Fire And Ice (22 page)

According to the chart and the Sailing Directions, there were nine such shipyards in the fifteen miles of navigable water depicted, six dry docks, a refinery, and ninety-eight wharfs alongside tank farms, terminals, and factories. Fifteen creeks, canals, and rivers slipped off into the interior, some possibly deep enough for the Dallas Belle. And, as the Sailing Directions dated from 1979, when port development had just begun, the numbers might easily have doubled by now.

The next shipyard had its slips covered by a pair of sheds so broad and tall that the gantries stood under their roofs. One berth was empty. The other contained a cruise liner. In the gray morning, he saw the purposeful wink of welding and cutting torches and fiery cascades of sparks as workmen swarmed on the bamboo scaffolding that crosshatched its wedding-cake superstructure.

The cold rain came down harder. Things could be worse, he thought. December was a month notorious for morning fog. Suddenly the rain became a cloudburst, dense as fog. As it swept in, it obscured the riverbanks, imprinting upon Stone's eye a murky, gray impression of thousands of Chinese commuters under black umbrellas and slick raincoats crowding onto the pontoons of a ferry head.

"Look at all those people." Katherine shuddered. "Millions of 'em. Like ants— God, I want to go home."

Stone said nothing. She had been a good shipmate, quick to help with boat chores and always ten minutes early on watch. She had known when to talk and when not to, and despite her myriad problems, she moved with a brave assurance that he found appealing. But "home" was not an option for a cop who'd been caught riding shotgun for her drugdealer boyfriend. She'd told him about it the second night as Tin Hau pounded through the Taiwan Strait. An assistant DA, hot for her, had warned her in time to flee the indictment.

When at last the squall moved on, he could see fading astern a petroleum tank farm where the Dallas Belle might be unloading. He marked it on the chart. Ahead, on either bank of the river were more ferries, the passengers arriving on bicycles. Then another shipyard, half hidden up a broad creek.

Rain swept the river again, and again he couldn't see a hundred yards. He paced the deck, traversing the yacht, frustrated and confused, his binoculars useless, his chart soaked. After an interminable wait, while shipyards and piers slipped by, unseen, the rain lifted briefly. He glimpsed a coal yard, hundreds of sampans crowding its docks, and then, on the east side of the river, the enormous Shanghai Shipyard, where he searched in vain for the sand-colored Dallas Belle.

The rain descended like a curtain, and again he was blind. When at last it lifted, the Bund stood a mile ahead, rising above the chaos of the river like a Wizard-of-Oz vision of stately colonial banks and trading houses, stone skyscrapers, and a nineteenth-century clock tower. Stone looked back. Astern were miles of riverbank he hadn't seen. The slow-moving yacht stopped and the pilot worked her against a wharf. Stone threw lines to longshoremen, who singled her up and secured a gangway. People's Liberation Army soldiers in green uniforms took up position at its foot, and a customs officer in navy blue boarded. He stamped Stone's and Katherine's visas, which allowed them three months in China.

Stone changed into dry clothes, a business suit sent by Ronald with a note, You dress like slob, sailorman. It fit the cover story that he was scouting sites for a luxury marina. Katherine had to help him knot the first tie he had worn in years. She said, "I guess I'm supposed to wait here. Maybe I'll catch you later."

He packed his papers, letters of introduction, and business cards, took his backpack. " Thanks for everything." He would have embraced her with a friendly hug, but all her defenses were up. He offered his hand.

"Good luck with your family."

A passenger ship had docked ahead of them and the pier was crowded with waiting relatives, watched impassively by the bored-looking PLA soldiers. It was, he thought, despite the washout of his river surveillance, almost too easy. Five soldiers. A couple of plainclothes cops. And a neatly dressed Shanghainese waving from the edge of the throng. Stone worked his way through hugging relatives and cardboard boxes and introduced himself.

"I am William Sit," said the Shanghainese, with a shy smile. "I will be your translator. I am an English teacher. It is certain that your visit will help me a lot in learning modern English."

"Your English sounds great."

"Maybe there is a bit difficulty in understanding the idioms and slangs. You will give me more help and courage."

"You got it," said Stone, hefting his backpack impatiently. "Shall we . . . ?" Sit looked confused. Confusion turned to embarrassment. "Shall we . . . ?"

"Go," said Stone. "Shall we go?"

"Go! Yes. Yes. My friend has a taxi. He will drive us." His friend, who wore a black suit and a chauffeur's cap, was named Wang. Mr. Wang. His taxi was black, shiny, and well kept, and Sit explained as they got in that Mr. Wang drove for a state factory but had taken time off to drive Stone.

"Shall we?" asked Sit. "Shall we go to the hotel?" "Do you have any messages for me?"

"No."

"How close is the hotel?"

"Only one mile."

"Fine." Ronald's letter had said that "certain people" might contact him at the hotel. " Then we'll drive around the waterfront."

"Mr. Wang will drive you if you prefer, but your friends have arranged a boat."

"Okay, let's just hit the hotel and then—"

Sit looked desperate. "Hit?"

"I want to check in and get my messages, and then he can drive us to the boat."

"Shall we?" responded Sit, with a smile.

William Sit spoke to Mr. Wang—explaining to Stone

that he was speaking the Shanghainese dialect Wu—and the taxi drove out of the Waihongqiau dockyard past a long procession of the other ship's passengers carrying their bundles into the city.

"The great changes have taken place in Shanghai," said William Sit as the taxi left the shabby dockyards behind and crossed Suzhou Creek. The rain had lifted again, and from the arching bridge they could see in every direction hundreds of office towers under construction—steel and concrete girders soaring inside cocoons of bamboo scaffolding—and hundreds more completed buildings standing dark. He searched the piers for the Dallas Belle, but saw only passenger liners and excursion boats.

"Shanghai is not the same as the old Shanghai, but perhaps soon we will overtake Hong Kong."

Stone had heard that talk around the Pacific for years. Only first they'd have to wire the city for modern communications; improve the port by inventing some way to deepen the mouth of the Huangpu so ships wouldn't have to offload half their cargo at sea; permit a freely convertible currency; establish a legal system to solve business disputes; and eliminate the grim, damp winters.

"The traffic has been being improved," said William Sit. And in the park beside the river, he told Stone, he could watch tai chi at dawn. Stone had already spotted a landing where the boat could pick him up.

The Peace Hotel, a huge old structure, lowered over the park and the river. Faded grandeur—gloomy coffered ceilings, dark woodwork, and shoddy new partitions—was enlivened by a clientele of Hong Kong salesmen on the make.

Check-in went smoothly. An English-speaking assistant manager plucked Stone from the line and registered him personally. Again, it felt too easy, and he worried about the ultimate price.

Somewhere between Hong Kong and Shanghai he had begun a transition from fugitive sailor to the city man he had been for the many years he and Katherine had lived in New York. Taking stock of the hotel lobby, he realized he almost felt comfortable. It seemed that the ground had stopped rolling underfoot, and his senses had refocused on a more human, warier scale than sailing alone with his wife and daughter required.

"One message, sir. Shall I translate?"

William Sit, who had hovered so deferentially, snatched the paper from the assistant manager's hand. "I will translate. . . . You are invited to breakfast at Huxingting Teahouse." He puffed with pride. "Dim sum. Mr. Wang will drive us."

"Who invited me?"

"Mr. Yu. Consultant to Fuxing Islet container terminal.

Mr. Yu would know many sites for your marina." "I don't have time. I have to get to the boat." "This message says boat not ready."

Stone's jaw tightened. Less invitation than command. "Okay, let's go."

"You no want see room?" asked the manager.

"Later." Stone picked up his backpack and headed for the street. William Sit scampered after him. Stone asked, "Is Mr. Yu a Triad?"

William Sit's mouth dropped. He laughed, covering his lips. "Why ask such a question?"

"Where I come from, waterfront 'consultants' are gangsters." Sit gave Mr. Wang their destination and climbed in beside Stone, clearly upset. Stone asked him, "How'd you get the job translating for me?"

"Friend of wife's cousin," Sit answered, his English suddenly clumsy. There was an elegance about him which suggested he came from an educated family that would have suffered terribly during Liberation, Great Leaps, and Mao's Cultural Revolution. Now, in boom times, a teacher hard-pressed by inflation would seize any opportunity for extra income.

Wang drove them up the Bund and stopped in the narrow streets of the Old Town. They walked to the Yu Garden. Just inside the gate, Sit led Stone across a pool on a zigzagged bridge into a two-story wooden teahouse with dragon-decorated roofs. The tables were crowded with older Chinese and a sprinkling of Western tourists. Middle-aged waitresses carried trays of dim sum around the restaurant.

"Your President Richard Nixon drink tea here," said William Sit.

"Terrific. Is that Mr. Yu?"

At a window table by the pool sat a beefy Shanghainese in a business suit. He had the hard eyes and battered face of a man who won street fights, and was pretty much what Stone had expected: an Asian version of a bad-tempered Irish or Italian mobster on the Brooklyn waterfront. His companion, seated with his flashily draped back to the door, jumped up and crossed the room, hand extended.

"Welcome to Shanghai, sailorman."

"Who's your pal, Ronald?"

"My new 'old friend' Mr. Yu. Mr. Yu no speak English. I no speak Wu. William Sit translate."

Stone did not believe for one minute that a "consultant" to as rich a source of bribes and kickbacks as the Fuxing Islet container terminal did not speak the universal tongue of international shipping. "Let me tell you something, Ronald. That guy speaks English as good as you or me. Why don't we talk face-to-face and save a little time?" Ronald flashed a look at William Sit, and the translator backed out of hearing. The Triad spoke softly. "Sailorman, we on land, now. On land, we no say every little thing we know. Maybe, you, me, we get leg up on Mr. Yu."

"Sorry. Okay."

"Shanghai his town. He think he pull wool on stupid Hongkonger and dumb-ass barbarian. Let him."

"I got it."

They sat with Mr. Yu, who waded impatiently through the introductions, then spoke at length.

William Sit translated: "Mr. Yu welcomes you to Shanghai and wishes you lucky in your quest to locate a yachtsman marina. He is sure that Shanghai offers many such places and that you will be overwhelmed in choosing the best. He has suggestions, which he has conveyed to your boatman, and letters of introduction to show the patrols . . . " Tea was poured and baskets of translucent dumplings spread on the table. Yu picked up chopsticks, snared a dumpling, and spoke again.

"Mr. Yu further says that the Fuxing container terminal, while unable to offer river frontage for a yachtsman marina, would be pleased to invest in such an enterprise—" Mr. Yu stirred, ominously.

William Sit faltered. "Perhaps, I. use the wrong word. By invest, I mean Fuxing would make proper introductions for land your company could rent."

"Words confusing," Ronald said affably.

Stone cut in, "Tell Mr. Yu he's too kind, and that the sooner I board the boat he has so kindly arranged, the sooner I can bring him a profitable deal. Tell him I thank him for his letters, his boat, and this delicious breakfast, and now it's time to go to work." William Sit translated. Yu grunted.

Stone started to rise. "Could you ask Mr. Yu one more thing?"

"Yes?"

"Tell him it is obvious he is an expert with deep knowledge of the port of Shanghai. Could he tell me which of the electric power plants burn natural gas?" Sit asked. Yu growled in reply.

"There are none."

"None?" What the hell . . . "Are you sure he said none?"

"He said they don't allow such dangerous storage facilities in the port itself."

"None?" Stone echoed, stunned. •

Ronald leaned in with an ingratiating smile. "Please could you explain to Mr. Wu that we are very ignorant of Shanghai and could there be such a power plant nearby?" William Sit's elegant features gathered in a grimace that suggested he would rather not question the consultant too closely, and he asked Ronald, "What does gas have to do with marinas?"

Stone saw that Ronald was caught off guard by the translator's unexpected temerity. He stepped in quickly,

shrugging at Yu as he told William, "Ask him. All I know is the bankers want to know." Yu's answer was, "Electricity plants bum natural gas on the Hang-chou Bay. Thirty miles from here."

"At Jianshan?" The Sailing Directions cited a tanker terminal there.

"He say, Yes. Little north of terminal."

Their good-byes were perfunctory, and moments later Stone and Ronald, trailed by Sit at a respectful distance, were zigzagging quickly across the reflecting pool. "Nice go, sailorman. You fast read."

"What happens when new 'old friend' Yu figures out this whole scam is cover to find the gas ship?"

"What scam? Cover super idea."

"You want to build a marina?"

"With foreign money on state land? You bet, sailorman. Beside, I get private place to load boats."

"But the letterhead you printed for me is a fake." "No, no. Mr. Chang make it real company. East-West

Yacht Marina, Ltd. Registered Hong Kong. You vicepresident site procurer."