TWENTY-ONE

CHEN RETURNED TO SHANGHAI the next morning. Once there, one of the first things he did was check his e-mail. In his in-box was a response to his e-mail to Comrade Zhao, the retired secretary of the Central Party Discipline Committee in Beijing.

Thank you for your note. For a retired Party cadre of my age, I’ve been doing fine. I don’t want to get involved in too many things, and of late, I’ve been reading Wang Yangming. Your father was a neo-Confucianist, so you must be familiar with Wang Yangming. I particularly like a poem he wrote in his youth. “The mountains nearby make the moon appear small, / so you think the mountains larger than the moon. / If you have a view stretching out to the horizon, / you’ll see the mountains against the magnificent moon.” While reading the poem, I thought of you. You, too, should have a view reaching all the way to the horizon.

As for the team you mentioned, there’s nothing I can tell you. You’re an experienced police officer and you know better. At your age, Wang Yangming was already playing an important role in maintaining the well-being of his country.

It was an enigmatic e-mail. There was nothing surprising about Comrade Zhao being tight-lipped about the Beijing team. It wasn’t like the retired Party leader, however, to quote a poem in his e-mail.

Despite the fact that his father was a neo-Confucianist, Chen didn’t know much about Wang Yangming. What he did know was that he was an influential Ming dynasty Confucian philosopher who advocated the concept of innate knowing, arguing that every person knows from birth, intuitively but not rationally, the difference between good and evil.

Chen decided to spend some time researching Wang Yangming on the Internet. It turned out that Wang Yangming embodied the Confucianist ideal of a learned person who is both a scholar and an official. In 1519 AD, while serving the governor of Jiangxi province, he suppressed the uprising of Prince Zhu Chenhao, saving the dynasty from a huge disaster.

It was gratifying that Comrade Zhao expected Chen to have a career as prominent as Wang Yangming’s, but why express this now, all of a sudden?

The poem itself didn’t impress Chen. Wang Yangming wasn’t known as a poet, but the context in which Zhao quoted the poem made Chen think. Chen was sure that it meant something.

Writing Zhao for an explanation, however, would be useless.

With the sun obscured by the floating clouds, / I’m worried for not seeing Chang’an.

Chen picked up the phone, thinking for a minute, and then dialed Young Bao at the Writers’ Association.

“I need to ask you a favor, Young Bao.”

“Whatever I can do, Master Chen.”

“You’ve got a friend who works at the Moller Villa Hotel.”

“Yes, a good friend. In fact, I’m going to meet him at the hotel canteen for lunch today.”

“Can you copy a couple of pages from the visitor registry for building B? Specifically, last Monday and Tuesday.”

“That’ll be a piece of cake. He works in building B, and from time to time, he works at the front desk, keeping the register. I’ll call you as soon as I get it.”

That afternoon Chen went to meet with Lieutenant Sheng of Internal Security. The meeting had been requested by Sheng, and the meeting place was the hotel where he was staying. It was the City Hotel, located on Shanxi Road, only a two or three minutes’ walk from the Moller Villa Hotel. Perhaps it was just a coincidence—something that Chen, as a cop, didn’t believe in.

The request was a surprise. Chen had crossed paths with Internal Security on previous occasions, but rarely had it been on friendly terms. In the last analysis, Chen was a cop before all else.

Internal Security had different priorities. For them, the Party’s interests were first and foremost. In the name of the Party, they were capable of doing anything and everything.

So, Chen wondered, what was the purpose of the meeting?

Chen arrived at the hotel and was promptly ushered in to see Lieutenant Sheng. Sheng was a tall man in his late thirties or early forties. His receding hairline highlighted a broad forehead covered with lines. His accent revealed his origins—it was unmistakably from Beijing.

“I’m so glad to meet you, Chief Inspector Chen. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I’m glad to meet you, too, Lieutenant Sheng. You’re here on special detachment from Beijing, I hear.”

“Oh, there’s nothing special about it. If anything, I think I was sent because of the computer science classes I took at night school.”

“That can be important these days.”

“You’re a capable and experienced police officer, so there’s no point in beating around the bush,” Sheng said. “I was sent here because of the Zhou case, but I’m to focus on a different aspect. You know how all this trouble started. It was that search—the human-flesh search engine—which started on that Web forum. These witch hunts have become an Internet mass movement, and they are getting out of control. They are tearing the image of our Party and government to shreds. The bloggers and forum users—those so-called netizens—will use any and every excuse, no matter how flimsy, including a pack of high-priced cigarettes, to vent their frustration and fury against the Party authorities. If it keeps on like this, the stability of our socialist country will be destroyed.”

Chen listened without responding immediately. It was always easy to talk about motives, no matter what sort of investigation it was, and as far as Internal Security was concerned, the motive behind the Internet pile-on in the Zhou case was obvious.

Jiang, who was in charge of the team from the city government, seemed to be inclined toward the same conclusion. Sheng should have talked to Jiang instead.

“So what are you going to do?” Chen said, choosing to avoid a confrontation for the moment.

“We are going to nail the troublemaker who first sent the picture of the pack of 95 Supreme Majesty to the Web forum. As for Zhou, whatever he might have done, he has already been punished to the fullest.”

“Tracing the photo shouldn’t be too difficult for you. There are many Internet experts working for the government, and they should be able to trace it back to the source.”

“It’s not that easy. We’ve traced it only as far as the Web forum on which it was originally posted. The moderator claims that he received the picture from an anonymous sender.”

“I’m not a computer expert,” Chen said, determined to play dumb, “but isn’t it possible to trace the IP address back to the computer that sent it?”

“Well, it was sent from a computer at an Internet café—a place called Flying Horse—and done in such a devious way that despite the new regulations, we’ve hit a dead end. We have reason to believe it was a premeditated attack.”

Chen didn’t know what new regulations Sheng was talking about, other than the new requirement to show ID at the cafés. It wasn’t news that the government was continually tightening its control over the Internet. That was one of the jobs of Internal Security.

“I see. So, the sender took precautions. I suppose that’s not surprising, since the controversy about governmental controls of the Internet has been going on a while,” Chen said cautiously.

“But think about what happened after the original photo was posted. There were so many pictures and posts that popped up almost immediately. That was like a blitz. Everything had been orchestrated.”

There was no arguing with Internal Security, so Chen didn’t try.

“So let’s help each other, Chief Inspector Chen. If I find anything useful in your investigation, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“And vice versa, of course,” Chen said, though he wasn’t so sure about that. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Sheng was trying to sound him out. But that was a game two could play.

For the moment, the meeting was unfolding with no tangible animosity between them, even though it was by no means a meeting between allies. Each had his own agenda—one that was undisclosed and unknown to the other.

From the tall window of the hotel room, which had a balcony overlooking Shanxi Road, Chen thought he glimpsed a corner of the other hotel across the street. The traffic appeared once again to be stuck in a terrible snarl.

“Have there been any new developments in your investigation, Chief Inspector Chen?” Sheng said, finally coming to the point.

“Well, it’s much like the proverb, ‘A blind man is riding a blind horse toward a fathomless lake in a dark night,’” Chen said vaguely.

“Come on. You’re a celebrated poet, always full of poetic hyperbole.”

But he wasn’t. The metaphor he recited wasn’t applicable just to him but to the others involved in the case as well. The proverb had come to him last night as he lay sleepless in a Shaoxing hotel room, staring at the shifting patterns of shadows across the ceiling.

He had thought of it again in the morning, after reading the e-mail from Comrade Zhao.

Sheng lit a cigarette for Chen, and then one for himself. Waving the match out casually, he changed the topic. “How was your trip to Shaoxing?”

“Oh, it was for a literature festival. Shaoxing is the hometown of Lu Xun,” Chen said, immediately on high alert. “Internal Security truly is well informed.”

“Please don’t take that the wrong way. I just happened to be talking to your Party Secretary Li yesterday and he mentioned your trip.”

That was possible. Still, it came as no relief to Chen. Li had been informing Internal Security of every move he’d been making.

“The festival is simply an excuse for a group of writers to go sightseeing and feasting. The Shaoxing wine there is really superb. I finished off a small urn of it and got so drunk that Bi Liangpei, the chairman of Shaoxing Writers’ Association, had to help me all the way back to the hotel.”

That was mostly true. Bi had walked him back to the hotel, but Chen hadn’t been that drunk. He remembered trying to find Lianping amidst the chirping of small insects in the hotel garden in the dark, which somehow reminded him of the earlier scene in Shen Garden. She wasn’t registered at the hotel. He wondered whether she’d taken the night train back to Shanghai.

“I wish I could have been there,” Sheng said, setting a cup of instant coffee down on the coffee table. “I was here, doing nothing but working through a list of the people who posted about Zhou online and posted evidence of his corruption. However, the pictures they posted of Zhou’s cars and houses were all real. There’s no way to accuse them of slandering him, and I have to admit it’s understandable why they targeted him. Since such a large number of people were posting and protesting about Zhou, it’s out of the question for the government to punish them all. Some of them were simply following the crowd.”

Sheng abruptly seemed to be singing a different tune.

“So…” Chen echoed noncommittally, waiting for Sheng to continue.

“The sender of the first e-mail, however, is a devious troublemaker. There’s no question about it. The human-flesh search was coordinated with the subsequent barrage of online posts, which were too sudden and overwhelming for Zhou or anybody to properly respond. It was devastating to the image of our Party.”

“With corruption rampant among our officials,” Chen said, “that kind of Internet attack probably won’t stop anytime soon.”

“You’re right about that. A brand-new Internet star specializing in human-flesh searches popped up recently, though I don’t think he’ll be a real problem.”

“An Internet-search star?”

“Yes. And such stars have fans of their own. Once they have developed a huge following, they may demand Web sites pay them to post their blogs,” Sheng said, shaking his head. “As for this new star, he’s surnamed Ouyang. His special skill is determining the brand of watch an official is wearing in news photos, and then posting the photos online with the brand and price of the watch listed underneath.”

“Expensive watches, I bet.”

“Rolex, Cartier, Omega, Tudor, Tissot… you name it,” Sheng said with unconcealed irritation. “He recently caused a huge uproar with a post containing more than twenty pictures of Party cadres wearing those luxury brands. He didn’t even have to comment on it. In a single day, it was posted and reposted on numerous Web sites, triggering another wave of crowd-sourced searches with more than a hundred thousand responses.”

“Yes, those expensive watches blatantly belie the image of hard-working, plain-living Party cadres.”

“But posting about it can lead to disillusionment with our Party and the socialist system. We have to do something about it.”

“Ouyang didn’t do anything wrong by reposting some newspaper pictures. Openly punishing him for that could backfire.”

“We didn’t have to punish him overtly. We just asked him out for a cup of tea, and Ouyang agreed to cooperate. He won’t be posting anything like that again.”

Chen had heard of asking someone out for “a cup of tea,” which meant government officials like Sheng warning a troublemaker over tea. Sometimes they didn’t just use a stick. Sometimes they offered a carrot as well.

“But with regard to the Zhou case, do you have any idea who might have sent the photo?” Chen asked.

“According to Jiang, the sender must have had access to the original electronic file—not just the version published in the newspaper. He wouldn’t have been able to pick out the brand name off a pack of cigarettes from the low-resolution reproduction.”

“That occurred to me as well,” Chen said, “so it might be an inside job.”

“Or someone with access to inside information. A computer hacker, for example, could have accessed the original without anyone knowing. The moderator of the original Web forum is a hacker, and we’re doing a thorough background check at the moment.” Sheng then went on with a serious air. “As for it being an inside job, the sudden disappearance of Fang, Zhou’s secretary, speaks for itself.”

“But wait—I’m confused. What could she have possibly gained? Zhou helped her when she was in need. Because of Zhou she obtained a secure, well paid job.”

“You must have heard something about the secret relationship between the two.”

“According to Detective Wei’s files, which included several pictures of her, she’s not a knockout, and already in her early or mid thirties. One could easily imagine younger and much prettier girls flocking around Zhou.”

“Zhou was a cautious man in his way,” Sheng said, the lines on his face knitting deeper. “As a high-ranking Party cadre, he had to be conscious of his public image. With a middle-aged secretary, he didn’t have to worry about gossip. As for what might have happened between a boss and his little secretary, one never really knows. True, Fang is no longer that young, but she still could have been able to demand something of Zhou. Her status in the office, for instance. And through that position, she might have amassed a lot of inside information. That wouldn’t be a new story in the sordid dramas of these corrupt officials.”

That was an unusual analysis from an Internal Security officer. Chen thought; then he nodded and said, “But she’s disappeared.”

“She might be off in hiding, preparing to sell her inside information for a good price.”

“I see your point.” Of course, that was a possibility. But was Sheng moving in the same direction as Jiang, as far as Fang was concerned? Chen couldn’t tell.

“In the meantime, we’ll focus on that Internet café as well as on the Web forum. The Internet regulations are new, so there might be some loopholes. We are going to request reinforcements and put more manpower on the task. By checking the movements of every one of them during that period, we’ll be able to find the culprit.”

Sheng was apparently under a lot of pressure to find the person who sent the photo and mete out a severe punishment as a serious warning to other potential troublemakers. Those would-be troublemakers would think twice before trying to “harm China’s stability.”

“By the way,” Sheng went on, changing topics, “have you heard anything from the Central Party Discipline Committee in Beijing?”

Chen had anticipated the question. It was whispered among people in the know that Comrade Zhao, the ex-secretary of the Central Party Discipline Committee, had taken on Chen as a sort of protégé. Chen, because of his connection to Comrade Zhao, might have been assumed to be able to tell Sheng something about what was really going on at the top, possibly the true purpose of this meeting.

For an instant, Chen was filled with the same frustration as those netizens. The one and only focus of Internal Security was politics, on the necessity of “maintaining stability” at the expense of these so-called “troublemakers.” Zhou’s death, and for that matter Wei’s death, were totally irrelevant to them. On the spur of the moment, Chen decided to respond cryptically, instead of answering Sheng’s question.

“I appreciate your telling me all this, Sheng. Now between you and me, let me say something. If I were you, I wouldn’t rush into action.”

“Yes?”

“Across the street, you can see the Moller Villa Hotel. It’s a special hotel, in which are currently stationed two special teams—Jiang’s team from the Shanghai city government, and another team from the Central Party Discipline Committee in Beijing. A week earlier there were three. The Shanghai Party Discipline Committee Team, which was also there, has already decamped. It’s all rather unusual, isn’t it?”

“Very unusual—”

“And you were sent from Beijing as well, right?” Chen asked, then paused deliberately. “Usually, a case like Zhou’s would have been concluded long ago. It’s in the Party’s interest to wrap up cases like this quickly, isn’t it? Why has it been dragging on?”

It was Sheng’s turn not to respond. Silence hung heavily over the room.

Chen continued. “The water may be too deep for us to jump in headfirst. Like pieces on a chessboard, we’re positioned there by others. Our respective roles might not be known to us, that is, in the larger picture. As long as we do our jobs conscientiously, that’s about all that is asked of us. But we also have to make sure that our work doesn’t get in the way of the larger picture.”

“Yes, I think I’m beginning to catch your point, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“That’s why I quoted the metaphor about the blind man and the blind horse. To be frank, some of your Internal Security officers and I may have had misunderstandings in the past. But I hope not this time. You’re different, Lieutenant Sheng. You invited me over to talk about our common goals, even though we have different priorities.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Chief Inspector Chen.”

“But do you think the Central Party Discipline Committee team would come from Beijing and stay here for a small potato like Zhou?”

“No, I don’t…” Sheng added hesitantly, “I think I’ve heard of something between Beijing and Shanghai.”

“As the song goes, ‘I don’t know which direction the wind is blowing,’” Chen said, then added in a whisper, “I’ve just received an e-mail from Beijing.”

“From Beijing?”

“He quoted a poem to me by Wang Yangming. From what I can tell, the basic message is: you can’t afford to lose sight of the big things in the distance because of the small things close at hand.”

“There’s no point in his stating things too explicitly,” Sheng said, without even having to ask who “he” was.

It was then that Sheng’s phone rang.

As Sheng picked up his phone, Chen stood up and started walking toward the balcony for a cigarette. Then he came to a dead stop. He heard the name of Fang repeated by Sheng into the phone. Chen slowed down, pretending to look for matches, walking back two or three steps to retrieve some from the coffee table. He overheard several more fragmented words.

“Shaoxing, or near Shaoxing… a public phone… her parents don’t know anything…”

He lit a cigarette, stepped out to the balcony, and inhaled deeply. The city was looming all around him, with old and new skyscrapers, impersonal and oppressive.

When he went back inside, Sheng had finished his call and had made another coffee for the chief inspector.

Sheng didn’t say anything about the call, probably thinking that the chief inspector wouldn’t be able to make anything out of one or two out-of-context words.

But Chen knew what he’d heard, and what he was going to do.