A Permanent Bond: A Novel

Copyright © 2009 by Gerald D. McLellan

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-2821-9 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-2820-2 (ebook)

iUniverse rev. date: 03/30/2009

Cover photo copyright 2005 by Michael Slater, www.BoatingSF.com

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

TO JEAN

Acknowledgments

During the year and a half I spent writing this book, there were many periods when I wondered whether I was on the right track, whether the story flowed, whether the reader would be entertained or bored and whether I had my facts straight. Most of the time, it seemed as though I had to do more research than writing. So, when it came to selecting people who would be readers, I was careful to select only those whom I knew would agree with me; those who would tell me they liked the book.

The first readers, therefore, had to pass a strict test: They had to be friends of mine since the seventh grade. Dr. John McHugh, Andy Knowles and Carol Joyce were carefully selected from this category.

Other friends, some new, some old, also contributed. Judy Steul, Jack Joyce, Mike Champa and Pat Dinn were among this group.

My former law partner, Ellen Zack applied her editorial skills, honed at the Boston Globe, to each and every page.

Wallace Exman helped me immensely. He is a professional editor and a newly acquired friend. Nevertheless, he takes no responsibility for the errors that I steadfastly neglected to remedy or the suggestions I refused to adopt.

My wife Jean, of course, had to put up with me during the time I spent in my office, absorbed in writing draft after draft of A Permanent Bond. However, as an editor, she also takes no responsibility for my errors, although without her help, there’d be many more than there are now.

Speaking of taking responsibility, I alone assume that mantle to the exclusion of everyone else, professional or otherwise.

Whoever commands the sea, commands the trade of the world and hence, the world itself.

– Sir Walter Raleigh, Historie of the Worlde, 1616

Chapter One

Boston’s Chinatown is located in the heart of the city, bordered by Essex Street to the north, Stuart Street to the south, the Boston Common to the west, and Interstate 93 to the east. The Beach Street Gate, located at the Easterly entrance, called a Paifang in China, signifies the entry into an ancient Chinese city. It is a large red arch in keeping with ancient traditions dating back to the Zhou Dynasty, 1122- 256 B.C., and is a symbol of China itself, deeply rooted in Chinese culture, and signifying the traditional norms of ancient China such as chastity, loyalty and filial piety.

The main drag in Chinatown is Lincoln Street which is intersected by Kneeland Street. It is also intersected by Tyler Street where, in 1991, five men were shot dead, execution style, in a Chinese Social Club.

The first Chinese immigrants arrived in Boston in the 1880s, but a series of laws passed by the United States Congress, called the Chinese Exclusion Acts, banned all Chinese women from the continental United States between 1882 and 1943, which meant that many, in fact most Chinese men were alone and left to their own devices. This also meant, among other things, the perfection of the slot racket. This device entitled a Chinese American to return to the mainland and, upon his return to the United States, allege to the Immigration and Naturalization Service that he sired a child in China each time. There were no birth certificates issued in China which allowed the Immigration and Naturalization Service to allocate a slot for the future male’s entry into the United States based on the word of the Americanized father. The industrious citizen would sell each slot for a price of $2,000 to $3,000 per person whose last name would forever be changed on arrival in America.

But Chinese immigration had its genesis one hundred fifty years ago, when an immigrant from Canton Province moved to an apartment on Mott Street in New York City and opened a tobacco shop on Park Row. Ten years later, another man from Canton opened a grocery store on Pell Street close by. Over the next few years, dozens of Chinese men began settling on Mott Street, others on Pell Street. By 1880 Pell Street became the headquarters of the Hip Sing Tong. Not long afterwards, the On Leong Tong took over Mott Street. Each tong had its own army of men and jealously guarded its turf.

Similarly, in Boston’s Chinatown, the Chinese population grew especially so after 1965 when the United States government opened up Chinese immigration and thousands fled the slums of Hong Kong for the place they called Gum Shan, the Mountain of Gold. The tongs grew with population growth and existed alongside the pagoda-fringed telephone booths on the streets, behind the awnings, and under the bright red enormous sign Welcome to Chinatown which sat atop the large cement building that marked the main entrance into the area.

By the year 2000, there were 28,000 people per square mile squeezed into Boston’s Chinatown, seventy percent of whom were Asians with a median income of $14,000 a year. The tongs were protective organizations, similar to workers’ unions, but the Triads were something different.

Ever since the 17th Century when the Triad society was born, its membership consisted of a rite called Fung Toi. In the ceremony, a chicken was slaughtered and the blood used to signify commitment to the brotherhood was drunk by the initiate while an ancient poem was read from a scroll.

Xing Guojun, Chairman of the Board of the Goujun Shipyard and a member of the Chinese Communist Party, the C.C.P., was also a member of the Triads, now a secret Chinese Society, operating outside the law but with the tacit approval of the Chinese Government. He was a member of the Shinjuku Triads which single-handedly commissioned the killing of 5,000 Falon Gong, also known as Fasan Dafa, an organization committed to a system of mind and body cultivation banned by the Communist Party. The Shinjuku Triads, sometimes called, the 610 Office were established in New York and Boston by Chinese youth gangs with strange names – White Eagles, Black Eagles, Flying Dragons, Ghost Shadows.—and each fought for control of their area despite their common progenitor. And each was involved, some more, some less, with illegal immigration from China, either through Canada, New York’s East River or the slot racket.

Each gang had its own territory which was comprised of a few square blocks around Kneeland Street in which various criminal activities took place, most consisting of forced labor and prostitution. Gambling halls behind closed doors tempted menial workers into escalating their earnings in order to buy their citizenship only to lose what little they could accumulate at the tables. Laundry and restaurant work made up the vast majority of employment possibilities for the average worker.

Lu Chow, the leader of Boston’s Flying Dragons, an off-shoot of the Shinjuku Triads, was almost thirty years old and held sway over fifteen tough, no-nonsense members of his gang. Lu Chow was from Shanghai, arriving in the United States when he was twelve, and kept close ties with some of his old friends in the village just outside the city. They would keep him informed of likely prospects who wanted to come to the United States, tell him about the movers and shakers in Shanghai, what they were doing politically, business-wise, and whether his family was affected by the latest C.C.P. mandates concerning the number of children per family the government allowed.

Large sums of money came to the group from workers attempting to pay off the $10,000 or more Lu Chow charged for smuggling each immigrant, mostly from China’s coastal provinces, Fujian and Shanghai, into Boston from Toronto, Canada. Truckloads of upwards of ten frightened Chinese were frequently smuggled into Boston having arrived via the St Lawrence River area in upstate New York. Many came through the Indian Territories, a twenty-eight square mile Indian reservation that straddled two Canadian provinces, Ontario and Quebec. They crossed over the Canadian border into the United States every few weeks in trucks with hidden compartments behind the cab and went undetected by the border inspectors of U.S. Customs. One hundred thousand dollars per shipment from that source alone was owed to Lu Chow.

The immigrants were given jobs, but were charged exorbitant sums for room and board leaving scarcely enough money each week to pay down their debt to Lu Chow. Lu Chow was smart enough to stagger the shipments so that in some weeks, the trucks didn’t make a run. His thinking was that too many trips, even if he had the opportunity, would increase the risk.

When Charley John, the leader of the White Eagles of the Shinjuku Triads on Tyler Street in Boston’s Chinatown, had a mission to truck in Chinese immigrants from Canada, the trip did not always go smoothly. Charley John had no recourse at times, but to join up with members of the Mohawk tribe in New York and together, they transported more than 3,600 Chinese immigrants across the lightly patrolled border along the St. Lawrence River and into upstate New York over the years.

Lately however, the Canadian Commissioner of the Immigration and Naturalization Service had cracked down on the smuggling operations. Charley John was painfully aware of the new efforts. Most of the White Eagles’ Chinese immigrants came from Charley John’s home area in eastern coastal China, Fujian Province and they paid him $10,000 to $20,000 for the journey depending on their individual circumstances. Those few from Hong Kong had more money than those from the provinces so he charged them more. Avoiding the new laws was costly.

They came in shipping crates which were rectangular wooden boxes as big as a house trailer, jammed in, living on very little food, bottled water and chamber pots for their excrement. These crates were stacked on container ships, most of which were built by the Guojun Shipyard, sometimes one on top of the other, cutting off air supply and certainly any light. The crates gave off a nidorous odor that was sickening in itself after only one day at sea. There were always one or two who didn’t make it. Their putrefied bodies were wrapped in whatever bindings could be found in order to keep the stench from escaping, but there was really nothing they could do to prevent the overwhelming reek.

The ships unloaded in Toronto or Vancouver in British Columbia taking advantage of Canada’s relatively liberal refugee laws, even after the crackdown, but only a few of those transported declared themselves to the authorities claiming to be refugees fleeing persecution. Charley John had men stationed only in Toronto and he had to share that port with his rival, Lu Chow of the Flying Dragons. Sometimes vicious fights broke out between the two gangs but, in large measure, they gave each other a wide swath. The White Eagles got theirs and the Flying Dragons got theirs.

Those immigrants who chose not to risk deportation were shipped further east. As soon as the Chinese were off-loaded from their crates however, some seemed to regain their strength soon after some food and fresh water was distributed to them. On occasion, an unruly few had to be forcefully controlled by Charley John’s main man, Len Wang. Len became an expert in subduing these complainers who bitched about their treatment even though many were a full six inches taller than he was. The substance he used was a liquid Nembutal injected while the victim was held down by three men. He used a 20 gauge needle and a 5 cc syringe and injected 4cc’s or 200 mg directly into the vein of the victim. The injection had to be given slowly, about one minute per cc otherwise the person, no matter how big he was, would die. There would be no further complaints from the troublemaker during the trip to Boston. He, or on a rare occasion she, would be comatose and curled up in a ball inside the cab of the eighteen wheeler as if asleep while others were hidden behind cargo that easily concealed their presence.

Fortunately the trip didn’t take long. They travelled first to the foggy marshes and wooded forests of the same twenty-eight square mile Indian Territory which spans the area on both sides of the United States and Canadian border that was used by Lu Chow and others. The area is known as the St Regis Mohawk Reservation on the American side and the Akwesasne Indian Territory in Canada.

The Indian Territory had long been used to smuggle heroin, cocaine, marijuana, gasoline, tobacco and other drugs into the United States but now the contraband was Chinese immigrants and Charley John and Lu Chow controlled the on-carriage to Boston’s Chinatown.

But there were other sources of money. The women, especially the young women, and there were only a few of them, the young ones anyway, were given free room and board in small brothels which consisted of only a few rooms behind the kitchens of various Chinese restaurants. Some of the girls were only thirteen years old as they plied their trade on their backs as instructed by the owners. There were also rooms in many apartments where large sums of money would be gambled by those workers hoping to make a score to get them out of debt or to make enough money to bring some relative over by the same route they had taken. Some made a score …most did not.

Charley John and Lu Chow had other problems of a more local nature. The White Eagles had established themselves on Tyler Street, not three blocks from the Flying Dragons on Kneeland Street and they were fierce competitors seeking more and more control over prostitution, gambling and immigration action, not only in Chinatown but spreading into areas formally known as The Combat Zone in downtown Boston.

Chapter Two

Charley John, a thin, cadaverous looking Cambodian of about forty years old, with a pencil thin black moustache, close cropped hair, sallow skin and a pockmarked face, was sitting alone at his restaurant, the Golden Phoenix on Tyler Street on a cold, wintery Friday night, having his dinner at nine o’clock after most of the patrons had finished their dinners and had gone home. He was flush with excitement due to the fact that in the back of the restaurant, six very high rollers were shooting craps, a game with an excellent history for house profits. He’d had a good run in the past week from Canada: three women and two men, all healthy and eager to start earning money for their redemption—the fools, he thought.

Charley John, sir, said the waiter, a young man just seventeen years old, padded up to the table. There is a person here to see you.

Who is it?

I’ve never seen him here before, and Len Wang wasn’t at the reception desk when he came in.

Find Len Wang and tell him to sit at the table next to the door leading to the kitchen. Tell Len Wang to shoot the son of a bitch if this guy makes any kind of move toward me. And tell him to make sure he doesn’t miss. Understand? After you tell Len Wang what to do, bring the guy in to me here.

Right away, sir.

As soon as Charley John saw an old man, bent over from the waist, shuffle in towards his table, barely able to walk without the assistance of the kid waiter, he relaxed and slid his hand away from the small Beretta he had in his belt.

The old man spoke first. Charley John, sir. Pleased to meet you. May old man sit down?

Yes, of course. What can I do for you?

I nothing but poor man, earn money to bring to this country our youngest daughter and two grandchildren, sir. You have been good— find me job at Hu San’s Laundry but I am …behind in my payments to your people. I don’t hear good, only one ear, work second job at Ling’s export business on Kneeland Street. You know, business run by Flying Dragons. Lu Chow, he very bad man, sir. He make sex with youngest daughter. She fight like hell but he make sex with her anyway. So come to you because in my job I heard things, Charley John, sir.

You hear what things old man? Speak up!

I hear Lu Chow on telephone with big person in Shanghai. I hear with my one good ear. Big China government person, I think. He is called Chairman. I hear Lu Chow say he must have shipment from Canada. He say no shipment for three weeks…too long. He tell government person he want shipment now, pretty quick.

When was this conversation?

About one week ago now, sir.

Charley John looked the old man over very carefully taking his own good time, his eyes pouring over every detail of the man’s clothes, his hair and his skin before he spoke.

I think I can use you, old man. Keep your one good ear open and report to me each Friday about this time, right here. Whatever you hear you tell me, understand? What’s your name?

They call me In Huang.

OK, In Huang. Every Friday right here, OK?

Yes, sir! I come every Friday.

Len Wang! Charley John barked. Come over here. When Len Wang came up to the boss’s table, Charley John said, Pay this guy $200. He’ll be working for us from now on. He’ll be here every Friday about 9 o’clock. If I’m not here, listen to what he has to say, pay him $100 and tell me everything he tells you.

Oh, thank you, sir. You not sorry. I tell everything, you see, In Huang said.

The only product that was exported from Ling’s export business on Kneeland Street was money in the form of U.S. dollars to the Shinjuku Triads in Shanghai China and into the pocket of Chairman Xing Guojun. Lu Chow’s office was on the second floor, accessed through a small, dark hallway on the first floor at the end of which was a large steel door which gave way to stairs leading up one flight. From the office on the second floor, a circular staircase, no wider than shoulder width, curled around a center pole and led to a third floor loft. The store front on the street level opened into a large room consisting of nothing more than a long counter, which was the only fixture that could be seen through the large, plate glass window facing the street.

The old man, In Huang, sat on a high backed bar stool behind the counter. It was only one week since he had his conversation with Charley John and he was flush with money in his pocket, $75, more than he’d ever had since coming from Shanghai. His duties were simple enough. He answered the phone located on the top shelf behind the counter-front away from view, just above the drawer which held a small, delicate cup and saucer. He kept the place clean, acted as a messenger and fetched coffee and lunch for Lu Chow.

The phone rang in front of In Huang at precisely 8 A.M..

Get me Lu Chow, was all he heard as soon as he picked up.

Yes, sir!

He placed the caller on hold and dialed the number for Lu Chow who was upstairs in his office.

You have a call, sir.

Stay on this line while I see who it is, Lu Chow instructed. And then, while the other line was put on hold, Lu Chow clicked back to the old man.

Get me some coffee and a hard roll.

Yes, sir. Right away, sir, the old man replied. He hung up the phone, donned a coat and left the store-front office. He walked down Kneeland Street; head down against the snappy easterly wind swirling like a miniature tornado blowing into Chinatown from only a few blocks away off the harbor. He only had to walk one block before he came to Lu Chow’s restaurant, The Flying Dragon.

In Huang used his key to open the front door. There was not a single person in the restaurant at this time of the morning except the cook who was busy in the kitchen as usual, preparing the additions to the menu for the evening’s specials. In Huang pushed open the swinging doors to the kitchen and hollered above the sound of running water and the noisy dishwasher.

The boss wants coffee and a hard roll.

Get it yourself! Can’t you see I’m busy? the cook said without looking up from his cutting board where he was cutting onions.

The old man found the double glass coffee maker, poured the coffee into a Styrofoam cup, opened the bread cupboard, selected a hard roll and was out the door in less than a minute. Back at the export office, he climbed the stairs to Lu Chow’s office and noticed him on the phone with his hand cupped by the side of his mouth talking into the receiver, engrossed in his conversation. In Huang placed the coffee and roll on Lu Chow’s desk and went back down the stairs to his stool behind the counter. Then he carefully, very carefully, picked up the phone and listened as he heard Lu Chow talking.

…So I’m sorry, Chairman Xing. I do not want to seem greedy but, as I stated, it has been almost three weeks since I had a shipment while Charley John has had at least two shipments in that time… Lu Chow said into the phone.

Lu Chow suddenly heard a click in mid sentence. He quietly put down the receiver on the desk without breaking the connection and quickly descended the stairs. He opened the steel door and silently entered the hallway. He peered around the corner and saw the old man sitting on his stool with the phone held to his one good ear. He tip-toed toward In Huang, slapped the phone away and knocked the man onto the floor. The old man hit his head on the linoleum and, terrified, raised his right hand in front of his face.

Please boss, don’t –

Lu Chow kicked the old man in the stomach under his extended right arm. As the old man cried out in pain, he lowered his arm to protect his groin. Lu Chow kicked him in the face and, as blood spurted from In Huang’s mouth and nose, he kicked him in the face again, this time aiming for his ear but just missing, hitting him square on the side of the head.

Who do you work for?

You boss! You!

Tell me or I’ll–

The old man mumbled in terror through a mouth full of blood, Charley John, boss, I’ve… told him n…noth…ing. But the words trailed off as he dropped his head and passed out.

You miserable piece of shit! Lu Chow screamed at the bloodied hulk on the floor. He knelt down, and leaned in close to In Huang’s battered face to see if he was breathing. He heard a gurgle deep in the old man’s throat and saw a belch of dark red blood spurt from his mouth. Blood was coming from his nose and ears but he heard nothing else.

Lu Chow hung up the phone he found on the floor and went back upstairs to his office. He picked up the phone he had carefully laid on his desk and heard an operator say, If you want to make a call, please hang up and try again. He dialed Xing’s private number.

I’m sorry, Mr. Chairman, we must have been disconnected. he said.

Lu Chow, do you have a secure line?

Yes, Mr. Chairman. It was a simple disconnection.

After Xing told Lu Chow he would arrange another shipment of Shanghai immigrants to Toronto in a week’s time, Lu Chow said his thankful goodbye, hung up the phone and went downstairs to dispose of the body, now lying in a gigantic pool of blood.

The next day, In Huang’s body was driven to Roxbury and thrown into a dumpster behind a Stop and Shop market. Early in the afternoon on the same day, Lu Chow walked down Kneeland Street to his restaurant, the Flying Dragon, and spoke to Soo Jin Lee, his number two cook, but the first assistant leader of the Flying Dragons, a tong offshoot of the Shinjuku Triads, and a person who commanded respect of all fifteen members as well as the confidence of Lu Chow himself due to his enormous size and committed loyalty. His chief right hand man had no education having been raised in a village in Cambodia that had been decimated by U.S. B-52 bombers dropping their incendiaries on Viet Cong strongholds. Soo’s family was one among two hundred million refugees who fled to Phnom Penh from Cambodia; education for them was not a priority—staying alive and not starving was. Although Soo worked directly under the cook at the restaurant, San Young Ahn, there was no doubt about who the boss was in the tong after Lu Chow.

Soo, I have been betrayed by a man I trusted, that person, In Huang, Lu Chow said, having to raise his voice to be heard over the running water splashing into the sieve filled with pink shrimp and placed under the faucet in the sink to be cleaned.

And turn that cursed water off when I’m speaking to you!

So sorry, Soo replied.

I want one of our men planted with Charley John, Lu Chow said in a calmer voice. We must be informed of what he is doing just like he was informed about me by that traitor, In Huang.

Ah—that will be no problem, Lu Chow, Soo Jin Lee replied, drying his hands on a towel. There are four people working here in kitchen. One of them is good cook, fine cook and we can send him. He is working off huge debt to us— would be happy to give his life for you if you asked him.

Send him over at once so I can interview him and tell him what his duties will consist of.

I warn you boss, he not very pretty. He has only one good eye, the other is sewn closed with black stitching. But I am sure Golden Phoenix could use another cook, they always short over there. As long as he stays in kitchen he will be fine— he will do good job for us.

What is his name?

Wayne Koo.

Lu Chow left the restaurant and quickly walked back to Ling’s Export. When he entered, he carefully stepped over the dark stain behind the counter which had remained on the floor even after his cleanup, and continued his way up the stairs to his office. I’ll have to do something about that stain, he thought to himself.

Chapter Three

In Shanghai, near Guangzhou where rivers from all over the Province of Guangdong meander through the fertile Pearl River Delta and eventually discharge into the East China Sea, almost half a world away from Tyler and Kneeland Streets in Boston’s Chinatown, another business existed. This one was built at the terminal end of the Donghai Bridge, the longest cross-sea bridge in the world stretching across Hangzou Bay and the East China Sea for over 22 miles. The laboratory located there is owned by the Xing Guojun Shipbuilding Company and overlooks the Yangshan Deep Water Port, the container terminal for the port of Shanghai.

The laboratory building itself was unremarkable–a square, white stucco structure, almost windowless, situated adjacent to the port’s massive parking lot where 150, twenty-foot-long containers were stored, side by side, waiting to be loaded onto a vessel with their cargo.

Twenty-two miles away, across the massive bridge in the boardroom of the Xing Guojun Shipyard, two business rivals, treating each other with deference but at the same time at arm’s length, had just entered a contract which bound them together, regardless of their rivalry, for four years. The contract provided for the construction of twenty ships by the Xing Guojun shipyard. The supplier of the steel, and a party to the contract, Quong Ling Steel Limited, a company new to China’s shipbuilding industry, was represented by Sang Won Kim, its president and CEO.

Sang, a man who presented himself with dignity but with an air of hauteur, was very satisfied with himself as he sat back and enjoyed the attention of the cheongsam-clad young lady pouring tea into his fragile porcelain cup. He was known as a fierce negotiator notwithstanding his inscrutable smile. Actually, it wasn’t a smile at all but a thinness of his lips, which elongated his mouth, causing several prominent creases on both sides of his cheeks. His upper lip was further defined by a thin moustache, which was meticulously trimmed, as were his polished, almost lacquered fingernails. He was a man of considerable vanity and, like most vain men, recorded the slightest insult in his memory bank forever despite his barely perceptible sly smile which was usually coupled with a vague, sarcastic retort. He was taller than most, thin and very intense, one who seldom raised his voice so that he was able to hide his contempt or anger for any contrary position taken by his adversary until the time came for retribution.

On an early January morning, Sang sat across the elaborate East India rosewood conference table in the boardroom of the Xing Guojun Shipyard from the President and Chairman of the Board, Xing Guojun himself. Xing was not considered a fierce negotiator, but rather a ruthless negotiator and a dangerous competitor. He was tall, a medium build and one of the wealthiest and most politically connected businessmen in Shanghai. He was also a ranking member, the chairman in fact, of the Chinese Communist Party, (CCP) Shanghai, and ruled the dreaded 610 Office, or Chinese Mafia, as an enforcement arm to his vast business enterprises in Shanghai. His arrogance and overbearing personality was tolerated by his business associates, but just barely. He had succeeded to the presidency of the company, not because of any people skills, but because he was smarter than the rest when it came to bottom line profits. His influence was all the more effective because his power was concentrated in the city of Shanghai and did not extend beyond its borders. The shipyard acquired his name almost by default. The party leaders outside Shanghai could not have cared less about a name as long as the shipyard started to earn a profit, which up until this point it had barely managed to do. After Xing wrested control from the previous administrator and turned the company around, he could write his own ticket as long as he conformed to the Central Committee’s wishes. And among their wishes was a positive bottom line number.

So Sang, you have a fine agreement here, you ought to be very proud, Xing said, condescendingly. Sang took note of his attitude.

Certainly, Chairman Xing, it will be fortunate for both of us and for China as well.

Sang Won Kim also was a man well connected not only in the Shanghai business world, but also with connections that went beyond the CCP in Shanghai. He had deep and unassailable contacts with the National Chinese Communist Party all the way to Beijing and, notwithstanding his quiet demeanor, had no trouble in exercising his responsibilities against any perceived position taken by anyone, or any business, against the current mandates of the Central Committee.

Xing looked at his companion and said carefully, not wanting to antagonize, but very much wanting to be on parity with his guest, Are you certain that the amount of steel required for each container vessel will allow you to fulfill your obligation to deliver, Mr. President?

I am not worried about our ability to deliver the steel, Sang answered knowing that Xing’s production schedule was going to be closely monitored by the Central Committee and locally by him. I am worried about whether your company will be able to build the ships on time, Chairman Xing. You only have forty-eight months.

Sang tapped one finger on the conference table and shot a glance through his thick glasses at the young lady standing by the long serving table against the wall which was enough to bring her shuffling with a fresh cup of tea. He was accustomed to no less.

Xing said nothing for a moment and shifted in his seat ready for the next parry with Sang. He knew of course, that Sang was not only a business supplier of steel in this venture, but a person to be reckoned with, indeed afraid of. He knew Sang was deep in the new Chinese government, which had greatly expanded its economy so that it was sometimes called Socialism with Chinese Characteristics. Since the latest national election in 2007, Sang was imbedded in the office of the Secretariat, which was directly under the Central Committee and was the principle administrative mechanism of the Chinese Communist Party. Sang had been appointed to the presidency of Quong Ling Steel, certainly not because he worked his way up the corporate ladder but because he was politically connected and knew the right people. Hu Jinto, the current Secretary General and Sang graduated from Shanghai University in the same year and were fast friends. Both were instrumental in the rebuilding of the University in 1994 and worked together providing funds for several new buildings on Qingyun Road in the Zhahai District of Shanghai.

Hu was the successor to Deng Xiaoping who was the prime mover of Chinese Socialism and the person who contended that in China, socialism and a market economy were not mutually exclusive. Sang was thirty-six years old when Deng succeeded Mao in 1976 and was in the forefront of the fight between the Maoists on the right and the progressives on the left in the 1989 protests in Tiananmen Square.

Xing Guojun knew that Sang succeeded to the presidency of Quong Ling Steel Limited because he was used by the CCP as an intellectual, a person who was able to think through a problem presented to him and still keep the loyalty of those who took the opposite side…if he chose. Xing also knew not to cross him or attempt to take advantage of his lack of business acuity. Sang was more powerful than Xing and Xing knew it.

Xing Goujun sat back from the conference table, raised his small cup of tea in a gesture of politeness before he took a sip and smiled at his adversary. Are you aware, he said, that the cargo of each ship has a value of over several billion yuan? For that kind of money, the government can be very forgiving, don’t you agree?

Yes, but each ship is 330 meters long and 60 meters wide. The height is 29.7 meters, Mr. Chairman. That is a formidable undertaking, is it not?

Yes, of course, but I am also aware, Sang, that I am committed to our party to build five 100 twenty-foot equivalent unit container ships in addition to the fifteen larger vessels. Each TEU is 294 meters long and 32.2 meters wide and capable of 25.2 knots, as you know. Even so, that’s as long as the tallest building in Guangzhao, Guangdong Province and half as wide as a soccer field. What do you think will happen to me if I am behind schedule just a little? Shall I be castrated and thrown into the Yangtze River by the Triads? Treated the way they treated the Falun Gong? No, I don’t think so.

Xing leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin as if he was about to spew out something that was earth shaking, something that only he understood completely and Sang was too stupid to grasp.

You remember, of course Sang, Xing began slowly, what happened in 1999? The Falun Gong emerged as a threat to our government with the cultivation of virtue and character nonsense they were preaching. Ten thousand strong gathered at Chinese Communist Party headquarters in Zhongnanhai to protest against beatings and arrests they had received. But not two months later we began our crackdown. Xing was smiling at the thought. Our most dangerous crime organization, theTriads, took time out from their illegal smuggling, drug trafficking and control over the bars and fish and produce markets, to assist in widespread beatings, forced labor and psychological abuses against those zealots, he continued.

Sang just sat there and listened, not moving a muscle.

Xing paused to catch his breath and seized on the opportunity to change the subject. "You understand even more than I, we are building these ships for China. You are supplying the steel for China. The cost of this contract is 4.6 billion yuan or almost 600 million U.S. dollars. Where do you think