The Hua Shan Hospital Murders (12 page)

Having gotten all they could from this group of stupid foreigners, the children began to disperse. Robert moved toward the Caucasian woman. She was busy shooing the children on their way, no doubt to get the next unsuspecting victims of the Dharma Club. Her features were heavy, Eastern European. Her nose was wide, as if it had been badly broken at one time and never reset properly. Her eyes were light brown but sunken and her hair was a stark grey – unusual in a world where grey hair is dyed, even by men. In fact, it is about the only officially sanctioned vanity in the People’s Republic of China, probably because so many leaders of this huge country are at the age when hair dying would be a concern.

Robert approached her.

“Do you teach the children?”

The woman looked up at Robert. Her smile was wide and kind. Something crossed her face. Was it fear? Finally she said in Mandarin, “I am sorry but I only speak the Common Speech.” They were almost completely alone in the room now.

“Fine,” replied Robert taking a step closer to her. He continued in his patchy Mandarin, “I could use the practice.”

She gave no indication that she was surprised he spoke the language but was clearly growing agitated about something.

“My name is Robert Cowens,” he said.

She nodded and looked past him, over his shoulder.

Robert quickly glanced at the door that had drawn her eye. It was half open and there was a long shadow of a human figure cast into the room. Was she being watched? He looked back at her. She took a step to get past him but he stepped in her path. A small whimper came from her – like it had from his mother when she was frightened. Like that which had come from his brother as he screamed, “No, Mommy! No Mommy no.”

She pushed past him and ran toward the door.

Robert turned to follow but the door burst open and fifty or sixty little dharma bums rushed in shouting in unison, “Well Come t’China,” as they dragged in their latest helpless victims. In the melee Robert lost sight of the woman.

He finally made his way through the crowd and out the door. On the landing he looked in both directions but there was no one there. He ran to the balustrade and leaned over. There, three flights down, the middle-aged white woman was running down the stairs.

“
Rivkah!
” he shouted.

She stopped, just for a moment, then yelled in English, “Go away!” Then she turned and ran with tremendous speed down the remaining steps. Robert did his best to follow her but the place was a maze of rooms and hallways and locked doors. Eventually he gave up and approached the house matron. The young woman’s English was good, if starchy-stilted, “You say you saw a Caucasian woman with the students of drama, Mr. Cowens?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been saying to you.”

“Like yourself, Mr. Cowens, she must have been a visitor to Shanghai’s Children’s Palace.”

“No. She works here.”

“No. This cannot be. Only Chinese work here, Mr. Cowens.”

He suddenly realized that she kept repeating his name so that she would remember it. She no doubt reported to some police agency. He turned and walked away from her. Over his shoulder he heard her voice. This time it was confident and proud. “China is a country of great mystery – do be careful – Mr. Cowens.”

She watched his back as he retreated. This time it was a Caucasian woman. Last time he’d ranted about some white child. Before that he made a fuss about Old Silas buying children or some such nonsense. Crazy Long Noses were to be reported. She hadn’t bothered the other times, but enough was enough. Now if only she could remember who crazy Long Noses ought to be reported to.

The camcorder man stood in his five-star hotel suite with his plump wife to his right and his video camera held tightly beneath his left arm. He was still wearing his white shoes and white belt although Fong assumed the man had changed his golf shirt and pants since last he had seen him.

“We didn’t do anything wrong and besides we are American citizens and this is outrageous,” said the woman.

For a moment Fong wished he’d worn his Mao jacket.

“We should call the embassy, Cyril,” the woman continued.

“Now just settle down and let’s hear what the little Commie bastard has to say for himself.”

“Cyril! Watch your language.”

“He doesn’t speak any English, Sadie, look at him over there, he must be waiting for his translator or something.”

Fong considered Charlie Chan–style bowing and scraping but decided to pass up the fun stuff. “I’m more than capable of translating for myself, thank you very much. As a courtesy I contacted the hotel with our request.”

“Yeah, right – so you did.” Cyril coughed into his fleshy fist. “Something about my video camera.”

“Exactly. You were on the steps of the Hua Shan Hospital two days ago, weren’t you?”

“Where?”

Fong said the name slower, then with the wrong emphasis, then with the wrong pronunciation, finally with the wrong tones. That did it. The man’s face lit up.

“Yeah, sure I was. The big place with lots of steps.”

“Big place with lots of steps – that’s it,” Fong thought but he said, “The very place.”

“There was a fire there or something right?” said the man with an all too knowing smile on his corpulent lips.

“Yes, there was,” Fong said slowly.

“I got some of it on tape. I’ll be selling it to the highest bidder. Gonna pay for this whole trip from that one piece of footage. Everywhere me and the missus go, I take my video camera. Paid for two trips so far and this could well be numero three.”

Fong held up a finger and moved to the window. He took out his cellular and called the only person he knew who knew much about American culture – Lily. “Do Americans buy videotapes from each other?”

“No, Fong.”

“But this guy says he’s going to sell the videotape to someone.”

“The news networks probably.”

“What? The news networks buy amateur videotapes?”

“Think Grassy Knoll, Fong – it was worth tons of dollars.”

Fong had no idea what a grassy knoll was or why it would be worth money. He glanced over. The guy was getting nervous.

“Thanks, Lily,” he said and hung up. Then he turned back to the American couple.

“You took pictures of the crowd outside the Hua Shan Hospital. Right?”

“Right I sure as shootin’ did, every little ol’ face is right in here,” he said tapping the camera at his side.

“These pictures are of no value to anyone.”

“Not true, little man. Definito not true.” The man stepped aside to reveal a table strewn with newspapers from all over America. They featured stories about the bombing of the first abortion clinic. The papers must have cost the man a small fortune to buy in Shanghai. Fong didn’t even know that the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
could be bought here. He wondered what they plain dealt in Cleveland. Then he wondered what plain dealing was. Then he wondered what Cleveland was.

“Yep, and just imagine what CNN will pay for it.”

Fong took a breath. The pure, unadulterated, unapologetic greed of capitalists sometimes took his breath away. “I can confiscate that camera, sir.”

“I told you, Cyril, this is a Communist technocracy. They can do what they want. Call the embassy now.”

“No need.” Fong crossed to the door and opened it. A slender grey-suited Caucasian male stood there. Everything about him said State Department. He introduced himself as the head of the US consulate in Shanghai.

“We’ll make a copy of your tape folks and you can keep the original. Inspector Zhong only wants to look at it.” Several men entered with a second video camera and a set of cables. Cyril gave over the camera and the technicians quickly began to make a copy.

“Okay, I guess, but I want your copy destroyed as soon as you’re finished using it. I don’t want a second Zabruter tape floating around. That poor fella had the devil’s own time getting his due.”

After the technician finished making the dub he gave it to Fong who took it and headed toward the door. At the door he stopped and turned to Cyril.
“Were there any other Caucasians in the crowd outside the hospital?”

“Caucasians? Oh, you mean whites?”

“Yes, I guess I do. Were there any whites besides yourself and your wife outside the hospital?”

“No. Just a sea-full of Chinamen – and women – Chinawomen, well Chinapeople, I mean.”

* * *

Waiting for the elevator, Fong thanked the consular man for his help.

“No problem. We want this arson at the abortion clinics stopped as much as you do.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, Inspector Zhong, I’m sure about that.
America is a big country. We do not all wear white shoes and vinyl belts.”

“No, I know you don’t.”

The embassy man looked at Fong. “Something else you want from me, Inspector Zhong?”

Fong wanted to ask about Amanda Pitman with whom he’d spent five days and nights in Shanghai almost seven years ago. She’d written a book that had a lot to do with his release from Ti Lan Chou Prison. But asking would reveal his past to this tall white man. “No, nothing,” Fong said.

The man nodded his head once then scratched his chin. “Couldn’t be about that lady writer, could it?”

Fong was shocked that he knew. But then of course the Americans would have known. They had been part of it, after all. The two men stood in the hotel corridor waiting for the elevator. The door opened and they stepped in. As soon as the elevator began to move, the consular official pulled the auto stop button on the panel. Fong looked at him.

“The American anti-abortion movement must be seen in context,” said the American consular official.

“Why is it, do you think,” asked Fong, “that American misdeeds must be seen in context while what you perceive as Chinese misdeeds must be seen as absolute wrongs? Evils, even?”

The American consular man acknowledged the asymmetry with a lift of his hands and a nod of his head. Both men knew that those with the most guns wrote the rules of engagement.

Fong shook his head. “So in what context should I understand the American anti-abortion movement?”

“Contexts, not context.”

“Fine, contexts – in what contexts should I understand the American anti-abortion movement?”

“First as a manifestation of the fourth great religious revival in America. This one is led by Evangelical Christians and sits on several tenets: all life is sacred from the moment of conception; everyone must take Jesus as their own personal savior if they are to be saved; and life without faith is like a beautiful pen without any ink.”

Fong looked hard at the man. Could he really believe this last bit of drivel? Fong was tempted to toss the man a lead pencil and suggest there was really no need for ink or pens, no matter how elegant they might be. But he didn’t. He’d dealt with Americans before and found them whimsical on several levels.

“The second context,” the man continued, “that ultimately supports the first is not religious at all.”

“Well, we can both be thankful for that surely.”

The man shook his head. “I doubt that. The second context is terribly pragmatic and very political.”

“Great,” Fong thought. “That’s what we need, politics on top of superstition – the great soup of confusion.”

The man took a breath then said, “We have a serious problem in America.” He paused, evidently hoping that Fong would ask him what that problem was. Fong chose not to be helpful and kept his mouth shut. Finally the man gave up waiting for Fong’s prompt and said, “We have way too many children giving birth to children. Both the child mother and the child itself often quickly become wards of the state. At first the numbers were small but by the middle eighties the statistics became frightening. All our efforts to promote abstinence, to offer free birth control and yes, free abortion, did not stem the tide of kids giving birth to kids. It also became very clear that the children of children also tended to give birth to kids while still being children themselves. The inevitability of exponential math was about to break the bank – then along comes the religious right with its message of salvation to young women if they keep their knees tight together. And, it worked. Everything else, all rational pleas had failed but the terror of hell stemmed the tide.” He smiled sheepishly and raised his hands then added, “And as you well know the American government backs winners.”

Fong stared at the man. “Are you telling me that the bombings in my city are backed by the American government?”

“Not directly, no.”

“But indirectly?”

“There are large sums of money sent to support evangelical movements – yes – and some of that money could have been used in these bombings.” He paused then said, “I’m sorry. The American government is sorry . . .”

“. . . and no doubt the American people themselves.”

The consular man looked at Fong but was unable to discern if Fong was being sarcastic. “We’ve found the cell the bomber works for.”

“Where?”

“In Virginia.”

“So, who is this man?”

“He’s referred to as Angel Michael in his chat room contacts.”

“Yes, but who is he?”

“We don’t know.”

“Do you have any . . .?”

“Nothing. No picture, no passport number – nothing.”

“What does the name mean – Angel Michael?”
Fong asked.

“It’s a biblical reference.”

“Everything with you people comes from that most questionable of books.”

The consular man let the slight pass. “When Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden, Angel Michael was placed at the entrance with a flaming sword to prevent them from coming back. He is closest to the Greek deity Prometheus who stole fire from the gods . . .”

“. . . and brought it to man.”

“Yes.”

“So have you arrested the group in Virginia?”

“No.”

“Why not – no, let me guess – it’s political?”

The consular man nodded then said, “Not something you, as a Chinese official, wouldn’t understand.”

Fong turned to the man ready to fight but the man was taking out a piece of paper from his briefcase and handing it to Fong. “A man named Larry Allen reported the group’s activities to us at the consul in Shanghai. He also told us of the last contact they had with Angel Michael before you closed down the Shanghai servers. Here it is.”