the gweizi hadn’t wished to bring up the subject.

Han obliged by demanding, “What message? What have you not told us?”

Ryker’s shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly as he surrendered to the inevitable and said, “A message was left on the wall of Lin Dan’s suite at the hotel. It was written in Chinese.” He glanced at Lost Soul Fong.

“Bu zhan bu he,” Fong said immediately.

Lin let the words wash over him. They unlocked memories he’d never expected nor wanted to review again. Parts of his life that he’d put inside black lacquered boxes, then put inside other boxes, never meant to be reopened.

“I’m told it translates to ‘No war, no peace,’” Ryker said. “Do you recognize the phrase, Mr. Lin? Does it mean anything to you?”

“I wish it did,” Lin said. “Especially if it has any bearing upon my son’s death. But I’m afraid I have no idea what it signifies. None at all.”

He was afraid that something in his tone might betray him, but to his relief they accepted the lie without comment and allowed Han to escort them out. As soon as they were gone Lin lurched for the door. He only just made it back to his study where he collapsed into his chair gasping for breath. He squeezed the arm rests until his fingers hurt and the room stopped spinning.

Both my sons are dead.

He wanted to cry but could not. Tears were a luxury he’d given up some time ago, as one of the many prices he’d paid so his family could survive the horrors of the Cultural Revolution and China’s agonizing metamorphosis into a dominant world power, a process that was still ongoing. How many had died during this bloody evolution? The numbers were huge and without meaning. But Lin remembered every single person whose death he had precipitated. How could he possibly forget? The trick lay in isolating these memories. Consigning them to the black lacquer boxes. Pushing them so far back into the darkest recesses of his mind that their murmurings would never bother him again.

Until something entirely unforeseen rose up to strike him on the face and demand the boxes fly open to reveal their grisly contents.

Bu zhan bu he. Lin almost giggled. So absurd. How many years now? How many years? And still the words had returned to haunt him.

He opened his eyes and found Alexsey standing there, his massive hands clasped over the swell of stomach that some might easily mistake for fat but was in fact solid overdeveloped muscle, like the rest of his outsized weightlifter’s body.

“Lin Yubo, I offer my condolences on the death of your son.” Alexsey’s coarse Russian accent had benefited from his time in the United States. So had Lin’s business dealings, thanks to Alexsey’s connections with Russian Mafiya and his friends in the military, which had smoothed out certain problems with deliveries and production behind what was left of the Iron Curtain.

“Who was with my son last night?” Lin said.

“I believe he took the usual woman back to the hotel.”

“Did you have anyone watching him?”

Alexsey stared at the floor. “A misjudgment on my part, for which I apologize.”

Lin slapped the top of his desk. “Nonsense. You were not to know someone intended Lin Dan harm. Find the woman. Han knows her name. If she has not fled the city then she will be with her friends, in Chinatown. Call me when you have found her.”

“You believe she killed Lin Dan?”

Lin pondered that question for a moment. “If not then she may know who did. She was with him. The police do not yet know her identity. I wish to speak to her before they do.”

Alexsey nodded understanding. As turned to go Lin added, “She must not be harmed. If it turns out she had a hand in my son’s death, I’ll deal with her myself.” Alexsey left the study closing the door silently, leaving Lin alone with his grief.

But he was not unaware of the duties he still had to perform. He opened the lid of his laptop, typed his password and watched as the screen brightened, returning him to his unsaved e-mail. He read what he had already written, felt dissatisfaction with his poor choice of words, deleted the entire message, and started writing again from the beginning.