The Ghost Shift (38 page)

By the time they returned to the kitchen, the women were having a party. Feng was drinking from a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal, and Mei was swaying to a Justin Timberlake song that was being piped through the ceiling. The guard gazed, his mouth open, as if he’d discovered goddesses.

He had done his job so well that Lockhart poured him a glass of champagne.

They ate breakfast around the pool, while Cao stayed in his room. When they had gone to bed, the guard had taken the overnight shift outside his door. The guard was now asleep, so they had replaced him with the gardener. The window was sealed, the door was locked, and Cao was cooperating sullenly; the risk of him breaking out of his room was low. The water was shining blue and green, and the maid had prepared a five-star spread, ferrying it out on trays.

“Won’t the Hong Kong Police search the neighborhood?” Lockhart asked.

“You’re kidding,” said Feng. “Too many important people to upset. They won’t come to this house.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely certain.”

Hearing a rumble of vehicles by the house, Feng dropped her toast and stood. It was the first time that Lockhart had ever seen her agitated. She piled her things on a tray, gulping down what was in her mouth and waving at them to follow. Running toward the house, she pulled back the door and shouted for the maid. There was a flurry of boots on the stone steps, and two soldiers strode onto the terrace, ahead of a green-uniformed officer.

Feng hurried over to meet him, as he looked at Mei. He had dark circles under his eyes and dyed black hair. His eyebrows were set so high on his temple that they lent him an expression of permanent surprise.

“Major General Sun, this is Song Mei and Thomas Lockhart.” Feng pointed at them. “The general is political commissar of the PLA’s Hong Kong Garrison, and he offered us his house for this operation,” she explained.

The general pinched his lips, looking at Mei’s robe as if he’d seen it somewhere before. He wore six rows of ribbons above the pocket on his green uniform and the gold stars of the PLA on his epaulettes. His shirt collar was tinged with sweat in the morning sun.

“He’s ready, General. This way,” Feng said.

“Shouldn’t you change?” Lockhart asked Mei, after Feng had taken the general inside. “He saw the robe.”

“I don’t have anything to wear except a torn Poppy uniform. Everything else belongs to his girlfriend.”

She went to find something less obvious from the collection, picking a pair of pants and a pale blouse. They waited for an hour before Major General Sun emerged, still with his baffled expression. Feng led him toward the steps, but he stopped in front of Lockhart, offering his hand.

“Mr. Lockhart, I would like to talk to you.”

He wandered across the terrace and stood at the edge by the pool, extracting a packet of cigarettes and offering one to Lockhart. He tore the filter off his own, and propped it in the corner of his mouth, the smoke wreathing around him, before affably putting his hand on Lockhart’s arm.

“My condolences,” he said. “Losing a child is a terrible thing. We who have not done so can only imagine the pain.”

“Thank you,” Lockhart said. He thought of Cao, locked up in the house just a few feet away, and wished the man had been on the roof when they’d arrived, so he could have killed him. It didn’t seem like justice to hand him back to the people who had let him grow wealthy.

“You know Henry Martin?” the general said, still puffing. “He is a remarkable man—an original, a brilliant innovator. We need more men like him in China. I’m sorry that he was embarrassed in this way. It was inhospitable.”

“I will pass on your message. I’m sure he will appreciate it.”

“I would like to meet Mr. Martin. Tell him that.” The general patted Lockhart on the back and left, his soldiers following.

“Would you raid his house if you were the Hong Kong Police?” Feng came and sat, calmer now that the general was gone.

“I don’t think so,” Lockhart said. “Why is the PLA so fascinated by Henry Martin?”

“The PLA has interests in lots of enterprises. They probably think he could teach them a few things. Shall we go in?”

Cao sat at a desk with his back to them, writing on a sheet of paper. His face looked pale from his abduction and unsettled sleep, but his clothes were neatly pressed. The guard had found him a set of fatigues, and he’d showered in the bathroom. His eyes passed briefly over Feng and Mei before settling on Lockhart.

“Who
are
you?”

“I’m the man who would have killed you if she hadn’t kicked you in the balls. You’re a big man when you’ve got an army behind you, but she beat your ass bare-handed.”

Cao stood. “I’d like to leave now,” he told Feng.

Lockhart hit Cao as he got close, crunching his fist against the man’s angular jaw. Cao slumped, striking his head on a chair and tumbling to the floor, his split lip oozing. Lockhart flapped his hand in pain—his knuckles had struck Cao’s bone and were already swelling. He didn’t regret it.

“How many did you kill?” he said.

Cao dabbed his wound with one finger. “No one who obeyed the rules was in danger. And why do you care?”

“You asked my name. It’s Lockhart.”

Cao looked at him appraisingly.

“Was that girl a relative?”

“She was my daughter.”

He nodded at Mei. “Is that one too? They both made trouble. This one is a fighter, and the other one.… I remember. She ran a long way before they caught her. She nearly got away.”

Lockhart clenched his fist, but the twinge of pain forced him to restrain himself. “The sentence for murder is death, Cao. It’s what you’ll get.”

Cao climbed to his feet and sat by the desk again, wiping away the blood so that it wouldn’t stain his clothes. “That’s not what the general told me. I’m not under police arrest. I haven’t been charged.”

“You’re in
shuanggui
,” Mei said.

He shrugged. “We’ll see for how long. I told him I would cooperate with your investigation as a demonstration of my loyalty. Those who are self-interested might have led me astray. I am prepared to criticize myself and rededicate myself to the Party’s work.”

They were standing in a semicircle around him, with the guard hovering by the door. Cao was the only one seated. He’d somehow taken a place at the center of things, without being asked.

“You’ve forgotten,” Feng said. “General Sun has departed. We’re the only ones here, and the rules of
shuanggui
are hazy. People have a habit of turning up dead, like in your factories. We might not notice if something hits you. This room’s not suitable for conversation. Let’s continue downstairs.”

The guard shackled Cao again, and they went through the kitchen to the stairs that led to the cellar. It was a dank space, smelling of gasoline. Car tires lay on the concrete. One wall was lined with tools—a power drill, saws, spades, hoes, a lawnmower, a rack of screws. There was barely any light, just the glow under the door.

“Remove your clothes,” Feng said.

“Who are you to tell me that?”

“Do it,” Mei said.

Cao’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if imagining what he’d do to her if the tables were turned, and unbuttoned his military shirt. He bent to untie his laces and pull off his pants and underpants. His body was smooth and unlined, with a small belly and thin legs.

Feng walked to the tools and selected a tire iron. “Hold him,” she said to the guard, who gripped his former boss by the shoulders from behind without hesitation. She swung the tool through the air in one quick motion, and smacked it up through his ribs, into his liver. Cao screamed and fell to his knees on the concrete, clutching his midriff.

“Smart people do stupid things,” she said. “I saw the list of those tablets you sent. They went to the most powerful people in the country—provincial governors, the Army, the Navy, Beijing ministries,
the Politburo, the Standing Committee. Everyone in a senior position was on it, except for one person. He didn’t receive one—because he was the one giving them out.”

Cao was bent over the floor. Racked with pain, his body looked old and frail. He’d stopped protesting and was silent. Feng reached out a foot and rolled him on his back, like a cockroach.

“Chen Longwei. He’s your best friend, isn’t he? Your mentor. The man who let you make a fortune in return for a few million yuan and some favors.”

Cao was still trying to catch his breath, his legs splayed on the floor. He tried to speak a couple of times before managing it. “Let me get dressed. I’ll tell you what you want.”

The guard looked at Feng, who nodded. He handed Cao his clothes, and the man buttoned the shirt. He couldn’t stretch to put on his pants, but he laid them over his groin. He was still gasping in pain.

“I don’t know what they make in there. I don’t ask them. That was the deal. I made sure no one talked and no one got out of there. All I know is that he wanted to use the factory, and he said he’d shut the whole place down if I didn’t help.”

“So you killed your workers for him?”

“Does it shock you? It wasn’t hard. There’s a wall around Long Tan, and we have our own police force. Twenty bodies? It’s nothing. Millions died in the Great Famine. Did that make Mao a criminal?”

The images of Lenin and Stalin had vanished from Tiananmen Square since he’d lived in Beijing, but Mao was still lying in state in his mausoleum. Lockhart looked across at Feng to see how she would answer, but she turned away, ignoring the question.

They left at five, two soldiers in the leading Mercedes, Cao in the rear sedan with Mei. The guard was in a driver’s uniform, having held the door open for her as Cao stalked to the other side. It wasn’t easy to swing her legs in an Alexander McQueen dress with a gold dragonfly wing pattern that finished just below the knee. Its cap sleeves and tight silhouette made it look like a catwalk
qipao
dress. She paired it with black Dior pumps—savoring her last fling with the wardrobe of the general’s mistress.

Cao wore an open-necked silk shirt and a dinner suit, which the guard had brought from his house. Both the Hong Kong police and Cao’s wife had been told to stop looking for him. Mei stared from the window as they drove down Deep Water Bay Road, not engaging Cao. It had taken him two days to make the arrangements, and she had said nothing to him in that time. He’d tried to kill her and he’d murdered her sister. Even if he was useful, even if they did have a mission for the night, she had no intention of offering him any humanity.

A motor launch with a maroon hull and cream leather seats waited by a jetty at the Victoria Recreation Club, and four people climbed on board—one soldier, the guard, and the wealthy-looking couple, out for the evening. Mei sat in the stern as it zipped to Cao’s yacht—a giant version of the same color scheme, with a sleek two-decked cabin and a radar antenna. The crew looked as if they were happy to be sailing, even if it was just a night out in Macau, rather than an oceangoing voyage. The engines hummed without the rough diesel of the fishing boat—more like the Mercedes.

They dawdled through the East Lamma channel, then the captain opened the throttle, the bow lifted, and they left the Hong Kong ferries behind, surfing across open water and dropping anchor in the Cotai marina. In another limousine, on the Ponte de Sai Van Bridge across the harbor, Mei watched Macau light up in the dusk. Neon pulsated up the tulip bulb of the Grand Lisboa casino, a pink and orange temple to luck. The Wynn Macau sat opposite, a restrained wave amid the brashness of the old Portuguese colony. Macau was Las Vegas on the water—bolder, bigger, and wealthier.

“Are you sure he’ll come?” Mei broke her silence.

“He can’t resist Macau.”

In the Grand Lisboa’s lobby, Mei paused to look at a glass-encased Qing sculpture of a horse’s head, while a manager bowed to Cao, offering an escort to the upper stories. It had cost Stanley Ho nine million dollars to reclaim the piece, looted from a Zodiac fountain in the Old Summer Palace in Beijing by French and British soldiers in 1860. The punters streaming into his casino hardly noticed—they were interested only in their own fortunes.