Citizen One (35 page)

Chieh, following the Senior Investigator, their eyes staring out to the sea and the sky where they met in an invisible weld.

“You are a magnet that attracts what all other magnets would repel, Sun Piao. What will you do with this information that is as a bullet in a pistol’s chamber aimed at you?”

Intense pain, achingly hot, firing the sutured wound to his calf. A reminder of life and the living of it, and with it, proof that he still craved its continuance, when at other times he had not.

“ ‘If you have never done anything evil, you should not be worrying about devils coming to knock on your door’.”

Refusing to place a hand on the ache in his calf, celebrating its torment.

“I will knock on their secret doors, Director. And on the doors of those who sponsor them and see how they greet that knock.”

The smell of mooncakes. The smell of night. The smell of nightmares queuing.

Sitting on the pier. The taste of tea, crow black, and Azuki bean-filling over his tongue. Still night, but a pale lemon rip at the base of the sky, as if the spiked horizon were slowly being gilded.

“He looked like a ghost, poor bastard. Never thought I’d be fucking sorry for the Wizard, Boss.”

A silence as long as the night. Just the water’s sluggish lap against pitted stone and wooden pier posts that had no memory of the forests that they had been born to.

“You asked him?”

“Sure, Boss. Barely conscious, but I asked him all the same. Made a sort of ‘no’ grunt to each question.”

“Anything from Qi’s time in England? Data from his time at university there? Officer training school? No. His general life there? Women in his life?”

The Senior Investigator looking away.

“Fuck all, Boss. There is nothing else. We have everything that the Wizard could get before, before …”

“Anything on his life as a Muslim? When he converted, where?”

“Nothing, Boss, but what the fuck anyway! We have enough to try and stitch together. But nothing makes any sense in this case.”

The Big Man unzipping his trousers and pissing into the river.

“I’ve got to get some sleep, Boss. Every night its getting more like trying to catch a flea with a knotted rope.”

Re-zipping his flies. Walking to the door. A warmth of ovens and the smell of sweat and baking.

“Shit, nearly forgot …”

A thick sheath of papers from his inside pocket. Handing them to Piao.

“Got the telephone records that you wanted. Qi’s mobile and his prefix ‘39’ number. And Boss, do yourself a favour and don’t ask what they fucking cost.”

*

Under the light of a torch’s amber beam, Piao reading. Reading until his eyes burned with lack of sleep, his head racing to dates, numbers, names, call durations. Qi’s prefix ‘39’ number, well used, but carefully used. Nothing that snagged or drew recognition. Calls to and from his garrison and from his father, the Senior Colonel, his comrade officers, an aunt in Beijing, and a cousin in Shenyang. Calls to and from his specialist at the People’s Number 1 Hospital.

Mosaic of data over data. Qi’s mobile telephone records. So many pages of calls, at one point Piao toying with them, and himself; poking them through the gap between the pier’s timbers. A dare in his head. Let them fall … let them drift on the night tide, through the Yellow Sea, to the East China Sea, to Taiwan. Let Taiwan have them.

And then an urge, sudden and bottomless, to sleep. But tossing, turning; finally rising, moving back, out onto the pier. Counting anything countable, to dislodge the traffic jam of data within him. Distant, electric lit office windows, set into Pudong’s spiked towers. Counting distant cars skirting Long Dong Avenue. Counting ships in lazed-lit meander down the Huangpu.

Walking back into the bakery. His room, a corner of a storage space, his unrolled sleeping bag, bordered by boxes. His life now contained in corrugated cardboard. Without wanting it, at least consciously, her photo still dust covered, in his hand. Why include it in the elements that now made up the time span that was called his life? A finger across sable-fanned hair and the soft curve of cheek bone. Dust grey, into colour. Shaking his head … the very worst bits to be left with, the confusion. Wondering if it had ever happened at all? A life, a wife, a marriage.

Shaking his head again, but thoughts of her not shaking free. Moving through the door, the oven’s breath upon him. Standing behind the cousins as they baked, sweaty with labour. Standing behind them, their smell of flour, almonds, and honesty. For two hours counting the cakes that they made. Two hours, trying to force her from him. Out of sight, punching a wall. The brickwork, crumbly, embedding itself in his bleeding knuckles. For minutes the freedom that pain brings, but as the blood congealed, the confusion returning and without a pill to blot it or a Tsingtao to drown it.

Under a work bench, a heavy tool box. Searching through its darkness for something sharp and cutting. A fine bladed knife with a plastic shield and a pair of long nosed pliers. But the blade not to the skin of his wrist. Rolling up his trouser leg. Sitting on a chair, leg braced against the wood of the bench. The knife hovering in shaking fingers above the web sutures binding his flesh in puckered little parcels. A stab of pain, as he cut front, back of the first suture. Slowly, snub-nosed pliers drawing the stitch through the bound flesh. Deeply painful, as if rooted to his heart. Repeating the process, and again. With each sharp snip of catgut, each grudging pull of suture … her face, fading. The sweetness of her last words dissolving. Drawing the last reluctant black spider of suture. A slight tug, blood drop following. Watching as the scarlet followed the stitched valley down his calf. And with it, aware that he was free of her. For a minute? An hour? A year? Could he bear that long without thoughts of her?

And, in the void that remained, some hopes, some beliefs, some doubts, some beginnings, some ends. Like himself, a jigsaw of many pieces, but not all of the pieces available to complete the picture.

Were not all investigators and the cases that they investigate, made up of such as this?

Moving back to the mosaic of papers. Page by page, reading them. If nothing else, at least he was a comrade of habit. Blunt pencil to tongue and to the paper underlining and circling. Over and over again, the same destinations, numbers, names. All of the names, to Piao’s eyes, reading as Arabic. And amongst them, distinguished by difference and indenting every page, the Russian name, Kanatjan Pasechnik.

‘Little brother, where are your little hands?

My hands are here.

They can grasp guns.

They can fire.

Pow. Pow. Pow.’

Chinese Nursery song
.

The People’s Liberation Army
.

The world’s largest armed force.

2 million troops. At times of crisis, a further 1.5 million from the reserve-militia. Another 1 million from the PAP, the People’s Armed Police. These consist of combat, combat support and combat support service units. Over 70 brigades, 100 independent regiments, 11 armoured units, 10 mechanised infantry divisions and 7 regiment level special force units.

4,000 light armour tanks, 10,000 heavy armour tanks, type 59 tanks and the improved models, type 69 and type 79. The type 80 featuring a computerized fire control system, a laser rangefinder, a gun stabiliser, night fighting equipment. The type 90, resembling the Russian T-72. Western power plant, improved suspension, active laser defence devices, advanced day-night observation and fire control system.

An artillery manufacturing capability of over 28 national and 17 local facilities. 60 artillery production lines. 12 artillery research and development organisations. 30 artillery divisions. Current deployed artillery elements … 30,000 of various types and various calibres: 155mm, 152mm howitzers; 273mm, 122mm multiple rocket launchers; 130mm guns, 100mm guns; 100mm and 85mm anti-tank guns. The range of this artillery, from 5km to 30 km.

*

In 1999 the World Bank made a loan of $200 million to the People’s Republic of China. It was granted to support the Chinese Government’s continuing reforms. The Chinese Government, through its State Planning Commission, used the Golden China Corporation as its financial agent to disperse the World Bank’s funds. However, the Golden China Corporation is owned and operated by the People’s Liberation Army.

Money granted for “continuing reforms” going towards weapons.

$5 million given to the Northwest Institute for Nonferrous Metal research. Part of the China National Nuclear Corporation, providing the Chinese Army with its nuclear weapons.

$5 million given to the Harbin Research Unit. A PLA front used to purchase turbo-fan engines for the People’s Liberation Army Air Force.

$4 million to the Nanjing Radio Factory. Owned by the PLA, and providing satellite equipment and secure military radios.

$4 million to the Marine Design and Research Institute of China. A PLA primary design facility for all Chinese warships, including nuclear powered submarines.

$3 million to Xi’an Jiatong University. A major PLA research centre, with shared facilities with a PLA chemical and biological weapons’ unit.

$5.5 million to the China Textile Company. A front, known to be used as a money making venture by the PLA Generals.

A private room, courtesy of
guan-xi
. The Wizard un-tethered from his tubes, his mouth un-jacked and colour in his face and anger in his eyes. Watching the Senior Investigator, his Deputy, on their knees, checking for electronic listening devices underneath the bed, behind the electrical points. On tiptoes, in clumsy pirouettes, checking in lighting roses, behind curtain pelmets. A nod. A thumbs up.

Watching as the various elements of the computer system were brought into the room on trolleys. A sheet of paper in the Big Man’s hand; complex biroed drawings. Seeming so easy. Foolproof. But now with the reality of myriad wires and orifices to plug them into, the sense of powerlessness that only the computer can engender. For thirty minutes going through the motions. Only when helplessly lost, throwing arms into the air, cables onto the floor, the nurse, with stouter legs than the others, summoning help. A doctor re-wiring the main’s plug. An anaesthetist plugging the printer to port and the monitor to connector. A Senior Consultant switching the system on and re-booting. Hospital staff ushered out of the room. Curtains in a closed swish. Piao, CD taken proudly from pocket and inserted into the drive.

Click. Click
. FILE TWENTY.

The soft exposed underbelly of Comrade Qi’s computer spread out like a filleted carp. Columns in coded runs. Characters, figures, in chained links. Piao’s finger in dust strokes and points to the monitor screen. Rentang, in nods, shakes of the head to questions. All against a soundtrack of air passing through a tongueless mouth.

“Dates. Monies in?”

A nod.

“This figure,
yuan
?”

A shake.

“Dollars?”

A nod. A long, low whistle from the Big Man. Whatever they were selling, the PLA, big, big, dollars.

“This shorthand, I do not understand it?”

A pen clutched weakly in the Wizard’s spider fingers, walking slowly over the paper. His voice, black ink.

Bars … profits … kickbacks.

Characters forming abbreviations. Seeing them now. Finger chasing down column after column.

SMC …
Shanghai Moon Club
.

DC …
Dedo Club
.

TFGB …
Tom’s Famous Grouse Bar
.

FPC …
Famous People Club
.

Bars. Karaoke clubs. So many dollars.

At the end of every month, figures totalled, large numbers. Dollars, by the million. Beside the total, another figure, a far smaller figure. Tapping the screen with his finger.

“This is incomings? Prostitution, extortion, profits from PLA-owned establishments …”

A nod.

“This figure. Same day, same time every month. Money couriered to a central point.”

Citizen One.

“Show me the balances for the next six months.”

Scrolling through the pages, month after month, checking the gridlocked intersection of totalled digits. Every month a major discrepancy between income and what Qi was couriering out. A discrepancy of hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yaobang shaking his head.

“He’s fucking skimming, the stupid bastard. Swindling the PLA. He must have a death wish.”

“Not if nobody knows.”

Not noticing the Wizard’s spider scrawl onto paper, until the cough raked him. Yaobang, with a tissue, wiping away Rentang’s spittle. Piao taking the paper from his limp hand, slowly turning it around.

Citizen One. Mao … Long March.

“There is a link between these. What link?”

Turning back the paper.

PLA.

“I do not understand.”

Money man. Mao’s.

Pen dropping as Rentang was pinned back in the bed in a fit of exhaustion. Breaths through the black tunnel of his mouth in stuttered rasps.

Slowly scrolling through pages before stopping. A different look. A different form of coding to the pages of the file. Figures with more zeroes. The Big Man whistling long and low.

“What is this, Boss? This isn’t prostitution or extortion. Look at the figures. Fucking millions. Only drugs can generate dollars like this.”

A phlegmy, hacking cough, blood in a fine mist. But Rentang flapping his hand for a pen, demanding a pen.

Focus … first, second column. Abbreviations. Initials.

Piao’s finger tracing across column one and two. Hard-edged characters bordering figures by the million. Hard-edged characters in a form of abbreviations.

“The lists that I asked for, political committees, unions, you have them?”

“Sure, Boss. Three tray-fulls of them in the back of the Liberation Truck.”

Watching the Senior Investigator’s eyes.

“Fuck me, Boss. We’re not going to go through that lot, are we?”

The Wizard, with great effort, sitting higher in the bed, frenzied hand over paper.