Gabriel Hunt - Hunt Among the Killers of Men

“Is this supposed to be Kangxi Shih-k’ai?” asked Gabriel. “The Favored Son of China? He looks like Nosferatu.”

The reference was lost on Qingzhao. “I do not know. I only know of Kangxi Shih-k’ai’s history because of Cheung’s obsession with him. Whether this statue depicts him, I cannot say. But the phrase ‘Killers of Men’ struck me as appropriate for the others. My soldiers here help my cause.” She pointed out one of the terra-cotta figures, missing an arm. “He was a bowman.”

“Now he doesn’t have a bow or an arm to draw it with,” said Gabriel, marveling at the possibilities. “His face is almost gone.”

“They all had weapons of bronze, a long time ago. They did not need shields, nor helmets. Cunning and ferocity were their protection.”

Was she referring to the men who’d been the models for these figures or the figures themselves? Gabriel wasn’t sure.

“You found them here? Out in the open? Or did you excavate them yourself?”

“They were buried,” she said. “I dug them out.”

“How did you find them?” She didn’t answer. “How did you know they were here?”

“I knew.” It was all she said.

“Does Cheung know they’re here?”

She shook her head. “I found them; he does not know.”

“And were there more? More figures?” She shook her head. “Not necessarily in this room,” Gabriel said. “Maybe one of the other shrine rooms, or…is there a way into this mountain? A path to the inside?”

“You mean like a secret chamber?” She seemed amused. “No. I have seen all the caves and passageways this mountain has to offer. I was hoping to find more of the Killers of Men myself; I would certainly have use for them. These are all that there are.”

Gabriel began scraping debris off the base of the huge bronze statue against the far wall. Maybe she was right that she’d found everything there was to find. But maybe she wasn’t. A half-mad assassin using one of the leaning pagodas as a hideout would not search the way Gabriel Hunt could search.

“How do you use the warriors?” he asked as he continued to work his way around the sculpture’s base.

“Tonight I will take the bowman to a friend at the Night Market,” said Qingzhao. “Perhaps if you come you will find out what you wish to know. I would welcome your help.”

She very pointedly did not remind him that he was in her debt.

What the hell , thought Gabriel. He could give China one more day.

Chapter 7

Trash fires choked the street with milky smoke. The pedicab in which Gabriel and Qingzhao rode, with their inanimate charge wedged between them, threaded its way through the riot of human shapes that constituted the nightlife beyond the favored, protected realm of the Bund. Here were thousands of vendors, prostitutes, thieves, huanquiande bartering for money, DVD hucksters, homeopathic herbal medicine men, pirate electronics dealers, clothiers, all blurring past. Open petrol and propane tanks warned in English NO NAKED LIGHT , meaning fire.

They stopped at the Beggar’s Arch, which was a long stone tunnel like a Roman aqueduct, its shadows lined on both sides by castoffs and derelicts. According to beggar etiquette, the seated and squatting men kept their eyes down and their cups (or cupped hands) up as Gabriel and Qingzhao passed, carrying the canvas-wrapped statue of the bowman carefully between them.

They emerged into one of Shanghai’s many Night Markets, a tightly packed maze of tents reminiscent of an American swap meet or flea market, interspersed with solo hustlers and other racketeers working out of the shells of now-useless automobiles. Gabriel saw several more people burning ceremonial cash at drumfires, and a man putting trained birds through their paces inside an entire corridor of bird-sellers.

“It’s like Mardi Gras,” Gabriel said.

“More dangerous,” said Qingzhao.

“You’ve never drunk a Hurricane, I bet.”

Qingzhao ignored the remark. Wit, charm or humor were not her coinage.

Presently they emerged into a large open area completely engirded in stonemasonry, with drains in the floor. It could have been a covered outdoor patio or a deceptively big space between buildings with a canopy overhead. It reminded Gabriel a bit of an abandoned food court. There was a scatter of tables and chairs. At one, a wizened, skeletal man ceaselessly folded squares of paper into origami shapes and dropped them into an iron pot. Across from him, an equally ancient woman sat surrounded by disassembled cell phones, probing them with tiny jeweler’s tools. They were both clad in simple Maoist tunics and the woman smiled at Gabriel as they passed. Every other tooth was missing.

Qingzhao spoke briefly to the old man in a dialect Gabriel could not place.

“Who are we talking to here?” Gabriel asked.

“Sentries.”

“Sentries,” said Gabriel.

Now the old man was grinning, too. Apparently he had scored all the woman’s missing teeth.

Qingzhao whispered a monosyllable, and the next thing Gabriel knew, two guns were pointed right at his head.

The old folks were still smiling at him.

A big, booming, basso laugh rebounded from the rock walls.

The entryway to the next chamber in the maze filled up with a large black man, six-six easy in flat slippers, with a calm Buddha face and vaguely Asian eyes below a close-cropped crewcut.

“Your expression!” The big man thundered with mirth. “Priceless!” He took a moment to settle. “Forgive me.”

The oldsters stowed their firepower and resumed their innocuous activities, the woman still smiling sweetly at Gabriel.

“I know what you want, I’m sure of it!” The big man embraced Qingzhao. Even more surprisingly, Qingzhao allowed this.

“And I know what you want,” she said before the breath could be squeezed out of her.

The big man stuck out a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt toward Gabriel. “ Ni chi le ma ?” It was a common greeting for a stranger— have you eaten? —testifying to the centrality of food in most Asian culture. Gabriel shook the proffered hand in the Western fashion. A more traditional Chinese handshake would have consisted of the men interlocking their fingers and waving them up and down a few times; but today this was done mostly by the very elderly or the very etiquette-conscious.

“Tuan, at your service,” boomed the big man, “and the service of our little snapdragon, here.”

Like some grandiose, benevolent street pasha, Tuan escorted Qingzhao and Gabriel through the heart of his domain, which rose in tiers from the cobblestoned street into a labyrinth of subdivisions and alcoves overpopulated with mercantile bustle. Over here, you could get your head massaged, cheap. Over there, your ears swabbed out. It was indoor-yet-outdoor; the grandest treehouse of all.

Besides Beggar’s Arch, three other tunnels fed into the amphitheater. At one end was a traditional Chinese teahouse accessed by a zigzaggy footbridge over a turbid flow of water.

“Four people are in charge of the Bund, now,” said Qingzhao as they trailed Tuan, their fragile burden held between them.

“Like gang turf?” said Gabriel.

“More akin to social castes.”

“Classes.”

“Tuan runs street level. All you can see.”

“It is my privilege,” chimed the big man leading them. “An entrepreneur named Hellweg has a lock on municipal services such as power, water. You may have noticed his petroleum tower—the Fire in the Sky. He’s some sort of European; Danish, or Scandanavian at any rate.

“Our local army of mercenary police is owned by Lo Pei Zhang, who was once a military general. The soldiers are all ex–Red Army.”