ONE
Four thousand kilometers to the north, Inspector Lu Fei is hunting a beast of a different stripe.
Hunting is perhaps the wrong word—conjuring, as it does, the image of a man in camouflage, toting a high-powered rifle, pursuing his prey with a single-minded determination, undeterred by bad weather, rough terrain, hunger, thirst.
Lu, on the other hand, is sitting idly on a cement bench in a tiny plaza outside the entrance to an open-air market in Raven Valley, a modestly sized township seventy kilometers from Harbin, the capital city of Heilongjiang Province. The July sun beats mercilessly down upon on his shoulders like droplets of molten lava. His armpits are soaked with sweat. His toes are swimming in his shoes.
He badly—desperately—needs a beer.
On the edge of the plaza is a food cart selling cold sesame noodles and tofu pudding. The vendor is—a tad gratuitously in Lu’s opinion—flaunting a cooler filled with Harbin lager. Row after row of emerald-green bottles, beaded with condensation. What joy it would be to place one of those glass angels against his feverish brow. To sip that crisp golden nectar!
But no. Duty calls.
Duty, in this case, being a fugitive named Chen, wanted for peddling black market animal products—meat, bones, teeth, skin, scales, genitals; anything that can be eaten or processed as a medicinal remedy—to various restaurants and apothecaries in the area. Marketing exotic wildlife to gastronomes and men who suffer from erectile dysfunction is an old story in the People’s Republic, but in the wake of the coronavirus and intensifying international pressure by conservationists, the government has finally gotten serious about cracking down on the trade.
Chen has thus far managed to keep his center of operations secret, no small feat in a country where two hundred million surveillance cameras monitor its citizenry, but he was recently spotted on CCTV cameras buying groceries at Raven Valley’s Ding Hao market.
Hence, the vigil under the blazing sun. The sweaty armpits. The unrequited desire for a beer.
As deputy chief of the township’s Public Security Bureau, this kind of grunt work is below Lu’s pay grade. However, in the interests of egalitarianism, and because the paichusuo only has so many constables to position at strategic spots around the market, Lu volunteered to take an afternoon shift.
Lesson learned. Next time outdoor surveillance is required in July, Lu will pencil himself in for a four-to-midnight shift.
The phone in Lu’s pocket vibrates. It’s a text message from Chief Liang: What’s the latest?
Lu pictures Liang, sitting in his office, air-conditioning unit on full blast, smoking a Zhongnanhai cigarette. Relaxed and drowsy after having enjoyed a lunch of grilled lamb and Johnnie Walker over ice.
He texts back: Avocados are on sale, three for the price of two.
Liang’s response: What’s an avocado?
Lu shakes his head silently and puts the phone back in his pocket. He stands and massages some feeling back into his right buttock.
Where the hell is this turtle’s egg?
He needs a spot of shade and something refreshing to drink, so he heads into the market. Three thousand square meters of food stalls, open on all four sides, with a corrugated roof overhead in case of rain, offering a bewildering variety of fresh produce, seafood, cuts of meat, sweets, drinks, snacks, and sundries. Post-epidemic, it’s as packed as ever, but live animals are no longer permitted to be sold, much to the dismay of grannies who prefer to watch their dinner get slaughtered, bled out, gutted, skinned, and chopped into bite-sized pieces before their own eyes.
Lu pauses at one of the stalls to admire the brightly colored skewers of candied hawberries, bloodred, cheerfully delicious. If it wasn’t for the buzzing gnats, he might be tempted to buy one. He moves along and rummages through a bin of longyan—“dragon eye” fruit. Sweet white flesh, a wonderful treat on a summer’s day. But he doesn’t want to bother with peels and pits. Another two aisles over is a smoothie stand. Perfect. Lu gets in line. There are two women working the stall, one of whom is Constable Sun. She’s wearing civilian clothes, plastic gloves, and a dirty apron.
“Watermelon, please,” Lu says.
Sun hesitates. She generally addresses Lu as Deputy Chief, but as they are both working undercover, that would be inappropriate. And yet, she doesn’t want to be disrespectful. She comes up with a workable compromise. “Sure thing, shuai ge.”
Lu nearly laughs. This term literally means “handsome brother,” and it is a polite, yet casual way to address a stranger. Given his hierarchical relationship with Sun, and the fact that it’s been a very long time since anyone called him handsome, Lu can’t help but be amused.
When Sun returns with Lu’s smoothie, he hands over his money and leans in: “You’re supposed to be keeping your eyes peeled, not peeling oranges.”
“It’s been really busy, and I felt guilty just standing around, so I decided to help out.”
“Don’t get distracted.”
“I won’t. Promise.”
Lu returns to the plaza, only to find that two middle-aged men, their shirts pulled up to their nipples to expose their ample bellies—a budget version of air-conditioning that some wag has dubbed the “Beijing bikini”—are lounging on his bench.
Fair enough. Lu goes over to lean in the shade against a wall. He sips his smoothie and scans the market.
The small portable two-way radio attached to his belt chirps. Lu pulls it out: “Leader One, go ahead.”
“This is Red Two.” Red Two is Constable Huang’s designation. He’s stationed on the west side, opposite Lu’s position. “I see him. At least, I think it’s him!”
“Red Two, what code?” Lu says.
Huang is good-natured and honest, but as dumb as a petrified tree stump. For his benefit, Lu has kept the radio transmission codes as simple as possible. Code One means the suspect has been sighted, alone, entering the market. Code Two—in the company of others. Code Three—he’s in the process of departing the market.
Copyright © 2022 by Brian Klingborg
