Inspector O 04 - The Man with the Baltic Stare (32 page)

“Let’s not deal in ciphers, Inspector. You think you know who made this nondecision. Throw that in the mix.”

“You told me Major Kim wanted to destroy his reputation. I’ve had enough to do with Kim over the past several weeks to think he wouldn’t stop at that. And if he had second thoughts on murder—which he would—Zhao would have convinced him it could be done without danger. It was merely a question of activating certain connections, bringing to bear certain resources. Zhao knew people who were very good at what they did, and took pleasure in their work. They were on call. Yes, it was a challenge to carry this off on such short notice, but the greater the challenge, the more intense the pleasure. Have you ever seen Zhao’s eyes glow in the dark? Phone calls were made, probably to Russia. An order was placed. Money transferred. On the evening of October thirteenth, the goods showed up at Hong Kong Airport—a Korean-Russian who was unusually good with a knife.”

“Full stop, Inspector. You’re telling me Zhao put out this order? Not Kim?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“Then you’ll have to pursue it on your own. I have no way of knowing for sure. Kim is basically weak. If there hadn’t been someone to push him along, he wouldn’t have gone ahead with any of the murders on his own, not this one or the ones that followed. You want me to keep going?”

Kang nodded. “Do you have a name for this Korean-Russian killer?”

“Tanya.”

“You’re sure?”

“You asked for a name, Kang. That’s the name I came up with.”

“How? How would you know that? Did you meet this person?”

“No. But I got close.”

“How?”

“Pork buns. There was an MSS officer who kept an eye on the Russian prostitutes. He had lists of the girls, what they wore, how they worked, whether they had any clients that were on the watch alerts. Mostly, things were routine, so he ate pork buns and snoozed. Past midnight on October fourteenth, he noticed a new girl, a blonde. She didn’t dress like the others, didn’t walk like them, and only worked for a few hours before she disappeared. He never saw her again. He has an agreement with the Russian pimp who runs that group to be kept up to date on new faces. Who was the blond girl? The pimp was real nervous, said he’d only taken her on as a favor for a friend, but she was strange and he didn’t want her to scare away clients. He said her name was Tanya.”

“Tanya. I should have known.”

Kang knew Tanya? I felt like I had stepped off the continental shelf.

“After she killed him,” Kang was feeling his way here, “they killed her?”

“Yes, only it wasn’t a her. She was a he.”

“Tanya was a him?” Kang looked stunned. “You know this?”

“No, but I’m willing to bet. Someone with our boy’s appearance was on the ferry from the airport the thirteenth. He wouldn’t have gone to the airport, but the killer might have come from there. He came in as a male, maybe actually as a Korean from Russia, though the passport was probably fake. That’s getting to be depressing, all of the phony passports. Why do we bother with them?”

“Forget passports. What about the killer?”

“After he landed in Macau, he went somewhere to change. I don’t know where, but I think I know who helped him. He was on the streets for a couple of hours. After that, he showed up at the Hotel Nam Lo, trooping up and down the stairs a few times to make sure the front desk clerk didn’t miss him. Her.”

“How do you know this?”

“Someone told me, someone who had no reason to lie. They didn’t say it in so many words, because they didn’t know what they were telling me. And I didn’t know what they were telling me at the time.”

“This whole theory has a lot of supposition.”

“Life is uncertain, Kang, and theories have holes. That’s the way it is. Maybe it doesn’t seem to hang together because the plan wasn’t thought out ahead of time. As I said, the whole thing was probably put together in the hurry. They had a skill set that had to be matched with physical attribution, but basically they would take what they could get—essentially, any assassin who answered the phone and didn’t mind wearing a wig. They must have danced around the room when they came up with Tanya. They made clear that for full payment, it had to be a quick and dirty job—very dirty. They wanted a lot of blood. That had to be part of the story. Depravity piled on depravity. Yes, and when it was done, they killed him. Her.”

“Why?”

“Panic maybe, though in this case, I wouldn’t rule out bloodlust. Someone should check to see if the Macau police located the lungs.”

“Both sets?”

“Good point. There should be enough body parts for two—I wouldn’t bet on all the right parts, though. This case is so weird, I wouldn’t be surprised if the autopsy reports mention an extra set of arms.”

The waiter had moved into hearing distance. He had turned very pale. Kang waved him away, again.

“The thing that still puzzles me,” I said, “is how they got both bodies out. The tapes from the hallway security cameras showed someone leaving with two suitcases. How could he walk out pulling luggage that contained his own torso? Another thing, our boy only had one suitcase when he checked in. Where do
you suppose the extra came from? I think someone supplied it afterwards. I think I know who.”

“You saw the tapes?”

“No, but I think I will—soon. What happens now?”

“A lot of uncertainty. A whole lot.” Kang drummed his fingers on the table. “A whole fucking lot.”

“I’ve been wondering, who benefits? And I’m not talking about motive exactly. Think about it. No one benefits, but everyone benefits. When you lay everything on this fancy tablecloth, it’s just the least bad of all the possible outcomes for a lot of people. I’d say that if you trim the fat, you end up with three basic possibilities.”

“Maybe.”

“First, there could be a smooth transition to new leadership. That’s what Kim keeps harping on. He’s obsessed with it. So, let’s say Kim’s people do take over, that they don’t screw up more than normal, and that no one around here cares. That’s bad for the Chinese; Pang’s ghost is unhappy and restless, but unless they want to use force, there’s nothing Beijing can do about it.”

Kang thought about it. “Unlikely.”

“Sure it’s unlikely. I didn’t say it was likely, did I? I said it was possible. The reason it won’t happen is because there are too many people who—dissatisfied or not with what they have right now—aren’t ready to bend over and take what the South Koreans are going to give them. The second possibility is more likely. It’s what we might call
transition interruptus
. That’s Latin. The Pope uses it.”

Kang put his hands together.

“From what I can tell and a few things I read, Pang’s people have plans to move in so quickly that no one knows what hit them. That will be very bad for Kim, bad enough for him to lose his pension. Seoul would be furious but hapless, completely paralyzed.”

“I’d say this second scenario is also unlikely.”

“So would I, because it wouldn’t take more than a week for people up here to decide that even if they’re hungry they don’t want Chinese food every night. They’ll become sullen and from there they’ll go active. It will be messy and the Chinese don’t like mess, so they will bail out as quickly as they can.”

“Give me something likely, will you?”

“Third choice, someone pops up out of nowhere. That’s actually very common and I’d say likely. A skunk colonel decides his star has risen, and that he is tired of listening to old men. Everyone connected with Kim or Pang is eliminated, either in bed or over dessert. That is also very common. Then the whole thing starts over again. In the end, it’s not the worst outcome for Pang’s people; they can live with more of the same. Zhao is terribly unhappy; too bad for him. Kim is unhappy; too bad for him. The Russian in the northeast is found dead of food poisoning—Chinese fish.”

“You figured this out on your own?”

“I had a little help.”

“There’s only one problem, Inspector. You still don’t know what you don’t know. And what you don’t know makes none of it plausible.”

“Irrational, implausible. Who cares? You’re missing the point. What am I going to do about it?”

“What are
you
going to do about it?” Kang moved around some silverware. “Excuse me, I thought this was about history and the future of tens of millions of people. But no, obviously, it is not. It is about
you
.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. You know what I meant.”

“No, actually, I don’t know what you meant. I’m beginning to think I made a mistake by getting you involved.” He picked up the spoon and the knife and moved them off to one side together. “When we first met years ago, Inspector, I said I’d been watching you for a long time.”

“We were on the phone. I remember because the operator
was playing games with me. You suggested we meet at the Koryo Hotel.”

Kang applauded softly. “Very good, Inspector. What else do you remember?”

“Everyone was watching me in those days, it seemed. People in my sector used to say they always knew when I was around. Streets became busy; sidewalks filled with surveillance teams jostling each other. Sometimes I would turn around and the whole line would trip over itself trying to duck into doorways.”

“Only I wasn’t in that line. Keeping track of where you went or who you saw didn’t interest me. I needed to find out who you became, to watch for signs that the seeds your grandfather planted took root. It was partially his idea.”

There was no sound; it happened silently, in an instant. The past shattered and was gone.

“I didn’t know your grandfather very well. We only met a few times. He told me you had potential, but that it would be slow to show up. Like one of the old gingko trees on the temple grounds, he said.”

I heard Kang, I knew he was telling the truth, but I wasn’t at the table with him. I was above it, hovering, watching autumn’s cruelest trick—the emptiness at the end of time. This was the betrayal. This was the lie, the only lie that could have torn my self from my being, and I never imagined it. I never saw it coming.

“No,” I heard my voice. “I’ll bet what he said was, ‘You’ve got to look at a tree, listen to it, see how it grew, before you know how to use the wood.’ I know how his mind worked. And now?” I was back in the chair. I made sure to sound calm. The core of my existence was suddenly gone, but I could be calm. At least I could preserve that much dignity. “Do you think the time has come to harvest the lumber? What should I become? A writing desk, on which you can sign orders for executions?”

Kang kept his eyes on me. They were lazy, his body slack, still the bear watching the rabbit.

“Or no, not a desk. That’s too obvious. I know! Let’s make me into a table on which to spread the victory meal. Oak is fine for that, better than gingko. Did my grandfather tell you I was to be an oak plank?” I laughed, and that was my mistake. The laughter split the calm in two, and out of the breach slipped a murderous anger I thought I had given up a long time ago. My entire existence nothing but the whim of an old man who had lost his son? Raised for what? No better than my brother mindlessly following sacred political texts, worse than him for believing I was different. Trained, shaped, pruned—why? To be an instrument of what hand, to hold what weapon, to slay what hope in the name of what myth? “Elm! That’s it! I should have known. Elm might split if used too soon. It has to be seasoned.” I held up a hand, my right hand, the one I used to sand the wooden cars and boats smooth to the touch. The hand was old, veined, bent; surely it was not mine. “Tell me, was that part of the plan as well, to wait until I was seasoned?” I picked up a knife from the table and sliced my flesh. “A miter cut is what he always suggested. Makes a strong joint, he would say.” The knife was very dull. I sliced my arm again.

“O!” Kang leaped from the chair and grabbed for the knife.

I jerked it away from him. A little blood came down my arm, not much. “Trees are passive. But I am not. Trees are forgiving. But I am not, not anymore. Do you think I don’t realize what this means?” I laughed again. Another mistake. More anger poured through, it widened the breach. “Let me tell you a story.”

“Not right now.” Kang looked at my arm. “We have other things to worry about.”

“Wrong again. Again and again and again.” I began shaking, shouting, bellowing like an ox, blood boiling, heat burning away shields built during nights of terrible fear. “This is a story of betrayal. It is vast, Kang, and so very complicated.” I knew what I had to say. I didn’t know all the words, but I knew where they would lead.

Kang spoke calmly, as if nothing had happened. “Always complicated, these stories. It wouldn’t be betrayal otherwise.”

“You!” I was practically screaming in his face. I couldn’t think of anything else to say to that. “You!” The other customers looked away. The waiter folded and unfolded napkins. The cook came out of the kitchen and stared.

“On second thought, perhaps it would be better if you proceed, Inspector.” Kang sat down, though he stayed poised to jump up again if I reached for the knife. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? A long story is best told . . .” He paused. “Never mind; however you wish. Tell it however you wish. Sit, don’t sit, trot around the room like a wounded unicorn if it will do any good.”