The Flower Net (27 page)

“It’s about your son,” David said.

“If you’re going to tell me he got into trouble as a kid, believe me, there’s not much I don’t know. Billy had problems, no question, but things had really turned around for him the last couple of years.”

“The last couple of years?”

“He was doing well in college. Elizabeth and I were really proud of him for that.”

“Mr. Ambassador,” David said heavily, “your son wasn’t in college. He hadn’t attended for two years.”

“You’re wrong,” he retorted.

“I’m afraid not. Inspector Liu and I checked USC’s records.”

“But I wrote the checks…”

“To the school or to Billy?” Hulan asked.

Watson turned his eyes to her. “To Billy,” he rasped. “Oh, my God, to Billy.” The color drained from his face. For the first time since she had met him, Hulan saw a father devastated by grief.

“Your son…” David cleared his throat and began again. “Your son traveled to China every couple of months. Were you aware of that?”

“No! Billy only came home for Christmas vacation and a quick visit in the summer.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Ambassador, but your son spent a lot of time in China. He usually traveled with Guang Henglai.”

“The other dead boy?”

“The son of Guang Mingyun. That’s correct.” David hesitated. “We believe he also traveled with some other people.” He pulled out the list of suspected couriers and handed it to the ambassador. William Watson’s hand trembled as he scanned the list. “These people all had their visas stamped here at the embassy.”

“I’m at a loss to explain that.”

The time had come to tell the ambassador the truth about his son. As David explained the smuggling of bear bile and his suspicion that Billy Watson was involved, the ambassador repeated, “It can’t be true. None of this can be true.”

“Inspector Liu and I are working against the clock,” David said, then explained the situation with Spencer Lee. “I know it’s short notice, but is there any way you can have a few trusted people look into the passport irregularities? We think it’s crucial to the crimes and you’d be saving a man’s life.”

“No way, not ever,” Watson spat out. “Lee has been convicted of killing my son. He’s going to pay.”

The more David and Hulan tried to tell Watson he was wrong, the more adamant he became. But David held his ground: “I can get an order from the State Department. Then you’ll have to start an investigation of the visas.”

“By that time,” the ambassador grated, “my son’s murderer will be dead and all this will be over.”

Phil Firestone came in to say that the president was on the phone.

“We’ll have to continue this later,” the ambassador said.

“One more thing before we go,” Hulan said, rising. “Your son was in business with Guang Henglai. Are you sure you knew nothing about that?”

William Watson’s normally rugged face had crumbled into an old man’s. “I don’t know what to say, Inspector. I guess I didn’t know my son very well.”

Firestone said urgently, “Mr. Ambassador? The president?”

As David and Hulan headed for the door, Ambassador Watson—his finger poised to hit the button on the phone that would bring him the president’s voice—made a last request. “Please don’t tell my wife about this. Elizabeth’s been through so much. It would just kill her.”

18

F
EBRUARY
11

The Crossroads

D
avid and Hulan arrived at the China Land and Economics Tower at nine the next morning. A secretary promptly escorted them into Guang’s overheated office. Tea and sweetmeats were served. Guang had, of course, heard about the arrest and trial of Spencer Lee.

“I am forever in your debt,” he told them. “If there is anything I can ever do for either of you, I would be honored to do it. Please let me begin by hosting a banquet in celebration of your triumph.”

“Before you do that, Mr. Guang, we have a few more questions,” Hulan said.

“But the hooligan is arrested. He will be executed.”

“Attorney Stark and I don’t think that Spencer Lee was responsible for your son’s death,” Hulan said. A grim look came over Guang’s features as she continued. “While we were in Los Angeles, Attorney Stark and I made some interesting discoveries. We hope you can help us understand them.”

“Anything. Anything I can do.”

“This may not be pleasant for you,” she said.

“My son’s death was not pleasant for me, Inspector. There is nothing you can say that will change that.”

“We believe that your son was involved in smuggling…”

Guang Mingyun flinched at the news.

“Not narcotics,” Hulan amended, “but medicines that are illegal in the United States and China.”

Guang’s denials echoed those of the ambassador. Finally, Hulan put a hand up to silence the entrepreneur, explained what the boys had been doing, then said, “We need you to answer some questions.”

Hearing her formal tone, Guang obediently sat up in his chair. Too many years in the labor camp, Hulan thought.

“Do the names Cao Hua, Hu Qichen, or Wang Yujen mean anything to you?” she asked.

Guang look confused. She read down the list of other names they had found in the Immigration computer of people traveling on the same dates as Guang Henglai and Billy Watson.

“I have never heard of them.”

Hulan moved on. “Your son attempted to get one of your brothers in California to sell the bile.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Hulan didn’t give Guang a chance to elaborate. Instead she asked, “What are your connections to the Rising Phoenix?”

“I told you before, I don’t know anything about them.”

“Have you been involved in the smuggling of human beings?”

“No!” Guang’s polished demeanor seemed to be crumbling. Hulan had to keep pushing him.

“Have you been involved with the smuggling of this bear bile? Did you sponsor your son and Billy Watson in this business?”

“How many times can I tell you? I know nothing of this.”

“You were not aware that your son was smuggling products made by Panda Brand, one of your own companies?” Hulan asked.

“I own Panda Brand,” he acknowledged, “but I can’t believe that my son was smuggling anything from there. What’s to smuggle? Panda Brand products are perfectly legal.”

“Bear bile isn’t,” she pointed out.

“I do not know much about each of my businesses, but I do know that our pharmaceutical company does scientific research.” He appeared to regain his composure now that the subject had shifted back to business. “We are one of only five companies in all of China that has received permits for the purpose of investigating the uses and attributes of bear bile. I’m sure there are scientists in America doing similar work. China is trying to save its bears from extinction. Our bears are bred in captivity. When the bears reach maturity, we extract the bile. We do not use the primitive forms of extraction used on illegal farms.

“But don’t ask me to reveal our process,” Guang went on. “It is a secret. Anyway, our country’s plan is working well. The gall produced annually by a single bear is equal to that obtained from killing forty-four wild bears. Over a farmed bear’s five-year production period, two hundred and twenty wild bears are spared. Potentially, thousands of wild bears will be ‘saved’ each year. So yes, we do keep bears and other animals for research and display at Panda Brand, but that doesn’t mean we have done anything wrong. This is why our facility is open to the public. Tourists come from all over to see our little zoo.”

“Then can you explain how we happened to find Panda Brand bear bile being smuggled into Los Angeles?” David asked.

“You are wrong,” Guang said, but there was no mistaking the uncertainty in his voice.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Check my records. We have never manufactured that product for public use,” Guang insisted, “let alone exported it to the U.S.”

“Guang Mingyun, you know our policy,” Hulan said. “Leniency to those who confess—”

“Don’t use those threats on me,” Guang countered angrily. “I spent eight years in prison camp listening to them, and they didn’t change my answers.”

“Then you well know the injustices that can happen in our country,” Hulan continued. She checked her watch. “Spencer Lee is scheduled to die in two hours. I won’t lie to you. He is involved in this somehow, but if he’s executed his knowledge will die with him.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a small box, which she handed to Guang. “Can you tell me what this is?”

“It is the packaging we use at Panda Brand.”

“Can you read what is on the label?”

“It says…” Guang’s voice was aggrieved. “It says Panda Brand Bear Bile.”

“I will repeat,” Hulan said. “Leniency to those who confess.”

Guang’s eyes were moist when he looked up. “Last year I received reports that someone was using our factory to manufacture forged packaging like this box. As we began looking into it, we also found that someone had also been pilfering our stock of bear bile. I have already told you, there is nothing illegal in what we do. We produce bear bile for scientific purposes only.”

“What did you do when you learned about the missing stock?”

“We tightened security. We had no more losses.”

“Did you suspect your son?”

This last was more than Guang could endure. A low moan issued from deep inside him. Then Guang Mingyun shuddered, took a deep breath, and said, “Not until he disappeared.”

“You found something in his apartment, didn’t you?” Hulan asked.

Guang nodded gravely.

“His refrigerator was empty,” Hulan said. “I thought you had sent someone over to take away the perishables.”

“I did. When my man brought everything to the house, I saw the bile. I don’t know why Henglai kept it in the refrigerator.”

“The boys probably just thought it was out of the way,” Hulan said, but Guang wasn’t listening.

“I went back to the apartment myself,” he said. “I found more bile—more than we have ever manufactured.”

David cleared his throat. Guang’s sad eyes turned to him. “We learned yesterday that there are many illegal bear farms around Chengdu. Could your son have had connections to one of those?”

“I don’t know,” Guang said. “But he couldn’t have done all this alone.”

“He had Billy’s help,” David reminded him.

“No, I mean at our factory. He had to have inside help. If you want to know the truth, you should go there.”

“But first we have to stop the execution,” Hulan said. “To save Spencer Lee’s life, will you testify in court about Henglai?”

Guang Mingyun slowly nodded.

Before leaving Guang’s office, Hulan tried to call the jail, but the phone lines were down in that section of the city. She then called the MPS, hoping to reach Zai or her father, but was told they were both out of the office. There was no way of knowing if the petition for the stay of execution had been accepted. It was now eleven-fifteen. David and Hulan had to get to the jail themselves if they were to stop the execution.

Peter sped down alleyways and side streets, trying to avoid the midday traffic on the main roads. After about thirty-five minutes, they turned into the traffic circle they had to pass through to reach the jail. The daily morning free market was just coming to a close. Most of the peddlers were selling the last of their goods at bargain prices, while others were packing up to go home. Between the market and the gates to Municipal Jail Number Five, people lingered in the street, blocking traffic, gossiping, adjusting their purchases in their bicycle baskets, chasing after a runaway child or two. They were waiting for something.

Hulan jumped out of the Saab, pausing just long enough to ask Peter to stay put. Then she dashed through the crowd, urging David to catch up. They had not gone far when a flatbed truck rolled into the circle. Hulan saw Spencer Lee standing in the back of the truck with his hands shackled behind him and a wooden placard mounted on his back that declared his misdeeds in bold red characters. He was a murderer, a conspirator, a counterrevolutionary committed to corruption, a black mark on the People’s Republic of China. The traditional execution “parade” had begun.

The people in the intersection reacted as though the circus had just come to town. Peddlers abandoned their stalls, knowing no one would steal from them. Mothers stopped their gossiping, picked up their children, and gathered around the truck, following its intentionally slow progress around the circle. As David and Hulan elbowed their way through the crowd, the people threw themselves wholeheartedly into their expected role.

“You corrupt so-and-so!”

“Death to the murderer!”

“To the killer the same fate!”

And Spencer Lee, who had never shied away from a performance, gave it his all. He shouted to the crowd that they were cowards. He called out to a winsome young woman that she was lovely and he would be happy to take her as his wife. Shouts of “Cow dung!” and “Hooligan!” met his proposal. Spencer Lee held his head high, smiled broadly, then burst into an aria from a Peking Opera. His audience was thrilled. He was one of the best doomed men they had ever seen.

David and Hulan reached the side of the truck. They each found a handhold and let themselves be pulled along as it continued through the crowd and off the main thoroughfare.

“Spencer!” Hulan called. “Spencer Lee!”

Hearing his American name through the cacophony, the young man looked out over the sea of faces.

“Spencer, we’re down here. Look!”

“Inspector Liu, Attorney Stark!” Lee laughed crazily. “I go to my death. You are here to celebrate, correct?”

“No! Spencer, listen. We’re here to stop this,” Hulan said.

A voice called out, “Shut up! Let the man sing!”

Spencer stared out at the mass of people who pressed against the truck, slowing its progress, then he shifted his gaze back to Hulan. His swagger left him and he looked like what he was—a very young man going to his death. “It’s too late, Inspector.”

“I
can
stop them!”

Spencer smiled. “You can’t. I can’t. You see, I was wrong.”

“Tell us in Chinese!” someone shouted. “We all want to hear.”

“I am from the Ministry of Public Security,” Hulan yelled. “Let me through. This man is innocent!”

“She must be his real wife,” someone called out. The crowd laughed.

David didn’t understand the Chinese words, but he could see that they would never get to the gate unless the people let them through. “Move!” he shouted. “Get out of the way!”

He felt someone jab an elbow into his side. David lost his hold on the truck and fell back into the crowd. A man hissed, “Go away, foreigner. You have no place here.” David shoved the man aside and grabbed for the truck.

“Tell us the story of your guilt,” a voice trilled. “Confess before you die.” The people sent up a loud roar in support of this suggestion, but Spencer Lee ignored them, looking over the front of the truck’s cab to his final destination. There wasn’t much time left before they would reach the high gates at the end of the street.

“I didn’t kill anyone,” he admitted at last.

“We know,” David said.

“I just did what I was told. They promised I would be protected. Do you understand?”

“Who? Tell us who!”

Spencer avoided their questions. “Everything you said about the
Peony
was true. I hired the ship. I was there when the immigrants were loaded. I made them sign their contracts. But that was all.”

“The bear bile?”

“A new business for us. A mistake for me. Obviously.”

“We’re going to stop this,” Hulan vowed.

Spencer Lee looked down at her. “You can’t. It was fixed. It was fixed from the beginning.”

“
How?
”

“The embassy. Your ministry. What does it matter now?”

The crowd was getting impatient.

“Criminal!”

“Black heart!”

“Hooligan! Hooligan! Hooligan!”

“Country bumpkin!”

This last caught Lee’s attention. His head jerked up. He looked out at the faces and singled out the man, a vegetable peddler, who called out the insult again. “You!” Lee shouted. “Who are you calling country bumpkin? You can’t even afford a stick to beat your drum. You have to use your penis!” The crowd broke into cheers. Even the peddler laughed. “Take your stinking fart words back to your own outhouse,” Lee yelled. “You’re smelling up the whole village here!” People congratulated the peddler for eliciting such entertainment from the dead man.