David Rotenberg - The Hua Shan Hospital Murders

As he rushed down the front steps of the hospital his cell phone rang. It wasn’t a familiar number. He punched his directory ID and it came up with a name that Angel Michael only vaguely recognized. It was a trader he had contacted six months ago, when he was first setting up operations in Shanghai. At that time he had been trolling for basic tradable objects but his list included an interest in any Manichaean writings.

He looked at the number again then at Xiao Ming.

“So, little one,” he said in Mandarin, “should I return this call or not?”

Xiao Ming looked at him closely. She noted the movement of his lips then did as she always did – she imitated what she saw. The man smiled at the baby, “Good time, bad time, opportunity only knocks once.” He punched the talk button.

Fong’s cell rang. “What?”

“It’s Robert Cowens. I believe I’ve made contact.”

“It’s too late.”

“For what?”

“Never mind.”

“What do you want me to do, Detective?”

Fong had no idea. Too many things were in motion. “Don’t do anything. No. Try to set up a meeting then get back to me.”

Fong hung up but his phone immediately rang again. “Zhong Fong.”

“We’re going in, Fong,” said Wu Fan-zi’s confident voice.

“Good.”

Wu Fan-zi hung up. Moments later it occurred to Fong that Wu Fan-zi had said “we.” Who the hell was the “we” part of “we”?

Angel Michael knew that without another diversion they may well have time to disarm the bomb despite its complex timing device and the decoys. He needed to cause a significant fuss to draw fire his way – looking at Xiao Ming he corrected himself, “our way.” Then it occurred to him. How simple. In a singlechild society, children are the most valuable of all commodities. And where were there many, many children in one place? The Children’s Palace . . . of course.

As Fong raced toward the Hua Shan Hospital his cell phone rang. It was the head of security at the Children’s Palace. A man was holding sixty-five children and their teacher hostage on the second floor of the building!

The cell phone broke up so badly that Wu Fan-zi couldn’t be sure he understood what Fong was saying – then it went dead. Anything could have interfered with the connection but Wu Fan-zi wondered if somehow it was his own anxiety that was causing it. He looked to Joan Shui at his side. He saw her caught within the thickness of his glass face shield. “Who else in the world can look good in bomb protective gear?” he wondered. Then another thought flitted, unwelcome, through his mind, “Am I going to lose her so soon?”

The phone crackled, then spat into life. “Status, Wu Fan-zi?” Fong was shouting.

“Fong, you’re cutting out on me.”

“We’ve got a situation here.”

“Where are you?”

“Back at the Children’s Palace on Nanjing Lu. He’s holding a whole room of children with him and – my daughter as well.”

“Who is?”

“The bomber.”

“Fong . . .”

“He claims that if we disarm the bomb he’ll start killing the children. He’s already killed their teacher.”

“But how could he know what’s . . .”

“I don’t know. Tell me what you have there, Wu Fan-zi.” Fong’s voice was tight.

Wu Fan-zi took a deep breath and then said, “A complex device with an obvious timer. I’ve never seen a system set up like this. We already disarmed two dummies on our way in but now that we are in the abortion surgery I’m not sure how to proceed.”

“Wu Fan-zi, the New York Times contacted my office. They received an e-mail stating that there will be an explosion at precisely 4 p.m. at the Hua Shan Hospital. It had a digital photo of a fetus in a cage and another lunatic phrase about the light finally coming. Is it possible that he could have set the bomb for 4 p.m.?”

“Of course, it’s possible, Fong,” Wu Fan-zi shouted back.

“That would give you less than fifteen minutes,” Fong stated.

“Maybe he’s lying.”

“Maybe he’s not.” Fong waited for a moment, then continued, “Are you alone there?”

“No. Joan Shui’s with me.”

“Get her out of there, Wu Fan-zi.” Silence greeted Fong’s request so he said it a second time. Still silence. Finally Fong said, “Do you need her help in disarming the bomb?”

Wu Fan-zi looked at Joan Shui then said into the phone, “No.”

“Do you care about her?”

Joan Shui reached for the phone but Wu Fan-zi held it to one side. Then he put his hand on her arm and said into the phone, “Yes.”

“Then get her out of there, Wu Fan-zi.”

“Do me a favour, Fong?”

“Sure. Name it.”

“If I don’t . . .”

“You will.”

“I don’t think so this time. I want you to celebrate my fifty-third birthday – even if I’m not there.”

After a brief silence, Fong said, “Sure.”

“It’s exactly two months from today.”

“I know that. We’ll drink the night away – you and me and Joan Shui.”

Fong couldn’t be sure but he thought he heard Wu Fan-zi stifle a laugh – or could it be a cry. Fong couldn’t picture that. But the phone line between the two men had somehow gotten far too intimate. Too close. Fong shook the image of a terrified Wu Fan-zi away, then said quickly, “See you at the party if not before.”

Wu Fan-zi didn’t reply. He simply disconnected the line and turned to Joan Shui. “Is everyone out safely?”

“Yes.”

After a long pause he said, “No. You’re not out.”

“I won’t leave you here alone,” she said.

“You will.”

“I . . .”

“You have no choice. I’m ordering you to go.”

She nodded slowly and touched his face mask. She was shocked to see tears rolling down his cheeks.

“Go.” Then softly he added, “Please.”

“But I just met you.”

“All the more reason to leave.” He looked at the device sitting beneath the surgical table. It had six coloured wires coming from it. No device needs more than three. He looked at her and raised his shoulders questioningly. “Any guesses?”

“You want me to guess which wire to cut?”

“Unless you know which one I should cut.”

“I don’t.”

“Neither do I.” He took off his face mask. So did she. “So, guess.”

“Green. Cut the green. I’ve always hated the colour green.”

She touched his lips softly then moved out of the room.

“Joan?”

She stopped and looked back at him.

“It’s my fifty-third birthday two months from now.”

“Going to have a party?”

“Fong’s throwing one for me.”

“I’ll be there,” she said.

“Good. It’s a date. Now go.”

He glanced at his watch. It was eleven minutes before four o’clock. He gave Joan a full ten minutes to get safely out of the Hua Shan Hospital then flipped his face shield into place and reached for his wire cutters.

Robert Cowens called Fong. “Where are you, Detective?”

“Not anywhere that you can help me.”

“I think I . . . might be able to help . . .”

“You can’t help here!” Fong punched the off button of his cell phone.

But not before Robert heard, quiet, as if deep in the background, the dharma kids’ unforgettable rendition of “Ok-ra-homa.”

The explosion at the Hua Shan Hospital tore a huge hole in the side of the building. The air that rushed in fed a massive fireball that raced along an upper corridor and blasted out all the windows. It rained glass and bricks and what little remained of the earthly existence of Wu Fan-zi on the crowd below. Joan stood very still and reached a hand to her belly. She began to cry – like she hadn’t cried since she had been a child.