David Rotenberg - The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

Fong nodded.

“My parents and their daughter Rivkah were in the Shanghai ghetto.”

Fong signalled him to go on.

“I believe my sister was left behind. I’ve been trying to find her or information about her. But it costs money. More money than I am allowed to bring into the People’s Republic of China so I go ‘antiquing’ to raise the money I need.”

So that was the missing data from Mr. Cowens’ file. It linked so many of the pieces together and, more importantly, removed any possibility that Robert might have something to do with the bombings. Of course that conclusion rested on the idea that Robert was telling Fong the truth. Fong would have it checked out but he doubted Robert was lying to him. It was writ large all over the man’s face. For a lawyer he was remarkably bad at keeping his feelings under wraps. “And have you found the information you seek?”

Robert allowed his hands to come up into the air and then flutter down. “No.”

“Perhaps I can help.”

Robert couldn’t believe his ears. Then he heard the edge in Fong’s voice. “And what do I have to do to gain your help in this matter?”

“You are a lawyer, Mr. Cowens.”

“It shows?”

Fong nodded but didn’t smile. He made a decision.

Robert spread his arms in submission then repeated his question, “What do I have to do to gain your help in this matter?”

“Help me find the man who is setting bombs in our hospitals.”

Robert was astounded by the request. “And how would I do that?”

“We believe he ‘antiques’ just as you do to raise his capital.”

Robert thought about that for a moment then rubbed his chin.

“Did you hurt yourself when you stumbled and fell to the pavement?”

Robert didn’t miss the use of the word stumbled in “stumbled and fell to the pavement” and realized his acceptance of that version of the story was part of the deal. Naturally – this was China, after all. “Yeah, a bit,” he said.

“Believe me, Mr. Cowens, that pain is nothing compared to what I can inflict upon you if you don’t help us find this killer.”

“That’s a very persuasive argument. Not elegant but persuasive.”

“I would have thought that helping you find information about your lost sister would have been incentive enough.”

“It is.”

“Good. I have no love of violence, Mr. Cowens.”

“Really! Do you carry a gun?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m an awful shot.”

Robert was tempted to laugh but quickly realized that was not such a good idea.

“Okay, give me a hint where to start with this guy. What do you know about the bomber?”

Fong went through the basics of what they knew of Angel Michael. Robert sat impassively listening. Fong finished. Robert didn’t move.

“Does that give you a place to start your search?”

Robert thought about it for a full ten seconds then said, “No. I’m sorry, but it doesn’t.”

Fong swore in Mandarin. Robert got the gist – something about a goat’s testicles. He said nothing. He had nothing to say. He did wonder if Fong was pissed off enough to break something else – maybe him.

There was another very long silence in the room then Fong remembered the words of the American consular official and turned to Robert. Robert took a half-step back. “He’s a Manichaean apparently.”

“A what?”

“A Manichaean.”

Robert smiled then quickly removed the smile from his face. “That may be a place to start, Detective. There have been rumours for years that original Manichaean scrolls had been buried in caves in the desert.”

“Which desert?”

“The Taklamakan. Like everyone else persecuted in the West, the Manichaeans came across the Silk Road seeking sanctuary. The Church followed them. To evade Rome the Manichaeans were said to have buried their sacred texts then disappeared into the Middle Kingdom.”

“China is the ocean that salts all rivers,” Fong quoted quietly.

“What?”

“An old saying, Mr. Cowens. So the Manichaeans headed east for safety just as did your parents – and sister.”

Robert looked at Fong trying to see if there was any sarcasm in the comment. There wasn’t. “Yes. Like my parents and my sister.” He rubbed his chin again and a smile slowly crossed his face. “I could let it be known to my associates that I have in my possession one of those original Manichaean scrolls and want to sell it. If this arsonist is a true believer it may be enough to draw him out.”

“It may.”

Robert nodded. “We have a deal then, Detective Zhong?”

“Write down all the information you have about your parents’ time in Shanghai and whatever else you need to know. I will set my people to it.”

“How long will it take?”

“It could take a while. I’ll contact you when I know something, hopefully by exactly two months from today.”

“Why then?”

“Why not? It’s a friend’s birthday.”

Robert looked at him. Fong returned his stare. Finally Fong said, “How long should it take to get in contact with our Manichaean friend?”

“Hard to tell. But if we’re lucky it could be fast – very fast.”

Fong turned toward the broken window and muttered, “It better be.” Then he turned back to Robert. “What do you need to start this?”

“Let me out of here – that’s a start.”

Fong considered putting an electronic tracking cuff on Robert. But Fong had worn one himself for some time and wouldn’t impose that misery on anyone else. “Give me your passport.”

Robert handed it over.

“Do you have a cell phone, Mr. Cowens?”

Robert produced it from his jacket pocket. Fong jotted down the ten-digit local number then handed it back. As Robert reached for it Fong held his side of the phone so the two of them felt each other’s pressure through the electronic device. “Don’t switch it off. And carry it at all times. I’ll be calling in every two hours. You don’t answer me and I’ll have you arrested and tossed into Ti Lan Chou Prison. You know what that is?”

“The political prison.”

“Right,” Fong said and released his end of the phone.

Robert pocketed the thing. Fong gave Robert his cell number. “Call me if anything and I mean anything begins to happen.” Robert nodded then turned to go.

“Mr. Cowens.”

Robert turned back to face Fong. The small man with the delicate features had his hand out. Robert took a step toward him and took the proffered hand. The two men, so very different, from such different worlds, felt the meeting as their palms touched. Neither would acknowledge it, but this was clearly the meeting of two very lonely men.

Angel Michael used the ID he’d stolen the first time he entered the Hua Shan Hospital to pass by security. It was late and the cleaning crews were reporting for work. He slid on his smock and grabbed a cleaner’s cart. He wheeled past the reception desk and its two guards. They glanced at him then signalled for him to stop. They came over quickly and flipped open the covered area on the floor of the trolley. Astinky wash bucket with dirty bandages greeted their inquiring looks.

“Yow!” one of them said as he threw down the sheet that covered the area. “What a smell.”

“Yeah, but instructions said for all the trolleys to be checked.”

“Can I go, now?” Angel Michael asked.

“Lots of cleaning left to do?”

“Lots,” Angel Michael said as he steered his cart toward the abortion ORs. “So they figured out the trick with the cart,” he thought, “fine I planned for that – that’s what windows are for, after all.” He moved past several ORs and came to the sixth. Only the first and the sixth had windows. He went in and closed the door carefully behind him. Then he wheeled the trolley over to the window. Standing on top of the cart, he nimbly hauled himself up to the window ledge. He slipped on his rock-climbing shoes and with the rosin pouch at his side he started up the outside wall toward the roof. The crumbling masonry gave out beneath his feet twice but his hand strength was considerable; each time he dangled briefly then pulled himself up to another foothold.