Dragon Day (20 page)

I stare at the rim. Is that a seam down the middle?

Yeah. It is.

I don't know what this thing is for sure, but if I had to guess, I'm guessing it's a bug—or some kind of tracker.

Fuck, fuck, the fucking fuck.

I try to think it through. There was plenty of time when I was having my little session with Uncle Yang for one of his men to plant it. But John, he would've checked, wouldn't he? I mean, he knows all about this stuff, right? Granted, things happened pretty fast—maybe he slipped up.

Or maybe he put it there.

I have absolutely no way of knowing.

“Shit.”

I dump everything out of my bag. Press my fingers against the fabric, feel all the pockets, the seams. Pull all the money and cards from my wallet. I don't find anything else, at least nothing I can spot.

I scramble to my feet. Go into the bathroom and put the little disk on the counter. Flush the toilet. Then I turn on the shower. It's streaked with rust and black mold, and I have time to think, at least I won't be using
that
thing.

Because all I do know for sure is I need to get out of here, right now.

Chapter Seventeen

★

I close the
door to the hotel room, backpack slung over one shoulder, like I'm just going out for a little stroll. Like maybe to the restaurant for a beer and some dumplings.

I look down the hall. That guy we passed before, the one in the cheap leather jacket and Ray-Bans, is loitering by the stairs, doing something on his smartphone.

There's probably a stairwell at the other end of the hall, but I can't see it from here. I'm a lot closer to this one. If I'm trying to act casual, does it make sense for me to walk away from the stairs right by me, to the opposite end of the hall?

I draw in a breath and head toward the stairs I can see. Ray-Ban Guy glances up from his phone, then back down to his screen. I'm going to have to walk right past him.

If he's someone John knows, if he calls John, maybe that's not so bad, I tell myself.

But what if he's one of Pompadour Bureaucrat's men? What if he doesn't trust John? What if John's just abandoned me here in this dump and isn't coming back, because he doesn't have any way to fix this mess and I'm the one who's going to pay for it?

Dumplings and beer. I'm just going out for dumplings and beer.

I've reached the top of the stairs. Ray-Bans doesn't move. Should I offer to bring him back a bowl of noodles? Would that be casual or just weird?

I keep my eyes forward and step down. As I do, something on his phone squawks. I stumble a little, grab onto the railing.

He's playing Angry Birds.

I hop unevenly down the stairs.

Outside, the guys who were playing tennis are just coming off the court. Laughing, not sweating. One of them swats the other lightly on the ass with his racket.

If there are taxis, they'll likely be out in front of the hotel, maybe picking up or dropping off. But do I want to risk going there? If that bug/tracker thing belongs to Uncle Yang, could they already be here, watching? Waiting for me to make some kind of move?

For that matter, they could be parked out here, in this lot, close to the building.

I take a couple of deep breaths, tell myself I can't panic, that I have to keep it together. I do a scan of the parking lot. Only a few cars. They're all empty.

Okay, I tell myself. Okay. You're all right for now.

There's a feeder road running alongside the back of the tennis court. I have no idea where it goes. But if it doesn't lead past the hotel entrance, maybe that's good enough.

I head toward it.

I don't know how long I walk, since neither of my phones is working and I don't own a watch. Long enough for the throbbing pain in my leg to feel like someone's stabbing my thigh with a barbecue fork and for my feet to feel like they're bruised. There's nothing much on this road, mostly trees with their white-painted trunks that were probably planted for the '08 Olympics and a few fields and redbrick farm buildings that haven't been swallowed up by high-rises and car dealerships and factories.

Finally the road runs head-on into a bigger one. A town. A couple of new hotels with “Airport” in their names among clumps of older white-tiled storefronts. A restaurant, battered red lanterns swaying in the wind.

I see an available cab pulling away from the restaurant and raise my hand.

He stops in front of me. I get into the backseat.

“Qu nar?”
he asks. Where to?

It occurs to me that I have no freaking clue.

I have him take me to Haidian, near Beida. I know the area pretty well, and it's a place where being a foreigner doesn't attract much attention, what with all the colleges around here. Plus, there's a Number 4 subway stop near the east gate of the university, and that line goes all the way to the Beijing South Railway Station.

Because yeah, my first instinct, as usual, is to get out of town. But I'm trying to be smart, trying to think things through, and I don't know if that's such a great idea.

Won't running make me look guilty? Another black mark against me for Inspector Zou? Has John even talked to him? I've got to find out.

And then there's Uncle Yang. How far does his influence go? How many guys can he afford to have running around keeping an eye out for me? Or . . . I don't know, electronic surveillance stuff, is he tied in to that? I can still buy train tickets without showing my passport—they'll start requiring that in a couple of months, I've heard—and I can avoid using my
yikatong
card on the subways and just pay cash, but there are surveillance cameras everywhere in Beijing.

Who is actually watching?

First things first. I need to get a new SIM card and minutes for my old iPhone. Try to get in touch with John, find out if that was his bug or Uncle Yang's. Ask him if he's talked to Inspector Zou.

After that
. . .
I don't know.

I have friends. People I can ask for help. My ex-boss, British John, lives not too far from here.

But there's the other side of that, what happens to the people who help me. British John got enough shit because of me a year ago. Do I really want to drag him into something again?

Then there's Harrison. If anybody's got the juice to help me out, it's him. Though Harrison told me that he's no match for the Caos.

The Caos. Shit. I can't keep avoiding Sidney. Eventually he's going to catch up to me, and when he does
. . .

I don't know exactly how deep the connection between Sidney and Uncle Yang goes, but they're both from Anhui, and Sidney's son is married to Yang's niece, and someone's got to be greasing the wheels for Sidney high up in the government, and someone's got to be supplying Uncle Yang with those really expensive suits, so . . . yeah.

Pretty deep.

If Uncle Yang's unhappy, I have to figure Sidney's pretty unhappy, too.

Which brings me back to calling the embassy. They won't necessarily help me if I'm in trouble with the police here, but they might be interested in intel about high-level politics and murdered girls. And then there's Carter, who'd be the guy to broker that kind of deal.

But am I ready to take that step? Because once I do
. . .
well, there are all kinds of consequences. Like probably closing the door on my life here.

Am I ready for that?

What kind of life will I have if I do?

There's nothing for me in the States. No job. No marriage. No future. Just a shitty disability pension that won't cover my rent, plus all the psych meds and Percocet I want.

But going up against Uncle Yang and the Caos
. . .
If nobody I know has the
guanxi
for that, what makes me think
I
can handle it?

I'm messing with tigers here. With dragons.

I buy a new SIM card and minutes at a newspaper vendor and fire up my phone.

It's a new number, so no new messages, except for a few spam texts that appear almost immediately. I'm going to have to go someplace with Wi-Fi and get onto my laptop to see who's been trying to reach me. God knows how many emails Vicky Huang's left me by now.

First thing I do is call “Zhou Zheng'an” at “Bright Spring Enterprises.”

No answer. Voice mail with a woman's voice saying, “You've reached Bright Spring Enterprises” and to please leave a message. Very slick.

I hang up.

I'm not too surprised that John isn't answering his phone. Uncle Yang has this number, and you can track someone on a cell phone, right?

Maybe they can hack the voice mail, too.

I switch off my phone.

Email.

I walk down the tree-lined street, past university walls and gates, until I come to a smaller lane with little shops and cafés.

First thing I do is buy another SIM card. I'll use the first one to call numbers that might be tapped.

Second thing, I find a little café/bar advertising free Wi-Fi and grab a table.

Another typical Beijing joint: small, wooden tables, a couple fake plants, some random decorations—in this case the top half of a male mannequin wearing a Mao cap and a Rolling Stones T-shirt—specials written in English and Chinese on a board with Day-Glo chalk, selling some form of pizza and burgers and sandwiches.

I order a Yanjing Beer and one of the pizzas, because by now it's almost 6:00
p.m.
and I can't remember if I've had anything to eat today. I don't think I have. When the pizza comes, it's pretty bad—canned tomato sauce and plastic cheese—but I wolf it down. Get out my laptop, start up my VPN, and close my eyes so I don't see the emails coming in. I'm not ready for Vicky Huang, or the Caos, or the Beijing PD, or my mom.

When I open my eyes, I launch a browser and go to the Yahoo! account that's not linked to my real name—at least I hope it's not. And I type John's email in the address box. Not the Bright Spring email. The other one he gave me: “Jinhuli.”

Cinderfox.

On the subject line, I type,
“From Little Mountain Tiger.”
And then I write,
“Either you or Uncle left something in my bag. I couldn't wait to find out who.”

I stop. Take another slug of beer. I don't know what to say. There's too much in my head: Did you talk to Inspector Zou? Did you find out anything about Celine? Are you going to fix this shit? Save my ass?

Because I'm all alone, and I don't know what to do, and I'm scared.

I don't type any of that.

“Write me back. Leave me a number where I can reach you. We need to talk.”

After that I take a big gulp of the Yanjing and start reading email.

Five messages from Vicky Huang. The first few are variations on
Mr. Cao is interested in your report. When can you meet?
The last one says,
You must contact Mr. Cao right away. He urgently needs to speak to you.

Here's one from Meimei:
Did you know your phone isn't working?
J
If you have a problem, maybe I can help. Call me or write.

And here's one I didn't expect at all. From Marsh Brody:

Hey. Well, you really know how to liven up a dinner. What's the deal with your friend? I bet he's even more fun at parties. Tiantian and me are heading south to Movie Universe to do some shooting on our film. Why don't you join us? He's actually really interested in this museum thing. Here's the info.

Movie Universe. I've read about this place. Huge outdoor sets with reproductions of the Forbidden City and the streets of old Hong Kong, and it's out in the middle of nowhere, someplace south of Shanghai.

And what do you know, here's an email from Tiantian:

Dear Ellie, I think you have a misunderstanding recently of the situation with our family. I would not like you to have a bad impression of us. Perhaps we can meet to discuss. I think your museum proposal has merit. Please call me to schedule.

Weird. It's like all the Cao kids want to make nice with me. I have my doubts that this is actually the case.

So what do I do? Keep avoiding Sidney or call him? If I call him, what do I say?
Hi, one of your kids, or maybe your political patron, is a murderer
?

Maybe the killer is Marsh. That would be so much more convenient.

I'm thinking about this, and another email comes in.

The subject line is
“Letters from the Deep Yellow Sea—My Decision.”

I feel a prickling along the back of my neck, up and down my spine. She's dead. Celine's dead. So what the fuck is this?

I have written things for a while now that I do not publish. Because I know they could cause me trouble and I am scared. I am also selfish. I like the life I have, even when it seems very silly. But now after what I saw I must speak the truth. When you read this I will be gone from Beijing. Maybe from this world. That's okay. I think there are better worlds we can't see. This one sometimes is so ugly.

Okay, I tell myself, okay. I subscribed to her blog feed. She set this up to autopublish. Simple enough.

Everyone knows the rich move their money overseas. So they can send their kids to some fancy American university. Buy their winery in France. Everyone knows about this. But it is not just the rich. It is our leaders. They set up phony companies overseas to hide their money. You know this, too, but I can prove it.

I have this sudden flash, of Celine offering me one of her Panda cigarettes with her little half smile.

They do this in ways that maybe aren't against the law, but they still don't want the people to know about it. Regardless, they can use the law any way they want. For you and for me, the laws have different meanings.

No one took her seriously, I'm thinking. I know I didn't. All the while she was there, in the middle of all that wealth and power, taking notes.