A Case of Two Cities

chips in Bao’s cup.
     
    “It’s a twenty-dollar chip,” Catherine said.
     
    “Thank you,” Bao said with a weird expression on his face, a mixture of emotions, perhaps. “I may not have your luck. So I think I’ll go on playing my small way.”
     
    “I don’t know how long mine can last,” he said, turning toward Catherine, as Bao dragged himself away with a heavier cup. “If anything, you are my luck.”
     
    It was true. The breakthrough in Shanghai would have been inconceivable without her help, he contemplated, turning out another ace in his hand. She leaned over and whispered, “He hasn’t gotten any more phone calls from L.A.”
     
    It was possible that Bao, too, remained in the dark, unaware of the consequence of the information he had given to the L.A. caller. Chen nodded instead of making a response.
     
    Another good hand—eighteen. He staked a couple of chips more. The dealer did not show any expression on his face and drew another card—
     
    His cell phone rang. He whisked it out, glancing at the number on the tiny screen. It was from Shanghai. Not from Yu, but from Comrade Zhao. It took him a few seconds before recognizing the number.
     
    “Sorry, I have to take the call outside. It’s too noisy in the hall,” he said to her. “Keep on playing for me.”
     
    He hurried out to the deserted deck. Chinese and Americans must all be too busy dealing with money, losing or winning.
     
    “How have you called me here, Comrade Zhao?” he said, standing by the rail with its white paint peeling off under his touch. A gull came wheeling over out of nowhere.
     
    “Don’t be so alarmed, Chen. I’ve got your cell number from Detective Yu. It took me several minutes to have it from him. A most capable and loyal assistant.”
     
    “I’m sorry, Comrade Zhao. It’s not his fault. I told him not to give the number to anybody. I didn’t mean to keep it from you—”
     
    “You don’t have to explain. I was pleased that Detective Yu delivered Ming to me directly. Excellent job. Now I see why you insisted on his sharing your authorization,” Zhao said. “So, our work has come to a successful conclusion!”
     
    “A conclusion?”
     
    “Xing is on his way back to China . . .” Zhao paused, and then went on, “in exchange for Ming flying to the U.S.”
     
    “How could that be?”
     
    “A story too long to tell on the phone, Chen. We—some agents— talked to Xing in Los Angeles. They promised him no death penalty for his return and his cooperation with the Chinese government.”
     
    “What? Death penalty or not, Xing’s finished back in China. A crab in an urn—or worse, in a bamboo steamer. No way for him to get away. He knows that better than anyone else.”
     
    “Well, it is all thanks to the arrest of Ming through your information. It’s the last straw for Xing. He knows he has no choice.” Zhao added, “Besides, he is a filial son, like you, and his mother is so worried about Ming.”
     
    “But how could Xing be willing to surrender himself for the sake of his half brother—whom he has never acknowledged in public?”
     
    “Let me put it this way. The arrest of Ming might have been only one of many factors in this complicated case. Through Ming, we got all the necessary criminal evidence of Xing, which would prompt the American government to make the deportation decision. Xing is not dumb. He has no hope for political asylum. Even before Ming’s arrest, he tried to flee to another country, but his effort has been thwarted by U.S. law enforcement.”
     
    “That may be true,” Chen said, recalling Xing’s interest in selling his L.A. mansion. “So in exchange for Xing’s voluntary return, Ming gets away scot-free?”
     
    “I have not had the time to read the detailed report from our agents in L.A. There might be something in it.”
     
    “But Ming may have been involved in An’s murder, as I have reported to you earlier.”
     
    “You don’t know for sure, do you? You have nothing to prove her death was related to Ming or Xing. Your bureau will continue to investigate, of course, and the criminals will be punished,” Zhao said emphatically. “It is a successful conclusion, Comrade Chief Inspector Chen.”
     
    “So that’s it—the end of it,” he said, trying to gain time to think. Perhaps he should not push Comrade Zhao into saying something definite, irrecoverable. “Our determined effort to push the anticorruption campaign to the