He took out a package of instant noodles, poured water from the train thermos bottle into an enamel cup, and soaked the noodles in it. The water was not hot enough. It took several minutes for the noodles to soften. He also had a smoked carp head in a plastic bag. which Peiqin had prepared for him. But Detective Yu’s mood did not improve. This assignment was practically a joke. It was as if the Shanghai police were going to try to cook in the kitchen of the Fujian police bureau. How could a Shanghai cop, single-handed, make a difference when the Fujian police had failed? Their having been given command of the Wen investigation did not make sense unless it was simply a show for the Americans. He poked the staring eye out of the smoked carp head.
Around three in the morning, Yu dozed off, sitting up stiff and tight like a bamboo stick, his head bumping against the hard seat back.
When the sun glaring in his face woke him, the aisle was full of people waiting for their turn to wash up in the restroom. According to the announcement from the train loudspeaker, Fujian was close.
As a result of sitting up all night, his neck felt sore, his shoulders strained, and his legs numb. He shook his head at his reflection in the train window. A middle-aged man, his chin unshaven, his face etched with travel fatigue. No longer a tireless educated youth, sitting with Peiqin in the train to Yunnan.
Another result of traveling “hard seat” was that it took him five minutes at the Fujian railway station to locate a man holding a cardboard sign with his name on it. Sergeant Zhao Youli, of the Fujian Police, must have been looking for his Shanghai counterpart among the travelers stepping out of the soft sleeper compartments. Zhao had a chubby face, beady eyes, well-moussed hair, and wore an expensive white suit, a red silk tie, and well-shined dress shoes. His eyes narrowed into smiling slits at the sight of Yu.
“Welcome, Detective Yu. I’m assigned to work with you on the case.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Zhao.”
“I was looking for you over there,” Zhao said.
“The sleeper tickets were sold out,” Yu fibbed, growing self-conscious about his appearance. In his old Renli jacket, his pants all wrinkled after a night’s travel, he looked like a bodyguard rather than the partner of the well-groomed Zhao. “Are there any new developments, Sergeant Zhao?”
“No. We’ve been looking everywhere for Wen. No success. The case is a top priority for us. I’m so glad you’ve come all the way from Shanghai to help.”
Yu caught the suggestion of sarcasm in Zhao’s voice. “Come on, Sergeant Zhao. You don’t have to say that. I don’t know anything about the case. In fact, I don’t know why I am here. It is by order of the Ministry.”
The truth was that Yu did not expect to accomplish anything. Either his mission was simply political window-dressing or Wen had been kidnapped by Jia’s Fujian accomplices. If the latter was the case, the search for Wen would be like fishing in the woods unless the local cops were determined to crack down on the gangsters.
“Well, ‘The monk from a far-away temple can recite scripture more loudly’,” Zhao said, smoothing his shining hair with his hand.
“If it is in Fujian dialect, I don’t speak a single word of it. I cannot even ask for directions here,” Yu said. “So you will have to take me to Changle Village.”
“Why in such a hurry, Detective Yu? Let me take you to the hotel first-the Abundance Hotel. You’ve had a long night in the train. Take a break, have lunch with me, and then come to our county police bureau. There we will have a good discussion, and a reception dinner-”
“Well…” Yu was astonished at his local partner’s lack of urgency. “I slept quite well on the train. Chief Inspector Chen will be waiting for my interview tapes.”
They set out for Changle Village. Driving along a bumpy road, Zhao managed to make a brief report about the gang known as the Flying Axes.
This society had been founded in the late Qing dynasty in the Fujian area as a secret brotherhood, with a wide range of “business practices,” including illegal salt distribution, drug trafficking, loan collection, protection, gambling and prostitution. These activities expanded in spite of the various governments’ containment efforts, though the triad remained a local one. The gang was suppressed after 1949 under the communist government and some of the leading members were executed because of their connections to the Nationalists. In the last few years, however, the gang had staged a comeback. The human smuggling business was headed by Taiwan snake heads such as Jia Xinzhi, but the Fujian triad’s role was essential. An illegal immigrant promised to pay the smugglers in installments. At first, the Flying Axes’ role was to make sure that the payments were made on time. Then they became involved in the other aspects of the operation, such as recruiting people to go overseas.
Yu said, “Can you tell me more about Wen’s disappearance?”
So Zhao went on to tell Yu about the work the Fujian police had done so far.
On the morning of April sixth, Zhao went to visit Wen for verification of her passport application. The Fujian police had been informed that an American officer was coming for Wen, so they were trying to speed things up. Wen was not at home. Nor was she at the commune factory. Zhao went there again in the afternoon, but still he had no luck. The next morning, he came to Changle with another policeman. The door to her house was locked. According to her neighbors, Wen had never before gone away for a whole day. She had to work in the commune factory, to take care of the family plot, and to feed the chickens and piglets. They looked into the pigsty, where the starving animals could hardly stand on their legs. So they decided to enter the house after checking for signs of forced entry. There were none, nor any sign of a struggle inside. They started canvassing the village, knocking at one door after another. Wen had last been seen there around 10:45 p.m. on April fifth, as she fetched water from the village well. By the afternoon of April seventh, they were sure that something had happened to her.
The local police had searched the neighboring villages, as well as hotels within the radius of a hundred miles. They also made inquiries at the bus depot. Only one bus had passed the village that night. So far, all their efforts had yielded nothing.
“It’s beyond us,” Zhao concluded. “Her disappearance is a mystery.”
“What about the possibility of the Flying Axes kidnapping her?”
“That’s not likely. Nothing unusual was noted in the village that night. She would have shouted or struggled, and someone would have heard. You will see for yourself in a minute.”
It took them another fifteen minutes, however, before the village came in view. There was a striking discrepancy between the kinds of houses clustered there. Some were new, modern, substantial, like mansions in the best area of Shanghai, but others were old, shabby, and small.
“It’s like two different worlds here,” Yu observed.
“Exactly,” Zhao said. “There’s a huge gap between households with people abroad and those without. All these new houses have been built with money sent from overseas.”
“It’s amazing. These new houses would be worth millions in Shanghai.”
“Let me give you some numbers, Detective Yu. A peasant’s yearly income here is around three thousand Yuan, and that depends on the weather. Someone in New York can earn that sum in a week-living, eating, sleeping in a restaurant, and getting paid all in cash. One year’s savings there is enough to pay for a two-story house here, full of new furniture and appliances, too. How can families without people abroad compete? They have to remain huddled in those ancient huts, in the shadow of the upstarts.”
“Yes, you cannot do everything with money,” Yu said, echoing the line from a new movie, “but you cannot do anything without it.”