Hong Kong (17 page)

"You're wasting your breath trying to save the world, Rip. You won't get a halo. You won't even get a thank-you."

"Don't charge me for this advice, Albert." Rip got out of the car shut the door firmly behind him.

Albert Cheung sped away without another look at Rip.

Maybe the cops would have let him in the building, maybe not; Rip didn't try. He went around back and unlocked his motorcycle, an old Harley-Davidson he had imported from Australia.

Motorcycles were popular in Hong Kong—mainly Japanese bikes, fast and fuel-efficient—but not as ubiquitous as they were in Singapore or Bangkok. The British always discouraged motor vehicles for private use by making it expensive to register one or get a driver's license. The Communists continued that policy. Still, a lot of people today had the money or political connections, so there were more and more motorcycles. Those who couldn't afford to go first-class rode Chinese iron. With no demand for forty-year-old Harleys, thieves weren't interested, or so the theory went. Rip always locked his anyway.

He turned on the fuel cock, adjusted the choke, and started kicking. The engine caught on the third kick.

He was warming the engine when the woman who ran a small newsstand across the street came looking for him.

"Rip, why have the police closed the building?" Originally from Hunan Province, she had lived in Hong Kong at least twenty years. Rip had deduced that one time by questioning her closely about Hong Kong news stories she could remember.

"The governor has ordered the paper closed, Mrs. Guo," Rip told her. "He didn't like what he read."

"You did not go to jail? I heard they arrested you."

"I went to jail." He gave her a brief summary, then said good-bye. "My wife is waiting for me. She worries."

"Yes, yes. Go home to her." Mrs. Guo went back along the alley with her head down, as if she were walking against a storm. Hard times ...

The Chinese are used to hard times, Rip reflected. They've never known anything else.

He put the motorcycle in motion.

The streets were still crowded. Traffic sprayed water on Rip, who
_ha(
j to concentrate to keep his motorcycle under control.

Rip had first seen Hong Kong as a teenager in the mid-eighties,

hen there were still vestigial traces of the nineteenth-century city, and large swatches remained unchanged from the days of World War II. Back then many people could talk for hours about the Japanese occupation from their personal experience. Not many of those old people were left, of course, and few people now asked about the old days. Nobody cared anymore.

That was the way of the world, Rip knew. Certainly the way of China. The past—good or bad—was soon forgotten. There was always today to be lived through and tomorrow to prepare for. Venerable ancestors were, of course, worthy and honorable and all that, but, alas, they were quite dead.

It was that Chinese focus on the now that intrigued Rip Buckingham. For the Chinese, he thought, all things were possible. Coolies and peasants from the rice paddies had built this modern city, were constantly transforming it, and in turn were transformed by it. It was an extraordinary metamorphosis.

Today not a single building remained from the nineteenth century.

he commercial buildings were fifty-story-plus avant-garde statements n steel and glass. Mile after mile of high-rise apartment buildings oused more than six million people. The thought of living in one was

daunting prospect for Westerners, but the fact remains, six million

ople were decently housed.

As he rode the Harley through traffic and tried to ignore the drizzle nd road spray, Rip Buckingham marveled again at the raw power of this reat city. Chinese signs were freely intermingled with the logos of international corporations and brand names. Rip thought this mixture symbolic of Hong Kong, where East and West met, transforming both.

Hong Kong was a vast human stew, and by choice Rip was right in the middle of it.

He inched his way up the narrow, twisty roads that grooved the lorthern face of Victoria Peak, then guided the motorcycle into a drive-

way and triggered a radio-controlled garage-door opener in a house glued to the side of the peak. Buckingham News actually owned the place, which was a good thing since Rip could never have paid for it on his salary.

As he was getting off the machine inside the garage his wife came through the door.

"You're soaked," she said.

"Doesn't matter. I stunk from jail."

She kissed him.

He hit the button to close the outside door, then led her up the stairs to the living room. A large window looked out on the Central District and Kowloon across the strait. As Rip told his wife about jail and the governor, he automatically glanced outside. Kowloon was almost hidden in the rain and mist.

"I called your father."

"What did he say?"

"Just that you should call when you could. I asked him if I should hire Albert Cheung, and he said yes."

Rip stretched and nodded. "I need to take a shower, put on some dry clothes. I'll call him later."

"What are we going to do, Rip?"

"I don't know," he said, meaning it. "This place is our life. Sun Siu Ki just took it from us."

"They won't let you keep publishing the
Post."

"I know."

"Things are changing."

"I know. /
\nou>!
You told me. The police told me. Albert Cheung told me. I know, I know, and
goddamn,
I resent it."

"Mother won't leave without my brother."

Rip took his wife's hand. "I know that, too," he said gently and kissed her.

An hour later, after he had a long, hot shower and put on fresh clothes, Rip called his father's office in Sydney. Soon Rich's voice boomed through the instrument.

Rip told him about the cease publication order and the demands of Sun Siu Ki.

'Dad I don't think we should run the paper under these conditions, censorship. Knuckling under to the Communists will cost Bucking-News its standing in the international community, and that ulti-ately will mean loss of ad revenue all over the globe." "That paper is worth a hundred million," Richard Buckingham undered into the telephone.

Rip had to hold the instrument away from his ear. The old man unded like he was in the next room. 'Bloody Chinks! A hundred million!" Rich ripped off a couple oaths, it the volume was going down. "All the bloody lies they've told the ast fifteen or twenty years, about how great it was going to be in Hong Kong when they took over ... Makes me want to puke!" 'Yessir," Rip agreed. 'And the bloody Brits." Richard added them to his list. "Believing

those lies ..."

"Maybe it's time to pack it in," Rip said reluctantly, trying to get back to the business at hand. "Maybe in a few years the government here will see the benefits of a free press."

'They don't really have a choice," Richard rumbled. "The world has outgrown censorship. But you're right—we can't buck the bastards head-on. Pay off the
Post
employees. Send me the names and qualifications of everyone who wants to work for another Buckingham paper and is willing to move. We'll see what we can do." There was a second of dead sound, then he added, "Move at their own expense, of course."

"Yes, sir."

"I'd like to see you and Sue Lin. Come on home."

"In a few weeks. We have to wrap up some things here."

"Righto, mate."

"And Dad? Thanks."

"For what?"

"For seeing this my way."

"See you in a few weeks."

Richard Buckingham hung up the telephone and sat staring out the window at the artsy-fartsy roof of the Sydney Opera House. He called •n Billy Kidd, who had been his number two since Richard was the publisher, editor, and sports writer of the
Wangeroo Gazette.

The Commies have shut down the
Post
in Hong Kong," he began. After Richard told Billy what he knew, he added, "I want a story about

the shutdown and I want it on the front page of every paper I own. Call Rip at home and have him write it. Use a file photo of him."

"Righto."

"Top of the front page, Billy." Richard picked up a legal pad and pencil from his desk and handed it to Billy, who could take a hint. He began taking notes.

"Billy, someday those Commie bastards are going to regret screwing with me. Bad press is the only lever I have, and by God, I'm going to use it."

Richard Buckingham got out of his chair and paced the office. "Put the one-baby story on the telly chat shows again. More Falun Gong persecution stories. Bang the drum every day. And I mean every day, Billy. A new, different, bad slant each and every day."

"Whatever you want, Richard. But I don't think that—"

"And I want something about those hundred million migrants roaming around China that the Commies are cracking down on. I'm tired of reading about these lawless vagrants threatening the economic prosperity of the new China. The corrupt, venal Communist regime is threatening the economic prosperity of the new China. They are prosecuting the harmless kooks in the Falun Gong movement, jailing people whose only crime is to want a little bit of life's sweetness. Massive pollution, sweatshops, child labor—China's the last big sewer left on earth, and that's the way we'll write it from now on. Fax it to the managing editor of every paper."

Billy finished taking notes and asked sourly, "Anything else?" He had been with Richard Buckingham too long to cower.

"Communism is as dead as Lenin. The Buckingham newspapers and television networks are going to trumpet that news loud and clear. Find a politico to write it, somebody important or somebody who wants to be important."

"You—"

"And why does the free world tolerate the crimes against humanity that the Chinese government perpetrates on those who can't defend themselves? Maybe an article, 'Tiananmen Square Revisited.'"

Billy scribbled furiously. "You're the boss," he said.

"You're damn right I am," Richard roared. "Those bloody Chinks didn't like the coverage they got from the
China Post
—they're going

shit when they see the press they're getting from now on. When bodv anywhere says anything bad about Red China, I want to read

 
_tne
papers and hear about it on the telly news shows. From this , f
_orW
ard Buckingham News is the world's foremost voice urging the overthrow of the Communists in Beijing."

Rich punched the air and sat down. "You and I are going to do at least one good thing before we go, Billy-boy," he said conversationally.

Billy Kidd launched himself from Richard's office. Billy knew that when Richard was on a tear you didn't get many openings, so he bolted at the first one he saw.

An hour later Richard called Billy on the intercom. "Don't we own a big piece of a direct TV company in Hong Kong?"

"That's right. China Television, Limited. Very profitable."

"Sell it as fast as you can. Maybe a competitor will buy it. Get what you can and let's move on."

"Richard, I know you're angry, but China Television is worth serious money. Satellite television is here now; China is on its way to becoming the largest market on earth. Those little dishes are selling like Viagra."

Richard Buckingham's answer was matter-of-fact. "I'm going to piss on a lot of Commies, Billy. I don't want something of mine hanging out where they can cut it off, throw it in the dirt, and stomp on it. Get rid of China Television—we'll take the loss out of their hides."

Billy refused to quit. "No one will pay what it's worth," he insisted.

Richard was patient. "Billy, with the Communists in power, nothing in China is worth real money. That's the lesson the Americans and British and Japanese are going to learn the hard way."

A man was waiting on the street when Jake stepped out of the hotel. He was standing under an overhang to stay out of the rain. As Jake walked along the sidewalk with Callie's umbrella, the man got into a car that had been parked in the taxi space in front of the building.

Jake ignored the tail. He was acutely aware of the Chan tape in his pocket. For some reason he was relieved that he had ditched the wallet

a pistol he had taken from the man who had followed him yesterday.

As he entered the ferry terminal, the car outside pulled to the curb, and two men got out of the rear seat.

Jake saw them board the
Star of the West
just before the gangplank came over. The second man aboard had a bandage on his head; this was the fellow whom Jake had relieved of wallet and pistol. He boarded on the lower deck. The other man came to the upper deck, where Jake was, but he stayed well away from the American.

Exiting the Central District ferry terminal, Jake hailed the only taxi he saw. He didn't bother checking to see what the men following him did.

When Jake entered Cole's office, Cole came around his desk and shook hands. "We have a choice," he said. "We can have lunch served here, go to the cafeteria, or slip down the street to a restaurant with wine and all the trimmings. What will it be?"