Hour of the Rat (36 page)

But when I hear the gunfire, I know what that is.

The other guy drops the Taser and runs.

The adrenaline clears my head some. I push myself up with my arms so I’m sitting, try to stand, but I’m still too weak, too dizzy.

More shots.

I crawl to the chair. Brace my hands on either side of the seat.

Stand up. Fucking stand up.

I’m about halfway there when two men burst into the room.

The guys Kang Li and I left in a rice paddy: US Polo Team and his buddy, from Yangshuo.

T
HEY
’
RE VERY POLITE
.

One of them helps me to my feet. The other picks up my backpack, which was sitting against the wall across from the door.

They guide me out of the little room and into the next one: bigger and vacant, except for bare metal shelves and a few odds and ends—a computer monitor here, empty file folders there, an abandoned desk, a couple of deflated plastic grain sacks scattered on the floor.

And a dead guy.

My little buddy I thought I could bribe. Lying on his back by a bank of shelves. They shot him in the neck and in the chest. I can see blood still pulsing from the wound just under his throat.

Maybe not all the way dead, but he will be in a minute or two.

The other dead guy is sprawled facedown by the door.

“
Lai, lai
,” US Polo Team says. Come, come.

I’m not going to argue.

T
HE BLACK
B
UICK
’
S OUTSIDE
, pulled close to the entrance. No license plates on it, I notice. Smart. I wonder
what the woman in the snack store is doing right now, if she called the PSB or if she’s just hunkered down behind the counter waiting for all this shit to blow over, like a storm. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what she’s doing. Stuff like this, who wants to get involved?

The second guy, Windbreaker, helps me into the backseat, goes around to the other side and slides in next to me. US Polo gets behind the wheel, and we peel out.

I sit there. Stare out the window. “
Women qu nar?
” I finally ask. Where are we going?

“
Jichang.
” Airport.

“Okay.”

That’s when I start to shake. I don’t know if it’s nerves coming back to life or just the whole “I almost died” experience, but whatever it is, I can’t stop.

“
Yao he shui?
” Windbreaker asks.

I nod. Sure, I’ll drink some water. I love water. He hands me a bottle stashed under the seat.

I’m guessing they’re DSD. People working for John, even though he acted like he didn’t know who they were when I asked him about them. Whatever. I don’t care that he lied. I don’t care that they killed two guys. All I can think of right now is, I’m alive and those guys aren’t. Tough shit.

A
T SOME POINT WE
pull over onto a shoulder, in the shadow of a giant billboard advertising
FAIRY LAKEFRONT ESTATES—THE BRIGHT FUTURE AND RICH LIFE AWAIT
! and Windbreaker takes a set of license plates out of the trunk and attaches them to the front and rear of the Buick.

As he gets back into the car, I wonder why would the DSD even care if someone gets their license numbers?

Okay, I think, okay. Whoever these guys are, they still saved
my ass. They’re being pretty nice to me. And I’m too fucking wiped out to panic. Much.

W
HEN
I
START SEEING
signs for the Guiyang Airport, we don’t head toward the passenger terminals. Instead we follow directions to “Cargo and Freight.”

We pull alongside a big, corrugated tin-clad hangar, Shining Star Aviation.

Poised at the hangar exit leading out onto the tarmac is a private jet. You know, like a Gulfstream, one of those things. There’s a movable boarding ramp leading up to it. And waiting at the foot of the ramp is a cute young woman wearing a retro flight-attendant outfit that looks like something out of an old magazine. Back when they were called stewardesses. Sky blue, white gloves, peaked hat, short skirt.

“Welcome!” she says with a bright smile. “Welcome you to fly with us!”

She helps me up the stairs, backed up by Windbreaker because I’m still feeling pretty wobbly, and she leads me to a leather seat. Windbreaker and US Polo sit a couple of seats behind me.

It’s pretty fancy. Like I said, leather seats. A couch across the aisle. A wash of red on the walls, interspersed by walnut inserts and paintings. And though I still don’t know as much about Chinese art as I should, I’m pretty sure I recognize a piece, one of Gu Wenda’s “Fake Character” series.

Well, that’s weird.

Maybe it’s a
shanzhai
rip-off.

“Please fasten your seat belt—we will take off soon! I can help you if you need.”

“No thanks.” I mean, I think I can fasten my own fucking seat belt.

Truth is, my hands tremble so bad that I have a hard time getting the tongue in the buckle. Finally the flight attendant leans over and fastens it for me.

“
Xie xie
,” I say.

Not too long after that, the whine of the jet engines picks up and the plane taxis out onto the tarmac. We pause at the beginning of the runway, gathering power, like some big cat bunching up its muscles, and then we spring.

Up into the air.

A
S SOON AS WE
start to level off, the flight attendant’s back.

“May I serve you something to drink?”

Yeah, I guess I could use a drink. “Sure. Thanks.”

“What kind of drink you like? Chivas Regal, Grand Mariner, cognac? Maybe Johnnie Walker?”

“I, uh …” I can’t even take it in.
Just bring me something
, I want to say.

“Oh, maybe you prefer wine.”

“Sure. Wine sounds good.”

The bottle she brings out is Château Lafite Rothschild—“
shi zhende!
” she says. The real thing. I remember Harrison saying to me, not too long ago, “No one serious is buying Château Lafite Rothschild anymore—too many counterfeits. The real collectors have moved on to burgundy.”

This one tastes pretty good.

“Can I bring you anything else? Something to eat? Maybe foie gras? Or sushi?”

Sushi?

“No thanks.”

I drink some more wine.

“Whose plane is this?” I finally ask.

She beams. “It’s Mr. Sidney Cao’s, of course.”

Sidney Cao.

“Of course.”

I
DRAIN THE FIRST
glass of wine, barely tasting it. Try to think it through.

Sidney Cao? Billionaire art collector Sidney Cao? That would account for the Gu Wenda on the wall. But the other stuff? Guys with guns who follow me around and kill people?

I try to remember the source of Cao’s wealth. Chemicals, wasn’t it? Something like that. Could he be … I don’t know, the CEO of a rival seed company? A passionate environmentalist?

“More wine?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

I take my time with this glass. It really is pretty good, though I don’t know how well it would go with sushi. I’d try the combo and find out, but my gut’s still in knots. I don’t think I could eat anything. The wine’s about all I can handle.

About halfway through the glass, I can’t hold my head up anymore. I lean back against the seat. My eyes feel like someone’s rubbed them with sand.

“Do you want to take a rest?” I hear the stewardess’s voice in my ear. “Still some time before we land.”

I nod. I figure she’ll bring me a pillow and a blanket. Maybe a chocolate mint.

She pats me gently on the shoulder. “Come with me.”

She has to help me up, and my feet hurt so bad the first few steps that I’m hobbling like a little old lady.

We go down the aisle past the US Polo Team, who’s watching a DVD, a Harry Potter movie it looks like, and Windbreaker, who’s tilted back in the chair, jaw hanging open, asleep.

Beyond them is another compartment. The stewardess opens the door.

It’s dark, except for a night-light. But I can see an actual bed, fluffy white quilt, plumped pillows.

She rushes ahead and expertly flips down the quilt and sheets. “
Xiuxi yixia
,” she says. Rest a little.

I collapse on the side of the bed. Somehow manage to kick my shoes off. She helps me with the shoes, I think. I fall back against the pillow.

“Where are we going?” I finally think to ask.

“Xingfu Cun,” she says.

“I don’t know it. Where’s that?”

“It’s the home of Sidney Cao,” she says brightly, pulling the quilt over me. “Have a rest. You can call me if you need anything.”

I think I nod, but by the time she’s closed the door behind her, I’m pretty much passed out.

W
AY TOO SOON
, I hear the stewardess: “Miss! Miss! Sorry, but you must return to seat now. Time for landing.”

“Can’t I land here?” I mumble.

The last thing I want to do is get up, but I do and hobble back to my seat.

By now it’s close to sunset, and as the plane descends and banks, I get a look at the landscape below me. I see rows of houses, ranks of high-rise apartments, laid out in loose circles, like some giant amoeba. Then larger buildings, crazy shapes: gold globes and a lopped-off pyramid that looks like some kind of Mayan temple.

The weird thing is, hardly any cars. Hardly any lights. Where’s the neon?

Then the lights of the runway.

I
T
’
S A SMALL AIRPORT
. A little terminal building. A
couple of hangars. I glimpse a couple of other small jets inside one of them.

It all looks brand-new.

In no time at all, two young men in blue uniforms that look like the flight attendants’—well, no skirt, but chevron-peaked caps, gold buttons and white shirts—have positioned the boarding ramp.

Windbreaker in front, US Polo team behind, gripping the rail so I don’t tumble and take Windbreaker down with me, I make my way down the stairs.

Waiting there in the shadow of a gleaming BMW SUV is a woman. She’s small, a little chubby, with a huge pile of teased black hair and a lot of eye shadow, wearing a snug pink cashmere sweater, a pencil skirt, and bright pink stilettos.

It’s maybe not the best look for her.

She steps forward, extends her hand. Her long pink nails match the shoes.

“Vicky Huang. Welcome to Xingfu Cun.”

“I
HOPE YOU HAD
a comfortable flight.”

“It was great,” I say.

“Mr. Cao is very anxious to meet you. He has invited you for dinner.”

“That’s … uh, really nice of him.” I mean, what else can I say?

Vicky Huang looks me up and down. Her nose wrinkles. “Your clothes are a little dirty.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that. The rest of my stuff’s in Guiyang.”

“Ah. I arrange for pickup.” She reaches into her designer handbag, which I think is Versace (I only know this from hanging out with Lucy Wu) and pulls out an iPhone in a gold rhinestone case. “Of course your things won’t arrive in time.” Her finger pauses above the touch screen. She looks me up and down again. “For now we can go shopping.”

“S
O
 … that was a lot of trouble you went to … to, uh … pick me up.”

Vicky Huang gives a little shrug and cranks the wheel of the SUV hard to the left, like she’s taking a turn on a NASCAR track. “Mr. Cao wants to speak with you. He is tired of delays.” She doesn’t bother to look for oncoming traffic, but then there
doesn’t seem to be any. Xingfu Cun looks brand-new and, so far, pretty much deserted. A ghost city.

I try to think of what to say. How there are two dead people back in Guiyang and it seems like maybe something we should discuss. But I don’t know, maybe that’s not my problem. It’s not like
I
killed them.

“What does he want to talk to me about?” I finally ask.

She draws back, surprised. “But I think you know.” Makes a hard right. “However, now that you are here, you can discuss business with Mr. Cao himself.”

I lean back in the leather seat. Maybe I should be scared. But I’m just too tired to care. And anyway, we’re going shopping.

The thing I saw when we were landing, that I thought looked like a Mayan pyramid? Well, I think that’s where we are now, and it’s more like some kind of … I don’t know, Egyptian … thing, or maybe Babylonian—a ziggurat? Is that what they call them? And it’s gold. And flanked by huge statues of winged lions, and there’s a fountain out in front the size of an Olympic pool, with more weird animal statues, elephants and panthers and horses, spewing water according to some complicated sequence timed with changing colored lights. We passed the giant egg-shaped things on our way here, those and blocky black granite buildings with the red-and-gold seal of government.