Qiu Xiaolong - Enigma of China

“Really! Drop by my place next time you visit her. I’ve got the latest coffeemaker.”

The car was already pulling up, however, by his subdivision near Wuxing Road.

She got out of the car at the same time as he did and was now standing opposite him, her clear eyes sparkling under the starry sky. It was an intoxicating night with a balmy breeze.

“Thank you so much. I’ve really enjoyed the evening. Not just the music, but also the conversation.” He awkwardly added, “It’s late, and my place is a mess. Perhaps next time-”

“So that’s a rain check,” she said, smiling and sliding back into her car.

He stood watching as her car disappeared into the distance. It was a wasted evening in terms of the investigation, but as he hastened to reassure himself, not entirely so. There was his visit to the Internet café prior to the concert, the mail from Peiqin with the pictures, and then the latest information about Melong. Perhaps some dots were beginning to form into possible lines, though nothing was yet clear…

Alone, in the stillness of the night, he might be able to figure something out.

Lianping reminded him, he realized, of a character from a French book he read long ago- Rameau’s Nephew .

And again, he was getting confused.

Melong was sitting alone in his home office, brewing his third cup of Pu’er tea that morning, and restlessly alternating between putting his feet on the desk and then putting them back down on the floor.

He felt like a trapped animal.

The Confucian maxim that one should “pay respects to ghosts and spirits, yet keep yourself at a distance from them” had been working out so far-at least in his dealings with the cops, the netcops, and with Internal Security and the city government as well. But this time, “paying his respects” didn’t appear to be enough. The human-flesh search initiated by the photo of the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty appearing on his Web forum had resulted in an avalanche of questions from the authorities. The initial reaction to the picture wasn’t totally unexpected, but the subsequent developments astonished him. Still, Melong didn’t think he could be blamed for the results.

What he did wasn’t that different from what others in his position had done, and controversy adds to the traffic of a Web forum. What he hadn’t told the netcops was the sense of satisfaction he felt over the downfall of another corrupt official, and in seeing the embarrassment of the “ever-correct-and-glorious” Party authorities.

Still, what he did tell them was true. He had no idea who’d sent the original picture. Using all his expertise, he’d traced the IP address of the sender to a particular computer, but it turned out to be at an Internet café. The netcops must have made the same effort and come up with the same results. So that was the end of it. Or it should have been.

But it wasn’t. The netcops concocted a conspiracy theory that somehow Melong had gained access to Zhou’s computer, got hold of that picture, posted it online, and then invented the story of an anonymous user having sent the picture from an Internet café. They based their scenario on his hacker credentials. After all, they claimed, an ordinary person wouldn’t have been able to read the cigarette brand from a newspaper photo.

They were bent on punishing him, not because they really believed their theory or because they were worried about his occasional computer hacking, but because the Web forum was becoming a chronic headache for the Party authorities. This was an opportunity to shut it down for a seemingly legitimate reason.

For the moment, the netcops might still be looking for evidence, but with or without it, they were going to “harmonize” the Web forum out of business. It was just a matter of time.

A loud coughing from the room in the back reminded him that the Web forum wasn’t the only thing worrying him. He’d never felt so helpless.

He was preparing another cup of strong tea-black enough to dye his gray hair-when the silver-gray cell phone started to ring. Strange. It was a “private phone,” for which he’d just bought a prepaid SIM card only a couple of days ago. Only a few knew the number, which he would change again in a month. He picked up the call.

“Hi, I’d like to speak to Melong.”

“Speaking. Who is this?”

“Chen Dao.”

It was an unfamiliar voice, and an unknown name.

“Chen Dao,” Melong repeated the name, still unable to recall anything about it from his memory.

“Your friend Lianping recommended you to me.”

“Lianping?” He knew her, but it wasn’t like her to recommend him to someone, and he didn’t remember having given her the new phone number. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk with you. How about over a cup of good tea at Tang Flavor on Hengsan Road?”

He had heard that Tang Flavor served excellent tea. It also wasn’t a good idea to meet with a stranger at his home office, which might well be bugged, or over a phone that might be tapped.

“Okay, I’ll meet you there. How about half an hour, depending on the traffic.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Melong arrived at Tang Flavor. Located close to a subway, the teahouse enjoyed a loyal customer base and was particularly popular for the Chinese snacks that were served for free with the tea.

Melong’s private phone rang again. This time it was a text message.

“Welcome. I’m on the third floor. A6.”

He went over to the stairs, where a waitress in a scarlet Tang dress led him to a private room. She held the door for him with an engaging smile.

Upon his entrance, a middle-aged stranger stood up and reached out his hand. He was wearing a white shirt, and there was a dark blue blazer draped over the back of a mahogany chair.

“So you’re Chen Dao?”

“Chen Cao,” he corrected, “of the Shanghai Police Bureau.”

Now the name rang a bell. Melong must have heard it wrong over the phone.

“I was afraid to say more on the phone,” Chen said with a wry smile, “since some people might not want to show up after learning I’m a cop. Thank you for coming over at such short notice.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve heard a lot about you,” Melong said, then added, “You’re investigating the Zhou case, correct?”

“I’ve heard about you too,” Chen said, without responding to his question. “Lianping suggested that I consult with you. She tells me that you’re a computer genius.”

He was a regular cop, not a netcop involved with overseeing the Internet, so what could Chen possibly want to consult him about? As is stated in the old proverb, people don’t come to a temple without having something specific to pray for.

“So do you know Lianping well?” Melong asked. “She’s an excellent journalist, but I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“We had lunch yesterday.”

“That’s great,” Melong said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”

“Take one of mine.” Chen produced a pack of Panda. “But first, a disclaimer. An old friend gave them to me. It’s not something I could afford myself.”

“Don’t worry about it, Chief Inspector Chen. Let me be frank with you. You’re not the first cop who has come to me, but you’re the first real one.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, all the people who’ve come to me before are ‘netcops’-wang guan. They started showing up long before the scandal of Zhou and the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty. They have been no strangers to me from the day I launched my Web forum.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of these so-called netcops. Let me reassure you that I’m not one of them.”