The Prometheus Deception (46 page)

He picked up the phone and called an old acquaintance in Beijing, a Chinese civil servant named Jiang Yingchao, now highly placed in the foreign ministry. Jiang had had dealings with Giles Hesketh-Haywood a decade ago; he recognized Giles's honking tones immediately.

“My English friend,” exclaimed Jiang. “What a pleasure it is to hear from you, after so long a silence.”

“You know I don't like to impose upon our friendship,” Bryson replied. “But I trust our last transaction was … helpful to your career. Not that you needed it, of course: your ascent up the ranks of the diplomatic corps has been most impressive.”

Giles did not need to remind his Chinese diplomat friend: Jiang had been a low-level cultural attaché in the Chinese embassy in Bonn when he had first been introduced to Giles Hesketh-Haywood. It was not long after they'd had lunch together that Giles made good on his promise, obtaining for Jiang an extremely valuable ancient Chinese artifact at a cost that was far below what it would fetch if it ever hit the open market. The miniature, red-pottery walking horse from the Han Dynasty had made a very special gift from Jiang to the ambassador, no doubt greasing the wheels of his career. Over the years, Hesketh-Haywood had furnished a number of priceless objects to his diplomat friend, including ancient bronzes and a Qing Dynasty vase.

“And what have you been up to all these years?” asked the diplomat.

Bryson gave a long, aggrieved sigh. “I'm sure you saw that absolutely
scurrilous
article in
L'Osservatore Romano,
” he remarked.

“No, which article might that be?”

“Oh, dear, forget I even
mentioned
it. Anyway, an
extraordinary
object has just
happened
to fall into my possession, and I thought a
branché
chap such as yourself might know of someone who might be interested in it. I mean, there's a
terribly
long list of extremely interested potential buyers, but just for old times' sake I thought I'd call you first.…” He began to describe the jade chess set, but Jiang cut him off.

“I will call you back,” Jiang said sharply. “Let me have your number.”

There was a delay of half an hour before Jiang Yingchao called on a sterile line. No doubt he had located the Vatican newspaper and then made a few rapid, excited calls first.

“You do understand, my dear fellow, that this isn't the sort of thing that comes up very often,” said Giles. “But it's positively frightful how careless some of these great institutions are about their treasures, isn't it? Positively
frightful
.”

“Yes, yes,” Jiang interrupted impatiently. “There would be a great deal of interest, I'm sure. If we're talking about the same thing—the Sung Dynasty jade chess set—”

“I'm speaking
hypothetically
, my dear Jiang, of course. You do realize that. I'm saying that if such a
marvelous
set happened to become available, you might want to put out the word.
Discreetly
, of course.…”

The coded language was clear; it was like waving a red flag at a bull. “Yes, yes, I do know of someone, yes indeed. There is a general, you know, who is known to collect such things, these Sung Dynasty masterpieces of carved jade. It is the general's consuming passion. You may know his nickname, his moniker—the Jade Master.”

“Hmm. Not sure I do, Jiang. But you think he might have any interest?”

“General Tsai is most interested in repatriating looted imperial treasures, bringing them back to the motherland. He is a fervent nationalist, you know.”

“So I am given to understand. Well, I would need to know quite soon if the general has any interest, because I'm about to tell the hotel operator to
hold
all my
calls
—those
loathsome
oil sheiks from Oman and Kuwait simply won't stop
calling!
”

“No!” Jiang blurted out. “Give me two hours! This masterpiece
must
be returned to China!”

Bryson did not have to wait that long. The diplomat called back barely an hour later. The general was interested.

“Given the extraordinary nature of this property,” Bryson said firmly, “I absolutely insist on meeting my customer face-to-face.” At this point, Bryson knew he could pretty much set his own terms for the meeting with General Tsai.

“But—but of course,” sputtered Jiang. “The … customer would require nothing less. He needs to have every assurance of the item's authenticity.”

“Naturally. All certificates of provenance will be provided.”

“Of course.”

“The meeting must be immediate. I can accept no delay.”

“That is not a problem. The Jade Master is in Shenzhen, and he looks forward to meeting with you as soon as possible.”

“Good. I'll take the first flight to Shenzhen, and then the general and I will have an initial conversation.”

“What do you mean, an
initial conversation
…?”

“The general and I will pass a convivial hour or two, I'll show him photographs of the chess set, and if I feel we've established a comfort level, we'll proceed to the next step.”

“Then you won't be taking the set with you to your meeting with the general?”

“Oh, good
Lord
, no. After all, such a customer would be in a position to expose me if he wanted to. Can't be too careful these days. You know my motto: I never deal with strangers.” He chortled. “After I meet this chappy, of course, we won't be strangers anymore, now will we? If everything's in order—if everything
feels
right—we can discuss importation, filthy lucre, all those
boring
humdrum details.”

“The general will insist on inspecting the jade chess set, Giles.”

“Certainly, but not at first. Oh, no. China's terra incognita to me, I don't know the chappies in charge. I guess I feel a smidgen vulnerable there. Wouldn't want your General Whosit to
confiscate
the thing and bundle me off to one of those
cabbage
farms or what have you.”

“The general is a man of his word,” Jiang objected stiffly.

“My antennae have served me awfully well these last twenty years, old friend. Wouldn't want to ignore them at
this
late date. Fella can't be too careful with you inscrutable Orientals, you know.” He chuckled; there was silence on the phone. “And you know me—a jigger of rice wine and I'm
anybody's!
”

*   *   *

Flamboyantly attired in a yellow kid-skin vest and a silk-and-cashmere checked suit, Giles Hesketh-Haywood arrived at Shenzhen's Huangtian Airport and was met by an emissary of General Tsai wearing the dark-green, rankless uniform of the Chinese People's Liberation Army, the standard red metal enamel star at the front of his standard-issue “Mao” cap. The emissary, a stony-faced middle-aged man who offered no name, whisked Bryson through customs and immigration. The way had been prepared; the airport personnel were deferential and inspected nothing.

That was left to General Tsai's men. Once they were clear of immigration, the emissary wordlessly hustled Bryson through an unmarked door where two other green-uniformed soldiers were waiting. One of them unceremoniously rifled through his luggage, leaving nothing unopened or unchecked. Meanwhile, the other began frisking him systematically, from head to foot, even slicing the insoles in the costly English leather shoes. Bryson was not surprised at the search, though he emitted squawks of indignation befitting his legend's prissy persona.

He had not arrived unarmed, though. Anticipating that he would be searched before being permitted to meet with the general, he had left behind any firearms, or in fact anything that would be out of character for Giles Hesketh-Haywood to carry. The risk of being caught, and therefore sabotaging the entire legend, was too great.

But concealed in Hesketh-Haywood's glove-soft leather belt was a weapon so well concealed that it was worth the risk. Sewn between two layers of the finest Italian cordovan leather was a long, flexible metal strip about an inch wide by twelve inches long, made of an aluminum-vanadium alloy, a razor-sharp blade down most of its length. The blade was easily and quickly removed from the belt by opening one snap and pulling hard. It was difficult to use without wounding oneself, but if employed properly, the blade would slash human skin down to the bone with virtually no pressure. And if that was insufficient, Bryson was confident that he could rely, as he often did, on his ability to improvise, to find weapons where others saw none. But he hoped weapons would not be needed. The uniformed soldier ordered Bryson to remove his belt; he ran it cursorily between his fingers and detected nothing.

A black, late-model Daimler limousine was idling in front of the terminal exit doors, a military chauffeur at the wheel, also in the green rankless uniform of the Chinese Army, with a bland, unreadable face, his chin tucked toward his chest in a gesture of humility.

The dour emissary opened the passenger's door for Bryson, placed the suitcase in the trunk, then got into the front seat. He did not speak a word; the driver steered the Daimler away from the curb and onto the airport access road toward Shenzhen.

Bryson had been to Shenzhen once, years before, but he scarcely recognized it. What was a tiny, sleepy fishing village and border town barely twenty years ago had exploded into a clamorous and chaotic metropolis of hastily paved roads, slapdash apartment complexes, and belching factories. From the rice paddies and virgin farmland of southern China's Pearl River Delta had sprouted the skyscrapers and power plants and industrialized sectors of the Special Economic Zone. The chaotic skyline bristled with construction cranes, the sky an ugly gray polluted haze. The bustling population of some four million people settled on the banks of the fetid Shenzhen River were mostly
mingong
, or peasant workers, lured from their rural provinces with the promise of jobs at subsistence wages.

Shenzhen was a megalopolis in a hurry, a boomtown city going at a furious pace twenty-four hours a day, running at full blast on the high-octane fuel that was the most profane of words in all of Communist China: capitalism. But it was capitalism at its brashest and cruelest, the dangerous hysteria of a frontier city, crime and prostitution rampant and evident. The glittering heights of consumer excess, the lurid billboards and flashing neon, the swanky shops of Louis Vuitton and Dior, were, Bryson knew, nothing more than a veneer. Behind it lay concealed the desperate poverty, the squalor of the
mingong
's grim daily existence, the metal sheds housing dozens of migrant laborers with no plumbing, scrawny chickens running around tiny, filthy yards.

The traffic was thick, choked with late-model automobiles and bright red taxis. Every single building was new, tall, modernistic. The streets bustled with blinking signs, all of them in Chinese with the rare exception of an English letter here and there—an M for McDonald's, a KFC. Everywhere seemed to be lavish colors, gaudy restaurants, and stores selling consumer electronics—camcorders and digital cameras and computers and televisions and DVDs. Street merchants peddled roasted pigs and ducks and live crabs.

The crowds were dense, shoulder-to-shoulder, with almost everybody carrying a mobile phone. But unlike Hong Kong, twenty miles to the south, there were no elderly people practicing tai-chi in the parks; in fact, there were no old people here at all. The maximum length of stay in the Special Economic Zone was fifteen years, and only the able-bodied were welcome.

The emissary turned around in the front seat and began speaking.
“Ni laiguo Shenzhen ma?”

“Pardon?” said Bryson.

“Ni budong Zhongguo hua ma?”

“Sorry, no speakee the lingo,” Bryson drawled. The emissary had asked him if he understood Chinese, whether he had been here before; Bryson wondered whether he was being crudely tested.

“English?”

“I am, and I speak it, yes.”

“This is your first time here?”

“Yes, it is. Charming place, though—wish I'd discovered it earlier.”

“Why do you meet the general?” The emissary's expression had turned outright hostile.

“Business,” Bryson said shortly. “That
is
what the general does, right?”

“The general is in charge of the Guandong Sector of the PLA,” the emissary upbraided him.

“Well, there sure seems to be a lot of business going on here.”

The driver grunted something, and the emissary fell silent, then turned around.

The Daimler crawled through the unbelievable congestion of the streets, the strange cacophony: the hysterical shrieks of high-pitched voices, the blaring of truck horns. In front of the Shangri-La Hotel the traffic finally came to a standstill. The chauffeur turned on his siren and flashing red light and veered up onto a crowded sidewalk, barking shrill orders through the car's loudspeakers, scattering the frightened pedestrians like so many pigeons. Then the Daimler zipped ahead of the knot of traffic.

Finally they came to a checkpoint, the entrance to a highly industrialized sector that appeared to be under the direct control of the military. Bryson assumed that it was here that General Tsai had his primary residence, perhaps maintained his headquarters. A soldier holding a clipboard leaned in and gestured rudely to the emissary, who quickly got out. The car continued down the street, past drab residential buildings into a more industrial-looking area, predominately warehouses.

Bryson was instantly wary. He was not being taken to the general's residence. But where was he being driven?

“Neng bu neng gaosong wo, ni song wo qu nar?”
he demanded in a deliberately heavy British accent, the syntax that of a speaker ill at ease with the language. Care to tell me where you're driving me?