“It took us two hours to get here from the Xian airport,” answered Lily.
Before she could question him further, Fong continued, “And there are lots of foreigners in Xian. No?”
“Yes, stupid foreigners like clay Chinese better than living ones,” the coroner commented, smirking.
“What about foreign press?” Fong asked.
“Got to be some there,” said Lily as she leaned in closer to Fong.
“So, whoever killed those foreigners on the boat and set them up as an object lesson would want the world outside of China to know what they did. Agreed? The dead were all foreigners, after all. Chinese wouldn’t care. This would have to be for foreign consumption.”
Heads nodded slowly. Carefully.
“And what would be the world’s reaction to this sort of thing?” Before anyone could reply, Fong answered his own question, “They’d freak. All their suspicions about us, their fears of us would rise to the surface.”
“And they’d pack their bags and head back to wherever they came from,” said the coroner.
“Taking all their money with them,” added Fong.
That settled in the air of the room like something hot and heavy.
“Not something the Triads would encourage,” said Lily.
“Not at all.”
Fong’s teeth clacked.
“So, whoever did the killings on that boat and killed Hesheng with the snake wants foreign money out of China?” asked the coroner.
“Whoever did the killings, Grandpa, or whoever in Beijing induced the killings to be done,” hissed Fong. His anger surprised the others. It crackled in the air.
“A rogue,” said the coroner in a sad voice.
“That makes sense to me,” said Fong.
“I’m not sure . . .” The coroner didn’t complete his thought. He didn’t need to. Everyone in the room understood. The coroner wasn’t sure that this was worth pursuing, that he wasn’t up to another meeting with a Beijing rogue.
“And the burn marks on the ship, Fong?” asked Lily.
They all realized that they were near something very dangerous.
When Fong opened his mouth, he spoke slowly. “Beijing wants to bring foreign money into China. That’s been the government’s party line since Deng Xao Ping.” Fong folded his arms and thought, “The order to burn that boat could have come from the highest levels in Beijing.”
“How does it work, Fong? What’s the sequence?” asked Lily guiding them away from the terror of the big picture and back to the actual events of a crime.
“Chen gets the report, Lily, about the ship . . .”
“Or he claims to get the report, Fong,” said the coroner.
Fong nodded. “Agreed. He reports back what he finds – what the rogue in Beijing did – or had done – the dead foreigners set up, awaiting an audience of journalists to spread the word around the world. Beijing has a problem. Seventeen dead foreigners. Influential foreigners. No way to hide it. But seventeen dead foreigners is better than seventeen dead mutilated, gutted, castrated and decapitated foreigners.”
“So Beijing tries to burn the boat, hoping to claim that the seventeen died in a boating accident?” asked Lily.
“Right, but they got unlucky with the ice storm and the sharp rocks of the shoal.”
“So Beijing brings in the specialist and blames the three half-wit brothers?”
“So why were you sent for, Fong?” asked the coroner. “To prove they’re serious to the foreigners?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“So who sent for you? The murderers or the burners? The rogue or official Beijing?”
“The burners – Beijing.”
“Why, Fong? Why would the ones who burned the boat send for you?” asked Lily.
“Because they want to know what really happened out there,” stated the coroner and looked to Fong. Fong didn’t reply.
“So you can find the murderers, right, Fong?” asked Lily.
“In a way. They want the murderers found. But not because they want to see justice done. They want the murderers so they can trace their way from the murderers back to who ordered the murders – the rogue – in Beijing.”
The heaviness in the room deepened. Everyone understood what Fong was saying – that they were just being used in a much bigger game. That no one gave a shit about the dead men. Or maybe even who killed them. Or maybe even the Western money. The only thing Beijing wanted was the path back to the rogue in their midst.
“It would help if we knew who the specialist worked for, Fong,” said Lily.
Fong looked at her. How very much he admired this strong young woman. What a good cop she was. How her loneliness touched him. But Fong hesitated to share what was in his head because he was reasonably sure that the specialist was from yet another Beijing box – perhaps a box of one. Fong wondered if he was ill. If he was dying. If he was alone.
Fong kept it all to himself. “Whoever killed those men would want the foreign press to know about it. They must have contacted them. Lily, you follow that.”
“It’s bound to lead to Xian.”
“No kidding,” Fong said. A lot seems to lead to Xian . . . and to the island.
“So, while Chen’s looking for the hooker and Lily’s investigating the Western press, what are you going to be doing, Fong?” asked the coroner.
“I’m going to a funeral, Grandpa. Want to come?”
The moment the words were out of his mouth, Fong regretted them. He had embarrassed an elder in public. Fong bowed his head slightly. The coroner waited for a beat and then acknowledged the apology. But he had no comeback. He turned from Fong and shuffled out of the dirty factory.
Fong began to follow, but Lily stopped him. “Don’t, Fong,” she said gently. “It must be terrible to be old and know as much about death as he knows.”
Fong looked at her. Sadness, like spring weeds after a storm, blossomed in her eyes.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fong didn’t want to be late for Hesheng’s funeral rites, but he delayed his departure as long as he could. Even the thought of a boat ride made him queasy. But islands, by their nature, required the crossing of water. Finally he went down to the docks and gingerly boarded the boat that Chen had arranged to take him to the Island of the Half-wits. The boat rocked. They hadn’t even left the dock and Fong already felt sick. But any impulse to step out of the boat and back onto dry land was stopped because so much pointed toward the island – and Xian. “What did the Island of the Halfwits and Xian have in common?” he asked himself. “An isolated island in a big lake and the ancient capital of China’s first emperor. What could they possibly share?” The boatman pushed off and the voyage began. Although the morning had brought a cold wind, Fong found himself quickly slick with sweat.
He took a deep breath and made himself examine the boat. Something, anything to distract himself from the vaulting nausea in his gut.
The vessel was a Chinese-style gondola designed for fishing and carrying cargo. The boat’s owner stood at the stern and moved his oar back and forth to propel and steer the boat. In typical Chinese fashion, why use an oar and a rudder – just lengthen the oar and it can act as both. Also, typically Chinese, all the power needed was generated by human muscle. No motor here, just an angry-faced boatman.
As they got farther from shore, the water on the large lake became more choppy. Fong dearly wished he’d skipped the breakfast porridge. At one point he was sure that he was going to lose the contents of his stomach, but a terse threat from the boatman made it clear that if he did he’d have to clean it up – with his tongue. So Fong kept his mind off his stomach and held on tight.
“How long till we get there?” he asked through gritted teeth.
The boatman shrugged and reiterated his threat to make Fong lick up anything he “left” in the boat. Fong was about to reply that he was a police officer and the man had better remember that, but he was afraid to speak. He kept his peace – and his mouth shut.