The Interior (10 page)

“All right, but don’t count on anything.”

Miles smiled, gloated, convinced he’d achieved victory, then looked back toward his waiting guests. “I bet Mary Elizabeth’s wondering where I am. You mind if we head back?”

As the three men slowly walked along the path leading to the pool, David said, “I’m not saying I’ll do it, but what kind of time frame are we talking about?”

“The visa won’t be a problem,” Miles said. “The Chinese know you and you’ve been there before. We’d love to get you on a plane to Beijing by the end of the week.”

“Jesus! What’s the rush?”

Miles stopped. “Frankly I thought you’d be in a hurry. You’ll be safe in China. And”—Miles allowed himself a small smile—“you could be reunited with Hulan.”

“Actually,” Phil interjected, “we’ve been thinking about this for a long time. We have a window of opportunity in China. We’ve thought about talking to other attorneys, but you know how long it takes to integrate a lateral hire into a firm like ours. You already know us, and we know you. Really the only way we can go ahead in a timely fashion is with someone we know. That’s why you’ve always been our first choice, but you weren’t going to leave the U.S. Attorney’s Office in the middle of the Rising Phoenix cases. Those trials are done now, and let’s face it, David, it’s time for you to move on. So I say, if we’re going to act, let’s do it fast. All the work’s been done on the Knight deal. All we need now are the signatures. So, let’s get you in there in time to deal with the last-minute logistics and to meet all of Tartan’s top players. That will smooth the transition and put you in prime position to continue handling Tartan’s China business. But again, for that to work, we need to move quickly.”

“Do you think the others will want me back after what happened with Keith?”

Phil momentarily dropped his friendly senior-statesman demeanor. “I mean no disrespect to the dead. What happened was bad luck. But let’s face facts. Keith was a mediocre lawyer who barely got enough votes to make partner. You’ve got real talent. We’ve known that for a long time.”

“Still—”

“Let me put it to you another way,” Miles interrupted. “There’s lots of money to be made in China. The lawyers of Phillips, MacKenzie & Stout might as well be the ones to make it.” Registering David’s shocked expression, Miles held his hands palms up. “For once in your life try to divorce yourself from your so-called good intentions. You’ve done your time, you’ve given back to the community and all that. Now you should think about what’s best for you. And Hulan.”

An hour later, the agents whisked David away from the gathering. Once he got home, he opened a beer and sat down ostensibly to watch the news, but his mind was on his conversation with Miles and Phil. Could David work with Miles again? They’d never gotten along all that well. David was born with all the things that Miles had worked hard to attain. David had lived in the city his entire life, had grown up surrounded by culture, had gone to the best schools, had fast-tracked into a partnership at the firm where—at least according to Miles—David had never quite been able to “get with the program.” Of course, David saw it differently. Coming from a position of professional security, David had had little patience for either Miles’s mannerisms or his compulsive desire to be respected and obeyed. Miles was as smart and savvy as anyone David had ever met, but in many ways he was still an insecure farm boy. He could truly be a friend and benefactor to someone like Keith who kowtowed to him, but David had never been able to do that. Then David had done something almost unfathomable to Miles. David had given it all up—meaning the six-, almost seven-figure salary—to go to the U.S. Attorney’s Office, where he felt he could make a difference. But the door, so to speak, had obviously been left open. Miles might not have liked David, but he recognized that he was always among the top billers at the firm.

Phil especially had nailed the situation: it was time to move on. Coming back to Phillips, MacKenzie could benefit both David and the firm, and timing was everything in business. David had been further reassured when Phil had said, “The fees to our clients in China are covering the financial risk for us, so that in the unlikely event that this doesn’t work out, the firm won’t hold it against you and you can come back to the L.A. office. We want this to be a win-win for both parties right on down the line. We’re partners.”

All of this brought back to David that last dinner with Keith, who’d mentioned in passing that the partners had been talking about him. Somehow that knowledge—that link to Keith—made the offer all the more appealing. And then there was the deeper consideration: Hulan. The only way he could deal with her fears was if they were together. If he could hold her in his arms, he knew he could banish the inner demons that haunted her so.

Just then Eddie came in, sprawled out on the couch, and said, “You should do it, you know.”

“What?”

“Do what they say. Get the hell out of here. Take them up on their offer.”

“How did you know…?”

Eddie cocked an eyebrow. “Man, we’re the FBI. You didn’t think you could have a private conversation without us knowing about it, did you?” He paused, then added, “Anyway, for what it’s worth, you should go.”

“How can I?”

“How can you not? Look at it this way, Stark, you’ve got a guy like me on your couch here and a woman waiting for you in China. That’s a no-brainer from where I sit.”

6

I
F HULAN HAD BEEN IN BEIJING, SHE WOULD HAVE COMPLETED
all of her interviews in one day. But she was in the countryside now, where the pace was slow. Activity happened early or late in the day to avoid the brutal heat. Part of blending in meant that she would have to melt into those rhythms. So on Monday morning Hulan once again set out for the village, where she planned to stop at a café and strike up a casual—and hopefully informative—conversation with the owner.

With its sign in English posted on the door, the Silk Thread Café seemed particularly receptive to people from afar:

WELCOME DISTINGUISH

ED GUESTS

GOOD FOOD

COFFEE

It was too hot to sit on the sidewalk, so Hulan stepped inside the single room of the establishment, where several men sat clustered together at two tables. When she entered, she saw one of the men pick up a remote control and change the television channel. From Hulan’s seat in the corner she could see the television, which was hung from the ceiling in one of the corners. On the screen she recognized
The Three Amigos
, an American movie that was very popular in China.

The proprietress took Hulan’s order and soon came back with a pot of tea, a large bowl of
congee
, and condiments. The eating bowl and spoon were filthy and still covered with leavings from last night’s dinner. Hulan poured some of the hot tea into her bowl, swirled it around, then poured the dirty tea on the floor, where others had tossed their leftover bones and gristle and had cleaned their eating utensils in the same manner.

The men seemed to forget about Hulan—either that or they decided she was unimportant—and turned the television back to CNN. Hulan was halfway through her meal when one of the men called out, “You!”

It was rude, but Hulan responded nevertheless with a curt nod.

“Are you looking for work?” the man asked.

“No.”

“Don’t be shy,” he said. “There is no need for that.”

“But I don’t need work.”

The man scowled. “Then why are you here?”

“For lunch.”

“Women don’t come in here
for lunch
,” the man said, his voice filled with innuendo. The other men laughed.

Hulan chose to disregard the insinuation. “I’m not from here,” she said. “I don’t know your village customs.”

Ignoring everything Hulan had said, the man asked, “Do you have proper work papers?”

Faced with his persistence and the curious stares of his table companions, Hulan decided to see where this would lead. “Of course,” she answered. She did indeed have work and residency permits for Beijing, but not for any other village or city in China, so she added, “But not for Da Shui.”

The man waved his hand dismissively. “No matter. It is a small problem easily fixed.” The man pushed his chair away from the table, the legs scraping against the floor. With the other men watching, he stood, crossed to Hulan, and handed her some papers. “You can read, I hope.”

Hulan nodded.

“That is good but not essential,” the man continued. “We”—he gestured to his companions—” we see women like you every day. Some come from close by, some come from as far away as Qinghai Province. These days so many country people go to Beijing or Shanghai for work, but we say there’s no need for that. Come here. We’ll make sure you get work.”

“For a fee? I have no money,” Hulan said, playing along for now.

The man smiled broadly, pleased at how cleverly he’d gotten his fish to take the hook. “No cost to you. The company pays us a small token.”

“What company? What’s the work? I don’t want to work in the fields anymore. That’s why I left my village.”

“It’s a factory. American. They give you food. They give you a room. And the salary is very good.”

“How good?”

“Five hundred
yuan
each month.”

Hulan calculated that would be about $60 each month or about $720 U.S. a year. By American standards the pay was indecently low. By Beijing standards, where there were now all kinds of jobs with American companies, it was still quite low. In the countryside, where a peasant might hope to earn only about 300
yuan
a month or just over a dollar a day—the official poverty level—it was fantastic, especially if this income was considered a second or third or even a fourth to be added to the family pot.

“When can you start?” the man asked.

Hulan studied the contract. It appeared straightforward.

As if reading her thoughts, the man said, “Take it. Read it. Come back tomorrow or the next day or the day after that. We’ll be here.” Then the man went back to his table.

Hulan finished her meal, paid her bill, and left the café. As she walked out of town, she felt the oppression not only of the heat but also of Da Shui itself. Yesterday’s visit with Tsai Bing and Siang had been disconcerting. The people at the Public Security Bureau had been rude. The villagers and the Silk Thread’s proprietress had been closed-mouthed. But none of them had been as disturbing as the men in the café. On this day, as Hulan followed her investigative custom of stepping back and back again from the scene of a crime, she found no answers, only more questions. The main question that now played in her mind was the role of the Knight factory. Miaoshan had worked there. The men of the town made no pretense of hiding the fact that they were earning some sort of kickback from Knight by placing women—with or without proper papers—at that factory.

Just as Hulan had a method for looking at a crime scene, she also had routines for getting questions answered. One was direct, the other circuitous. To ease her mind, she would have to follow both. This afternoon she would make an “official” visit to the Knight factory. Tomorrow she would go back to the café, sign her contract, and see what happened. The idea that either of these plans might be dangerous to her or her baby did not enter her mind.

An hour later, wearing a simple linen dress and a light jacket, Hulan took the bus back to Taiyuan. From the bus stop she hailed a taxi and rode to the Shanxi Grand Hotel, where she arranged for a car and driver for the day. An hour after that she was back on the expressway.

Eventually the driver turned off the main road and followed signs decorated with cartoon figures of what Hulan assumed were Sam & His Friends. The car made one last turn, and the Knight factory rose up stark and white against the sky. In the traditional Chinese manner, a high wall protected the entire compound. The driver stopped at the guardhouse. Hulan introduced herself and opened her MPS credentials. The guard paled, stepped back inside his shelter, and made a call. A moment later the gate lifted, and the car pulled into the compound.

The driver steered down the center road of the complex. On either side were buildings—some immense, others little more than single rooms—each with their own sign designating what they were:
DORMITORY, ASSEMBLY, CAFETERIA, ADMINISTRATION, SHIPPING, WAREHOUSE, COMPANY STORE
. Next to each of these words was a different cartoon character. Since this was still a new complex, the trees were not yet tall enough or broad enough to provide shade. A few shrubs withered against the white walls of the buildings.

The car stopped before the building marked
ADMINISTRATION
. A man with light blond hair and pale skin opened Hulan’s door and said, “Good morning and welcome to Knight International. I’m Sandy Newheart. I’m the project director here.”

Hulan introduced herself and showed her Ministry of Public Security identification. That Sandy Newheart didn’t demonstrate the fear that the guard had shown didn’t surprise her. It was conceivable that Sandy had never heard of the MPS, or if he had, he didn’t realize its power.

“I wish you’d told us you were coming,” Sandy said. “I would have prepared a proper welcome, perhaps even a banquet.”

“That wouldn’t have been necessary,” Hulan said.

Sandy’s forehead crinkled as if he hadn’t understood what she’d said. Then his features smoothed. “Well then, what can I do for you?”

“I have come about one of your employees, a Ling Miaoshan.”

“I don’t know anything about that, so I doubt there’s much I can help you with.”

“Still…Perhaps there’s a place we can talk.”

“Of course. What was I thinking? Please come inside.” As he mounted the steps, he glanced back at the car. “Can I get your driver anything?”

“No, he’s fine.”

With the air conditioning, the lobby was at least five degrees centigrade cooler than outside. Under her lightweight jacket goose bumps popped up along Hulan’s arms. Air conditioning was an extravagance in China, used almost exclusively in Western hotels and businesses. As they walked down a long corridor, Sandy kept up a one-sided dialogue.

“Henry Knight, our founder, came to China for the first time during World War II. He didn’t return until the winter of 1990, just after the troubles at Tiananmen Square. That was a time when most American businesses were leaving.”

“I remember,” Hulan remarked, thinking it odd that Sandy felt compelled to bring up a subject that was still touchy, especially with government officials.

“But China has long held a fascination for Mr. Knight,” Sandy continued as they passed a large room broken into individual work stations, where a flock of nicely dressed Chinese women sat before computer screens. Between the aisles that separated the cubicles walked a handful of supervisors—also women, all Chinese. From this central room Hulan could see four hallways leading outward at the four points of the compass. Sandy turned down the corridor that led to the left. “So at a time when others were unsure, when even our own government was suggesting that America should beware of China, Mr. Knight took a chance.”

Hulan bet he’d also hoped for an extraordinary deal.

“But as you know, things move slowly here, and we didn’t get this place up and running until two years ago.” Sandy stopped before a display of animation cels, products, and a company history. “This is our brag wall,” he explained, then began pointing out the various highlights in Knight’s corporate history.

After years in the lucrative preschool market, Knight had struck gold in the post-war years with the Sally Doll—one of the first baby dolls on the market to drink from a bottle and pee in its diaper. The company had experienced another growth surge during the mid-eighties, when deregulation under Reagan led to relaxed limitations on advertising during children’s programming. But none of the products introduced at that time had experienced the phenomenal success of the Sam line. The action figures had been designed as a team of ten. Sam was the leader, but he was never seen without Cactus at his side. After Cactus there were—in order of military rank—Magnificent, Glory, Gaseous, Uta, Annabel, Notorious, Nick, and Rachel. Ironically, although children were supposed to want all the figures equally or at least in order of rank, the ones with the most common names lagged behind in popularity and sales.

Sandy’s patter came to a close, and he continued down the hall. Following behind him, Hulan realized that the names of the Sam figures were the same as those on the financial papers at Suchee’s. Again Hulan wondered how those documents had gotten into Miaoshan’s hands.

Sandy stopped, pushed open a door, and gestured inside. “Here, this is my office.”

A huge black lacquer desk dominated the sleekly modern room. In front of the desk the room was divided into two sections: to the left, a mini conference area made up of a round table and four chairs; to the right, two couches with a coffee table between them. Sandy took a seat on one of the couches and motioned for Hulan to sit across from him.

This entire experience puzzled Hulan, and she tried to reconcile what she knew about Americans and American business with what she understood as a Chinese woman. In China great value was placed on titles. Sandy Newheart had said he was the project director, and certainly the size and opulence of this office suggested that he was the top person here. But in China it was practically unheard of for someone of importance to meet directly with an unknown quantity, let alone go outdoors to meet that guest. Was he being polite or trying to control the situation?

“Are you the person I should talk to about Miss Ling?” Hulan asked.

“I can take you over to meet Aaron Rodgers. He’s the manager of what we call assembly. I believe that’s where Miss Ling worked.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know her.”

“I didn’t. I just know she didn’t work in the heart.”

“The heart?”

“That’s the area we just passed through,” Sandy explained. “That’s the heart of what we do. Those girls handle all orders from the U.S. They track shipments and money transactions. I doubt that poor girl was ever in this building. But tell me—and please forgive my ignorance—why are you here? Her death has nothing to do with us.”

Only tell one-third of the truth, Hulan thought for the second time since coming to the countryside. “I’m an investigator for Public Security. It’s my duty to investigate suspicious deaths in this province. Ling Miaoshan committed suicide.”

“You’re with the police?” Sandy asked, finally grasping what this was all about.

Hulan tipped her head in acknowledgment.

“But a suicide—” he tried again.

Hulan held up a hand to keep the project director from repeating himself. “You’re absolutely right, but as you’ve noted, we have our own ways in China. I’m here to understand this girl. It will help me if I can see where she worked and how she spent her last days.”

Sandy’s eyes narrowed. His fingers drummed on the armrest. Finally he asked, “Have you met with Governor Sun?”

“No, I haven’t,” she responded, startled by the question.

“Governor Sun Gan represents the province,” he explained. “He also serves as the provincial liaison between American companies and the Chinese bureaucracy, I mean, government. I’m surprised you don’t know him.”

Hulan smiled thinly. “Everyone has heard of Governor Sun, but China is a big country and I haven’t met him.” She stood. “Now, I’d like to see where Miss Ling lived and worked. If you’re too busy, then you can have one of your other workers take me around.”