James Craig - Acts of Violence

Getting them back to China, however, was the easy bit. What to do with them once they were repatriated would be far less straightforward. Ren knew that he needed time and space to come up with a sustainable plan for his unruly family, as well as a strategy for restoring his political fortunes. Fortunately, he had the perfect place where he could hunker down and clear his mind.

The Chemin des Collines villa had been a ‘thank you’ from a business associate following the completion of an extremely lucrative business deal. The property, done out in what the locals on the Côte d’Azur liked to call the ‘English style’, was worth something like €25 million. If things were to go badly for him back home, this place would doubtless feature prominently in any show trial cooked up by the Politburo.

For the hundredth time in the last week, Ren tried to calculate the chances of that doomsday scenario coming to pass. As always, the conclusion was simply that there was no way of knowing. The longer he spent out of the country, the less attuned his political antennae became. And yet something deep in his gut warned him not to go back. After the debacle of his London trip, Ren knew that he was more vulnerable than ever.

He was distracted from his thoughts by the vibration of his mobile phone. Pulling it from the pocket of his shorts, he glanced at the screen and groaned. Baldwin-Lee. Another desperate plea for cash, no doubt. He should never have given his number to the wretched club-owner. Despite everything, Ren had to smile. According to his London accountant, the Racetrack was still losing cash at a steady rate. The expectation was that its investors would lose patience and pull the plug in less than a year – maybe even nine months. At that point, the place could probably be snapped up for something less than a third of the price of the debt. That would be the time to step in.

Always assuming that he wasn’t languishing in jail by then.

The phone kept vibrating. Raising his arm, Ren threw it into the swimming pool.

‘Hey,’ said an amused voice. ‘Watch what you’re doing. That nearly hit me.’

Ren observed the girl pull herself out of the water. It took him a moment to recall her name: Cordelia. Drops of the heavily chlorinated water exploded across the concrete, evaporating almost immediately in the glare of the sun. Slowly, he let his gaze move up her naked body, taking in the smooth tan, no lines, no hint of a blemish of any sort. Perfection. Knowing what he liked, Madame Lee at the Golden Chrysanthemum, his preferred agency in these parts, had chosen well. Then again, she always did. Along with everything else, the prostitutes here were several notches above their London counterparts. Quality of life issues.

Hands on hips, she looked at him provocatively. ‘Do you want to party now?’

Yes , said his head. No , his groin responded dolefully. Ren glanced at his shorts. The stress is getting to me, he thought. I can’t even get it up any more. Wang Lei would laugh her head off if she knew how limp my dick was right now.

‘I’ve got some Viagra,’ Cordelia offered, sensing his despair. Walking past him, she plucked a towel from the sun-lounger and began drying her coal-black hair. ‘That will solve any problems, guaranteed.’

A fifteen-second snatch of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata echoed throughout the house. Ren sighed. Someone was at the door. The housekeeper would be at the market, choosing some fish for dinner. He watched as Cordelia began running the towel across her stomach, feeling the faintest stirrings of his own as she did so. Maybe I won’t need the Viagra, after all .

The bell rang again. Still drying herself off, Cordelia looked at him expectantly. ‘It looks like they want you to go and answer it,’ she smiled.

‘Yes.’

She gave him one of her trademark dirty grins. ‘Do you want me to go? I could give them quite a surprise.’

‘No, no,’ Ren sighed. ‘You stay here. I’ll go.’

Striding into the hall, he stopped to check the rather obtrusive CCTV monitor that had been installed by the previous owner, a waif-like Russian singer who, in best rock star tradition, had been found one morning face down in the pool. Standing at the door was a familiar figure. Xue Xi stood tall and erect, eyes front, paying no heed to the watchful eye of the CCTV camera above the door. Ren frowned. He had assumed that Xue would have taken the flight back to Beijing with his family and Guo Miao. Presumably Guo had decided that she should stay behind, on the basis that his boss required some close protection capability while ensconced in his French haven. Ren’s frown slowly morphed into a smile. Sometimes Guo’s paranoia knew no bounds. That was one of his many positive attributes.

Even with the crappy resolution of the security camera image, the woman cut an impressive figure. His mind drifted off to thoughts of Xue, frolicking by the pool with Cordelia, and there was a definite twitch in his shorts. His smile grew wider.

His mood was spoiled by the appearance of a second woman, one whom he didn’t recognize. She glared at the camera with the stone-faced expression that had been patented by the MSS. It was as if she knew he was watching her at that very moment. After a few seconds, the woman ducked out of shot and, once again, he had to endure another short burst of Beethoven. Ren threw back his shoulders and took a couple of deep breaths. If the Ministry of State Security wanted to spy on him, that was fine; however, there were limits. He would be having strong words with Guo Miao about this. And, if these two overstepped the mark, he would have them immediately redeployed to Tibet, where they could eke out the remainder of their so-called careers dealing with self-immolating monks and other enemies of the state. ‘Remember who you are,’ he told himself. ‘You are one of the most powerful men in the country. Act like it.’

Striding through the hallway, he pulled open the heavy door and stood in front of the two women, focusing his attention on the creature standing next to Xue Xi. Barely five feet tall, the unknown woman wore her hair short and had a deeply lined, tanned face. Ren tried to put an age on her but it was impossible; the woman could have been anything between fifty and seventy-five.

Meeting his gaze, she made no attempt to hide her contempt.

‘Ren Qi, I am Commissar Zhou Xiaolan of the MSS.’ She tapped the breast pocket of her tunic. ‘I have papers here authorizing your arrest and immediate repatriation to the People’s Republic.’

So soon? Stifling his surprise, Ren glanced at Xue but the young officer simply stared off into the middle distance. Sweat began beading on his brow and he pushed his sunglasses back up to the bridge of his nose.

Zhou gestured down the driveway, towards a black limousine waiting by the front gate. ‘You must come with us.’

Ren’s stomach did a somersault. Remember who you are! his brain screamed. Taking a step forward, he thrust out a hand. ‘Show me the warrant.’

Moving slowly and mechanically, Zhou did as requested. ‘It is all perfectly legal,’ she intoned, ‘having been drafted by the proper authorities, in line with the relevant legal statutes.’

Spare me the window-dressing . Slowly, Ren unfolded the sheet of thin paper. Under the stamp of the Judicial Affairs Department of the Supreme People’s Court was a list of the charges against him: graft, bribery, abuse of power. If nothing else, his colleagues were predictable to the last.

Ren thought of Cordelia drying herself by the pool. Suddenly, he felt a vigorous erection in his shorts. He smiled.

‘What’s so funny?’ Zhou demanded.

Ren glanced again at the inscrutable Xue. ‘You would not understand.’