Free Snakehead by Peter May

‘You knew him?’
    ‘Only by reputation.’
    Li sighed inwardly. Even here in America he was still haunted by the ghost of his uncle. Since his first day at the University of Public Security in Beijing, he had had to bear the burden of his uncle’s reputation as one of the finest police officers ever to grace the Beijing municipal force. He had either had to live up to or live down that reputation. Never judged on his own merits, always against the yardstick of his Uncle Yifu — a man he had loved dearly. ‘I am not really like him at all,’ Li said. ‘But I try to honour his memory by following his teachings.’
    He remembered the dreadful vision of the old man lying murdered in the bloody bath, skewered by his own ceremonial sword. It was as vivid now as it had been then, and the pain of it never diminished.
    ‘Each of the tongs has an ah kung ,’ the consul-general was saying in answer to his question. Li forced the image of his uncle from his mind. ‘But it is generally recognised that one of them is supreme. He is the grandfather. But outside of a very small inner circle, no one knows who he is.’
    ‘His name, or at least his nickname, is Kat,’ Li said, and he felt the consul-general’s eyes turn toward him.
    ‘How do you know this?’ the consul-general asked.
    ‘Because one of those who died in the truck at Huntsville was an undercover Chinese police officer.’
    The consul-general was clearly shocked. ‘You are sure?’
    Li nodded. ‘I briefed him for the job. He was to come to America as an illegal immigrant, and infiltrate the gangs at this end, hoping to pick up clues to the identity of the ah kung .’ Li paused. ‘I have read his diary. At least he was able to give us a name.’
    ‘Kat,’ the consul-general said thoughtfully. ‘My wife always presents me with a tangerine plant for luck at Spring Festival.’ He took out his cigarettes and offered one to Li, who declined. Since coming to America he had made a determined effort to give them up. Only when he was with other Chinese was he tempted to fall back into his old ways. The consul-general lit up. ‘I will open the door and look at the mountain with you, Li.’ And Li smiled to himself. Whenever anyone told you they were going to be straight with you, it usually meant the opposite. ‘There are no flowers dropping from the sky in Beijing over the matter of these illegal immigrants.’
    ‘Nor in Washington,’ Li said.
    ‘I have spoken today with the minister of public security. The government is embarrassed by the high profile nature of this case.’
    ‘Particularly since they are in the process of trying to negotiate a more favourable agreement with the World Trade Organisation.’ Li couldn’t keep the cynicism out of his voice.
    The consul-general looked at him sharply. And then he smiled. ‘I see you have also accumulated a little political acumen on your journeys.’ Then his smile faded just as quickly. ‘The minister would like to put an end to this business, once and for all. There is to be a major crackdown in Fujian and Canton. He wants you to put a stop to it at this end. The Americans have been told that you will be entirely at their disposal. But one way or another, the authorities in Beijing want you to cut off the head of the American snake, with or without their help.’

Chapter Three
    I
    From the twin torches that marked the angle in the stairs leading up the outside of the building to the restaurant, flames danced and dipped in the warm evening breeze. A terrace ran around the semicircular frontage of the Canyon Café and was open to the night, looking out over a panoply of lights on Westheimer toward the sparkling finger of the Transco Tower rising into a black sky.
    Margaret felt the night air like silk on her face and was glad that they had managed to get a table on the terrace, away from the noisy crowds in the dark interior and the Mexican band music that blared out over the speaker system. She sipped on