Whispering Shadows (26 page)

She nodded. A dinner with Victor Tang, why not? Her husband wasn't sharing everything he knew, she could tell. The only other person she could think of who would know about Michael's secret life in China was Tang.

Maybe it was all her own fault, Elizabeth thought. Maybe this was just the end of something that had started much earlier. She was wondering when exactly she had stopped asking questions. It must have been after the wedding, when her father-in-law told her in plain words that in the Owen family women were highly regarded but not involved in anything that concerned the company—and the company, Elizabeth had to learn soon after, was what the family was all about. It was not a time to challenge the orders of an old patriarch, not in Wisconsin, anyway, and she did what was expected of her. Gave birth to a son. Raised him. Hosted guests, entertained business partners, organized charity events for Michael's schools and the hospital. Enjoyed, at least to a certain extent, the life and privileges of being the wife of the local magnate. Somewhere along the way, she thought, one of her greatest strengths got lost, her inquisitive, curious mind.

She should have raised questions. She should have challenged her husband and her son. She should have gotten involved in their arguments early on, trying to mediate between them. It was too late now. Nothing would bring Michael back, but she wanted to know the truth. Who killed him and why? She owed it to her son—and
to herself—to find out. Her sense of guilt demanded that much. She
had
to talk to Victor Tang.

XXIII

The second martini after the Owens had left had been one too many. He had emptied the glass in two long gulps and could still feel the clear, cold taste of the gin in his mouth. He would have liked nothing better than to spit it out in a high arc into the water of the harbor beneath. He took the few steps down to the ferry stop, bought a ticket, and walked down the heavily juddering and squeaking bridge onto the 9:30
PM
ferry.

It was not that he felt unwell, quite the opposite, in fact. He felt the pleasant and unfounded happiness that alcohol can conjure up. But he knew this feeling too well to trust it. He knew how quickly it could turn to an equally unfounded low mood with him. He had to concentrate now. He wanted to think about the conversation with the Owens and Tang's invitation, and he needed a clear head for that, not an artificially stimulated or depressed mood. How did Tang know about the signed confession? He must have a very good contact in the upper ranks of the police. The ferry sounded its muffled horn three times and started reversing. After making a labored turn, she finally set off into the night. Paul could tell exactly when the captain turned the engine up to full speed ahead. He enjoyed the familiarity of this moment. If only he were going to see Christine, instead of Zhang who was waiting for him in Yung Shue Wan. He would visit her in her office tomorrow on his way to see the Owens. He wanted to take her in his arms, touch her, and bury his head in her neck, if only for a few seconds.

The green and white pier on Yung Shue Wan shone brightly in the darkness and was almost deserted. Hardly anyone wanted to take the ferry back to Hong Kong at such a late hour. Zhang was leaning against the railing, and it looked like his eyes were closed. Paul was a little shocked when he saw him. He looked tired, exhausted, and even smaller than usual, with his shoulders drooping weakly and his head slightly tucked in as though anticipating some calamity. Paul felt that his friend had visibly grown older in the last few days.

Only the joy and relief reflected in his friend's eyes when he saw him gave Paul comfort.

They walked away from the pier, past the Man Lai Wah Hotel, the post office, and the Island Bar, to Sampan. The waiter greeted them with a brief nod and led them to a table right by the water. Paul ordered some fried noodles, a sweet and sour soup, some bok choy vegetables, chicken with cashew nuts and peppers, and told Zhang about the last few hours.

Zhang listened in silence.

“I thought about the conversation I had with the Owens the whole time I was on the ferry,” Paul said at the end, “and there are a few things I don't understand. Why did Richard Owen not want to answer my questions? Why was Elizabeth not just a grieving mom but so angry at her husband? And most of all, what is Tang up to? Why is he inviting me to dinner?”

“I suspect he's heard about our investigating and wants to find out what we know,” Zhang said.

“But from whom?”

Zhang thought for a moment. “I can only guess Anyi,” he said at last. “They know each other, and who knows how close they are?”

“I can't imagine that. She's frightened of him. You didn't see her face when she was talking about him.”

“If Tang has something to do with the murder, and Anyi knows something, the safest place for her to be is near him.”

“Why do you think that?”

“That would show him that she's changed sides, that he can trust
her. A sign of her submissiveness. Like an animal that rolls over on its back when it realizes that it has lost a fight. It hopes that the opponent will show mercy.”

Paul shook his head decidedly. “I didn't get that impression from her. She's not the type who gives in. I think it's more likely that she's in hiding somewhere.”

“In hiding? From Tang? Impossible. Sooner or later he will find her and treat her like an enemy and she . . .” Zhang did not finish his sentence.

“And she?”

“And she will not survive.”

“What do you mean?”

Zhang cocked his head and looked at him as if he wondered if Paul was being serious. “She would disappear without a trace. And no one would ever hear anything of her again.”

“Aren't you exaggerating?”

“Paul. You don't know who we're dealing with. You have no idea,” Zhang said loudly and unusually insistently. “You don't know about people like this.”

Paul watched his friend sitting bent low over the fried noodles as he pushed his plate to one side and stared at him helplessly. Where had the pleasure they felt in meeting again gone? Paul thought he could see a flicker of it in his eyes.

“Do you know Tang?”

“You asked me this question once already, two days ago,” Zhang replied, still worked up.

“Yes, but you never answered it.” Why was he being so testy? “And you don't have to reply now either,” Paul added in a conciliatory tone. “I know that you would never keep anything from me. It's just . . .” He searched for the right words. “I'm not used to seeing you so upset. I'm worried about you.”

Zhang looked away. He stared in silence at the half-empty plate of bok choy, the bowl of soup, the chicken that they had not touched yet. “Yes,” he said after a long pause. “I know him.”

“How?”

“From Sichuan. We were in the same work brigade in a village in the mountains during the Cultural Revolution.”

“And?”

Zhang lifted his head and looked at him once more, but his expression was immeasurably tired and sad.

“And nothing,” he said at last. “It was not a happy time.”

“Why didn't you say so before?” Paul was amazed at the relief in his own voice.

“You know how I dislike talking about it,” Zhang replied. “I don't enjoy remembering those years. I'm sorry.”

“At least now I understand why you're always so unnerved whenever Tang is mentioned.”

“There's something else you ought to know,” Zhang said after he had calmed himself a little. “We're not just dealing with a very powerful person, we're also flouting one of the most important rules in our culture.”

“What do you mean?”

“We haven't formed any alliances. We are alone, you and I. Only crazy people dare to challenge the authorities in China without building a network before that.”

“Who should we have tried to build a network with?”

“No idea, but it's too late now anyway. It's certain that Tang has not only friends but also opponents and enemies in the party, in the administration, and among the rich people in the city. You know how it is in China nowadays: There are different factions and interests that fight each other. They fight about money and power, from the politburo to the smallest party cell. I've seen these power struggles for years in the police. I have no idea who Tang's opponents could be and where they are. In Shenzhen? In Sichuan? In Beijing? I'm convinced they exist and that, if we find enough incriminatory leads, evidence, or witnesses, they are our only chance.”

They ate their sweet-and-sour soup in silence.

After a while, Zhang asked, “Did you hesitate before you ac
cepted Tang's invitation?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Out of fear. The dinner could be a trap.”

Paul was disconcerted. Until then, he had not thought for a moment that his personal safety could be compromised. He had seen himself as an outsider until now, as someone who just happened to be able to help a stranger, and someone who was standing by his friend, not as an interested party or an accessory and certainly not an active party whom someone could feel threatened by. “I hadn't thought about that at all. Do you think that's possible?”

“It's not likely, but it's not out of the question.”

What made Zhang think that there might be a trap? Paul had traveled through China for almost thirty years now and he had never felt threatened or worried about his own safety. The very idea of it was so unpleasant that he did not consider it for long. “No. I'm just interested in seeing what will happen, and what Tang wants from me. But I don't feel frightened. Not a bit.”

Paul called for the check and paid.

They did not speak on the way home to Tai Ping. It seemed to Paul that each man was deep in his own thoughts. Zhang took a deep breath several times and seemed to be about to say something, but nothing came out.

———

Paul lay under the mosquito net and concentrated all his attention on the silence. He had turned off the fan and opened the windows wide. He thought about the nighttime ferry ride and the short walk from the ferry point to the village; he thought about his walks on the Lo So Shing Beach and the sounds from his garden at night; the voices of the night, the smell of the sea, and the humidity of the air, which had him sweating even while having breakfast on the terrace in the morning. Without him really realizing it, he had grown fond of Lamma in the last three years. He was living a life that Justin knew nothing of, had never had the least idea of, and the longer he
thought about it, the more it hurt him. He wished there were a way his son could be part of this. Paul decided to write him a letter—no, not just one, several, in which he would describe his life here in detail.
Letters to Justin.
It was a strange idea, one that probably nobody would understand, but it comforted him. So much so that he finally fell asleep.

———

It was late morning by the time Paul woke. He heard Zhang's voice in the living room. Did they have a visitor?

Paul got up, knotted the mosquito net together, and had a shower. Even the cold water was too warm in this season, much too warm. He went downstairs and saw Zhang sitting at the long dining table in front of Paul's open laptop, with a ballpoint pen in one hand and the phone in the other. Paul went into the kitchen, made himself a pot of jasmine tea, peeled a mango, and sat down on the terrace. Zhang soon came out to join him.

“Good morning. How did you sleep?” Zhang wanted to know.

“Not bad. Did you lie awake long?”

“Yes. The lack of noise drives me crazy. I can't sleep in this silence. I used the time to surf the Internet instead, to see if I could find anything on Lotus Metal.”

“And?”

“There's not much, not on Google China or Baidu. But a friend who works in the Department of Commerce was able to help. Lotus Metal is a registered company that is owned by the Ministry of State Security. It has a factory in Shenyang and is one of the suppliers to a German car manufacturer that operates a plant there. Lotus Metal seems to have very ambitious expansion plans. A big factory near Shanghai is under construction and a second one is in the pipeline. Wang Ming is its CEO. I found a brief interview he gave to the
China Economic Daily
a couple of months ago on their website. Their questions were quite critical; they asked him why he was investing so much money when the Chinese car industry was clearly suffering
from overcapacity. As a justification for the construction of the new factory, he mentioned a future joint venture partner who he was not allowed to name yet, but who had a great deal of experience in metal processing and had excellent contacts with big American firms. Some of the agreements had already been signed and the rest were practically on the table ready for signature.

“Do you believe that?” Paul asked. “If I remember correctly, Richard Owen claimed that the name Wang Ming meant nothing to him and that Lotus Metal was a crazy idea of Michael's that nothing ever came of.”

“Maybe Mr. Owen is lying. Or maybe the negotiations didn't get very far or they broke down, and Wang Ming only mentioned them in the interview as a public justification for his investment, or to intimidate his competitors.”

“That wouldn't surprise me.”

“I'll have more information from Beijing by this evening. My friend knows one of the top officials at the Ministry of State Security, who is responsible for industry and commerce. He will probably know the name of the joint venture partner and whether an agreement has been signed yet or not.”

“I didn't know that the Ministry of State Security had anything to do with industry,” Paul said, surprised.

“It has a great deal to do with it. All unofficially, of course, but they boost their income with their dealings. Just like the army does.”

“Do you think Victor Tang knew about Lotus Metal?”

“I'm assuming he did. I can't imagine Michael Owen would have been able to keep something like that from him. That would also explain the disagreement between Tang and him.”

“But why should Michael Owen set up a second company that would compete with another firm in the group? Without Tang? From what we know Cathay Metal is a gold mine.”

“Maybe. But maybe the figures weren't quite right. Tang might have gone behind his back, or at least Michael must have believed he had been betrayed. Or Lotus Metal simply made him a better
offer. You know how little contracts count for among us. We'll have to find out, and fast. If Michael Owen wanted to change partners, that would be our potential motive for a murder.”