That was why he had fitted his private jet, the big Gulfstream he now owned, with antique bookshelves, in which he kept the most significant works of Chinese and foreign literature.
He felt like a distant relative — with no blood relationship, only a mystical one — of Captain Nemo, who travelled in his underwater vessel like a lone emperor without an empire but with a large library and a devastating hatred of the people who had ruined his life. It was believed that Nemo modelled himself after a vanished Indian prince who had opposed the British Empire. Ya Ru could feel an affinity to this, but what he really sympathised with was the gloomy and embittered figure of Nemo himself, the inspired engineer and widely read philosopher. He named the Gulfstream Nautilus II. An enlargement of one of the original etchings in the book, depicting Nemo with his reluctant visitors in the extensive library of the Nautilus, was displayed on the wall next to the entrance to the flight deck.
But now everything was about the shadows. He concealed himself efficiently and observed the woman he would have to kill. Another thing he had in common with Nemo was his belief in revenge. The necessity of revenge left its mark through history like a leitmotif.
It would all soon be over. Now that he was in Chinatown in London, with raindrops falling on the collar of his jacket, it struck him that there was something remarkable about the end of this story taking place in England. It was from here that the Wang brothers had commenced their journey back to China, the country that only one of them would ever see again.
Ya Ru didn’t mind waiting when he was in control of the time involved, unlike at airports. This attitude often surprised his friends, who regarded life as all too short, created by a god that could seem like a miserable old mandarin who didn’t want the joy of existence to last too long. Ya Ru had argued that, on the contrary, the gods responsible for creating life knew exactly what they were doing. If humans were allowed to live too long, their knowledge would increase to such an extent that they would be able to see through the mandarins and join forces to exterminate them. A short life span prevents many revolutions, Ya Ru maintained. And his friends usually agreed, though they didn’t always understand his thinking.
Ya Ru always looked to animals when he wanted to understand his own behaviour and that of others. He was the leopard, and he was also the stallion that fought off all challengers in order to become the sole emperor.
If Deng was the colourless cat that hunted mice better than any other, Mao was the owl, the wise bird, but also the ice-cold raptor that knew exactly when to swoop down in silence and seize its prey.
His line of thought was broken by Birgitta Roslin standing up. During the day he had spent following her, one thing had become abundantly clear: she was scared. She was always looking around, never still. Worries were flowing constantly through her head. He would be able to make use of that observation, even if he hadn’t yet decided how.
But now she stood up. Ya Ru hung back in the shadows.
Then something happened he was totally unprepared for. She gave a start, screamed, then stumbled backwards and hit her head on a bench. A Chinese man stopped and bent down to investigate what had happened. Several other people came hurrying over. Ya Ru stepped out of the shadows and approached the group standing around the prostrate woman. Two police officers came running. Ya Ru pushed his way forward to get a better view. Birgitta Roslin sat up. She had evidently lost consciousness for a few seconds. He heard the police officers asking if she needed an ambulance, but she said no.
It was the first time Ya Ru had heard her voice. He memorised it — a deep, expressive voice.
‘I must have stumbled,’ he heard her saying. ‘I thought somebody was coming towards me. I was frightened.’
‘Were you attacked?’
‘No. It was just my imagination.’
The man who had frightened her was still there. Ya Ru noticed that there was a certain similarity between Liu Xan and this man, who by sheer coincidence had entered into a story he had nothing to do with.
Ya Ru smiled to himself. She is indeed scared and on her guard.
The police officers escorted Birgitta Roslin back to her hotel. Ya Ru remained in the background. But now he knew where she was staying. After checking once more that she was steady on her feet, the police officers walked off while she went in through the hotel doors. Ya Ru saw her being given her key by a receptionist who took it from one of the highest shelves. He waited a few more minutes before entering the hotel lobby. The receptionist was Chinese. Ya Ru bowed and held out a sheet of paper.
‘The lady who just came in, she dropped this in the street outside.’
The receptionist took the paper and put it into the empty mail slot. It was for room 614, on the very top floor of the hotel.
The sheet of paper was white, and blank. Ya Ru suspected that Birgitta would ask the receptionist who had handed it in. A Chinese man, she would be told. And she would become even more on edge. There was no risk to himself.
Ya Ru pretended to be reading a brochure advertising the hotel while thinking about how he could find out how long Birgitta Roslin was staying. The opportunity came when the Chinese receptionist disappeared into a back room and was replaced by a young Englishwoman. Ya Ru went up to the counter.
‘Mrs Birgitta Roslin,’ he said. ‘From Sweden. I’m supposed to pick her up and drive her to the airport. It’s not clear if she’s expecting to be picked up tomorrow or the day after.’
Without more ado the receptionist tapped away at the computer keyboard.
‘Mrs Roslin is booked in for three days,’ she said. ‘Shall I call her so that you can sort out when she needs to be collected?’
‘No, I’ll sort it out with the office. We don’t like to disturb our clients unnecessarily.’
Ya Ru left the hotel. It had started drizzling again. He turned up his collar and walked towards Gower Street to find a taxi. Now he didn’t need to worry about how much time he had at his disposal. A very long time has passed since all this began, he thought. A few more days until it reaches its inevitable conclusion are of no significance.
He hailed a taxi and gave the address in Whitehall where his company in Liechtenstein owned a flat he stayed at on his visits to England. He had often felt that he was betraying the memory of his forefathers by staying in London when he could just as well go to Paris or Berlin. As he sat in the taxi he made up his mind to sell the Whitehall flat and look for a new place in Paris.
It was time to bring that part of his life to a close as well.
He lay down on the bed and listened to the silence. He had insulated all the walls when he first bought the flat. Now he couldn’t even hear the distant hum of traffic. The only sound was the sighing of the air conditioner. It gave him the feeling of being on board a ship. He felt very much at peace.
‘How long ago was it?’ he said aloud into the room. ‘How long ago was it when this story that is now coming to a close first started?’