The Flower Net (9 page)

“That is not a term I like to use.”

“Nevertheless…”

“Nevertheless,” Hulan acceded.

The afternoon wore on. The room became darker and colder as whatever sunlight there had been disappeared behind the thickening cloud cover. Hulan turned on her desk lamp and tried to come up with another subject. But they had said all there was to say about the case, and this wasn’t the place to talk about the past.

“What do you want me to do now?” he asked.

“I think it will be best if Peter takes you back to the hotel.” David shook his head, but Hulan continued, “You are in China. I will make our appointments.” She stood and extended her hand. “Tomorrow then?”

“Hulan…”

“Good,” she said, reluctantly loosening her hand from his. She crossed to the door and held it open. “I will leave a message for you at your hotel telling you the time.”

Peter, who waited just outside the door, jumped to his feet, spoke in rapid Chinese to Hulan, then led Stark back through the maze of corridors and stairwells to the courtyard. In her office, Hulan stood with her back against the closed door, trying to catch her breath.

By the time Hulan left her office it was already dark. She buttoned her coat against the cold and draped a scarf over her head. Others in the building hurried to their bicycles. She was aware of how they kept their distance, how they ignored her as she walked with them along the length of the bicycle park.

She hitched up her skirt, swung her leg over her silver-blue Flying Pigeon, pedaled out of the compound, and melted into the anonymity of hundreds of her countrymen commuting home. How peaceful this was compared to the fits and starts of Peter’s driving. The smooth, quiet rhythm of her own bicycle among hundreds of others all around her became a soothing meditation.

She relished those moments when she stopped at a traffic light and was able to witness the city’s domestic life. On a street corner stood a cart laden with candied crab apples on bamboo skewers. On another, a man grilled fragrant strips of marinated pork. On yet another, a small crowd of people clustered around a kiosk to slurp redolent noodles from enameled tin bowls before handing the empties back to the proprietor.

Hulan parked in front of one of the city’s new high-rise apartment buildings. She rode the elevator to the fifteenth floor and knocked on a door at the end of the hallway. A maid escorted Hulan into the living room. There was little in this room to suggest the personalities of the people who lived here. The couch was covered in a polyester floral print. Several straight-backed chairs were grouped around a low coffee table. Plastic plants collected dust in wicker baskets. Oil paintings of decidedly Western landscapes hung on the walls.

A woman sat in a wheelchair staring out the window.

“How is she today?” Hulan asked the maid, taking off her coat. She much preferred the cold of old buildings like her
hutong
home and public facilities to the overheated rooms of the new apartments and Western-style hotels that had sprung up in recent years.

“Quiet. No change.”

Hulan crossed the room, knelt next to the wheelchair, and gazed up into her mother’s face. Jiang Jinli stared into the middle distance. Hulan gently reached for her mother’s hand. The skin was translucent and Hulan traced the delicate veins with a finger.

“Hello, Mama.”

There was no response.

Hulan pulled a porcelain garden stool to her mother’s side and began talking about her day. “I had an interesting visitor, Mama. I think you remember me talking about him before.”

Hulan carried on as if her mother were fully engaged in the conversation, because sometimes—after hours or even days of total silence—Jinli would become quite talkative. At those times, few as they were, Hulan realized how much of her monologues had seeped into her mother’s consciousness.

As a girl, Hulan had been in awe—and sometimes a little jealous—of her mother’s beauty. After all these years and after all that her mother had been through, Jinli still looked much the same as when she was the young wife of a rising cadre assigned to the prestigious Ministry of Culture. Hulan could remember how her mother had loved to dress in vivid colors—fuchsia, emerald, and royal blue—made all the brighter next to the proletarian gray of the people who used to gather in the Liu family home for an evening of folk songs and Peking Opera, dumplings, and shots of mao-tai. She could remember how her father used to invite friends like Mr. Zai, who could play the old instruments so that they might accompany Jinli as she sang of unrequited love. Hulan remembered how still her father sat while he listened to Jinli as her voice lilted and her eyes sparkled with love for him.

Hulan treasured the memories of her parents’ friends taking her into their laps and laughingly whispering in her ear, “Your mama and baba are like a pair of chopsticks, always together, always in harmony,” or “Your mama is like a gold leaf in a jade branch”—meaning Jinli was the ideal woman. All these years later, it seemed as if her mother had frozen in that time like jade buried beneath so much rock. She had not aged. Her beauty was untouched by the physical and mental hardships she had endured. It was as though time only passed in those infrequent periods when Jinli was lucid.

For almost twenty-five years, Jinli had been immobilized in her wheelchair. Hulan’s father had been single-minded in his care for his wife. He paid back-door bribes so that Jinli would have access to the best Western doctors. He paid exorbitant fees for special traditional Chinese herbal concoctions designed to improve and strengthen Jinli’s physical health. Whether due to Western medicine or Chinese medicine, Jinli was not prone to the usual opportunistic infections that plagued paraplegics. However, nothing had improved the ailment that dwelled in Jinli’s mind. In fact, her mental condition had slowly deteriorated since the “accident.”

When Jinli’s head was clear, she and her daughter spoke of light things. How the cherry blossoms looked lovely along the hillside at the Summer Palace. How Old Man Chou was selling the first snow-pea greens of the season. How the silk that Hulan had chosen for a dress shimmered. They never spoke of Jinli’s illness. They never spoke of Hulan’s father—how he had been posted to the Ministry of Public Security twenty years ago, how he had worked his way up through the ranks, how he had been promoted into his current position after the events in Tiananmen Square in 1989. Naturally, they never spoke of Hulan’s work, as her mother had no idea of what her daughter did for a living. So on this evening, as the lights of Beijing glittered below them, Hulan didn’t talk about the case or even how David had come to be in Beijing, but only how he looked and sounded.

When Hulan’s father arrived, she stood hastily, kissed her mother, and began to gather her things.

“
Ni hao
,” he called out, “hello.” He came into the room rubbing the cold from his fingers. His posture was correct, his gait brisk. A warm smile spread across his features.

“Good evening, Vice Minister.”

He gave no sign of surprise at her decorous form of address.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Yes, I have, and I’m just on my way.”

“Surely you will drink tea.”

“Thank you for your graciousness. But truly, I must return home.”

They had had this precise conversation for many years now on those rare occasions when he had come home early or she had stayed too late. Hulan knew what would come next.

“Your mother would be honored if you stayed.”

No matter how long she might protest that she had eaten or had her tea or had a place to go, he would not rest until she had given in. Rather than fight, she shucked off her coat.

“Good,” he said. “You can help me with dinner.”

In the kitchen, counters gleamed under the glare of harsh overhead lights. Hulan’s father rolled up his sleeves and set to work peeling and chopping ginger and garlic. Hulan washed the rice until the water ran clear, then set it in a steamer decorated with pink peonies. Then she ran several heads of baby bok choy under water to rinse away dirt and any remnants of night soil. Later, Hulan watched silently as her father seared slivers of pork in a smoking wok. His hands moved quickly. The muscles of his forearms were taut as he effortlessly lifted the wok with its aromatic contents and poured them into a low serving dish.

In the dining room—so Western-contemporary with its chandelier, oval dinette set, and breakfront filled with Melmac dishes—Vice Minister Liu selected the most delectable morsels out of the main dish and put them into his wife’s bowl. As he raised his chopsticks to Jinli’s lips, he cleared his throat. Outside the pure stilted etiquette of their professional relationship, conversations between Hulan and her father always revolved around obedience and responsibility. For a modern man, a cadre with a fine revolutionary background, he betrayed a distinct adherence to Confucian beliefs.

“Hulan,” he began, “so many times I have asked you to come home and live with us.”

“Vice Minister, I do not consider this our home. I live in our real home.”

“That place is old. We are in a new era. Your true home is with your parents.” He jutted his chin out. “But you know this is not what I mean. I am talking about duty to your family.”

“Filial piety is one of the olds.”

“That is true. Mao did not believe in old ways. He had many mistresses and wives. When they had children, he did not hesitate to leave them with peasants in villages by the roadside. But Mao is dead. I do not need to tell you this.”

“No, you don’t, Vice Minister.”

“Family is a sanctuary. In China, there is no ambiguity about where we belong. Your mother and I are held together by our ancestors, as you are held to us as well as to your ancestors.”

“Baba.”

This break from the normal pattern caused her father to look her way.

Hulan took a breath and tried again. “Baba, I owe you and Mama a great debt for raising me. I know I can never repay you.” The meaning of her words was as clear to the vice minister as if she’d spoken them aloud.
You taught me. You fed me and clothed me. In your lifetime, even if I were a son, I might not be able to repay that debt of obligation, of duty. But in your death, I would see to a proper burial. If I were a son, I would see that paper clothes and paper money were burned so that you might be rich in the afterlife. And each year, at Spring Festival, I would have my wife and daughters prepare you a whole chicken, a whole duck, a whole fish to symbolize unity and prosperity for the family. We would light incense for you. As your son I would
chu xi,
pay you back with interest for the gift of life. But I am only a daughter
.

“A daughter is not such a bad thing,” her father said, slipping the wrinkled form of a tree ear mushroom into Jinli’s open mouth. “For centuries our family has named its daughters.”

“I see Mama every day.”

“This is not the same thing. You are unmarried.” And what he meant was:
When a girl, obey your father. When married, obey your husband. When widowed, obey your son
.

“I also work, Vice Minister.”

He snorted dismissively. “You do not need to do this work.”

“You hired me.”

“No one expected you to do more than pour tea. To do the investigations?” His face contorted. “It is not proper. You should do something cleaner. I can arrange this.”

“Have I not done my job?”

“You disregard the point. You are a Red Princess. You do not have to work at all.”

“I’m good at what I do.”

“Yes, you are,” he assented. “But your mother needs you. Come home to us. Take care of her.”

She neither agreed nor argued. But as she sat there, picking at the last few grains of rice in her bowl, she knew that everything he said was true.

7

J
ANUARY
31

The Fathers

T
he American embassy was made up of several large dirty-beige buildings with gray tile roofs. Most of the windows were covered with iron grates. On the corners of each eave, video cameras swept methodically back and forth. The compound itself was enclosed by a high wrought-iron fence broken at regular intervals by gray pillars. Just inside this fence, sparse hedges grew and dormant trees sent ragged branches into the gloomy sky. Along one side of the compound, hundreds of bicycles stood in neat rows.

The front entrance to the embassy was flanked by guardhouses. The one on the left served as the first of many stops for those Chinese wishing to obtain visas to the United States. Several churlish guards dressed in green uniforms and black fur hats kept their countrymen at bay. Just across from the embassy, people waited either to be allowed into the preliminary visa line or to be called for their interviews. Just to their right, street vendors in open-air stalls sold silk products in purple, yellow, and red.

Hulan and David passed through the gate, several other human and physical barricades, and into a reception room, where they were introduced to Phil Firestone, the ambassador’s secretary and right-hand man. Despite his blue pinstripe suit and red polka-dot tie, Phil’s sandy hair and the baby fat that still clung to his face gave him a decidedly boyish look. His smile was open and all-American.

As they waited for the ambassador to finish with his previous appointment, Phil chatted about home and how he ended up in China. “My family’s also from Montana, so we’re long acquainted with the ambassador and his family. My mother worked on Bill Watson’s senatorial campaign, and I was lucky enough to become part of his staff in Washington. When the president appointed Senator Watson to the ambassadorship, I leaped at the chance to come to Beijing.”

“Are you married?” David asked idly.

“No, I guess that’s why I don’t mind being uprooted. I can follow the ambassador without worrying about the impact on a wife or children. I see how hard this life can be for some families.” Realizing that this might not have been the most diplomatic thing to say in front of Hulan, Phil tried to cover his mistake. “Not that Beijing isn’t wonderful. Personally, I love the people.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Firestone,” she said. “I, too, have been abroad. I know how difficult it is to be away from home. I think I missed the food most of all.”

“Boy, what I wouldn’t do for a hamburger sometimes.”

“We have McDonald’s.”

Phil Firestone laughed good-naturedly, then checked his watch. “The ambassador should be able to see you now.”

Phil shepherded them into an adjoining office. “If you’ll just wait here, the ambassador will be with you shortly,” he said, then left them alone.

David felt an itch of irritation, but Hulan seemed unperturbed. Her body remained still and contained, but her eyes roamed the room, from the American flag that hung behind the desk to the official seals and plaques on the walls to the Frederic Remington bronze cowboy on the desk. Inside, however, Hulan was boiling. The ambassador was savvy enough to know that the Chinese valued promptness. He was being intentionally rude.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” The ambassador’s voice came to them even before he had stepped fully into the room. “I’ve been tied up all day, what with these difficulties we’re having.” He extended his hand. “David Stark, I presume. I’ve heard good things about you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“And, of course, I remember the inspector here.” The ambassador’s blue eyes settled on Hulan. “I must say, I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Things don’t always work out as we wish,” Hulan allowed.

The ambassador seemed temporarily mystified, then let out a reverberating laugh. “You are a funny one. Here,” he said, motioning to a red leather couch, “please make yourselves comfortable. Phil?” he called out. “Where’s Phil? Phil?”

His adjutant poked his head into the office. “Sir?”

“I think coffee—or would you prefer tea?—is in order.”

“Coffee’s fine, thank you,” Hulan murmured.

“Coffee it is then, Phil.” The ambassador sat down in a matching red leather wing chair opposite them. He smiled, then addressed the American attorney. “What can I do for you?”

“First,” David began, “let me say that I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your son. I realize that it can’t be easy for you to talk about.” The ambassador got a faraway look in his eyes but didn’t respond. David went on. “Inspector Liu has told me many of the details of your son’s death. As I think you may now know, they are remarkably similar to what we found with the body of Guang Mingyun’s son.”

“I couldn’t help the inspector before. I doubt I can be of assistance today.”

“If you could just answer a few questions…”

The ambassador sighed. “Go ahead.”

“Were you acquainted with Guang Henglai?”

“I never met the boy.”

Hulan interrupted. “I see from the photographs, however, that you have met his father.”

“How could I do my job in Beijing and not meet the esteemed Mr. Guang?”

“But you’re sure you never met his son?”

“Inspector, I don’t think I need to remind you that you and I had trouble before. When I answer a question, you must expect nothing but the truth from me as a man and as my country’s ambassador. I told you I never met this Guang Henglai and that remains my answer.”

“Perhaps you can tell us a little about your son,” David suggested into the awkward silence.

The older man shrugged. “How does a father describe his only son? Billy was a good boy. Of course, he got into the usual scrapes in high school. But, Mr. Stark, I’m sure you and I got into the same sorts of trouble.”

“I understand he was going to college.”

“I got my appointment just as Billy graduated from high school. He decided—and Elizabeth and I agreed—that he should take a year off and come here. What better education could there be for a young man than a year abroad? But after that first year I thought it would be best if Billy started his college education. I didn’t want him falling too far behind his peers. He was accepted at the University of Southern California.”

“What was he studying?” Hulan queried.

“You must not have much contact with young Americans. They study whatever they want.”

“You don’t know what he was studying?” Hulan insisted.

“I just answered that! If you plan on asking me everything twice, we’ll be here a very long time!”

This time the embarrassing lull in the conversation was broken by the entrance of Phil Firestone. He registered the situation with diplomatic deftness. “Here you are,” he said brightly, setting down a silver tray. “Coffee, sugar, and cream. Mr. Stark, you probably don’t know how hard it is for us to get real cream here in Beijing. It’s a veritable treat.”

“That’ll be all, Phil. Thanks.”

Phil’s manner shifted immediately. “Yes, sir. Just call if you need anything else.” And he was gone.

“Ambassador, I’ll be blunt,” David said. “I’m confused by your hostility. Surely you now accept that your son was murdered. We are simply trying to discover why and how and, most important, by whom.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Please try to answer the inspector’s question.”

“I don’t know what my son was studying. He was an undergraduate at USC. He lived in a dorm. He only came home for vacations. I guess Elizabeth and I thought it was more important that Billy seemed happy than what classes he was taking.”

“Fair enough. So how often did you see your son?”

“He came for winter break and part of the summer.” The ambassador nodded toward Hulan. “As you know, it can be pretty damned miserable in Beijing in the summer.”

“Did he bring friends home?”

“You mean from California during vacation? No, never.”

“Were there people he liked to hang out with when he was here?” David asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“What did he like to do in Beijing?”

“I hate to admit it, but again I don’t know. I’m an awfully busy man. When Billy was here, he slept late. By the time he woke up, I was probably into my third meeting of the day. When I got back to the residence, he was usually already gone for the evening.”

“Where did he go? Who was he with?”

“Mr. Stark, I simply don’t know. He was a college boy. I didn’t think it was appropriate to question his activities.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Watson knows something,” David suggested.

“Mrs. Watson?” The name lingered in the air. “Yes, my wife. Yes, she may be able to help you.”

“Can we see her?”

“She’s at the residence,” he said hesitantly.

“But?”

“Believe me, I want to see Billy’s killer found more than anyone. But Elizabeth is…How can I say this? Billy’s death has been very hard on her. I don’t want to put her through any more pain. Surely you can appreciate that. Can you give me a day or two? Let me talk to her first?”

David turned to Hulan, who had been noticeably quiet since Bill Watson’s earlier outburst. David had not seen Hulan in many years, but he could still recognize the look of anger lurking just under her placid facade.

“Inspector Liu?” He hoped she would keep her feelings in check.

She agreed with a curt nod.

Ambassador Watson’s look of concern melted into a toothy grin. “Good,” he said, bobbing his head in hearty agreement. He stood and extended his hand to David. “I’ll have Phil give you a call in a day or two.”

As soon as they slipped into the backseat of the Saab, Hulan’s passion overrode her prudence. She knew Peter would be listening, but her emotions still got the better of her. “I don’t need you to protect me.”

“Protect you? I wasn’t protecting you.”

“You were and you know it.”

In the front seat, Peter was all ears. Hulan snapped, “Drive!”

“Where to?”

“The offices of the China Land and Economics Corporation.”

Wordlessly, Peter backed out of the space and pulled out of the compound.

Hulan refused to look at David. Her voice when it came was low and bitter. “You have always tried to shield me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You interrupted my questioning!”

“Maybe I did. But consider this. He doesn’t like you. He wasn’t going to answer your questions. Why do you suppose that is?”

She turned to face him. He could see the tension around her mouth as she spoke. “This is my country and my case.”

“Yes, well, I don’t mean to spoil your day or anything, but you haven’t gotten very far with it. In fact, you wouldn’t have been in there at all if it weren’t for me.”

“Do you know why I hate you, David Stark? It’s because you argue like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer, and you are too.”

She turned away again.

“I guess we’re having our first fight,” David mused. When she didn’t respond, he said, “Although I guess it isn’t really our first…”

She whipped around again, but this time instead of anger he saw the same caution he had seen the day before at the Ministry of Public Security. Her eyes motioned to the back of Peter’s head.

David continued blithely. “Of course, in my country, colleagues always disagree. That is part of an investigation, part of a trial. We are here under unusual circumstances. I think it would be best if we try to be aware of our different methods and work together.”

“Quite.”

“Tell me, Inspector Liu, has the ambassador changed at all since you last met him?”

“He’s still an arrogant American.”

“So that’s why you provoked him?”

Hulan finally smiled. She glanced toward Peter, who had eschewed his colorful epithets in favor of eavesdropping. “In the MPS, we have a lot of leeway in how we interview witnesses.”

“So I’ve heard,” David said dryly.

“But I try to let witnesses speak for themselves. We are a reticent people, Mr. Stark. Everyone in this country understands the power of the MPS, but sometimes no pressure delivers better than domination. I think of it as the power of silence.”

“I do that too. A witness feels compelled to fill the void. I get some of my best stuff that way.”

“Yes, there’s that, but I’m talking about something more. In China, to be allowed your own thoughts, to be allowed the freedom to speak when you want, creates a situation where your guard is down, where your thoughts begin to flow.”

“You think that wouldn’t work with the ambassador?”

“Americans have all the freedom they want, perhaps even too much. I think the ambassador would use that kind of silence to come up with a good story.”

“But why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I look at that man and see a politician. Nothing more, nothing less. I think you just don’t like him.”

“That’s true. There’s something about that man that—what’s the American phrase?—rubs me the wrong way.”

“I’d say it’s the other way around,” David said.

“Perhaps.”

“Going back to my original question, is he different?”

“He acts the same—the same bluster certainly.”

“He doesn’t strike me as a man in mourning.”