Jintao Read online

  Zhao rotated in her chair, stealing a glimpse down the hallway she was keen to explore.

  Ning consented to the recording and the detective gave a reassuring nod, as if Ning had done the right thing. In rapid cadence, she began the session. “Sector fourteen interview; Jintao residence, South Point; insert time and date stamp. You are Ning, Dr. Jintao’s housekeeper. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. That is correct.”

  “State your full name.”

  “Ning.”

  “No last name?”

  “Just Ning.”

  “I may want to see some ID later on, but first tell me when you last saw Dr. Jintao.”

  “Last night.”

  “So, you didn’t see him today?”

  “No. He was gone when I came on duty.”

  “What time did you come on duty?”

  “Seven a.m., as every morning.”

  “Have you been in contact with him since then?”

  “I have not.”

  “Has he been absent without notice before?”

  “Not since I’ve worked for him. It’s been nineteen years,” she said, looking down and smoothing the lap of her gray uniform. “He has always let me know if he’s going to be late.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “There are many places, and I have many ideas, but I would only be guessing.”

  “Did he have any personal appointments today?”

  “None that I am aware of.”

  “Any medical conditions?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Ning appreciated the lieutenant’s directness. Her questions had followed a logical path . . . until now. Why was she asking about medical conditions? Ever since the arrival of molecular intervention, there was hardly anyone with a medical condition worth asking about. Master Jintao was in perfect health. Then it dawned on her and she said, “Is it possible, he was involved in some sort of accident.”

  En route, Zhao had checked with medical facilities, but as a courtesy she reached into her pocket and retrieved a small projection cube. Setting it on the table, she commanded it to project a current log of accident reports into the space between them. Zhao’s gazed at the list and said, “He hasn’t been involved in an accident and none of the ERs have seen him.” The detective’s eyes shifted to the glass wall next to them. Looking past the reflection of projected data, she observed a glide as it cruised past in the rain. “Do they normally come that close?” she asked.

  “It does happen,” said Ning.

  The projection faded and Zhao looked down the hallway again. “Who else lives here?” she inquired.

  “No one. Master Jintao’s son is away at university.”

  “I’ll need contact information for Jintao’s family and friends. Can you provide that?”

  “Yes, of course.” Ning repeated the request aloud and the house responded, projecting a list of contacts in front of her. Flicking the air with a forefinger, she went down the list, considering each name and highlighting the ones that her master frequently contacted. “These are people he coms often. You may download their com links if it will help.”

  Zhao handed the black-and-yellow card to Ning and said, “Transfer them to this.”

  As Ning touched the card to the list, names and numbers were instantly copied. She held the card for a moment as if thinking about what she had just done—then returned the card.

  Continuing the interview, the detective asked. “Does Master Jintao have enemies? Anyone who might wish him harm?”

  “No, of course not,” said Ning, finding the insinuation somewhat insulting. “You must know Dr. Jintao is a citizen in excellent standing.” Her thoughts raced. How could the detective ask such a thing? An enemy? The idea that someone might want to harm Master Jintao was unimaginable. Master Jintao was on a par with distinguished members of the directorate.

  Zhao relaxed her tone and added, “Don’t be alarmed. These are just routine questions. Most likely he’s fine and we’ll locate him soon. The best thing for you to do is be patient. With permission, I’ll upload my contact info, and I want you to call me if anything comes to mind.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” said Ning, preoccupied with the new possibilities.

  “Mind if I look around?” asked the detective.

  “As you wish. I’ll show you the way.”

  Lieutenant Zhao lingered a few minutes in each room, sweeping her x-ray like curiosity over everything in view. In Master Jintao’s private quarters, she pulled open drawer after drawer and asked about his habits. Ning answered concisely, telling about his typical routine.

  Satisfied that her preliminary inspection turned up nothing out of the ordinary, the detective prepared to make her exit. “If you don’t hear from me it probably means we’re working the leads and haven’t located him yet, but feel free to call the station anytime for an update.”

  Over the next four hours, Ning initiated two more conversations with the detective. She was told that transportation records and surveillance feeds were being analyzed, and a picture of the senior executive was rotating in public view in every neighborhood. Associates, merchants, and even street vendors were being questioned and dozens of leads were being pursued. In each conversation, Zhao was courteous but could not answer the central question of what had happened to the senior Jintao.

  A few minutes before midnight, Ning accepted the possibility that something unfortunate may have happened and it was time to open a com line to Master Jintao’s only child—to let him know about the situation.

  Oxford, England

  In a nineteenth century row house, Quan Jintao was reclining in the sling of a Sosai workstation, wrapped in hermetic concentration. He was editing a dissertation on Electron Orbit Mapping Through Tunneling Microscopsy, which he intended to deliver in a month’s time for his doctoral review. A soft glow from its view field illuminated the plastered walls and inside his cyber cocoon, the sounds of Debussy’s “Beau Soir” played softly while he looked for gaps in the logical progression of his thesis. In front of him, diagrams, notes, and simulations floated one on top of the other and dozens of dialog boxes lined the edge of the view field.

  After several hours of working on the thesis, a com line diverted his attention.

  Bip bip bip—bip bip bip. His eyes darted to the flashing message:

  4:11:03 PM TUESDAY, JANUARY 16, 2089

  ORIGIN: NEW HONG KONG

  CALLER: NING

  Ning? What’s up, he wondered. “Accept,” he said.

  His documents dimmed and Ning’s image instantly came to the foreground. She had been his caretaker for decades and her face gave rise to a feeling of warmth. She looked the same as always: round cheeks, thinly lidded dark eyes with creases at the corners, small circumflex eyebrows, hairline wrinkles across the bridge of her nose and forehead.

  “Long time, no see,” said Quan. “How are you?”

  Ning’s voice was serene. “Nin hao, young master. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have something of importance to tell you.”

  “Importance? What do you mean?” Why is she calling so late and being so formal?

  Ning’s eyes closed, lids flickering for a moment, searching. Unable to come up with a diplomatic artifice, she went directly to the point. “Your father has gone missing.”

  Even though her voice was calm, the news was startling and Quan felt suddenly detached from what he was hearing. She went on, recounting the recent events, step by step, going over every detail.

  Trepidation took hold of his core. This is surreal, he thought. How? What?

  “When did this happen?” he wanted to know.

  “He did not return home tonight and I have no word from him.”

  “This makes no sense. Father’s life is well organized and predictable. There must be a reasonable explanation. There must be.”

  Was there a note or a message in the com system? No, was the answer. Couldn’t his glide beacon be tracked? Again, the
answer was no. Certainly his father must have told someone where he was going -- but no.

  Finding it absurd that no one had been informed of his venerable father’s plans, he thanked Ning for the information and told her to stay in touch with the detective, and to call back the moment there was any news.

  Unable to continue his work, Quan switched off the view field and rotated his sling to face the doorway. He sat there, staring at the sunlit landing just outside the room—raking through the details of what Ning had told him. Running his fingers through his short black hair, he worked the problem over and over again. The penthouse was a two-minute flight down the glide path from company headquarters—across the central valley to the South Point cluster. His father routinely traveled by glide and all the corporate glides were zero-defect rated—as was everything in his father’s world. On top of this, his father was an assiduous communicator, always in contact with his office. It didn’t add up. Someone must know. Someone must know.

  With Ning’s afterimage still lingering in his mind, the full weight of the conversation bore down on him. His father’s absence would leave a huge hole in the world. Not so much in the corporate world. Master Jintao had seen to that, surrounding himself with excellent proxies. It would leave a huge hole in Quan’s world—one that would be impossible to fill. Knowing that all lives come to an end, and knowing how old his father was, he had thought he was prepared, but not for this. Not without explanation. He had wanted the illusion that his father would always be there to persist. Now, in the blink of an eye, that illusion had vanished and he was left with the sobering thought that he may never see his father again.

  Stepping away from the workstation, he looked up to the timber and daub of the Gothic Revival ceiling and a small window high above. Hazy beams of light filtered through the room creating bright parallelograms and triangles on the opposite wall. Suddenly he was struck by how the small Victorian room resembled a crypt.

  Where are you, father? They’re looking for you. Where are you? What can I do? You’d want me to stay and complete my doctorate. Of that I’m sure. But you also taught me to answer the call without hesitation—take action in the face of adversity. Should I join the search? I’m certain it’s what you would do.

  Quan’s banlu, Sealy, was humming a tune as she ascended the stairs of the antique row house, her silky black hair swaying at the middle of her back. Reaching the upper landing, her almond- shaped eyes opened wide. There was Quan, socks against the wooden floor, a hollow look on his face.

  “What is it?” she asked, stepping up close to him.

  He stared into the distance and said, “News from home.”

  “Is something wrong?” She reached out and touched his arm.

  Numb and detached, he told her about the call from Ning and his father’s disappearance. A search was under way and he was trying to decide what to do.

  As he spoke, she could feel his agitation. She reached around to rub his neck. “Your father is an important man. I’m sure they’ll find him.”

  “And what if they don’t? I feel I should go and see if I can help.”

  “If you go… what about your thesis?”

  “I’ll ask the mentors to hear it right away.”

  “Is it finished?”

  “I’ll do a final read through—maybe two more days,” he said.

  “If you go, I want to go with you.”

  Coming back to the moment, he asked, “Who was at the door?”

  “The post arrived. There’s a package.”

  2.

  Quan shut out his angst and partitioned off the matter of his missing father. With forced concentration, he read his thesis from the beginning, devoting himself to correcting errors and omissions. Every so often, however, the thought of his father’s disappearance crept back in—a vision of the patriarch walking on a dark and wet street somewhere beyond reach—alone. With renewed purpose, he repeatedly pushed the vision away, exercising the discipline his father had taught.

  Over the next two days, Quan had three more conversations with Ning, but there was still no news of his father’s whereabouts. On the third day, Quan and Sealy were emptying closets and staging things to pack for a hasty trip back to New Hong Kong. Picking up a jacket, Sealy discovered the package that had arrived the day Ning first called.

  “We forgot to open this,” she said.

  “What is it?” Quan eyed the small orange shipping container. “Who’s it from?”

  She turned the container over and over. “I remember now. This was odd. It has our address as both the ‘To’ and the ‘From’—but the tracking symbols show China as the origin.”

  “You didn’t order anything? Let me have a look.”

  The box was small and made of polyfoam, soft to the touch and rounded at all corners. With a tug, he freed the end of a red strip that encircled the equator of the box. As he peeled the strip away, a narrow bead of clear gel appeared at the parting line and quickly evaporated. Discarding the upper half of the box, he revealed a small metallic cylinder inside. Plucking the cylinder from its nest, he gave it a twist, and upended the tube into the palm of his hand. An object the size of a thumb tumbled out: a clump of white fur with a gold chain attached.

  “A rabbit’s foot,” he said, stroking the fur with his forefinger.

  “What?”

  “A rabbit’s foot. Have a look.” He handed it to Sealy.

  With her forefinger, she felt the fur and discovered something hard beneath. Brushing the hairs back, she exposed a set of tiny toenails. “Eeew, it’s a dead thing!” She quickly backed away. “That’s grotesque. Who would send such a thing?”

  “Haven’t you seen one of these before? It’s a talisman. For good luck. Supposed to bring prosperity, or fertility, I forget which—maybe a belated union present.”

  “It’s awful. Someone killed an animal for good luck? It’s probably full of germs. I need to sani my hands.” She turned and went to the kitchen galley.

  Quan looked inside the shipping container and mused, “Hmm. No note.”

  “Gross,” she muttered while rubbing her hands under the blue light.

  “It’s a gift—not a bad thing. We could use some good luck right now. I’m keeping it.” He slid it back inside the metal case and tossed it into his bag.

  Early the next day, the couple were seated in a private compartment onboard a Sino World Stratos850. Reclining in an overstuffed sleeper seat, Quan’s eyes closed after takeoff and his thoughts returned to his thesis. It wasn’t as finished as he would have liked, nevertheless, he did his best to present the postulates and proofs in a reasoned manner, all the while haunted by the lack of perfection.

  The review committee sat at a long table inside an empty hall of the Denys Wilkinson building. Three members were from the particle physics department and two members came from the planetary physics department. Also present was professor Harrowden, emeritus of the school. For two hours, Quan stood by a large view field, plodding through his material, as the images behind him changed and the committee looked on. Another two hours of interrogation followed his dissertation at the end of which professor Harrowden raised his hand and thanked young Jintao for an excellent presentation. Quan made his way down the table, shaking hands with each of his examinors, each of whom expressed thanks for his work. Two of the doctorates from his department also extended condolences for his personal crisis and wished him God speed.

  Although relieved to have the formality over with, Quan suspected they had been overly kind, perhaps even lenient, because of his situation. He walked from the modern structure feeling that his work might be chucked into some dark corner of the college archives and shelved until the ultimate heat death of the solar system. This was, of course, far from the truth. His was one of the most well thought out presentations the reviewers had seen.

  Later the same day, Quan and Sealy left for the airport. He had no idea how he would assist in finding his father, but he was determined to do whatever he could.
r />   A holographic Asian female, clad in the pale blue Sino World uniform, appeared in their cabin—strawberry blond hair cut in Dutch boy style—lips pursed in an impish, heart-shaped smile. “What would you like to order?” she inquired.

  “Do you have chicken dumplings?” asked Sealy.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have dumplings and hot tea.”

  “Thank you. And for you, sir?” The attendant cocked her head sideways.

  “Shrimp salad,” he answered, barely raising his lids.

  “And to drink?” she asked, her imagery momentarily flickering.

  “Ginger beer.”

  “Maybe you should have a real beer,” said Sealy. “It’s going to be a long flight; it might relax you.”

  “I’m okay,” he said.

  Interpreting his comment as an affirmation, the hologram replied, “Shrimp salad and Tsingtao beer. Thank you for your orders.” The hologram vanished before Quan could correct her.

  He returned his attention to the view field in front of him, brushing away the in-flight data and flicking through the entertainment guides until he came to the classical music section. He selected a piece they both liked, Haydn’s Serenade. As it began to play, their seat backs reclined and leg rests gently lifted. For a while they drifted, eyes closed, listening to the melody as the airship carried them over the Ukraine. Almost at the end of the piece, their tranquility was interrupted by the gradual movement of their chairs to an upright position. Chirping sounds overhead warned as a panel slowly lowered with their food and drink. In molded containers, the food came with peel-away lids and beverages with built-in straws.