White Ghost (21 page)

L
ew Fung-hao's back felt like a rusted hinge as he pried himself out of the economy seat he'd occupied on the flight from San Francisco. Even though he stood to earn hundreds of thousands of dollars in the next few days, he couldn't find it in himself to spend any of it for business or first class. And he found it confusing, wondering, as always, how much of himself was composed of character and how much of mere habit.

As he approached Passport Control, Lew was thankful he'd obtained American citizenship and traveled on a U.S. passport, for the immigration officer scanned it and stamped it without glancing at either his name or his face and waved him through.

Memories began to press in on him as he looked at the uniformed soldiers and at the place names on the arrival and departure boards. He knew the grip of the past would've hurt worse if he'd landed in the south, in Guangdong or Shantou, where the Red Guards humiliated him and drove him from his professorship. Nonetheless, he had to fight off those and other images and remind himself that he had survived, and that he would survive, for the stiffness that plagued his joints hadn't yet impaired his mind.

Lew approached a money exchange booth and traded a thou
sand dollars for yuan. It offended him that he should have to carry pictures of Mao and the other gangsters, even if only on currency, so he stuffed the bills into his wallet without counting them.

Morning sunlight reflecting off the pavement and wing-shaped steel of the Shanghai Pudong Airport greeted him as he stepped from the terminal and merged with the mass of travelers. He shielded his eyes as he walked along the sidewalk to the taxi queue.

A few minutes later, he leaned down toward the passenger window of the taxi that came to a stop in from of him and asked the driver, “How much to Nantong?”

“Just you?”

“Only me.”

“Twelve hundred.”

“Eight hundred.”

“A thousand.”

Lew counted out the yuan from his wallet, showed it to the driver, then slid it into his shirt pocket. The driver got out of the cab and looked for Lew's luggage to put in the trunk. Lew held up a zippered canvas bag to indicate that was all he had, then climbed into the backseat. And as soon as the taxi left the airport grounds, Lew pushed the duffel against a rear passenger door, rested his head on it, and curled up on the seat.

Lew didn't sleep as much as descend into a jet-lagged, gray daze of jumbled images and road vibrations. Later, he drew in a breath of the sea air and guessed that he was near the mouth of the Yangtze or, perhaps, was only dreaming he was.

In the early afternoon, Lew heard the taxi driver's voice calling to him.

“We're near Nantong. Where do you want to go?”

Lew pushed himself up, withdrew a notebook from his bag, and read out “36 Yang Lao Lane.”

The driver continued on for another ten minutes, until he was at the edge of the city. He pulled over next to an old man sitting on a mat on the sidewalk, repairing shoes.

“
Shifu
. Do you know Yang Lao Lane?”

The old man smiled. He seemed pleased that he'd been called master in the old, respectful way. He pointed east, toward a commercial district.

“How far?”

“About a kilometer. If you come to the bridge over the Haohe River, you've missed it.”

The taxi driver continued, slowing to read street signs until he finally turned right. He crept along while he and Lew peered at house numbers until the driver stopped at number 36. Lew handed the cash to the driver, then picked up his bag and stepped onto a narrow sidewalk. He found himself standing in front of a high wall behind which he could see the upper floor of a modern, stucco two-story house.

He pressed the buzzer and waited until an elderly housekeeper opened the gate.

“
Amah,
” he said. “I'm Lew Fung-hao.”

The
amah
nodded. “Please come in. Mr. Wu is at the Efficiency Trading office.”

From inside the gate, Lew could see a generic house that he knew he could've found anywhere the Chinese diaspora had settled: in Taiwan, in Thailand, in Vancouver, or in Monterey Park, California. Oversize, salmon colored, with a front courtyard, large double-paned windows, and a garage for two cars. Although he had no particular interest in the meaning of architecture, it seemed to him for a moment as though the Pacific Rim had become a single country with a unified culture and it gave him an apprehensive feeling that he didn't understand.

As he entered the anonymous house, he saw the interior was true Chinese in the late-nineteenth-century Shanghai style.
Dark solid wood furniture, simple in form and elegant in style. He glanced toward the dining room and was stunned by a thirty-foot-long fine-grained wood table made from a single slice of what must have been an ancient hardwood tree. Each chair was nothing but a two-foot stump cut from a thick branch and stood on end.

Lew couldn't imagine its cost, but he could guess its route: cut down by poachers in Laos or Cambodia, forestry officials paid off, sold to Thai traffickers, trucked through Thailand to a shop where it was smoothed and polished, then smuggled into China by truck or boat.

How much? Lew wondered. Fifty thousand dollars? A hundred thousand? Maybe more. From that piece of furniture alone Lew concluded that Old Wu wasn't a modest man.

Just after the
amah
escorted Lew into a sitting room and had served him tea, Wu charged in. Lew looked up to see a man a few years older than himself wearing a white shirt, dark tie, and black, creaseless slacks. He wasn't sure he liked Wu's looks. Chubby faced, broad nosed, with a full head of hair in disarray. Gripped between his index and middle fingers were the remains of a still-smoldering American cigarette and under his arm, a worn leather briefcase. To Lew, he seemed rushed and undisciplined and, therefore, unpredictable.

Lew rose and reached out his hand.

Wu accepted it saying, “Good to meet you. I'd been expecting Ah Tien again. I hope he's well.”

“He's fine.” Lew let his face fall. “There was a death in his family so he couldn't travel.”

Wu gestured for Lew to sit and took a chair across from him.

“I know you're anxious to know where we stand.”

Lew nodded.

“We expect the chips to arrive the day after tomorrow. We've
received regular communications from the captain since he left Taiwan. Everything is normal.”

“And the white powder from the south?”

“That, too, is on its way.”

Ten minutes later, Wu delivered Lew to the front steps of a small hotel. Lew walked across the worn marble floor to the reception desk, surrendered his passport to the clerk, and filled out the registration form. Key in hand, he walked to the tiny elevator, then found his third-floor room where he lay down. As he drifted his way toward sleep, he thought again of the disheveled man and his rare wood table. Its presence in the house would prompt every visitor to ask where he got the money, and any answer Wu gave would raise suspicions. Wu now struck him as a man who invited scrutiny for the pleasure of deflecting it, and he knew that such a man could neither be trusted nor relied upon.

G
age's cell phone rang with a call from Cobra as he and Kai waited in his room for General Zhang and Commander Ren to wake up from their naps. In the reflection of the mirror above the desk where he sat, Gage could see Kai sitting on the edge of the couch, her attention seemingly turned inward, perhaps occupied by thoughts that had come to her as they walked along the river.

“It looks like Eight Iron was planning to make a move on the heroin,” Cobra said. “The rider he sent along was ready to put me out, but I got him first.”

“Dead?”

Cobra laughed. “Only to the world for a while.”

“Hold on.” Gage made a scribbling motion with his hand and Kai retrieved a notepad and a pen.

“How is it traveling?”

“In two First Auto Works heavy transport trucks. Old-style, snub-nosed cabs. Double wheels in the back. Gray, with painted red lions on the cab doors. The beds are framed by wooden stakes and covered by a green canvas. Yunan Province plates. I'll send you photos and bring the numbers with me.”

“When's that?”

“Late tonight, maybe early tomorrow morning.”

“We're at the Nantong Center Hotel. I'll book you a room. Let's meet downstairs for breakfast at eight o'clock.”

“What about Kasa? Should Kai let him go?”

Gage thought for a moment, then said, “That's as good a way as any to clue Eight Iron in that he's lost his link to the heroin.”

“I just hope he trusts you to do the damage to Ah Ming you promised and stays out of it.”

“How about have someone keep an eye on him just in case. Let Kai know when you've got it set up and she then can have her people cut him loose.”

“Has she been honoring your understanding?'

“I'd say she's been very well behaved.”

“Maybe not for long,” Kai said. “Tell him you tried to deflect me to a car thief.”

“Maybe not so well behaved after all. I'll see you in the morning.”

After Gage disconnected, he realized Kai's last line didn't have its usual snap, and when he looked up, she was staring at him in the mirror. Then her eyes lost focus like she was looking past him at something in the far beyond. He had the feeling she was near a moment of insight, poised at some kind of threshold. He watched her. A minute passed, then Kai's eyes came awake again and her face reddened like she'd arrived with great anticipation at a party a day too early or a day too late. It lasted only an instant, then a somber expression replaced it.

“Silence,” she finally said. “My mind just went silent.” She looked at Gage. “For years it seems my thoughts have raced from one thing to another. Nonstop. Especially around men. Like a gambler or maybe like a prospector, except I never win and never find the gold.” She paused, then took in a long breath and exhaled. “Silence. Who would have thought? Maybe that's what
I've been looking for all my life. A silent moment like that with a man, in a room or walking along a river.”

Kai turned toward the window overlooking the city. “That could be the real reason I came along with you. Until now I thought it was just sex or adventure or something forbidden or out of reach that got me here.” She looked back at Gage. “It was just the opposite. I needed a safe place to feel that unmoving moment, where I could stop trying to justify myself.”

“If you stay with Somchai, you might not ever have one again.”

“I know.” She sighed. “Our life has been about money and politics and business, and getting more and more. But I ended up with too much of everything and none of what I really needed.” She sat down in the desk chair and looked at herself in the mirror. Finally, she shook her head and said, “I can't believe I actually said that out loud.” She glanced up at Gage. “I think the twisted rope that has tied me to him all these years may have just come unwound.”

K
asa lay on a cot in the eight-by-eight storage room attached by a chain running from his ankle to an industrial lathe bolted to the warehouse floor. He was watching the third to the last video of the twelve-volume
San Kuo,
The Three Kingdoms,
a tale of the ancient struggle among the Wei, Shu, and Wu warlords for control of China.

Kai's bodyguard appeared at the door and pointed a semiautomatic at him.

“It's time to leave.”

“Right now?” Kasa said, without looking over. “I have two episodes left. Maybe you can come back later.”

The bodyguard stiffened, recognizing that Kasa's gesture was a feint, but not sure what his next move would be.

“Kneel down on the floor and put your hands behind your back.”

The bodyguard had tried to sound casual and businesslike, but he knew that Kasa could hear the strain in his voice.

Kasa complied and the driver stepped into the room and handcuffed him.

After taking two steps toward the threshold, Kasa stopped and looked back at the television. He smiled as one of the warlords said, “I will kill him while I live, or die doing it,” then walked out.

They urged Kasa through the warehouse and out to the car where the driver was waiting. They drove him into central Chiang Rai and released him next to a crowd of Japanese tourists in front of the Monkey Wat. The driver reported in to Kai as they sped to a bar where they bought each other whiskeys to soothe their fears. Once calmed by alcohol, they surveyed the prostitutes sitting together around a table in the corner. They chose two sixteen-year-olds, paid the bar owner his buy-out fee, bought two bottles of cognac, and walked with the girls to their upstairs room.

The driver first handed the girls a hundred baht each for an hour, then looked at the bodyguard and gave the girls a thousand each for the night.

Kasa would surely be gone by morning.

T
EN MINUTES AFTER HE WAS DROPPED OFF AT THE TEMPLE
, Kasa arrived at Eight Iron's Chiang Rai office on the bank of the Mae Kok River. He met with the manager, and then called Eight Iron in Bangkok.

“I need you to go meet our people in Kunming,” Eight Iron said. “There's a problem. We've lost the trucks, and the police found Luck overdosed in an alley with a syringe in his pocket. He's under guard in the government hospital. Moby is waiting for you.”

Kasa took a company van from behind the building and drove to a nearby service station, filled the tank, and checked the oil and tires. The manager was waiting with a stack of yuan when Kasa returned. He took the money, collected three mobile
phones, a semiautomatic pistol and a box of bullets, then raced north toward Mae Sai, Burma, and China in the far beyond.

For the entire first hour of the drive, as he pushed through the dust and exhaust and swerved around slow trucks and oncoming traffic, he fingered the tip of the bullet that he hoped would soon blast a hole in the back of Cobra's head.