Biomedical Research Institute, invited an eminent American microbiologist, Lieutenant Colonel Jon Smith, M. D., to visit his institute and speak to his researchers. He?”
Wei Gaofan interrupted, “When did the Americans begin to give military rank to scientists? Is this another example of the warmongering of?”
“The Colonel,” Niu snapped back, “is a medical doctor and works at the United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, a world-renowned Level Four installation similar to our biomedical establishments in Beijing and Shanghai.”
The general secretary supported the Owl: “I know Dr. Liang well from my time in Shanghai. We can trust his judgment concerning whom his researchers need to hear.”
“Actually,” Niu continued, “Dr. Liang has some doubts about the American.” He went on to repeat what General Chu Kuairong had told him.
“I tend to agree with Major Pan’s first assessment of the matter. Dr. Liang is something of an old rag man, always jumping at shadows.”
“You take a possible American spy very lightly, Niu,” Shi Jingnu criticized, his gaze flicking from one colleague to the other to gauge their reactions.
“The key word here is ‘,’ ” Niu answered, ignoring Shi and addressing the room in general. “We shouldn’t have quite as much faith in Major Pan’s ” as our Public Security Bureau chief does. It’s his — and Pan’s — job to jump at shadows. It’s not our job.”
“So what did you decide?” the secretary’s disciple wanted to know.
“I have instructed General Chu to have Major Pan keep a close eye on Colonel Smith. I’ve not authorized them to arrest and interrogate him.
First they must present me with concrete evidence of sufficient gravity.
These are sensitive times, and at the moment we have an American government disposed toward peace and cooperation.”
He did not mention the Public Security agent who had gone missing in Shanghai. So far, there was nothing to tell, and he wanted to add no support to whoever was vacillating over the human-rights accord.
There were nods of general agreement, even from Shi Jingnu and Wei Gaofan, which told him whoever was considering opposing the treaty at this late date was not yet ready to commit himself openly.
Wei, however, could not resist a final word of caution. His narrow eyes were slits as he said, “We must not appear too eager to cooperate with the Americans. Remember, shadows can be dangerous.”
Chapter Six
Twilight had deepened into night. In an expensive Shanghai suburb, Yu Yongfu paced across his study, gazing out through his French doors at the garden. The scent of freshly cut grass floated in. Floodlights illuminated the specimen plants and trees, sometimes from above, sometimes from beneath, seeking perfect harmony. This English garden was a replica of one created for a British tea tycoon in the early twentieth century, whose mansion was demolished long ago. Yu had bought the plans and enjoyed showing the renowned landscape to his Western guests.
But tonight, it gave him little solace. He checked his Rolex every few minutes.
A tycoon at just thirty-four years, Yu looked even younger. Trim and athletic, he worked out daily in an exclusive health club near his trade and shipping company — Flying Dragon Enterprises. He watched his weight as closely as he watched the international stock, currency, and commodity markets, and he dressed in slim Italian suits custom-made in Rome. His regimental ties and ankle-high dress boots were handmade in England, his shirts in Paris, and his underwear and pajamas in Dublin.
He had risen to this rarified affluence in the last seven years. But then, this was a new China … a brash, self-indulgent China … a very American-century China … and Yu considered his attitudes, business methods, and ambitions all American.
This had given him little comfort when his man, Feng Dun, called yesterday to tell him about agent Mondragon and the missing invoice manifest. The Dowager Empress venture had been risky, he had known that, but the profit involved was stratospheric, plus there would be enormous guanxi, because the cargo was connected to the illustrious Wei Gaofan himself, a longtime powerful member of the Standing Committee.
But now, something was very wrong. Where was that blasted Feng? Where was the manifest? The death of ten thousand cuts to the one who had given it to the American!
“Are you all right, husband?”
Yu whirled to snap at his interfering wife and stopped. That was not the kind of wife Kuonyi was or ever would be. Theirs was a modern marriage, a Western marriage.
He managed to control his voice. “It’s that damnable Feng. He should’ve been back from Taiwan by now.”
“The invoice manifest?”
Yu nodded.
“He’ll get it, Yongfu.”
Yu resumed pacing, shaking his head. “How can you be so sure?”
“That one could bring the devil back from hell. He’s invaluable, but he’s also dangerous. You must never trust him.”
“I can handle Feng.”
His wife stopped her response, and Yu froze in his pacing. A large vehicle had driven into their walled courtyard.
“It’s him,” he told her.
“I’ll wait upstairs.”
“Yes.”
In China, despite the law of the Party that proclaimed women fully equal to men, to treat one’s wife like a partner was considered weak. Yu forced himself to sit behind his desk. He assumed a composed mask as he heard the maid open the front door.
Measured steps crossed the hardwood floor, coming toward his study, and a large man appeared in the open doorway as suddenly as if he had materialized there. Unusually light skinned, he had close-cropped hair that was ashy red mixed with stark white. He was tall — perhaps three inches over six feet — and powerfully built, but he was hardly heavy — a muscled two hundred pounds or so. He dwarfed Yu Yongfu, who scowled up at him.
Yu made his voice harsh, as befitted an important employer. “You have it?” Feng Dun smiled. A small smile, nothing more, as if pasted on the face of a wood marionette. He padded across the study to a leather armchair and sat with hardly a sound.
His voice was low and whispery. “I have it … boss.”
Yu could not suppress a sigh of relief. Then he held out his hand and made his voice stern. “Give it to me.”
Feng leaned forward and handed him the envelope. Yu ripped it open and scanned the contents.
Feng noted the hands trembled. “It’s the real manifest,” Feng assured him. His light brown eyes were almost colorless, giving them the appearance of emptiness. They darkened and focused on Yu’s face. It was a stare few had been able to meet.
Yu was not among them. He quickly looked away. “I’ll lock it in my safe upstairs. Fine work, Feng. There’ll be a bonus in it for you.” He stood.
Feng stood, too. He was in his late forties, once a soldier and career officer who had started as an “observer” in the American war against North Vietnam and the late Soviet Union. He gave it up when he realized there was far greater profit in the profession of mercenary in the would-be armies of the restless Central Asian republics, particularly as the Soviets collapsed. He considered himself a good judge of men and situations, and he was underwhelmed by what he saw in Yu Yongfu.
As they walked through the study’s doorway, Feng said, “I suggest you burn the manifest. That way, no one
