Jintao Page 4

  “I take it we’ll be here awhile,” said Sealy.

  “Believe me,” said Quan, “I want to get to the bottom of this and back to the U.K. as soon as possible.”

  Ning returned and led the young couple through the penthouse. Like two weary pups, they followed her into Master Jintao’s suite, where she pointed to its sophisticated features including the illuminated carpet and the medi-bot booth, all features that Quan was familiar with. In Master Jintao’s dressing room, Ning commanded the mirrored wall to open, revealing the garment bays. “Master’s suits are here.” Turning toward the door, she murmured something that sounded like, “No need where he is now.”

  “Why is she showing us his suits?” Sealy asked.

  Quan was suddenly jolted. “Wait. What did you say? Something about my father not needing these where he is now. Is that what you said?”

  “The master is very healthy,” said Ning with a coy smile, “and there is no evidence of his demise, therefore we must assume he is still alive. And, if he is alive, he must be somewhere. Don’t you think? And since he has left his suits, he must not need them where he is now.”

  “I appreciate your logic,” said Quan. “You want to believe that he’s alive and that he’ll return. So do I, but there’s no evidence to support that . . . unless you know something you haven’t told us.”

  “I haven’t told you everything I know,” said Ning, lowering her head in deep reflection. “That would take a very long time indeed.”

  Quan was puzzled. Ning had always been logical and courteous, but today she seemed obtuse. Her manner was almost flippant. A week had elapsed without any progress and she seemed complacent. He pressed on. “Do you know where my father is?”

  She hesitated, as if selecting her answer from a range of choices. “No.”

  “Then how can you be certain he will return?”

  She paused again, making up her mind before answering. “He will return for his clothes.”

  “What does that mean? What are you saying?”

  “Formal and informal, all of his clothes are accounted for.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re saying he left without any clothes? That’s absurd.”

  Curious, Sealy ran her fingers across the fine cloth, feeling how unusual it was.

  Quan looked hard-eyed at Ning. “You must be mistaken. Please check again.”

  Day became evening as the young couple searched through Master Jintao’s personal effects. Everywhere they looked they found evidence of his fastidious lifestyle. Quan touched the front of a drawer and it extend automatically, lighting up, revealing hairbrushes and combs made of authentic pearl. Another drawer illuminated with a collection of cuff links, some with precious stones, others with embedded sensors. Touching the drawer face again, it withdrew. The uppermost drawer contained neatly nested wristware embedded with controllers, trans hailers, and com links. All of his father’s belongings were state of the art, immaculate, and stored with care, making the disappearance look even more incongruous. While they rummaged, Ning was on the other side of the room counting articles of clothing. At last, she concluded once again that all of his garments were accounted for.

  Searching through his father’s things was an arduous task for Quan and he soon tired of it. He and Sealy said good night to Ning and went to their room. After slipping into bed, sleep didn’t come easy for Quan. He rolled back and forth under the sheets with restless imaginings of what might have happened. Had his father been kidnapped? Was there a yet undiscovered accident?

  When sleep finally came, he dreamed of his father in fleeting images, always just beyond reach. No matter how many steps he took, the distance between them remained the same—as if trying made no difference at all. In the dream, his wrist disc was missing and a man with long white hair and a long white beard offered him the use of his. He held the man’s arm and tried to operate the disk but it refused, boldly displaying an error message that his biosignature was unauthorized. Suddenly the dream changed and he was walking through a thicket with bushes on both sides. There were two paths. He went down the one on the right, but it ended in brambles. He turned around to retrace his path but there was no way to get back—more brambles—no way forward and no way back.

  By the time Quan awoke the next morning, Sealy was already dressed.

  “How long have you been up?” he asked.

  “Awhile,” she said. “The height makes me nauseous. Now I feel the whole place swaying. I don’t think I can stay here.”

  “I never knew you to have vertigo. It didn’t seem to effect you on airplane. Maybe it’s temporary. You might get over it in a day or two.”

  “I’ve never felt this before. I can’t seem to find relief.”

  “We’ll get medicine for you. Or we can move if you like,” grumbled Quan, tired from the restless night.

  “I’ll try Dramamine and see what happens,” she said, rubbing her temple.

  After showering, Quan wandered into the kitchen and found Ning preparing breakfast. He sat at the counter. She placed a bowl and spoon in front of him. Her “Master has no clothes” comment was still ringing in his ears. The clothes were a mystery, and the idea of his supercentenarian father walking the world naked was peculiar and disconcerting. The real question was where had he gone? Ning had made the point that, with no evidence of foul play or misadventure, it was conceivable that his father was okay and would return. Simple deductions were often more likely to be true than complex ones, and it was tempting to accept her reading of the situation—however strange it was.

  Clawing for answers, Quan blurted out, “What haven’t you told me about father’s disappearance?”

  Ning continued to set out napkins and cups. Tilting her head without looking up, she said, “Your father’s actions are always consistent with who he is. He’s a very wise man and you must be patient.”

  What she said held no value for Quan and he was only half listening. The other half of him was tuned in to her delivery. Like a chocklight brushing across a dark room, he detected something. Ning’s humble attentiveness, ever present in his youth, was gone, replaced by a puckish, almost aloof attitude. Why so obtuse? he wondered. What’s going on?

  “You haven’t answered the question.”

  “I do not know where he is, or why he left,” said Ning emphatically as she ladled porridge into his bowl.

  The first spoonful of warm congee was comforting.

  Wearing a new suit, on the morning of his second day, Quan stepped into the lobby of Building One, Jintao Corporation. He paused near a larger-than-life platinum statue of his great-grandfather, Qui Juang Jintao, founder of the megacorp. Quan was said to have a resemblance to his great-grandfather; however, studying the metallic face, he wasn’t convinced. From what he knew, Qui Juang was a dynamo, creating the family business out of nothing. Lifting himself out of that social morass known as the People’s Republic, he built an empire. Beginning with public works projects, he leveraged the profits and built factories. The dynasty went on to pioneer new industries and eventually became an indispensable part of the Sino-industrial complex and one of the first suppliers to the Chinese space program. Now, immortalized in finished platinum, the statue obscured the man’s spirit. There he was, Qui Juang, founder of the dynasty—an inanimate lump of metal.

  This must be the brainchild of some marketing executive, to symbolize the company’s ability to mine precious metals. If it had to be metal, why not at least give it life? Animate it. Make it wave and greet people. Show some creativity.

  Quan turned in the direction of the elevators only to have his path blocked by two executive secretaries, both dressed in identical uniforms, black tunic tops over black pants. Simultaneously, they inclined their heads toward him. It was only a degree or two, but he caught it—a subtle, but unmistakable, kowtow. He reminded himself to stand and accept the ancient gesture—a custom of groveling that should have been laid to rest with the last emperor.

  “I am Dee Dee Cheu, and thi
s is Shu Song Liu. It is our privilege to meet you. How may we provide you with excellent service today?”

  “Nothing at the moment,” he said, sidestepping them and heading toward the elevators.

  Socializing was not part of his agenda, but the day also served a political purpose. Seeing the presence of a Jintao in the building lessened employees’ anxiety over their missing chairman.

  Eyes were on him and, feeling a bit self-conscious, Quan struck out across the lobby with deliberately confident strides. The secretaries followed closely behind, entering the elevator with him—parking themselves on either side.

  Disembarking on the eighteenth floor, Quan led the way down a polished hallway, the secretaries’ shoes clacking on the dark marble floor behind him. Like a synchronized unit, they entered the president’s office.

  A woman dressed in the same black uniform stood up from behind a sleek translucent desk and inquired, “Quan Jintao?”

  “Yes. Here to see Dr. Hao.”

  “They are expecting you in the executive conference room. Next door, please.” She gestured to the two assistants.

  The two secretaries shuffled out of the office and down the corridor ahead of Quan, entered the conference room, and stood to one side, making room for him at the doorway. The room was deliberately staged to impress—dark blue silk walls, rosewood floor, gold-and-glass cases along the side wall housing national awards and gifts from foreign governments. An overly large rectangular table of rainbow obsidian occupied the center of the room, around which sat nine senior executives, sternly watching as Quan and the two assistants traversed the room.

  Neither Quan nor his father had siblings and if his father didn’t return, Quan would become heir and the major shareholder in the Jintao Corporation. Quan looked down at the rosewood floor and his chest heaved. He would be expected to take a position on the board. He always knew this was a possibility but now the consequence had hard edges and everything seemed immediate.

  There was an empty chair at the head of the table and a distinguished-looking man next to it motioned for Quan to sit there. Lifting his chin, Quan made his way to the open seat. The distinguished man to his left was the company president, Dr. Hao—a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair combed straight back—a concentration of white at the temples. Hao sat as motionless as a statue. His composure was legend, an enigmatic iron wall behind which lived a tough negotiator and a remarkably intelligent strategist.

  After Quan took his seat, Hao introduced him as successor to the chairman of Jintao Corporation. He then introduced the other executives one by one, and finally turned slightly toward Quan and said, “I speak for all of us when I say we feel the absence of your father deeply and wish we could have greeted you under more fortunate circumstances. Even so, it is our pleasure to have you here with us today.”

  Sliding his chair back, Quan stood up to deliver a short speech he had rehearsed on the way over. Resting his fingertips on the table, he began in a calm, steady voice—attempting his best approximation of corporate speak. “Thank you, Dr. Hao. Thank you all. I’m honored to be in your presence. Your excellent service is what makes the Jintao Corporation such a great symbol of achievement to the rest of the world. Our clients, our employees, and even our competitors are inspired by the leadership and expertise you demonstrate. I’m grateful for your wisdom and professionalism. The company as a whole owes you a debt of gratitude. We have a great legacy and we are on a great journey together. Considering recent events, stability is most important, and I’m sure you agree that Dr. Hao should continue as both president and chief executive for the foreseeable future.”

  One by one the executives stood and reintroduced themselves, delivering summaries of the advances made within their departments. Quan watched the parade, each executive coming from a different discipline, yet all of them regimented in their conformal suits, delivering same-length speeches in a standard corporate parlance. A part of him felt sorry for them. These people curbed whatever creative spirit they may have once had and bent themselves to the will of the corporation.

  He thought, Conformity is useful, but it’s also a form of enslavement.

  After the meeting adjourned and the executives filed out, Dr. Hao turned to Quan. With his hand pressed against the table between them, he leaned in and spoke in hushed tones so the secretaries couldn’t hear. “Your being here is important. Your father’s absence raised concerns about the future of the company, and news of your presence will help put minds at ease. While you’re here, it’s appropriate that you use your father’s office. Let the secretaries know if you need anything and come see me when you’ve settled in. And, on a personal note, I want to thank you for acknowledging my commitment to the company.”

  Hao excused himself to attend several other meetings, leaving Quan alone at the table. The two assistants, who had been standing in the shadows, stepped forward. Turning to them, he asked, “Is Gregory McGowen here today?”

  One of the assistants quickly tapped the disk on her wrist and a roster appeared in the air over the conference table.

  “Yes, sir. He is here. Do you wish me to contact him for you?”

  “Bring a pot of tea and two cups. Tell Mr. McGowen I’m here and ask him to join me.” The women scurried away, their lives once again filled with purpose.

  Alone in the conference room, Quan imagined what it must be like to be at the helm of a megacorp and the suffocating responsibility that would bring. It was a lifestyle he would never want to aspire to. Conversely, Hao was the perfect kind, capable of agenda after agenda, happy as a monkey swinging from branch to branch. Mastering the role of a chief executive would be unpleasant for Quan, yet he knew, in time, he could develop the necessary skills. But where was the joy in being a slave to a machine? Then again, with that power he could make changes. He could transform the company into a center for creativity, an oasis for intellectuals; he could encourage self-expression and relax the dress code . . .

  His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a large man treading into the room. His light gray space boots made a squishing sound on the marble floor as he approached. From the little highland town of Aberlour, where McGowen was born, he had ventured the shores of Shenzhen in his twenties. He married a Chinese woman and made a home for himself at the Jintao Corporation. As a project manager he free to run his department the way he wanted—free from corporate politics. Untainted by personal agenda, McGowen was the one man Quan could trust.

  Coming to a halt next to the boardroom table, McGowen’s lip raised in an off-centered grin. “There you be, laddie. And none the worse for wear, I see.”

  “Come sit,” said Quan with a smile. “Have some tea.”

  The young Jintao picked up a steaming cup and rolled it in his hands as one of the secretaries poured a second cup of green tea. The aroma of toasted oats and hay wafted up and the big man said, “Aye. Don’t mind if I do. Outside it’s colder than a brass monkey’s behind.”

  Taking the chair to Quan’s left, McGowen continued, “It’s been a while. A lot’s happened.” He eyed the secretaries over the rim of his cup as he took a sip.

  Quan turned to the women. “Leave us, please. I’ll com if I need anything.” He paused, waiting for them to leave, then said, “I spent the morning playing heir apparent, but what I really want is to find out what happened to my father. It’s unbelievable he hasn’t turned up. You’ve got the inside track on what’s been happening around here. Bring me up to speed. I want to know everything.”

  Settling back in his chair, McGowen took another sip and set his cup down. “Mighty strange it was. Can’t help thinking one day I’ll turn a corner and he’ll be here, just like before. But . . . well, I’m sure you saw the headlines. They searched high and low. Lots of rumors and theories . . . the police dogged every clue… and turned up nothing. Still, you’d do well to talk to them.”

  Quan agreed that in time he’d talk to the police, but first he wanted to retrace the events that led to that last day
, to try and see things from his father’s point of view, to maybe look where others hadn’t.

  “There was something,” said McGowen. “Something that happened a while back. Might not be what you’re looking for, but I thought it was curious.”

  “What? What are you referring to?”

  “It was an odd thing, indeed; happened about a year ago. There was an anomaly at one of the orbiting power plants. A survey crew was sent up and reported a system overload—triggered by solar flares, they said. Then your father sent a couple of engineers up to have a look-see. They spent two days up there, doing tests for him. When they came back, your dad released an official memo. Basically, he agreed with the survey team. Solar flares overloaded the coils. Case closed, end of story. Right?”

  “Go on.”

  McGowen began to speak in a quieter tone. “Well, first of all, it was odd for Master Jintao to be dealing with equipment failures. I would’ve expected him to delegate that to a manager, but then he did something that really turned my head around. If you look at the data logs, you’ll see that he continued to access the engineering reports for months. He was doing something with the data in his private lab.”

  “He has a private lab?”

  “To be sure. He likes to tinker.”

  “I never knew that. And why do you think it was unusual for him to study the data?”

  “Well, for one, that’s not a job for a chairman. We’ve got lots of engineers for that sort of thing. I suppose you can’t blame a man for wanting to keep his hand in. Still, can’t imagine him taking up his time with something like that, unless it was damn important. He was all about highest and best use of time.” McGowen paused for another sip of tea. “He never posted anything more about it. Now, that isn’t unusual around here; everything’s on a need-to-know basis, and he certainly wasn’t obliged to tell anyone what he was doing. But something had his attention. Know what I mean?”

  “I think I follow,” said Quan, a quizzical knit in his brow. “I’d like to see his private lab and look at those files.”