Julian (24 page)

“I hope so,” I said.

Making her way down the stairs, one hand on the bannister and the other around Roger’s waist, Fiona turned back.

“Ninon’s lucky to have a friend like you,” she said.

I was washing the breakfast dishes when a car pulled into the driveway, right on time. On my way out I grabbed Ninon’s satchel. She’d need her own clothes when the hospital discharged her. Chang wasn’t in the car. I said hello to the driver, who wasn’t sporting his uniform and peaked cap this time. He nodded, then reversed into the street and drove off.

I pushed my thoughts away from Ninon and toward the upcoming meeting with Mr. Bai—the discussion I had insisted on. Now it didn’t seem so important. I rehearsed what I wanted to say and learn, plagued by doubts and second guesses. Would Mr. Bai make things clear for me or would he get angry and back out of our deal? Did I really want to know the answers to my questions?

A lot had happened since last March, when Chang had picked me up on the street near my school and taken me to the quiet, expensively furnished office above the Happy Garden restaurant. I lived in my own apartment, I had become a sort of building superintendent and handyman, I worked part-time at the convenience store, all thanks to Mr. Bai. Although Curtis’s assignments were separate, they were a direct result of Bai’s finding me the job at the QuickMart.

But I had also landed in the middle of a mysterious operation that had escalated into a dark scenario involving watchers, covert entry and bugging, and Charr’s scary escape in the middle of the night. I didn’t even know what or who Charr had been trying to avoid.

Well, I thought, as the car pulled into the parking lot and came to a smooth stop at the restaurant’s side door, maybe after this morning it will be all over.

In one way or another.

The three of us, Mr. Bai, Chang and I, sat in the same leather chairs in front of the fireplace, the little red clay pot of tea on the coffee table between Bai and me. On my right, Chang sat calmly, ready to provide simultaneous translation.

I searched Bai’s face for any sign of what was to come. Was he angry with me, impatient with my demand? I couldn’t tell. His smooth oval face held no expression. Even so, the aura of power and authority was there, a contrast to his small stature, his bright almond-shaped eyes, his manicured nails and costly clothing.

Once the polite niceties were out of the way—all of Bai’s words coming in Chinese and turned into elegant English by Chang—Bai blindsided me.

“I am sorry to hear that your friend is unwell,” he said. “You must not hesitate if there is anything I can do.”

A few seconds passed before I realized he had spoken in perfect, unaccented English.

“Thank you,” I replied mechanically, my thoughts racing to catch up with this latest twist. What had been the point of the laborious time-wasting charade of our first
meeting, when every word that travelled across the coffee table had to be said twice? Was it a power move on Mr. Bai’s part? A way of dominating the conversation? Was it tradition or custom?

Chang piped up. “Julian, you have expressed a desire to ask Mr. Bai some questions about the guests occasionally permitted to stay at his house. He understands that you harbour certain doubts in connection with these guests and he has agreed to answer your questions.”

I wondered why Chang had to be so formal, so stuffy when he talked. Trying to impress his boss? I replied by nodding.

“Before he does, I remind you that Mr. Bai and his arrangements are to be kept in strict confidence, or as we say,
shou kou ru ping
—make your mouth a sealed bottle.”

I nodded again, fed up with Chang’s wordiness.

“He has asked me to add that he especially appreciates your help with Li Ai-wen, the gentleman whom you assisted not long ago. Now, you may go ahead.”

Throughout Chang’s blathering I had kept my eyes on Bai sitting comfortably in his chair. When Chang fell silent I said nothing for a few moments, casting about for a place to begin. So far I had felt like a little boy coming to his grandpa to ask for a couple of bucks to buy ice cream. The two men in the room with me, polite and formal and businesslike, had purposely created an atmosphere where I was a distant third in importance. I didn’t care about status, but I didn’t like being shoved around.

I said, “One of the people who stayed at the house works at Mama Zhu’s restaurant. Are you a human smuggler?”

My bombshell stunned both of them. A shroud of silence fell over the room. Bai stared at me. Chang’s mouth dropped but he recovered quickly.

“Yes,” Bai said.

My turn to be caught off guard. In one go I had fired off all the bullets in my clip, and I had nothing more to say. I fell back on an old strategy. When in doubt, keep your mouth shut. It was Bai’s turn.

He smiled. Gotcha right back, his smile seemed to say.

“I am indeed a smuggler. But not in the way you might think. Your observation of the young woman being trained in the Chongqing Gardens kitchen persuaded you that she is an illegal immigrant. She is, as are all the others. Mr. Li, whom you kindly assisted recently, is also an illegal.”

I killed a few seconds by lifting my cup and taking in a few sips of green tea. Bai did the same.

“You may have thought I am what we call a snakehead—the boss of a criminal gang. I understand how you came to that conclusion, and I acknowledge that the secrecy I have imposed on Mr. Chang and others has contributed to your confusion and put you at some risk. But I assure you, you were never in danger.

“Let me put it this way, Julian. The guests are illegal until we can get them registered as refugees, which is becoming increasingly difficult. In the meantime I provide them with jobs and a place to stay. All of them except Mr. Li—I’ll get to his case in a moment—come from the area around my home village in north China. They were obliged to flee the country because they got into trouble with corrupt local officials who have the power to jail them for an indefinite period, or possibly worse. A few
villagers have even been murdered. It all has to do with criminal business practices involving everything from dangerous coal mines to unregulated factories.

“You must understand that my homeland is not a society of law. I support an organization in the area—what you might call a secret human rights group. The people who used the house where you live as a temporary resting place have all had harrowing journeys just to get to this country.”

Mr. Bai went on to relate Charr’s—Li Ai-wen’s—tale. He was a writer, a novelist, who had been imprisoned along with his wife ten years ago for criticizing the Chinese government, especially the Communist Party. His books were banned in China but published in other countries in translation. Li’s wife was a journalist who got into trouble for advocating democracy.

A year before I met Mr. Bai, Li was awarded the Green Ribbon Prize, a European literary award almost as famous as the Nobel Prize. The Chinese government, fearing worldwide criticism and a massive loss of face for holding the prize-winner in jail, released him. That was when he learned his wife had died in prison—four years before.

The government wouldn’t let him travel to Europe to collect the prize. They pretended he was free but he was really under house arrest. Li knew that he’d be imprisoned again as soon as the prize was no longer in the news. When he was secretly approached by Mr. Bai’s contacts, he agreed to try to get out.

“You mean the authorities let him believe his wife was still alive for four years?” I asked.

Both men nodded.

“So you see, Julian,” Bai summed up, “what I am doing by helping these people get into this country is illegal, but it is not immoral.”

I believed him. And with that, my attitude toward him took a new turn. He wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t exploiting refugees for cheap labour; he was helping desperate people escape to a better life, just as he had assisted me. And I felt a connection, now, to the faceless men and women who appeared and disappeared at my house. They needed a river. I didn’t see them as a possible threat to my safety anymore. They had done what I had done, but for them it was dangerous. They were brave. They had ripped themselves free from their roots and homes and launched themselves toward a future they could hardly imagine. In doing that they had trusted the man across the table from me—and he had come through for them.

Mr. Bai drank more tea and settled back, waiting for the next question.

“Who are the watchers, then? And who broke into the house and planted the bugs?” I asked. “It seems like some of them were amateurs and some were pros.”

“Unfortunately our Mr. Li, being a man of international reputation, attracted a great deal of attention here as well as elsewhere when he disappeared from his house in China. None of the watchers as you call them were immigration officials or police. All were connected in one way or another with the Chinese embassy here in this country.”

“The embassy? But—”

“And once again you have been very observant. The watchers fall into two groups, as you point out. The professionals, those behind the surreptitious entry and listening
devices, are directly in the employ of the Chinese embassy in Ottawa, through the consulate here in this city. All embassies have what you might call an espionage department. They spy on the host country from within. China maintains an extensive and very effective information-gathering program here. Mr. Li is a renowned figure and his escape is a source of great embarrassment for China. China wants him back, in jail. If they could get him to the embassy they might be able to do that.

“Most men and women we bring into this country are much smaller fish. China simply wants to keep track of them, and does so through the clubs and organizations in the Chinese expatriate communities. Cultural groups and the like. The watchers are volunteers who co-operate with the consulate here in the city. They are, as you say, amateurs.”

“Okay, I understand,” I said. “All that makes sense. It seems selfish of me, now that I see how you’re helping these people, but if I’m in the middle of all this illegal activity—even if it isn’t immoral—I could lose everything. I’m a runaway too.”

“Lately we have been closely pressed and had little choice but to use the house to help Li Ai-wen. But we have altered our methodology as of Mr. Li’s escape. You will see no more illegal guests at the house. Or at least not for a long time.”

I sipped more tea, suddenly anxious to get out of there and rush over to the hospital.

“Thanks for clearing all that up,” I said.

Bai stood up. “Not at all, Julian. I am grateful for the help with Mr. Li. You did a good thing.” He smiled. “It seems fate has sent you to my assistance again.”

“Please say goodbye to him for me,” I said.

“You may rely on me to do so.”

Chang escorted me out to the car. “Can the driver drop me at the hospital?” I asked.

Chang fired off directions to the driver and the car slid into the traffic on Dundas, heading east. I was relieved but tried not to think about what had just happened, what I had learned from Mr. Bai. It was all too much to take in. Since I had picked up Ninon two nights ago and brought her home and learned how sick she was, her health had occupied all my mental energy. Fiona had said that today I might finally learn exactly what was wrong with Ninon. I hoped so.

And, in a way, I hoped not.

I
T WAS LATE MORNING
when I slipped into Ninon’s room. I found her propped higher in bed, the IVs in place, the oxygen harness looped behind her ears, passing under her nose. She was awake, and the sight of her lifted my spirits and calmed my nerves. She looked good. Her face wasn’t so pale, her eyes were once more Ninon’s beautiful green, without the false glimmer of fever.

I was so relieved I felt weak in the knees.

“I should have brought you a box of chocolates,” I said. “Or some roses.”

“I don’t like roses, and chocolates give me zits. A kiss will do.”

Her voice was still a little bit raspy and low, like a breeze moving through dried grass. Between sentences she paused briefly. We talked for a while about not very much. Then we got around to the night I brought her home.

“Now you know where I slept when the mission was full or I had maxed out my stay,” she said.

“It seems a little dangerous.”

“I know. But it isn’t as bad as it looks. All the other people there are regulars like me. We keep the place a secret. It’s off the beaten path. We sort of look out for one another.”

“Why did you wait for so long to get in touch?”

“I got so weak I kind of lost direction. I guess I wasn’t thinking too clearly.”

Ninon was tiring, her strength already used up, so I lowered the side of the bed and sat holding her hand. In a few moments her eyelids slipped down and her shallow breathing grew more regular.

I was encouraged by her improvement. She was still weak, but her colouring and strength—even if it didn’t last long—showed she was on the mend. I guessed the antibiotics were doing what they were supposed to do.

After a while I took the elevator back to the first floor and bought a coffee and doughnut at the cafeteria. I sat at one of the tables and read a newspaper someone had left behind, but I couldn’t absorb anything. My Curtis phone rang.

“Gulun is mad at you,” Curtis reported.

I had forgotten to call the store and tell the Altans I wouldn’t be in.

“I’ll call him right now,” I said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“I could use your help. I’ve signed up a new client whose fifteen-year-old son is—”

“Sorry, Curtis. I gotta take care of something. I won’t be available for a few days at least.”

“You sound a little … listen, Julian, I’ll pass the message on to Gulun for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, and ended the call.

I finished the cold coffee and semi-stale doughnut. When I got off the elevator at Ninon’s floor a woman in white holding a clipboard was coming out of the nursing station. She saw me and waited.

“Mr. Paladin?”

She was a head shorter than me, with large brown eyes and a cool professional manner.