The Stone Monkey

place, hunting rats and dogs for food, tracking them through the skeletons of machinery and mounds of trash with a homemade spear and a club—a rusty shock absorber from a wrecked Russian truck.
    When he grew more confident and learned that the cadres were not searching for him he began making forays into town to steal food from trash bins behind Fuzhounese restaurants.
    Because of their seafaring history and extensive contact with the rest of the world the Fuzhounese have always been among the most independent of Chinese. Teenage Kwan Ang found that the Communist Party and the Maoist cadres steered clear of the waterfront and docks, where snakeheads and smugglers didn’t give a shit about downtrodden masses, and spouting ideology was a sure way to get yourself killed. The boy was informally adopted by several of these men and began running errands for them, earning their trust, eventually being allowed to head up some of their smaller schemes, like thefts from the docks and extorting protection money from businesses in town.
    He killed his first man at thirteen—a Vietnamese drug dealer who had robbed the snakehead Ang was working for. And at fourteen he finally tracked down, tortured and killed the students who’d robbed him of his family.
    Young Ang was not a fool; he looked around him and realized that the thugs he worked with tended to rise only so far—largely because of their poor education. He knew that he needed to master business, accounting and English—thecoming language of international crime. He would sneak into the state schools in Fuzhou, which were so crowded that the teachers never knew that one of the students was not officially enrolled.
    The boy worked hard amassing money, learning which crimes to avoid (stealing from the state and importing drugs, each of which would assure that you were the headline act at the well-attended Tuesday morning executions in the local football stadium) and which crimes were acceptable: stealing from the foreign businesses that were stumbling obliviously into the Chinese market, dealing in guns and human smuggling.
    His experience on the waterfronts had given him an expertise in smuggling, extortion and money laundering, and these were the areas in which he made his money, first in Fuzhou then in Hong Kong and expanding throughout China and the Far East. He made a fetish of staying out of the limelight, of never being photographed, of going to desperate lengths never to be spotted, much less arrested. He was thrilled when he learned that some local public security bureau officer had dubbed him Gui, the Ghost. He immediately adopted the nickname.
    He was successful because the money itself was not what excited him. Rather it was the challenge itself. To lose was to be shamed. To win was glorious. The driving force in his life was the hunt. In gambling dens, for instance, he would play only games of skill. He was contemptuous of the fools who would pay money for a chance at a wheel of fortune or a lottery.
    Challenges . . .
    Like finding the Wus and the Changs.
    He wasn’t displeased with how the hunt was going. The Ghost had learned from his sources that the Wus were in aspecial safehouse—not an INS one but a facility run by the NYPD—which he never would have expected. Yusuf had talked to a colleague who would check out the place, see what the security was like and perhaps even kill the Wus if he had an opportunity.
    As for the Changs—they’d be dead by nightfall, betrayed by their own friend, this Tan fellow, whom the Ghost would, of course, kill after the man revealed the family’s address.
    He was also pleased to hear from his source that the police weren’t having much success tracking him down. The FBI side of the case was stalling and most of the case had fallen to the city police department. His luck was changing.
    These meditations were interrupted by a knock on the door.
    The betrayer had arrived.
    The Ghost nodded toward a Uighur, who pulled his gun out of his waistband. He opened the door slowly, pointing his pistol toward the visitor.
    The man in the hallway said, “I am Tan. I am here to see the man who is called the Ghost. Kwan is his real name. We have a business matter. It’s about the Changs.”
    “Come in,” the Ghost said, stepping forward. “Do you want some tea?”
    “No,” the old man replied, hobbling inside, looking around. “I won’t be here long.”

Chapter Thirty-two
    With his still eyes, beneath drooping lids,