White Tiger

CHAPTER 8

Shanghai, People’s Republic of China

There were advantages to owning a multinational corporation that dealt in advanced electronics, chief among which was the near guarantee of totally secure communications. Somewhere above the world a satellite owned wholly by Lin Industries looked down upon them and beamed encoded signals from continent to continent. New compression techniques meant that delay was almost non-existent and both parties could speak in real time without any irritating pauses. Sound quality was also enhanced, so that every nuance of tone and emotion came through clearly. They might as well be sitting in the same room, Chen Gui thought, as Lin Yubo’s voice lashed him from 6,000 miles away, and rightly so, considering what might easily have gone wrong and how much they could have lost in Japan, in terms of both wealth and face.

The tirade continued for nearly two minutes. Chen Gui feared his boss would faint because of lack of oxygen to the brain, but he went on without pause and apparently without the need to draw breath.

“-And that nephew of yours,” Lin Yubo said. “How much of this unnecessary confrontation with the Fujianese was his doing?”

Chen Gui resisted the temptation to blame it all on Chen Song. That might possibly lead to unfortunate and fatal repercussions. Chen Gui didn’t particularly like Chen Song’s mother, but she had a tongue that could cut through silk and a vindictive streak that was to be feared. She would never give him a moment’s peace if anything were to happen to her beloved son. Even though, if there was anyone on the Asian continent who deserved to suddenly disappear without trace, it was the incompetent wretch Chen Song whose foolishness had almost cost Chen Gui his reputation, his position, and his life.

“Many factors contributed to the situation, Lin Yubo,” Chen Gui said, pushing the temptation aside. “Some were beyond our control. Of course our people in Tokyo should have assessed what was happening, and reported this so we had more time to prepare an appropriate response. And the yakuza, aiyah. So much distrust there. They gave us no warning, even though they must have known something was amiss.” He waited for his boss to comment but the speakerphone was as silent as a tiger stalking its prey. Chen Gui wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and said, “Thankfully the matter has been resolved with only minimal loss. I was able to take steps to avoid the bumbling Fujianese peasants, and also inflict irreparable damage upon their Tokyo organization.”

Lin Yubo said, “What are you talking about?”

Chen Gui savored the moment. “Our limited resources in Tokyo had already been decimated by the time I arrived. While my nephew organized a retaliatory strike to distract and delay the Fujianese, I engaged the services of a professional. An outsider, who has no connection with us and cannot be traced.”

“You know my feelings concerning mercenaries.” Lin Yubo’s disapproving tone made Chen Gui imagine an executioner stepping up to a wooden chopping block, an ax gleaming in his hands.

“I have used this man before, Lin Yubo, and knew he could be trusted. Also, he was available immediately. He lives in Tokyo but is above suspicion. Neither the police nor the intelligence services have any interest in him, his cover is entirely legitimate. While the Fujianese foundered like fish out of water, he spirited us safely away from Japan. Nothing was left to chance. Then he initiated the second half of my plan, an assault against the Fujianese boss and his contingent. I have people in Tokyo now, retaking what was lost and reestablishing our trade links with yakuza. They are impressed by the way we handled ourselves. As you would expect of the Japanese they stood back and waited to see which side was stronger. Now they know. We have gained enormous face.”

“What if the Fujianese had also hired mercenaries? It would have been all-out war on the streets of Tokyo. The police would have closed the city down. No one would have profited from such madness.”

“I believe the Bai Hu would have triumphed regardless of the number of guns arrayed against him.”

“Bai Hu? White Tiger. That is his name? Absurd.”

“Merely a nickname, Lin Yubo. His methods are direct and swift. I engaged him to rid us of the tiresome leader of the Fujianese, who believed he could take over our trade with yakuza, and by nightfall the nuisance was no more. He never misses and he never fails.” Chen Gui basked in his own brilliance and wished Chen Song were here with him to hear Lin Yubo’s congratulations.

“One man did this? One man returned the Tokyo territory to you?”

“Yes, Lin Yubo. As I said, he is extremely competent, and resourceful. This is why I retained him in the first place.”

Chen Gui expected some sort of congratulation-was even thanks too much to hope for? — but Lin Yubo denied him even that small honor. “This White Tiger interests me. I may have need of his services. See that he is dispatched to San Francisco immediately. Make whatever financial arrangements are necessary. Inform me when he is on the plane.”

Chen Gui stared at the speakerphone. Several seconds passed before he realized that the click he’d heard was the sound of his boss hanging up.

He revised what had been said but could find no fault with his report, which gave him rightful credit in resolving what could have been a major setback. Did Lin Yubo not realize what they would have lost if the Fujianese had been allowed to triumph? More than just face. But now, with a startlingly rude show of abruptness, Lin Yubo had dismissed Chen Gui’s resourcefulness. Had he not ensured their position within Japan remained secure into the foreseeable future? And where was Lin Yubo while all this was happening? Concentrating on his business interests in San Francisco, in the United States. As if what went on in Asia was of secondary importance.

He made certain that the phone was switched off before he filled his lungs with air and bellowed, “Chen Song!”

The double doors opened almost instantly, proof that his nephew had been listening in, probably with his ear pressed against the lacquered wood. If not for the fact his private telephone was not linked to the internal extensions, Chen Gui was sure that Chen Song would have been hunched behind a pot plant in the hall, the telephone receiver cradled to his ear and his handkerchief over the mouthpiece, like some henchman flunkey in an old Charlie Chan film. Come to think of it, that was exactly what Chen Song was, a henchman flunkey. He would never amount to anything else. Any promise he might have shown before had been destroyed by his lamentable performance in Japan.

“Uncle. What did he say? Did you mention-?”

Chen Gui’s stern expression gave Chen Song pause.

“Lin Yubo’s rage was boundless. He demanded to know who was responsible. Fortunately for all of us I was able to placate him, by assuring him that our business with yakuza will continue uninterrupted. It helped that we gained face by wiping out the Fujianese.”

“We didn’t wipe them out. The foreigner did.”

Chen Gui didn’t like his nephew’s sour expression, which indicated ongoing disapproval of his decision. No matter. A henchman flunkey’s opinion was of no value. Chen Gui said, “Lin Yubo accepted my explanation that employing an outsider was, in this case, necessary. Now. What precautions have you taken to ensure my safety?”

Chen Song looked confused for a moment, as his father often did when she was asked a complex question. “Uncle, I have arranged for additional guards on the gates. More patrol the grounds. Just let the Fujianese try to reach you! They won’t get past my men. We’ll slaughter them like the dogs they are.” He patted his jacket underneath the left armpit, indicating the weapon he carried there. Chen Gui supposed it was necessary, although he admitted to himself that he didn’t much like the idea of Chen Song having a gun in his presence, especially when they were alone. Perhaps it was the way Chen Song had behaved when they were in the hotel in Dalian, awaiting the arrival of Lin Feng and Boss Tao. Chen Gui had picked up some unnerving vibrations from his nephew. Instead of becoming subdued when Chen Gui had berated him, Chen Song had become increasingly angry, though he’d attempted to hide this. And now, his reference to his men displeased Chen Gui even more. Who was boss here, Chen Gui or his nephew?

He said, “What if the Fujianese wise up and decide to hire the Bai Hu? Do you think your men could stop him from reaching me?” He enjoyed the effect these words had on his nephew.

“Do you want me to send word to Japan to have him killed, uncle? Is that what you are saying?” Chen Song asked eagerly.

Chen Gui shook his head. “Absolutely not. We’ve lost enough people already. But heed my warning, Chen Song. If an attack comes, it may not come in the form of guns and bullets. There are other night tigers that possess the gweizi’s skills. Perhaps it would be prudent to engage the services of such men, in addition to your hired guns.”

“I’ll look into it immediately, uncle,” Chen Song said, but Chen Gui noticed a subtle movement at the corner of his nephew’s lips, the beginning of a smile.

“Is something amusing you?” he demanded.

“No, uncle.”

Realization struck Chen Gui. He knew all about his nephew’s lifestyle. Chen Song liked living the high life. His enjoyments centered around fast cars and fast women, to use the Western vernacular. And, so Chen Gui had been informed, other things best not discussed at the dinner table, or anywhere else for that matter. He thought of his favorite film star, Rock Hudson. Chen Gui possessed several copies of Ice Station Zebra, including the recently released digitally remastered DVD, which he played at least once a month. He was eternally fascinated by the multi-layered relationships between the principals, with the indecently handsome Hudson shedding his light romantic comedy persona to convincingly play the veteran submarine captain dedicated to preserving the lives of his crew in treacherous waters, while also having to deal with spies and traitors and the eternal threat of Mother Russia. Chen Gui saw himself in an almost identical role. And yet, behind Hudson’s all-American male facade was the secret self whose sexual preferences remained unknown almost to the time of his sad death.

Before Chen Gui stood his nephew Chen Song, a handsome lady-killer vain enough to literally carve notches in his bed posts to declare the number of women he’d brought back to his luxurious apartment and used for sex. But Chen Gui knew that many of these notches signified sexual liaisons with young men, something Chen Song had taken very great care to hide from him. Seeing Chen Song’s smile made Chen Gui realize that “night tigers” probably meant something else entirely to Chen Song, who found amusement in the term.

Imbecile. Time for him to learn.

“Meet me outside in ten minutes,” Chen Gui found himself saying. “Bring four of your best men with you.”

“Are we going somewhere, uncle?”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Your best men. You understand?”

“Yes, uncle. As you wish.” Such a patronizing tone!

Chen Song departed and Chen Gui looked up his telephone index, searching for a number he hadn’t called in years. He half-expected his call to go unanswered; it was possible the man was dead by now. He had been in his late seventies when he and Chen Gui last conversed. His brother was only two years younger.

To his surprise the phone was picked up on the first ring and the familiar voice said, “What do you want?” in Mandarin, the tone impatient and rude.

“It is Chen Gui.”

“You honor us.”

“Is your brother still the man I knew?”

“Hah. Even better. Please wait, Chen Gui.” A hand covered the phone mouthpiece and voices murmured. Then the man, whose name was Pak, said, “My brother sends his regards, and asks what you wish of him?”

Chen Gui told him, and Pak conveyed the request to his brother. They easily reached an agreement. The task, after all, was simple enough. And Pak’s brother would not even have to leave their house, which was in Shanghai. Easy money.

He hung up and made a second telephone call. He told the man who answered what he wanted and how soon, and received assurance it would be done.

Minutes later Chen Gui met Chen Song downstairs in the courtyard. Two cars sat waiting, fumes spewing from their exhausts. Four young men wearing cheap suits and long hair waited also. They radiated arrogance. There was no respect in their eyes when they looked at Chen Gui; just the opposite, in fact. Chen Gui wondered what Chen Song had told them. Did they even know that Chen Song worked for Chen Gui? Or did they think his nephew was Boss Chen, and Chen Gui some ancient relative allowed to live in the house?

“These are your best men?”

Their chests swelled with self-importance and they thrust their jaws out or narrowed their eyes, trying to look tough, just like in the movies. One smoked a cigarette which dangled from lips that were frozen in a cynical half-grin, an expression that obviously attracted wanton whores by the wagon-load.

“The very best, uncle.”

Chen Song opened the rear door of the first car and for a moment Chen Gui thought he was about to climb in-but then he seemed to remember his manners and instead held the door wide for Chen Gui.

They settled themselves in the back seat and Chen Gui gave the driver the address. Chen Song looked at him curiously; it lay in one of Shanghai’s oldest quarters, steeped in history which upstarts like Chen Song and his cocky young guns knew nothing of. He watched the man in the front passenger seat play with his gun, removing and inserting the magazine again and again as if it were a toy. He spoke to the driver in gutter dialect, telling him he hoped he got the chance to use his weapon. The driver opined that the Fujianese didn’t have the balls to try anything. Chen Gui, who knew otherwise, kept his silence. Chen Song turned and looked out the rear window every thirty seconds, as if unsure whether the second car was still following them. Chen Gui wondered if the driver of the tailing car suffered from an eye impairment that might cause him to lose sight of them and accidentally wander up the wrong street.

The streets became narrower, the houses more traditional. Cobblestones made a roaring noise underneath their tires. The driver slowed and the noise died down until Chen Gui could hear himself think again. When the driver hesitated at a street junction, Chen Gui directed him to go straight ahead. He marveled that he still remembered the way after so long.

It was a moonless night, and Lin Yubo had been with him. So were Boss Hong and Boss Sun. Nominally business partners, technically rivals, they had worked together for almost a decade, abiding by the terms of a truce hammered out by the previous leaders of the Green, Red and White Dragon Tongs. They’d all benefited from the truce, no denying that, but some recent territory disputes had led to friction and so Lin Yubo had suggested they meet at a neutral location to agree who owned which streets. It would be a simple matter of give and take, he’d assured them; in the end no one would leave the meeting unhappy. Which was true.

“There,” he said, pointing at a red-tiled house surrounded by a high wall. The gates swung open as the two cars approached, and swung shut again as soon as they were inside. As the cars rolled to a stop on the oval courtyard’s dark flagstones Chen Gui saw Pak waiting at the front door, small and wiry, his arms folded inside the sleeves of his black silk jacket.

“Who’s that?” Chen Song asked, leaning forward to peer through the window.

“An old acquaintance,” Chen Gui said. He reached for the door handle. Chen Song took the hint, got out his side and hurried round to open Chen Gui’s door.

Chen Gui went up the steps and greeted Pak. He motioned for Chen Song to join them. The four gunmen waited by the cars in their rumpled suits, looking around but finding nothing to impress them. The same gunman checked and rechecked his magazine, ramming it in with the heel of his hand, heedless of the fact he might damage the weapon.

“Stand very still,” Chen Gui told Chen Song. “No matter what happens, make no move to interfere.”

“Uncle?” Chen Song said.

“Watch, and learn.”

A shadow flew over the roof of the house and landed in the courtyard without a sound behind He Who Constantly Reloaded His Weapon. The shadow moved into the gunman, who screamed as both his arms were hideously twisted and quite plainly broken, his weapon and its magazine spinning away in opposite directions. The scream cut off suddenly as vertebrae were expertly dislocated; the gunman flopped like a sack of rice. The other three men drew their guns but not one shot was fired as the shadow moved among them, making examples of them as Chen Gui had requested. Chen Gui felt nothing for these men. They were street trash who owed him no loyalty and would gladly have killed him if someone came along and offered them more money than Chen Song had. Or, perhaps, if Chen Song gave the order. Did his nephew possess such aspirations? Knowing his mother as Chen Gui did, and remembering his idiot father, that seemed entirely possible.

Chen Song, stupid as ever, ignored Chen Gui’s warning and reached inside his jacket, but Pak tapped two fingers against Chen Song’s wrist, stopping him. The last of the gunmen sprawled face down in the courtyard below, quite dead. Pak’s brother, clad in a suit, hood and mask that exactly matched the dark of the flagstones, came to a stop at last and stood facing the house. Chen Gui bowed to him. The bow was returned.

“I can’t move my arm!” Chen Song said, panic in his voice. He only distracted Chen Gui for a second but in that second the shadow was suddenly gone, as quickly as it had appeared, and leaving no trace of its passage or whereabouts. Had it ever been there? Four broken bodies leaking blood into the courtyard suggested it had.

Chen Song’s expression betrayed his pain and his astonishment at his inability to make his arm work. Pak tapped his wrist with two fingers again, and Chen Song had control of his limb once more. He cradled it to him as if it were a long-lost child.

Chen Gui slipped the envelope containing the agreed sum of money into Pak’s hand. It disappeared inside his sleeve and he retreated into the house, closing the door behind him, their transaction complete.

A light breeze blew across the courtyard, stirring the leaves. Chen Gui returned to the first car. Chen Song, quite dazed, staggered down the steps and joined him. He bent to examined one of the corpses, stepped over to another, checked a third. Chen Gui could have told him he was wasting his time.

“Uncle, what…?”

“We’re leaving. You’re driving.”

Chen Song opened the door for Chen Gui, moving like a robot. Chen Gui climbed into the passenger seat. Chen Song took up position behind the wheel, still wearing a dazed look. Chen Gui slapped him hard. Chen Song shook his head and came out of his trance.

“Start the engine. Take us home.”

Chen Song started the engine. The gates swung open again to permit them to leave, and swung shut behind them as soon as they reached the street, blocking their view. The bodies, of course, would be disposed of forthwith. Just like the bodies of Boss Hong and Boss Sun had vanished that fateful night years ago when Lin Yubo brought them to this same house to meet Pak’s brother, the night tiger, who slew them and their helpless bodyguards without mercy, clearing the way for Lin Yubo to command the united Shanghai Dragon Tongs. They had not left the meeting unhappy, as Lin Yubo promised.

They negotiated the light traffic in silence. When they were very nearly back where they started, at Chen Gui’s house, Chen Song said, “Uncle. I think we are being followed.”

Chen Gui looked in his side mirror. A black sedan cruised behind them. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Just keep on driving.”

“They could be Fujianese! We have no protection!”

Chen Gui took pleasure in saying, “They are our protection.” He watched for a reaction. Chen Song’s expression changed from open-mouthed surprise to blank-faced puzzlement as he tried to deduce what was going on. And finally, frowning realization.

“Why did you have them killed, uncle?” he asked.

“To demonstrate the power of the night tigers! The name is not to be mocked under any circumstances. You understand?” Chen Song nodded. Chen Gui opened a pack of American cigarettes, and regretted not having sufficient time to purchase his maximum duty free allowance before they fled Japan. He lit one using the car’s lighter. “The night tiger you saw is the older brother of he who met us at the door,” he continued. “You may guess his age. Yet he went through your best men like a knife through rice paper. Tell me, did any of them stand a chance against him? Huh?” Chen Song stared straight ahead, the muscles of his jaw working. “You already know the answer. Good. The night tiger and his brother have trained together since childhood. Consider how easily the brother might have killed you for your stupidity. Out of respect for me he allowed you to live. And for no other reason!” Chen Song flinched, obviously having thoughts of his own mortality, which pleased Chen Gui further. “Tell me, Chen Song. Did I do the right thing in not leaving you back there?”

Chen Song swallowed loud enough for him to hear. “Uncle, you have my full loyalty and devotion. You know this. All I was thinking about was your safety. Nothing else.”

“Just keep driving,” Chen Gui said. “And think of what you have learned today. This is not a movie! Death is not heroic. It comes swiftly and without warning. There is no time for posturing or strutting.”

“No, uncle.”

Sentries opened the compound doors and they rolled inside. The black sedan followed them in. Chen Song climbed out and hurried to open Chen Gui’s door. Ignoring him, Chen Gui climbed out, flicked his half-smoked cigarette away and greeted his cousin, Yuan Lau, who had answered his call and brought his soldiers with him, older men, gray haired men, hardened men who had proved their loyalty to the family during the worst of times, before Lin Yubo brought peace and order to Shanghai.

Chen Gui took Yuan Lau inside and explained the situation. Chen Song followed them at a respectful distance and kept his silence. Yuan Lau accepted his instructions as if he had never left Chen Gui’s side all these years, and rejoined his men to pass on the orders. Chen Gui felt safer already.

In the study, Chen Song closed the door and said, “What can I do to regain your favor, uncle?”

“I’ll think of something,” Chen Gui told him. “Now leave me, I have a phone call to make.” He sighed. “A very expensive phone call.” Lin Yubo hadn’t offered to pay Bai Hu’s expenses and fee; he had only ordered Chen Gui to make whatever financial arrangements were necessary to send the gweizi to the United States.

He waved Chen Song outside. Chen Song opened the door, and stepped back in surprise as one of Yuan Lau’s men stepped into the study and moved to stand by the door, his hands clasped in front of him. He ignored Chen Song completely. Chen Song sucked in a deep breath and Chen Gui thought he was going to say something, but instead he simply left the room, closing the door behind him. The man by the door stared straight ahead, a human statue. Chen Gui approved.

He found the Bai Hu’s telephone number in his index and dialed. It was picked up on the fifth ring and the gweizi said something Chen Gui didn’t understand, a string of fast Japanese words.

Chen Gui lit another cigarette and shook out the match. “I hope I have not disturbed you,” he said.

“I thought we had an agreement,” the Bai Hu said, switching effortlessly to Mandarin. His tone oozed disapproval. “No direct calls.”

“How would you like to earn a half a million dollars?” Chen Gui said. “It would involve your traveling to the United States. To San Francisco. Call it a special job. What do you say?”

He thought he might have to bargain further and up the price, but the answer came sooner and much easier than he had expected.