Peter May - Snakehead

He grinned ruefully. ‘Hey, you’re talking to paranoid Steve, here. I never take chances.’

But Margaret didn’t smile. ‘What about whatever it was these people were injected with?’

‘I’ve asked the lab to do several specific panel tests to cover as wide a spectrum as possible. Between PCR and the virus panel we should find out what it was pretty fast.’ He smiled bravely. ‘If it was West Nile, then with luck I get free immunity.’ He dried his hands and stretched a flesh-coloured Band-aid over the cut. He looked up at Margaret. ‘I was going to ask you out to dinner tonight. You know how the line goes: I know this great little place…Only, I don’t. At least, not in Houston.’

All thoughts of Li now banished, Margaret said, ‘You know, funny you should say that. ’Cos I know this great little place…’

Li gazed from the rear passenger window in wonder as Consul-General Xi’s driver took them west on Bellaire, under Sam Houston Parkway, and into the heart of Houston’s Chinatown. Li did not know what he had expected, but it was not this. In Washington, Chinatown consisted of a couple of blocks of old tenements, with a few restaurants and Chinese foodstores. Here, one modern plaza followed another, set back off the boulevard. Walkways under green-tiled roofs over shops which advertised their wares and services in Chinese and English. Peggy’s Skin Care. China Fast Food. Asian Pacific Travel. Sweet Country Café. A brick apartment block with a neon Kung Fu sign next to a notice announcing the E-W Cultural Exchange Association. A billboard advertising ‘Immigration Passport Photos and Greencard Citizenship’, next to an acupuncture centre.

‘You see? Wherever we go, we create little China.’ Consul-General Xi grinned at him, and Li saw that his bad teeth had been patched up to give him an American smile. There were, he had noticed, dental practices everywhere in Chinatown. Perhaps it was what you did when you got a little money, fixed up your teeth so that you felt a little more like an American citizen. Bad teeth were endemic in China.

There were also, he had observed, a proliferation of psychics. Perhaps they offered the hope of future citizenship. And a large number of vasectomy reversal clinics appeared to be trying to make up for decades of the one-child policy, a chance to procreate without punishment — or fear of your children starving.

But Li did not see China in any of it. He saw America plastered with Chinese characters, like graffiti.

‘In terms of area, Houston has the third largest Chinatown in the United States,’ the Consul-General said, stubbing out his cigarette. He opened a window to let out some of the smoke, then closed it again to preserve the air-conditioning. ‘On the surface, perhaps, it looks like a quiet city suburb. But beneath the surface, there is a lot of crime. Gambling, prostitution, protection rackets. For the most part, the local police stay out. So crime flourishes. And, of course, the Americans estimate that the illegal smuggling of Chinese generates revenues of more than three billion dollars a year.’

They passed a large shopping area off to their right, called Diho Square. The parking lot was nearly full, and Li could see only Chinese faces. An old man wearing a white cotton jacket and pants, with open sandals and a white Stetson, turned his ramshackle bicycle on to the road. ‘So who runs the criminal syndicates?’ Li asked.

‘Most of the major businesses, legitimate and otherwise, are run by organisations known here as tongs. The tongs employ street gangs as enforcers to guard the massage parlours and gambling dens. The gangs finance themselves by collecting protection money from small traders with shops and restaurants. It is a very rigid structure, with a very clear hierarchy, all the way from the ma zhai , the little horses, or ordinary gang members, through their leaders, the big brothers, or dai lo , to the shuk foo , the uncles who are their liaison with the tongs.’

‘Who is the ah kung , Consul-General Xi? Do you know?’

The consul-general looked at him, surprised, and a little annoyed. ‘I am wasting my time telling you all this, Li, since obviously you are already well informed.’

Li inclined his head slightly. ‘It is always useful to gather intelligence based on local knowledge, Consul-General.’

The consul-general raised an eyebrow. ‘They were right when they said that you were like your uncle.’

Li glanced at him. ‘You knew him?’

‘Only by reputation.’

Li sighed inwardly. Even here in America he was still haunted by the ghost of his uncle. Since his first day at the University of Public Security in Beijing, he had had to bear the burden of his uncle’s reputation as one of the finest police officers ever to grace the Beijing municipal force. He had either had to live up to or live down that reputation. Never judged on his own merits, always against the yardstick of his Uncle Yifu — a man he had loved dearly. ‘I am not really like him at all,’ Li said. ‘But I try to honour his memory by following his teachings.’

He remembered the dreadful vision of the old man lying murdered in the bloody bath, skewered by his own ceremonial sword. It was as vivid now as it had been then, and the pain of it never diminished.

‘Each of the tongs has an ah kung ,’ the consul-general was saying in answer to his question. Li forced the image of his uncle from his mind. ‘But it is generally recognised that one of them is supreme. He is the grandfather. But outside of a very small inner circle, no one knows who he is.’

‘His name, or at least his nickname, is Kat,’ Li said, and he felt the consul-general’s eyes turn toward him.

‘How do you know this?’ the consul-general asked.

‘Because one of those who died in the truck at Huntsville was an undercover Chinese police officer.’

The consul-general was clearly shocked. ‘You are sure?’

Li nodded. ‘I briefed him for the job. He was to come to America as an illegal immigrant, and infiltrate the gangs at this end, hoping to pick up clues to the identity of the ah kung .’ Li paused. ‘I have read his diary. At least he was able to give us a name.’

‘Kat,’ the consul-general said thoughtfully. ‘My wife always presents me with a tangerine plant for luck at Spring Festival.’ He took out his cigarettes and offered one to Li, who declined. Since coming to America he had made a determined effort to give them up. Only when he was with other Chinese was he tempted to fall back into his old ways. The consul-general lit up. ‘I will open the door and look at the mountain with you, Li.’ And Li smiled to himself. Whenever anyone told you they were going to be straight with you, it usually meant the opposite. ‘There are no flowers dropping from the sky in Beijing over the matter of these illegal immigrants.’

‘Nor in Washington,’ Li said.

‘I have spoken today with the minister of public security. The government is embarrassed by the high profile nature of this case.’

‘Particularly since they are in the process of trying to negotiate a more favourable agreement with the World Trade Organisation.’ Li couldn’t keep the cynicism out of his voice.

The consul-general looked at him sharply. And then he smiled. ‘I see you have also accumulated a little political acumen on your journeys.’ Then his smile faded just as quickly. ‘The minister would like to put an end to this business, once and for all. There is to be a major crackdown in Fujian and Canton. He wants you to put a stop to it at this end. The Americans have been told that you will be entirely at their disposal. But one way or another, the authorities in Beijing want you to cut off the head of the American snake, with or without their help.’