The Miko - 02 (77 page)

Ocean Park, built primarily with funds donated by the Royal Hong Kong Jockey Club, was, Nangi discovered, set on two discrete levels. One entered through turnstiled gates, strolling along paths bordering massive flower gardens, arbors filled with brightly colored parrots who for HK $5 would accommodatingly perch on one’s shoulder while a color photo of the occasion was taken by an attendant. Up a short hill was a bonsai collection of awesome proportions. There were tiny pavilions erected by Air New Guinea and other such airlines, featuring local flora.

Farther along in this area was a swan pond, numerous waterfalls and, beyond, an open-air stadium where sea creatures performed. Nangi did not get that far, however. He had been told to buy a ticket on the funicular which ran at an extreme angle from Ocean Park’s “lowlands” three thousand feet into the air to the “sky terminus” high atop a rocky promontory jutting out into the South China Sea. There a manmade atoll reef, the world’s first “wave-cove,” and another, larger stadium waited to entertain visitors.

There were four sets of funiculars—tiny glass-enclosed bubbles within which as many as six people could sit facing inward, hanging by what looked to Nangi to be a slender piece of steel from the cable line. Nangi had been told to take the funicular on the far left. He joined the line, moving forward periodically as the cable cars came back down the mountainside, swung around to make the return journey.

He did not look around; that would have cost him face. But he was nevertheless acutely aware of who stood near him—in front and in back, on either side. He saw tourists from the West and from Japan. He saw Chinese teenagers chattering, no doubt, about the excitement of being at the park so late. Or else, he thought cynically, they were betting on which car would detach itself from the cable and plummet to the craggy slopes far below. He was aware of no one who took the slightest interest in him.

He wondered when contact was going to be made. He was at the front of his line now. Perhaps it would not come until he had landed on the promontory. Would he share the funicular with the Chinese family just behind him?

The car came in empty, swung around. The doors swung open and the uniformed attendant waved him forward. He became aware that the attendant had barred the family behind him from entering his car.

It was so small in there that he experienced some difficulty in sitting. A man swung aboard. Where he had come from Nangi could not say. The doors closed and they were caught in the moving gears.

The funicular shuddered slowly forward. Ahead Nangi could see what was waiting for him. A string of tiny lighted cars, like glass beads strung on a wire, arced ahead and above.

They halted momentarily at the edge of the concrete terminus. It all seemed very solid, safe as a stroll in a garden. Then, with a breathtaking abruptness, they were launched out into space, swinging back and forth giddily, following the path set by the glass beads before them.

Nangi turned his attention to his companion. He was a heavyset Chinese of indeterminate age. He could have been fifty or seventy or anywhere in between. He had a flat nose, brush-cut hair that was so short his sunburned scalp could be seen through it. Against this close scrutiny the Chinese bared his teeth—all gold—in a smile or a grimace, Nangi could not tell which.

“Good morning, Mr. Nangi,” the Chinese said, nodding. “I am Lo Whan.”

Nangi returned the pleasantry.

“Tell me, have you been to Ocean Park before?”

“Never. But I have been to Hong Kong many times.”

“Indeed.” Lo Whan’s tone of voice indicated that it was of no import to him. He turned in his molded plastic seat, the kind one encountered in hospital waiting rooms. “I myself have been here many times. I never tire of this view. And one rarely gets a chance to see it at this time of the morning.”

Indeed the sight of the great flat expanse of the South China Sea, the black humped and hilly shapes of the small islands dotting the space like rocks in a Zen pebble garden, was spectacular. Long ships strung with glowing lights like eyes plowed the depths here and there, dusky jewels set in a dark, rich fabric. Moonlight lent it a metallic aspect, scimitars of cool illumination glancing off the ocean’s face as if it were chain mail.

“Consider yourself fortunate,” Lo Whan said, and Nangi did not know whether he meant the sight or something more hidden.

The Chinese closed his hand in his lap as they ascended the steep, wooded slope. If they were to drop off the line now, Nangi observed, there would be no chance for either of them, the scree below would batter anything that fell to oblivion.

“It has come to my attention,” Lo Whan said, “through sources both far removed from me and devious, that some information is about to be moved.” His eyes were bright. “‘Vitally important’ information was, I think, the particular phrase used. Further, it was passed on to me that this information concerns certain, ah, links to Canton and northward that could, perhaps, be compromised under particular circumstances.”

Nangi nodded. “That, in essence, is correct.”

“I see.”

Nangi produced a copy of the contract that he and Liu had signed. He unfolded it, put it carefully on the empty seat to his right.

Lo Whan, observing what that seat now contained, did nothing but look back at Nangi, though the information that had made its circuitous way to him had included the stipulation that he bring Liu’s copy of the document. His eyes were stony.

Nangi handed over the manila envelope. Carefully, as if its contents might be lethal, Lo Whan used one long nail to slit the seal. He slid the contents out one by one and looked at them. They consisted of sixteen 8 × 10 black and white prints of very high quality and resolution, a mini tape player in which resided an unedited copy of the tape Fortuitous Chiu had made of the proceedings at Succulent Ren’s apartment, a twelve-page transcript of the tape recording.

Lo Whan slipped on a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and for the next ten minutes or so ignored Nangi and his surroundings, engrossed by what he had been given.

By the time he had reviewed all of the material thoroughly, they had alighted at the “sky terminus.” They went out, away from the crowds, along the rock promontory.

“Interesting,” Lo Whan said, carrying the incriminating evidence under his arm like a business portfolio. “But hardly worth the price you are asking.” The Chinese shoulders shrugged. “We can return Liu to the sanctity of his homeland at any time.”

“I don’t think it will be quite that easy,” Nangi said, working hard to avoid the rocks. The path Lo Whan had deliberately chosen was strewn with them. “Liu is a fixture here. He’s known by everyone. If you pull him now, in the face of the scandal that I assure you will follow, your country will suffer a great propaganda loss; you will lose all the advantage over England you have gained in the past two and a half years; worst of all, you will lose great face.”

The wind blew lightly in their faces, smelling faintly of salt and phosphorus. Lights from the ships far out semaphored unknown messages to unknown recipients. They are like Lo Whan and me, Nangi thought, staring at the low-lying vessels. They may know where they are going but they can’t actually see it.

Lo Whan was lost in thought. It seemed to him only just if, in the next several moments, Liu were to slip in the bathtub and break his neck. It would save us all face and I could dismiss this clever ape of a Japanese, sending him back across the sea to his puny island home where he belongs. But he knew none of that would happen or was even possible.

Everything Nangi said was true. It was galling. He could not do away with Liu, not with the information the Japanese had. One word to the Governor and he would be on the phone to Her Majesty’s Government, to one ministry or another. That would be intolerable to Lo Whan and his superiors.

Then an idea hit him. He stared out to sea as if nothing at all had happened. He turned it over, looking at it from every side as if it were a gemstone he was considering purchasing, which, in a way, it was. He did not rush, yet he was acutely aware of the passage of time. He could not make as much use of it as he would wish. To take too long would lose him face in this battle of wits.

But the longer he examined his idea, the more he liked it, and the more he felt that by employing it he would gain the upper hand over this Oriental barbarian.

“It is our considered opinion,” he began cautiously, “that we want nothing untoward to happen to Mr. Liu. In fact, we want him precisely where he is, undisturbed.” Now he reached into an interior jacket pocket and drew out the mate to Nangi’s contract.

“This becomes null and void,” he said, “the moment we agree on one point. All evidence amassed against Mr. Liu and, indeed, this Succulent Pien will be destroyed—copies, originals, negatives, everything, will be delivered to an address that I will provide. In addition, you will sign an agreement that from this day forward you will make no move against either of them nor employ, either directly or indirectly, anyone else to do so.”

“But I do not want that contract voided,” Nahgi said. This was a terrible risk, but he judged the potential rewards more than worth it.

Lo Whan stood stock still. It was as if Nangi had slapped him across the face with the document. His surprise cost him face and he did not like that. “What is it you want, then?” he said testily.

“I want us to go back to the original agreement I proposed to Liu. That is, in exchange for a thirty percent interest in the
keiretsu
—a strictly
nonvoting
interest—you agree to provide capital over the next three years in semi-annual payments on January first and July first of each year.”

“We already have a great deal of capital invested in you, Mr. Nangi,” Lo Whan pointed out. “Thirty-five million dollars worth.”

But Nangi was already shaking his head. “That was for the inconvenience your Lieutenant Chin caused the All-Asia Bank. As of now, you have no investment at all.”

Lo Whan’s eyes locked with Nangi’s. He was burning inside with anger and loss of face. He had no intention of being defeated here on his own soil. He had only one last, desperate recourse. “I wonder,” he said, “whether you have lost your interest in why we have taken such exquisite pains to acquire a sizable portion of your
keiretsu.
”

A vague premonition sprang up inside Nangi but he forced it down. He is bluffing, he thought. Carefully, he said, “Mr. Liu has already delineated the Communist point of view. The Oriental Alliance.”

“Yes. We are both familiar with Liu’s, er, drawbacks.” He cocked his head. “Surely you don’t think we’ve told him everything.”

Nangi was silent.

“There are currently in Peking two distinct factions. We have the Maoists on one side and the so-called Capitalist Roaders on the other. In the fifties, as you no doubt know, the Soviets rejected Stalinism. Mao, an avowed Stalinist, bitterly accused the Russians of revisionism. That ideological rift between the two countries has, more or less, stood until the present. However, those currently in power have been clandestinely seeking an accord with the Kremlin for some time now.”

Lo Whan shifted his buttocks as if he were uncomfortable. “Others, perhaps not content with the current flow of the river, are seeking to dredge an alternative course. They, it is whispered, seek a propaganda weapon to use against the Soviets and, thus, against those in power in Peking.”

Nangi now saw the precarious spot his adversary was in. Lo Whan need not spell out in so many words to which faction he belonged. His masters were not yet fully in power in the north.

His heart beat fast. Did the Communist know about
Tenchi
? “It seems to me,” he said, “that there was little good that came out of Mao’s reign.”

“I will not debate ideology with you,” Lo Whan said. “Your
keiretsu
may hold the key to the future of our country. The Oriental Alliance was not a lie. It was simply not the whole of it.”

Nangi felt the triumph surging through his veins. I have won! he told himself. There are no more cards for him to play; he is truly defeated now. He may know
Tenchi
exists but he does not know its secret. And now he never will.

“There is nothing more to do,” Nangi said, “but to amend the documents.”

Lo Whan’s back bowed. He felt one hundred years old. “Then you have doomed us and yourselves to a pact that must have diabolical consequences. I dare not contemplate what the outcome of a full alliance between my country and Russia might be.”

He spoke, but it was as if Nangi had not heard him. Nangi’s own personal triumph had made him drunk; the ancient enmity between these two people impossible to overcome.

It took them almost forty minutes to make all the required changes in the two contracts, to initial the changes and to resign the documents. Lo Whan drew out a pad and commenced to draw up the final clause, which he had verbally outlined to Nangi. At that point Nangi excused himself and went picking his way over the black rocks, to make his call to Fortuitous Chiu. When he returned, both signed the two copies Lo Whan had made. Nangi was now enjoined from interfering with Liu or Succulent Pien.

Both men put their documents away. They stood on the rock promontory, in neat silk suits despite the hour, solemn despite the joyous yelps of people on the other side of the cliff.

Applause came ringing from the ocean theater, where killer whales were jumping through hoops and seals were spinning striped balls on their upraised noses.

With care, Nangi extracted the red envelope that Liu had given him. He presented it to Lo Whan.

“And now,” came the electronically amplified voice of the master of ceremonies, ringing through the rocks’ faces, “ladies and gentlemen, the thrilling finale!”

Tony Theerson, C. Gordon Minck’s Boy Wonder, had one of those beehive minds so sought after in the highest levels of computer technology. Perhaps it was because, when you came right down to it, his mind was tuned more to the binary byways of machines than it was to the ephemeralia of human thought.

It was a rare day, indeed, when the Boy Wonder felt any more complex emotion than hunger, thirst, tiredness, or the mild discomfort of a full bladder. Elation came with the final dissolution of a difficult code—he had ranked them in his mind, giving them names he had made up—into orderly rows of words, sentences, paragraphs, which he then turned over to Tanya Vladimova and Minck himself.