The Last Six Million Seconds

time being in Hong Kong. They are being given plastic surgery. At an appropriate moment they will be brought back to this country and given new identities.”

Moira nodded, stared at the floor for a moment, then put a hand on Mario’s arm. “You did well, honey. You came up trumps.”

The face on the pillow smiled gratefully.

54

Dear Charlie,

It’s not the way you think. Read this fax. You can be wrong too, you know.

These are strange times. I wept real tears that day in your apartment because I didn’t know anything except I was supposed to save Clare’s life by delivering phony dental records to you. I still don’t know how you guessed I was part of the scam, you really are one smart cop. But I knew next to nothing. All they told me was that she had to get a new identity real fast and those records were the only way to do it. I wept because she was the one caused suffering to three others, and because even if she lived, I knew that I’d lost her.

Take a moment to hear me out, Charlie. All that stuff you say about China raping its people-you think it doesn’t apply to Americans too? Our system rapes; it just uses different concepts to do it. I spent my life patrolling the streets of this city, and it took everything I had, my husband, my daughter and even my good character. When I met you, she was all I had in the world. Nothing to be proud of, God knows, but she called me Mom. What would you have done for your flesh and blood? I think you would have held the world ransom if you’d had to.

I don’t know. Bad as she was, she was more flake than sadist. Heroin, you know, makes monsters.

There I go, blowing the punch line and leaving out the details. I got it all written down. Mario and some Chinese triad boss told me everything. Soon as I got home I typed out all I could remember, which is most of it. It goes like this:

That stuff he told you about Clare convincing the mob to develop the relationship with China was mostly BS. Ever since the Sicilians multiplied their operation by opening up the Russia market, the New York boys have been looking for a way into China. It’s a policy that comes from high up. They got lucky when the 14K asked them to look for best-quality uranium to supply to Xian. Apparently Xian’s been trading with the 14K for a while, mostly supplying heroin. The Mob and the 14K sent a party over with the uranium and some stuff they thought might interest him-free gifts, samples, treasures to the Great Khan, whatever…

Chan read on quickly to the last lines:

Why did we let these subhuman mutants get so powerful?

God help me, I love you. Whether you forgive me or not, I’m coming over on the first flight I can get tourist class. Take extraspecial care of yourself. There’s more to this. I got a feeling there’s something really bad-I mean, even worse-about to go down. Whatever you think of me, don’t die.

Moira

P.S. How did you know that I was conning you with those records? I could have been an innocent courier.

Chan crushed the fax into a ball, threw it in the waste bin in his kitchen. Then he took it out again, reread it. On a sheet of A4 paper he wrote: “Chinese intuition.” He slipped the page into the fax machine; then, softening again, he took it out and added: “You were too good a cop not to know.” It took only seconds to transmit to America.

***

In his office Chan took out the Sony Dictaphone, walked up and down the length of his office while Aston watched and listened.

“File one-two-eight/mgk/HOM/STC status report continued.

I must reluctantly conclude that the overzealous action of the SAS officers stated above has made it difficult, if not impossible, to proceed with the investigation into an elaborate criminal plot of international dimensions that is almost certainly related to the discovery of weapons-grade uranium at Mirs Bay (see related subfile A).”

He stopped under the weight of Aston’s misery.

“You didn’t kill her, did you, Chief?”

“No.”

“So who did?”

“It’s classified.”

At his desk in Queen’s Building Jonathan Wong opened a new black fiberglass briefcase with a centralized combination lock. He rotated the dials until he aligned three eights and the case snapped open. Three eights was not exactly good security, but there was a balance to be struck: Eight was a lucky number in Cantonese.

From inside the case he extracted an envelope with forty-four color pictures. Each photograph measured eight inches by ten inches, and each was a close-up. After examining a few of them with an expression of frozen disgust, he replaced them in the envelope. Taking a slip of paper that bore his name and the name and address of his firm, he wrote: “Mr. Chow, please be so kind as to telephone me on receipt of this package.” He slipped the note into the envelope and resealed it.

Lifting his telephone, he pressed a button and asked his secretary to call a clerk who was to bring a Federal Express package and waybill. While the clerk waited, Wong filled out the waybill, giving the destination of the package with the photographs as “Stocklaw Trading Company, 220 West 57th Street, New York, NY 10019, Strictly Confidential, Personal Attention only: Mr. Daniel Chow, President.” After slipping the original envelope inside the FedEx cardboard package, Wong nodded to the clerk, who took it away. It was eleven in the morning; the package would be on an afternoon flight to New York and would arrive within three working days.

55

Chan classified his unsolved cases into two groups: where the identity of the perpetrator was unknown and he had no leads and where he knew who had done it but lacked crucial evidence. With regard to the second category, in his opinion it was a mistake for the perpetrator to antagonize the investigator to the point where the latter is driven to unlawful means. Emily had been murdered by whoever had framed him. Would Xian have used a Chanel belt?

Behind a banyan tree near the drive at the entrance to Beauchamp Villas, his service revolver in an arm holster, Chan waited for two evenings for the green Jaguar to leave. On the third evening he watched from the shadows while the diplomat drove away at his usual speed at about eight in the evening. He was wearing a dinner jacket and black bow tie. With the Jag’s sun roof open Chan could hear the chants of Gregorian monks fade quickly away. He emerged from behind the tree and walked up the drive. The heat was opressive. By the end of the short walk he was sweating and out of breath, but not only from the heat. Did everyone suffer from molten bowels on his first major crime?

He used his identity card to pass the security at the gate. On the fifth floor he took thin cotton gloves from his pocket and slipped them on; his hands shook as he used a skeleton key for the deadlock and a piece of flat plastic on the Yale. I am committing the first burglary of my career.

Apart from dim light that filtered through from the public lamps on the sidewalk, the apartment was unlit, empty. Closing the door behind him, he breathed in the delicious cool from the silent air-conditioning unit. Sweat cooled on his face and arms. The luxury of space calmed his nerves a little. He took out a small flashlight. He had stopped shaking, but he noted a profound division in his policeman’s psyche: He was an outlaw in another man’s home at night.

He framed me.